Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (55 page)

the future. It was bound to excite unrest in the Catholic North. Mary’s

refusal to ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh had nullified its most important

clause. Her claim to the English throne still stood and in all essentials they

were right back where they had started.

He was tired and vaguely depressed; his foot was throbbing with gout.

If only the Queen were not so fond of standing! He eyed a footstool with

regret and coughed discreetly, to remind her of his presence.

“Shall I draft a reply to the Scottish Queen, madam?”

“If you will.” She turned from the window. “I think I have made my

feelings quite plain. Unless she signs the Treaty and renounces her claim

I shall not guarantee her safety in English waters.”

Cecil fingered his plain buttons uneasily.

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“And if she refuses, madam—what then?”

Elizabeth raised the plumed fan so that only her dark eyes and brilliant

hair were visible above the white feathers.

“Then, my friend, it will be my life or hers in the end. Instruct

Throckmorton of my terms.”

Cecil bowed bleakly, and took himself and his gout away.

t t t

“—and so, madam, under the circumstances,” Throckmorton’s voice

quivered with embarrassment, “I fear Her Majesty is obliged to refuse

your safe conduct.”

A gasp of disbelief came from the little group of attendants surrounding

the Scottish Queen and Mary rose with icy dignity from her chair.

“Draw back,” she said to the women closest to her. “I have no desire

to make a vulgar display of
my
temper in public.”

She swept away to a pink-cushioned window-seat and the English

Ambassador, miserably humiliated, followed her.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Throckmorton said quietly. “There was nothing

I could do to spare you this—nothing anyone can do with Her Majesty in

such a mood. And yet—” He groped hopeful y for her hand. “If you would

only sign this treaty, you would find her more than amenable. My mistress

can be a loyal friend.” His voice dropped very low. “Or a deadly enemy.

I beseech you from the bottom of my heart not to win her as the latter.”

Mary smiled gently and touched his arm. She was not afraid of his

mistress, as Throckmorton so plainly was, and it was time she made that

fact quite clear.

“The enmity of the English is nothing new to me, sir,” she said

pleasantly. “Your late King attempted to prevent my journey to France

when I was but a child. I will not relinquish what I know to be my rights

simply to spare myself your Queen’s displeasure. I shall sail without her

permission, and regret only that I so far forgot myself as to ask a favour of

her in the first place.”

Throckmorton gnawed his lip uneasily.

“And if a storm should chance to throw you upon English shores,

madam?”

Mary raised her slim shoulders with indifference.

“Then your Queen may make a sacrifice of me.” She gave him a slight

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smile. “And who knows, my friend, perhaps that would be for the best

after all.”

He did not know how to answer that. It seemed the strangest thing

for her to say and he wondered what she saw as she stared past him for a

moment. Whatever it was, it made her shiver.

He bent to kiss her hand tenderly, with real regret. She was so vulner-

able—beautiful, charming, full of those feminine frailties which appealed

to a strong man; but, frankly, he would not hazard a week’s pay on her

chance of surviving any serious confrontation with Elizabeth. His mistress

had long claws and would have no compunction about using them on

any cocksure kitten who strayed across her path.

There was nothing more he could do to help Mary; an ambassador

must take care. He had given his advice and further argument would only

compromise his position with Elizabeth.

He walked out of the room sadly, and left the Queen of Scots to make

her own mistakes.

t t t

“Bitch!”

Elizabeth’s clenched fist crashed down on her desk and sent

Throckmorton’s despatch spinning to the floor.

“Stupid, stupid little bitch! Who the devil has advised her in this

madness?”

Cecil bent automatically and retrieved the scattered papers in silence.

Privately he doubted that anyone was advising the Scottish Queen at the

moment. Dictated to equally by pride and courage, she was plainly acting

on a heated emotion which boded ill for future negotiations. Intrigue,

unrest, and foreign interference were the natural corollaries to her arrival

in Scotland. Even if she held fire for a year or so to consolidate her

influence, she would be a constant menace to Elizabeth’s life. And for the

moment their position seemed stalemated.

Elizabeth stared down at her papers, fingering her temple in an uncon-

sciously fretful gesture that alerted him.

“This summer progress into Suffolk,” he began cautiously.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “What of the progress?”

“There’s still time to cancel it, madam.”

She looked up startled.

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“Cancel it? On what grounds? There’s no unrest in that county.”

“Madam, you are not fit to undertake such an arduous journey.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed and she pushed her papers to one side

angrily. “Have you been talking to my women?” she demanded.

“I was concerned,” he admitted nervously, “and certainly several of

your ladies agreed—” He broke off, uncomfortably aware that he was

about to be indiscreet.

“Well,” she prompted ominously, “what have my women said? By

God, you had better tell me!”

“Forgive me, madam—but they say you are the colour of a corpse and

that all your bones may be counted.”

Elizabeth stood up and he instinctively took a step backwards.

“Damn them!” she snapped. “Damn their meddling tongues! Do

I employ them to count my bones and put the fear of God into my

chief minister?”

He was crimson with a mixture of alarm and pleasure.
My chief

minister—
had he really heard her say it?

She watched him shift his weight awkwardly from one foot to the

other and suddenly gave him a devastating smile, which caught him right

off balance. He was not in love with her; but he could see, with startling

clarity, why so many men were.

“Who was it?” she laughed. “Cobham—Northampton?”

He looked at the floor and she nodded slowly.

“Oh, yes, I might have known. Those two are the greatest panic-

mongers in this realm. Extraordinarily fond of seeing death written on

someone’s face—usually mine. Wishful thinking, I fear.” She waved her

hand as he began to protest. “For God’s sake, Cecil, confine your spying

to its proper sphere. Bedchamber gossip could be the end of you.”

“With respect, madam—my anxiety remains.”

“Without foundation, my friend—I shall outlive you all, I swear it.”

She sat down again and leaned her chin on her hands as she watched him

sigh and look unconvinced. “Listen. If ever I have the slightest intention

of departing this world I shall see that you receive a month’s notice in

advance. Even allowing for your gout, that should give you plenty of

time to flee to safety in Geneva—wouldn’t you agree?”

“
Madam
!”

She lifted her hand to silence him.

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“Sit down. I have something to show you.”

He eased himself into the chair opposite, deeply aggrieved by her

assumption that self-interest alone motivated his concern. He had a fierce

paternal feeling for her which defied logical analysis. All his life he seemed

to have been marking time and waiting for her service. And now little

else mattered beyond those hours when he was challenged, stimulated,

and alerted in every mental faculty by the most difficult and exacting

human being he had ever met.

Mildred was not amused by his obsession. She had once told him

tartly that if he could not leave the Queen outside their bedroom door,

he had better sleep alone. The incident had jolted him. In all their cosy,

domesticated existence it was the only time he ever remembered Mildred

raising her voice; and in the interests of marital harmony he no longer

discussed his royal mistress with his wife.

The Queen signed a document and pushed it across the table for his

attention. As he looked down at it, he blinked in astonishment.

It was the authorisation of Mary Stuart’s safe conduct through

English waters.

“That leaves England the moment she sets sail.”

“Too late to be of use to her?” Cecil raised a puzzled eyebrow. “Why

sign it at all then?”

“To cover myself. Should she reach Scotland in safety I shall simply

tell her Throckmorton misunderstood me—but make no mistake, Cecil.

If she slips through our fingers when we have the chance to take her,

someone will hang for it.”

Cecil rolled up the document hastily and got to his feet with difficulty.

“I shall see that the fleet patrols the Channel in search of unauthorised

vessels, madam.”

“Good.” Elizabeth laid her pen aside. “Give me five minutes alone

with her at Hampton Court or Greenwich and the Treaty of Edinburgh

will be ratified beyond all question of doubt. By God, she’ll sign it, if I

have to guide her hand with my own.”

“And then, madam?”

“And then I have no further quarrel with her. She can count on my

friendship, for what it’s worth—God knows she’ll find precious little

when she gets to Scotland.”

Cecil frowned. “All this diplomacy hinges upon her capture, madam.

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But the Channel is vast and the elements are in God’s hands. A storm—a

sudden fog—and it will be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“Well—you’re on the best of terms with God, aren’t you, my friend?

See what you can arrange.”

He found her cynical irreverence disturbing and coughed to cover the

break in his composure.

“I shall certainly do everything in my power, madam. If the Scottish

Queen lands in her native land with this issue unresolved I fear Your

Majesty’s fair head may not sit in safety for long.”

“Well,” Elizabeth gave him a sly smile, “that ought to cure my head-

aches permanently.”

“Quite, madam,” he said drily, “yet I and every other loyal Englishman

should prefer a less drastic remedy. And to that end—touching this matter

of the progress—Your Majesty will consider my advice?”

Her smile was disarmingly reproachful.

“I always consider your advice, William Cecil. You ought to know

that by now.”

He went out of the room feeling flattered and topsides with the world.

When the door had closed behind him she added softly to herself,

“But of course, I don’t always take it.”

t t t

Ipswich, in the height of summer, was surely the last place on earth God

made, thought Robin.

He stood at a window, pul ing uncomfortably at the high ruff that had

a stranglehold about his throat, while below him a vast, swaying crowd

chanted the Queen’s name with maudlin affection. The combined stench of

so many unwashed bodies drifted up to him and forced him to withdraw,

holding a pomander to his nose. Oh, to be at Richmond in the cool breeze

which blew in from the river, to be at Hampton in the graceful shade of the

herb garden—to be anywhere in the world but on progress with the English

court, surely the most exquisite form of torture ever inflicted upon man.

He glanced at the Queen, sitting white-faced and grim at her dressing

table, and wondered again why she did not spare herself this annual ordeal

of travelling among her people. Personally, he found all close contact

with the rabble crowd highly distasteful, and how she could bring herself

to mingle so freely with a stinking mob of disease-ridden peasants was

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beyond his understanding. He was beginning to realise that there was a

great deal he did not understand about her…

Almost a year had passed since Amy’s death and he was still unable to

make sense of his position with the Queen. She had greeted him with

quiet affection on his return to court—he might have been returning

from a holiday in the country rather than exile. She now made show of

her belief in his innocence in public, but in private she never spoke of it

and he did not dare reopen the subject. She had not apologised for her

outrageous accusations that day at Windsor, but superficially all was as it

had been between them before the tragedy. Only the smug superiority of

Cecil reminded him that his ambition was still unfulfilled.

“Whatever reports and opinions say,” Cecil had written confidently

to Throckmorton in Paris, “I know surely that Lord Robert himself has

more fear than hope…”

Now Robin stood in limbo, frustrated and insecure, weathering

Elizabeth’s wildly varying moods. She had more sides to her than a cut