Elizabeth I (81 page)

The room was becoming so full that the heat rose and we did not need a fireplace. It also sounded very noisy to me. I have noticed that following a funeral people tend to speak louder than usual, to eat more, and to become drunker, as if the specter of death can be thrown off his scent that way, like a baffled hound.

“I had a better line,” a voice spoke into my ear. “But it was only a line, and not a poem.”

It was Will. He had laid aside his black mourning cloak and now was wearing everyday clothes. I looked at him, seeing merely a man in his midthirties, a man with a pleasant face. How does a lover revert to being an acquaintance? It had happened. It happened because I did not dwell on, did not conjure up, any memories of him in any other setting. They were as interred as Spenser.

“What was that line? I need to hear it, as death frightens me so.” An acquaintance who was once more occupies a peculiar place in which no confession is out of bounds. Normal reticence is exempt.

“It struck me that death is like a stern officer of the law,” he said. “My line is ‘This fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest.'”

At first it seemed simple, obvious. Then I thought about each of its words. “Sergeant”: An officer of the law, carrying out a superior's orders. “Fell”: Evil, vile. “Strict”: Following orders with no leeway. “Arrest”: A double meaning. Arrest meant “stop.” It also meant taking someone into custody. Suddenly I pictured a sanctimonious, uniformed lackey strong-arming those he oversaw, with no appeal.

Yes, that was what death was. A stern arresting officer. But there was no judge, no prison, no fine, no law. He himself subsumed them all.

I grasped my neck. “You almost make me feel his hand on me.”

“Death is all about us,” he said. “We just don't see him.”

“Your words help me to do so,” I said. “Death will always have a face, and a uniform, for me from now on.”

“I hope you recognize him. He may not oblige by dressing that way. Remember, the French swordsman who dispatched Anne Boleyn tricked her into looking in the wrong direction, so she did not see the sword coming.” He shook himself as if to cast off death. “But to speak of life: I hear that my Lord Essex will be leading the army into Ireland. May all go well.”

“I thank you,” I said. “His fortune rests in the outcome. But tell me, what of your theater? I heard it had been dismantled because of a property dispute.”

“You heard correctly. We took the timbers away to reassemble them in Southwark, beyond the jurisdiction of the city.”

“Down with the bear pits and the cockfights,” I said.

“There are other theaters there,” he answered, a bit testily. “It provides for people's pleasures. Something has to. Desires do not vanish because authorities would find it more convenient if they did.”

As we spoke, I found my guard against him dissolving and old memories flooding in. The sound of his voice; the very naturalness in standing next to him and talking to him—they shifted the ground under me.

“What is your next play?” I primly asked.

“I hate that question,” he said. “In fact, I despise it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said contritely. “It was merely—”

“A polite question, asked unthinkingly. Everyone does it. We all have rote polite questions flung at us. I did the same, asking you about Essex and Ireland. Then our task becomes to parry those questions. Someday, perhaps, we will be strong enough not to ask them in the first place and brave enough to refuse to answer.”

I felt whipped by a schoolmaster. “I shall cease to be polite, then. If you wish to tell me what you are working on, I would be pleased to hear, so I may anticipate it. Otherwise, I shall wait and see it when it appears in the theater and be surprised.”

“It's no surprise,” he said. “I promised at the end of
Henry IV, Part II
that I would continue the story into the reign of Henry V.”

“I haven't seen
Henry IV
.”

“Pity.”

“For you or for me?”

“Both. For me, that I cannot talk to you about it. And for you, because I hope you would have enjoyed it.”

I did not want to talk about his plays. I could talk about them to anyone. I wanted to know what he was doing, where he was living, whether his two children still survived, whether he returned to Stratford often. He seemed different, more disillusioned, more focused on his livelihood. Playfulness had abandoned him, leaving a wary man in its wake.

Christopher joined us, putting an end to whatever might have grown in our pause, our silence. “I think Southampton is about to be let out of Fleet Prison,” he said jubilantly. “I know you will be the first to welcome him.”

“I shall be standing at the door,” said Will.

“By the way, what are you working on now?” asked Christopher.

The end of March, but the days were warm like summer. The army was ready, and Robert would leave London and head north for Chester, where the troops would be ferried across to Ireland. I was immensely proud of him, and so worried as well that I would have kept him at Essex House forever, being outfitted, gathering supplies, planning his campaign. Christopher was going too, and I had the same pride and fear for him, with this difference: His fate was only personal, affecting his family, whereas Robert's was political, affecting not only his family but also the court and the entire realm.

There was a ceremonial gathering at the top of the Strand, and then Robert rode out on his great bay, followed by the nobility and gentry serving under him. The day was clear and the sky as blue as summer. How tall and fair he looked in the saddle! He swept his hat off as throngs of people cried, “God save your lordship!” and “God speed!” and “To the honor of England!” The crowds followed the army for four miles, cheering all the way—or so I was told. Frances and I had returned to Essex House after Frances had held his seven-year-old namesake up to see his father, telling him, “There goes your father, to save Ireland!”

We had not been inside long when the sky darkened, as if a witch had ordered the sunshine to be masked. Rumbles of thunder rolled over the city. Then the heavens opened, spewing out rain and hail, but only at Islington, just as Robert and Christopher and the army had reached that spot. Of course, people immediately took it for an omen—a bad one.

“He will start out fair but end in darkness and water,” they muttered.

Looking out the window at the darkness that gave no rain for us, I reminded myself—over and over—of the reasons why Robert had accepted this task. He had put them, very succinctly, in a letter to Southampton.

“Into Ireland I go. The Queen has irrevocably decreed it. The council passionately urges it. And I am tied in my own reputation.”

And now he was gone, for fair or ill, and Christopher with him. Having just been released from prison, Southampton would follow shortly.

Of the quartet of friends, only Will stayed in London. True to his promise, he finished his play about Henry V and, to my surprise and delight, put a reference to Robert in it, equating him with the great warrior king. The opening chorus said, “Were now the general of our gracious empress, as in good time he may, from Ireland coming, bringing rebellion broached on his sword...” Whenever audiences heard that, they cheered. All the nation's hopes were bound up in Robert.

I
watched from Whitehall as Essex and his troops paraded past, glowing in their distinctive tawny liveries. If looks could win a war, then the Irish did not stand a chance. There was no doubt about it: He could muster a following. Men who would never have gone to Ireland joined him, partly drawn by the promise of rewards he was known to be (too) generous with, and partly to share in the glory they believed he was sure to reap. Row upon row of them passed down the Strand, heads high and plumes waving, before turning to head north out of the city and on to Chester. The sun hit the silver trappings on their saddles and ornamental bridles, and the biblical phrase “terrible as an army with banners” came to mind.

Crowds ran alongside the mounted men, crying “God save Your Lordship!” and “All for glory!” So they had cried when I rode out during the Armada attack. But that was more than a decade ago, and it was Essex they called for now.

Growling thunder muttered off in the distance, but the sun still shone here. I stood silently as the army passed away, out of sight. Later we learned that the heavens had opened up and drenched them with rain and hail the moment they were beyond the London walls. Omen? Some said so.

And now we were to wait. Wait for the troops to sail, to land, and to make their way to Dublin. There the lord justices would administer the oath of loyalty and present Essex with the ceremonial sword of state. Only then would business begin, the campaign be launched.

As soon as he could assemble his troops, Essex was to march north and confront The O'Neill. It would to be difficult to stay here, motionless, awaiting news. I had never felt more helpless.

Easter came, and with it a glorious English spring—daffodils, cuckoos, violets, and lily of the valley. No matter what surrounded me, it was impossible for my heart not to soar in such beauty, returned after a long absence. It acted as balm for my fretfulness.

But soon came word that the Earl of Rutland, whom I had expressly forbidden to join Essex, had gone secretly. Instead of sending him back, Essex had welcomed him and made him colonel of foot soldiers, knighting him in the bargain. In addition, the moment Essex had his commission giving him the power of appointments, he had made Southampton his master of the horse. I immediately sent orders countermanding this and called Rutland home. And as for Southampton, I demanded his immediate demotion.

I found this challenge to my authority so disturbing that my sleep fled. I had looked Essex right in the eye and told him that he must not do this; he had done it anyway, as if his obedience ceased to exist once he was out of sight. What was I to do? I could not recall him; O'Neill must be answered. I must use one disobedient subject to chasten another. But after it was over, Essex must be dealt with.

Those left behind were more tractable. There were Robert Cecil, Charles Blount, Walter Raleigh, and Admiral Howard. The latter three had all fought in their time but, in declining to go to Ireland, were all that remained to shield me should Essex make a threatening move. I hated thinking this way, but no Tudor who was blind to the possibility of betrayal had retained the throne.

I ordered the florid dedication in Hayward's
The History of Henry the Fourth
to Essex, which stated, “You are great indeed, both in present judgment and in expectation of future time,” to be ripped from all the remaining copies of the book. I also granted Robert Cecil the mastership of the Wards of Court. He had earned it; he would use it wisely. Let Essex howl when he found it beyond his grasp.