Elizabeth I by Margaret George

his views because he was family, but I never let his religion impede his service. Francis produced a huge brood of children, some seven sons and four daughters. Odd in such a worthy father, none of the sons are worth mentioning here, and only one of the daughters, Lettice. And the things she is mentioned for—slyness, cuckoldry, adultery—would hardly make a father proud. I greeted Francis, trying not to hold his daughter against him.
    Not reading my mind, Francis smiled and greeted me. Then he passed on to the table, eager to try the exotic fare.
    I moved to the head of the table and announced, “Good Englishmen all! We have received gifts from the east. One you are walking upon—a fine Turkish carpet. Others are for you to handle and admire. Ladies, you may select a scarf. Men, you may handle the scimitars. But no dueling!” Lately there had been several attempted duels at court, in spite of their being strictly forbidden. “And most intriguing of all, there is a drink in the flagons—a heated drink, most welcome on this bone-chilling day—that warms your stomach and makes your head buzz, but not as ale does.” I had not tried it yet myself, but I would later—in private. “There are superlative dried fruits, and a special sweet that, I am told, the eunuchs love.” There, that should pique their interest.
    Dark was falling so early on this winter’s day. I ordered lamps and tapers to be lit, but the dark held sway in the corners and in the high roof. I had built this banqueting hall at Whitehall as a temporary structure, but I would never have the money to convert it into anything permanent.
    The war with Spain on all its fronts was bankrupting me. The defeat of the Armada had not ended the conflict. It was merely one stage of it.
    Recently our erstwhile ally France had been once again torn apart, this time by “the war of the three Henris”—the Catholic Henri, Duc de Guise, head of the Catholic League; the heir to the throne, Henri of Navarre, a Bourbon and a Protestant; and King Henri III, a Catholic and a Valois. But this was simplified when the Duc de Guise was assassinated, and so was Henri III. The French king, brave in his ribbons, perfume, and makeup, was removed from the stage of life, to be succeeded by his cousin from a different house and a different religion. The death of his meddling mother, Queen Catherine de’ Medici, helped matters out immensely, from my point of view.
    â€œMy most gracious and beautiful sovereign.” Standing by me was Robert Devereux, the young Earl of Essex. I snapped out of my musings on England’s financial straits. He bent low, kissing my hand and then raising his eyes to look directly into mine, letting a slow smile tease his lips. “I do confess that, as a man, I have been more subject to your natural beauty than as a subject to the power of the Queen.”
    Such beauty as his, in words and face, should not be allowed to roam free. It was too distracting.
    Standing beside him was a lovely woman. “May I present,” he began, “my friend Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton.”
    â€œAm I meeting the ghost of Henri III?” I had just been thinking about him, and here was this apparition before me: colored lips, rouged cheeks, tumbling cascades of virginal hair, a double earring.
    Southampton gave a tinkling laugh and laid his long, slender fingers on Essex’s sleeve. He did not have the decency to blush, but then his rouge would have disguised it. “It is my honor to serve you, my sovereign lady,” he said, falling to his knees.
    I let him remain there for a moment, examining the top of his head. It did not appear to be a wig. I could always tell by the part. They never look natural.
    â€œArise,” I ordered him. “So you have come to London. How old are you?”
    â€œSeventeen, Your Most Glorious Majesty.”
    Seventeen. Perhaps he would grow out of