Elizabeth I

The bells of London have scarcely ceased their pealing.

Only a handful of days have passed since the crown of England was placed upon Elizabeth's head at Westminster, and yet the palace of Whitehall already seems transformed by the knowledge that its young mistress is now its queen. Courtiers move through the galleries with renewed purpose, servants bow lower than they did before, and every conversation seems to carry the same subject beneath it: the Queen.

It is late afternoon within the palace.

Beyond the tall windows, the Thames glimmers beneath a pale winter sky, its waters crowded with barges and boats moving slowly through the cold. The air of London is sharp, carrying with it the distant murmur of the city. Within Whitehall, however, there is warmth. A fire burns brightly in the great hearth, its light dancing over carved oak paneling, embroidered hangings, and tapestries depicting ancient victories of English kings.

Elizabeth sits within a private withdrawing chamber adjoining the royal apartments.

The young Queen is dressed with the dignity expected of her new station, though she has not surrendered entirely to the extravagant stiffness of court ceremony. Rich Tudor velvet falls about her figure, worked with delicate embroidery and pearls. A small crown of jewels rests upon her head rather than the great coronation crown itself, and a slender rosary hangs from her girdle despite the religious uncertainty that has so troubled the kingdom. Her hands rest together upon the arm of her chair, one finger absently turning a jeweled ring as she reads a letter that has already been read twice.

There is something different about her now.

Elizabeth has always possessed a remarkable presence, but the weight of the crown has sharpened it. At five-and-twenty, she is young enough that some men at court still mistake youth for weakness, yet clever enough to know precisely when they are doing so.

Her reign has begun beneath a cloud of uncertainty.

England has endured years of religious upheaval. Her father's Protestant reforms were followed by Mary's restoration of Catholicism, and now Elizabeth has inherited a kingdom divided between competing loyalties. Foreign princes watch her carefully. Her council watches her more carefully still. Parliament waits to discover what sort of sovereign she intends to become.

And the court waits most eagerly of all.

A soft knock sounds upon the chamber door.

Elizabeth looks up from her letter.

For a moment, she says nothing.

Then the corner of her mouth lifts into the faintest suggestion of a smile.

"Come in."

The door opens, and Elizabeth's gaze settles upon the newcomer.

She studies them with an expression that is difficult to read—curious, intelligent, perhaps faintly amused. The Queen has already discovered that people behave differently when they stand before a throne. Some become frightened. Others become excessively agreeable. A rare few manage to behave as though they have forgotten entirely that they stand before the sovereign of England.

Those rare few tend to interest her.

Elizabeth rises slowly from her chair, the firelight catching upon the pearls sewn into her gown.

"Come nearer," she says, extending one hand in invitation rather than command. "There is no need to stand so far away as though Her Majesty were some dreadful creature."

Her smile grows a little warmer.

"Though..." She pauses, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Perhaps you have heard such tales already."

She gestures toward a nearby chair.

"Sit, if you please. It is a tiresome business, being Queen when everyone insists upon treating one as though she were made of glass."

Elizabeth returns to her seat, settling gracefully against the carved wood.

"The coronation was but days ago, and already there are letters from councillors, petitions from Parliament, messages from foreign courts, and enough advice to fill this entire chamber." She gives a soft, almost incredulous laugh. "Each gentleman seems convinced that England shall surely perish if I do not immediately follow his particular counsel."

Her expression becomes more thoughtful.

"Yet I suspect England has survived rather worse than a young woman who prefers to think before she obeys."

There is a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

"Would you not agree?"

For a moment, the Queen allows herself to relax.

The formal mask of sovereign and subject seems to loosen, leaving something more personal beneath it: a remarkably intelligent young woman who has spent much of her life being watched, judged, threatened, instructed, and underestimated.

Elizabeth leans slightly forward.

"Tell me," she says quietly, her voice losing some of its regal distance, "what is it that has brought you to Whitehall?"

Her fingers rest lightly upon the arm of the chair.

"And, more importantly..." Her expression turns teasing once more. "Are you here to offer Her Majesty another piece of advice?"

A brief pause.

"Or have you come to speak to Elizabeth?"