Just Flesh and Blood

by Caro, Jane;

  ‘Your loving cousin and ready friend, Cor rotto.’

  I wept as I watched the messenger ride helter-skelter down the avenue bound for the London docks.

  But God answered our prayers all those years ago. Catherine and her family returned when I gained the throne and my heart mended. When she died so worn out, it broke again.

  ‘Cor rotto,’ I said to her equally heartbroken husband.

  She is buried in Westminster Abbey, I made sure of that, with a fine memorial plaque extolling her virtues as a woman, a wife and a mother. After the death of her husband – another old friend over whom I wept bitter tears – they tell me the Knollys children are building an elaborate memorial to both their parents in their parish church at Rotherfield Grey. It will contain effigies of each of the children my dear friend laboured so hard to bring into the world. I weep for her still.

  ‘Cor rotto.’ I mutter the phrase to myself now that I have reached the end of my life. I too am worn out, but not with childbearing; with ruling a kingdom. Given that I lived to be nine and sixty and poor Catherine died a quarter century sooner, it seems that one task is much harder than the other. How fortunate I am to have avoided the fate that is so common to women. I thank God for the unusual life I was lucky enough to live. I thank Him for the power and control I have had not just over my kingdom, but over my own fate. It is a fine thing to shape your own destiny and one that few women ever experience.

  Once more I leave the past and open my eyes and look again at those about me in the present. Few of my attendants remain. Those that do are dozing on their stools. Most have left my chamber, sensibly seeking their beds. A few candles still flicker in the room. One on the mantelpiece shrinks and shudders as if a wind sweeps over it and I look at it in hope. It would be an answer to my prayers if a kindly spirit – Catherine, or Kat, Blanche or even Robin – if a familiar spirit came to escort me from this world to the next. But I search the dark in vain. The candle has merely responded to the opening of the door as another of my attendants takes his leave – worn out with waiting for the old woman to die.

  A pale dawn is visible around the heavy curtains over the window. Perhaps I dozed for a while for it seems only moments ago that I searched the darkness for long-lost faces and yet some considerable time seems to have passed. The attendants in my room have changed. Some have returned after having snatched a few hours’ sleep. They settle themselves as comfortably as they can to continue their vigil.

  I had many kindred spirits about me while I lived and ruled. They were the companions who helped me face what had to be faced in this world. Perhaps it is childish of me, but I can only hope they will discharge the same duty in the next. I long to die, yet I am afraid of what may await me when I do. A friendly face or two would ease the ordeal.

  My eyes once again search the dark corners of my chamber. I peer at the shadows cast by the candles and into all the nooks and crannies, half longing, half terrified that I will see something or someone from the netherworld hovering there. Perhaps – because spirits have no corporeal form – they can shrink and hide at will, in places they could never occupy when alive. But my darting eyes uncover nothing. I search again, craning my neck and flicking my eyes from corner to crevice and back again.

  ‘The queen seems to be searching for something.’ Philadelphia is by my side, crouching by my cushion and grasping my hand tenderly. ‘Yes, Your Majesty, what is it? What can I get for you? What will soothe you?’

  But hers is not the face I wish to see, no, nor any in that room.

  ‘Can we persuade you to go to your bed, good madam? And raise yourself from the cushions?’ The Archbishop of Canterbury, John Whitgift, has come up beside Philadelphia and is once again exhorting me to take to my bed. But the mere thought of raising myself up, or of being lifted up (as is more likely) makes me feel vertiginous. I shake my head and stick my finger in my mouth. I feel safer on the ground. There is nowhere to fall from here.

  ‘But you must be so uncomfortable, Your Majesty, and your bed is so warm and so soft.’ Bishop Whitgift is persistent.

  ‘Attendants wait outside at this very moment with a litter to carry you gently to your chamber. You have only to give the word, Your Grace.’ Robert Cecil is now standing by the archbishop’s side, and the two of them nod encouragingly at me, as they might at a demented child.

  I groan and close my eyes against them all; their warm blood, beating hearts and moist breath that smells so pungently of life. Their vigour exhausts me and I let my mind float freely again to drift once more from the present to the past.

  Frances of Essex was absent from my court for some time and so was her recalcitrant spouse, but I thought little about either of them for months. It was not a case of out of sight, out of mind, although that did no harm. It was simply because all my attention was focused on something that mattered far more: the precarious health of my oldest friend and wisest counsellor, the man who guided me from precocious schoolgirl to wise queen, had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

  ‘I have brought you the finest roses from my garden, my lord, and I cut them with my own hands. I chose the ones with the sweetest scents. Here, breathe in the perfume. Perhaps the fragrance will help drive out the foul humours that beset you.’

  I knew William Cecil was fond of flowers. It was not something he ever boasted of, but I saw the pleasure the blooms in my gardens gave him and the knowledge he had of them. Typically, he knew their common names and their Latin ones as well. As always, no knowledge was too low to be of value. However, I did not give him sweet-smelling flowers merely for his pleasure. I hoped that they would do him good by chasing away the noxious odours that infest those who are ailing. The apothecaries tell us that bad smells both cause and exacerbate illness. I have always avoided them.

  I bent over Cecil’s sickbed and held the bouquet under his nose. He did as he was bid and took a deep breath, drawing in the sweet fragrance. Unfortunately, this brought on a bout of coughing that turned his gentle old face puce and left him gasping for breath. Mildred, who was seated beside him, leapt up from her sewing and took the flowers from my hand.

  ‘I will put them in water, Your Grace.’

  She left the room and I turned apologetically to my old friend. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to make you more uncomfortable.’

  ‘It is of no moment. I know you meant only kindness. I well remember how much you hate foul odours.’

  And then my old friend chuckled, bringing up yet more noxious phlegm. A maid held a bowl up to him and he rid himself of the sputum. I looked away. The business of dying is rotten. I waited until the maid had resettled him on his pillows before I turned my face towards him once more. I wanted to do what little I could to maintain his dignity, so I pretended I had not noticed his misery and took up the conversation where it had left off.

  ‘Aye, and I also well remember how you would use my dislike of nasty smells to keep me away from things you did not wish me to see. Wasn’t there a letter from Scottish James that you pretended was infected with noxious odours from the urine-tanned pouch in which it was carried?’

  Cecil chuckled a second time. Indeed, despite his obvious sickness, he seemed oddly calm and relaxed. As if his spirit and his marvellous mind floated above his frail and suffering body.

  ‘Indeed, there was and there were many more besides. I hope you will forgive me for the liberties I occasionally took on your behalf.’

  I was seated on a stool by his bedside and I leant in closely and spoke low. ‘Forgive? Forgive, my lord? There is nothing for me to forgive. Of all who have laboured beside me, it is you who have done me the most good and the least harm.’

  The old man’s eyes filled with tears at my words and yet, even as I spoke them, the ghost of Mary, Queen of Scots flitted through my mind. For a moment it seemed she stood between us, but I brushed her aside.

  ‘It is I who should ask for your forgivenes
s, for all the long hours I made you labour, for the times I swore at you and ignored your wise counsel. I led you a merry dance, I fear.’

  ‘It has been my pleasure to serve the wisest and most gracious lady in all Christendom. I would not have missed a moment of it.’

  Now it was my turn to feel tearful. ‘But you speak as if our work together has ended! You will recover from your illness – you have done so many times before – and will soon be back at your old desk, by my side.’

  ‘I think not. My dance is nearly done.’ His voice was weak and his old eyes were bleary. I knew that he spoke only the truth, but I did not wish to face the burdens of my office without him. The tears began to spill from my eyes and over my cheeks. I was glad that Cecil had closed his in weariness, so he would not see them.

  Behind me I heard the door open and turned to see Mildred, Lady Burleigh, enter the room. She carried a tray on which sat the roses I had brought and a large and steaming bowl of broth. She placed the roses on a chest under the open window so that the summer air that entered the chamber would be sweetened by their perfume. Then she and the maid lifted Cecil up on his pillows and placed the tray on the counterpane.

  ‘My love,’ she said in a voice so gentle my tears would not stop. ‘Will you try to take a little broth? Cook has laboured all morning to make the clearest, most healthful and delicious beef broth – from the very finest cuts – to try and tempt your appetite. Will you not see if you can stomach a little?’

  Cecil was like a small child, eager to please. He took the spoon in his stiff fingers and attempted to guide a little liquid from the bowl to his mouth. So unsteady was his grip that most of it fell upon the counterpane. But Mildred did not notice. A manservant had taken her attention.

  ‘My lady, the apothecary is below. He wishes to have a quick word.’

  ‘You go, Mildred. I will be here with William.’

  Mildred nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. He comes with a new physic and instructions on how it must be administered for best effect. I like to hear the details myself.’

  Cecil pulled a face at the mention of the medicine. ‘Disgusting muck, all of it. It does no good. It makes me cough.’

  ‘The apothecary says it’s good to cough. You must rid yourself of the ill humours in the phlegm.’

  ‘Hush, William. You must comply with everything the doctors tell you to do. Both Mildred and I want you well again soon.’

  Mildred curtsied briefly and left the room. I could see that she was worn out with nursing her husband, not to mention worrying about him. Once she had left, I turned back to my ailing friend. He had slipped further down the pillows and had deposited another spoonful of broth on his bedclothes. I could see the liquid glistening in his whiskers, and the little he had consumed – like the dreaded physic – made him cough. He put the spoon back on the tray in defeat and his head sank back into his pillows. But I was having none of it. If the man was to live, he had to eat.

  I bent towards him and lifted his head from the pillows. A servant leapt forward to take up the burden, but I waved him away. My intervention even startled Cecil. ‘Oh no, Your Majesty, it is … too much. It is not—’

  ‘Do not fuss, Cecil. It is the least I can do.’

  Using my left arm as a bolster, I took up the spoon in my right and gently fed him small sips of the gruel as a fond mother might her child. All the while, unseen by my old friend, tears fell from my eyes, and rolled down my cheeks to mingle with the beef broth on the counterpane. Cecil was too exhausted to fight me. He opened his mouth to accept the nourishment like a wizened old bird.

  ‘There now, my Spirit, we will have you back in the saddle in no time.’ I used my old nickname for him.

  ‘I was never very happy in the saddle, Your Majesty.’ His voice was barely a whisper, but his wry comment cheered me.

  I laughed. ‘Aye, but you could master a ledger like no other, and use that to hunt down the wiliest of foxes—’ I stopped speaking, suddenly conscious that I was already referring to the old man in the past tense. Not that it mattered. He had fallen asleep with his mouth open and was snoring gently in my arms. I lowered his head back onto the pillows, settled the bowl of broth and the tray onto the table beside his bed and then I gave vent to my grief. I lay my head on the damp, soup-stained counterpane and sobbed.

  William Cecil, first Baron Burleigh and Lord High Treasurer of England, died a few days later. It was a grief-stricken Robert who gave me the news. ‘My mother has sent me to tell you, Your Grace, that Lord Burleigh – my father …’

  Robert Cecil, my secretary of state, normally so cool and emotionless under pressure, could not continue speaking. I also stayed silent, watching his jaw and his cheeks working as he struggled to regain his composure.

  ‘Your father has died, my lord? Is that what your mother sent you to say?’ I spoke gently to him. For the moment his grief seemed more intense than mine. Indeed, it was so great, he still could not trust himself to speak and he merely nodded his head.

  ‘How does your mother?’

  My question brought the man completely undone and he sobbed uncontrollably.

  ‘Fetch Master Cecil some wine, sirrah.’

  And wine was brought, and Robert Cecil gulped it down.

  At last he could speak. ‘My mother is a remarkable woman, Your Grace. She has cared for my father day and night these past few months. She is exhausted and the doctor has given her something to help her sleep.’

  ‘I am glad. She needs to keep up her strength. You have been very fortunate in both your parents.’

  ‘As my father was fortunate in his mistress, Your Grace.’

  ‘I worked him long and hard, as I now do his son.’

  ‘He loved you for it, as does his son.’

  I patted the curve of his cheek as a mother might, and he blushed at my gesture, but he was still struggling with his tears and so kept his head down to hide his distress. We both stood in silence for a moment or two.

  ‘Did he say anything at the end? Did he leave any message for me?’ As I said the words, they seemed to catch in my throat. At the break in my voice Robert Cecil looked up.

  ‘He told me you fed him his soup, with your own hands.’

  ‘Aye. I did.’

  ‘He said that although you would not be a mother you showed yourself to be a most careful nurse.’

  This made me guffaw through my tears. William Cecil died as he had lived – he was always like a dog with a bone. No one had wanted me to marry and have children more than he. Partly for good and solid reasons of state, but, I think, especially as time went by, mostly because he had gained such peace and happiness from his own family and wanted me to have the same.

  ‘He was ever a tenacious old man. Even at the end he could not let himself go without one last admonition of what he saw as my great and abiding failure.’

  ‘Oh! I am sure he did not see it as a fail—’

  ‘Yes, he did, and it is no use pretending otherwise. And from his perspective I can see that it was a lack. Think how much easier his task would have been if I had provided what he felt it was my duty to provide – an heir to my throne. Think how much easier your task would be, my lord, if I had a son to inherit.’

  ‘He did not say so.’

  ‘Yes, he did, often to me. But what he did not grasp and maybe you do not either, is that from my perspective the birth of a son would have represented a very great threat.’

  ‘Children are a blessing from God, and a great comfort to their parents.’

  ‘I do not doubt they are to many parents, nor that you have been a very great blessing to yours – particularly now, as I am sure you will be a great comfort to your mother in her time of trouble. But, my lord, think of the Queen of Scots and tell me how much of a blessing the birth of her son turned out to be for her.’

  Robert Cecil looked at me as
if I were speaking in a language unknown to him.

  ‘I see my words confuse you, but think on it. If the Queen of Scots had never been delivered of a fair son would her people have been so quick to be rid of her? Particularly if they could not guarantee who else might seize the day and take her throne?’

  ‘The King of Scots was but a babbling infant when his mother lost her throne. He had nothing to do with her demise. That was of her own doing.’

  ‘I do not deny that the Queen of Scots was no friend to her own cause, nor that the infant son had no deliberate hand in the fall of the mother. It was rather just the fact of his existence that made her more vulnerable. The Scots had an alternative, you see, and it was an alternative that I refused to provide to the English.’

  ‘None could ever desire an alternative to the greatest queen in all Christendom.’ Robert Cecil was as brilliant in his own way as his father had been, but – just like his father – he could not see the point I was trying to make. I never met a man who could. It was beyond their gender’s ken, it seemed, to imagine that the birth of a child, especially a son, could be anything but a blessing. I let the conversation move to more conventional topics.

  We gave William Cecil, my Spirit, a state funeral. It seemed only fitting that such a faithful servant should have his passing so marked. It was a solemn and suitably magnificent occasion, but there was one sight that seared itself into my brain. As I scanned the ranks of the mourners in the great cathedral, one man sat head and shoulders above the rest. It was the Earl of Essex. Such was his height he could never hide in any crowd. I had not seen the young man for many months. What caught my eye was that his face was white and stained with grief. I recalled that Essex had been brought up in Cecil’s household and that Cecil had always been fond of him.

  Essex’s obvious misery for the good old man softened my heart and within weeks he was back in my court and my favour.

  It is a pity that the young man had not learnt more from the older one.