The Marriage Game (6 page)

“And if I do, William, any son of my body would not lack for supporters who might conspire to overthrow me, a mere woman—and who would trouble to gainsay him?” Her eyes bored into those of Cecil, who was unable to answer her.

“Madam, I beg of you, please consider. If you do not bear children, who will succeed you? This Parliament will turn England Protestant. I need not remind you that your nearest heirs are Catholics.” Elizabeth glared at him, but she knew he was right. There was Mary, Queen of Scots, now calling herself Queen of England, with the might of France behind her, even though she was a foreigner and could never by law succeed here. But the French would not care for such niceties. Elizabeth conceded—although nothing would make her admit it openly—that Lady Katherine Gray had the better claim, but she was a dangerous nuisance, flirting with Spain, so obviously hoping that King Philip would press her to name her as successor.

As if he could read her thoughts, Cecil said, “Do you want Lady Katherine Gray to succeed you?”

“Never!” Elizabeth snapped. “She is naught but a pretty flower that bends with the wind. No brain and no principles.”

“My thoughts exactly, madam. At least we agree on something.” Cecil made a rueful face. “My dearest prayer is that God will send you a husband, and by and by a son.”

“So that England has a king again!” Elizabeth exploded. “William, you are as transparent as air. Like most men, you see it as unnatural for a woman to rule. You want me consigned to the nursery so that my husband can rule in my name. Well, again I say, never!”

Cecil flushed. “Madam, I protest, I want no such thing. I am your most loyal subject. Did I not help you to secure your throne?”

“Aye, you did, and for that I am grateful. Never think I am not.”

“Then strengthen your position and take a husband, madam!”

Elizabeth’s eyes were like steel, her mouth set obstinately. “And whom do you suggest?”

“King Philip may ask for your hand.”

“Have you already forgotten how he was hated by my sister’s subjects?
How he dragged England into his own ruinous wars, those same wars that cost us Calais, our last possession in France? Think how cruelly he abandoned Queen Mary!”

“I do not say you should accept his suit, madam, only that some great prince might be found, one who is prepared to forsake his country for yours and who would be your champion in matters of religion.”

“That rather narrows the field,” Elizabeth observed tartly. “There are few eligible Protestant princes in Europe. And if none suitable can be found, then I suppose you would have me marry a subject! What dangerous rivalries that would cause at court! Besides, it would demean my blood to stoop so low.”

Cecil sighed again. “Then, madam, how do you propose solving the problem of the succession?”

“God, and time, will solve it, believe me,” she replied, fizzing with irritation. “I have enough to deal with without your pestering me constantly with this—this trifle! I have a Church to establish; the Catholics and Puritans are making trouble; the French threaten us; the Protestants in Scotland urgently need my help; the Queen of Scots and Katherine Gray want my crown, and the treasury is still empty! I don’t have time to think of marriage!”

Fear was coursing through her blood. There were good and pressing reasons why she should stay single, but the very mention of marriage terrified her. There was only one person who came near to understanding, but even he, who had known her since she was eight, was not aware of the whole story.

“Walk with me awhile, Robin,” she said, tapping Dudley on the shoulder after coming across him idling in a gallery hung with maps and portraits. He willingly abandoned his scrutiny of Sebastian Cabot’s map of his North American discoveries, and followed her out of her lodgings as she strode into the privy garden, which was colorful with plants even at this time of year. Here, among the forest of painted columns surmounted by gilded heraldic beasts, with her shivering, fur-clad ladies keeping a discreet distance, they could be private together.
Elizabeth did not feel the cold; she loved being out in all weather.

“You heard what my Commons said,” she began, as she and Robert strolled along a path that led down toward the River Thames. “God’s blood, I do not see how I can marry and stay a queen! The husband holds dominion over the wife, the queen holds dominion over her subjects.” She turned to face him. “Robert, you know better than most what my life was like before God brought me a crown. I am free at last of all those who put me in danger or forced me to do what I did not want to do. I do not have to tread warily anymore. I like my power. I feel liberated. But what power, what freedom would I have if I married, tell me?”

“That would depend on whom you married,” Robert said, after considering for a moment. “Some men would consider themselves sufficiently lucky to win your sacred person, and would not ask for more.”

“Knowing men, I doubt it,” Elizabeth snorted.

“Then, Bess, may I suggest that you have not known the right men,” Robert ventured.

“Aye, maybe I have not,” she said, considering, refusing to take his bait. “But I need my councillors to understand that I have found the celibate life to be rather agreeable—and perhaps, Robin, as one who knows them well, you could convey that for me—and repeat it whenever the opportunity arises. I grow weary of wrangling with Cecil on the issue.”

“He cannot comprehend why you do not wish to wed, Bess. And, to be plain, neither can I.”

Elizabeth stopped. She looked distressed. “I cannot explain, Robin. I can only say that I would rather enter a convent or suffer death than be forced to renounce my virginity.”

Robert looked at her with sympathy, but there was a degree of skepticism in his gaze. There had been gossip that she was no virgin. He had wondered about that, the prospect arousing excitement in him rather than disapproval. Now here she was, saying she would rather die than marry—and she was not joking.

“Sit with me, Bess,” he invited, offering his arm and leading her to a bench in an arbor that would be shady in spring. “You have confided in me thus far, and you know I would never betray that confidence. What is it you fear?”

“There are reasons I could not divulge to my twin soul,” Elizabeth said. She was trembling, and not with cold.

“Bess, we two are twin souls. We have both been through so much. I know what you have suffered.”

“Not all of it,” she retorted.

“Of course not. Who can look into another’s heart? And I suspect this goes back a long way. I remember when you were eight, and told me then that you would never marry.”

“That was when my third stepmother, Katherine Howard, was executed. Young as I was, I knew what adultery and treason were. I had been early schooled in such matters.” Her tone was bitter.

“Because of your mother.”

“Yes. You were a man when your father went to the block, Robin. I was not three years old when my mother died, and not much older when I found out the reasons why. It was a hard burden to grow up with. I shudder to remember the nightmares I had. And when Katherine Howard was executed, the horror of it hit me all over again and I fell to thinking once more about my mother, only my thoughts were more gruesome than before, as there was plenty of talk and gossip to bring home to me the reality of beheading. And if
I
felt bad, think of my father! He suffered all kinds of trials and torments with his marriages. I had stepmother after stepmother. Two died in childbed. Others in my family, and among my nobility, have been entangled in matrimonial disputes. Surely you can see why it is impossible for me to regard marriage with equanimity or see it as a secure state.”

“Do you fear childbirth?”

“Aye, I don’t mind admitting that.” It seemed the most natural thing to be discussing such matters with Robin. “My physician once told me that it would not be easy for me. Ever since then …” She shied from the humiliating memory; Dr. Huick had terrified her to the point where she felt she could never risk a pregnancy. “I also fear that bearing
children would put a bridle on my queenship. I would be out of action, out of control. Others might try to wrest power from me.”

“That fear is understandable,” Robert said. He laid his hand gently on hers. “But I for one would not let them, and I know I speak for many.” He squeezed her fingers for emphasis, then regarded her with compassion—and something else. “Bess, what is it you will not—or cannot—admit?”

“
That
I will not tell you or anyone else.” Reluctantly, Elizabeth moved her hand away.

“Is it the act of procreation?” he asked. She turned her head sharply toward him.

“Robin, you presume too much!”

“Come, Bess, you were ever plain in your speech, and no shrinking maiden. I have heard you swear with the best of them. If I presume, it is because I want to help you.”

She felt as if she was melting inside. For all her fears, there was something very wonderful about having Robert comfort her like this. How easy it would be to lay her head on his broad brocaded shoulder and surrender to his reassurances. It occurred to her that she would not protest—or not very much—if he attempted to kiss her. Despite herself, his talk of sex excited her. She wanted him—even as she feared him. But confide in him she could not. She dared trust no one, even Robin. There remained in her head the memory of that other—another dark-eyed charmer.

“You
have
helped me,” she said firmly. “And now I must go and give audience to the Spanish ambassador.”

Count de Feria stood again before her, bowing low. She had done her best to avoid him these past weeks, to make it clear she would not be ruled by Spain, but she could not go on doing that forever. King Philip must not be offended.

She had chosen to receive the count in her privy chamber. It was a privilege, for access was permitted only to those sufficiently great or favored, and most ambassadors never got beyond the presence chamber next door. But behind the throne in the privy chamber was Hans
Holbein’s massive mural of Elizabeth’s immediate forebears: her grandparents, Henry VII with Elizabeth of York, for whom she was named; and, in the foreground, her father, Henry VIII, with Jane Seymour, who had borne him his longed-for son, Edward VI. The majestic figure of King Henry loomed massively over the room, overawing all who beheld it. One visitor had confessed to the Queen that he felt abashed and annihilated standing before it. That was just how Elizabeth intended Feria to feel.

“Your Majesty, I bring a very special message from my master,” he began, looking up nervously at the wall behind her, as if he expected Bluff King Hal to come leaping out of it, roaring his disapproval of an alliance between England and Spain and brandishing an order for his arrest.

Oh no, Elizabeth thought, even as she smiled in apparently joyful anticipation of the special message.

Feria recovered himself and spoke with a flourish: “King Philip hopes that Your Majesty will see fit to continue in the alliance between our two kingdoms, and that you will consent to become his wife.”

Elizabeth was not often at a loss for words, but she struggled to find them now, and to keep the smile fixed on her face. Feria was staring at her, clearly disconcerted by her silence and trying not to look at the terrifying figure of her father.

“I am overwhelmed by His Majesty’s proposal, and I thank him for it,” she said at last. “He must understand, however, that I am torn between the need to marry and my desire to maintain my virginity. There are many great and good reasons for this alliance, so I will give the matter due consideration, after taking advice from my councillors. But it may be that God will direct me to live a virtuous but celibate life.”

Feria was now looking angry, but Elizabeth stood her ground. If he thought she was going to enlarge on the honor Philip thought he was doing her, he was mistaken. Bed with that cold haddock? Never!

“If Your Majesty does not marry and produce an heir to sit on England’s throne,” the ambassador said bluntly, “the King of France will surely rise against you and place Mary Stuart there instead.”

“God’s teeth,” Elizabeth exploded, rising to her feet and looking very much like her august sire above her. “I will teach King Henri a lesson if he so much as dares to try, and that mewling daughter-in-law of his as well. The French and the Scots have never given up conspiring against England. Why should I fear them? Have you forgotten how we trounced them at Agincourt and Flodden? Let them come, and be humiliated before Christendom!” She was breathless with indignation, and sank down into her chair. Feria was astounded: were all Englishwomen this savage? He thought nervously of his feisty new English wife, wondering if she might turn out like this. On balance, he thought not. It was probably not being married that did it. He wished he could go home.

“I need time to consider King Philip’s proposal,” Elizabeth said, calmer now. “I will speak with you again in a few days.” And she left the ambassador quaking in his elegant Spanish leather shoes.

Although Elizabeth knew that she should be considering Philip’s offer, she found her thoughts constantly straying to Robert Dudley. Seated on her chair of estate and constrained by the formality of her presence chamber, she found her eyes wandering in his direction. Her heart now raced when she saw him about the court, and she felt ridiculously disappointed when he did not attend her or seek her out. On the few-and-far-between occasions when he begged leave to make a brief visit to his wife, she was unaccountably consumed with jealousy, and often made a fuss about keeping him at court.

She took to summoning him to her privy chamber on the pretext of discussing some affair of state or other, and when it pleased her she took his advice. Cecil did not like it; he hated Dudley. The fellow was above himself already, and he had no official position to merit his advice being given.

“He is the son and grandson of traitors,” he warned Elizabeth, “and he is ambitious. Mark me, madam, he will make trouble for you!”

“Poof,” scorned Elizabeth. “Think you I know not how to handle him? I have every right to ask my advisers for their opinions. I summon you at night and ask you for yours, William, don’t I?”