Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (49 page)

of prosperity. There was no one else who shared the memories of her

traumatic childhood and miserable adolescence, no one else who made

her laugh and forget her worries as he did, covering his ambition with

a cloak of sincere affection so that she was almost—almost—tempted to

believe in it. No, there was no one else she would ever love as she loved

him. Without him, her world would be cold and empty, a gorgeous,

glittering, lonely shell, and she who had prided herself on her ability to

face life in splendid isolation was suddenly terrified at the prospect of that

existence. To be alone—utterly alone for ever—would be a living death!

God damn it, she would not send him away—and the devil take any

man—yes, any man—who tried to spoil what little happiness she might

find in Robin’s company. His company was all she wanted. Was it too

much to ask to remember that she was human?

She turned as the door opened and Mary Sidney bobbed an apologetic

curtsey on the threshold.

“Your pardon, madam—but Sir William Cecil is waiting in the

ante-room and begs to remind you that you promised him an hour

this evening.”

King Cecil
!

All her furiously bottled-up rage rushed out at the thought of that

whey-faced lawyer. What did he want now? More nagging about the

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damned succession? All he cared about was pushing her into bed with

some crowned nonentity; he didn’t give a damn whether or not she

would be happy, just as long as she did her duty and gave England a

son. And if she died in childbirth, he would stand beside her coffin with

reproachful eyes and say she had failed them all! She wanted to storm out

into the ante-room and stuff his state papers down his throat, to scream

and kick and shout:
I hate you—it’s all your fault!—
to behave as she had

done as a spoilt, wilful two-year-old when she could not have her own

way. Years of deadly danger had forced her to learn a rigid self-discipline

but, beneath the iron core of control, that petulant little girl still existed.

She was always there, threatening to break out, and sometimes it was very

hard to keep her out of sight.

Swallowing her temper, Elizabeth crossed the room slowly and delib-

erately, took a book from a table, and settled herself to read.

“I’m busy, Mary. Tell him—” She paused and met her friend’s even,

puzzled stare. “Tell him to wait.”

Cecil waited almost thirty minutes in the antechamber, chafing at the

delay which kept him from the stack of papers waiting in his room. Mary

Sidney sat in the window-seat and uncomfortably avoided his questioning

gaze each time he pointedly glanced at his timepiece.

When he was finally admitted, the sight of Elizabeth sitting idly in her

chair turning the leaves of a book was the final straw. How dared she treat

him as though he were the lowest counting clerk!

Stiff-necked with indignation, he informed her of the progress their

troops had made in Scotland. There seemed every opportunity of a

favourable peace treaty in which England would dictate the terms.

She patted a yawn and he had to put a hard grip on himself to hold

his tongue.

“I hoped the news would please you, madam.”

“I think you are quite pleased enough for both of us,” she said

unkindly. “And since this is so plainly a personal triumph for you I feel

you should see it through to the end.”

“Madam?” He was alert and uneasy.

“You will travel to Edinburgh and handle the terms of the treaty

yourself.”

So she was sending him away from court! Why? What was she about

to get up to behind his back?

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She saw his face stiffen with alarm and laughed at him.

“Poor Cecil. You’ve no spirit for such a journey, have you? But

I’m sure my cousin’s Protestant subjects will make you very welcome.

Take Mildred with you if you can’t bear the separation. The Scottish

air may bring a little colour to your sour face—God knows, it wouldn’t

come amiss!”

“I find it rather difficult to believe in Your Majesty’s concern for my

comfort.” He was coldly incredulous. The jibe at his wife was intolerable.

She shrugged indifferently.

“I desire it as I would my own.”

“But it is Your Grace who destroys it!” he burst out at last. “Forgive

me, madam, it is my duty to warn you of danger. Your conduct with

Lord Robert Dudley will be your ruin.”

She looked at him calmly and he was unaware that he had just set fire

to a very short fuse.

“Guard your tongue, my friend,” was all she said. Her voice was

deceptively mild and again he was misled.

“I believe it was Your Majesty who asked me to speak my mind

plainly, without respect to your personal will.”

Her book snapped shut and her eyes blazed suddenly hard and hostile.

“You may say what you like over matters of state, but leave my private

life to me. I’ll brook no interference there from anyone.”

“Madam, you have no private life. Your smallest action is a matter of

state, you are the Queen—”

“Yes, Cecil, as you so rightly say but seem to be in danger of forget-

ting, I
am
the Queen. And I warn you now that the man who tries to use

the spur with me will take a fall from which he’ll never recover!”

She stood up suddenly and he stepped back from the smouldering fury

in her eyes.

“You may leave me now, Cecil. Come back and speak to me again—”

She turned her back on him and spoke spitefully over her shoulder—

“when you have remembered your place!”

As he stared at her jewelled back something Sir Thomas More had

once said of her father echoed ominously in his mind.

“
If the lion knew his true strength it were hard for any man rule him
.”

And now he was finding it hard—perhaps impossible—to rule the

lion’s cub. He had thought himself in partnership with this splendid

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young lioness, but now he saw how easily she might break the chains of

discipline and dignity, and turn upon him with rending claws, as the great

Henry had turned on his loyal servants Wolsey and Cromwell. Never

trust a cat, the least domesticated of all animals!

Bowing coldly, he left the room with heightened colour and in the

doorway of the Privy Chamber met Robin Dudley, who inclined his

head curtly and said with a smirk, “Good evening, Mr. Secretary. I trust

you had a pleasant interview with Her Majesty?”

“I believe, my lord, that you would know that better than most,” said

Cecil icily. “And now, if you will excuse me, someone in her Grace’s

court must see to the business of the realm!”

Robin watched triumphantly as Cecil stalked away into the Presence

Chamber.

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Chapter 8

M
ary of guise stared out over the stone battlements of

Edinburgh Castle into the grey mist of another freezing

Scottish dawn.

Never before had the narrow little streets of her capital city seemed

quite so bleak. Sixteen years she had looked out upon them alone, sixteen

years since her husband had died and left her to fight for the rights of a six-

day-old daughter. She would not look out upon them much longer—her

fight was over. She had lost; and just for once she had not expected to.

The English troops had been so heavily defeated at Leith, at the very least

she had expected a breathing space, time in which to receive help from

France. But the slaughtered troops had been replaced with unbelievable

speed to continue the besiegement without mercy. And in France, the

uncovering of a Protestant conspiracy had drained the forces of her Guise

relatives. Whatever aid came now from Mary’s homeland would be too

late to save French influence and the Catholic faith in Scotland.

Crossing the battlements with a slow, dragging step, the Queen Mother

returned to her rooms. They were bleak rooms, as cold and comfortless,

even in summer, as the life she had led in this barren land since the day

she had sent her little daughter to safety in France. She would never

forget that French galley drawing slowly out of Dumbarton harbour, its

precious cargo a five-year-old child, queen of the most barbarous country

in Europe. It had been a mighty slap in the face for the English, who had

hoped to take her captive to London; but now those wretched years of

separation seemed so pointless.

Legacy

Long, hard years they had been since that day she rode away from

Dumbarton harbour, years filled with treachery and violence that had

found her many enemies and a handful of loyal friends. And when she

thought of friends, she thought of the Earl of Bothwell, surely the most

unlikely man in this world to embrace a lost cause. Bothwell was a lone

wolf and a loyal villain, the one member of the Protestant kirk who

refused to run with Knox’s pack. And it was Bothwell who had waylaid

that three thousand pounds of Elizabeth’s and embarrassed the English

government—not that Elizabeth had been embarrassed for long. Her glib

lies had disgusted Bothwell, who lied himself when it suited him as well as

the next man, but had never thought to see a woman sink so low. She did

not share his surprise or even his outrage, for it was the underhand which

ruled the world now, the stab in the back rather than the honourable

duel. It was the age of the serpent, and the tongue of the English snake

was long and forked in the darkness. No one could yet be sure how far

it reached.

But whatever followed this humiliating peace with England would not

be Mary’s concern. Her battle was over and with it her life—the doctors

had been plain and already she felt distant and indifferent. An hour later,

when they brought the news to her bedside that a delegation of English

commissioners, headed by Sir William Cecil, was on its way to Berwick,

she did not even turn her head on the pillow.

t t t

Cecil was glad of his lawyer’s training, his ability to function with

passionless efficiency while his mind was totally preoccupied with another

matter. Reports from his spies came in a steady and unencouraging

succession from England. The Queen and Lord Robert were everywhere

together—they were shut up for hours at a time in the palace—they were

alone— There seemed little doubt that their affair was rapidly moving

towards some kind of emotional climax and Cecil was in a mad fidget to

get back to the scene.

He cursed and railed against them in private, but it never affected his

work for a moment as he juggled the complicated legal details which

would result in an invaluable diplomatic triumph for England. The

Scottish Regent had died shortly before his arrival; a military disaster in

Tripoli had prevented Philip’s active interference by obliging him to look

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to his own territories; France was still desperately occupied overthrowing

the Protestant conspiracy of Amboise. Never had there been a more

perfect opportunity for the English to throw the French out of Scotland

and place power in the hands of the Protestant nobility, led by Mary

Stuart’s bastard brother, James.

By the 6th of July his work was completed. The Treaty of Edinburgh

formally recognised Elizabeth’s right to the English throne. The French,

but for a mere handful of troops, were finished as a power in Scotland

and the government of the realm could be safely left in the hands of

Protestant allies. All that remained was the acquisition of Mary Stuart’s

signature to ratify the document, and the back door to England would

be firmly locked. Cecil knew he had reason to be well pleased with his

achievement and the knowledge raised his spirits, causing him to view his

recent fears and discontent in a new light.

Whatever was happening in England, Elizabeth had to be grateful for

this, for it altered her whole standing in Europe. He had made her as safe

as she could ever hope to be, and what had Dudley to offer to compare

with that? It would surely win back her trust, that unique and deeply

satisfying trust which had been his before Dudley stepped between them

with his malicious innuendoes.

Suddenly, he could not wait to get back with his wonderful trophy;

he was as eager as a hunting dog to lay a rabbit at his master’s feet. She

would not pat him on his head and say: “Good boy,” but she might lay

those beautiful fingers on his arm for a moment and tell him he was her

right hand. It was the same thing really, he supposed wryly, but what did

it matter if only he could win her back again?

And perhaps he had been wrong to suspect her motive in sending

him away, for who else could have handled this tricky business half so

well? She had been right—he had needed this break from court, this