Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (16 page)

were not quite as bad as that—yet.

“Madam, any change in the itinerary of your studies is quite out of

the question at the moment. The programme you propose would be too

taxing for—”

“For a girl,” she smiled. “Roger Ascham, you got this post under false

pretences. I understood you were a man with advanced ideas.”

He blushed furiously and thought: A little too advanced, if only you

knew, madam!

Aloud he said stiffly, “Even at Cambridge mathematics is not consid-

ered a serious subject.”

“Then it ought to be. Any man of the future—yes, even Robin

Dudley—will tell you that mathematics and science are the keys to it.”

The colour left his face, leaving him stiff and formal.

“Lord Robert Dudley? You know him well?”

“Well enough, we were children together.” A thought struck her.

“Were you not his tutor before you were mine?”

“That dubious honour was mine,” Ascham observed drily.

She smiled again “So—how’s his Latin syntax? Still as abysmal as ever,

I’ll be bound.”

“It would be a good deal better if he didn’t waste valuable time chasing

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every new fad and fancy in learning,” said Ascham severely. “Science,

astrology,
mathematics—
he’s off up each track like a rabbit running wild

in an empty warren.”

Her laugh rang out, clear as a bell on the still air.

“Poor Robin! That’s too cruel and apt. And highly unprofessional

etiquette. I hope you speak more highly of me behind my back, sir.”

“I cannot speak highly enough of you, madam.” The colour rose in his

cheeks again and he shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “Oh, math-

ematics are well enough in their place, but I’ve already told Lord Robert

he’ll never make a politician if he abandons Cicero for Euclid’s pricks and

lines. He’s a bright enough lad, but lacks Your Grace’s perseverance and

perception. He’ll be a jack of all trades and master of none—no match for

you, madam, I fear.”

She threw her gloves up into the air and caught them deftly.

“Shall I ever find my match?” she asked with a mixture of coquettish-

ness and sincere interest.

He stopped and looked at her with a curious thoughtful stare.

“No, madam,” he said slowly, reflectively. “I don’t believe you ever

will.” And that, he added silently to himself, may be your real tragedy, so

you need not look so pleased about it. A pedestal is a lonely place.

It was bitterly cold and their breath made little feathery clouds in

the nipping air as they approached the low brick palace. The sound of

stamping hooves was carried to them from the courtyard, and suddenly

Elizabeth stood stock still, staring up at the house as though she could not

believe what she heard.

Parry had said that the Lord Admiral would visit her soon. Had he

dared to come at last? And what would she say to him after all these

months? What would she say now when he asked her to be his wife?

Her heart gave a wild lurch beneath the stiff bodice of her shooting

gown and suddenly all the doubts and fears and caution flew out of her

like little bats from a dark cave. There was nothing left but her love for

him, the desire to run into his arms as she had done so many times as a

child, to look up into his bold teasing eyes and answer his question now

without fear or guilt—yes.
Yes
!

She spun round, and tossed her gloves to the bewildered man beside her.

Ascham caught the flash of anticipation in her eyes and knew for certain

that not only had she forgotten him—he might as well be an educated

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mouse!—she had also for once forgotten herself. Picking up her heavy

green skirts she began to run towards the house. A mad gust of icy wind

blew the silver snood free from its pins and her hair fell unbound to her

waist. Ascham saw her stoop swiftly and reclaim it with a careless gesture,

saw her run on past the stables and disappear beyond the open double doors

into the house. He stood holding her bow and her gloves, like a lackey, and

thinking of the Lord Admiral with a twinge of envy, knowing that never in

a thousand years would she ever look or run like that for himself.

Beyond the oaken doors, the Great Hall was full of strangers and

frightened servants. Elizabeth pulled up short and stared at the tall, rather

sharp-faced gentleman who immediately approached her.

“Sir Robert Tyrwhitt?”

“Your Grace.” He inclined his head curtly.

“I demand to know what this unpardonable intrusion signifies.”

For a moment he did not reply and she stamped her foot to cover her

rising terror.

“What has happened? What are you doing here?”

“I come on the King’s business, madam, by order of the Council. I

have my written authority here if you should wish to see it. I think you

will find it quite in order.”

The silver snood dropped from her cold fingers and she turned

away into the adjoining solar. He followed, shutting the door on the

chaos outside.

In the centre of the floor she swung round upon him with a great deal

more bravado than she felt.

“What is your business here? Answer me!”

Still he said nothing, merely looked her up and down with a steady

contemptuous glance, then ensconced himself behind a table, setting

down a sheaf of papers. She was aghast and frightened that he should dare

to behave with such pointed disrespect. It could only mean one thing,

that her position was suddenly deadly serious. But why—why?

He indicated the chair in front of her.

“Perhaps Your Grace will be seated.”

“I will stand in my own house if I choose, Sir Robert.”

“As you please,” he said mildly. He adjusted the papers fussily and

ignored her for a moment as though she were a mere serving maid; then

abruptly looked up and fired a statement at her.

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“The Lord High Admiral is at this present moment in the Tower

of London.”

The room rocked around her and she took hold of the back of the

chair, but all she said at last in a thin whisper was, “What has that to do

with me?”

He was annoyed at the failure of what he had expected to be a telling

shot, one which would bring her defence down in ruins.

“Your servants Parry and Ashley,” he snapped, “are on their way

to the Tower, there to confess the practices between Your Grace and

the Admiral.”

“What practices?” she gasped. “I know nothing of—”

He sprang to his feet and banged his fist on the table; the papers scat-

tered to the floor.

“You planned to marry the Admiral without the Council’s consent…”

“That is a lie.”

“…
and
seize the crown. Such a charge is high treason.”

“No!”

“Oh, come, Your Grace, these dealings are very widely known.” He

paused and added spitefully, “Indeed it is generally said that you are with

child by the Admiral.”

“How dare you repeat such a vile and filthy lie!” Her voice trembled

and she steadied it with a furious effort of will to say calmly, “I am quite

willing to disprove that, to show myself as I am before the court physi-

cians. I have done nothing and have nothing to fear.”

He decided to change his tactics. Pushing back his chair he came to

stand beside her, laying a gentle hand on her arm, his voice soft, insinu-

ating, almost fatherly.

“Come, be sensible, there’s no call for you to distress yourself.” His

voice became larded with tenderness. “You are extremely young and the

Council will take that into account if you confess your dealings fully. All

the blame will be taken by Parry and Mrs. Ashley who—”

“Who are the King’s good subjects and my true and loyal servants,”

she said fiercely. She flung off his arm and rubbed away the tears which

had rolled down her white face.

He lost his temper at this ungrateful rebuff and controlled a very strong

desire to give her a good shaking.

“When we came to arrest Parry he took his chain of office from his

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neck and threw it down. He said, ‘I would to God I had never been

born. I am ruined.’ Madam, those were not the words of a true and loyal

subject. The man’s a traitor and so are all who seek to shelter him.”

She turned away from Tyrwhitt in stubborn silence and he was put

to the undignified measure of placing himself between her and the door.

“By God, madam, your guilt shows in your face—I will have your

confession in the end.”

“If my guilt is so manifest you’ll have no need of a confession. Kindly

stand out of my way.”

“Madam, I would ask you to remember that you are in no position to

give commands. You are under house arrest and your servants are to be

kept from you until further notice. I advise you for your own safety to

consider your honour and your great peril, for you are but a subject—as

indeed was your mother before you.”

He wished he had thought of that earlier; the effect upon her was quite

remarkable. For a moment he thought she was going to faint. It was as

though the full significance of her hopeless plight had struck her like a

blow across the face, as though she understood at last that she was utterly

alone and friendless and in real danger of her life. She clenched her teeth,

but could not bite back the choked sob of terror which escaped them,

and suddenly her bold front crumpled and she began to cry wildly, like

the child he suddenly remembered that she was.

“What have they said?” she sobbed. “What have my servants said?”

He was not by nature a harsh man and he was confident now that he

had the upper hand at last. Putting one arm around her shaking shoulders

he guided her to a chair, offered his own handkerchief and smiled down

benignly on the bent red head.

“Come,” he said gently, “you had better tell me everything.”

t t t

Sir Robert’s moment of triumph proved remarkably short-lived and

hollow. Having come down to Hatfield confident that a day or two

would see his business at a satisfactory end he felt he had made an

excellent beginning and wrote to tell the Protector, “I begin to grow

in credit with her.” But in the weeks that followed he discovered that

breaking her will was not after all to be the easy task he had initially

hoped it would be and soon his reports were less hopeful and frankly

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baffled: “She has a very good wit and nothing is gotten of her but by

great policy.”

He began to resort to underhand tricks, a false letter, a false friend,

daily brow-beating interrogations, which in return produced nothing but

a host of trifling incidents told in great detail, not one word of which

could be used against her.

Within weeks he was in a state of baffled irritation, writing to inform

the Protector: “I believe there has been a secret promise between my

lady, Mrs. Ashley, and the steward never to confess to death and if that is

so, it will never be gotten out of her…”

The Protector took the hint and the savage barrage of questions was

repeated on the wretched prisoners in the Tower. Under the intolerable

pressure brought to bear on them, first Parry, then Mrs. Ashley, broke

down and wrote their confessions, twin documents which in the right

hands might be used to take their mistress to the block.

Now “I have good hope to make her cough out the whole,” wrote

Tyrwhitt gleefully on receiving them.

Elizabeth stood quite still as he marched into her apartment, waving

the papers in a threatening gesture. “All is lost, madam,” he announced.

“Your servants have confessed everything. You can have nothing to gain

now by your continued stubbornness.”

Panic closed in on her, making her breath come in a panting gasp, but

she managed to take the documents and pretend to study the signatures

carefully, hinting at forgery.

He was infuriated by the gesture. “Your Grace knows your servants’

hand with half a sight!” he snapped.

Desperately she played for time, while her eyes roved from one hateful

line to another, trying to decide through her sick confusion how bad

this could truly be for her. Parry’s confession was a terrified rabbiting

of slapped buttocks, of tickling, scuffling in bedchambers, of Queen

Katherine’s jealousy and the banishment from Chelsea, of Kat Ashley’s

muddled, indiscreet, and obviously inebriated conversation: “…she

seemed to repent that she had gone so far with me and prayed me that I

would not disclose these matters…and I said I would not…I had rather

be pulled with wild horses.”

How could Kat have betrayed her to Parry? And what had been done

to this pair of poor gossiping fools to make them break down like this?

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Her terror was knifed by sudden fury. Had they tortured her helpless

servants? She would see the Protector hanged from the highest tree in

the realm if she were Queen—if only she were Queen of England now.