Elizabeth: The Golden Age (8 page)

“I don’t even know your name,” he said.

“Elizabeth Throckmorton.”

“A second Elizabeth.”

“Everyone calls me Bess.” She looked away, suddenly self-conscious, curtsied to him and returned to the queen. Halfway there, she turned back. He was staring after her.



“What have you to tell me, Bess?” the queen asked when she reached the high table. “What have you learned about our puddle man?”

“He is... magnetic, Majesty. Mesmerizing. Handsome.” She smiled, leaned close and whispered. “His breath is the sweetest I’ve smelled.”

“High praise,” Elizabeth said. “I’m pleased.” She would encourage the girl’s friendship with him, if only to keep him close. She had not expected to find him so fascinating. The court had long been needing a new bright spot, and she was delighted to have found someone who might be a suitable candidate.

Bess slipped back into her seat, and the queen, who had long since finished eating, whispered in German to the archduke, who smiled in response. Silence fell over the room as she rose from her chair. “His Highness the archduke informs me that my charms overwhelm him. He will retire to his private quarters to rest.”

A swell of laughter filled the room and drew looks of disgust from Don Guerau. The archduke swallowed the last bite of custard, stood, and bowed solemnly to the queen before departing with his entourage. When he was gone, Elizabeth motioned for Walsingham.

“He’s a sweet boy,” she said. “I don’t want him hurt by your schemes. You’re to send him home.”

“Majesty—”

She did not let Walsingham interrupt. “Find another way to annoy Philip.”



Elizabeth’s private rooms in Whitehall surrounded an elegant atrium, a space into which only those closest to her were allowed. Here she had a small measure of privacy to pursue her passions. Her love of books stretched back to her youth, when they offered solace to a girl whose fortunes changed as often as her father’s wives. As an adult, even in the face of the demands of government duties, she tried to spend three hours every day reading and kept a ready stock of books in her library. Across the atrium was the music room, where she could play her lute or virginals, sing, and write music.

There was a small room in which the queen could pray, and a large room to store her enormous wardrobe, rumored to consist of no fewer than two thousand dresses, many of which were New Year’s gifts from her admiring—and wealthy—subjects. She had exacting taste and insisted on being the most spectacularly dressed woman in any room, a feat not difficult when fortune provided no obstacle. The finest fabrics, laces, and embroidery were at her disposal, and she insisted on silk stockings rather than cloth. Her selection of jewelry—from ropes of pearls to strings of diamonds—was unmatched.

To enhance her complexion, scarred, though not badly, by a bout of smallpox, Elizabeth turned to ceruse, a foundation made from lead and vinegar, which brightened her skin. A wash of egg white across the cheeks would give a smooth finish and a hint of vermilion on the lips would complete her toilette with stunning results that were mimicked by her courtiers, always eager to imitate the queen.

It pleased her to see them copy her, although lately she’d begun to notice a disparity between herself and her ladies. They were so much younger, and no matter how spectacular she was, she could only hide her increasingly fragile skin and dulling complexion for so long. It was impossible to compete with youth.

This angered her. On occasion she’d considered having only ladies older than herself around her. But she found them too dull. She had no doubt she could bewitch any man—who could resist her, the virgin queen? No mortal man. Not when an alliance with her could bring him the world.

Which was precisely the problem. Who could love her and not want her to bring him the world? She considered Raleigh. He was a man who already had the world, or at least parts of it—and she had begun to wonder, tentatively, cautiously, if he might have something worth offering to her.

“I suspect him of being a professional charmer,” she said to Bess, who was seated next to her in her bedchamber, closing the book she’d been reading to the queen. “Am I right?”

“He certainly is charming, my lady,” Bess replied, a delicate hand flying to her cheek. Elizabeth felt like a girl, sharing whispered confidences with a friend.

“There are duller professions,” Elizabeth said. “And what is it that he hopes to gain by his charms?”

“He hopes for glory in his New World. He dreams of building a shining city.” There was a revealing eagerness in Bess’s voice, an eagerness shared by the queen, though she would not admit it to her lady-in-waiting.

“You’d think it would be enough for a man to discover the place, but already he wants more. That’s the drawback of America. There’s so much of it.” She stopped, watched Bess, saw the hint of color creeping up her face, the way she bit her lip. “You like him, don’t you?”

“If it pleases you.”

“Ah, well. It’s refreshing to meet a man who looks to a world beyond the court. Let him come again.” And she knew, as she said the words, that she would be looking for him every time the door opened, every time someone was announced. She welcomed the feeling, happy for the distraction, because when she was not thinking of him, she would be forced to deal with the increasing difficulties caused by her Scottish cousin.



The only real solace Mary Stuart had from the moment she’d made the mistake of fleeing to England was the ladies that surrounded her. She depended upon them. They were her only company, and she valued each of them, even her servants, as friends, despite the fact that at times they were absolutely incorrigible. At the moment, the laundress was crying so hard that her words were all but impossible to make out, but Mary tried not to be frustrated with her.

“Tell me again,” she said, handing her a handkerchief.

“Dismissed.” She’d finally managed a coherent word, and this success seemed to soothe her enough that she found her voice. “I’ve been dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” Mary was holding Geddon in her arms and had been stroking the little dog’s soft fur, but stopped. “On whose orders?” More crying. “You really must stop sniveling.” The laundress had fallen into complete incoherence again. Mary turned to Annette. “Who dismissed her?”

“The warden, my lady,” Annette said.

“The warden?
My
warden?” She spat the words, then flew around at the sound of the door opening, her tone changing entirely as Sir Amyas Paulet entered the room. She walked to him, eyes soft, her voice all teasing seduction. “So you dismiss my laundress, sir. How am I to have clean clothes? Or do you want me to go about naked?”

“That was not my motive, Majesty,” Paulet said, his voice steady. “Your laundress was found to be carrying letters in her washing.”

“Intimate letters,” Mary said, leaning close enough to ensure he could smell her perfume. “Private letters. Love letters.”

“Love letters?” The warden’s eyebrows pulled together. “I was aware that you had a husband, ma’am, who, sadly, died. And a second husband, who, sadly, died.”

“Yes, yes—” Mary began.

“And a third husband...”

Now she was irritated, her voice rough. “That’s enough. Am I to have no privacy?”

“You are a queen, Majesty,” Paulet said. “A queen belongs to her people.”

“Then why am I not being treated like a queen? Why does Elizabeth not answer my letters? Why does she not come to see me? Why does she hate me?”

“The queen does not hate you.” She saw a measured kindness in his eyes.

“Has she told you so? Have you met her?” Mary asked.

“I have had that honor, Majesty.”

“What’s she like? Is she beautiful?” Jealousy laced her words as she wondered—no, doubted—that Elizabeth could be more attractive than she.

“She has a queenly air.”

“So do I have a queenly air,” Mary said, forcing herself to flirt again. “But, more than that, some have said I am beautiful.” Beautiful, yes, but that was not all for which she was known. Her voice—with its lovely Scottish lilt—charmed, and her wit and passion had drawn many a man to her, including more than one of her jailers. Yet it infuriated her to have to flirt with such men, so far beneath her station. It was untenable that a queen should come to this. She tried to bury the anger she felt building deep inside her.

“In the words of the poet,
Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love
—”

She could stand it no longer. “Damn your poet!”

Paulet recoiled. Mary closed her eyes, composed herself, knowing it would be politic to keep the warden under her spell. With a graceful hand, she waved away her servants.

“My friend, forgive me.” She was sweetness, the silver rays of the moon, beauty itself. “You are my friend, aren’t you?”

“I am your servant, ma’am, and your admirer.” How easily he was captivated.

“I shall send no more letters. I shall stay here quietly, in my prison. With you.” Lingering eyes made promises she would never keep and reminded her that Elizabeth had brought her to this low station. It was unforgivable. There were times when Mary thought there could be a peaceful resolution to her troubles, but she was beginning to believe that less and less.

When Paulet left her, she knelt on the hard floor and pressed her hands together, offering first a prayer of thanks for the friends who were helping her and, second, one that God would speed the resolution of her plans. She did not pray for mercy for her cousin. Elizabeth would have to take care of herself.

Chapter 6

Darkness poured through the leaded-glass windows of the Privy Chamber, but the queen was enraptured and would stand no interruption as her new favorite regaled her with stories of his adventures. Raleigh was animated, his eyes sweeping the room as he spoke, but his attention lingered on two women: Elizabeth and Bess, though every time he looked too long at the latter, he abruptly turned away and focused on the queen. It had taken Elizabeth fewer than ten minutes to notice this, but it did not trouble her. Bess knew her place. No harm could come from letting her flirt.

As the hour grew late, she heard a few mumbled complaints among courtiers wondering when they would be allowed to eat. This, of course, served only to make her delay even longer, but she did not see how they could mind. Raleigh’s story was entrancing, his personality magnetic. A meal could wait.

“It begins with a journey. You must cross an ocean. Can you imagine—can you feel—what it is to cross an ocean?” He paused as his audience nodded, enthralled. “For weeks there is nothing but the horizon. All round you. Perfect and empty. Your ship is small—tiny—a speck in such immensity. You live with fear, in the grip of fear—fear of storms, fear of sickness on board, fear of the immensity. What if you never escape? How can you escape? There’s nowhere to go. So you must drive your fear down, deep into your belly, and study your charts, and watch your compass, and pray for a fair wind—and hope.” His gaze locked onto the queen’s. “Pure naked fragile hope, when all your senses scream at you,
Lost! Lost!
Imagine it. Day after day, staring west, the rising sun on your back, the setting sun in your eyes, hoping, hoping—” S

ir Christopher Hatton slowly crossed to Elizabeth. “Majesty, the court is waiting.”

“Let them wait, Lids.”

“I think—”

“They can wait.” Her voice was sharp with irritation and she considered that Lids, her old favorite, might be jealous of his replacement. Her tone was all softness as she turned back to her explorer. “Go on, Mr. Raleigh. You were hoping.”

Hatton looked as if he would say something else, but she shot a glare at him and he bowed and left, a frown on his face.

Raleigh continued, looking straight at Elizabeth. He seemed as undaunted by her steady stare as she was by his, and noticing this brought a pleasant sensation to her chest and a smile that stretched her face and crinkled her eyes. “At first it’s no more than a haze on the horizon, the ghost of a haze, the pure line corrupted,” he said. “But clouds do that, and storms. So you watch, you watch.”

She could have listened to him for an eternity. His voice was mesmerizing. But eventually, she too became hungry. “I think, Mr. Raleigh, we will have to eat.” She took his hand— a hand stronger and more calloused than any she’d felt—and led him to supper, ignoring the rules of precedence.

The meal, which had been ready for more than an hour, had suffered from waiting. Not knowing when the queen and her party would arrive, the servants had not sent the food back to the kitchens, and as a result, the soup was cold, the meat’s sauces had congealed.

“I can’t remember when I’ve had such a satisfying meal,” Raleigh said.

“You’re the only one not complaining about everything being cold.” Elizabeth motioned for more wine.

“Your courtiers have not lived aboard a ship. They know not how bad food can be.”

“Yet you prefer your ship to the palace?”

“Not for comfort, of course,” he said, taking a second plate of mutton.

“The company, then? You prefer sailors to queens?”

“If, Majesty, all my time in London was spent with you, I’d have a very different view of city life. The lure of the sea, though, surpasses any desire for comfort or activity. There’s nothing like it.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. “But I think we can amuse you sufficiently to entice you to stay with us some time.”

“At the moment, I’m perfectly content where I am.” The tentative connection between them had grown with every sentence that day, and Elizabeth found that she could not recall feeling more comfortable with another gentleman. Raleigh leaned close when he talked to her, and more than once reached for her hand or arm during the meal. His touch thrilled her.

“Come,” she said, standing when she was done with her ruined food. “I want to dance with you.”

The rest of the court, though still complaining about the food, now rushed to finish eating before the queen made her way out of the room. The procession following her grew smaller as it reached her private quarters, where musicians had gathered in the atrium to play.