Elizabeth I Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 - LETTICE

  Chapter 13 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15 - LETTICE

  Chapter 16 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21 - LETTICE

  Chapter 22 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 - LETTICE

  Chapter 26 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 - LETTICE

  Chapter 30 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32 - LETTICE

  Chapter 33 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38 - LETTICE

  Chapter 39 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41 - LETTICE

  Chapter 42 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44 - LETTICE

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48 - LETTICE

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53 - LETTICE

  Chapter 54 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59 - LETTICE

  Chapter 60 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 61 - LETTICE

  Chapter 62 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 63 - LETTICE

  Chapter 64 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70 - LETTICE

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74 - LETTICE

  Chapter 75 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 76 - LETTICE

  Chapter 77 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79 - LETTICE

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85 - LETTICE

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89 - LETTICE

  Chapter 90 - ELIZABETH

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ALSO BY MARGARET GEORGE

  The Autobiography of Henry VIII

  Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

  The Memoirs of Cleopatra

  Mary, Called Magdalene

  Helen of Troy

  Lucille Lost (children’s book)

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Margaret George, 2011 All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  George, Margaret.

  Elizabeth I : a novel / Margaret George. p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47625-3

  1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533-1603—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558-1603—Fiction. 3. Queens—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.E49E65 2011

  813’.54—dc22 2010035382

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Robert,

  My son-in-law,

  A loyal subject of

  Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth

  Past and Present

  THANKS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, family—my husband Paul, daughter Alison, son-in-law Robert, sister Rosemary—were supportive and helpful, and my agent Jacques de Spoelberch and editors Carolyn Carlson and Beena Kamlani made the book shine brighter after it came into their hands. I want to thank Professor William Aylward, Classics Department, University of Wisconsin-Madison, for his help in Latin translations, Dr. Mary Magray, Irish historian and lecturer, Department of Liberal Studies and the Arts, University of Wisconsin-Madison, for her knowledge and help with the intricacies of Irish history in Elizabeth’s period, and my friend Miki Knezevic for thoughtful ideas about the characters. Dr. Lynn Courtenay and Dr. Nathaniel Alcock ferreted out the exact wording on the Dudley family tomb in Warwick, invaluable help for the story. My father, Scott George, first told me about Old Parr when he looked for his grave in Westminster Abbey. The friendship and support of my SCC sisters—Lola Barrientos, Patsy Evans, Chris Thomas, Beverly Resch, Mary Sams, Diane Hager, and Margaret Harrigan—over the years has meant a great deal to me. And finally, my thanks to fellow Elizabethans Jerry and Nancy Mitchell, who appeared one night at Hatfield House and made the banquet magical.

  And the spirit of Elizabeth herself, I believe, hovered over the book as it was taking shape and whispered her guidance.

  ARCHBISHOP CRANMER:

  In her days every man shall eat in safety,

  Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing

  The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:

  God shall be truly known; and those about her

  From her shall read th
e perfect ways of honour,

  And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

  ...

  She shall be, to the happiness of England,

  An aged princess; many days shall see her,

  And yet no day without a deed to crown it.

  Would I had known no more! But she must die,

  She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,

  A most unspotted lily shall she pass

  To th’ ground, and all the world shall mourn her.

  KING HENRY VIII:

  O Lord Archbishop,

  Thou hast made me now a man. Never before

  This happy child did I get anything.

  This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me

  That when I am in heaven I shall desire

  To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.

  —William Shakespeare, Henry VIII, V, iv: 33-38; 56-68

  1

  The Vatican, March 1588

  Felice Peretti, otherwise known as Pope Sixtus V, stood swaying before the stack of rolled Bulls.

  They were neatly arranged like a cord of wood, alternating short and long sides, their lead seals hanging down like a row of puppy tails.

  “Ah,” he said, eyeing them with great satisfaction. They seemed to radiate power. But one thing was lacking: his blessing.

  Raising his right hand, he spoke in sonorous Latin: “O sovereign God, hear the prayer of your servant Sixtus. Acting in accordance with my office as the vicar of Christ, his representative on earth, who has the power to bind and loose, to forgive sins or withhold forgiveness, I have pronounced judgment on that wicked woman of England, the pretender queen. She is hereby excommunicated from the body of Christendom until such time as she repents. In order that those living under her rule do not go down into damnation with her, we bless the Enterprise of England. Aboard the ships of the great Armada will go these Bulls of excommunication and sentence upon Elizabeth, the pretender queen of England, calling for her deposition, in order that her subjects may be rescued from her impiety and perverse government. They will see the happy light of day when Christ’s avengers set boots upon English soil. There they will be distributed to the faithful. Merciful God, we ask this in the savior’s name, and for his Holy Church.”

  The sixty-eight-year-old pope then slowly circled the pile, making the sign of the cross and sprinkling it with holy water. Then he nodded to the Spanish envoy standing quietly to one side.

  “You may transport them now,” he said. “The Armada leaves from Lisbon, does it not?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness. Next month.”

  Sixtus nodded. “They should arrive in plenty of time, then. You have waterproof canisters for them?”

  “I am sure they will be provided. King Philip thinks of everything.”

  2

  The South Coast, England, April 1588

  The old hermit shuffled out of his shelter, as he did every morning.

  He made his bed in the ruins of St. Michael’s Chapel, perched near the peak of a jutting piece of headland stretching out into Plymouth Sound. He stood on the rim of the cliff, the ocean far below him, his eyes darting left and right, searching. The morning sun, glinting off the water, made it hard to see. He shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to detect the telltale shape of sails on the horizon. Nothing. Not today.

  Muttering, he turned to attend to his other business—preparing the beacon. He had found an abandoned dolmen, an ancient monument, at the pinnacle of the peak and had been carrying twigs, straw, and kindling there for days. The fire that would flare out from the cone-shaped mounted brackets must be visible for miles, until the next beacon. And this was likely the first. This would be the place, if any place, that the Armada would first come into view. And he, the hermit of St. Michael’s, would keep vigilant watch as long as there was a whisper of light to see by.

  He patted the dolmen. Pagan stuff. Made long ago by vanished people. But who cared, if it helped in the fight against the Spanish enemy?

  3

  The Tower of London, May 1588

  Quiet!” Philip Howard motioned to the priest.

  Someone was coming. The guard was making his rounds. His footstep on the stones outside was a sound that Philip heard even in his dreams. He bent his head down, resting it between his knees, his hands hanging limply. He must look asleep. The priest did likewise, drawing his cloak up around himself. The others in the room fell silent, turned to stone.

  The footsteps paused; the shutter over the iron grille in the prisoners’ door lifted. Then it clanged down again, and the footsteps continued.

  Philip stayed still for another few minutes to be safe. Finally he whispered, “He’s gone. He won’t make rounds again for two or three hours. Let’s begin. Let’s begin God’s work.”

  The others in the chamber stirred. The priest threw back the covering on his head. “In the name of the Holy Mother Church,” he said, “I will perform this Mass.”

  Philip shook his head. “It must be dedicated to another intention,” he said. “I was not a traitor until they sought to make me one. Now, held for five years here in the Tower, I have seen the evil of the queen and her so-called church firsthand. It must perish. She must perish. And my godfather King Philip will ensure that.”

  In the dim light the priest’s eyes glittered. “And who will the Mass be dedicated to?” he asked.

  “To the success of the Armada!” said Philip. “May it wreak revenge on this godless nation!”

  “To the success of the Armada,” the others intoned.

  The priest began laying out his holy implements, an earthenware cup for a chalice, a wooden saucer for a paten, a rough scarf for a stole. “Let us pray,” he began.

  “O most high, you have looked down in sorrow upon the blasphemy and sacrilege here in England, once your obedient servant, now a renegade. As of old, when a nation went a-whoring after false gods, you used a rod to chastise them, you now send your son, King Philip of Spain, a devotee of the True Faith, to smite them. Just as there was no mercy for the Amorites or the Philistines or the Canaanites, there can be no mercy for these straying people. If we perish alongside them, we are willing. Look what your servant Philip, Earl of Arundel, has carved here on the wall of his miserable prison. See his fine words: Quanto plus afflictionis pro Christo in hoc saeculo, tanto plus gloriae cum Christo in futuro—The more affliction we endure for Christ in this world, the more glory we shall obtain with Christ in the next. We know, O Lord, that that is true.”

  “True ... true ... true ...,” murmured Philip and his companion prisoners. “O Armada, come quickly to deliver England! Bless all her exiled sons who are aboard, taking up arms to deliver their homeland!”

  Their heated cries echoed within the dank stone chamber.

  4

  ELIZABETH

  May 1588

  The whip cracked and snapped as it sought its victim.

  I could see the groom cowering in the bushes, then crawling away in the underbrush as the whip ripped leaves off a branch just over his head. A stream of Spanish followed him, words to the effect that he was a worthless wretch. Then the face of the persecutor turned toward me, shining with his effort. “Your Majesty,” he said, “why do you keep my whip?”

  It was a face I had thought never to see again—that of Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador I had evicted from England four years earlier for spying. Now he rounded on me and began fingering his whip as he walked toward me.

  I sat up in bed. I could still smell the leather of the whip, lingering in the air where it had cracked. And that smirk on the face of Mendoza, his teeth bared like yellowed carved ivory—I shuddered at its cold rictus.

  It was only a dream. I shook my head to clear it. The Spanish were much on my mind, that was all. But ... didn’t Mendoza actually leave me a whip? Or did we just find one in his rooms after he hurriedly left? I had it somewhere. It was smaller than the one in the dream, useful only for urging horses, not punishing hors
e grooms. It had been black, and braided, and supple as a cat’s tail. Spain’s leather was renowned for its softness and strength. Perhaps that was why I had kept it.

  It was not light out yet. Too early to arise. I would keep my own counsel here in bed. Doubtless devout Catholics—secretly here in England, openly in Europe—were already at early Mass. Some Protestants were most likely up and studying Scripture. But I, their reluctant figurehead, would commune with the Lord by myself.

  I, Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England for thirty years, had been cast by my birth into the role of defender of the Protestant faith. Spiteful people said, “Henry VIII broke with the pope and founded his own church only so he could get his way with Anne Boleyn.” My father had given them grounds with his flip quote “If the pope excommunicates me, I’ll declare him a heretic and do as I please.” Thus the King’s Conscience had become a joke. But out of it had come the necessity of embracing Protestantism, and from that had grown a national church that now had its own character, its own martyrs and theology. To the old Catholic Church, I was a bastard and usurper queen; thus I say that my birth imposed Protestantism upon me.

  Why must England, a poor country, be stuck with subsidizing three others—the French, the Dutch, the Scots—and facing Spain, the Goliath champion of Catholicism? God’s teeth, wasn’t it enough for me to defend and manage my own realm? The role was a sponge that soaked up our resources and was driving us slowly but inexorably toward bankruptcy. To be the soldier of God was an expense I could have done without.

  Soldier. God must be laughing, to have handed me his banner to carry, when all the world knew—or thought it did—that a woman could never lead troops into battle.

  Mendoza ... His face still haunted me, as if the dream clung inside my head. His black, searching eyes and snake-thin face, his shiny skin and receding hairline—if he was not a villain, he looked like one. He had plotted and spied here in England, until he was exposed and expelled. His last words upon boarding were “Tell your mistress that Bernardino de Mendoza was born not to disturb kingdoms but to conquer them.” Since then he had settled in Paris as King Philip’s ambassador, creating a web of espionage and intrigue that spread across all Europe.