Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (104 page)

I have to do is hold out a little longer and she’ll give in.”

“What is it about her?” demanded Lettice darkly. “What is it that

drives men to this madness?”

“I admire her,” he said steadily. “I freely admit that I admire her

beyond any other creature alive. Oh, Christ—I worship her, if you must

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hear it. But I will not serve her as a villein or a slave. I will not grovel, nor

will I crawl, because if I do—I know she will hate me for it.”

Lettice lifted her face and looked at him squarely.

“You honestly suppose she does not hate you now?” She got up and

went slowly to the door like an old woman. There she paused and looked

back at him for a moment.

“You fool,” she said softly, “you poor fool. I truly believe you are

beyond my aid at last.”

They were silent, staring at each other helplessly across the room.

“I shall pray for you,” she said after a moment; and closed the door

with quiet despair.

t t t

So, no apology came from Wanstead and the rift between the Queen

and the young Earl widened, a quarrel that might have continued indefi-

nitely, but for a sudden military disaster in Ireland, where the post of Lord

Deputy still remained vacant.

The English army, seeking to relieve their garrison at the Blackwater,

had been outflanked by the Earl of Tyrone’s rebel forces and ambushed at

the Yellow Ford. By the end of that day, two thousand English soldiers,

together with the Marshal of the army and thirty of his officers, lay dead

in the marshes. Within days, every local chieftain had given his allegiance

to Tyrone. The whole of Ulster lay open now to the rebels, and a wave

of burning and pillaging swept across the countryside to Dublin. It was

said that Tyrone awaited only the arrival of Spanish troops to drive the

English out of Ireland for good.

It was such a serious reversal for England that Essex, as Earl Marshal,

knew himself honour bound to return to court. He found the Queen

cool and distant, but very ready to reopen the question of appointing a

Lord Deputy.

A short list of names had been put forward in Council and she sat

back in her chair at the head of the table, taking no part in the heated

discussion that followed. Essex waxed critical and, finding his criticism

unchecked, had something scathing to say about each candidate.

A little silence fell when at length it seemed he had had his say. He

looked up and saw the Queen’s eyes upon him, her lips curled in a smile

which filled him suddenly with curious foreboding.

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“You seem remarkably well appraised of what this post demands,

my lord—I begin to think that perhaps you are the only man fitted for

the job.”

He stared at her aghast. Appalled.

“Madam, you overwhelm me. I swear I did not anticipate such an

honour—”

“I’m sure you did not—we are all well acquainted with your modesty,

my lord.”

Someone sniggered at the foot of the table and quickly stifled it. The

Queen smiled at Essex again, a little look of mockery which held a gleam

of malice. Across the table his eyes met hers in frantic mute appeal and

found them suddenly hard, inflexible as stone. He could not believe

she meant to do this to him. Ireland—the graveyard of Englishmen’s

reputations, the most hopeless military task in existence. She had baited

the trap and he had walked right into it, shackled by the bonds of his

own reputation.

t t t

The Earl of Southampton was lounging on a cushioned banker and

looked up with a lazy smile when Essex entered the room.

The smile froze on his lips as he saw his friend’s face.

“Christ’s soul, what ails you, Rob? Did the Queen turn on you after al ?”

Essex sank down on the hearth stool and stared into the fire. After a

moment he smiled bleakly over his shoulder, and held out his hand.

“On your knees, Harry, and pay your respects to the new Lord Deputy

of Ireland.”

Southampton paled and said, “Oh, God!”

“Precisely my sentiments, my friend!”

“But
Ireland
—what possesses her?”

“The Devil,” said Essex shortly. “I looked into her eyes today and saw

him as plainly as I see you now.”

“And I thought she loved you.”

Essex’s mouth tightened to an angry, embittered line.

“No one is safe with her—my dear, departed stepfather told me that,

before I ever went to court. I did not believe him then.” He frowned.

“But I do now. By God, I do.”

Southampton spread his hands helplessly.

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“But surely you can get out of it.”

Essex shook his head. “I have my pride.”

“Damn your pride, Robin—think of your
life
! It was Ireland killed

your father—for God’s sake go to her—tell her the task is beyond you.”

Essex got up and turned to go.

“I will die first,” he said.

t t t

Ireland was his destiny; and his downfall. Time, money, and men slipped

relentlessly through his fingers as he battled against savage chieftains and

hostile weather. From Kilkenny to Clonmel to Limerick he marched,

burning and pillaging, while his men dropped dead in the ferns from

dysentery and malaria. His own health, never robust, began to give way

and his hold on the campaign slowly loosened, as though the stinking

bog-mists had rotted the roots of his brain.

When the creation of fifty-nine knighthoods (in direct disobedience

to her express command) and the capture of one minor castle seemed to

be the sum total of his achievements to date, Elizabeth inquired, with

biting sarcasm whether she gave him £1,000 a day to go on progress!

Action against Tyrone was what she wanted now, and action she would

have or know the reason why. She wrote caustically to her Lord Deputy,

commanding him to engage Tyrone’s forces immediately; he was not to

dare to leave Ireland until he had done so.

In a dark Dublin hostelry, Essex’s discontented young friends clustered

round the fire and clinked tankards morosely. A low grumbling rose

steadily among the acrid smoke of several pipes and a seedy, spitting fire

of damp sea-wood.

“So it’s true, then—we march to Ulster tomorrow with five hundred

men lost already. It’s madness!”

“It’s suicide.”

“Aye—and who sends us out to it? That little Crookback Cecil, who

couldn’t lift a sword, let alone wield it. It’s his poisoned pen the Queen

writes with to my lord. There’ll be no joy for us from England while

Cecil lives.”

“And the Queen?”

Silence! A deathly hush broken only by the quiet shifting of a wooden

stump on the fire.

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“My lord would never agree to that.”

“Would he not? Let him once get back to England—and then we

shall see.”

The mugs clinked and there was a fugitive burst of laughter.

t t t

Essex met the rebel leader, Tyrone, on horseback in the centre of

the River Lagan, to parley. From the high ground above the ford at

Bellaclynthe, the English officers looked down fearfully, knowing that

behind the northern hill the entire Irish army lay encamped.

For nearly an hour the two men talked, each with his horse up to its

belly in icy water; then at last they saluted each other curtly and separated,

Essex spurring his mount up the steep incline at the far side of the bank.

Southampton was the first to reach him.

“A truce,” said Essex breathlessly, forestalling the inevitable question.

“An honourable truce.”

He saw Southampton’s face.

“I know,” he continued peevishly, “I know it’s not what I was sent

to do, but will you tell me in God’s name what alternative I have? They

have enough men to wipe us out in a single encounter.”

“Then why do they choose to treat?”

Essex was silent. The reason was obvious. At this juncture delay suited

Tyrone, who was still awaiting Spanish troops. Once they had arrived

no English force, however enlarged, could hope to contain them; and

Ireland would be free of the English scourge for good.

They rode back to Dublin Castle, nervous and ill at ease, to find another

letter from the Queen awaiting him. It was a caustic letter, dismissing all

Essex’s futile activities to date, castigating his “impertinent arguments,”

and once more demanding immediate military action.

“You had your asking, you had your choice of times, you had power

and authority more ample than ever any had, or shall have…”

Essex let the letter fall from his hand and slumped into a chair, burying

his face in his hands. Southampton picked up the paper, read it in silence,

and handed it around their small company.

No one spoke. There was no need to stress the fact that after that there

was no hope of Elizabeth accepting the terms of his shady truce.

Essex sat up wild-eyed and hurled his goblet across the room.

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“This is Cecil’s doing, God damn him. She is surrounded by men who

speak against me. I must go back to her now.”

“But not alone,” warned Southampton anxiously. “Pick a thousand

men and we’ll march on London.”

“We’d be hard put to find ten fit to go,” remarked Essex’s young

stepfather, Christopher Blount. “My lord,” he turned to Essex, once

more hunched in his chair, “will you desert your post in defiance of the

Queen’s command?”

Essex closed his eyes and pushed the wet strands of hair back from his

burning forehead. He felt drained and weak from the bouts of dysentery

which had plagued him since he entered this wretched land and ate its

tainted food, drank of its foul water. Surely Elizabeth would be moved

by the sight of him now, stricken with sickness got in her service.

He had feigned illness before and it had always brought her running,

sending her personal physician and trusted potions. Suddenly, he ached

to be with her again, safe and sheltered beneath the mantle of her old

affection. All this filthy failure would be behind him when he knelt

once more at her feet and kissed her hand—she had forgiven Leicester

worse in the Netherlands.

And, once he was back, he would show her he had learnt his lesson

well, that he knew his place at last. No more telling her what to do, trying

to snatch the reins of government from her old hands. She knew what she

was doing, she had known all along; and now, at last, he saw it.

He must get to her quickly with his news, before his enemies could

make capital out of it.

He would go home—and be humble; he would go at once.

t t t

Across the Vale of Evesham, through the northern Cotswolds, and down

into the Vale of the White Horse they rode without pausing for food or

drink. Reaching Lambeth, they discovered the court was at Nonsuch

Palace, ten miles south of London; but their horses were done and swayed

where they stood. There was a frantic search among the back streets, until

sufficient stolen mounts were found to carry them on the final stage of

that desperate journey, a small party riding as though all the forces of Hell

were on their tail. The country side heaved and merged before Essex’s

starved gaze and blood drummed in his ears, competing with the thunder

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of horses’ hooves. He became dimly aware of a shouting voice and turned

his head vaguely in its direction.

“My lord, my lord, they have news of your arrival. Lord Grey rides

ahead even now to warn Cecil.”

Someone plucked at Essex’s sleeve, causing him to sway violently in

the saddle and curse.

“Let me ride ahead, my lord. I’ll kill Grey and Cecil before they reach

the Queen, by your leave.”

A red, sweating face swam into Essex’s blurred sight. God’s light, who

was this man? Then he remembered. St. Lawrence of course, who else?

Always a hothead—but a loyal knave—a good friend; he had so many

good friends. And yet—

“Bide your time,” he snapped, snubbing the man for no accountable

reason. “We’re not here to do murder.”
Not yet. Not unless she won’t listen

to reason and there’s no other way. Oh Elizabeth, my Queen, my goddess—let

it not come to that.

The horses plunged on madly, trampling a carpet of red gold leaves into

the soft mud, until at last the fantastic towers crowned with onion-shaped

domes were clearly glimpsed between the leafless branches of the surrounding

trees. Ahead lay Nonsuch Palace, gleaming in the early morning sunshine, its

wal s curiously patterned, like a sugar cake, unique, eccentric, whimsical—as

strange and fascinating as the woman within who ruled it.

Essex tumbled from his horse in the courtyard and dragged his mud-

splattered sleeve across his sweating face. There was no sign of Lord Grey

or his horse as he burst into the outer precincts of the palace.

t t t

Grey stood in Cecil’s narrow panelled closet and wiped his own face with