“Over your marriage or your master?” I asked.
“Over my master,” he said. “How could a loyal friend not?”
“You would do better to apply your efforts to repaying your debts,” I said. “I understand you are some eight thousand pounds in debt.”
He looked back at me with those clear blue eyes. “I am doing everything to remedy it. But I am obligated to support my widowed mother. I have just sold more of my lands, a third of my inheritance.”
“A better way to remedy it is to stop your gambling,” I said. “Those without funds should not bet.”
Southampton was a die-hard gambler, seemingly unable to stop. He merely nodded.
“How is your master?” I could not help asking. “Is he keeping well?”
He looked incredulous. “Well? No, he is anything but well.”
I wished I had not brought up the subject. I wanted to know, but as there was nothing I could do, it was better not to discuss it. “I am saddened to hear it.”
Southampton’s mouth dropped, and in truth, I should just have said nothing. “I shall tell him,” he said.
I saw that Southampton was not the only disgraced Essex follower who had found his way here. Roger Manners, the Earl of Rutland, and his friend Edward Russell, the Earl of Bedford, were drinking near the musicians. Both these young men were as deeply in debt as their leader and doubtless had come for the free food and a chance to find someone gullible enough to lend them money. I hoped there was no one of that description in the hall tonight.
Youth, youth ... Enough of them and their follies. My eyes went to an older man who was putting his plate down. He seemed to be alone, so I sought him out. “You look lost,” I said.
“Never lost, Your Majesty,” he said. “But alone, yes. My cousin brought me, but he’s nowhere to be seen. ‘The Queen invited everyone,’ he said ‘and that means us.’ I hope he was not mistaken. I am William Lambarde, Your Majesty.”
“No, not at all. It is a pleasure to meet my subjects. What do you do?” He looked like a scholar of some sort. “Are you at Cambridge? Oxford, perhaps?” I did not want to insult him by naming the wrong university. Teachers and students were notoriously partisan to their institution.
“Neither. I work alone, but I have compiled a book of Anglo-Saxon laws and written a history of the county of Kent. I would have done one of all England, but Camden got there first.”
“Your work must be gratifying. I have heard of it.”
“Kent, Your Majesty, has a rich history. Of course your own Hever is there. I found the original plans and deeds dating back several centuries.”
Hever. Catherine and I must make our historic visit there this year. “Indeed?” I said. “Could you send me your findings?”
“I would be honored,” he said.
John Harington came over and bowed smartly. I noticed that his doublet seemed to have expanded since the last time I saw him, and I was not surprised that he was having a second helping of the pastry.
“Greetings, John,” I said. “I look forward to your rule on Twelfth Night,” I said. “Your only constraint is to refrain from making any comments or jests about the Earl of Essex.”
“That is not a constraint,” he said. “There is nothing remotely funny about him or his situation.”
Even though the nights were at their longest, by the time I returned to my chamber dawn was not far away. I marveled at how quickly the evening had flown.
“I think it was a success, Catherine,” I said.
“You sound surprised,” she said as she unfastened my necklace and gently loosened the ties of the great ruff around my neck. Oh, it felt good to get it off.
“I am. It has not been the merriest of times at court, since the business with Essex. I took the chance that an open invitation would heal wounds and bring the old factions in. The sooner court life returns to normal, the better for everyone.”
Her sister Philadelphia came over to remove my wig. She lifted it off carefully, its tiara and ornaments still clinging to it, and put it on its stand. “I’ve got a fresher eye than my sister, having not been here for a while, but it seems that underneath the smiles there were blacker thoughts. The wastrels—Southampton and company—will go straight back to Essex and report everything.”
“Of course they will. Does he think, because he is gone, all life will cease?” I said.
“No,” said Philadelphia. “But I hope it does not stir him up.”
“To what?”
She shrugged. “A jealous and disordered mind can always find something. I have heard that the atmosphere has changed at Essex House from one of mourning to one of militancy.”
“I know that they have opened the courtyard to all and sundry, and anyone with a complaint or discontent is gathering there. Puritan preachers who are too radical for any regular congregation, disgruntled Catholics, and lately an infusion of Welsh borderers. A strange mixture. But we have our informants. Nothing passes that we are not aware of.”
“That is good,” said Catherine. “Otherwise it would be difficult to sleep soundly.”
78
The twelve days of Christmas are the busiest time at court of all the year. From dawn, with morning prayer in the chapel royal sung by the voices of the Westminster choristers, to the tables laden with every conceivable form of fowl, fish, and meat, desserts of cream, ginger, and rose water, fruits in red wine, pitchers and flagons of drink for midday dinner, and on into the evening with masques, dances, plays, and entertainments, there was not an instant of stillness. In the late afternoon people could steal away for a nap before the evening’s activities, but otherwise the time between the end of the night’s play and the new day was so short it afforded little rest. The young did not need the afternoon pause, but the older courtiers relied on it.
On the third night there was to be a masque, and the eighth day was New Year’s, which entailed its own long ritual of gift exchange. Then on to the grand finale, Twelfth Night itself. In between there were concerts, poetry recitals, games, and card playing. And always, of course, the parade of fashion in which each courtier tried to outdo his or her fellows in sartorial splendor; those who declined to enter the contest had the pleasure of rating and criticizing the others.
One of the rewards of the season for me was seeing the faces of those who had been absent from court for any number of reasons. To me, that was a better New Year’s gift than any of the predictable offerings of lockboxes, gloves, ruffs, bejeweled combs, carved bracelets, lockets, poems, velvet-bound books. Robert Carey, Catherine’s younger brother, was always delightful to see again; he was very unlike his portly, sensual brother George. Sir Henry Lee, my retired champion, turned up for the festivities, bringing with him my former maid of honor Anne Vavasour.
She was still beautiful in her wild, dark way. She bowed low before me as we found ourselves in the library together one afternoon. I told her so.
“I thank Your Majesty,” she said, from beneath her spiky black lashes, which framed eyes as blue as an October sky. Lee stood protectively by.
Mary Fitton, another former maid of honor often pursued by men, was here. I chanced upon her gazing at the displays of Accession Day shields in the gallery. Even though her back was to me, I recognized her black hair, which shone with what seemed to be purple glints.
“Mistress Fitton,” I said. She whirled around to see me and then sank low.
“Up, up,” I said. “I am pleased to see you.” She had been driven from court by the insistent pursuit of the married Sir William Knollys as surely as Daphne had been driven to extreme measures by the unwelcome chase of Apollo.
“Not as pleased as I am to be back, Your Majesty.”
“It is quite safe,” I assured her. “I think Knollys is off in another direction these days.”
The next few days were a swirl of headdresses, ruffs, jewels, music, and feasts. In the short winter days some of the men went hunting in the fields beyond the palace, returning with red cheeks a
nd chapped lips. New Year’s Day came and found us all indoors while the ceremony of gift exchange commenced.
“What will be your colors today?” Philadelphia asked. “Remember, it sets the tone for the whole year.”
I laughed. “That is but a superstition, that whatever is done on New Year’s must repeat all year. I will wear black and white today, and I would like all my ladies to do the same. We will look like snow and ice and black tree branches—appropriate for winter.”
As I had every New Year’s for the past forty-two years, I stood and received gifts, then directed the giver to claim a receipt to exchange with the treasury for his or her gift from me.
The line progressed smoothly. I had a chance to linger for a moment or two with each of the guests individually, which was more meaningful than the gifts they handed me. I greeted Lord Keeper Egerton warmly. This past year his service to me had cost him dear. His wife had died shortly after he had begged me to release him from his jailer’s role, and I still felt sad about that. Seeing him here, and seeing him smiling, was a great relief to me. His boyish face had aged and his blond hair now showed streaks of gray.
“I wish you a good year with all my heart, Thomas,” I told him.
He smiled wistfully, as if to say, Impossible, but thank you. Then he turned to the young man just behind him and said, “May I present my secretary, Master John Donne? He is my faithful and industrious helper.”
Donne had a saturnine complexion, a long, thin face, and the reddest natural lips I had ever seen. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“Jack writes poetry to amuse himself in his off hours,” said Egerton. “Nothing published yet. But you might enjoy one that I found excellent.”
Oh, God. Not more poetry. I forced myself to smile. “Indeed?” I said, in a tone that should serve as a warning.
But Jack did not heed. He handed me a beribboned scroll and said, “My unworthy effort.” I had to take it.
Shortly afterward William Lambarde came through and presented me a leather envelope. “Hever Castle, Your Majesty,” he said.
“You are quick!” I said. I grasped it eagerly.
“These are not the historical records—I have those at home and must compile them for you—but what I know in my head. It can get you started, and the rest will follow.”
“I thank you,” I said. “I am curious to know everything about it.”
At long last, the day of standing was over. In the privacy of my inmost chamber, I took off my satin shoes and sat down. I opened the leather envelope and pulled out the Hever papers. Lambarde had included drawings and local stories about the castle, as well as a brief description of its history.
Catherine peered over my shoulder. “Perhaps this year we can make that journey together,” she said. She extracted one of the papers and studied it intently.
I handed her the entire packet of papers. “You can peruse all these, to prepare.” I unrolled the poem from Master Donne. “I must do my home-work,” I said. “Reading the offerings of the would-be poets.” I laughed.
The poem was entitled “The Bait” and it began, “Come live with me and be my love.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “This is not only stale but copied!” He had stolen from Christopher Marlowe and even from Walter Raleigh’s parody. Did he think I did not know the other poems ... or, more ominous, that I would be unable to remember them?
But as I read further I saw it parted company from the others after a few lines and said something entirely different.
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.
There will the river whispering run
Warmed by thy eyes, more than the sun.
And there the enamored fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him ...
Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies
Bewitch poor fishes’ wandering eyes.
For thee, thou need’st no such deceit
For thou thyself art thine own bait;
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
“Odd imagery,” said Philadelphia. “Slimy nests—fish swimming toward a person—” She shook her head.
“It is arresting,” said Catherine. “Not the usual compliments.”
“I have never been compared to someone wading in the water and attracting fish,” I admitted. “I am not like to forget this one.”
“Christopher Hatton once said you fished for men’s souls with such sweet bait that no one could escape your net,” said Catherine. “But that was so many years ago and was privately said. How could he have known about it?”
The red-lipped Mr. Donne was proving more intriguing than his quiet demeanor had suggested.
More days of merrymaking, until I swore that my guests would not wish to look upon a comfit or drink a cordial or dance a galliard until next Christmas. I know I felt that way. At last the end was in sight and we made ready to celebrate the last day. There was a communion service in the morning, at which I presented gold, frankincense, and myrrh at the altar, and the children of the chapel sang carols. There would be a play in the afternoon, followed by the long-awaited Bean King feast—and then, praise God, they would depart for home.
All morning the workers had been busily transforming the hall into a stage and arranging the chairs and benches for the audience. Upon arrival, I made sure I was seated between our distinguished visitors, Don Virginio Orsino, Duke of Bracciano, and Grigori Ivanovitch Mikulin, ambassador from Czar Boris Godunov. George Carey, the patron of the acting company, sat directly behind me. All around us the buzz of anticipation rose; although other plays had been presented through the holidays, the best was always shown last.
George rose and took his place before the curtain. “My good friends, it is my great pleasure to present a new play called, in honor of its debut, Twelfth Night. I trust that it will bring enjoyment to all.” Bowing, he sat back down. “I can only hope this is good,” he whispered to me. “The costumes, at least, are rich, and we have both music and dancing.”
“George,” I said, “everyone’s mood today is so happy that they will enjoy almost anything. Besides, has Shakespeare ever failed you?”
To the Russian envoy I said, “If there is anything you do not understand, please tell me and I shall make sure to translate.”
He sighed. “I think my English is sufficient,” he said.
The play began. As I had been told earlier, it involved separated twins. But since they were a man and a woman, only a blind man could have confused them. No, not even that. A blind man, in real life, would be the first to know they were not the same person because of their voices. The theater could be very silly, and this was one of these times.
There were two women, Viola and Olivia. One had taken a vow of chastity for seven years, and the other was the female twin, disguised as a man. One hardly needed to be a genius to know that they would mistakenly fall in love and problems would ensue. Nonetheless, the predictable tale was executed with skill and tidbits of poetry and song that were charming.
And then, onto the stage strode ... Sir William Knollys. Not the actual man himself, but such a blatant mimic that he was instantly recognized, to the delight and howl of the audience. He sported the same multicolored beard, wore the willow green doublet that was Knollys’s favorite, and had the same mannerism of crooking his little finger when he wanted to make a point. In this his name was Malvolio, the steward of the Lady Olivia, and he made a fool of himself chasing her.
I saw Mary Fitton doubled up with laughter and th
en realized that Lady Olivia looked like Mary.
Every word that Malvolio spoke was drowned out by the audience’s laughter, to the extent that it was difficult to follow all the dialogue. In one scene, Malvolio was tricked into wearing an outlandish outfit with yellow cross-garters, making him look like a stork. I spotted Knollys sitting on the left side of the audience, hunched over, hands over his hat. But then I saw that he was laughing along with everyone else. The old goat was at least a good sport.
One of the actors in a small part, that of Olivia’s servant, was darkly handsome, with deep-set eyes. I chided myself that my eyes were still drawn to such things.
The actors exited the stage and a clown came out to address us, singing a melancholy song out of keeping with the rest of the play. Its mournful, minor-key refrain of “The rain it raineth every day” was puzzling.
“What is this?” asked Duke Orsino. “I do not understand. He is a clown, but not funny.”
“Neither do I,” I assured him. “Perhaps it is from the wrong play.”
While the stage was dismantled and the hall made ready for tonight’s banquet, I discreetly retired to my bedchamber. I was tired; twelve days of merrymaking had quite worn me out. It would never do to droop during the long evening ahead; it would surely cause comments. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the carved canopy above me. Already it was lost in shadows; the short day had ended while we were at the play.
I hoped that both envoys would return to their masters with good reports. I had done all I could to make the palace shine with opulence for their visit, ordering all the windows washed (no mean task with so much glass and such foul weather), covering scratched tables with fine fabric, and stocking the rooms with extra candles and firewood, as if the cost were irrelevant. I took it as a favorable sign that an Italian duke, whose family politics were intertwined with the papacy, should see fit to visit this “daughter of heresy.” As for the Russians, it was best to keep on good terms with them even as we competed for trade routes.
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