Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  Spanish bastion ... Soon the official news would come to us about Cádiz. And the arrival of my son in person, and ... Southampton. And my husband. It would all be over for me, my interval of play. But something new would begin for my son, I hoped. His hour would have come at last.

  The sun dipped toward the west. These summer days were long and oppressive, the heat unrelenting. The play would be over. I knew the actors would have been miserable in their heavy costumes. This summer had been difficult for them; if they were not sweating under the sun they were soaked from the intermittent downpours. But Will never complained.

  Now he would be at the tavern with his friends, after the ticket sales had been tallied up. They would be discussing the performance, how it had been received, how it could be improved, and what was on the boards for the next day. He would have forgotten all about coming back here.

  His world was so much richer than mine! A wave of angry envy washed over me. What had I said earlier? He was a nobody from Stratford. But it was I who was the nobody. I had no world outside the narrow confines of Essex House. I had lost my position at court long ago—and court itself was confining, limited—and yet, as a woman, I was not free to roam elsewhere at will. He, on the other hand, was the freest creature in the world. His wife did not confine him, and in any case, she was far away in Stratford. He could invade realms, countries, the past, all at his whim in his own mind. Here in London, he could frequent any tavern or any place he wished. And above all, he could exercise his mind, hone it against other wits, stretch himself as far as he could. His days were never dull repetitions, obligations, duty.

  Oh, Lettice, I told myself. There is not a person living upon this earth who does not have dull stretches of his life. The everydayness of life is parceled out to us alike.

  But I wanted to be able to go to the tavern and talk about my play—or someone else’s. Did I yearn for Will, desire him, for the portal he provided into that forbidden world of freedom? He was my only glimpse, my only entrée, into it.

  Stop it, I told myself. You are sinking in self-pity.

  There was a soft knock on the door. He was here! He had come back! Flying to it, I flung it open, and saw a stranger standing there.

  He pulled off his hat and bowed. “I am Sir Anthony Ashley, sent by the Earl of Essex.” His clothes were gray with traveler’s dust. “It is most urgent.”

  “Pray come in.”

  He followed me as I led him past the public rooms and into the withdrawing room. The door to the bedroom was discreetly closed. I poured him some ale and motioned for him to sit. “Where is my son?” I asked him.

  “He is still at sea but will be arriving within the next few days,” he said. “He wanted this report to be published before he got here.” He thrust a packet of papers into my hands.

  I opened it and saw the title: “A True Relation of the Action at Cádiz the 21st June, Under the Earl of Essex and Lord Admiral, Sent to a Gentleman in Court from One That Served There in Good Place.”

  “But why? Why not present it himself?”

  “Because there are rival reports that seek to undermine his achievements.”

  “I thought we were victorious, and the earl had led the action.” I could stand no more of this. “Tell me! What truly happened? We know almost nothing.”

  He smacked his lips, reminding me that he had ridden hard and was still thirsty. I refilled his glass, and he downed it gratefully. “Ah, that’s better. Let me just tell you briefly, for to do otherwise is to drown in details. Yes, what you heard was true. But there is more. We were successful in surprising the town, although Medina-Sidonia—the former commander of the Armada and now stationed in Andalusia—spotted us when we were getting close, about twelve hours away, and tried to warn them. We did sack the town, after stripping it of its goods. But there was such rivalry between the sea and the land forces that they became their own enemies. The land forces, led by Essex, were determined to go first, and delayed the sea attack on the cluster of merchant ships. Those withdrew to the farther town of Puerto Real at the base of the peninsula, where Sidonia offered a ransom of two million ducats for them. Admiral Howard held out for four million, and while he was haggling, Sidonia ordered all thirty-six of them to be burned. The total loss we reckon as twelve million ducats. Had not Essex and Raleigh been rivals for glory in the campaign, and Essex not sought to thwart his sea action, we would have realized that twelve million. In addition, another small fleet of galleys escaped completely.”

  I felt cold. The Queen would be furious.

  “There was talk about retaining Cádiz as a permanent base. Essex urged it. I know he had left a letter behind for the Privy Council about it. But he was overruled. He also wanted to stop in Lisbon on the way back, to see if we could take it, but he was overruled then, too, by an exhausted army.” He scratched his head. “Your husband, Sir Christopher, did well, leading a ten-mile land attack on Faro before we reached Lisbon.”

  “Well? What did Faro yield?”

  “Only a lot of books,” he admitted. “From the archbishop’s library. The town was deserted. They had been warned.”

  “Damn them!”

  “Unfortunately, only two days after we sailed past Lisbon, a treasure fleet from America arrived there.”

  Now I felt sick; the coldness was replaced by nausea. The Queen would be more than furious. I could not picture how incensed she would be at this blundering and loss of her investment, and the punishments she would inflict.

  “So it is vitally important that Essex proclaim his intention to attack Lisbon, and stress that he was impeded and prevented from it by others. He should not be blamed for the loss of that treasure, estimated at twenty million ducats. His judgment was sound; it was the others who failed. Already Raleigh is trying to circulate his own version of events. You know how clever that man is at promoting himself through his writing. He is a devilish good penman. First he transformed his cousin Richard Grenville’s suicidal fight against the Spanish into legendary heroism in his pamphlet ‘Report of the Truth of the Fight About the Isles of Azores This Last Summer,’ and then he made his own fruitless expedition to Guiana into a matchless adventure in ‘The Discovery of the Empire of Guiana and Manoa’—which he never even got to!—which was translated into Dutch, Latin, and German. We cannot let that happen to us!”

  “No. We cannot,” I agreed. “What do you propose to do?”

  “I’ll get this printed quickly, so it can be in circulation before Essex arrives. It must truly look as if it were written by a soldier. I know a printer who can do it.”

  “Good.” I felt numb.

  “The venture will rank alongside Crécy, Agincourt, and the Armada. It truly was a spectacular long-range expedition, and it succeeded. We must make sure everyone realizes it. For there is another problem.”

  How could there be? What else could possibly plague it?

  “The precious stones, gold, and coin that were taken have not—oh, let me just state it! The looted goods have in turn been looted! The men have helped themselves, instead of reserving it for the Crown. I have a double commission, a secret one of publishing the letter and a public one of tracking down the missing booty.”

  “Excuse me.” I got up and walked as quickly as I could into my private rooms, then ran for the basin, where I was sick. The goods gone. The Queen cheated—no, robbed—by her own countrymen. What did this mean for Robert, the leader of the expedition? I wiped my mouth and leaned weakly against the table to steady myself. A few minutes later I confronted Ashley again.

  “You must hurry,” I said. “Do not linger here. When may I expect my son?”

  “Within a week.” He cocked his head. “Are you not curious about when your husband will arrive?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but I assumed they would be together.”

  He looked amused. “I daresay. Actually, Sir Christopher will probably arrive first. He was on a different ship.”

  “Thank you,” I said with as much dignity as
I could muster. He acted as if he knew.

  I paced the room. For an hour I had walked nervously up and down, unable to sit. I was distraught, thinking of my son’s triumph turned to disgrace. Were the Devereuxes cursed? Why did these disasters keeping stalking us, poisoning our successes? He would have to mount a second campaign to redeem his role in the first campaign. Publication of the letter was a good start. When he arrived, he would have to trumpet the splendid, chivalrous escapades on the ramparts for the public. The common people loved daring deeds and brave knights. Since they were never to share the booty, they would not mourn its loss. Instead, they would sing the praises of the brave men in arms, banners flying, surmounting the ramparts in the name of England.

  Finally I was able to sit without trembling. The candles were burning low, throwing oblique shadows on the walls, and the servants had long since gone to bed. Outside, a few drunken carousers were singing as they stumbled along the Strand, and on the other side, the faint sound of oars on the river. I opened the windows wider, to let in what little breeze there was, and was rewarded by puffs of air as heavy as a basket of wet laundry.

  I would sleep in my lightest linen tonight, and even that would most likely be too stifling. I laid my dress aside and made ready for bed, wondering if I would sleep at all.

  The bed was as we had left it earlier. I had not tidied it. As I smoothed out the rumples, I was disgruntled with myself. Is this your way of keeping a memento, Lettice? I asked myself. Other women keep flowers or verses; you preserve a disordered bed. Fool! I smacked at the covers.

  “Are you angry at it?” a quiet voice from behind me asked. I whirled around to see Will in the doorway, a black outline against the candlelit outer room.

  “How did you get in?” I cried. He had entered so silently.

  “You gave me a key. Do you not remember?”

  “Yes, yes ...” The Cádiz crisis had driven all else from my mind. “Forgive me, my mind is roiling. I have had news about the expedition, not entirely welcome news.”

  “I heard as well. The news is everywhere, although I gather the ships are not back yet. It was the talk of the tavern. It quite drowned out the critics of my play, so I should be thankful.”

  “Good for you. I have less to be thankful about. Is that why you have come?” I realized how very late it was.

  “I left my satchel here,” he said.

  “As long as you did not leave your purse,” I said, I hoped lightly.

  “What is in the satchel is of more worth to me than gold,” he said. “I have the outline of the plots of my next play as well as several drafts of poems.” He went around the bed, feeling behind the curtains. “Ah.” He held up a leather satchel triumphantly. “Disaster averted!”

  “You could, I suppose, have reconstructed them,” I said. Just as my son would have to “reconstruct” his voyage for the public.

  “Probably not,” he said. “My first ideas are the clearest. After that they fade and become commonplace, losing all their originality.” He patted the satchel possessively. “I also”—he looked toward the adjoining room—“wished to speak to you.” Before I could move, he slipped out into the other room, and I had no choice but to follow.

  In this large, empty chamber, I suddenly felt at a great disadvantage, clad only in a thin nightgown, while he was wearing his doublet, trunk, and hose. He stood a few feet away, watching me. Then he said, “I must not come here again. It must be over.”

  I had been expecting this, sometime, yet now that it had come, I could only ask dejectedly, “Why?”

  “Must I list all the reasons? Surely you know them.” He did not sound in the least regretful. That stung.

  “Yes, I know them,” I said. “And I concur. It must end. It never should have started.”

  “No. It never should.”

  “Are you sorry?” Again, the question I should not ask.

  “No,” he said. “If I said I did not enjoy it, I would be lying. I enjoy it all too much. Like those poor drunkards we see, still longing for that which is destroying them.”

  “That is not very flattering,” I managed to say, thinking all the while that he was describing me, not himself.

  “On the contrary, it is an extreme compliment. In any case, your husband is returning, and so is my friend Southampton. Sharing you with all those men taints my appetite, and what was fair becomes festering foulness. You owe your fidelity to your husband, and I owe mine to my friend.”

  “You speak true.”

  “Thus, I will say farewell. When we meet again, it must be in public.”

  He stood there in the middle of the room, his poise enviable.

  No man had ever rejected me. I had been the one to call a halt, to say all the tired old phrases, no less true for being tired.

  I must do this for your own good.

  You will find a woman better suited to you.

  The fault lies in me, not in you.

  If the world were different, we could be together.

  “There is someone else,” I said, the tiredest phrase of all.

  He shrugged. “There is always someone else, in a general sense, but at the same time, for me, there is never anyone else.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that, as far as my heart goes, I allow no one to penetrate it, but you have managed. Perhaps you succeeded because you are forbidden. But at the same time, that is why it must end.”

  I had never felt so humiliated by a man before. I nursed the wound, even as I finally said, “Of course.”

  He looked pityingly at me. “If I told you that I carry you with me always, that you inform my writing, that you will live in my plays and verse, would you believe me?”

  I had to wipe that pity off his face. “Why should that matter to me?” I answered flippantly. “It isn’t your writing I’m interested in.” There. I hoped that hit home.

  It had. For an instant a hurt expression crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by indifference. Better that than pity.

  Wordlessly he turned and left, and I lost him forever.

  42

  ELIZABETH

  August 1596

  That man! That nerve!” I flung the paper down in front of me, a pretend letter giving me the earliest report of the Cádiz venture, featuring the derring-do of the Earl of Essex, entitled “A True Relation of the Action at Cádiz.” The adventurers were back. They had ventured into port at twilight, as if ashamed to face folks in the honest light of day.

  “Patience, Your Majesty,” said Robert Cecil. “More will be forthcoming, and have we not received, by hearsay, glowing reports of their success in Cádiz?” He strove to give an impression of calm, to offset me.

  “I cannot trust any of them,” I lamented. “They alter the telling to glorify themselves.”

  “All men do, Your Majesty. I fear that is just the human condition. That does not mean we must discount all of it.” Robert Cecil shook his head as he shuffled the papers from hand to hand. The most impudent one was this account of the Earl of Essex, which he had tried to have printed secretly and distributed before his arrival. But his messenger, Sir Anthony Ashley, had also been commissioned to track down the treasure that had disappeared once the ships docked. A busy man, Sir Anthony. For as it turned out, he had helped himself to the very treasure he was charged with locating. Trunks of it had been sent to his London house, and he had sold to city merchants an enormous diamond that was earmarked for me. Neither the diamond nor the payment for it had been recovered. The man was an out-and-out thief. I sent him to Fleet Prison and relieved him of the so-called “True Relation of the Action at Cádiz” he was having printed. I then forbade all publications relating to the voyage, on pain of death.

  “Where is Essex now?” I asked.

  “I just received a request from him to call upon Your Majesty privately. He is, I believe, here in London.”

  I drummed my fingers on the desk. They echoed the drumming rain outside. Gusts of wind blew spray
through the windows, but to close them was to feel as if we were in a tomb. Oh, it was so hard to think in this damp oven! “No,” I said. “We shall receive him here in front of the entire court, in the most formal manner. Look to it.”

  In the meantime I pored over other sketchy reports about the mission, the most factual so far. The fleet had made good speed down to Spain, rounding the corner of Cape St. Vincent before striking Cádiz. The citizens were taken by surprise on that Sunday morning in June. One moment they were strolling in the great square, admiring tumblers and comedians, and the next, 150 warships and galleys, white sails filling the sea, were bearing down upon them. Panicked, they ran for safety to the old citadel on the highest point of land. And then the English commanders—particularly Essex and Raleigh—began to fight among themselves as to who would lead the charge, whether they should first pursue the merchant ships in the harbor or attack the town. Essex had his way, and the naval action was deferred. By the time it was joined, Sidonia had managed to jettison the treasure-laden ships and send them to the bottom of the sea. We had a certain satisfaction in capturing two of their newly built warships named for the apostles, St. Andrew and St. Matthew, but the other two, St. Thomas and St. Philip, were burned by the Spanish.

  St. Philip! King Philip must have been gleeful about his namesake escaping our grasp, that is, if it lay in his nature to be gleeful.

  The fighting took only two days. Then it took two weeks for the usual capture and counting of goods and burning of the town. Essex put on a chivalrous show in carrying out my instructions that there be no violence to anyone. He stood, unarmed, talking to Spaniards. He escorted Spanish ladies to the safety of boats to convey them out of the city, allowing them to wear their jewelry and carry trunks of fine clothes. The elderly were put in special boats. He gave his protection to all the religious orders and let the Bishop of Cuzco go free. He was courteous and respectful to nuns, virgins, and other honorable ladies. He gave his hand to the populace and let them kiss it.