His Last Letter Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  CHAPTER 1 - “COME KISS ME NOW”

  CHAPTER 2 - WHEN THEY WERE YOUNG

  CHAPTER 3 - “PROTECT HER OR I AM NOT YOUR SON”

  CHAPTER 4 - SEE ALL AND SPEAK NOTHING

  CHAPTER 5 - “IS LADY JANE’S SCAFFOLD REMOVED?”

  CHAPTER 6 - THE OTHER

  CHAPTER 7 - QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CORONATION DAY

  CHAPTER 8 - ALWAYS THE SAME

  CHAPTER 9 - THE FIRST MONTHS OF HER REIGN

  CHAPTER 10 - TO MARRY THE WRONG QUEEN

  CHAPTER 11 - HOLLAND HEADQUARTERS

  CHAPTER 12 - AN IMPOSTOR IN HIS BED

  CHAPTER 13 - WITHOUT ROBIN

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16 - HOME TO WANSTEAD AND LETTICE

  CHAPTER 17 - KENILWORTH

  CHAPTER 18 - TO KILL A QUEEN

  CHAPTER 19 - ROBIN . . . MARRIED?

  CHAPTER 20 - ON THE ROYAL BARGE TO GREENWICH PALACE

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22 - TO TILBURY

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  READERS GUIDE

  Praise for

  The Virgin’s Daughters

  “Takes the reader on a poignant journey into the hearts and minds of three dynamic Elizabethan women, including the queen herself. Intimate characterization and beautifully rendered settings and customs make us realize that the tumultuous Tudor times are both unique and yet not so very different from our own. A compelling, unforgettable historical novel.”

  —Karen Harper, author of The Queen’s Governess

  “Two well-crafted love stories set against the backdrop of the court of Elizabeth the First create high drama and at the same time paint an unforgettable portrait of the last Tudor monarch.”

  —Kate Emerson, author of Secrets of the Tudor Court: The Pleasure Palace

  “A suspenseful tale of royal power and the grip of an iron queen on the destiny of her ladies-in-waiting. Vivid characters and compelling dialogue illuminate the Elizabethan court where danger lurks in the shadows, love can be treason, and every step could be the last. You’ll find yourself looking over your shoulder in this engrossing read.”

  —Sandra Worth, author of The King’s Daughter

  “Westin has brought the Elizabethan court vividly to life. Her heroines walk a delicious knife-edge between love and disaster. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Anne Gracie, author of His Captive Lady

  “Westin knows her history, and the inner workings of her characters’ minds as well. She presents Elizabeth I through the eyes of two of her ladies-in-waiting. Rich, colorful details of court life, captivating characters with suppressed sexuality, scandal and intrigue thrust the reader into the era in this top-notch novel.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ Stars)

  “Fantastic story. Here is a unique approach to showing us more of Queen Elizabeth. I loved the way the author weaves two stories into this look at the queen—both distinctly separate, yet still connected. . . . Utterly fascinating and a must for everyone to read.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “This is a Tudor novel not to be missed. . . . Well told and well researched, this book gripped me from its earliest pages and wouldn’t let go until I’d read all the way through the readers guide at the end. I became caught up in the lives of these two relatively unknown ladies of Elizabeth’s court, and the way Westin ties both tales together is unique and riveting. What might have been merely two love stories truly became history brought to life. Highly recommended.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  OTHER NOVELS BY JEANE WESTIN

  The Virgin’s Daughters

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

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  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2010

  Copyright © Jeane Westin, 2010

  Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010

  All rights reserved

  Letter facsimile on page 361 courtesy of the National Archives of the UK, REF. SP12/215.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Westin, Jeane Eddy.

  His last letter: Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester/Jeane Westin.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-45884-6

  1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533-1603—Fiction. 2. Leicester, Robert Dudley, Earl of, 1532?-1588—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558-1603—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.E89H57 2010

  813’.54—dc22 2010010431

  Set in Garamond

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  To my dear extended family:

  Norm, Pam and Skye

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  His Last Letter is set during 1585-88, the last three years of Queen Elizabeth’s and Robert, the Earl of Leicester’s life together, the time period I did not cover in my first book about Elizabeth’s court, The Virgin’s Daughters.

  I soon found that their emotional responses and reactions to these eventful years were grounded in what had happened to them in all the years they had spent together in peril and in love, both of them fighting for dominance over each other and their own feelings. This realization dictated the s
tructure of His Last Letter. The following chapter guide may help clarify as you read the time and place in which each scene takes place.

  PROLOGUE

  “He made the wynds and waters rise

  To scatter all myne enemies.”

  —From a victory song by Queen Elizabeth after England’s

  defeat of Spain’s Armada

  ELIZABETH

  September 1588

  Whitehall Palace, Westminster

  Bright explosions of fireworks arched over the Thames from Baynard’s Castle near the Strand to Billingsgate downriver, sending flashes of light through the tall open windows of Whitehall’s presence chamber. The shouts of Londoners could be heard as they wildly celebrated with gunpowder mixed with strong English ale. Their virgin queen Elizabeth’s glorious victory over Spain’s invincible armada had come in answer to her prayers.

  Trumpets and drums announced the queen’s approach from her privy chambers.

  Lord Treasurer William Cecil and the queen’s philosopher, Dr. John Dee, in court from his home in Mortlake, moved through the crowd of courtiers toward the chamber doors. Cecil produced a rare smile from his sober face. “I have seen Her Majesty in moments of triumph before, but none to match the glory of this victory, the jewel of her reign.”

  Dee nodded, his mouth scarcely visible within his full white beard that came to a point at his waist. “My lord, the victory was foretold in her stars . . . and in my lord the Earl of Leicester’s. It was inevitable.”

  “Good Doctor, although God commands the winds, perhaps Lord Howard and her majesty’s sea dogs, Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher, with their new naval guns and fast ships, aided the Almighty,” Cecil said in his slightly amused way, which showed a little of his disdain for Dee and all necromancers. Still, his gaze never left the chamber doors.

  Dee, in defense of his art, refused to yield. “I would have to cast the captains’ natal charts to determine what was written in their stars.”

  Before one could give further offense to the other, the huge double doors of the presence chamber opened and red-and-black-liveried yeoman guards entered, their tall pikes rigidly upright.

  Trumpeters and drummers marched in and stepped to the side, followed by a retinue of lords, ladies and gentlemen pensioners, and at last by the queen. Elizabeth paused for a moment just inside the chamber, dazzling in the torchlight from her jeweled scarlet slippers, past ropes of pearls looped about her white brocade gown, heavily embroidered with silver thread, to the great ruby-and-diamond crown glittering on her head. Her thoughts blazed through her eyes and were read by every courtier who knew her well: I will remember this day as the best of my life; my great triumph when Spain was no longer master of sea and land!

  She straightened her already near-rigid back, her corset allowing no real respite, nor did she want it. Although she loved her flowing gowns and dazzling jewels, her flower scents and the line of lovely ladies-in-waiting behind her, she never forgot that she was a queen before she was a woman.

  Elizabeth stopped near Cecil, who bowed, since he had her permission to stay on his feet and save his old knees. “My Lord Treasurer, today England takes its rightful place in the world.”

  “Your Grace, it is a day your realm will remember and celebrate down the ages.”

  “My lord,” the queen announced in full voice, as much for her gathered court as for Cecil, “Philip of Spain claimed all shipping lanes from east to west.” She tossed her head and laughed. “Now he knows that the seas are no longer a Spanish pond!”

  Rough shouts and approving laughter spread throughout the chamber as Elizabeth moved on down the double line of uncovered and kneeling courtiers, who shouted, “Huzzah! Huzzah!” At the foot of her canopied throne, she saw Sir Walter Raleigh waiting. He was not on his knees. The handsome rogue took unusual liberties even for a man who thought himself a favorite of his sovereign . . . and who had from his elegant boots to his perfect face every bit the look of a favorite. Robin never makes such a mistake; he observes all court protocol, bless him.

  Raleigh, not to have his achievements forgotten for a moment, took his pipe and lit it, drawing every lady’s gaze. It was said that he was growing rich on the tobacco he had brought back from the New World. Perhaps she should consider a tax.

  “Sir Walter, we have seen many men turn gold into smoke, but you have managed to turn smoke into gold.”

  The jibe was greeted by polite laughter, enough to reward the queen and yet not offend a rising courtier. She watched him brave it all with ease. He needed a small reprisal. “Are you then so much a hero after your voyage to Virginia that you need not be on your knees to your sovereign?”

  “Majesty, forgive me,” said Sir Walter Raleigh, choking on his weed a little before falling to his knees as Elizabeth mounted the dais to sit on her canopied throne. “Each burst of victorious light from the city brings added beauty to your perfect face and I am dazzled.”

  She laughed at his very pretty excess, admiring his quick recovery from her rebuke. Planned or not, she believed him. What courtier was not a little in love with Elizabeth Tudor? Still, she knew she could not play this game of courtly love with her usual zest. Not on this day. Today she was in love with her country. England was her husband, the people her children, and she had given them their greatest victory since Agincourt.

  Sir Walter, sensing her heart’s distance, stepped down and bowed low so that she could see the perfect dark waves in his hair and how at the bottom of his tanned sailor’s neck his hair curled up—probably pomaded to do so—in the arrogant way of a handsome young man who was determined to heat every woman he saw. And almost certainly succeeding with most. And perhaps, at times, with me.

  Elizabeth could not help but erupt into gleeful laughter at her own private entertaining thoughts, since she had seen many handsome young men determined to catch her eye and favor—perhaps a grant of land or a better title—though she gave the ever-watchful court another reason for her obvious delight. A loud burst of gunpowder and flash of light brought her to her feet, her fist raised in victory imitating the Greek goddess of war, Pallas Athena. She regretted not wearing the breastplate and gorget she had worn at Tilbury last month.

  The court cheered. “Down with all Spanish papists! Up with our good Queen Elizabeth!”

  Raleigh raised his voice and it rang through the large chamber above all others. “Majesty, it seems your loyal English people would sink Philip’s armada . . . a second time!” He bowed with a flourish of his hand, no longer callused from the sea, but soft as any courtier’s.

  “Nay, Sir Walter, we think that King Philip’s fleet, his ‘Great Enterprise of England,’ is already well sunk, or soon will be in the storms off the Irish coast. He must be content to creep about inside his Escorial palace and hide from us. We did more than singe his beard in the channel. We left him hairless as a babe!”

  The court erupted into laughter and Elizabeth knew that her every word would soon be repeated in the streets of London and shouted back at her when she rode down Cheapside on her way to St. Paul’s for the service of thanksgiving. Even more, one foreign ambassador or another, seeking to curry Philip’s favor, would report every word to him, probably sending the Spanish king to his knees again to beg God to strike Elizabeth down. But God was listening to her and not to Philip. She shook with silent laughter.

  Raleigh bowed again, undefeated as always. “Madam,” he said, his hand over his heart, “my only regret is that my lord Leicester could not be here to witness this celebration. He left court two weeks ago to take the waters at Cornbury. I long for news of his recovery. A man of his years cannot be too careful.”

  The chamber hushed.

  Two weeks only? It seems longer. But how dare Raleigh? Elizabeth was tempted to slap his perfect face for giving Robin his sly backhand, but such a cocksure court rival needed different handling. She would have him take care of his words, but not beaten down. Still, there was bitter reproof in her face that she did not bother to remove. H
e must learn that Elizabeth was the only person in the realm who could challenge Robert, Earl of Leicester, not a lowborn sailor from Devonshire . . . no matter how a queen might favor his too-handsome face, well-turned calf and artful love poetry.

  She waved Sir Walter away, giving him the back of her hand in curt dismissal. “Your love and care for the earl are well-known to us, Sir Walter.”

  Immediately, she signed for the musicians in the gallery above to begin playing to cover her own dismay. “Let us have one of my father’s galliards. ‘Time to Pass with Goodly Sport,’ if you remember it.” She and Robin had danced it for Henry when they were yet youngsters in the palace school. Whirling about with Robin at Greenwich Palace in front of her father’s throne was like yesterday in her mind and always would be.

  How could she have reveled for an hour, even for a minute, while Robin was sick these many weeks with his old fever? He had suffered a recurrence in the swampy land around Tilbury in July and August, while waiting to lead her faithful troops against the Spanish armies if they landed at the mouth of the Thames. Everyone had thought they would wait to make an assault on London and try to capture England’s queen alive. They had planned to take her to Pope Sixtus to be tried for heresy. Ha! God had other plans for His anointed Elizabeth. He had sent a great storm to douse the heretic’s fire that Rome would have lit for her.

  The queen tapped her foot to the galliard. How she had danced it with her sweet Robin, who now even in his middle years was still the most manly, most well-favored man, never to age in her eyes and heart. The world may have seen them change, but they had never changed to each other. She was sure of that. Robin was the one man in her world of whom she could be in no doubt. Always.