Elizabeth: The Golden Age (25 page)

“I do. I know you very well.”

“You should never have done what you did in the Netherlands.”

“Forgive me, Majesty.”

“You would not be here if I hadn’t already forgiven you.” She looked back out over the sea. “It seems forgiveness is what everyone needs from me. Unless they’re looking for money or position.”

“I— I—” He stopped, gave her a tight smile. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I know of the difficulties caused by your friend’s marriage...”

“Do you refer to Raleigh’s or to your union with that she-wolf?”

He drew a deep breath, looked at the ground. “I—”

“It’s been nearly ten years, Robert. I’m quite over it.”

“Yet you won’t receive her.”

“Why should I? She stole my love away from me.” There was a cynical smile behind her eyes. “And being queen comes with the benefit of not having to forgive such transgressions.”

“You’ve always had my love, always will. You were angry because I married someone I chose on my own instead of a woman you’d picked for me. What if I’d married the Queen of Scots, all those years ago, as you suggested?”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “I wish I had been the one next to you watching these wrinkles creep onto your face.”

“You could have been,” he said, putting his hand on top of hers. “Do you not think my heart was broken, too? I have loved other women, but none will ever hold the place in my soul that you do.”

She felt tears coming but did nothing to stop them. Robert had seen her cry, knew her as well as—probably better than—anyone. “I have only done what I thought best for England, best for my people.”

“And you are an extraordinary queen because of it. I simply wish it could have included what was best for you as well. You deserve happiness.” Now she turned away, covered her face with her hands. “The happiness of my realm is my own.”

“I wished for you someone to share that joy. I wanted to be that person. And when you wouldn’t let me, I knew not what to do but look elsewhere. I am a weak man, Majesty.”

“Elizabeth, Eyes. Today I will be your Elizabeth.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I return to London. Alone.”

“I can live on today for a long time,” he said. “Come, let’s celebrate your victory. Your soldiers are waiting for you.”



Rumors had seized Europe before the battle in the English Channel was over. Bells rang throughout the continent, declaring victory for Catholic Spain. It was said that Parma had taken London, that Drake was a prisoner. Bonfires were built, and the people rejoiced at the downfall of the heretical English queen. She was burned in effigy, cursed as a demon, all with hearty measures of glee. It was only a matter of time before Philip would rule England.

But there were other voices, quiet ones, that told different stories. Stories of death and defeat, of scurvy and crippled ships. They were ignored, and Philip, lifted by the glory of God’s success, ordered thanksgiving masses to be said. The chants of war that had echoed through the palace were replaced with joyous hymns.

Philip was in his cell, kneeling on the hard floor, offering prayers of thanks. He was startled when he heard voices outside the door, then a knock.

“Sire...” Four of his ministers, their heads bowed, stood in the corridor.

Philip rose to his feet. “What news?” he asked. One look at their drawn faces told him they brought nothing good.

“Medina Sidonia was forced to flee. The Armada scattered. We are defeated.”

“Scattered?” His body went numb. “But they will fight again?”

“They regrouped, sire, after fleeing north, but are greatly crippled.”

A second minister spoke. “More than a thousand of our men are dead, and the fleet has been savaged. We’ll be lucky if seventy ships return to port.”

“No more now,” Philip said. “It is enough. I will come to you later.” He brushed past them, rushing through hallways. There was no more sound of joyous hymns, and he could see that even his servants, who looked down as they pressed themselves against the walls to keep out of his way, had heard the news.

He would not despair. This was all God’s will—a will that weak-minded humans could not always understand. He could not begin to comprehend it, but prayer, prayer would bring enlightenment, teach him why—how—he had failed God. Failed Spain. Failed the people of England, whose souls would suffer for eternity.

His soul was in need of great cleansing.

He’d walked to the nursery, but Isabella was not there. She was outside with her nurse, in the garden, and he found her there playing with her dolls. He bristled at the sight of the red-haired one that seemed to be her favorite. Anger filled him and he reached for the toy—a perfect image of the heretic Elizabeth—stopping his hand as he realized that he meant to crush the porcelain head. He murmured a quiet prayer, asking for strength and grace.

“What is it, Father?” Isabella asked.

“Walk with me, child,” he said and took his daughter by the hand, leading her toward the basilica at the center of the palace.

The Infanta did not protest but took her red-headed doll with her. “Are you making me Queen of England now, Father?”

“No, my dear. You will not be Queen of England.”

“But I thought—”

“God wants you elsewhere, child. That is all. You will find understanding in prayer.” They’d reached the church and marched through the nave, where Philip stepped in front of his daughter and knelt at the altar. He dropped down farther, abasing himself on the hard stone floor.

Behind him, the Infanta stood, impassive, staring at her doll. She pulled its hair, covered its face with her hand, and then threw it to the ground. Philip heard the porcelain crack against the floor. He rested his forehead on the cool marble and started to sob.

Chapter 22

Bess was lonely and sick with worry for her husband. Rumors flew constantly about the battle—some said it was over—but she heard only what her servants knew. No one else was talking to her. Weeks had gone by with no word from Raleigh, and though she knew not to expect a letter—not from a battleground—she could not shake the terror of wondering if the next knock on her door would bring with it dreaded news.

Durham House, where she’d come after Raleigh’s release from the Tower, was too large for a solitary woman, and the isolation was unbearable. She had been accustomed to days overstuffed with activity and had not realized how much she’d come to depend not just on the distractions of court but on the queen as a friend. Their relationship had always been lopsided—they weren’t equals—but Bess had known she could trust Elizabeth, and it was this that had brought searing guilt to her every encounter with Raleigh. Betrayal had not come easy to her.

She’d not slept the previous night and now sat at a table, a blank piece of paper in front of her, pen in hand, trying to compose a letter to the queen. Crumpled on the floor were her previous efforts, all rejected. She wanted to apologize but also to make it clear that she was not begging for forgiveness she felt she did not deserve. She was glad Raleigh had chosen her, glad she was not the one heartbroken, but bitterly, bitterly saddened by the pain she had caused the queen.

She had made a selfish choice, but one that brought her an infinite happiness. An uncomfortable and familiar pressure built in her head as she scratched at the paper with her pen, not writing anything coherent, just drawing lines. Guilt was an unhappy companion. She dropped her forehead onto the table, wishing for a day without tears.

The door swung open. “Have you become a poet?” Margaret asked, coming to her side. “You’re completely surrounded by papers.”

Bess leapt from her chair and embraced her friend. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” she said.

“I’m sorry I’ve kept away.”

“I understand,” Bess said, again feeling selfish. She didn’t want Margaret to fall from the queen’s favor, particularly if she were responsible for it. She could not bear to take on more guilt. “But you’re well?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Margaret said. “I’ve missed you, though.”

“And I you. More than you can imagine. How is the queen?”

“She was a terror for weeks. I hadn’t really believed her feelings for Raleigh ran much beyond a typical flirtation. You know how handsome we all found him, how amusing. But he’d awakened something in her that had been dormant since Leicester.”

Bess sighed; tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t cry, Bess. What could you have done? Decided not to love him?”

“No. I’d always love him, but I could have chosen not to have him.”

“For what? So that all three of you could be miserable?”

“I would have been the only one miserable. They would have been happy.”

Margaret took her hands. “You’re supposed to secure your own happiness, Bess.”

“Not at the expense of others. Not when it hurts someone dear to you.”

“Was it wrong of you to want him? To love him?”

“I knew she loved him,” Bess said. “And yet I—”

“You can’t control everything, Bess. Don’t regret your decisions now.”

“I don’t regret it, Margaret. I just wish my joy didn’t come with someone else’s pain.”

“I’m not here to make you melancholy. Messengers have arrived at court with news—the Armada has been defeated. The battle is over.”

“My husband?” Her heart was pounding. She was almost afraid to ask the question. “Is he—”

“He’s alive, Bess. He’ll come home to you.”



Margaret’s news made Bess soar. She could wait forever, knowing that he was safe, that he was coming back. For a day, she forgot even her guilt. Then the pains started.

She’d been walking by the river when she doubled over, crying out, a servant rushing to her side. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Someone carried her to her bedroom.

She’d missed her husband before, but she wanted him even more now. Wanted him next to her, or at least waiting on the other side of the door, and she called for him whenever she could gather enough breath between the screams that came with each spasm of pain. Outside, cheers of victory bounced through the city, coming from Whitehall Palace, where the courtiers were waiting for their queen to return from Tilbury. The sound of their joy goaded her, their happiness taunting her as she suffered, hardly able to bear this agonizing feeling of being torn inside out.

It would not be so bad if he were with her. If it were his green eyes meeting hers instead of the cold gray ones of the midwife, who kept telling her to push. She couldn’t push.

She was exhausted, spent, her muscles unwilling to listen to commands that her brain was hardly able to send. She couldn’t even lift her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow, and here this woman expected her to push. But just when she thought she could not stand to listen to the midwife for another second, it came with the force of an avalanche: an urge to push so overwhelming that she gripped the sides of the bed and cried out as if she would die. And then a pause, and more pain—a searing heat— and she pushed again, over and over in a furious rhythm until her shift was soaked with sweat and she thought her eyes would roll back in her head. She could no longer focus, only push.

And then it stopped, her body fell limp, and she panted, collapsed. And the wavering cry of a newborn child filled the room as all outside noise seemed to fade to nothing. She tried to raise her head but could not.

“A boy, madam,” the midwife said. “Look at your son.”

Now she did raise her head to look at the tiny body, the red face, and her face lit with a radiant smile.

A son.



Elizabeth set off from the palace almost before she’d finished reading Ursula’s message. She’d cursed her rowers for being slow and lazy on the way and had snapped at her ladies with such ferocity that two of them had started to cry. Would that she could have flung them into the Thames.

When at last they reached Walsingham’s house, she hardly recognized her Moor, but she knew at once that the foul odor that greeted her in his bedroom was the stench of death, and she choked back tears before anyone could see.

“Francis,” Elizabeth said. “My old friend.”

He spoke with difficulty, his voice raspy, weak. “I have served Your Majesty in all things.”

“I know it, old friend. Don’t leave me now.”

“Always giving orders,” he said.

“I couldn’t have done anything without you. You’ve been more than a protector and advisor. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

He opened his eyes, did his best to smile. “You don’t need me anymore. Permission to go—”

She shook her head, looking tenderly at him. “You always did do as you pleased, whether I wanted it or not. I’ve no doubt you’ll do as you please now.” Her heart felt as if it would split in two, and she knew she would not be able to hold her composure for long.

He closed his eyes once more as she stooped down to kiss his cheek, and his breath sounded like a rough rattle. The end was upon him; he would not be able to hang on much longer. Elizabeth squeezed his hand, glad for a last feeling of warmth in him, and rose to leave, knowing that his wife and daughter, who’d already begun to sob, wanted to grieve in private as much as she did.



William Walsingham’s small, anonymous house was not easy to find. He felt safe hidden on the shabby street, but safety brought with it guilt. Guilt that he had been spared while his comrades had been executed. He’d fled to France, helped along the way by Catholic sympathizers. But although he should have rejoiced to still be alive, guilt was tinged with anger that martyrdom had been snatched from him. And now he had sorrow as a companion to his guilt. His brother had died in England.

William poked the fire burning in his grate and picked up a book, a half-eaten bowl of stew made from meat that was rather too close to rancid on the table next to him. A firm rapping on the door jolted him out of his reading, and half-distracted, still holding the book, he opened the door to find a stranger. A stranger whose voice was undeniably English.

“My brother? How is that possible?” It must be about his will. Surely he’d not been left anything, but perhaps his brother had decided to forgive him more completely, to let him have another chance with his family. William’s eyebrows shot up; his mouth twitched. “What is it?”