Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (98 page)

unable to accept his inability to pass through this one petty barrier.

She would not receive his mother at court.

“Can’t you see how it reflects on me?” he burst out, one hot

evening when she had sent her ladies away, knowing the mood he

was in. “How can a man stay in a place where his own mother is not

welcome? Well, I shall not stay. I shall depart the court, madam, and

leave you to your stubbornness.”

In other circumstances, that threat had softened her, but now she

looked at him steadily, her eyes dark and watchful.

“You must not make a habit of threatening me,” she said quietly. “If

it becomes too tiresome I shall be forced to cure you of it—and I fancy

we will both find that cure extraordinarily painful.”

He smiled suddenly, the corners of his lips curling up in one of those

sudden swings of mood which were so curiously reminiscent of her own.

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“Madam! Now you sound like my mother! Will you not forgive her,

for my sake?”

She turned away, the expression knocking hollowly against her heart.

“I’m
not
your mother,” she said curtly. “Never refer to me by that

term again, even in jest!”

“As you please, madam.”

Her tone had surprised him; he had expected her to laugh, as she so

often did when he wheedled. When they were not at odds over one thing

and another, they were always laughing—but evidently not tonight.

He sighed and went down on his knees, trotting out the humble

courtier which sometimes amused her. Abrasiveness would only carry

him so far and often overshot its mark. And if humility would serve, he

was ready for once to be humble; he really could not bear this ill-will

between his mother and the Queen to continue any longer. It genuinely

distressed him.

“Madam, I beg you! Let me bring her just once to kiss your hand and I

will never ask it of you again. You have no idea what these years of exile

have meant to her—and surely, whatever her crime, she has paid for it by

now. Your creditors stripped her of virtually every possession Leicester

left her—oh, yes, I know there were debts—but
his
debts after all—”

“On his death they reverted to her,” said Elizabeth coldly. “She was

his widow.”

“She is no longer,” he reminded her tactlessly. “She is Lady Blount now.”

The Queen’s lips tightened angrily.

“Then let her new husband provide for her. I tolerate her within my

realm against my will and it is enough. Within my court, within my

presence—never!”

His hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sword. She recog-

nised it as a gesture of nerves, again because it was her own. Sometimes

the likeness between them seemed extraordinary, almost uncanny. But

then he was of her mother’s kin, so perhaps some slight, family resem-

blance was not so remarkable after all.

“I don’t understand you,” he was saying resentfully. “You have

pardoned
traitors
in your time, yet for your own flesh and blood you are

without pity. If you loved me, madam, you would not deny me this one

small request.”

She chewed the paint on her lower lip, aware of the tightly checked

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rage bubbling like molten lava beneath the surface of her mind, a treach-

erously dormant volcano.

“Take care,” she said, “and humour me in this, if nothing else. I warn

you now that age has not improved my temper.”

“Age,” he echoed thoughtfully, staring at her steadily. “Age has

forgotten you, madam—claim no advantage of it. I will not humour you

for that.”

Her eyes opened a little wider on his face.

“I am almost sixty.” Her voice was thin with fear. “
Sixty
!”

“Who would know it!”

His flattery—if it was flattery—had a brutal edge to it, as though he

was half-angered by his admiration. “You are in better health now than

you have been all your life. You are slim as your maids of honour and

dance better than any of them. Look in your mirror, my Maiden Queen,

and see what the Devil does for those he favours.”

She closed her eyes suddenly and Leicester’s voice was softly fearful in

her memory.

“
Are you a witch
?”

Oh God, she thought in terror, what price my witchery in this?

For Essex did not lie to her, she knew it. Whatever was in his mind

tripped out on his tongue without a moment’s thought for expediency,

and in that he was truly unlike herself. He had no tact. Rude with

honesty, he was the most forthright man at court and the eyes which

rested on her, with such unwilling adoration, were hard and guileless.

The lines concealed beneath a subtle mask of paint, white hair under an

exquisite wig, teeth steadily blackening behind her clever, close-lipped

smile—there was no mirror in her palace, but she knew they were there.

Only he never seemed to see it.

And he was right. Most folk were in their graves by sixty. Those who

weren’t were crippled wrecks like poor Burghley, toothless, hard of hearing,

struggling with growing infirmity. But not since her childhood had she

enjoyed such remarkable health and vitality. Her migraine attacks were

increasingly infrequent. All those minor, but debilitating, symptoms which

had once bolstered the ambassadors’ despatches, they had disappeared since

the Armada, vanished as though somehow—
they had served their purpose
.

She wondered suddenly just what part her poor health had played

in staying Philip’s hand for three decades, how often he had weighed

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the cost of invading to dethrone her against the hope of her death from

natural causes.

Now, of course, it made no difference. They were still in a state of

war and no such consideration would ever deter Philip again. Nor was

ill-health of political advantage when coupled with encroaching age.

So—was it mere coincidence that her ailments had dispersed, that no one

could use the words,
old and unfit for high office,
at a time when most men

should be seriously considering her successor?

Essex was momentarily forgotten as she looked back over her life,

searching for explanations.

In her mind the mist was lifting a little, showing here and there a

glimmer of light, an echo from the past, images and phrases jostling like

pieces of some strange puzzle, never quite falling into place.

“I was suborned to this marriage by foul practices of witchcraft.”

So had her father spoken publicly of her mother, full of self-pity and

self-justification for what he had done to her. But it was the common

people who had first seized on the charge of witchcraft, citing in evidence

Anne’s two physical blemishes, both known hallmarks of the Devil—an

enormous mole on her neck, always covered by a cunning jewelled

collar, and a tiny sixth finger on her left hand, always concealed beneath

the sweeping Boleyn sleeves designed to hide it.

The mist was still lifting. Deeper and deeper she groped into the

forgotten regions of her early infancy.

Someone was fondling her fingers, counting them over and over again

and laughing with a shrill, demented pleasure.

“
You see, beloved, not a mark upon her skin to betray her
.”

“
Nan—Nan, how can you be so sure? Look at the length of her fingers—it

will surely cause comment
.”

“
But they are perfectly formed, and they cannot fault her for beauty. Oh,

George, she wil be more fortunate than I. No one wil ever be able to accuse her…”

George.

George Boleyn. Executed on a charge of incest with his sister, Anne—

Queen of England…

Such an incredible fierce desire to eat apples…

The vision altered, narrowed, showed her the source of her power.

Beside the state bed a golden casket, always locked; and within, a little,

headless doll. Waiting!

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“Let me destroy this evil thing
!”

“
No!—oh no, not yet—she does not wish it.
”

Elizabeth opened her eyes and found Essex watching her curiously.

In one hand he held an apple, appropriated, without her leave, from the

bowl which stood on her bedside table. He had taken the little jewelled

dagger from his belt and was about to pierce its skin.

Without warning, she reached out to strike it from his hand and the

apple rolled under the state bed.

“Next time,” she said, in a strangled voice, “ask before you take.”

“Madam?” He seemed bewildered by her sudden rage; a little colour

had left his face. He stared at her like a hurt child, uncertain how it has

offended, and she tried to smile.

“It had a maggot,” she said unsteadily.

“I never saw,” he began.

“No,” she said sharply, “you never see any danger, do you?”

He smiled. “Oh come, madam—I would hardly die of a maggot. May

I have your gracious leave to take another?”

“No,” she said curtly, and turned away to sit down in the window-

seat. “If you hunger, let your mother feed you.”

So that was it! What a pair they were, she and Lettice, always sniping

at each other; and he, like pig-in-the-middle, so painfully bound by

loyalty to them both.

“I have offended you,” he said contritely.

She frowned. “Is that not your greatest talent?”

“So it would seem—but there, I let it rest.”

She half turned to look at him with relief.

“Then—you will ask it no more?”

“For tonight. But I shall ask it again, madam, I give you my word. I

shall ask it humbly, on my knees, in season and out, until I live to see you

change your mind.”

“You appear to count on a remarkably long life,” she said acidly.

He laughed, honestly amused by her tart retort.

“Ah, madam, why not? I am young, I have many years left to me.”

“The two do not necessarily follow,” she said darkly. “Those whom

the gods love die young.”

“Then I am safe, for no god loves me.” He pressed her long fingers to

his lips. “Only a goddess—and she is famous for her mercy.”

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t t t

Not all their disagreements ended so amicably. He had a voice in her

Council now and he used it, raising it to the rafters whenever the

Spanish war was under discussion. He had some of the Queen’s ability

to command an audience; he was convincing, plausible even when he

was wrong, and gradually the younger, hotter-headed councillors began

to group themselves around him, in opposition to the moderation of the

Cecils. By 1591 Essex was a man to be reckoned with, possessing solid

status in England and a reputation for military eldership to bolster his

considerable political standing.

When Philip chose to hurl an army at the new Protestant French King

in Brittany, Essex’s name, already a byword in Europe, was suddenly

on everyone’s lips and there was a clamour in Council and among

the people for an English army to be despatched to France, under his

leadership. Elizabeth knew she could not stand idly by and let her ally

go under, leaving Philip to occupy the Channel provinces. But when

she had gathered her forces, grumbling bitterly about the cost, she did

not immediately make what everyone considered the obvious choice of

leader. Driven by her curious, instinctive sense, she hesitated, while a

storm of protest broke out around her. The King of France had openly

named his preference—Essex himself had spent two hours on his knees

begging for the command—what made her hesitate?

She did not know, she could not have explained—it was just a feeling,

the old intuition which so seldom played her false. But in the end, so

great was the outcry, she was forced to concede to the demands of public

opinion; and Essex was appointed amid general applause.

He sailed to France, there to play the gallant knight, disobeying her

orders, and frittering her money away. He returned a virtual failure, but it

made no difference to his standing with the people. They welcomed their

handsome, high-born hero home as though he had just returned fresh

from a second Agincourt, and outdid each other recounting stories of his

personal bravery on the field, his perfect chivalry, his complete manhood.

Elizabeth was not amused. She was sick of his complete manhood, and

his perfect chivalry, and openly contemptuous of a reckless fool bent on

empty heroics. She was not interested in honourable acquittal in the field,

only in concrete results that could be judged in hard, economic terms;

and she received him caustically.

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He told her in a pained tone that he had done his best; she told him

coldly that his best was not good enough; and they parted after a heated

exchange of grievances.

He took his perfect chivalry off to Wanstead, flouncing out of court