The Girl in the Mirror

by Sarah Gristwood

  After the doctor and his associates were arraigned and sentenced, the little tailor took some comfort in the fact that the queen couldn’t bring herself to sign the death warrant at once.

  ‘She knows it’s wrong, she’ll let them out eventually.’

  ‘She knew it was wrong with her cousin, the Scots queen, but she still signed. Eventually –’ Jacob imitated the little tailor. ‘She’s the queen, isn’t she?’

  When the news came that she had signed, he grew ever more gloomy. Lopez was to be tried and hanged, he said, on Tyburn tree. It was from the streets that I heard the full story.

  ‘Hanged all right, but not till he’s dead, or not unless he’s very lucky. Then they’ll cut him down alive and hack off his privities, and slit open his belly and pull his guts out before his eyes.’ One lad with a lazy eye seemed to know all about it. ‘Sometimes, if they like him, the crowd yell to the executioners to leave it, to let the man die first, at the end of the rope, but they won’t do that for a Christ-killer, you’ll see.’

  ‘Anyway,’ another boy chimed in, ‘they say Jews are built differently.’

  The night before, Jacob told me he was going to watch. ‘I have to, the Lord knows why. Somewhere in that howling crowd, there has to be a friendly eye. But you’re to stay home – do you hear me?’

  I nodded, my eyes fixed on my plate. In the last weeks, the dream had been coming back to me. It wasn’t of the knife, or the hilt in the belly, not precisely. It was the running, and the knowing that I couldn’t run fast enough, and that they were going to die because of me. The next morning, I pretended to be asleep as I heard Jacob leave. In his absence I tidied his desk, and cleaned out his inkwell. I was going to sharpen him some quills, but the knife disturbed me. Instead I set myself to copying the various pages of figures he had left me – for I helped him in his paid work by now – and tried not to count the time passing slowly. In the end, the suspense got to me – and the curiosity. I had to know. I had to see.

  I left the house as quietly as a mouse leaves its hole with a cat there to pounce and, slipping surreptitiously from corner to corner, made my way towards Newgate, where the Holborn road leads west. It was one of those days, again, when everything seemed to move slowly. When each familiar sight of the streets struck me with unusual clarity. I suppose everyone in London can’t really have gone to see the sight, but that’s how it felt to me. As though I were a ghost – one of those spectres they used to paint for the casting down into Hell, mouth ever open in a silent scream – moving through an empty city. I saw Master de l’Obel, his face full of distress, but he did not see me.

  Past the looming bulk of Ely Place, past the great chains across the road, to seal the way to the City when necessary, and soon I was in open country. In this dank weather the fields were just a sludgy mass of brown, cold and uninviting. Starting out so late, I was far behind the mass of the crowd, but the state of the track showed how many had gone before me.

  I hadn’t realised it was such a distance. I’d been hurrying my steps, to try to catch up, and I’m not sure what it was that halted me. Maybe the smell brought back on the wind, or the sick low roar of the people pressing westwards ahead of me. I don’t really know what it was – the fire must have smelled like any other, even if they had lit it to burn the doctor’s privates, and the crowd was noisier for the football match every Accession Day. Maybe, as I started to find myself among squabbling families, and carts full of people as cheery as on market day, it was the look I saw on the faces of those others who were flocking that way.

  In the end I never even reached Tyburn. Just as well, maybe. I heard later that Dr Lopez died shouting out that he loved her majesty better than Christ, and that one of the men who died with him tried to fight off the executioner, and they had to hold him down to slash his belly open. Up until now, I’d only half understood things Jacob tried to teach me – about quarrel, and dispute, and the passion of belief. About how it made men do things in God’s name that in fact the Creator would weep to see. I hadn’t understood why – when Mrs Allen nagged him into getting me ordinary school books – he’d snatched the discourse on rhetoric back at once, having caught me showing off for her admiring eyes, imitating the kind of rhetoric class real schoolboys had every day. At the time, I felt reproved for my vanity, but later I came to understand more clearly what Jacob had muttered under his breath about convincing and convicting, and about the wrong-headedness of teaching children that the important thing in the world was to prove their point, however blunted it might be.

  Now I did understand, as I saw citizens’ kindly faces alight with a brutal glee. I stood there in the muddy track for a moment, cursing myself for folly. Then I turned back, and half ran towards the familiar streets. At the empty house I bent over the desk, trying to ignore the chill sickness inside, and took care not to look up when Jacob returned, his tread slower and heavier than when he had gone away.

  I had other things to concern me, as I grew older. In my mind and in Jacob’s I was a boy, but my growing body heard a different story. Quietly, as she sat with our mending by the fire, Mrs Allen had made sure I’d know what I needed to know, though always imparting her information with the casual air of one who is talking for the sake of it. Never as if these were things that I might need to know personally. By the time I first bled I knew what to expect, though the pain like a knife grinding in my belly brought the dreams worse than usual, and I was glad that I did not bleed frequently. And that my shape stayed thin and unformed – slim enough in a stripling, but what in a girl you might have called scrawny.

  Autumn 1595, Accession Day

  Sometimes, when Jacob was out, I’d slip on my cloak and go down to the Thames, and wish the waters could take me … somewhere. To some other destiny. I heard Mrs Allen telling Jacob, in that comfortable way, that all young people were sometimes as wild as March hares, and I suppose it was true.

  If I’d been of another disposition, it might have taken me to the bear-baitings, or the executions. If I’d been a proper girl it might have taken me to a boy’s arms. If I’d really been that boy, it might have taken me to the stews. As it was, it took me towards the court, for the jousts on Accession Day. Ascension Day, I almost said, when in the days of the old faith they celebrated the Virgin Mary. But now the altars and the blue robed, sweet-faced statues were gone. We celebrated another virgin queen, and after more than three and a half decades on the throne, in truth she seemed as much a fixture in the sky.

  The tiltyard lay to the northwards of most of the palace buildings, though close enough that you could see its yawning doorways, close enough you could feel the beast’s hot breath down your neck. Close enough that the turrets and pennants loom like a fairy-tale castle. Other children heard fairy tales as something delightful, sweet as sugar comfits, but to me they were always frightening, with their world of things that were not as they seemed, of unknown possibilities. I knew you went to the tilt-yard not just for the fights, but for the masques and pageants and stories they used to dress up the fact that times had changed, and knights no longer really fought each other with spear-tipped poles under codes of chivalry. I was scathing of all that; the very young feel scathing easily.

  This – I told myself, as I jostled along with the crowd trying to get in at the gates, squeezed by a merchant’s wife with a picnic basket on one side, and on the other by a courting couple who couldn’t even keep their hands off each other until they found a seat – was modern London, where you could buy anything from a Spanish orange tree to a copy of an Italian play, where every householder had by law to hang a light outside, so that the night streets were almost bright like day. Where the queen’s own godson had invented a flushing jakes, so that after you’d evacuated, a stream of water carried your filth away … But it was good, just for the moment, to be swept along with the crowd. To smell the damp sand of the arena, and the farmyard aroma of the horse lines, where the chargers were shitting with eagerness and fear.

  The only place I
could get was high up in the grandstand, so that what was going on below had an air of unreality, like something seen at the play. But I was happy enough to gaze down at the courtiers who were coming in last of all, to the seats beside the arena, furred and cloaked against the November air. Mulberry and tawny, sulphur yellow and ox-blood red, their very velvets seemed to warm the day.

  At one end, the royal gallery still stood empty, fluttering with silks in the Tudor colours, green and white. The crowds were beginning to cheer some arrivals – clearly well-known personalities. The man beside me, a burgher as broad as he was tall, could see my ignorance, and was only too happy to enlighten me.

  ‘That’s Ralegh,’ he said, ‘see, the tall one? That’s the queen’s cousin, well, kinsman, Lord Howard the Lord Admiral, with the white beard. Look, that’s Master Cecil, Lord Burghley’s son – I daresay the old man will stay away, I doubt he’s got much taste now for a tourney. But Robert Cecil, he’s a rising man – and a sharp one, they say.’ There were no cheers for Robert Cecil, I noticed. In fact there were even some jeers as he took his place. He was a small man, I saw, and almost twisted – hunch-backed? – in some way, though for all that he managed his slight dark figure gracefully.

  ‘Ah,’ my neighbour said on a grunt of satisfaction, ‘here she comes, the queen’s majesty.’ Now there really was cheering. I peered downwards, hungrily. I hadn’t expected to make anything out, but as the stiff tiny mannequin advanced to show herself, I found I could see quite clearly. See where the blaze of jewels caught the winter sunlight, see the bright red fringe of curls around the white oval of her face. Around her clustered the young maids of honour, with one or two older ladies.

  Jacob and his friends, talking of an evening, had nothing but contempt for the court – a nest of carrion crows grown fat, they said, of maggots feasting on decay. But even they would hush their wives when any of the talk – ‘Of course it’s a wig. My sister’s husband’s a perruquier, and he says she’s bald as an egg underneath!’ – came close to touching the queen’s dignity.

  ‘She may have her vanities as a woman,’ they’d say, ‘and why shouldn’t she? But she’s given us close on four decades of quiet – aye, I know things haven’t been so good this last year or two, but she can’t help the weather and the harvest, can she? Just look across the Channel if you want to see how bad things could be.’ And then they’d break off, with a sidelong glance at Jacob, and at me.

  Something was happening, down in the lists. A herald on horseback, dressed in red and white, had trotted into the arena, and was making the circuit of its brightly painted wooden walls with something in his hand held high.

  ‘It’s a glove – they always do it,’ said my knowledgeable neighbour. ‘They put word out that Lord Essex would be sending early, to get a gage to show he rides in honour of her majesty.’ Indeed, the jewelled figure at the window of the royal gallery was holding up her hand, to acknowledge the tribute graciously. But the play wasn’t over, so it seemed. As the herald left, a good-looking youth in the same bold colours took his place in the arena, and looked around until he could be sure he had all eyes. He struck a pose, and began to declaim, though high up as we were the wind whipped his words away.

  Three figures followed him, and knelt at his feet, in dumb show asking him to choose between them. The first, a soldier, was tall and armoured. It could have been anyone. It could have been Ralegh. The second drew a ripple of laughter from the crowd. It was barefoot in a hermit’s robe, but my neighbour hissed in my ear that the long beard and the staff were those of Lord Burghley. The laughter grew louder as the third figure, in a statesman’s dark clothes and waving documents of policy, leant sideways to hump one shoulder high in the air. I couldn’t make out Robert Cecil’s face, but he seemed to be bearing it quietly.

  As the actors took their bows, to roars of approval, my eye was drawn to the end of the lists. A knight was watching there, in red-and-white livery. ‘The colours of love,’ said my knowledgeable neighbour and I stared – I wouldn’t have put him down as a man for heraldry – until I saw he had a printed bill, like they might hand out for a play.

  The knight’s helmet was still off; I could see his hair and beard were tawny, and that his face was turned not towards the players but to the queen’s majesty. As the actors left the lists, he bowed his head to let the squire put on the metal headpiece, and snapped the visor down. Both knights were ready, their great heavy lances resting on the ground, waiting for the sign. It was the queen who gave it – an arm held up, a glove fluttering down, and the slow thunder of the horses’ hooves making the ground groan in sympathy.

  It was Essex’s opponent who fell, and a great sigh went up from the crowd; I knew men were running in from the sides, and that he wasn’t hurt, or not seriously. But my eyes, now, were on the royal gallery. I was too far away to see properly, but in my mind’s eye I saw the tiny figure tense, the hand clench on the window frame as the great metal spikes steadied to hit home. I knew now what I’d come for, and I’d found it in the queen’s majesty.

  ‘Something more than a man – and something less than a woman,’ Lord Burghley had quipped, famously. Something else, at any rate. Something else, like me.

  But I’d learnt another lesson, and one I put aside, uneasily. The queen watching Lord Essex was like Mrs Allen, waiting for a letter from her son, on business across the sea. Or Kate down the street, watching her man clambering drunk into the wrestling ring on fair day. Hopeful and fearful, proud and angry. A woman, for all she was queen, and statesman, and old, and majesty.

  Cecil

  Autumn 1595, Accession Day

  I’ll laugh about it later with Lizzie. I hold on to the thought of her forthright face, I imagine what Lizzie would say if she were here. Lizzie will say anything to anybody – ask her how much she paid for her gown, and she’ll answer you honestly. When I first saw her at court, I asked my cousin to find out whether my disability revolted her, before I asked if she would marry me. She reminds me of it – regularly – and every time she does, I could swear the twist in my shoulders grows slightly less. I know a little of the ache goes away. She says she married a man, not a set of muscles. If she were here, what would she say?

  I do not say, my time will come. I see a future with Lord Essex riding high: I see a future without Lord Essex in it. I plan for all contingencies: that is what my father taught me. If my father were here, if he’d been well enough today, he would be brushing off the mockery as though it were no more than a few drops of rain on his miniver collar. When we meet in the hall tonight he may speak of it, but only if there is need.

  He may say, it’s good that Essex is going too far, the queen doesn’t like her officers mocked too publicly. He may say, one of our men in place should be told to feed his lordship’s vanity. Or he may wear that disapproving look, that puffs out the pouches under his eyes and makes his years hang heavy, and say that we should damp down all comment, a period of quiet would be good for the country.

  On the whole he is unlikely to say anything: as he grows older and his hand starts to shake, he assumes everyone will agree with him and I do, actually. How would I not, when he trained me so thoroughly? The one thing he is certain not to say is, Don’t let it hurt you. Flattery is for fools, vanity is for women, that’s what he’d say.

  Thank God for Lizzie.

  My ruff feels too tight around my neck but I know better than to lift a hand to ease it. There are too many eyes on me, watching for the least sign of discomfiture. I can see Southampton grinning spitefully. I remember him as a child, always trying to keep up with the older boys. I can see Francis Bacon, his profile turned away from me. He’s never forgiven us for that business over the Attorney General’s office, he’s linked his fortune to Essex’s chariot wheels, and it will be like the clever fool he is if he gets dragged the wrong way. But he won’t entirely be enjoying this – the same blood runs in the veins of both our mothers; at rock bottom we are family.

  In the convoluted world of th
e court, there may even be some who believed we Cecils had a hand in writing Essex’s little story. My father has been painting himself as a hermit for years, asking leave to retire and tend his garden. And one thing we all learn at court, a veil of enmity can cloak allies as easily as a show of friendship cloaks enmity. They may think I have the subtlety, or the courage, to make fun of my own misshapen form, to consider the sting was a price worth paying to have made the queen laugh out loud.

  I should be flattered by their thoughts, probably.

  Essex himself is riding around the ring, that victor’s lap of honour where they hold the horse’s pace down so its oiled hooves flick up the dust contemptuously. As he passes he looks at me with a hot urgent eye. It was always that way, ever since he was young, one of the aristocratic orphans, like Southampton, raised in my father’s house. He’d do something outrageous, and then he’d come to peer at you, in his tall gangling way, looking for – what? Shock? Approval? Envy? Reassurance that you’d forgive him, come what may?

  Perhaps now it is my jealousy he wants, for me to acknowledge that my feeble arm could never even bear the weight of his lance, so I give it to him, dipping my head a little and smiling slightly, like a fencer courteously acknowledging a hit.

  Smiling is easy: my father always taught me to praise in public, and criticise secretly. Sweetness is easy: it is easy, actually, as I look at Essex, but why? Absurd, irrational, but there is something in the sight of that tall, trotting figure that melts some of the sore frozen core in me.

  Perhaps that is something I will not say to Lizzie.

  Jeanne

  Winter 1595–96

  Around Christmas Mrs Allen’s cousin, the theatre man, sent word he wanted to see her. They’d been given a gift of clothes from some grand lady that needed altering to make players’ costumes, and she was clever that way. She took me along to help carry the bundles, and I went with more than usual alacrity. I was feeling restless since that day at the tourney – as if my little hole in the wainscot were no longer enough for me. It was not to the theatre we were to go today, but to the great lady’s house in Chelsea. The troupe had been hired to put on several shows during the festivities. It was the first time I’d actually been inside such a place and I looked around, wide-eyed, as we stepped inside the high, red-brick walls, welcoming but imposing too. When we mentioned the players, the porter nodded us through, albeit grudgingly.