Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (86 page)

while his soft voice needled, reproached and cajoled in turn, under-

mining her determination with powerful rationality. She could not

dispute the truth of a single word he spoke. It was inevitable, this

execution, it was just, it was even a kindness to release the wretched

woman from this cruel suspense.

“…and after all, madam, what have you against it save an instinct,

which may be wrong?”

That broke the charm which was slowly drawing her towards submis-

sion to his will. She sat upright and glared at him.

“My instincts are never wrong,” she said acidly, and dismissed him

unsatisfied once more.

When he had gone, she was aware of an aching need for sleep, an

exhaustion so great she could hardly stand upright while her women

disrobed her. She refused to take Lady Warwick’s posset, certain that

dreamless oblivion must claim her the moment she lay down, and so they

blew out the lights and left her alone in the darkness.

And then it began again. A thought, like a little rat, scuttled through

the rushes of her mind, and was followed instantly by another. Feverishly

they chased each other, pausing here and there to nibble spitefully behind

her eyes, until it seemed that her whole brain was on fire.

Her speech to the parliamentary delegation:

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It is sad that I who have pardoned so many rebels, winked at so many treasons,

should now be forced to proceed against such a person…I have had good experience

of this world. I know what it is to be a subject, what to be a sovereign…Princes

are set on stages…it behoves us therefore to be careful that our proceedings are just

and honourable.

Just and honourable.

She recalled Mary’s miserable son, James, her god-son, writing to tell

Leicester how foolish he would be “to prefer my mother to the title”;

and, indeed, the deputation he had sent to plead Mary’s life had been

half-hearted and hypocritical in the extreme. James wouldn’t shed a single

tear if his mother died tomorrow. So much for children! Perhaps she had

been fortunate never to bear any after all.

She closed her eyes and against the dark background of her lids saw the

bloody carnage of Mary’s last battle in Scotland. Langside! Screaming men

and horses, panic-stricken, riderless, plunging hoof-deep in gore and tram-

pling bodies where faint life stil lingered. Across the night a mud-spattered

girl in a torn gown rode desperately for her life, fleeing from the treacherous

pursuit of her own subjects, riding against al sound advice to England and her

cousin’s sanctuary, deceived by the spurious promise of friendship symbolised

in a glittering diamond.
I am now forced out of my kingdom and driven to such

straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness, my dearest sister.

Elizabeth got up suddenly and lit a candle, groping on the bedside

table for the letter she had received from Mary a few days ago. Leicester

had advised her not to answer it, and it had lain there ever since.

Do you wish me to return the jewel you sent me now or later?

She bit her lip with shame and her eyes wandered and were riveted

by another line.

…because I fear the secret tyranny of those into whose power you have aban-

doned me, I beg you not to permit me to be executed without your knowledge…

A vision of the block paralysed Elizabeth’s imagination. The roll of

drums, the flash of a blade in the sunlight, a black-haired bauble tumbling

soundlessly into the bloody straw…

“Anne!
Anne
!”

Lady Warwick ran in from the Pallet Room, with a shawl over her

night rail, and found the Queen sitting on the edge of her bed, trembling

violently. She looked up as the Countess reached her side and her eyes

were wild.

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“Has Leicester retired yet?”

“I don’t know, madam, but I expect so, it’s long after midnight. Shall

I send to inquire?”

“No—yes! Ask him to come here, Anne, if he is still awake—but they

are not to disturb him if he sleeps.”

“Yes, madam.”

Oh God—let him be awake!

Ten minutes later Leicester, dressed in a velvet robe trimmed with

sable, was lifting her hand to his lips and gently fending off the little

spaniel who had bounded from the foot of the bed to welcome him.

“Down! There’s a good boy—been keeping you awake, has she?”

“Not him,” said Elizabeth shakily, “he’s been snoring like a pig by the

fire all evening. How these dogs can sleep!”

“No conscience,” said Leicester shrewdly, and sitting on the bed

handed her the draught she had refused earlier, serving as taster himself.

“That will quiet yours for tonight at least—drink it to please me.”

He looked tired in the candlelight, his high colour unnatural and

unhealthy. She humoured him and swallowed the draught and as she did

so, his eye fell on Mary’s letter, face upward on the high pillows.

He swore volubly, as he reached for the sheets of paper.

“So this is what drives you from your meat and wrecks your sleep! A

pity she employed less cunning in her own kingdom, she might not now

be in this pass. Oh, Elizabeth, don’t let her torment you like this. The

Lord knows her guilt was plain for all to see at her trial.”

Elizabeth looked away and began to play with the golden fringe of

the coverlet.

“So plain that not one original document was brought in evidence

against her, nor were her secretaries brought to testify! She accused

Walsingham of forgery and who is to say she was not right?”

Leicester leaned forward and covered her hands with his own.

“She’s guilty, my love—as guilty as Babington and the rest.”

“Then if she’s guilty why won’t she
confess
? God knows, it’s all I need

to save her life.” She stared distractedly at the letter on the bed. “I suppose

she never believed I would dare to let it go so far—perhaps a letter was

too cold and impersonal. But she’s had time to reflect now—don’t you

think perhaps if I saw her—”

“That is the very last thing you wish or dare,” he interrupted suddenly.

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“If you think Burghley’s spent all these years making sure the two of you

never met only to give way now—” He stopped. There was a truculent

expression on her face and he hastily assumed a more conciliatory tone.

“It wouldn’t be wise now—would it? And in any case I’m willing to

swear it would be a waste of effort. She will never confess and damn

herself for ever in the eyes of the world. Believe me, I have seen her and I

know her stubborn pride will take her to her death rather than dishonour.

The delay is too dangerous, madam. If she would rather die a martyr than

live, then for God’s sake let her. She’s had a dagger at your throat for

nearly thirty years! The only rational act—”

“You think it rational to execute a sovereign? You think I can cut off

her head without any repercussion?”

“The blow to the Catholic faith here in England will be fatal.”

She struck the coverlet irritably.

“Oh God, Robin, what a fool you are if you honestly believe that.”

“Even Burghley calls her the ‘Queen of the Castle,’” Leicester

reminded her pointedly.

“Then he, like you, ought to know that the early Christian Church

was built on the bones of martyrs. Her execution will be the greatest

thing for the Catholic faith since the Crucifixion—even Walsingham

won’t douse
that
candle. Hang every priest in England and there’ll still

be good Catholics in every village. And the moment she dies the path

to England is clear for Philip. Do you want to see the Inquisition set up

here in London? We’ll have a damn good view of it, no doubt, with our

heads stuck on the city gates! Why should a man go in fear of his life

because his creed differs from another? God knows, I wish
I
had a faith

to die for.”

He was shocked into silence, horrified by this open declaration of

atheism. Talk like this, overheard by hostile ears and betrayed in public,

could drag her from her throne, despised by Catholic and Protestant alike.

“Let it rest,” he said anxiously. “You are fighting the opiate.”

She began to laugh as the drug clouded her mind and released

her inhibitions.

“You,” she said wildly, “always so afraid He might be listening. If you

will not hear me I shall speak to Walsingham instead. I’ll say ‘Damn all

religion and damn all men!’”

She swayed across the bed towards a silver handbell, but the room was

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distorted to her drugged sight and in her growing confusion she could

not lay her hand upon it.

It was a trivial frustration, yet suddenly the final straw, sufficient to

precipitate the hysteria that had been threatening for many weeks.

“I won’t do it,” she sobbed. “I won’t be forced. I shall pardon her.”

“You can’t do that.” He was aghast at the suggestion. “She’s been

tried and condemned before the world—and if she’s indeed innocent of

this crime, she’s been guilty of others. Adultery—murder.”

“So was my father! I don’t seem to remember anyone suggesting that he

should have been executed for his crimes against humanity—God knows,

there were enough. He left more corpses in his wake than a tom-cat

leaves litters. Oh, he was open-handed with death was my father—but

not quite so generous with coffins. She never had one, did you know

that? He gave her a coronation but not a decent burial. All day she lay in

a pool of blood until one of her women found an arrow chest, too short

for any normal corpse—but not for her. Late May it was, a hot summer’s

day full of flies—odd how they always know where to find carrion—”

Frozen in his chair, he listened helplessly to her tortured laughter.

“Shall I send an arrow chest for Mary?” she demanded suddenly. “Or

the sword of a French executioner? They say the French are very good

at it. They ought to be, they charge enough, £23.6s.8d.—that was the

going rate in my mother’s day, the best that money could buy—”

She laughed again and then began to cry, falling on her pillows and

beating them savagely with clenched fists.

“It will be the end of every monarchy in Europe—you’ll see that, all

of you, when it’s too late to do anything about it.”

That was her conscious reason against it—a good reason, he had to

admit; but her unconscious reasons frightened him a great deal more at

the moment. Death by the axe; he had always suspected she was not quite

sane on the subject.

Leaning over the bed, he lifted her into his arms and held her in an

embrace so hard it crushed the sobbing out of her.

“Listen,” he said desperately, “be calm and listen to me. There is

another way—”

He waited till the sobbing became a whimper that trembled at length

into silence, and all the while he chafed her cold hands, so cold that it

seemed as though the blood had ceased to run in them.

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“Assassination,” he said slowly. “Poison in her cup, a pillow while she

sleeps, there’s a dozen ways it could be done. It would free you of this

burden and if you agree—I will arrange it with Paulet.”

She was silent. He waited a few minutes to allow her to absorb the

implications of his suggestion, then added quietly, “I was always in favour

of it. Right from the beginning it has been the only course to take. You

see that now—don’t you?”

Silence.

He looked down and found she was asleep, dead asleep in his arms

with one finger in her mouth like a child. He laid her gently on the

pillows and drew the covers around her.

After tonight, he was more strongly convinced than ever that murder

was the only way. He had seen and heard enough to fear that the stroke

of an axe would sever far more than Mary Stuart’s neck.

Well, he had done his part. He had planted the seed.

Al that remained now was to water it tenderly and pray that it bore fruit.

t t t

January crawled into February on leaden feet with the death warrant still

unsigned. The Council despaired and the people milled in the streets

of London, clamouring for the head of the Scottish traitoress. Rumours

flew like wildfire in the explosive atmosphere, rumours that Mary had

escaped, that the Spaniards had landed, that London itself had been set

on fire.

At last the Lord High Admiral bowed sombrely over the Queen’s

hand and warned her of the unrest in the city streets.

“Madam, the people will not tolerate much more of this suspense.

They grow dangerous in their fear for you.”

She went to the window and stared out bleakly.

“Strike or be stricken,” she said in Latin. After a moment she glanced

over her shoulder at him. “Walsingham is ill, as you know, my lord—the

warrant is in Davison’s keeping. Let it be brought to me at once.”