I knew all the genealogies of everyone. If you were a Tudor, you learned them almost before your ABCs, as they governed your life. Robert Devereux counted Edward I and Edward III as his ancestors. His royal blood was so diluted it would not amount to more than a teaspoon if you could measure it, but it gave a tincture to everything he did. Mine united the bloodlines of York and Lancaster; his was primarily York. Those wars were not forgotten, nor the bloodlines running further back into the distant past. During my father’s reign many with stronger blood claims than Robert Devereux had been executed until there were none left to challenge the Tudor claim. But there are always other descendants, cousins, to continue the line. That was what made Essex dangerous.
And now he was hiding himself away, daring me to continue to ignore him, while he fanned the murmurs and desires of the people.
I would not call him forth, nor go to him. “He has played long enough upon me, and now I mean to play upon him!” I cried aloud. “I will pull down his proud heart, as we pull down dangerous houses!”
I unrolled another faded piece of paper. “Remember Richard II my lord. See him do what should be done. At the playhouse, now.”
Richard II. At the playhouse. Was there a play about the deposition of that foolish king? I must look into this. Who was performing it? And to what end?
I welcomed Easter as the dearly sought release from a long winter of heaviness of spirit. It did not fail me. It never did, in its yearly reassurance that all would be well. The sun streamed through the windows of the chapel royal, hitting Archbishop Whitgift’s white and gold vestments, making them gleam in heavenly splendor. The lilies on the altar stood fair and slender, purity in an imperfect world.
48
LETTICE
May 1597
What a long and dreary winter it had been. Each short day seemed longer than a midsummer’s one, for when the spirits are low one hour seems ten. My son’s agitation about his political situation occupied me, as a crying baby will demand attention. No matter how old the child or the mother, the need, and the response, is the same on both sides.
He had hidden away all winter, absenting himself from court. The court had not missed him; he had never been popular there. They were all jealous of him. The Queen was still angry, punishing him for the failure—as she saw it—of the Cádiz voyage. The people, on the other hand, appreciated the sheer bravado of the mission, and certainly King Philip was incensed about it. The ghost of Drake himself was probably applauding the audacity of it. Only the Queen held aloof, caring solely about the missed booty, not the glory of striking into the very heart of our enemy.
Because the Queen refused to call the mission a success, the logical next step—a follow-up attack on another Spanish target—found few outright supporters. The council was divided between those who thought England should have an aggressive war policy and those who favored a defensive strategy. As in other areas, Robert and the Cecils were on opposite sides of the argument. The Queen favored the Cecil position but might be persuadable.
“But not if you hide yourself away,” I had told Robert. “As leader of the war party, you have to be close to her ear.”
But he remained obdurate, unconvinced. His wife and children, though, seemed to benefit from his absence at court. Frances was as unprepossessing as ever, so easily overlooked, with her quiet, accommodating manner and her undistinguished looks. She called to mind St. Paul’s description of love: bears all things, endures all things. I suppose, for such a man as my son, those were essential qualities for a wife.
She was a good mother. Better than I, and I admired her for that. Her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was eleven now and had the long face and delicate hands of her father, Philip Sidney, but not his good looks; her son by Robert, little Rob, was six. He was a dreamy child, often preferring to play indoors even when the weather was sunny. He did not like riding but forced himself to do it, which bespoke courage but not aptitude.
Until now Robert had seemed indifferent to them, but during these months they caught his affection and he spent much time with them. Children soothed wounded pride; they judged a person by a different yardstick than the world. Under their adoring gaze, Robert grew calmer.
I enjoyed spending time with them as well—it was something to share with Robert that was not freighted with political weight. They were my grandchildren, after all. I knew I should be more attentive, but I usually held that children are not interesting until they reach fourteen or so. By this time I had many grandchildren: six by Penelope and three by Dorothy, besides Robert’s. His obliging ex-mistress Elizabeth Southwell had boldly named her son Walter Devereux, making a total of eleven. Both Penelope and Dorothy were expecting again. I marveled at the fecundity of our family.
Alone of the children, Elizabeth Sidney was a goddaughter of the Queen, and named for her. I hoped that might mean some special attention for her, but since the death of Walsingham and Frances’s transition from Sidney’s widow to Robert’s wife, the Queen took no notice of her. And Frances, in her unpresuming way, did nothing to change that.
Suspended in inaction, life feels eternal. Then, abruptly, it ends. It did the day Cecil and Raleigh came to Essex House to meet with Robert and form a plan for working together.
It was a shock to have the outside world bursting in upon us, like throwing open the shutters after a long winter to reveal the dust and cobwebs. They made an odd pair, diminutive Cecil and the broad-shouldered Raleigh. But where political interests converge, men start to look alike.
Robert was wary around them, unsure whether to trust them. When one’s enemies come a-calling, it is best to keep one’s back to the wall. So he made much of welcoming them, so effusively that it smacked of pandering. I would have to wait until later to know what was said, as they spoke in private. But all along Southampton had managed to let bits of news trickle in to us, and we heard that frustration with the Queen’s inability to embrace any definitive policy was stalemating everyone’s plans. Did not Jesus himself say, “Let your yes be yes and your no be no”? Her Majesty was not following his command.
The three men went into the chamber and shut the door resolutely. They remained there for several hours. I sent trays of food and flasks of the finest wine in for them; they were returned empty, the plates heaped with peels and rinds and the flasks drained. Eventually they emerged, looking content and companionable. This was as rare a sight as a planetary convergence of Jupiter, Mars, and Venus, and I wished there was a way to capture the image. Cecil had his doublet undone, showing his rumpled shirt beneath; Raleigh’s smile harbored no skepticism. And Robert? My son looked truly happy for the first time in months.
I tried to keep my curiosity in check. I merely said, “I trust you found the refreshments to your liking?” knowing very well that they had.
“Oh, indeed.” Raleigh wiped his mouth as if remembering the taste, mischief in his eyes. But I did not respond. Dangerous amorous liaisons had lost their thrill for me.
“Come, summon Christopher!” said Robert. “We are going to the theater, to celebrate. Such a fine afternoon, and such a timely play!”
“Why, what is it?”
“Richard II,” said Raleigh. “Damn appropriate!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” cautioned Cecil. “But it will be instructive.”
“Has it been successful?” I asked. I had stayed away from the theater for months.
“Very,” said Raleigh. “Packing the playhouse. It seems to have struck a chord. It’s the story of a foolish king who loses his throne and the clever subject who deposes him.”
“I fail to see how it is timely,” I said. Elizabeth was many things, but foolish was not one of them. Quite the opposite.
“You’ll understand after you listen to the lines,” said Robert.
“Oh, have you read it?” I asked.
“Yes, I have a copy. It spoke directly to me.”
“And what did it say?”
“I cannot sum it up so simply.” He t
urned to the others. “As soon as Christopher comes, we should leave.”
I found Christopher in the courtyard inspecting his horse. He was not keen on the theater, but I told him this was no ordinary performance but held some special meaning for these men, and it behooved us to know what it was. Obligingly he joined me, and then the five of us set out for the theater.
We arrived just in time. I saw, to my dismay, the author on the playbills posted outside: William Shakespeare. If Richard Topcliffe, the notorious torturer in the Tower, had been ordered to punish me, he could have found no better implement. I wanted no reminders of my humiliator.
We settled ourselves. Christopher reached over and took my hand. “It has been a long time since we have attended,” he said solicitously. “Even though I’m not much for the theater, if it makes you happy ...”
The play commenced. At the first lines, spoken by King Richard, “Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,” the crowd quieted. The king, a slender actor with a melodious voice, was first commanding, then wheedling, then conciliatory. Was this why the people saw a similarity between Elizabeth and Richard? “We were not born to sue, but to command,” the king said, as Elizabeth had been known to. Not much further into the play he capriciously banished Gaunt’s son Henry Bolingbroke for the transgression of “eagle-winged pride, of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts.” Then he just as capriciously altered the sentence from ten years to six.
Elizabeth was renowned, and resented, for her vacillation on matters of state, especially in military affairs. She constantly sent orders countermanding her commands, and only when men were finally at sea were they free of her imperious changes. On land she was not much better; her notorious reluctance to sign necessary decrees was legendary, usually involving several rounds of papers.
I felt uneasy when I saw the actor playing Bolingbroke. Tall, reddishhaired—and with a spade-shaped beard. Richard mockingly described Bolingbroke’s “courtship to the common people.” Imitating his walk, he said, “How he did seem to dive into their hearts with humble and familiar courtesy.” He turned. “What reverence he did throw away on slaves, wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles.” He made a face at the audience, a false grin. “Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench.” He swept off his hat. “A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, and had the tribute of his supple knee.” He knelt with a flourish. “With ‘thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends,’ as were our England in reversion his, and he our subjects’ next degree in hope.”
The audience had spotted Robert by this time, and they turned to look at him as those lines were recited. It could not have been more pointed. Instead of ignoring them, Robert bowed his head. The fool!
On went the play to its conclusion. The “plume-plucked Richard” was first deposed, then murdered. Bolingbroke lamented “that blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.” He vowed a trip to the Holy Land to wash himself clean in repentance. However, he kept the crown on his head.
The audience went wild applauding. Then the manager announced that the fortunes of Bolingbroke would be explored in later plays about the result of his action: the bloody War of the Roses.
Thus we were invited to lament the horror of the evil deeds while thrilling to the gore and irrevocable decisions that led to doom. Such is the theater.
The likeness of Bolingbroke and Essex was unmistakable. I felt that Will had betrayed us. Under our roof he had had ample opportunity to observe and capture Robert’s mannerisms. Now he reflected them back in this grotesque character.
Never trust a writer, he had warned me. All the world is ours to kidnap and transform as we will, to our own purpose.
49
Cecil and Raleigh left the theater and returned to their homes of Salisbury and Durham House, respectively, parting cheerily. Clearly the sober subject of the play had not depressed their spirits—a sign they were so enamored of their new-laid plans they felt impervious to political threat. I waited until we were safely within doors finally to ask Robert what had passed between them.
He tossed his hat toward the bust of Augustus, where it settled squarely on his head, feathers quivering. “Fortune favors me today in small matters as well as large,” he observed. He sat down on a padded chair, pleased with himself. “My political foes came to me,” he said. “Did you ever think that would happen?” He reached over to a platter where dried fruit was always heaped, plucked a fig, and dropped it in his mouth. “We now have a common purpose—or rather, three separate purposes that twine together. By joining forces, we further all three. Cecil wishes to soothe the Queen’s bad temper, caused in part by the outré status of me and Raleigh. Raleigh wants to be restored to his old post as captain of the Queen’s Guard; I wish to be empowered to mount a Cádiz-style anti-Spanish attack. With Cecil to persuade her for us, we can succeed.”
“But why would Cecil wish to help you? What is in it for him? He never does anything without a purpose.”
Robert had to think a moment. “He cannot advance himself while the government is paralyzed. The Queen will—the Queen won’t—the Queen will—and in the meantime nothing happens. Men of action—me and Raleigh—who can break the dam have been unwelcome at court lately.”
“And while you are away on this mission? Have you forgotten that every time you leave, Cecil grabs another office?”
“I am aware of that. But while I am held prisoner here I can achieve nothing. And—Mother, I long to get away! If only I could never come back!”
“Like Drake? He always wished to get away, and now he lies beneath the blue waves off the coast of South America.”
“Maybe I’d go ashore in the tropics and stay there. They say the Azores are beautiful—a string of islands a thousand miles from Portugal. Paradise. A man could be happy there—”
He was going to start that again. “Nonsense. Not your sort of man; perhaps that Indian Raleigh brought back. You are an Englishman, and a Welshman, going back generations. This is your soil; this is where you must grow.”
“Grow to greatness—” Now he got that dreamy look on his face, the one he had as a child at Chartley. “But the sun itself, that should nourish me, is fading. Or should I say the sun herself?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s slipping, I think. Girls in her chamber tell me she misplaces things, cannot always remember a face or a name. She limps from a foot injury and tries to hide her lameness.”
“Who says this?”
“Elizabeth Vernon. She tells Southampton everything she notes.”
“Or everything she imagines. I have heard the like whispered for years.”
“Mother, she is old.”
“She is only in her midsixties. My father lived vigorously into his eighties. Old Burghley is still holding on, and he’s almost eighty.”
“She’s grown more cantankerous, indecisive, and meddlesome.”
“She was always cantankerous, indecisive, and meddlesome. You are just not old enough to remember.”
“You haven’t seen her in years. If you did, you’d note the difference.”
“Then get me an audience. I am the mother of her foremost subject. Make her receive me.”
“I cannot make her do anything. No one can. That’s the frustration.”
“Then charm her into it. She’s susceptible to that, and you are the best in the world at it.”
“Now you flatter me,” he said. “Lately she has been immune to my charm.”
“When you return from this next voyage, you will have a new lease on her favor. But ...” I looked at his beard, which I never had learned to like. “Were you not offended by the caricature of you tonight? I think it criminal of Will to have done it.”
He shrugged. “He plays to his audience. He knows what people want, what is on their minds. All the talk of the common people has been about me, so he wanted to tap into that.”
Why was he so obtuse? “The play presents you as a scheming people pleaser,” I said. “A malevolent man with wicke
d motives. Do you not think the Queen will hear of it? Will it not confirm her worst suspicions of you?”
He laughed. “A play is a play. They are just for entertainment. They don’t mean anything.” He stood up. “Since it disturbs you so much, do you want to see my copy?”
That night, by the poor yellow light of three candles, I pored over the play. It was hard to read, but I was determined. It was my duty as a mother to read every word of a work maligning my son.
There was so much in it that pointed to him. It was impossible to pass over. And there was a scene in it that had not been played in the theater, a scene where Richard resigns his crown, handing it over to Bolingbroke. Obviously it was considered too incendiary to be seen.
But why would the Queen think my son aimed at replacing her? In the play, King Richard had unfairly banished Bolingbroke—not just from court, but from the country—and confiscated his lands and property, giving him every excuse to take up arms against him. In Robert’s case, the opposite was true. The Queen had favored him, bestowed gifts upon him that, Bacon said, were disproportionate to his deserts. She was the font of his fortunes. Robert had stood beneath its cascades and drenched himself in its shining drops.
As I continued reading, I got more and more angry. Will had deliberately written it to sow suspicions against Robert in the mind of the Queen. God knew it took little to agitate her. Why had he turned on his erstwhile friend? And didn’t he realize that, next to the Queen, Robert was the most dangerous enemy to make?
I kept reading, unable to stop, until the eastern window grew gold and overpowered the feeble candles. At times the beauty of the words made me forget their poison, but I steeled myself to read past that. The fact that the poetry imprinted itself in the mind, without effort, made it all the more hopeless to combat, like a substance that will dye our fingers with one light touch.
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