Coke, outliving both of them, will see all this and much more, neither health nor spirit broken until his time of death. Will become, ironically, the long-living proof of King James’ judgment of him: “Throw this man where you will, and still he lands on his legs.”
Of the nobility, those who have come to be present witnesses to whatever the King wills for Walter Ralegh …
Henry de Vere, quick-tempered, restless, bold, and unlucky. Within a short time he will be sent twice to the Tower for public, incautious remarks about Buckingham. Will be badly beaten and injured in a fray with some men of the London Watch.
Then, forsaking quarrels, wagers, whoring, and drinking, he will seek honor in the service of Frederick of Palatine. And he will die in that service in 1625, not of wounds, but a fever.
Lord Compton, First Earl of Northampton, still at this moment counted one of the wealthiest men in England, will spend and give away most of that wealth before he dies (1630), to be remembered chiefly as a great drunkard.
Baron Sheffield will live longer, long enough to join with the Parliament against King Charles and to fight against the Royalists.
Two of these lords will continue to serve King and country as long and as well as they are able.
James Hay will do good service on many diplomatic missions. He will change neither his views nor his general policies. He will never abjure his lavish taste for fine things or his singular pride. Nor will he ever find a means to pay his debts. In 1619 he will marry the daughter of the wizard Earl of Northumberland, who is still confined in the Tower. And it will be Hay who secures the Earl’s final release, softening the old man’s rage of disapproval of the marriage.
Through difficult times as in halcyon days James Hay will be a faithful servant to the King, perhaps more than most, for he will serve out of love and loyalty and without any loss of honor or infidelity of conscience.
Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel will soon witness the final downfall and disgrace of all his Howard kin. Even the Lord Admiral will be forced to resign to be replaced by Buckingham, when the full scandal of the decay of the King’s Navy is known.
Arundel, once outcast, will find himself last of that family in power.
Attendance and diplomacy—the King’s progress to Scotland, the journey of Princess Elizabeth to Heidelberg—are his special skills. He will continue to serve the King with unflagging loyalty.
The King will send Arundel to York House to take back the seal when Lord Chancellor Bacon falls.
Under Charles I he will be lodged in the Tower on account of the marriage of his son. But then will be restored to both power and favor to act as mediator between the King and Parliament in 1628. And he will be sent as special ambassador to Ferdinand II of Austria. Though he has never been a soldier, he will be sent as a general against the Scots in 1638.
Late in the reign of James, at a time when the King, asleep at Whitehall, will be frightened nearly out of his wits (some prankster scholars at Gray’s Inn fire off a cannon in the middle of the night, and the King awakens crying “Treason! Treason!”), it will be Arundel alone who races to protect the King with his sword drawn against whatever may come. And the King will be for once most grateful for an unsheathed blade in loyal hands.
Later, deeply disenchanted with Court, he will take occasion to join the escort of Henrietta Maria and Mary to the Continent. And then he will go into an exile at Padua.
Still, when the fortunes of the Royalists are at lowest ebb, he will contribute thirty-five thousand pounds to their cause. With the result that after their defeat, all his estates and possessions in England will be lost.
And so he will die poor in Italy.
To be remembered and honored chiefly for the wonders of his collections of works of art. Which wonders will be scattered and lost when his estates are seized.
There is yet another man, of no mean distinction in his own country, absent in flesh, but here in spirit—Don Diego Sarmiento de Acuna, Count of Gondomar. He is in Spain and most pleased with the success of his labors. For five amazing years, by many ways and means, by a subtle potion of outrage, arrogance, and a twilight wit, by threats and promises, more promises and deft delays, he has kept England neutral and immobilized, at peace with Spain and seeking to preserve that peace. And this at a time when England could be most dangerous.
His chief stratagem has been the Spanish Match. The notion is preposterous to Spain, but Gondomar has beguiled the English King. And now has returned home in triumph. The fate of Ralegh (whether he now lives or dies is of no consequence) stands as eloquent testimony to Gondomar’s achievement.
But back to England Gondomar must go, in March of 1620, to renew the negotiations for the Spanish Match.
He will find, in so short a time, the King is older, lonely, feeling the ruins of time. At first the King will seem happy to welcome back an old friend and adversary. Will find the King, ignoring the feelings of his subjects, still eager to wager everything for the sake of peace, still believing the dream of the Spanish Match.
Gondomar will again succeed (and this his most marvelous success) in holding England in check through the King. The King will stand firm though Court, Parliament, and the people rage against the duplicities of Spain.
He will reach such power as to persuade the King of England to dissolve a Parliament.
And then, riding a crest of accomplishment, having done these things for his own King, country, and faith, in April of 1622 Gondomar will go home to Spain for good, in sweetest triumph, to be replaced by a new ambassador to England.
There will be a new King, Philip IV, in Spain, with new men all around him. And the Count of Olivares, Chief Minister, will find no reason to reward Gondomar or even to repay him for his expenses.
And when, finally, the old dream of the Spanish Match dies in England, Gondomar will discover that in Spain the clever policy which has served Spain so well, and stripped him of his wealth, will have become, through the tricks of time, too much associated with his name. Failure, coming last, will outweigh all his work and success.
In disgrace and dire need, this proud man will taste a deeper shame than he knows of. He will be given the privilege of sending his son to England to beg for some succor in the memory of the father at the Court of King Charles.
Gondomar will die in poverty.
The lives of each of these could demonstrate that behind the whimsical turnings of the wheel of Fortune, is some pattern. It is in part the working out of the character of each and all. But more, it is, in sum, the mysterious wedding of that character to what is unknown and unknowable.
All who listen for the owl, count cries of the cuckoo, stare at toadstool and trembling aspen are fools. Yet their study is altogether reasonable. Their folly is in the hope that the world would answer their questions if it could.
Faith begins with the certainty that the world will not answer.
Faith is the understanding that past, present, and future can be possessed by the imagination, but only in a coinage of questions.
Wisdom is, then, the knowledge that if any of these men, from King to hangman’s son, could, by signs and portents, come to imagine part of the truth of the future, he could not believe it.
To believe would be to be turned to stone or into swine, as in the old myths. And he would no longer be able to live as a man, not able to feel, and therefore unable to care.
To be a man alive, awake or asleep, darkness or daylight, is to feel and to care.
Best, then, that none of the living can read the ciphers of the future.
Which are vanishing with the rising of the sun.
And this is my eternall plea,
To him that made Heauen, Earth, and Sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soone,
And want a head to dine next noone,
lust at the stroke when my vaines start and spred
Set on my soule an euerlasting head.
RALEGH—The passionate mans Pilgrimage
The walk
from the dean’s yard of Westminster to the gatehouse is a short one, a few brisk moments for the Dean. Yet at the entrance he pauses to catch his breath. Feeling as if he has come to the end of a long journey, even as the day and his duties are about to begin. A deep weariness without cause or reason.
While an acolyte holds a looking glass and a linkboy stands near with torchlight, he examines his appearance, straightens his clothing. The torchlight gives his flesh the color of the heart of a Spanish orange.
Bishop of Salisbury.… That magnificent cathedral with its high central tower, topped by the soaring miracle of a spire. Its spacious old cloisters, the equal of those at Wells and more perfect, better situated. No seat finer for him to imagine. And there with power and authority, his piety can manifest itself in good works, can be practical and expedient.
He must do his duty in this matter and give satisfaction, true. Must minister unto the condemned man, test him and his faith, and when it is over, one way or the other, make his judgment known. Therein is the crux. His judgment of the Christian faith of Walter Ralegh, which has been questioned before, must be … satisfactory. To contrary factions. And no man knows this better than Ralegh, so adroit at the craft of concealment.
In short time the Dean must somehow strip away disguise and subterfuge and come to judgment.
Satisfied with his appearance, he sends the linkboys and all but the prebend and one acolyte back to the Abbey. He greets the porter, who leads him up the stairway to the chamber.
Entering, Dean Tounson is surprised to find the chamber lit and Walter Ralegh dressed, a servant brushing and combing his hair.
Fully dressed, elegant in a hair-colored doublet of fine satin, black taffeta breeches in the new style, black wrought waistcoat, embroidered, silk stockings of ash color. And a neat small starched snowy ruff band at the neck. The very image, despite his somber shades of black and gray, of the courtier.
The Dean suppresses a smile. Those who have imagined the Fox will appear today like the pitiful wretch who came before King’s Bench yesterday have guessed wrong.
“Good morning to you,” Ralegh says. “Let us proceed promptly with prayers and communion. A good breakfast is waiting for us.”
“I think it would be wise to talk a little together before prayers and the sacrament.”
“What subject do you propose?”
“Your faith, sir, and your present state of spiritual health.”
“Well,” he says lightly enough, “that is easily disposed. My faith is as firm set as the Pole Star. And, thanks be to God, my spirit is in far better health than the flesh and bones it inhabits. I can only wish this morning finds you feeling as well as I do.”
“You are extraordinarily … bold.”
“Nay, merely cheerful. I have been taught and I have always believed that a Christian should be of good cheer, especially at the last.”
“Let us speak more of your beliefs,” the Dean says.
Ralegh calls for chairs, two joint stools placed near the fire. Servants, acolyte, and prebend move away from the voices of the two.
DEAN
It is my duty to encourage you to fear death for the sake of your soul.
RALEGH
My flesh fears death. My soul … Death is contemptible to my soul. My soul trusts God. My skin and bones depend upon such courage as can be mustered in this world. My soul rejoices.
DEAN
I have never heard any doubt your courage.
RALEGH
Before you were born I ceased to dance to the pipes of other men’s opinion. I do not know whether they think well or ill of me.
DEAN
Is that not a kind of pride?
RALEGH
Should a man be ashamed of his own flesh and blood? The Fathers have taught us that we are each wed to our bodies while we live. We should love them, without either pride or shame.
DEAN
Then you conceive that courage is a quality of flesh?
RALEGH
I am not such an old fool as that. Flesh knows fear. There is always fear in the flesh for itself.
DEAN
Then it follows that courage to master fear comes from God.
RALEGH
So does the fear. All things come from God.
DEAN
You persist in skeptical opinions.
RALEGH
I may be allowed to doubt without denying. I have seen savage men, Godless men—though some professed and called themselves Christians and others in innocence did not—I have seen men who lacked every virtue except courage. I think, too, of the courage of creatures—the hunter and the hunted. I have seen boarhounds, not blessed with immortal souls, who could summon up courage a saint could envy.
DEAN
Then your cheerful manner may be more like the stoic courage of the pagans than a flower of Christian faith.
There are many who still recall the rumors of atheism. There are ecclesiastics who recall the record and the unresolved investigation in Whitgift’s time. If, then, Ralegh should die with courage today, something may yet be salvaged for the crown by ascribing his behavior to another cause: to the false courage of the pagans.
And if he wavers and trembles, that can be ascribed to the absence of faith.
DEAN
There have been Christian martyrs and saints who trembled in fear at the face of death.
RALEGH
It is well that they should.
DEAN
Why do you say that?
RALEGH
To be a saint is the highest calling, the highest order of mankind beneath the angels. And martyred saints are highest of all.
DEAN
And so?
RALEGH
As St. Paul has taught, their doubts must exceed our own by at least as much as their merits. Think on it. What a burden they must bear! For they desire their poor flesh to serve them well enough to overcome doubt and to be worthy in the eyes of God. I am dazzled with admiration for martyred saints. But I do not envy their deaths. That glory, that tribulation, is beyond common envy.
DEAN
Now, as to yourself …
RALEGH
I am a sinner. A yeoman in the fields of this world. Yet, sir, I am as true and sure in my belief as any. For I must believe in the mercy of God or else turn to dust. I owe one death to God. The price is the same, paid now or later. I have faith in God’s mercy and therefore I shall summon up all the courage I can. To bear witness to that faith.
DEAN
And still you fear to die.
RALEGH
I have seen death’s faces many times. All are fearful to behold. Reason tells me that this death is swift and sure. Easier to bear than a long siege of chills and fever or infirmity or death in battle, all unprepared. Reason tells me I am fortunate to die in this way. There are other deaths which would test my faith to the quick.
DEAN
I must ask you outright what faith you hold, what religion.
Walter Ralegh smiles and shrugs. In shrugging he opens both palms and holds them out before him while he speaks.
RALEGH
I shall die as I have lived, in the only faith I have known, the faith professed by the Church of England. And I hope and pray to have my sins washed away by the most precious blood of our Savior Jesus Christ.
DEAN
Amen.…
The Dean has prayed with dying men before. Some were men of courage. Some were terribly afraid. None was as important as this one. All more simple to read.
Ralegh is a devious and subtle man of this world, skilled in the world’s crafts of seeming what he wishes.
He may know something which the Dean does not. May be calm in confidence that he will not die today. Which would be well enough unless his confidence is ill founded. In which case the Dean, all ambitions, offices, bishoprics aside, will fail in the simplest duty of a minister of the Gospel. By trusting him, judging him to be firm in faith, he will fail to prepare him for death. A
nd thus will have a heavy burden on his conscience.
Besides which Ralegh may be playing a stage part so that the Dean will report him to have died a good Christian. And in that report the Dean could ruin his future. Or not ruin it. He cannot know what it is he must say. Fallible and human, no saint himself, and therefore as much as this man dependent entirely upon the mercy of God, he would tell them whatever it is they want to hear. If only he knew.
But he does not know, cannot conceive what is true or false in the man. And cannot conceive whether true or false report is what is expected of him.
RALEGH
You are full of wonder and doubts. Consider that every man is at least two men as long as he lives and breathes. All men see and judge the outward man. But no man can know without doubt the inner, invisible man. He remains a mystery. I say, good Dean, I am as troubled as you are. I must do what I can, then, and act in faith toward myself. I must believe that I believe, and then pray God to help my unbelief.
Strange reversal, to be ministered unto by the man he should be teaching. He might be nettled by pride. But the Dean, listening to the words, has not been hearing them so much as thinking on the picture of Ralegh’s open hands. Now folded, tight and calm in his lap, they were, when he smiled and shrugged and held them, palm-upward, long-fingered, level, they were steady and strangely beautiful. Those hands and fingers were graceful, steady, perfectly relaxed, not a tremble. Not even the trembling of age. He saw then not a vain old man in courtier’s finery, not the lined face still haunted with remnants of beauty ruined, not the small bright, half-hooded eyes, not any of this, but a pair of hands, as if a portrait had been done in this fashion, the essence of all his being, past, present and to be, distilled, abstracted, disembodied, becoming at last a pair of slender-fingered, open-palmed, eloquent hands, those hands tranquil and gentle. Not soft, but gentle. A gentleness which startles him as the low voice in a Westcountry accent says words he hears clear enough.
Words to be believed or not believed.
To deny those hands would be to deny everything. Not only the unseen, which must be always inferred, but the first beginning of all knowledge and inference—the report of his senses.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 58