Elizabeth I (40 page)

And here we were, the sun finally dipping toward the west on this long summer day, halfway to our destination. Far behind us, the necessary guards trailed. I did not take any ladies. The ones my age would have creaked and complained about a journey of this duration, and the younger ones would not have been interested.

“Tomorrow we will push on to Shrewsbury and Old Parr,” he said cheerfully, although it was quite far. His vigor and strength would eat up the distance. And I would pretend mine would.

That night, spent in a simple Devereux holding in Evesham, I was so tired I could have slept on boulders. But I had awakened rested with the morning's light, ready for another hard day.

Westward through the countryside the landscape changed. This part of England caught more of the wind and rain coming from the sea, and it was wilder and greener than the eastern counties. As we got closer to Wales, this would become even more marked.

Shrewsbury, a market town on the river Severn, lay only ten miles from the beginning of Wales proper. Much wool came through here; I was familiar with the name on tax rolls. But Old Parr lived in the nearby hamlet of Wollaston, easily found by asking. Old Parr was famous, more famous than anyone else who had ever lived there.

“He's a hundred and fifty!” one boy cried. “He's so old, he looks like a piece of leather!”

“No, he's two hundred!” a little girl said. “My great-great-great-grandmother knew him. He looks like a locust shell!”

Their father put his arms around their shoulders. “He isn't quite that old,” he said. “But—you know what the Scripture says about Moses? That he was a hundred and twenty years old and he was still a ... a vigorous man? Well, Old Parr had to do public penance for adultery when he was a hundred!” He chortled with admiration.

“We must see this for ourselves,” I said. “My thanks for the kind directions.”

They bowed, thanking me for speaking to them. I handed them a fan for a memento. It was all I had, having deliberately come away with very few trappings.

Old Parr's dwelling turned out to be a small stone cottage on the crest of a hill, encircled with a fence. The latched gate was not guarded, and we were free to walk in.

It was dim inside and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw a small figure sitting on a stool in the corner. He leaped up, startling us.

“Who's that? Who's that?” he called, grabbing a stave propped by his stool and flailing about with it.

“It is the Queen,” I told him. “Come a far way to see you.”

He spat. “Go on, liar!”

There was someone else in the room, and she rushed over to him, wrenching the stave away. “Father! Father!” she said. “What if it
is
the Queen?” She turned to me, wiping her hands on her apron, squinting to see me. “I—I cannot believe it—but no one would dare such an impersonation!” She sank down on her knees. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. We are—I am—speechless.”

“Rise, mistress. I hope you will not remain speechless, for I am here to learn from this most unusual subject of mine. I am sure he has wisdom to impart, for the years whisper it in our ears, whether we will or no.”

Essex was standing awkwardly in the doorway. “This is the Earl of Essex, whose family is from these regions. Indeed, it was from him I learned of your father.”

“What does she want?” Parr said querulously.

“That is no way to address your sovereign!” said Essex. “Apologize. Years do not confer immunity from manners.”

“Quite so, Father,” said his daughter. “Think of all the Englishmen who would faint away with this honor—the Queen in his own house!”

I laughed. “Well, my oldest subject—I think I am safe in calling you that—I am the eighth monarch you have had. How many do you remember?”

He settled back onto his stool, wiping his clouded eyes with the back of his hand. “Forgive me, my Queen. I meant no disrespect. My memory comes in with the first Tudor, King Henry VII, your grandfather. I was only two when he claimed his crown, and he remained King until I was twenty-six. He was the King of my strength, as the Scriptures say. Then the great King Harry, your father, that was from twenty-six to sixty-four, yes. And I was already seventy-five when you, his daughter, became Queen. But that was not so old, no! Moses was that old when he was called back to Egypt. And look at all
he
did!”

“So you have lived here all this time?” I looked around the little room. There was nothing extraordinary about it; it was a room like thousands of others.

“Not all the time,” he said. “I joined the army when I was seventeen, joined your Welsh grandfather Henry Tudor's army. That is the only time I have left here, and after that stint in the army I had no desire ever again to leave, I can tell you that! Nasty business, no matter who's fighting. No matter what their cause, good or bad. Wounds and rotten food—no thanks.”

As my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could see his daughter better. She was younger than my maids of honor.

“What of your family?” I asked. His wife must be long gone. What of the rest?

He gave one of his bursts of wheezing laughter. “No! Only my daughter here! Born of my sin.” He sounded immensely proud of it. He crossed himself. “And I've done penance for it!” he almost shrieked.

His daughter spoke up. “Calm yourself, Father.” She put her hands on his shoulder and turned to me. “I am the daughter of Katherine Milton, the woman he took up with. I think my father would not have been known outside our village except that his public penance revealed his age.”

“I betrayed my wife!” he announced gleefully. “With a younger woman! And in these parts they still believe in public penance for adultery. I had to stand draped in a white sheet in the parish church for it.”

“That is quite a feat for a man a hundred years old,” I allowed. “And that was twelve years ago!”

“It killed my wife,” he confided. “The shock, the scandal. But I am thinking of marrying again.”

Essex burst out laughing. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Yes. A man needs a wife.” He nodded vigorously.

“No doubt
you
do,” I said. I peered at him. He had shaggy white eyebrows that overhung his lids, like a magus's, and bright brown eyes. For a man of his years, his skin was not too wrinkled, and I noticed he was sitting straight on his backless stool. Around the room were crude portraits of all the monarchs he had lived under—Edward IV, Richard III, Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary, and myself. The one of me showed me at my coronation. I liked that.

“I have brought you a velvet cloak,” I said, now doubting the appropriateness of it. “What do you have for me? I want only words, no gift.” As if he had any objects to give. “Tell me what you credit with your long life.”

“It's all in the diet!” he said. “I believe that eating mainly green onions, cheese, coarse bread—none of that dainty fare!—ale and buttermilk is what did it.”

“It can't be just the food,” said Essex, “for all your neighbors eat the same.”

“No, there's more,” he said slyly. “And I could tell you if—”

Essex slapped a half groat down in his palm so swiftly his words were not even interrupted.

“—you were so kind as you have just been. It's not only what goes in the belly, but what comes out of the head. My motto has always been to keep your head cool by temperance and your feet warm by exercise.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“It's enough,” he grunted. “If you think it's easy, why then do so many fail to do it?”

“True, most people manage one but not both.”

“Now, there's a little something else ...”

Essex pressed another coin in his palm. “Do tell.”

“The rest of my secret is this: Rise early, go to bed likewise, and if you want to prosper, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.” He clamped his lips together. “There, that's all I know.”

“It has preserved him all these years,” his daughter said.

“God bless him,” I said.

“Will you be sending me a wedding gift?” he asked as we took our leave.

“You incorrigible old rogue!” I called back at him. “Yes. You have earned it!”

W
e were still laughing as we mounted our horses and rode away; my guards, having overheard what had passed inside the house, were guffawing, too.

“I forgot to ask him how old his intended is,” I said.

“They say there is no man so foul, or so old, that some woman won't have him,” said Essex. “And he is famous, too.”

“But he hasn't any money for all his fame, to offset the drawback of being over a hundred,” I said. I drew abreast of him. “Do you agree with him? That a man must be married?”

He smiled warily. “Ah, my Queen,” he said, “you'll not trap me into speaking of marriage. I know the subject easily affronts you.”

“I asked about men,” I said, “in regard to marriage.”

“Very well then. Yes, I think marriage is necessary for a man. Through it come alliances, inheritances, and legacies. An unmarried man is suspicious. I cannot help but feel that if Francis or Anthony Bacon were married, you would have more confidence in them. Their bachelorhood hinders their advancement.”

“Francis Bacon again,” I said. “You are determined to push his career. I almost think you fancy him yourself.”

He reined in his horse. “Ma'am!” He looked horrified.

I laughed. “Such indignation! You have made your point. However, there are those who say—”

“Who? Who?” he cried.

“—that Francis is of that persuasion. Perhaps it is because he is so intelligent. You, on the other hand, pursue women willy-nilly, a trait of the brainless.”

My maid of honor Elizabeth Southwell had left court to have his baby. For once I had said nothing on the subject. I felt pity for the silly creature, pity for Essex's wife and other children. He had promised me to honor his marriage, but a shameful tangle of lust and lies trapped him. He was not that different from Old Parr—they shared the same appetites and indiscretions. Men!

We had reached the place where the little road to Wollaston joined the main road. “Which way?” I asked. The guards drew up beside us.

“Turn right, go into Wales proper,” said one of them. “Turn left, go back toward London through Wolverhampton.”

“Let us go right,” I said, “to Wales.”

As we rode, the land became rougher and more hilly; the road deteriorated into a twisty, uneven path. Ahead we could see the beginning of the mountains, hazy in the western sun. Beyond that lay the sea, and beyond that—America. We passed people along the path speaking Welsh. I could understand only a few words; the child's Welsh that Blanche had taught me sounded different when spoken hurriedly by adults.