The Lady Elizabeth (68 page)

“No, madam, I cannot consent to it,” Elizabeth said sorrowfully but resolutely.

“If you could but see your way…,” Mary cajoled, much against her better instincts.

“Madam,” Elizabeth cried vehemently, “I assure you, upon my truth and fidelity, that I am not at this time minded to do other than I have declared to you—no, not even were the greatest prince in Europe to offer for me!”

“Then I must tell the King that you are adamant in your refusal,” Mary said defeatedly. “Although, in truth, I do not blame you for it.”

“I pray you do that, madam,” Elizabeth begged her.

“Go back to Hatfield,” the Queen said. “I do not know what the King will do, but it will go better with you if you are not here.”

Elizabeth needed no second bidding. Later that month, when Mary paid an unexpected visit to Hatfield and the Savoy marriage—along with other contentious subjects—was not mentioned, Elizabeth concluded that the Queen had overruled her husband and that the matter had been quietly dropped.

During those brief days of the visit, the sisters were for once in harmony. Elizabeth received Mary with all honor, and went to considerable trouble to entertain her. There was a Latin play, a bear baiting, dancing, hawking, a recital given by herself on the virginals, and many other delights. The choicest food was served, and the finest wines. Mary’s enjoyment was unfeigned. It was good to be away from the court and enjoy a peaceful sojourn in the country.

Elizabeth was hoping that Mary would say something about acknowledging her as her successor, but the Queen did not raise the subject. She was too preoccupied with the war in France.

“I have at last persuaded the council to send troops,” she said. “I could do no less for my husband’s cause.”

It is not
our
cause, Elizabeth thought angrily.

“The King himself is to take the field.” Mary’s voice was anxious.

“He is leaving England again?” Elizabeth asked, surprised, then wished she could have bitten out her tongue: Her sister looked so tragic.

“He is needed on the Continent,” Mary said. “He is waiting for the Spanish fleet to come for him.” She turned anguished eyes to Elizabeth. “Pray for him, I beg of you,” she enjoined. “And for me too. I cannot bear it when he is away.”

Elizabeth promised to do so. They had little opportunity for further private talk, since so many entertainments had been planned, but relations between them remained cordial, if not warm, and all too soon the visit came to an end.

The sisters embraced that last morning in the courtyard.

“God go with you, madam,” Elizabeth said as the horses were led over to the mounting blocks.

“I thank you again for your excellent hospitality,” Mary called down from the saddle. “Farewell!” As she turned to ride away, Elizabeth and her entire household sank to their knees. The visit had passed off far better than she could ever have expected, Elizabeth thought.

There was a knock on the door of the royal bedchamber. Philip climbed out of bed, donned a velvet robe over his nakedness, and answered it. There was a brief exchange of muffled conversation; then he returned to his wife.

“The fleet has been sighted!” he cried, his face lighting up in the glow of the candles. “I must make ready!”

“Need you go so soon?” Mary whispered, dread in her heart. She had cherished these past nights, had given herself to him without reserve, and had almost managed to convince herself that, when it came to it, he would not leave her.

“My army is waiting,” he told her, splashing his face with water from the golden basin that stood on the oak chest. She could see that he had gone from her already.

“I will leave my confessor with you,” he said, “in the hope that he will be able to persuade you how vital it is that Elizabeth marries Savoy.”

“I thought we had discussed that,” Mary said, dismayed.

“Well, think again,” he ordered her. “And think what might happen to our alliance if she takes a husband of her own choosing, who might plunge this kingdom into confusion!”

Mary said nothing. Speech was beyond her. All she could think of was that he was going from her.

“I must impress upon you the need for haste,” Philip went on, relentless. “If necessary, the marriage can take place in my absence. And there is another thing.”

Mary looked up miserably. He turned to face her, lacing his hose.

“It is desirable, nay, imperative, that you name Elizabeth your heir.” If Mary died, he wanted a friend on the English throne to preserve the alliance, and with Elizabeth so beholden to him, he was convinced that he held her in the palm of his hand. Of course, there was also the highly desirable possibility that she might become more than a friend…

“No,” Mary said, finding her voice and bitterly regretting that her last words to Philip would be words of defiance. “She may be my sister, and mayhap she
is
loyal to me these days, but she was born of an infamous woman who greatly outraged the Queen my mother and myself.”

“You must forget that,” Philip told her dismissively. “You must settle this matter of the succession.”

“God may yet settle it for me,” Mary said, blushing slightly. Anything to give him reason to return to her…

“You cannot count on that,” Philip replied, losing patience a little. He was convinced that, for all his recent efforts in the marital bed—and a great trial they had been—Mary was too old to conceive. Look what had happened the last time!

Mary lay back on the pillows, deeply hurt.

“I am distressed that I cannot please you by naming Elizabeth my heir,” she confessed, “but I have examined my conscience on the matter, and considered your arguments with a true and sincere heart, and still I know I am in the right, for that which my conscience holds it has held these many years. She is a heretic at heart, and I will not leave my throne to her.”

“Then I am extremely displeased,” Philip told her, his face thunderous.

He was still angry when, two days later, he bade her farewell on the quayside at Dover. Stony-faced, he dropped a dutiful kiss on her cheek, then strode away to the gangplank and bounded on board his ship. As she watched it being borne away on the waves, Mary bravely fought back tears, convinced she had looked her last on him.

The letter bore a plain seal. There was no crest. Elizabeth slit it open and was pleasantly surprised when she saw the signature. Lord Robert Dudley. So they had released him from the Tower at last.

He had written offering to serve her. He had sold land, he said, and was sending her money by separate courier, as proof of his loyalty. And lest there should be any doubt, he was prepared to die for her if need be.

Now, there’s a man with an eye to the future, she said to herself, smiling. A man whose mettle matches my own, I shouldn’t wonder. She called to mind his dark Italianate looks—my Gypsy, she thought—the proud bearing and strong, manly physique—and felt the stirring of desire, quickly suppressed. It would not do to cherish carnal thoughts of any man, in her situation. She might appreciate Lord Robert’s admiration and zeal for her and her cause, but that was all, she told herself. She wanted no more from him; she was done with all that, and he was, after all, a married man. She herself had attended his wedding, back in her brother’s time.

“What do you know of Robert Dudley?” she asked Cecil idly.

Cecil looked at her suspiciously.

“A rogue,” he said impishly. “A brave man, but impetuous, and a good Protestant—or was—but a born intriguer. And since his release from prison, a favorite with the ladies too, I hear. Why do you ask?”

“I have had a letter from him.” She handed it to Cecil.

“Well, well.” He smiled. “It is good to have friends.”

“I think I shall like having Lord Robert as a friend,” Elizabeth opined coquettishly, unconsciously holding the letter to her breast. Cecil was thoughtful.

“I hear he has made a point of befriending members of the King’s household,” he told her. “He could prove useful to you in more ways than one. Cultivate him. A man who sells off land in your cause is one you may surely trust.”

“I thought you said he was a rogue,” Elizabeth taunted him.

“Perhaps I misjudge him,” Cecil conceded. “His treason was long ago, after all. Methinks he has grown less hotheaded after that spell in the Tower!”

Elizabeth wrote to Dudley, thanking him for his gift and his desire to do her service. Her letter was the first of many. Soon, they were in regular correspondence, he lavish with his compliments and protestations of loyalty, she more reticent yet promising much, building bridges that she might, one day, wish to cross. She came to look for his letters, to thrill to his extravagant compliments, and to enjoy composing replies that he might take which way he would. There was no harm in it, she told herself. A mild flirtation—it added spice to her often dreary days.

CHAPTER
22

1558

M
ay God help us, Calais is lost!” Cecil cried in a rare passion, bursting into the closet where Elizabeth was checking over Parry’s accounts.

“Lost?” she echoed, shocked.

“It fell to the French at the beginning of January, after they mounted a surprise attack,” he told her.

“I cannot believe it,” she whispered, crestfallen. “Calais has been in English hands these two hundred years and more.”

“Aye, and it was the last bastion of our territories in France,” Cecil added. “Its loss must be a terrible blow to the Queen.”

“But it is her fault!” Elizabeth declared. “It was she who embroiled us in this war, just to please her husband the King.”

“Yes, she must bear the blame,” he agreed. “She has to live with that. And I’ll wager the King lifted no finger to save Calais.”

“Surely Her Majesty will send troops to retake it?” Parry asked.

“Alas, my friend, I doubt this realm can bear the cost,” Cecil answered. “By all accounts, the treasury is bankrupt. The country has never been weaker in strength, money, men, and riches. It makes me ashamed to be an Englishman.”

“And the burnings go on apace,” Elizabeth added. “The priests rule all. The realm is exhausted, our people out of order.”

“I’ve even heard the Queen accused of being a traitor to her own country,” Cecil revealed.

“And now we have a plague of influenza,” Parry added. “Just to add to our troubles. I’ll warrant it’s been sent by God to punish the Queen for her sins.”

“What remedy is there?” Elizabeth asked rhetorically.

“The people are looking to Your Grace,” Parry told her.

“That’s as may be,” Cecil said hastily, “but there is further news, and you will not like it, my lady. The Queen again believes herself to be with child.”

Elizabeth stared at him, horrified, then did a rapid calculation.

“But the King has been gone six months!”

“My contacts at court tell me that Her Majesty wished to be sure before making any announcement.”

Elizabeth was incredulous.

“Can it really be true? Or is she misled yet again?”

“Maybe it is time for a visit to court, madam,” Cecil suggested.

The needle flew in and out with speedy precision. At last, at last, thought Elizabeth with satisfaction as she snipped the thread and held up the tiny garment, which completed the layette she had hurriedly made as a gift for the Queen. It was her pretext for visiting court.

She arrived in February, attended by a great train of lords and ladies, and Mary received her graciously once more. Her belly was clearly distended beneath the unlaced stomacher, but she looked ill, drained, and hollow-cheeked.

“I trust that Your Majesty is in good health?” The conventional courtesy sounded all wrong.

“I am a little tired,” Mary replied, “but that is to be expected in my condition. It will not be long now. Soon, I will be taking to my chamber to await the birth.”

“I shall pray for a happy outcome for Your Majesty,” Elizabeth promised.

She showed Mary the layette, the minute white garments, beautifully stitched and embroidered. The Queen was touched, impressed by the delicate workmanship.