Elizabeth (4 page)

“Philip married my sister for one reason only. To prevent her marrying a Frenchman and thereby uniting the power of France and England.
You
said,” she went on, suddenly pointing at him, “that there was only one alternative to me as Queen, and that's my cousin Mary Stuart. A Catholic—yes, Cecil, I can see it forming on your lips. But half French by blood, and married to the future King of France. If God or Fate or my enemies dispose of me, then Mary, Queen of Scotland as she now is, and Queen of France as she'll become, is the only true claimant to my throne. I tell you one thing, your head will roll off your neck quick enough if that day dawns!”

She laughed and mocked suddenly at him. “So have a good care for me, as you would for youself—now
I
digress, Cecil, forgive me—a union between England, France and Scotland, all under one woman, would mean the end of Philip's power in Europe. He'd lose his hold on the Netherlands overnight, for France has long been eyeing them. He'd face a combination of such strength that all Spain's might wouldn't be able to resist the armies which would stream over his frontiers. And that's why I can tell you that he is on my side, because he
has
to be, for his own interests. I shall send this letter—it can do no harm, and visible sign of his friendship may make France pause a little. We are in a triangle, Cecil, and thank God I think we are the base, which is the side that keeps the balance.”

She had only been Queen of England for twelve days, but her grasp of the strength and weakness of her own situation would have done credit to a seasoned statesman. It was so remarkable that Cecil forgave her the jibe about his execution at the hands of a successor. But there was one point she had overlooked or, rather, deliberately left out.

“If, as you say, Philip married your sister to stop her marrying a Frenchman, whom will he permit you to marry, Madam?”

“He has many relatives,” Elizabeth said coolly. “He may even propose himself—I shall consider them all in turn.”

“But you won't choose one of them?” She saw the surprise and alarm in his face, usually so grave and impassive, and she laughed.

“Oh, Cecil, Cecil, how little you know me to ask that question! Do you suppose that I would give myself to that Spanish codfish, and die of neglect as my sister did—do you think I should be fool enough to marry one of his cousins, and provoke France into declaring war on me in favour of Mary Stuart? But I'll tell you this, I have a value in the marriage market, and I shall make the best of it; Spanish suitors, French suitors, Catholics, Protestants, let them all come, and I'll give them an Englishman here and there to balance the odds.”

“But when you
do
choose,” he persisted, “and you must, Madam—for your own safety and the safety of the realm you must follow.”

“Not if I marry an Englishman,” Elizabeth countered swiftly. “That might be the answer for the future. I have no stomach for foreigners.”

“And what Englishman could possibly aspire to you?” Cecil's voice was deceptively quiet. From the moment of her accession he and Arundel and Sussex and the other lords had been concerned about the question of Elizabeth's marriage. They had been so busy considering the implications of an alliance with any of the Royal houses abroad that the possibility of an English candidate had never occurred to any of them. But the man who married Elizabeth would be the first man in the kingdom; he would automatically take the title of King, and the lives of Cecil and his friends and co-Councillors would depend upon that man as much as they did at the moment on Elizabeth herself. An Englishman! Cecil's heart jumped like a stag at the idea that the Queen had already seen someone, or had long intended marriage with a secret lover. In the name of God he could think of only one man who had received any sign of favour from her in the last twelve days. Dudley, Robert Dudley! That cunning, self-seeking upstart!

“Have you a man in mind, Madam?”

“Content yourself, my friend. I have no secrets from you. I have seen no one who moves me towards marriage. I doubt if such a man exists. We have talked about ‘when' I marry—it would be closer to truth to say ‘if'.”

The audience was over; Cecil kissed her hand and hurried back to his apartments where an enormous amount of work was waiting for him. When he finished that, he arranged for a watch to be set on Robert Dudley and the times and places and duration of his meetings with the Queen to be reported to him every day.

Philip of Spain's ambassador to England was a remarkably astute diplomat. Don José María Jesús de Córdoba Duke de Feria and hidalgo of Spain, was one of the handsomest and most ambitious of men, who had entered England in the entourage of Mary Tudor's husband. He combined all the courage and courtesy of his nation with a pleasing wit and an observant mind, unlike most of Philip's courtiers who were universally loathed for their stiffness and unfriendliness. He had fallen in love with the prettiest of the Court ladies, Jane Dormer, and married her. He thus had a link with England which won him the post of ambassador, and he continued in it after Elizabeth's accession.

He had been granted a long audience with the new Queen, in which she spoke of Philip in the warmest terms, and held out promises of undying friendship with Spain. As he wrote to his Master afterwards, she was at such pains to be agreeable to him that her affability increased his suspicion of her motives. This was a remarkably shrewd assessment; he had come under the full force of her charm and her verbal gifts and remained unconvinced of her sincerity. Elizabeth did not dupe him, as she was apparently duping Philip himself. Feria was alarmed when his King's despatches mentioned an affectionate letter from her, full of gratitude for his kindness in the past; he wrote off and begged Philip not to attach too much importance to anything she wrote or said, as he was convinced that she was lying. Everything would depend upon her choice of husband just as everything depended upon the first laws promulgated after her Coronation.

At one point it seemed unlikely that she would be crowned. The Catholic Bishops, scenting a Protestant revival, refused to officiate. Then, no one knew by what means, either by bribery or threats or in the hope of effecting a compromise, the Bishop of Carlisle agreed to crown her. The clergy had made the first protest against Elizabeth, and it had failed. On January 15th she was crowned Queen at Westminster Abbey, with enough pomp and magnificence for a Pope's Coronation and ten days later she opened her first Parliament. At last Feria's warnings were justified. He had watched the ceremony that day, and he sat in his room in the Spanish Embassy, writing a bitter, detailed account of the Queen's perfidy to King Philip. The Abbot and monks of Westminster had met her in procession, carrying candles. Elizabeth had stopped her carriage and ordered them to get out of her way; she had no need of torches, she said at the top of her voice, she could see well enough.…

The incident outside Parliament was only a foretaste of what was to happen within.

King Philip's affectionate sister-in-law, the self-styled friend of Catholic Spain, had proclaimed herself Supreme Governor of the Church of England, a euphemism which deceived only those determined to escape the truth: for it was the same heretical claim as her father's title in the Act of Supremacy which had cost so many noble lives. She had destroyed her sister's work for a Catholic restoration by establishing an official form of worship which combined all the worst tenets of Protestantism and, at the same time, she had been cunning enough to delete the more offensive passages in the standard Prayer Book which referred to the Pope.

The Bishops who had attempted to stop her Coronation were now paying for their defiance in prison. It was a further instance of the heretical tendencies of her people that, instead of rising in defence of their priests, the commonalty approved the outrage.

In Feria's opinion, the new Queen had no religion in her soul; her assault on the Catholic religion was committed in cold blood, dictated by expediency and without any saving grace of personal conviction behind it. She made a public show of repudiating the monks and their tapers while using candles in her private Chapel, he had seen them there himself.

He begged King Philip to beware of her; he also reminded him that she was surrounded by men of the worst character and religious beliefs, heretics all of them, or else so besotted with riches garnered from the Dissolution of the Monasteries that they were prepared to forfeit their souls' salvation to avoid a restoration of Church lands.

It was also rumoured, so he spitefully wrote to Philip, that Queen Elizabeth's morals were inherited from her mother. When she was not plotting the destruction of God's Church, she was spending every spare moment in the company of one of her courtiers, Lord Robert Dudley, the Master of her Horse. Her preference for him had grown so marked, and her familiarities so blatant, during the weeks since her accession, that he was almost certainly her lover.

CHAPTER TWO

The Queen was at Windsor during the early spring of 1559, and the old grey Castle was transformed with colour and activity; it became the home of her Court, the meeting place of the most talented, rich and powerful men in the kingdom. The roads carried an endless stream of courtiers from the ports and the City, for the business of Government followed the sovereign from place to place, like the Lords of the Council.

It was a gay Court as well as an active one. Like the woman who ruled it, it was characterized by vigour and despatch. There was always something happening, someone arriving. It was a life in which each member of her household played a part, from Cecil and her Councillors, who found themselves keeping pace with a mistress who never tired of work, to the humble cooks and pantry boys who provided food for over five hundred people twice a day. Elizabeth rose early, attended a service which was neither the Mass nor the plain form of worship favoured by her more Protestant nobles, breakfasted in public, gave audiences, dealt with her vast correspondence, and then usually went hunting before the light failed.

She had always been an enthusiastic horsewoman; now, with the best mounts in the country at her disposal, she was able to indulge her passion for hunting. She was a magnificent shot: the hart which fell with an arrow through its breast was usually the Queen's victim. When she did not hunt she hawked, and there were days when she took a small company of a dozen enthusiasts with her and galloped through the Park at Windsor until the horses were tired out. She was known to be restless; she spent most of her time on her feet or on horseback; when the evenings came or the weather precluded outdoor exercise, Elizabeth danced or organized an impromptu masque with her ladies and gentlemen. She had an appetite for work which was fully equalled by her capacity for enjoying herself. The wits, the poets, the best dancers and musicians were sure of a place in her circle of intimates, and the women who attended her, the Countesses of Warwick, Lindsay, Essex, the Ladies Sidney and Dacre, were as cultured and talented as she was herself. She hated bores and fanatics and a rigid mind annoyed her. A lively tongue, a quick wit, and a handsome appearance were requisites without which no one could hope to attract her attention, and Robert Dudley possessed these qualities in abundance.

Her initial preference for him was innocent enough. She enjoyed his company and found him a pleasant contrast to the sober men with whom she spent the serious part of her life. He was young and full of enthusiasm, and he could talk about their childhood, resurrecting the few happy memories that she had ever known. He never irritated her, or crossed her will; he agreed with her opinions without appearing to flatter, they shared the same irreverent sense of humour and the same tastes. He danced so well that he was a suitable partner when she wished to display her own talent, and he played efficiently enough to accompany her in duets on the virginals. It was all so casual and so natural that she failed to realize its essential artificiality. She was in a unique position; she could command amusement, homage, companionship from whoever she wished and no one could refuse her. It was not till spring of that year, when tongues had been wagging for weeks with scandals about her and Dudley, that she found she could no longer refuse Robert.

They had come back from hunting. It had been a brilliant afternoon, cold enough to make the rough riding an invigorating pleasure, and she had come out into the Long Gallery after changing her hunting dress for a costume of warm red velvet. The colour suited her; her usually pale cheeks were flushed, her black eyes sparkled. The first person who came up to her, having hurried over his own change of clothing, was Robert Dudley; he was always the first to greet her, whatever she was doing or however long he had to wait. The Gallery was crowded; her ladies were sitting in the window-seats, or clustered round the two fires which burnt at either end of the long passageway. Their voices rose in a pleasant hum which ceased as she appeared in the doorway from her Privy Chamber.

Smiling, Elizabeth gave her hand to Dudley.

“Take me to the window, Robert; I've no mind to be surrounded by a crowd.”

“Nor have I,” he said quickly. “It's a rare pleasure to have you to myself, Madam, even for a few minutes.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“You're always with me—don't you ever tire of the same company?” She sat in the wide window-seat, spreading the vivid red skirts around her, the light of the setting sun turning her hair to copper.

Dudley knelt on the floor at her feet; he was looking into her face when he answered and there was an expression in his eyes which she had never seen before. They were always laughing, darting with energy, seeing a dozen things at once; now it was as if a mask had dropped, and the man's soul gazed at her, urgent, desperate, determined upon something.

“I could never tire of you if I lived to be a hundred, Madam. Sometimes I don't know which is the greater torture to me—seeing you every day and longing for you without hope, or trying to find the courage to leave you for ever.”