“So he should have been thankful he was condemned to early death?” I asked.
“That is certainly one way to look at it,” she answered. “And Marc Antony—he must have been almost blind.”
I laughed, thinking of Antony groping like a mole. “He did not read much anyway, Catherine,” I said. “And yes, I am thankful for this crutch, as any crippled man is, but I resent my lameness.”
“At least you are not truly lame. You ride and hunt and dance well. Much better than ...”
“Than others my age? Is that what you mean?”
“Well, yes.” She looked down at her shoes.
Aha. That meant no one, not even Catherine, was aware of the sprain in my ankle that had bothered me for weeks and seemed never to mend. I felt as if I were hobbling but took great pains to force my steps briskly.
And then there were my looks. I have heard an absurd tale that I never allowed mirrors in my chambers and never saw myself in one past a certain age. It must have started because I banished portraits that were unflattering (some said realistic). It is wisdom to mask one’s weaknesses from others, but only a fool masks them from herself. And I saw, all too clearly, how the color had left my face and the shadows—that in a younger person merely meant a sleepless night—never left the hollows under my eyes, no matter how rested I was. Oh, I saw, and did my best to disguise it, with the finest-ground pearls and talc mixture, with false roses made from ground carnelian. My hair, once glorious red-gold, had faded like my cheeks and was a ghost of its beauty, a wan reminder of what once was. So I never appeared in public without a wig, and I had many of them, in many different styles.
There were other things, not so easily disguised, that troubled me. More and more I felt currents were moving fast, moving beyond me, and that I had become old-fashioned, out of step. The clamor from the House of Commons, wanting to make legislation that had not been proposed by me, trying to tread on my prerogative. The notion, abroad in some countries, that they did not need a hereditary monarch with royal blood at all but could elect a commoner to serve as one just as well. (Look at Poland!) The religious sects that claimed no priest of any sort was needed, or other strange ideas about each person being his own priest, and even some that denied the Trinity. The explorations that were stretching us like a piece of leather, nailed to the far corners of the map—the Northwest Passage in the upper left corner, Drake’s passage in the lower left, Muscovy in the upper right, the East Indies in the lower right. England must play her part in all these places, but how? We could not even manage Ireland close to home.
I found myself alert to what others denoted as signs of aging. Sleeping during the day. Walking into a room and forgetting what one has come in there to get. Reminiscing about the golden days of yore and how things have deteriorated since then—the manners of the young, the workmanship of craftsmen, the morals of women. Even if I agreed, I did not voice it.
One day I happened upon a letter in which someone wrote that “the giving over of long voyages is noted to be a sign of age,” and it struck worry into my breast, as I had lately found Progresses to be too draining and time-consuming. Especially this year, I thought to stay at my post, ever watchful. But on the spot I decided that I would make an extended Progress after all. Perhaps it would be helpful if I rode out among the people again, those people who kept cheering for Essex, and remind them of who their ruler was and what a true sovereign looked like. I would go south, staying in the maritime counties that were threatened by sea, so that I would not lose sight of the danger and would be ready to respond.
The only concession I would make—and this could not be blamed on age—was to have a smaller train of people with me. So many men were away in Ireland, and there were fewer women attending on me these days, and Marjorie was gone. Logistically it would be an easier Progress because we could stay in smaller homes and move more quickly between them.
The plan called for me to travel south from London into Surrey, then turn eastward into Kent. This would allow me to inspect the defenses at the Cinque Ports—Sandwich, Dover, Hastings, Hythe, Romney—along the coast where the Channel was narrowest—and also the fortifications my father had built in Deal and Walmer when he was threatened by the French.
We were ready and set out on a fair day in late August. My usual number of carts had been cut to a fourth, and as we rode slowly across London Bridge people thronged us, crying out so joyfully that I never would have known their lips knew how to cry “Essex!” We passed under the Great Stone Gateway, the place where traitors’ heads bristled like porcupine quills upon spikes. These were old enough to be unrecognizable.
From the gateway we passed onto the wide road that served as the high street for Southwark. It funneled all foot and animal traffic heading for London from the south up this way, and it was always crowded with carts, horses, herds of sheep, and people, although today they were held back for us.
As we rode slowly down the high street a boy with a placard came running out, holding it up and crying, “Julius Caesar! Julius Caesar! See it now at the Globe!”
I stopped and motioned him over. “Tell me, lad, who wrote it?”
“One of the company, Will Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s just opening. You should stop and see it!”
“Perhaps on my way back,” I said. He must know full well I never attended public theaters, but what was the harm in asking if someone were ready to try something new? “Has he then left our glorious history?” I asked. His last play had been about King Henry V. Perhaps he felt it was dangerous to encroach any closer upon modern times. I must ask for a copy of Henry V. I wanted to comb it for references. I knew it mentioned both Essex’s traitorous ancestor the Earl of Cambridge and Essex himself.
We left the environs of the Globe behind as we continued south past Southwark’s markets spreading out on either side of the road. I was pleased to see that the vendors’ baskets were brimming with apples, cabbages, leeks, carrots, pears, cheese, and eggs. At last the heavens had smiled upon my land and blessed her with plenty, after four lean years of biblical proportions. That warmed me as much as the sunlight pouring down on my head.
Farther off the road lay St. Thomas’s hospital, once run by monks and nuns, now by lay doctors. It tended to the poor, homeless, and diseased. When the monasteries were dissolved there had been great fears about what would happen to the charitable institutions they left behind. But fifty years later, most of them had been taken up by others.
Still within sight of the river, this area was bucolic. Open fields, groves of trees, cottages, and greens made it feel a world away from London, although the Tower was visible across the water. Now we were out in the true countryside, and I felt myself lose the feeling of captivity I had in the city. We would head toward Croydon, stay with Sir Francis Carew at his manor of Beddington, then stop at Nonsuch on our way toward the coast.
Sir Francis had a medium-sized manor, and I was pleased that my smaller entourage could fit in there. Along with me was Catherine, of course, and my old friend Helena, whom I saw too seldom, Eurwen (whom I could not seem to send back home), Raleigh, and his ever-faithful Percival. Catherine’s husband, the admiral, promised to join us at Nonsuch for a few days. It was as jolly an outing as I could make in these times.
Sir Francis Carew was one of those curious creatures, a lifelong bachelor. No more curious than a virgin queen, I suppose, but it is so rare it causes comment. Since we were about the same age, there was little chance either of us would change our state. He had been a faithful but unremarkable courtier much of his life, serving me on minor missions and staying clear of factions and politics, although his family ties were to the Throckmortons and hence to Raleigh, through Bess.
As we trotted down the lane, the clattering of our horses alerted our host, and he dispatched a line of servants, attired all in scarlet and black, to stand along the way and greet us. He himself waited at the entrance, his arms held wide like a welcoming father. When he saw us, he swept to the ground,
his white head bent low.
“Up, Sir Francis,” I said. “We are delighted to be here, to partake of your hospitality.”
“The delight is mine, Your Majesty,” he said, rising to his feet, his sunburned face cracking with his wide smile. “May this be your home for however long you choose to abide with us.” It was a question, but a diplomatically asked one.
“It cannot be for more than three days, I am sad to say,” I told him. No need to keep him in suspense or make him lay in unnecessary supplies. “But three days can be sweet enough.”
“Indeed,” he said.
He welcomed Raleigh with “Nephew!” and clapped him on the back. He stared at Percival until Raleigh introduced him. He bowed gravely to Catherine and to Helena, then, with exaggerated courtliness, bowed to Eurwen and said, “So you are the Queen’s goddaughter. You look much as she did at your age. One would think you were of her own family.” Eurwen blushed and lowered her eyes.
Seeing the great line of wagons following us, he gave brisk orders that they could park and unload in the barns at the edge of the park. “Although I think I have everything for your comfort,” he said, “try us first, before you unpack.”
I always insisted on my own bed, but perhaps tonight I would try to do without it. After all, is that not another notorious sign of aging—rigid, fixed habits? I must fight it. “Very well, but that might be dangerous. We may appropriate your things if they please us too much!” I warned him.
The chamber he had set aside for me and my ladies was unused. I saw no telltale signs of his having just vacated it himself. It was spacious and overlooked the extensive orchard on the east side of the house. A magnificent bed stood waiting, its layers of linen, blankets, and counterpanes swelling it like a woman near her time of delivery. The canopy was carved on its underside, and the curtains were of green and gold tapestry. It was not quite as fine as mine, but it came close. And there were regular beds for Helena and Catherine and Eurwen. They would not have to sleep in truckle beds.
He had provided a writing desk well stocked with ink, pens, wax, and paper. Another table, inlaid with ebony, stood waiting for jugs or pitchers of drink. A discreet adjoining chamber held the washing and privy implements.
A bit later he invited us to stroll with him in his garden.
“Twilight is the best time to visit a garden, and at this time of year, twilights are long,” he said.
“Sir Francis,” I said, “we like our chamber well.”
He smiled. The man had the most winsome smile I had seen—it came from deep inside. “I have set it aside for you from the beginning,” he said. “It was worth the wait.” We were descending the stairs and he looked over at me—to make sure I did not stumble? “It has been waiting your entire reign, wearing the title ‘The Queen’s Room.’”
“It has stood empty all that time?”
“No, others have been allowed to use it. That is because I knew that when Your Glorious Majesty came, it would burn away the traces of the others as the sun burns away mist. However, after this, no one will be allowed to use it, lest it be sullied.”
He was so serious I feared he meant it. “I am not sullied so easily as that, Sir Francis,” I assured him. “It would be a waste of an exquisite room.”
“Is a shrine a waste?” he asked, puzzled.
We had reached the main floor, and I decided not to pursue the subject further. If he wished to keep a shrine, so be it. I only hoped he would not enter the chamber after we departed with an open jar to capture my breath, as papists did for their Virgin. I looked back; my ladies were not laughing, but I knew it was difficult for them to suppress a giggle.
We swept out into the garden. The last rays of the sun were still slanting across the gravel paths with their boxwood borders, touching them with gold. I could hear the splashing of a fountain somewhere in the distance. The gravel crunched; Raleigh and Percival had joined us.
“When I began the gardens—which had gone to ruin when the property was in dispute—I thought very conventionally. It was only the middle of the century, after all, and I was hardly in the forefront of fashion. Hence, this knot design, which will make you yawn. Planted with the usual: dwarf box, black yew, and lavender.”
I looked at them, and he was right. They were so predictable one did not need to look at them at all.
“But ...” He turned and riveted his eyes on me. “My kinsman Walter has opened my eyes to wider vistas. Come!”
He led us out of the railed, neatly patterned garden and into an alley of trees that were shoulder high, lined up like soldiers. They resembled plums and cherries in their branch pattern, but their leaves were brighter green and waxier.
Raleigh smiled. “I jested about the king of Spain being the king of oranges and figs,” he said. “Now he will be unique only in being king of figs. For soon Your Majesty will be Queen of oranges as well as apples, pears, plums, and apricots.” He took one of the leaves and rubbed it hard. “This is an orange tree, and it has thrived here—with help from Sir Francis. I brought some orange seeds back from my Cádiz mission and persuaded him to plant them. That was three years ago, and thanks to his invention”—he pointed to a row of canopies on wheels—“they have survived our winters.”
“When it gets cold, I cover them with these movable shelters,” said Francis. “It has enabled them to take root here and grow. In a few years, God willing, they will flower and bring forth that joyous orange fruit.”
“My subjects are ever inventive,” I said. “But oranges in England? Who would have thought it possible?”
“I am calling this an orangerie. For obvious reasons,” said Francis. “I hope you will return for the first picking. I will stew up a dish swimming with oranges for you.”
“It would be an honor,” I said. But how many years would that be? Would I even be traveling by then? Then, the forbidden thought: Would I even be alive?
“There is yet another invention,” said Raleigh. “But it falls to our host to unveil it.”
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he said. “Enough marvels for today.”
I agreed. The sun had fled the sky, turning the undersides of a bank of clouds pink-gold. I was ready for night’s rest.
Our chamber proved just as comfortable in practice as it had seemed on first glance. Wearily I let Helena pull off my day clothes and dress me in my sleeping gown, setting my bed cap on my head. The low, patterned ceiling made us feel safe and snug. Several candles were burning, their flames steady in the quiet air.
“We are not so far from Hever Castle,” said Catherine suddenly. “Have you ever visited it?”
Hever Castle: seat of the Boleyn family and the home of Mary and Anne Boleyn.
“No, that I have not,” I admitted.
“Would you consider going there this time, together?” she asked. “I have seen it only once, from the outside, when I was still a child. The family was gone then.”
Indeed they were. My grandparents had died soon after my mother, and the property became the Crown’s. Anne of Cleves lived in it briefly. Since then it had acquired new owners.
“I don’t know,” I said. I did not know if I could stand it. Yet at the same time I longed to see the place where my mother had been young, before she had known the world. To make a sentimental journey, revisiting the past ... another earmark of aging. Putting together the puzzle of the past, then, important only as one’s own life closed down. “But as it would mean much to you ...”
“It would. I never saw my grandmother Mary; she died before I was born, far away from her old life in east Essex. It seems the family was so smitten and scattered that we could never come together again. Now we can finally go back. Together. We’ll hold hands and lay those ghosts to rest.”
If only we could. They were restless, those spirits, cut off from any finality. Was the old castle overgrown, sleeping, like the enchanted ones in tales? Had the vines been growing since the Boleyns ceased to be? Had the moat dried up? What would we find?
&nbs
p; There was no trace of the sensual Mary Boleyn in this granddaughter; at least none that I could see. Perhaps the admiral would differ in his opinion. As for me, they say I have my mother’s eyes, dark and challenging. Our ancestors live on in us, calling us back to their territory, daring us to meet them on their ground.
“Very well,” I said. “We’ll alter our itinerary. Hever is only about twenty miles from here, and more or less on our way.”
A little frisson of dread and excitement ran through me at the thought of this personal pilgrimage.
66
The day was brilliant with sun and radiating warmth. Sir Francis sent word that nothing was planned until early afternoon, when he would host a banquet in the orchard. Until then, we were free to do as we would.
“Ladies, to our country clothes!” I said. “No ruffs, no stays, no dark colors, and nothing that will tear on brambles—or if they tear, no matter.” I felt giddy as a girl, able this morning to pretend I was not a queen but the country exile I had been as a child, living at Hatfield, Hunsdon, Eltham, and Woodstock, free to romp in meadows.
This day I did not even wish to hunt—too organized, too formal. Instead we would walk along the Wandle River, following its banks, and then into the woods of the deer park. I wore sturdy deerskin boots and a wide-brimmed sun hat, took a stick for walking, and bade everyone follow me.
At first Helena and Eurwen were right beside me, keeping up easily. Helena was fifty now, but her hardy Swedish stock meant she still retained her long-necked beauty, clear complexion, and vigor. I complimented her on her health, and she replied, “Even after all these years in England, I go by what my mother taught me in Sweden: A brisk walk before breakfast will add ten years to your life.”
“I, too, swear by a walk before breakfast,” I said. “I keep ambassadors waiting, but I am not myself until I’ve had my exercise. And I dare not face them without all my wits about me.”
Elizabeth I Page 55