“God’s wounds!” Queen Elizabeth swore as loud as she could, like a force of nature, her voice an ear-piercing screech. “My soul is full of woe! What gave any of you the right to murder my cousin Mary?”
Her angry shrieking was much louder and much worse than Lord Burghley could ever have feared. He was a very sensitive man, and had to cover his ears. He thought how unlike herself she was right now.
Then, he suddenly realized that Queen Elizabeth was yelling at him in particular, and not to the other lords in general, whom she had commanded to assemble in the Presence Chamber at the Palace of White Hall, to face her wrath. He was entirely unprepared to be attacked like this, especially since he knew that she had wanted Mary dead, sooner rather than later. He thought frantically, Why is she feigning shock and sorrow? It was only a few days ago that she had asked me to explore ways how to assassinate Mary at Fotheringay secretly, to avoid the public spectacle of an execution.
She suddenly moved at him, to block his path, to corner him and wear him down—as if she was about to trample him to the floor, and rip him to pieces. She was heaving and panting, short of breath. Her body seemed ready to explode out of her incredibly beautiful dress, dripping with precious jewels, and decorated with many colorful bird feathers.
He thought she looked like some kind of awe-striking mythological heavenly creature, especially since her eyes were so inflamed—almost the same intense red color as her hair. But it now dawned on him that whatever bird she was, she was a predator—and he was her prey. His mind raced, spinning out of control, and he tried to make sense of her, She looks like a harpy perhaps. Yes a harpy, like the ones Aeneas encountered, the Strophades they were called. But why is she striking me with awe, and singling me out? Why isn’t she beating the others? Why is she preying only on me?
Her face was ghostly white with thickly applied make-up. In her present enraged state, he thought it made her look like the stuff of nightmares. A harpy, yes a harpy, he thought, as his imagination ran wild, her face is pale with hunger, gloomy, savage, she is a scourge sent by the wrath of some evil gods, flying about above us with the face of a woman, but with foul revolting oozing filth below, hands like talons to feed her famished mouth, her dress like wings beating, as she squawks at me!
Burghley couldn’t stand still, as she hovered near him, and sucked at her teeth. He thought she might hungrily pick the flesh from his carcass while he was still alive. She squawked, “Speak! Do not turn to stone, Lord Burghley! I will have you speak, and speak this instant!”
He mumbled and muttered, unable to form a coherent reply. He turned to try to evade her, but she would not let him go, pecking at him. Like a cockatrice perhaps, he thought, able to kill me just by looking at me!
He held out the thin and long white wand of office he always carried, and accidentally almost hit her across the face with it! She became even more enraged, and stood back from him for a moment. She tried to catch her breath. She sucked on her teeth, blackened from too many treats and sugared wine.
As he struggled to think of what to say, he thought, I must become like a weasel, yes a weasel—because weasels are small, fearless and fast. Most importantly, they are immune to the death-gaze of a cockatrice.
He wanted to stand his ground and stand up to her, but he knew, I am no Bellerophon. I am not able to slay the Chimera, that monster with a head of a lion, a body of a goat, and the tail of a serpent—that furious fire-breathing creature!
He didn’t look like Bellerophon, who was tall, handsome and strong, and able to slay Amazonian women. Burghley was sixty-six years old, short, incredibly fat, and very pale. Bellerophon rode the famous winged horse Pegasus. Burghley rode an ass in his garden.
No matter how much he tried to form a coherent thought, and reply to her, he was distracted by her dress. It was ripping due to her vigorous attack on him. Her dress is entirely inappropriate for her, the collar is cut too low, her bosom is much too visible, especially for a woman of fifty-three. Yes, it is especially and wholly unacceptable for a monarch to wear.
He was also entirely confused by her reaction to the news of Mary’s execution. He found such emotional outbursts to be an excessive show of grief, and an obstinate and selfish waste of energy. Bewildered, he thought, Why must she resort to these hysterical histrionics? Why must she wail so? Plato was correct—a strong and moral person does not grieve by moaning and wailing like a woman.
He stopped moving, to catch his breath. He thought, with absolute certainty, Her Majesty the Queen really should not behave like a woman.
Suddenly, Queen Elizabeth backed away, and gave up on him. She was frustrated that she had been unable to make Burghley respond. She caught her breath, and said, “I could sooner get blood from a stone than I could get an answer out of you, you stone of a man! You must be more stone than human, and by the looks of it, you must weigh sixteen stone, at least!”
Many people in the audience laughed at Lord Burghley’s expense.
Queen Elizabeth thought, And yet I underestimated him. I didn’t think he had the stones to murder Mary! She almost laughed out loud. She turned and covered her mouth so no one would see. She did not want to spoil the effect of being seen so enraged and inflamed by Mary’s death.
It had only been a few minutes since she had heard that Mary was dead. Burghley had just given her a very brief report of the execution, which she found terribly anemic and dull. She knew that she should rein in her emotions, Yes, my emotions are running wild, like horses bolting from their stables. I am not myself today. She prided herself on her self control, and yet she could not seem to control her body at all right now. Her eyes burned, she could feel something like a rash all over her body, she thought she might sneeze at any moment, her nose had just started to run, she was short of breath, her chest heaved, and she could feel her whole body swell up.
She liked to think that she was more beautiful when she was still and serene, like a tapestry hung on the wall. She often saw herself as a monumental and magnificent tapestry, made of the most precious silken thread—that was so grand, so exquisite, and so enigmatic that it was beyond all value, and beyond all human powers of apprehension. She liked to think that if that the thread of her tapestry was stretched from end to end, it could reach the Moon.
Now with the news of Mary’s death, she had a terrible pain like she was coming apart at the seams, and the whole fabric of her self was being irreparably torn into pieces. It terrified her, as if she could feel even more threads coming undone, leaving her frayed. The whole of her—all of the memories, all of the desires and fears, the pain and the pleasure, and all of the women who inspired her to be the woman she was—was crumbling.
Yet, part of her wanted to celebrate, and her heart leapt with joy as she thought, Mary the witch—she is gone for good!
She saw the faces of the people around her. She feared that they could see how delighted she was now. She resented their suspicious looks. Why can’t I celebrate it openly, and shout the glorious joyful news out loud—and shamelessly jubilate? Queen Clytemnestra brazenly exulted after she killed Agamemnon, for killing Iphigenia. Why must I appear sad and mournful?
Even worse, she also did feel some sadness and mournfulness, for Mary’s death. It only made her angry at herself, Why must I feel any such dolor? Why must I feel even the tiniest mote of sorrow? What makes me feel so low at the same time that I feel so exultant—as if I am soaring in the clouds with joy?
She saw the lords and ladies arrayed before her, including almost all of the forty-four Commissioners whom she had personally selected for Mary’s trial. She had persuaded these men to condemn and to execute Mary—but now that Mary was dead, she resented the same men.
But she also did not completely know if she had indeed wanted them to execute Mary. She thought, Of course I wanted Mary dead, for years I wanted nothing more than her death. There were days that I could not live because she was alive, where I was buried in grief and fear because of her presence in England. There were years when I wanted to enjoy my reign, unencumbered by any fears or doubts. I wanted my reign to be like one long walk in a garden, where I could admire the flowers—but everywhere I turned the invasive and worthless weeds of Mary Stuart grew. Some weeds have worth. Mary was worthless. Some weeds are edible. I was choking on her.
She thought of how King Alexander II of Scotland outlawed the corn marigold weed. She thought, Mary was a weed that had to be prohibited from growing, at all costs. She had to be plucked out, ruthlessly. But that longing, that desire for Mary’s death—that did not mean that in my heart of hearts I expected her to be murdered.
She wondered if she had made the right decision, in summoning all of these people here now. She wanted them to see how angry she was. She wanted the lords and ladies to assemble, so she could publicly condemn the Commissioners. But now that these people were here, she was sick to her stomach. Even now, as she looked at all of the people who were gathered, she was not sure that they should know anything, or see their Queen in such a state. But since they were there already, it did give her an immediate opportunity to shift the blame. I have to make the Commissioners accept the blame, even if they are not wholly to blame—and even if no one believes that I am not to blame. Mary’s death must not stain my hands. My body must remain pure and unblemished—and forever as clean and as holy as it was the day that I was anointed by God. My epitaph must not be made inglorious with any hint of scandal. My legend must be golden, and not made black by any suggestion of foul deeds.
She howled at the Commissioners, “I never sent you to murder her!”
They looked abject, but unconvinced by her words. Even she was not convinced by her own words. She tried to think of something else to say, to be more persuasive, but couldn’t. So she said nothing, for the moment. She thought, What I say is almost irrelevant. There is probably not a person here who believes that I am innocent of Mary’s death. But I must strongly and emphatically discourage anyone from saying that I am to blame—not now, not tomorrow, not ever. No one here, in my royal court, in all of England must breath a word of this—or they will suffer terrible consequences. Eventually there will come a time when these people are no longer alive, and the truth of what happened to Mary will die with them. One day, whatever is said, whatever is written, whatever is believed, it will all be clouded by so much doubt, and compromised by the passage of so much time, that nothing will be known for certain by anyone anywhere. History is never a chronicle of the truth—it is not much more than idle speculation, and mere opinion.
She saw her ladies-in-waiting arrayed along the walls, like a silent jury, to witness and pass judgment on the men for their transgression. She had to speak to them, in order to put things back in order, to make them think that she was not falling apart, and fraying—even as she struggled to keep herself together, and to keep her mind in order. She had to say something. I must discover if anyone here will attempt to escape my yoke, and remove the tattoo from their forehead. I must flush them out, like driving a deer into the open. I must not allow my subjects to stray into the wilderness, and become some sort of unimaginably and inhumanly unruly beasts—too loathsome and terrible to describe.
But what do I say?
She thought of Athena, the warrior goddess whose guidance Elizabeth so often sought, especially now that England was fighting in the Netherlands. She often called on Athena when great matters of state were concerned, since Athena was the patron and protectress of the state. Athena was also the goddess of wisdom, medicine, poetry, commerce, diplomacy—and weaving.
Elizabeth thought, Weaving. How appropriate. Do not all women weave, even the clumsy and unskilled ones? Are not weaving and spinning and knitting fundamental to the nature of women—in order to make sense of life and the world in which we live?
She was convinced that without the fine art of weaving tales and things, without compelling stories and beautiful woven handcraft, there would be no medicine, no poetry, no commerce, no diplomacy, and no wisdom. To her, it was all connected. It was all part of the same enormous and fundamental fabric of reality and illusion. To her, it was all one vast web which women created—without which men could not exist.
She thought of the virgin princess Philomela. To tell the story of the crimes committed against her, and to communicate her woe, she wove a tapestry.
She thought of how Queen Penelope of Ithaca spent twenty long years making a single burial shroud, for her father-in-law, Laertes. While her husband Odysseus was away on his odyssey, many ambitious men courted her. To stall them, Penelope cunningly weaved, then un-weaved, and then re-weaved the same shroud night after night.
She thought of the mortal maiden Arachne from Lydia, who challenged Athena to a weaving contest. For her hubris, Athena turned Arachne into the very first spider.
Now, in response to Mary’s death, Elizabeth knew that she had to start spinning now. I have to fashion something the world has never seen, and spin a story the world had never heard. I must draw out and twist the rough and raw fiber of reality—and then I must weave, un-weave, and re-weave it as soon as possible, starting right now, before it becomes history. I must spin and weave history to my advantage—I must make history my handiwork.
She knew that she could not weave such a nuanced and persuasive story immediately. A spider can’t make her silk all at once. A tapestry is made with one thread at a time. A dexterous seamstress can’t be rushed.
As the Queen of England, she had been doing such weaving for almost thirty years. She had played many parts, and acted many scenes. She had many facets, and wore many masks. She was the Queen of England. She was the Supreme Governor of the Church of England. She commanded all matters regarding the military, the economy, and diplomatic relations. Under her command, England was finally exploring and colonizing the world—and becoming an empire.
With the guidance and inspiration from a woman like Athena, as the goddess of war, Elizabeth liked to think that she was the most formidable fighter in England. As Queen, she always won. But now, with Mary’s death, she was facing challengers from every direction and in numbers she could not calculate. The odds are not in my favor. The Wheel of Fortune is turning against me. Even I would not be foolish enough to put a wager on myself at this moment, she thought grimly.
She looked at the lords and ladies assembled in her royal court now, and knew she would have to fight them, all of them, perhaps even to the death. She even had to entertain the notion that all of them might have to die, if it was necessary to preserve her legacy. She recognized the look on their faces, that look of dread.
She often thought that she had a supernatural ability to read the minds of people. As she looked at these people now, she thought, I know what they think in their heads—They think that I have emerged from the black Stygian waters like a harpy—or as if I have turned into a basilisk, or into the winged Medusa, able to turn them all to stone with my gaze.
She thought that she might have to turn them to stone, I must disarm them or render them harmless, like a lifeless statue—or they will do the same to me, and turn me into some old effigy you put in the corner to collect dust, and forget.
She was terrified by the thought, and had to fight it, I will not become anyone’s antiquity. I am no one’s spinster. I am very much alive. I am not dead yet. The tapestry of my life is far from complete. I will not let them hang it in a secluded room. I am not a dusty old cobweb, to be cleaned away. My silk is fresh and vibrant and full of life!
Suddenly, she was totally gripped with fear—Do they wish to put me in a marble tomb now, and shut me up forever, like they shut up Mary?
She also feared that she was being misunderstood—As if they are watching me but not seeing me, as if their eyes are closed, as if what I am saying and what I am doing is much too much for their simpleminded brains to comprehend. I must make them watch me attentively, and not mistake me for anyone else.
What is the use of my being here if I am not going to be heard and seen?
She suddenly lost control of herself—she stomped her foot, and yelled at them, “Look at me! I am not dead yet! Do not pronounce me dead and gone! Do not bury me prematurely! Do not throw dirt on my grave just yet, or put me in a crypt while I still draw breath! I will claw my way out of any mound of dirt you plot to put me in! I will topple any stone you design for my entombment! My grave is open and will remain open forever! I will not happily oblige you, I will not willingly assume my place in it, to sleep forever!”
Just in case they didn’t hear her, she cried defiantly, “I am awake! I am living—and I am very much alive!”
The people in the court had no idea what she meant. They looked mystified.
Despite the strange looks from the people around her, and despite the news of Mary’s death, she found herself refreshed, and filled with a very lively energy. She wanted to put a new kind of fear in the lords and ladies. If she couldn’t turn them to stone, then she wanted to assume a new and far more frightening shape. She laughed, trying to think of what shape she could take, to take them all on, every last one of them, everyone in the entire world. She laughed, almost bellowing like a man, and thought, Let’s see which one of you can stand their ground, face to face with me, hold their head erect, open their eyes, and look directly into my eyes!
She scanned their faces, and looked into their thoughts, Who among you can dare look me directly in the eye and really see me for who I truly am? Who among any of you dares to think you can comprehend me and my many facets? I am a jewel too precious and too rare and too large for your simple and dull human minds to assess!
Her mind raced as she thought of what shape she wanted to assume, I don’t merely want to be a violent vicious virago, or just a screeching shrieking shrew.
She liked to think she had the power to assume different shapes. She thought of herself sometimes like the sea nymph, Thetis. If she was provoked, Thetis could turn into a flame, water, a serpent, or even a fierce lioness. No, Elizabeth thought, a lion is not enough, not now, not for this.
Right now she wanted to become something far scarier, Like an ungentle Termagant dark-skinned Moorish god, in long robes—in order to scare these so-called good Christians to death. Or better yet, perhaps I should dye Mary’s death-dress in her own blood and wear it on my head as a turban like some tawny-skinned Empress! Perhaps I should expose my breast for battle—like the virgin Camilla, a lawless and wild Volscian warrior maiden!
But then she thought of the ancient Greek Furies, like the ones who afflicted Orestes, I could be a Fury like Tisiphone, the angry coal-black flying goddess—the Fury who avenges murder. I could haunt these Commissioners, for their having murdered Mary!
She remembered how Tisiphone wore a dress dripping with blood, and thought, I will not cut myself, or wound myself, to draw my own blood, to feed my vengeance. No! I must cut someone here and now, and wear their blood, freshly sprung from their body—reeking, fresh and hot!
She scanned the crowded room, looking for a willing sacrifice, a lamb she could slaughter. Only then did she realize how every lord was armed with a sword and dagger, as was customary. She never before had the feeling of being threatened by weapons in her royal court, but she did now. Even with their weapons safely sheathed, her body shivered, as if she could feel the slicing of the blades in her flesh. Even though the wounds were only in her imagination, she could still feel them. She tried not to worry, or show any visible signs of pain or distress—even though she feared that they might all come at her at once, and slaughter her in a frenzy of stabbings.
Seeing that no one was about to pounce on her, she became more wrathful, and screamed at the Commissioners even louder, to strike fear in them, and make them abandon any plot to murder her right now—“What do you have to say for yourself? Which one of you will admit your fault, and beg for mercy? Who? Speak, one of you! God’s Blood, speak!”
Deep in her heart, she hoped that Leicester wouldn’t take the bait. It pleased her that Walsingham answered her first. To her surprise, he spoke calmly and firmly, as if none of her fury had made him afraid, “Your Majesty gave us the right to execute her, when Your Majesty signed the death warrant. It was not murder.”
She swooped towards him and howled at him, “I answer only to God and to no one else. How dare you challenge me? Just because she deserved to be executed, does not mean that she should have been executed—and even though I may have wanted her to be executed, that does not mean that you should have executed her!”
When he did not recoil in fear, she suddenly slapped his face!
Walsingham tried to act unfazed, but his pride was hurt. He betrayed no emotion. I will not forget this, nor will I forgive this moment, he thought.
She wanted more from him, she wanted a good fight from him, she wanted to play with him, as her prey. Like Hecuba did to Polymestor, she thought, I want to claw his face, to blind him and smear his blood all over my dress.
She knew that she had to say something to discredit Walsingham’s point about the death warrant. She could not let anyone believe what he said was the final and absolute truth. She thought, I must un-weave what he said, and then re-weave it in a way that suits me. Even if the result is confusing, it is better than his having the last word.
She said loudly, “First of all, you should never have presumed to bring a death warrant for a queen, to me, your Queen. Even if I signed it, you should have disregarded it, and known that it was a test of your fidelity to me. Also, even if I signed it, you should never have acted on it, without my express consent. Just because I signed it does not mean that you should have taken any action. And finally, the only reason why I signed the warrant was because you tricked me into believing that traitors were afoot across England plotting arson attacks, perhaps even on White Hall. I was tricked by you into believing that Spanish forces were landing on the coast of Wales!”
She had not been tricked. She knew all along that they had tried to scare her into approving Mary’s death. She didn’t expect all of them to believe her, but she said it anyway, daring them to refute her publicly.
Burghley foolishly tried to challenge her now. He gestured to Leicester and the other lords, in order to spread the blame around, “Our intelligence regarding the Spanish landing was incorrect—“
She turned and descended on him, “It was your intelligence, Lord Burghley! Yours and yours alone! Do not shift the blame to other men—you must take sole responsibility, you fat and gouty old fool!”
As angry as she appeared, she knew that she could not make a sacrificial slaughter of Burghley, since he was so valuable to her. But she did want to make him bleed. As she poked his fat stomach angrily, she almost hoped his stomach might rip open, and his intestines would fall to the floor, so she could have his blood to wear, “You should have been more intelligent when collecting and assessing your intelligence—”
Some in the royal court chuckled, and she was pleased that they laughed at Burghley, and not at her. She continued, “Lord Burghley, you should have known better! You should have known it, like a gut feeling, somewhere in your incalculably huge stomach!”
The royal court laughed even more. The Queen was feeling better, as she ridiculed him. She did enjoy seeing him in such an agitated state. She loved nothing more than making such a brilliant man look foolish. She found him incredibly fascinating, even though he was usually a complete bore. She was always surprised at how many men like him there were in history—like Cimon the Silly, or Chilon of Sparta. Yes, Burghley is very much like Chilon—who was so cunning and secretive, he could fart silently!
She laughed at Burghley and poked him again, as if to force the wind out of him. She whispered to him, “One of these days, I will prick you until you burst, and know all your secrets, you old windbag!”
As her Lord High Treasurer, she needed him too much to completely destroy him now. Burghley was her Hades—the god of the Underworld, and god of the dead. Burghley’s motives and methods were dark and impenetrable to her, and he was also the source of so much great wealth and fertility in England—as Hades had been for the ancient Greeks. She thought, Also, as my god of the dead, Burghley is the one man who knows where all of the bodies are buried!
She also needed Burghley to provide balance against the Earl of Leicester, who was her balance against Burghley. They were her most important councillors of all. But she could not decide which man was her “right hand”—so she decided that they were both her right hand, at different times, and for different purposes. She thought, And what makes them both such effective right hands is the fact that they both can be so underhanded and left handed. They are both equally good at being sinister when it is necessary.
She thought of Leicester as her Poseidon, the god of the seas. She frequently sent him away on ships for military campaigns, and she counted on him the most to guard the shores of England.
She turned and looked at Leicester now. She became breathless at the sight of him, she loved him so much. She loved looking at him, because he never looked precisely the same. In direct light he could look like any Englishman. At times, with only a single candle burning to illuminate his face, he looked like a dark-skinned Egyptian in aspect. She often thought that he was as handsome as any god, and perhaps as attractive as Poseidon, who was also the god of horses. One of the very first decisions she made, when she claimed the throne in 1558, was to make Leicester her Master of the Horse. It compelled him to stand by her side more than any other man in England, just as she wanted.
Poseidon was also the god of earthquakes. To her, there was no other man who could make the ground beneath her feet tremble and shake the way that Leicester could. Yet she knew that Leicester was no god, and she knew he was not even very good, or honest, or honorable. I wholly despise myself for loving so desperately such an entirely despicable man.
As much as she hated him, she needed him to lead her armies. I need him as much as Deborah needed Barak as her general—even though Leicester hurls thunderbolts at me, and sometimes makes me feel as small as a bee.
She winced now, feeling that familiar painful pang of desire for him. There is no such thing as a perfect man—but he comes the closest. In this world, most men have small minds, and small dreams, and small ambitions. Most men never aspire to be more than a titmouse—while Leicester is a Titan. All men are wicked—which makes him the least wicked man—because he does not try to disguise his devilry. And he is the most uncommon man who does not dislike being ruled by a woman.
Now if only I could get him to obey me as his Queen.
She looked away from Leicester, because she did not want to fight with him.
She often worried about what kind of Poseidon he truly was. Is he the good Poseidon, who helped Amymone and Cleito? Or is he the Poseidon who could rape Medusa in the temple of Athena? Will he lift me up or be my downfall?
She noticed Archbishop John Whitgift, whom she found to be humorless and presumptuous. He stepped away from her, as if he could see an evil spirit coming upon her.
She thought she might be shifting her shape too much, and tried to appear less demonic. She modulated her voice, to sound innocent and unthreatening now, and said, “Also, this death warrant you speak of—I subsequently canceled that death warrant! I did not want her to die!”
It was not entirely true, and not wholly false. She could see the looks on their faces, the looks of disbelief and shock that she would claim such a thing. She instantly accused them, to keep them on the defensive, “What kind of monster do you think I am, that I would sentence her to death? Am I some kind of beast to you, some untamed creature?”
Naturally, no would dare say such a thing. She changed her voice again, to sound like the only reasonable and enlightened person in her entire government, “If monarchs begin to sentence each other to death, the whole world will descend into chaos, into utter and complete devastation—a desolate, cold and empty wilderness. If monarchs murder one another—oh, what horrors would befall the world, where everyone turns into sharks, feeding on each other.”
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She channeled great rage in her voice, and made her posture even more erect, “Is that what you take me for? A destroyer of worlds?”
The court erupted as the lords and ladies fell over themselves to say, “No! No, Your Majesty!”
But while she wanted them to acknowledge that she was not the destroyer of worlds, she did not want to appear weak. She decided to play a defiant victim, “Do I sound harsh to your ears? Do you think I screech, like an owl or a raven? Would you prefer to silence me, like a speechless swallow—like Procne?”
The court did not know how to respond.
The story of Procne and her sister Philomela was a very significant one to Elizabeth. From the time she was very young, when she was Princess Elizabeth Tudor, she could remember the odd and disturbing looks that men gave her. She began to believe that she was sinful inside, and that her sinfulness was visible for all to see. For a long time she thought that there was something wrong with her.
But then she read how Procne’s husband, King Tereus, repeatedly raped Philomela, and tried to silence her. As a princess, Elizabeth realized there was a strange, powerful and sometimes violent sexual desire that consumes some men, and drives them to satisfy their carnal appetites. She also realized that the men who gave her those looks, those hungry looks, did not look at her like that just because they wanted to steal her virginity, but also because she was the daughter of the king, and an heir to the throne. She realized that they wanted to sexually gratify themselves with her, and they wanted to have her power.
She had an epiphany then, as young woman—that she was a very valuable quarry in a forest full of powerful and ambitious hunters. She began to read about the many virgin martyrs in history, like Saint Agnes, who was murdered by pagan Roman men because she would not surrender her virginity nor her devotion to God.
At the time, Princess Elizabeth thought, All too often in the history of this world, men will destroy what they can not have!
The silence in the court infuriated Queen Elizabeth now, “What? I tell you now, I will not be silent. You can try to silence me, you can even cut out my tongue, like Philomela, the ‘lover of song’—but I will sing and be heard like a nightingale—even if you abhor my sorrowful lament!”
She could sense their hostility. She needed to show them that she was their master, and to scare them back into their cages, like so many slavish hounds. She thought,Yes, dogs need discipline as much as they need affection. They will never seek the comfort of being pet with an open hand unless they know the sting of a strike of a closed fist.
She stomped her foot imperiously, and spoke, with more bass in her voice, like a man, “Have you forgotten who I am? I am the legitimate and lawful successor to King Henry the Eighth who succeeded his father, King Henry the Seventh—the first of the Tudor monarchs! I am the rightful heir, and the lawful successor, based on centuries of Plantagenet blood. I have ruled longer than most kings, including Brutus of Troy, Britain’s very first king! I am the fulfillment of the ancient prophecy of the magician Merlin, that most venerable of soothsayers, who was the counselor to King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. I am the ‘Royal Virgin’ whom Merlin predicted! I am that divinely anointed Queen who will stretch her godly and mighty power over many lands, and make our enemies ‘shake and fall!’”
Everyone bowed their heads obediently.
Yes, I struck the right tone of voice—like a man, she thought. She never liked using a manly voice. In her opinion, it was a necessary evil. She had discovered this trick some years ago, when she could not settle a quarrel in her Privy Council. As she was arguing with Burghley and Leicester, her voice became low and strong. It made her remember how the gods were thanked when Queen Clytemnestra spoke with the diplomatic shrewdness of a man.
Elizabeth both admired and feared Clytemnestra. She thought, She transformed her woman’s feeling heart into a heart of a man that is unfeeling. She transformed her beautiful woman’s body into a scabbard to hold and conceal the beastly willpower of a man—a willpower like a razor-sharp and hidden blade.
Over time, this dagger grew and sharpened within Elizabeth, cutting her from the inside, and disfiguring her body into a hardened sheathe to accommodate it. She did not often speak like a man, and draw that dagger, but it was there if she needed it, like now.
She did not want to be a man. She enjoyed being a woman—and she especially loved being a woman who commanded men. She often thought, with great satisfaction, I am the mistress who is their master!
She also thought that she was every bit as strong as men. She often compared herself to Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, who disfigured herself in order to fight as well as any man. Penthesilea was compelled to go to fight on the side of the doomed Trojans, and to kill Achilles, because she had accidentally killed her sister Hippolyta, while out hunting deer.
Elizabeth suddenly had a pang of sorrow for Mary, and thought, My cousin is dead, Mary is executed. What should I do, what can I do, that would compare to Penthesilea’s self-sacrifice? What part of myself should I mutilate as an appeasement to God?
She was mortified by her own weakness right now. If I were a man, if I were the King of England—a King Henry the Ninth perhaps—I would not be wringing my hands, rending my garment, beating my breast and pulling my hair. I would turn my fury outward, and not inward against myself.
She turned towards the lords and ladies, to turn her fury against them. She drew that hidden dagger just a little bit more than usual, just in case any of them were growing hungry to devour her, as a nightingale—like Philomela. She remembered a fable by Hesiod, and wielded it against them like a weapon, “In case any of you get any ideas, and foolishly imagine yourself a hawk—I warn you not to become attracted to me, as a nightingale, with my many-hued neck. Do not dream of snatching me up and carrying me high into the clouds, caught in your talons! I warn you, it is futile to set yourself against me. You will lack victory. You will suffer grief upon grief!”
The court fell absolutely silent. She believed that she had scared them into submission. But just in case they didn’t hear her, she said, “I will make you suffer—I will serve you up a terrible pain, and top it with shame—and then I will have you for my supper.”
By the looks on their faces, they seemed to lose any appetite to defy her. It pleased her. But then, she suddenly realized there were some men missing, and looked around angrily, “Where are the other Councillors? Where is Raleigh?”
Burghley was all too happy to shift her wrath to someone else, “Raleigh sent word. He has taken ill.”
No one believed it, especially not the Queen.
It had the effect Burghley wanted, it made her furious. She thundered, “God’s wounds! I will make Raleigh so sick he will wish he had never been born!”
She noticed how Archbishop Whitgift winced with disapproval. He never liked it when she took the Lord’s name in vain, like a blasphemous common swearer. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with him, especially not now. She turned to the others. She wanted to make them all fear her, and cower, but they were a stubborn lot, and were not unaccustomed to her volatile outbursts. Burghley tried to appease her, and offer up a sacrificial scape-goat, “If Your Majesty wishes, I will have William Davison sent to the Tower.”
She liked the offer. But it was not enough. She also knew that she shouldn’t appear too satisfied, too quickly, “I should send all of you to the Tower, for having tricked me!”
As much as she wanted Leicester to stay silent, his silence was making her furious. He was usually so loud, so forceful, she couldn’t get him to shut up. She looked at him, and found herself confused, Why don’t I presently feel any warmth for that hulking, greying and tired old knight—the only man I love—the only man I can not live without?
She knew him better than anyone else. He had allowed her to get closer to him than anyone else. I see under his surface, I know him for the man he really is. I see the blackness of his heart and the foulness of his soul. No matter how well he tries to hide it and how hard he tries to make himself clean, I can smell the stench all over him. There is nothing he can do to eliminate the miasma of his rotten and cursed family.
“My Eyes,” she said, addressing Leicester by the nickname she chose for him ages ago. “In killing Mary, you have plucked out my eyes and your eyes both. We are now blind, without vision of the future, without the gift of foresight. How will you see for me, and lead me, your Queen, now?”
Leicester thought she could not have chosen crueler words. It wounded him to hear her say such things, and for her to use his nickname so publicly, and without any affection. But he was not unaccustomed to her whips and lashes. As the Queen’s first and most prominent royal “Favourite” he knew that he was in her heart, and lodged there for good—no matter what she said, how loudly she screamed, or how low her blows were.
She knew that he, Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester, was the most despised, feared, and envied man in England. That did not bother her. She needed him more than any man in England, even with his faults. She looked at how overweight he was now, and she knew that she was partly to blame. Years of eating too much with her, at her table, and by her side, had made him a rotund shadow of his former self. He was no longer the athletic dancer, brave soldier, and passionate lover she once knew. Sadly, she thought, He now rarely dances, he shirks battle, and he needs potions to stimulate his lust.
She snapped at him--“What do you have to say for yourself, my Lord of Leicester? You murdered Mary. The blood of a monarch, a queen, is on your hands! And not just any monarch, mind you. She is a sister-in-law to King Philip of Spain, and to King Henri of France. She is the Duke of Guise’s cousin. She is the King of Scotland’s mother!”
Leicester did not even attempt to reply. He was the only man brave enough to ignore a direct question from the Queen of England. But he knew that whatever he said now was going to be the wrong thing to say. He knew that Elizabeth was not attempting to have a dialogue—she was performing. He had a fear that she, in this fury of hers now, might do something terrible and regrettable.
The Queen erupted, and exposed one of her darkest fears, “I wouldn’t be surprised if my cousin King James of Scotland forms an army against me, to invade England!”
Some of her Councillors shook their heads, as if unafraid of King James. She made a mental note of them, because she found such disagreement suspicious—Henry Neville, 6th Baron Bergavenny, George Talbot, 6th Earl of Shrewsbury, and Henry Stanley, 4th Earl of Derby.
They were among the most powerful men in England. She loathed them all, and she especially hated the fact that she needed them so much. In times of need she depended on their money, and she needed their followers. But it was Henry Stanley who concerned her the most. Is that a look of pleasure on his face? Does he really enjoy seeing me like this?
She lost control of her temper and screeched at him, “Wipe that smirk off your face, Lord Stanley! The murder of Mary is an insult to every monarch! Including me! Would you not agree, Lord Stanley?”
Stanley had been a patron of a company of actors for many years. He knew when someone was excessively theatrical, and he was not impressed by her performance. He wanted to say as little as possible. With a bow of his head and a straight face, he said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Leicester finally spoke, “It was never meant to insult Your Majesty! It was only meant to help!”
Elizabeth was surprised that Leicester would speak to defend Stanley. She would not forget that. She laughed, delighted to have finally goaded him to speak, “I despise how dense my Lord of Leicester can be, how short-sighted he can be! But Mary’s murder does insult me! It does injure me! It violates my Majesty! It is a deed of slander against me, and all monarchs! Do you not see? With Mary’s death, monarchs might be mistaken for mortals. People might begin to believe that monarchs are human, vulnerable, and susceptible to death.”
Leicester looked her right in the eyes, trying to calm her down. He wanted to keep her from continuing to behave so wildly, in public view of the lords and ladies. It was unprecedented. Without blinking, he spoke to her affectionately, like she was a skittish mare, “The only thing that matters is that Your Majesty is very much alive. Mary is dead, once and for all—and with her death ends any and all plots that she has inspired or could inspire.”
As much as Elizabeth wanted to hate him, she could not. She knew he killed Mary for her, because he loved and feared for her safety. But she had to punish him in some way. She had to correct his behavior, like an unruly hound. She stalked towards him.
It broke her heart to be so cold and cruel to him, but it was necessary, “Who gives you permission to murder monarchs, and decide for me? What gives you the right to make decisions for a queen? What god anointed you? Do you consider yourself above me? Are you Robert, the King of England now? Are you King Robert the First? Shall I resign my Crown to you now?”
Leicester just looked at her blankly, to give her nothing. He knew that she had to tire herself out. He did not want to engage in a duel of words, or play any games with her. He learned long ago that there was no winning against a queen.
His silence amused her. She could tell that he wanted to play games with her. She took the crown from her head, and held it out to him. “Would you take it, my Lord—my beloved Robin?”
“Robin” was her pet name for him, which she normally used sparingly, and to express how much she cherished him. He knew that, by using it now, she was hoping he might be more acquiescent and show her some affection. But instead he gave her a cold look. There were too many times when she used “Robin” to make him feel small, like a lap-dog. He was not going to shrink for her now.
His silence worried her. “Should I resign this crown to you, or would you rather seize it from me, by force? Would you prefer, in your moment of greatest glory, to see my grief?”
His continued silence infuriated her, the feral look in his eyes scared her, and his anger brought out the ugliness in his features, which she could usually overlook.
She thought, I might need to beat him for his own good, or throw him in the River Tamyse to cool off his hot temper.
He was sad for her. He thought she was making herself look less like a queen every second. He also worried about her health, especially since he had never seen her eyes so bloodshot. He had to end this—even if it meant giving her what she wanted—offering himself up to her as some kind of sacrificial offering. Knowing that she would probably strike him, he stepped forward, and lowered his face, to make it easier for her to reach—as if he was about to kiss her breast, which she used to enjoy. He began to speak.
She slapped his face!
The lords and ladies were completely shocked. They had seen her fight with Leicester before. They all knew the rumors and heard the gossip of how they fought. But this public abusive punishment was unprecedented. Such a harsh public rebuke was almost unheard of—especially for one of the two most important men in her government. To see her attack Burghley and Leicester in the same day was beyond belief.
She couldn’t look at Leicester now. She was instantly remorseful for having hit him. Why does he invite my wrath so much—and why does he make my wrath so uncontrollably ferocious and cruel?
She decided to use her inflamed emotions to make her voice louder—she screamed at the other lords, “Since you have all so successfully plotted Mary's death, will you all now plot mine, too?” Many of the lords bowed and scraped, mumbling effusive apologies, and denials. She was inwardly thrilled to see their spirits crushed, and how immediately they finally cowered to her.
She wanted more of it, “Who here thinks he is above me? By God’s hooks! Who?” She then targeted Burghley, “Do you, Lord Burghley—or should I call you King Cecil?”
Burghley looked appalled. He had hoped that she would have forgotten that story. Apparently she was all too happy to rip open that old wound again.
She laughed and mocked all of them with her laughter. It made her joyful to see the greatest and wealthiest and most powerful men and women in England all look so pitiful. But she had little time to savor it. Since she was so alarmed by Mary’s death, she had to make them as alarmed as she was, “Do you not see? Do you not understand what you have done? Do you not you realize how seriously you have jeopardized all of England? No, the whole world!”
Her own voice and her own words made her more alarmed than she was before, and her whole body burned with anger. Suddenly she roared at them, with her most resonant and manly voice, “All of you—you have opened the gates of Hell!”
Most of the lords fell to their knees, and prostrated themselves before her. They pretended to love and fear her as God’s Anointed, and as God’s Lieutenant on Earth. They behaved as if she was now God’s divine vice-regent, communicating not her own thoughts—but actually speaking for Almighty God.
As she spoke, her voice became even more passionate, “God has endowed all monarchs with a greatness, a sublime power—Majesty. It is like a sacred flame, that is surrounded by a hedge. If any man should cross the hedge, they are cursed—to go mad, to be crippled, or to die.”
She looked at the lords as if they were cursed, and guilty of crossing the hedge. “You have not only trampled the hedge, you have extinguished Mary’s sacred flame.”
She then glowered at them, as gravely as possible. She had half a mind to instantly render them all lame, insane, or lifeless. Part of her believed that all of her lords and ladies deserved to be cursed, since they were such a curse on her. Part of her wanted to suddenly and utterly annihilate them all with the full force of her Majesty. She thought, Perhaps I must destroy all of them and reduce them to nothing—before they have a chance to cut me down, felling me like some mighty tree, and blot me out like I never existed.
Leicester was not overawed by her like the others. To him, Elizabeth was the same woman, and the same Queen. In all the years that he knew the Queen, he never lay himself on the floor submissively, or take a deferential knee to her, even if she was a queen—and regardless of however holy she was.
He remained standing upright, as she marched through the lords, and touched them with her hand, as if condemning each and every one, “You have exposed me to more risk of assassination! You have exposed England to more threats of invasion! You have set the stage for a perpetual war, a war without end, between England and Scotland, and Spain, and the Pope, and all of Europe—and between Catholics and Protestants, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters—which will kill hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands and perhaps even hundreds of thousands!” She had almost exhausted herself. Then she remembered to add, “You have doomed the Tudor Dynasty—only one century old!”
She saw Leicester, who was biting his tongue. He knew that she had more to do with the end of the Tudor monarchs than anyone else, but he knew better than to say it. He hated what she was doing right now. He hated when she played the victim, especially in regards to Mary’s execution. He thought, But what is truly intolerable is how she is inspiring fear in some of her most loyal subjects. He saw the looks on their faces, the looks of dread, the blinking eyes of confusion, the glances that betrayed their doubts. He thought, Some of them look at the Queen as if she is truly innocent. Some are not sure. Some of them might even think that their Queen is a liar, and a murderer. Some of them are just beginning to realize that while they no longer have anything to fear from Mary—they now must fear Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s chest heaved. She hated how unimpressed and unafraid Leicester looked. “Lord Robert, you look like you disagree. You do not think the Pope and Spain will retaliate, for Mary's murder?”
He replied firmly, “The Pope and King Philip don't scare me. The whole host of Heaven does not scare me. Not a whit.”
She scoffed at his boast. She also knew that he was hardly a man who could take on the world. Those days were long gone, as far as she was concerned. “Do you really think the murder of Mary decreases the chances that King Philip will send a fleet to attack England?”
Leicester surprised her with even more bravado, “Let them come! If they are foolish enough to attack England, or march against Your Majesty, we will respond. We will defeat any and all threats!”
This was not how she wanted this scene to play out. She didn’t want him to show courage while she showed fear. She especially did not want him to upstage her. She was about to respond, and cut him down to size, but then she realized that it was a waste of time trying to make Leicester afraid of Spain and the Pope. Her time was better spent making the lords and ladies afraid. She turned to them, hoping to make them shake with fear, “A fleet of the foulest Spaniards will come! The kind of beasts who live only for the chance to storm our shores—to burn, to plunder and to rape! None of you will be safe—not your wives, not your sons, and not your daughters. All of you will be helpless against such a horde, and in the smoke from their cannons and in the fog of war, who knows who will survive?”
Elizabeth had no idea if such an invasion was real, or even possible. But she took some pleasure in seeing most of the people lose color in their faces.
Burghley piped up, and made a muddle of it, as was his nature, “Now is not the time for rattling our swords. Now is the time to reach out to Spain, to the Pope. We must make overtures to them, and sue for peace.”
Leicester snapped at him, “Why is offering peace to our enemies is the first idea in your head? Why do you sing only that one song? Please, for the love of God, Burghley—learn another tune!”
Burghley tried to ignore him. He implored the Queen, “We should endeavor at this time to create a treaty with Spain. I should dispatch messengers.“
Leicester began to rage, “Lord Burghley, now is the time for you to shut your damned mouth! Because nothing you say is true—especially when you speak of the illusion of peace with the Spanish! Don’t insult our intelligence!”
The Queen stepped between them, to stop their squabble. And she did not want Leicester to attract more attention than her, and steal her thunder. Leicester fell silent. But Burghley mistook it for an invitation to continue, “Lord Leicester is a man of little faith. I am sure that we can create a Common Peace with Spain and the rest of Europe—”
The Queen shook her head at him, and looked at him like he was a gnat. Burghley mistook it for another invitation to continue, “The failure of the Common Peace—the Peace of Antalcidas, in the ancient world—should not deter us from attempting to make such an enduring, beneficial and—“
The Queen stomped her foot!
Burghley finally got the message to be quiet. But he needed her to give him some direction, “My apologies, Your Majesty, but I would beg you to indulge me. Mary’s death will undoubtedly displease King Philip of Spain. Should he communicate his displeasure, how should we respond to him?”
She found him so exasperating, she wanted to choke him to death. She restrained herself, and said, “Let him be displeased all he wants! I might respond, and then again I might not! I do not answer to him! Do not presume to think that I serve him! Do not presume to think that I wait on him, or much care what he does!”
Burghley shook his head and sputtered. That was not what he meant, but before he could say anything, she turned her back on him. There was too much silence in the room. The lords and ladies looked distracted, their attention was drifting. She needed to act, and fast. She needed to refocus their attention on the matter of Mary, and the murder of monarchs.
She targeted Christopher Hatton, who was beautiful but fawning. He was one of her previous Favourites. She knew he would take the kind of abuse she wanted to dish out right now, “Christopher Hatton… of all the men whom I cherish and treasure, how could you do this, how could you put me in such jeopardy?”
Hatton looked confused. He thought they were still talking about the threat from Spain. He began to mumble, “… my deepest apologies, Your Majes—“
She slapped his face!
Hatton looked utterly bewildered. But she knew she had to do more. Even though he had little to do with Mary’s death, she needed to take the attention off of her. “I banish you, on pain of death. I order you not to come near our person by ten mile—you must not trespass within the verge of this court! Go! Now!”
She didn’t really mean it. She didn’t want to say it. She was already thinking of how soon she would rescind her decision to banish him. However, for the moment, she needed the lords and ladies to believe that men like Hatton were to blame.
Hatton looked horrified. He was a very sensitive man, and his heart broke forever. He was truly convinced that she would never welcome him ever again to the royal court. She could see how much she was destroying him. But it is a necessary sacrifice, for the sake of keeping order, she rationalized to herself.
He obeyed her, and departed, thinking that his life was all but over, and had lost all of its meaning.
The Queen’s heart beat faster, and she thought she might faint. She could not take any more of this exertion, and she did not know if she had the heart to hurt anyone else. “Out! All of you!” she roared loudly. “Damn you! Damn you all for what you have done! Damn you for making me so upset, and so tortured with emotion!”
The lords made a stampede for the door, eager to get away. It pleased the Queen to see them run like this. It confirmed that they were all still under her yoke. Most of the ladies avoided their husbands, and were ashamed of them.
The jovial and paunchy Henry Carey, 1st Baron Hunsdon, tried to look at his daughter, Katherine Carey—the Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, the Queen’s most beloved Lady. She wouldn’t look at her father, she was so mortified. He hung his head, and departed.
She saw Francis Walsingham lingering, in no hurry, as if he was going to escape punishment. She pointed directly at him, “You too, Walsingham! I banish you! Go. Leave now!”
He bowed his head and left quickly.
Leicester was conflicted. He wanted to defy the Queen and stay, to argue this out. But he knew that nothing would come of fighting with her anymore today.
The Queen did not make eye contact with Leicester, but she spoke at him, “Summon my Lord of Essex! Send him to me.”
Leicester did not show how pleased he was. Of all the men she wanted to be with now, it was Essex, his step-son. That was agreeable to Leicester. He bowed and withdrew.
Only Burghley was foolish enough to linger. He was so accustomed to being the Queen’s most trusted Councillor, that he did not think she seriously wanted him to depart. She gave him a withering look. He did not get the hint. She screamed at him, “Out! You treacherous and damnable traitor, you false dissembler, you wicked wretch!”
In his vast and brilliant mind, Burghley simply could not possibly conceive that the Queen would ever treat him with such contempt, and humiliate him so completely. He expected to be rewarded, like Beowulf. He expected to stay forever in her hand, to be the “shining sword” for her. It hurt him to think to himself, No, I am like a hunting hound who has caught a fox for her, only to be rewarded with a sharp kick.
He tried to force himself to speak, but incredibly, he could not utter a word. The Queen was reducing him, arguably the most powerful man in England, to the status of an outlaw. He did not know what to do. He simply had no reason to exist other than to serve her. She snapped her fingers at her guards, “Lord Burghley, if you are unable to carry yourself out of my presence, I will have my guards carry you out! Go now. You are banished! Go, and never return! And never means forever, you damnable fool! If you step one foot across the verge of the royal court, if even your shadow trespasses on that ten-mile boundary, I will have your bloody and silly head in my hands, so help me God!”
She grabbed the wand out of his hand, stepped on the end of it, and broke it in two. Burghley choked up and displayed emotion, almost crying.
It had the opposite effect he expected—it made her seethe with anger, “What did you expect, you monster, you Haman the Evil, for murdering my cousin? Did you expect me to give you royal vestments, apparel as fine as my own? Give you my own horse to ride? Share my Crown with you? Give you a triumph through the streets of London, like some conquering Roman hero? Who do you think you are—Julius Caesar? No! You are more like Julius Balbus—and even more like Tarquin the Proud!”
He was stricken with awe.
She had a sudden idea, and she whispered to him, her voice hissing, “If you do not leave now, William Cecil, I will do to you what was done to Sisamnes—I will have you flayed alive, and I will use your skin to cover your desk seat—which I will then give to your son Robert to sit on!”
She glanced at his hips and haunches, which were disproportionately fatter than the rest of his body. “What am I saying? You are probably the fattest man in England! Your hips alone would provide the leather for many seats—perhaps a dozen or so! Your hips are as big as those of a cloven-hoof hippopotamus!”
Burghley remembered all the times she told him that if it were not for his beard, he would be mistaken for a woman. He trembled uncontrollably, and was eager to leave, but his body would not move.
She barked at him—“Be gone!”
He scurried to the door, and stopped. He turned around. He tried to speak as quickly as he possibly could, in the most business-like manner, but his voice quavered horribly, “I will leave a detailed letter for my successor, whomever you choose to succeed me, and I wish that person all the success in the world—”
She gestured at him to hurry up.
“—in managing the large network of spies I have so assiduously built—in our efforts to continue to surveil and to increase the scrutiny of anyone native or foreign-born who has Catholic or Spanish sympathies or allegiances, and of the foreigners who reside here in England, and of course, the traders from foreign lands.”
He gasped for air as he quickly departed. He saw Lady Dorothy Stafford—the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes, and one of the Queen’s most beloved ladies. She rudely ignored him.
Burghley then gestured to some guards, who held that handsome wooden box. He had no choice but to give it to the Queen. More than anyone else, he knew that she must always get what she wanted. The guards delivered the box to a table for the Queen to view in private, and then left her.
The Queen was suddenly alone now, with Sir Henry Lee and his group of guards who stood at a distance to give her the illusion of privacy.
She impatiently waited for Essex. She began to pull herself together, and collect her thoughts. She tried to gather up the silken thread that had been torn from the tapestry of her self. Part of her wanted to let it all fall to the floor and be burned to ashes. Part of her wanted nothing more of this life and this world. She had a strong impulse to end it all.
She thought of Teuta, the chaste warrior queen of Illyria, who was famous for defying mighty Rome. At a moment of bottomless grief, Teuta threw herself from Orjen Peak, in a range of limestone mountains. She admired Teuta for her courage, in life and in death. She did not know if she had the nerve to take her own life. But she liked to think that if she were to die by her own hand, it would be as unforgettable a death as Teuta’s.
When she had such occasional thoughts and impulses to kill herself, she reminded herself of Princess Cordelia, the daughter of King Leir. She often thought, Cordelia fought so long and so valiantly, and she triumphantly restored her realm—only to take her own life. She must have suffered from an incurable melancholy and a crushing sense of isolation, like stones stacked on her body by an unfeeling and faithless mob.
Elizabeth wiped tears from her eyes, and regained her composure. I will not allow myself to be defeated from within, like Cordelia. If I am attacked by enemies from without, I will face them, if and when they come. I will crush them before they crush me. But I will not become my own enemy, and steal the life within me from myself.
She exhaled. She became whole again, and became herself again. She was almost eager to face the future. But then she saw the clock nearby. Only an hour had passed since she received the news of Mary’s death. Only an hour… ? she thought, in disbelief and shock, All of this grief and fear and sadness, all in the space of a single hour? All it took was one solitary hour to turn my long life and reign on its head. How can I face one more hour, let alone one more minute, of this agony that maddens me and tears me asunder?
She closed her eyes to stop the tears from falling. She was afraid that if she started to cry right now she would never stop, and that her tears would drown all of England.
She opened her eyes and saw the handsome box. Her misery quickly evaporated. She smiled as she hurried to open it and view the jewels inside. As beautiful and as priceless as they were, what delighted her the most was the fact that she had kept Catherine de Medici from getting any of them back. She imagined the sour look on Catherine’s face, and laughed a full deep laugh.
She ignored the Golden Rose that had been given to Mary by the Pope. She thought it was gaudy. She also thought that Mary was the last person who should have been given a gift for piety. She quickly lifted the enormously long pearl necklace, and admired them as she lay them across her breast. She swore to herself that she would wear these pearls for as long as she lived, in honor of Mary. She immediately knew that these pearls would make her appear even younger and more beautiful than she already knew herself to be. And she was convinced that she would be irresistibly loved and desired by whoever beheld her while she was wearing these pearls.
The pearls instantly made her calm, and they brought her some peace of mind. She was so entranced by them, she was convinced that this necklace had the power to make her live a longer life, and a power to restore harmony to all of England. As long as I wear such a heavenly string of pearls, all men and women will count themselves fortunate, and England will have no fear of any misfortune.
She saw a large pouch. Opening it, she gasped when she saw Prince Edward’s ruby. Her eyes widened as she first saw the stone, but then her joy quickly faded. The blood-red gem looked so dark and repulsive, like a carbuncle boil in the skin. But then she held it up to the light—she gasped in awe at how the light made it come alive in her hand—like a pulsating human heart. Her own heart beat faster as she held it, and her face softened. Her hands began to tremble as she caressed the polished but uncut surface and admired its size—which almost filled up the whole of her palm. A peculiar pleasure flowed through her, when she considered that over 200 years ago it had belonged to King Edward III’s son, Prince Edward of Woodstock—and that it had been worn by King Henry V during his great victory at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415.
The longer she looked at this ruby, the more she relaxed. The pressure in her eyes, which made them so inflamed, began to subside. For the first time, she could catch her breath. In this state of near ecstasy, she began to think of Burghley’s brief and dull report of Mary’s execution. She thought, The report was not as lively as I would have liked.
Only then did she notice the paper inside of the box. Burghley had left behind a drawing of Mary’s execution at Fotheringay. She examined the drawing very closely, but she found it dull and uninspired. It does not convey the drama of the moment.
As she held the ruby in one hand, and the drawing in the other, she indulged herself by imagining a much longer and more violent version of the event, involving a great deal of bloodshed. Quickly her mind began to feast on how Mary died. Her heart beat faster, and she could feel the blood bayting in her cheeks and neck, making them blush invisibly beneath her thick makeup, which gave her face the permanent appearance of stone.
Suddenly, she gasped, muscles deep with her convulsed, and something awakened in the very womb of her soul.
I thought I had been wise to blame the Commissioners for Mary’s death, especially in front of the lords and ladies of my royal court.
The Commissioners might turn on me, by falsely charging me with treason. They might subject me to an unjust trial, and then put me to death—like they did to Mary. But if they did all of that, then the lords and ladies would know that the Commissioners are indeed the very monsters I revealed them to be today. The lords and ladies of my court could muster their forces and raise up in arms, to oppose the Commissioners and have them punished accordingly—to cudgel them like the currish dogs they are!
But what if the lords and ladies allow the Commissioners to destroy me, and behead me like they did to Mary?
What if rather than preventing my untimely death, or condemning my execution, the lords and ladies endorse it, approve it, encourage it—and take delight in my downfall, and the falling of my head from my shoulders?
The fear gripped her deep down in her belly, and she was almost unable to stand.
What if all of the good and upright men and women of England lower themselves and debase themselves, and all join together as fiendish hellhounds—to hunt me down, and chase me right into the gates of Hell?
She struggled to breathe, This is not right. All is not well when I have more to fear from them than they to fear from me.
She glanced at the pearls, and held them tight, clutching them to her breast. She fervently wished that they would protect her from anyone and everyone who would do her harm—including the very people, all of the lords and ladies and the people across England over whom she ruled.