The Marriage Game (50 page)

Her feelings for Anjou now seemed insubstantial beside her reluctance to proceed with their marriage. She saw them, in the dark reaches of the night when stark truths rear their fearsome heads, for what they really were: an illusion born of the vanity of an aging woman. They were feeble, illusory fantasies compared with the love she had cherished for Robert these twenty years and more. Anjou had fed her conceit; he had brought some long-needed excitement and gaiety into her life. But truth to tell, she was growing weary of the ritual courtship dance, the extravagant compliments, the pretense that this was true love. In fact she wanted nothing more at this moment than for him to go away.

She lay there wakeful until the late winter dawn broke, then stood wilting like a rag doll as her women dressed her. She felt ill, as if she would faint. When Anjou came to her, she almost collapsed into his arms.

“I am very worried, dear Frog,” she confessed. “I spoke out of passion yesterday, not wisdom, and if I endure two more such nights as the one I have just spent, I will be in my grave. You must not think that I do not love you. You must know that I want to marry you more than anything I have ever wanted in this life. My affection for you is undiminished. But I have been forced to the conclusion that I cannot marry you at present. I must sacrifice my happiness for the welfare of my subjects.”

She felt Anjou stiffen in dismay before he relinquished her. She saw him swallow as he stood, cold-eyed, before her. “I am utterly saddened and disappointed,” he said in a strangled voice. “And now, forgive me, I must leave you in order to compose myself.”

He went, fuming, seething with humiliation. Had ever man been treated so contemptuously? She would not marry him after all. She meant to make him wait indefinitely, with no hope of a happy outcome. There would be no coronation, no money, and when this got out he would be covered in ignominy because of her rejection. He could wave good-bye to glory in the Netherlands too! All his careful courtship, all that romantic charade, had been for nothing!

Very well. He too could play games. If he could not get English gold by marrying the Queen, he would make her pay to get rid of him!

Seeing that the English Jezebel was intent on sealing a marriage alliance with his enemies, the French, King Philip began making friendly noises, offering to forgive Elizabeth’s past transgressions against Spain. She saw that she was now in a strong position, especially as far as France was concerned.

King Henri read the long list of demands she had sent him. Outrageous! He could not possibly consent to any of them.

Elizabeth was consumed with relief that he had rejected her demands out of hand. The marriage negotiations could now be considered terminated. She thanked God for her deliverance and felt that a celebration was called for, save that it would not have been appropriate, with the matter so sensitive.

Anjou glowered after being told by the French ambassador what her terms had been.
“Mon Dieu!”
he was heard to exclaim. “I cannot believe the lightness of women, or the inconstancy of these islanders.”

When this was reported to her, Elizabeth summoned him. She would show him a thing or two about the lightness of women. She smiled sweetly. “If it pleases you to depart for the Netherlands, monsieur, I will give you a loan of sixty thousand pounds to use against the Spaniards.”

“Divine Goddess,” he said, bending and kissing her hands, “I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude. I accept your kind offer, of course, and will arrange to depart by Christmas.”

When he had gone, Elizabeth danced for joy around her chamber. Sussex, bowing his way in, gaped.

“My lord,” she trilled, “do you know something? I hate the idea of marriage more every day!”

Christmas came and went and Anjou was still at court.

“Do you not want to go to the Netherlands, my Frog?” Elizabeth demanded to know.

“Alas, I have found that I cannot face being apart from you,” he declared. “I would rather die than leave England without marrying you.”

Elizabeth’s mood abruptly changed. She knew what he was about! “Do you mean to threaten a poor old woman in her own country?” she said sharply. “I see I have been at fault, encouraging you in your courtship. Until matters are decided, you must try to think of me as a sister.”

At that, to her consternation, Anjou burst noisily into tears, a seemingly endless flood. God, he looked disgusting, with the snot running out of his nose. Exasperated, she handed him her lace handkerchief and walked off. She was desperate to be free of him.

“I never had any intention of marrying him,” she told her council, “but he insists on carrying on this courtship, and it is wearing me down.”

“Might I suggest offering him, as a bribe, an advance of twenty thousand pounds on what you have already offered, on condition that he leaves England?” Robert ventured. “It would be worth it to get rid of him at last.” There was a certain vehemence in his tone, Elizabeth noted, but mercifully he had stopped short of reminding her that he’d been right about Anjou all along.

“The thought of wasting so much money on that little man appalls me,” she said. “Good Spirit, pray advise him to leave before the new year comes in. Say he will avoid the expense of buying me a gift.”

Back came Burghley. “He has already got a gift for Your Majesty.”

“Damn him!” Elizabeth swore. Was Anjou to confound her at every turn?

She was not pleased when he confronted her on New Year’s Eve.

“You pledged yourself to me!” he reminded her, his tone plaintive, his face choleric.

“I have not forgotten,” she told him, “and in token of that I will pay you ten thousand pounds of the money I promised to lend you.”

It was not enough, she could see by his expression. He knew very well that if he left England, he would never see the rest of the loan. And she knew that if he went now, the money would never be repaid.

1582
 

Elizabeth’s mind was gratefully diverted from the problem of Anjou by the arrival of a new gentleman at court. Walter Raleigh was a Devon man, and great-nephew to her beloved Kat Astley. He was courageous and dashing (he had fought with the Huguenots against the French), brilliant, versatile, and dauntless, a poet and a man of many parts. He exuded virility, being tall and dark with penetrating eyes—the very mirror of all that Elizabeth considered attractive in men. She liked his forthright manner, his eloquent speech, and his candid opinions. He had rather showily gained her attention when he spread his cloak over a puddle into which she was about to step, but she had admired him for the panache with which he’d done it. Rumor at court had it that he’d even taken a diamond and scratched a message on a window in her gallery:
Fain would I climb yet fear I to fall
. And Elizabeth was said to have scored below it:
If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all
. It was typical of her, and all too believable, but no one could say exactly where the window was.

Raleigh’s heart had not failed him. It seemed that he gained the Queen’s ear in a trice, and within weeks he had risen to become one of her favorites. The turning point was when, one dark February afternoon, he got a smut on his face from a brazier and she offered to wipe it with her own handkerchief. The courtiers looked on in amazement. Elizabeth was captivated by him. The man could do no wrong.

These days it was Walter this and Walter that—or rather Warter this and Warter that, as she nicknamed him, mimicking his broad Devon accent. To him she was Cynthia, goddess of the moon and virgin huntress, and he fancied himself as Orion, the only man who had won Cynthia’s heart.

Robert could not stand Warter, and he was not the only one. For Raleigh soon grew insufferably arrogant. He was a liar and a lecher. Robert seethed to see him installed in Durham House on London’s Strand, and appearing at court in dazzling outfits each day, ridiculous plumage in his hat and gem-encrusted shoes on his feet. He could not bear to think that Elizabeth was showing favor to this adventurer, this wastrel, this … Words failed him. He was aware that he was jealous. He was fifty now, and feared, naturally enough, that his star might be eclipsed by this thirty-year-old upstart.

Hatton was jealous too. He sent Elizabeth a miniature gold bucket containing a letter complaining that “Warter” was ousting him from his queen’s affections. She laughed when she read it, getting the pun, and hastened to reassure her Mutton.

“If princes were like gods, as they should be,” she told him, “they would suffer no element to breed confusion. The beasts of the field are so dear to me that I have bounded my banks so sure as no water could ever be able to overthrow them. I am my Mutton’s shepherd, and you should remember how dear my sheep is to me!”

She was not blind to Raleigh’s faults. She made him captain of her personal guard, the Gentlemen Pensioners, but she told Robert, to mollify him, that she had resolved never to appoint Warter to high office, for he was too unstable, quarrelsome, and unpopular.

She was aware that she had treated Robert badly. When she looked at him afresh after one of his absences from court, she was saddened to see a man who had grown old in her service. His long beard was quite white now, his head bald under the brave bonnet. He had put on more weight, his paunch straining his doublet. There was little left of the young and virile gallant who had captured her heart in the heady days after her accession. Yet the inner man remained, the one she
would always love—her dearest Eyes, who was closer to her than any other.

He had given her good counsel on countless occasions, and he had been right in suggesting that twenty thousand pounds would be sufficient to make Anjou leave England. When the little Frenchman had presented her with a New Year gift of a brooch in the form of an anchor, symbolizing hope and fidelity, she very speedily offered him another ten thousand, which he accepted with alacrity. It was worth every penny, for she had been having sleepless, feverish nights worrying about how to rid herself of her importunate suitor.

She was so relieved when monsieur informed her that he was leaving early in February that she insisted on accompanying him as far as Canterbury, where they said their farewells in private in a house in the high street, commandeered for the purpose. She also gladly provided an escort of three English warships, and made Leicester and other lords go with the duke all the way to the Netherlands, just to make sure he did actually leave the realm.

“I would rather not go,” Robert had told her. “I am suffering my old stomach pains.”

“Go you must,” she insisted, “and you will suffer more if you do not treat respectfully the man I love most in the world!” Her lips twitched as she said it, and Robert had to smile. In a low voice, Elizabeth added, “And I have a message for you to convey secretly to the Dutch. Ask them to ensure that the duke never returns to England. And, Robin—come back to me safely!” She wrung his hands as she said this. He was surprised, and gratified to hear her using her old pet name for him after so long. At least some good had come out of the Anjou debacle.

In public, and especially when the French ambassador was nearby, Elizabeth showed herself grief-stricken at Anjou’s departure. “I cannot go back to Whitehall,” she cried, “because the place is full of memories of him with whom I have unwillingly parted.” She dabbed touchingly at her eyes. “I do declare that I cannot live another hour were it not for the hope of seeing monsieur again. Thank God he will be back
in six weeks.” It was a lie, but no one was to know that. And six
years
would not be too soon.

She wore at her girdle a tiny prayer book set with miniatures of herself and the duke, and told the astonished Spanish ambassador that she would give a million pounds to have her Frog swimming in the Thames once more (whereupon he immediately informed his master that he had heard it from the Queen’s own lips that she was keen for the French marriage to go ahead). She wrote loving letters to her absent suitor, who in turn kept up the pretense that they were soon to be wed. He even pressed her to name the day. Elizabeth was determined to maintain this fictional courtship for as long as possible; her aim, as before, was to keep the French friendly and King Philip at bay.

Robert was soon back at court, looking pleased with himself for having, literally, seen off his rival for the Queen’s affections. In full hearing of her courtiers, he could not resist taking a prod at Anjou. “Some conqueror he looked like when we docked at Flushing! He resembled nothing so much as an old husk, run ashore, high and dry.”

Elizabeth screamed at him, for she feared he had ruined everything. “Don’t you dare be so insolent as to mock your future king, my lord! You are a traitor, like all your horrible family!”

Robert recoiled at her unexpected tirade. But Elizabeth’s anger cooled as quickly as it had flared. Robert was right: Anjou was a husk of a man. Her spies informed her that he preferred to play tennis while the Spanish Duke of Parma took city after city. What was he thinking of?

Monsieur, are you quite mad?
she thundered, her quill flying across the page.
You seem to believe that the means of keeping our friends is to weaken them!
After that, of course, there was no hope that Anjou would ever again contemplate coming back to England to claim her.