He said that his greatest grief in leaving this world was that he would no longer be able to serve me.
“No queen ever had a more faithful servant,” I assured him. “I have scolded you sometimes, dear Spirit. I have raged against you, have I not? But I never ceased to love you. Nor have I ever been in doubt of your worth.”
I sat in silence by his bed, staring into space. There could be no disguising the fact that he was near his end.
He said: “Robert will serve you well. I have brought him up with this object. He has a sharp and clever mind.”
I nodded. Poor Burghley, he was such a good man and God had ill rewarded him in this life. He had loved his family and looked after them all; and in his care for my well-being he had brought forward his second son, Robert, knowing full well that his first-born, Thomas, who was something of a weakling, lacked the ability to follow in his father's footsteps. I knew I had another treasure in the Elf; but he was not his father. I should never know his like again.
I thought of how I should miss him, for, excellent minister that he was, he was also friend and confidant. We had shared so much—even ailments. He had suffered from his teeth and so had I. Many a pleasant half hour we had spent chatting about our pains. And when he—devoted family man that he was—had lost his daughter some years before, and his wife a year later, it was I who had tried to comfort him.
Life was cruel. His mother had died only a year before his daughter, so that there were three deaths in a row and all were people who were very near and dear to him. He had had trouble enough through his daughter's marriage with Oxford, and I knew full well how often he had wished that marriage had never taken place. But he had great comfort in his grandchildren. Such a good man, I mourned, and such sorrow!
The end was inevitable. I was going to lose another friend, perhaps the most able of them all. I felt lonely and bereft. They were all slipping away from me.
I visited him as frequently as I could while he lingered on, and if a day came when I could not go, I sent one of my ladies to inquire after him, and take affectionate messages and cordials from me.
I felt very very sad and could think of little else but Burghley during those days of waiting for the end.
Why did he have to die? Of course he was in his seventy-sixth year, and that was a goodly age. I remembered all he had done for his country and I doubted England had ever had a more faithful servant. It was so rare to find a man who was excellent in statesmanship and able to enjoy a felicitous family life at the same time. There was not a better husband and father in the land; his grandchildren loved him and his constant thought was for the welfare of his family. Thomas Cecil, the eldest son, must have been a bit of a trial to him because he was wild in his youth, and lacked that fine, keen brain which the younger son, Robert, had inherited. But Burghley with that great good sense, which went side by side with his tenderness toward his family, did not hesitate to bring along Robert, the slightly deformed little Elf whom he was now bequeathing to me. I should honor Robert—not only for his father's sake but for his own. It was typical of Burghley that he should have left me well provided for. We had such a lot in common; his love of music was another of these interests. I was going to be so desolate. I had named him aptly as my Spirit, and I should miss him sorely.
On the day he died his son Robert brought me a letter which his father had written to him. Burghley had been just strong enough to dictate it to his secretary, but he had signed it as well as his swollen hands would allow him “Your languishing Father, Burghley.”
“I pray you diligently and effectually,” the letter ran, “let Her Majesty understand how her singular kindness doth overcome my power to acquit it, who, though she will not be a mother, yet she sheweth herself, by feeding me with her own princely hand, as a careful norice; and if I may be weaned to feed myself, I shall be more ready to serve her on the earth; if not, I hope to be, in heaven, a servitor for her and God's church…”
He had added a postscript:
“Serve God by serving the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the devil.”
I lifted my eyes to Robert Cecil's face. They were filled with tears.
I said: “My grief is as great as yours.”
* * *
HOW I MISSED Leicester at that time! The old days were gone forever. Men were not as they had been. They were a disappointment to me. My men were all leaving me—Hatton, Heneage, my dearest Leicester and now Burghley.
I had Robert Cecil, but then he was not handsome, and I did enjoy having handsome people around me. Essex, it was true, was very attractive in appearance, but so feckless and unreliable that he gave me more pain than joy. He was still sulking in exile. Yet if he had been a little humble, a little contrite, I could have pardoned him.
Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, was a good-looking man and I would have favored him. He was clever and a lover of the arts. He had become the patron of my favorite poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, and I applauded him for this; but he was reckless and arrogant, and did little to win my favor.
I could have had a great interest in him for his chief passion in life was literature; but he was such a wild young man—living among actors and writers of plays in odd corners of London. He was an adventurer of sorts but not the like of Raleigh and Drake. He was a man who wanted to experience life at all levels. He annoyed me because he must have known that I would be interested in him, yet he snapped his fingers at the Court and preferred to consort with his literary friends.
He had become a great friend of Essex; and that was one of the reasons why I watched him with some anxiety. I felt sure that Southampton would be a bad influence on Essex.
For one thing he was said to be fond of his own sex and I heard that he had had many love affairs with men at the Court and outside it, which in itself was enough to make me view his friendship with Essex in some dismay.
Some months previously he had made an unpleasant scene in my Presence Chamber. True, it was after I had gone to bed, but I frowned on such conduct whenever it took place.
Southampton had been playing primero with Raleigh and another gentleman. On my departure the Squire of the Body, Ambrose Willoughby, asked them to stop play, which was the custom after my retirement.
Southampton swaggeringly told him that he had no intention of stopping play until he wished to, at which Willoughby retorted that he would call the guard and forcibly stop the play. Raleigh, who had apparently been winning, pocketed his gains and said he would leave. This infuriated Southampton who shouted after Raleigh that he would remember this against him. Raleigh, who never failed to take a financial advantage, shrugged his shoulders and went off smiling; but Southampton then turned to Willoughby whom he blamed for the whole matter. A fight ensued during which Willoughby got the better of Southampton and pulled out some of his hair.
When I was told of this next morning, I laughed aloud. I complimented Willoughby and made it clear to everyone that I was delighted because Southampton had been taught a lesson.
I suspected that Essex condoled with him. Let him! I thought. Essex was still in exile.
My dislike for Southampton did not diminish when I heard that he had challenged Lord Grey of Wilton to a duel.
Fortunately I heard of this in time and forbade it, sending messages to both Southampton and Wilton telling them that they should reserve their services for me, and not hazard their lives in private quarrels.
I would be glad to be rid of Southampton. I was growing to dislike him more and more. For one thing I found his friendships with other men distasteful. He was constantly with people like Francis Bacon; and they were all friends of Essex. Southampton was always in the center of some quarrel. If he was not challenging someone, he was urging others to do so. One of his friends, Sir Charles Danvers, picked a quarrel with a Hampshire nobleman named Long and killed him. Before Danvers could be brought to justice Southampton smuggled the murderer out of the country.
I was relieved when
Southampton was given a minor post in an embassy in Paris. But while he was away I discovered that one of my ladies, Elizabeth Vernon, had become pregnant. This state of affairs always enraged me, and when I had slapped and pummeled the secret out of the girl, I was appalled to find that the man responsible was Southampton.
I sent her away in disgrace and shortly learned that, hearing of her plight, Southampton had hastened home from Paris and married her.
And all this without asking my permission! They were both sent for a spell in the Fleet Prison. They were not there long, but I did make it clear that Southampton's chances at Court were over.
I had at last decided that Essex should return to Court. I should have been very happy if he had given me an apology, and would most willingly have accepted it; but it seemed that was asking too much of his proud nature.
He did appear at Burghley's funeral. More than five hundred followed the hearse, and Essex, shrouded in a hooded black mourning cloak, was conspicuous among those who came to show their respect to the great statesman. I heard that he had seemed overcome with grief—some cynics suggested that it might be more for his own plight, than for the loss of the man in whose house he had once lived.
After the funeral he had gone to Wanstead House, there to live quietly as he was not received at Court.
If only he would have sent one little word to tell me he was sorry for his really outrageous behavior, I would readily have put it down to the indiscretion of youth. But he did nothing of the sort. He was too proud to admit himself in the wrong.
I thought then: What will become of Essex in the end? He has no greater enemy than himself.
News came that he was very ill at Wanstead. Some said he grieved because of his exclusion from Court. He was arrogant and foolish, but he was still Essex, the one to whom I had looked to soothe the hurt left by the loss of Leicester.
So I gave permission for him to return to Court, and I implied that that unprecedented scene in the chamber when I had boxed his ears, was forgotten.
But such scenes are never forgotten. I would remember that one for as long as I lived; and when he returned, pale and wan, but as arrogant as ever, I found myself longing for Leicester more than ever. It had become clear to me that there was no one who could take his place, and it was folly to pretend there ever could be.
Ireland was as usual in upheaval. We had not sent Sir William Knollys or anyone so far; but someone must go now. I wanted Lord Mountjoy to take the post. In spite of his irregular life with Penelope Rich he was an extremely able and reliable man, and I really believed he might have a chance of succeeding in this very difficult task.
Incredible as it might seem, Essex once more raised objections to this choice.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said. “Mountjoy is not the man. He has no experience of war. He has only a small estate and therefore cannot supply many followers, and he is too interested in literature to make a good soldier.”
I was so angry with him. He did not seem to understand that, although I had allowed him to return to Court, I now regarded him in a different light. I no longer had the same love for him. I was prepared to give it, it was true, because I needed to fill the gap left by Leicester, but I had made a discovery—that great affection comes about naturally and it cannot be forced. Much as I wanted that perfect relationship which had been between myself and Leicester, I now accepted the fact that I could never have it. It was the sort of thing which came once in a lifetime, if one was lucky. It could never happen to me again.
I looked at this brash young man. He was very handsome with that brand of interesting looks which appealed to me. I was sixty-six years of age. Was I going to inspire that romantic love I had had from Leicester? Never! It was over.
I turned on Essex and said: “My Lord Essex, you do not like my choice of a man for Ireland any more than you did before. I can see that you believe Mountjoy not to be worthy of the task. Well, perhaps there is one other who might be chosen.”
I saw the satisfied smile play about his lips. I thought: Yes, Essex. You see me as a foolish, doting old woman. I am in some ways; but there is always my serious self looking on at my folly and never failing to make me aware of it.
“Yes,” I continued. “You, my lord. I have decided to send you to Ireland.”
* * *
HE WAS TAKEN ABACK. It was not what he wanted. He had planned to stay at Court and rule the country through me. To have forgiven him for that humiliating scene seemed to make it certain to him that he could behave as he liked and still come back to favor. I admit it seemed so. He was thinking he had more influence at Court than even Leicester had had.
When he realized he could not evade the appointment, I will say that he set about the adventure with enthusiasm.
He selected his followers with alacrity, and I was interested to see that his stepfather, Christopher Blount, was one he had chosen to go with him. I heard that there was a deep friendship between those two, and that Blount worshipped Essex—as I believe the whole family did. I wondered what the she-wolf thought about losing her husband and her son at one time.
I was interested to hear that Southampton was going with him. Oh well, I thought, that will rid us of that troublesome gentleman for a time.
It was a day in March when he set out for Ireland and when his cavalcade reached Islington there was a great storm and such a downpour of rain that the men had to take cover from it. People shook their heads over this and said it was a sign that the expedition would not be a success.
The prophecy was not far wrong.
Essex had no love for his task once the first enthusiasm had waned. He knew that to bring law and order to a people like the Irish was an impossibility. He made mistakes. He was unsuited to the mission. I wished that I had sent Mountjoy, who was a clever and steady young man, and who would not take an action without first giving serious thought to it.
Essex bestowed honors on those of whom he was fond. He had made his stepfather Marshal of the Army—a ridiculous appointment and one Blount could never have aspired to but for his relationship with Essex. My policy had always been to favor those whom I liked, but only if they were good enough to do the work. But I could not expect such wisdom from Essex.
He sent word to me that he was proposing to make Blount a member of the Council of Ireland. I promptly replied that there should be no such appointment.
As a result Christopher Blount returned to England. His health was not good, said Essex. Whether this was to be construed as petulance on his part or whether it was actually true, I did not know; and, as I had no intention of displaying the slightest interest in Lettice Knollys's husband, except to forbid him to take posts for which he was unsuited, I did not inquire.
Then came the most startling news. Essex had appointed the Earl of Southampton General of Horse, although he must have known that it was an appointment of which I would disapprove. How dared he give command to such a man—one to whom I had shown my dislike! The post should have gone to Lord Grey who was Southampton's superior in military skill in every possible way. Moreover when the appointment was made official, Grey would be serving under Southampton; and in addition to Grey's being the man of superior knowledge, he was also an enemy of Southampton, who had once intended to fight a duel with him—and would have done so if I had not stepped in.
What was Essex thinking of? He cared nothing for the cause. All he wanted to do was honor his friends—and one who was in disgrace at Court and had shown his defiance of me!
I wrote at once forbidding the appointment.
Essex's answer was that it had already been made and could not be rescinded. I heard too that Southampton, no doubt because he was robbed of the presence of Elizabeth Vernon, was becoming very friendly with the most handsome of the men. He shared a tent with a very good-looking young captain—one Piers Edmonds—and, said my informant, Southampton would hug him in his arms and play wantonly with him.
I was horrified. I sent orders to Essex that the command must
be taken from Southampton without delay, and I did this in such authoritative terms that even Essex realized he must obey.
It was not surprising that affairs in Ireland were going badly.
* * *
VERY SOON IT became clear that the appointment of Essex had been a disaster.
He ignored my instructions, which were arrived at with the help of the Council. He would go his own way, which was the wrong one. He was defeated everywhere. His excuses were that there was sickness in the army before the battle commenced, or that the weather had been against him.
Why wasn't action taken when the army was in better state? I demanded. And why was the campaign started at the approach of winter? Why had not July or August been chosen? It seemed that none of the seasons of the year had been considered favorable. A messenger arrived to tell me that Essex had been parleying with Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, after having come face to face with him at Ardee in Louth where Essex did not attack, his forces being so few in number compared with those of Tyrone. He should have known that it was Tyrone's custom to make agreements that he might break them when it suited him to do so. In any case, Essex had no right to make agreements without first receiving instructions from England.
That infuriated me. Essex was hopeless. There were some who were suggesting that he was serving the Irish better than the English, and that was tantamount to saying that he was a traitor.
It was Michaelmas time and I was at the Palace of Nonesuch. I had risen from my bed and was seated at my dressing table while my ladies were gathered about me ready to assist at my dressing.
I yawned for I was still sleepy. My hair, quite white now, hung about my face in disorder. I was sitting there in my bedgown when the door burst open and a man—muddied from a long ride, disheveled and his clothes awry—came bursting into the apartment. At first I thought he was an assassin—and then I recognized him.
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