Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (103 page)

she paralysed with shock—or merely brooding on some terrible revenge?

The days stole away and crept into weeks. Still she did nothing. She

went about her court with her pale face inscrutable beneath its flamboyant

wig, apparently totally preoccupied by the news which was carried to her

daily from the Lord Treasurer’s house in the Strand.

And the word ran round in a shocked whisper that Lord Burghley lay

on his deathbed at last.

t t t

The Queen of England sat beside the canopied bed in the sunlit Strand

and faithfully fed her chief minister with a spoon.

She was not very good at it, Burghley observed, with detached affec-

tion. The spoon mounted from the bowl to his sunken lips with frenetic

speed, as though she felt life dripping slowly out of him and was desperate

to fill him with nourishment. So might she attempt to fill a cracked vessel,

working desperately against time.

He lifted his arm at length to stay her busy hand.

“Madam, let it rest.”

“But you must eat,” she insisted, a trifle wildly. “You will never get

well unless you eat.”

“My dear,” he said gently, “you deceive yourself. Everyone in this

kingdom knows that I am at my last end. Why will you not accept it?”

The spoon halted, wavered, and found its way tremulously back into

the bowl. Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to fall against her

will and he saw with anxiety their sudden glisten.

“I am old and my time is done,” he murmured. “If you will mourn my

unworthy person, then I pray you, madam—let it be with moderation.”

So he thought of Leicester even now. She forced herself to smile faintly.

“Don’t worry, my friend—I shall be your very merry widow.”

They were silent a moment, struggling respectively for composure. At

last she said with studied lightness, “They say King Philip, too, lies on his

deathbed. You should go down to Hell together—my best friend and my

best enemy. You see—I always said I would outlive you all. Sometimes I

think I shall live forever.”

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She frowned; evidently the prospect displeased her. Burghley groped

for her hand.

“You will live in the hearts of men as long as England endures.”

“And you,” she retorted swiftly, “are a forward old flatterer, like the

rest of them.”

But he knew she did not seriously believe that, and he was not concerned.

Flattery was something to which their relationship had never sunk.

Suddenly she said with angry despair, “You shall not die. I forbid it.

What shall I do without you?”

He bit his quivering lip and looked away.

“There is my son,” he managed to say at length.

“Oh, yes, your precious son!” She glanced at him shrewdly through

her tears. “Are you quite sure Mildred never cuckolded you with that

one? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was Walsingham’s—cold as cod-

fish! He doesn’t care for me over much, does he?”

“He—” Burghley floundered forwords, “he was always—
reserved
, even

as a child. Sensitive about his physical limitations. And I fear, madam, that

to call him your
Pygmy—
”

“Good God,” breathed the Queen, “did he think I referred to
that?

Then he is even more stupid than I thought.”

“Stupid!” bridled the loyal father. “
Stupid
, madam?”

“He suffers by comparison,” said the Queen smoothly. “Beside you

any man would seem a dwarf.”

Burghley coughed to hide his confused emotions. It was a full

minute before he had recovered himself sufficiently to tell her his son

could be trusted.

She lifted his swollen hand to her lips and kissed it gently.

“In all my life I have trusted no man save you—”

And Leicester! he added silently.

“Yes,” she continued softly, exactly as though he had spoken the

thought aloud, “and him. Must you still resent that all these years after

his death?”

“You loved him!” It was an accusation.

She looked down at the coverlet.

“Then it was true,” he said brokenly. “All those years—you and he—”

She shook her head slowly and Burghley dragged himself upright

against the pillows, staring at her in breathless anticipation.

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Susan Kay

“It was said to hurt you, William, didn’t you guess that? No man may

strike me without receiving double the blow in return. Oh, my Spirit, do

I seem like a woman who has known the joys of love?”

That small, grim touch of self-deprecation convinced him as no sworn

oath could have done. When he thought how she treated young lovers,

he wondered how he could ever have missed the truth. A bitter old

maid—everything she said and did supported that image! And slowly tears

of joy began to roll down his withered face.

It was a small enough lie to buy the happiness of a dying man, a little

worthwhile perjury which she would not regret. For now, sitting here

at his deathbed, as she had done day after day, adjusting his pillows and

feeding him with her own hand, she found she could not do enough for

him. There was so little time left in which to distil a lifetime’s love and

gratitude; and this was one man who must not die without knowing how

much she cared.

She said kindly, “Your son’s worth is not wasted on me. I shall see him

advanced as far as you could ever wish.”

“Madam,” he murmured incoherently, “you are gracious beyond all

my hopes—and loyalty will be your reward, I swear it.”

“Loyalty,” she repeated darkly. “Oh yes, they’re all very loyal, these

rising young men who can’t wait for me to drop dead—about as loyal

as that wild beast mooning at Wanstead! And there’s a pretty piece of

devotion to comfort my old age.” She brushed her hand across her eyes,

as though to push back the hideous memory. “He’s grown beyond me,

Burghley, like a wilful, destructive child baiting its mother. Why did he

have to come into my life when I’m too old to handle him? What in

God’s name am I to do with him?”

“The insolent lout should be flogged to death for the outrage!”

muttered the old man with feeling.

She smiled bitterly and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“One does not flog heroes to death, my gentle dotard. And that is his

strength if he chooses to make a stand on it. The love of the people—how

well I know the power that it brings.”

“The people are ignorant fools and knaves,” began Burghley hotly.

“The people are bored,” she said shrewdly. “Peace and prosperity are

well enough for a few decades, but now they are restless for novelty,

for deeds that fire the imagination and bring warmth to dull lives. War,

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adventure, spectacle—Essex stands for all this, and the people love him

for it.”

“Madam, he is a danger to you and to all of England. Cut him down

while there is still time.”

Cut him down…

She got up abruptly and walked away to the window, where an angry

bee was beating itself stupidly against the mullioned panes. Idly, she

picked up a book and began to guide the frenzied insect towards the

open casement.

“This way, you stupid creature,” she muttered in mounting annoy-

ance at its panicking perversity. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”

Suddenly, without warning, the bee stung her, and in a rage at its

monstrous ingratitude she flung the book at it. The heavy volume struck

the window and fell to the floor, leaving the bee squashed on the narrow

leaded pane, blood and guts oozing from the tail.

Her anger died as suddenly as it had flared and left her trembling as

she looked at her handiwork. Unnecessary violence! It would have died

of the sting anyway—died without her angry, helping hand. It might

have been Essex’s mangled body, splattered across the window of public

imagination, blotting out the glory of her reign beneath a monstrous

smear of blood. And that she did not want at any cost.

For a long time she stared out over the river, seeking a grave deep

enough to swallow his shining reputation and bury it for ever. And at

length she found one.

Ireland…

No Englishman had ever made his fortune there; no military post

was more unsought than that of Lord Deputy. She would send Essex to

Ireland at the first plausible opportunity, and perhaps, if God was kind to

them both, he would not come back alive.

She turned, at last, to tell Burghley what she had decided and found

that he had fallen asleep. She went back to the bed and looked down at

the man who had been like a father to her, bent, and laid her lips against

his forehead, gently, so as not to disturb him. Then she collected her

gloves and the lady-in-waiting who dozed in the next room, and took

her barge back to the palace.

She did not see Burghley’s last quavering letter to his son Robert,

which lauded her to the heavens for being “so careful a nurse” to him.

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Susan Kay

Nor did she read its hammerblow of a postscript which hit the suave

and sophisticated little Secretary squarely between the eyes, making him

pause uneasily, as though he felt the warning presence of his father still

at his side.

“
Serve God by serving the Queen, for all other service is bondage to the Devil
!”

Remember it…

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Chapter 4

I
will not do it,” said essex belligerently. “not for you or any

other living soul. Christ’s soul, Mother, how can you ask me to

abase myself in such a fashion? I tell you this, Leicester may have crept

back to her, whining like a whipped cur, but I’m damned if I’ll do the

same. She behaved abominably, like a—like a fishwife! And if you think

I’m going to accept such treatment from the hands of any woman—”

“The Queen is not
any
woman,” countered Lettice, with angry

desperation. “For God’s sake, Robert, you’re talking of your prince!”

“So?” He lifted his arrogant shoulders. “Can’t princes err, then? Can’t

subjects receive any wrong? Is her earthly power infinite?”

Lettice cast a wary glance at the door. His voice was loud and she

could not vouch for the discretion of every servant in her house.

“Be silent,” she said hoarsely. “Your thoughts are too perilous for words.”

“She
struck
me, Mother!”

“Oh, Lord, if that’s all,” sighed Lettice wearily. “And for that you

draw your sword on her and put your life at risk. You stupid, stupid boy!”

Suddenly he put out one arm and pulled her roughly to the shelter of

his doublet.

“Mother—don’t weep. You know I can’t bear to see you weep.”

“Then don’t give me such cause!” she sobbed.

“You puff this out of all proportion,” he said reasonably. “If she was

going to send me to the Tower, she’d have done it by now.”

He paused and stared ahead fixedly, at some new grievance of thought,

suddenly come to light.

Susan Kay

“You don’t think—you don’t suppose for one moment that she can

have
forgotten
about me?”

Lettice wiped her eyes and sat down by the hearth.

“They say she is so crushed by Burghley’s death that she cares for little

else but mourning at the moment. That’s all I know—make what you

will of it.”

“She
has
forgotten me!” Essex clenched his fist convulsively. “Am I of

so little account to her that a dead man can oust me from her mind? Am

I to compete with a doddering ghost for her attention?”

“Be glad of it,” said Lettice shrewdly. “Grief is the only thing that

makes her vulnerable—you’ll never have a better opportunity to make

your peace with her. Robert, I’m asking—no—I’m
begging
you to lower

your insane pride for once. Admit your fault humbly on your knees and I

swear she’ll welcome you back with open arms. Swallow your arrogance,

or, I warn you—the next blow she gives you will be a mortal one.”

He turned away abruptly, riven with internal conflict.

“If I go back now and grovel,” he began slowly, “it will appear I do so

for profit—purely for what I can get out of her. And it’s not like that. It’s

never been like that.” He made an impatient gesture. “You can’t begin

to understand what I feel for her.”

A dark, resentful look crossed Lettice’s face.

“You think not?” Her voice was suddenly ugly with emotion. “You

think I was ten years wed to Leicester without learning anything of what

makes that woman function? The Queen destroys every man she sets

her eyes upon. If you love me, Robert—if there’s an ounce of pity in

your soul—don’t break my heart by letting her do to you what she did

to Leicester.”

“I won’t be compared with Leicester,” he said contemptuously. “I am

the only man in the country who has ever dared to stand up to her. If you

only knew how she respects me for that—how she despises the spineless

creep-mice who surround her.
Little men
!—how many times have I heard

her say that? Don’t you see? I can be the only master she has ever had! All