‘I know the fair-haired one with the cat eyes,’ I said. With a twinge of alarm, I had recognised the young woman with the cold assessing stare, who had cried, ‘Courage! To the field!’ and led her army of drunken Amazons into battle at Theobald’s.
Frances, born a Howard, now Countess of Essex, Anne toldme. Already married, but living apart from her young husband, who had been sent abroad to grow into manhood. Anne looked away and blushed.
I wondered whether or not Frances Howard had been too far gone in drink at Theobald’s to remember her challenge to me. Ready or not, I had now entered the lists.
It made me a little queasy to think that these young women were now under my authority, where once I had ruled only my pets. I knew how to talk to Anne, to stable grooms, to my old nurse, and to my brother Henry, not to gentlewomen, most of whom were older than I.
‘Tell me their names once more.’
‘Another Frances,’ Anne prompted. ‘The one with the dark hair and long nose. A Northumberland, this one, not so pretty as the Howard one. The “Other Frances” we must call her.’ She laughed. ‘And the shortest one is Elizabeth Apsley. The “Other Elizabeth” I suppose. I did like her green gown…’
Lady Harington’s voice rang in my head as clear if she had been standing in the room with me. I remembered every word like a catechism.
‘Every one of them will be someone’s creature,’ she had warned. ‘They will report everything you do… Beware, in particular of the rival families. The Howards and Northumberlands…’
‘You remember Frances Tyrrell from Scotland?’ continued Anne. ‘Freckles and won’t smile because of her bad teeth. Perhaps that explains her blunt manner. Now that I think of it, I remember my aunt telling me… And you know Philadelphia Carey, who is much plumper now than when she was your playmate. And there’s me, of course!’
‘Thank God!’
That same night, returning from relieving myself in my garde-robe after supper, I paused just inside the door of my sleeping chamber. I did not intend to eavesdrop, but my ladiesin the outer room were speaking in those irresistible lowered voices that signal private gossip.
‘… a long-legged Scottish dobbin.’ I could not be certain but thought the self-assured voice belonged to Frances Howard.
‘She’s tall, for sure,’ another voice agreed with a hint of Scots. Perhaps Frances Tyrrell. ‘And I hear she’s wilful.’
‘I think she’s rather pretty,’ said someone else, almost certainly Philadelphia, whom I had first met at the age of six and a half and seemed to have forgiven me for soaking her skirts at the Smite ford.
‘She’s very kind!’ protested Anne’s voice, with a heat that astonished me.
They fell silent when I entered the room. Then all of them began to chatter at the same time.
There was still no word from my mother.
I decided to chance a ride across the park to visit Henry. Though he now lived closer, he seemed in many ways more difficult to reach. As heir to the throne, he had a much grander household than mine and far more to do. Every morning, crowds of petitioners and suitors waited for him, hoping to be allowed into his presence. Painters, woodcarvers, plasterers, brick-makers and all other sorts of craftsmen petitioned him for commissions.
As well as my brother’s band of young warriors, I had already met one of his new favourites, a Master Jones, who was his surveyor. There were other builders, too – my brother’s newest passion was for buildings. And poets. And there were men who wanted to be his officers, his gentlemen, his glove-maker, his chaplain. Courtiers swarmed around him, hoping to win the good will of the future king. Statesmen already jostled towards positions of influence in his government.
Henry welcomed me at St James’s but was engrossed in conference with a messenger recently arrived by ship fromthe infant colony at Jamestown, Virginia, in the Americas. Among the others attending on my brother that evening, was Sir Francis Bacon, lean, sharp-eyed, dissatisfied – the man I had noticed during my uncle’s visit, watching Robert Cecil and my guardian, the man I had seen smiling on the scaffold in Paul’s Churchyard. Unlike his cousin Cecil, Bacon seemed willing to risk our father’s jealousy by openly wooing Henry.
While I flirted harmlessly with the Seigneur de St Antoine, I watched Bacon. I did not like the man, I decided. His manner did not fit his position. Even though he was a Burleigh cousin, an esteemed scholar, and said to be one of the few men at court who could match my father for sharpness of wit, he filled me with the unease.
He stood always on guard, a little apart, watching, his eyes eating up everything they touched. In particular, I did not like the way he studied my brother, as if noting what made him smile or frown. In that entire evening, I never once saw him unguarded nor laugh from good-humour, but only because my brother, or some other person of influence had laughed.
He reminded me of a bad-tempered dog – suspicious, watchful, wagging its tail even while its lips drew back in the beginning of a snarl. Already elevated, he reeked of further striving and ambition.
Two days earlier, a petitioner had given Henry a toy greyhound that delighted him and which he held on his lap while he conversed. Not to be outdone, Sir Francis this evening presented him with a full-sized hunting greyhound.
Unfortunately, the larger dog bared its teeth and lunged for the smaller hound in the prince’s lap. A dog groom controlled the hunting hound at once and no harm was done. Henry thanked Bacon and sent his gift to join the other dogs in the royal kennels.
I saw something angry and tight in Bacon’s eyes as he bowed and professed his delighted gratification in giving his highness even the smallest pleasure.
What the man made of anything eluded me. All that he sucked in through those hungry, acquisitive eyes turned into thoughts I could not imagine. Except that all other men seemed to strike him as slow-plodding fools. Even Henry brought that edge of silent scorn into Bacon’s eyes, though it was quickly veiled again with false admiration.
I caught my brother in a quiet moment. I leaned close to scratch his new miniature hound behind the ears. ‘Don’t trust Bacon.’
Henry smiled at me ‘But I’m not going to marry him to my Elizabella. To rule, I will need men about me with intellect like his. I don’t need to like them so long as they serve me. Sir Francis has a good mind for strategy. Which, as you know, I do not.’
Henry never minded making such admissions. He knew his own strengths, which were those of a true ruler. He had honesty, decision and courage. People wished to warm themselves at him.
I could not think how to say that while Bacon might have intellect, he did not seem to me to be wise.
‘You already have Wee Bobby,’ I said, remembering what Henry had told me about Cecil’s private instruction for the heir to the throne.
‘England has Wee Bobby, not I. He’s no more loyal to me than he is to our father. Salisbury will always choose his own devious way to achieve the best for England. I trust him because I know what he wants. And I trust Sir Francis for the same reason – and it’s far simpler to understand. He wants to be Attorney General.’
‘I think he wants to become his cousin, Cecil,’ I said.
‘Don’t be fanciful. He wants to rise, as all men do. Youmustn’t hold ambition against a man, Elizabella, or you’ll like none of us.’ He flashed his smile at me. ‘And if I couldn’t forgive flattery, I’d have no one left to like but you… and my horse.’
20
BACON
I do not understand. Yet my understanding is quicker and more profound than that of most other men – who are fools, with very few exceptions. Surely, the truth must be clear to those other than myself!
The king is repulsive. Nevertheless, power and position make him lovely to those beautiful boys. At least, insofar as outward effect overrules inward emotion. If you’re the king and the hand of Carr is on your cock, you need not care what lies in the boy’s brazen, greedy little heart. I’m sure that the boy truly loves you, your majesty, just as a b
abe loves the teat that flows with milk.
I flow with wisdom, scholarship and readiness to serve. Why then does the king frown and pull his lip when I speak, and look away as if I weren’t there? I’m well-enough formed, not too old. I have a lively hazel eye, and, God knows, a quick wit. I can discourse on any subject the king pleases. I entertain him as well as any other of the court wits, yet I take care not to best him in debate. I lick his arse as sincerely as any man. I bow as deep. I study and imitate every courtier trick. Why, then, does he seem to find me repulsive?
If I say a thing is true, he knows that I am right. I am rated – by more than my own vanity – one of the most able men in England,the most suited to help steer the ship of state, yet I stand at the side, overlooked, humiliated.
My little cousin keeps me down. Drip, drip, drip, into the royal ear trickles the Little Toad’s poison, along with all his wise counsel. Drip, drip, drip. The constant noise of my cousin’s voice leaves no silence for wiser counsel to penetrate.
I dislike myself in this petty humour. But it infects me like a rheum. When I should be reaching for larger thoughts, I find myself watching little cousin Cecil and inventing ways he might die. Or scheming how to cut off the roots of his favour with the king. I listen for a careless word of his that I can nurture into a viper to sting him. I’ll find my weapon in time. We’re too much alike, he and I, in spite of his virtuous pose. He has weaknesses. I have a sharp eye and inventive mind. I’ve had to learn patience.
The king will not live forever. His heir is made of more malleable stuff, imagining that he commands but always wanting to please. I have watched him. I know the prince better than he knows himself. I will give him cause to thank me. He will need me as his father needs both his favourites and Cecil.
21
After a week of polishing the silver box every night, I wrote to my mother again. Each day, I woke up certain that she would call for me that day. I filled the silver box with cherries, which were as beautiful as jewels. Then I polished each fruit until it reflected a tiny star of light. Each day, I chose a different gown – my dark blue silk taffeta, my copper-coloured shot silk, and stood patiently while my French maid tamed my hair into an orderly halo pinned high off my neck so that I could wear a wired lace collar. I spent each day trying to keep my skirt hems clean and my hair in order. I stopped visiting the stables to stroke Wainscot lest I carry back too strong a whiff of horse and stable dung.
My mother did not send for me.
One morning after breakfast, I gathered my courage and asked the Herd, as I now privately called my ladies to make them less fearsome, to tell me who attended the queen. I was startled by the rush of gossip I provoked. I saw that if I winnowed out the chaff from the malice the Herd could become unwitting intelligencers in my war on ignorance.
In one voice, they all agreed. The lady to petition was Lucy, Countess of Bedford. Another Harington, Lord Harington’s daughter, though seldom seen at Combe.
She had killed two horses, they said, in her race to Edinburgh to get to the new Scottish queen before any other English gentlewoman. She had since become a lady of the queen’s privy chamber and my mother’s closest companion, thus proving the truth of the old saw about early birds.
That same afternoon, I lay in wait in the great court of the palace, just inside the Court Gate.
‘There she is,’ murmured Anne, who waited with me.
I thought the Countess of Bedford very beautiful with her fine fair hair, oval face and porcelain skin, but perhaps a little over-pleased with herself. And her nose might have been the least bit too long.
‘Your grace!’ she exclaimed when she saw me, no doubt startled by the wild-haired, red-faced apparition that leapt into her way. She exchanged glances with her attending gentlewoman and sketched a curtsy.
I decided that I loathed her. I wished that I had taken as much trouble to dress that day as I had the day before.
‘I beg you, be kind enough to tell the queen that I am eager to see her now that I’m here in Whitehall,’ I blurted. I thought I detected slyness in her self-satisfaction. It suddenly occurred to me that the countess herself might have intercepted my letters.
‘Her majesty knows your desires.’
‘When may I see her?’
Lady Bedford smiled in gentle reproof. I knew how I must look to her hatefully long-lashed eyes. An overgrown hoyden wearing a country gown, with freckles and flyaway hair.
‘Her Majesty is not well.’ Her sweet voice made me want to pull out that lustrous hair. ‘She’s still melancholy after the loss of three babes – the boy Robert in Scotland, and then the two girls. And you must understand that she is also preoccupied with the health of the young duke.’
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.
I knew that Baby Charles, now ten years old, was muchimproved. When I had met him again only the day before, formally, in the care of his new English guardian, Lady Carey, I had noted the changes since I last saw him at our Danish uncle’s visit. The bald patch on the back of his head, where he had once rubbed it against his pillow, was now overgrown with fair, curling hair. Though still very small and with legs that still bowed, he could walk unaided, without braces to straighten his bones. Though he stuttered, he was talking at last.
He had clearly forgiven me for splashing him on the water stairs with water from my posy. He asked the names of all my dogs and their breeds, the names of the stones in my rings, whether I was to have my portrait painted too, like him, and what gown would I wear, if I did sit for the famous Flemish painter who was to paint him, and had I seen our brother Henry triumph in the tilt yet? He talked, hardly drawing breath, not heeding my replies.
Not only did Baby Charles not seem cause for continuing concern, I also knew that my mother was no longer completely drowned in melancholy at the loss of her babes. All the court ladies of honour, including my own, were atwitter with her plans to stage a new masque. In it, the queen was to play the principle part herself and would choose a dozen fortunate ladies to play her nymphs.
After parting from Lady Bedford, I returned to my lodgings and waited. I tried to do my needlework but kept stabbing my finger with the needle. My ladies invited me to join them in a game of Cent, but I could not settle to cards or to their talk of flirtations and gowns. Supper served in my lodgings offered a distraction, but I had no appetite.
Just after supper, there was a knock on the door. One of the queen’s running footmen. At last.
I leapt to my feet. ‘Come help me change to a finer gown!’ I said to Anne.
The footman bowed. ‘Her majesty has sent you a gift ofwelcome, your grace.’ He stepped aside and waved forward the person standing outside the door. ‘Here it is.’
My mother’s gift entered and stood staring at me in open disbelief.
22
‘There’s no letter?’ I stared back at the new arrival.
My ladies gawped over their cards.
‘What am I to do with her?’ I wanted my mother. Not this strange girl who looked as startled to see me as I was to see her, and not much happier about it.
‘The queen sent no letter, your grace.’
No word of welcome. No invitation. No explanation.
‘I don’t want her,’ I said at last, fighting desolation.
‘That is for your grace to say.’ He bowed again and backed out of the room.
‘You may go, too,’ I told the girl. ‘I thank you, but I have no use for you.’
She stood frozen, clutching a painted leather lute case in front of her like a shield. She wore what had once been a fine black silk gown, now re-cut many times and faded to dusty grey.
She was perhaps a little older than I was and much the same height. But she was more delicate, like a tall wading bird. A cloud of black hair stood out around her neat round head that balanced atilt on a long slender neck. The hair framed large eyes, a full mouth, a firm pointed chin, and a nose that was a little shorter than mine but wider and flatter. Her skin was
almost black and shone with purplish lights on her cheeks and forehead, like a plum.
She didn’t deceive me, who was the mistress of that same false stillness, which I recognised as a mask for intense feeling, like anger or fear.
‘You may go,’ I said again. And take your anger or your fear with you, I thought. I have enough of my own.
She bobbed a tight serving maid’s curtsy and went, holding her lute case against her breast.
But when I headed later towards the privy garden for an after-supper stroll, I saw her again – the sop my mother had thrown me while withholding herself. The girl was standing at the far end of the long gallery near the door of my sleeping chamber, a shadow cut out of the evening glow that fell through the high narrow windows. In the late light, her skin and dark gown looked almost the same colour. The open lute case sat on the floor by her feet. The alternating light and dark stripes on the back of the lute in her hand stood out clearly against her skirt.
I pretended I did not notice her.
An hour later, when we returned from the privy garden, she was still there, the lute now re-cased. This time, I approached her.
‘Not gone yet?’ I asked. ‘I told you to go.’
My ladies murmured behind me. My gift glanced at them, then at me but did not reply.
I was certain that Lady H would have found her insolent. But my lady guardian had never taught me how to deal with a human gift. I felt the possibility of undefined social disaster.
‘Go lay out the cards again,’ I told the Herd over my shoulder. I wanted no witnesses. ‘I’ll come join you shortly.’ They rustled away into my main receiving chamber.
‘Why are you still here?’
‘To serve you, madam.’ Her voice was unexpectedly lowand husky coming from her delicate frame. Her speech was pure rough Southwark. ‘Or so I understand.’
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