Death of the Fox

by George Garrett

  And should the time come to die, now or the next night, this young man in white silk will die for the man in the bed. For how can a bright flower, which has known nothing of the world save the glory of itself, fear the cold cutting edge of the scythe?

  In safety, in comfort, and (sweetly, sadly) in love, the king should be asleep. He must go hunting at daylight. Which is why he has come here to Theobalds in Hertfordshire. He is weary from the tedious weight of affairs at Whitehall. And his body is sore from the tooth-rattling trip by coach to the country. He should be sleeping like any common workman. He has supped late and well. And afterwards he sat in the privy chamber in the company of well-favored young men and drank deep of one of his favorite Greek wines, thick and sweet, and strong enough to stun the brain like a cudgel blow. Indeed one young English courtier, a mere lad, matched the king sip and swallow until his eyes rolled up and his legs turned twigs and he lay on the floor, snuffling and snoring like a hound bitch.

  The king laughed and drank more, and the talk was easy, of hunting and horses and dogs, until at last he found himself yawning royally, yawns worthy of a contented, well-fed lion.

  To bed then, but not to sleep. Since bidding good night to the last and most favored young man, he has remained propped up by pillows, reading from the Bible. He has been preparing a book of meditations upon the Lord’s Prayer. So much to study and to weigh, and so little time for meditation. But tonight his eyes did not serve him well. The printed text seemed to fade away as he pondered it. Words in a foreign language. And even if he had been able to steel himself to reading the words one by one, he felt too weary to gloss the simplest text.

  Meditation failed him. Thinking of the Kingdom of Heaven he thought once again of the mysteries of kingship and was lost in riddles and contrary paths.

  Nevertheless he continues to hold the Bible in both hands, would seem to be reading though he clutches the book as a child in a strange bed clutches a familiar doll.

  Since he cannot sleep and cannot let his mind run free like a hoop or a loose carriage wheel, he can try to think on something pleasant.

  He can think of the coming morning, the feel of the saddle, where he is most at ease and, for once, the equal of any man alive. Can think on the prospect of hunting, tame here at Theobalds, but offering good hawking and fat deer in plenty. He can hunt here, two hours by horseback from the hurly-burly, can enjoy the pleasures of Theobalds, yet follow events and affairs at London and Westminster. And can think more clearly thanks to the distance from clamor and distractions.

  He knows the events and affairs of both London and Westminster for the next few days, as well as if he had authored them himself. Knows all that in likelihood can happen, come good or bad weather, inevitable and irrevocable except the Lord shall decide to declare for His Last Judgment.

  Why think of the future then?

  More pleasure in this present moment. And most solace in the present for remembering. Here he comes often to restore himself and his spirits, to this place which delighted him from the beginning and can delight him only more because of memories.

  The brightest of which remains clear and pure to this time.

  A warm day in early May of ’03, a month after he had bade his Scottish people farewell and begun his journey to accept the crown of a new kingdom, to see England for the first time. Crossed over at Berwick, leaving the sharp weathers of Scotland behind, advancing, grandly, leisurely, into and against the current of an English springtime. Slowly swimming against a tide of new and fresh blossoming, of clean air scented by multitudes of flowers, now rain-rinsed, now bright blue and breezy, ever warmer and alive with bells and chimes of birdsong.

  In pomp and ceremony welcomed and entertained in each shire and in all the manor houses, each to his eyes a palace and more splendid than the last. A strange dream likely to vanish, at the rubbing of his eyes. To wake to such a dream, beyond even his long daydreaming, anxious years of waiting and uncertainty, made all of that past time become a delusive dream and this future the only truth. As if scales had fallen from his eyes. As if he had suffered long only to be at one touch restored and reborn.

  Did the lepers our Lord healed remember the horror of their sores when flesh was clear and clean as a maid’s? Did the halt and the lame, delighting in the dance, recall the bitter bondage of shriveled limbs? If so, did they doubt the wonder of newness, fear that it was false and would fade?

  James feared that, out of long habit and custom, but he had come to live with his fears as a man lives with old scars. Come to acknowledge, then, that sometimes the slight tremor of fearing and doubting adds spice to the wine of astonished pleasure. And he could banish the past, its pains and fears, with a shrug.

  Still nothing in all that wondrous first month prepared him for the day, beginning at Brockebourne when he and his retinue were greeted by Howard, Lord Admiral, by Ellesmere, Lord Keeper, and Dorset, Lord Treasurer, and all their men. These all joined his company. And bravely escorted by Edward Denny, sheriff of Essex, and his company of a hundred and fifty men, clad in yellow and red, they set out upon the journey, a few short miles, to Theobalds, home of the man who would serve him, well or ill, as his chief counselor. He had already met and talked with Sir Robert Cecil at York. And long before that knew him from secret correspondence, from the reports of his special ambassadors and from private intelligencers. Knew him, however different in body and aspect, however young and untried he might be, to be his father’s chosen son, cast in mind and mold after the model of the father, Lord Burghley. Had known Burghley as well as the celebrated discretion of Burghley would permit.

  The King had spent three days, over the feast of Easter Sunday, at Burghley House, entertained there by the elder brother, Thomas Cecil. From its order and beauty and grandeur, he had conceived a picture of what he would find at Theobalds. Old Burghley had spent twenty-four years and incredible sums of money building the house as a fitting place to entertain his Queen.

  Therefore King James expected a fine manor house, perhaps a little finer than any he had seen, commodious and graceful and well ordered. Ample enough to have offered comfort for the Queen and all her Court upon a progress.

  Yet though each step southward had been a surprise just beyond the limits of imagining and anticipation, still and all, he was not ready for Theobalds.

  Facing northward, a splendid prospect of brickwork and shimmering glass, upon a hill overseeing the road to and from London, the house was enormous in the earliest afternoon sun.

  From that highway to London rose a smoke of dust. Crowds of Londoners, on foot and by horseback, had come out from the city to press around for a view of the King. Cecil, anticipating this pilgrimage and knowing the King’s dread of close crowds, had provided a new road for this occasion, a circuitous diversion from the route, leading around and about the grounds before meeting the broad avenue, itself finer than any highway, which led, straight and wide, bordered and dappled with the shade of ash and elm trees, toward a magnificent gateway.

  Up the avenue the company came with heralds sounding trumpets. And through the ornamented gateway entered into the forecourt of the house. There the stone and brickwork and the glass of the three-story façade loomed over them, suddenly much larger than it had been in the distance. Four square towers, evenly spaced and balanced; each with four turrets upon which gold lion weather vanes glittered to mark the turnings of whimsical breezes. Four large square towers and twenty-four towerets. And at the center of all, the entrance and a broad sweep of stairs below it, was an enormous turret made to resemble the shape of a lantern and hung with twelve bells, each of a different size and pitch and tone, which, by a cunning mechanical contrivance, tolled the hours of the day. Mullioned windows of the best glass, swelling outward, as large as sails bulged with wind, from great bays. High up, along cornice and line of roof, were patterns of surprising pleasure, obelisks and pendants. And highest of all, groupings of slender, round chimneys, contrived to look like the columns of ancient times.<
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  With that glowing, sunlit fantasy behind him, Sir Robert Cecil stood waiting to welcome him, with other members of the Council and Court, all attired in a blaze of colors, dressed in richest and most fragile of silks, satins, taffetas, velvet and laces. Each pair of doublet and hose, each loose-slung decorative cloak or delicate jerkin being worthy of the wardrobe of an Oriental potentate. They seemed for an instant as if they were wearing the English springtime.

  From within came a noise of solemn music, and, after obeisance and greetings, the King was escorted inside to dine in state. To dine upon such dainties, first to last, as he had never before tasted. Using plate, the finest in England, it was said, for old Burghley knew and loved good plate. To use, for the first time, slender Italian forks of gold—if it pleased him to. To drink wines from silver or gold or agate or crystal.

  And this for a King whose entire stock of plate had once been valued at one hundred pounds.

  But to dine is to dine. Once full and finished, the pleasures vanish as the melting of snow. More than the elegance of dinner, he marveled at the hall where they sat. For pillars around the hall, there were carved stone trees, each clad in real bark with branches, limbs, and leaves of the season artfully placed. So like trees that birds made nests there.

  In the midst of the hall a fountain tossed its jet almost to the ceiling. From a motley base of precious stones of every color and shade, the fountain, now purest water, now red or white wine, leapt improbably for heaven, danced at the peak of desire, then fell away to be caught in a stone basin held by two savage men made of rough stone.

  And looking upward to the delicate plasterwork of the ceiling, puffed like shapes of clouds around an imaginary sky. A sky with the planets and chief stars there and the signs of the zodiac. Glowing with light and moving, precisely mysterious, in strict accordance with the movement of the heavens. At night they shone brightly and the moon rose and glowed. By day they glittered dim and faint, as the burning sun followed its appointed path.

  Amid the plasterwork were set stones of divers sizes, painted and gilded with many colors so as to seize and return the light of tapers and candles.

  After dinner, upon his request, he was led on a tour of the house. Through five inner courtyards with fountains playing water dances. With suites of rooms and chambers and cloisters leading from one to another against the weather. Then inside through a labyrinth of rooms and suites and formal chambers. The walls, every inch it seemed, covered with tapestries, velvet curtains, hanging pictures and portraits, curtained with stuff so delicate it could have served as veil for a queen. In the halls, large or small, were murals, brilliant on the walls; a map of England showing every shire and town worth naming, upon which were set out the trees of the leading families together with the heraldic devices of the nobility; the Kings of England, their battles and triumphs, a picture history of the land; views of the principal cities of the world.

  Led finally to the wonder of the gallery, walled outside, it seemed, with glass, and so long a man could practice archery with a longbow there if he pleased. Upon the walls were depicted in glory all the kings and rulers of Christendom in appropriate costumes, together with scenes of the history and customs of other lands.

  For furniture there were covered chairs, well padded; a crowd of clocks, no two alike, all so exact as to chime together like a choir. Tables and cabinets of rare woods, elaborately worked and carved and decorated. Some covered with turkey carpets. Others left bare to show inlays of many-colored marbles and rare stones. Tall cabinets with shelves of drawers open for the viewing of coins and jewels and curiosities of fantastic virtuosity, wrought by the most crafty artisans of silver and gold, decorated by every kind and form of jewel.

  And everywhere, throughout the gallery and the mansion, the warm steady glowing of old Burghley’s plate. Sufficient to require the entire Spanish flota to move it.

  Outside the gardens and parks were as much a waking fantasy as the house. To the east a garden where, by tender care, oranges and lemons and other fruit trees, strange to the country and climate, grew. To the south the garden contrived by Burghley for pleasure and surprise and executed with all the skill famous herbalists could bring to the task. Encompassed by water, as by a moat, deep and wide enough to float a rowing barge, the garden was many mazes and paths, some graveled, some planted with herbs for scent at the crush of every step, fountains, some silver, some stone, hidden jets d’eau to play jests with the ladies, and with troughs and pools for all kinds of fish. So extensive, a man could walk two miles without retracing a step or reviewing the same vista.

  Deep in the garden stood a stone pavilion, the banquet house. Where guests could gather around an enormous table, all one piece of black basalt, and dine while hidden musicians played. Or, should it strike their fancy, climb to an upper chamber to bathe and float like the fish in the garden, in huge leaden vats of pure rainwater.

  To think upon that, floating in water on a warm May evening, then when his kingdom was new and the world renewed, should be weightless enough to let a man, even a king, fall into a sleep. To go to sleep remembering the fulfillment of dreams should be assurance against the shudders and sorrows of nightmares.

  This is his house now. He had given his heart to that day’s fantasy of stone and brick, gold and silver, timber and plaster, trees, herbs, and flowers. He wanted all that, which dazzled and humbled him, for his own.

  Which was not a difficult trick to turn. Cecil was eager to please. And the King was beholden to him for the ease of his accession. Something could be arranged. If Burghley spent a fortune building Theobalds, it would require more to maintain it. Demanding more than Robert Cecil had or could honestly expect to gain. And soon the King learned that Cecil was on close rations, having saddled himself with a burden of debts at large interest in a dozen scattered ventures. Though it would be less than wise to free Cecil completely from his burden, it might be prudent to ease his mind somewhat, if only to free him to practice a more devoted service.

  In return for the old seat of Hatfields and for all the lands and leases, upon which Cecil could promptly begin to rebuild his fortune, Cecil gave Theobalds to King James in 1607.

  Since then it has been both his pleasure and his refuge from many sad misfortunes and vexing troubles.

  Still, in the memory of pleasure the King cannot find the keys to sleep.

  He blames it upon the supper he wolfed after his uncomfortable journey. Coaches are becoming the fashion, but none of the roads of this realm are made for them. As soon as he had gained possession of Theobalds, he set pioneers to mending and repairing the highway from London. So the King could follow his preferred route from Whitehall—through the Strand, up Drury Lane into Holborn, Kingsgate Street, and at last upon the road now called Theobalds Road. The road mended to Theobalds and later on beyond to Royston, Newmarket, and soon, he hopes, all the way to Thetford. As decent a stretch of road as lies in the kingdom. Yet, still, not made for coach or carriage. Or, to place the fault squarely, neither coach nor carriage is contrived for comfort of travel. He prefers horseback, yet cannot ride without attracting crowds all along the way. They cackle like corbies, and some always manage to slip past guards to kneel by his stirrups and press a suit or plea or, worse by far, to touch him. Lousy, diseased, ragged lunatic fools. Not one to be trusted. Any rogue who can touch his boot with a hand can easily find his heart with a bare blade.

  James chooses the safety of a coach with curtains drawn and horsemen close around. Even then the rabble cheers and yells and presses forward. But if the coachman does not spare the whip, the King rolls by and feeds them dust. Small matter if he must rattle like a dry pea in a pod.

  He blames the late Queen for this trouble with the rabble. For her own reasons that woman was ever on display. She permitted them, those who could press close enough, to offer gifts, to kneel and tender petitions. And she did not discourage the old belief that she might heal, cure them with a Sovereign Touch. Indeed, in her great age, in the
last years, she seemed eager for these encounters. To what good purpose? The risks were grave. Perhaps it was all female vanity, which is boundless beyond measuring, deeper than the ocean and higher than clouds.

  No, the old Queen never doubted or denied the truth of her divinity, a truth so certain to her that she need not speak of it. Moved easy among her subjects, enjoying their love while it lasted. And they in ignorance, an ignorance now doubled by false memory, never began to surmise that which is most clear to the King: that the truth of her common humanity, of her flesh and blood, was no more than a dream to her until death awoke and claimed her, stunned her into silence.

  God knows and so does any man who will trouble to look upon her tomb or her wax effigy in the Abbey of Westminster or any of her other monuments or portraits she was not beautiful. Oh, she could wear beauty, face a mask of powders and unguents and false colors, hair a wig, clothing so extraordinary and bejeweled that an angel would consider the sin of pride before donning such light-riddled robes. And no doubt this playacting diverted the multitudes, though it cannot have deceived them much. Still, what value, what gain in the pleasure and diversion of that beast with many heads—the crowd? To her, perhaps, a sense of being loved. Most beloved Queen … Yet even a vain old woman must know that the affection and approval of the crowd are dearly bought and brief as the moment of a spark. Are more fickle than ever Fortune and more changing than winds and weathers. Those who clapped their hands raw and called God’s blessing for her in the morning might, between dinner and supper, come to applaud and cheer to see her wrinkled head upon the end of a pike.

  To buy the mob’s love is to invest it with value. To strike a bargain. To imply that the negative power of hatred or even the absence of love, simple indifference are unacceptable to a prince, are therefore a threat to the prince. Which seed, planted in the minds of the thoughtless and unthinking, can ripen to make them overbold. And in good minds, not blinded out of thought by childish shows, would be an offense. For they would know her aim to be deception. And thus if her desire were for popularity, it was ordained to be frustrated.