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Cecil shook his head, but Sir Francis checked him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘The Pope makes this a matter of the common people, he invites them to attack her; but he does not know this queen. She should not hide from the few men or women who would do her harm, she should go out and draw the love of all the rest. Her greatest safety would be if every man, woman or child in this country would lay down their lives for her.’
‘And how would we achieve that?’
‘You know it already,’ Dudley said bluntly to Cecil. ‘You saw it. In the coronation procession she won every single heart in that crowd. We have to take the risk to take her out to the people and know that they will be the ones that protect her. Every Englishman should be one of the queen’s guard.’
Sir Francis slowly nodded. ‘And when it comes to an invasion they would fight for her.’
‘A single man with a single poignard is almost unstoppable,’ Cecil said bleakly. ‘She may win over a hundred, but if one is against her, and he is the one with the knife, then she is dead, and it is at our door.’ He paused. ‘And a Catholic queen inherits, and England is a cat’s-paw of France, and we are ruined.’
‘As you say, unstoppable,’ Robert rejoined, not at all overwhelmed by the gloom of this picture. ‘But your way, you give her twenty guards, perhaps thirty. My way: I give her the whole of England.’
Cecil grimaced at the younger man’s romantic language.
‘There will still be some places that we cannot admit the people,’ Sir Francis pursued. ‘When she is dining, when she goes through the halls to her chapel. There are too many and they press too close.’
‘That, we should restrict,’ Robert concurred. ‘And we can serve her dinner without her being there.’
Cecil drew breath. ‘Without her being there? What is the purpose of that?’
‘The people come to see the throne and the plate and the great ceremony,’ Robert said airily. ‘They will come anyway. Provided that there is a good show they don’t need to see her in person. High days and holidays she must be there to show that she is well and in good spirits. But most of the time she can eat in private with her friends, in safety. As long as it is grand enough and the trumpets play and it is served in state, then the people will go away feeling that they have seen a good show. They will go away knowing that the country is wealthy and secure. That is what we need to do. We need to give them the show of the throne. The queen need not always be there herself, as long as everyone can feel her presence.’
‘Serve her dinner to an empty throne?’ Cecil demanded quizzically.
‘Yes,’ Dudley replied. ‘And why not? It’s been done before. When the young King Edward was sick they served his dinner on gold plates every night to an empty throne and the people came to watch and went away satisfied. My father ruled it so. We gave them a great show of grandeur, of wealth. And when they do see her, she has to be beloved, reachable, touchable. She has to be a queen for the people.’
Cecil shook his head but Sir Francis was persuaded.
‘I shall speak with her about it,’ he said, glancing back at the throne. The Spanish ambassador was taking his leave, he was handing over a letter sealed ostentatiously with the royal coat of arms of the Spanish emperor. With the eyes of the court upon her, Elizabeth took it and – apparently unaware that everyone was watching her – held it against her heart.
‘I think you will find that Elizabeth understands how to put on a show,’ Robert said drily. ‘She has never disappointed an audience in her life.’
Robert Dudley’s own steward came himself from London to escort Amy for the short journey to Bury St Edmunds, and to bring her a purse of gold, a length of warm red velvet for a new dress, and her husband’s affectionate compliments.
He also brought a lady companion with him: Mrs Elizabeth Oddingsell, the widowed sister of one of Robert Dudley’s old and faithful friends, who had been with Amy at Gravesend and then went with her to Chichester. Amy was glad to see the little dark-haired, brisk woman again.
‘How your fortunes do rise,’ Mrs Oddingsell said cheerfully. ‘When I heard from my brother that Sir Robert had been appointed Master of Horse I thought I would write to you, but I did not want to seem to be pushing myself forward. I thought you must have many friends seeking your acquaintanceship now.’
‘I expect my lord has many new friends,’ Amy said. ‘But I am still very secluded in the country here.’
‘Of course, you must be.’ Mrs Oddingsell cast a quick glance around the small, chilly hall which formed the main body of the square stone-built house. ‘Well, I hear we are to make a round of visits. That will be pleasant. We shall be on progress like a queen.’
‘Yes,’ Amy said quietly.
‘Oh! And I was forgetting!’ Mrs Oddingsell unwound a warm scarf from her throat. ‘He has sent you a lovely little black mare. You are to name her as you please. That will make our journey merry, won’t it?’
Amy ran to the window and looked out into the yard. There was a small escort loading Amy’s few trunks into a cart, and at the back of the troop was a sweet-faced black mare, standing quite still.
‘Oh! She is so pretty!’ Amy exclaimed. For the first time since Elizabeth’s coming to the throne she felt her spirits lift.
‘And he sent a purse of gold for you to settle his debts here, and to buy yourself anything you might like,’ Mrs Oddingsell said, delving into the pocket of her cape and pulling out the money.
Amy took the heavy purse into her hand. ‘For me,’ she said. It was the most money she had held for years.
‘Your hard times are over,’ Mrs Oddingsell said gently. ‘Thank God. For all of us, the good times have come at last.’
Amy and Mrs Oddingsell started their journey a little after dawn on a cold winter morning. They broke their journey at New-borough, and rested two nights, then they went on. It was an uneventful journey marred only by the cold, the wintry darkness and the state of the roads. But Amy enjoyed her new horse, and Mrs Oddingsell kept her spirits up as they rode down the muddy lanes and splashed through icy puddles.
Mr and Mrs Woods at Bury St Edmunds greeted Amy kindly, and with every appearance of pleasure. They assured her that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked; Sir Robert had mentioned in his letter that she would be with them until April.
‘Did he send a letter for me?’ Amy demanded. The brightness drained from her face when they said ‘No’. It was just a brief note to tell them when to expect her and the duration of her stay.
‘Did he say that he was coming here?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Mrs Woods said again, feeling uncomfortable at the shadow that passed over Amy’s face. ‘I expect he’s very busy at court,’ she continued, trying to gloss over the awkward moment. ‘I doubt he’ll be able to get home for weeks.’
She could have bitten off her tongue in irritation at her own clumsiness as she realised that there was no home for this young woman and her husband. She fell back on the good manners of hospitality. Would Amy like to rest after her journey? Would she like to wash? Would she like to take her supper at once?
Amy said abruptly that she was sorry, that she was very tired, and she would rest in her room. She went quickly from the hall, leaving Mrs Woods and Mrs Oddingsell alone.
‘She is tired,’ Mrs Oddingsell said. ‘I am afraid she is not strong.’
‘Shall I send for our physician at Cambridge?’ Mr Woods suggested. ‘He’s very good, he would come at once. He’s very much in favour of cupping the patient to adjust the humours. She is very pale, is she of a watery humour, d’you think?’
Elizabeth Oddingsell shook her head. ‘She is in much discomfort,’ she said.
Mr Woods thought that she meant indigestion, and was about to offer arrowroot and milk, but Mrs Woods, remembering the glimpse she had seen of Robert Dudley, dark-eyed on a black horse at the coronation procession, riding behind the queen as if he were prince consort himself, suddenly understood.
It was Cecil, not Dudley, who was at the queen’s side after dinner. She had been served with all the grandeur of the Tudor tradition, great plates passed down the long dining hall of Whitehall Palace, checked by the taster for poison, and presented to her on bent knee. Three of the servers were new and clumsy. They were Cecil’s men, spies put in place to watch and guard her, learning how to serve on bended knee at the same time.
Elizabeth took a very little from each plate and then sent them to her favourites, seated in the body of the hall. Sharp eyes watched where the best dishes went, and when a dish of stewed venison was sent to Dudley there were a few muttered complaints. The loud, joyful rumble of the court at dinner filled the great hall, the servants cleared the tables and then Cecil was beckoned up to the dais and stood before the queen.
She gestured that the musicians should play; no-one could hear their quiet conversation. ‘Any news of any hired killers?’ she asked.
He saw the strain on her face. ‘You are safe,’ he said steadily, though he knew he could never truly say that to her again. ‘The ports are watched, your gates are guarded. A mouse cannot come in without us knowing.’
She found a weak smile. ‘Good. Tell them to stay alert.’
He nodded.
‘And as to Scotland: I read your note this afternoon. We cannot do what you propose,’ she said. ‘We cannot support rebels against a queen, that is to subvert the rule of law. We have to wait and see what happens.’
It was as Cecil had expected. She had a mortal terror of making a mistake. It was as if she had lived on the brink of disaster for so long that she could bear to step neither forward nor back. And she was right to be cautious. Every decision in England had a hundred opponents, every change had a thousand. Anything that threatened a man’s individual prosperity made an enemy of him, anything that was to his benefit made him a grasping, unreliable ally. She was a queen new-come to her throne and the crown was dangerously unsteady on her head. She did not dare consider anything that might undermine the power of queens.
Cecil made sure that no sign of these thoughts showed on his face. It was his deep-rooted belief that the intelligence of a woman, even one as formidably educated as this, could not carry the burden of too much information, and the temperament of a woman, especially this one, was not strong enough to take decisions.
‘I could never support a rebellion against a ruling queen,’ she specified.
Tactfully Cecil avoided mentioning the years when Elizabeth had been the focus and sometimes instigator of a dozen plots against her pure-blood, anointed half-sister.
‘It is all very well you wanting us to support the Scots Protestants against the regent, Queen Mary of Guise, but I cannot support any rebels against a ruling king or queen. I cannot meddle in another’s kingdom.’
‘Indeed, but the French princess will meddle in yours,’ he warned her. ‘Already she has the arms of England quartered on her shield, she considers herself the true heir to England, and half of England and most of Christendom would say she has the right. If her father-in-law, the French king, decides to support her claim to your throne, the French could invade England tomorrow, and what more useful stepping stone than Scotland and the north? Her mother, a Frenchwoman, holds Scotland for them as regent, already the French soldiers are massing on your northern border; what are they doing there, if not waiting to invade? This is a battle that must come. Better that we fight the French army in Scotland, with the Protestant Scots on our side, than we wait for them to come marching down the Great North Road when we do not know who might rise up for us and who might rise up for them.’
Elizabeth paused; the appearance of the English leopards on the shield of the daughter of Mary of Guise was an offence which went straight to her jealously possessive heart. ‘She dare not try to claim my throne. No-one would rise up for her in preference to me,’ she said boldly. ‘No-one would want another Catholic Mary on the throne.’
‘Hundreds would,’ Cecil said dampeningly. ‘Thousands.’
That checked her, as he had known it would. He could see that she lost a little colour.
‘The people love me,’ she asserted.
‘Not all of them.’
She laughed but there was no real merriment in her voice. ‘Are you saying I have more friends in Scotland than in the north of England?’
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly.
‘Philip of Spain would stand my ally if there was an invasion,’ she declared.
‘Yes, as long as he thinks that you will be his wife. But can you keep him thinking that for much longer? You cannot really mean to have him?’
Elizabeth giggled like a girl and, unaware of betraying herself, glanced across the room towards Robert Dudley, seated between two other handsome young men. Effortlessly, he outshone them. He tipped back his head to laugh and snapped his fingers for more wine. A servant, studiously ignoring other thirsty diners, leapt to do his bidding.
‘I might marry Philip,’ she said. ‘Or I might keep him waiting.’
‘The important thing,’ Cecil said gently, ‘is to choose a husband and get us an heir. That is the way to make the country safe against the Princess Mary. If you have a strong husband at your side and a son in the cradle, no-one would want another queen. People would even overlook religion for a safe succession.’
‘I have been offered no-one I could be sure to like as a husband,’ she said, warming to her favourite, most irritating theme. ‘And I am happy in my single state.’
‘You are the queen,’ Cecil said flatly. ‘And queens cannot choose the single state.’
Robert raised his goblet in a toast to the health of one of Elizabeth’s ladies, his most recent mistress, her friend nudged her and she simpered across the room to him. Elizabeth apparently saw nothing, Cecil knew that she had missed none of it.
‘And Scotland?’ he prompted.
‘It is a very great risk. All very well to say that the Scottish Lords Protestant might rise up against Mary of Guise, but what if they do not? Or if they do, and are defeated? Where are we then, but defeated in a war of our own making? And meddling in the affairs of an anointed queen. What is that to do, but to go against God’s will? And to invite a French invasion.’
‘Either in Scotland or in England we will have to face the French,’ Cecil predicted. ‘Either with the Spanish on our side or without them. What I am advising, Your Grace – nay, what I am begging you to understand – is that we will have to face the French and we should do it at a time and a place of our choosing, and with allies. If we fight now, we have the Spanish as our friends. If you leave it too long, you will have to fight alone. And then you will certainly lose.’
‘It will anger the Catholics in England if we are seen to join the Protestant cause against a rightful Catholic queen,’ she pointed out.
‘You were known as the Protestant princess, it will come as little surprise to them, it makes it no worse for us. And many of them, even stout Catholics, would be glad to see the French soundly beaten. Many of them are Englishmen before they are Catholics.’
Elizabeth shifted irritably on her throne. ‘I don’t want to be known as the Protestant queen,’ she said crossly. ‘Have we not had enough inquiry into men’s faiths that we have to chase after their souls once more? Can’t people just worship in the way that they wish, and leave others to their devotions? Do I have to endure the constant inquiry from the bishops to the Commons as to what I think, as to what the people should think? Can’t it be enough for them that we have restored the church to what it was in my father’s time but without his punishments?’
‘No,’ he said frankly. ‘Your Grace,’ he added when she shot him a hard look. ‘You will be forced again and again to take a side. The church needs leadership, you must command it or leave it to the Pope. Which is it to be?’
He saw her gaze wander, she was looking past him to Robert Dudley who had risen from his place at table and was strolling across the room to where the ladies in waiting were seated on their table. As he approached they all turned towards him, without seeming to move; their heads all swivelled like flowers seeking the sun, his current favourite blushing in anticipation.
‘I shall think about it,’ she said abruptly. She crooked her finger to Robert Dudley and smoothly, he altered his course and came to the dais and bowed. ‘Your Grace,’ he said pleasantly.
‘I should like to dance.’
‘Would you do me the honour? I have been longing to ask you, but did not dare to interrupt your talk, you seemed so grave.’
‘Not only grave but urgent,’ Cecil reminded her grimly.
She nodded, but he saw he had lost her attention. She rose from her seat, her eyes only for Robert. Cecil stepped to one side and she went past him to the centre of the floor. Robert bowed to her, as graceful as an Italian, and took her hand. A faint hint of colour came into Elizabeth’s cheek at his touch. She turned her head away from him.
Cecil watched the set of dancers form behind the couple, Catherine and Francis Knollys behind them, Robert’s sister, Lady Mary Sidney, and her partner, other ladies and gentlemen of the court behind them, but no pair even half as handsome as the queen and her favourite. Cecil could not help but smile on the two of them, a radiant pair of well-matched beauties. Elizabeth caught his indulgent look and gave him a cheeky grin. Cecil bowed his head. After all, she was a young woman, not only a queen, and it was good for England to have a merry court.
Later that night, in the silent palace, under an unbroken black sky, the court slept, but Cecil was wakeful. He had thrown a robe over his linen nightshirt and sat at his great desk, his bare feet drawn on to the furred edge of his gown against the wintry coldness of the stone floor. His pen scratched on the manuscript as he made out his list of candidates for the queen’s hand, and the advantages and disadvantages of each match. Cecil was a great one for lists; their march down the page matched the orderly progression of his thinking.
Husbands for the Queen.
1. King Philip of Spain – he will need dispensation from the Pope/ he would support us against France and save us from the danger of the French in Scotland/ but he will use England in his wars/ the people will never accept him a second time/ can he even father a child?/ she was attracted to him before but perhaps it was spite, and only because he was married to her sister.
2. Archduke Charles – Hapsburg but free to live in England/ Spanish alliance/ said to be fanatically religious/ said to be ugly and she cannot tolerate ugliness even in men.
3. Archduke Ferdinand – his brother so same advantages but said to be pleasant and better-looking/ younger so more malleable?/ She will never brook a master, and neither will we.
4. Prince Erik of Sweden – a great match for him and would please the Baltic merchants, but of no help to us elsewhere/ Would make the French and the Spanish our bitter enemies and for the scant benefit of a weak ally/ Protestant of course/ Rich too, which would be a great help.
5. Earl of Arran – heir to the Scottish throne after Princess Mary/ could lead the Scottish campaign for us/ handsome/ Protestant/ poor (and thus grateful to me). If he were to defeat the French in Scotland our worst danger is gone/ and a son to him and the queen would finally unite the kingdoms/ A Scottish-English monarchy would solve everything …
6. An English commoner – she is a young woman and sooner or later is bound to take a liking to someone who always hangs about her/ This would be the worst choice: he would further his own friends and family/ would anger other families/ would seek greater power from his knowledge of the country/ disaster for me …
Cecil broke off and brushed the feather of the quill against his lips.
It cannot be, he wrote. We cannot have an overmighty subject to further his own family and turn her against me and mine. Thank God that Robt Dudley is already married or he would be scheming to take this flirtation further. I know him and his …
He sat in the silence of the night-time palace. Outside on the turret an owl hooted, calling for a mate. Cecil thought of the sleeping queen and his face softened in a smile that was as tender as a father’s. Then he drew a fresh piece of paper towards him and started to write.
To the Earl of Arran:
My lord,
At this urgent time in your affairs the bearer of this will convey to you my good wishes and my hopes that you will let him assist you to come to England, where my house and my servants will be honoured to be at your disposal …
Elizabeth, in her private apartment at Whitehall Palace, was re-reading a love-letter from Philip of Spain, the third of a series that had grown increasingly passionate as the correspondence had gone on. One of her ladies in waiting, Lady Betty, craned to see the words upside down but could not make out the Latin, and silently cursed her poor education.
‘Oh, listen,’ Elizabeth breathed. ‘He says that he cannot eat or sleep for thinking of me.’
‘He’ll have got dreadfully scrawny then,’ Catherine Knollys said robustly. ‘He was always too thin; he had legs like a pigeon.’
Lady Mary Sidney, Robert Dudley’s sister, giggled.
