Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (63 page)

would rather be a Catholic, if only it were politically expedient. The

circumstances of her birth had allied her in a marriage of convenience

to the Protestant Church, but her personal taste inclined distressingly

towards Catholic ritual and her private chapel was a hotch-potch of the

new and old religions. She liked music and candles, even a crucifix,

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and was downright rude to her married clergy. But, much as it grieved

him, there was nothing he could do about it; he knew better than to

pass comment.

And just now, there were more pressing concerns than her orthodoxy.

“May I ask what Your Majesty intends to do with the Scottish

Queen?” he ventured at length. Waiting in vain for her answer, he

continued uneasily. “I trust you don’t intend to bring her to court.”

She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a wicked smile.

“Would the monstrous regiment of two women be more than your

sanity could bear?”

“I merely suggest it may be as well if the two of you do not meet. It

might cause—complications.”

“You think she may win me for a friend? Oh Cecil, how little you

know me.”

He smiled thinly. “Of late Your Majesty has shown some sympathy

for her plight. I beg you to remember that she is still your enemy.”

“But this alters everything. The bird has flown to me for protection

from the hawk, and by God I’ll see she gets that protection—from you if

need be. I shall clip her wings and put her in a golden cage where she will

sing safely for the rest of her life.”

“Mere imprisonment,” he said discontentedly, “will scarcely restrain

her violent appetite for your crown. Madam, such mercy on your part

is suicidal.”

She shook her head slowly.

“You call it
mercy
to wake day after day in a living grave?”

He avoided her eyes and knew his instinct had been true; certainly a

meeting between the two of them must be prevented at all cost.

He said bleakly, “She will demand to see you, madam, and I beg you

to refuse. It is hardly fitting for you to receive a harlot accused of such

outrageous crimes.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Move her to Bolton Castle then, under guard.

But, Cecil—no little accidents on the journey. I want her alive.”

“To sow a canker of treason throughout the land?”

“To stand between me and Philip. She is the most valuable hostage in

the history of Europe.”

“And the most dangerous,” he said bluntly. “This puts a premium on

your murder, madam—your life hangs by a thread from this moment on.”

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“Then you must be vigilant, my Spirit.” Elizabeth held out her hand

to him. “I trust you beyond all men and you have never failed me yet.”

“Then don’t set me an impossible task,” he burst out suddenly as he

closed her fingers between his own. “The best spy system in the world

could not protect you under such circumstances.”

“Assassination is the occupational hazard of any monarch,” she

said calmly.

“But to court assassination in this manner is madness. As long as you

have no heir and the Scottish Queen lives in England, you will never

know a minute’s peace. I can’t answer for your safety, not now. No man

could. All I can promise you is that sooner or later a dagger or a bullet or

a poisoned cup will do its work. For God’s sake, madam, reconsider your

decision and dispose of her.”

“Stop panicking,” she said gently. “I shall dance on your grave even

yet. Always supposing that you don’t desert me first, of course.”

“
Desert
you!” he stiffened in horror. “What do you mean, madam?”

She turned back to her desk and began to tidy her papers casually; she

was not looking at him now.

“Ten years of loyalty is something of a record for you, isn’t it, Cecil?

Some would say it was high time you were looking for your next mistress.”

He was not a demonstrative man, but he went down on his knees then

in a clumsy gesture of obeisance and pressed her fingers to his dry lips.

He said, “I would rather die than desert you, madam. You are the last

person on this earth that I shall ever serve.”

She had not expected that and found she had to bite her lip to

govern herself. She raised him to his feet and looked into his worn face,

wondering a little at her power to trap the heart and loyalty of such a

hardened man. He had been a chameleon before she swore him into her

service, but he would not change colour again, she knew it.

The moment was charged with emotion. She had only to take one

step towards him and their unique relationship would be altered for ever.

Instead she stepped back from him and allowed him to recover his

composure; she did not want him to become like all the rest, reduced to

the squalid level of panting for her body. She let the dangerous moment

pass them by and knew it would not come again.

And yet she was still curious. Precious little material gain had come his

way through serving her—he was not even a member of the peerage. So

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what held him? What had she done to deserve such unswerving loyalty

from the most accomplished politician in all Europe?

When she asked him, he smiled and sighed and replied with flattering

exasperation, “Madam, I would to God I knew the answer myself.”

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Chapter 4

T
rouble came to england in the wake of the scottish queen,

just as Cecil had feared, and rather sooner than he had first antici-

pated. Fear of Mary and the action that Spain might take on her behalf,

jealousy of Cecil’s undisputed position with Elizabeth, and sheer terror

of the Queen’s uncertain health were soon concentrated in a cabal of

her foremost Privy Councillors. The intensely vigorous life which the

Queen led no longer lulled the men who surrounded her into a false

sense of security; they were morbidly obsessed with the possibility of her

death. It was obviously necessary to make some provision for that event

now that the next heir was resident in the country, to find some way of

circumventing the possible accession of a Catholic queen who would take

revenge on her rival’s supporters.

To protect their own interests, Elizabeth’s closest advisers, with

the notable exception of Cecil, sought to ensure against the future by

arranging a marriage between Mary Stuart and the foremost Protestant

peer of the realm, the Duke of Norfolk. Norfolk had buried three wives

already; he was confident of controlling Mary and his confidence won

over the anxious men who formed the English Council and who were

now convinced that disaster was about to overtake them at any moment.

Superficially, it seemed they had good cause for concern, for rela-

tions with Spain had been strained to breaking point. In December 1568

Spanish ships carrying bullion intended for the payment of Philip’s armed

forces in the Netherlands were harassed by pirates and forced to seek

refuge in an English port. When Elizabeth discovered that the money was

Legacy

a loan from Genoese merchant bankers, she promptly entered negotiations

to transfer that loan to herself, leaving Philip and his commander, Alva,

in desperate straits. For a time the incident looked certain to precipi-

tate war; but Elizabeth and Cecil were quietly confident that Philip’s

hostile gestures would prove as empty as his coffers. Both politically and

economically they had him in a stranglehold; for the time being they held

all the trump cards and could afford to gamble high.

Lesser minds found this hard to accept and soon a combination of fear

and outright panic had concentrated into a conspiracy to sweep Cecil

from office to the block. Cecil’s execution was the bait they dangled

before Leicester and he charged after it with a will. Remembering bitterly

how readily the Queen would have abandoned him after Amy’s death,

Leicester was suddenly convinced that in the face of united opposition she

would desert Cecil too.

So Leicester allowed his fellow conspirators to talk him into the role

of spokesman and on a cold Ash Wednesday he got to his feet in Council

and told the Queen bluntly that England would be ruined unless Cecil

answered for his policies with his head.

It was the first and last time he ever dared to challenge her face to face

in public, and within minutes he was wondering what had possessed him

to open his mouth in the first place. White-lipped with fury, she whipped

him with scathing contempt, until he bent like a stalk of corn before the

blast of a hurricane. Soon he was cowering on his knees and then to his

relief she turned her searing rage on the rest of his confederates.

When she had chastised them all to her complete satisfaction, she

swept out of the room with Cecil at her side, for all the world like a

tigress with her cub, leaving Leicester collapsed in his seat at the council

table with his head in his fine hands.

Terror and jealousy warred within him. She could not have defended

Cecil more vehemently if he had been her lover. What was the secret

of her relationship with that colourless statesman which transcended all

other ties? She had begun lately to bestow deeply symbolic nicknames on

the men who were closest to her, an echo of the playful dragon allegory

she had created in the Tower for her own amusement. Robin was her

Eyes, Hatton her Lids, Cecil her Spirit—her familiar spirit some said, and

to Leicester the implication was obvious. Without her Eyes she would

be blind, but without her Spirit she would be dead. If it came to a fight

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Susan Kay

to the death between the two of them he believed he knew which she

would support. They were a formidable combination and now that they

had closed their ranks against him, Leicester could see that his blunder had

merely served to bind them even closer together. Theirs was an unholy

union that no mere lover could ever hope to put asunder.

One by one, crushed and nervous, the councillors stole away from

the chamber, until at last Norfolk and Leicester were left alone in the

chill atmosphere.

Norfolk rolled his quill back and forth across the polished oak table

and said peevishly, “She never wraps it up, does she? Spares no one’s

feelings!”

“Neither woman in her anger nor man in her lust,” muttered Leicester,

misquoting deliberately and darkly. “I feel drained, don’t you—as though

she’s sapped every ounce of blood out of my body.”

A great pity she hasn’t, thought Norfolk maliciously, it would be an

improvement that’s long overdue. When I mount the English throne

with Mary Stuart, I’ll make sure you are not around to bask in the sun!

Aloud he said, “As I see it, there’s only one course left to us, and that’s

to take a lesson from the Scots—they have a quick way with overmighty

ministers. I suggest that we arrest Cecil and finish him ourselves, since we

can’t persuade her to do it for us.”

Leicester emerged from his hands in alarm.

“Are you out of your mind?” he breathed. “She’ll hang the lot of us!

If you persist in this mad plan, I shall have no alternative now but to warn

her of it.”

Norfolk bowed ironically and flicked his small, pie-dish ruff in an

insolent gesture.

“The loyalty of the Earl of Leicester to Her Majesty has of course

always been beyond question.”

Robin took the premier peer of the realm by the throat and lifted him

forcibly out of his chair.

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that, Norfolk. Perhaps you would care

to repeat it.”

Duels at court were expressly forbidden by the Queen, and Norfolk

felt it was safe to speak freely. There had always been hostility between

the two of them—once they had almost come to blows on the tennis

court. Despite being an earl and one of the most powerful men in the

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kingdom, Leicester still never had such a thing as a handkerchief about

him. When he had casually helped himself to the Queen’s to wipe his

sweating face, Norfolk went purple with rage and threatened to break

his racquet over the Earl’s head for his presumption. Now they made

uneasy allies in a bid to rid themselves of Cecil, whose influence threat-

ened them both.

Norfolk’s smile was calmly superior and he made no attempt to free

himself from Leicester’s grip.

“I have said it before and I say it again, Leicester—you will not die

in your bed unless you give over your preposterous pretensions to Her

Majesty’s hand.”

Robin laughed shortly and flung the Duke back into his chair with a

force that winded him.

“Well—I’m not alone now, in my pretensions to the hand of a queen,

am I, Norfolk? And since Elizabeth has said that the Queen of Scots may

soon find some of her friends the shorter by a head, I beg leave to suggest

that it may be you, my lord, who will not die in bed.”