Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  Cuffe did not look very scholarly, and the noblemen did not look very noble.

  46

  ELIZABETH

  December 1596

  The nastier the weather, the more I relished being outdoors. I licked the stinging mist hitting my lips as I sat on horseback in Greenwich Park, looking across the river to the desolate brown and gray of the Isle of Dogs. Ghostly ribbons of fog wove a pattern in the air above the water, floating down to the sea. It was the time when every Joan and Ned huddled indoors before the fire, and this year with meager food supplies to face the cold months ahead. I was here watching, as I had for weeks, wondering when the first beacon would flare across the river. In these dull days the bright flame would be easy to see.

  There had been no word on the whereabouts of the Armada, although we believed it would head first for the Isle of Wight and then up the Thames to London. We increased the garrison at Wight and readied the ordnance of all the coastal defenses; a militia of twenty-four thousand from the southern counties was called up to defend the seacoast. The navy was fitted out and stationed along the Channel. Near London, ships were dispatched to guard the entrance of the Thames by Tilbury. Others were positioned as watch vessels from Sheerness to Chatham navy yard; the nearby Upnor Castle was strengthened with an extra contingent of soldiers. In case of a Spanish reprisal against our fleet in revenge for Cádiz, Admiral Howard ordered Raleigh to safeguard the fleet at anchor.

  We had heard of the Armada’s setting out, of the prayers said in Spanish churches for its success, singing the psalm “Contra Paganos”—“Against the Pagans”—in churches throughout the land. I looked up at the swirling, blustery sky. We would see, literally, which way the winds blew. Would they be Protestant winds or Catholic ones? Would they sweep the Armada onto our shores or wreck it as they had before?

  At least we were safe from the homegrown insurrection. The Oxfordshire rising had never risen. Steer and his followers had been unable to convince enough people to join them, despite their busy recruiting in the countryside. On St. Hugh’s Day, they had bungled their start and been easily rounded up and taken to London, where they were now being tried. In the end, although people griped and complained, they were not willing to risk their lives or to attack the landowners. Some said they were in it as long as it was property, not people, to be destroyed, but when the talk turned to murder they wanted no part of it. The men involved were mostly young, unemployed, and without families—in other words, with nothing to lose.

  Nonetheless, my Accession Day, despite my putting on a brave outward show, was a sober one for me. Knowing that the day when people had rejoiced that I had come to the throne thirty-eight years ago had become the day chosen by malcontents to express themselves weighed on my spirits. For every person who had joined the rising, there must be thousands who sympathized with it. I knew we would have to address these deep-seated discontentments, so I called for a parliament to meet soon.

  The clean, stinging wind was welcome after the stuffiness and forced phrases at court, and the roiling weather reminded me that our indoor tempests were small things. The mighty hand of God seemed to be raking his fingers through the sky.

  My hands were numb inside my fur-lined gloves. Still I lingered on the hilltop, watching the great lazy bend of the river and the skyline of London beyond that, spread out along its banks.

  Wait! Was that a flare? Did I see a flash of red from the distant hill? I held still and waited, but it did not come again. It must have been a reflection. As I turned to head back to Greenwich, I saw a rider approaching. He sat his horse squarely, neither hurrying nor dawdling, his flat hat pulled low.

  “Francis!” It was my elusive counsel.

  He swept off his hat and nodded, coming close. He had a fine bay horse. I wondered if he owned it, but more likely it was borrowed from Essex. “Your Majesty,” he said.

  “This is unexpected company,” I said. Others would have cornered me at a banquet or Christmas festivity, but he found this private ground. He was always clever.

  “I was out for a ride in the park and thought I saw you. Your carriage and the way you sit your saddle are unmistakable.”

  Like all successful flatterers, he knew that the best flattery is to exaggerate what is true. I was a good rider, and I did have a straight back. “Thank you, Francis,” I said. “It has been a long time since I have seen you at court.”

  “It has been a long time since you have called upon my talents, modest as they are, for your service.” He replaced his hat, pulling it down to cover his ears. The wind flapped the hem of his cloak.

  “The things that have needed counsel, unfortunately, have not been in your area of knowledge.”

  He smiled. “Are you sure? Did I not tell you I have taken all knowledge to be my province?”

  “Yes, you did, and I know you are conquering new territory every day, a veritable Alexander the Great of the mind, you are. But the dreary, sad matters I have had to deal with—discontented subjects, another attack from my perennial foe Philip—did not require analysis but simple action.” Now I waited for him to recommend Essex, his employer, for the task. I had let Essex sulk and sit since his return from Cádiz and his fizzled hero’s welcome. The people still sang of him, but it was dying down.

  “I understand,” he said. “I am grateful that the danger inside the realm is over and hope that the same will soon be said of the one outside.” He looked toward the city. “Let this stand safe!”

  “How are you, Francis?” I asked. He looked well but clearly had something on his mind. “And Anthony? I despair of ever seeing your brother. Sometimes I think he is a ghost—or an alias for you. Is there really an Anthony Bacon?”

  Francis laughed. “He exists but is unwell. All of him, except his mind, is failing. He must protect the body in order to safeguard his mind. It is a jewel wrapped in weak flesh.”

  “As in us all.” An unwelcome reminder. “What have you come for, my good man? For I know it was not to watch the river with me.”

  “I confess I did wish to see you alone, and in a place that has no mementos of times past. You say you value my counsel, and so I present it to you in a form you can consult any time you fancy and have it to hand.” He opened his saddle pouch and drew out a book. “I have written down what I know.”

  I took the slim volume. “In so small a space? That is not possible.”

  “I strove to be succinct,” he said. “I wrote it as instruction for persons who might need it, but beyond that, as an exercise for myself. It is hard to capture the essence of one’s own beliefs and knowledge. I deal with one subject at a time.”

  I could not open the book in the high wind with my gloves on. “I look forward to studying it. You have invented a new product: an invisible counselor.”

  “Some would say the Scriptures function thus,” he said. “But my advice is on practical matters, such as custom and education, youth and age, deformity, building, gardens, and negotiating. I treat followers and friends—and how to discern the difference—anger, factions. Oh, and apropos of the present disturbances, there is an essay on ‘seditions and troubles.’ ”

  “Do tell. Give me a summary. I need it.”

  “Here’s a quote from it: ‘The surest way to prevent seditions is to take away the matter of them. For if there be fuel prepared, it is hard to tell whence the spark shall come that shall set it on fire. The matter of seditions is of two kinds: much poverty and much discontentment.’ ”

  He spoke clearly and true. I looked at him, at this dark enigmatic man who was wise in so many ways but had no sure place for applying that wisdom. “Well considered, and well said. That is why I have called a parliament for next year—to take away the cause that almost lit the fuel in Oxfordshire. I plan to introduce poor laws to address this directly. I assume you will be in Commons? I will need your help.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I plan to run, and expect to be elected. I have, of late, decided that Essex is not in constant need of my services. I can
spend as much time as necessary in this upcoming parliament.”

  So this was the real announcement. He had cut ties with Essex. They had fallen out for some reason. “Cut ties” was too strong; he had loosened them and was looking for employment elsewhere. What was their disagreement? Had Francis tired of giving advice only to have it ignored? Was Essex planning something that Francis could not condone?

  “I see. I can count on you, then, to support my measures?” Not like last time, I meant, when he had voted against my subsidy.

  “Within my conscience, of course, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “I never betray my own conscience and would not require it of another,” I said.

  What had come between him and Essex? How could I find out? Asking Francis directly would not reveal it. I must find another way, another informant.

  The Christmas season was particularly gloomy. Sometimes December can be bright and cold, but this year it was murky and wet. It fitted my spirits, which were likewise murky and wet. We kept the festivities at Richmond, and nothing was omitted to signal any diminution of the holiday. The choristers sang as clearly as ever, the boar’s head was serenaded as raucously as normal, and the plays provoked as much laughter as any other year. But I felt all the while that I was pretending for the benefit of others, as a mother will be cheerful before her children, while desperate to get food on the table.

  The one genuinely bright respite came when Raleigh’s Indian was baptized and took an English name, Percival. Archbishop Whitgift presided in the royal chapel and Raleigh stood as godfather, and the new Percival, wearing English cloak and breeches, repeated his promises in clear but accented words. He had been studying all year, becoming more and more a fixture at court, and to welcome him into our company was a touching moment. Afterward I gave a reception to celebrate the occasion. Everyone crowded around to congratulate him and question him about his homeland. Raleigh’s cohort Lawrence Keymis had just returned from the Orinoco and was pleased to provide more details of the land and the elusive gold, which he had come close to locating—or so he claimed.

  “I’m just about to publish my findings in Relation of the Second Voyage to Guiana. It will be almost like being there,” he assured us.

  Raleigh stood proudly by, nodding. “I long to return,” he said. “But first, there is the matter of the voyage to the Azores to undertake, there to finish what we started in Cádiz.”

  The Azores venture was a sore point with me. Raleigh spoke true. The adventurers, not content with one mission, were clamoring for another.

  “You sustained an injury that has you still limping,” I said. “Let that heal before you go seeking another.”

  “If we waited for all wounds to heal, none of us would ever walk again,” he said. “ ’Tis nothing.”

  “Percival” joined us and bowed. “I thank you that you come,” he said to me.

  “It is my pleasure to welcome such a fine new Christian,” I said. He stood straight, his bronze skin not faded from our sunless days. Beside him Raleigh looked pasty and middle-aged, despite his splendid new midnight blue velvet doublet. “I hope that you will ever feel that this land is your home.”

  “Someday I go back,” he said. “See my old father. Show Raleigh the gold place. For now, I like England.”

  His hair was a shiny, straight black that we never saw among our own people, not even with the Spanish, and his nose as straight as a Roman emperor’s. He towered over Robert Cecil and looked eye to eye with Raleigh. A fine race of men, the Orinoco Indians. Essex might have been taller, but Essex was not here, still hiding away from court this season.

  It was while we were at Percival’s celebration that the blessed news came to us: God had proved Protestant once again. He had blown the winds up into a gale just as the Armada was rounding Cape Finisterre—“the end of the world”—at the western bulge of the Spanish coastline, scattering the fleet, driving it onto the shore, and wrecking some forty of the best warships. The few that survived were not enough to mount another attack so late in the year. We embraced the messenger and feted him, and I ordered that more of the palace’s wine stores be opened. Tonight everyone could drink as much as he or she wanted, with my blessing.

  The fleet was wrecked! We were safe! I felt giddy with relief and danced with an abandon I had not mustered in months.

  My feet hurt. Not dancing vigorously in so long had definitely caused them to forget the shape of my shoes. I pulled them off, and Marjorie held them up, rotating them. “These look small,” she said tactfully.

  “Perhaps when I wore them in the rain, they shrank,” I said. I wanted to soak my feet in warm water before climbing into bed, so they could recover before morning. Sitting on a stool with the water lapping up around my calves, I told Marjorie once again how thankful I was that the Oxfordshire rising had collapsed and Henry was safe. He had come to court this Christmas, making Marjorie very happy. I had assigned him a chamber just next to the royal ones so she could easily slip away to spend time with him.

  He was stout, and growing stouter. I wondered why that often happens—in the middle years people grow wider, and then when they become truly old they shrink. Perhaps it is a good sign if one is still corpulent.

  “There have been so few disturbances during your entire reign,” she said. “That is almost unique in English history. It means that by and large you satisfy the people.”

  Yes, it had meant that. But now when I rode abroad there were sullen silences and no cheers, and sometimes they still sang of Essex in the streets.

  Catherine brought a thick towel. “When you are ready,” she said, holding it up.

  “Charles can join us at court now,” I said. “He is free to dock his warship and come ashore. I know you will welcome that.” I had in mind a promotion for Charles, but I did not wish to reveal it now. It was time he received a new title. I bestowed them so sparingly that it was sure to attract attention. I merely smiled, keeping my secret.

  “God has been merciful to us once again,” she said. “Surely Philip will give up now. And yes, I’m delighted to have my husband back again.”

  I gestured toward the maidens’ chamber, where the younger girls were sleeping under lock and key. “Doubtless they will also be glad to have their suitors back,” I said. I knew they had them. It was the sneaking and the secrecy I abhorred, not the suitors themselves. Why could they not understand that?

  “I shall read a bit,” I said. “You need not wait up for me.” No point in their standing duty while I read quietly. I settled myself in my most comfortable chair and moved two candles to the side table, while Marjorie excused herself to join Henry, and Catherine pulled out her truckle bed and smoothed the covers. But first she tiptoed into the little room where the formidable ajax had been installed, availing herself of it. We were all pleased by the way it functioned, but its roaring noise made us limit our use of it. John Harington, at court this season, claimed victory for his invention and was busy trying to promote it.

  Francis Bacon’s essays, as he called them, resembled a tray of sweetmeats—small, bite-size, tempting the reader to consume one after another until they became a blur. I selected one at time, trying to limit myself, choosing by the title. There were over fifty of them. Tonight “Of Vicissitude of Things” caught my fancy.

  “Certain it is, that the matter is in a perpetual flux, and never at a stay. The great winding-sheets, that bury all things in oblivion, are two: deluges and earthquakes.” England was doubly blessed, then, in having neither. I read on. He wrote of the breakup of a great empire and said it was always accompanied by wars. He specifically mentioned Spain and wrote that if it fell, other countries would plunder its corpse, plucking its feathers. After many examples, he concluded, “But it is not good to look too long upon these turning wheels of vicissitude, lest we become giddy.”

  I shut the book. He was right. The turning wheels of vicissitude could crush me. And his image of a winding-sheet: Had I not used that very example to explain why I w
ould not name my successor? “Think you I will spread my winding-sheet before my eyes?” I had warned. The moment I named someone to come after me, all eyes would turn that way. We worship the rising, not the setting, sun. It is in our nature. Lament it I would; ignore it I dared not.

  47

  Christmas Day was over, and after the happy news of the scattering of the Armada, the holidays had turned unexpectedly festive. The men guarding the realm had returned in time to join the court for Twelfth Night, which proved exceptionally boisterous and merry. We were safe. We were delivered, once again. God smiled on us. It was hard not to congratulate ourselves, and hard for me to remind myself that the cries of “The Protestant Princess, beloved of Providence” came not from heaven but from fickle men.

  There was work to do in the realm, and I must tackle it. We must prepare for parliament, and I must address the clamoring for another venture of derring-do from the Essex faction. Essex himself had continued to absent himself from court, nursing his grievances to whip up sympathy for his misunderstood self. In his view, he was always misunderstood. The terror for him would be in realizing I understood him all too well.

  That person ... that boy ... who had nakedly said he loved me, the temptation incarnate at Drayton Bassett ... where was he? He had seemingly been replaced by a pouting and sulking courtier, holding out for recognition and petting. I let him sulk and simmer, all the while wondering what was going through his mind.

  His mind was not a constant thing. He was violently inconsistent, unstable. I had thought I could tame him as I had his stepfather, Leicester, but I was beginning to grasp that Essex’s unhappiness stemmed from frustration of his personal ambition rather than anything that could be addressed. No matter what rank and honors he possessed, he would always feel that they fell short and he was thereby insulted.