Elizabeth: The Golden Age (9 page)

He was her partner; she’d allow him no one else. She might have, just to watch his elegant movements, but rejected the idea as soon as she felt their bodies move together, then apart, then close again, their rhythm mimicking the motion of Raleigh’s ship on the sea. She had no intention of sharing this pleasure with anyone else.

“You have not finished your story,” she said as they danced. “You left off watching. Continue.”

“Watching, yes.” He smiled down at her. “You were listening to me, weren’t you?”

“You have all my attention.”

“You see a smudge, a shadow on the far water,” he said. “For a day, for another day, the stain slowly spreads along the horizon, and takes form—until on the third day you let yourself believe. You dare to whisper the word—
land
!”

“I would love to feel the thrill of it,” she said, her breath coming harder.

“Land. Life. Resurrection,” Raleigh said, pulling Elizabeth close, the air between them crackling. “The true adventure. Coming out of the vast unknown, out of the immensity, into safe harbor at last. That—that—is the New World.”



Bess, who had been watching them from one of the arches lining the atrium, idly took the hand offered her by a courtier who wanted her for the next dance. She could tell the queen was captivated and that Raleigh was something far more than content—she’d noticed an intensity in his eyes that made them look a darker shade of green than usual. When the music began, Bess faltered over steps that should have been familiar.

Jealousy had tripped her, and she chastised herself for her feelings. Raleigh could never be hers. She needed to be more careful about guarding her heart.



Two days later, the Austrian delegation gathered in the Presence Chamber to hear the queen’s official response to the Archduke Charles’s proposal. No one expected she would marry him, yet the room was so crowded as to be virtually impassable; everyone wanted to see the form her rejection would take. The suitor himself had to fight his way to the front, where he stood, face pale, nervous, waiting for his would-be bride. Around him, the atmosphere vacillated like a stormy wind, the mood varying from group to group: a sour sort of giddiness from the Spaniards, sighing resignation from a cohort of young ladies who admired the handsome man, urgent anxiety from courtiers and ministers concerned with the issue of succession.

Elizabeth entered, resplendent in an elaborate gown of white velvet, her red hair full of pearls and diamonds, and sat on her throne. She’d made no secret of her fondness for the young man since his arrival at court. She treated him with a careful, dignified respect, and had laughed with him on more than one occasion, but she picked up no hint of passion from him, which was a relief.

Not that she’d expected to. He was hardly more than a boy. Years ago she would have been able to captivate him in an instant, to lure him to her side and keep him there, hoping he would earn a kiss. But longed-for kisses, whether given or merely anticipated, had, in her past, led only to increasingly urgent proposals. It was much easier to reject someone who didn’t want her, except to fulfill the duties he owed his country. She sighed. This was less painful in many regards. All regards, really, save the uncomfortable recognition that her looks no longer drew every man in the room to her.

Charles was approaching the throne. She flashed him a smile as he knelt before her. It was a smile full of promise and understanding and friendship, tender and sweet, and was quickly replaced by another expression, this one coolly regal.

“The queen does not have a private life,” she said, her eyes steady, watching him. “The queen lives for her people. You will therefore forgive me, sire, if after much thought and prayer I decline your offer of marriage.”

The archduke did his best to conceal relief, but his body went from stiff and awkward to relaxed. Tension flew from his face. Hands that had been clenched released. He turned to the Austrian ambassador, speaking his native tongue. “Can I go home now?”

Elizabeth inclined her head, freezing the smile desperate to form. “Go home, my friend,” she answered him in German. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow old. Youth is so very precious.”

He bowed his head. “Your beauty does not end with your face.” He spoke quietly but with more confidence than she’d heard before in his voice, and the earnest sincerity of his tone nearly brought tears to her eyes. She quickly composed herself.

“You will make someone an excellent husband,” she said, standing and giving him her arm. Murmurs of approval, scorn, and disappointment hummed through the crowd as it parted to allow the couple to pass, but she cared not for any of it. She’d successfully dodged the marriage question for the moment and as soon as the archduke left court—preparations for his departure had already begun—she would have more time for Raleigh. And the thought of that set her heart to soar.



Bess, lost in a sea of ladies, left the room well behind Elizabeth. As she rushed to catch up to her mistress, she saw Raleigh walking toward her. Her heart pounded, and nerves made her worry that she wouldn’t find coherent words to say, but she went straight to him. “Are you satisfied with the queen’s favor?” she asked, blue eyes meeting his, then looking away, then back up to him.

“She listened as if she understood me. I was talking about solitude and infinite emptiness. Some of the things she said—I thought never to hear from a queen.”

“And did you expect to dance with the queen?” A teasing lilt filled her voice. He was easy to talk to. Too easy. “A few more dances and you’ll be a duke. Then I shall expect some gratitude.”

Their eyes met, lingered. They smiled, and the heat she saw in his scared her.

“We should walk,” she said, starting to turn away. “We’ve fallen awfully far behind.”

“What do you want?” he asked, coming closer to her.

“I’m not sure.” Her voice was a bare whisper and their gazes held steady, a delicious tension filling the space around them. She was excited and terrified and looked around to make sure the queen couldn’t see them. Elizabeth was nowhere near, but Bess felt a pang of guilt at flirting with her mistress’s favorite.

“I expect I’ll think of something.” His voice was deep, and the sound of it sent color to saturate her cheeks and chest.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said and rushed after the queen, wanting to get away before the feelings he inspired took up residence in her heart.



Elizabeth did not dawdle over formal good-byes. She sent the Austrian delegation off as quickly as possible but made a point of bidding farewell to each of them individually, kissing the archduke on the cheek as he turned to leave the palace. When they were gone, she paused for a moment, relishing the knowledge that she had at least half an hour before Walsingham and the Privy Council would need her again. She turned and searched the courtiers, looking for a head of curly hair.

“Mr. Raleigh!” she called when she’d spotted him, standing back from the crowd not far from Bess.

He came to her at once, bowing low. “Majesty. How can I serve you?”

She laughed. “You can stand up, first. Take my arm and come with me.” He followed her orders, and she ducked through a door, pulling him outside. “It’s lovely to escape the court, don’t you think?”

“Lovely to find myself in such company when I escape the court,” he said. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be.” They made their way down a gravel path, along a row of espaliered fruit trees, past a sundial and a fountain. “It’s not often that a gentleman so quickly wins my favor.”

“Nor is it often that a lady is so fast to capture mine.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and laughed as the path turned, taking them into a knot garden. The air around them was filled with the sweet scent of herbs: santolina and marjoram, hyssop and thyme. “You are not like other men at court. You offer something more, something different. I like your immensities. Your ocean is an image of eternity, I think. Such great spaces make us small. Do we discover the New World, Mr. Raleigh, or does the New World discover us?”

“You speak like a true explorer,” he said.

“I like you, Mr. Raleigh.”

“And I like you.”

“Your directness is refreshing. I think I shall call you Water,” she said, her blood like hot lead in her chest. A flash of fear came on its heels, but she ignored it. “And you know, of course, that when I like a man, I reward him.”

“I have heard that.”

“And what have you to say about it?”

“Reward my mission, Majesty, not me.”

“Why not you?” His response confused her, and she did not like the feeling; it put her immediately on guard.

“Leave me free to like you in return. That can be my reward.”

“I don’t understand.” She pulled back, her eyes clouding, the lines on her face hard.

“So long as you are a benefactor, I cannot cease being a beggar,” he said. “I’ve not come here for personal gain.”

“I know not what you mean.”

“I think it must be difficult for so great a queen to know the simple pleasure of being liked for herself.”

She stared, shocked, after he finished speaking. He’d come uncomfortably close to the truth, and discomforts, no matter how small, were not something she ever intended to bear well. In fact, she generally made a point of not bearing them at all. How dare he draw attention to the difficulties of her situation? This was a liberty he should not have taken.

He should have fallen to his knees and thanked her. She could return to the palace and in an instant find a hundred men who would beg to find themselves in his position, who would know better than to point out her most private vulnerability. Not, she suspected, that any of them would have the means— or inclination—to discover it. And it was this thought, more than any other, that troubled and frightened her.

“Now you become dull,” she said. She turned and walked away from him, kicking at a patch of violet-colored sweet William as she went. Once she was far enough away that it was unlikely he could still see her, she started to run, hot tears stinging her cheeks. She ran until she could no longer catch her breath and then dropped onto a stone bench. She would have to be more careful with this man. It would be dangerous to allow him closer to her heart.



Whitehall was quieter at night than Bess had expected. Darker, too. Though she didn’t know why she’d had any faith in her expectations. She’d never before found herself in the corridors of the palace in the middle of the night, and certainly hadn’t ever embarked on a clandestine mission. She was carrying her shoes, knowing that their heels would be startlingly loud on stone floors and, as she made her way silently through the hallways, stayed close to the walls.

It seemed the safest approach, though when she thought about it, if a guard or anyone else came upon her, she wouldn’t, in fact, be able to disappear into the stone. Soon after she’d left her room she’d heard something: creaking wood, a turning handle, the rustle of skirts. She’d stopped, afraid that she’d been discovered, and pulled the hood of her cloak down low over her face. Flattening herself against the wall had made her feel slightly less visible, and rational or not, she had decided that walls were her best protection.

She’d waited, but no one came forward to confront her, so she continued on, haunted by the unsettling feeling that someone had been watching her. When she left the grounds of the palace—having slipped on her shoes as soon as she’d come outside—she entered a world wholly unfamiliar to her. She could not risk taking one of the royal boats; someone would notice her, and she’d have to pay off the boatman. He’d thought of this, of course, and arranged for a boat, rowed by an anonymous man who’d never know she’d come from Whitehall, to be waiting for her at a nearby dock.

The man did not speak to her during their short journey. When they stopped, she consulted the note in her hand before setting off on dark streets littered with the city’s homeless, their sleeping bodies obstacles in her path. He’d promised she would not be harmed, that the neighborhood was not as dangerous as it looked, and that his colleagues would be watching from the shadows, ready to intervene if anyone gave her trouble.

If she’d stopped to fully consider what she was doing, terror would have paralyzed her. So instead, she imagined that Raleigh was with her. First she’d pretended that they’d stumbled upon each other as she left Whitehall. A pleasant coincidence. Then, feeling more bold, she imagined that he’d followed her deliberately, and she distracted herself from the horrors of the dark by inventing both sides of the conversation they would have had were they together. He might comment on the stars; she might ask him about the poetry he wrote. Whatever the topic, she never doubted that their talk would be easy, effortless, perfectly satisfying. A feeling of sweet comfort burned through her.

And then she caught herself wondering if thoughts of her ever danced in his mind. She tried to stop, but it was too late. Thinking this way was useless, and there was an immediate sinking in her heart. He was the queen’s favorite and no one at court doubted the feeling was entirely mutual. He adored Elizabeth. How could he not? The queen was everything—beauty and power—and could satisfy his every desire. Bess had nothing to offer but herself.

This stung, hurting all the way to her teeth, and she was angry at herself, both for wanting him and for ruining her fantasy by letting reality creep into it. She imagined his eyes and made them smile as he would turn to her and say... say what? It would no longer work. She could not conjure up his side of their hypothetical conversation, and the streets seemed darker, unsafe.

Her thoughts turned as bleak as the winding alleys, and she began considering the man who’d asked her to come to him, her cousin, Francis Throckmorton. They’d played together often as children, but he’d always been more serious than she, and as they grew older, they saw each other less frequently.

Francis had never found a position at court. He’d stayed quietly in the country, holed up at his father’s estate after leaving Oxford three years ago. Now he said he needed her, summoned her to come in the middle of the night—bad signs—but family loyalty kept her from refusing to see him. As she reached the house, she looked at the message again, wanting to be certain she was in the right place before knocking on the worn wooden door.