Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (76 page)

stepped towards her, but Hatton laid a restraining hand on his arm and

shook his head quickly. They all stood in helpless silence, not knowing

what to say or do—it was so unlike her!

Aware of their acute embarrassment, she walked to the window,

wiping the back of her hand angrily across her cheek, infuriated with

them, but more infuriated with herself.

“Get out,” she said. “All of you—come back this afternoon.”

She watched them go in stony silence.

Leicester was the last and for a moment he hesitated in the doorway

as though wondering if he dared to make some gesture of sympathy after

what he had done.

Abruptly, contemptuously she turned her back on him and he left in

silence; and when at last she knew she was alone, she sank into a chair at

the table and buried her face in the jewelled brocade of her monstrously

puffed sleeves.

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Susan Kay

No sooner had the great double doors swung shut than a row broke

out among the fiercely opposed councillors, all shaken by what was obvi-

ously a very genuine reaction on the part of their mistress.

“Satisfied are you now, Leicester?” Sussex taunted him bitterly.

“Haven’t you done enough against her lately?”

“I never expected that—never! I thought—”

“We all know what you thought, Leicester—I thank God now Her

Majesty knows too.”

“I opposed this marriage from the soundest of political motives

only. If you are trying to imply what took place in there gave me any

personal pleasure—”

“Gentlemen! I hardly think this is the time or the place for a brawl.”

Burghley banged his walking stick on the floor and the two rivals subsided

into angry silence. He fixed Leicester with an icy, authoritative stare and

the Earl flushed darkly, removed himself haughtily from their group, and

stalked away.

But he had won. Long before they returned that afternoon, Elizabeth

had admitted that to herself as she stared moodily into the harsh reflec-

tion in her mirror, and saw the pale, sad face of defeat. To marry now

without the full support of her Council, in the teeth of her people’s

opposition, would be to make the same mistake her sister and her cousin

had made and place her own interests before those of the state. Selfish

and self-willed as she was in lesser matters, her vow of service to England

transcended everything and she knew she could not do it. As she sat

and accepted the final sacrifice of her womanhood, she reined in the

corroding resentment that threatened the whole purpose of her life. She

must not hate England, that nameless, faceless mass of people who were

the strength of her throne; and in reality it was far more easy, if unfair, to

pin the blame on Leicester, who had given her that womanhood at last

and then denied her its fulfilment for his own petty personal reasons.
Men
!

They were all the same at heart, as she had always known—self-righteous

and possessive, like her father, incapable themselves of the fidelity they

demanded of their women.

Oh, what a fool she had been to go to him that night at Wanstead.

How much easier it would have been to bear this defeat without the

bitter-sweet memory of his body beating in hers, reminding her so

poignantly of what she had lost, of all that she would never know. He

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would pay for what he had made her suffer today—oh, God, he would

pay! She knew exactly how to punish him, not with disgrace or exile,

but by her refusal to re-live that encounter at Wanstead. He thought he

had conquered—he was mistaken! She had lived the past twenty years

without his love—she could live the next twenty; not happily, perhaps,

but at least with her pride intact.

That night when her women drew the curtains around the state bed,

she felt the act to be deeply symbolic—the Maiden Queen shut up in a

prison of her own making, trapped for ever in the mirror image of a virgin

goddess. The silence of the room oppressed her and, when her women

had withdrawn, she sat up and reached for her hand-mirror, seeing not

her own reflection, but the life she had chosen for herself, stretching out

bleakly into infinity.

She was not going to marry Alençon, yet she must go on convincing

him and the rest of the world that she would, until she had used him

in the Netherlands to contain Philip’s aggression. The pretence must

continue, perhaps for more than a year, and she must not seem indifferent

to it, even for a moment, but must go on acting a lie, as all her life she

seemed to have been acting, first one role, then another, until now she

scarcely knew the real woman underneath. All through the summer of

her reign, she had wrapped the layers of deceit more tightly round herself

and enjoyed the game, like a child playing in the hot sun at noon. But

now the sun was lower in the sky, lower and cooler, casting shadows on

a path where once there had been only light. And in the shadows, with

the chill breath of autumn already in the air, she chose to walk away from

the only fire that could give her warmth.

It was a hard decision, and a hard, embittered woman made it,

punishing herself to punish another and warping the fibres of her soul.

The seeds of resentment were sown in her that night, a resentment which

would grow rapidly out of all proportion, until the mere mention of love

and marriage among her intimates would be sufficient to lash her into a

vindictive fury.

She sat very still, staring into the mirror, and slowly became aware

of her own face, so terribly altered that she could only gaze at it with

shocked resignation. Thin lips set in a cruel line, eyes harsh with suspi-

cion, shadowed with paranoia—her father’s face, the face of a tyrant.

She laid the mirror on the table beside her bed with a trembling hand

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Susan Kay

and stared a moment at the small square of Venetian glass, immeasurably

expensive, a gift from abroad. Then she took up the silver candle-holder

and brought it down in a single savage blow that splintered her reflection

into a million lethal shards.

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Part 4

The Goddess

“What a pity it is that Elizabeth and I cannot marry…our children

would have ruled the world.”

—Pope Sixtus V

Chapter 1

P
lymouth harbour had changed little in the three years since

Francis Drake last set eyes upon it—it was just as dirty and disor-

ganised as he fondly remembered. Well—he was none too clean himself

if it came to that, and who would have guessed that his little ship with

its shabby paintwork could now lay claim to being the most celebrated

vessel in Europe?

Fame sat awkwardly on Drake’s shoulders, interfering with his

personal freedom to scratch and belch and fart whenever the mood took

him. Such things were unacceptable at court, and the court was the final

destination of his incredible journey. He had circumnavigated the globe,

but there was, regrettably, no way he could possibly hope to reach the

Queen’s presence by circumnavigating a bath.

Still, it was a small price to pay, he supposed ruefully, in return for a

knighthood. The Queen had been the principal investor in his enterprise;

and now with the hold of the
Golden Hind
packed with loot plundered

from Spanish and Portuguese ships in the Pacific, a cargo of silver and

jewels worth over one and a half million ducats, the principal investor

stood to gain over a hundred per cent on her outlay.

A sound businesswoman—Drake had never been in any doubt of

it—her only condition that he should keep her name out of it. He had

always understood that if he fell into Spanish hands she would be obliged

to publicly disassociate herself from his activities; but if he came back in

triumph, he would have his just reward. And so, he was for the court,

to kiss the fair hand of the glittering chameleon who had sent him out

Susan Kay

upon this venture, a woman half goddess, half guttersnipe, whom he was

privileged to call his friend. He thought of the blatant acts of piracy with

which he had filled his hold and of the Spaniards’ outraged demands for

restitution and reprisals; finally he thought of the Queen’s pale avaricious

face—and found himself cheerfully secure in his arrogance.

t t t

Don Bernadino de Mendoza was perhaps the most volatile and vinegar-

faced ambassador ever to come out of Spain, eminently unsuitable for

the briefest of diplomatic encounters with Elizabeth. It was a matter of

common knowledge that these two could not bear the sight and sound of

each other and no one was surprised when Mendoza took up the cudgels

on behalf of the Spaniards’ treasure with his usual crass obstinacy.

He marched forcefully into the Queen’s presence, determined to have

his say, and found himself unable to get a word in edgeways. Elizabeth sat

on her throne like a graven image, and looked down on him with distaste,

as though he were something particularly nasty that had just crawled out

of the rushes. She began to complain haughtily of Philip’s interference in

Irish affairs. When Mendoza produced a written apology from his master

for that gross breach of international etiquette, she would be prepared to

discuss the matter further. Until then, she regretted she would be unable

to receive the ambassador again. A wave of her hand—and Mendoza was

standing outside her closed door, opening and shutting his mouth, with a

speechless rage that made him look as vacant as a fish.

Barred from the Queen’s presence, Mendoza skulked about the court,

gleaning information from his spies. He heard that the Lords Burghley and

Sussex had discreetly declined to partake of the treasure, too principled to

be seen as the receivers of stolen goods. The Queen, who never allowed

scruples to interfere with business, welcomed Drake to court at Christmas

and showered him with attention. Drake, in his turn, commissioned

London jewellers to fashion a fantastic crown set with a vast quantity of

pilfered diamonds and five enormous emeralds, which she shamelessly

paraded about the court on New Year’s Day—Mendoza swore to himself

that she was the greatest pirate of them all!

In April she went down to Deptford to dine with Drake on board the

Golden Hind
itself, for the greatest banquet which had been seen since

the days of that famous gourmand, her father, making her support of the

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rogue more flagrantly public than ever and taking with her, for diplomatic

protection, the Duke of Alençon’s confidential agent, Marchaumont, a

subtle reminder to Spain that England was far from friendless.

As she stepped on board, one of her purple and gold garters slipped

off and Marchaumont promptly pounced on it and held it up before her

horrified gaze, saying impudently, “Madam, I claim this as a forfeit. You

must permit me to send this to the Duke as a love token.”

She glanced sideways to where her maids of honour stood blushing on

her behalf, and decided there was nothing to do but laugh and carry the

situation off with an immodest high hand.

“You shall have it as a token,” she said, snatching it back, “but not just

yet. I’ve nothing else to keep my stocking up with.”

There in full view of polished courtiers and hardened seamen, she

promptly extended a slender silk-stocking leg and tied the garter back on

herself, deliberately prolonging the moment for their amused apprecia-

tion. The applause, warm and manly, started among Drake’s crew and

spread instantly, like bush fire, along the deck. Marchaumont applauded

too and laid her hand upon his arm with amused respect. Oh, one had

to get up very early to catch this woman at a loss—he would be the first

to admit it.

The festivities would end with the knighting of Drake—everyone knew

it. Yet when her favourite pirate knelt on one knee before her with his

curly head bent, Elizabeth fingered the sword thoughtfully and frowned.

“Francis Drake, you are a rogue and for the sake of my honour I wash

my hands of you.”

All around the crowd an indrawn breath of shock; Drake lifted his

head uncertainly to look at her and in that moment she turned swiftly and

handed the sword to the Frenchman at her side.

“But I am sure,” she continued innocently, “that Monsieur

Marchaumont will be happy to perform the accolade for me.”

It was a clever move, implying French approval of Drake’s activities,

and Marchaumont, neatly cornered in a public place, had no choice but

to go along with her outrageous demand.

Mendoza was duly infuriated. The diplomatic impasse continued till

October, when he received curt word that the Queen would see him

at two o’clock that afternoon. The message was served with such short

notice, that Mendoza was obliged to rush a meal and take a barge for