Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (99 page)

rather like the temperamental woman he left behind. When he got there,

he remembered all the telling remarks he ought to have made to her, the

ungrateful bitch, and duly sat down in a flaming temper to pour them

out on paper.

It was a grave mistake. Words spoken in the heat of the moment may

be forgiven; words preserved for ever on parchment may overreach their

mark once passion has abated.

“I see Your Majesty is resolved to ruin me…I appeal to all men that

saw my parting from France or the manner of my coming hither, whether

I deserved such a welcome or not.”

The letter glowed with the same extraordinary passion that marked all

his love letters to the Queen, and his sentiments alarmed Elizabeth. The

threat was so openly expressed, that for the first time she wondered if he

was quite sane. Certainly no other man in England would have dared to

write such a thing to her.

She was not angry now; she was something far more dangerous,

cool, calculating, her sense of survival alerted by the one phrase which

contained the whole essence of his letter.

I appeal to all men…
Would he, one day? Would he use the people

against her if she ever pushed him too far?

She folded the letter broodingly and put it away into her desk; and

they were reconciled as everyone who knew them had supposed they

would be. Only the Queen was aware of the significant change in their

relationship. Her pleasure in the company of the man who was neither

son, nor lover, was now tempered by the dark suspicion that one day he

might stab her in the back.

But the prospect did not entirely displease her. She had mastered every

man in her life so far with consummate ease. The mastery of Essex was

still fraught with challenge; and challenge was the one temptation she had

never been able to resist.

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Chapter 2

T
he years which followed the great armada ticked away in

a rapid succession of deaths. By 1595 Walsingham, Hatton, and

even Drake were in their graves and a new generation of ambitious men

was rising at court to snap at each other’s heels. Faction politics were

showing signs of polarising into two distinct camps, one led by Burghley

and his stunted son, the other by the Earl of Essex; both ruled by a woman

who seemed increasingly to resemble a despot.

The strange, shifting sands of Elizabeth’s diplomacy continued to stalemate

the affairs of Europe. Her ability to wring time out of ugly situations had

become her greatest strength, but it was a fluid policy, based on underhand

deals and shameless delays, which drove Essex into a frenzy of frustration. He

could not abide inaction, indecision, or any of the tactics which his Queen

employed with such resounding success. He wanted to lay military glory at

her feet, but al she wanted to know was what it would cost!

Subterfuge was an anathema to him and the Queen was like some

exotic spider, spinning a fantastic web, fascinating, but repulsive to his

inner code of conduct. She listened to him; she smiled; she seemed

convinced; but the next day saw her frowning, arguing, and dancing

away to his enemies of whom frankly, there were many.
Wild for to hold

she was, just as her mother had been, and how could one conquer a

woman who never stood still?

Each succeeding year saw Elizabeth slip a little deeper into the graven

image of a virgin goddess. Her clothes became increasingly fantastic and

her behaviour correspondingly eccentric; she ceased to notice her own

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tyranny. She held sway over a court of headstrong, ambitious men, looking

down on them from Olympian height, dwarfing them by her presence to

the insignificance of dolls. They were nothing without her favour, empty

vessels, petty stars in a firmament where she alone was the sun. She took

them, used them, watched them crumple to their drained and dispirited

deaths without pity. And was amused to find that all the men who had

lived in terror of her own death were now in their graves—all save one.

Bent and withered, often too sick to attend Council meetings, Burghley

still soldiered on, unable to resign either the reins of government or his

spiritual bondage to the Queen. Cruel words spoken in the heat of anger

had made no permanent impression on their immutable relationship.

Both, in their own way, had buried their private pain deep, making the

necessary mental concession to the indisputable fact that neither of them

could do without the other. They two, like Alpha and Omega, seemed

destined to travel side by side until the last star burnt out. Men spoke of

them both as immortal—and feared them.

The shadow in Elizabeth grew darker and gained substance, making

her steadily harder and more irrationally jealous of the personal happiness

of others. Marrying for love had become a crime second only to treason

at the English court and no courtier was immune to the dreadful penalties

it carried. Even Raleigh fell foul of her on that score, when his secret

union with Bess Throckmorton landed him in the Tower. It was five

years before he was permitted to set foot in the Queen’s presence again

and he spent those five years, to his wife’s intense chagrin, driving himself

on mad schemes designed to attract the Queen’s approval. When at last

Elizabeth made the first gesture of forgiveness, Raleigh left his home

and his wife without a backward glance, while Bess wept and cursed the

woman no wife could hope to rival for long.

Essex, alone, was forgiven the transgression of marriage and restored

to favour in a few weeks, for even the Queen, once over her initial fury,

could not seriously resent his choice of wife. With the pick of her court

to choose from, he had taken Sir Philip Sidney’s colourless, tragic little

widow to his bed, and then felt honour-bound to marry her when he

got her with child. This travesty of a union was no threat to Elizabeth,

and having slapped the girl soundly for her presumption, the Queen was

moderately agreeable to her; she was sufficiently in contact with reality to

know that it could have been worse, much worse.

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Susan Kay

Her attitude to Frances Devereux was quite without precedent and

caused a whisper to pass round the court that this man was a second

Leicester and could get away with anything; but if the Queen heard, she

gave no sign.

I see but say nothing
was still her motto.

t t t

The war with Spain drifted on in a vague, unsatisfactory fashion, because

Philip, though increasingly weak and ill, would never abandon his

ambitions until he was laid in his coffin. Essex pleaded for the grand

open action, an all-out assault against Cadiz under his command. But

the Queen preferred to hedge her bests with an offensive and defensive

league with the French.

Philip had switched the war arena to France and when Calais fell to

the Spanish forces, the cannon fire was clearly heard in Greenwich Palace,

a deal too close for comfort, as even Elizabeth had to admit. Essex seethed

at her inevitable delaying tactics, bemoaned that he was never allowed to

“do her service but against her will” and swore, with his usual extrava-

gance, that if she thwarted his expedition at the last moment he would

“become a monk.” But in the end as usual she had her own way. She got

her French treaty and her victory at Cadiz. The Spanish fleet assembled

there was destroyed and the most flourishing city in Spain fell before the

onslaught of Essex’s forces.

It was a resounding victory, second only to the triumph of 1588,

and Essex was loudly hailed in England as the hero of the hour. But his

unaccountable delay in attacking had given the Spanish commander the

opportunity to destroy Philip’s West Indian treasure fleet, which had been

nestling in Cadiz harbour. Medina Sidonia had the comfort of knowing

that if the treasure was lost to Spain it was equally lost to England; and

Essex had watched the flaming galleons with the first qualm of unease.

He had promised the Queen that this expedition would pay for itself, but

surely she could not be so unreasonable as always to expect victory with

dividends. The inhabitants of Cadiz raised a ransom of £120,000 but no

one who knew Elizabeth could expect her to overlook the fact that twelve

million ducats now lay useless at the bottom of the sea, along with more

than forty vessels in prime condition, which would have handsomely

swelled the English merchant fleet. He conferred sixty-eight knighthoods

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on his own officers, razed Cadiz to the ground, and set sail for England

on a wave of romantic public opinion. There he found that the Queen

had taken advantage of his absence to make Burghley’s crippled son,

Robert Cecil, the new Secretary of State. His indignant protests were

stopped short by Elizabeth’s scathing remarks on empty-headed knaves

who allowed twelve million ducats to slide through their fingers. There

was another quarrel, another withdrawal from court, and Essex, stung by

the Queen’s contempt, turned to take comfort from the blaze of public

popularity which now surrounded him. If the Queen did not appreciate

his achievements, there were others who did. Cheering mobs followed

him in the streets and clustered around Essex House, waiting for him to

appear; flocked after him to Wanstead, where he retired to sulk; drank his

health in the local taverns.

The noise of his triumph spilt in through the palace windows and when

she heard the chanting of his name—“Essex! Essex!
Essex
!”—Elizabeth

felt blind, hot jealousy seize her by the throat. Never in almost forty years

had she heard the London crowds shout for anyone but her and, with

her old, uncanny instinct for survival, she sensed her danger. She had a

rival at last, an enemy more potentially dangerous than ever the Queen

of Scots had been.

She had flayed everyone who chose to uphold Essex’s achievement

as “the greatest blow ever dealt to the power of Spain,” even turned on

Burghley and called him a miscreant and a coward, telling him that out

of fear he had come to regard Essex more than he did herself. But now,

seeing her peril, she changed her tactics abruptly and veered round upon

Essex’s enemies, recalled the Earl to court and made much of him, so that

Essex, utterly bewildered by her change of heart, could only suppose that

his presence had conquered after all. She could not do without him—his

ascendancy was complete.

Once more the viols played, the Maiden Queen rose and took the

hand of the knight of chivalry, and beneath a blaze of candles they danced,

apparently in perfect harmony. But as she rose from a deep curtsey she

glanced round at the bent, old figure of the Lord Treasurer and gave him

a cool little smile. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the old man inclined

his head; and though no words had passed between them, their under-

standing was complete.

t t t

579

Susan Kay

Late that night Burghley lay abed, listening to the rantings of his stunted,

hunchbacked son. Up and down the room went the twisted little figure

of the new Secretary of State, gesturing wildly in his impotent rage.

“You and I, Father—we might just as well resign. He has every-

thing—military reputation, the backing of the people, and the Queen as

besotted with him as ever. She can’t bear him out of her sight for two

minutes put together. Mark my words, in six months he’ll rule here—I

see nothing likely to prevent it.”

“You are mistaken, Robert—no man has yet mastered the Queen or

ever will.”

Cecil swung round, sharp with sudden irritation.

“Oh, lord, Father—how can you say that? I’ve seen them together and

what I see
disgusts
me—she’s completely under his influence.”

Burghley smiled a slow, secret smile and smoothed the white linen

sheets with guarded satisfaction.

“Completely under his influence,” he murmured. “Oh, yes—that is

what he thinks now—but what he sees—and what you see, my boy—is

an illusion. Her Majesty will dispel it like morning mist whenever it

pleases her to do so.”

“You think so?” Cecil was patently unconvinced.

“You will allow that I know the Queen a little better than most!”

Burghley’s voice was touched with frost; the necessity of mentioning the

fact had annoyed him. “Lord, boy—do you really think her so devoid of

purpose? The moment his back is turned she favours his opponents—only

remember how you came about your present office. Secretary of State.”

The old man nodded approvingly. “It’s a powerful position, Robert,

mind you value it, as I did.”

“I would have valued it before now, if she had chosen to appoint

me earlier, Father—God knows, I’ve done the job for long enough