Elizabeth I (3 page)

“He has also offered a million ducats to the Spanish as an incentive for invading England.”

I stared at Burghley. “He is putting a bounty on us?”

Burghley gave a dismissive cock of the head. “The Peasant Pope, as he likes to be known, is a clever haggler. The money will not be awarded until the Spanish actually set foot here. There is no payment in advance.”

“So either way, he wins.” Shrewd old bird. Did he hope to make England into carrion he could scavenge? Never! “Call Secretary Walsingham and the Earl of Leicester to a meeting. We should discuss the situation before the full Privy Council meets. You three are the mainsprings of the government.”

Burghley shook his head.

“No false modesty. You know it is true. You are my Spirit, Leicester my Eyes, and Walsingham my vigilant Moor. Call the meeting for this afternoon.”

I rose, signaling that our talk was ended. I carefully put the damning papers in my correspondence box and turned the key.

It was time for the midday dinner. Ordinarily I ate in the withdrawing chamber with a few attendants, although a ceremonial table was always set in the Great Hall. The lower-ranking courtiers and household servants ate there, but my place remained empty. I wondered, fleetingly, if I should put in a public appearance today. It had been a fortnight since I had done so. But I decided against it. I did not want to be on display now. The Papal Bull and call to arms against me had rattled me more than I wanted to admit.

“We shall eat together in here,” I told my ladies of the bedchamber.

Three were closest to me: Catherine Carey, my cousin; Marjorie Norris, a friend since the days of my youth; and Blanche Parry, my nurse from even longer ago.

“Open the windows,” I asked Catherine. It was a light, fine day, the sort to make butterflies dance. Some Mays were just green winters, but this one was fresh and perfumed. As the windows cranked open, the outside world came in in a puff.

The small table was set in the middle of the chamber, and here we dispensed with the ceremonial trappings, except that we always had a taster. The servers presented the dishes in quick order, and we made our selections with no ado.

I had no appetite. The Papal Bull had quite taken it away. But I usually did not eat much, and so today’s almost untouched plate did not attract any attention.

Marjorie, a strapping country woman from Oxfordshire, always ate heartily. Today she was attacking a mound of pork stew and washing it down with a beaker of ale. Catherine, who was small and plump, never went beyond nibbling, so it was a mystery why she had such a round face. Marjorie was some fifteen years my senior, Catherine fifteen years my junior. Old Blanche Parry had seen eighty years. However, she saw them no more, as she had lost her eyesight recently and had to turn her duty as keeper of the royal jewels over to the younger Catherine. She sat now at the table, eating only by habit and feel, her filmed eyes staring at nothing.

Suddenly I had the urge to lean over and pat her hand. It startled her.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” I said. But the touch of her calming hand was soothing to me.

“You should be ashamed, to scare an old lady so!” she scolded me.

“Blanche, you are not an old lady,” I said.

“If eighty isn’t old, when does it start?” she retorted.

“A few years beyond whatever one’s age is,” I said. “Obviously, ninety.” Was there anyone still at court at ninety? I could not think of any. It was a safe age to target, then.

“Well, my lady, there are some who say
you
are old,” she shot back.

“Nonsense!” I said. “Since when is fifty-five old?”

“It ceased being old when you reached it,” said Catherine.

“I shall have to appoint you to an ambassadorship,” I said. “Such a diplomat! But, dear cousin, I couldn’t bear to lose you. And would you really want to live with the French or the Danes?”

“The French for fashion, the Danes for pastries,” said Marjorie. “Not a bad choice.”

I barely heard her. “The Armada is going to sail,” I blurted out. “It will bear down on us soon.”

Marjorie and Catherine laid down their spoons and their faces grew rigid.

“I knew it!” said Blanche. “I saw this coming. Long ago. I told you. Like King Arthur.”

“What are you talking about?” Marjorie demanded. “Is it more of your Welsh mumbles? And don’t give me the nonsense about the second sight.”

Blanche drew herself up. “I just knew King Arthur’s legacy would come round. The queen is descended from him. We all know that. My cousin Dr. Dee has proved it. Arthur left unfinished business. A final battle. A great test of England’s survival.”

“It has nothing to do with King Arthur,” said Catherine. “The astrologers long ago predicted 1588 would be a year of great moment. All Dee has done is confirm it.”

“The prediction, made two hundred years ago by Regiomontanas, said that 1588 would be a year of complete catastrophe for the entire world,” said Blanche calmly. The exact wording was ‘Empires will crumble, and on all sides there will be great lamentation.’”

“Yes, but which empires?” I replied. “Didn’t the oracle at Delphi tell King Croesus that if he invaded Persia, a great empire would be destroyed? It turned out to be Croesus’s, not the Persians’.”

“There are supposed to be three eclipses this year,” said Blanche, undeterred. “One of the sun and two of the moon. We have already had the one of the sun, in February.”

“Let them come,” I said. As if I could do anything to stop them.

I needed to be alone. Even my faithful trio did not soothe me. After dinner was over, I went out into the Queen’s garden. Whitehall was an enormous, sprawling palace that had grown from a riverside mansion into a near-city of its own that even boasted a street running through it and two gatehouses. With its tiltyards, cockpits, tennis courts, and pheasant yards, it was difficult to find a secluded spot. But the garden, folded between the brick walls of other buildings, shielded me from curious eyes.

Grass walkways, bordered by low white and green striped railings, made geometric patterns, crisscrossing the plot. Everything neat and within its own boundaries. God’s death, if only the world were like that! If only Spain would stay within its boundaries.
I
had never had any territorial ambitions. Unlike my father and his vainglorious attempts at warfare abroad, I have been content within my own realm. They murmur that it’s because I am a woman. They ought better to say it is because I am sensible. War is a sinkhole that sucks money and men into it and is never filled.

I took a sharp turn as one path dead-ended into another. A painted pole marked the corner, with a carved heraldic beast, flying a standard, atop it. This was the red Welsh dragon, its beak open wide, its wings spread, its talons gripping the pole. The Tudors were a Welsh family, supposedly descended from King Cadwalader. Blanche had filled my childish ears with tales of Wales, and even taught me the language. But I had never been there. Staring at the carved wooden dragon was as close as I had ever come. Someday ...

But that day was not now. Now I must make sure that England herself survived, and that included Wales.

I knew one thing: We could not withstand the Spanish army. It was the most finely honed fighting force in the world. We did not even have an army, just armed citizen militias, and whatever private retainers could be mustered by the wealthy on an ad hoc basis.

So the Spanish must not be allowed to land. Our ships would have to protect us and prevent it. The ships, not the soldiers, must be our salvation.

The three most powerful men in the realm stood before me—William Cecil, Lord Burghley, lord treasurer; Sir Francis Walsingham, principal secretary and head of the intelligence service; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, most recently supreme commander of the English forces sent to help the Protestant rebels in the Netherlands as they fought to free themselves from Spain—using English money, of course.

It would be a long session. “I pray you, sit,” I told them. I myself remained standing. Behind me was the massive Holbein mural that covered one entire wall, depicting my father and grandfather. In it, my father crowded the forefront of the painting, making his own father look as if he were cowering in his shadow. Now I stood in front of
him
. Did I draw strength from him, or was I telling him I now dominated the monarchy?

Instead of obeying, Robert Dudley stepped forward and handed me a lily, unfurling on its long stalk. “An unspotted lily for an unspotted lily,” he said, bowing.

Both Burghley and Walsingham looked long-suffering, shaking their heads.

“Thank you, Robert,” I said. Instead of calling for a vase, I pointedly laid it on a table behind me, where it would quickly wilt. “Now you may sit.”

Burghley said, “I trust everyone has seen the ‘Declaration of the Sentence and Deposition of Elizabeth’ document? If not, I have copies here.”

I clenched my teeth. The very thought of it! “God’s feet! Must the Spaniard plague me from hell?”

“Your Majesty, it’s old news,” sniffed Walsingham. “The wording is little changed from the first two—the one in 1570 by Pius V, and then the follow-up in 1580 by Gregory XIII. Another pope, another Bull.”

“A shipload of them is a new twist,” said Burghley. “It’s disgusting.”

“For them it’s a religious crusade,” said Walsingham. “All their ships are named after a saint or an angel. The standard of the flagship, featuring the Virgin and the Crucifixion, has been blessed by the Archbishop of Lisbon. Why not Bulls in the holds? Oh, and you’ll appreciate this. I have the list of their passwords. On Sunday it’s ‘Jesus,’ on Monday ‘Holy Ghost,’ on Tuesday, ‘Most Holy Trinity,’ on Wednesday ‘St. James,’ on Thursday ‘the Angels,’ on Friday ‘All Saints,’ and on Saturday ‘Our Lady.’ ”

Leicester gave a snort of laughter. “With the likes of Drake and Hawkins, I’d not like to guess what our passwords are,” he said.

“Oh, and all the men on board have been confessed and carry a little certificate to prove it,” finished Walsingham.

He continued to amaze me. Where did he get this information? “You must have corrupted a priest, to supply you with such details,” I said.

His silence proved that I was right. Finally he said, “And there are those here in England, yes, in London itself, who pray for the success of the mission.”

“If you claim this, you must know their names,” I said. “Tell them.” To anyone else it would have been a challenge, but I knew he had the facts. I merely wanted to have them, too.

“Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel,” he said. “Even in the Tower, he managed to gather adherents and get a priest to say a Mass for the Armada and for the Englishmen who are aboard. And yes, I can supply the names of all who were present.”

“Englishmen aboard!” said Leicester. “The shame of it!”

Walsingham shrugged. “Lucifer and all his legions recruit far and wide. And Arundel
is
Philip’s godson. What can you expect?”