The Marriage Game (37 page)

“The most effective remedy would be for Your Majesty to recognize Queen Mary’s son as King of Scots,” Burghley urged.

“We will do that too!” Elizabeth declared.

The uncovering of the plot had shaken Elizabeth to the core.

“An alliance with France is now absolutely essential,” she told her council. “We must seal it with a marriage. See if you can revive the negotiations, my Spirit. Let it be known that I will allow Anjou his Mass in private.”

But Walsingham now sent a timely warning: do not proceed! Anjou, he wrote, would utterly refuse the Queen, for he had his sights set on becoming King of Poland. If Her Majesty persisted, she would invite a humiliating public rejection.

Her Majesty did not persist. She had looked in the mirror that very morning and seen the first strands of gray in her thinning hair. When she regarded herself again, she noticed new lines about her eyes, which had surely not been there the last time she checked. She was thirty-eight, and it dawned on her that she was beginning to look it.

Through the good and discreet offices of her women, a curly wig was made for her, of a red shade to match her own hair. Soon she ordered a long false tress that she could attach at the back of her head. Within days most ladies of the court were wearing something of the sort. Elizabeth then began using a paste made of powdered eggshell, borax, and alum, to smooth and whiten her skin. When her painter, Nicholas Hilliard, came to take her portrait, she insisted that he do so outdoors, where there was no shadow, so her face would appear luminous and ageless. It was vital, she knew, to preserve the mask of youth.
Let her courtiers and ministers—yea, and foreign princes—perceive the signs of aging, and they would begin to wonder if she was past marrying.

Robert noticed the change in her appearance. He said nothing, but felt melancholy at this evidence that youth was fleeting. Elizabeth should know that however she looked, he would love her, and love her for herself. Beauty lay in the inner woman, not upon the skin.

Armored in her wig and makeup, the Queen faced her council, only to be told that Anjou had definitely lost interest in both her and the crown matrimonial of England. She snorted at that. “Since my attempts to get a husband have caused me to be so ill used, I hope you can now understand why I prefer to remain single!” she declared.

But the French were not giving up so easily. Just two days later, Queen Catherine, as keen as Elizabeth for an alliance, offered her youngest son, Francis, Duke of Alençon, as a substitute for Anjou.

“He is a far less scrupulous fellow when it comes to religion!” Burghley said, clearly relieved, and in fact almost rubbing his hands in glee. “This marriage is ten thousand times better than the other. Alençon is known to be friendly to the Protestants in France, and he is not so obstinate and restive a mule as his brother. He is more moderate, more flexible—and the better fellow.”

“He is also unlikely ever to become King, and therefore could live in England,” Sussex added.

“And he is more apt to get children,” Robert observed, and was rewarded by seeing Elizabeth wince.

“But he is only seventeen!” she objected. “He is reportedly very small for a man, and his skin is said to be badly scarred from smallpox.” Her eyes met Robert’s; both were remembering his poor sister Mary. He thought it unkind in Elizabeth to use that for an excuse.

“Queen Catherine writes that his beard covers the worst of the scars,” Burghley reassured her. “She also says that he is vigorous and lusty.”

“Then God help him,” Robert said sourly. Elizabeth banged the table.

“You will not say such things!” she rapped.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” Robert said, sketching an ostentatious bow from the waist. “It was but a joke.”

“And not a funny one. No, my lords, Alençon is too young and too small.”

“He is the same height as yourself, madam,” Burghley protested.

“Say rather the height of your grandson!” she retorted. Cecil had to smile, for his namesake was just five. “They called Alençon Hercules at birth, but he could not live up to it, so to save himself embarrassment he changed his name to Francis when he was confirmed.” They all laughed.

“Nevertheless, madam,” Burghley persisted, “Sir Francis Walsingham urges us to proceed with negotiations for the marriage. This is an opportunity not to be missed. Alençon would make the perfect husband for Your Majesty.”

Robert glared at him.

1572
 

Elizabeth looked at the tiny timepiece set into her bejeweled bracelet. It had been Robert’s New Year gift to her, and many had marveled at it, never having seen the like. But she was not thinking of their delighted amazement now. She was wondering if Norfolk’s trial was over and what the verdict had been.

At long last Burghley came to her. His face said it all.

“Guilty,” she whispered.

“And condemned to a traitor’s death,” he added.

Norfolk would not suffer it, of course. As a peer of the realm, he was entitled to be spared the full horrors of hanging, drawing, and quartering, because monarchs customarily commuted the sentence for those of noble blood, but he would still lose his head. And Elizabeth, his cousin, must sign the death warrant. Suddenly she understood something of what her father must have felt when he signed the paper that would send her mother to a bloody death.

She could not do it. She shuddered away from the prospect. It was against her every instinct to condemn Norfolk to a fate that had haunted her dreams since childhood.

“He has asked that I be appointed guardian to his children,” Burghley said.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Elizabeth answered distractedly.

“The execution is set for the twenty-first.” Five days hence.

“No,” she said.

“No?” Cecil was bewildered. The law must take its course; there could be no question of that.

“He is the premier peer of the realm, and he is popular with the people.”

“Madam, he would have had you assassinated. Greater persons have died for much less.”

“Oh, dear Spirit,
I
know that well!”

Cecil stared at her, appalled at what he had said. “Dear madam, forgive me. It was thoughtless of me.”

“I know you intended no hurt, old friend,” she said, forcing a smile. “But no, Norfolk shall not die.”

“I beg of you, madam, to do your duty. Make an example of him, lest others mistake your mercy for weakness. His death must be a deterrent to other would-be traitors.”

“I will think on it,” Elizabeth promised. Cecil knew of old what that meant.

But she did think on it. She thought of little else. The matter overshadowed her every waking moment. She would steel herself to do her duty, then find herself shrinking from it at the last minute. Every time she came to put pen to paper, she saw before her Anne Boleyn kneeling in the straw on the scaffold, and imagined the terror that her mother must have felt in those final moments of her life. No, she could not do it.

They all put pressure on her, Burghley, Robert, and her other councillors; they were relentless, but she resisted them. The days turned into weeks. In the Tower, Norfolk would be wondering why he had not been marched out to the block.

“Your Majesty has ever been a merciful lady,” Burghley cozened her, “and in being so you have suffered more harm than justice. Do you think you will be more beloved by letting others get away with treason?”

Elizabeth gave in. She signed the warrant for Norfolk’s execution. But that night, overcome by distress, she rescinded the order. The next morning a crowd turned up at Tower Hill to witness the spectacle of a great duke dying, and found that they had had a wasted journey.

The councillors could not understand the Queen’s reluctance. They pressed her, again and again, to let the law take its course. She protested that she felt ill under the strain and retired to her bed.

Then she became ill indeed, disgustingly so.

“We fear for her life,” her physicians admitted. “She can keep no food down, and she has a constant bloody flux.”

Robert was in terror lest Elizabeth die. Despite her protests that she did not want him to see her in such a state, he sat for three days by her bed, with a distraught Burghley on the opposite side, taking it in turns to feed her sips of boiled water, which was all that she could tolerate. Both of them feared what would happen if they lost her, and both knew they would grieve immensely. When St. George’s Day came, the day Elizabeth had appointed for Burghley to be admitted to the Order of the Garter, it was Robert who deputized for her and conferred the honor on him, both of them grim-faced and heavy-hearted. They were friends now, despite themselves, their earlier rivalry forgotten. They corresponded frequently, visited each other’s houses, and—although they did not always agree—enjoyed an amicable working relationship, united in their love for their royal mistress, their Protestant faith, and their loyalty to the realm.

They both gave heartfelt thanks, therefore, when Elizabeth recovered, and both had tears in their eyes when she rose from her bed and sat once more in her usual place at the head of the council board.

“God’s blood, my lords, what whey faces!” she chided them mischievously. “I just ate some bad fish.”

“Madam,” Burghley protested, “I know that I speak for us all when I say that the severity of your illness was very terrible to us, who love you. What if you had died? The succession is unresolved, and England would surely be lost to our enemies, who would force the Catholic religion on our people—”

“I have said that I will consider marrying Alençon,” Elizabeth interrupted, not wishing to hear more of the woes that would befall her kingdom should God call her hence. She had heard it ofttimes enough.

“But in the meantime, madam, will you please summon Parliament urgently, so that measures can be taken to prevent the Queen of Scots
from plotting against you ever again. Public feeling is running high against her. So long as this devilish woman lives, you cannot rest in quiet possession of your crown, nor can your faithful subjects assure themselves of the safety of their lives.”

“Very well, I will call Parliament,” Elizabeth agreed. But she continued adamantly to refuse to sign Norfolk’s death warrant.

“The Lord Treasurer has died,” Elizabeth informed Robert sadly, remembering William Paulet, Marquess of Winchester, the man who had shown her kindness when he escorted her to the Tower in her sister’s reign.

“God rest his soul,” Robert said. “He was an upright nobleman.”

“I would like you to fill his shoes, my Eyes,” she said.

“Me—as Lord Treasurer?” He was surprised and pleased. “It is an honor, Bess, but I do not have sufficient learning and knowledge. It should properly go to Burghley, who deserves it.”

“Then I shall offer it to him,” she agreed. “It will help relieve his gout!”

That was the only time she felt her spirits lighten during that ghastly spring. In May, Parliament met to debate the catalogue of Queen Mary’s crimes.

“Cut off her head and make no more ado about her!” both Lords and Commons clamored.

“I will not do it!” Elizabeth cried, near hysteria. The execution of a queen would set the most dangerous precedent of all, and the very thought of it raised the terrible specters of her mother, Katherine Howard, and Jane Gray, three other queens who had met that fate.

“Parliament must legislate to bar Mary from the succession,” she declared, “and she must be warned that if she plots against me again, she will suffer death.”

Back came Parliament’s unequivocal answer: “Warning has been given her. The ax must be the next warning!”

Elizabeth was equally adamant. “Honor does not permit me to attaint a foreign queen who is not subject to English law.”

Parliament did not care about such niceties. It was baying for blood. “If Her Majesty does not put to death this husband-murderer and archtraitress, this Scottish Clytemnestra, she will offend not only her conscience but God Himself!” These brave words were followed by a petition voicing the call and cry of all good subjects against the merciful nature of Her Majesty.

“I will not put to death the bird that, to escape the pursuit of the hawk, has fled to my feet for protection,” Elizabeth declared. “Honor and conscience forbid! Nor do I have any desire to provoke armed retribution on the part of Queen Mary’s Catholic allies.”

In the end, after much wrangling and bad feeling, her will prevailed, and Parliament contented itself with drawing up a bill depriving Mary of her pretended claim to the throne. From henceforth it was to be an offense for anyone to proclaim or assert it. But when the bill was laid before the Queen for her signature, she vetoed it.

“Effectively, Bess, Mary has escaped censure,” Robert protested. He had a high color these days, and was well-nigh purple with fury.

“I despair!” Burghley groaned. “Madam, how can you be so lenient when all our intelligence suggests that King Philip and the Pope are set upon overthrowing you and setting Queen Mary up in your place? And then what will become of us all?”

“I have no legal jurisdiction over her,” Elizabeth protested.