Just Flesh and Blood

by Caro, Jane;

  For the sake of their fathers, both alive and dead, I gave Essex and young Cecil full rein to prove themselves, but – truth be told – I had come to secretly favour one ambitious young man over the other. I knew Essex was impulsive and liable to go off half-cocked, but I put that down to the naivety of youth. I knew he was vain and often imperious, but his arrogance amused more than annoyed me. I enjoyed indulging him. It gave me pleasure to give him pleasure and I ignored the small signs of petulance and hot temper he occasionally displayed. Even against my better judgment, I began to give him opportunities.

  In allowing my heart to rule my head, I broke the habit of a lifetime and I was to bitterly regret it.

  ‘Only three hundred and fifty of the more than one thousand lords you took on this ill-fated venture have returned, my Lord Essex. By any measure that must be counted a debacle.’

  The Earl of Essex had disgraced himself by leading some ill-conceived raids against the Portuguese, undertaken without my say-so. Perhaps he had grown bored with being the late-night confidant of an old woman and, impatient for more masculine glory, had taken advantage of my favour to launch a foolhardy enterprise.

  ‘The Portuguese are lily-livered cowards, Your Majesty, and refused to join us in the fight against their new Spanish overlords! We thought they would flock to our standard!’

  Essex’s colour was high. I could see he was shocked by my tone. Inwardly, as I berated him, I was berating myself for allowing him to assume that in my eyes he could do no wrong. A high price had been paid for my indulgence of this young aristocrat and not by me, either.

  ‘Well, you thought wrong, my lord, grievous wrong, and the blood of good Englishmen now runs in the gutters of Lisbon.’

  ‘It wasn’t our fault. We believed the promises of Antonio, Prior of Crato. He assured us that his countrymen would support his claim to the throne over that of the usurper Philip!’

  ‘He is as big a fool as the rest of you!’

  I was furious with Essex, Francis Drake, Antonio (Pretender to the Portuguese throne) and all the other hotheads of my court who were so quick to disobey orders and take matters into their own hands. They had attacked the Portuguese capital without permission. The raid, they told me, was meant to be a pre-emptive strike to harry and weaken Philip of Spain and protect us against any chance of another Armada. All it had managed to prove was our relative weakness and ineptitude.

  ‘Your reckless adventure has made my kingdom more vulnerable – not less! Philip must be laughing behind his hands.’

  I saw Essex’s handsome young face go red with anger. I suppose he was all of twenty-three at the time and young men can never tolerate being laughed at. I held up my hand to prevent a further outburst. ‘Do not presume on your closeness to me in blood.’ The Earl of Essex was my Aunt Mary Boleyn’s great-grandson. ‘Or on the love I bore your late stepfather. You are always keen to impress upon me the excellence of your talents, whether it is on the tennis court, the battlefield, at my council table, or in song and you do indeed have much potential. But, my headstrong young lord, you must also learn to take responsibility for your weaknesses as well as credit for your strengths, as I am sure your stepfather would have told you had he been alive.’

  The memory of the times Robin had launched foolish, vainglorious enterprises made me soften my tone. Although not related by blood, the two men had much in common.

  I think I did see Essex as the son that Robin and I might have had if the world had turned out differently. I knew that the partiality I showed to Essex made people talk. They took my obvious favour to mean that I was in love with him as I had been in love with his stepfather. (Interestingly no one ever spread such rumours about my relationship with Robert Cecil, even though I was careful to pay an equal amount of favourable attention to him.) No matter. I was not in love with either man, whatever my court believed. I did not see the handsome young man in front of me as a possible lover; I saw him as a substitute son.

  Now I watched him pout and flush. I even thought I caught the hint of a tear in his eye. He really could not bear to be publicly berated and Robert Cecil was standing in the corner of the chamber, still as a statue but very much present. I knew the younger Cecil was enjoying his rival’s humiliation and the idea annoyed me. I liked to keep the young men evenly matched. And, old fool that I was, I felt pity for the impetuous young lord.

  I stepped forward and gently slapped Essex on the cheek with my hand. It was more a caress than a smack and I could see by the light that leapt into his eyes that he had read the gesture as such. Indeed, he grasped my hand as it rested on his cheek and kissed it rapturously.

  ‘I must chastise you, my lord, so that you can learn salutary lessons. But like a good governess, I must also forgive you and understand that your failures – like those of your stepfather before you – are due to an excess of zeal.’

  The young man dropped to his knee at my words and began to swear great oaths of loyalty. He was always theatrical, and his gestures were more suited to the stage than my privy chamber.

  ‘Away with your protestations of loyalty. It is deeds I want from you, my hotheaded lord, not words. But you may come to my chamber this evening after supper and we will play cards and put this unfortunate event behind us as good friends must.’ I waved my hand to dismiss him. ‘You may leave us.’

  And Essex rose nimbly to his feet – how I envied him that ease of movement – and bowed his way from my presence.

  ‘Until tonight, Your Majesty,’ he said as he reached the doorway – held open for him by a manservant – so others beyond it might hear. He sounded like an eager lover and I knew that was his intent.

  ‘Aye, aye, but not until after supper.’ In contrast to him, I sounded gruff and impatient, like an indulgent grandmother trying to hide her feelings. As Essex left the room I signalled for Cecil to approach me. ‘How does your father, my lord? Did he enjoy the inhalations I sent him?’

  ‘Aye, Your Majesty, he was most grateful for them, but the gout sits upon him heavily and he suffers great pain from his teeth. He hopes to be back by your side when his aches and pains recede.’

  ‘I always miss his wise counsel, but you may tell him from me that his son makes a fine replacement. You have inherited the skills of both your mother and your father.’

  William Cecil’s current wife, Mildred, was a woman of great learning, and I was particularly fond of her. She was very much a woman after my own heart. Perhaps it was why William Cecil and I made a formidable team. He was one of the few men I have ever met who genuinely enjoyed the company of women whose wits could match his own. ‘My poor talents, such as they are, must suffice, until my father is well enough to reclaim his place.’

  ‘Such modesty, my Pygmy, is becoming but not convincing.’ I tapped him playfully on the hand with my ivory fan and I saw him wince. Not because of the gesture, but because of my use of his nickname. It was not a kind moniker and he did not much like it, but he also knew that few were granted the privilege of a pet name, and, like it or no, I had one for him and none for his rival. His father was my ‘Spirit’ and Essex’s stepfather my ‘Eyes’. Why I had not granted Essex a pet name I do not know. Perhaps it was simply that one did not spring to mind, or perhaps I sensed that such an intimacy with a man of Essex’s impulsive nature might be dangerous.

  William Cecil was ailing, but the old man was made of sterner stuff than many of his younger colleagues. The next of my intimates to die was the man I nicknamed the Moor.

  Sir Francis Walsingham died complaining about his finances (a common theme) at his house in Surrey surrounded by his wife, last surviving daughter (who was also the long-suffering wife of the Earl of Essex) and grandchildren. I received word of his death just before I was to dine with William and Mildred Cecil at their house in London. I knew that my old friends would be grateful to hear of my spymaster’s demise first-hand from their queen, however, I waited until I
was seated and the wine was being poured before I broke the news.

  ‘Sir Francis has died, my lord.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, but it is not entirely unexpected. He has been ailing these past weeks.’

  ‘Aye and yet the news has shocked me and knocked me off kilter. He always seemed so indestructible.’

  ‘Alas, none of us is.’

  ‘Allow me to give you a glass of this fine Bordeaux, Your Majesty.’ Mildred Cecil signalled her servant to bring the decanter.

  ‘It is the curse of ageing that our peers slip away so easily and so frequently.’

  ‘There are many curses of ageing, my lord, and yet the alternative remains worse. Don’t wish your life away.’ I took a long draught of the fine red wine. The taste of it on my tongue comforted me; the warmth of it in my throat was an even greater comfort.

  ‘Yet if the old never died, there would be no room for the young.’ William Cecil nodded meaningfully at me. I knew what he meant. The loss of my secretary of state left a vacancy that a younger man could fill. There was only one younger man who could do so.

  ‘There is no need to wink at me, old man. I know that Sir Francis’s death creates an opportunity for your son.’

  ‘Your Majesty, please forgive my husband, he does not mean to be so forward.’ Mildred shot her husband a stern look. ‘Or so heartless.’

  ‘Sir Francis was a good and noble servant, but I am not ashamed to admit I never warmed to him as a human being. I am far too old now to pretend otherwise, however much that may offend you, my dear.’ Cecil grinned at Mildred and leant forward to fill his own glass with the excellent wine.

  ‘He was a hard man to like. I cannot recall a time when he actually managed a smile. Do you remember when that poor supplicant – I can’t remember what favour he was asking for, can you, Cecil? – bowed so deeply he burnt his buttocks on the fire guard? He jumped about three feet in the air and you had to douse the flames with a jug of water! You and I managed to hold our laughter until the poor man had left the room, but then we collapsed in a heap. Walsingham never changed his expression.’

  ‘Indeed, and he looked at the pair of us as if we had taken leave of our senses.’

  We were both laughing again now at the memory.

  ‘It was a property dispute, I believe.’

  ‘What was?’

  We were both beginning to regain our self-control.

  ‘The favour the poor man was asking for …’

  ‘You mean he came about his seat, good my lord?’

  And we were off again, leaving Mildred to look at us as if we had lost our minds. But it was good to laugh with Cecil and to reminisce. I miss him so much.

  When at last our hilarity had passed – perhaps it was disrespectful to Sir Francis, but it was not meant to be – I continued to muse on how good a servant the stern old man had been.

  ‘But I trusted my welfare to Walsingham and he fulfilled that trust completely. No man better. Your son will have large shoes to fill, my lord.’

  ‘Puritans such as Sir Francis rarely make good company despite being such loyal servants.’ It was Mildred who spoke, her characteristic dry manner had returned now that she knew her husband had not offended me.

  ‘They are a stern brotherhood. Yet I find myself saddened by his loss, not just because he did me good service, but because he is another of my old companions who has gone.’ My voice faltered a little as I said this, and I took a long drink from my goblet. The fire crackled cosily in the hearth and I felt glad to be with my two old friends. Then a fearful thought took hold of me. ‘You must take great care of your husband, Mildred.’

  And I leant forward and took her hand in mine. It was as wrinkled as my own. ‘I could not bear to lose him.’

  ‘Nor I, Your Grace. But William is stubborn. He will not rest although the doctors tell him that he must take more ease. I think he means to die on his feet, reading state papers over your shoulder.’

  ‘You must sit, my lord, and not stand!’ I grew agitated, jumping to my feet and pacing in front of the fireplace. I felt guilty. Mildred’s remark had hit home. I knew I asked much of the elderly Cecil. I knew that his advice was as necessary to me as breathing – more so now that both Robin and the Moor were gone – and I knew that by taxing him I might also be shortening his life. I could not bear to think of it. ‘Every day that he attends me I will fetch him a stool, no – with my own hands, from this day forward and indeed, my lord—’

  Cecil was about to speak, but I silenced him with a gesture. ‘I forbid you to stand in my presence. You must always be seated and with a blanket over your knees and a fire at your feet. Whatever you require I will fetch it.’

  ‘So, I will become the master and you the servant? And how will that look, Your Grace, to those about us? The rumours will fly across Christendom that Lord Burleigh is about to die and has the queen for a nursemaid.’

  ‘Perhaps they will accuse me of being in love with you too. It sometimes feels to me that I only have to smile at a man and the whole world then fancies me in love with him.’

  ‘You speak of the Earl of Essex.’

  ‘Yes, him among others.’

  ‘There is no fear of rumours about me. I am not young nor am I beautiful, nay, nor ever have been. Perhaps that is why I have never been accused of dallying where I should not.’

  ‘And yet you have been lucky in love.’ I smiled at his wife who, in truth, I valued almost as much as her husband.

  Cecil took Mildred’s hand a second time and gave her such a look that I could not help but envy. Their marriage was one of the few I have seen that was granted uninterrupted happiness.

  ‘That I am. There is no doubt of that.’

  We paused for a while and thought our own thoughts – of the past and of the future, but, then, as always, I returned restlessly to the present.

  ‘We will miss the Moor as a spymaster, whatever we may think of his charms as a person. What will we do to maintain the eyes and ears we have all over Europe?’

  ‘I have kept a record of all his informants. I will write to them directly and make sure they continue to be useful to us. Indeed, in recent years I have encouraged them to write to me as well as to Sir Francis so that we both had a relationship with them.’

  ‘This is why I value you. You think of what may be as much as of what currently is. It is a trait few possess.’

  Yet, despite our plans, a seamless transition was not to be. Essex also saw an opportunity. To my surprise, it was Essex who took charge of Walsingham’s informants. He did so by using his charm to befriend Anthony and Francis Bacon, long employed by the Moor as his trusted lieutenants. It also aided his ambitions that, as Walsingham’s son-in-law, he could claim the Moor’s power base by right of inheritance.

  It amuses me to think how the death of the old creates possibilities for the young. How they gather and scheme and manoeuvre themselves to fill the space left by the grim reaper. It will be the same when I shuffle off this mortal coil. James VI of Scotland has been impatient to become James I of England. He will not have to wait much longer. Well do I know the feeling of teetering on the brink of destiny, impatient for the glorious tomorrow. It is impossible not to secretly wish for the death of the person who stands in your way. I know this because that is how it was for me when my poor sister died. Decay is followed by renewal – it is the natural way of things.

  Look at the young people in this room now – my ‘loyal’ servants, clustered over there in the corner, watching me, waiting with gathering impatience for whatever comes next. The night has fallen and they light candles. Some leave, to eat their supper, I’ll be bound, to keep the life in them so that they can be ready to grasp whatever opportunity my death may bring. Change is frightening and unsettling, but it also carries with it new chances.

  It is not just the young who look at the old with impatienc
e, however. It works the other way around as well. As the years went by and I grew older, my advisers grew younger and knew less. I grew impatient as they said the same things that others had said many times before. The young see each new thought as a revelation. The old know that there are no new thoughts, just new thinkers. I could forgive them their enthusiasms. After all, the old know what is to be young, but perhaps because the young do not yet know what it is to be old, I could not forgive them their arrogance. They would patronise me. So many of my youthful advisers assumed that because I was old (and a woman), I knew little.

  It was not very long ago, just before I fell ill, in fact, that one young upstart, I think his name was Brown, presumed to advise me loftily on the state of affairs in the Netherlands. He spoke to me as if I was the child and he was the adult, as if he was the king and I was his servant. I allowed him a sentence or two, but such was his self-satisfaction, I could bear his tone no longer.

  ‘Tush, Brown, I know more than thou dost.’

  He looked affronted, but held his tongue. He went back to the pile of papers in front of him, banging them loudly in a way that communicated his disapproval. He was a bumptious young man, not easily deflected. Only a few minutes later he raised his head and attempted to pontificate about the situation in France, presuming once more to enlighten me about something I already knew. I wanted to bellow at him furiously, but for once I held my temper. I am not sure why; perhaps it was his youth. He had, as yet, hardly as much as a hair on his chin. Instead, I eyed him witheringly and through gritted teeth, repeated myself.

  ‘Tush, Brown. As I have already said to you, do I not know?’