Watch the Lady (22 page)

“I was wrong about him. He's a good man.” Essex turns to his sister, inspecting her face, finding there the flicker of a smile that she is unable to suppress. “You
like
him.”

“I like any man with good manners. Besides, I am a married woman—
and
with child.” She turns her face away, bending to throw a stick for Spero, but she is thinking of a moment the other evening, when Blount had paid a visit. They had talked of the importance of loyalty. “There are sometimes occasions,” he had said, in that grave way he has, “when loyalty asks us to betray our moral codes.” It had touched her, allowed her to see something of his profundity. She can feel the effect he is having on her in a physical sensation, a pull in her depths, over which she has no control. It is something she has felt only once before. Thoughts of her younger self tap at her, and she can't help remembering how preoccupied she was with love then, as if there were nothing more important in the world. How different she is now from the green girl who fell for Sidney.

Cecil hears the sound of horses entering the yard and makes for the privy chamber, from where there is a view of the stable arch. Urgent business agitates in his head and he has waited an age for the Queen's return from the hunt, that he may take his leave and join his father at Whitehall. Trouble is brewing in France, where King Henri has managed to alienate both Catholics and Protestants alike, meaning the Spaniards could gain an easy foothold in Normandy. There is a multitude of pressing matters to discuss with Burghley. Cecil has been ruminating on ways to stop Essex from persuading the Queen he should take an army across the Channel to aid the Protestant cause. He can't help imagining the earl's glorious return, parading through London at the head of his triumphant legion, banners flying, cheering crowds thronging the streets. It is a thought that rankles.

Cecil still waits to be made Secretary of State. Though he has performed the duties of the office for more than a year, he is treated like a glorified scribe. He may give the outward impression of success, but Cecil's insides churn with a sense of failure born of his father's disappointment; it is there in the sideways looks and the little deflating comments that seem innocuous but are not. How he longs to impress his father. He stops outside the privy-chamber door to straighten his clothes. His ruff is starched stiff and scratches the skin of his throat but the idea of loosening it and risking it sitting crookedly is unthinkable. He can hear women's voices as he enters the privy chamber, stopping, unseen, shifting into the shadows. There is something conspiratorial about the tone of their conversation that makes him want to listen.

“It is showing,” says one of them in an urgent whisper. “You
must
find a way to retire from court.”

“She will not let me out of her sight. You would not believe the lies I had to tell her so as to be excused from the hunting party.” Cecil recognizes the voice of Frances Walsingham; the other woman is Lady Rich—her forthright manner and musical tone are unmistakable.

His curiosity is provoked, for he has never noticed a particular friendship between these two women, certainly nothing to suggest that they would be in each other's confidence.

“You must say to her that you remain distressed by the death of your father and that you need a little solitude to mourn him. Ask leave to go to your mother's house,” says Lady Rich. “She cannot refuse you that, not with your father so recently dead.”

“But it would be a lie,” says Frances. “And I could not use Father's death for deceitful ends.”

“For goodness' sake, is it not a greater lie by far to have wed in secret?”

Cecil feels the hair on his neck prick up as he waits for the conversation to unfold and reveal itself fully.

“If you go to your mother at Barn Elms, you can have the baby quietly. We can put it about that you have contracted something, an imbalance of the humors. Within a few weeks you will be back at court and the Queen will be none the wiser.”

Cecil finds himself, not for the first time, envying his adversary for having such a formidable sister. Cecil thinks of the wife he wed a year ago, a serviceable woman inhabiting the background of his life, and well connected—she brings her father, Lord Cobham's, favor—an ally on the Queen's council. But she cannot quite hide the disgust she has for his deformities, nor the pleasure in the luxuries he brings. He doesn't care, as long as she bears him a son; but how he could do with a woman like Lady Rich at his side.

“I am afraid,” says Frances. Her voice is waterlogged, as if she might cry, and Cecil feels a drop of sympathy for the poor meek girl—the Queen will eat her alive for this misdemeanor. He is remembering how Anne Vavasour fared all that time ago when she got herself with child to Oxford; they both ended up in the Tower, and Anne was a far more stalwart type than this fragile creature.

“This is no time for fear, Frances.” There it is again, that unemotional response, Lady Rich's formidable expediency. His admiration flourishes. “My brother is on a path to glory and this must not get in his way.”

So Essex is the husband! He'd thought he was stalking a rabbit but this is no rabbit, it is so much more, it is a lion at the very least. This could be the means to bring down his adversary—Oxford was out of favor a full five years after his slipup with the Vavasour woman. He finds himself wondering what on earth Essex sees in such a girl, wondering if there is more to it, making a mental note to look into some of his informers and where their loyalties lie; particularly those once affiliated to Frances's father. Since Walsingham died his network has become notably less reliable, agents have fallen from the map.

“Ladies,” he says, stepping fully into the chamber. “I did not think to find anyone here.”

Lady Rich turns, calmly, with a half smile. “Good day to you, Cecil. We did not join the hunt. You will no doubt come to understand, when your dear wife has an infant, that it takes a month or so to get back in the saddle after the childbed.”

Lady Rich's beauty always takes him by surprise, as if he is seeing her for the first time. She has cast off her coif and seems not to care that her bright hair is falling in tangles over her shoulders; nor that her ruff is undone, exposing her pale undulating breast; nor that the dark fabric of her skirt is scattered with white dog hairs. Her hands, though, are perfect; they might have been stolen from a marble statue, and her black eyes fix on him with an unsettling steadiness of gaze.

“Felicitations on the birth of your baby, my lady,” he says. “A son, was it?” Cecil wonders if her comment—“when your dear wife has an infant”—was a veiled criticism of the fact that his wife is not yet in whelp. He has thought of Lady Rich more than once during his desultory marital duties. He wrenches his eyes away to glance at poor Frances, who, though quite comely enough, with translucent skin and striking round grey eyes, is like a mouse beside her companion. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair and picks at the hem of her handkerchief, fraying it right away so little fragments of thread lie over her lap.

“A boy, yes,” says Lady Rich with a triumphant tilt of the head. “We called him Henry.”

“Two boys; Lord Rich must be delighted after such a time.”

“Indeed,” she replies, with that victor's tilt of the head again, not acknowledging his comment about the years it took to produce a brace of boys for her husband. “Will you take a little ale with us?” She pats the seat beside her. He is fascinated by her coolness; there is not an inkling of concern to suggest she fears he might have heard the conversation that came to an abrupt halt on his arrival.

He sits, turning to Frances: “You stayed to keep Lady Rich company, I suppose?”

Frances's eyes are startled as she tries to form a response.

“She is unwell,” says Lady Rich, pouring out a measure of ale and handing him the cup. “Frances, why don't you go and lie down? Go to my chambers, they are more private than yours.”

“What ails you, my dear?” The endearment sounds false on Cecil's lips.

Lady Rich looks towards him, making a minute shake of the head, as if to say,
Don't question her
, and helps the girl to the door, smoothing a palm over her forehead as a mother might and whispering something. Cecil saw clearly, as Frances stood and her gown pulled open a little, the evidence of her state. Lady Rich is right; she will not be able to hide that much longer. Seeing her fragility occasions a moment of conscience as he turns over thoughts of what he will do with this precious knowledge—but only a moment. If it is not he who reveals the news, it will be someone else.

Lady Rich returns to her seat. “They will be coming up. I heard the hunt return some time ago.”

“Yes.” Cecil's mind is machinating on Lady Rich's plan to get the girl to her mother's house—if anyone can pull off such a ruse, it is she—and he is girded by a sense of urgency.

A clatter of footsteps in the outer chamber announces the Queen's imminent arrival. When she enters, she does so on Essex's arm. They are laughing loudly together, heads tossed back, mouths wide. A group a dozen strong follows on, amongst whom is Blount; Cecil spots the man exchange a look with Lady Rich and wonders what it signifies, stores it in his inner memorandum. He'd thought Blount was
his
man, or at least he'd gone out of his way to court him a few months back, aware that Essex wouldn't want competition for the Queen's attentions from a comely upstart such as he. But he's not so sure which way the wind blows with Blount now—he is a man who doesn't reveal himself readily.

They are all still in their hunting habits; the Queen's skirts are muddy at the hem, tendrils of her hair have sprung free, and her hat dangles from her hand like a warrior's shield. She wears her fifty-seven years lightly, seems more full of life than all the hangers-on put together, save for Essex, who is bursting with verve and self-importance. Cecil reminds himself of his father's words of advice from years ago—“Never approach her with fear in your heart. You must love her and do everything for love of her.” It became an interior refrain, but he is not afraid now, he is buoyed up with his secret knowledge and relishing the thought of five years in the wilderness for Essex.

“Ah, Pygmy,” says the Queen on seeing Cecil. “Do you know why Essex here is so happy?”

Cecil loathes the Queen's pet name for him, feels it casts him amongst the beasts and curiosities of court, makes him a figure of fun, though ironically others are envious of the intimacy it signifies. “I am sure, madam, that the earl delights in the proximity of Your Most Esteemed Highness.”

“You are a paragon of sycophancy, Pygmy, but that is not it. I fear you will disapprove, as will your dear father. I have given Essex the sweet wines' license.” She pinches Essex's cheek as if he is her beloved son.

Cecil had thought she'd changed her mind over the sweet wines. It hadn't been mentioned for months. Essex wears his coup draped over him like a toga and Cecil feels his hatred tie itself in a painful knot: hatred of those abundant inky curls, those fine limbs, endlessly long—making Cecil feel squat and monstrous—the sculpted shape of him, as if he belongs on a plinth. He remembers Essex as a boy at Theobalds; he was just the same, and though he never joined in with the cruel games of some of the household lads—the daily humiliations—he gave off the air that he was above such things and watched on, doing nothing. What Essex did was worse than all that overt cruelty—Essex ignored him completely; it was as if he didn't exist in his own father's house.

“Congratulations, my lord.” Cecil's smile is a tight rictus.

Lady Rich has gone over to greet them and they stand together, informally, like a family group. Cecil ponders on the notion that the Queen has stolen these two perfect specimens from their own mother and appropriated them for herself. He has often thought this, from that moment he first saw Penelope Devereux presented some nine years ago; the Queen may as well have set her in a ring like a jewel and worn her on her finger. He recognizes an act of revenge, however subtle it may be, and this was surely revenge on the woman who stole her love. But Cecil knows what the Queen refuses to acknowledge; that those Devereuxs are tight as a suit of cards and they will always remain unassailably attached to their mother.

“The funds will be most useful, I'm sure, my lord”—Cecil's voice is light, as if uttering mere ordinary politesse, and he feels the frisson already before the words have left his mouth—“now you are wed.”

The Queen's face falls momentarily, loses its shape as if the stuffing is gone from her, but in an instant she is back and has turned to her favorite, who has his own venom-filled gaze resting on Cecil.

“Perhaps you could enlighten me, Essex,” she says, enunciating each syllable slowly and clearly, as if to rein in her rage. “Is Cecil here mistaken?” The chamber falls into a tomblike hush.

Lady Rich appears entirely unperturbed. “I think it best, madam, if my brother explains himself in private.” Cecil is astonished by her courage. He has never heard anyone—perhaps only his father once or twice—speak out of turn when the Queen is enraged.

“Yes,” the Queen answers, nodding towards her guards, who begin hustling people out.

“I beg your leave too,” says Lady Rich, dropping into a curtsy. “This is between Your Majesty and my brother.”

Clever, thinks Cecil, she will go and warn the mouse, I suppose—magic her away to Barn Elms. His admiration expands despite himself, but he knows if it came to it he would sacrifice Lady Rich to bring her brother down—he would have to, for she would be far too great an adversary. He turns to follow Lady Rich to the door.

“Not you, Pygmy. Come sit, sit by me.” She moves towards the upholstered chair under its canopy of state, indicating that Cecil should take the seat nearest to her. Essex is marooned in the center of the chamber with a hangdog face, awaiting her order, looking like a child of four rather than the man of twenty-four he is.