The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(96)
“You mean they are angry with me and decline to be reconciled as long as their precious son is at odds with my throne.” Even as she snapped, Elizabeth knew she was being unfair. It was such an uncomfortable feeling that it demanded to be swamped by her temper.
“Your Majesty,” Burghley said, using a tried and true technique of switching to another topic. “We should prepare to make an official announcement about Princess Anne’s marital future.”
“The council are prepared to endorse the Scottish marriage?”
“They are prepared to endorse a formal betrothal. The time is ripe to announce England’s intentions for the future…with the awareness that the future is fluid. Still, a betrothal at this stage will with near certainty lead to marriage. I do not think King James will be dissuaded once your daughter’s hand is promised.”
“Anne knows what she must do,” Elizabeth said firmly. “But you have not spoken of the French marriage.”
Burghley’s breath hitched and he shot a quick glance at Walsingham. Elizabeth ignored them both and sailed on. “When we bring the matter of Anne’s marriage before the public, we will also bring forward that of myself and the Duc d’Anjou.”
There was a ringing silence, and Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her two most trusted councilors. When neither showed signs of breaking the silence, she said with an elaborate show of patience, “You have comments?”
She was fixed on Walsingham, for she knew where her true opposition lay. He looked uncomfortable, but his strict Protestant conscience would not let that stop him from speaking. Better, she thought, to let him air his discontent in private and get it out of his system.
“Perhaps we should not have this discussion in the open air,” Walsingham said.
Which only reinforced that he intended to be unpleasant. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, but led the way to the door that opened on her privy chamber. There were three women within—Elizabeth dismissed them and took a seat.
Only then did she speak again. “Well?” she asked with elaborate patience.
It seemed Walsingham was more than discontented; he was furiously, adamantly, opposed. “You cannot do this, Your Majesty,” he said flatly.
“Cannot do what? Direct my own privy council? Obtain their approval as their monarch?”
“You cannot marry France. The council will never allow it.”
“Am I queen or am I not?”
“You are a queen subject to the advisement and guidance of your council! Unless you mean to turn tyrant like your father or brother—”
“How dare you!” Elizabeth rose in a swirl of skirts, temper pounding behind her eyes. “I will not bear insolence from any man, whomever he may be. Mind your tongue or I’ll mind it for you!”
Burghley made an attempt to moderate. “He means only that the council is concerned about the tenor of the public. There is uneasiness about Your Majesty’s autonomy. Being so recently separated from Spain, why rush to replace it with a French loyalty?”
“French loyalty? Is that what my people think—that when I was Philip’s wife, I was also Philip’s slave? Have I not proved myself firm in my loyalties to my people above all else, including my own happiness?”
“Your Majesty—”
“Enough, Burghley! I will not be spoken to like a child who must needs be coddled for temperament’s sake! How much have I sacrificed for England’s good? How much must I still sacrifice? Am I to be denied the most common of comforts, to have a companion who pleases me?”
“Yes!” Walsingham shouted. “You were not born a common woman, Elizabeth, and if you wanted anything approaching common comforts, you should have taken care to ensure your brother survived his last battle!”
The words rang through the chamber and into Elizabeth’s head like weapons. Burghley hissed, but otherwise it was just the two of them staring at each other: the queen and her intelligencer.
From the first time she’d met him nearly thirty years ago now, Elizabeth had been struck by Walsingham’s refusal to be intimidated by her. Over the years, he had often teetered on the edge of honesty, without ever falling over into insubordination. For all that time, he had been one half of her most trusted duo: Burghley with his careful statesmanship, Walsingham with his intelligence and strong convictions.
But this she could not forgive. He had used her personal name and had struck at her most vulnerable spot with unerring skill. Elizabeth’s voice trembled with the effort not to screech at him in her rage. “You are dismissed.”
“Your Majesty, I am only telling you what others are too afraid—”
“You are dismissed from my presence and from my court.”
Walsingham had never been one to show his emotions. The corners of his dark eyes tightened, but he was otherwise impassive. “I apologize for my manner, Your Majesty.”
“Noted. Now get out.”
She turned her back, holding herself rigid while she waited. At last she heard the soft footsteps walking away. She knew that Burghley remained, weighing how to speak to her, judging the right approach.
Elizabeth was tired of being handled. All she wanted was to give in to her passions—to throw something, to let Anjou tease her into flirtation, or simply to lay down her head and weep.
—
It took their disparate, discontented company weeks to make the trek across Ireland, the sea, and then England. By the time Stephen and the others rode into London, it was the end of September and the city was an assault on all the senses for men attuned to the quieter countryside of Ireland.