Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

“Guns and cannons explode, too. War is full of accidents. But this would strike terror into the enemy, as it is such a gruesome way to die.”

  “We can add it to the arsenal, but I would not make it the first line of defense,” said the admiral. “Now, as to the planning, is everyone agreed that we must take the fight to Spain? Is there anyone who wants to be defensive only, rather than offensive?”

  “If we strengthened ourselves at home, improved our own fortifications, and expanded our fleet, there is little chance they could harm us, no matter how big their Armada,” said Burghley. “An Armada must find a landing place, and those on our south coast we can defend, as we did in 1588.”

  “But they do have a landing place,” said Hunsdon. “Ireland.”

  Ireland. The use of Ireland changed everything.

  “True, and that could be our undoing,” admitted Knollys.

  “Then ... it is to Spain we go?” cried Essex. “Down the Atlantic coast, then turn and hit the soft southern underbelly of the enemy?”

  “Aye, and we’ll turn Philip back into the king of figs and oranges, like the old-time kings of Spain!” cried Raleigh.

  Preparing for the combined military and naval expedition, the largest such venture of the age, took a long time. The Crown could not bear all the expenses, so it was to be largely privately financed. I would supply eighteen warships from the Royal Navy, food and wages for the seamen. But the cost of levying the soldiers and sailors was the responsibility of Admiral Howard and Essex. Others would provide ships, both men-of-war and supply ships. We were to have 150, of which 50 would be fighting vessels, and ten thousand men, divided between land troops and sailors. I wrote to the King of Denmark asking him to lend me eight ships and to forbid his subjects to furnish any to Spain. But he demurred, saying he needed all his ships to defend his own land. I had better luck with the Dutch, who were eager to strike at Spain in revenge for all they had suffered. They agreed to send a fleet to join us, along with two thousand infantrymen.

  The fleet’s four squadrons were to be commanded by the lord admiral in Ark Royal, the ship he had sailed as Ark against the Armada, Essex in Due Repulse, Thomas Howard in Mere Honour, and Raleigh in Warspite. The Dutch were under Van Duyvenvoord in Neptune. Mere Honour, Warspite, and Neptune were brand-new ships. The land regiments would be led by Francis Vere and Conyers Clifford—the two military men on the Privy Council—Christopher Blount, Thomas Gerard, and John and Anthony Wingfield.

  The aim of the mission was precise: first, to attack and destroy ships and supplies in Spanish harbors; second, to capture and ruin towns on the coast; and third, to bring back booty from the towns and catch returning treasure ships. Nowhere did we state the word “Cádiz.” That destination was a secret.

  Although he was against war in general, as was I, Burghley drew up a proclamation that was for all intents and purposes a formal declaration of war against Spain. Part of me trembled to have it finally announced—after fifteen years!—but it was necessary. Its title was “Declaration of the Causes Moving the Queen’s Majesty to Prepare and Send a Navy to the Seas for the Defense of Her Realms Against the King of Spain’s Forces.” It said I was acting only in self-defense. I was on peaceful terms with all other realms and we would not injury any—except if they aided the Spanish. Those we would treat as enemies. The commanders all signed, and it was printed in French, English, Dutch, Italian, and Spanish and distributed in all ports.

  In addition, I composed a prayer for the expedition, and it was also printed and distributed widely. I sought to explain to God himself that our motives were pure—when in fact they were murky. I told him that he could surely discern “how no malice or revenge, nor quittance of injuries, nor desire of bloodshed, nor greediness of lucre has moved us to dispatch our new-set army.” I begged him for good winds, “beseeching on bended knees to prosper the work, and with the best forewinds guide the journey, and make the return the advancement of Thy glory, with the least loss of English blood.” I truly hoped he would grant the last.

  Burghley was quite taken with it and declared that it “was divinely conceived by Her Majesty in the depths of her sacred heart.”

  So. They were to go, mounting a raid fifteen hundred miles away, using sea power to get there. It was daring and imaginative. True, Drake had done it once, and they would be following in his wake, but he had not had the resources of this expedition.

  I was blessed to be served by such bold men. I had to remember that when their quarreling, preening, and posturing grew irksome. Audacity and courage, the two indispensable traits in men of battle, were arrayed before me in such profusion, I caught my breath and sent a prayer up to the Lord in thanksgiving.

  38

  LETTICE

  March 1596

  It was here at last. Finally, power was devolving onto my son’s head, drifting gently through the sunbeams to crown him with glory. Now he would have the long-sought opportunity to prove himself and vanquish all his rivals. I could hardly believe that the stingy, cautious Queen had authorized the flamboyant long-distance attack on Spain, and done it openly. She had even allowed a proclamation about it to go forth and circulate on the Continent.

  Essex House had become a military headquarters, with Robert’s companions gathering there daily. He was pleased beyond words to be surrounded by his fellows planning the voyage. Planning is the most satisfying part of any venture, when words stand in for goods and money, and there are never storms at sea or weevil-infested biscuits.

  The only things clouding his happiness were sharing his command with Admiral Howard and his rival Walter Raleigh having a new ship. Raleigh had never quite regained his favor of old with the Queen, but with his usual skill at self-aggrandizing, he had turned his South American venture into a hugely popular book, The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Beautiful Empire of Guiana with a Relation of the Great and Golden City of Manoa. Now the Cádiz operation might complete the reparation of his fortune and turn him into the people’s hero.

  But he was in his midforties, although (I had to admit) still a man to make you speculate on what was under his breeches. His chest was often enough on public display. And it was a fine one. But Robert’s fifteen years less in age were at this point an advantage. He could outwait him, if nothing else. And people always preferred a younger man. That was the way of things.

  That assumed that the competition, and the men, would carry over into the next reign. How much longer could the Queen go on? Everyone who saw her commented on how young and healthy she appeared, how strong and full of purpose, but the woman was over sixty. Even the mighty Elizabeth, Gloriana, Faerie Queen, et cetera, was made of flesh, not gossamer. She would crumble, wither, and die. That day would surely come.

  My father was already crumbling, leading the way. I had first noticed how his face had changed after Christmas. His usual florid coloring faded, and something within him seemed to be melting.

  I had rebelled against him all my life. He had been a bulwark I could push against. His Puritan rectitude, demanding our exile in Basel and Frankfurt during the reign of Mary Tudor, had been hard to bear. His lecturing and his seeming immunity against most temptations were even harder to bear. (Was that why I gave in to mine so easily?) But the erosion of the mighty walls was frightening beyond words to me. He had always been there. Even opposition can be comforting in its stability. After my mother died, so long ago, he made it difficult to feel compassion or pity for him, because he did not allow it of himself. But now my heart went out to him.

  Ah, Lettice, I thought. You grow soft and sentimental in your later years.

  No, I answered myself. I have only just now started allowing myself to feel.

  And as for my later years ... I was in my midfifties now. I could hardly believe it, and I was told (and chose to believe) that no one else could believe it, either. My hair was still red, with barely any gray, and still thick. My body was still slim and supple. My recommendation to anyone seeking my secret recipe: Forget the oil of hyaci
nth, the musk from Morocco, and make sure your lovers are at least a decade younger. Or better yet, two decades. Shakespeare and Southampton fit that criterion.

  I had been unable to give either of them up. Oh, I had had fine resolutions about it. I had even rehearsed my speeches. To one I would say it was unseemly to have my son’s friend as a lover. To the other I would say it was unseemly to have a friend of my lover for a lover. But somehow it had not come to pass. Each time I would tell myself, This must be the last. But it never was. For the longest time I managed to keep all four men—my husband, my son, and the two lovers—from knowing about one another. My husband and my son still did not know, but Southampton and Shakespeare had become aware of whom they shared. At first they professed not to care. In fact, they professed to find it erotic, and insisted sophisticated men were not possessive. But that did not last, and now there was bad feeling between them. Shakespeare had started to write unpleasant sonnets about my character, which Southampton made sure I saw, pretending it was accidental.

  This expedition would take Christopher, Robert, and Southampton away, leaving only Shakespeare. I anticipated a lush time of playing to my heart’s content with him, before letting him go. For once I would not be watched. Essex House would be mine in its entirety, top to bottom—as would he. The fact that he disapproved of me, slightly, only lent a frisson of challenge to me.

  In the meantime the preparations for the voyage would go forward, with the swarms of young men thronging our halls. My son had to supply their colors—his livery of tawny gold—although they were responsible for their own weapons. He also ordered his badge, Virtutis Comes Invidia—Envy is the Companion of Virtue—to adorn the liveries. I did not think the motto suited his situation, but I held my tongue. Lately I was having to do much of that. I was dying to know what had passed between him and the Queen on their private trip. But I could not ask.

  Now we were keeping quiet company in the inner hall in the hour before supper.

  I reached over and patted Robert’s arm. I felt entirely content—except for my father’s illness. (Why must there always be an “except for ...”?) “Your preparations seem to be well in hand,” I said. “You have given the tailors plenty of time. Everything should be ready.”

  He shook his head. “I dread getting the bill.”

  The bill. The reckoning. “If you can just hold them off until your return,” I said, “you will have riches enough.”

  “The Queen expects booty—in addition to all the other goals of this mission. I can only pray that a Spanish treasure ship comes along at the right time.”

  “That is truly out of your hands,” I reminded him. “But God is known to rain his favors down.” I thought of all the men going. “Everyone is joining you. My husband—how will it feel to outrank and command your own father-in-law? And Charles Blount, your sister’s lover.”

  “It is something I must accept,” he said. “My inherited rank places me in high command. Christopher is a good soldier and I will rely on him.”

  “That’s a diplomatic answer,” I said.

  I hated knowing that Christopher had been an underling to Leicester first, and now to my own son. It lessened him a little in my eyes, though I would never show it.

  “You know that I am not noted for my diplomacy,” he said. “I meant what I said. I will rely on Christopher, as I have for many years. Loyalty is the highest virtue of all. What good are any of the other virtues without loyalty?”

  Did he know about Southampton and Shakespeare? I looked quickly at his face, but it seemed ingenuous. “Indeed,” I said. “And are you being loyal to your wife these days? I worry about Frances.” Change the subject, Lettice!

  He looked surprised. “The Queen made no fuss about Elizabeth Southwell,” he said. “Odd. I expected her usual temper tantrum. Perhaps her vision is going bad. Or her acute senses are failing her. She seems not to notice that Southampton has been creeping around with Elizabeth Vernon, another of her ladies.”

  Southampton! “I have heard she is almost as pretty as he.” I laughed lightly.

  “Children should romp together, don’t you think?” he said. “Why, they are six or so years younger than I am, and, as everyone keeps reminding me, I’m not even thirty yet.”

  “You did not answer me about Frances.”

  “We are very happy these days. And, Mother, Frances is a resilient woman. She survived the loss of Philip Sidney and she will survive my loss, should it come to that.”

  “Oh, do not speak of it!” I did not think I could bear it.

  He shrugged. Perhaps that is the only way to go into battle. “I have a plan that will ensure my fame and success long beyond this mission. I want to hold Cádiz, turn it into a military outpost so we can harass Spain and maintain a foothold in her very guts.”

  “Replacing the lost Calais?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Your vision is bold.”

  “The Spanish crisis needs such far thinking. Those men on the Queen’s Privy Council—they scurry around trying to secure only what they see in front of their shortsighted eyes.”

  “God knows you have been stifled on the council and stalking the halls of court. Perhaps you belong in the field after all, for there have been few heroes there for two generations. May you make your name there, and come back with something that will endure. The jewels and gold and spices from a plundered ship will soon be spent; the strike against the Spanish will injure but not kill them. But a permanent outpost—yes, that can be your gift to England.”

  “I want to do something that will outlive me,” he said. “Some notable act, some unique gift. Perhaps Cádiz can be that, for me.”

  “You are so many men, Robert,” I said. “May they all become one.”

  While Essex House filled with tailors, boot makers, armorers, heraldry purveyors, banner makers, nautical instrument engineers, and map illustrators—a veritable manufacturing city gathered on our grounds—I slipped away, as often as I could, to visit my ailing father. I never took the ostentatious coach, and I wore plain gowns and left my jewelry at home. The other high-ranking officers at court had fine mansions along the Thames and the Strand, but Father, who had served the Queen during her entire reign and as her lord treasurer for the past twenty years, chose to live near St. Paul’s, within the old walls of the City. Even in his decline, he came to Privy Council meetings every day, sometimes using a litter. But I never found him lying down when I came to see him. No, he was always sitting, usually at his desk, rustling through papers.

  I had always been too busy, too involved in my own comings and goings, to give much thought to his situation. Now I was drawn to this house, and to him. I did not deceive myself that he was in need of me. I had many brothers and sisters. But what comfort they gave him I did not know. They, too, were busy with their own comings and goings. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, my life had quieted down. There was little to strive for. My husband was not a courtier and would rise no higher. My son must make his own way, and no longer listened to me. He had his own family now and seemed on the very brink of power. My daughters, beauties though they were, had not used that beauty to further their positions. I had my lovers, but perhaps they were just a mask for the lack of any grand purpose in my life.

  “Hello, Father!” I called to him. He was, as I expected, at his desk. He turned slowly to see me.

  “Good afternoon, Laetitia,” he said. He always called me by my formal name. Like someone else did.

  “It’s a glorious day,” I said. “Will you show me what the garden is doing?” Spring was far advanced now.

  “I haven’t been out there today,” he said, pulling himself stiffly to his feet. “But I daresay it would do me good.”

  Together we descended the stairs into the walled garden, with its bricks baking in the sun. There was an old cherry tree in the middle with a bench underneath. Several sleek cats lay dozing in the shade and stretched and yawned when we approached.

  “Lazy rascals,” said
Father. “Why aren’t they out catching mice? They’re not worth their keep!”

  I leaned down and stroked the one closest to me. It answered me with a rumbling purr. “Perhaps their mouse-catching days are over,” I said, then could have smacked myself. “Or perhaps they know it is better to enjoy this garden. Tell me, Father, what is coming up?”

  “I’m not sure. Your sister Anne took charge of the garden last autumn.”

  “Look, here’s lily of the valley, and white violets,” I said. “And sweet Williams coming up here. You will have a fragrant border.”

  “My roses survived the winter well,” he said, making for the fence where they were staked. “All reds,” he noted.

  “No Tudor red and white?” I was teasing. Such roses were an artist’s creation but did not grow in nature.

  “No, red in memory of the first manor we were granted, by Jasper Tudor, Henry VII’s uncle, for the annual rent of one red rose every midsummer.” He fondled the stems lovingly.

  “When was that?” His stories used to bore me. Now I wanted to hear them.

  “In 1514. I was three years old. I swear I remember it, because my parents put red roses all over the house to celebrate. In any case, the unmistakable scent of the red rose always brings to mind wonderful gifts. I love to smell it through the open windows in June.”

  Three years old in 1514 made him eighty-five now. I marveled at him.

  “I don’t approve of perfumes, but if they must be worn, let it be rose!” He smiled.

  I preferred the heavier musk scents from the east, but I merely nodded. My mother had always refrained from perfumes, in keeping with her Puritan beliefs. My mother ... gone now for almost thirty years. Suddenly I wondered how lonely my father had been all this time, and felt ashamed that I had only just now thought of it. Tears sprang to my eyes. I had seen so little beyond myself. Now I was seeing wider and it was blinding me.

  My father’s dimming eyesight meant that he did not notice the beginning of my tears, and I checked them quickly.