Elizabeth (34 page)

She turned away from him and he watched her move to the window. For some moments she stood rigid; she had forgotten Simier. No one and nothing existed for her but Robert and the fact of his monstrous deceit—his unforgivable betrayal. She had taken him out of obscurity, permitted him to kiss and caress her—she felt suddenly afraid that the memories of their old intimacies were going to make her physically sick—she had given him money, raised him to a splendid title and to a place in her Government. She had forgiven him treason and infidelity because she believed in his insistent avowals of love. She had laughed at his jealousy and encouraged it on the same premise, and all the time it had been sham. He had made a fool of her, lied to her, exposed her to the ridicule of everyone who knew the truth, and if Simier could find out, it must only be a secret from her. He had married his mistress. She could excuse his lust, but never, never the love he must bear that other woman to have married her and relinquished Elizabeth forever. From the window she could see the roof of an old tower, a grey brick extravagance built by her father and now used as quarters for her guards. The Tower of the Miraflore, built by an infatuated man for the woman he loved. Her own mother, Anne Boleyn, had lived there once. For the first time in her life Elizabeth felt as she imagined her father had when he ordered the execution of the wife who had betrayed him. The Miraflore. The bare and empty symbol of a spurious love affair. To his astonishment Simier heard the sound of an hysterical, furious laugh. She went to the door and dragged it open. Two of her Gentlemen Pensioners were on duty outside.

Her voice rang out into the corridors beyond them.

“Arrest the Earl of Leicester! Take him to the Miraflore; tell him he will leave there on the next tide for the Tower!”

When she came back Simier rose from his chair, and she frowned as if she had been faced by a stranger.

“You had better have your quarters in the Palace,” she said curtly. “I'll send my own physician to attend that arm.”

She walked past him before he could answer and shut herself into her bedroom.

She was in bed and she was ill and no one could get near her. Her women went through their duties, silent and nervous; she threw a glass of cordial at her Mistress of the Robes when she suggested she should see her doctors, and swore that if one of them admitted Lord Burleigh or Walsingham or anyone else into the room, they should go to the Tower. She cursed with a fluency and obscenity that would have shocked a man, and then suddenly fell on her pillow and began to cry hysterically. She told her women, and anyone in the next two rooms who could hear her shouting, that she would have Leicester's head cut off and sent to his wife as a wedding present. At two in the morning the Earl of Sussex forced his way past her ladies and came to the side of her bed. Leicester was under guard in the Miraflore; his clothes were packed up and a barge was waiting to take him up the Thames on the morning tide; a message had been sent on to the Governor of the Tower of London to expect him and admit him by the Traitors' Gate.

The Council had met in her absence, and it was decided that Sussex was the best person to brave her interdict and go and see her. Burleigh was useless in calming her rages; Walsingham would only infuriate her; her cousin Hunsdon doubted if she would listen to him. They remembered that they had sent Sussex to her many years ago to try and injure Leicester; she might remember that when he came again to save him.

He was on old man now, trusted and privileged, and known for his courage in speaking the truth.

“What the devil are you doing here? Who dared to let you in?” Sussex knelt before he answered.

“See me alone, Madam. Grant me that one favour for the sake of all my years of love and service. No one admitted me—I forced my way. Hear me first and punish me later if you wish.”

Elizabeth leant back; she was exhausted with the force of her own anger, her head ached and her eyes were red and smarting with sleeplessness and tears. She loved Sussex; he had always been true to her and he had never asked a favour for himself. She was suddenly glad that he had defied her and come in. She could talk to Sussex in a way that was impossible with Burleigh, who had so much brain and so little heart, or with a younger man who must never be asked for his pity.

She turned to her ladies.

“Get out—all of you. Sit on the bed, Sussex; you're the only man alive that I can trust to come in here and not boast that he's seen my grey hairs. Have you come about Leicester? Don't answer—I know it! He's married, did you know that? He's married to that harlot of his after all these years, and made me a laughing stock before the world.…”

“I know, Madam,” he answered quietly.

“Why did no one tell me?” she demanded. “Why did I have to hear it from that Frenchman first?”

“Those who heard rumours didn't want to hurt you,” Sussex said gently. “Robert Dudley was not worth your tears at any time; he isn't worth them now.”

“You always hated him,” she exclaimed. “Oh God, how true your instinct was! I should have listened to you, Sussex—I could have spared myself this vile humiliation.…” She began to cry. “I'll execute him; by the living God I swear I will. No man shall betray me and mock me and live to boast of it!”

“I said he wasn't worth your tears,” he answered. “He's worth nothing, as I tried to tell you from the beginning. I am only here now because I care for you, not for him.”

“Then I'm right to do it,” she flashed at him. “You will support me?”

“I will support anything you do, Madam. But I beg you to think of your own reputation and do nothing of the kind. Killing that dog will not hurt anyone but yourself. It will only show the world how much his treachery has stung you. People will laugh then, and those who don't laugh will say you are a wanton, murdering an unfaithful lover. Forgive plain words; they only come from love. You are the Queen of England. You cannot take a man's life because he marries. You cannot even imprison him, because it's not a crime.”

“How can you plead for him—you've always been his enemy!”

“I am still that,” he answered quietly. “As much as I am your friend. I care nothing for him, but everything for you. You are the Queen. You cannot show yourself a weak and jealous woman, whatever he has done to you. You are above Leicester, and Leicester's petty marriage and his petty betrayal of your trust. If you punish him, you fall to his level; you stand equal with the woman he preferred to you.”

“Equal with her! How dare you say such a thing to me—every word that you speak hardens my heart against him! I will never forgive him, I will never be satisfied until I have hurt and punished him as he deserves.”

“It's still not worth it. Especially if you really intend to marry this young Frenchman.”

“Marry?” She looked up at him and her face contorted. “How can I marry—my life is half over. Oh, God has smitten me today—everywhere I look I see the truth, and the truth is nothing but pain and disillusion. Sussex, I know myself at last. I've lain here thinking of Robert's treachery and my own weakness as if I were seeing us both in a mirror. I might have married once, but in my heart I never wanted it. Why should I? I was young and there was no loneliness ahead; I never felt the wish for children or the longing to be subject to a man. I had all that I wanted, and that traitor helped to give it to me.…”

She wiped her eyes. “Lately I've wondered whether it were not too late, whether I might find a little comfort with a husband. This boy would be grateful for the match; Simier says he'd cherish me.… I've thought of it, and I could feel a temptation, almost a weakness creeping on me. And now nobody wants it. I am too old in all men's eyes except my own. Sussex, Sussex, you've never lied to me? Tell me the truth—do I mean what I feel, and if I did it, what would be the outcome?”

“As I see it,” he said slowly, “it is too late, Madam. You cannot demean yourself by taking a youth for a husband. The pangs you suffer now because of Leicester are a pinprick to the humiliations such a marriage might bring upon you after a year or two. And you could not send a husband to the Tower.”

Elizabeth sighed; it was a deep sigh as if some caged emotion had been suddenly released. She leant back on her pillows and closed her eyes. Slowly two large tears began to run down her thin cheeks.

“It was a dream, Sussex. It came to me late in life, and now I hear from you what I've been hearing from myself today. It was a dream and I have woken up. I never wanted marriage; I've hated the thought all my life, and now that I'm awake at last I hate it still. The play is over. I shall remain alone.”

She groped for his hand, and he took hers and kissed it.

“Loneliness is the lot of Princes, Madam. And you are a Prince above all things. I will not ask you now, but I know that you will never do a thing that is unjust or unbecoming to a Prince. You will not dupe yourself with dreams, or lower yourself with an unworthy vengeance. And one old man's heart will go with you to the grave.”

She was not going to marry Alençon; she was preparing to receive him and make much of him and carry the farce to the limit of pretence, but she could look forward to the futile ending without flinching or resentment. Looking at herself in her mirror as she dressed, Elizabeth frowned in self-disgust. How low had she fallen, how weak had she become, to consider uniting herself with a man so many years younger and not even handsome, brilliant, or accomplished like any of the courtiers who surrounded her? Her own face stared back at her in the steel mirror; it was thin and the sharp angle of her jaw and the arrogant nose were more prominent; there were deep lines between her pencilled eyebrows; the expression was severe, the eyes were hard and watchful, and the narrow mouth, painted bright red, was sad and looked as if it seldom smiled. It smiled at Simier still, but the laughter no longer reached her eyes. It was a cold and empty face, and it matched the isolation in her heart.

She was alone, and she would always be alone, no matter how she filled her private life with substitutes and fed her vanity on the lies and the false love-play of men who only flattered her in their own interests. She glanced down at her hands; the Coronation ring was too tight to slip over her knuckle. It was the only ring that she would ever wear, and like a wedding ring, she never took it off. It was embedded in her finger now, the symbol of her irrevocable choice of isolation.

She was a Prince, as Sussex said; and she had never compromised with that. Her youth, her feelings, everything had been sacrificed to the establishment of her power, and her power alone sustained her. The fear of ridicule had cooled her fury against Leicester; the knowledge that she could punish him with death was a strange balm to the pride he had injured so deeply. She had forgiven him from motives she tried to analyse as lofty and generous, and ended by admitting to being selfish and sentimental. She pardoned him because his defection was only the proof of his veniality and weakness, and in her heart she wondered if his lack of good qualities were not the secret of her bondage to him.

She could love an inferior; she could love and eventually forgive anyone whom she knew she could master whenever she chose, and Leicester had never been her match. He had defied her and schemed against her wishes and he was always caught out and forced to beg for pardon. He might steal a forbidden sweet but she could always make him spit it out.

He could not do without her. His craven dependence concealed the fact that she could not be happy without him. He had gone to Wanstead, firmly believing that he was exiled for life, and had fallen seriously ill. His wife had been sent to one of his estates in the Midlands; he too was alone unless Elizabeth relented. She travelled to Wanstead secretly, repeating the same tragi-comic pattern of their frequent quarrels. He offended her and she punished him and had to forgive him when he fell ill. At other times he was pretending, and she allowed herself to be deceived, but the man who got out of his bed at Wanstead was a wreck, his heavy body wasted with fever, his hand trembling.

He fell on his knees in front of her and burst into tears. It was an unmanly exhibition of nerves and cowardice, and for a moment she was stung to angry contempt. As she stood there, listening to his wild excuses, blaming Lettice and her father, blaming the Queen herself for her coldness towards him, stammering about his folly and his ingratitude, the contempt gave way to pity, and pity was an emotion that seldom came to Elizabeth. She had no imagination where other people's suffering was concerned. She refused to picture it or to transpose herself into their place.

She was unnerved by her intense compassion for the unhappy coward kneeling at her feet, babbling as if she were about to take his life. She suddenly saw him as he was when they first met at Hatfield, bold and brave and full of confidence, reaching towards her with both hands in his greed for life. He had been a man then, and she had loved him for it. Twenty years of living in her shadow had turned him into the craven she saw then; she had destroyed him. The enormity of her crime against his manhood excused anything he had done or ever would do to offend her. With the tears streaming down her face, Elizabeth had taken him in her arms as if he were the child she never had, and told him he was pardoned.

On the surface she was as charming to Simier as ever, but he was too acute to ignore the fact that Leicester had been reinstated, his crime forgiven, and too conversant with the female mind not to sense that Elizabeth's attitude had changed. He felt that, in the moment when he thought his success was complete, his whole mission had failed. Even the arrival of Alençon and the fulsome reception she gave him, did not convince Simier. In spite of everything she said and did to encourage the young Duc, the older, more experienced man felt that she was personally indifferent and quite dispassionate. His master overcame his physical shortcomings by an heroic display of gallantry towards the formidable Queen who was old enough to be his mother. He was pockmarked and distressingly short, but he possessed the small man's ebullience. Elizabeth gave receptions for him and exchanged presents and nicknamed him her “frog”, and only Simier appreciated that women do not make pets of the men they are going to marry. It was an expensive and protracted farce; but there were no more attempts on his life because the opponents of the marriage sensed they no longer had anything to fear. At the critical moment, Elizabeth refused to allow Alençon the right to practise his religion, and the negotiations came to an end. As a compensation, she sent him to the Netherlands with a large grant of money, and her blessing for the campaign he undertook against the Spanish forces there. The unsuccessful suitor departed to find military glory, and embarrass the English Queen's enemies. He confided to Simier that he was secretly relieved; he disliked England, and the Queen made him nervous. He much preferred the hazards of war.