Just Flesh and Blood

by Caro, Jane;

  The earl opened his mouth as if to speak, but I held up my hand. Somewhat to my surprise, it worked. It seemed that for once I had him on the back foot. ‘Now is not the time to explain yourself to me.’ With a sweep of my hand, I took in the members of my council with whom I had just shared a meal. To a man they were leaning back in their chairs, looking not only sated, but as if they were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before them.

  ‘Given the nature of your offence, we have decided it is only reasonable that you must explain your actions to the Lords of the Council.’

  ‘But – they are my enemies, Your Grace! The very men who have caused all these misunderstandings between us.’

  ‘I didn’t see any of us force your hand onto your scabbard.’ Charles Howard muttered the words sotto voce, but he meant them to be heard and they were.

  The earl flushed, but I ignored the remark entirely. ‘They are my council, my lord. They do my bidding.’

  Now, the earl went white. ‘But, if you will just allow me to explain—’

  ‘There is little to explain, my lord. You insisted on the commission, I gave it to you and – despite everything – you have failed to carry it out. You had men, supplies, money, everything you asked for, but you failed. Without my say-so, you made parley with the enemy and I am still unclear about the terms of the pact you made in my name. All these require detailed explanations, my lord, and many witnesses.’

  ‘There were problems with the terrain, Your Grace, with the people, with the weather – oh!’ Now, as the shock wore off, he began – fatally – to lose his temper. ‘You cannot be expected to understand. You have never been to war.’

  ‘Nor have you, sir – in Ireland, at least.’ I could not resist flashing back at him, but then I regained my cold, detached demeanour. I did not wish to trade words with him. Indeed, his disrespect had provided an opportunity. ‘But perhaps you are right. What would I, a woman, know about leading an army? No doubt that is why you will be better served explaining yourself to the Lords of the Council, who have more experience in these things than a king – how did you put it? – “in petticoats”. The Privy Council is meeting at this moment and has already officially opened its preliminary investigation. You will be heard by them, my lord, and not by me.’

  With that I nodded to my factotum, who politely but firmly ushered the earl out of the room. He went without protest. The wind seemed to have gone out of him. It was the last time I ever saw him.

  The lords confined him to his chambers that evening and the next day he was placed under house arrest at his London residence. He was to remain within the confines of York House until I decided what was to be done with him. Daily he beseeched me to allow him to come into my presence and explain himself. Daily I refused his requests. This continued for weeks. Lord Egerton – the man charged with keeping the earl within – told me that in his frustration and the agony of inactivity and uncertainty, Essex had made himself quite ill. He tried to use his sickness to appeal to my sympathy, but I would not be moved.

  The only person who was able to win a little clemency was his wife, Frances. She came to me (or was sent by her desperate husband) almost straight from childbed, dressed all in black. She looked pale and tired and I could not help but notice that, despite her relative youth, her hair was going quite grey.

  ‘Are you well enough to be out and about, dear Frances?’ I stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. I even tucked her arm into mine and led her to two chairs by the fire. I did not blame the wife for the husband’s folly, and I wanted her to tell him of my kind treatment. I wanted him to know that my displeasure was personal as well as politic. The countess and I were to converse together comfortably, without the barrier of pomp and circumstance. I gestured for her to sit. ‘You must not stand for too long and wear yourself out.’

  ‘I am quite well, Your Majesty, and I am the lighter of a fair girl. We are calling her Frances.’

  ‘Congratulations. I am glad that her name honours your dear father as well as yourself, but I am also sorry that the child has been born into such difficult circumstances.’

  ‘Will you not take pity upon her father for the love you once bore him? Or, if not that, the love you bear me or, perhaps, for love of my father?’

  ‘Oh, Frances, I do not think Walsingham would ever have counselled me to do as you have just asked. Your father was a stickler for the rules. It is both noble and right of you to come and plead on your husband’s behalf – but be specific. In what way should I take pity? I will not free him from house arrest or allow him to return to my court, if that is what you are asking.’

  ‘It is certainly what he is hoping for but I would not be so bold as to meddle in such affairs of state.’

  ‘That in itself is a rarity. There are many who feel no such reluctance. What can I do for you then? And, remember, it is to you that I am happy to grant favours, not your husband.’

  ‘May I visit him? I have been forbidden access to York House and I would see him if I could and present to him his new daughter.’

  ‘I am glad you have had a daughter. Sons seem to cause no end of trouble – particularly to their mothers.’

  When Essex was riding high in my favour, when his mercurial energy enlivened my dreary, duty-bound days and I made no secret of the pleasure his company gave me, I knew what the court said of my attachment. They believed me to be in love with the earl and laughed behind their hands at the spectacle of the old queen making a fool of herself over the young man. But they were mistaken. I was not in love with the Earl of Essex. My flesh did not burn with desire when he touched me. I did not imagine his arms about me, or his lips upon mine as I had once imagined those of his stepfather, Robin Dudley. No, I felt about the Earl of Essex the way a mother might about an impetuous and energetic son. I say again, I loved the young earl more for his stepfather and for his grandmother than for himself. I indulged him in their memory. I enjoyed spoiling him. It gave me pleasure. That was why I did it, but I was wrong. It ruined him, and I must bear the guilt for that.

  Perhaps it would have been better if I had loved him the way a woman loves a man. Husbands of queens are trouble enough, but sons of queens cause their mothers nothing but heartache and, too often, deadly danger.

  ‘I hope the earl has the wit to delight in his daughter. I have never understood the desire for sons over daughters. As I say, the one causes so much more trouble than the other.’

  My preference for daughters was not a common one and I could see Frances was puzzled by the turn our conversation had taken.

  ‘Daughters are lovely, but my sons are also a great joy to me. They yearn to see their father as well. May we visit him? You know my loyalty to you and need have no fears on that account.’

  I smiled and shook my head. ‘No, I have no fears. Loyalty to your father’s memory will keep you loyal to me – not to mention your own good sense. Of course, you may visit your husband. Every day, if you are so minded, but you may not reside at York House with him.’

  ‘You are very good, Your Majesty, and I am grateful.’

  ‘I do this for you, Frances, and not for him. Make sure you tell him that.’

  They tell me that when I banish a person from my presence it is as if the world has turned into night. I remember that feeling from my childhood when I was in disfavour with my own father, and later when I trembled beneath the ire of my sister. Essex had grown accustomed to basking in the full warmth of royal good opinion, albeit intermittently, and he did not know what to do with himself now that a chill had descended. Despite the comfort of his wife’s presence (and, after our interview, she visited him daily, from dawn to dusk), he sickened further and took to his bed, declaring himself to be at death’s door. The people of London heard of his plight and, because they loved him, they became restive. They loved him for the same reasons I had. They believed his publicity. They liked how handsome and vigorous he was, and
they revered his few, but very skilfully publicised, triumphs over the Spaniards. He was young, he was handsome, he made a change from the old queen who had been around so long that they took her for granted. This was, no doubt, another reason why I now regarded the earl with such suspicion. No monarch can ever take kindly to a member of their court, whether actual or surrogate son, who threatens to transcend their own popularity.

  ‘There are slogans supporting the Earl of Essex and decrying his enemies daubed on walls throughout the city, Your Grace. Indeed, there is one insulting me on the very walls of Whitehall.’ Robert Cecil was not his usual calm self. Two spots of colour rode high on his cheeks.

  ‘I hope you have ordered the offending words removed.’

  ‘I have indeed, and they are being scrubbed off as we speak.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Issue a proclamation that those who insult my ministers also insult me.’

  ‘It is not the rude words about my own person that I find upsetting.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It is what they indicate about the mood in the city and the risk that entails.’

  ‘You smell rebellion? Is it as bad as that?’

  ‘My Lord Essex is popular, and the people do not like to see him in disgrace. Now that word is out that he is dying, what was once muttered behind closed doors may soon be shouted in the streets.’

  ‘And Essex will know this, of course.’

  ‘Aye and will be emboldened by it. He has always revelled in his popularity with the people.’

  ‘I know how heady that can be. It is one of the great joys of my reign that I have held the people’s loyalty. Does my popularity fall as his rises?’

  ‘Your name is not daubed on any walls, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I should hope not!’

  ‘But there is much talk about a particular book.’

  ‘A book, Cecil? What book?’

  ‘A history of Henry VI, which links the Devereuxs with the Plantaganets.’

  Ice crawled through my veins. This was real danger. It was the old curse that had haunted all the Tudors. Everyone knew that our connection to the blood of kings was tenuous and weak, though few dared speak of it.

  My claim to the throne of England is still seen by some, particularly zealous Catholics and my foes abroad, as the weakest of all. If you did not accept my father’s repudiation of his first wife and so the legality of his marriage to his second, then I was a bastard, born while his first wife was still alive. That is why, whenever anyone spoke of ancient blood lines, of claims to the throne that were at least as good as mine, it touched my deepest ancestral fear. Only now, as I lie upon my deathbed (or recline upon cushions) can I let that old anxiety go. It seems I will die as I lived – as God’s anointed queen.

  The Earl of Essex was not my son, but it seemed some may still have seen him as my successor or, worse, replacement. I stood up from my chair and walked towards Cecil, lowering my voice so no one else in the room could hear what we said.

  ‘When Essex talked terms with Tyrone do we know everything that was said? Did we have someone present whose loyalty to me was beyond question?’

  ‘No. The earl was careful to take to the parley only those men loyal to him.’

  ‘Damn that man! He was supposed to do my bidding. This is what comes of going against my better judgment. I wonder what else the Irish traitor and my supposed general talked about on the banks of that accursed river?’

  ‘There have been rumours.’

  ‘Rumours of what?’

  ‘That they agreed to make the Earl of Tyrone King of Ireland and in return the Irish would help make the Earl of Essex King of England.’

  I clenched my fists but held my nerve. ‘As you say, Cecil, these are but rumours. Despite his hot-headedness, I do not believe Essex plans actual treason.’

  ‘Do not forget his vaunting ambition and his vanity.’

  ‘I forget nothing, Cecil. I never have.’

  She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

  Cesario (Viola in disguise)

  My court sat transfixed as we watched Master Shakespeare’s latest play on St Stephen’s Day. Suitably enough it was called Twelfth Night. All the usual sotto voce jokes and witticisms that often interrupted court amusements – setting off gales of inappropriate laughter – were forgotten. At these words, spoken by a character pretending to be a boy who is really a girl in disguise but is, of course, played by a boy actor, the silence was eloquent. I wondered how a man with the braggadocio and swagger of Shakespeare could find within him the sympathy and understanding of my poor sex to read us so accurately. We too easily believe the promises made to us by men because we have no other choice.

  Beside me the Count Palatine – in whose honour the play was produced – looked nonplussed. Lord Grey, who sat on his other side, and I had been translating Shakespeare’s words in whispers, so our foreign guest could better follow the action. Now I stayed silent, my chin resting on my hand, leaving Grey to do the honours.

  The scene in front of me had moved on and now the audience were in gales of laughter at some tomfoolery on the stage. Master Shakespeare had an uncanny talent for changing moods quickly and smoothly, but it seemed I was not so skilled. I was caught by the image of Patience on a monument, smiling at grief and unable to speak her heart. Was this not my predicament exactly? Viola claimed it as the state of all women, condemned to feel more than we are able to express, while men expressed more than they actually felt. This summed up my dance with the Earl of Essex entirely. He protested his adoration at every opportunity, he flattered me outrageously and gave me constant and gratifying attention. And yet, as it now seemed utterly clear to me, he meant not one word of it. He loved me when it suited his purposes. It was a love of convenience and could be switched off as easily as it was switched on. He used the same strategy on me as he did when attempting to part one of my ladies from her maidenhead, and I had fallen for it just as foolishly. The shock of the realisation made me draw a sharp breath.

  I looked up from the orange I had been slicing into segments and surveyed the court surrounding me. I knew every man and woman. I knew their parents, their children, their allegiances and their religion. I knew their strengths and their weaknesses. I knew who was clever and who was stupid. They all professed their love for me – and their undying loyalty – but I knew that should I be whisked from that room in an instant – by apoplexy, perhaps, or by men with swords – they would make haste to curry favour with whoever it was who replaced me. Then they would swear the same oaths and compose the same compliments. They would express what they did not really feel. I was Patience on a monument. I had been always.

  I looked down again at the hand that still held a segment of orange. I had removed my gloves (I wore them almost permanently now) so that they would not be stained by the juice. My hand was old. The flesh between the thumb and forefinger was eaten away by age and arthritis. The fingers themselves, that once I had been so proud of, were bent with rheumatics, the joints swollen and stiff. I had spots on the back of my hand, and my fingernails, buffed and filed to perfection as they were daily by my ladies, looked like the talons of an old buzzard. I would die soon, of that I was certain, maybe not this year or the next, but soon and when I did, these same laughing men and women would turn their backs on the setting sun and swear undying love to the rising one.

  January passed, then February, March and April and still I did not send for Essex. Such was his desperation, he began to get others to argue his case. His sister, Lady Rich, sent me a foolish appeal begging me to think better of my behaviour.
She insulted me by trying to flatter me into changing my mind. My reply was to confine her to her house until further notice. I was not some giddy girl or (worse) some delusional old woman, whose head could be turned by a surfeit of false praise. Not any longer. Essex and his party still had not realised how deadly serious this business had become.

  In May I moved him to his own house, but he remained confined within its perimeters. Those whose job it was to tell me such things (indeed, until recently, they had worked for the very man they now reported on) kept me intimately acquainted with the earl and his moods. His physical health had improved, and he had risen from his bed, but his anguish increased with every passing day. I knew this and yet I felt no pity. My anger at this arrogant young man had become immovable.

  I might have forgiven him for his military failure. Perhaps I could have softened in the face of his petulance and immaturity. What I could not forgive, however, was my sense that he had contemplated betraying me with Tyrone. Worse, I was suddenly aware that, despite his protestations, he did not feel loyalty to his queen and never had. He thought he could rule me through flattery and I had an uncomfortable sense that he had joked about his power over me with his cronies. I had seen the way he turned in triumph to the men who followed him from Ireland all the way to my bedchamber. I had seen how he boasted to them when I appeared to listen to his appeals. I had seen his certainty and I did not like it. I could forgive weakness, foolishness and vanity. I could not forgive contempt.

  Maybe I could even have tolerated his disloyalty if it were not for his popularity with the common people of England and, chillingly, with my soldiers. Now that Essex could no longer control me through flattery he might seek to take power by other means.

  The events I am relating happened only a few years ago, yet at that time I still felt as if the future stretched out before me. I knew I was ageing, but I still felt vigorous and in control. I was not ready to give my throne to anyone. I still refused to name an official heir. Now, it feels as if the events I am relating happened to someone else.