Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (41 page)

heart’s desire.

t t t

The new Spanish Ambassador, Feria, arrived in England in November and

went at once through the rapidly emptying palace to the Queen’s bedside.

The great room was dark and the state bed resembled an elaborate

mausoleum. He had brought a letter from Philip, but the little shrivelled

figure in the bed was beyond reading it.

“Will he come?” she whispered, groping for the Spaniard’s hand.

Feria launched into what he had evidently prepared. His master was

deeply grieved at the impossibility of returning to England, but pressing

business detained him in Spain. The welfare of the state must come first.

He sent his good wishes—The smooth voice continued to flow over her,

glibly repeating the empty excuses, but Mary was no longer listening.

She lay on her deathbed, with her courtiers already flocking to

Hatfield, and Philip sent—
his good wishes
.

She held up her withered hand and stayed the Spaniard’s eloquence.

“Peace, my friend. I am content.”

Feria’s eyes swivelled round to the few women who still hovered in

the room. He seemed relieved as he bent closer over to the bed to convey

his real message.

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Susan Kay

“His Majesty begs that as your last duty you will declare the Lady

Elizabeth your sole successor.”

Yes, she had known he would ask that. And even now in this last

moment of bitter disillusion she could deny him nothing.

“If Elizabeth will discharge my debts and maintain the True Faith, I

will acknowledge her as my only heir.”

So, she had said it at last! Yet, strangely, this second betrayal of her

conscience was not so clear in her mind as the first all those years ago

when her father had forced her to sign that paper recognising his authority

as Supreme Head of the Church in England. Oh, the strokes of her pen

upon that evil document had gleamed newly wet in her memory ever

since. And this was her final punishment—to hand her country over to a

bastard heretic!

She lay very still with her eyes closed, lest the wretched tears of failure

should steal down her cheeks.

Feria bowed himself out with very little further pretence at solicitude

and the November afternoon darkened towards evening beyond the tall

windows. She watched as her women built up the fire and her mind

began to wander, flickering and bobbing as wildly as the dancing flames.

Fire.

The futile burnings at Smithfield. For every heretic that burned, three

sprang to take his place—the plague of heresy would never be contained

in England now.

War.

Military defeat, financial disaster—and
Calais
! Calais was engraved

upon her heart.

Marriage.

Two cruel and delusive mock pregnancies which had given false hope

to the last stages of a fatal illness—no child, no love.

Fire; war; marriage; her mind, feverish and confused, revolved

increasingly around those three words. They had brought her nothing

and, worse, brought nothing to England but disaster, religious schisms,

bankruptcy, and national shame. It was a poor, threadbare inheritance,

but even now she need not will it to Elizabeth: she could bequeath her

crown to the Queen of Scots. And if she did, there would be civil war.

I should have killed her when I had the chance, but I couldn’t do it. Why

couldn’t I do it
?

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Legacy

Now she could not do this thing either, could not disinherit her sister

and leave a legacy of anarchy to crown her failures. What John Knox had

denounced as the “monstrous regiment of women” must continue in

England—but not in the safe, Catholic hands of a Scottish queen.

It was the last choice between the fate of her beloved religion and the

fate of the realm. It was the only choice for a Tudor monarch.

Elizabeth would rule.

t t t

The Great North Road was swarming with excited figures, some on

horseback, some on foot, all leaving the capital in a steady stream for

Hatfield. Day after day the exodus went on and Elizabeth sat in the Great

Hall, receiving those anxious to swear fealty to the Queen who was to

be. Even Feria came and was suitably ingratiating, while reminding her

of all she owed to Philip’s friendship. The days ticked away slowly in

unbearable suspense, and the news came to her that the Archbishop of

Canterbury, Cardinal Pole, was now gravely ill and unlikely to outlive

his mistress and cousin by many days.
The crown will fall on your pretty

head as surely as day follows night.
If Pole died, there would be no one to

lead the Catholics against her and for the present, at least, there would

be no fight.

The 17th of November was as hot as any summer’s day, a freak of

nature which caused some comment. She stood in the early morning

sunshine watching the new arrivals flock through the gatehouse below.

They couldn’t get here quick enough, or bow low enough when they

arrived, and her cynical amusement was touched with faint disgust.

“Rats, deserting the ship of state,” she murmured with an unpleasant

smile. “Poor Mary.”

“Poor Mary!” Mrs. Ashley rustled to the window and looked at

her in indignant amazement. “Your Grace can say
that
after all we’ve

gone through!”

“Why not? The same thing could happen to me one day. If this is

what naming your successor does I’ll keep my mouth shut till they lay

me in my coffin.”

She shivered in the hot sunlight and swung round to collect an armful

of books.

“What are you doing?” Kat was alarmed.

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Susan Kay

“I’m going out—as far away from them as I can get. I’ll be in the park

somewhere if the news should come.”

“You’d better wear your sun hat then.” Kat tossed her a red and white

bonnet. “I don’t want you ascending the throne covered in freckles!”

Elizabeth put on the sun hat and ducked out of the crowded manor,

avoiding the obsequious bows and curtsies which greeted her appearance,

waving back the women who hurried forward to attend her. She wanted

to be alone now in these last hours before her destiny closed in upon her,

alone to think and remember the past.

She went out of the quadrangle through the central arch in the loggia at

a stately pace, crossed the green before the palace, and took the archway that

would gain her the park. Once through that gateway she began to run like

a child, away from the very thing she had coveted for more than ten years.

When she could run no longer, she turned and faced the hateful sense

of duty like an enemy.

“I will be Queen,” she screamed to the old house glowing rusty red in

the distance. “I will do as I please.”

You will be Queen. And you will do what pleases England.
She sank down

beneath an oak tree and buried her face in her hands. She did not want

her throne on terms, but she could not fight her own conscience. She

knew what she owed; and she knew how to pay. She would rule England,

rule it alone. And England alone should rule her.

The utter loneliness of splendid isolation closed in around her as she sat

beneath the bare oak tree, a proud young tigress ready to stalk wild and

free in the forests of Europe, unshackled by human bondage. There was a

shout in the distance and she raised her head slowly in its direction. Across

the broad sweep of grass a great crowd had begun to move.

So it had come. The long apprenticeship was over.

It had come and she was ready. She stood before them and heard

Cecil’s voice above the rest crying that the Queen was dead.

“
Long live the Queen
!”

The roar of their acknowledgment died away and they were silent,

waiting for her to speak.

There, in the strangest moment they ever experienced, they saw her

kneel to them, like a Druid sacrifice beneath the ancient oak.

She said, very low, in Latin, “It is our Lord’s doing and it is marvellous

in our eyes.”

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The hot November sunshine blazed down on her bent head. No one

else spoke.

And one by one the men who had sworn to serve her sank down on

their knees around her and likewise bowed their heads.

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Chapter 4

I
t was far into the night before hatfield’s hive-like activity

ceased, and the jostling bodies who had packed into the old manor

house each found themselves an uncomfortable niche in which to spend

the remaining hours of darkness.

Finally, the heavy doors of the new Queen’s private chamber were

opened by the discreetly yawning figure of Mrs. Ashley, and the young

man who had waited so patiently without for so many hours was admitted.

The clock in the Great Hall struck two as he stepped into the room and

went humbly down on one knee with his hat in his hand.

The Queen was dressed in a loose robe edged with sable and her hair

fell freely down her back. She looked very young as she rose from her

chair and gave him her hand to kiss.

“Robin!”

“My Queen.” He bent his head over her hand and the reverence of

his voice and gesture amused her. She allowed him to hold her fingers

a shade longer than the moment demanded before she took a step back

from him.

“I saw you arrive this morning,” she said.

He was immediately disheartened. All these hours she had been aware

of his presence, yet had not summoned him till now.

“I have been busy.”

Her eyes reproved him. It was as though she had answered his

unspoken question.

“Of course, madam. It was gracious of you to receive me at this hour.”

Legacy

She smiled and half turned her back on him.

“That white mare of yours is beautiful,” she continued thoughtfully.

“May I have her?”

He inclined his head hastily. “Gladly, madam.”

“It will not break your heart to part with her then?”

“She was intended as a gift for Your Majesty. Indeed I would have

presented her—” He hesitated.

“Had I not asked for her first.” She laughed and held out both hands

to him. “Did you
really
think I had forgotten you?”

“It is Your Majesty’s privilege to keep me waiting.”

“Half the night?”

“All my life—if you choose.”

“You
are
offended.”

He smiled drily. “Madam, I am always offended when I go hungry.”

“Why, have they not fed you?” she asked in surprise.

“Not so that my stomach noticed. Do all your retainers subsist on

these sparrow rations?”

“I was not prepared for such company,” she said demurely. “Kat, set that

tray before the fire. And bring wine—two goblets. Half water in mine.”

She withdrew to the couch before the log fire and he followed in

accordance with her gesture.

“Water?” he echoed questioningly.

“I don’t like wine.”

A word began to tumble round his mind, nudging him unwillingly

along an uneasy train of thought.

Temperance.

A stupid, inappropriate nickname, he had never understood it, but

now, face to face with this extraordinary frugality he could pause and

wonder for one anxious moment how far these nun-like habits extended.

Once, as a very small boy, he had been soundly cuffed for trying to

touch a lighted altar candle. Now his family was Protestant and they no

longer held with sacred candles. Yet, kneeling at the feet of his Queen,

he experienced that same guilty, hopeless feeling of something beautiful

just beyond his grimy reach.

“Eat,” she commanded lightly, and he obeyed. She watched him in the

dancing firelight, turning the goblet stem slowly between her long fingers.

She said softly, “Cardinal Pole is dead.”

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Susan Kay

He looked up startled. “Madam, are you sure?”

“I have reliable sources.”

He shook his head slightly and bit into a chicken leg.

“I find it quite remarkable that two of your mortal enemies should

drop dead on the same day. And this extraordinary weather—it’s almost

like an omen.”

He drained his goblet and set it down with a slight frown.

“I suppose this means there’ll be no fight after all.”

“You would have preferred civil war?” she inquired ironically.

“A little healthy conflict—nothing serious, of course—”

“Just enough to distinguish yourself as my true knight!”

Unnerved by the ease with which she saw through him, he flushed

and was silent for a moment.

“A man must prove his worth to his monarch,” he said slowly, “if not

in battle, then perhaps—in other ways.”

The urgency of his glance was charged with meaning. She chose to ignore

it and sat back on the couch, winding a tendril of hair around her finger.

“Tell me what is happening downstairs.”

He was silent a moment, regarding her steadily in the soft candlelight,

completely at a loss as to how to reconcile the snub with that decidedly

seductive gesture. He would have said he could read any woman like a