The Lonely Queen/Her First Lover



HE Lord Admiral lifted up his voice and sang. There was good enough excuse for him. The woodland air had the zest of frost and sunshine, and the bare arms of the beeches were all glistening and sparkling white. My lord looked his best on a wild horse, and the sombre, neat little fellow with the plodding cob behind set off his splendour. They spurred on over the brown rides of the Chase, and in a while, as the beeches yielded to oaks and the ground began to rise, saw the tall red gables of Enfield Palace. Over glistening greensward they rode to the courtyard, and the Admiral made his horse curvet and show its temper while he, magnificently graceful, stared smiling up to a jutting window.

At the door a sleek man, in black velvet, appeared with a posse of servants, ready and obsequious. The Admiral sprang to the ground.

“Ha! Master Parry, God give you good day! Come, conduct me to your lady.

Parry bowed and led the way. As they climbed the broad oak stair, the Admiral tapped him on the shoulder. “Hark ye! she hath heard nought of my design?” he said in a low voice.

“My lord!” Parry's tone expressed anguish that he should be suspected of a lack of discretion. “There has been nought but some talk of your lordship as a most noble, handsome gentleman. And very powerful withal.”

“Well, it is very well.” The Admiral waved him on.

A door was flung open. Parry proclaimed: “The Lord Admiral, my Lord Seymour of Sudely!”

The Admiral stalked in, his gait an elaborate masterpiece. The little man rolled after him. It was a big room, furnished with stiff and faded splendour. The ceiling bore painted roses wrought in relief. In a tarnished gilt chair by the fire a girl sat reading. She was something slight and pale against the richness of her bronze hair, but she had already the promise of a vivid beauty of womanhood. From a stool beside her, a plump matron looked up at the Admiral with a knowing smile.

The girl rose and made a stately curtsey. “This is kind, my lord,” she said demurely. “But, indeed, you are ever so kind that I love you as though you were,” she paused—“my uncle in blood, not only in name, my lord.”

“Nay, faith, I thank God I am no such thing.”

“I hope your lordship has more to thank God for. Prithee, were it so hard a fate to be kin to me?”

“Most desperate hard, fair lady. If a man were content to be thy kinsman, he were no man.”

“God save us all!” the plump matron cried. “Never a woman would doubt the Lord Admiral is man enough.”

The girl darted a keen glance at her, She was all nods and smiles. The Admiral flung back his fine shoulders and laughed. “Mrs. Ashley hath too much kindness for me, like every good woman.”

“Why, my lord, that sentence presses me shrewdly,” the girl cried. “Which am I then—over fond for you or not too good?”

“My Lady Elizabeth, no man would account you a good woman. For you are a fair goddess, who need not be kind to any man.”

“I will take your counsel, my lord;” Elizabeth made a curtsey.

The Admiral frowned. Mrs. Ashley struck in: “May I serve your lordship and your lordship's gentleman with some entertainment?”

“Ha! with my lady's leave”—the Admiral recollected his companion—“let me present Captain Peter Coffin, chief of the mariners of the west, a very sturdy pirate.”

Peter Coffin rolled forward and knelt awkwardly and kissed Elizabeth's hand, and stared up at her with bright puckered eyes. He said nothing.

“Away with thee, Peter. Let him smell flagons, Mrs. Ashley. We sailor men must be fed with wine or love. Else are we dangerous.”

“Now, fie, my lord, you boast to frighten us poor women.” Mrs. Ashley went off smirking, with the neat little round sailor quiescent in her wake.

The Admiral stood himself before the fire gracefully and stroked a beard glossy with perfumed waters, and smiled down at Elizabeth.

In the fire glow, her eyes took the colour of flame. “Why do you bring a pirate to me, my lord?”

“I' faith, fair lady, all men must be pirates who sight thy rare beauty.” He flung off his blue velvet cloak and revealed himself all in peach-coloured silk, clasped with emeralds at neck and knee.

The girl smiled a little, but blood was stirring in her cheeks. “Do I make you long to be cruel, my lord? Why, then, for your soul's health you should avoid my presence.”

“Cruel? Ay, love is cruel as life and strong as death. Lady Elizabeth, what mercy should you hope of a man who have none for him? Your—your swift grace—your body of alabaster—the flame of your eyes—the dark treasury of your hair—and withal the keen right manly wit of you—you make a man mad with love.”

The girl rose with studied movements of allure. Her lips were parted in a subtle smile. Yet she could not check the eager beat of her bosom. “Now you play the pirate indeed. You come upon me under a false flag. My Lord High Admiral flies the banner of love:” she gave an excited laugh. “A lion soupirant! Nay, my lord, it serves not. King Love hath no loyalty of mine. I swear I like you better when you are your true born self—when your eyes say: 'all men are one to me and all women nought.'”

“And all are nought to me save one, who is all the world and my heaven. If I am haughty to every creature born of woman, I have the richer soul to lay at thy feet.”

“Good lack, my feet have soles enough,” the girl cried. But her voice was wild and her eyes sparkled and she trembled.

The Admiral came close and stared down at her intent and passionate. Then he caught her hand fiercely. “Ay, mock me, mock me,” he said. “That owns the maiden in you is yearning in fear to yield. Most fair lady—ah, the touch of you, the throb of your blood—it drives all words away, it makes me mad. Ay, as the vision of your beauty dazzles me from sleep. Thou—thou dost command me to a passion which must conquer thee to thine own triumph.” He caught her, lithe and quivering, in his arms. She was all blushing red and her eyes dim, but her lips still smiled. “Come, yield, yield! It's for a glory of delight and power.”

“My lord, my lord,” she stammered. His kisses were on her lips. “How does this mean? Do you mean me fair?”

“Fair as your own fair neck.”

“Why, my lord—your high nobility, would it deign to a wife poor in all but her birth?”

“Royal in all and queen of me. Fair Lady Elizabeth—who knows?—queen of much else beside.”

“What? Oh, now you dream, my lord.” She lay back in his arms, searching his face. Her eyes were clear now and keen. “Or you mock me, do you not, you mock me? You play with me. Of what should I be queen ever but my own heart? Nay, faith, my lord, this is alla jest. A sorry jest, is't not, to tease a maid so? The King would never suffer you to wed with me.”

The Admiral gave an ugly laugh. “The King? Leave me to get my will of the King. And if the King have no will to cross thine, Elizabeth, why then”

With a start, the girl freed herself from his arms. Her eyes were still keen upon him. “Then I will do what I will, my lord.”

“And be right willing, sweet. Nay, no need of blushes yet.”

“I am not blushing,” the girl cried fiercely.

The Admiral laughed loud. “There's a round maidenly lie. Go to, I have felt your heart. Dear love, I must be gone.” He clapped his hands and shouted: “Peter, man, Peter!” He made to kiss her, but she eluded him and held out her hand in a regal gesture. The Admiral knelt to kiss it most gallantly, and Mrs. Ashley came bustling in with Captain Peter Coffin, placid, some way behind her. “You'll take your leave, Peter, we must to horse.”

“Ay, ay, my lord.” Peter rolled up to Elizabeth and knelt clumsily and touched his brow. “But, i' fegs [sic], my lady will be asking herself why we were in such a hurry to come since we be in such a hurry to go.”

The Admiral did not seem to hear. He turned and strode to the door. Peter Coffin looked at Elizabeth with a gleam in his little eyes and a knowing smile before he heaved himself up and followed.

When they were well away from the palace, riding fast through the mellow fading light, the Admiral turned in his saddle with a complacent laugh: “Well, Peter, well?”

“Amen, and so be it and so forth,” Peter grunted.

“Well, man, will she serve?”

“Nay, her man is more like to find her a wench who will rule.”

“Beshrew thee, ha' done. If I need a fool to make sport, I'll find a better for a shilling by the year. What didst tell me—I must get something of the blood royal in me ere thy mariners of the west would rally to my banner. Well, sirrah, if I have that fair piece of royalty in my arms—King Harry's own daughter one flesh with me—will that serve?”

“There's a mort of fools would risk a hanging for that white wench's eyes,” said Peter, and seemed to grudge his words. “What if you catch the rope yourself, my lord?”

“The devil go with thee for a croaker,” the Admiral cried.

“There's them he loves better than croakers,” Peter grumbled. “I'll allow this is a sweet piece of devilry. It was worth getting sore o' horseback, which is poisonous to a good sailorman, to see the way she looked at you.”

The Admiral laughed loud his satisfaction.

Peter Coffin grunted and his little eyes gleamed contempt.

The lady coveted for so fair a plot, Elizabeth, sat in her chamber, elbows on knees, sharp chin in her hands, her face red with the firelight as she stared at the glowing logs that trembled and quaked into molten pictures. In a little while she was calm enough to think, and thought made my Lord Admiral seem vastly strange. This was a very sudden haste to capture her: a scurry from London, though he had seen her at Christmas and would see her again at Shrovetide; the wild tempest of his wooing, a very frenzy, though when he saw her at Christmas he was content with some easy, broad, amorous jesting. She had never doubted that my lord thought her more than common comely. He had always eyes for her, he was always quick to make a game a romp and an excuse for caresses. But always he had been pleased to make clear that he was amusing himself. Now this fiery earnest all in a hurry, and after the amazing flame of it, a hurry to be gone!

What was it the little plump sailor said: “Why were we in such a hurry to come, since we be in such a hurry to go?” He had cunning eyes, that man. He meant her to wonder and doubt and puzzle over it all. Well, why was my lord in such a hurry? Why was he in a passion to make sure of her all on a sudden? Plainly he meant no less than marriage. He wanted to show her and boast of her as his wife. Doubtless my Lord Admiral was great enough already. The sailor folk all round the coasts held him only less than the King. But if he were wed to the King's daughter, there would be something of royalty itself about him, and when the King should die he might be royal enough to hold the first place of all, ay, to venture for the throne. For he was a man to venture much.

Her cautious mind cried halt to her desires. The prospect tempted. If the Lord Admiral would help her to be Queen! Without help she had little hope. Next to the throne stood her brother, who was young enough to outlive her, and not so young but that in a few years he might have children of his own. After him came Mary, the elder sister, not yet too old to find a husband. Only a strange multiplication of unnatural mischances could give Elizabeth the crown. She knew that bitterly well, and for all the years that scorn and unkindness had forced her to think of her own queer fortune she had felt it unjust and cruel. Why should she give place to that flaccid impotent boy, or to Mary—the dull slave of priests? She could fawn upon them to cheat them into serving her, but she always despised them as fit only to be her tools, her subjects. The girl was aware of a keen craft in her, of a fierce will, against which they were nothing. A haughty pride in herself, stronger for being hidden from all the world, bade her believe that she would know how to be a glorious Queen. With an imagination in which sober thought and a child's love of pageantry were queerly blent, she fancied her sovereignty. If the Admiral would help her! She saw the grandiose dreams of many an hour of tortured childhood coming splendidly true. But her mind cried halt. It would not believe in the Admiral. It could not find any solid strength in him to trust.

Still she cherished and fondled her dreams. For all her cynical sense, she could not think of him coldly. Born to a court where greedy amours were unashamed, where there were no veils or reticence to guard her childhood, she had been bred to an unhappy precocity of passion. The magnificence of the man fired her. She could not forget his broad shoulders and his lithe strength, his grace, and the gleam of his eyes and the sunburn of his handsome face. He had made her yearn for him. Still her mind questioned whether he was worth having after all. But the questions came fainter and fainter, till she only thought of how he looked when he kissed her, and how she felt. So she spent the night with dreams.

Heavy eyed in the morning, she was aware that Mrs. Ashley watched her like a cat. Mrs. Ashley was paid for it with flashes of feline temper. Then came a noise of horses in the courtyard, and Elizabeth hurried to the presence chamber.

The door was flung open. Mr. Parry announced: “The Prince of Wales!”

The boy came with a studied mincing gait. He was too fat for his legs, and he hunched his shoulders and thrust out his stomach. His big head swayed.



Elizabeth rose and curtsied to the ground, and kissed the cold damp hand that he granted her stiffly. “You ride early, my lord,” she smiled.

“It is the duty of a prince to be no sluggard”—his shrill voice seemed to be reciting a lesson.

“Truly, my lord,” Elizabeth cast down her eyes. “You are kind to honour me with your presence.”

“I am not here to visit thee.”

“You are no less welcome, my lord,” she said meekly.

He stared at her as if she were impertinent. “The King advises me that matter of State requires me at Whitehall. Your house is convenient upon the way from my palace of Hatfield, that the lords of the council should meet me here to attend my progress.”

Elizabeth bowed. “Will it please you to sit, my lord?”

The boy, his hat still on, sat himself in her chair by the fire and waved her to the foot-stool.... Again came the sound of a cavalcade. The boy looked up with a peevish cry: “What is this? Why am I not advised? You let me be ill-served here, Elizabeth.”

The girl started up and was going to the door when Mr. Parry flung it open and announced: “The Queen Catharine!”

There came in a woman, insignificant of face and form and air, clad in black. The prince stood up and touched his hat. “I was not advised of this visit, madam,” he complained.

But Elizabeth cried out: “Madam, madam, why do you wear black?”

“Alack, child, now must we all wear black. My lords would have me tell you. So here it is then: The King died last night.”

Elizabeth ran to her arms, crying: “Oh—my father, my father,” and there was a sob in her voice.

Catharine wiped her eyes solemnly. “Indeed, my lord was a very great King!” Then, after a moment, “And kindly,” she decided.

“Now I am King,” said the boy with cold satisfaction.

Elizabeth drew away from the Queen and stood alone. “I loved him more than anyone in the world,” she said slowly in a low voice.

“Now I am King,” the boy repeated. The two women turned and saw him standing with his hand stretched out to them stiffly.

Catharine stared at him a moment and made a curtsey. Elizabeth fell on her knees and kissed his hand. “'Go,” he said coldly, “I would be alone for prayer. Tell my lords to be in waiting.” The women fled from such majesty hastily.

Elizabeth sought her chamber again. The death of her father confused her with thought and emotion. She had imagined often enough what changes might come when he died, but never that his death was near. She knew little reason to love him. For dreary years of her childhood he had given her nothing but cruelty and scorn. When she proved herself strong enough, passionate enough to amuse him, she had won nothing better than a contemptuous kindness. And yet the loss of him hurt her. She honoured him as she honoured everything strong: she was proud to be his child: she felt him most like herself of anyone in the world. Even if he cared nothing for her, while he lived she was not utterly alone.

Without him, what remained? Once she had dreamed that she could coax the dull cold child—her brother—into loving her. But each year had made him more aloof and harder in his precocious conceit of virtue. While he had power he would give her nothing but a dreary life, suspected and watched jealously. While he had power—and what power would he have? There was no vigour in him. How should a pedant of a boy be master over the ambitious court which even her father had hardly held down at the last? Hertford, Seymour, Lisle and the rest—the boy would only be a puppet for them, to be gripped and used by the strongest.

Now—now she understood the Admiral's hurry to woo her. He must have known that the King lay near to death. He meant to make sure of her betimes. He saw that the man who had her to wife would have a mastering prestige. He was Edward's uncle by blood, but his brother Hertford had that title too, and more fame. As Elizabeth's husband, he could boast the very glamour of the blood royal. Perhaps he meant to set her up against the dull boy King. And again her mind cried halt. The Admiral might venture it, like enough. But if he failed, and she went down in his ruin!

She was still debating cautiously her eager, excited ambitions while they rode to Whitehall the next day, still through the tedious parade of her father's funeral. But her face betrayed nothing. When the Admiral found a moment to press her hand and whisper passion, no blood came to her pale cheeks, she was as if she neither heard nor felt, but she was well aware that Lisle—the cunningest man of the council—watched her keenly, and it seemed that a creature of his, Tyrwhitt, was ever upon her heels. Among the greedy ambitious crowd that marched, careless of hypocrisy, through that splendid mockery of mourning, you see the girl in her black, moving stately, her keen white face unchanging as a mask.

The boy King, her brother, had always his soldierly uncle, Hertford, and the demure energy of Lisle, on either side him, like conjurers working an automaton. Elizabeth saw her sister, the little sour woman, only from afar, and at the earliest Mary fled away to her own house that her eyes might not be offended by the sight of her enemies, the heretics, in power. There was no friend, no ally for Elizabeth. The widowed Queen, Catharine Parr, was always kind enough and gay now that she was a widow, but the girl found her of no more use than a pet cat.

But the Admiral was still in a hurry. He watched for chances to beset her, and though she was earnest to keep aloof, he found moments again and again. But she would not let them be more than moments, she would not yield him anything.

At last he caught her, in the twilight, in the long gallery, he was near conquest, when a shuffling step disturbed them, and through the gloom came the boy King. The Admiral vanished with a mutter of an oath. Elizabeth rose from the window seat to which he had drawn her, stood looking out at the night, fighting hard to be calm.

“Elizabeth!” said the cold, querulous voice. She turned, compelling herself not to tremble, and made a curtsey. “I am pleased with thee, Elizabeth. Thy decent, comely behaviour likes me well.” He coughed. “I perceive thou dost think of our father's death with a calm mind.” He gave his damp hand for her to kiss. “Learning and prudence and piety, they” he stopped like a child who has forgotten its lesson—“They are learning and prudence and piety.” He shuffled on, his head wagging with importance.

She stared after him with a queer feeling as though she had come upon something nauseous. Whether he meant her well or ill, he need not be like a reptile.

The boy was away to his audience chamber and summoned Hertford and Lisle. He feared Hertford, who was by his father's will the Lord Protector, and the best soldier in England besides. He liked Lisle, who was adroit and flattered him. Lisle was prompt and Hertford kept him waiting. “My uncle is so zealous in business that I fear for his health,” the boy said. “And certainly it is well beseeming that youth should wait upon age.”

Hertford entered abruptly. “We wait on you, my lord,” the boy complained. Hertford shrugged his shoulders and flung himself into a chair. “You may sit, my lords,” the boy cried. Lisle bowed and sat demurely.

Hertford laughed. “Well, sir, what is the pother?”

“We have discovered, my lord, a matter which touches upon treason and is right dangerous.”

Hertford laughed again. “Why, would you be lopping heads already, sir?” He hardly disguised a sneer at the flaccid conceit of the boy's face.

“The duty to be God's avenger is the sternest duty of a king,” said the boy shrilly. “My lord, I find your brother, the Admiral, in amorous toys with my sister Elizabeth.”

“What? Why then out on him for a naughty rogue!” Hertford swore roundly. “She is twenty years too young for him!”

“My lord, my lord, you are profane!” the boy cried. “And, moreover, I would not have you take this in a worldly way. In which is no true wisdom. She is my sister, and it suits not with our safety that she wed.”

“Wed? Faith, no!” Hertford laughed. “I doubt wedding is not much on my brother's lips. But I will school him, sir. Is that all the treason?”

“Oh, my lord, I would we were all advised against levity. Of which cometh much sin.”

“You are in no danger, sir. Is that all?” Hertford rose.

“I will not keep you from your duty, my lord.”

So the Admiral, taking counsel over his cups with Peter Coffin, was desired to wait upon the Lord Protector, and sent a careless excuse. The messenger came back with a curt command. The Admiral waved him out. “Goodman brother crows loud on his dunghill,” he laughed to Peter,and swaggered off. He was surprised to find Lisle with his brother. “You're a queer couple to run in leash, my lords. I'll make you a wager one throttles the other.”

“We are in no mood for thy wantonness, Thomas,” Hertford cried. “Look you, sir, you grow impudent. You must be schooled. There are those will make you quake as much as ever did King Henry.”

“Oh faith, here's one to wear the lion's skin,” the Admiral laughed.

“Take warning, sirrah. I am troubled enough with thee. Thy roguish tricks are known.”

“That's no word for a gentleman, my Lord Hertford!” the Admiral cried, his hand on his sword.

“Sirrah, I speak for the King. It is not for a gentleman to play at amours with the Lady Elizabeth.”

“Ha! Who plays the spy, then?” the Admiral flushed.

“My lord, my lord, you know not what you say,” Lisle cried. “The King himself complains of you.”

“Oh, the saintly boy! Prithee, what is it to him if I would wed his sister? She will have a man for her husband, and”

“Wed!” Hertford broke in. “Beshrew your folly! Did you think of marriage? This is the very madness of treason.”

“Here is Christian virtue! 'Tis folly to woo, but infamous to wed. Ay, my lord, I thought of marriage, and I mean marriage, and I ask leave of none but the lady.”

“Art knave or fool?” cried Hertford.

“Oh, my lord,” Lisle spoke swiftly and smoothly, “we will believe that you have been hasty. For surely it cannot suit with the King's rule that such a marriage should be.”

“No, nor with thy power and consequence, old fox!”

“Swear to have done with this, or I will attaint thee of treason, I, the Lord Protector. Mark thee, sirrah, if I find thee tampering with the child, thy head shall fall, though thou art tenfold my brother.”

The Admiral stood glowering at him. “Ay, the more readily for that,” he muttered. “What wouldst thou give to be widowed and have a chance of her thyself?”

“Fie, fie, this is to talk ignobly,” said Lisle.

“And if thou dost ignobly, the Lord have mercy on thy soul!” cried Hertford.

The Admiral flung out with an oath, and came stamping back to Peter Coffin. “The thing is blown upon,” he announced. “That curst boy has spied on me. They talk of treason,” and he fell to cursing his brother and the King.

“Then there's some pretty fellows will live the longer,” quoth Peter, and drank again.

“What, there is none of your fellows would follow me without her?”

“There be no mariners would rise against King Harry's child save for King Harry's child.”

The Admiral swore at them, and him and everything.

The next day Elizabeth was taken back to Enfield. Her brother bade her a very tender farewell. From no one came a word of censure. But by the haste to banish her she knew that the wooing of the Admiral was known, and would not be permitted. She bore her brother no malice for it; she had none for the lords who governed through him. They fought for themselves even as she. But she waited eagerly and anxiously for the Admiral to come. If he were a man he would bid her defy them all in his arms. And what then? Was she to obey him and dare? She lived tremulous days. Her head was afraid of her heart.



But the Admiral did not come. Day after day went by and the palace at Enfield was peaceful as the village about it. The girl began to feel the sting of shame. My lord was pleased to grow cold as quick as he had grown hot. He held her worth no risk or pains. So she fretted herself till in the sunshine of a gay spring afternoon came Catharine the Queen. The simple woman had put off her mourning. Her face was broadly radiant. She kissed Elizabeth lavishly. After greetings—Elizabeth was punctilious, and something had made Catharine exuberant—“Guess now, child; nay, but thou'lt never guess,” she cried in one breath. “Guess from whom I come. I come from the Admiral, who greets thee well. And, indeed, he loves thee. Who should know if not I?” she gave a silly conscious laugh.

A whirl of emotions stormed in the girl's heart. Her pale face gave no sign. “You come from the Admiral, madam?” Her voice spoke a natural, innocent wonder.

“Nay, sweetheart, do not make me blush,” Catharine simpered.

The girl's keen eyes opened wide. For all her will she could not hold her face against a spasm of pain.

“We were wed two weeks agone,” Catharine murmured, and hung her bashful head.

“Oh, madam, I must needs wish you joy of such a lord.” The girl's voice rang sharp, her eyes were cold and searching, and still her face betrayed nothing.

Catharine laughed and smoothed the red velvet of her dress. “In truth, I have heard that my lord is the handsomest man in England,” she said complacently.

“And in faith that must make you proud,” the girl smiled at her.

“Dear child!” Catharine kissed her again. “Oh, I tell my lord he makes me fond and foolish, but what else can I be with him? He is so very noble.”

“I am very sure you find him so, madam.”

“I—oh,-we are happy as birds. We are”

“Oh, madam, I see you are,” the girl cried sharply.

Catharine caressed her. “Nay, sweet chuck, bear with me. Some day thou wilt know such gentle folly for thyself. God send thee such a man! But in faith, child, I have not forgot thee neither. Now I am out of mourning, now I am in my own house, I said to myself, 'there is the dear child Elizabeth all lonely: I must have her make merry with me.'”

“Nay, madam, methinks the Admiral would not thank me  for breaking on his bliss.”

“Oh, thou'lt not trouble us neither,” Catharine laughed. “And, in faith, it was my lord put it in my head to bid thee come to us.”

“I protest he is too gracious,” the girl cried.

“Ah, it's a sweet nature!” Catharine sighed. “Come, then, Bess, and try how merry we live.”

“Please you, madam, I am under the will of the King and the lords of the council.”

“Never care for that, child. Their pleasure is taken. See, my Lord Lisle delivered me a letter;” she fumbled in her ample bosom and gave Elizabeth the paper.

The girl read it. In correct phrase her brother desired his well-beloved sister to honour the Lady Catharine and the Lord Admiral at their house, if so it should accord with her pleasure. “By your leave, madam—this needs to be answered. Please you I may withdraw.” She hurried from the room. She needed to be alone.

When she was alone, bolted in her own chamber, she yielded to a frenzy of anger, beating herself and tearing her bed and crying out wildly.... That storm past, she sank down, panting and dishevelled, to force herself to think.... The knave, the base vile knave! She read him clear. Since she could not be won without peril, he would none of her. He would rather have safety with a fool, with a woman already three men's widow. And the dead man's wealth made her luscious to his taste. Faith, my Lord Admiral had good fortune! The richest woman in England! ... Oh, that such a fellow should dare prate love to her! Prate love? Why, for his mean spirit all her life had throbbed with passionate yearning. He had felt her longing.... The girl understood a woman's shame....

But now—what did he want of her now? Her brother's purpose was clear enough. He would have her go and see her lover in the arms of the faded fool who had won him away from her. Such a lesson as that would please his cold, cruel virtue. But the Admiral—why had he sent the woman to bid her to their house? Would he mock at her? Was there some deeper villainy? The girl swore under her breath. Did the fool think he would ever cheat her again? Not he nor any man. He had taught her what love was worth. But what did he want of her? She longed to face him and defy him and prove to him and herself that she cared nothing now what he did or what he was.

Reckless, she rode back to London by Catharine's side. Then began strange days. The Admiral greeted her carelessly as if the wooing had never been, as if she were a child again. His eyes followed her, but that had ever been his way. He made careless fun of her as if she were a child to be teased. After his old fashion he would romp with her. Catharine's dull eyes could not see that the girl was a child no more. She liked a jolly, noisy house. She joined in the games and made occasions for them and mocked at the girl in her silly easy fashion.

Elizabeth had not been born or bred to a dainty temper. She let herself endure for a while to see whither it would lead. She was too proud to give the Admiral a chance to flatter himself that she had taken him in earnest and let his treason hurt her. When she held off, she made him feel that she thought him dull and tedious. When she had to yield, she flung back laughter and romped as madly as he. Sometimes she caught him staring at her with a frown. It was plain that he could not tell what to make of her.

But she knew that she must escape. It was easy enough. She let Catharine find her sombre and sorrowful, and when the silly woman asked a reason, she sighed and feared the Lord Admiral grew too fond. Catharine was as ready to be jealous as anything else that she was bidden. She became even more eager to get Elizabeth away than Elizabeth was to go.

The girl went back to Enfield and found that she had never known before what it was to be lonely. No one heeded her. She was dead to the world as a nun, and desperate as a nun unwilling. In a few months Catharine died. The news came, and the girl told herself fiercely again and again that it was no matter of hers. For against her will and her mind her wild passions must needs be asking what the Admiral would do now. Week after week went by and she had no news of him. There were strange tales came through Parry and Ashley, the gossips, of quarrels in the King's Council, and discontent all through the land, but of the Admiral no word.

On another winter's morning, through a haze of frost, the Admiral came again, and again with Peter Coffin at his heels. He found a woman fretted to madness by the consciousness of her strength and the grim policy that condemned her to barren life in a comfortable prison. But she was cold enough and haughty to him. “It is an honour that you should remember me in your mourning, my lord.”

He laughed. “Why, child, dost think I ever forgot thee? No more than thou canst forget me.”

Her hands in her lap linked together close. It was a moment before she spoke. “In faith, my lord, no man has made me more mirth.”

“Mirth, is it? Nay, child, there's no use in your maidenly guile now. I've known you a year—since you clung to me hot and panting for hungry love.”

She started up, her thin cheeks all red, her eyes with the colour and light of flame. “You are a villain,” and she stammered for rage.

“Why so is every man to a woman, sweetheart.”

“Is every man a loathsome coward like thee?”

“How now?” he frowned. “Rough words these, child. What man dare call me coward?”

She gave a hard laugh. “Oh, the brave gentleman can see no ill in himself. Content you, my lord. If you do not feel yourself vile yet, there's none will ever make you feel.”

“So angry lovers talk.” She stamped her foot, she made as if she would strike him, and he smiled calm. “Now hark to me and a plain tale. Art sad and sore, child, and I allow thee cause. Do me reason, too. Thy sweet brother and his lords threatened my head if I should wed thee. I had no power to stand against them. What would have been thy fate if they slew me for treason in making thee wife? Death, too, or the Tower. I were coward, indeed, to bring that on thee. I waited my time. I needed money, and I married Catharine.”

“And she is kindly dead and the money thine. Oh, in faith, thou art wise, my lord.”

“Well, I think so,” the Admiral laughed, and stared at her with cool assurance. “Sweetheart, thou must know I had thee ever at heart. Why I hid it so ill that poor Catharine was madly jealous.”

“Oh,” the girl shuddered, “thou art a true lover indeed.”

“Hear me out. All the while I have planned and worked to make thee Queen. And now the hour is come. I have great powers gathering in the west, and arms and treasure for them. The mariners all about the coast will rise and rally to me when I raise thy standard. The time's ripe. All the realm is sick with discontent of the Lord Protector and his greedy crew and the cold pedant of a child whom they call King. If thou ride through the land like a queen, promising the good laws of thy father and his strong hand of rule, there is none who can stand against thee. See, child, I deal honestly. Without thee I can do nought. There is no hope in this realm save for one of King Henry's blood. Trust thyself to me and my power and I swear to make thee Queen. How say you now?”

The girl stared at him. Her thin lips were compressed, her brow furrowed. Thought and wild desires strove in her.

He grasped her hands. “Queen, ay, I will give thee that and how much else? Wilt live thy life out in a prison? That is what thy brother means for thee—to chain thee down till thou shalt die. I can give thee love, all wild will and power storming through time.” He sprang to her and caught her to him and made her feel fierce strength.

What could she do? Her mind might strive against her hungry passions, but her mind was tempted, too. All her being was pining and fretting for activity. A moment and she was as mad as he....

The Admiral grudged her time to cloak and hood. He would have none of her servants ride with her. Parry and Ashley, smiling and leering, gave her joy. Peter Coffin, at the horses' heads, saluted solemnly. “God ha' mercy on your ladyship,” quoth he.

“Why that, you fool?” the Admiral cried.

“Why, be there no chance for her?”

The Admiral swore at him, but the girl was all in a wonder of wild desires and had not heeded. They spurred fast for London.

In the winter twilight the deep lanes of Southgate and Hornsey were desolate. For mile after mile they met no one and heard no sound but their own. So, speeding on through a mystery of gloom, the girl tried to command her mind, and could not. She seemed to have nothing upon which thought could work. She was hurried through an unknown world, where there was nothing real, nothing—nothing but the hungry passion in her heart....

It was black night when they came upon the stones of the town. A breath of the fœtid air of Smithfield crossed them as they turned down the hill to cross the brawling waters of the Fleet. In the narrow street beyond many of the gabled houses were altogether dark. The good town lay abed already, and only one drunken roysterer was aware of them. She heard the Admiral chuckle and whisper, “We'll have the fat burgesses wake for thee anon, sweet.” She had no answer; she was still without mastery of herself, mad in a world of madness.

They drew rein to pass the narrow wooden arch of Temple Bar. At the slower pace, as they turned by the dark mass of St. Clement Dane's to the Admiral's house, the girl began to be aware of a new dull sound, as though some town afar were awake and busy. Some town of dreams.... Peter Coffin was alert and peering about him. To his quick ear the sound had something measured in it, like the tramp of a march. But the Admiral had no ears or mind for anything. For his admirable temper his triumph was already won, and he tasted the fruit.

By the gates of the big house all was quiet. The Admiral hurried the girl in and himself led her to its great chamber and left her alone, promising her women and all that she needed. But when he was gone, she turned and shot the bolts. She must be safe from him a moment and alone—alone—alone....

She stood by the window looking out over the black moaning water to the scattered lights of the Surrey shore. A great noise broke upon her. There were men storming into the house with the clash of arms and shouts. “In the King's name! In the King's name!” She darted across the room, her ear to the door. She heard the Admiral's voice in a torrent of oaths, and then a cry: “Thomas, Baron of Sudely, I arrest thee of high treason.” She caught at her heart.

This was the end, the end of life and all desire. She was a moment feelingless, unconscious. All meaning had gone out of the world. There was nothing—nothing.... Then she woke to pain. It was not that she had been defeated of her ambition, not that prison and death grasped at her. She could have defied defeat or fear. It was not only her baffled passion that tore at her heart. She writhed and hated herself for her weakness made manifest. Till that mad night she had always been queen of her own soul. Now she must be proven to all the world a weak, amorous fool, the slave of a man. She looked round the room wildly. She began to pluck at the little knife in her girdle.



And then from the window came a whistle. She started round and saw in the candlelight the bronze plump face of Captain Peter Coffin. She ran to him, and he, astride the window-sill, caught her and dragged her through and set her down upon the ground. Next moment he was at her side, and hurried her away to the river. She was dropped into the stern of a wherry, and he thrust off with her. Then for the first time he spoke: “Well, God ha' mercy,” and spoke no more. The girl sat tremulous. Hope was waking in her again, and the eager throb of life. Already she had her brain at work. If none in the darkness had seen her with the Admiral, if she could win back to Enfield and deny it all, why, then, all her game was to play again, and not again would she fail herself.

“Enfield!” she cried. “Let us make Enfield!”

“Well, a-well,” Captain Coffin panted over his oars, “at least we'll not make heaven this tide.”

They were out in mid-stream, the lights and noise in the Admiral's house left far behind. Climbing the hill above the river, the town loomed like a vast black cloud broken here and there with stars. They moved on the still black water alone. But slowly, slowly, and she was in a frenzy of impatience before the dense piers of the bridge and its towering houses loomed before them like a palisade. Captain Coffin rested on his oars a moment and looked ahead, debating whether to shoot the wild rapids under the bridge or take the risk of landing in the town. It was half-ebb and a feeble tide. “I'll trust water rather than land,” he muttered, and dipped his oars again. Gathering way, the boat ran true for the middle of the mid-most span, the widest. The drawbridge which covered it by day was lifted. As they came near the spray from the great pointed piers drenched them. At the last moment Captain Coffin shipped his oars. They sped through the foaming eddies, and in the broken water below were swung tossing wildly broadside to the tide before he could get his oars out again. A perilous moment of hard pulling, and, wet to the skin, they were in smooth water.

At the first chance Captain Coffin ran the boat ashore, and, springing out, dragged Elizabeth on to the mud. The boat he dispatched with a kick to betray what it might down stream. He gripped the girl's hand like a child's, and hauled her on through the night till they came to scattered houses. Then under a pent house he left her while he made for a seamen's tavern. He came back with two horses.

“Can you ride a man's saddle?” he growled. “For so be you must, if you be to ride again.”

She stared at him a moment, fighting her way back from a world of eager hope and plan to the urgent reality. “I can do anything a man can do,” she cried fiercely.

“Now that's not nature nor loving,” said he; and they mounted and rode hard over silent roads.

Some time after midnight they were back at Enfield. Enfield was unalarmed, but Parry and Ashley, roused to receive them, came white and shivering. At them Captain Coffin shook a stubby brown finger. “Your master that hired you is gaoled,” said he. “So if you be minded to keep your heads, my pretties, you swear that your lady never left Enfield o' yesterday. Swear hard. So good-night to you all.” He touched his forehead to Elizabeth. “You're best without him, mistress. God save you. He had no bones.” He turned on his heel.

“But you—are you safe?” she cried.

He grinned broadly. “Now what would you think, my lady? I'll smell blue water o' Sunday. God be wi' you.”

The next day with grim state came Sir Robert Tyrwhitt and examined Elizabeth sternly, and Parry and Ashley, and whomsoever he could find, but had for his pains no more than a medley of good lying and bad, whereof he could make little truth. He installed himself at Enfield in the manner of a gaoler, and in due season flashed on Elizabeth the news that the Admiral was beheaded.

He was disappointed. The pale face gave no sign. “There went a man of much wit and little counsel,” she said coldly.

And this was the fashion in which her first lover made her into a woman.