I continued the thoughts that I had spoken aloud to Catherine and Marjorie in the grove. Since then I had remembered the entire Scripture quote, from Proverbs: “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” Catherine was my cousin, shared my blood on my mother’s side. Marjorie’s husband’s father had literally shed his blood for my mother, making him more than a relative. He was one of the men accused of adultery with her and executed. He had been a close friend and attendant in my father’s privy chamber, supporting him in his marriage. But he was swept away in the trumped-up evidence that Cromwell gathered against her. Perhaps what put it into Cromwell’s head was the May Day joust in which my mother dropped a handkerchief and Henry Norris picked it up and mopped his forehead with it before returning it. Arresting him, Cromwell promised to spare his life if he would confess to adultery and name the others who had indulged along with him. Instead, Norris offered to undergo trial by combat to defend my mother’s honor. Later, on the scaffold, when the others had cried, prayed, and made farewell statements, Norris was quiet, saying little. He knew it would avail him nothing and possibly cost his family their inheritance.
Some twenty years later the roles were reversed and his son—the present Henry Norris—was my jailer. During my sister’s reign, I was kept under house arrest at Woodstock, near Marjorie’s family lands at Rycote. He and Marjorie were my keepers, but gentle and kind ones. We all knew that his father had died for loyalty to my mother, and as I said, that made us closer than brother and sister. The Catholics say there are three baptisms: the baptism of water—the usual means; the baptism of desire—a fierce, committed longing for it; and the baptism of blood—dying for one’s faith. There are likewise many ways of becoming related.
Surrounded by such stout and loving loyalists, how could I ever feel the orphan I technically was?
44
LETTICE
November 1596
The November skies were leaden—as leaden as my spirits—while the carriage jounced along the paved remnants of the old Roman road north from London. I was headed to the Bacon house at St. Albans, there to join my son and his advisers. I did not really care where I was, as long as I was out of London. Essex House resounded with too many memories. I should never have allowed myself to let Will loom so large there, but it had happened invisibly.
I had lost interest in Southampton; he reminded me too much of Will, although they were nothing alike in looks or manner, as if the absence of one had caused his ghost to affix to the other. How ironic, since it was to preserve his feelings that Will had called an end to us—or pretended that was the reason. Perhaps it was not. Southampton could now invest all his considerable youthful energies in Elizabeth Vernon, whom he pursued with vigor. Well, happiness to their sheets, as Will said in one of his plays. To my own shame, I had attended some of those plays surreptitiously, slinking away afterward in embarrassment and vowing not to attend one again.
Oh, I knew the remedy. Find another. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning. Will’s words again. His words were proving permanent, like darts embedded in my mind. Take thou some new infection to thine eye, and the rank poison of the old will die.
I slid my eye to Christopher, slumped over, dozing, in a corner of the carriage. With each bounce, his head jolted, but it did not wake him. As a soldier, he was used to sleeping in worse conditions.
Christopher gave a murmur and settled himself more comfortably, crossing his arms. I felt a great affection, but no desire, for him. I was grateful he had returned safely from the Cádiz mission, where he had performed well, leading land forces at both Cádiz and Faro. His cousin Charles had earned his knighthood there. The entire venture had been good for our family. But oh! Their return had spelled the end to my secret sin.
Christopher pulled the collar of his cloak up around his neck, nestling into it against the chill. He was in his midthirties now, no longer boyish in looks but a man in his prime. His dark hair was still thick and had no gray, his face seemingly permanently tanned from his soldiering. An attractive man—more attractive than the boy who had served Leicester in the Netherlands. Many a woman would find him tempting. Why could I not? If I could not change my feelings, he would take up with someone else.
I reached out to stroke his hand just as the carriage hit a nasty bump and awoke him. He opened his eyes, saw my hand against his, and smiled that drowsy smile that had always excited me. Today, however, all it did was reassure me that I could still please him.
By the time we reached Gorhambury House, after almost twenty miles, I was more than ready to leave the coach. We tumbled out of it, glad to have the earth beneath our feet once more, and walked a bit unsteadily up the graveled path to the long, plain dwelling amid its oak grove. Wisps of fog, dancing in the autumn wind, blew across the white facade. My cloak filled with air, rounding out like a sail.
We knocked at the main entrance door, but Anthony Bacon appeared at another one and motioned us that way. It was a smaller door, farther from the path, and we scurried in, the wind chasing us.
“Welcome,” he said, his cadaverous voice echoing from his black-clad chest. I saw instantly that he was no better, and that saddened me. “I apologize for routing you here. The other door is not to be used.”
I shrugged off my cloak. “Oh, is it under repair? It is good to get it done before winter, despite the inconvenience.”
“Noooo ...” He looked embarrassed. “My father nailed it up after the Queen’s visit here almost twenty years ago, so no lesser person could ever step over the same threshold.”
“Your father has been dead almost that long. After so many years, the house ought truly to be yours. It is time to open that door,” I said, without thinking.
“My father is dead but the Queen is not, and she knows about the door,” said Anthony. “She might decide to visit us again.”
“Well, then nail it up again quickly,” said Christopher. “How would she know?”
Always the practical soldier. Perhaps it was better to be with such a man than a poet. At least for everyday life.
He led us back into the main area of the house. In spite of having been enlarged over the years to accommodate the Queen, its dimensions were still small. The Great Hall was not very great, being only about twenty feet wide and thirty-five long. My privy chamber at Essex House was larger. Now, with the new fashion of huge windows so that walls were more glass than stone, Gorhambury looked darkly out of date.
“I have some mulled wine,” he said. “Here, let me warm it.” He shuffled over to the fireplace and held a poker above the coals; when it glowed red, he thrust it into the pitcher, making a sizzle. Pouring some into goblets, he handed us each one. Cupping my hands around mine, I sipped the delicious, sweet, dark liquid. I had been chilled straight through.
“Francis will be here shortly,” he said, sinking down onto a padded bench. “And Robert, he’s on his way.”
“How do you fare, Anthony?” I asked. Being the first comers gave us a short, unexpected private time together.
He smiled a wan smile. “Not well, but no worse,” he said. “I cannot travel beyond the house, although the Queen keeps inviting me to court.”
He was wanted at court and could not go. I could go but was not wanted: one of God’s little teases.
“Is it your eyesight? Are you having trouble reading?” A severe handicap for a spymaster.
“I can do well enough in bright light, but in addition to my eyes, I have—nervous attacks.” As if to prove it, he gave a skittish laugh. “I collapse at inopportune moments. That is really why I cannot go to court. I cannot risk it happening in public.”
That would undo him utterly. “No, you cannot.” I patted his arm. “Neither of us can go, then, but we make a life for ourselves outside of it. There is a whole world beyond court. Poets speak of it, at least.” Even my son had written a plaintive sonnet about being happy living far from court, saying he would be “Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry, / In con
templation passing still his days.” Sometimes he even meant it.
“Court’s a bore anyway, Anthony,” said Christopher, draining his cup. He got up and refilled it himself.
A door slammed. In a moment Francis appeared, brushing the drops off his shoulders. “Bleak out there,” he said. He looked at Christopher and me. “No one else here yet?”
Francis gladly took a cup of the wine and swallowed it quickly. “Did you come up the old Roman road?” he asked us. “I saw your carriage. It’s torture in a vehicle.”
“I slept,” said Christopher, pouring another cup. How much was he going to drink?
“I am probably bruised,” I said, rubbing my side.
“That road is the one Boudicca used fighting against the Roman legions. She must have gotten quite a few bumps in her two-wheeled chariot. Ouch.”
“A red-haired queen fighting foreign invaders,” said Anthony. “History repeats itself.”
“I hope not,” said Francis. “Boudicca was beaten, in spite of her early victories. The Romans were too disciplined, too strong, and too many for her.” He smiled, but with no humor behind it. He opened a small cabinet and took out some sling stones and ax heads. “Tokens of war,” he said. “I collect them. They are still lying where they fell, from the battle at Verulamium nearby—Roman arrows and spearheads and British swords and sickles. They tell the tale of the battles clearly for those with eyes to see. I’ve trained mine to read these signs.” He caressed one arrow tip. “The battle over for fifteen hundred years, but you still sing your song,” he said.
“I don’t like what you said about discipline, strength, and numbers,” said Christopher. “We English have no discipline—our armies are makeshift. Without discipline there is no strength. And as for numbers, Spain is a much bigger country than we are. If those are the determinants, we are doomed.”
“It’s only necessary for the enemy to be lacking those things as well, and then you are evenly matched. On paper the Spanish look better than they really are,” said Francis. “Do not fret yourself. There’s a saying: The French are wiser than they seem, and the Spaniards seem wiser than they are. I am incorporating that in the collection of pieces I am writing and plan to publish next year.”
“You have been muttering about these pieces for months,” said Anthony. “They don’t make sense to me. They are just a collection of your opinions. Why would anybody pay for your opinions? They are nothing but secular sermons!”
“They will pay because I am who I am,” he said grandly.
“And who’s that?” asked Christopher. “The only title you have is Queen’s Counsel Extraordinary, and I don’t see her asking your counsel for much of anything. Now you are offering your counsel to others, hoping they will show more interest? What do you call these little things?”
“Essays,” he said. “I call the book The Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral, of Francis Bacon.”
“Francis Bacon, Conceit Extraordinary,” wheezed Anthony. “Having had to endure your philosophizing and analyzing all my life, I wouldn’t give a penny for it!”
“Well, I hope others will.”
“I’ll raise a cup to that!” Christopher bolted down another one. “May you become rich and need no one’s patronage. Publishing is the way! Get yourself set up with a bookstall in St. Paul’s, like the Raleighs and the Shakespeares, and you’ll flourish.”
“I plan to sell there, yes,” said Francis. “I’ll do anything necessary to raise money.”
“There’s a hot market for memoirs of the Cádiz trip, if only we could tap into it,” said Christopher. “Everyone is dying to know the details, but the Queen won’t let us publish. Poor Robert.” He looked down into his empty cup. “Poor me. I had a good one written up, lots of swashbuckling bravado.”
We settled ourselves on cushioned chairs in the wood-paneled room. The richness of the carved linenfold paneling and the patterned ceiling made it feel warm but dark. The many candles and the fire did little to brighten it, as though the wood itself absorbed the light. Barely visible against the wall was a large portrait of the father, Sir Nicholas Bacon. The Queen’s Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, he was clutching his staff of office and looking suspiciously out at his audience.
He had been a huge man, and the portrait did nothing to disguise it. Supposedly once the Queen had visited him here and remarked that his house was too small for him. He took the hint and enlarged the house for her next visit. It was an unwise man who did not catch the Queen’s hints.
He had been a large man in other ways, having so many children by his two marriages that he had been unable to provide for them all. Sir Nicholas had been intending to sell certain property to ensure an inheritance for his youngest and most gifted, Francis, but had died unexpectedly, making young Francis practically a pauper for all his brilliance. Anthony had inherited the house, and generously shared it with his brother, but that did not ease the worry of always being out of pocket.
There was, of course, on the other wall the obligatory portrait of the Queen, looking as if she were twenty-five. It was the official portrait. This year she had ordered all the unflattering ones that made her look old—in other words, the realistic ones—confiscated and destroyed. Only the palace-approved image must be displayed. And so a perpetual Persephone looked out from portraits where Demeter should be gazing. Or someone even older. I had never realized it before, but there were no elderly Greek gods or goddesses. Well, the Queen intended there should be no elderly-looking monarchs on the English throne, either.
Across from the Sir Nicholas portrait was one of his widow, Lady Anne. She wore an expression of aloofness, as if she disapproved of his portliness. The old term for widow, “relict,” fitted her well.
The rest of the room was spare. It reflected its owner: A scholar. A bachelor. Neither brother ever married. This was suggestive in itself. Perhaps the Queen assumed they were ... or that their peculiar natures hinted at something beyond just bachelorhood ...?
Francis turned and stared at me as if he could read my mind. I almost blushed. I had to say something, so I said, “Didn’t you meet the Queen here once when you were a child?”
“Yes, she asked me questions in that manner we all know so well,” he said. “I was about eight or nine. It was the time she made the remark about the house being too small. She asked me if I studied Greek and Latin, called me a little scholar, and then asked what I thought was the most important thing a man should learn. I said, to unlearn what he had been taught. She laughed about it and teased my tutor.”
“Well, I met her at the same age, and she wasn’t so pleased with what I did!” Robert flung open the door of the room and stood in the doorway. He tugged off his mantle, tossing it on a chair, and its flying drops went all over us. “She tried to kiss me and I pulled away. I thought she was a crazy old hag. Now, of course, I join with everyone in praising her beauty.” He swept off his hat before the portrait, mockingly.
Anthony looked nervously about and shut the door.
“Greetings, Son,” I said. He dutifully bent down and kissed my cheek. “It was not exactly as you describe it.” What if a servant overheard and reported his insult? “You never liked being approached by strangers, and you weren’t sure who she was.”
“The French say there is always one who kisses and one who allows himself or herself to be kissed, and I say, that day the Queen was the one doing the kissing.” He gave a loud laugh and grabbed one of the wine cups.
“Well, she isn’t now,” said Francis flatly. “Now, when it counts, not when you were nine years old.”
Robert shrugged, but it looked rehearsed. “I care not,” he said. “The crowds cheer me, and I’m hailed everywhere I go. That doesn’t happen to her anymore. People blame her for all the troubles.”
“There’s to be a parliament to address the problems,” said Francis. “It will meet in February. The Queen is not insensitive to her people, you know.”
“Did you bring Frances?” I asked Robert. Latel
y he had taken a renewed interest in his wife, or perhaps it was part of his effort to bolster his reputation.
“Yes, she’s with Lady Bacon. In the library.”
I supposed I should excuse myself and go join them, but I preferred to stay with the men. Lady Bacon was as starched as one of her Puritan ruffs and as scholarly as her sons, and I saw enough of Frances every day. When Charles Blount arrived, if he brought Penelope, then I would go with the women.
“Well, man, what did you call us for?” Robert said, rubbing his cold hands together. “I’ve asked some of our Cádiz fellows to join us, and they’ll be here soon, so get to it.”
His arrogance and presumption had expanded greatly with the adulation he had received from the public since his return. Somewhere inside he must know that it is rude to invite a crowd to someone else’s house. But he excused himself from the usual constraints.
Francis ran his hands over his hips, as if he were getting ready for an athletic contest. “You asked me to analyze your position and to make recommendations. I have done so. Here is my summary.” He twisted around to pick up an envelope, which he handed to Robert.
A wide smile on his face, Robert broke the seal and shook the paper out grandly. He began reading, squinting at the small handwriting, and the smile gradually drained away. Finally he folded the paper up, replaced it in the envelope, and tucked it into his waistband. “Your recommendations are nonsense,” he said.
“How so?” Francis asked.
“To begin with, you think I should drop my military career. It’s the only thing that’s ever rewarded me with honors and money. So that’s like asking the pope to give up the Mass.”
“If the pope had been more flexible about the Mass, he need not have lost all of northern Europe. Take a lesson from him.” Francis was not going to back down. “Can you not see that a powerful subject who pursues military glory would be threatening to someone of the Queen’s nature?”
Elizabeth I Page 37