Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (23 page)

had seemed so full of promise that night, marred only by the disagreeable

need to carry a little girl in his arms. If he could only go back to that

night and walk down that corridor again, how differently would he have

chosen his allegiances.

Elizabeth walked endlessly across his mind and her eyes were hard and

unforgiving. The longing to atone for his crime had become an obsession,

and suddenly he knew the only way to do it, the one thing that could

give her greater pleasure than his death. He took the last of his pride

126

Legacy

and offered it to her, in the form of a letter begging her shamelessly to

intercede for his life.

When her answer came—a cold, merciless little note calmly regretting

that “being so young a woman I have no power to do anything on your

behalf”—he imagined the immense satisfaction it had given her to write it.

And he was suddenly at peace with himself.

127

Chapter 9

N
orthumberland’s triumphant dictatorship lasted a little over

a year. By May of 1553 he was face to face with the event which

would spell ruin to his family when at last the King’s doctors were bullied

into privately admitting the truth. There was no more to be done for the

sixteen-year-old boy who lay in silent agony on his bed, coughing blood

and black mucus. Northumberland swore the physicians to secrecy on

pain of death and insisted that reassuring descriptions of the King’s health

should be widely circulated. Meanwhile, he worked desperately against

time to salvage his own future.

The court was sealed like a tomb against any unwelcome interference

from either of the King’s sisters. Elizabeth’s last, desperate attempt to

force a meeting in April had been forestalled by armed guards and the

message, supposedly from Edward himself, to return to Hatfield until

further notice. All her letters to Edward were skilfully intercepted by

Northumberland and she waited in vain in her outer darkness for a reply

from her brother.

On Whit Sunday, physically beaten into submission by her ruthless

parents, Lady Jane Grey was married to Guildford Dudley in a hasty

ceremony. Some time later, Northumberland bowed himself to the

King’s bedside and there explained the absolute necessity of a new will,

bequeathing the crown of England to his daughter-in-law.

“The late King himself named your cousin, the Lady Jane, in direct

line of succession,” he pointed out.

“
After
my sisters.”

Legacy

“Half-sisters,” corrected the Duke smoothly. “And both bastards by

English law.”

The King’s eyes stared up at him confused by tortured logic. They

could not
both
be illegitimate—not at the same time. That indeed had

been Henry’s final dilemma, one which, in his usual autocratic fashion,

he had simply chosen to ignore in his last testament.

“To go against my father’s will—”

“Is your duty, sire, in this instance. Only consider what the Lady Mary

would do to wreck our work for the Protestant cause.”

“Then surely Elizabeth—my sweet sister Temperance—”

The Duke coughed uncomfortably. He had his reasons for overruling

Elizabeth but this was hardly the time or the place to reveal them.

“The Lady Elizabeth might be persuaded to marry a Catholic, in

which case her accession would be equally hazardous to the future of the

Protestant faith in England.”

Doubt crossed Edward’s white face.

“She would never willingly marry a Catholic,” he protested.

“Her hold on the throne would be tenuous, sire, she might have no

alternative means of securing her position.” Northumberland rose and

bent ominously over the wasted figure against the pillows. “Let me

remind Your Majesty that when the good of the country and the glory

of God are at stake, it is the bounden duty of a prince to set aside all

considerations of blood. Neglect of that duty will procure you everlasting

damnation at the hands of God’s dreadful tribunal.”

The boy in the bed was bald, shrivel ed and nail-less. Gangrene had already

claimed several of his toes and he was close enough to death to be swayed by

fear of what he would find waiting on the other side of that threshold.

By the end of June, Northumberland’s new Device for the Succession

was signed, sealed, and witnessed by the Privy Council, waiting in a

locked drawer to be used.

t t t

On the sixth day of July, the air was hot and heavy al over England. At

Hatfield, where park, gardens, and orchard shimmered beneath a stifling

heat haze, the dove-house had emptied and in he solar he bees droned lazily.

Dusk came in a violent thunderstorm. Streaks of blue lightning split

the sky and giant hailstones pummelled the manor house. Shortly after

129

Susan Kay

midnight a deluge of rain lashed against the windows of Elizabeth’s room,

and she got up from her desk to close the casements. Tendrils of hair had

crept from beneath her cap and coiled damply about her forehead, for the

heat was still oppressive. She was tired and tense and a sudden unexpected

tap at the door made her start round violently.

“Come,” she said sharply and the door opened to reveal a nervous

maid, clutching a candle. A howling wind was springing up beyond the ill-

fitting casement, causing the flame to waver drunkenly in a strong draught.

“What is it, Meg? I thought the whole household was in bed by now.”

The girl made a flustered curtsey and hesitated in the doorway, reluc-

tant to intrude into the room without direct invitation.

“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but there’s a man in the Great Hall

asking to see you urgently. Soaked to the skin he is, and his horse spent

from hard riding. Well, I told him of course Your Grace could receive

no one at such an hour, what with Mrs. Ashley retired—and Mr. Parry

too—and really, madam, he was downright rude—”

“My business is not with underlings, Your Grace.”

A tall man with urgent, hunted eyes stepped into the room unan-

nounced and stood with his heavy cloak dripping steadily on the

bare floor.

“Business?” echoed Elizabeth warily.

“A private message, madam—from one who wishes you well.”

She weighed him for a moment in silence and then waved away the

curious-eyed girl. His voice was well modulated and his cloak of good

cut; he was obviously no ordinary messenger.

“You come from court?” she demanded.

He ignored the question and took a step towards her, extending a

small slip of folded paper.

“Read it, madam. It may save your life.”

She took the paper unwillingly, concealing it in the palm of her hand.

“Who sent you?” she repeated.

“Please, madam,” he said uncomfortably.

“Don’t you trust me?”

She let both her hands rest a moment on his wet sleeve and he was

dizzily aware of her oval face, those extraordinary eyes which seemed to

see inside his head. He had heard it said that she was beautiful and at first

glance had been vaguely disappointed. But now—

130

Legacy

“Madam,” he whispered, “I gave my word. My master’s life may

depend upon my silence.”

Her slow smile sank into his memory like a caress, as she stepped back

from him. She had tested his spirit and not found it wanting; she was

not displeased.

“You are a loyal servant, sir—I wish you were mine.”

He flushed and opened his mouth to babble inarticulately of his sudden

irrational desire to throw himself and his life at her feet, but she took pity

on him and held up her hand. Immediately he was silent. She picked up

the little handbell on her desk and its imperious tinkle was shrill in the

silent house.

“Tell your master of my gratitude,” she said gently. Again he would

have spoken, but the return of the serving girl forestalled him. The

fleeting moment of intimacy was gone and might never be recalled. He

felt curiously depressed as she addressed the girl in a clipped businesslike

manner, kind enough, but distant, as though she were discussing the

stabling of a horse.

“Take this gentleman to the kitchens. See he is warmed and well fed

before he leaves.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl withdrew, waiting for him, and miser-

ably aware of his wet clothes, his dishevelled appearance, and inferior

status he bowed low and would have backed out of the room. Then he

saw that she was holding out her hand to him. He was a messenger, in

this instance no more than a lackey and no lady of the manor would waste

such a gesture on a man of his standing—

He went down on one knee and pressed her fingers to his lips.

“Remember me,” she said quietly. “My time will come.”

The door closed behind him; and he went down the stairs with the

curious girl at his side like a man in a trance.

When the soft sound of footsteps had died away in the corridor, Elizabeth

returned to her desk and opened the paper in the tremulous candlelight.

Seven words in a hand she did not recognise:
Avoid the court. The King

is dead
. She sat down suddenly, staring at the paper and a kaleidoscope of

memories whirled in her mind. Edward at two, wearing the cambric shirt

she had painstakingly made for him; Edward at nine, King of England, a

frightened little boy cowering in her arms; and Edward at eleven, with

the Lord Admiral’s death warrant in his steady hand—

131

Susan Kay

Mentally she shook herself. The King had been dead for perhaps a

few hours; the boy she had loved as her brother had been dead to her

for almost four years. No time to waste in tears when her own life

hung in the balance. She bit her lip savagely and lit more candles with a

trembling hand.

Ever since news had come of Jane’s marriage to Guildford, Elizabeth

had known which way Northumberland would leap when Edward died.

She herself had left him with no other choice. It was several months now

since she had received the neat outline of his outrageous proposal to

divorce his wife and marry her; “
together we will take the throne.
” She had

laughed and turned away, without even troubling to reply, but not before

she had seen his features harden into an expression of fear and dislike.

Several times since then she had wondered whether the pleasure of snub-

bing him had been worth the price he could make her pay if his new

scheme succeeded. He would eliminate Mary with passionless efficient

speed—but for her, he would surely reserve some special suffering, a

lingering end that could be savoured. For once, she had allowed anger to

override her common sense; she ought to have kept him dangling. Even

now an armed force might be marching on Hatfield—

She stared into the flickering candles, while her mind galloped forward

into the blind night, seeking desperately for intuition to guide her through

the pitfalls now gaping at her feet.

Everything depended on Mary, and Mary was a dark, untried horse.

Would she give up at the first sign of danger in meek surrender; would

she flee to the armed support of her uncle the Emperor Charles V, the

mightiest power in the Christian world; or would she stand and fight

doggedly to the death?

Elizabeth privately suspected the last course. Mary didn’t lack for

courage, and when she believed she was in the right she could be as stub-

born and mulish as ever her father had been. So—unquestionably Mary

would fight. But would she win? Who in this largely Protestant land

would now support a Catholic claimant? Northumberland controlled the

Council, the soldiers and the ports; and on any purely logical assessment

of the facts he must win with ease. Mary had no hope at all, save for the

goodwill of the English people. Fickle as the toss of a coin, whose side

would they come down upon now?

Elizabeth moved to open the casement and looked out at the raging

132

Legacy

storm. It was a night fit for treason. It seemed as though the heavens them-

selves had cracked open in fury, as though her dread sire hurled mighty

thunderbolts against those who dared to tamper with his will and take the

Crown from the Tudor line. She shivered with a delicious thrill of terror.

Here she stood between Mary and Northumberland, utterly alone save

for the anonymous goodwill shown by the author of that curt little note.

She looked again at the slip of paper in her hand, the words illegible

in the gloom at the window. Who had risked his life to warn her of

Northumberland’s trap? Was it Robin, acting behind his father’s back,

or Sir William Cecil, about to desert yet another master? She would

have liked to believe it was Robin, but the brief line bore the stamp

of Cecil’s personality—cautious, calculating, saying just enough and no

more, trusting her intuition to reward him when she came into her own.