“Suffer or strike!” she declared, anger surging against that black spider spinning yet another web of intrigue. “In order not to be struck, I must strike!”
She summoned Davison. “I am much disturbed by these reports,” she told him, “and am resolved to sign the Queen of Scots’ death warrant without further delay. Please bring it to me.”
Davison laid it before her. She read it over, picked up her quill and signed her name.
“I wish the execution to take place as soon as possible,” she told him. “It is my pleasure that it be done in the great hall of Fotheringhay, not in the castle courtyard. Ask Sir Christopher Hatton to attach the Great Seal of England to the warrant, then have it shown to Sir Francis Walsingham. The grief of it will nearly kill him,” she jested grimly. “Have the warrant sent to Fotheringhay with all speed. I do not wish to hear any more of it until it is done.”
As soon as a jubilant Davison had hastened off with the warrant to find Burghley and tell him the astounding news, Elizabeth regretted what she had done. Yet she dared not recall the offending document; her councillors would be in an uproar if she did that. But after another sleepless night, and another punishing megrim, she sent word to Davison that he was not to lay the warrant before Lord Chancellor Hatton until she had spoken with him again.
Davison came running. “Madam, it has already been sealed,” he informed her. Of course; they would not have wasted time.
“Why is everyone in such a hurry?” she asked, her voice sharp with panic.
“They but wish to expedite Your Majesty’s bidding,” he told her. God grant that she was not about to change her mind!
“Swear on your life that you will not let the warrant out of your hands until I have expressly authorized you to do so,” she commanded.
“Very good, madam,” Davison muttered, taking care not to swear anything.
“And Sir William …” The Queen’s ringing tone stopped him in his tracks, but then she lowered her voice. “Contact the Queen of Scots’ jailer, Sir Amyas Paulet. Ask him to ease me of my burden and quietly deal with her, so I can announce that she has died of natural causes.”
Davison could not believe what he was hearing. Was the Queen really asking that stern, upright Puritan Paulet to commit murder for her? “He would never consent to such an unworthy act!” he blurted out.
“Wiser persons than I have suggested it,” Elizabeth told him. “My lord Burghley and my lord of Leicester think it a politic solution, and it would save us from the threat of reprisals from abroad. And Davison, I am answerable to none for my actions, but to Almighty God alone, and in this my conscience is clear. I follow Cicero’s principle that we must strive for the highest good.”
“Yes, madam, I am sorry, madam. I will write to Sir Amyas,” Davison said reluctantly, knowing it would be a wasted effort, for the answer would be a pious and outraged no.
Informed that the Queen might be wavering, Burghley summoned a secret emergency meeting of the council.
“Do we, or do we not, dispatch the warrant without further reference to Her Majesty?” he asked. The response was a unanimous yes; and to avoid Davison being blamed, all ten councillors present agreed to share responsibility for what they were about to do.
“Then it is agreed,” Burghley said decisively. “But not one of you is to discuss the matter further with Her Majesty until Queen Mary is dead, in case she thinks up some new concept of interrupting and staying the course of justice.” He then dashed off an order for the sentence to be carried out. “Send this to Fotheringhay with the Queen’s warrant,” he instructed Davison. “Do it today!”
Elizabeth sent for Davison. “I have had a nightmare about Queen Mary’s execution,” she confided to him.
“But Your Majesty still wishes to go ahead with it?” he asked, trying to conceal his alarm.
“Yes, by God!” she said. “Even so, I might have wished things done in better form. Have you heard back from Sir Amyas?”
“I fear so,” Davison replied. “I have his letter here. He says that his life is at Your Majesty’s disposition, but God forbid he should make so foul a shipwreck of his conscience, or leave so great a blot to his own posterity, as to shed blood without law or warrant.”
“I wonder at his daintiness!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It is strange to me, the niceness of those who say great things about my surety, but in deeds perform nothing. Write a sharp note to Sir Amyas, complaining that the deed is not already done.”
“Madam, he will require a warrant from you.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot be seen having a hand in this.” She sat and thought for a long space, frowning and drumming her fingers on the desk. “It is best that we forget this plan,” she said at length. Two wrongs, she had concluded, do not make a right.
Davison was worried lest she bring up the subject of the death warrant, but she did not mention it, being too preoccupied with the other matter. She merely dismissed him with a sigh of frustration.
Elizabeth stared at Burghley in horror.
“Dead? She cannot be! I gave no order.”
“Madam, you signed the death warrant and we duly had it sent to Fotheringhay. The execution took place yesterday morning. All was done according to law.”
“I told Davison it was not to be dispatched without my express authority!” Elizabeth hissed.
“I knew nothing of that, madam. I am sorry, but we, your loyal servants, acted only out of duty to Your Majesty, thinking it was your wish that the warrant be sent.”
She was on the verge of frenzy. She could not believe Davison had defied her, although she certainly could believe that Burghley and the others, hot for Mary’s elimination, had deliberately disobeyed her express command. The blood had drained from her face; she could barely speak. Then suddenly she burst into a torrent of tears, sinking to the floor and crying out incoherently. Alarmed, Burghley summoned her ladies, who had already heard the commotion and come running to see what ailed her. As they assisted her to her feet and toward her bedchamber, he could hear her ranting, swearing, and threatening all manner of dire punishments. It took no great leap of the imagination to realize that he and his fellows were the target of her rage, and he hastened away to warn the others.
When she emerged from her apartments, Elizabeth looked ravaged. She had donned the deepest mourning and could make no utterance without dissolving into sobs. She could not assimilate the horror of Mary’s end, or even ask about it; she was consumed by fear of what that dreadful deed might engender, and did not cease to cry vengeance on the perpetrators.
When she met with her councillors, it was only to hurl insults at them, making them quake in fear that she might, in her extreme tumult, condemn them to the same fate as Queen Mary. Burghley and Robert were banished from her presence. Davison was sent to the Tower for his gross disobedience. Walsingham fled home and feigned illness, hardly daring to poke his nose above the blankets in case he saw a detachment of the Queen’s guards waiting at the foot of the bed to arrest him.
Burghley wrote repeatedly to Elizabeth, begging to be permitted to prostrate himself on the floor near her feet to catch some drops of her mercy to quench his sorrowful, panting heart. He even offered his resignation, but his letters were returned to him marked Not received.
Elizabeth was barely functioning. Her remaining councillors begged her to think of the state of her health, but still she could not face food, or sleep at night. Her greatest fear was that God would punish her for Mary’s death, and next to that she was in dread at what the world now thought of her. She was desperate to exonerate herself from blame.
Time proved, as always, a healer. When the worst outpourings of her grief and fury had subsided, she maintained the pretense that she was as racked as ever by emotion and regret. Her constant prayer was that her enemies would say that one so moved by the Queen of Scots’ death could not possibly have ordered or compassed it. “It will wring my heart as long as I live,” she declared, more than once.
/> Catholic Europe reviled her—she had expected that. She held her breath and waited for the clouds of war to gather, but nothing happened. James of Scotland made the appropriate protests against his mother’s execution, but publicly accepted that Elizabeth had not intended it to go ahead.
In time she calmed down, forgave her councillors, and took them back into favor. Soon they were back on their old footing, and Elizabeth again sent Robert to the Netherlands to trounce Parma. She was delighted when she heard that the duke had sued for peace. Things were looking up! But Robert seemed incapable of reconciling his endless differences with his Dutch hosts, and before long he was begging to be recalled, since he could be of no further use to her.
“You are incompetent!” she berated him as soon as he returned to court. “You should have united with our allies in case Parma changes his mind and starts advancing.”
“I am very sorry for my shortcomings,” he apologized, his mien abject. “With Your Majesty’s permission, I will resign my office of Master of Horse and go home to Wanstead.”
Elizabeth was staggered. Robert had been her Master of Horse for nigh on thirty years.
“I will not allow that,” she barked.
“It is too much for me now,” he explained sadly. “I pray you, madam, bestow it on my stepson, Essex.”
Elizabeth was inordinately fond of young Essex, now one of the rising stars of the court. Even though she was more than thirty years his senior, he flattered her vanity with his ready compliments and took pride in demonstrating his prowess in the lists before her. Tall, dark, dashing, and comely, he—like Robert, Hatton, Raleigh, and (it could not be denied) Seymour before him—embodied all that she admired in a man, and although they were not blood kin, he reminded her a little of the young Robert, his loving stepfather and namesake.
Essex made her feel young again; she loved the sonnets he wrote her, the hours they spent playing draughts on her ebony board, or listening to her consort of musicians, or watching him perform in court masques. He played the young gallant with her, yet in some ways he was the son she would have liked to have had, and her feelings toward him were partly maternal.
She could not rid herself of the notion that Robert was making a gift to her of Essex; it occurred to her that he had been grooming him as his replacement in her affections. She prayed that Robert was not planning to retire from court permanently. She had meant only to show her displeasure. He knew that she could never be angry with him for long. But she feared there might be some other, more sinister reason for his withdrawal. God grant it was not connected with his health! He had looked strained under his tanned skin, and no wonder, given the reception he’d received! Well, he had deserved it! Let him stay away and see if she cared!
1588
There was no doubt now that King Philip would send his armada soon, or that Parma’s intentions were as warlike as ever. Walsingham’s intelligence reports revealed that the huge fleet of Spanish galleons was now almost ready to sail, its purpose being to vanquish the English navy and so clear the way for Parma to invade from the Netherlands. Elizabeth was to be deposed—and no doubt condemned to the same fate as Queen Mary—and Philip was planning to set up his daughter, the Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia, as Queen in her place; he himself already had enough to do governing Spain and her territories.
Orders had been given for England to look to its defenses. Harbors were strengthened, new ships built, old ones repaired, and a chain of beacons prepared to give warning of the enemy’s approach.
“I do not want war,” Elizabeth declared. “I do not crave military glory, and the expense in money and lives appalls me. If diplomacy can achieve a solution, I will pursue it, and I will continue to sue for peace right up till the last moment!”
Peeved that he had made no attempt to beg forgiveness or even asked to see her, she had not invited Robert to court for Christmas, but now that the threat from Spain was manifest, he wrote at last, pleading her to behold with the eyes of princely clemency his wretched and depressed state. He wants to go to war! she thought, and because she needed his support desperately at this critical time, she sent for him at last.
She was shocked when she saw him. His clothes hung on him and there were deeply grooved lines in his face. He looked old and ill; there was nothing left in him of the Sweet Robin she had loved long ago. Yet he would not brook any discussion of his health, and insisted on dragging himself to every council meeting and immersing himself thoroughly in preparations for the coming invasion. When Elizabeth quailed at the bloodshed and financial outlay that war would necessitate, Robert spoke firmly and everyone paid heed.
“Diplomacy will not suffice!” he warned. “Your Majesty must further strengthen your armed forces. As things stand, we are not ready and we will be outnumbered.”
Elizabeth ordered the refurbishment of more ships and gave orders for her forces to receive intensive training. Sir Francis Drake came to her, bullish and eager for action.
“Allow me to sail to Spain to sabotage the armada!” he urged.
“No, Francis.” She was adamant. “If you failed, my ships might be damaged or lost when I most need them. Any conflict at sea must take place within sight of the shores of England, to remind our men what they are fighting for!”
She sent envoys to Parma to sue for peace, even as the great armada was setting sail. At Plymouth, the English fleet was poised at battle stations. Drake was playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when word was brought to him that the armada was sighted.
“There is time to finish the game!” he chuckled, and went back to his play.
All across England the beacons were lighting up and men were hastening to arms. At Richmond, Elizabeth received the news of the armada’s approach bravely, showing herself not in the least dismayed, and Robert took huge pleasure in spreading word of her courage and her resolute assurances that right would prevail. Everything possible had been done that could be done. Both the commander-in-chief, Admiral Howard of Effingham, and Sir Francis Drake, serving as second-in-command, had assured the Queen that the English fleet of nimble little ships stood every chance against the towering, cumbersome Spanish galleons. Thanking God for her confident commanders, Elizabeth sat down and composed a prayer of intercession to be read out in all churches.
A strange peace descended on the court. The nation waited, expectant, fearful, and defiant. They were all in the hands of God now, Elizabeth said.
The shire levies had been mustered, and Leicester, now Lieutenant and Captain General of the Queen’s Armies and Companies, assembled the troops at Tilbury Fort, in the mouth of the Thames, to guard London’s eastern approaches.
“I myself shall ride to the south coast to be at the head of my southern levies,” Elizabeth announced. “I mean to be ready to meet Parma when he comes!”
“Madam, we cannot allow it!” her councillors protested, horrified. “Think of the risk to Your Majesty’s most precious person!”
“I want to go!” she insisted, and kept on insisting. They were aghast when she produced a silver breastplate and helmet that she’d had made for herself, should the need for it arise. In desperation, they dashed off letters to Robert, asking for advice on how to stop the Queen plunging headlong into danger. He responded with an invitation to Elizabeth to visit Tilbury and comfort her army: You shall, dear lady, behold as goodly, as loyal, and as able men as any prince can own. I myself will vouchsafe for the safety of your person, the most dainty and sacred thing we have to care for in this world, so that a man must tremble when he thinks of it. Her visit would enable her to feel that she was doing something useful, and it would divert her from dangerous thoughts of braving it out against Parma.
Elizabeth agreed to go to Tilbury. She could not refuse him. In the meantime, she wondered how her fleet was faring out there somewhere in the English Channel. Had her sailors encountered the armada yet? The waiting was gut-wrenching.
At last came news of victory! After a couple of skirmishes, the English fleet had sh
adowed the armada eastward, where it anchored off Calais. Drake, seizing his opportunity, had sent in fireships, causing an inferno and widespread panic. The Spanish galleons that survived had been scattered, their careful crescent formation wrecked. Their commander tried to regroup, but the brave little English ships now outnumbered his, and they bombarded the great galleons.
It was at this point that divine intervention had decided the outcome of the battle.
“God blew with His winds and they were scattered,” Elizabeth jubilantly announced. “Truly this was a Protestant wind!” It had sent the Spanish ships northward, where they were lashed by terrible storms. Many foundered with their crew; a few limped on as far as Ireland and even Cornwall. Countless Spaniards perished, and a lot of the survivors would never see their homeland again. It was the most humiliating defeat in all the annals of Spain. And yet, Elizabeth was proud to hear, England had lost just a hundred men, and none of her ships.
“It is fitting that we render our most hearty thanks to Almighty God,” she declared, “but there is still the threat from Parma to be dealt with. He waits only for a favorable wind to bring his forces across the Channel.”
It was time to take her barge to Tilbury Fort to rally her troops. Her councillors, still fearful for her safety—Parma could invade at any time, they warned—pleaded with her not to go, but she insisted that she would come to no harm, and told them that Robert himself had begged her not to alter her purpose and assured her that her person would be as secure as in London.
Fresh air and activity had done much for Robert; he was looking a lot better, and was clearly in his element in his new command. They embraced each other with their old warmth, and he showed her to the lodging prepared for her. An hour later she was ready to greet her soldiers.