Watch the Lady (29 page)

“You are imagining things, Robin. Don't draw Doctor Lopez into your intrigues. He has been a loyal friend to our family for years, and served the Queen even longer.” Penelope can see his suspicion swelling like a tumor. “Do not make this a personal affair. I refuse to believe Doctor Lopez is planning to poison the Queen—it is absurd.” She pictures the man's neatly clipped silver hair framing those kind eyes. But a shard of doubt has burrowed beneath her skin. In this dissembling world, it is impossible to know with complete certainty who the enemy might be.

She knows enough men who go about pretending to be poets but are spies beneath the surface, Henry Constable for one, who is now on the Continent gathering information. And she herself, with her secret correspondence, is not entirely innocent. The lines of communication had reached a frenzied crescendo as the Queen lay in her sickbed lately. They were no longer the friendly missives of before. These were letters that spoke of the succession, that would send their author to the block in a breath, written in orange juice, visible only with a flame passed over it. All awaited to see which way the die would fall. With each letter thrown on the fire, she imagined those flames licking about her own body, whispering the word
treachery
.

But since the Queen's recovery Scotland has fallen silent. All her careful secret diplomacy seems to be achieving little towards the cause of the Devereuxs. She wonders if the danger is worth it, if perhaps she would be better emulating her sister and opting for a quiet life. She laughs inwardly at herself for that thought, but a feeling of dread creeps over her, as if she is teetering on the edge of something and that the consequences of an unsure tread might be grave. Beneath the dread though, buried deep within her, is a prickle of excitement, an exhilaration that can be found only when the stakes are at their highest.

“Don't you see,” Essex says, “I can make political capital of this. To prevent an assassination . . .” That spark has ignited in him once more, a flicker of madness, which makes her forget what she was about to say.

One of the players stands, clapping his hands to attract everyone's attention, and manages to spill ale down his robes, which provokes some ribbing.

“There is one amongst us who fancies himself a poet.”

“Just one?” cries Southampton. “I think there is hardly a soul in the whole of England who is not trying his hand at rhyming verses these days.” Everyone laughs, for there is some truth in this.

“My husband is not,” says Penelope to another gale of laughter. “He abhors such ungodly pleasures.”

“Then I fear my lady is wasted on such a man,” says the player.

She swaps a brief smile with Blount. “Why do you say that, sir?”

“Because someone such as you was put on this earth to inspire great poetry.” The laughter builds. It is common knowledge these days that she is the Stella of Sidney's sonnets. Though when she thinks of it she is so far removed from that girl she hardly believes herself the same person.

“Come on, Will,” says the player, tugging on the injured soldier's sleeve to pull him to his feet. “Why don't you try and come up with something worthy of Lady Rich.”

The player takes the floor, and people shuffle back to make space for him.

“I have been working on something. It is but half formed.” He takes a bow and silence falls while the player concentrates all his attention on his shoes. Eventually, lifting his face to look directly at Penelope, he begins to speak: “My mistress
'
eyes are nothing like the sun . . .”

“Sidney did that a decade ago,” calls out Essex, teasing the actor, who seems in his own world and entirely unperturbed. “ ‘In colour black why wrapped she beams so bright?' Did Sidney not already turn Petrarch's fair lady on her head with his black-eyed beauty?” He nudges his sister with a laugh. “Give us something we have not heard before.”

The player turns to his corseted friend, wipes his thumb over the boy's mouth, and holds it up so the room can see the crimson stain: “Coral is far more red than her lips' red.” This provokes more laughter as the player circles the space, seeming to seek inspiration. He stops in front of a dark-skinned girl who is the mistress of one of their party, lightly touching the smooth skin of her throat with the words: “If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun.”

The girl laughs too, taking a hank of her thick black hair, twisting it about a finger, and adding: “If horses have hair, then horse hair sprouts from her head.” This rouses a burst of applause. And the player is pacing again, seeking for words, then returns to the dark girl. “I have seen roses broidered—” he stops. “No. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, / But no such roses see I in her cheeks.” He moves towards the boy once more, calling out to the room, “A rhyme for ‘cheeks.' ”

“Peaks,” says someone.

“Squeaks,” says another.

“My mistress is not a mouse,” answers the player. “I have it!” He holds up a hand to quiet the laughter and leans in to the boy, sniffing with a grimace. “And in some perfumes is there more delight / Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”

This incites more mirth, but the poet doesn't wait for it to die down before continuing: “I love to hear her speak, yet well I know / That music hath a far more pleasing sound; / I grant I never saw a goddess go; / My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.”

“Which one is your mistress, then?” calls out Southampton.

“Why, my Lady Rich, of course. Is she not the muse of
all
poets?” And he steps forward to Penelope, dropping onto one knee with a flourish and a slight smirk, hesitating, seeming to cast about inside himself for his rhyme, before speaking: “And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare / As any she belied with false compare.”

There is no applause now, only a thick hush. Perhaps they are all wondering, as Penelope is, if they have not just witnessed something completely new, as rare as a seam of diamonds in an Indian mine. But beneath her delight churns unease for Doctor Lopez, as she wonders what her brother meant by “making political capital.”

“Yours is an uncommon talent,” she says. “You make the object of love human, invest her with flesh and blood. It is refreshing, indeed, to have something other than the nymphs that inhabit the lines of most verse.”

“You take Sidney and shake him up,” says Southampton, leaning forward in his seat, his voice breathy with barely suppressed excitement. Penelope had not thought him such a lover of poetry. “Have you more like that?” he asks.

“A hundred thousand,” replies the player.

“They must be published.”

“But they only exist in here.” He taps the side of his head. “And besides they are”—he hesitates—“not for the world.”

“You should not have come to me here,” says Cecil, carefully lining up the items on his desk, bringing the inkwell exactly level with his container of quills and picking up a sheaf of papers, standing it on its side, tapping it against the surface of the desk to ensure its leaves are all even. “It makes you look guilty.”

Doctor Lopez appears terrified. He tucks his quivering hands away beneath his arms. “But I am
not
guilty. You well know that. You must do something to help me.” His diction is perfect but his accent is thick with Portuguese, even after thirty years in England.

“Fret not.” Cecil sounds calm but he isn't, for he is struggling with his conscience. It would be better if there were at least some ambiguity, at least the possibility of Doctor Lopez's guilt. But this man is clean as a new-starched ruff. He gets up and moves to the window, leaving Doctor Lopez stranded beside the desk without a view of his face. “I will ensure nothing befalls you.”

This is a guarantee he knows he cannot deliver. He watches the traffic on the Strand below, hearing the shouts of the carters and hawkers and the bleating complaint of a herd of sheep being driven by. London is coming back to life again, now the worst of the plague is over. Watching the scene, he can feel his annoyance that Burghley House, however plush and new it may be—with its tennis court, bowling alley, and gardens filled with exotic blooms—is on the wrong side of the Strand and not on the river, as Essex House is. He should be looking out on pretty boats with all their pennants flying and watching the royal barge glide by, not some farmer driving his sheep up the Strand, leaving a trail of droppings. A cluster of pigeons is perched on the sill below, squabbling. They have fouled the stonework. He can imagine their necks snapping under his fingers.

“But Essex has convinced the Queen of my guilt.”

“I doubt that. Her Majesty is not so easily swayed.” He turns and smiles at the man. It was a good plan, but it went awry. The Spaniards had taken the bait. How could they resist an approach from one of Queen Elizabeth's trusted physicians? Who was better placed to slip Her Majesty a phial of something or other? Cecil could sense that their tongues were about to loosen; he could feel all the Spanish state secrets finding their way into his hands. His fingers had itched at the very thought of it. He had imagined his resulting rise, the effect of Elizabeth's gratitude.

But in the end Doctor Lopez wasn't cut out for the job, he didn't have that seam of steel necessary for espionage. He hadn't held his nerve when it mattered most; he panicked unnecessarily and allowed a poorly encoded letter to fall into the wrong hands—the man had trusted Antonio Pérez; that was a mistake, for it seems Pérez is now in Essex's pay. Essex is calling it treason, but it is best Lopez is not aware of that fact. It would not do to have him falling to pieces and blabbing everything. Essex has fortune on his side. Cecil thinks of the drop of water slowly eroding the stone and, taking a deep breath, reminds himself to be patient.

“But you will set them straight, won't you, Cecil?” Doctor Lopez twitches, flicking his hand up repeatedly, seeming to swipe away an imaginary fly from his face. Give the man his dues; he
had
stuck to his story and not mentioned whose pay he was in—not yet, anyway. And it must stay that way, for if the Queen were to get wind of the fact that Cecil has endangered her dear and faithful old physician, it is unimaginable how she might retaliate. All he can do now is limit the damage.

“Yes, I will set them right,” he says. “But don't you try and explain my role in it all. They will only assume it an attempt to shift the blame. And it will cast you in a bad light if they think you did it for money.” Cecil reassures himself that the man hasn't been
entirely
innocent in all this. He was paid a generous sum for his services. He must have known that much money comes only with great risk. “Tell them that you saw an opportunity to serve the Queen and acted on your own. Tell them that the Spaniards approached
you
.” He pauses, allowing an idea to alight that might turn some small advantage out of this mess. “You could say they approached you through Pérez.” Getting rid of Pérez would be a bonus.

“But that would be a lie. I couldn't incriminate an innocent man.”

Cecil can feel his annoyance building—this man's naivety is astonishing. “Innocent? The man has fled from Spain a convicted murderer, leaving his wife and children hostage. I'm sure he would have no qualms about doing
you
an injustice.”

“I have to be able to reconcile myself with God.” As he says this, Doctor Lopez draws himself up in his chair, seeming invested with new life.

“If you are serving the Queen, then you serve Our Lord.” This is what Cecil has been telling himself vehemently, though he has lately begun to wonder to what lengths his morals will be stretched in serving Her Majesty. He comforts himself by thinking of what his father had said about someone having to take the immoral load from the Queen's shoulders; that it is a crucial function of statesmanship: taking the blame.

“But if they . . .” Lopez stops, drooping once more, and takes a deep, trembling breath. “If they torture me?”

“I will make sure they do not.”

The man's eyes now look wild with fear, as if he is an animal at bay. Cecil can't look at him. “Can you not help me out of the country?”

“That won't be necessary. Listen.” He takes the doctor's shoulders, finally meeting his eye, feeling like Judas. “Hold your nerve, man.”

He calls in his servant, telling him to convey the doctor back to his dwelling discreetly. “No one is to know he has been here,” he says. “It is for your safety, Doctor Lopez.” Cecil smiles but wonders when they will send a guard to arrest the poor fellow, stopping those thoughts in their tracks. He can't have a crisis of integrity now. Lopez makes an attempt at a smile in return but does not quite achieve it.

“I can trust you?” he asks, as he is bundled out of the door.

Cecil nods. It is beyond even him to say the words themselves.

Back at the window he cranes his head in the direction of Essex House, a little to the east, though he knows he can't see it, for St. Mary-Le-Strand lies in his line of sight. He imagines what is going on in there and has to give the earl due credit: he has built an effective ring of informers. Inevitably, Lady Rich springs to mind with the familiar quiver of admiration, which is only increased when he remembers his father's warning:
That one cares not a jot for the opinions of others
. Cecil wonders if that is truly the case, for doesn't everyone care in some small way about the opinions of others? He allows himself to entertain the idea of bringing Lady Rich down, imagining the whole of Essex's faction falling with her.

He looks down into the Strand and sees a man loitering, fancies he had his eyes trained on the window and looked away as Cecil turned to face him. He is sure that this same man was there earlier, when the sheep were being driven by. Unease takes hold in him as he wonders what might have been seen, glad that he insisted on Lopez leaving by the back entrance. It is inevitable, he supposes, that people will watch him. He feels his resolve strengthen.