‘Listen, do you hear? Are those bells ringing in the city, do you think?’ Elizabeth asked.
He listened, one hand stroking down his horse’s neck. Too idly, she thought. He was not surprised.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. Her eyes narrowed on his face. ‘What do you know?’ Her mind leapt ahead to disaster. Church bells pealing out across the river. Men running, fire in the city. An old panic swamped her, all thoughts of her ride forgotten. ‘Is it an invasion? Are the Spanish coming?’
‘I doubt it, Your Majesty,’ he reassured her, though now he was looking uncomfortable. ‘We would have had better warning.’
‘Nonetheless,’ she told him, wheeling her horse about, ‘let us ride
back
and discover the cause. I cannot be easy in my mind until I am sure we are not about to be set upon by a pack of Spaniards creeping out of the hedgerows.’
‘Your Majesty, wait!’
Elizabeth ignored him. She urged her horse on past the confused guards and her staring women, their mounts fidgeting and tearing at the grasses in the cold sunlight.
These church bells meant something, and Robert knew it. But what? Enough of these games, she thought, and dug in her heels.
She left the woodlands and returned by way of the winding path alongside the River Thames, which was the quicker route back to the palace grounds. The sound of bells was louder there, insistent, pealing down the river. Was every church tower in London thronged with mad bell-ringers? Her anger mounted, beating in her head with wings of steel. Her councillors were hiding some momentous happening from her. They were treating her like a child who could not be trusted with the truth. Whatever had happened, the whole of England seemed to know. Yet she, their queen, was ignorant of it.
She envisaged hordes of swarthy Spaniards setting fire to her beloved London and putting its citizens to the sword while she rode out with her ladies like a simpering fool.
‘God’s death, what is it?’ she exclaimed in her frustration.
At her back came the sound of hooves. Robert and her guards had begun to catch up with her.
But no, no. Wait, listen again. Her mind steadied. The church bells did not sound a warning. They were not a call to arms, nor a terrified cry of ‘Invasion!’ The bells rang out joyfully across the city, each peal tumbling wildly over the other in celebration as they had done on the day of her coronation.
Round the next bend, she came across a group of commoners by the waterside. Several girls had already waded out into the river with their skirts tucked high into their belts and were bent over, their pale legs reflected in the murky water, searching for the eel traps that had been weighted down on the riverbed. Yet the water must be icy at this time of year, Elizabeth thought, amazed at the sight. Sure enough, the young girls gasped and shivered as they waded, their sleeveless arms red-raw with the cold. A scrawny, grey-haired woman worked on the bankside, grimly exhorting the girls to ‘Keep
at
it!’ and ‘Drag ’em up!’ The rolled-up sleeves of the old woman’s gown revealed surprisingly muscular arms as she wrestled the captive eels into lidded buckets for market.
Elizabeth reined in her horse. ‘You there! Why do the bells ring down the river?’ she called out to the old woman.
Seeing who it was, the old woman looked astonished, then fell to her knees on the muddy bank. The girls turned to stare open-mouthed from the river, shielding their eyes against the low February sun as the royal party came to a halt.
‘God save the Queen!’ the old woman cried out with toothless patriotism. She gave a knowing nod, as though Elizabeth had been testing her with that question and she would now prove true. ‘Why, the church bells ring for joy that the Scottish Queen as plotted against Your Majesty is dead.’ She crossed herself piously. ‘May God in His heaven bless you and preserve you from all such wicked creatures of the devil, Your Majesty.’
Stunned, Elizabeth turned to Robert as he drew rein beside her. ‘I don’t understand. What does the old woman mean? Robert, what does she mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, but again she caught that edge in his voice and her temper flared. Why was he lying to her? Could she trust no one in this world but old and toothless women, the simple poor of London?
‘I must see William Davison at once. Give the old crone a penny for her tale,’ she told him in a choked voice, then brought the crop down hard on her gelding’s rump and felt the animal leap forward, jerking her in the saddle.
She galloped back to Greenwich, her lips tight with anger and impatience, soon leaving her guards behind as they attempted to keep up. It could not be true, she kept thinking, the reins clutched tight in her gloved hands. Mary’s death warrant had been signed, yes. But she had not given the order for it to be discharged.
Yet why would the bells be ringing if not to celebrate Mary’s execution? She could understand every sly-eyed courtier in the palace concealing the truth from her. Why would the old woman have lied?
By the time Elizabeth reached the palace gates, Robert had caught up with her again, the others not far behind.
He followed her inside, trying to catch at her arm. ‘Your Majesty! Elizabeth, please wait!’
‘Tell me it is not true!’ she exclaimed hotly, and shook him off when he did not speak. Turning, she saw Sir Christopher Hatton emerge from one of the Council chambers, his face very sombre. ‘Sir Christopher, what is the meaning of these church bells that are ringing all over London? Sweet Jesu, tell me my cousin still lives!’
Sir Christopher Hatton glanced at Robert over her shoulder, then bowed his head. The silence dragged on and she felt her face flush with agitation. Why did he not speak?
‘You must forgive me for being the bearer of tidings that may cause you unhappiness, Your Majesty,’ Sir Christopher began with slow and politic deliberation, but she interrupted him.
‘The truth! Now!’
‘Your Majesty, the bells ring out to celebrate the death of one who has plotted endlessly against your royal person.’
‘No,’ she breathed.
Sir Christopher looked at her steadily as he continued. ‘Mary Stuart was executed at Fotheringay Castle yesterday.’
‘Mary is dead?’ She stared at them both, and could hardly speak for the blood rushing to her head. ‘Whose doing was this? By whose order was my cousin executed?’
‘Your Majesty, you signed the death warrant yourself.’
‘But I gave no order for the warrant to be taken to Fotheringay and carried out!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, then saw the dangerous direction his remark had taken. ‘How dare you suggest that this is my doing? Fetch William Davison before me. He was the man to whom I entrusted the warrant. Fetch him at once. I will have an answer here today.’ She tore off her gloves. ‘Someone must pay for this deed with their life. To have executed a woman of royal blood …’
Robert tried to steer her into a private chamber, away from the courtiers who had gathered to stare. His voice muttered in her ear, ‘It should not have been done in this covert way, yes. But you must see the pressing reasons for her execution. No Englishman will blame you for this. And at least the matter is finished now. You are safe.’
‘
Safe
?’ she repeated, trembling with fury at his stupidity. ‘Do you
not
see how this weakens my throne? The head which bears the crown is no longer sacrosanct but open to any rebel with an axe. What, my lord, you stare and think I make too great a matter of this execution? Why not strike off my own head, then, if hers was no matter?’
‘Elizabeth—’ Robert began quietly, but she interrupted him.
‘You will address me with the proper respect due to your queen, my lord,’ she snapped at him, ‘or find yourself in the Tower this night. Go do my bidding. Fetch William Davison at once.’
In the smoky damp of her state apartments, Elizabeth knelt and clasped her hands in prayer. But no words came. ‘Lord God, forgive … forgive what has been done in my name,’ she managed at last, and muttered her way through the Lord’s Prayer. Her ladies prayed with her, then fussed about her person, avoiding her gaze as they began to remove her riding dress, their faces scared. They all knew what had happened. Of course they did. She was the only one in the kingdom not to have known of Mary Stuart’s death when she had ridden out that morning.
At length she allowed her ladies to draw her towards a seat by the hearth, where a good fire was roaring and her dogs slept, blissfully unaware that a Scottish noblewoman with more arrogance than sense had recently bent her head to the axe. Her ladies applied lotion to her face and hands, then bathed her feet in warm rose-water until the aching cold in her bones had subsided. There was little else to do while she waited for Davison to be found. Bitterly, Elizabeth considered what vitriolic last words Mary might have written to her Catholic allies in Europe, and wondered how soon an invasion force would land on England’s shores.
She had been within her rights to keep a threat to her throne under guard all these years. But to have executed a queen, even one whose treasonous activities were well-known …
Elizabeth could imagine the reactions of other crowned heads of Europe on hearing of Mary’s death. She must now appear as ruthless and untrustworthy a ruler as Mary had ever done herself. The Lord alone knew what would follow this political disaster.
On being hesitantly told an hour later that the Junior Secretary of State was ill and no longer at court, Elizabeth finally lost her poorly kept temper. She swept a flagon of ale to the floor, turned over a
table
in her way, then swore at the absent Davison, condemning him as a traitor and a murderer. Her ladies scattered as she strode back and forth across the Privy Chamber, flushed and trembling at the power of her own fury. She had been duped. She should never have signed that warrant. As soon as it was done and taken from her, she had known, she had guessed …
Pausing undecided in the centre of the room, Elizabeth caught Lucy Morgan’s eye and almost snarled at the disapproval on the black girl’s face.
‘Let Davison be found at once and taken to the Tower!’ she insisted furiously, ignoring Sir Christopher’s stuttering attempts to mollify her.
Yes, she had wanted Mary dead. But quietly, discreetly, in such a manner that no one could ever lay blame at her door. Not like this, so brazenly and openly, with all the church bells of London ringing for sheer unadulterated joy.
‘I gave the death warrant into his safe keeping,’ she pointed out icily, ‘and Davison allowed it to be taken to Fotheringay Castle, all the while knowing it to be without my permission. He shall be tried for my cousin’s murder and, if there is any justice in this country, executed for treacherous dereliction of his duty.’ When Hatton tried to speak again, she shook her head. ‘I do not care how sick he may be. Let Davison be conveyed under guard to the Tower, then bring me word it has been done.’
A servant came to the door, bowing. ‘Your Majesty, Lord Burghley is here.’
‘I will not admit him!’ she declared, and gestured to the others to leave her. ‘Indeed I am sick of this company. Out, out, all of you!’
Lady Helena paused in the doorway, clearly distressed. ‘But Your Majesty, it is almost time for you to take lunch.’
‘I have no wish to eat,’ Elizabeth told her with barely suppressed violence, and threw a bowl of sweetmeats clattering across the room. She was aware of behaving childishly, yet could not seem to control her temper. ‘I will never eat again. I am too unwell. I am sick with nerves, can none of you see that? I shall be blamed at every foreign court for this murder, though it was none of my doing. Now leave me. I will not see Lord Burghley, nor any man, unless he comes with news that Davison is in the Tower.’
Robert, hesitating on the threshold, took a step towards her.
‘Get out, I said!’ Elizabeth could not stand to see the pity in his face. She turned away as Robert bowed and withdrew. ‘I wish to be alone. Let no one be admitted. No one!’
When the door finally closed behind the last of them, Elizabeth collapsed on to her knees and wept. She rocked and tore at her face with her nails. She wept not for her cousin Mary, though, whom she had always secretly loathed and resented, but for herself, for Elizabeth, for the terrifying shadows of the past that threatened to overwhelm her.
She thought again and again of Mary. Mary kneeling for the axe. Mary’s head rolling away, grisly and bloodied. Her own bold signature on the death warrant:
Elizabeth R
.
A message came about an hour later, and she rose from her bed, reluctantly putting aside her Bible. Her women, summoned to help, smoothed her gown and dressed her hair in silence. No doubt they feared the lash of her tongue. A pity Davison had not feared it more, she thought.
The Presence Chamber was crowded with hurriedly assembled courtiers, their agitated whispers falling to silence as she walked to the dais and stood to receive the man who had so flagrantly disobeyed her. Davison was eventually ushered in, his head bowed, wringing his cap in his hands like a poor burgher come to plead for his life. He had not come alone, though, but was followed by Leicester, Burghley, and even a worried-looking Hatton. Behind them she saw other councillors, their faces tense, watching her. The message was clear. Condemn Davison and you must condemn us too. For what he did was done with our knowledge and consent.
‘Master Davison, Your Majesty,’ Lord Burghley murmured, and came forward to stand beside her secretary, whose face was pale with fear.
Angrily, Elizabeth looked at her councillors and knew herself defeated before she had even pronounced his fate.
Davison would still go before the Star Chamber and thence to the Tower, if she had her way. She would be damned if he walked away from this act of disobedience without punishment. But these men would not allow her to execute him for what had been done by
secret
order of the Privy Council; that much was written on their faces.
If only she had never signed Mary’s death warrant!
Yet she had signed the warrant, and known in her heart that it must eventually be used to seal her cousin’s fate. In that moment, she had become her father, a tyrant who thought nothing of executing a queen, of tearing a royal mother from her child. History would judge her for that. But the Spanish would judge her for it first.