Elizabeth: The Golden Age (18 page)

Walsingham came through the open door and bowed low before sitting in a chair across from her. “Majesty?”

“Is there any truth to the rumors that this all has been an elaborate conspiracy against her? Did you plan this, Moor?”

Walsingham met her eyes, his face full of confidence. “You know of my involvement. I merely provided her the means of communication. She decided to use them the way she did.”

“Had she any choice?” Elizabeth dropped her hands into her lap. “What would I have done if I found myself imprisoned?”

“You were a prisoner, Majesty.”

“I wanted my sister off the throne.”

“But you did not actively solicit her assassination.”

“No. I did not.”

“Have you signed the warrant?” he asked.

“I have not yet decided if I will.”

“Majesty—”

She rose to her feet. “Do not even consider, Moor, telling me what to do. I am the queen and I shall decide my cousin’s fate.”

“The verdict has been proclaimed in public.”

“I am perfectly aware of that. Why must I be so rushed?”

“It’s been more than a month, Majesty.”

“Do not pressure me,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“You think it is all so simple, don’t you? That none of this matters beyond the ordinary rules of English law? Do you not see the precedent I am setting? That I put myself in danger by ordering her death?”

“You put yourself in danger, Majesty, by letting her live. Until she is dead, there’s always the possibility of a plot to free her. Every day she remains alive gives hope to the Catholics. Do not play renegade with your own safety.”

She sent him away with a wave of her hand. When the door had snapped shut behind him, she closed her eyes and focused on the sadness and confusion and anger that coursed through her. Her throat burned hot and she could feel sweat forcing its way through her makeup. She wiped her brow, then looked at her hand, upon which there was now a thick line of white lead. With a finger, she began to trace circles in the heavy lead, taking slim comfort in the repetitive motion.

Walsingham could wait. The Privy Council could wait. Time was a commodity they could not take from her, and she would sign nothing before she was ready. But Mary was waiting, too. Waiting, as Elizabeth had so many years ago in the Tower, wondering if the next time the door opened, she’d be taken to her death. It was unconscionable to do this to another human being, to another sovereign queen. She pushed back from the table, knocking over her chair as she stood, her legs shaking. Queens ought not to be so very mortal.

Chapter 15

Winter had swallowed autumn, and still Elizabeth resisted signing Mary Stuart’s death warrant. Its ever-present status in her mind had led to a consuming anxiety: she was on edge, frazzled, angry. Her courtiers had started tiptoeing around her, being more obsequious than usual, and their fawning, which she ordinarily welcomed—required—had become irritating. It had been all she could do that morning not to throw a shoe at young Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. He was a handsome enough man, but at the moment, she had no stomach for flirting.

Even Raleigh could no longer distract her from her agitated state. The frustration on his face, in his eyes, disappointed her more than anything, though she knew she was being hard on him. She could not keep him in court forever, but she was not yet ready to let him disappear to his infinite oceans, especially now, when the problem of Mary tormented her night and day.

Parliament was clamoring for her to act, had asked her to “take away this most wicked and filthy woman.” Similar things had undoubtedly been said by an earlier Parliament about her own mother. Ugly words to describe a sovereign queen.

“Your Majesty,” Walsingham began, his exhaustion dark in the circles around his eyes. It was late, but she had not let him leave the Privy Chamber. “You have no choice.”

“Don’t tell me I have no choice! I do as I please.”

“Majesty,” Walsingham said. “This is no time for mercy—”

“Don’t preach at me, old man.” She was tired of being told what to do and was beginning to resent—violently— his persistence on this matter. She could stand it no longer. “Look at you. You can hardly stand. Go home to your wife. Go home to your bed.”

“The law must have its way.” He spoke calmly, but she did not reply in kind.

“The law is for common men, not for princes.”

He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke, a fatherly softness in his voice. “Two rivals for a throne, one must die.”

“Francis,” she said, her tone more gentle as she tried to be reasonable, regal. “I owe you my life. But not my soul.”



“Thank God you’ve come,” Bess said, rushing toward Raleigh as soon as he stepped into the atrium of Elizabeth’s private quarters. “I’ve never seen her so distressed. She’s been alone in her rooms since morning. She’ll see no one.”

“Has she asked for me?” Concern was etched in the lines on his face, but he could not help smiling at Bess. It was so hard to see her in public like this, when they were forced to ignore their feelings, to pretend their souls did not reach for each other every time their eyes met.

And there was his guilt. The guilt that came from letting the queen love him without knowing that his heart was so divided, that he’d given so much of himself to Bess. He hated to consider what she would do to Bess if she learned of their affair, hated to think of the hurt and heartbreak it would cause to all three of them. He loved both of them, these two extraordinary women, each so different. How could he step away from either?

“No. But she needs you. I know she does,” she said. He took her hand in his, discreetly, needing her to know all he felt and could not say.

“Go to her.” She gave him a half-smile, her lips closed, and it was enough to tell him that she understood him more perfectly than he could have hoped. He kissed her hand and left her.

The queen was sequestered in her study, sitting alone, her back to him as he entered the room. He pulled the door shut behind him, hesitated for a moment before going
toward her. “My queen,” he
said, his Devonshire accent soft.

“My friend.” She did not turn to face him. “Have you too come to tell me I must do this thing that I dread to do?”

“No. You don’t need me to instruct you in your duty.”

“Is it my duty? I can’t do it. Since when was I so tender-hearted?”

“Since when were you so afraid?”

Now she looked at him. “Yes, I am afraid.” She spoke slowly. “But what is it I fear?”

He stood, silent, considering the woman before him for a long moment, then replied. “That your soul will be touched. Royalty is close to immortality. Kill a queen, and queens are mortal.”

“I spent two months in the Tower. I know what it is to be a prisoner, to fear for your life. Every day I wondered if they would come for me, take me to the scaffold, the axman waiting for me.”

“To live with such dreadful uncertainty is no easy thing,” he said, coming closer to her.

“I was in the Bell Tower, in a hideous room. The dampness seeped deep into my bones. It was always dark—the windows were painted—and I thought I should lose my mind until they allowed me to start walking outside. Seventy feet of sunshine, when there was any, but not even that could burn the dampness out of my bones.”

He took her hand, rubbed it. “But you are warm now.”

“Yes, but to keep that way it seems that I must send another queen to something worse than a damp cell.” Her eyes were so very different from Bess’s. Equally bright, equally captivating, but Bess’s were more open, more inviting, and the realization of this saddened him. Elizabeth had to be guarded even with those she loved.

“I want to be of use to you,” he said. “But there’s little I can do other than listen. So talk to me, talk to me, my queen.”

“I would have you call me something more dear.”

“As would I.” He felt a piercing disloyalty to Bess as he said this, pictured the flashing jealousy that crossed her face whenever Elizabeth pulled him into a corner so they might talk alone. “But you will not—”

“No. I won’t. And I can’t think about it now, Water.” She looked strong again.

“If I sign the death warrant, how will Mary’s son react to his mother’s execution? James would be my heir. He might decide he’d prefer to rule England now, instead of waiting for me to die.”

“He signed the Treaty of Berwick, did he not? He’s your ally.”

“If I kill his mother, he might be less inclined to view himself as such. Although I do give him a generous pension.” She sighed. “And what of the French? Mary’s first husband was their king for a year before he died and they still consider her their queen. By executing her, I hand them a perfect excuse to join Spain against me.”

“Possibly,” he said. She smiled, shook her head. “And Philip would undoubtedly be bent on revenge.”

“Yet if you let her live...”

“I will always be in danger. I am not so void of judgment that I do not see my own peril.”

“The country is rife with rumor,” he said, admiring the brave confidence creeping into her eyes. “Just today I’ve heard stories of the Spanish already landing at Milford, the northern counties in revolt, and that London—contrary to all available evidence—is burning.”

“Burning?”

“Yes. And Mary’s escaped and heading north.”

“I cannot allow this to continue. Yet what will people say when, for the safety of her life, a maiden queen could be content to spill the blood even of her own kinswoman?”

“Perhaps they will say that she preserved the peace of her country.” He recognized the resolve in her eyes. “You’ve already decided to do it, haven’t you?”

“Another plot has been uncovered, this one started by the French, on Mary’s behalf, of course. They meant to poison me, though apparently argued over how, precisely, to do it. So, yes, I must sign the warrant. So why have I not?”

“It’s that fear—that fear of being so mortal,” he said.

“You understand me well.”

“I’ve always tried.”

“It means more to me than you can ever know.” Their eyes met, level and calm, full of love.

“We mortals have many weaknesses,” he said. “We feel too much. Hurt too much. And all too soon, we die. But we do have the chance of love.”

She closed her eyes. “Who taught you to say such things to me?”

“You did.” He wished, despite his love for Bess—a love that filled his heart and was with him at every moment— that he could have Elizabeth. To win her love, to be hers, to be free to adore her—how could he not want that?

She nodded, eyes still closed. “Leave me now. What I must do, I must do alone.”

Chapter 16

Mary’s room was cold, but the complaint was a trivial one. They had brought her supper, but she’d long ago lost the desire to eat, and fed tidbits from the table to Geddon while she prayed, silently, to herself. She’d spent nearly three months consumed with uncertain anguish, knowing that she would die but not when. She’d written to Elizabeth, begging that her execution be expedited, but Paulet would not deliver the letter.

This was too long to prepare for death.

But tonight, when the door opened and she saw her jailer—drawn, gray, tired—relief swept through her body as she realized her waiting was over. “Your face tells me. It’s decided.”

“Tomorrow morning. At eight.” Sir Amyas did her the courtesy of looking into her eyes as he spoke. She took a deep breath, trying to identify the feelings inside her. Relief, of course, but what else? She could not tell. She expected to be scared, but terror had not yet come, perhaps because her heart did not yet believe the waiting was over.

“I thank you for bringing such welcome news,” she said. She looked at him and, for the first time since she’d met him, had no need to pretend to flirt or to feign piety. “I am very glad to leave a world in which I am not welcome.”

“I’m— I’m sorry,” he said.

“Do not apologize. There’s nothing else left for me. I’ve known that for far too long. You were kind to me until you learned of my secret correspondence, and I can hardly fault you for being angry at me then.”

“I will pray for your soul,” he said, then bowed to her and left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Annette fell to the floor, wailing and sobbing. But her mistress stood perfectly still, showing no sign of distress, maintaining her regal bearing. “Don’t cry,” Mary said. “I mean to die in such a way that our cause will live forever.” This would be her legacy, would bring her immortality. Nothing in her life would approach the vital importance of her death. And when it was over, there would be no more prisons, no more lies. She would have no task but to bathe in the glory of God.



She spent her last night putting things in order, glad for the occupation. Sleep was impossible, not only because of anxiety that could not be kept at bay but because it seemed a terrible waste. She did not want to miss a single moment of consciousness now that there were so few left for her. She had already begun labeling everything: her last sunset, her last exchange with a previously unnoticed servant, the last time she would brush her hair. It all took on more significance than she felt it deserved, but she could not help herself.

Sitting at her table, she wrote a final letter to Elizabeth, holding the pen too tightly at first and breaking the quill. She sharpened another one and began again, the words coming quickly as she gave pardon to all her accusers and begged the queen to let her be buried in France. But at the end, she had harsh words for her cousin:

Accuse me not of presumption if, leaving this world and preparing myself for a better, I remind you will one day to give account of your charge in like manner as those who preceded you in it, and that my blood and the misery of my country will be remembered, wherefore from the earliest dawn of your comprehension we ought to dispose our minds to make things temporal yield to those of eternity.

Satisfied, she signed the paper: “Your sister and cousin and wrongfully a prisoner.” Her hand was shaking with anger at this woman who had refused to give her even the simple courtesy of a personal meeting, who had callously condemned her to death. She did not want to squander any of this night on hatred, but it was difficult to feel no ire when she thought of the English queen, smug in her palace, surrounded by sycophants. She sighed and prayed, prayed for the grace to forgive her, grace that would bring her peace on this final night of her life.