Elizabeth I (12 page)

They drooped sadly and looked forlorn, as if asking where their ships were.

I was seated near the pulpit. The Bishop of Salisbury preached, and then I addressed a few words to my people. After so many words already, there were only a few basic ones to be repeated: Thankfulness. Wonder. Humility. Joy. Then I motioned for the choristers to sing verses from the song I had written about the Armada. Many more gifted poets than I had already written of the victory, but the words of a queen must mean something. The boys and men stood and sang, in their perfect, matched voices:

The Armada medals I had commissioned bore the motto “God breathed and they were scattered.” Indeed he had, and they were.

Afterward I and a small company dined at the bishop's home, returning to Somerset House after dark, with a torchlit procession. They saw us safely home and closed this extraordinary day.

There remained only one thing needed to honor the event. I sat for a portrait that depicted the two fleets in the background. Ours was sailing upon a clear sea, theirs being wrecked against the rocks on stormy waters. I wore the rope of six hundred pearls that Leicester had bequeathed me in his will. In this way I could include him in the commemoration, and in a form that would endure forever.

C
ome, my ladies!” I called as two large crates were deposited in the guard room. “Something to brighten our dreary day, from the land where the sun always shines.” I was very excited about this—unexpected presents from Sultan Murad III of the Ottomans.

Sultan Murad and I had been approaching each other for years. Walsingham had hoped to draw him into a military allegiance with us against Spain, and although he had not committed himself, he had sent congratulations upon the defeat of the Armada. We exchanged a number of fulsome letters, and I had sent him such English gifts as bulldogs and bloodhounds. Now he was sending us something in reply.

Marjorie eyed the crates suspiciously. “They look large enough to house an animal—a big one.”

“I doubt there is a camel inside,” I told her. “I'd love an Arabian horse, but I know that's not in there, either.”

The crates turned out to contain sacks of dark beans, boxes of sticky, colored squares of jelly, and bags of spices. Some I could identify—cardamom, turmeric, hibiscus leaves, saffron. Others I could not. There was also an assortment of choice dried currants, apricots, dates, and figs. Featherlight scarves of rainbow colors were in an embroidered bag, and wooden cases contained two gleaming steel scimitars. Most magnificent of all, a huge carpet was folded on the bottom of one crate. When it was unrolled, an intricate design of colors and patterns revealed itself.

“They say the Turks make gardens to look like paradise,” said Helena. “Here they have captured a paradise garden in thread for those of us who cannot go there.”

The accompanying letter addressed me as “Most sacred queen and noble princess, cloud of most precious rain and sweetest fountain of nobleness and virtue.” I liked that. None of my fawning courtiers had come up with these phrases—not yet.

The dark beans were identified as
kahve
. A merchant sailor who was familiar with them explained that in Turkey these beans were ground to a fine powder and boiled in a small amount of water, then drunk with honey or sugar. Islam forbade alcohol, and so they turned to this. Rather than stupefying the senses, it heightened them, he claimed.

And what were those sticky little cubes?

Something called
loukoum
, he said. Nothing to be afraid of, it was merely sugar, starch, and rose or jasmine flavoring.

After he left, I helped myself to one. I had a weakness for sweet things. “This is paradise to go with the garden-of-paradise carpet,” I said, savoring it. “We should invite others to join us, else I will make myself sick by eating it all.”

I issued a formal invitation to some thirty people—some I had not seen lately, and this would serve as a good excuse—to come to the privy chamber the next afternoon and “sample the delights of the East.” We would spread the carpet out and arrange the foods on a long table. The cooks would experiment with the
kahve
beans. But as a precaution, we would have ale and wine ready.

The Cecils, father and son, were the first to arrive. They circled the table, examining the things on it, and finally took one
loukoum
each and made for the fireplace. In their wake my great protector, Secretary Walsingham, came forward.

I had not seen him in weeks. He had not been present at the Christmas festivities. Rumor had it he was ill, but his daughter Frances had insisted on continuing to serve me and I believed she would have stayed home to nurse him if he had been in a bad way.

“Francis!” I greeted him. “Your diplomacy is bearing fruit—literally. See what the sultan has sent us.” But as he approached, the words died in my mouth.

“Oh, Francis!” As soon as I saw his drawn, yellowish face, I knew his illness had reached a critical stage; there was no hiding it. He was always swarthy, my Moor, but no Moor ever had a complexion like Francis's today. Instantly I regretted the note of alarm in my voice. “Are you not taking care of yourself?” I said soothingly. “I must dispatch Frances back to your household. It is selfish of me to keep her here to wait upon me when her father needs her so much more.” I attempted to sound a note of lighthearted chiding. “You should have stayed home; it was not necessary to drag yourself out in such foul weather.”

“Foul weather brings out foul spirits,” he said. “And I am neglecting my duty of protecting Your Majesty from her enemies if I let such an opportunity pass to try to spot them.”

“You have agents to do that,” I reminded him.

“None as good as I,” he said. It was a statement, not a brag.

“Your agents have done fine duty up until now. You should learn to trust them, as I trust mine. Such as you! If it were not for you, I would toss and turn and worry constantly about my safety, but as it is, I can forget it.”

“You should never forget it,” he said. As he spoke, I saw him clenching his teeth. It was hard for him to carry on a conversation.

“Go home, Sir Francis. Mr. Secretary. That is a command.” God, I would not lose him, too! No more deaths, not now. My dear companion and keeper from my nursery days, Blanche Parry, had passed away just after the thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey, as if she had willed herself to live to see that day.

She had taken a chill and not been able to shake it off. This happens with the elderly, as if death sends his cold emissary to announce himself. She had sat by my side at the service, shivering and trembling. But still she murmured, “I do not need my sight to behold this day. I can hear it in the voices.”

After we returned to the palace, she had taken to her bed and never left it. I tried to cajole her into rallying, but it was not to be. She had worn out the body that had faithfully served her for over eighty years.

“Now let thy servant depart in peace,” she had murmured, asking permission with the formal biblical phrase.

“I must, then,” I said, clasping her withered hands. “I must. But I would not, had I the power.”

She smiled, that whimsical smile that I loved so well. “Ah, but you do not, my lady. So submit you must, and I as well.”

She stole away that night. For me, to have lost both her and Leicester in close succession threw a pall of deep personal sorrow over the national rejoicing.

Dragging himself, Walsingham turned away to obey me and go home.

Next came Lord Hunsdon. Not much younger than Cecil, he was still vigorous in spite of his stiff legs. The only deference he gave to his age and joints was to leave the north during the stinging, bitter winter months and come back here to London.

Just behind him came the other branch of my family—he had married Hunsdon's sister—that had served me so well, the proper Puritan councillor Sir Francis Knollys. I tolerated his views because he was family, but I never let his religion impede his service. Francis produced a huge brood of children, some seven sons and four daughters. Odd in such a worthy father, none of the sons are worth mentioning here, and only one of the daughters, Lettice. And the things she is mentioned for—slyness, cuckoldry, adultery—would hardly make a father proud. I greeted Francis, trying not to hold his daughter against him.

Not reading my mind, Francis smiled and greeted me. Then he passed on to the table, eager to try the exotic fare.

I moved to the head of the table and announced, “Good Englishmen all! We have received gifts from the east. One you are walking upon—a fine Turkish carpet. Others are for you to handle and admire. Ladies, you may select a scarf. Men, you may handle the scimitars. But no dueling!” Lately there had been several attempted duels at court, in spite of their being strictly forbidden. “And most intriguing of all, there is a drink in the flagons—a heated drink, most welcome on this bone-chilling day—that warms your stomach and makes your head buzz, but not as ale does.” I had not tried it yet myself, but I would later—in private. “There are superlative dried fruits, and a special sweet that, I am told, the eunuchs love.” There, that should pique their interest.

Dark was falling so early on this winter's day. I ordered lamps and tapers to be lit, but the dark held sway in the corners and in the high roof. I had built this banqueting hall at Whitehall as a temporary structure, but I would never have the money to convert it into anything permanent.

The war with Spain on all its fronts was bankrupting me. The defeat of the Armada had not ended the conflict. It was merely one stage of it.

Recently our erstwhile ally France had been once again torn apart, this time by “the war of the three Henris”—the Catholic Henri, Duc de Guise, head of the Catholic League; the heir to the throne, Henri of Navarre, a Bourbon and a Protestant; and King Henri III, a Catholic and a Valois. But this was simplified when the Duc de Guise was assassinated, and so was Henri III. The French king, brave in his ribbons, perfume, and makeup, was removed from the stage of life, to be succeeded by his cousin from a different house and a different religion. The death of his meddling mother, Queen Catherine de' Medici, helped matters out immensely, from my point of view.

“My most gracious and beautiful sovereign.” Standing by me was Robert Devereux, the young Earl of Essex. I snapped out of my musings on England's financial straits. He bent low, kissing my hand and then raising his eyes to look directly into mine, letting a slow smile tease his lips. “I do confess that, as a man, I have been more subject to your natural beauty than as a subject to the power of the Queen.”