The bells rang as they always did at Westminster abbey as England walked past coffin after coffin, their carved effigies staring up into the web of colored light made by the stained glass. England could hear the last notes of God Save the Queen dying in the distance, celebrating the reign of Victoria. Now that he had a new queen and a new regime, he should be taking the time to congratulate her.
But,he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't walk these crypts again. He was seeking the coffin of the best sovereign he had ever had. He reached the coffin that he was seeking and looked down at the carving. The stone did not accurately reflect the beauty that the woman had once had in life. England put his hand on the cold stone, wishing that it would be flesh again. Beneath it, the queen who had brought him a golden age rested peacefully.
Lord Dudley, only made a lord so that he could be a suitable candidate to be presented to Mary Queen of Scots as bait, approached Elizabeth with the smile that she knew too well. She allowed him to approach, but let no emotion slip through. He did not speak immediately, although he was usually brazen enough to. She did not grace him with a smile or a response to the gesture. So, he said as he bowed, "My Grace, will you require my council tonight?"
It was only a veiled question. The entire court knew what he was actually asking. Her response was cold, intentionally clipped, "I will have no need of you tonight, Robin." His disappointment was obvious in his face, but Elizabeth could not be bothered by it. She reminded herself that he had no real claim on her, only their occasional flirtations. He would never be her husband, so he would have to wait for her.
She walked past him, letting the eyes of all the lords and ladies rest on her as they all attempted to calculate the politics of her rejection. She knew that somewhere behind her Sir William Cecil was smiling because he thought that this was the first step towards her finally taking a suitor of his choosing. None of them could guess at the real reason.
Their gazes did not perturb her because she knew the truth and was alone in holding a warm glow in her heart. A letter had arrived from her that morning, brought by a privateer from Jamaica and she longed to read it privately. When she reached the door to her chambers, she whispered the words, the lies, that they said about her in Catholic courts, "The commoner that so freely mounts the queen will now put a bridle on her."
What would they say when they heard this latest piece of gossip? Did she care? The truth was that, although she tried, she could not pretend that she was stone enough to ignore all gossip. Even if this was not true, even if her heart already had a home, it still hurt to hear of such lies. Lord Dudley was a childhood friend and warmed her sheets when she was lonely, but he was not going to rope her into a marriage. After all, bigamy was condemned by the church, both the Protestant and Catholic. The ring that showed her matrimony was already upon her finger and she would not remove it.
She opened the door to her chamber and closed it behind herself. As was customary, her ladies waited to serve her every need. However, what she needed now was solitude. She ordered them to prepare her for bed as they did every night. If they thought she was asleep, then she would be allowed to have solitude. She gave the orders, but was indifferent as they were carried out. First her gown was removed, and then the layers of fabric and hoop skirts were taken off. She breathed in, enjoying the feeling of having the full use of her lungs again, as her corset was removed. Her hair was let down by the skilled hands of several ladies. As soon as they were done, they left silently.
Once she was alone, Elizabeth turned to a small table where the letter had been placed. It awaited her, eager to be taken in her hand and read. The parchment was deceptively simple and worn by its travels to reach her. She noticed now that there was a small wooden box, gilded, beneath the simple parchment. But, the box was not her concern. Whatever it contained would be explained in the letter. It was the words that she treasured, the tidings of far away seas.
She took the letter and returned to her bed. In only her chemise, her hair now falling straight to her waist, she opened the letter and began to read. The words were warm, speaking glowingly of the Western seas, of the wild natives of the new world, of the profit that could be made from sugar. It even spoke flippantly of the Spanish galleons, glutted on gold, silver, and cochineal. But, this was impersonal. She found more comfort in the words meant for her, those he would not write to other ship captains.
She ran her finger over the words, "My dear Lizzie, the sea gives me life. But, when I have a quiet moment alone in my cabin, I think of you. At times, the pain of missing you is too much to bear." She stopped reading and pressed the letter to her breast. England's words were making her heart skip like a young girl. She could hear them in the same voice he had used years ago.
She put down the letter and got out of bed. She walked over to the looking glass on her table. Her own aging face stared back at her from the polished glass. The beauty of her younger years was quickly fading, worn away by both time and the stresses of being a monarch. The young queen of Scots weighed heavily on her mind, as did the ambitions of the Spanish king. But, she didn't usually allow herself the time to dwell on her own vanity. Now, looking into this mirror, it was hard not to see the lines in her skin and the scars of the illness that had almost cost her her life.
England was the same age he had been since they had met so long ago. His skin was unblemished save the scars from his past. Elizabeth had seen personally the way that her mad half-sister Mary's purges had left burns that slowly faded to scars. She hadn't asked about all the scars, but she could guess at their origin. The Anarchy, the wars with the Scots, the War of the Roses, and the Reaping of the North. Each had left an indelible mark on England. But, still he appeared to be young as he had ever been and Elizabeth was aging.
Every time England went on these long sea voyages, she was older when he returned. How long would it take before he turned her away like Mary's husband had when she became too old? Her father had been the same, always turning to a younger queen whose womb was more fertile. Elizabeth slammed her hands down on the table. She would not allow herself to think like that when she still had a sweet letter from England that she had not yet finished. While he still painstakingly wrote to her, she shouldn't worry about her fleeting looks. It seemed that Cecil still thought her desirable enough to marry, even if it was just for her position.
Slowly, she turned away from the mirror, and her own aging reflection. It was not right to dwell on such vanity. She was a queen, tied for life to the Kingdom of England, and such musings were reserved for those noble ladies who flitted about the French court looking for men to pamper them. She began to read the letter again, skipping over the portions that spoke of business. There would be time for that later, and for the night she wanted only his words of love. Since he had begun to expand his empire, England's letters had consisted of more details of trade and less of emotion.
She finally reached the part of the letter that explained the lavish box that had accompanied the letter. The words were strangely comforting, "I have had a broach made of Caribbean coral. The natives here value it the same way we value gem stones. The color should compliment your hair. I wish I could send you myself rather than this trinket, but for now you should consider this a piece of my own heart."
Elizabeth glanced over at the box and decided that she would open it later. She had jewels enough without another to add to her collection. She would rather have England home, warm in her bed again. How far they had come was beginning to set in. Her first memories of him came from her father's reign, when she was finally able to return to court, still labeled a bastard. He had been kind to her and danced with her. She remembered the night with a warm fondness, but it still seemed impossibly long ago. She had been so young and it was new to have a man take her hand and speak to her earnestly of poetry and philosophy. He had complimented her Latin as one genuinely impressed, and not as a false flattering courtier.
But, as she laid back down in bed, she reflected that she had never expected to be in this position, even with a budding feeling for her country. She had been a bastard with both a younger brother and an older sister, heirs who would take the throne before she would. She had been the unfortunate third person, the spare in the succession. And yet, now she was the queen and there was a coronation ring on her finger, taking the permanent place of a wedding band.
She would take no man as master, even the personification of her kingdom. Arthur knew well that she would not allow him to dominate her, but he was used to the demands of a monarch. It was not so strange to him to bend to the whims of his monarch instead of imposing as a husband would. When he was genial, he jested that no queen had been so demanding since Empress Matilda. The grace of Eleanor of Aquitaine and the will of Empress Matilda, that's what he would always say.
She didn't mind the teasing, England spoke to her as he would speak to a man save some of the more vulgar jokes. There were moments when he returned from sea that he spoke like a sailor, using base cockney. Elizabeth closed her eyes with a slight smile and let herself fall asleep, thinking not of Jamaica and the problems of the sugar trade, but of the night that England had come to her in the Tower, offering her a ring of plain gold.
The wind whistled through the walls of the Tower, bringing the cold into even the warmest clothing. Elizabeth pulled her wool cloak around herself, trying to ward off the errant breeze. There were rumors that men waisted away within these walls, chilled by the drafts and starved for human attention. Now she believed them, but there was another feeling that was far more insidious. Without any word from the outside world and denied even the ability to write letters, uncertainty set in.
It was easy to imagine that outside the walls of the tower Mary was plotting her death, paranoia driving her to execute the last of her family. Even the sergeant at arms would not tell Elizabeth what was happening outside her prison, and her own mind was inventing scenarios that would keep her here forever to rot within these walls. Periodically she would attempt to look out the windows only to remember that they were covered by planks to deny her even that. Kat Ashley was her only comfort and even she could do little to reassure Elizabeth.
The fact was that neither of them knew if death was coming to them in the form of a single sharp blow. Sometimes Elizabeth wondered if she would be granted the same mercy of the sword that her mother had been. Would she expire on the scaffold, labeled a witch like her mother before her? Could she hold her her head high and die with dignity like her mother?
Again, Elizabeth found herself pacing the cell with her cloak pulled tight around her, her fingers almost numb from how hard she was trying to hold onto her cloak. A sharp knock sounded on the door, and both women turned to look to it. The sergeant at arms would not knock like that, he would simply speak through the peephole in the door. It was definitely a stranger, which was odd in its own right. This called for a measure of caution, since there was no way to know if the stranger was friend or foe. At least they had the decency to knock.
Gathering her courage and straightening her spine, Elizabeth walked over to the door and said, her voice as commanding as she could muster, "Who is there? I demand to know."
The voice that came back from across the thick door was beyond comforting, "It's me, Elizabeth. Can I please come in; I wish to speak to you."
She knew that the voice was that of England, but it still seemed out of place. Why would her country come to her now when his queen desired her death? Surely Mary would not have sent him. Elizabeth put her hand against the door, wondering if he was doing the same on the other side. It was almost as though she could feel his genuine heartbeat through the barrier. But she still had to ask, "What do you want to speak to me about."
The response she got shook in a way that a man's should not, "I want to see that you are well. Please, Lizzie, I can't bear it."
The emotion plucked at her heart strings, moving her to respond, "Then, enter." Her fingers curled, clawing against the wood, hoping that the door would disappear. As though caving to her will, the door swung open. England stood in front of her, pale and thin. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and it looked as though he had lost weight. His clothing hung on him, wishing to be filled by the flesh that had once been there. There was a rosary prominent around his neck, but it looked wrong there. The green of his eyes was pure though, communicating a thousand words with a single glance.
Elizabeth caught her breath, a deep discomfort rising in her chest. She recognized the emotion as pity, and it struck her as deeply strange that she, a prisoner waiting for the uncertainty of execution, should pity a free man. But, the state he was in could be described as nothing but pitiful. Had Kat Ashley not been watching, Elizabeth would certainly have taken him in her arms and tried to comfort him. But he looked as though he might break if she tried to hug him.
It looked for a moment as though tears were threatening to well up in his eyes. But, as they seemed ready to tip over the brink, England composed himself and said, "You look thinner, Lizzie. But, I think, not unwell." It was carefully constructed. It was clear that he was painfully aware of the keen ear of the sergeant at arms, who would repeat everything that was said to Mary. She understood his hesitation and would not press him farther. The meaning behind his words was all too clear. He was happy to see her alive, and had been worried that she had perished in the tower.
She stepped aside and said, "You should come in. We should speak." As he followed her order, he looked around at the spartan walls and boarded windows. The last of the color drained from his face as he realized what condition she was living in.
But, Elizabeth would not allow him to speak about it. As soon as the door closed, she spoke careful to cut him off before he could lament her situation, "How is my sister?"
She didn't actually have any doubts about Mary's wellbeing, but it was right to ask. England attempted a small smile, but his very muscles seemed to resent the action. He said, "She is well. She says that she is with child and has shut herself away to prepare for the birth."
The words still had the hollow ring of official news and Elizabeth responded to them in kind, "I am glad for my dear sister." But, they were not true. The news came as a shock; especially considering Mary's age and her husband's absence. It seemed so unlikely that Mary was really with child. But, if that was so then it was a great relief. If a boy was born to Mary, then it would be a mixed blessing. A secure line of succession would free Elizabeth from her precarious position and might also free her from the tower. Surely, then she would no longer be the unwilling symbol of rebellions against her sister. But, the child of a queen of England and the king of Spain would have a grand empire and the power to reassert the Catholic church where it had lost its sway. In her Protestant soul, Elizabeth couldn't find this news joyful. Her own freedom would not be worth that cost.
She clenched her hands, but betrayed no other sign of her rage. England seemed to share her uneasiness, but she could only tell by the way he stumbled over his words. He was eloquent enough to not struggle for words. But, he choked on his own lies, "Yes, we are all glad for her." He paused for only a moment before the truth broke through the barricade of fear. He turned straight towards her and said, his eyes manic, "She isn't with child. She is bitter, lonely, and mad. I cannot think that she will live much longer."
He stopped as it all came spilling out and laid conspicuously on the floor of the cell between them. England looked at Elizabeth, waiting for the condemnation of his words. It was treason to imagine the death of the monarch and they both knew it. If the wrong ears heard those words, it could easily lead the speaker to the scaffold. Even if England was a country, he could be punished for the words he spoke. To speak them in Elizabeth's presence showed a profound degree of trust. He knew that she would not betray him.
But, the words had another meaning she could not ignore. If Mary did die, then there was only one person left in the succession. The Spanish king couldn't take the throne without a son, so the throne would pass to Elizabeth. That very thought was the one that had confined her to this tower. She not dare even voice it, lest she condemned herself with it. So, she gave a stiff nod, acknowledging only that she understood.
He did not have the same caution. England's eyes were frantic as he said, the words running into each other in their haste to be known, "Lizzie, this means that you will be queen. I am glad of it. I do not think I can possibly weather another monarch who will make me grovel to Antonio." He was shaking slightly, his hands looked were stiff with a tension that matched her own.
She longed to comfort him, but there was too much at stake to act like any other woman. She kept her distance from him, even though it pained her. Summoning the memory of the screams of a desperate woman, she reminded herself what became of women who put their hearts before matters of state. If she was to be Queen, then she could not let her heart decide her actions. The words she spoke were devoid of emotion, "What you mean to say is that I might be queen. A right to the throne means very little within these walls. Tell me, Arthur, did their legitimate right save the Plantagenet princes?"
He recoiled, not at her words but at the tone of them. He looked away from her for the first time since he had walked into the cell. The gesture tore at Elizabeth; she had not noticed the way his gaze had warmed her until he looked away. She felt the biting wind that was ever present in the tower again. Again, her frigid hands tightened on her cloak. England spoke again, this time he voice was measured, "You are right, of course. But as it stands, you will inherit the throne when you're sister dies. I wanted to make sure you were well, so that I did not have to accept a Spanish monarch."
He turned as though he was about to leave the cell. Elizabeth felt the heart she had convinced herself was stone jump in her chest. His reason for coming to her was little more than concern for the continuation of the monarchy. The emotions in his voice had made it seem like he had come here for far more. She let her facade slip and spoke, "Is that really all you came here for?"
A very small edge of emotion slipped into her voice. He turned back towards her and said, his eyes meeting hers again. A trick of the uneven light made the circles under his eyes looked darker than before. The strain of the purges and the war had left deep impressions on his face. And yet, his eyes still shone with vivacity of her father's reign. It was that passion for life that Elizabeth had found herself longing to see. After being denied human contact for so long, he was a shining light, even in his desperate condition.
He spoke again, his voice no longer ringing of false officially, "No. I have missed you dearly. Your sister has turned the court into a monastery. I miss our conversations. I miss your light. I could not stand the idea that some awful fate had befallen you." The tears that had been held at bay before welled up in his eyes again. This time Elizabeth took a couple steps forward and tentatively raised her hand to place it on his shoulder. Her heart longed to take him in her arms and return the tenderness he showed for her.
His words made no attempt to hide the fact that he loved her. The word itself was not present, but it did not need to be. But, what was love? Elizabeth knew that the concept was not equal to security. Her father had loved her mother, at least for a time, and that had not saved her. Presumably, he had loved Katherine Howard as well, and sentenced her to the same fate. Even his love for Jane Seymour had not stayed her death. So, although the idea had the beauty of a poet's sentiment, it could not help her in the moment. Had they both been young peasants, then she would show no restraint.
He could not possibly know how throughly she shared his pretty sentiment. He had shown her profound kindness when no one else had. She had never been the unwanted girl or the bastard in his eyes. Her warmest memories were of him and the the honest compassion he had had for a motherless child, scorned by her father.
As she extended her hand, he took it in his own and bent to kiss it. His lips were warm against her frigid flesh. The soft touch of his lips caused a rare flush to mount her cheeks. She knew, by virtue of her pallor and the shade of her hair, that the red would soon spread from her cheeks to her hairline. England looked back up at her, his green eyes shining with the depth of emeralds, and he pulled a ring from his pocket. It was only plain gold, most certainly not one of the gaudy ornaments of royalty. There was a sincerity in the simplicity that spoke of intention rather than ostentation. His voice was strained again as he said, "Please be my queen, Elizabeth. I truly believe you can bring us all better days. For my own part, I can imagine no else at my side."
He fell to his knees and held out the ring to her. It shone in the palm of his hand, tempting her to take it. But, she would not take it yet. Instead, she said, "Arthur, you know I swore to never marry." He remained on his knees, his eyes still fixed upon her. She could see the way her words pained him, but there was truth to them. She would not allow her will to be bent by a man, whoever he may be.
England spoke, trying to reassure her, "I am not a mortal man and taking this ring does not diminish your station. I am offering you the power to be the mistress of England and never be subject to the whims of men again."
Elizabeth put her hand over the ring, still not daring to take it. It was hard to say what stilled her hand, when the crown was hers by right. She spoke again, "And what of your whims, Arthur?"
He shook his head fervently, "I do not dictate what my monarchs do. When your father told me to denounce the Roman church, I did. I cannot stop your sister from doing as she pleases."
Slowly, Elizabeth closed her hand on the ring. It was a moment of consent. Now that she knew he respected her autonomy, she could take this ring from a man who loved her deeply. A bright smile spread across his face as he felt the metal lifted away from his skin. Elizabeth deliberately took the ring and held it before placing it with deliberate slowness on her finger. She wanted to England to see her acceptance of his proposal. There was no feeling of constriction associated with the metal band.
England got back on his feet and again took both of her hands in his own. The smile that was plastered across his face lit a spark in his queen's chest, warming her even against the cold that clung to the very stones of the Tower. It was clear that a weight had been lifted from the Kingdom of England. His face was still thin and wan, but the affection he held for Elizabeth lit his face. He kissed her hands once more, not daring any other displays of affection while they were being watched by her lady in waiting. Before he left, England spoke again, "Thank you, Lizzie. Next time I see you, it will be under far better circumstances. I look forward to that day."
The council chamber was silent as the queen entered the room. The tiresome clamor of marriage and foreign prospects was silent as she walked into the chamber. Her gaze fell upon each of them in turn, communicating her displeasure with the constant question. Each of them seemed to lose more sleep than she did over the question of when she would be married. They each favored a different candidate and would bend her ears with his virtues. None of them understood what it would mean to take a husband. They were men who could not possibly understand the restrictions of matrimony.
Only Cecil did not quail under her gaze. But, all of them kept their silence. They would not dare bring up that subject, or that of the Scottish queen until she allowed it. She let the silence ferment for a couple minutes as she prepared to speak. Her words would be carefully attended, she was certain. They were her councilors, not her lords. Her policy, whether they found it good or not, was their policy. And on this her resolve was steady.
The queen put her hand to her breast, where a new broach of Caribbean coral was sewn into her gown. It was only a gift, but it meant far more. The words that had ended the letter occurred to her again, "I look forward to your next letter. When I hear of your triumphs, I am certain that your mother gave the king the son she promised."
They had given her the courage to say what she now intended to say. He may be far from her now, across the sea harrying the Spanish fleet, but his heart remained here. He was the only man she would ever truly love, even if she enjoyed the flirtations of Lord Dudley. Only he could truly understand the distance she needed. Though it was trying for him to be so far away, the distance made them both fonder. He would support her in the words she now spoke.
She took a deep breath to steel herself before saying, "My lords, you tell me that I must marry for the good of my kingdom. You would sell a spot in my bed in exchange for armies and alliances. But I will say this now: I am already bound unto a husband which is the Kingdom of England."