Did he feel passed over, one of the few young men not away at present? He had never ridden in the jousts, commanded a ship, or led troops. He did not sing or join in the dances. Did it eat at him? His wide green eyes gave away nothing; his courteous and gentle manner never betrayed any sense of yearning for that which he could not have. Yet I did not sense true contentment, but rather a resignation to limitations and a determination to excel wherever he was not hampered.
I liked to walk along the breezy upper ward, down the winding paved way where the Knights of the Garter walked every St. George’s Day to the celebration in his namesake chapel here, their blue velvet cloaks trailing them, their order’s garter insignia resplendent on their legs. For the newly elected, it was a high day in their lives. Only twenty-four men could serve as Knights of the Garter, and only I could select them. It was the highest order of chivalry in England. It always tugged at me that I could preside over this order of knights and yet could not be a true warrior. Like Robert Cecil, I could not lead troops or joust or command a ship. Both of us disqualified—I by my sex, he by his back. But by God, we could make them dance to our tabor!
One particularly hot day as I was emerging from the chapel, I saw an eager young man running downhill toward the green of the middle ward, waving his arms like a boy flying a kite. It was John Harington, who skidded to a halt right in front of me, gasping for breath.
“My dear godmother!” he said, bowing and then boldly kissing my cheek.
Here was another young man who had not gone off to sea, and he was able-bodied enough. “What mischief are you up to, John?” I asked. Today I was ready for it. I was ready for anything bold to amuse me, and I could usually count on John to provide it.
“I have brought you an invention, something so marvelous, so modern, so farsighted, that, being associated with your reign, it shall bring you more renown than the Armada in the annals of history.” He was out of breath with excitement, his eyes dancing, suppressed laughter seeping out from around the corners of his lips.
Well, he was clever, I knew that. He had once engineered an ingenious mole trap that the gardeners at Hampton swore by. He had also designed a pipe conduit that could carry more water than the old kind. Perhaps now he invented an improved weapon that would give us an edge in war—a gun of some sort that was lighter and could fire accurately with less time in between each shot. That would certainly give our armies an advantage. “What can this be?” I asked.
“Come, and I shall show you. I have it set up. Mere words cannot do it justice! It must be seen in action.” He pulled on my hand.
“Is it a military weapon?” I asked. “Will it be helpful in war?”
“Well ... not exactly.”
“Is it some sort of luxury?”
“Today a luxury, but tomorrow a necessity!”
“Is it expensive?”
“Not so much, when you figure it can service many.”
“Will it improve the appetite?”
“Which ones?”
“Any of them, you saucy wretch!”
“Definitely. I swear to it.” He laughed. “I told you, words cannot begin to convey a true picture of it. You must see for yourself!” He kept leading me uphill, toward the upper ward, where the royal apartments lay.
As we passed into the building, the guards seemed to snicker. When I looked at them questioningly, they dropped their gaze. John hustled me past them quickly.
We skirted the presence chamber, then went straight through the apartments into ever smaller rooms. My curiosity was rising. It would seem, if the gift were to serve many people, it would have to be in a large public space. Yet we were passing them. When we reached my privy chamber, I was utterly baffled.
I looked around the chamber and saw nothing out of place. The chair where Elizabeth Southwell usually sat remained empty; she was gone from court forever after bearing Essex’s bastard. So much unsavory business seemed to cluster around Essex, for all of his glowing beauty. Pregnant girls, lascivious uncles, promiscuous mothers and sisters, turbulent, profligate companions.
Now John bowed and, with a flourish of his hand, indicated that I must go into my bedchamber. I did. Catherine and Marjorie were there, sewing placidly.
“Well?” I demanded. Oh, let it not be a pet—a monkey, a hedgehog, or a squawking bird. The “invention” was most likely a cage of some sort.
Now he was gesturing toward my small withdrawing private chamber, where I attended to the most personal toilet needs. No one went in there. I was irritated; this game had gone on too long.
“John, we have gone far enough,” I said.
“Just within, it awaits!”
Marjorie and Catherine crowded up behind us, laughing.
I stepped in to confront a big, square chair with a privy seat and a barrel suspended on struts over it. If one were to sit upon the seat, the barrel would make a sort of canopy over the head. A chain hung down from the barrel.
The whole contraption was ugly and downright menacing.
“John, what is this? Why have you wrecked my most private room with this monstrosity?”
“Here, my dear sovereign. This will answer all your questions. Pray read, and then I will hold a demonstration. Your distaste will turn to awe.” He thrust a pamphlet into my hands entitled “A New Discourse on a Stale Subject: Called the Metamorphosis of Ajax.”
I flipped through it, finding details for how to construct the machine I was now standing before. Sprinkled throughout it were allusions to classical heroes, alternating with engineering diagrams.
“A jakes!” he cried. “A jakes! Ajax!” When he finished laughing at his own wit, he looked plaintively at me. “Do you grasp the pun? The jakes has undergone a change, a metamorphosis!”
“In what way?”
“Why, it will no longer be stale, or reek, or force people from their homes when the stench overpowers them. This newfangled jakes is a sweet-natured fellow.”
“Enough puns! Tell me straight, what is this?”
“Why, it is a water closet,” he said. “Let me demonstrate.” He stepped up to the barrel and turned a faucet attached to a pipe leading down to the chair. Then he bent and turned another screw on its underside. “Ready now!” A great rush and gurgle of water ensued, followed by a belch. It was so loud it could be heard out in the presence chamber. “It is—oh, surely I need not actually employ it for its true purpose. You can see, you—er, one—sits here, at one’s toilet, and then, rather than leave it—uh—standing, this water from the barrel will flush it away, into a covered chamber. Do you—um—understand?”
“Yes, John.” I felt myself blushing. I was not sure whether it was because he referred to these personal things, or because of the picture in my mind of a royal flush being heard by the guards outside every time it happened.
“You will want to install them in every palace,” he said. “It will transform them. And all I ask—”
“Is that they be named after you? From this time forward, change ‘jakes’ to ‘johns’?”
“Oh! Now that would be jolly!” He cocked his head. “How many shall I order made to satisfy you?”
“Satisfy me ... now that is an odd choice of word.”
“I do believe it is immensely suitable,” he said. “And all your ladies ... They will surely find it pleasing, and it will allow them to feel more dainty.”
“I think your invention shows ingenuity, but I am not sure it is practical enough to have a future.”
He looked crushed.
“It is unwieldy, expensive, and devilishly loud, advertising one’s business for a hundred yards in every direction. No, John, I do not think it will take the realm by storm. Nonetheless, because you are my very favorite godchild, I’ll order one for the apartments in Richmond Palace. There!”
The ladies, young and old—they had all crowded in—tittered.
“You see how eager they are to avail themselves of it? Why restrict it just to Richmond?” John’s handsome face was open
and innocent.
“I believe in testing something for a bit before committing to it,” I said.
“As you did in regards to marriage?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
That man! The boldness of him! “Quite so,” I said. “And it proved to be a most wise course.”
“Your most glorious father, the King, embraced the new and jettisoned the old with gusto,” he said. “I know he would have installed these everywhere.”
“He had more money than I,” I said flatly. “So he could afford more mistakes. Ah, John, it is a hard thing to have to grasp every penny until the copper oozes out.” Now the unpleasant reality of the day intruded on the frivolity we were enjoying so much.
His face grew sober. “Indeed it is,” he said. “And we appreciate the value you get for each penny. You have bought us a safe realm with it.”
“Thank you. My extravagant, self-indulgent purchase this year, then, will be the ajax. No jewels, no gowns, no kidskin gloves. Ajax it is! I shall be the envy of Henri IV and Philip, no doubt. For all the glamour of the French and the wealth of the Spaniards, they must struggle along with the old way of tending to their business. The only thing I ask of you, John—”
He looked alarmed.
“—is that you keep the engineering design absolutely secret. No leaking it to the enemy.” Too late I caught myself. “Now I am infected with your puns,” I said. “Go to.” I cuffed his head lightly.
Wanting to leave the dark empire of the ajax behind, I walked briskly out of the royal apartments and across the open courtyard of the upper ward. It was the highest point of the castle grounds and felt closest to the sky, which today was leaden with impending rain. I made my way down, past the old, squat, round tower that dominated the castle’s profile. Down farther was the jewel of the castle, St. George’s Chapel, rebuilt in what a hundred years ago was the latest fashion. My great-grandfather Edward IV had been determined to be buried here. His building program did not keep pace with his hectic life, and he died before it was finished. Nonetheless, his magnificent tomb was erected afterward, and the building grew up around him.
I stepped in, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. It was called a chapel but was almost the size of a cathedral, stretching a length of 250 feet from front to back. Behind me the huge western window with its stained glass threw ruby, sapphire, and emerald shadows on the stone floor, turning it into a tapestry. The odor of old stone, carried on the damp air, wrapped itself around me like a shawl.
I walked slowly down the nave, drawn to my father’s tomb at the far end. On either side were the chantry chapels, silent now. Once wealthy families had endowed private chapels where their souls could be prayed for, day and night, to ease their passage through purgatory. A bequest, set up in perpetuity, paid a priest to devote himself exclusively to that duty. But, deemed popish superstition, chantries were outlawed, purgatory declared nil. Now the souls of all these people must fend for themselves. They left behind magnificent tombs and statuary in the forsaken chapels.
I reached the choir, the home of the Order of the Garter. The back row of stalls was reserved for those knights, and above each stall hung the knight’s heraldic plate, his banner, and his sword. Upon his death, the banner and the sword were taken down, but the plate remained, a record of all the knights who had ever occupied that stall, going back to 1390.
If a knight proved unworthy, a reverse ceremony was held, stripping him of the honor of the Garter. During my reign only two such “degradations,” as they were called, had taken place. The first was for Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who had joined the rebellion of the northern earls, the only uprising against me so far. The second was my cousin Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who had tried to marry Mary Queen of Scots, when she was a prisoner here in England, to support her against me. The degrading procedure was most solemn. The Garter King at Arms, flanked by the officers at arms and the Black Rod, announced the knight’s degradation. Then the herald removed the plate, banner, and sword, but not quietly. They were torn down and flung to the floor, then dragged and kicked out the far western door and thence from the castle grounds and finally into the river.
I sat down in one of the dark, carved choir stalls. There was a plaque on the floor, midway down the chapel, marking my father’s grave. In his will he had requested to be laid at rest “in the choir, midway between the stalls and the high altar,” and there he had been brought on a cold February day.
It was almost exactly fifty years since then. Fifty years without him, yet he guided my thoughts every day. How I wished I could speak with him, for only five minutes, about the decisions I faced for England. But no, I would need more time. I would need fifteen minutes at least, the first five to tell him everything that had happened since his death, then five to sketch out the present crisis, and then, and only then, to speak of what to do next.
Time! You are so cruel. Why can we not take out the fifteen minutes in the past and hoard it until now, until needed? Fifteen minutes. That is all I ask. So little. So impossible.
41
LETTICE
August 1596
Gossip was in the air. It flew ahead of the returning forces, winging its way straight to us unhindered by national borders, by ravines or mountains. It whispered that we had been dazzlingly victorious in Cádiz. The town was ours; we had captured both the city and its fleet. And my son was the hero of the action, the first to charge through the walls and into Cádiz. What it did not tell us was anything beyond these few wild outlines, and how much treasure had been seized.
It would have to be a great deal. Cádiz was a rich city and would offer much booty, even if no treasure ships from America were in the harbor. There were rumored to have been fifty merchant ships awaiting the plundering.
“Let us celebrate!” I poured two goblets of sweet sack. “Let us drink their own best wine to salute their downfall! From the very port of Jerez!” I handed one to Shakespeare, who was sprawled out in the bed. He raised himself up on one elbow and took it, lifting it for a moment to his eyes, then sipping it.
“The best,” he agreed. “You are indulgent, countess.”
I hated it when he called me that. “In many ways, as well you know.” These two months, with my three watchdog men away, would have qualified even in Nero’s Rome as an orgy. Of course it was not possible to have an orgy with only two people, but Shakespeare seemed more than one person. He was never the same, from night to night, from day to day. I wondered if he was testing different roles. He was an actor, after all.
“You spoil me,” he said. “It is hard to revert back to being just plain Will, as I must do regularly.” He set the goblet down on a bedside stool and got up. “As I must do now.” He walked across the room to fetch his clothes. “You see? Having my clothes put in a chest rather than in a heap on the floor is way above my station.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Performance this afternoon. I’ll have to hurry.” He peeked out the window to guess the time.
“I haven’t noticed you learning your lines.”
“I don’t need to. I wrote them.”
“What’s this play?”
“Come and see.”
I wanted to, but I had purposely stayed away from the theater this summer. It might be too obvious if I was seen there. Above all, I wanted to keep this secret.
“You know I can’t.” I wanted to. I wanted to see him acting, becoming yet another person. “Stay here. Don’t go.” I did not know why I said such a thing. To test him?
“No.” He put on his shoes. “You should know better than that, Laetitia.”
“I was only jesting,” I said lightly. “I know you esteem the theater above my company.”
“It is my living,” he said.
“It is your love,” I said.
He kissed my cheek and then dashed down the stairs, his eagerness informing every motion.
“Come back afterward! I want to hear it all!”
He di
d not answer, and I hated myself for saying it. The door slammed.
I fought with temptation all afternoon to keep away from the theater. Usually I am not very successful against temptation, but today I was. I simply could not go there, could not be seen. I envied him his other life, the company of his fellow actors, the freedom of becoming someone else entirely, even if only for a few hours through his characters. He made whole new worlds; he did not have actually to sail to them.
“My mind to me a kingdom is ...” Shakespeare had quoted Sir Edward Dyer’s entire poem to me, but all I remembered was that first line. And oh, yes, “Such present joys therein I find that it excels all other bliss.” He might as well have been describing himself. But perhaps all poets were like that and it was a common feeling among them.
What did I know about Will Shakespeare, anyway? He came from Warwickshire, a country man, a nobody in aristocratic circles. He was thirty-two years old. He had married at eighteen and had three children. His wife was eight years older. Perhaps he was always drawn to older women? She stayed behind in Warwickshire when he came to London to act and write. He had secured the young Earl of Southampton as his patron and published the wildly successful poem Venus and Adonis, following it up with The Rape of Lucrece a year later. He acted in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and wrote plays for them. He refused all gifts I tried to give him, as if accepting anything would compromise him. Anything material, that is. Words, lovemaking—he was free enough with them. He never wrote a note to me, nor a dedicated poem, but he wrote about me in his sonnets and in his plays, although he was careful never to identify me by name. I had read enough of them to feel sure of it, although he never admitted it. He was as guarded as a Spanish bastion.
Elizabeth I Page 33
