The Marriage Game (52 page)

Their eyes met, his wounded, hers filling with tears.

“Oh Robin, I just do not want you to go!” Elizabeth cried. “Forgive me my unkindness. No queen ever had a more loyal servant.”

He stepped forward and drew her to him, gentling her against his breast. She had forgotten how good it felt to be in his embrace, and that made her weep even more.

“Fear not, Bess,” he murmured. “I will take care of myself and all your brave soldiers. We will come back safely to you, covered in glory, you’ll see!”

The kindness between them did not last. As befit the Queen’s commander in the Netherlands, Robert was to take with him a great household
of 170 persons, with his young stepson, the Earl of Essex, acting as his Master of Horse. But then it came to Elizabeth’s ears that
that woman
was going too, and insisting on transporting with her a great train of ladies and a vast amount of baggage—magnificent gowns, furniture, tapestries, even her carriages!

“I did not send you to the Netherlands so that
your wife
could queen it over there!” Elizabeth shouted. “Tell her to learn a little humility, or I will strip you of your command!”

Robert bore her histrionics stoically; he knew they proceeded from jealousy, and the fear of losing him. He asked a simmering Lettice to scale down her preparations—“This is war, and it is not meet that you keep great state,” he told her—and hoped that she would comply. One never knew with her; she was always itching to defy the Queen, whom she resented as bitterly as Elizabeth resented her. He sighed, and reflected for the umpteenth time that it was not easy being caught between two warring women! And now the Queen was refusing to take any further interest in his preparations because Lettice was going with him.

Finally he sailed, leaving his tearful sovereign behind—and immediately upon his arrival in the Netherlands ran into a problem. For the Dutch, so grateful to him for coming to their rescue, had arranged to send him on what amounted to a royal progress around their country, and were insisting that he consent to become their ruler, as Governor General.

He thought he might see the fireworks from Holland when news of
that
reached Elizabeth.

1586
 

“How dare they?” Elizabeth spluttered. “And how dare he accept!” She was shaking with a fury such as her councillors had never witnessed.

She dashed off a letter castigating Robert in the strongest terms for what she was pleased to call his childish dealing. “You have made me infamous to all princes!” she ranted. “On the duty of your allegiance, you will stand down, and fail not to obey my command, or you will answer for it at your utmost peril.”

Robert read her words with a heavy heart. He had believed—and still did—that he was acting in her best interests. He had sent William Davison, her secretary who she had decreed must accompany him, back to England to tell her of the invitation to become Governor General, but Davison was delayed by bad weather, and Robert assumed that Elizabeth had voiced no objection. To be honest, he had wanted to accept the office. He knew now that he should have waited until he heard from her himself, just to be sure that she was happy for him to do so.

Instead, a distressed Davison wrote that Elizabeth had lectured him in the most bitter and hard terms, refusing to let him speak in Robert’s favor. Never, to Robert’s knowledge, had she condemned a man before she heard him. He guessed she was feeling the strain of his absence and the other worries that lay heavy on her shoulders. Walsingham
wrote that she was daily becoming less able to bear any matter of weight, and his own brother, Warwick, informed him that her great rage against him had increased rather than diminished. She was even withholding pay from his soldiers out of pique.

“Her blasts are always sharpest toward those she loves the best, God be thanked,” Robert observed to Essex, sounding more confident than he felt.

His colleagues on the council were anxious lest Elizabeth take it into her head to recall him, for it would never do for the Spaniards to see the English divided. They used every effort to calm her down and pacify her, telling her that Leicester had acted for the best, but it took a messenger bringing news that he was ill to make her accept the situation.

“He has offered to resign,” Burghley told her, “but the Dutch have written begging Your Majesty to reconsider. Madam,
I
will resign if he steps down, so God spares him to continue.” It was not often that her Lord Treasurer gave her ultimatums.

“Very well,” she said, gritting her teeth, “he may remain as Governor General. But it must be made clear that he is not
my
deputy, and that he is in a subordinate position. He is a subject, not an equal prince.”

Robert accepted with relief. He would have agreed to any terms. He was overjoyed therefore when Raleigh wrote that the Queen was speaking favorably of him.
Thanks be to God, she is well pacified, and you are again her Sweet Robin
. He had to smile at that, coming from Warter.

England was still beset on three fronts. There was the danger from the Netherlands and from Spain, where Philip was amassing his great armada, having received the Pope’s blessing on his planned enterprise of England. Then there was the Queen of Scots, plotting away at Chartley.

When Elizabeth told the Spanish ambassador, “I know all that goes on in my kingdom,” she spoke the truth. For a trap had been laid for Mary, and the only people who knew about it were Elizabeth, Leicester, and Walsingham; the latter’s secretary, Thomas Phelippes, an expert cipher breaker; and a turncoat priest, Gilbert Gifford, a double
agent in Walsingham’s employ. Thanks to Gifford and Phelippes, Mary’s letters were secretly intercepted and deciphered, and they made for very interesting reading. One had urged King Philip to invade England as soon as possible. Another had revealed details of a Catholic rebellion, planned to coincide with the invasion. Thanks to this intelligence, Walsingham’s spies were able to keep watch on the suspects.

The trail led to an idealistic but rather silly young Catholic gentleman, Anthony Babington, who was clearly half in love with Mary, whose page he had once been and to whom he aimed to present the crown of England. He and his friends were blithely plotting the assassination of Queen Elizabeth, and had even been so rash as to have their group portrait painted for posterity. Then Babington wrote to Mary asking her to approve the plan and the “tragical execution” of the usurper.

Walsingham and Elizabeth held their breath, waiting to see what Mary would do.

“If this matter is well handled, it will break the neck of all dangerous practices for the rest of Your Majesty’s reign,” Walsingham observed.

The Queen smiled. “I have every confidence in you, old Moor.”

Mary’s reply finally arrived. In it she unequivocally approved Babington’s plot and the assassination of Elizabeth. Phelippes deciphered her incriminating words and handed the letter to Walsingham, who saw that his secretary had drawn a gallows in one corner. Well satisfied, Walsingham took it to the Queen.

The year before, Parliament had passed an act providing for any wicked person of whatever rank or nationality—meaning, obviously, the Queen of Scots—suspected of plotting treason to be tried and put to death.

“Can we now proceed against her?” Walsingham asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. She knew that she could not afford to take any other course.

“Very well, madam, I will gather the evidence and draw up an indictment.”

Elizabeth was panicking. Not so much at the prospect of Mary’s imminent arrest, although she shrank from the notion of subjecting an anointed queen to trial; even if she had been forced to abdicate, Mary was still, in her eyes, Scotland’s rightful queen. That was bad enough, and she was not entirely sure of the legality of it. Nor did she relish the prospect of the natural consequence of a guilty verdict, which was Mary dying on the scaffold, as Anne Boleyn had; and she was resolved never to allow it. Her conscience would not permit it. But now such concerns were swept out of her head, for Robert had written urging her to accept the crown of the Netherlands, assuring her it would be the surest way of winning the war.

“I dare not provoke King Philip!” she cried, knowing that Mary’s arrest alone would be sufficient to do that—and that the cold Spaniard was already poised to send his armada against her.

Her councillors soothed her, telling her she was under no obligation or need to accept the Dutch crown. It was her decision entirely. When she was calmer, she regretted her outburst, and wrote to Robert, trying to explain her immoderate reaction.

Robert smiled when he read this, a great warmth flooding his breast. It had taken seven months of storms and wrangling, but at last they were back on their old footing, and he was more relieved than he could say. He worried about Elizabeth, though, and knew his fellow councillors shared his concerns. She was under so much strain that he feared it might break her. He wondered how the entrapment of the
Queen of Scots was progressing. To think he might have married that dreadful daughter of debate, as Elizabeth had once called her!

In August, Mary was arrested while hawking with her guards on the Staffordshire moors. Already her fellow conspirators—fourteen of them—had been rounded up and cast into the Tower.

When news of the arrests was announced, the bells pealed out in London and people danced and celebrated in the streets. In the Tower, Babington broke and confessed all, terrified of being put to the torture. His seven confessions incriminated Queen Mary and those others who had plotted with him to place a crown on her head.

“Your Majesty must summon Parliament to deal with the Queen of Scots,” Burghley said, determined to have the problem of this venomous princess dealt with once and for all.

“I will think on it,” Elizabeth said, stalling desperately. She knew that Parliament would insist on a trial and execution it would expect her to sanction.

“Madam, you cannot be seen to be wavering,” Walsingham growled.

“Your Majesty
must
proceed against her,” Burghley insisted, his voice unwontedly stern. “You must be seen to be just. If the lesser conspirators are to suffer the punishment the law demands for their treason, as surely they will, then the chief conspirator should not escape.”

“Very well,” Elizabeth capitulated, feeling sick to her stomach. “I will summon Parliament.”

Babington and the other small fry had been condemned to a traitor’s death. The agony facing them was unimaginable. They would be tied to hurdles and drawn by horses to the place of execution, for they had been deemed unfit to walk upon the earth; then each would be hanged by the neck, but they would not be allowed to choke to death, for before they passed into oblivion they would be cut down, and the butchery would begin. They would be castrated and disemboweled, have their hearts and entrails torn out and all their vitals burned before their
dying eyes. Only then would they be granted the mercy of beheading, and after that their bodies would be chopped into quarters, and the quarters and heads placed on spikes in public places, grim warnings to other would-be traitors.

“They plotted to murder me!” Elizabeth cried, shuddering in horror at the thought of the cold steel or the poisoned cup that had so nearly been her fate, and she a queen too. It had been treason of the worst kind. “Is this sufficient punishment? I have heard that the executioner usually waits until his victims are dead before wielding the knife, but William, I want a stern example made in the case of these traitors. Hanging, drawing, and quartering is too good for them!”

“Madam,” Burghley said, wondering if she had ever seen a man being hanged, drawn, and quartered, “rest assured that the executions shall be duly and orderly executed by protracting the sentence to the extremity of the pain, and in the sight of the people. There will be no mercy shown. Believe me, the manner of death will be as terrible as any new punishment could be.”