Ralegh expects Bess to be accompanied by one of her women, one of the older servants who could make her manners and then go below to sup with the coachman and the outsiders.
He has always valued some measure of privacy. Bess—perhaps more wise then he in her acceptance of the conditions of this world—has not. Ralegh long ago, youngest in the large family in the house at Hayes Barton, permitted himself the luxury of imagining being alone and without loneliness. As far from possibility as any dream, it came to be in the years of prison, but never for long or completely so. So that even as his longing was ironically satisfied, his hunger for the possibility increased.
Privacy.… Rare enough when every household is a village of itself, when all but the master of the house must share and wait turn for everything, from bed to Jordan pot. When the bones of the dead must have companions in corruption. Even in the honored vaults of kings and queens, bones must be pushed aside in heaps to make space for the new.
A man will live a lifetime and never be much alone except in his pains. Some privacy is luxury. Solitude is unobtainable at any price. The only true solitude is inward, where a man can cultivate his crop of secrets.
So, as much as he has been able, Ralegh has lived keeping odd and late hours to be in the company of a few chosen companions. And at each place he has owned he has created a smaller place there, where he could withdraw—the turret study at Durham House; the high chamber of the keep of Sherbourne Castle, and then the lodge at Sherbourne, built a quarter of a mile away from the castle, commodious enough but, by restrictions of space, reducing the number of those around him; the small perfect jewel of a house he planned and designed, but never could build, near Westminster; the time-and-again attempts to purchase and restore the house at Hayes Barton, so beautifully sited to catch light all through the day.…
Bess, knowing all this and knowing how the upper chamber at the gatehouse will seem crowded with one or two others there, chose to bring her young cousin, almost a stranger to him, with her. She will remain, cannot be properly sent below. Must sit down to share the late supper with them.
A stratagem typical of Bess, though she would deny there was any thought behind her choice, insisting upon her woman’s prerogative to act on impulse and feeling without concern of consequences. A gesture so typical of Bess it proves that she can be true to herself even now, giving firm evidence that, come what will, she will endure.
Their lives together have been a series of farewells. If this must be the last, it will be awkward to be alone. She will have thought of that, sensing that to believe in each other and to be believed they will each have to pretend, playing an old familiar scene anew as actors do. To be like players is a merry game for young lovers arriving at first nakedness together. How fair blond Bess once shone by small candlelight! But he was not young then, not ever in the time he has known her. Knew even then that when a young woman will choose not youth, but a man who could almost be her father, either she’s driven by strange need or fear, which Bess was not, or there is some calculation in her choice.
Grown older together, they have come to favor the dark. Out of love and respect, not vanity alone. And to open the ivory gates of imagination and to seek to recover, by fantasy, which is half the game of love, a reflection of the original shining of youth, some warmth from the almost forgotten fever of full desire.
Bess knows how he hates all clumsiness in himself. Believes that still to this time, in the portrait gallery of his mind, he sees himself as an overlarge, stumbling, shambling, clod-footed, heavy-handed, untutored, unfinished boy. Sees himself as she has never seen or imagined him.
And Bess will have weighed in balance his desire for some privacy against the heavier, unspoken urgency of keeping tight rein upon his feelings. Though it may annoy him to have the girl here, even disappointment will divert and distract him a little. Soon, Bess knows, he will become more lively, will call up all the habits of enchantment to please the young woman. A brief diversion, to be sure, but it will ease him.
And perhaps, though she will not admit this even to herself, she has brought her cousin to represent herself, an ambassador of what she was once and what he has loved. Thinking that he will be able, once again, to play the courtier who once blinded her in love. And she, through her cousin, able to play her own part, to enjoy him as he was then.
In which case Mary, as much as any Aztec maiden, is a sacrificial victim.
Did not King David, grown old, ward off the stealthy coming of the cold in blood and bones with the bodies of young women? Not for lust alone, but for coverlet, blanket, and for the memory of being young.
Bess would be offended if he reminded her of David’s wiles.
Nor will Bess have considered that there is more meaning to her gesture than she intends, that it is not only an act of loving kindness. She would deny, outraged, any suggestion that she must still remind him of her suffering long ago, the fortune which forbade her to enjoy the life at Court that she loved.
Since Bess will not have imagined such a thing, perhaps it is not true.
And for the sake of symmetry there is to be another player, his old friend, once his servant, Thomas Hariot. Who has served Ralegh and the Earl of Northumberland and the Earl of Derby, teaching them mathematics, astronomy, anatomy, chemistry, and the laws of plants and animals. It is he who led Walter Ralegh to the work and thoughts of such men as Galileo, Andreas Vesalius, Johann Kepler, Nicolaus Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, and Petrus Ramus. Hariot who went to Virginia for Ralegh and wrote of it in the book.
Magnificent in matters theoretical, Hariot does not disdain to turn knowledge to practical affairs. Assisted Ralegh in preparing charts, in navigation and the instruments for it, in smelting and assaying of ores and the making of chemical cordials, in gardening and the uses of herbs. He has been loyal and faithful. But more than all that, which also can be said of a good dog, he has shared much with Ralegh out of character and natural inclination. Is a proud man, too, outwardly indolent, outwardly indifferent to the praise or blame of fools and strangers. As Ralegh has avoided the beguilements of the active man, so Thomas Hariot has shunned the birdlime of reputation, which has caught the fantasy of many a scholar. Writing few things for the general. Content, it seems, in his correspondence with his peers abroad and with the friendship of a few men, in or out of favor. Content to know, glad to teach, and indifferent to reputation, true or false.
The two men complement each other in many ways, alike, yet each possessing something the other lacks. Of all his old friends and servants living now, Thomas is most likely to bring solace this evening.
Night has come and Ralegh is preparing himself, combing his hair and beard before a looking glass, propped on the open chest where he has rummaged to find a few jewels to brighten his appearance.
A shout at the gates. Creak of the gate slowly opening. Hooves and the rattle of a coach coming in. Hoarse challenge of guards at the door below.
Turning toward the window, Ralegh brushes against the open chest, and the looking glass falls and shatters into slivers on the floor.
His servant, startled by the noise, mumbles something, but Ralegh ignores him and the broken glass. Moves toward the window, knowing without seeing, the servant has now stooped to pick up the pieces.
In flickering lantern light the coach stands, rain like a fresh coat of gilding on it. The horses breathing foggy breath in the chill air. Shades drawn, and the coach without a sign or symbol on it. Two men on horseback as outriders, and these in plain clothing, wearing no livery.
One of the hooded guards stands at the door, offers his arm as Bess steps out.
Ralegh turns back to the room.
“Now then,” he says. “See to the setting of the trestle table. And be quick.”
The servant nods.
“I am sorry about the glass, sir.”
“Oh, it is nothing.”
“It is said that to break a looking glass will bring seven years of bad luck.”
Foo
tsteps now on the stairs coming up from below. Ralegh laughs.
“That is the best news of this day,” he says. “If I live to enjoy the seven years, I shall be the most grateful man in England.”
A rap on the door announces them. Two women and Thomas duck low under the sill (an ancient doorway made for ancestors who must have been small as half-grown children) and enter the chamber. The servant then assists them in removing their cloaks. And carries them away to dry by the fire in the kitchen.
Ralegh is pleased that though they have come cloaked, the clothing they wear is festive. Pleased, too, that he put on his pearl earring and some rings on his fingers, changing his old man’s gown with a lightly comic, rakish touch of gold and the white of the perfect pearl.
Sees all in their faces and eyes: Bess determined to be courageous and cheerful, but most vulnerable.
Thomas, burdened with gifts of wine and tobacco, braving a faint smile, awkward and abstract in self-control.
Sees the sturdy, high-boned, roses-and-wheat-flour fairness of the girl’s Throckmorton face, crowned with a sheen of golden hair, netted and lightly dusted, carefully simple, like a crown above eyes the blue of May skies, wide, large light-thrilled eyes too fine to be spoiled and reddened by weeping; and the puffy flower of her lips set in what she must imagine to be the expression of solemn gravity.
Assaulted by two ships (no help from Thomas here), he engages them at once, allowing neither respite nor occasion to join together.
“What news from the Bishop?” he asks Bess.
Her lips tremble slightly.
“Oh, Wat, I wish you had not asked me that. I have had word from the Bishop. He knows nothing certain, but he thinks His Majesty is adamant.”
“Indeed?”
“It is his counsel that we should prepare outselves for the worst. And yet we should not abandon hope.”
“Good news!” he cries. “A very good sign!”
And he claps his hands and shuffles his slippers in a sailor’s jig, noting the amazement in two pairs of blue eyes. Noting that already Bess’s lips have set into a purse of frowning disapproval.
So King David dancing with joy before the ark.…
“Why, Bess, can’t you see the meaning? It is the Bishop’s bounden duty to caution all his flock to prepare themselves for death, and most certainly he must be resolute in persuading this course to a condemned man.”
Watching careful now beneath veiled eyes. Bess’s frown having given away, retreated, replaced by puzzlement. Thomas relaxing, amused. Mary’s eyes not so wide as before, more light also, covert beneath lashes. Her pout is not so easily converted, however. She more in control of herself, of course, than Bess, though still blissfully, youthfully unaware of what the mask of her face conveys.
Oh, she is a juicy plum, this girl. By nature so, though now that he has gained her attention, he can see her face has been prepared with lotions and powders, her lips and cheeks subtly reddened, her eyebrows plucked, her eyes accented with the lightest hints of blue along the lids and at the edges. The latter concealing first faint prints of the crow of time. Either she is truly a country cousin, having spent as much time in sun and open weather as a milkmaid; or she is a little older than even Bess may know.
Mary is not nearly so simple and unworldly as she wishes to appear.
Ralegh continuing:
“Now, I know this Bishop well enough, though I need not. For all bishops are much the same. Except, of course, to each other. But not being bishops, we need not trouble ourselves with their secrets of distinction and degree, any more than we need to know which of two black bears is more like a man than a bear. No, ladies, let us allow that all bishops are cut from the selfsame cloth. They come in various sizes, to be sure, but in one fullsome shape—fat.”
“Go to, Wat,” Bess says. “You are babbling like a schoolmaster.”
“Nay, madame,” Thomas says. “It is clear he has observed the animal in its habitat. I cannot question his conclusions, not having kept much company with bishops, thank God. But I have seen enough of them, waddling their way, to accept the truth of Sir Walter’s observation.”
Mary stifling a giggle with slightly clenched, gloved fingers of one hand.
“Not so, Bess. I am in high spirits, it is true, almost as merry as a Greek. But I must explain and justify my mood. For otherwise you and our pretty cousin will conclude I left all my wits at the Tower of London.”
“Pray continue, then,” Mary says. Voice of honey spiced with wine.
“The good Bishop, I say, being of the type of all bishops, that is, to wit, fat and comfortable enough to be compassionate, yet somewhat ashamed of how far afield he has, in his office, perquisites, and robes, strayed from the imitation of our Lord, the good Bishop will ever be cautionary to any poor soul. Will mouth the truth of the Gospel …”
“Shame, Wat, you blaspheme.”
“Not so, good lady,” Thomas says. “He speaks by the book. Does not the Gospel tell us that we shall know the truth and the truth shall set us free?”
“Unfortunately,” Ralegh adds, “our Lord was speaking allegorically. Otherwise we should be safe in some cheerful tavern instead of here. Now, pray permit me to conclude my lecture on the nature of that ecclesiastical beast we call bishop.
“He will preach the message excepting only when his natural compassion outweighs the shame of his worldly content. My meaning and interpretation is—for I have seen these, bishops and ministers alike, bring comfort to the dying and condemned a thousand times.… My judgment is that when there is no hope, they are, as the New Law instructs them, most hopeful, speaking not of dread and Almighty judgment, but of mercy vouchsafed by Jesus Christ.”
“Amen,” Bess adds.
And Mary, uncertain, starts to bow her head, then, upon second thought and a quick glance at Thomas, raises her rich eyes toward heaven. Where if some holy saint upon the right hand still has an ounce of animal humors left unrefined, he will be much moved by her expression, though not deceived by it.
“Therefore, good ladies and my friend Thomas, I perceive that the Bishop is more concerned with the welfare of my soul than any imminent peril to my flesh. He persuades me to prepare myself, yet he cautions against dismissing hope.”
“But he reports that the King is adamant.”
“Certainly he does. And no doubt the King would so report his own mood to the Bishop. For the King knows bishops even better than I. And the King, like the equivocating Bishop, knows that should he admit to the least weakening of resolve, the Bishop will not seek to save my soul. The King is a frugal man. He cannot permit one of his bishops an occasion to shirk duty. They do little enough to earn their keep as it is.”
“Shame on you, Wat.”
“ ’Tis a shame, indeed, but truth. I conceive from your news that the King has failed to convince my lord, the Bishop, that he is strictly adamant. For if this were so, the Bishop first of all, if only to remind us how close he stands to the throne, would report not that he thinks the King is adamant, but that the King is adamant. I know this fellow, the Bishop. I read him like a broadside ballad.”
“I hope and trust it is so, Lord willing,” Bess says.
“Amen,” echoes her newly pious kinswoman.
“I am certain of it. Certain now that we shall all dine together tomorrow noon. My only regret is that you have come on a night journey and steeled yourself against what will not be. No, I must further confess I am now ashamed of my extravagance at noon dinner and in my modest plans for our supper. Though God knows even my best laid plans could easily vanish in the clamor and confusion of my host’s kitchen.”
“I pray what you say will be true.”
“I’ll wager on it, Bess.”
Then, turning to the young woman, he removes his earring and gives it to her. “If I do not dine with you three tomorrow noon, you may keep that pearl.”
“I would not wager against your life.”
“It is not a wager, daughter, understand tha
t. I am inordinately fond of that jewel. I have no intention of losing it. But it is yours to keep until tomorrow noon, when I shall claim it and claim a kiss as well.”
“I think it might be ill fortune.…”
“Go to! It is my life in the balance, and I conceive it to be a sure omen of misfortune if you do not keep the pearl for me.”
“If it pleases you,” with a graceful curtsy, tilted to show the elegant round bulge of her tits.
There’s sweet perfume in the valley between them and I need not waste a wager that she’s painted her pouty paps.
“Thomas, I am most pleased that you have come here tonight. And Bess, I thank you for bringing our cousin. I regret that I did not think to hire musicians to come and play for us while we dine. And afterwards we could all dance a little for the sake of the digestion.”
“I do dearly enjoy to dance,” Mary says.
Thinking: I’ll wager you do my milk and honey girl and any dance will do to show you to advantage and best of all dances you do is the dance of the eel when peeled down to silk and satin sweetness and sweet fire you shall writhe and dance that horizontal so well that a young man will flash fire and wilt proud ordnance before he’s full grappled and boarded and an old man (oh, Lord!) will die of a seizure and in sad knowledge of all the sweetness he leaves behind, honey for other bees.…
But saying: “And so do we all, Mistress Mary. Yet we must bow to the manners of the age. There are some who might think it unseemly for a condemned man and his guests to be dancing in prison. It would bespeak an insolent confidence. So for their sake, I shall pretend to be very grave and solemn. But perhaps you and Mr. Thomas Hariot will dance a little later to please me.”
“Just to please you, of course,” Thomas says.
Turning, Ralegh sees that the table is set and ready, the cloth spread, bread and salt, plate and silverware and napkins all in place. He nods to his servant to go below and bring up the supper.
Death of the Fox Page 48