My Enemy the Queen

Victorious England

The last episode of the tragic story of Mary of Scotland was about to break. She was imprisoned at that time at our own home of Chartley, which now belonged to my son, Essex. He had been very reluctant to allow it to be used as a prison for the Queen, and had protested that it was too small and inconvenient. However, his objections had been overruled, and in those chambers, so well known to me and my family, where I had played merry games with my children, the last dramatic scenes of the Scottish Queen's life took place. There she had become involved in the Babington Plot, which was to lead to her destruction; and the next phase of her sad journey was to the fateful castle of Fotheringay.

The entire country was talking of it—how those conspirators had met, how letters had passed between them, how the Queen of Scots was deeply involved in a plot, and on this occasion she was incriminated without doubt. Walsingham had all the evidence in his hands, and Mary was found guilty of trying to bring about the murder of Queen Elizabeth for the purpose of taking her place on the throne.

But even with the evidence before her, Elizabeth was reluctant to sign the death warrant.

Leicester was impatient with her, and I reminded him that not so long ago he had thought of making terms with the Queen of Scots when he thought there was a possibility of Elizabeth's dying and her coming to the throne.

He looked at me in amazement. He could not understand my lack of understanding of political expediency. Previously I should have been with him in what he suggested. Oh yes, indeed I was out of love.

"If she does not take care," he cried vehemently, "there will be an attempt to rescue Mary and it may succeed."

"You would not then be in an enviable position, my lord," I commented wryly. "I believe Her Majesty of Scotland is very fond of lapdogs, but she likes to choose her own, and would I am sure have no house room for those who once pleased the Queen of England."

"What has happened to you, Lettice?" he asked, bewildered.

I retorted: "I have become a neglected wife."

"You know full well there is only one reason why I cannot be with you."

"I know full well," I replied.

"Then enough. Let us ponder on serious matters."

But what was serious to him might not have been to me. That did not occur to him.

The people were restive, and still the Queen played that game of prevarication which she had practiced all her life. Often it had worked for her. But now her loyal subjects wanted to know when they could rejoice in the shedding of the Catholic Queen's blood.

Finally Secretary Davison brought the death warrant to her and she signed; and that scene of which we have heard so much was enacted in the hall of Fotheringay Castle.

The menace to the Queen of England was removed. But there was an even greater one: the Spaniards.

She suffered from remorse—that extraordinary woman. She, who was so clever, so subtle, was haunted by dreams. She had signed the death warrant which had caused the Queen to be taken to the block and her head cut off.

The King of France said it would have been better to have poisoned her, so that there could have been some doubt as to how she died. There were some excellent poisons available, and some of Elizabeth's subjects were evidently well practiced in the use of them. Was this a sly allusion to Leicester's Commonwealth? She might have been smothered by a pillow, which if skillfully done left little trace. But no! The Queen of Scots had been found guilty, and the Queen of England had signed her death warrant; and she had been taken to the hall of Fotheringay Castle and been beheaded. And while England was rejoicing that the Scottish Queen could trouble them no more, Elizabeth went on suffering intense remorse.

Leicester said he feared she might lose her reason. She raged against them all, calling them murderers, accusing them of inducing her to sign the warrant, when all the time they had known that she had not meant the deed to be carried out. They had acted too promptly, knowing well her wishes.

How like her that was! I pointed out to Leicester that she was trying to shift the blame. She was even talking of having Davison hanged. At first Leicester, Burleigh and those who rejoiced that the menace was removed were aghast until they realized that she had no intention of being foolish and was merely placating her enemies. She was afraid of war. She knew that the Spaniards were building an armada to come against her. She did not want the French to join them and attack her at the same time. The Scots had to be considered too. They had turned out their Queen and made it necessary for her to flee, but they would be ready to come against the Queen of England for beheading her. Besides, there was young James, her son.

The Queen's remorse began to be less vociferous. In her heart she must have accepted the truth that life would be more comfortable now that the Queen of Scots was no more—though a queen had been beheaded and that could be a precedent. Even after all these years the daughter of Anne Boleyn had moments when she felt her throne to be too insecure for her comfort. The thought of what had happened to one whose claim had never been disputed would, I knew, have made her apprehensive. She did not want the deposing of queens to become a habit.

But there were other matters to occupy her, and the greatest of these was the growing menace of the Spanish Armada.

Word came to me from Leicester's spies that the Queen was very taken with my son these days. Essex was maturing and was no less attractive because of this. His good looks were outstanding with that auburn hair and those flashing dark eyes bequeathed by me. I think he was like me in many ways. He was certainly vain—as I had been in my youth; and he gave the impression that he believed the world had been made for him and that everyone must share his view. One characteristic he did not get from me and which was the absolute opposite of Leicester's nature was his frankness. He never stopped to think what effect his words would have; if he meant something, he said it. God knows, this was no quality for a courtier, and one which I was sure would not find favor with the Queen, who since her youth had been surrounded by sycophants whose one idea had been to say what she wanted to hear.

I couldn't help comparing Leicester with Essex because they were both Elizabeth's favorites, and I am sure she never cared for any men as she cared for these two. It was ironical that she should have chosen my husband and son, in view of the relationship between herself and me. It gave me a new zest for life when I heard how her affection for Essex was growing. I wanted her to become more and more fond of him; it made her vulnerable as only affection could. I determined to do everything I could to help him hold that vacillating favor. Not that I could do much, except offer him advice. But I could say that I knew her well—her strength and her weakness had been revealed to me because of the rivalry between us—so I could perhaps be a little useful to him.

I often doubted whether Essex would keep her favor. One of Leicester's great assets had been his ability, as someone once said, "to put his passion in his pocket." Again and again he, ever her special Eyes, had offended and come to her and been forgiven. That was a lesson my son would have to learn—to put aside rancor and keep a rein on his tongue. Perhaps at first she found his graceful youth appealing; she was amused no doubt by his outspoken comments; I wondered whether she would go on being so.

When he came to me, he would talk of the Queen, and his eyes would shine with admiration.

"She is wonderful," he said. "There is no one like her. I know she is an old woman, but in her presence one forgets ages."

"So well it is disguised with rouge and powder and her wigs," I replied. "I had it from her silk-woman that she is at this time engaged on making twelve wigs for the Queen, who is most particular that the hair shall be of the color her own hair was when she was a young girl."

"I know not of these matters," replied Essex impatiently. "All I know is that when one is in her company it is like being with a goddess."

He must have meant that or he would not have said it. I felt a great wave of jealousy sweep over me for this woman who had the power to take from me first my husband and now my son.

As I have betrayed, I always had a special affection for my handsome son, but my feeling for Essex now grew more intense, which, in my heart, I knew was in some measure due to the Queen's affection for him.

She was nonetheless devoted to Leicester because of her interest in Essex. I sometimes thought that Leicester was to her as husband, Essex as a beloved young lover; but being the woman she was, of a most possessive nature, she could not endure that either of them should enjoy the company of another woman, much less their wife and mother, nor stray from her side lest she need them.

Those were days of growing tension when tempers ran high. The Spanish menace was creeping nearer and constantly in everyone's mind. The Low Countries were in difficulties and Leicester was sent over again—this time to tell them to come to terms with Spain, for with the threat to her own shores, the Queen could no longer afford to concern herself with them.

On this occasion she would not allow Essex to accompany his stepfather.

"I must have someone to divert me," she said; and she honored him by making him her Master of Horse, a post which she took from Leicester, making him the exchange of Lord Steward of her household. She would have Leicester know that there could only be one Eyes for her, and nothing could change that; but at the same time she liked to have his handsome stepson beside her.

Leicester must have realized at that time that when the Queen gave her love it was forever. Poor Leicester! now old and ailing. Where was the handsome dashing hero of her youth and mine? He was no more, being replaced by a man still of great stature but overheavy, overruddy of complexion where once there had been a healthy glow, plagued by the gout and other ailments which were the result of a lifetime of overindulgence.

Yet she stood firmly for him all through his life. He had survived the mysterious death of his first wife, his marriage to me, his attempts at deceiving her, and finally the fiasco of the Netherlands. Truly she was a faithful mistress.

She was as fond of finery as ever and had taken to wearing white a great deal. She had always had a fondness for it since the days when black and white were the fashionable colors. White was becoming to her aging face, she fancied; and on the rare occasions when I glimpsed her at that time—always unseen by her, perhaps passing through the streets on her progress about the country—I had agreed with her. She had preserved her skin, and her abstemiousness from food and drink had kept her figure slender and youthful. She carried herself with the utmost grace—in fact I never saw anyone walk or sit more regally—and from a distance she could still look youthful; and the glitter and pomp with which she surrounded herself made her readily accepted as immortal.

Knowing Essex well, I realized that in a way he was enamored of her. He could not tear himself away from her side. All through the summer he was at Court, and she would sit playing cards with him until the early hours of the morning. The very fact that he was outspoken would have delighted her, for being the man he was—concealment of any emotion being alien to him—he would have made his admiration for her obvious; and coming from a young man more than thirty years younger than she, this must have been a compliment such as a woman of her nature would greatly cherish.

I could sympathize with her. I knew what admiration from a young and personable man could mean. I had resumed my friendship with Christopher Blount, who had returned from the Netherlands more sophisticated than he had been when he went away. He was more forceful, more demanding, a quality to which I was not averse. I allowed myself to be taken by him and we continued to conduct this interesting affair which had for me the merit of romance simply because we had to be so cautious.

I told him I feared for his life if Leicester discovered, and so did he. But that gave a fillip to our lovemaking.

Meanwhile Essex was arousing the envy of all other men at Court and in particular Walter Raleigh, who felt himself ousted by my son.

Raleigh was an older man than Essex and a good deal cleverer. He had a honeyed tongue when he wished, yet he could give the Queen some truths when he judged it the right moment to do so. In addition to those rather flamboyant good looks, which had immediately attracted the Queen, he was a man of great talent and discernment. She called him her Water—perhaps because his name was Walter; perhaps because she found him refreshing; perhaps because she liked him to flow along beside her. However, the fact that he had one of her nicknames was an indication of her affection for him.

There were the aging favorites too. Poor Hatton, like Robert, was getting old, and so was Heneage; but because of her faithful nature—and the fact that they were useful to her—she kept them with her, and was almost as faithful to them in her fashion as she was to Leicester, only of course they knew—and everyone at Court knew—that no one could ever hold the place in her heart which belonged to Leicester, the lover of her youth, to whom she had been faithful all her life.

Essex and my daughters brought me little anecodotes from Court which I loved to hear. Penelope was delighted that her brother was in such favor with the Queen, and she assured me that before long he would insist on the Queen's receiving me.

"I doubt I would want to go on such terms," I said.

"My lady, you would be ready to go on any terms," retorted my daughter. "You are never going to be taken as lady of the bedchamber or some such post, but I don't see why you should not come to Court as becomes your position as Countess Leicester."

"I wonder she likes to proclaim her jealousy as she does."

"She thrives on it," said Penelope. "Hatton has sent her a bodkin and bucket wrought in gold as a charm, with the pointed message that she might need it as Water is sure to be close at hand—referring to Raleigh, of course. You would think she would tell Hatton not to be such a fool, but she replied in like manner and assured him that Water should never overflow her banks, for he knew how dear her sheep were to her. So old Bellwether was thanked for his jealous pains. She loves them to fight among themselves over her. It helps her to forget the crow's-feet and wrinkled skin which confront her in that cruel mirror which is not so comforting as her courtiers."

I asked her how she was getting on with her married life and she shrugged the question aside with the remark that no sooner was she delivered of one child than she was pregnant with another, and one day she would tell Lord Rich that she had given him enough children and would bear no more.

Her frequent pregnancies did not seem to impair her looks or health, for she was as vital and as beautiful as she ever was; and I was on the point of telling her about my own love affair with Christopher Blount.

She went on to tell me that the Queen was certainly taken with Raleigh, and he was perhaps the nearest rival Essex had. Essex should be warned, she believed, not to be too frank with the Queen, but to use his frankness only when it pleased her and when she clearly wanted a candid answer.

"You are asking him to go against his nature," I said. "I believe that is something he would never do."

We talked of him lovingly, for Penelope was almost as devoted to him as I was. We were both very proud of him.

"But Raleigh is clever," she said, "as our Robin never could be. Yet Raleigh is making demands on the Queen and when the other day she asked him when he would stop being a beggar, he retorted sharply that he would only do so when Her Majesty ceased to be a benefactress—which made her laugh heartily. You know how she likes that kind of wit. Robin could never give her that. One thing I am afraid of is that he might overestimate his power over her. If he did that, there could be trouble." '

I replied that when her favorites overstepped the mark she frequently forgave them. Look at Leicester.

"But there will never be another Leicester," said Penelope soberly. I knew it was true.

I was growing fond of Christopher. I found him interesting and amusing, once he had overcome his awe of me, which it was impossible to sustain now that he was learning that I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

He told me about his family, which was noble but impoverished. His grandfather, Lord Mountjoy, had spent unwisely and his father had squandered more of the family fortunes in an attempt to find the philosopher's stone. William, Christopher's elder brother, was a man who had no respect for money and lived extravagantly beyond his means, so it seemed unlikely that there would be much left of the family fortunes.

The hope was brother Charles, who was a few years older than Christopher and a few younger than William. Charles had declared his determination to come to Court and restore the family's wealth.

I was interested in this family saga because of Christopher of course, and when his brother Charles began to be mentioned as a rival to my son, my amused interest quickened.

The Blounts were possessed of handsome looks, and it seemed that Charles had his fair share of them. He was brought to Court and was among the company which sat down to dine with the Queen. This did not mean that she would speak to all present, but it presented an opportunity to attract her attention, which Charles's appearance did at once.

The Queen, I was told, asked her carver who the good-looking stranger was, and when the carver said he did not know she told him to find out.

Charles, seeing the Queen's eyes on him, blushed deeply, a fact which enchanted her, and when she heard that he was Lord Mountjoy's son she sent for him. She talked to the bashful young man for a few minutes and asked after his father. Then she said: "Fail you not to come to Court and I will bethink myself how to do you good."

Those about them smiled. Another handsome young man!

Of course he followed up that invitation and soon was a great favorite with the Queen, for he had other qualities besides his good looks, being well read, particularly in history, so that he could meet the Queen on an intellectual level which delighted her. As he remained somewhat retiring and did not spend extravagant—for indeed he was unable to—the Queen found this refreshing, and he was fast becoming a prominent member in her little band of favorites.

One day when he tilted she was there to watch him and made no secret of her pleasure in his victory, to celebrate which she gave him a chess queen of gold and very richly enameled. He was so proud of it that he ordered his servants to stitch it onto his sleeve, and carried his cloak over his arm so that all could see this mark of royal pleasure.

When this caught my son's eye, he wanted to know what it meant and he was told that the Queen had bestowed the favor on young Blount at the previous day's tilting. Another fault of my son's was his jealousy, and he thought of the Queen's admiring this young man filled him with rage.

"It seems every fool must have a favor," he said slightingly; and as these words were spoken in the hearing of several people, there was nothing Charles Blount could do but challenge him.

I was very upset when Christopher told me, and so was he. He came to me almost in tears. "My brother and your son are to fight a duel," he said; and it was then that I learned the reason.

Duels could end in death and that my son was in danger sent me frantic with anxiety. I sent a message to him at once to come to me without delay. He did so, but when he heard what I wanted he became impatient.

"My dearest Rob," I cried, "you could be killed." He shrugged his shoulders and I went on: "And what if you killed this young man?"

"It would be a small loss," he replied.

"You would deeply regret it."

"He is trying to creep into the Queen's favor."

"If you are going to fight with every man at Court who is doing that, I don't give much for your chances of survival. Rob, I beg of you be careful."

"If I promise to, will that satisfy you?"

"No," I cried vehemently. "I can only have one satisfaction from this affair and that is for you to call it off." I tried to be calm, to reason with him. "The Queen will be very displeased," I said.

"It is her fault for giving him the token."

"Why should she not? He pleased her at the tilt."

"Dear Mother, I have already accepted the challenge. That is enough."

"My darling, you must give up this madness."

He was tender suddenly. "It is too late now," he said gently. "Don't be afraid. He hasn't a chance against me."

"His young brother is our Master of Horse. Poor Christopher is so upset about it. Oh Rob, can't you see how I feel. If anything happened to you ..."

He kissed me, and his expression was so tender that I was overwhelmed by my love for him, and my fears increased tenfold. It is so difficult to convey his charm, and it was always especially effective following his louring looks. He assured me that he loved me, that he always would; he would do anything in his power to make me happy, but the challenge had been made and accepted. He could not in honor stop it now.

I could see that there was nothing for me but to pray fervently that he would come through this unharmed.

Penelope came to see me.

"Rob is going to fight Mountjoy's son," she said. "He must be stopped."

"Can we stop him?" I cried. "I have tried to. Oh, Penelope, I am so frightened. I have begged him but he refuses to stop it."

"If you can't persuade him, no one can. But you must see his point. He has gone so far it would be hard to withdraw now. It's disastrous. Charles Blount is such a handsome man—as handsome as Rob, but in a different way. Rob should never have shown his jealousy so blatantly. The Queen hates duels and will be furious if either of her pretty young men is harmed."

"My dear, I know her better than you ever will. This is all her doing. She will gloat because they have fought over her favor." I clenched my fist. "If anything happens to Rob I shall blame her. I would be ready to kill her... ."

"Hush!" Penelope looked furtively over her shoulder. "Be careful, Mother. She hates you already. If anyone heard what you said heaven knows what might come of it."

I turned away. I could derive little comfort from Penelope, and I knew that it was no use pleading further with my son.

So there was nothing I could do to stop the duel and it took place in Marylebone Park. There was defeat for Essex, which was probably for the best, since Charles Blount had no intention of killing my son or dying himself—which would have meant the end of both their careers. There was a good deal of wisdom in Charles Blount. He was able to end the duel in the best possible way since Essex insisted on its taking place. He wounded my son slightly in the thigh and disarmed him. Charles Blount was unharmed.

Thus ended the duel in Marylebone Park, but it was to have far-reaching consequences.

It should have taught Essex a lesson, but alas, it did not.

When the Queen heard there had been a duel, she was angry and would reprimand both men, but knowing the temper of Essex and having had an account of what led up to the quarrel between them, she approved Charles Blount's behavior.

Her comment was: "By God's death, it is fitting that someone or other should take Essex down and teach him better manners, otherwise there would be no rule with him."

That was an indication that she was not pleased with his arrogance and that he should take heed and curb it. Of course he did not.

I tried to warn him, to make him see how dangerous it was to rely on her favor. She could change as quickly as the wind and one day she could be doting and fond and the next an implacable enemy.

"I know her," I cried. "In fact few know her as I do. I have lived close to her ... and look at me now ... banished, an exile. I have felt her malice and hatred as few have."

He retorted hotly that if I had been treated shamefully, it was Leicester who was to blame.

"By my faith, Mother," he said, "one day I will do for you what Leicester should have done. I will make her receive you and treat you with the respect you deserve."

I did not believe him but I liked to hear him champion me all the same.

Charles Blount came to inquire for him every day and sent him a doctor in whom he had great faith; and while my son's wounds were healing, the two, who had once been enemies, became friends.

Penelope, who went to nurse her brother, found the company of Charles Blount very stimulating, and through this incident Christopher and I were drawn closer together. His love and admiration for his brother and his anxiety for me, because he understood my fears for my son, made a stronger bond between us. He seemed to grow up and cease to be a mere boy; and when the affair was over we shared our relief that it had turned out far better than we had dared hope.

The matter of the golden chessman was soon forgotten at Court, but, looking back, I can see that it was an important milestone in our lives.

The year dawned with the main preoccupation, the growing menace of Spain. The Queen, Leicester told me, was constantly trying to ward off the final confrontation which she had been successful in eluding for many years, and now it was undoubtedly at hand. Men like Drake had raided Spanish harbors and destroyed them in a manner which was called "singeing the beard of the King of Spain." That was all very well, but it was not going to destroy the Armada, which even our most optimistic people had to admit was the finest in the world. There was a good deal of gloom throughout the country, for many of our sailors had been captured by the Spaniards, and some had become prisoners of the Inquisition. The tales they had had to tell of Spanish torture were so shocking that the whole country rose in fury. They knew that in those mighty galleons would come not only the weapons of war to destroy our ships and subdue our country, but the instruments of torture through which they vowed they would force us all to accept their faith.

We had made merry long enough. Now we had to face realities.

Robert was constantly with the Queen—restored to the highest favor again—all differences forgotten in the great fight to preserve their country and themselves. It was not to be wondered at that the stories about them, which had existed in their youth, should still be circulated.

At this time a man calling himself Arthur Dudley came into prominence. He was living in Spain helped by the Spanish King, who must either have thought the story was true or that the man's allegations could help to discredit the Queen.

Arthur Dudley was reported to be the son of the Queen and Leicester who had been born twenty-seven years before at Hampton Court. The story was that he had been put into the charge of a man named Southern, who had been warned on pain of death not to betray the secret of the child's birth. Arthur Dudley now alleged that he had discovered who he was, for Southern had confessed this to him.

This tale was circulated throughout the country but no one seriously believed it, and the Queen and Leicester ignored it. It certainly made no difference to the people's determination to keep off the Spaniards.

As the year progressed I saw even less of my husband than usual. The Queen made him Lieutenant General of the troops as a mark of her absolute confidence in him.

The fleet, commanded by Lord Howard of Effingham, assisted by Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher—all tried seamen of great courage and resource—was assembling at Plymouth, where the attack was expected. There was an army of eighty thousand men, all eager to hold the country against the enemy. There could not have been a man or woman in that country—save those Catholic traitors—who was not determined to do everything he—or she-could possibly do to save England from Spain and the Inquisition.

We glowed with pride and determination; a change seemed to come over us all; we had that unselfish pride. It was not ourselves we were anxious to advance, but our country which we wanted to preserve. This astonished me, who am by nature a self-centered woman, but even I would have died at that time to save England.

On the rare occasions when I saw Leicester, we talked glowingly of victory. We should succeed. We must succeed; it must be the Queen's England for as long as God gave her life.

It was a dangerous time, but it was a glorious time. There was with us an almost divine determination to save our country; some spiritual force told every one of us that while we had the faith we could not fail.

Elizabeth was magnificent and never so beloved by her people as at that time. The City of London's response was typical. Having been told that the City must provide five thousand men and fifteen ships as a contribution to victory, its answer was that it would not provide five thousand but ten thousand men, not fifteen but thirty ships.

It was a mingling of fear of the Spaniards and pride in England; and the latter was so strong that we knew—every one of us —that it would suppress the other.

Leicester spoke of Elizabeth in exulting terms and strangely enough I felt no jealousy.

"She is magnificent," he cried. "Invincible. I would you could see her. She expressed her wish to go to the coast so that if Parma's men set foot on her land, she would be there to meet them. I told her I would forbid it. I said she might go to Tilbury and there speak to the troops. I reminded her that she had made me her Lieutenant General and as such I forbade her to go to the coast."

"And she is to obey you?" I asked.

"Others lent their voices to mine," he answered.

Oddly enough I was glad they were together at this time. Perhaps because at this hour of her glory, when she showed herself to her people and her enemies as the great Queen she was, I ceased to see her as a woman—my rival for the man we both loved more than we could any other—and she could only be Elizabeth the Magnificent, the mother of her people; and even I must revere her.

What happened is well known, how she went to Tilbury, and made that speech which has been remembered ever since, how she rode among them in a steel corselet with her page riding beside her carrying a helmet decorated with white plumes, how she told them she had the body of a weak woman but the heart and stomach of a king and a King of England.

Truly she was great then. I had to grant her that. She loved England—perhaps it was her only true love. For England she had given up the marriage she might have had with Robert, and I cannot but believe that that was what she had longed for in the days of her youth. She was a faithful woman; true affection was there behind the royal dignity just as the brilliant statesman lurked ever watchful beside the frivolous coquette.

The story of that glorious victory is well known—how our little English ships, being so agile on account of their size, were able to dart among the mighty but unwieldy galleons and wreak havoc among them; how the English sent fireships among the great vessels, and the great Armada, called by the Spaniards The Invincible, was routed and defeated off our coasts; how the unfortunate Spaniards were drowned or cast ashore where scant hospitality was afforded them; and how some returned in disgrace and shame to their Spanish master.

What glorious rejoicing followed! There were bonfires everywhere with singing, dancing and self-congratulations.

England was safe for the Queen. How like her to strike those medals Venit, Vidit, Fugit as a play on the motto of Julius Caesar, who came and saw and conquered while the Spaniards came and saw and fled. That was very popular; but I think some of her sailors might have taken exception to the other medal in which she declared that the enterprise had been conducted by a woman—Dux Femina Facti. England would never forget what it owed to Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, Raleigh, Howard of Effingham, as well as Burleigh and even Leicester. However, she was the figurehead—Gloriana, as the poet Spenser had called her.

It was her victory. She was England.