Watch the Lady (28 page)

And now Essex is sworn onto the Privy Council. He had taken his place beside the Queen with a look of supreme self-satisfaction and proceeded to blather about various incidents. She listened intently as he told her of disturbances in Ireland, insisting that the council take the Irish problem seriously. Then the discussion turned to Spain and the threat of a new Armada. One of Cecil's chief informants on Spanish affairs had been found dead in Deptford—a murder, he suspected, made to look like a brawl—so Cecil wasn't able to add anything. Essex seemed to know the exact numbers of the Spanish fleet, who was lined up to captain each ship, even the names of the vessels. Cecil supposed this all came through Anthony Bacon's lines of information, but he couldn't be entirely sure for the boy in his pay at Essex House had died of the plague.

Now Cecil understands why Essex was so determined to wed that insipid daughter of Walsingham's, for the entire network has shifted his way. They are all backing the earl—they know Burghley is fading and they see the influence Essex has with the Queen. The Queen looked like a proud parent as her favorite offered up his news. It was Burghley who eventually turned the discussion to the succession. Elizabeth's annoyance smoldered—his father is the only one who can get away with raising the matter.

“I know I have been unwell of late, Burghley, but I am quite recovered now so there is no need to ready my replacement just yet.”

She
had
been ill and had the court scurrying about in fear, trying to ascertain which way they would jump when the time came. At threescore years a serious malady can carry a person away with ease, even a queen. While she was being ministered to by Doctor Lopez, there were huddled conversations in corners; letters declaring allegiances, to be read then burnt, were sent about; new friendships were struck from nowhere.

There is no doubt that the earl has gained advantage since he installed those clever Bacon brothers at Essex House, and also through Blount, and Lady Rich's influence reaching out quietly through court like a miasma. Cecil longs to get to the bottom of
that
relationship; if he could only discover something against Lady Rich, he might turn her. What a coup that would be, but the likelihood of turning sister against brother is a remote dream and Lady Rich is apparently impervious to scandal. He suspects that correspondence continues to pass from Essex House to the Scottish court, but it is nothing more than intuition and a few unreliable whispers.

He can sense the earl's power base burgeoning while his own dwindles. It seems that wherever he turns at court, he is surrounded by relatives of the Devereuxs, all those Knollys uncles, the Careys, the Huntingdons; not to mention Lady Rich still at the heart of the Queen's rooms, despite her adultery; the list is endless and all linked by blood to Elizabeth. He imagines his own blood as thin and slightly sour, like young red wine, unsatisfactory, the sort that leaves your head thumping in the morning, while the Devereux blood is concentrated with history, viscous and dark.

A magpie carks above, making an awful racket. Cecil would like to shoot it but he never was a proficient archer. He had made an attempt to recruit Doctor Lopez but the old man was unresponsive—perhaps he should be less subtle. Cecil kicks at a pile of apple blossom, watching it fly up and drift back down to the ground like snow. He makes an attempt to shake off his dispirited mood, reminding himself of his friends in high places: his father-in-law, Lord Cobham; Lord Grey; and not to forget Ralegh, who may be unpredictable in his loyalty, and in and out of royal favor, but whose hatred of the earl equals his own.

He stops at the fountain. It is dry now and tangled with ivy. While the Queen was abed with sickness at Greenwich the Spanish were planning what they would do in the event of her death, readying the Infanta, whose lineage can be traced directly to Edward III. It is common knowledge there are many secret English Catholics who would rise up to support such a scheme. Perhaps he might persuade Doctor Lopez to find out more about the Infanta. The problems hadn't disappeared with the Queen's recovery. There had been rumors of another assassination plot—this time it was to have been a poisoned sword—but nothing came of it beyond rumor. Nevertheless, the question of the succession is as pressing as it ever was, but the Queen remains infuriatingly intransigent on the matter.

As he leaves the arbor Cecil is confronted by the full splendor of Theobalds—the house always surprises him with its beauty, the shimmering windows, the artful stonework, the appealing symmetry of proportions.

Once inside, he seeks out his father, finding him with his physician.

“Ah, my boy, I am glad to see you,” he says. “My gout is troubling me. Doctor Henderson seems to think he can ease the pain.” He gives his physician an affectionate pat on the arm. Cecil cannot remember a time when Henderson was not in his father's pay and wishes he could inspire such loyalty himself, but his own staff come and go and he trusts none of them. “I think I am past mending.”

“Now, now, my lord. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” says Henderson as he shakes a tincture bottle and pours out a measure.

Burghley leans back with a sigh. “To court in a fortnight. If only Her Majesty would allow me to retire. I have become too old for all this.” He massages his hands together. They are warped and knotted with painfully swollen knuckles. “I am exhausted.”

It jars Cecil to see his father thus, overcome by decrepitude, and he can't help dreading his inevitable demise, wondering if he, Cecil, will survive such an event. He imagines all the power and wealth his father has accumulated coming to nothing under his watch, then admonishes himself for his lack of mettle, resolving to be more of a man. Once Henderson has departed, despite his misgivings about appearing weak in his father's eyes, Cecil finds himself confiding his worries.

“What has occasioned all this?” asks Burghley.

“I don't know, I feel things slipping through my fingers. My informers are becoming unreliable. Essex is gaining on us. His followers are tightening their hold on the Queen.”

“Loyalties ebb and flow, my son. And never forget we Cecils have wealth on our side and it is wealth gained from true loyalty.” He pauses, looking at his son through glazed eyes. “All those ancient nobles are scrabbling for favors, begging to raise wars in the hope of scraping a little more land together. Their coffers are empty and yet they must still strut about in the finest of everything. There is no true loyalty in those men. It is men like us that are the future—quiet men. Don't you forget it.”

His father's words are like a tonic and Cecil feels his misgivings begin to fall away.

“But remember. Essex is not your enemy. You are
both
on the side of England. I warned you of this—you risk losing control.” His tone betrays his impatience, as if explaining something to a recalcitrant child. “It's just a question of setting up some new lines of information.”

“I am hopeful of making a connection with Doctor Lopez,” says Cecil, not mentioning his recent failure with Lopez and resolving to renew his efforts. “I believe he has a line to the heart of the Spanish court.”

“Yes, yes,” says his father. “Walsingham set that up, if I remember rightly. Never came to anything. I'm not entirely sure Lopez had the stomach for espionage. Agreeable fellow, I seem to recall.”

“Perhaps I can persuade him to reignite those connections.”

Burghley nods, as if to say: that's more like it. “Never forget this,” he adds. “The Queen has always needed me to perform the necessary evils of the state. I can be demonized while she remains beloved, and all in the best interests of England and peace. Take the case of Mary of Scotland. Elizabeth could not be seen to be the one generating the demise of an anointed Queen, much as she understood its necessity. I could absorb all the horror and hatred—take the blame.” Cecil remembers well the determination with which his father hounded Mary Stuart and wondered at the time if he was using entirely honest methods. He laughs inwardly at this, for after all there are no truly honest methods when it comes to statecraft. Burghley looks directly at him. “If you learn only a single lesson from me, then let it be that people need someone to hate; it is part of the mechanics of power. If you can learn to be that hated person, you will be indispensable. Essex—the moody pup—cares too much about being loved, seeks popularity; he cannot bear to be reviled. You and I, my boy, we are essential as long as we remain happy to be vilified.”

It is as if a spark has fired up in Cecil's head—all that time seeking approval, when to truly serve the Queen required something else, something he knew he had a talent for—a talent for being loathed.

“Just keep watching the sister,” continues Burghley. “That one cares not a jot for the opinions of others and that lends her formidable power. You would not want her playing her brother's dark twin—she would be a formidable adversary.”

“Lady Rich?”

“The very same—my advice would be to win the lady over.”

The players are scattered about the room, still in their costumes. One is dressed as an ancient king with black eye paint ghoulishly smeared into a chalk-white face and a crown sitting crookedly on his pate. Another lolls beside him in a partly unbuckled soldier's breastplate, daubed with some kind of red matter. Beside him is a pretty boy with rouged lips; he is laced into a set of bodices, above which wisps of fine golden chest hair sprout. He swigs at his cup then burps loudly.

“Desist that,” says the pretend king, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Have you forgotten we are in polite company?”

Penelope laughs. She has not enjoyed an evening such as this for a long time and plans to make the most of it. The plague is raging in the city and the theaters have been shut to prevent the spread of infection, leaving this troupe of players in need of employment. It was she who suggested to her brother that they invite them to Wanstead. Rich had gone to his chamber, muttering, “Your ungodly pastimes will lead you to hell.” She is glad he has retired, for Blount is here, at a discreet distance across the room, and she is always a little uncomfortable when her husband and lover are breathing the same air.

Essex is sprawled in the chair beside her, sucking on his pipe, making the occasional comment to Southampton on his other side, who, with his voluminous shirt billowing from an open doublet and hair as long and carefully arranged as Lady Godiva's, looks as if he better belongs with the players than the family. The Earl of Southampton has become an almost permanent fixture at her brother's side. Essex seems to have taken a shine to the younger man's flamboyance. Penelope watches Southampton draw deeply at his own pipe then, like a magician, puff out a ring of smoke.

“I put young Robert on a pony the other day, Sis,” he says. “My boy is a natural in the saddle.”

“He is only two and a half,” she says, aware that her brother is prone to exaggeration.

“But he showed no fear.”

It pleases her to see this unperturbed version of her brother and no sign of the blank gaze of melancholia.

“I will ask Frances to bring him to Leighs, when you return to court,” she says. “He will enjoy spending time with his cousins.”

“Excellent idea, Sis!” He seems so normal, untroubled, which invests her with a sense of optimism.

“And what do you plan to do with the Wandering Spaniard?” She is talking of Antonio Pérez, a Spanish exile who has inveigled himself into the Essex circle. He arrived with a French delegation in the spring and is now in her brother's pay.

“He will stay here. Or come with me. I am in need of a good secretary.”

Pérez, who is seated across the room, a pair of hooded eyes half hidden by a straggling curtain of oily dark hair, seems to have divined that they are talking about him, as he raises his cup in their direction with a knowing smile and whispers something to Francis Bacon beside him.

“You have Anthony Bacon as secretary,” she says.

“But Pérez has particular qualities.”

She wonders what those might be, imagining the worst. She is not so innocent as to be unaware that espionage requires foul practices on occasion. “He unsettles me a little,” she says, smiling back at the man and nodding. “He seems to know things he shouldn't.” Francis Bacon unsettles her too, though she would never say it, for Essex is so very close to him. She can't put her finger on what it is but there is something infinitely shifty about him—that baby face belying an intimidating depth of intellect. He seems not to like women. Perhaps that is it. Perhaps he is too clever for his own good. She prefers his brother, poor Anthony, beset with gout and always in pain, who gives off a more authentic air of loyalty—or that is her instinct anyway.

“I would say that knowing things one shouldn't is a fine quality in someone of Pérez's profession. He has brought some information to my attention”—her brother is whispering now—“about Doctor Lopez.”

“What sort of information? Don't tell me Lopez is up to no good, for I would never believe it. He has seen us both through many a crisis.”

“Appearances can be deceptive, Sis.”

“I refuse to believe that. He saved Lucy's life—she could have choked to death in her cradle.” Her whisper has become a hiss.

“Your daughter is nearly ten. I have it on good authority that the old fox is now in the pay of the Spanish King—England's enemy.” His excitement is unmistakable. “There is a poisoning plot afoot and Doctor Lopez lies at its heart. I just need to gather the proof and—”

“I hardly believe that,” she cuts him off. “Doctor Lopez is no fox, he is benign as a kitten.”

“Even a kitten has claws that could scratch an eye out,” murmurs Essex. “I need to look further into it and Pérez will be useful in that. He seems to be on terms with all the Spanish and Portuguese in London.”