by G Lawrence
“Not actually to blows, Majesty,” Dee said. “But he does seem to think the pursuits of natural science are nothing to what is learned at sea.”
“Keep trying. If this voyage is to enjoy success, it will be for your guidance, Dee.” I smiled. “And tell them they are to sail past Greenwich when they leave in June. I will see them off from the water steps.”
“They will be honoured, Majesty.”
“This is important to all of us. This is about the future of England.”
*
Late that spring, as paupers gathered hawthorn leaves to eat, the plague came racing upon London. Baiting rings were closed and players were expelled from the city as a means to reduce crowds. I soon had word that this expulsion had brought about a new project, embarked upon by a Master James Burbage and his brother-in-law, John Brayne.
“The ingenuity of my people never ceases to amaze me,” I said to Cecil. The two men had combined their coin and were constructing a purpose-built playhouse, called The Theatre. Building on land that once was the property of Halliwell Priory, these ambitious men were making a marvel, Cecil said.
The area it was built in was Shoreditch, a canny location to pick, as Shoreditch lay beyond the bounds of civil authorities and many authorities had issues with the morality of plays. It was an area already notorious, as brothels and gaming houses were rife. The Red Lion, the only purpose-built playhouse at that time, all other venues being inns, drew crowds but was not staggeringly successful.
“Leicester’s Men are already interested in using the building, when finished,” Cecil told me.
Robin’s company were becoming famous. They had not quite outstripped the popularity of companies comprised of young boys, for they were the darlings of all, but Robin’s men were growing in fame.
“I am sure,” I said. “Contact Master Burbage and tell him that whilst plague is rife he cannot open, but in the autumn perhaps, he may.”
“And if the Puritan faction at court complain?”
“When they moan, Cecil, they will be ignored. They do not have to go to the playhouse.” I grinned. “And if these players are popular, I will call them to court. I am not averse to a play.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1576
“He will be suspended from office!” I shouted. “I want that done today, Cecil, and no more about pardons!”
I was in a foul and decidedly dangerous temper. Not only had I been told that innocents of the Low Countries were in peril again as Spanish troops, unpaid by Phillip for many years, were close to mutiny, but I had just found out my trusted lady, Helena Snakenborg, had married without consent. Her new husband, Thomas Gorges, was my mother’s second cousin. I had originally approved him courting her, but had changed my mind, for he, a gentleman, was below her station as marchioness. Only the best would do for my Helena, and she could do better than Gorges. But clearly the lady herself was of another mind. Helena had been sent into exile, Gorges to the Tower.
And my Archbishop of Canterbury was acting in outright rebellion. Grindal had once again refused to ban prophesyings. The man seemed to think he was in charge of the Church.
Saying he wanted to protect prophesyings not only from me, who wanted them banned, but from Puritan leaders, who were abusing them, Grindal had collected opinions, and was writing a scholarly paper defending prophesyings.
“Grindal has many supporters, Majesty,” Cecil said.
“You not least amongst them. Do not think I have forgotten you recommended the man for this post.”
Cecil left quickly, fearing my fury. Some days later Hatton told me that Grindal had approached him personally.
“To what end?” I asked.
“To plead for you to reconsider.”
“Does he know your mind on the meetings?” Hatton, too, was opposed to prophesyings.
“He does, but hopes my favour with you might work for him.”
“I shall not restore him. The man needs to understand who is Head of the Church.”
“I think his Puritan leanings may be greater than we suspected.”
“I’ll wager Cecil knew, and that was why he spoke for the pest to be appointed.”
“I am not sure that is the case, Majesty,” Hatton said. “Baron Burghley is a solid Protestant, of that there is no doubt, but he does not like the gatherings any more than you.”
I made a hawing sound, but I knew he was right. Cecil’s first priority was keeping England safe. Division amongst my people was not conducive to that aim. “Tell Grindal you have failed to get me to look sweetly upon him,” I growled. “Until he is disposed to do my will, he will get nothing from me.”
There was more promising news when I heard Frobisher and his men were ready to sail. They had a mishap on the first attempt, when one craft crashed into another at Deptford and lost its bowsprit, but in early June they sailed past Greenwich Palace. It was raining, and I did not want to stand at the water steps, so I leaned out of my window when I heard guns firing to signal they were near, and waved to them.
This tiny fleet of three ships and thirty-four men were off to find the Northwest Passage and potentially alter the fate of England.
We had word they had reached Gravesend and later, that they were sailing up the east coast, heading for Fair Isle. A storm had fallen as they sailed off the coast of Scotland, and many thought they might not survive.
Keep them in your hands, Lord, I prayed. Guide them to the Passage.
That July, I also said farewell to Essex as he left once more for Ireland. He was to become Earl Marshall again, but I warned him to heed Sidney, who was keeping peace in Ireland.
He was happy to get away, I believe. There was no fond farewell between Essex and Lettice. Love had fled their marriage. Some said Robin had asked for Essex to be sent away, but he had not. Essex had asked, and since there was no position in England he would accept, I had agreed. I did not want to see his family, my kin, ruined.
“At least court will be quiet without Robin and Essex wrangling,” I said to Hatton.
In truth, peace in England was my primary concern, and by my careful industry and duplicitous double-dealing, we were achieving this. Spain was going slowly but surely bankrupt from war in the Netherlands and others against the Turks, France had torn itself to pieces, and in the Low Countries they were ceding to the will of Tacitus by making a desert and calling it peace. Only England remained solvent, strong and increasingly influential.
England was prospering. There was enough war in foreign places for men with a mind to, to leave and seek their fortune. There was, too, enough opportunity on the seas for men to make money as merchants or privateers. Not since the days of our grandsires had English men and women risen in civil war, and none of my lands had been scorched by battle or bloodshed. Rebellion and treason had been swiftly set down when they lifted their heads. There was much for me to feel pride in, that year.
Prosperity was my achievement. People accused me of pride and stubbornness, of indecision and duplicity because I kept my aims and goals silent. More said I was the Queen of Selfishness for not acting for Huguenots or the Low Countries, but these lands were not my responsibility. England was.
Men could call me what they wanted. I cared not a fig. The more names an enemy uses against you, the greater your power. It is how we know we are irritating our foes, and in anger men make many mistakes that cost them dear.
To keep England safe from war, invasion, religious turmoil and rebellion, I was prepared to be seen as prideful, indecisive, and able to switch sides at a moment’s notice. All that mattered was keeping my England safe, and if I had to play all sides and all men to do so, I would. The more confusion and uncertainty I created, the more room England had to manoeuvre. The more I distracted our foes, the more I was able to slip past them, a ghost in the quick of night, and achieve all I wanted. Flexibility was my watchword.
At times, I was so flexible I might have been made of air, the lightest, most unbounded
of elements, and the one we use, always, to describe freedom.
Chapter Fifty
Whitehall Palace
Autumn 1576
In late September, as frost gleamed on fairy-rings of mushrooms sprouting in the parks, and flaming sunsets blazed in the skies, we had ill news from Ireland.
It came as something of a surprise. Essex had arrived and had been welcomed by many lords. He had been asked to dine, to hunts and had seemed more of a mind to make peace than war this time. Sidney had been aiding him all he could, causing his letter patent to be read and for men to come and offer loyalty to him. All was going well, so when this news came, I was unprepared.
“Of what did he die?” I asked the messenger.
“A flux of the belly and bowels, Majesty,” said the man. “Most of his household came down with the same complaint, and others have died.”
“He always seemed so strong,” I mourned, staring from the window. Grey light, no more sparkling silver lit by the summer sun, was muted over England, subtle, waning, as it waited for autumn’s fiery standards to fly in the trees. The last, glorious dance of the world as she slides into the death of winter was approaching, bringing the blaze of ochre, gold and crimson.
Essex was dead. Struck down by a bloody flux, he had died in pain and ignominy, passing thirty bloody stools in a day, exhausting his body with their vehement power. Doctors had treated him with powdered unicorn horn, which only made him vomit. They had urged him to go home, and Essex had arranged this, asking his doctor to meet him upon the shores of Wales with all physic he could muster, but Essex had died before attempting this last, desperate journey.
Knowing his end was near, he had written, begging me to forgive any offence he had caused. “Not only in my last letters, which I hear Your Majesty wherewith was much grieved but also with all other actions of mine that have been offensively conceived by Your Majesty.” He was speaking of Rathlin, I was sure.
Essex asked me to be as a mother to his poor children, and ensure they continued to receive a good education. He was also concerned for Lettice, saying she would not have the means required to support his children or herself, and asked that I ensure his heir inherited his lands. What he did not want was for his son to inherit his title of Earl Marshal, as he hoped Robert was fit for greater things.
Essex also wrote to Cecil, asking him to take his heir into his household. He ended by committing himself to the Lord God, asking all to pardon his many sins. To the sound of music played by his man, Hewes, Essex had gone to God.
But soon, and mostly for Essex’s last words, there were rumours he had died an unnatural death.
“He spoke of the frailty of women, before he died,” Walsingham told me. “There were suspicions of poison.”
“Would any Irish lords have dared?” After the massacre, Essex had hardly been popular.
“No suspicion has fallen upon them, my lady… but another name was mentioned.”
I knew whose that name was; Robin.
Dark designs appeared quickly on the lips of court. People spoke of Essex’s death, passing on gossip that he had said there was “some evil” in his drink. Essex had railed upon his deathbed that he saw nothing about him but “infidelity, infidelity, infidelity, atheism, atheism, atheism; no religion, no religion,” and had said he hoped his daughters would not learn too much of “the vile world.”
It was not only Robin under suspicion. Lettice fell to that darkness too. People repeated the old tale that poison is the weapon of women alone, ignoring the fact it is often employed by men. People said she was so lost in lust for Robin that she had killed her husband, as Mary of Scots had. Others claimed the two of them had been working together.
Rumours of this kind only increased when it became known that Essex had made little provision for Lettice. Her son Robert inherited Chartley, but as he was a minor he had no say over who might live there. Lettice’s name was not mentioned, so by law she would have to move house. Essex left her his goods, jewels, plate, furniture and her dower money, which left her asset rich, but she was poor in coin. Lettice was soon complaining it was not enough. Other lips whispered Essex had left her bereft because he knew what kind of woman she was.
Sidney ordered a post mortem, and both he and Essex’s doctors reported that no suspicion of poison had been found, but still rumours persisted. That Sidney was Robin’s brother-in-law led many to think the investigation had been a feint to conceal the fact that Robin was a murderer.
I took Essex’s last requests seriously and cancelled the debts young Robert had inherited. Cecil took on the boy’s wardship, as Essex had requested, and the boy was sent to Cecil’s house to be brought up with his children. In accordance with Essex’s will, his remaining children were to be taken from the care of their mother and sent to live with the Earl of Huntingdon. This hardly aided the gossip, but Essex had more rights over his children in death than his wife possessed whilst living.
I sent Lettice to her house. Sorrowful that her children were to be taken from her, she had no wish to be at court in any case. I thought her removal from court and separation from Robin only sensible. If people saw them together, it would only secure rumour as fact.
Essex was embalmed and shipped home. Buried in Carmarthen, he was laid to rest with honours. I wished him well, for I could do nothing of the sort. Sleep deserted me. I lay awake in my bed staring at hangings of crimson and purple. Could they be right? I wondered.
I had dismissed the idea that Robin was capable of murder long ago, and each time he had fallen under suspicion, when a friend or rival died, I had sheltered him. I would do the same now, but even I had to wonder. He had been in hot pursuit of Lettice, and Essex had threatened to lock his wife away. There were, too, shadows of Amy Dudley’s death floating at my side. Was it possible?
If you suspect him now, Elizabeth, I told myself, that means you also suspect he murdered Amy, to have you.
*
“Will she be alright?” I asked. One of my women, Dorothy Stafford, had fallen from her horse and broken her leg.
“The doctors say it is a clean break, Majesty,” said Kate Carey. “It will heal.”
Dorothy was one of my regular bedfellows, a trusted companion. In her stead, Mary Scudamore was called from her husband’s estates. Sussex wrote, telling Mary that until she came I would know no rest at night.
I had to have trusted women in my bed. To wake without a friend at my side was something of a horror to me. And with the accusations against Robin in my mind, I found small rest.
If Robin and I had not been so distant, separated both by politics and his passion for Lettice, I doubt these thoughts would have entered my mind. But they were there, and would not stop whispering.
Within a week of Mary’s arrival, I fell ill. Although accustomed to only taking a few hours to dream each night, I had not been sleeping at all. Burning questions and foul suspicions kept me up at night, and I slipped into illness almost with relief, tumbling into deep, if restless, slumber.
Mary fed me warm drinks and possets, and I found myself one day staring at the hand I had hurt. “I am so sorry about your finger,” I said.
Mary smiled. “It was an accident, Majesty.”
“Still, I was the one to throw the brush, which knocked the candlestick, which broke your finger.” I spoke like a child. My head was woolly and thick.
“All is well,” she said. “Sleep.”
I did as she commanded, and in the morning felt better in body if not in mind. And Cecil did little to aid my mind on the first morning I was out of bed.
“What do you mean, he is ready to resign?” I asked, pulling a blanket about my shoulders. “What is his complaint?”
“That you are against all the suggestions he puts forth.”
“I am not against all of them. I simply do not think all are prudent.”
Walsingham had told Cecil he was ready to resign. His workload was one of the reasons, and his health another, but my stubborn resistance to sug
gestions such as marching into war in the Netherlands, forging a permanent alliance with Scotland, and refusing to spend large amounts on defence of the realm were his other complaints.
Sir Thomas Smith had resigned as principal secretary that spring, struck down with the canker in his throat. Since his departure Walsingham had taken on the work of both my secretaries, and he had possession of the Privy Seal, but had not been formally named Lord Privy Seal. Since Smith had departed, I had met with Walsingham more, and had grown rather fond of Mr Secretary. I had no wish to lose him.
“You are hard with him, madam.”
“No harder than he is with me.” I sighed. “I know he thinks me too complaisant, but it is not the truth. Walsingham deals in shadows, yet does not see that if I make rigid terms of alliance with one nation, or throw England into war, I am shining a blazing light on all our doings. He is a man of shadow, so should appreciate the twilight I create. I leave ambiguity floating free, so we may dart into darkness, or stand in light, as required.”