Elizabeth (17 page)

“This time, I should sign it,” she answered coolly. “I have my father's temper, you know, and poor Dudley's patent was presented to me after a quarrel. The earldom was a personal token of my gratitude for his good service. I withdrew it for my own reasons—you know how changeable women are, my dear Lethington, and I'm no exception. But nothing would please me more than to honour him as high as your mistress could wish. He shall be Earl of Leicester, and you shall propose him as my official candidate for my cousin's hand. I shall write and personally recommend him to her.”

“My Queen will be overwhelmed,” Lethington murmured. He wondered how he could restrain Mary from replying to that personal recommendation in terms which would result in war. It would be all the more difficult since she was seriously interested in the suit of Henry Darnley. He had seen Darnley several times, thanks to the persistence of his mother, Lady Lennox, and he had been able to tell Mary that Darnley was extremely good-looking and with pleasing manners. He also described the Countess of Lennox as a troublesome and ambitious old virago, who would have to be left behind in England if the marriage were seriously considered.

As for Robert Dudley, he knew him well and disliked him intensely. He had always suspected that William Cecil shared his antipathy, and he could only suppose that he supported this extraordinary suggestion in order to get him out of England and break his influence with the Queen.

He saw that Elizabeth had held out her hand to be kissed, which was the signal for his dismissal. It was as pale and cool as marble, her exquisite fingers were not spoilt by rings, except the ring she had accepted at her Coronation as a symbol of her marriage to the State.

When he left them Elizabeth turned to Cecil.

“He'll have to convey the message,” she said, “and I think he believes it's serious. He also believes that she will be furious.”

“He has a secret appointment with Darnley and his mother again tomorrow,” Cecil said quietly. “The Countess sends him messages every day.”

“When the times comes, I'll send that old harridan to the Tower,” she snapped. “It will convince my dear cousin how angry I am at the marriage and it will give
me
immense satisfaction.”

“How can you be so sure this plan will succeed, Madam?” Cecil asked her. “What will you do if she swallows that bribe about the succession and accepts Dudley?”

Elizabeth laughed. “You know very little about women, my dear Cecil. Madam is growing mighty confident; she has come to the point where she is intriguing to marry one of my subjects behind my back—that's a step forward after all her tact these past two years, and she has a high stomach, all the Stuarts are as proud as Lucifer. Robert himself gave the answer when he said she'd hardly take my leavings. That miserable Lennox pimp has Tudor blood; that will be his marriage gift to Mary, and more likely to appeal to her than any promises of mine. If she did agree to Robert, I should simply refuse him permission to leave England and the negotiations would come to nothing.”

“I am relieved,” Cecil said dryly, “to hear that you wouldn't consider the marriage as a last resort. That has tormented me all the way through.”

“You don't trust Robert, do you?” she said. “And you don't trust me either, to suppose I would keep anything back from you?”

“Do you trust him that far?” Cecil retorted. “Do you think he could be sent to Scotland to be tempted into invading England, and not fall?”

“No.” Elizabeth stared out to where the lights were flickering along the river. “I trust no man that far, except you.”

“How can you love a man you do not trust?” he said softly. “How can you keep him by you, turning you from the thought of other men, how can you honour him and lavish presents upon him, knowing that he is unworthy of you?”

“How can you ask that question when you are married and you don't know what it means to need another human being? Robert has many faults; God knows I hear enough about them, but I don't want a man of saintly principles, I want a good companion, a good dancer, a good horseman, a prop to lean on, even if in fact it's he who does the leaning.… I can give you a dozen answers to that question of yours, all of them true and none of them the right one. Robert is ambitious and shallow; he hasn't your brain or Sussex's honour, or Hunsdon's chivalry, but in his way he loves me and he needs what I can give him. That is something
I
need, and I can have him on my terms and trust him just as far as it is fair to expect of any man, when I am neither his mistress nor his wife. Now go in and send him out to me.”

Three people were sitting in a small room in a house not far from the Royal Palace of Whitehall; the curtains were drawn, closing out the evening sunlight, and there were no servants to wait on them. The wine was poured by the younger of the two men, and the second man watched him closely while he listened to the Countess of Lennox praising the virtues of her son. Lady Lennox had a harsh voice and a domineering, mannish attitude; she sat like a man with her knees spread wide under her skirts and her hands resting on them, leaning forward to impress the Scottish envoy with what she was saying.

Her rather coarse and florid features, with the darting green eyes and the hard mouth, were in complete contrast to the rounded good looks of her son. Lethington took the glass from his hand and thanked him.

Henry Darnley was so tall that he had to stoop low over Lethington's chair. He was very fair, with hair that curled like a child's, and bright blue eyes; if the face was too smooth, without beard or moustaches, the figure was undeniably graceful and slim. He had an air of refinement and good breeding which made his relationship to that gross, blustering woman difficult to reconcile, though the precious Tudor blood flowed in his veins from her.

Lady Lennox was the daughter of Henry VII's sister, therefore granddaughter of Owen Tudor and blood cousin of Elizabeth. She was also the blood cousin of Mary Stuart.

“There isn't a better match for the Queen than my son,” she declared. “Look at him, my Lord—is there a better favoured young man in Europe?”

Lethington caught her son's eye and exchanged a smile. He noticed that Darnley had blushed and looked uncomfortable while the Countess made her appraisals of him, as if she were trying to sell a thoroughbred horse.

“Nobody doubts your qualities, Lord Darnley.” Lethington turned on him. “And your maternal pride only does him justice, Madam,” he added.

“There are only two obstacles to the marriage that I can see; firstly my Queen will not make any promises without having seen your son, and secondly, the Queen of England has made Dudley Earl of Leicester and apparently believes that my Queen is prepared to take him as a husband. Under those circumstances, I don't see how your visit to Scotland can be arranged openly, and there can't be a contract without a visit.”

“The whole world is laughing at Queen Mary,” Lady Lennox snapped. “God knows how she can have allowed Elizabeth to go so far with this ridiculous proposal, raising that scoundred to the peerage and telling everyone that he is going to Scotland as her personal token to the Queen. If I were Mary I would have torn up the letter and returned her the pieces as an answer.”

“That was the Queen's first impulse,” Lethington explained patiently. “She is fully sensible of the insult which has been offered her, and it has strengthened her determination to marry without the approval of Queen Elizabeth. But as the best candidate is your son, who is here in England, it has been necessary to pretend to take the suggestion of Dudley seriously, until we can arrange for Lord Darnley to flee the country. When he is safely in Scotland, my Queen will make her decision and show Queen Elizabeth exactly what harm that monstrous proposal has done her.”

“I would go at any time,” Darnley interposed. “I am not afraid of Elizabeth.”

“My son is no coward, as you can see,” his mother said. “He has my stomach, my Lord. I'm perfectly sure that when Queen Mary sees him the match will be made—I've had trouble enough chasing the women away from him since he was sixteen.”

Again Darnley looked modestly embarrassed; it was an expression that suited him. There was nothing in the frank blue eyes to show that a dull headache pulsed behind them, or that his limbs were stiff after a night spent in one of the lowest brothels in Cheapside. His mother had certainly defeated the eligible young ladies who had made advances to him, but she was ignorant of the conquests he made among the servant girls and prostitutes. He preferred to keep his amusements secret from her; it was bad enough to live under her eye, to be bullied and cursed and cajoled by turns, and generally kept in the position of an overgrown child. Her voice grated on him; he hated the loud tone which never softened; he shrank when it became an angry bellow, and hurried away to the wine cupboard and drank to calm himself and to give himself the feeling of courage and self-confidence which was lacking whenever he was sober. And he was not sober very often now. The strain of the intrigue to marry him to the Queen of Scotland had driven him deeper into debauchery; he lost himself in sexual excesses which were already tinged with vice, and in an alcoholic daze he dreamed wild dreams of independence in Scotland, free of his mother's domination, married to a young and beautiful woman who could realize all the Countess's ambitions for him without his having to achieve them for himself. In Scotland he would be his own master; he would be important and powerful, and he shared his mother's opinion that Mary Stuart would find him irresistible. Most women were attracted to him; so were men. He could see that even the astute Scots Ambassador was impressed. He had played the part of a dutiful, accomplished son so skilfully that it was easy to lie and posture in his relations with everyone else. Only in the wretched bawdy houses, accompanied by a few companions of the same tastes as his own, only there did the cruel, immature, bullying nature show itself. He was able to pay for the bruises, the smashed furniture, the wanton destruction that climaxed his entertainment and to swagger out into the world, feeling that his spirit was as impressive as his body.

“My husband might be able to go to Scotland,” Lady Lennox was saying. “Our estates were sequestered under the late reign, and it would be a valid excuse to go there and try and get them restored.”

Lethington nodded. “Quite possibly. But if your husband went, how would that help Lord Darnley?”

“He could send for him,” she said. “If the Queen refused permission, he'd have to slip over the Border without it. We could do it easily; leave all that part of it to me.”

“We.” Lethington looked blandly into her face; he wondered how he could persuade Darnley to leave his mother behind.

He stood up.

“Lady Lennox, we've had a most profitable talk. My Queen asked me to convey her warm good wishes to you when she last wrote; she also entrusted a message for Lord Darnley, which I must deliver before I leave you.”

As the Countess made no move to go, he added, “The message is for him alone. I can't give it, even before you.”

When the door had closed behind her, Lethington turned to Darnley. Both men sighed at the same moment and then laughed.

“I never saw King Henry of England,” the envoy said, “but I imagine your excellent mother bears a strong resemblance to him!”

“So I believe,” Darnley answered pleasantly. “I'm not sorry I don't share it; it's quite enough to have the blood without the temper or the manners. What was the message, my Lord—I'm desperately eager to hear it.”

“The Queen said that she was anxious to see you as soon as it could be contrived. She feels sure that her cousinly affection for you will be strengthened by a meeting and she assures you that whatever public display she makes in this business of the Earl of Leicester, her heart is totally disengaged, and waits upon your coming.”

Darnley bowed; he was inwardly feeling so out of sorts that his emotions were easily touched and Lethington saw tears in his eyes.

“From the moment you gave me that locket with her portrait,” he said slowly, “I fell in love with her. Tell her that I shall come to Scotland; tell her that if she doesn't choose to marry me I shall still remain there to serve her in the humblest capacity she cares to name.”

“I will tell her,” Lethington said. He was suddenly touched by the boy; impressed by his sincerity, moved by the simple nobility of his words. He could imagine him beside Mary, both of them superbly tall and slim, with the same fine-bred look about them, both going out to conquer in the glory of their youth.…

“If you marry my Queen, care for her,” he said. “She will need you, my Lord Darnley. There isn't a nobler Princess in Europe.”

“I know that,” Darnley answered. “I only want to be worthy of her.”

Lethington left him then; he went out of the house by a back stairs used by servants and returned in a plain coach to his own lodgings outside the fashionable river area. He had no idea that Cecil had spies among the servants in the Lennox household, and that every visit he made to them was known to the English Government. He felt completely satisfied that if Mary married Henry Darnley she had made the best choice among the Princes of Europe.

The newly created Earl of Leicester was at his post in the Queen's ante-room. He stood a little apart from the crowd of people who were always gathered there hoping to catch the Queen's attention when she came out. He had altered in the last few months, as if the title Elizabeth had bestowed upon him had carried several years with it. He was more handsome than before, his figure pared down to muscle and bone by exercise, and his clothes were richer and yet more subdued than in the days when he first found favour and had money to squander on himself. His doublet was cloth of silver, the buttons were freshwater pearls edged with diamonds, and there were more diamonds in the hilt and scabbard of his sword. He wore a ruff of starched and double-pleated linen and the white cloth made his face darker skinned and his eyes blacker. It was no longer the face of the rather raffish adventurer, obviously on the watch for an opportunity to advance himself. Now it was stamped by self-confidence and pride; the eyes were haughty and inclined to stare. The Earl of Leicester, immensely rich, increasingly influential, a Privy Councillor, a Knight of the Garter, owner of estates in the country and valuable land close to London, the man being groomed for marriage with the Queen of Scotland and heiress to the English throne, was the successor of the upstart Robert Dudley, the culmination of a life devoted to ambition and the restoration of his lost fortunes.