Elizabeth I (61 page)

The people who saw me turned and gave subdued greetings, but there were none of the wild shrieks I usually incited. It was true, then: My popularity had sagged due to the economic troubles of the country. It was not my fault that there had been three bad harvests in a row, but somehow I was connected to it. It went back to a biblical pronouncement—and now that people were eagerly reading the once-forbidden Bible for themselves in their own language, they had rediscovered it—that stated that an unrighteous ruler was directly responsible for rain and harvests. If the weather was bad, it was because God was punishing him for some sin—known or unknown. The Book of Leviticus said, “If you will not yet for all this hearken unto me, then I will punish you seven times more for your sins. I will make your heaven as iron, and your earth as brass: For your land shall not yield her increase, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruits.”

I was glad to leave St. Paul's behind and go out the nearby Ludgate, the westernmost gate in the city wall. It had been rebuilt only a dozen years ago and was fair and stout, with a statue of me on the outer side and the legendary ancient King Lud on the inner. The gate housed a prison as well, and as we passed under it, I could see a few of the prisoners up on the roof for their air. These were the gentlemanly criminals, that is, ones whose transgressions were debt or poaching or printing forbidden tracts. Then up Ludgate Hill and thence to the Strand, the graveled road paralleling the Thames and passing the great riverside mansions. They began right after the Temple Inns of Court.

The first one we came to was Essex House, where Robert Devereux was malingering, hiding from court. As we rode past, unannounced, I looked closely to see if anything was stirring in the great courtyard behind the ornamental gates, but all was quiet. He kept enormous numbers of retainers, so many that it was said “his house was eating him,” but they were invisible today.

The rain would not hold off much longer. A gust of wet wind swept over us, and a few drops fell. We were still a mile or so from Whitehall.

Next we passed Arundel House, with its tall, towered gateway, currently empty. Its owner, Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, had just died in the Tower, where he had been kept for many years. He and his whole family had converted—or reverted?—to Catholicism, and Philip had even prayed and had a Mass said for the success of the Armada! He had been named for Philip of Spain, his godfather, and was true to him. I turned my head away, not wanting to look at the house. Once Philip had been a winsome boy, and I willed myself not to see him as he was then, high-spirited and joyful. Now the Catholics were calling him a martyr and petitioning Rome to declare him a saint. That boy was no saint. Just ask his wife how well he kept the sixth commandment.

Next door was Somerset House, where Henry Carey had died last summer. His son George, the new Lord Hunsdon, now inhabited it. I had not been back there since Henry died; it would not seem the same house to me. I hoped George was keeping up the extensive gardens on the river side of the house, but I suspected he had little interest in flowers or fountains. Across the way lay a produce market where an old convent had been, now called Convent Garden. He could avail himself of that if he did not want to bother growing things himself.

Another flurry of wind. We spurred our horses to go faster, passing quickly by Raleigh's Durham House, set way back and near the river.

Almost back. Now the road widened out into the crossroad at Charing Cross and the magnificent Eleanor Cross standing there on its stepped octagonal base. It was very high and slender, rising like an ancient prayer poem. No one was there today, but dozens of papers fluttered from its shaft. I asked that those be removed so I could look at them later. Bearing left, we swung into the grounds of Whitehall, entering from the court gate that straddled the public road. The bells of nearby Westminster Abbey were tolling in recognition of Christ's death, ringing the Nine Tailors—nine strokes for a man, then thirty-three for his age. The last was reverberating just as we got inside. Then the rain broke.

I spent Holy Saturday inside, confined, as Christ had lain in the tomb—not to put too fine a point on it. For penitence and sobering, I spread out the leaflets and notes torn off the two Eleanor Crosses and read them carefully. The ones advertising their wares, legal and moral or illegal and immoral, were not my main concern, although they were educational. I learned of rate wars between the illicit grain hoarders and of the availability of gemstones “taken from the late Spanish expedition”—a good explanation for what had become of my share. The style in prostitutes' names this season was mythological. There were many Aphrodites, Venuses, and Andromedas, along with, puzzlingly enough, a Medusa. But the notes concerning Essex were alarming. There were salutes to his heroism, poems recounting his adventures, ballads about his gallantry, and, most ominous of all, claims for his lineage and royal blood, one notice even saying that “he was most worthy of the succession of any man living.”

Another note, crinkled from exposure to sun and rain, proclaimed, “Said e. of Essex is proud son of e. of Cambridge and should finish his task. Arise!”

I bent over it, smoothing out the paper to be sure of the words. Yes, that was what they said. They spoke, then, of Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was executed for treason against Henry V—Robert Devereux's direct ancestor seven generations back.

I knew all the genealogies of everyone. If you were a Tudor, you learned them almost before your
ABC
s, as they governed your life. Robert Devereux counted Edward I and Edward III as his ancestors. His royal blood was so diluted it would not amount to more than a teaspoon if you could measure it, but it gave a tincture to everything he did. Mine united the bloodlines of York and Lancaster; his was primarily York. Those wars were not forgotten, nor the bloodlines running further back into the distant past. During my father's reign many with stronger blood claims than Robert Devereux had been executed until there were none left to challenge the Tudor claim. But there are always other descendants, cousins, to continue the line. That was what made Essex dangerous.

And now he was hiding himself away, daring me to continue to ignore him, while he fanned the murmurs and desires of the people.

I would not call him forth, nor go to him. “He has played long enough upon me, and now I mean to play upon him!” I cried aloud. “I will pull down his proud heart, as we pull down dangerous houses!”

I unrolled another faded piece of paper. “Remember Richard II my lord. See him do what should be done. At the playhouse, now.”

Richard II. At the playhouse. Was there a play about the deposition of that foolish king? I must look into this. Who was performing it? And to what end?

I welcomed Easter as the dearly sought release from a long winter of heaviness of spirit. It did not fail me. It never did, in its yearly reassurance that all would be well. The sun streamed through the windows of the chapel royal, hitting Archbishop Whitgift's white and gold vestments, making them gleam in heavenly splendor. The lilies on the altar stood fair and slender, purity in an imperfect world.

W
hat a long and dreary winter it had been. Each short day seemed longer than a midsummer's one, for when the spirits are low one hour seems ten. My son's agitation about his political situation occupied me, as a crying baby will demand attention. No matter how old the child or the mother, the need, and the response, is the same on both sides.

He had hidden away all winter, absenting himself from court. The court had not missed him; he had never been popular there. They were all jealous of him. The Queen was still angry, punishing him for the failure—as she saw it—of the Cádiz voyage. The people, on the other hand, appreciated the sheer bravado of the mission, and certainly King Philip was incensed about it. The ghost of Drake himself was probably applauding the audacity of it. Only the Queen held aloof, caring solely about the missed booty, not the glory of striking into the very heart of our enemy.

Because the Queen refused to call the mission a success, the logical next step—a follow-up attack on another Spanish target—found few outright supporters. The council was divided between those who thought England should have an aggressive war policy and those who favored a defensive strategy. As in other areas, Robert and the Cecils were on opposite sides of the argument. The Queen favored the Cecil position but might be persuadable.

“But not if you hide yourself away,” I had told Robert. “As leader of the war party, you have to be close to her ear.”

But he remained obdurate, unconvinced. His wife and children, though, seemed to benefit from his absence at court. Frances was as unprepossessing as ever, so easily overlooked, with her quiet, accommodating manner and her undistinguished looks. She called to mind St. Paul's description of love: bears all things, endures all things. I suppose, for such a man as my son, those were essential qualities for a wife.

She was a good mother. Better than I, and I admired her for that. Her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was eleven now and had the long face and delicate hands of her father, Philip Sidney, but not his good looks; her son by Robert, little Rob, was six. He was a dreamy child, often preferring to play indoors even when the weather was sunny. He did not like riding but forced himself to do it, which bespoke courage but not aptitude.

Until now Robert had seemed indifferent to them, but during these months they caught his affection and he spent much time with them. Children soothed wounded pride; they judged a person by a different yardstick than the world. Under their adoring gaze, Robert grew calmer.

I enjoyed spending time with them as well—it was something to share with Robert that was not freighted with political weight. They were my grandchildren, after all. I knew I should be more attentive, but I usually held that children are not interesting until they reach fourteen or so. By this time I had many grandchildren: six by Penelope and three by Dorothy, besides Robert's. His obliging ex-mistress Elizabeth Southwell had boldly named her son Walter Devereux, making a total of eleven. Both Penelope and Dorothy were expecting again. I marveled at the fecundity of our family.

Alone of the children, Elizabeth Sidney was a goddaughter of the Queen, and named for her. I hoped that might mean some special attention for her, but since the death of Walsingham and Frances's transition from Sidney's widow to Robert's wife, the Queen took no notice of her. And Frances, in her unpresuming way, did nothing to change that.

Suspended in inaction, life feels eternal. Then, abruptly, it ends. It did the day Cecil and Raleigh came to Essex House to meet with Robert and form a plan for working together.

It was a shock to have the outside world bursting in upon us, like throwing open the shutters after a long winter to reveal the dust and cobwebs. They made an odd pair, diminutive Cecil and the broad-shouldered Raleigh. But where political interests converge, men start to look alike.

Robert was wary around them, unsure whether to trust them. When one's enemies come a-calling, it is best to keep one's back to the wall. So he made much of welcoming them, so effusively that it smacked of pandering. I would have to wait until later to know what was said, as they spoke in private. But all along Southampton had managed to let bits of news trickle in to us, and we heard that frustration with the Queen's inability to embrace any definitive policy was stalemating everyone's plans. Did not Jesus himself say, “Let your yes be yes and your no be no”? Her Majesty was not following his command.

The three men went into the chamber and shut the door resolutely. They remained there for several hours. I sent trays of food and flasks of the finest wine in for them; they were returned empty, the plates heaped with peels and rinds and the flasks drained. Eventually they emerged, looking content and companionable. This was as rare a sight as a planetary convergence of Jupiter, Mars, and Venus, and I wished there was a way to capture the image. Cecil had his doublet undone, showing his rumpled shirt beneath; Raleigh's smile harbored no skepticism. And Robert? My son looked truly happy for the first time in months.