The Marriage Game (3 page)

“Madam, allow me,” he said, as he stood by the mounting block and cupped his hands so that she could place her foot in them and heave herself into the saddle.

“Do not madam me, Robin,” she chided him playfully. “We are old friends, are we not?”

He smiled. “I had hoped that Your Majesty would remember that.”

“How could I forget it?” she teased. “You used to call me Bess when we were children. Do not call me madam, Robin. We know each other better than that.”

“It seems strange to address the Queen’s Majesty as Bess, as I did once.”

“How should such strangeness be between friends? I hope we
are
still friends, as before,” Elizabeth said, thinking how debonair Robert looked with his dark hair tousled in the breeze.

“I hope that too—and for more,” he said, bold as the bear on his family’s badge.

“Then you may hope!” she said lightly, her heart singing.

Robert’s dark eyes lit up. “I would hope for much, were I permitted.”

She looked down at him. “I like a brave man!” she declared.

He mounted his own steed and they rode forth, letting the horses break into a canter across the park. The air was cold but the sun was rising. It was going to be a fine winter day. Elizabeth loved the rush of the wind against her cheeks, the heady excitement of jolting along at speed beside Robert, for they were equally fine riders. There was no one in sight for what seemed like miles. More than that, she relished the freedom to relax and be herself with someone who had known her since childhood.

Presently they slowed to a trot, passing through a stretch of woodland, the trees bare above their heads.

“How do you like living in Norfolk, Robin?” Elizabeth asked.

“It is quiet, madam,” he answered with a grin. “I prefer to be at court.”

“What, this glittering misery, full of malice and spite?” she teased.

“It cannot be so when it has your Majesty in it,” he replied gallantly.

“Bess,” she said firmly.

“Bess,” he repeated. His tone was tender.

“And your good lady? Does she like it?” She was surprised to find herself suffering a pang of jealousy at the thought of Amy Dudley.

“Well enough.” He seemed not to want to talk about his wife. Well, neither did Elizabeth. She would not mention her again unless he did. In fact, she decided, she would make it clear that she did not want to hear anything about Lady Dudley.

“I trust that the apartment allocated to the Master of Horse is comfortable?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Excellent, madam—I mean Bess—thank you. It is a great honor to be lodged at court near you.” The intensity in Robert’s eyes suggested that this was not mere flattery. “I would sleep in a cupboard for that.”

“You are too bold, Robin!” Elizabeth reproved, laughing.

“And prepared to be more so,” he riposted.

“Pish!” She was really enjoying herself. She loved nothing more than flirting, and there had been too little of it in her life so far. “Be serious, Robin! I meant to discuss my coronation. There is much to plan.”

“Then I am at Your Majesty’s disposal.” His eyes were warm now. She knew that his meaning did not encompass coronations, but she deftly steered the conversation on to that subject. It occurred to her that the old, easy relationship between them had been replaced by something else. They were not children now, or prisoners in the Tower. She was Queen, and he was her loyal servant. They were reencountering each other in these new roles, and the balance of supremacy in their dealings with each other had shifted. If she had been desirable to him in adversity, how much more so must she appear now. Power drew many men like a lodestone, and Robert was overtly greedy for it. And yet, she realized, there was a long-suppressed attraction between them, which had suddenly burgeoned again, there was no denying it. She must be careful, for her heart was in danger of falling captive to his charm and his ambition, and a queen must never be ruled by her heart.

When they returned to the palace, Robert leapt from his horse and led Elizabeth’s mount to the riding block. As she slipped down from her saddle, he caught her by the waist and turned her to face him. The feel of his strong hands through the thick stuff of her gown and corset came as a shock to her. They stood there, close together, their eyes locked, for a moment too long—until Robert let her go. She did not reprove him.

Dark and handsome, his fine features aligned to a dazzling smile, Count de Feria, the Spanish ambassador, stood before the Queen. His master, King Philip, had sent him to London when Queen Mary lay dying. Mary had been Philip’s wife, but in forsaking England when it became clear that she was barren, he had broken her heart. Before then he had championed Elizabeth, even betrayed a less than brotherly interest in her, which only inflamed Mary’s well-rooted jealousy of her sister. But Philip was a devout Catholic, Elizabeth an enlightened Protestant; there could never be any common meeting ground between them.

Feria, his blue eyes warm, offered his congratulations to the Queen on her accession. “Your Majesty is no doubt grateful that King Philip’s influence has brought you a crown,” he purred.

“My gratitude is due solely to my people,” Elizabeth said crisply, “but I thank my good brother for his kind words.” She must not alienate Philip, for she needed his friendship. Danger threatened her—from France, from Scotland, from Spain, from Rome, from every Catholic in Christendom. Already the King of France had proclaimed his daughter-in-law, Elizabeth’s cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, as the true Queen of England; Mary was married to the Dauphin, heir to the French throne, and, with the might of France behind her, represented the most chilling threat. But Elizabeth was confident that she could steer her ship of state carefully through the stormy seas of European diplomacy. She knew she needed to take on board all the friends she could cozen, and she meant to keep them sweet by promises. She might as well begin now by making overtures to Spain, France’s great enemy!

“Your Majesty,” Feria ventured, “I have come to discuss a delicate matter, that of Your Majesty’s marriage.”

Elizabeth frowned. This was an unlooked-for complication. She did not want to think of marriage. There came unbidden the memory of a pair of dark, lascivious eyes, long dulled in death …“Pray speak,” she said, a trifle sharply.

Feria cleared his throat, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous in the face of this young woman. “Naturally Your Majesty could not contemplate ruling alone, without a husband to guide and support you, and be a father to your children. Maybe you will give some thought to a suitable choice. My master, King Philip, is happy to advise you.”

No, thought Elizabeth, and no again. I need no advice, and I will not be Philip’s puppet. “I am not contemplating marriage just now,” she said, as pleasantly as she could. “It may suit me better to remain unwed. I have too much work to do in this kingdom to think of wedding.” And, ignoring the astonishment on Feria’s face, she swept on briskly to the subject of the aggravating French, their mutual enemy.

Alone with Kat in her chamber, she gave vent to her fury. “There is a strong idea in the world that a woman cannot live unless she is married!”

Kat, who knew better than most why Elizabeth did not want to marry, said soothingly, “None can force you to wed.” Heaven knew they had tried in Queen Mary’s day. Elizabeth had felt buried alive under the pressure to take first this Catholic prince, then that one, or even another.

“I will never marry!” she declared. She had been saying it since she was eight years old, and said it again later, when Cecil proposed raising the matter of the succession in council. “Your Majesty must look to the future security of yourself and the realm,” he reminded her, a touch severely, as if he thought she was being frivolous.

“Must?” she echoed. “Do you say must to me, William?”

“Madam, marriage is your only surety. That you should wish to remain a maid is not natural.”

“I am not natural!” she retorted. “I know it.”

“A husband would share the cares and labors of government,” Cecil persisted, ignoring her. “He would father the heirs who will carry on Your Majesty’s line.”

“Aye, and relegate me to the nursery!” Elizabeth said, tart. “No, I will not suffer a man to rule me and usurp my power.”

Cecil sighed. “King Philip may ask for your hand. Feria has been dropping hints.”

“So I heard. Well, let Philip live in hope.” She thought of those calculating but lustful eyes, that cold character, those full but disdainful lips, and inwardly shuddered. To be certain, he had wanted her. But never, never could she even consider it … Besides, there was the insurmountable obstacle of religion. “We will keep him sweet with promises, William. You must accept, though, that I am determined to be governed by no one.”

“I am sure that a settlement acceptable to Your Majesty can be arranged,” Cecil said smoothly. Elizabeth left it. He would see that she meant what she said.

Her new Archbishop of Canterbury—good Matthew Parker, who had been her mother’s chaplain—asked to see her. Cecil had sent him, she suspected—but it seemed that she was wrong.

“Madam, I bear a most holy charge,” the Archbishop told her. “Your late mother, our sainted Queen Anne, not three days before her arrest sought me out and besought me to look to your welfare should evil befall her.”

Elizabeth said nothing for a few moments. “She knew, then,” she whispered. “She sensed what was coming.” She could imagine how her mother must have felt. She had been there herself, a prisoner in the Tower, anticipating death. For Anne it had become a reality.

Parker’s homely face creased in distress. “She knew something was badly amiss, and that her enemies were uniting in an unholy alliance. She feared there would be some move against her. But I doubt she ever envisaged what actually happened, poor lady. She was braver than a lion.”

“And my father?” She had never been able to bring herself to believe that the father she revered had signed her mother’s death warrant merely so he could marry Jane Seymour.

“Suborned and wickedly misled,” said Parker firmly.

“That has been my understanding,” Elizabeth told him, reassured. “He was a great king, but sometimes ill served.”

“Aye, madam, he was.” The Archbishop paused. “I came to speak more of that charge laid on me by your lady mother. Madam, in looking to your welfare—like a father, as it were—I must advise you that it would be to your safety and comfort to enter the holy estate of matrimony.”

So Cecil
had
sent him! Elizabeth rounded on him. “Good Parker, I know your worth, but
you
know not of what you speak. Think you, with the examples of my mother and my stepmothers before me, that I can see marriage as a secure and comfortable estate? I have no good reason to believe it!” Her tone was bitter. “Think of my father’s marriages. Some say one was unlawful, some that another was not, and that the child of it is a bastard; some say other, and so they go to and fro, as they favor or mislike. My own mother was falsely accused of adultery, as you well know. There are too many doubts, and so I hesitate to enter into marriage, for I fear the controversy it might engender. How then can it be called a holy estate?”

Parker looked shocked, but Elizabeth gave him no room to speak. “If I marry,” she went on, “my husband might purpose to carry out some evil wish. My lord, you have had the good fortune never to have been in the Tower—but I have been a prisoner there. I assure you that the prospect of the ax cleaving into my neck was so terrible to me during those anxious days that I even resolved to ask that a French swordsman be sent for, to dispatch me as my mother had been dispatched. I can never forget it. Do you think I could lay myself open to that again?”

“Calm yourself, dear madam,” Parker soothed, his brow troubled. “You are Queen now. None may gainsay you or make you do what you do not wish to do. And Your Majesty is loved by all. No loyal subject would allow harm to come to you, even from a husband.”

“Enough! The matter is threadbare!” Elizabeth snapped. “I do not want to hear the word ‘husband’ again!”

When the next council meeting broke up, Cecil handed Elizabeth a letter.

“This arrived today,” he said. “It is not official business but something personal to Your Majesty, which you may prefer to read in private.” His voice was gentle, his eyes kind.

Elizabeth took the letter. A sense of foreboding filled her.

“What does it treat of?”

“It comes from a Scottish divine, Alexander Aless, who lives in Saxony. He was in England in 1536, and acquainted not only with the late King Henry, but also with Master Secretary Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer. The letter contains information he felt he should disclose to you about your mother, Queen Anne.”

At the mention of Cromwell, Elizabeth shivered. He had been the man responsible for her mother’s fall, and the bogeyman of her childhood dreams, who had lurked in dark places, in cupboards, tree trunks, behind doors or under the bed. For as long as she could remember, the name Cromwell had had the power to disturb her. And yet, as a ruler herself, she recognized that he had been an administrator without peer and a tireless servant to his royal master—except for spinning a web of lies about his master’s wife!

Cecil was watching her compassionately. “I am sorry if this letter distresses you,” he said. “I thought hard about whether I should show it to you, but decided I had no right to keep it from you. Would you like me to stay while you read it?”

“No, William,” Elizabeth said. “Leave me now.” Cecil departed, telling the ladies waiting in the outer chamber that the Queen would call when she was ready.

Slowly she unfolded the letter. The spiky black writing danced before her eyes as she steeled herself to make sense of it.

Aless wrote vividly—too vividly, it would prove. He took Christ to witness that he spoke the truth, a truth he felt the Queen of England
should hear. And he went on to describe how, at sunrise on the day on which Queen Anne was beheaded—although he had not known it was to happen—he’d had a dream or vision; he knew not if he was sleeping or waking, but in it he saw the Queen’s neck after her head had been cut off. It was so clear to him that he could count the nerves, the veins, and the arteries …