Elizabeth I (71 page)

What was he saying? I had not heard any of it. “John, I am sorry, my mind was wandering.”

“The Puritans are starting their personal attacks again,” he grumbled. “The other day, as I was walking to chapel, a group of them—I can always spot them by their dull clothing—set upon me, yelling, ‘Get out of that woman's frock!' Imagine, insulting a priest's robes. They would have all ceremony gone, have the clergy wear farmers' breeches and pray in a stinking barnyard!”

“Some of them would have no clergy at all,” I said. “There are dangerous ideas about. No clergy today, no king tomorrow. Everyone in the barnyard being equal.” A dreadful thought. “But you, my black husband”—my nickname for him, for his old-fashioned robes and bachelor state—“serve the church well by guarding its traditions and its creed.” It made him unpopular, but his “high church” theology suited me. In truth, it was not merely his beliefs people disliked but his haughty manners. Perhaps the princely prelates of the past had exhausted their tolerance for such behavior.

“You have a fine banqueting house,” I said, stopping to admire the building. It was situated at the far end of the orchard itself, floating like a low ship in the sea of white blooms. The very words “banqueting house” meant summer to me, as they were airy, insubstantial structures where only sweets, drinks, and fruits were served as delicate music was played.

“Cranmer built it,” he said, “along with his other improvements.”

Cranmer. The man who had been my mother's chaplain and who rose along with her, attaining the highest religious rank in the realm. He had attended her in her last hours, hearing her confession, giving her communion. After my father's death he vowed not to shave his beard, in mourning. It was very long indeed when he went to the stake under my sister Mary. He lived on in my memory and in his exquisite words in the Book of Common Prayer.

“He always had an eye for beauty,” I said, and let it go at that. But as a victim of rabid Catholicism, Cranmer was a reminder that the Puritans were not the only danger abroad in the land.

“In words and in service,” Whitgift said.

“He left us some forty years ago, but there are still those who would wish me at the stake as well,” I said. “The Catholics here in England may be quiescent, broken as a political force, but they are still strong in personal faith, and the Spanish are doing their best to restore them to political power as well. The missionaries—how many have we caught? Hundreds—and yet they keep coming.” Father Gerard, escaped from the Tower, was still at large.

“I think we catch about half of the Jesuits,” said Whitgift.

“I am besieged on both sides,” I said. “The Church of England is too ceremonial for the Puritans and too heretical for the Catholics.”

“It is in the nature of truth to have enemies,” he said stiffly.

“Stand firm, stand firm!” I said, patting his cheek. “I know I can rely on you, my black husband.”

We descended from the terrace and walked through the garden, taking care to stay on the path. Double violets framed each bed, with a ring of sweet Williams and primroses just behind them. In the middle were taller plants—daffodils, snapdragons, poppies, foxglove, hollyhocks.

“How is my Lord Burghley?” asked Whitgift, changing course.

“Poorly,” I said. “It grieves me. But he still comes to council meetings by strength of will. And he still holds his own against the Earl of Essex and the faction breathing hot for war. A few days ago, when Essex was arguing about the necessity of attacking Spain again, Burghley reprimanded him and quoted the Fifty-Fifth Psalm to him: ‘Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days.' ”

“What spirit! And what did Essex do?”

“Got angry, saying he was not deceitful. The overall meaning of the warning was wasted on him. In any case, since I do not wish it, there will be no further attacks on Spain. It is a waste of money better spent defending ourselves here at home.” Essex could crow and demand, but in the end only I decided whether we went to war or not.

Afternoon shadows were lengthening. In the days of the monasteries, the monks would have been stopping for None prayers. It was time to leave. This was as close as I would get to a monastery, this old redbrick bishop's palace that went back five hundred years, to when Lambeth was just a marsh and the stones of Westminster Abbey were new.

We were at Greenwich for May, the best palace to be in springtime. I had been glad to leave wintry Whitehall behind. Besides, there were unpleasant memories of the last days there, and I wanted to efface them. I still shook with indignation when I remembered that encounter with Lettice Knollys. Yes, I had agreed to see her as a condition for Essex's return to court. But the more I thought of it, the more I resented it. I had bestowed the Earl Marshal title on him, and that should have been sufficient. That he kept bargaining and wheedling like a market vendor was distasteful and cheapened him—or rather, my opinion of him. We had had to trick him into thinking he had won a war of wills, when he should have realized it was a war that should never have been fought. A subject does not contend with his sovereign.

And when a sovereign makes his or her position clear, a subject should take note, not keep badgering. But no! That wooden-headed son, pushed on by his brazen mother, kept pursuing me, finally cornering me in my own private passageway like a hunted animal. If they thought thereby to have won some sort of victory, they were fools. Now I could only see her would-be gift, the Boleyn necklace, as a cheap attempt to stake familial claims in my heart.

T
he July sunshine was clear and bright, and beneath my windows the flowery border was filled with fluttering butterflies. One of the Greenwich gardeners had, in fact, created what he called a butterfly garden, filled with a jumble of plants that attracted them—rosemary, lavender, verbena, mede-sweet, and the charmingly named go-to-bed-at-noon. I loved to lean out the window and watch them, although at midday, when the sun was highest, everything lay still and even the butterflies rested.

It was too glorious a day to be indoors, but a matter of supreme importance had to be settled in council: the right man to replace Lord Burgh as lord lieutenant of Ireland. It was long overdue and crucial that we decide on our policy from here on. The O'Neill was becoming king of Ireland while we cowered in our outposts. He was starving out our fort at Yellow Ford, near Ulster.

There was a dearth of capable men to appoint. At length I had settled on Sir William Knollys. He was not brilliant, but he was experienced, sensible, and loyal. I would announce this decision today.

The councillors filed in, wearing their lightest shirts and breeches, no capes, no hats. I hoped to have the business over with quickly and release everyone out into the fine day. Only the inner circle was present: young Cecil, Essex, Admiral Howard, Archbishop Whitgift, old Lord Buckhurst, the young Lord Hunsdon.

I welcomed them and proceeded to nominate Sir William Knollys for the post, listing his previous appointments and qualifications. Around the council table there were nods.

Suddenly Essex stood up and said, “With your leave, Your Majesty, I must object. My uncle is not the right man for the post. I put forward Sir George Carew instead. He's had experience in Ireland, has served there in various capacities, and is a better fit.”

I was surprised at his objection. Nonetheless, I said, “Does anyone here care to comment?”

Robert Cecil now stood up. “It is clear that my lord of Essex wishes to send Carew away from court to diminish his influence. He fears a rivalry and would vanquish all opposition.”

“What a foolish idea!” said Essex loftily. “Why should I fear such a man as Carew?”

“Because he is growing in influence, having just returned from an embassy to King Henri IV with me. You seek to clip him before he grows any further.”

“Why, what do you mean, man? The lord lieutenantship of Ireland is a much higher post than being second on an embassy to France. An embassy that achieved nothing, I might add. The French have determined to make peace with Spain, leaving us all alone to fight Philip. So you might as well have stayed home.”

“You know Ireland is a graveyard of ambitions. It has chewed up many a man. Going there is like going to Hades—a man never returns, or if he does, he is just a shade. You want to send Carew there, send him into oblivion, so he can't oppose you.”

“How dare you insult my father? He was one of those who died in Ireland, as well you know.”

“Gentlemen,” said Admiral Howard, rising to join them. “Pray, be calm.”

“Cease the squabbling,” I said. “It is pointless. I have decided that it is Sir William Knollys.”

“You are making a mistake. That is a foolish choice.” Essex jutted out his chin.

“My lord—” Whitgift reached out to Essex, making shushing gestures, wagging his finger furiously.

“I cannot let this pass!” Essex said, glaring at me. “I am being mocked and undermined. I will not tolerate it!” Abruptly, he turned his back on me.

Such a thing had never been done, nor seen, in all my years, that a subject upbraid his sovereign and then turn his back on her. I stared at his wide back, his shoulders at my eye level, his head a head higher. He was a large man, and his back looked as forbidding as a closed door.

“Go to the devil!” I cried, anger flooding through me at his effrontery. I smacked him on the ears from side to side, ordering, “Get you gone and be hanged!”

So swiftly that the eye could barely follow, he whirled around and grabbed the hilt of his sword, meaning to draw it on me. Quick-thinking Howard stepped between us and clamped his hand down over the pommel to prevent Essex from actually following through on his gesture, which would have been instant treason.

“I neither can nor will put up with so great an affront, nor would I have borne it from your father's hands!” he cried. He stepped back, his eyes wild.

“If I were my father you would not walk a free man from this room,” I reminded him. My voice was deadly cold, as it is when I am most angry. “You would go directly from council table to the Tower. And you would not linger long there, either. And as for affront, I have given you none, other than to refuse your suggestion. Hardly a cause for treason.”

“I curse this room. I curse the day I was born, which I rue and will make everyone rue—” He rushed out the door, his feet clattering on the stairs and then dying away.

For an instant utter silence hung in the room. Then one of the guards said, “Your Majesty, shall we go after him and arrest him?”

Quickly I thought it out. His actions demanded that he should at least be detained, if not charged with treason. But I shook my head. “Let him go,” I said.

He would most likely run back to Wanstead. He would take to his bed and sulk and fall ill. I would get messages that he was on his deathbed.

The noontime sun poured into the room, and the hot air, laden with the pungent smell of dust and drooping leaves, hung over us like a pall. The councillors remained where they were, some standing, some sitting.

“Gentlemen, you may go,” I said. “Do not speak of this outside this chamber.”

The day had been robbed of its beauty for me. The serenity of what saints called the blessed hour of noontide had been shattered. Walking down the grassy lawn to the riverside, I barely heard the cries of the wheeling gulls and lapwings. Before me several tall-masted ships rode at anchor, idle now, awaiting orders.

A subject had defied and threatened me in public. Not only that, he had implied I was not a true prince, that I was less because of my sex. “Nor would I have borne it from your father's hands,” he had said. “In other words, he would bear more from a king than from a queen. A queen is less than a king.” He questioned the very foundation of my power.