Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (18 page)

reached out desperately to the one for whom she must not plead, clinging

to the last blind hope, which he also must cling to, that the little King, his

nephew and friend, would save him.

But if the eleven-year-old boy felt anything he gave no sign. He

attended to his common round of business and pleasure and authorised

the Admiral’s execution with the absolute indifference he might have

been expected to show at the extermination of a rat. He was disciplined,

self-contained, and unemotional, a credit to his teachers, a model of

virtue; and a travesty of a child. The malleable boy had been transformed

into a pretentious little prig, overburdened with the weight of his own

royal dignity and unhealthily preoccupied with the spiritual welfare of

his people. Under the guardianship of the Lord Protector, Edward had

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gained stature and lost humanity; and no one was more shocked than

Elizabeth to witness the result. She knew, in her own heart, that her

brother would have authorised her execution, had it come to it, as easily

as he had authorised the Lord Admiral’s—to whom he had also owed

love and loyalty. It was chilling knowledge from which grew the prin-

ciples that were to rule the rest of her life: love no one, trust no one, for

all affection is false.

The terse, cold comment which would guarantee life to herself and her

servants lay unfurled in her mind like an open scroll. For thirteen endless

days she waited for the moment to use it, but beyond that moment her

mind was a dull blank.

She sat alone at her writing desk staring into the fire until at last her

eyes were too heavy to stay open. Her head slipped down on to her

satin sleeve and she fell asleep, plunging down, down into an endless

dark corridor where there was no hope of light. She was alone, more

alone than she would be even in her coffin, surrounded by the darkness,

sobbing for Kat. But no one came, no one would ever come.

It was wet on the floor where she huddled. She put out her fingers

and felt the wetness. It was warm to her touch, viscid, somehow familiar.

Blood!

She recoiled and began to scrabble in the darkness, seeking escape.

And then her fingers, clawing outwards, touched the object that lay across

her path and she saw where all the blood had come from. There was no

light, but she saw his dismembered head—bleeding a river to drown her!

A log fell into the hearth and she started awake with a strangled gasp,

listening to her own heartbeat drumming wildly in her ears. The door

behind her opened and as she looked round unwillingly. Lady Tyrwhitt’s

personal maid bobbed an insolent curtsey.

“Sir Robert requests your presence in the Great Hall, madam.”

Elizabeth rose from her chair in a numb daze and somehow the dark

little room swam away, exchanged itself for the broad stairway and the

great panelled chamber which was full of Tyrwhitt’s people. There was

some muted whispering and nudging as she crossed slowly to the hearth

where Sir Robert and his wife stood in gloating triumph. They described

the Lord Admiral’s execution in meticulous detail, hoping to shock a

response that would justify their wasted weeks of persecution. But she

had already lived through every step of this, every look and gesture and

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word. Her eyes met theirs in a steady unwavering stare and her hard little

voice rang clearly through the cold air.

“Today died a man of much wit, but very little judgement.”

She felt the ripple of astonishment from the intently listening audience

behind her, saw the Tyrwhitts glance at each other in shock, indignation,

and disbelief at her callousness. But it did not matter; nothing mattered

now. She had fought for her life and the lives of her servants and she had

won. Now it seemed there was nothing left worth fighting for and the

angry spirit which had sustained her through her ordeal went out, like a

candle in her mind, leaving her cold and empty and totally spent.

They went on talking to her, asking questions, but their words had

lost the power to hurt. She found it difficult to concentrate on them, for

a numb exhaustion had closed in around her, shutting her off from that

world of mouthing dolls which suddenly seemed so absurdly shrunken

and insignificant. Like a beleaguered castle her mind was husbanding its

resources, boarding every window, locking every door, shutting down

unnecessary functions.

She went upstairs slowly and found her old nurse, Blanche Parry,

waiting for her. It was the first time since the arrival of Tyrwhitt that

she had seen any of her own servants, but now she looked at the woman

blankly, almost without recognition. She allowed herself to be undressed

and put to bed without argument.

And that was the last she remembered for a long, long time.

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Chapter 7

I
n hatfield park the old palace stood silent in the pale spring

sunlight. The courtyards had been empty for weeks now, and in

the stables Elizabeth’s favourite gelding tossed his head and whinnied his

protest at his mistress’s continued absence. Grooms exercised him now,

once a day, careless young lads who were paid to do it and never stroked

his nose or brought him fresh apples. His eyes were dull and sad, and his

coat was beginning to lose some of its satin sheen.

“Reckon he’s pining,” said one of the older hands, and at that everyone

in the stable glanced furtively up at the red brick mansion and away again,

before going silently about their duties once more.

Inside the house, Sir Robert Tyrwhitt said, “I quite agree, Mistress

Parry, it’s gone on long enough. I shall send to London at once,” and

stormed down the turret staircase to his own apartments.

“Well?” said his wife, rising from the window-seat, a shade less

composed than usual. “What do you think, Robert?”

Tyrwhitt shut the door with a bang; on his face was the blustering

belligerence of a very frightened man.

“I think,” he said unpleasantly, “that if we’re not very careful now,

you and I are likely to be facing a hanging mob.” He took an angry turn

up and down the room, then paused to add peevishly, “Of course, if I’d

had my way I’d have sent for Dr. Bill long ago—but, oh no, you knew

best, you were the expert. Nothing to worry about, you said, she’s only

sulking, she’ll get over it. And now—God’s blood, woman—she’s like

a skeleton.”

Legacy

“I can’t force her to eat,” said his wife defensively. “I’m not to blame

if she wants to starve herself.”

“Yes—well, you tell that to the Protector and see what he has to say

if she dies on him, a few bare weeks after the people have been told she’s

innocent. We’re responsible for her—a perfect pair of scapegoats, don’t

you see it? I can tell you this, if the worst happens you and I won’t be able

to show ourselves in London for a very long time. It will probably cost

me my seat on the Council—”

Lady Tyrwhitt was pale and shaken as she went to the table and set out

pen and ink and a sandcaster.

“You’d better write then,” she said and sat down anxiously beside him

to watch.

t t t

The Protector reacted to the news of Elizabeth’s grave condition with

alarm and cast about frantically for anything that might hasten her

recovery, sending his personal physician, a host of kind wishes, and a

letters patent guaranteeing her estates and income.

The death of his brother had seriously damaged his standing with the

common people, who had previously fallen into the habit of calling him

“the Good Duke.” There were rumours of unrest all over the country

and he was aware of John Dudley’s increasing influence at the council

table. Certainly, if he was to have any hope of outriding the opposi-

tion gathering steadily against him, the girl’s death was the last thing he

wanted on his hands.

When the trim, dapper little figure of his personal physician was

shown into his private study, he was waiting at his desk with ill-concealed

anxiety. He waved irritably as the doctor prefaced business with a courtly

bow and correct inquiries after his own health.

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with me, man!” He gnawed his lip and

gestured the physician into a chair. “What news from Hatfield?”

Dr. Bill leaned back in his chair and examined his master shrewdly.

The Duke was pale and strained and obviously nervous; he did not believe

that statement that all was well.

“Don’t sit there gawking—get on with it. I’m a busy man—a very

busy man. You know that.”

The doctor cleared his throat and looked ill at ease.

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“My lord will recall that I attended the Princess in the autumn. Since

that time circumstances—unhappy circumstances—have exacerbated her

condition to a serious degree. It was most unfortunate—” He broke off

abruptly under the Protector’s icy glance.

“Most unfortunate that I was obliged to execute her lover!” snapped

the Duke in furious interruption. “Well, it wasn’t a move which gave

me any particular pleasure either, contrary to public opinion. And I

don’t want your moral judgement, merely your professional opinion on

the girl’s health—so stop your damned hedging and come out with what

you think.”

“My lord—” The doctor hesitated. “My lord, I anticipate neither a

swift nor complete recovery.”

The Duke swallowed and found his throat as dry as a bone. His hand

fumbled out absently to a flagon of wine but he lacked the concentration

to pour it.

“God’s blood!” he muttered feverishly. “Are you trying to say you

expect her to
die
?”

“I am trying to say, my lord,” replied the doctor defensively, “that it

is possible.”

The Protector leapt to his feet suddenly and began to stalk wildly about

the room as though rapid movement might prevent this unwelcome news

from catching up with him.

At last he burst out angrily, “But she’s young—she’s strong—three

times as healthy as her brother, or her sister for that matter. And nobody

dies these hard days of a broken heart, least of all a Tudor, a heartless,

self-sufficient brood if ever I saw one.” He stopped and looked accusingly

at the man opposite. “So what possible reason can you give me for such

an extreme forecast?”

“My lord, she has lost interest in all that life has to offer. Unless she

can be aroused from her melancholy she will simply slip away—I would

stake my entire career on it.”

The Duke sat down abruptly and chewed his thumbnail.

“If this gets out among the common people it will finish me—God

knows, as it is there could be revolt at any moment.” He clenched his fist

and then suddenly banged it on the table with a peevish blow that made

all his papers jump and scatter. “Well—you’re the physician, God damn

you, suggest a cure! What else do I pay you for?”

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“My lord—return her governess and steward without delay. That is

all I can suggest.”

The Duke frowned at his inkwells. After a moment he said in a slow,

puzzled tone, “I should have thought they were the last people she would

want to see again.”

Dr. Bill shrugged slightly, hunching his stooped shoulders together.

“Logic is not necessary to love and loyalty, my lord. I believe their

return to be imperative to her survival.”

“Oh, very well—very well—whatever you think will help.” The

Duke waved his hand impatiently. He seemed suddenly preoccupied,

staring inwards, seeing the memory of his royal nephew calmly and cold-

bloodedly handing him the Admiral’s death warrant. Whatever crimes

Tom had committed, he had always been unfailingly good to the boy

and yet the King had never questioned that last act, had never shown so

much as a qualm of conscience. It was unnerving and it caused the Duke

to know what little loyalty he himself could expect from Edward. All his

service—less self-seeking than it often appeared to observers—had been

wasted on that small waxen doll, who had shown himself to be without

heart or compassion.

“I am a friend not won with trifles nor lost with the like.”
That single line

stood out from all Elizabeth’s correspondence to his brother and filled

him with a moment of poignant regret for the love and loyalty that he

would never know.

All his schemes, his hopes and fears seemed suddenly diminished,

almost insignificant; he knew at last, without reservation or even self-

interest, he desired above all things that she should live.

He rose and grasped the doctor’s hand, wringing it hard, with all the

moody petulance suddenly gone from his face and his voice.

“My friend,” he said hoarsely, “for love of me go back to Hatfield and

do all you can.”

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