Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (106 page)

he quietened and sank into the deeper sleep of unconsciousness, leaving

her to look down on him hopelessly with tears streaming down her face.

She knew instinctively that she was looking at him for the last time;

he could not last long like this, no one could. And though her heart was

squeezed, as though in a vice, by that realisation, there was a measure of

relief in the thought. It was inconceivably better for him to die of natural

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causes in his bed, rather than by her command. And he had no choice

but to die, for there was nothing left for him to live for, no way that she

could ever hope to take him back after all he had done.

She stood a moment more by the bed, her quivering hand suspended

just above his hair, aching to touch him; and then drew back. One caress,

however brief, would crumble her composure and her resolve; it was

better to hold aloof.

She turned and left the house and made her way back through the

darkness to the waiting barge. Beneath the windswept canopy she sat

like a graven image, so still and silent that Anne Warwick never dared to

attempt conversation.

But, as the barge drew into the water steps of the palace, the Queen

turned her head and found Lady Warwick’s eyes upon her.

“I shall send his wife to him,” she said dully.

Lady Warwick looked at her steadily.

“Only his wife, madam? What of his mother?”

The Queen clenched her fingers, so that the rings bit into her flesh.

“Only his wife!” she said and looked away.

The barge bumped gently against the landing steps and the barge-men

drew up their oars, but the Queen still sat in the darkness and the water

lapped around her.

Essex was dying and she was to be spared the tragedy she feared—the

tragedy she deserved. His death would not stain her hands, for God would

take him in His infinite mercy—that innocent soul corrupted in its bright

youth by the Devil’s Daughter.

Who had called her that—Feria? It hardly seemed to matter. Over

the years it had been said many times, by many different people.
A spirit

full of incantation
had been granted to her and paid for in Hell’s debased

currency; but now she had nothing left with which to make payment.

Now at last the price was too high.

When he was gone, she would look on no man with love again.

She swore it.

t t t

They gave Essex the last Communion, but he did not die—sheer

perversity, opined his enemies. The physical crisis passed and he slowly

recovered to face the unbearable knowledge that his fallen star would

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never shine again. He suffered over a year’s quasi-imprisonment, while

his misdemeanours were published for the edification of the people; and

the year dragged for him in steadily mounting resentment against the

woman whose affection he had misread so drastically.

In August of 1600 he was summoned to see Cecil and informed

coldly that the Queen intended to release him to a life of retirement. He

might have his liberty on condition that he faded unobtrusively from

public life and came no more to court. In the depths of the countryside

his name would be forgotten and would cease to be the parrot cry on

the lips of malcontents. There was no communication from the Queen.

She had made it perfectly clear that they had nothing more to say to

each other and she would not see him again. She dared not, fearing her

own weakness, the deadly, brooding sense of isolation and loneliness

that had driven her to soften towards him again and again against her

better judgement.

He sat at Essex House, surveying his mountain of debts, stewing in a

cauldron of indignation and fear. His one lucrative source of income, a

monopoly of the farm of sweet wines, was nearing the end of its tenure

and his whole future depended on its renewal. He wrote frantic, begging

letters, he prayed, he hoped against hope, and finally he received word

from court; the Queen refused to renew his licence.

It was the final blow and it snapped the perilously thin thread of his

sanity. He went berserk, raging about his house like a madman, cursing

Cecil—cursing the Queen herself, screaming out that “her mind is as

crooked as her carcase.” When he had calmed sufficiently to take stock

of his position, he realised she had left him no choice. He put out tenta-

tive feelers to King James in Scotland and gathered a growing knot of

discontented friends around him in London.

By January of 1601 Essex House was a rival court, unashamedly

harbouring the seeds of revolution.

t t t

Saturday, the 7th of February, was a cold, drizzling night, and the flick-

ering lights of Essex House shimmered eerily behind the misty windows.

Secretary Herbert, hunching his cloak around his shoulders, stormed

down the steps into the courtyard, leapt on his wretched, shivering

horse, and rode back to inform the Queen and the Council that the Earl

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of Essex refused to answer their summons to present himself at court

and explain his dubious activities in person. He left the steaming room

behind him in a hubbub of confusion, wreathed with the blue-grey

smoke of tobacco.

A clamour of contradictory advice was showered on the angry young

aristocrat at the centre of the dispute.

“Now the Council are warned of our intentions we daren’t delay,

Robin. You must strike at once.”

“Or fly, my lord,” suggested Sir Charles Danvers, a small stocky man

with nervous eyes that rolled doubtingly over his patron’s face. “Take a

hundred men into Wales and secure some ports.”

Essex tapped his spent pipe angrily into the hearth and spat. Smoking

was a filthy habit—he wished it had never become so fashionable. All

Raleigh’s fault of course—

“I have no intention of fleeing like a knave,” he observed flatly,

lounging against the chimney-piece and pulling fractiously at the silver

fringe that adorned his doublet. “I have been wronged—grossly wronged

by the Queen and I mean to have my grievances redressed. The people

will support my cause—”

“But, my lord, you have three hundred men armed and waiting—

sufficient to attack the court tonight and seize the Queen.”

“The Queen is not enough alone. We need Cecil and Raleigh and the

rest of the pack—they could be scattered anywhere.” Essex strode from

the hearth and snapped his fingers to his secretary. “Temple—find out

how matters stand for us in the city.”

Within an hour Temple was back, sweating with his haste, to tell them

that a thousand London militia could be roused to fight for the Earl’s cause.

“Tomorrow, my lord—tomorrow.”

And so by dawn messengers were striding through the narrow streets

of the capital, summoning his supporters for the final encounter between

Essex and his Queen.

t t t

At ten o’clock on that frozen February morning the Privy Council’s

delegation arrived and made a futile attempt to push their way through

the milling crowds assembled outside the main gates of Essex House.

They were kicked and bruised and length admitted through a side

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entrance, there to be jostled through crowds even louder and thicker in

the courtyard. A servant bore the Great Seal of England, symbolic of their

authority in this mob, and he clutched it to his chest to protect it from the

mocking hands which grabbed at it. They were four in number and they

were lost among a press of three hundred men who were saddling horses

and distributing arms.

Oblivious to their danger, they shoved and elbowed their way to

where Essex stood, surrounded by a knot of cronies.

“My lord!” yelled the Lord Keeper, Egerton, above the hoots and jeers

of the crowd. “My lord, what is the meaning of this unlawful assembly?”

“My life was sought, sir,” said Essex haughtily, for this was the line

he had opted to take with the people. “I was to have been murdered in

my bed.”

Egerton blanched at the blatant lie, but continued courteously, deter-

mined to avoid a confrontation if it could be avoided. “My lord, the law

exists to protect subjects from such dangers. If you would have recourse

to the legitimate channels—”

He was interrupted by Southampton, who spat and informed the

crowd loudly that he himself had been murderously set upon by Lord

Grey, who was Cecil’s man, only a month before. So much for justice!

“Grey was punished for his assault,” insisted the Lord Chief Justice

bravely, as the crowd began to stamp. “My lord, may we talk privately? I

give you my word I will be most happy to carry any legitimate grievance

of yours to the Queen and see it redressed.”

At this the crowd shifted forward in an angry, ugly mood and began

to roar abuse and advice.

“Away, my lord, you lose time!”

“They abuse you, my lord—they betray you.”

Girding his courage to the hilt, the Lord Keeper replaced his hat with

dignity and turned to address the chanting crowd.

“I command you all, on your allegiance, to lay down your weapons

and depart,” he roared.

Shrugging his shoulders, Essex turned his back and strode into the

house. As the crowd surged forward, brandishing weapons and screaming,

“Kill them—throw the Great Seal out of the window!” the Privy

Councillors made a narrow escape in his wake and bolted the great door.

Essex was waiting for them by the main staircase with a gracious smile.

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“If you will be pleased to accompany me, gentlemen, I shall show you

to a room where we can talk with more privacy.”

The Lord Keeper inclined his head, closing his lips on a sigh of relief,

and the little party swarmed up the stairs at the Earl’s heels. He escorted

them to his study, and then, with his famed courtesy, stood back to let

them enter first. One by one the councillors smiled nervously as they

walked past him into the disordered chamber.

When the last was safely in, still beaming effusively, Essex slammed

the door shut on them, locked it, and called for a guard of musketeers to

be placed outside.

Shocked silence was followed by a volley of indignant cries from the

other side of the door and Essex began to laugh hysterically.

“My lords—my lords, be patient a while. I promise faithfully not to

keep you waiting. I go now to take London, but I give you my word on

this: I’ll be back in half an hour at most.”

As the uncanny echo of his laughter died away down the corridor,

Egerton moved away from the door and slumped down on a stool.

“He was never stable, my lords—I fear his brain is utterly overset.

Her Majesty is in the hands of a madman.” He bowed his head and

continued quietly, “There is nothing more we can do now, but to pray

for her deliverance.”

Essex’s boots thundered on the bare wooden staircase as he ran down

the steps two at a time and burst into the courtyard, waving his hat in

mad triumph.

The mob stamped and clapped a welcome.

“To the court!” they yelled. “To the court!”

At court, less than twenty minutes distance away, the Queen was

defenceless but for her personal guard. He had only to march west,

surrounding the palace, cutting her off from outside aid, and she would

be entirely in his power.

He paused at the gates of Essex House for a moment, and then, with

deliberate determination, turned his horse towards the capital city.

“To the court!” screamed the mob in desperation. “To the
court
!”

But they screamed in vain.

Essex, stubborn and opinionated to the last, rode east to take London

from his Queen.

t t t

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They told all this to Elizabeth who sat very calm at dinner in Whitehall

Palace and they saw the faint, knowing smile which hovered for a brief

moment on the thin line of her lips.

He had had her at his mercy in that one moment, but now her sure

instinct warned her he had thrown that chance away. He had turned

to win London—London, the city she had held in the palm of her

hand for nearly fifty years. Oh, what a fool he was, a blind misguided

child; her heart ached with the bitter knowledge of how this all must

end. She had tried to avert it—God alone knew how she had tried!

But there was no time to spare now for heart-searching and regret,

there was room only for action, bold decision, and calm, unquestioned

authority. Suddenly, without conscious effort, she found herself

possessed by all three qualities. Confidence was what was needed to

rally her supporters and stabilise her position; and confidence was what

she would give them.

“God who placed me on this throne will preserve me on it,” she said

calmly, smiling at Cecil. “I shall not sleep tonight until I hear that they