Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  Crowds ran alongside the mounted men, crying “God save Your Lordship!” and “All for glory!” So they had cried when I rode out during the Armada attack. But that was more than a decade ago, and it was Essex they called for now.

  Growling thunder muttered off in the distance, but the sun still shone here. I stood silently as the army passed away, out of sight. Later we learned that the heavens had opened up and drenched them with rain and hail the moment they were beyond the London walls. Omen? Some said so.

  And now we were to wait. Wait for the troops to sail, to land, and to make their way to Dublin. There the lord justices would administer the oath of loyalty and present Essex with the ceremonial sword of state. Only then would business begin, the campaign be launched.

  As soon as he could assemble his troops, Essex was to march north and confront The O’Neill. It would to be difficult to stay here, motionless, awaiting news. I had never felt more helpless.

  Easter came, and with it a glorious English spring—daffodils, cuckoos, violets, and lily of the valley. No matter what surrounded me, it was impossible for my heart not to soar in such beauty, returned after a long absence. It acted as balm for my fretfulness.

  But soon came word that the Earl of Rutland, whom I had expressly forbidden to join Essex, had gone secretly. Instead of sending him back, Essex had welcomed him and made him colonel of foot soldiers, knighting him in the bargain. In addition, the moment Essex had his commission giving him the power of appointments, he had made Southampton his master of the horse. I immediately sent orders countermanding this and called Rutland home. And as for Southampton, I demanded his immediate demotion.

  I found this challenge to my authority so disturbing that my sleep fled. I had looked Essex right in the eye and told him that he must not do this; he had done it anyway, as if his obedience ceased to exist once he was out of sight. What was I to do? I could not recall him; O’Neill must be answered. I must use one disobedient subject to chasten another. But after it was over, Essex must be dealt with.

  Those left behind were more tractable. There were Robert Cecil, Charles Blount, Walter Raleigh, and Admiral Howard. The latter three had all fought in their time but, in declining to go to Ireland, were all that remained to shield me should Essex make a threatening move. I hated thinking this way, but no Tudor who was blind to the possibility of betrayal had retained the throne.

  I ordered the florid dedication in Hayward’s The History of Henry the Fourth to Essex, which stated, “You are great indeed, both in present judgment and in expectation of future time,” to be ripped from all the remaining copies of the book. I also granted Robert Cecil the mastership of the Wards of Court. He had earned it; he would use it wisely. Let Essex howl when he found it beyond his grasp.

  There is always routine business to be attended to, even when great matters are at hand. Learned men have noted how, at a death, the widow will concern herself with minute aspects of the household, whether that cupboard door is aslant or that sack of flour tied well about the neck, when all the while her husband lies dead in the upper chamber. Just so it was with me. While all hung in the balance in Ireland, I busied myself with playing the virginals, attending concerts, taking little Eurwen on boat rides to show her London from the water, and inventorying my wardrobe.

  I never discarded any gowns, although I often gave them away to the ladies who served me. Since my measurements never changed and I neither shrank nor expanded, being exactly the same height and breadth I was upon my accession, everything still fit. But I could never wear all of them again, even though they fit, for they were styled for a younger person. And I did not want to make sacred relics of them. I bestowed them on the startled Eurwen.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Marjorie asked. “I do remember when you first wore that green velvet, that day by the river.”

  I embraced Eurwen. “I am sure. It belongs on a girl, and that I am long past.”

  “Godmother, you are too generous,” she said. “In Wales, when will I wear it?”

  “It is not valuable,” I lied. “Wear it when the sun rises one morning and you awake feeling special, for no reason at all. Wear it in the fields and at the supper table, and think of me.”

  All told, there were some three thousand gowns. “Enough for almost ten years, if I changed costumes every day,” I said. Perhaps I should make a point of it. Perhaps if I did that, I would ensure my life for the next ten. There were tales about such things, a task that had to be completed before death could come. I seriously considered it, not for that reason but because I wished to wear all of them once more before ... before I could not.

  I looked at the piles of gowns. My horizon had changed. I had never thought of wearing, or doing, anything for the last time. No! I would not think of it now!

  News began to trickle in from Ireland, and it was bad. Shocking. Several messengers arrived with posts of Essex’s great victories. But there were no victories. He had taken what amounted to a Progress through the south and west of Ireland, instead of heading north to Ulster. The Irish Council had convinced him that it was too early to go north, that there would not be sufficient grass yet to sustain the horses. The cattle, to be used for food, were all in southern Ireland and could not be rounded up because that area was in the hands of the rebels and, besides, they were still thin from the winter. Therefore, before they could take on The O’Neill, they had to retake the south.

  That was their argument. I suspected that some who had been part of the council for some time had their own vested interests in giving this advice. They all had property there! Essex listened to them, as it suited him to get his feet wet in this way before turning to his real task.

  So he marched his men out, going through Leinster and then into Munster, making many futile attempts to engage the enemy but mainly being greeted as a hero in towns where nothing was achieved but empty ceremony. His one victory, if you could call it that, was to take the castle of Cahir from some rebels. In the meantime, his officer Sir Henry Harrington was defeated at Wicklow, with half his troops deserting, and the governor of Connaught, Conyers Clifford, defeated and killed in the most gruesome way, with his head hacked off and sent to the Prince of Donegal. It was a loss almost as great as the one at Yellow Ford—three thousand soldiers gone.

  It was now July, and Essex’s forces had melted like snowmen, shrunk by desertions and disease. From the original number of foot soldiers, there remained only thirty-five hundred; of cavalry, three hundred. And he had the nerve to request two thousand more troops!

  I may have been so angry before. It is possible. But I believe I was angrier now than I had ever been. This fool, having stripped the kingdom of money to support the expedition, was losing the war for England before it even began.

  Oh, how The O’Neill must be laughing. How Hugh O’Donnell must be commissioning ballads about it. How the Prince of Donegal must be drinking toasts to Clifford’s head, set up in his Great Hall. How England and its Queen must be mocked from Lough Foyle in the north to Kinsale in the south. That I, who had bested Philip and the might of Spain, was now the plaything of the wild Irish and of my own wayward subject!

  Oh! The impotent fury I felt, when I could do nothing but clench my fists and curse at them, hundreds of miles away.

  There were letters, of course. That was my only way of reaching them, and they were so slow and ineffective. But I poured all my scorn and invective into one. I hunched over my writing table, my glasses (which I needed now to read but did not like to admit to) perched on my nose, my pen digging into the paper with the force of my trembling hand.

  I am known for my “answers answerless,” my way of using subterfuge to both conceal and state my meaning. But not now. I could hardly find words blunt and strong enough to directly express myself.

  No lavish greeting. Instead:

  From Her Majesty to the Lord Lieutenant.

  We who have the eyes of foreign princes upon our actions and the hearts of our people to comfort and cherish�
�who groan under the burden of the cost of this war—can little please ourself with anything that has been achieved so far.

  For what can be more true than that your two months’ journey has brought in not a capital rebel against whom it would have been worthy to have adventured one thousand men? You would have scorned anyone else who claimed a great victory from taking such a castle as Cahir from a rabble of Irish rogues. And with all the cannon and materiel at your command!

  If only you knew, and could hear, how The O’Neill has boasted to all the world of the defeats of your regiments, the deaths of your captains, and the loss of officers.

  But are your losses so surprising? You have assigned strategy and regiments to inexperienced young men who want glory but have no idea of battle. Be assured, our hands are not tied, and we will undo these appointments and strip those honors you have inappropriately bestowed, against our express orders.

  Your letter disgusts us. You baby yourself with all your troubles—that you have been defeated, that poor Ireland suffers because of you—blind to the fact that you are the cause of them.

  And when we call to mind how far the sun has run its course, how much time has been lost, how much depends on this one thing, the defeat of The O’Neill, without which all the other things we have achieved in Ireland are like the wake of a boat in water, quickly vanishing without a trace, we order you, plainly, according to the duty you owe us, with all speed to march north. You must lay the ax to the root of this tree from which all the treacherous stock has sprung elsewhere in the country. Otherwise we have grave cause to regret our entrusting this task to you and will be condemned by the world for embarking on this enterprise without more care and forethought.

  Although we formerly granted leave for you to return to England without prior permission—assuming that Ireland was quiet and you had duly appointed deputies to cover your duties—we now rescind this permission. On no account must you return until we grant you a new license, and that not until the northern action has been undertaken.

  At the court of Greenwich, the nineteenth of July, 1599.

  There was more. I am reciting it from memory now, summarizing it. But I think I have captured its main meaning. I sent it as fast as mortal means could carry it.

  I was adamant that he should not return, excusing himself, posturing before crowds, until he had carried out my orders. He was a deserter ever. I would not allow him to desert his post this time.

  In the meantime we had a glorious summer in England. All the rain must be falling in Ireland, for we had fair weather and mild sunny days. After four failed, soaked harvests in a row, we were finally granted a reprieve. Flowers shot up in the royal gardens, hollyhocks and Canterbury bells taller than I, boxwood spreading thickly and robustly with glossy new leaves, spears of lavender waving in the gentle breezes. Boats plied the Thames, banners flying, and people thronged the river footpaths. In the open fields, archers practiced at the butts and falconers trained their birds.

  “The last summer of this century,” said Marjorie, as we strolled along the riverbanks at Greenwich, our guards discreetly following. Flocks of children came up to me, and I welcomed them. Their elders looked on, hesitating to approach, but I waved them over and spoke to each one. Overhead the soft clouds drifted, aimless as youths let out of school.

  “It will be hard to write ‘16’ instead of ‘15,’” said Catherine, hurrying along. Her short legs meant she had to use more steps to keep up with us. “My pen has a will of its own.”

  “It will be strange to think of its being 1600. I did not think I would ever see it,” Marjorie said. “To live a long time is to taste of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. A dubious blessing?”

  In the lovely lull that is twilight, we returned to the palace, there to find our peace shattered. A messenger delivered a letter to Marjorie, straight from Ireland. With misgivings, she took it. News from Ireland is never good. Before opening it, she sat down. Then, slowly, cautiously, she broke the seal and read, quickly.

  The letter fluttered to the floor and she stared dumbly across the room, seeing us no longer. She was silent, as we are after true devastation. Her arm hung limply, her hand suspended over the letter.

  I bent and picked it up. She did not protest. Indeed, she seemed not to see me.

  My eyes flicked over the writing. Without my glasses, it was hard to read. But I could make out the important things: Thomas Norris, governor of Munster, and his brother, Henry, had both died. They had both been wounded on August 16. Thomas had died quickly, but Henry had survived an amputation and lived another five days. Thomas had died in Henry’s arms.

  Six soldier sons, and now five of them gone, four claimed by Ireland.

  Marjorie slumped in the chair, unmoving. I motioned to Catherine to help me move her to a place where she could lie down. Together we took her into my chamber and laid her upon my bed. There she could remain as long as she wished.

  One son left. I would order him home from his post in the Netherlands. It was all I could do. Once again I was helpless when it mattered most. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Its fruit was bitter indeed.

  65

  Now the war had invaded my own chambers, felling Marjorie. She awoke from her sleep on my bed an altered woman—hesitant where she had been sure-footed, diffident where she had been outspoken. Even her voice changed. Her hearty laugh and booming timbre were replaced by a quiet, low tone. It is said that grief can turn someone’s hair stark white overnight. That is, of course, impossible, since the ends cannot change. But from that night on, the part in her hair was white as a swan’s wing, and as her hair grew, the white spread.

  Sir Henry came in from the country to be with her. He, too, had changed. For the first time he looked like what he was—an old man. He was in his seventies, one of those men who kept his vigor and strength, but now it was drained away. He almost shuffled, and when he embraced his wife, they leaned on each other, sustained by their tragedy.

  “Take her home, Sir Henry,” I said. “Take her home.”

  I hoped she would recover, but in bidding them farewell I felt a great finality, the clanging of a door. I had not been able to tell my dear companion good-bye, for she had vanished in a trace, replaced by a broken stranger.

  It is usually difficult to carry out duties with a heavy heart, but the challenge of the council chamber and the war served to rescue me, for in those hours I could not think of myself or of my dear Crow. I had to concentrate all my faculties on the desperate problems abroad. Word was that Philip III, the new Spanish king, was eager to continue his father’s fight against England, and pursue it with considerably more vigor than that old, ailing monarch. He was readying yet another Armada (dear God, was there no end to the timber available for their shipbuilding?), first to strike at our shores and then to land in Ireland. That made it all the more imperative that Ireland be secured, and quickly.

  But nothing was quick in Ireland, except excuses. I was told that Essex still had not set off for the north.

  “By God’s breath, if that man does not obey and go, I shall have him hanged!” I cried in council.

  “Ireland is a great bog, in every way,” said Cecil. “All reputation, honor, and action is swallowed up.”

  “I have received word that he has knighted eighty-one men!” I fumed. “Eighty-one, when I warned him against knighting without merit. The Irish are joking, ‘He made more knights than he killed rebels.’ There has been no fighting, nothing deserving the honor of knighthood. Essex awards it for strapping on a sword! Even my godson, John Harington, has been knighted, and he’s done nothing so far. I had better bestowed it for his invention of the ajax! That contraption is more worthy!”

  “Calm yourself, Your Majesty,” said Admiral Howard. “You have the power to undo them all.”

  “I do not have the power to undo the blow to our reputation that Essex has rendered!”

  Besides the admiral, Raleigh and Charles Blount were still in England, and they c
ould serve as commanders to counter whatever Spain sent against us. Blount was a promising military man. It was ironic that Essex had vetoed the idea of my appointing him to lead the Irish campaign, on the grounds that he was too inexperienced, too low-ranking, and too “drowned in book learning.” In an able man inexperience is soon remedied by action, a bullet does not know the difference between an earl and a yeoman, and one could do worse than study the battle tactics of Caesar.

  “No, Essex will have to do that.”

  To think that England’s fate was in his fumbling hands.

  As if to underscore the stakes of our future, a crowd of unwelcome guests arrived and would not depart. By that I mean a host of weaknesses and decrepitudes to which I would not give diplomatic recognition and that I hid as best I could. I have already mentioned the glasses I needed to read. Without them print swam and turned into squiggling worms. Still, I kept them in a small purse and only pulled them out when absolutely necessary, and never in front of foreign envoys.

  Practical people like my Catherine would tell me to be of good cheer, reminding me that great men who lived in an age before glasses had no help for the condition. “If Cicero had not been executed, he soon would have killed himself, as he would no longer have been able to read,” she said.