Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (42 page)

book, but with Elizabeth there were too many pages missing. She was an

elaborate code that he must crack.

“The palace,” he mused, “the palace is bursting at the seams, but it’s

quiet now. The news of Pole’s death is not generally known yet—there

will be great excitement tomorrow. For the present most of them are

asleep on the floor like dead flies.”

“Flies,” she repeated, looking inwards. “Flies around a honey pot.

Yes—I suppose that’s how it will be from now on.”

Now he was truly ill at ease. Hell—was that how she saw him—a

parasite like the rest, hanging around in the hope of what he might get

from her?

“Madam—” he began haltingly.

She leaned forward swiftly and poked him roughly in the ribs.

“Fool!” she said gently. “I didn’t mean you. We have been friends for

many years. But I do have a position for you—something that will suit

you very well. Guess!”

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“Secretary of State?”

She frowned. He tried again.

“Lord Chancellor?”

She kicked him, furtively, so that her women should not see.

“Master of the Horse?”

“You knew all the time!”

“Madam, you don’t have a royal monopoly to tease. What other post

could suit me half so well?”

“Then you don’t want to be Secretary,” she remarked thoughtfully.

“That’s good.”

“Why?” He looked at her, suddenly suspicious. “Why is it good that

I don’t want to be Secretary?”

“Because I intend to appoint Sir William Cecil.” There was a shade

of coolness in her voice as she saw his face harden. “Yes—I can see you

are delighted to hear of his elevation—indeed, as delighted as he will be

to hear of yours.”

Cecil, that sneaking, wily snake! Who had advised her in this?

“Throckmorton,” she continued softly, and again it was as though she

had heard his unspoken thought. “Throckmorton tells me he is the only

man for the job.”

“May his advice prove sound,” Robin said stiffly.

She held out her hand in dismissal and he rose to his feet, kissed her

fingers, and bowed himself to the door; where she called him back.

“One thing more, my lord. Do you wish me to find a place at court

for your wife?”

There was a gasp, a suppressed snigger of amusement from the few

women who attended her, and he knew instinctively that he looked

every inch the fool he felt. And yet, humiliated as he was, a small part of

him laughed in grudging admiration and said she was a clever bitch.

He had still to get out of this with panache. He bowed to her with

exaggerated formality.

“My wife has been in poor health for some time, madam. Unless

Your Majesty expressly commands otherwise I know she would prefer to

remain quietly in the country.”

The Queen seemed to eye him with satisfaction.

“And your sister Mary—will
her
health permit attendance on me

at court?”

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“Mary will come with the greatest of pleasure, madam.”

Oh, it would suit him finely to have his favourite sister among her

women. He wondered briefly if that was why she had suggested it and

then the door closed behind him and he was alone in the ante-room, still

none the wiser as to where he really stood with her. Charming, familiar,

generous—she had been all three, but what did it amount to? He really

could not say. Beneath that casual intimacy she remained unshakably in

control, invulnerable as a fortress.

And no matter which way he looked at it, he knew he still had a long

way to go.

t t t

On a brisk November morning Elizabeth rode through the cheering

crowds which lined her way, to take possession of the Tower, dressed in

the royal mourning gown of purple velvet, with Robin Dudley following

immediately behind on a black horse.

The crowds pushed forward and challenged the cannon fire which

echoed down the narrow streets with their great full-throated roar of

affection. It was a sound that had not been heard in England for many

years. They called out to her and saw her turn in the saddle to laugh and

wave in reply. They had waited through many gloomy years, through

poor harvests and rebellions and religious controversy, for this moment,

and she had waited with them. The moment was theirs as much as her

own; she wanted them to know it.

On Tower Hill she drew rein and the cannon fire ceased as she looked

down on the fortress. It lay silent and submissive, girdled by a grey

curtain wall, with the pinnacles of the White Tower spiking upwards in

the winter sky. She had cheated death and conquered the dark force of

“that place” and as she stared down at it in the deep silence which had

descended all around, it seemed to her as though the Tower itself was

shrinking, dwindling in significance before her eyes until it was no more

than a toy fortress. She might reach out one hand and toss it into the

River Thames beyond.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she became aware of the wondering

faces about her. They clearly expected her to say something and she

caught Robin’s grave eyes upon her as she began to speak.

“Some have fallen from princes to be prisoners in that place; I am raised

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from a prisoner to be prince of this land.” Her eyes swept the rows of eager

faces. “Let me show myself thankful to God and merciful to all men.”

Entering the Tower as a prince, she asked to be conducted to the

apartment she had occupied as a prisoner and as many as possible crowded

into the semi-circular room on the upper floor of the Bell Tower. Those

unfortunate enough to be last were squashed against the three latrines

between the inner and the outer door.

She wanted never to forget this room—the uneven floor, cold and

rough beneath her feet, the tall windows capped with hoods, the deep,

stone window-seats, and the sound of the east wind outside.

Oblivious to the staring crowd behind her, she walked to the window

and looked out, resting her fingers against the rough wall. Cold stone.

The words of an old psalm came suddenly into her mind. “The stone that

the builders refused has become the headstone of the corner.”

And she was that stone—smooth, hard, impregnable. She too would

stand for ages in the memory of men, for she wished to make her fame

spread abroad in her lifetime “and after occasion memorial forever.”

Robin was beside her, silent, a little overcome by the significance

of this moment, and as she turned slowly she saw her own memories

reflected in his eyes, memories which isolated them together from the rest

of the crowd. He was the only one who understood—truly understood—

what this moment meant to her, for it meant almost the same to himself.

Smiling and laying her hand familiarly on his arm, she walked out to

the state apartments in the White Tower.

t t t

Sir Henry Bedingfield knelt before the throne and kept his eyes on her

jewelled slippers, because he did not dare to look into her face. He was

mortally afraid of what he would find there. Face it—should she choose,

she had ample cause for taking revenge on many, and Gardiner, chief

among them, was no longer alive to receive his share, having conven-

iently died of natural causes three years before her accession.

Her summons had filled Bedingfield with stark terror. He wished he

had not removed all her servants that night at Richmond; that he had not

insisted on locking gates behind her; that he had not dismissed the Sands

girl. He wished with incredible fervour that he had not made Elizabeth of

England sit under a hedge to do up her hair.

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“Look at me,” she said.

He lifted his eyes unwillingly. She sat above him like a statue, glit-

tering, unsmiling.

“Well, gaoler—what shall I do with you?”

“Your Majesty—” His voice was an absurd croak in his throat; his legs

were trembling.

“Get up, my friend.” Her finger brushed his grizzled cheek. “Get up,

go home, and live in peace. And when I need to keep someone close

confined I shall send for you.”

“Madam,” he stammered. “Gracious Madam—”

She smiled and covered his clumsy incoherence by offering her hand.

Behind his back the polished courtiers were rude at his expense, but they

could not take this moment from him. Slowly he made his way out of

the thrumming palace where the candles now burnt till dawn took over.

He did not belong here, he knew it and he was glad to go, back to rustic

obscurity where there would be no more teasing assaults on his wooden

dignity. And yet his relief was tinged with regret. So young, so full of

life, and he not there to see it. Too old—too old! Ah—he knew it. The

pace would kill him. So walk out of her palace, walk out of her life, and

forget her.

But he never forgot. He took with him the shining memory of a

laughing girl—brilliant curls dressed with diamonds, white gown crusted

with gems spilling over the arms of her chair. And whenever at dinner

someone raised his tankard and said reverently: “Gentlemen—the

Queen,” he saw that image in his mind, untarnished by time.

When Bedingfield had gone, Elizabeth came down the steps of the

dais and walked slowly through the crowded room, pausing frequently to

talk with anyone who caught her fancy, until at last she reached the two

she had marked for attention.

“Margaret!”

The Countess of Lennox sank into an uneasy curtsey at her feet and

kissed her hand.

“And this must be Henry. I should hardly have recognised him, he is

so well grown—but of course you feed him well—day and night, I seem

to remember. I trust you have found a quieter set of menials to service

your kitchen by now, cousin.”

Elizabeth gave Lennox a smile which sent the Countess’s stomach

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plunging with fear. She took a step past her and then glanced back over

her shoulder.

“I think your mother looks a little pale, Henry. Perhaps you should take

her to the window for some fresh air. The room is vastly overcrowded.”

She inclined her head pleasantly and moved on, with Robin Dudley at

her side, leaving the Countess to fan herself vigorously.

Sweat a little, Lennox. Your time will come.

Robin said questioningly, “Kitchens, madam?”

“Just a little private jest among relatives, Robin. Nothing to excite

concern.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder thoughtfully.

“It certainly appears to have excited the Countess. I thought she was

going to faint when you spoke to her just then.”

“She’s a very excitable lady. It takes very little to go to her head.”

Robin looked hard at his Queen; her expression was inscrutable,

but he sensed her hostility to the Countess and was surprised by it. She

possessed more pressingly dangerous relatives than Lennox—the Duke

of Norfolk, mouthpiece of the old nobility, the Queen of Scots, now

Dauphine of France. France might yet declare war in support of Mary’s

claim to the English throne; Norfolk could prove disloyal. And the

claims of Margaret Lennox were certainly subsidiary to those of the two

remaining Grey sisters, Katherine and Mary. Suspicion was a vital force,

so why waste it? Frankly, he would have said the Greys were the greatest

threat of all—Katherine was truculent and opinionated, and considered

herself heiress presumptive. Some said she should be Queen—His hand

on Elizabeth’s arm tightened its grip. She looked up at him in surprise and

followed his glance across the room.

Lady Katherine Grey was in conversation with the Spanish Ambassador

and her voice rose and fell on a complaining note.

“Watch her,” said Robin softly. “Watch her well. And Norfolk. You

can’t afford to turn your back on any of them for a moment. You’re not

safe yet.”

Elizabeth smiled at him.

“I’ll never be safe,” she said and went on down the room to give her

hand graciously to Katherine.

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Chapter 5

T
he gayest court in europe was like a golden hive under the

rule of a Queen bee, no place for the old or the fainthearted. The

new Queen was never tired or idle and the courtiers who shared her life

found they were not expected to be tired or idle either. They rose at

dawn and few could hope to see their beds again before the small hours

of the morning.

There was something quite insatiable in Elizabeth’s mad pursuit of

activity. In the eyes of half of Europe she was a bastard and usurper; it

was as though she stretched out both hands to snatch all that life now had

to offer her, and snatch it greedily for fear it might be gone tomorrow.

Her restless energy, her total inability to relax, affected everybody’s life;

but to no one was her wild mood of more importance than her principal

Secretary, William Cecil.

He could not complain that it affected her work—she was killing him