Elizabeth I (25 page)

Dorothy had managed to incur the Queen's anger when she married Sir Thomas Perrot without royal permission. The years had not made the Queen relent. Dorothy accepted it and seemed content with Perrot, which was a good thing, after the price she had paid to marry him.

Less flamboyant in dress than her sister, she was just as striking. Her hair was a reddish blond and her features more regular than those of Penelope, who had a long, albeit elegant, nose.

Alas, new motherhood had not improved Frances Walsingham's looks—I would always call her that in my mind, never Frances Devereux. She was still so plain that it is difficult to describe her. How can one differentiate her from the thousands of other plain women in the realm? Her daughter by Philip Sidney was equally colorless; already any hope she had of growing into good looks had vanished. Like mother, like daughter. Her son with Robert, my grandson Robert, was a winning little thing, but he was only a year old, and at that age, all babies are winning. I hoped my son's good looks would drown out Frances's dullness as he grew up.

“It is time.” The household chaplain, an earnest young man, appeared in the hall. We followed him out and walked silently to the chapel. The sky was overcast; the trees still bare. Mud oozed up between the bricks on the path, glistening as we trod upon it.

Beside me Christopher took my hand. He had been a bystander during this difficult time, not knowing how to comfort me for my loss of a part of my life before he had known me.

We entered the chapel, the gloomy day making it hard to see inside. The tomb was beckoning, its marble looking too raw, shouting out its new contents. The carvers had just finished with the epitaph and marble dust lay on the base, missed by the sweepers.

“Let us give thanks for the life of Walter Devereux,” the priest intoned.

After he had finished mumbling his prayers, Robert stepped forward. “I wished to write a poem for my brother,” he said. “When I was already laid low by the fever in France, they brought me word of his death, and I sickened so all thought I would join him, and two coffins be shipped home. I survived, but I could not find the words to frame a proper poem. So I will recite one written by another.” He closed his eyes as if to read the words in his mind.

His voice had begun to tremble, and he reached out to the edge of the tomb to steady himself.

One by one we went up to the tomb and laid our wreaths and tributes upon it. Then the horrid moment was over, and we could leave this sunless chapel.

Dusk had come, and we were together for our supper, my scattered children under one roof again. As I looked at each of them, their present adult faces wavered and were replaced by the round ones I had known when they were small. There was, suddenly, a great peace about it.

“That poem,” said Penelope. “Where did you get it, Robert?” She was cutting her meat carefully, and I remembered her daintiness as a child, refusing to eat anything with fat on it.

“Chidiock Tichborne,” he said.

“The traitor?” said Christopher drily.

Robert looked up with consternation. “He was a poet. I know not of traitor.”

“Don't play the innocent. He was executed as one of the conspirators in the Babington Plot,” said Christopher.

“One that my father brought to justice! Robert, how could you speak his words at your own brother's tomb?” Frances had actually spoken out, and sharply. I was astounded.

“When he wrote of the tomb on the night before his execution, he knew whereof he spoke,” insisted Robert. “I judge him only as a poet.”

“Then you're a fool. Never do that again. What if the Queen hears that you quote a man who wanted to assassinate her?” said Penelope. “Do you want to ruin this family?”

“I do not think she would take offense,” insisted Robert.

“She takes offense more easily than almost anyone I know,” I said. Even as I spoke, I wondered if some spy might report my words. But I was still in the stage of not caring what happened to me. “She banished me from court and I remain banished, even though the cause of the offense is dead, and I am her near cousin. She remains angry at Dorothy. As for her other grudges and vendettas, the list is so long I could not name them all.”

“Even if you could, I would not advise it,” said Dorothy quietly.

“ ‘Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber: for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter,' ” said Frances. “When my father was alive, he was the bird who flew to the Queen. Now we do not know who they are.”

“Your father's loss was a great one to the Queen as well as to us,” said Robert, reaching out to touch her hand. “Whoever fills that empty space will put the Queen in his debt.”

Robert, making an astute political observation; Frances, speaking up—I was taken by surprise. Had I misjudged them, or had they changed?

After the meal, my girls—I kept calling them that, even though they were in their late twenties—drifted off together, leaving the men, Frances, and me to the fire in a privy chamber. Now that the family ceremony was over, Francis Bacon joined us, and another man I did not recognize.

“My brother Anthony,” said Francis, pushing him forward.

The man almost hobbled as he approached me. “An honor, Lady Leicester.” I had been allowed to retain my highest title, Countess of Leicester, rather than being demoted to plain Lady Blount, wife of a knight. His voice was thin and raspy at the same time, as if it had to travel a long way from his concave chest. He turned to Robert and nodded. “My lord,” he said.

“Welcome,” said Robert. He seemed more sure of himself, taking over the role of host from me.

“Anthony has just returned from France, as have you, dear Robert,” said Francis. Unlike his brother's, Francis's voice was smooth, strong, and seductive. “You served the Queen on the battlefield and he served her in more shadowy venues,” he said. “He had the good fortune to be ... associated ... with the work of your late father, Frances.”

“So he was a spy?” Frances said. “Pray speak plainly. There are no birds here to fly to court.”

What had got into her? Had she taken up the mantle of her father?

“Please, I do not merit that title,” said Anthony, swaying on his feet.

I motioned for Robert to slide a chair over for him, and he sank down upon it, relief spreading across his face. He was clearly in bodily distress. “For ten years I gathered information for Secretary Walsingham. Not only from France, but from all over the Continent. France was a convenient collecting station. But changing conditions there, and my poor health—” He gave a hooting, raucous series of coughs and ended by mopping his mouth with a handkerchief.

“My brother is now in a position to transfer his services here,” said Francis. “And we, if we are wise, will know how to use them.”

“My wife says to speak plain,” said Robert. “Pray do.”

“Do I have your absolute word that the wood lining these walls”—He thumped the wall behind him—“is as far as my answer goes?”

“Of course, man! Speak up!” said Robert.

“Very well. It is so simple I am astounded you have not proposed it already. It is this: The great Secretary Walsingham is dead. He who protected the Queen for so long, who broke conspiracy after conspiracy and crowned his achievement with the challenge of ensnaring Mary Queen of Scots, in legally irrefutable proof, has left a great void. The Queen is naked—so to speak—before her enemies. There is no one who has been able to replace Walsingham.”

“Nasty little crookback Cecil has tried to manage the network Walsingham left behind,” said Christopher, who usually remained silent in political exchanges.

“It is in tatters,” said Francis. “It is like a faithful hound that only obeyed one master. We must construct a new spy system and run our own intelligence service. In that way we will win not only Her Majesty's gratitude but power as well. Power to vanquish the Cecils and make our own fortune.” He looked knowingly at Robert. “Will you authorize this? We will work for you. You will present the findings to Her Majesty.”

Robert's face was blank. His eyes shifted from one face to another, as if asking permission. I nodded, locking my eyes with his. This was the way. This was where the battles would be fought. I felt a stirring of excitement in me at the challenge and, along with it, relief that I could feel anything again.

“My father had five hundred spies in fifty countries in his network, as far away as Constantinople,” said Frances. “Can you ever match that?”

“Indeed, yes, I have been managing many of those very strings of informers,” said Anthony. “I know how to do it.”

“My father died horribly in debt,” said Frances. “He paid for much of the service himself. The Queen wanted protection but was unwilling to pay for it. Father's motto was ‘Knowledge is never too dear.' That was before the bills came due and his purse was empty.” Her voice rose.

Robert attempted to put his arm around her to quiet her, but she pushed it away.

“Indeed, yes, that is the weak spot in my proposal,” said Francis. “How to pay for it. We are all somewhat short of funds.”

What an understatement. Christopher and I were reduced to pawning my jewelry, and the Bacon brothers were eking out livings as a lawyer at Gray's Inn and as a poorly paid secretary to a poorly paid secretary.

“Yes, there is that little matter,” I could not help saying.

“But the Queen will surely be rewarding me after my service in France,” said Robert.

“She awarded Cecil a place on the Privy Council while you were prancing before the walls of Rouen, issuing the governor a challenge to personal combat, claiming that the cause of King Henri was more just than that of the Catholic League and that your mistress was more beautiful than his,” snapped Francis. “Silly posturing. Can't you see? You must give Her Majesty some service she needs—what
she
wants, not what
you
want.” Francis Bacon was a relentless prosecutor, as he was known to be in the law court.

“I was the commander. I had to make a brave showing, else I would shame my Queen,” said Robert.

“You shamed her when you disobeyed her orders and knighted men who had no merit to be knighted. Can you not see that it looks as if you are building up a body of men beholden to you?” said Francis.

I could see Robert thinking, weighing whether he had the stomach to press on with this. He might make his familiar I-want-to-retire-to-the-country statement. He sighed and then said, “Perhaps you are right.”

“We will set up our intelligence network. Some of it will involve nasty characters, but you need not sully yourself with them. Scapegallows with names like Staring Robin and Welsh Dick and Roaring Girl—but you will never meet them. Others, like Kit Marlowe, I daresay you would not mind sharing an ale with at the tavern; he works clean, works for your cousin Thomas Walsingham, Frances.” Francis nodded toward her.

“What about the Catholic priests?” said Robert. “The Jesuits who scurry from house to house, hiding from the law. Can we harness them? Christopher, you're known in Catholic circles.”

He gave an uneasy laugh. “I was brought up Catholic, yes, and had entrée into that circle plotting for the Scots queen,” he said.

“Work on your Catholic contacts,” urged Robert. “They know a lot.”

“I'm not sure it's safe to traffic that way,” I said. I did not want to endanger my household. I glared at my son.

“The theater is another place crawling with men whose pasts—and presents—one does not want to delve into too deeply,” said Christopher with a laugh. “But we can enjoy their plays. See villainy on the stage and not ask how they know the thinking of villains so well.”

“Next, we must indeed build up a party,” said Anthony. It was the first time he had spoken since his coughing fit. “And we must set up a line of communication with Scotland. That is where the succession is going. He will be our king before long, and those who have approached him and rendered him friendly service earlier will fare well in the new government.”