“I forbid you to say such things. You must get well. You have been beside me so many years. What should I do without you?”

He was overcome with emotion and so was I.

I rose from his bed and asked what food they were giving him. He could only take liquid food, I was told, and only a little of that. His hands were so swollen that he could scarcely lift a spoon to his lips.

I ordered them to make him a gruel which I knew was especially nourishing, and when it was ready I took it to him and fed my minister as though he were a child.

He said that his greatest grief in leaving this world was that he would no longer be able to serve me.

“No queen ever had a more faithful servant,” I assured him. “I have scolded you sometimes, dear Spirit. I have raged against you, have I not? But I never ceased to love you. Nor have I ever been in doubt of your worth.”

I sat in silence by his bed, staring into space. There could be no disguising the fact that he was near his end.

He said: “Robert will serve you well. I have brought him up with this object. He has a sharp and clever mind.”

I nodded. Poor Burghley, he was such a good man and God had ill rewarded him in this life. He had loved his family and looked after them all; and in his care for my well-being he had brought forward his second son, Robert, knowing full well that his first-born, Thomas, who was something of a weakling, lacked the ability to follow in his father's footsteps. I knew I had another treasure in the Elf; but he was not his father. I should never know his like again.

I thought of how I should miss him, for, excellent minister that he was, he was also friend and confidant. We had shared so much—even ailments. He had suffered from his teeth and so had I. Many a pleasant half hour we had spent chatting about our pains. And when he—devoted family man that he was—had lost his daughter some years before, and his wife a year later, it was I who had tried to comfort him.

Life was cruel. His mother had died only a year before his daughter, so that there were three deaths in a row and all were people who were very near and dear to him. He had had trouble enough through his daughter's marriage with Oxford, and I knew full well how often he had wished that marriage had never taken place. But he had great comfort in his grandchildren. Such a good man, I mourned, and such sorrow!

The end was inevitable. I was going to lose another friend, perhaps the most able of them all. I felt lonely and bereft. They were all slipping away from me.

I visited him as frequently as I could while he lingered on, and if a day came when I could not go, I sent one of my ladies to inquire after him, and take affectionate messages and cordials from me.

I felt very very sad and could think of little else but Burghley during those days of waiting for the end.

Why did he have to die? Of course he was in his seventy-sixth year, and that was a goodly age. I remembered all he had done for his country and I doubted England had ever had a more faithful servant. It was so rare to find a man who was excellent in statesmanship and able to enjoy a felicitous family life at the same time. There was not a better husband and father in the land; his grandchildren loved him and his constant thought was for the welfare of his family. Thomas Cecil, the eldest son, must have been a bit of a trial to him because he was wild in his youth, and lacked that fine, keen brain which the younger son, Robert, had inherited. But Burghley with that great good sense, which went side by side with his tenderness toward his family, did not hesitate to bring along Robert, the slightly deformed little Elf whom he was now bequeathing to me. I should honor Robert—not only for his father's sake but for his own. It was typical of Burghley that he should have left me well provided for. We had such a lot in common; his love of music was another of these interests. I was going to be so desolate. I had named him aptly as my Spirit, and I should miss him sorely.

On the day he died his son Robert brought me a letter which his father had written to him. Burghley had been just strong enough to dictate it to his secretary, but he had signed it as well as his swollen hands would allow him “Your languishing Father, Burghley.”

“I pray you diligently and effectually,” the letter ran, “let Her Majesty understand how her singular kindness doth overcome my power to acquit it, who, though she will not be a mother, yet she sheweth herself, by feeding me with her own princely hand, as a careful norice; and if I may be weaned to feed myself, I shall be more ready to serve her on the earth; if not, I hope to be, in heaven, a servitor for her and God's church…”

He had added a postscript:

“Serve God by serving the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the devil.”

I lifted my eyes to Robert Cecil's face. They were filled with tears.

I said: “My grief is as great as yours.”


* * *

HOW I MISSED Leicester at that time! The old days were gone forever. Men were not as they had been. They were a disappointment to me. My men were all leaving me—Hatton, Heneage, my dearest Leicester and now Burghley.

I had Robert Cecil, but then he was not handsome, and I did enjoy having handsome people around me. Essex, it was true, was very attractive in appearance, but so feckless and unreliable that he gave me more pain than joy. He was still sulking in exile. Yet if he had been a little humble, a little contrite, I could have pardoned him.

Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, was a good-looking man and I would have favored him. He was clever and a lover of the arts. He had become the patron of my favorite poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, and I applauded him for this; but he was reckless and arrogant, and did little to win my favor.

I could have had a great interest in him for his chief passion in life was literature; but he was such a wild young man—living among actors and writers of plays in odd corners of London. He was an adventurer of sorts but not the like of Raleigh and Drake. He was a man who wanted to experience life at all levels. He annoyed me because he must have known that I would be interested in him, yet he snapped his fingers at the Court and preferred to consort with his literary friends.

He had become a great friend of Essex; and that was one of the reasons why I watched him with some anxiety. I felt sure that Southampton would be a bad influence on Essex.

For one thing he was said to be fond of his own sex and I heard that he had had many love affairs with men at the Court and outside it, which in itself was enough to make me view his friendship with Essex in some dismay.

Some months previously he had made an unpleasant scene in my Presence Chamber. True, it was after I had gone to bed, but I frowned on such conduct whenever it took place.

Southampton had been playing primero with Raleigh and another gentleman. On my departure the Squire of the Body, Ambrose Willoughby, asked them to stop play, which was the custom after my retirement.

Southampton swaggeringly told him that he had no intention of stopping play until he wished to, at which Willoughby retorted that he would call the guard and forcibly stop the play. Raleigh, who had apparently been winning, pocketed his gains and said he would leave. This infuriated Southampton who shouted after Raleigh that he would remember this against him. Raleigh, who never failed to take a financial advantage, shrugged his shoulders and went off smiling; but Southampton then turned to Willoughby whom he blamed for the whole matter. A fight ensued during which Willoughby got the better of Southampton and pulled out some of his hair.

When I was told of this next morning, I laughed aloud. I complimented Willoughby and made it clear to everyone that I was delighted because Southampton had been taught a lesson.

I suspected that Essex condoled with him. Let him! I thought. Essex was still in exile.

My dislike for Southampton did not diminish when I heard that he had challenged Lord Grey of Wilton to a duel.

Fortunately I heard of this in time and forbade it, sending messages to both Southampton and Wilton telling them that they should reserve their services for me, and not hazard their lives in private quarrels.

I would be glad to be rid of Southampton. I was growing to dislike him more and more. For one thing I found his friendships with other men distasteful. He was constantly with people like Francis Bacon; and they were all friends of Essex. Southampton was always in the center of some quarrel. If he was not challenging someone, he was urging others to do so. One of his friends, Sir Charles Danvers, picked a quarrel with a Hampshire nobleman named Long and killed him. Before Danvers could be brought to justice Southampton smuggled the murderer out of the country.

I was relieved when Southampton was given a minor post in an embassy in Paris. But while he was away I discovered that one of my ladies, Elizabeth Vernon, had become pregnant. This state of affairs always enraged me, and when I had slapped and pummeled the secret out of the girl, I was appalled to find that the man responsible was Southampton.

I sent her away in disgrace and shortly learned that, hearing of her plight, Southampton had hastened home from Paris and married her.

And all this without asking my permission! They were both sent for a spell in the Fleet Prison. They were not there long, but I did make it clear that Southampton's chances at Court were over.

I had at last decided that Essex should return to Court. I should have been very happy if he had given me an apology, and would most willingly have accepted it; but it seemed that was asking too much of his proud nature.