Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  “You should have waited for me to summon you,” I said, “rather than thrusting yourself upon me like this.”

  “I had answered all the questions you put to me,” she replied. “I had waited and waited for your response. While I waited, my son was suffering. You were a quick sail away. I had to come.”

  I was about to tell her I had never received her letter, but before I could reply, she suddenly shook with a violent sneeze, followed by another. It happens often here in Greenwich; they say the nearby fields make people cough. Marjorie Norris stepped forward and handed her a lace-edged handkerchief. She blew her nose in it loudly, then, turning on her heel, walked to the fireplace and threw it in.

  “Madam!” Marjorie cried. “That was an expensive handkerchief, of French linen and lace!”

  “But it has been soiled,” said Grace, puzzled. “In Ireland we do not keep dirty clothes on our persons.”

  “Are you saying that you Irish are cleaner than we English?” I asked.

  “In the matter of handkerchiefs, evidently,” she replied.

  The entire audience laughed.

  “It is time that we continue this discussion in private,” I said. “Come with me into the privy chamber.”

  Once inside, I offered her a seat, as well as some ale.

  “The audience continues, but now we may sit,” I said, taking a chair across from her. Several of my ladies would be present, but I thought the exchange would go better without the male Privy Councillors.

  She remained sitting erect, and I realized that that was her natural posture. She was a handsome woman; now that I was closer, I could see that she was older than she looked from a distance. Perhaps it was her bearing and energy that belied her years.

  “Tell me your story,” I said. “From the beginning. I am told it is colorful. As colorful as those plaids you Irish wear.”

  “All Irish lives are colorful,” she said. “And if they are not, we make them so in our minds. But mine truly was. My father was Owen ‘Black Oak’ O’Malley, chieftain of the barony of Murrisk. Unusual for the Irish, we were always a seafaring family, and my father’s ships sailed as far as Scotland, Portugal, and Spain. It was I who inherited the chieftain’s vision of being able to look out to sea and know the coming weather, for all that my father took my brother out and hoped he had it.”

  Yes, I knew that feeling well. A father who wanted his son to carry certain traits, but found them in his daughter instead.

  “Your father took you out to sea?” I could not help questioning.

  “Aye, with a bit of persuading. You see, my mother did not think it seemly, not womanly, and said my hair would tangle in the rigging. So I cut it off!” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “And will again, if necessary.” She looked at me and all but winked. “There are always wigs.”

  “Indeed there are.” She did not need one, evidently. Her hair was still thick and mainly red, although silver was running through it, like threads on a fine fabric.

  “Backing up a bit, when were you born?”

  “I am not sure of the year, but your father was on the throne, and I remember when you were born. My father talked about it, about the king’s fine daughter with the red hair, and said, ‘See, my bonny one, all the daughters worth having have red hair.’ ”

  She was older than I, then. To remain so vital and strong, the pirate’s life was the secret. There were those who called me a pirate, but I could only finance and commission them, not sail myself. I was thus only a pirate once removed.

  “I believe that is so. Your father was a wise man.” Someone had once tried to assassinate me, barring my way in the palace garden and pointing a pistol straight at my bosom, but in the end he had wavered and dropped it. Later he told the guards he could not do it, as I looked the very image of the late king with his red hair. My red hair had saved me.

  “I was married at sixteen to Donal ‘Of the Battles’ O’Flaherty. His name was fiercer than the man. It was not long before I was managing his fleet. His fleet of ... um ... merchant ships.”

  Pirate ships, she meant. But I just nodded.

  “He was killed in battle. Next I married his nephew, Richard ‘In Irons’ Burke. He earned that name by always wearing his chain mail. Even when eating supper.” She smiled indulgently. “We had one son, Tibbot, Tibbot ‘Of the Ships,’ called that because he was born on board ship.” She sighed and leaned back at last, taking a long sip of her ale. “You may have heard the story. You most likely think it a tale. It is true.”

  “I am not sure what you mean,” I said.

  “The one about the Turks and me.”

  “I know you fought them on and off, fending off their pirate ships with your own.”

  “Very true. I had given birth to Tibbot the day before and was recovering in the cabin when the ship was attacked by Turkish pirates. I could hear shouts and clatter on the deck overhead, and then the captain appeared in the doorway saying things were going very badly for us. Was I to get no rest? I jumped up, swore at the inept captain, grabbed my musket, and rushed up on deck. The first man I encountered was a Turk, and I fired on him, felling him. Our ship rallied, and we captured the enemy, killed its crew, and added it to our fleet.” She crossed her arms in satisfaction.

  “Now about this time, I was coming to the attention of the English. You were increasing your control of western Ireland, and it was inevitable that we would clash. You were changing the ancient laws of our people, the way we inherited land, and we fought back. You can understand that, can you not?”

  “I can respect it even though I must oppose it.”

  “Yes, I can see your need for the laws, but why did you have to forbid us our poetic bards, outlaw our long hair, our traditional mantles?”

  Before I could answer, she went on.

  “Nonetheless, I saw the futility of resistance and submitted to you in 1577—sixteen years ago. That was the time Sir Henry Sidney was lord deputy of Ireland, and I got to know his son, Philip. A sensitive boy. He was quite taken with my story, but then a poet would be. If you want to know more about me, read his letters. He recounts many incidents.”

  I had, in fact, read them. “The one that sticks in my mind is the one where you received ill at the hands of Lord Howth of Dublin, being denied hospitality at his castle because he was busy eating and did not wish to be disturbed. You had your revenge, kidnapping his son, and then you made him swear that he would never again turn away anyone asking for shelter, and that he would keep an extra place always set at his table for unexpected guests. I am told that he does.”

  “The rest of my story is more violent and less entertaining. Richard died and then followed struggles to retain my land and livestock. Then your man, Richard Bingham, appeared and entered into the fray. He became my enemy and has behaved in ways that do not honor his mistress, the Queen of England. No wonder we call him ‘The Flail of Connaught.’ ” She thrust a sheaf of papers at me. “The particulars are all here.”

  I was wrung out from her story. “What shall we do about all this?” I finally said.

  “I will serve you faithfully, as I promised, taking up the sword against your enemies. But in return, order Bingham to release my family.”

  That seemed right to me.

  I was nodding to agree when she added, “And remove him from office. He is not fit for it!”

  “So I shall, if you promise to stop aiding the rebels against me. For I know it is not just Bingham you fight but others of my agents as well. You are not called the mother of the Irish rebellion for nothing.”

  She looked caught out but shrugged graciously. “I promised to serve you,” she said. “Is not the promise to stop opposing you implicit in that?”

  “No, as you pick and choose what you will oppose.”

  She leaned forward. “Do I have your word?”

  “Do I have yours?”

  There was a long pause. “Yes,” she finally said.

  “The word of a pirate?” asked Marjori
e Norris. “What is that worth?”

  “When given to a friend, it is ironclad,” she said.

  “And when given to an enemy, worthless,” I answered. “Am I your friend?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And I do not choose my friends lightly. They must pass certain tests. You have passed.”

  “And how is that?”

  “I have met my match in courage,” she said. “For that is the real reason I came—to see you and take your measure.”

  “You are bolder than Drake,” I admitted, doubting my wisdom in openly bestowing such a compliment on her.

  25

  LETTICE

  November 1593

  She has decreed that cloaks will be short next season at court,” said my son. “No courtiers may appear in cloaks reaching past their knees. And we are not allowed to alter the old ones. Now there’s another unnecessary expense added to our list!” He was sitting before the fire, wrapped in a deep green cloak of the sort now forbidden, staring moodily into the flames.

  “What the Queen wants is necessary by definition,” I said with a sigh. It did get tiring. Jump here, jump there, all on her whim. “Will you have to borrow to do it?”

  “Not yet,” Robert said. “The duties on the sweet wines during this cold time of year will suffice. But once it is warmer—” He spread his hands.

  Yes, what was he to do next year? There was no military command for him in the offing, and, aside from regular attendance at the Privy Council, my son was unemployed. Francis and Anthony Bacon busied themselves with the new ring of spies, trying hard to bring in information that Robert could present to the Queen and earn her gratitude. But they had found little, and Francis’s attempt to block the double subsidy bill in Parliament had earned the Queen’s wrath. She now wanted nothing to do with him, so his stubborn stand on principle had injured all of us. For a man so intelligent, Francis seemed determined to act stupidly.

  I was back in Leicester House, or rather, Essex House. What cared I for what it was called, as long as I was back in London? I was not welcome at court, but I could see Whitehall out one window and the Strand out another. All of London thronged past our gates, and a great deal of it entered the house, where we could hold our own little court.

  This had once been a bishop’s palace on the Strand, and some said the ghosts of old churchmen wafted through the halls of the rebuilt house. If so, they would scarcely recognize its maze of suites of bedrooms, picture gallery, gardens, and kitchens. Upon Leicester’s death it had passed to me and then to Robert, who promptly renamed it Essex House. When I gave it to him, it was bare and empty. The Queen had forced me to auction off its furniture to pay Leicester’s debts to her. Rumor had it she had bought our bed, just for spite. Refurnishing the house was taking a long time. Prices had risen since Leicester had furnished it. So the walls, which the Queen could not order stripped of their oak paneling and gilded paint, looked out onto nearly bare rooms.

  “Warmer!” Here in England we longed for sun and warmth, but its impact on the Devereux income forced me to dread its arrival. “Yes, summer is our enemy. Unless you can turn the winter to your further advantage now.” Oh, why could the Bacon brothers not come up with something? All their promises and fine talk had led nowhere.

  “Christmas is coming,” Robert said. “The court will be in close quarters. The Queen will crave my company, and then—”

  I could not help laughing. “For another dance? Another whisper together at a performance? It is lovely she sometimes calls you Robin and sometimes lets you call her Bess, but words are cheap. She always prefers words; they cost her nothing.”

  “I feel like a stalled ox,” muttered Robert. “I can go neither forward nor backward nor to the side. There is nothing for me to solve or rescue to make my name.” He smacked at the cloak. “Nothing to do but dress up and prance, quarrel and chase women.”

  “You are too quick to do the last two,” I warned him. “Stay away from duels, and do not womanize where the Queen will hear of it. To say she does not approve is hardly necessary. Look what happened to Raleigh. She is touchy about fidelity. And you are a married man.” I feared Robert had inherited my amorous nature; little Frances was not keeping him purring by the hearth. But caution must be the watchword. Those who transgress had better be alert.

  “Have I not pledged my loyalty to her time and again?” He sighed.

  “Stay out of her circle of ladies,” I said. “Go elsewhere in London. There is no shortage of women in the city.” How I was to regret that advice.

  I rose; it was growing dark already. Lamps must be lit. These November afternoons closed in dreary mist, and the sun set almost invisibly. The servants lit the wall sconces and brought in several table lanterns. Just as I was about to call for our supper, the Bacon brothers were announced, and Francis and Anthony entered the chamber, Anthony shuffling painfully across the floor and sinking onto the first bench he reached. He gave a plaintive hack or two, but Francis’s eyes were shining.

  “Welcome, friends,” said Robert. “You brighten the chamber, just as gloom was clutching us.”

  “Our findings will brighten you,” said Francis. “Oh, that they will!”

  Robert drew up chairs around the table and moved two of the lanterns together to increase the light. He patted the tapestry on the table. “Something to show me?” he asked. “Here, or in Europe?”

  “Lucky for us, right here,” said Anthony. “Right in the Queen’s own chamber!” He rubbed his long fingers together, seemingly out of triumph but really just to warm them.

  Oh, this was marvelous. The closer to the Queen, the greater the threat, and the greater our reward for thwarting it.

  “Where?” asked Robert.

  “Her personal physician, Dr. Lopez!” cried Francis. “I have proof that he is intriguing with the Spanish.”

  “But what motive would he have?” Robert asked. “He isn’t Spanish; the Portuguese hate the Spanish for taking their country.”

  “Perhaps he isn’t a loyal Portuguese,” said Francis. “Has Portugal treated him well? They have an Inquisition and he fled from it.”

  “But so does Spain.” Robert was not convinced.

  “Who knows why a man decides to dabble in the world of espionage? Perhaps for the simplest of reasons: money. The Spanish cannot help but pay better than the Queen.”

  “Lopez has a large family and is not rich,” said Anthony, clearing his throat to speak. “So he had need. My agents in Spain have been tracking the spies that Philip is financing in England. One of them, Ferrera da Gama, is staying with Lopez in his Holborn house. That implicates Lopez. Lopez is trusted by the Queen and provides her medicines and drugs. Who better to poison her? Assassination is much cheaper than invasion and achieves the same end.”

  “Perhaps we should detain this Ferrera,” said Francis.

  “Yes, and in addition, alert the officials of Rye, Sandwich, and Dover to open and examine all letters from Portugal.”

  “Yes!” said Robert. “And easily explained, as I am the Privy Councillor responsible for Portuguese affairs.”

  Lopez ... Roderigo Lopez ... “Robert, has he not treated you?” I asked.

  “Yes, I have consulted him on occasion,” said Robert.

  “Better not take his medicines!” Francis said with a laugh.

  “He has had no reason to poison me,” Robert said.

  “Until now. If he finds out you are on his tracks, then—” Francis made a choking noise, grabbing his throat.

  Lopez ... There was more about him. Lopez. God in heaven, yes! People had accused him of supplying Leicester with the poison that supposedly killed my first husband, and Nicholas Throckmorton, and the Earl of Sheffield. As a result, when Leicester himself died suddenly, I was suspected of poisoning him in self-defense. Ultimately I had Lopez to thank for these calumnies.

  “London is swarming with foreigners,” said Robert. “Why they are tolerated I cannot fathom. They make a veritable nest where traitors can hide.�
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  “There are foreigners, and then there are foreigners,” said Anthony, his voice straining to be heard. “The diamond cutters who fled Antwerp, the starchers who starch our ruffs, we surely would not expel them. They pay double taxes as well.”

  “The Dutch, the Huguenots, the Swiss, very well. But how have these crafty Spanish crept in?”

  “The Portuguese pretender Don Antonio has outstayed his welcome,” said Francis. “Living upon Her Majesty’s bounty and protection these fifteen years. He knows his cause is withering, so he and those surrounding him are taking desperate measures. I think they are transferring his birthright to the Spanish. That means Spanish agents, all sheltering under his wing.”

  “Isn’t Lopez a Jew?” asked Robert.

  “He converted, along with some hundred or so of his countrymen,” answered Francis.

  “There’s a name for them. I can’t remember it,” I said.

  “Marranos,” supplied Anthony. “Of course, the conversion doesn’t count in Spain. There had been Marranos for years, living happily, and then the Spanish expelled them in 1492.”

  “Stupid, stupid Spanish,” said Francis. “There went all the brains in their court. They have been exhibiting stupid behavior ever since. Not that we should mind.”

  “Spain is only wealthy because she robs the Americas; otherwise she is the least productive nation in Europe. Can you name a single thing she makes? Everything is imported,” said Robert. “For the Armada, she could not even make barrels that didn’t leak. Pitiful. Francis is right. No brains.”

  “But this Lopez—” Anthony steered the subject back. “Is he really a Christian? I mean, Jesus himself was Jewish, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t a real Christian, if you follow me.”

  “How can we ever know? And what difference does it make?” asked Robert. “With The Jew of Malta playing continually to huge crowds here all year, he will already be suspect in people’s eyes. Why, there’s even a line in it about poison. Everyone knows they poison wells.”