The circumstances of his clemency could not please the English. It was not fitting for the King to make a scaffold into a theater stage. His mercy was humiliating to those who received it. He gave them their lives but at the price of shame.
The trials and executions at Winchester went badly for the King—in many ways. Men of England, many courtiers and gentlemen, went their ways full of doubts, wondering if the King would ever learn to rule wisely and well.
No show, no spectacle for Ralegh. He, with the others, was transported to the Tower of London, to remain there at the King’s pleasure. Which could be brief or forever. Which might, one day, be a full or limited pardon, or none at all.
Ralegh lived in the Tower for nearly fourteen years and is again confined there. But he has been fortunate.
No luck for Cobham. Having performed a service of self-humiliation, dragging Ralegh into the center of the stage with him, Cobham was duly repaid. His life was spared. As no doubt he had been promised. But Cobham’s life was of no value to anyone but himself. His estate was plucked, cleaned, and gutted like a fat goose. When a cloud of legal words and the dust of documents cleared, it was plain that the principal beneficiary of Cobham’s holdings was his brother-in-law—Cecil.
After some time in the Tower, modestly maintained by the King and harmless as a eunuch, Cobham was given freedom. Freedom to starve. The King was spared the price of maintaining a prisoner. Cobham set free to live until he died, half crazy and as lousy as a Scottish knight, in a hovel not much better than a farmer’s pigpen. Climbed a rickety ladder to sleep in foul straw in a loft. In the Tower, at least, poor Cobham slept on a pallet. Someone, Cecil perhaps, may have wished to prove to Cobham the wisdom of an old saying—He that lives in Court dies upon straw.
The others were gone, too. Markham got his fill of poverty in banishment from England. Pawned the jewels on the hilt of his sword for food, but wisely kept the sword and hired out as a soldier on the Continent. He has vanished now, dead in some inconsequential skirmish or tavern brawl among strangers. Lord Grey died in the Tower in 1614. Of an illness, they said, though as time went along in this reign, people wondered if any man would die of a natural sickness.
And now Pigmy Cecil is dead and gone, too, after a long and lingering illness. His body hardly cooled and stiffened before the world he had hated and had known so well turned hatred on him, heaping ridicule in satire and slander, from those who had once brought him bribes in both hands and repeated a litany of flattery.
From the Tower Ralegh joined the yapping chorus at Cecil’s death, writing a satirical epitaph in the classical style.
Here lies Hobinall, our Pastor while ere,
That once in a Quarter our Fleeces did share …
But he had earned the right to anger and scorn, owing less than nothing to Cecil, except, perhaps, his fall.
Cecil’s cousin, Francis Bacon, was more cruel by far in his little essay “On Deformity,” published after Cecil was safely dead. Some wisdom there. But Ralegh has lived long enough to see the flaw in Bacon’s judgment of the man. Francis Bacon has somehow managed to forget that, ever since Adam fell, all men are deformed, to one degree or another. Though a man may be wonderfully cured of one deformity, yet the cure creates another.…
Why think of little Cecil now? God knows they are almost all gone now, good and evil, the men of the last age. They burned brief like summer’s fireflies, and now their only light is recollected, borrowed. They live in flickering memories and for a little time. Soon they will be memories of memories, men caught between mirrors on both sides, all deformed, parceled out in a riddle of counterfeit images.
If they care, the best they can hope for is a yawning of unborn children at the mention of their names.
Perhaps Cecil has the last word, after all, having left his own laughter behind in a surprising answer to his fair-weather friends, freed by his death to announce themselves as enemies.
It is his tomb I think of; with his tomb he haunts us still.
Do not look for him with his blood kin and family—father, mother, wife—whose bones rest in the Abbey of Westminster. He chose not to accept that honor. Must have known and accepted, though acceptance cost him a gnashing of teeth, that the sum of his honor would die with him. Dead, his honor would be stripped by fools whose only power and accomplishment was to live on after him. What value in brass or plaque, another tomb among the honored dead of the Abbey?
Look for Robert Cecil in the parish church near Hatfields. Find his astonishing tomb there. Wrought as he wished by Maximillian Colt, his own man, brought out of Arras and Utrecht, pensioned and patronized by Cecil for, perhaps, that one purpose alone, the creation of his tomb. For nowhere else has Colt, or anyone, done a piece of work like that one.
Calm and pale, in whitest marble, the First Earl of Salisbury rests upon a starkly plain black marble bier. There are neither columns nor canopy. At the four corners, kneeling, in classical robes but bare- and high-breasted are the Four Virtues mourning a sad loss.
Those with sharp eyes and cynical wit profess to recognize at sight each of the four ladies. They will say their virtues are, indeed, extraordinary, though hardly so much as Cecil’s arrogance in assuming he could satisfy them all on earth or in heaven.
Black and white marble in clear and surprising contrast. Final satiric statement of a man who saw nothing in this world as pure or simple. Alive, he was black bones in white flesh, a gray man.
The tomb is a magnificent … jest.
But time turns even the jests of the dead against them.
The tombs of the ancients have vanished or are defaced beyond recognition.
A man can rest well and wait for the Last Judgment beneath even a deformed stone.
There is neither honor nor flattery in death, only silence and secrecy until all secrets are revealed.
Let Robert Cecil’s tomb say what it will to any beholder. It cannot speak truth or falsehood.
Cannot equivocate either.
If the beholder grins, as I do now, that is proper.
All skulls offer the same grin and say nothing.
If the living could believe this, there would be no more loss of sleeping in this weary world.…
In this vexing matter the King has been prudent and patient. Now thanks to patience the affair is settled.
There will be no public show of a trial. No more of that folly.
Coke and Bacon, for once hand in glove, have urged a public trial upon the new charges of disobedience, of Ralegh’s failure to keep his oath to the King. Together with other examiners, they are convinced that there is a just case under law.
Coke has urged the trial to be rid of Ralegh and to wipe clean the slate of the disaster at Winchester.
By God, the King once most graciously and freely consented, if not to affirm, then not to deny their ancient customs. And he has done so. But here are more weighty matters. He has ruled long enough to act as a King must act; and act as a King he has, too, as in ’16, when he came down to sit on the throne in Star Chamber and preside. The first to do so since Henry VIII. Sat on the throne and laid down the Law of the King to judges and lawyers and (spare us, oh Lord!) the Parliament men.
“Kings are properly Judges,” he told them, “and judgment properly belongs to them from God: for Kings sit in the throne of God, and from thence all judgment is derived.”
And more: “The absolute prerogative of the Crown is no subject for the tongue of a lawyer, nor is lawful to be disputed. In your pleas, presume not to meddle with things against the King’s prerogative and honor.”
Judges wisely bent with the wind. All but Edward Coke. And his pride cost him dear. He lost his office as Lord Chief Justice, replaced by a more reliable man.
Perhaps he had learned his lesson. Coke can be of value in his proper place. Coke is a great man in their Parliament. Coke perhaps can yet serve him there. And he has needed the counsel of Coke in this affair. But some of that advice is unacceptable, if not untrustworthy.
The trial in ’03 brought the King much grief. The Overbury trials brought him more woe, and Coke, whether through excess of zeal or by cunning, brought forth far too many private things to public view. He is a meddlesome man, but is still able to learn a lesson when rapped with the schoolmaster’s pliant rod.
Let him make an idol of the Law, then, but the King need not serve a strange god.
Bacon is more supple. As soon as he realized that it was the King’s pleasure to rid himself of Ralegh without a trial, he offered sound advice. And he is even now at work on a statement of the King’s case and justice which can be published if need be.
Early on this morning there will be a hearing before the King’s Bench at Westminster Hall. Yelverton and the judges will take care of that. Ralegh will be dead and gone on the following day, his execution as early and swift as his hearing.
And then there is Don Diego Sarmiento de Acuna, Count Gondomar, Ambassador of Spain. Who is called, by friends and enemies alike, “the crafty.” He will have his satisfaction. After which they can proceed with the cobweb of negotiations for the marriage of Prince Charles to the Infanta of Spain. This long deferred, oft delayed, upsodown-and-back-again affair that they call the Spanish Match.
Which was first sown in the King’s thoughts when James was still King of Scotland and Henry (blessings on his departed soul) was his heir. The idea has thrived, sturdy, but not flowering, ever since. To bind England and Spain together, as they have been before and within memory, though briefly and loosely, in holy wedlock. The knot of a royal marriage is better by far than any paper treaty. Bids fair to ensure peace for generations to come. Not only between two nations, but peace in the wider world. For who could be so foolish as to challenge the combined power and position of Britain and Spain? There need not be any more wars among the Continental nations. Against the perfection of this alliance all others will be dependents whether they wish it or no.
And he shall be named the father of this great change, the father of the Peace.
Blessed are the peacemakers …
Looking not so far forward, the Match will serve present purposes within this kingdom. Will win back for good the sorely taxed loyalty of his Catholic subjects. And will do so without throwing more than a slight instructive shadow of fear upon the fractious, numerous, and troublesome Protestants. With a little care and cunning these can be told—and will believe—it is a victory for England and themselves.
Then trade and easy commerce between nations will fill up the coffers of merchants, stifle doubts and silence discontent. From these bulging, groaning coffers the monies will overflow, to be snatched up and passed from palm to palm, purse to purse. In peace and plenty, all his subjects, in every estate and condition, in contentment, must be more well disposed toward the author of their felicity. They will not then or ever again be so niggardly as to withhold from the King his rightful share of the wealth he has given them.
Look closer, though, to where what is possible becomes likely.
With the dowry to come with this Infanta from Spain, he will have less need to call upon the unruly Parliament, to be helpless in dependence upon their whims and grudging generosity. His burden of private debts, seven hundred thousand pounds and growing like a canker, will have dwindled to nothing.
Therefore it follows. With the marriage, a lasting time of peace; with fat in the land, present troubles will be forgotten like a dream. And so, too, will be forgotten that false dream of the glories of the last age. The King will, at last, be honored and loved while he lives. And it will be he who is well remembered, and that memory will be upon a foundation of truth. And Charles and all the Stuart line to come will sit upon a throne which is set upon that rock foundation. More mystic than the old Stone of Scone within the throne of England now.
A king as much as any man has the duty to build up his estate. Not to bury his talent in the earth like the foolish, faithless servant in the parable. To build his own estate, with God’s help and under God’s will, to the benefit of all the kingdom, is an exemplary action and an act of faith. No man can fault him for it.
To act out of duty and love is to be rewarded with duty and with love. And the mutual love of king and subjects will serve as an exemplum, too, of the duty and love all living creatures owe to God, not in exchange for His infinite Love, but in humble thanksgiving for the same.
Weighed in the balance against all these things, just how much can the old gray head of one man weigh?
Oh, the King is a more cunning and canny defender of the faith than his English counselors will ever know. That is their great weakness. They will not credit him with wit and wisdom equal to their own.
His accent, his manners, the fashion of his dress, his hunting and drinking, his sudden flashes of high temper or bawdy humor, these things have contrived a high invisible wall between them and the clockwork elegance of his mind. Coke once compared the Court to a clock with many wheels and many motions. Good, but you should have looked more closely, Edward Coke. All those wheels and motions move toward one great rhythm and purpose. And when the hour rings, it rings with the clarity of bells.
The King knows how to bait a trap, and when the trap springs iron teeth upon unwary ankles, he knows a greater trick—how to make the victim happy with the pain of it. As if to be trapped were an honor. As if the trap were of their own devising.
Long before Ralegh returned home from his fruitless voyage, indeed before it was clear that the Fox might live to return or, alive, consider such a course, the King outraged them. As soon as he heard reports of Ralegh’s crimes against the Spaniards, hearing this from a furious Gondomar, he published an angry declaration, disowning Ralegh’s actions. And privily he insisted that Ralegh must be apprehended and given over to the Spaniards, to be disposed of at their pleasure. Since Ralegh had turned pirate, let him be treated like one. Let him be carried away, in chains on his own ship, to Spain. Let the Spanish make a spectacle of his punishment.
Let that prove the power of the King of England.
Gondomar had been instructed by his King to express fury and outrage, to demand justice and, thus, to test the King. But Gondomar was astounded at James’ proposal. The King, then, bolder and eager to befuddle them further, took another step. Briskly circumnavigating the Ambassador and directly offering Ralegh to the King of Spain. Philip III declined his offer. As the King had known he would. But, more important, it gave James a glimpse of the cards in Philip’s hand.
All shows and pretense aside, Spain does not wish to chance a loss of favor in England.
Therefore it follows that Philip III must desire the Match as much as the King of England.
Meanwhile a rash offer is as good as the performance of it. In truth it may be better. Whatever becomes of Walter Ralegh, Spain is now beholden to James and without discernible gain.
Gondomar has been pressing forward, urging the marriage as if it were to his advantage as much or more than in the interests of the two kings. This is a ruse. But now the King believes, as he has always hoped, that the Match is not a ruse.
And Gondomar must study more strictly the motives of the King of England. What a fine satirical stroke! Gondomar has been building cloud castles upon the belief that he is gifted with the power to influence and persuade James. On the one hand with threats and promises and upon the other with the oil which protects an expedient friendship from rust—money, gifts to the spendthrift King and his favorites. And James has made some show of being pliable, of listening to and sometimes acting upon Gondomar’s suggestions. Even to the apparent disadvantage of the King in the eyes of his people and his Council.
Well, Gondomar is left with doubt. Either he has more influence and power over James than he imagined or James is more crafty than he knew. Either way, it is trouble for the Ambassador. The King knows Gondomar has told his master many times that he has managed so to ingratiate himself, to win James’ favor, that his services to Spain are of inestimable value. Just so … And, just so, Philip, no fool, will
have already considered the alternative that now troubles his Ambassador, but with a difference. It is the King of England Philip must deal with, not his own servant, the Ambassador. If Gondomar is as influential as he may be, then he is dangerous and not to be trusted. If Gondomar has been duped by King James, then Gondomar’s a fool and of no use to Philip.
No wonder that Gondomar is off to Spain to wait out the uncertain weather of events, but also to report to his King and, perhaps, plead a case. And what will he do there? Clever, cautious, ever politic, he will suggest that James is attempting to throw them off guard. That James has no intention of doing more than chastising Walter Ralegh. Not saying this with too much certainty, but to divert attention from his own skin—no doubt sweating drops as thick as Castilian olive oil. Philip will conclude he needs Gondomar in England. A man who may have guessed wrong, but who is close to the King, able with understanding and wariness and a new humility to keep watch upon him at a crucial time.
Imagine, then, when Gondomar learns that the King, after delays, has cut off Ralegh’s head. Again astounded. Then more humbled. Then urgently needing James’ favor to restore his own credit in Spain.
And so to save his skin in Spain, the Ambassador will sue for the favor of James. Philip may know this, but will weigh it against the delay which must follow if he chooses to send a new man to England. Philip will put the fear of God into Gondomar and send him back to England as he must, all the while wisely doubting him.
And this change will tip the odds for settling this Spanish Match to the advantage of James.
You must know your man, whether he knows you or not. Gondomar has the southern, the Mediterranean temper. Made a great to-do about nothing when he first landed in England at Portsmouth. Custom required that his ship, entering any English harbor where an English warship lay, should lower its ensign. The Spaniard refused. The English captain threatened to blow the Spaniard out of the water. It was left for the King to decide. He bowed to the Spaniards. Gondomar puffed up like a pheasant cock, drums in his breast. Concluded that the King feared giving offense to Spain above all things. Which was partly true. A great lie, to be swallowed, must have a tasty sauce of truth. In his pride, Gondomar would never have guessed that the English captain acted upon the King’s instructions from the outset.
Death of the Fox Page 7