Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  “Good luck,” said Spenser. “You set yourself an impossible task. No one has ever conquered Ireland, and no one ever will.”

  Robert drew himself up. “There is no such thing as an impossible campaign, if enough men and enough money are committed. And this time there will be. Sixteen thousand soldiers! Thirteen hundred cavalry! The Irish fear the cavalry; they’ll quake when they see it.”

  “I’ve never seen the Irish quake, except with one of their agues,” said Spenser. “Are you in sole command? Are you free to make your own decisions?”

  “As far as I know. There will be no one over me.”

  “Except the Queen,” I reminded him. “She is the supreme commander.”

  “Bah! She knows nothing of warfare. How could she? She’s never been on the battlefield. Let’s hope her meddling doesn’t interfere with what needs to be done.”

  “She’s paying for it, and she will want to have the last word,” I said.

  “Surely this time she will bow to the wisdom of those who know warfare,” Robert said. “She wants to win.”

  “She has her own ideas,” said Christopher. “One cannot say they are always wrong.”

  “They are always cautious, and here to be cautious is to lose,” said Robert.

  “You must not begin by antagonizing her,” said Christopher. When had he gotten so analytical? “For example, by appointing Southampton. She will not permit it; she dislikes and distrusts him. She put him in prison! So do not waste your ammunition, so to speak. Do not get off on the wrong foot with her.”

  “Aren’t you full of clichés today?”

  “Clichés are often true,” said Christopher. “Don’t cross her. You’ll lose.”

  “I need the freedom to choose my own officers.”

  “Anyone but Southampton, I would say. It is folly to nominate a candidate who is in prison for offending the Queen.”

  “But I want him,” said Robert.

  “Learn to want someone else,” I said.

  “That’s not so easily done,” he retorted.

  Oh, that I knew. Learn to want someone else. I tried to follow my own dictum to some success. I had long ago ceased to want anything to do with Southampton. I could see him now and look upon him as merely the husband of Elizabeth Vernon and a friend of my son’s. Will Shakespeare was more difficult. What I wanted most was to talk to him and hear his opinion on what was looming before Robert. He seemed to know everything that went on. Instead, I had to guess it secondhand through his plays.

  His plays kept him in my mind. People talked about him; even the Queen called for him to present his dramas before her. She had liked the play featuring Sir John Falstaff so much she had requested one in which he was the main character, and Will had written The Merry Wives of Windsor, which was duly performed at Windsor during the Garter ceremonies. In his own way, he was as much a public figure as the Queen, even if he hid behind his characters. One could say that Sir John Falstaff was a public figure, that Shylock was a public figure, that Romeo was a public figure, while their creator kept his privacy.

  The talk wound down. Spenser was yawning and needed his rest. Robert was restless in the chamber. I wished he would seek his wife’s company instead of heading out into the night, but I no longer had any control over him.

  Christopher and I retired to our chamber. Making ready for bed, Christopher was changing into his nightshirt.

  “I hope he does not antagonize the Queen before he’s even left,” he said.

  “Thank you for trying to speak common sense to him,” I said.

  “It is hard for you,” he said. “For I know you would just as soon he stayed safely here. Danger seems to court him.”

  “You know me well, husband,” I said. I was touched that he could understand how a parent would feel, since he was not one. I went over to him and embraced him. It was good to hold him; I had never ceased to appreciate the physical comfort of him. As I pressed him close to me, I felt both tenderness toward him and stirrings of desire. It had been a long time since I had felt that, for anyone.

  He kissed me, reminding me of what I had once craved. I wanted it back again, the longing and the excitement.

  Lettice, I told myself, he has been right here all along. It is you who have abandoned him. Now reach out and reclaim him, and the joy of the marriage bed. It is your right—even the church preaches that. Does not the marriage vow say, “With my body I thee worship”? They do not mean kneeling and reciting verse!

  “Come, my marshall of the army,” I whispered. It was exciting to address him thus.

  62

  ELIZABETH

  January 1599

  Twelfth Night, and the torches were blazing high at Whitehall. We had had as festive a season as possible, thrusting troubling thoughts of the Irish out into the midwinter darkness. I called upon all the courtiers to attend me sometime during the Twelve Days, but especially upon this climax of the celebrations.

  Tonight there was everything: a banquet with not one but three roasted swans, Raleigh serving as master of misrule, a full contingent of musicians and singers, and a new play, the continuation of Henry IV, the play that had introduced Falstaff to the world.

  Essex, sitting beside me, leaned over and murmured, “This play is not as entertaining as the first part. All the interesting characters, like Hotspur, have been killed off, and Prince Hal is prissy.”

  What I wanted to say, and could not, was that the first part of the play seemed lusty and full of life, whereas this one dwelled on decay, disease, and age—subjects I shunned. There was even a moment when Falstaff was upbraided for having a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly, a broken voice, a double chin, and a single wit and told that every part of him was blasted with antiquity. Instead I said, “You might do better to choose such prissy fellows to have about you than the ones you choose.” Southampton still lingered in prison, and his forbidden wife had been sheltered by Essex. She had just given birth to a daughter. His other ne’er-do-wells, the Earls of Rutland and of Sussex, were little better than Falstaff.

  What neither of us would mention, but were both acutely aware of, was the publication of a book entitled The Life and Reign of Henry IV by John Hayward. Its title was misleading, for it covered the abdication of Richard II, and in its dedication Hayward compared Bolingbroke to Essex. Hayward would be questioned before the Star Chamber, but why speak of this now? It was Twelfth Night.

  Sitting on my other side was Eurwen Bethan. At my invitation, she had come from Wales to spend Christmas with me, and her wonder at all she saw was the greatest holiday pleasure for me. To behold all this for the first time must be indescribable. Eurwen kept her words few, but her eyes shone.

  She was now eleven, just on the brink of turning from a rosy-cheeked child into a slim maiden. As I had asked her, she called me Godmother Elizabeth and seemed content to do so, not reckoning it the startling honor a courtier’s child would. At this time of heavy cares of state and growing bodily aches, she was April in my life.

  As she was a distant cousin of Essex’s, he was possessive of her, but I brushed off his attempts to intrude between us. I did not want this one pure thing in my life to be tainted by court politics or ambition.

  I had over a hundred godchildren, and for amusement, I invited many of them to come together and meet her. They ranged from middle-aged people like John Harington to Catherine’s twelve-year-old Howard niece. They made much of her, petting her and making her one of their company.

  The play ended with an actor saying, “Our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine of France; where, for anything I know, Sir John shall die of a sweat.” He bowed. “My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night; and so kneel down before you; but, indeed, to pray for the queen.” He knelt on the floor and I stood, acknowledging him.

  “Sirs, you all have pleased me well. I look for more of Sir John in France. And so, good night.”

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nbsp; Now there would be dancing. The stage was cleared, the actors removed their belongings, and the musicians took their places. The burned-out candles were replaced, and the watching chamber lightened.

  Essex bent down in exaggerated courtesy and said to Eurwen, “Cousin, shall we dance a measure?”

  Although she had never danced before, she learned quickly, her eyes sparkling. Soon others joined them and the floor was filled with dancers treading this slow and stately tune. Essex’s wife sat forlornly on one side. She was suffering from the early stage of pregnancy and kept her hand over her stomach.

  Later the dancing would become more lively, but for now older people and children ruled the floor.

  When Eurwen and old Lord Buckhurst and Sir Henry Norris and their like had retired, Essex and I finally danced. It was a galliard, a dance I had once excelled at. It involved a fair amount of leaping and feinting, requiring strong legs and good balance. I could still do it, but I grew hot more quickly than I used to.

  “After all this time, we still dance together well,” I told him as we passed each other in a step.

  He looked back at me quizzically. “Still?” he said. “I would say ‘always.’ ”

  “Whether it is always or no, that depends on you,” I said. “I am nothing if not constant. It is you who is mutable.”

  The holidays over, the decorations and accoutrements—masks, staves, bells, papier-mâché unicorns, curtains for the plays—carted off by the master of revels to be stored in Clerkenwell Green, it was back to the workaday world. Shorn of our resplendent costumes, plain-dressed Essex met with a somberly dressed me in the privy chamber. It was time to talk of Ireland.

  “How soon do you reckon you will be ready?” I asked him.

  “Recruiting takes time,” he said. “And procuring the victuals, especially as it is now winter, and—”

  “I did not ask for excuses, I asked for a timetable.” I hated to be so short with him, but there were many aspects to be covered.

  “March,” he said. “I will be ready in March. But the expenses—I am running into problems—”

  “You are deeply in debt to the Crown, in spite of your income from the sweet wine monopoly and all your lands. You seek to borrow more?”

  “If I could be granted the mastership of the Court of Wards, vacant now that Burghley is gone ...”

  “A very lucrative post. I haven’t decided yet how to award it. Essex, you are familiar with the Bible verse about being faithful in small things before you can be entrusted with large ones? Your continual need for more and more money to meet your expenses bespeaks a lack of thrift and management and hardly recommends you for more.”

  “I have grave responsibilities,” he said. “I can hardly be expected to foot the entire bill for the war. Someday, the state itself will be seen to be responsible for that.”

  “The state is responsible. I have been selling off Crown lands. Do not tell me I am not the one financing the war!”

  “I did not mean that. Only that someday—”

  “I will not require the repayment of the ten thousand pounds you owe me, not yet. Will that help?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Very well then, but it will become due. I am not forgiving the debt, merely postponing it.”

  “Your Majesty forgives very little,” he said.

  “You have noted this? Then mark it well.” It was time I spoke what I knew. Nay, more than time. I stood up, aware of how he towered over me. No matter. “You have behaved toward me in a treasonous fashion before the Privy Council. You know to what I refer. I have also heard of the rebellious insults you have directed at me, both in writing and in speech. Behind my back you have mocked, challenged, and implied that I am less than I am. If you thought these words would never reach me, you are naive.”

  His face was a mask like the ones from the late revels. He stared back at me.

  “Therefore, let me say it once, and take heed. I have borne these insults to my person. But I warn you, do not touch my scepter. The moment you do so, I must carry out the law against you, regardless of my own feelings in the matter. You will enter into dangerous terrain.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “I think that you do. Remember, I did not wish to execute Mary Queen of Scots. But the law required it. She tried to touch my scepter.”

  He gave a nervous laugh. “Is it my fault foolish people link me to Bolingbroke or put up placards about my lineage? Should I be punished for their actions?”

  “No, nor have you been. I am not speaking of what others say or do, only what you say or do.” Behind his narrowed eyes I could almost feel his mind churning. “Enough of this. We understand each other. Now, as to your appointments for Ireland, whom do you have in mind?”

  A broad smile now spread across his face as the subject turned away from himself. “I propose my stepfather, Sir Christopher Blount, as marshal of the army and a member of the Irish Council of State.”

  “Why, what experience has he had?” The harlot Lettice’s husband! His primary experience was in cuckolding Leicester, I suspected.

  “He’s a good soldier. He led a column of land forces at Cádiz and Faro and performed well in the Azores expedition. He’s in his late thirties, old enough to command respect from the soldiers under him, young enough to fight alongside them in the field. And, although I can’t be sure, I think he did some service for Walsingham. He was brought up Catholic and had an entrée into those circles, making him useful as an informant. Of course, he can’t talk about it.”

  “No,” I said. “No, he isn’t suitable.”

  Essex frowned. “He seems very suitable to me. And I have seen him in the field myself.”

  “And I haven’t, you are saying. No, I’ve not been there. But one doesn’t need to actually be somewhere to comprehend it. He can serve as an officer, that’s all. And not on the Irish Council, either.”

  “As you say.” His words were submissive, but not his tone. “I propose Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton, as my master of the horse, in charge of the cavalry.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think we need to discuss the reasons. We both know them.”

  “You do not trust my judgment,” he said.

  “I trust my own better,” I replied. “I must think of England’s needs, not yours.”

  “Let us, then, discuss the terms of my service, since you place so little faith in me,” he said petulantly. “What are my duties, what are my constraints—besides, that is, not being able to choose my own officers?”

  “Ah, now, that attitude is precisely what I meant. You speak insultingly to me but I, out of fondness and our cousinship, will overlook it.” I paused to emphasize my words. “I am prepared to give you great scope in your position. You shall serve as my viceregal envoy in Ireland. That means you have the power to proclaim and punish traitors, award knighthoods, levy troops, issue pardons under my Great Seal, and take on all royal rights except issuing coinage.”

  For the first time in the interview, a genuine smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “However, you must rule through the Irish Council of State, not on your own. You must submit to their judgment. And I warn you—no more making knights for scant service. It is a bad habit of yours and I will have an end to it. It denigrates the office and makes knaves into ‘Sirs.’ Let someone truly earn it in Ireland, by bravery and might of arms.”

  “I bow to your judgment and conditions,” he said.

  This was the time when I should call for refreshments, have someone play the virginals to celebrate our agreement. But I wanted to press on through all the business. “I am thinking that the army itself should be around sixteen thousand, the cavalry around thirteen hundred. That will be the largest army I have gathered and sent in all my reign. I will put you in command of six thousand infantry. For the rest, five thousand should be used to fortify Dublin and the Pale, two thousand to garrison Connaught, and another thre
e thousand to secure the south, Leinster and Munster.”

  “I will have only six thousand?”

  “That is enough for your purposes. A larger army would have trouble marching to Ulster. The terrain is boggy, uneven, and filled with fords and narrow passes. And it is to Ulster you must go, and straightway. Land, gather your supplies, and march. Hunt O’Neill down. That is your mission.”

  “He will be waiting.”

  “Of course he will be waiting! Surprise is out of the question as our tactic. He knows we have to ferry an army and supplies across the sea. But he can only prepare up to a point. Take him on as soon as you can, when your men and horses are freshest and your supplies greatest. Ireland will sap them all. So strike fast.”

  This woman thinks she’s a general, he was doubtless thinking. But she’s just an old creature who’s never gone to Scotland, let alone across the water to Ireland. She’s never seen a rebel or a battlefield. She never even saw any ships from the Armada!

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  I had read much of battles both modern and ancient, and that can teach a person about war. But it was also in my blood. I was the daughter of Henry VIII; I was descended from the Conqueror, and before that Arthur himself. I belonged on a battlefield, and I would know my way around one by instinct.

  Now was the time to call for the refreshments. At last we were finished with business, and I had spoken openly and honestly to him.

  He sat back, relaxing in his chair. It was a relief to have this behind us. If his powers were less than he would have liked, they probably still exceeded his expectations.

  Before the drink and tidbits could arrive, a messenger asked leave to come in and see Essex. I asked him to speak, and he said simply, “Edmund Spenser has died. He gave up the ghost shortly after you left, my lord.”

  Essex went as pale as a ghost himself. Then he did something very odd for a Protestant. He crossed himself.

  “Ireland killed him!” he cried.