The air was still, but I could hear, faintly smothered by distance but still too loud, the roar of a crowd at Tyburn. Dr. Lopez and his companions were being executed. Essex had had his way.
I leaned on the windowsill of my chamber, smelling the odd earthy smell of soaked bricks. St. James’s had been a redbrick leper house before my father had evicted the monks and their wards, the lepers, and made it into a hunting palace. Now I felt the sorrow of those mistreated lepers rising up, accusing, wailing along with the crowd at Tyburn. After our meeting, Essex had written a hysterical note to Robert Cecil saying, “I have discovered a most dangerous and desperate treason. The point of the conspiracy was Her Majesty’s death. The executioner should have been Dr. Lopez; the manner poison. This I have so followed that I will make it as clear as noonday.” The tangle of confessions that followed, extracted by the rack, made it impossible to spare Dr. Lopez. Under torture he had admitted to spying for Spain, seeking to promote rebellion in England, and planning to poison the Queen. But under torture might not a man say anything? Cecil then claimed that no torture was used. No one could confirm its use—or would admit to it.
The Jew of Malta was playing to packed audiences in London, with its line “But to present the tragedy of a Jew, who smiles to see how full his bags are crammed” whipping them on to cry for Lopez’s blood. Essex paraded through the streets shouting about the diabolical plot by the dastardly Jew, and soon the crowd howled for his death. Anti-Spanish and anti-Jewish hatred blended into hysteria.
The crowd was duly entertained. Dr. Lopez pleaded innocence on the scaffold, saying that he loved the Queen better than Jesus, and was met with howls of derision. Da Gama suffered the same fate, and then Tinoco provided novelty by surviving the hanging, jumping to his feet after being cut down and attacking the executioner. He had no chance, as two soldiers overpowered him and the grisly sentence proceeded.
Robert Cecil recounted all these details when he came to present me with a ring, taken from Dr. Lopez, that had been given him by King Philip himself, to carry out his deed. It was a dainty gold-encircled ruby.
“It looks like a woman’s ring,” I said. “Are we sure it is not his wife’s?”
“We are sure, Your Majesty, of nothing,” Cecil said, his face glum. “We just dared not take chances.”
“The grotesque necessity of security,” I said. “Or, as the common saying is, ‘Better safe than sorry’? Except, Robert, we were dealing with a man’s life. With men’s lives.”
“Where your life is concerned, there can be no leeway, no room for doubt.”
The crowds were milling around outside the grounds of St. James’s, still yelling, half of them drunk. I shuddered. Essex had used these people, had created a wave of public hysteria in order to force an issue. I felt instinctively that there was something else behind the entire case against Dr. Lopez, something self-serving for Essex. That he had been able to get this far with it proved to me that he now had a weapon to use against me as potent as poison—he had proved that he could harness popular opinion for his own ends and would not hesitate to do so.
28
August 1594
There could be no Progress this year. The icy rains fell day after day, far longer than they had fallen upon Noah. That the land did not turn to ocean and require an ark was only because the downpour soaked into our fields, swelled the rivers to rush the water to the ocean, turned ponds into lakes and lakes into inland seas. Unless a plant could grow underwater, the crops were doomed. Fruit trees had bloomed in what started as a normal spring, but the early fruit had rotted and fallen off.
In classical myths, seasons became disrupted because of some disturbance on Mount Olympus or a foolhardy action by an ignorant mortal. Demeter, in grieving for her vanished daughter Persephone, plunged the world into perpetual winter by withholding the crops. The Scriptures tell us that God will “shut up the heaven, that there be no rain, and that the land yield not her fruit” if we turn our back on him. I could discount rumblings on Mount Olympus, but was there some secret sin in the land that God was punishing?
No, no, I could not go that way. I could examine my own conscience, but I could not lift the covers of all the consciences in the realm. Dr. Lopez ... I twisted the Spanish ring on my finger. I wore it next to the coronation ring, to remind myself that being the anointed ruler of England meant that I could take no loyalty for granted, and must be ever vigilant. But the question of his innocence continued to plague me.
In late June, north winds had plunged us into such cold that newly shorn sheep perished. In July, pellets of hail had fallen; now in August there were reports of snow in Yorkshire. And all the while, this incessant rain.
I decided to move to Nonsuch, my father’s hunting palace some twelve miles south of London. It was still a novelty to me; it had been occupied by someone else and only come back into my hands two years ago. At my age, to acquire a palace where I did not know every corridor and every window was a rare delight. And this would afford me a glimpse of the country, let me see firsthand what was happening in the fields and orchards.
I had to ride beneath a swaying canopy erected around my saddle, as the royal carriage could not manage what remained of the roads. Likewise the household items had to be carried by mule and horseback. I would take as little as possible.
As we plodded along the sodden path, people stood watching us, calling out listlessly, bundled in cloaks. The dark skies and brown fields seemed to leech all color from the people as well, their faces blending into the dull hue of fallen leaves. The few animals still in the fields looked mournfully at us, suffering wordlessly.
I had not expected such enervation and defeat. It was the dull underpinning of what would later explode into anger and destruction, like the backing of a fragile Venetian glass mirror. As Queen, I would do what I could to help, but my means of doing so were limited. Had I known it was coming, we could have stored up food from last year’s harvest. What use were the astrologers if they could not foresee this?
Shivering, we rode past the forlorn people and dripping orchards. Their faces haunted me.
And now we crested the hill that always gave a glorious view of the palace; from down through the alleyway of trees in sunny autumns you could see the glint of the gold-framed stucco panels on the inner courtyard walls, winking as if to say, Nonsuch, Nonsuch, there is truly nonesuch in England. Today it was enveloped in a gray mist, and winds were whipping the trees overhead, sending cold showers spraying across the path.
My father had built this palace to stun his countrymen with the extravagance of Renaissance design, and to match his hated rival, the French king François I, and his hunting palaces of Chambord and Fontainebleau. As if to press his claims to being king of both countries, he had built the outer courtyard in plain Tudor style, calling it “severity,” and the inner one in an extravagance of French Renaissance design, calling it “exuberance.” Exuberant it certainly was, with an enormous statue of himself on his throne to greet his visitors. He meant for the white and gold Italianate panels covering the entire inner courtyard—gods and goddesses, Roman emperors, and the labors of Hercules—to instruct his little son Edward in all he would need to know to be king.
My father had built this palace in 1538 to celebrate his thirty years of reign and the birth of his prince. Well. It was only a building. His prince had not lived. I had celebrated my thirty years of reign by the defeat of the Armada—something much more likely to last, and of import beyond my own family.
Not that I was comparing myself ...
In spite of its opulence, Nonsuch was snug, designed to evoke a retreat, to celebrate the glories of the hunt. I appreciated that coziness now, as the rain drummed outside.
The ceiling in the presence chamber was dripping. Obviously the roof was in need of patching. If the roof of a mighty palace was leaking, what of roofs in cottages? My heart was heavy for those people.
My attendants wondered why I had come, but they were good-spirited abo
ut it. Catherine and Marjorie thought of sending for their husbands “to see if they were willing to suffer for us” but did not. The male courtiers would follow, grumbling, but for now we had the palace to ourselves.
We warmed ourselves around the sputtering fire in the privy chamber, throwing beans in the fire to tell our fortunes, reminiscing on our many years together. Sometimes, in the flickering firelight, I could see the younger faces beneath the aging ones: Marjorie in her days as the wife of the French ambassador, Catherine when the future Admiral Howard she married was dark haired and holding minor posts. Perhaps they could also see mine.
The rain finally stopped—or had we only been given a respite? Nevertheless, we took advantage of it, drying the bed linens in the sunshine, opening the windows to let the mustiness out, turning our faces to the light. The Privy Councillors came one at a time to pay their respects and inform me of any pressing business. Then one day, when fresh dark clouds started chasing across the sky, Francis Bacon was announced.
Francis Bacon: that man who had crossed my wishes in Parliament and then dared to apply for the post of attorney general. Essex, his patron, had pestered me about it until I had ordered him to desist and then given the place to Sir Edward Coke. That had angered Essex so much he began pressing for another post for Bacon. Partly it was to demonstrate his loyalty to a friend; partly it was to show that once he had sunk his teeth into a matter, mastifflike, he could be detached only by force.
Essex’s fierce championing had made me suspicious of Francis Bacon; that and the fact that his uncle and his cousin, the Cecil father and son, did not extend patronage to him. Yes, it was possible that the elder Cecil did not want to raise up a rival to his own son, but perhaps it was more than that. In any case, I welcomed the opportunity to see Francis away from the court—and Essex—and judge for myself.
He presented himself in a dapper manner, bowing low and sweeping his hat off. “I am eternally grateful to Your Majesty for seeing me today,” he said. His head was still down and I could not read his face to see if he was mocking.
“Eternity is a long time,” I said. “I count myself lucky if gratitude extends beyond the day itself.”
He straightened up. “You are wise as serpents,” he said.
“But gentle as doves,” I finished for him. “Well, Francis, what do you put before me for consideration?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” he said. “I am sure Your Majesty is weary of perpetual consideration of things.”
“Ah, there’s that concept again,” I said. “You are fond of speaking of perpetuities.” I looked at him. “I prefer to speak of the immediate.” He must stop the mincing now and present his case. I cocked my head. “You do not resemble your father in the slightest.” His father had been rotund, with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. Nicholas Bacon had served me for the first two decades of my reign, but he had died suddenly. Mean-spirited people said that had he kept a leaner table, he might have lived longer. As if in reaction, his two sons were very thin, especially the elder one, Anthony.
“No, we take our looks from our mother’s side,” he said.
I waited.
“Your Majesty, I recently sent my uncle Cecil this letter, abasing myself in asking for his help.” He handed me a paper. “He did not even answer.”
“So you do have a petition?” I had known as much.
“My only petition is myself.” He smiled, trying to make the mood light, but it must have been desperate for him to seek me out like this. I glanced down at the letter, skimming it. Phrases jumped out at me. “I wax somewhat ancient: one and thirty years is a great deal of sand in the hourglass .... I have writ unto Your Lordship rather thoughts than words, being set down without all art, disguising, or reservation ....”
“And you say he never answered you?”
“Yes, Ma’am. That is, no, he never answered.”
I continued skimming it. It was hard to discern what post he was applying for. “You are vague,” I said. “When you say, ‘I have taken all knowledge to be my province,’ that is all very well and good, but in what area is your expertise? It would seem you are most suited for the gown of academia.” As a child, he had given such grave and adult answers to questions that I had dubbed him “The Young Lord Keeper.” He had not changed.
“I have labored away as a lawyer in Gray’s Inn, but the work is boring,” he said.
“But, Francis, what is your specialty? You are not a soldier like Black Jack Norris, nor a sailor like Drake, nor an astrologer like John Dee, nor a man born to keep the books like Robert Cecil. After all, you find the law boring.”
“I could do any of those things!” he said. “If I set my mind to it, I could be a soldier, or a sailor, or an astrologer, or a secretary.”
“But you would hate it. And what someone hates he does poorly.”
“I hate being a ... a servant most of all!” he burst out. “I have allied myself to Essex because Cecil would not help me.”
“You are hardly Essex’s servant,” I said.
“Not his bodily one, but I am his minion! I am forced to be.” His face was filled with self-loathing.
“You are less his minion than he is your dependent, I would venture to say. He needs your wit and your learning and your insights; he needs them badly.” I held out the paper again. “So one and thirty years is a great deal of sand in the hourglass? God willing, it is not. You will have challenges aplenty. You may outlive Essex and find that your service to him recommends you to something more suitable to you.”
His face sagged. “So you will offer me nothing?”
“Francis, I have no post for ‘consultant.’ Such a position does not exist. You would have to fill a more definite duty. ‘Consultant’ doesn’t mean anything.”
“I analyze situations. I have drawn up summaries for Essex, penetrating studies—”
“Which, doubtless, he ignores.”
“But you, Your Majesty, would never ignore it. Or rather, if you did, it would be because you had read it and disagreed with it, not that you did not understand it.”
I felt for him. “Francis,” I said, “let me now give you my analysis of your situation. It is this: It is difficult for a man to serve his lesser, difficult for one so clever as you to be subservient to those who are dull in comparison. But the truly wise man can trim his sails to the wind and await his chance. Patience is a form of wisdom. And so is the sad knowledge that comes from Ecclesiastes: ‘I saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding.’ ”
“What is the use, then?” he said.
He was toweringly intelligent, perhaps the cleverest brain in my realm. A person is born smart, but wisdom takes a longer time to acquire.
“Perhaps in the happy surprise that one day an unexpected favor comes your way, just as you have given up on it.” I had a sudden thought. “Francis, I could appoint you Queen’s Counsel Extraordinary, but you say you do not like the law.”
“But if I must practice it, I would above all things prefer to practice it for you.”
“It would not be a full-time position. I would only call on you when I needed you, in an occasional case ... to consult. In that way you would be my consultant.”
“I understand. I must continue with Essex for my bread. But be on call to you as needed.”
“Yes. That describes it. You will accept?”
“May I call myself Queen’s counsel publicly?”
“Of course.”
“Your Majesty, I am eternally—I thank you.”
So now I would have the quickest lawyer in the land at my beck and call, and all for the price of allowing him to call himself my counsel. My thrift at work.
29
LETTICE
November 1594
Those wretched bells ringing everywhere! I yanked one of the thick tapestries over the window to muffle it further.
Elizabeth’s glorious Accession Day. Th
irty-six years ago. What in God’s name would they do to celebrate the fortieth? Would the entire realm have to present gifts? My son was busying himself with last-minute preparations for the tilt, some ridiculous costume about a frozen knight. The expenditure. The waste. When we could be spending it furnishing Essex House as befitted his station.
I looked around the great room. I had restored much from the ordered-by-Elizabeth stripping; tapestries hung heavily from rods again; fat candles in sconces winked up and down the walls; and the long oak table gleamed with its gold Italian centerpiece, an intricate froth of statuary and embellishments. Yes, the import tax from the sweet wines had provided well for us. I had even been able to buy back some of the jewelry we had pawned, and my latest purchase was a coach with four white horses. I loved riding it through the streets; I loved it even better when the people mistook me for the Queen. And why not? We looked alike; we even had some of the same mannerisms. We could almost be twins, except that she loved the day and I the night.
Christopher disliked riding in the coach with me. There were times I found it irksome to be yoked to someone with such a determinedly commoner’s viewpoint. He was so matter-of-fact about trappings, so uninterested in court climbing. He would rather be a soldier, spend his time out in the field. It was in his blood. At least I could console myself that he had the soldier’s appetite for lovemaking.
Lovemaking ... There was far too much of it lately in my family for our own good. My daughter Penelope had given herself over to the adulterous charms of Charles Blount and was now pregnant by him. Dorothy, released from her marriage to Perrot by his convenient death, had quickly married Thomas Percy, an odd chap known as the Wizard Earl for his dabbling in science and alchemy. And Robert ... His affair with the court lady Elizabeth Southwell was sure to reach the Queen’s ears before long. What was I to do with these hot-blooded offspring of mine?
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