Elizabeth (2 page)

“You are so reckless, Cecil,” Elizabeth said slowly. “I feel she is dead already.…”

“Not yet.” Cecil's pale eyes gleamed for a moment, and she saw the hatred shining in them. “But soon, and not soon enough for all of us.”

“Sit down, sir. And temper your spleen. Remember that she is your Queen and my sister.”

“She is not my Queen,” he answered. “I served her because I wished to live, instead of burning like my friends. And she so far forgot her sisterhood to you, Madam, that she came near to killing you.”

Elizabeth smiled; it was a cynical smile and it gave her pointed face a wicked look.

“She had good reason to get rid of me. Had I been in her place and heard my name on every rebel's lips, I fear I might have done more and threatened less. Come, pour some cordial for both of us and tell me everything.”

As she listened to Cecil describing Mary's illness, and the onset of the coma which preceded death, Elizabeth wondered why he had always been her champion. What did he hope from her accession to make him work for it even when the possibility was most remote? If she was really going to trust him, and she wanted to, that question must be answered.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what is the Court doing?”

“Preparing to come here as soon as they can mount up,” he answered.

“The Queen is dead, or dying, rather.—Long live the Queen! Poor Mary. Please God I'll never see the rats deserting me, even before I sink!”

“She is not loved,” Cecil said quietly. “And all men are not rats because they seek the sun that rises in preference to the one that sets.”

“What must I do to be loved, Cecil? What am I to you and all those you tell me are hurrying out here to show themselves? And what have I been to you for all these years when you helped me and paid lip service to my sister?”

“You were my only hope for England,” Cecil said. “I saw in you the only sovereign who could save England as surely as you saved yourself. And save the Protestant religion. We've had enough of a Papist Queen who was half Spanish and married a man like Philip of Spain against her people's wishes.”

“You have no pity have you, Cecil? What will you do if you find me harsher than my sister—will you follow where I lead or will you pretend that you are loyal and cast about for someone else …?”

Cecil shook his head.

“I couldn't even if I would. There is no one else but Mary Stuart your cousin, and she is a Catholic. Yours is the only road that does not lead to Rome.”

“By God,” she said dryly. “I never thought to hear you make a joke! And I believe I've found an honest man! Give me your hand, my friend, and swear that you will serve me faithfully. Swear that you'll tell me the truth no matter whether it's pleasing to me or not, that your advice will never be swayed by fear. Swear that of all the men in my kingdom and my Council, I can trust at least one, and that one William Cecil.”

He knelt to her, awkwardly, for he was not a man gifted with grace of manner, and lifted her hand to his lips. For a moment their eyes met, and though she stared at him as if she could see into his brain and read his thoughts, he did not waver.

“I swear.”

“So be it,” Elizabeth said. “You are my man, Cecil. I am a jealous mistress; I will never let you go back upon that oath and live. From this day we will work together, you and I.”

That promise and that partnership were to endure for nearly forty years.

In London, where the Queen lay dying at Whitehall Palace, the confusion of the Court had communicated itself to the common people, and the London mobs gathered in crowds along the river bank and routes out of London, and cheered the increasing flood of place-seekers who were hurrying out to pay homage to the future Queen. It was safe to give expression to their hatred for Mary the Papist and for Philip, her detested Spanish Consort; so violent was the public reaction that all Spanish nationals were warned to keep off the streets and barricade their houses against attack, and the Catholic friends and servants of Queen Mary huddled around her deathbed and whispered about what was to become of them. Everyone knew that the new Queen would favour the Protestants; no one knew whether that favour would extend to retaliatory persecution of the Catholics.

There were many who were both English and Catholic who hated Spanish influence and deplored the dying Queen's fanatical pursuit of heresy; to them the new reign promised release from Spain, and a cessation of the war with France which the infatuated Mary had undertaken to please her husband. If she had not loved Philip so blindly, she might have been mourned by her people—even those close to her admitted this.

Mary was the victim of her own fanaticism and of the ruthless exploitation of her husband, Philip, who knew how to bend a doting woman to his own ends. She had begun her reign with mercy, pardoning her cousin who had been proclaimed Queen and surrendered to Mary's army after a reign of nine miserable days.

The Duke of Northumberland—John Dudley—had been executed, because he had led the rebellion, but Mary spared the rest of his family. However, the surviving Dudleys were imprisoned in the Tower when a second rebellion broke out six months after the first. Stung by the ingratitude of those she had pardoned, Mary punished the rebels with a ferocity worthy of the old King Henry. Jane Grey and her husband Guildford Dudley were beheaded and hundreds were hanged, and Robert Dudley, who was only twenty and passionately fond of living, expected to die with them.

He was an extremely handsome man, favouring his father the Duke who had been a fine athlete. He was very dark, with a swarthy skin and brilliant black eyes and an insatiable desire for importance and power. He had married an heiress at seventeen, and tired of her within a year, and as soon as his kin were settled in their graves, he boldly addressed himself to Queen Mary and begged for his release. He wrote cunningly, pleading his youth and ignorance and the influence of his father, and he managed to touch Mary; she was naturally soft-hearted and, remembering her own girlhood, blighted by imprisonment and loneliness, she ordered Dudley's release. When he chanced everything by presenting himself at Court and explained that, as the son of a traitor, he was penniless, the Queen gave him a position and restored some of his family's lands.

Dudley was not grateful to her: he was too healthy and ruthless to feel anything but contempt for the tired old maid who had been influenced by all the lies he told her. He took her favours, made himself agreeable and, when she finally showed signs of mortal illness, he sold some of his land and secretly sent the proceeds to Elizabeth at Hatfield. The old Queen was obviously dying of dropsy; her hysterical belief that she was pregnant no longer deceived anybody. Robert Dudley had known the young Princess Elizabeth as a child and seen her once or twice before the scandal of the Lord Admiral removed her from public life. They had been close friends when they were children, and he had heard that she was always pressed for money. She would be the next Queen of England, and he hoped she would remember his gift and be grateful.

Now, immediately after the news of Mary's death, he was riding hard down the road to Hatfield on a November morning. He had kept horses ready for days, and hung round Whitehall Palace without sleep, waiting to hear of the Queen's end. He wanted to reach the new Queen while she was excited and exalted by her accession, and more likely to be generous. He had a valid claim on her friendship, if only he could make it before all the positions were filled and she had nothing left to give away. Mary had died at six in the morning, and everyone was racing towards Elizabeth on horseback and in carriages.

He kicked his horse into a gallop; there was only another mile or two before he reached Hatfield. Dudley began to hum as he rode. He felt excited and full of optimism. He had escaped the consequences of his father's treason; his tiresome little wife Amy was away in Norfolk; he was exactly the same age as the woman for whom life was expanding in such a glorious manner, and there was no reason in the world why his fortune should not be linked with hers. At one period in their lives, they had been prisoners in the Tower at the same time during the late reign. If he had the chance, he could remind her of that.

He turned up the drive towards Hatfield House and reined in at the gates. The old red-brick house was like a bee-hive; he could hear the noise coming out of the windows, and the courtyard was full of horses and servants. He pushed his way through the open door to the Great Hall, and found himself hemmed in by a large crowd. Elizabeth was sitting on a chair on the dais where the principal table usually stood, and he could see William Cecil and the Lords Sussex and Arundel and the Duke of Bedford standing round her. He began to struggle, using his elbows and his fists, and at last he had reached the front rank of those waiting to be presented. Then he saw her clearly, sitting very calmly and very straight-backed, wearing a dress of deep black velvet and a pearl and diamond pendant, with her hair blazing round her head. He was surprised to see how handsome she had become. In spite of her dignity, her eyes were sparkling, and she was obviously so happy that she could not repress a constant smile. For one more moment Dudley hesitated. Then he stepped forward to the foot of the dais and fell on his knees in front of her.

“Lord Robert Dudley, Madam! My life and my possessions are at your service.”

He looked into her face and saw that she had recognized him.

“Welcome, Lord Robert. Have you come to collect your debt?”

This was not Mary, roaring with temper one minute and shedding sentimental tears the next. This was a composed and self-confident young woman and she was looking at him with an expression of mocking amusement. But Dudley's skin was as thick as his father's; he did not redden or hesitate.

“The Queen is in no man's debt,” he answered quickly. “May God grant you health and long life, and may you grant me the chance of being of service to you.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“We are old friends, my Lord. You did not forget me and I shall show my gratitude; remain at Hatfield, and I will find some place for you.”

He kissed her hand, noticing how delicate and long her fingers were, and stepped back into the crowd, waiting until she rose and went upstairs with the Secretary and peers. She walked slowly and gracefully, pausing to smile and speak to people who had not yet been presented to her, and Dudley watched her with admiration. She was clever and she was a good actress, she knew how to please without losing her dignity; it was a rare gift and her sister Mary had never possessed it.

There was a loud spontaneous cheer and a cry of “God save the Queen” as she stopped at the head of the stairs and waved. Then she disappeared into her own apartments with the members of the Council. Dudley went to find food and drink and returned to the Great Hall to wait. Late that evening, when he was beginning to think she had forgotten him, a page summoned him to a private audience with the Queen.

On November 28th a glittering procession moved slowly through the narrow, crooked streets of the City of London. It had begun at the Cripplegate, where the new Queen left her gold and crimson chariot and, dressed in a riding habit of purple velvet, mounted a magnificent white horse. The animal had been specially chosen for its colour and breeding; it was saddled in scarlet and there were jewels and beaten gold worth hundreds of pounds sparkling in the bridle reins. The Queen's new Master of the Horse led it forward, and bowed. He was dressed in red and silver and there were rubies in his swordhilt and his doublet. It was a vulgar, dazzling costume, and only Robert Dudley could have carried it. Only Dudley would have squandered so much money on the accoutrements of the horse, and persuaded Elizabeth to leave the clumsy chariot at the Cripple-gate and ride into London, arguing that she was too good a horsewoman to be hidden in a litter. Councillors objected, resenting the innovation, and resenting Dudley who was being officious with advice and interference after the Queen had given him his appointment.

She had indeed been generous; his office brought him a handsome income, and kept him in constant attendance upon her. And the Queen publicly thanked him for the idea, over-ruled all objections and left the arrangements for her transport into the Capital in Dudley's hands.

He gave her his hand as she mounted, and for a moment she smiled at him. Then she gave a sign and the procession began to move forward.

The Lord Mayor of London, ruler of the City of London, which was not only the powerful centre of English commerce but an independent kingdom within the kingdom, rode at the head with the Garter King-of-Arms, chief of the Royal Heralds, who carried the gleaming golden sceptre, followed by the Gentlemen Pensioners of the Crown in their dress of red damask, carrying the gilded axes, and behind them the heralds. Elizabeth's contingent, the breasts and backs of their red and silver tunics emblazoned with her cypher E.R. in gold thread.

The Earl of Pembroke walked on foot, holding the Queen's ceremonial sword, its scabbard thickly encrusted with pearls. There was a gap between him and the Queen, slowly walking her horse. Dudley watched her from behind, noting the slim back, so straight that the spine might have been made of steel. He had only seen her gay and relaxed during the last few days at Hatfield; she had relegated him to her leisure hours as an amusing companion, and though Dudley joined her informal supper parties and played cards at her table in the evenings, he still knew nothing of the woman who stayed shut up with her Council for hours at a time. He had already concluded that she had two faces, and that the one she showed to him and to his kind—the unofficial jesters who flattered and amused her—was very different from the countenance that Cecil saw behind closed doors. He watched her closely, noticing how she turned in her saddle to wave to the crowds who pressed in on the procession. And what crowds there were—he had never seen the City streets so packed with people and so profusely decorated. Tapestries and hangings and brightly-coloured bunting hung from every window and were strung across the narrow space between the leaning houses. The gutters, usually choked with kitchen waste and the foulest refuse, had been flushed clean, but even so the smell was overpowering and Dudley smiled as he saw Elizabeth sniff occasionally at the pomander which hung from her waist.