prepared to do so again to protect her.
“Majesty,” I murmured. Bowing again, I stepped back. When I reached Cecil, he said under his breath, “You will stay.” I had no choice but to watch as Dudley sought to dominate Elizabeth’s attention once more by swaggering forth to the gift-laden table, swatting the women on their backsides and eliciting mock cries of protest and not a few surreptitious looks of admiration at his thighs in their fitted silk hose.
“Now, then,” he said, “whom of these royal applicants most honors our queen with his largesse? Who among them is worthy to earn her consideration?”
With an indulgent smile, Elizabeth reclined in her chair, twirling her goblet as she watched her Master of Horse paw through her fellow sovereigns’ offerings as though they were trinkets.
“Is it His Benevolent Highness the prince of Sweden?” Dudley flipped open a satin-lined box; within it nestled a necklace of pink rubies shaped in the form of the Tudor rose. He held it up to the light, examining it for flaws. He frowned. “Unimaginative,” he announced. He dropped the jewel back into its box and swept both aside, prompting a genuine outcry from the ladies as they hastened to gather it off the floor.
Elizabeth chuckled.
The excitement at the table stirred the dozing spaniels, both of whom leapt up to round the table, barking as Dudley dug again through the pile and extracted a bigger case this time, bunted in scarlet. “Or is it His Imperial Majesty of Russia?” Throwing off the lid, he unloosed a length of white fur. “Another stole?” he groaned. Elizabeth could not contain her laughter. “Her Majesty has dozens,” Dudley declared, and he flung the fur aside. The women squealed, losing all sense of dignity as they scrambled for it.
At my side, Cecil stiffened. It was evident that Dudley intended to distribute all the gifts among Elizabeth’s women, thus consigning these first suitors for her hand to ridicule.
“Or is it—” Dudley paused with theatrical timing, dramatically extending the moment as he retrieved a narrow black-satin box. “His Majesty Philip of Spain?”
Silence fell in the wake of his words. Philip had been the late queen’s husband; during my previous mission at court, I had contended with his ambassador Renard’s fervent quest to see Elizabeth executed for treason. Renard had gone far beyond his master’s orders; in truth, the young Spanish king had wanted only to hold her in captivity until the time came when he became a widower. His union with Mary had kindled the pyre of persecution, his Catholic stringencies inciting our late queen to burn hundreds of English martyrs and send hundreds of others into exile. His name was no laughing matter, and Elizabeth responded accordingly, her voice turning sharp as she said, “That is sufficient. I’ll not hear anointed princes mocked.”
“Who is mocking?” exclaimed Dudley, and I heard Cecil gasp at his confident rebuttal of her. “I merely wish to discover which of these exalted princes is best qualified to pay suit to Your Majesty’s person. We all know how eager Philip of Spain is to impress. The question is, how much is he willing to spend?”
Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed, but I could tell she was enjoying this. She could not help but relish hearing disparagement of the very king whose machinations had cornered her during her sister’s reign, though Philip had intervened on her behalf and persuaded Mary to release her from the Tower. I had not been in England when she and the Spanish King met face-to-face, having already gone abroad, but I could imagine the merry jig she had led him on, the insinuations she must have dangled before him as she determined to safeguard her person. Indeed, I had no doubt that Philip must now regret that he had both released her and failed to convince Mary to kill Dudley, as rumor must have already reached him of Dudley’s intent to supplant him.
“I said, that will suffice.”
“Majesty,” I murmured. Bowing again, I stepped back. When I reached Cecil, he said under his breath, “You will stay.” I had no choice but to watch as Dudley sought to dominate Elizabeth’s attention once more by swaggering forth to the gift-laden table, swatting the women on their backsides and eliciting mock cries of protest and not a few surreptitious looks of admiration at his thighs in their fitted silk hose.
“Now, then,” he said, “whom of these royal applicants most honors our queen with his largesse? Who among them is worthy to earn her consideration?”
With an indulgent smile, Elizabeth reclined in her chair, twirling her goblet as she watched her Master of Horse paw through her fellow sovereigns’ offerings as though they were trinkets.
“Is it His Benevolent Highness the prince of Sweden?” Dudley flipped open a satin-lined box; within it nestled a necklace of pink rubies shaped in the form of the Tudor rose. He held it up to the light, examining it for flaws. He frowned. “Unimaginative,” he announced. He dropped the jewel back into its box and swept both aside, prompting a genuine outcry from the ladies as they hastened to gather it off the floor.
Elizabeth chuckled.
The excitement at the table stirred the dozing spaniels, both of whom leapt up to round the table, barking as Dudley dug again through the pile and extracted a bigger case this time, bunted in scarlet. “Or is it His Imperial Majesty of Russia?” Throwing off the lid, he unloosed a length of white fur. “Another stole?” he groaned. Elizabeth could not contain her laughter. “Her Majesty has dozens,” Dudley declared, and he flung the fur aside. The women squealed, losing all sense of dignity as they scrambled for it.
At my side, Cecil stiffened. It was evident that Dudley intended to distribute all the gifts among Elizabeth’s women, thus consigning these first suitors for her hand to ridicule.
“Or is it—” Dudley paused with theatrical timing, dramatically extending the moment as he retrieved a narrow black-satin box. “His Majesty Philip of Spain?”
Silence fell in the wake of his words. Philip had been the late queen’s husband; during my previous mission at court, I had contended with his ambassador Renard’s fervent quest to see Elizabeth executed for treason. Renard had gone far beyond his master’s orders; in truth, the young Spanish king had wanted only to hold her in captivity until the time came when he became a widower. His union with Mary had kindled the pyre of persecution, his Catholic stringencies inciting our late queen to burn hundreds of English martyrs and send hundreds of others into exile. His name was no laughing matter, and Elizabeth responded accordingly, her voice turning sharp as she said, “That is sufficient. I’ll not hear anointed princes mocked.”
“Who is mocking?” exclaimed Dudley, and I heard Cecil gasp at his confident rebuttal of her. “I merely wish to discover which of these exalted princes is best qualified to pay suit to Your Majesty’s person. We all know how eager Philip of Spain is to impress. The question is, how much is he willing to spend?”
Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed, but I could tell she was enjoying this. She could not help but relish hearing disparagement of the very king whose machinations had cornered her during her sister’s reign, though Philip had intervened on her behalf and persuaded Mary to release her from the Tower. I had not been in England when she and the Spanish King met face-to-face, having already gone abroad, but I could imagine the merry jig she had led him on, the insinuations she must have dangled before him as she determined to safeguard her person. Indeed, I had no doubt that Philip must now regret that he had both released her and failed to convince Mary to kill Dudley, as rumor must have already reached him of Dudley’s intent to supplant him.
“I said, that will suffice.”
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