How to Survive in the Roanoke Colony-Chapter 272: To Ireland (1)

"Your Majesty? Are you alright? You need to disembark from the ship now."

"Of course, I’m perfectly fine. Do I not look well to you?"

"Umm..."

"I’m only joking."

"Ah, hahaha..."

"Hahaha! I most enjoy watching you force that awkward laugh while trying to read my mood!"

What an utterly unpleasant personality this person had.

Margaret tried not to voice that thought aloud and only scurried about more nervously, while Elizabeth, seeing right through her, laughed again.

"Your Majesty, indeed, Miss Lawrence speaks truly. Please preserve your physical health."

"Health? Where would you find a healthy 80-year-old in the first place? I’m hardly Methuselah."

"..."

After snapping at her favorite Robert Cecil, Elizabeth asked him again.

"Rather than that, focus on other matters. Is the news you’ve brought from Ireland accurate?"

"Of course. How could information collected while traveling constantly between the Old World and the New World be incorrect?"

"Hmm..."

The Queen nodded at Robert Cecil’s words and began to solidify the thoughts she had been contemplating.

Then she said to Cecil.

"What do you think of my plan?"

"...Well."

"If you don’t have an opinion so excellent that it renders you speechless, answer me at once."

"...May I speak honestly?"

"Of course."

"From the Kingdom of England’s perspective, this is madness. Furthermore, there’s a risk of losing the support of domestic Protestants."

"That’s... because you need to be mindful of James after I’m gone."

"..."

"Let me ask again. From ’my’ perspective, how is it?"

"..."

When the Queen asked, Robert Cecil lowered his head with an almost deathly expression.

More than anything else, the Queen was worst of all, doing this while knowing full well. As the Queen said, it was strange that she hadn’t died yet at her age, while James was still in his prime.

This meant he needed to prepare for the time after this ambiguous era of "joint monarchs" ended. For the time when that Scottish king would become the sole monarch of the entire British Isles...

"Hmm?"

"...Ah, Your Majesty. From Your Majesty’s perspective..."

If he uttered one more word here, he would become an accomplice. A participant in this plan to thwart James...

"Spit it out."

"From Your Majesty’s perspective..."

Damn it.

The Queen was frightening.

Those vibrant eyes, unlike those of an octogenarian, pierced Robert Cecil. Cecil ultimately had no choice but to "spit it out" as the Queen commanded.

"...It’s a formidable gamble. There are many risks to bear. There’s great danger of tarnishing Your Majesty’s reputation and authority. On the other hand, if you avoid these dangers, Your Majesty stands to lose nothing. It’s also a key to stabilizing the current political situation. It will help the Virginia... no, the Continental Covenant as well. Above all, the Spaniards..."

Yes. The Spaniards.

Their great army would be dancing to the Queen’s tongue.

Robert Cecil felt goosebumps rise on his arms as he contemplated this fact. A cold shiver ran down his spine despite the warm sea air, and he found himself gripping his hands tightly behind his back to hide their trembling. The sheer audacity of her plan left him breathless with both admiration and terror.

The current Queen would go this far to destroy her enemies. Even devising such an absurd scheme and possessing the deranged personality to realize it. Her mind, sharp as a Toledo blade despite her advanced years, had crafted a strategy so cunning that Cecil himself could scarcely believe its boldness. She had always been formidable, but this—this was beyond even what he had thought her capable of.

Indeed.

One should never antagonize the Queen, even in her final moments. She would find a way to destroy her enemies by any means necessary. Cecil had seen lesser men crushed beneath her calculating gaze, their fortunes and reputations shattered with mere words. Age had not dampened her ruthlessness—if anything, the approaching shadow of death had only heightened her determination to settle all scores before departing this mortal realm.

Robert Cecil thought this as he bowed his head, swallowing hard against the knot of anxiety in his throat, and soon they disembarked from the ship and set foot on Ulster land occupied by English forces. The wooden gangplank creaked beneath their weight, still slick with sea spray that glittered in the weak Irish sunlight.

Her subjects, who hadn’t even received prior notice that the Queen would come, suddenly gathered around upon seeing the splendidly dressed lady. They emerged from hovels and market stalls, abandoning their meager tasks to catch a glimpse of their sovereign. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass—"The Queen! It’s truly her!"—as they pressed forward, their gaunt faces transformed by wonder.

This was how rulers of the 17th century presented themselves. In this dirty, shabby gray world, they shone like the sun, emitting clean fragrance and vibrant colors.

The Queen shone in this manner.

Among the people impoverished by the long war.

Soon, an attendant announced that "Her Majesty Elizabeth, rightful Queen of England, Scotland, Ireland, and France" had arrived.

The subjects cheered, and field commanders and mayors came running to bow before the Queen. Only then did Elizabeth leave the clamorous dockside and head toward the official residence.

The path to the official residence was terribly bleak. After several famines in succession and a war that had been shaking the entire island for 20 years, the standard of living here had already hit rock bottom.

"Your Majesty... this is the second time you’ve honored us with your presence. Last time, you showed your mercy with food for your starving subjects..."

"That’s enough pleasantries. I have a request to make."

At Elizabeth’s words, the field commander and mayor of all Ireland looked up in surprise.

Why had the renowned Queen come here without prior notice? And why was she pressing them like this?

As they wondered, they soon heard the Queen’s answer and could not close their mouths.

"I propose a meeting with Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, commander-in-chief of the Irish Catholic army. I wish to see the leader of the Irish forces. In person."

==

...What? How frightening.

Why is she suddenly going to Ireland alone? Isn’t that a war zone?

"Walter... did the Queen of England perhaps give you any hint?"

"None whatsoever."

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