Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  Helena smiled. “I doubt that you are ever separated from your wits.”

  “You have seen me in a fog or two,” I reminded her. She had served me for many years. Now she was a quasi-relative. Soon after she was widowed she had married one of my Boleyn cousins, Thomas Gorges. Their first child, Elizabeth, was another of my godchildren.

  “Did you bring Elizabeth?” I asked her. “It has been too long since I have seen your daughter, my namesake.”

  “Indeed I did,” said Helena. “She is back there keeping company with some of the young men.”

  “Like her mother,” I teased Helena. “Let’s bring her up here. I want two of my goddaughters to meet.” Turning to Eurwen, I said, “I told you I had many, and I look out for all of them.”

  A few minutes later Helena’s daughter caught up with us, crashing through the brush alongside the path. She skidded to a halt and curtsied. Her hat flopped forward. “Your Majesty,” she panted. She was the antithesis of her refined, stately mother. The only trait they shared was shiny golden hair.

  “My Elizabeth,” I said. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you in a good while. Your godmother craves more attention, or she will feel forgotten. Here, I wish you to meet your sister in God, Eurwen. She is from Wales.”

  Eurwen smiled and bobbed her head. Elizabeth clapped an arm around her shoulder. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

  “I am learning....” The two of them meandered to one side of the path together.

  “Just so were we once,” said Helena.

  “A hearty crop,” I said. “You must come to court more often so I can know all your children.” I had given Helena and her husband the old royal manor of Sheen, near Richmond Palace. “You are right close when we are at Richmond.”

  The footpath followed the riverbanks for a mile or two, curving with its curves, hugging the reedy shallows, alive with birds. From this angle Beddington Manor glowed a contented red, its roofs gleaming, its weather vanes catching the sun as they turned.

  Soon we entered the woods of the deer park; oaks and alders closed over us, making a green shade. We were past the time of woodland flowers, and the forest floor held only green underbrush, some laden with berries. Creatures still scurried underfoot, vanishing with a flourish of their tails when they heard us. Instinctively we lowered our voices, hushed ourselves as if in a cathedral.

  Suddenly I knew someone was right beside me; I felt breath on my neck. Jerking my head around, I found Percival only a few inches from my face. My heart leaped, then felt as if it stopped.

  “Is he silent, or is he not?” Raleigh came up on my other side. “It’s something the natives in America learn at an early age. They can stalk an animal so quietly it never has a chance to get away.”

  “Sides. Feet,” said Percival, holding his foot aloft. He turned it at a slant and showed me how he walked on the edges of his feet, soundlessly.

  “It works better with soft shoes, or barefoot,” said Raleigh.

  I would like to see Percival hunt the Indian way. I wondered how he tracked a deer or rabbit. They were so alert to motion. That is why we used beaters to frighten them and chase them toward us or into a blind. But to do it alone and on foot—remarkable.

  “You long to return there,” I said. “You are half in love with America.” His expression told me I was right. “But we cannot spare you here. Not in these times.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Do you think there is anything left of your holdings in Ireland?” I asked.

  “There is not,” he said. “I am virtually certain of it.”

  “You lived there and have seen the Irish better than most people. In your opinion, is there any remedy?”

  “Only extreme measures,” he said. “Annihilation. Bloodbaths. They respect nothing else.”

  “Are you saying, then, that they are indomitable? Unconquerable?”

  “Any people can be conquered,” he said. “There is no such thing as unconquerable. It depends on how many you are willing to kill. How high a price you are willing to pay.”

  His old bluster was gone, faded out of him. His handsome face was lined now, and early streaks of gray were threaded through his hair. He had grown up, my seafarer. “Bess. How is she?” I found myself asking.

  A bit of his old smile curved his lips. “She is well, Your Majesty.”

  “And young Walter?”

  “Six years old, and already a seaman. He’ll fight in your navy one day.”

  “If he does well, I’ll knight him for it,” I said. It was time to put away my pique toward Bess. It had all happened many years ago. “I shall always need good sailors.”

  Out ahead the woods opened into fields where the deer, flushed out of their coverts, could be chased easily. Sunlight danced on the waving meadow grasses. But it was coming almost straight down, meaning that it was near noon, time to return to the manor.

  When we arrived back, Francis greeted us heartily. “Only once a decade, no, once a lifetime, do the gods favor us with such exquisite weather. Even Solomon in all his wisdom, even Augustus in all his glory, could not have commanded a day like today! Oh, Your Majesty, how honored I am that you are here this day to share it with me!”

  He then led us out past the house to the orchard, where long tables were set up in the shade, running almost its entire length. There was a seat of honor for me, but it was trimmed in meadow flowers rather than tapestry, and a crown of flowers waited at my place.

  “I had hoped you would lay aside your regular crown and wear this instead, as our Faerie Queen presiding over her outdoor fête.”

  Blue cornflowers, violet windflowers, green columbines were twined together to make a circlet. Laughing, I put it on. But I knew it would become young Eurwen or Elizabeth Gorges better.

  My closest attendants were seated on either side of me, near Francis. Raleigh, my official bodyguard, was closest to my person. On my other side, my closest relative, Catherine. I treasured our secret decision to seek out the Boleyn seat together, as descendants of the two sisters. I reached over and squeezed her hand briefly as if to signal, I have not forgotten.

  We were seated in the apple area of the orchard; the leaves filtered out the fiercest rays of the sun, but dappled light fell on the table. Above us, branches dipped and swayed with their load of apples, wafting the musty, hot smell of autumn foliage toward us.

  “I’ve had a first pressing!” said Francis, flourishing a pitcher. “Early cider. It’s still apple juice at this point, but tasty nonetheless.” He had his servers pour for us. The frothy, turbid brown liquid smelled of crushed fruit.

  Raleigh rose. “Sir Francis is being modest. He will not tell us, but he is a fervid gardener and is experimenting with many types of plants. The oranges, for one. He has several varieties of pears—the midsummer kind that ripen early, and the ‘watery’ pears that are oozing with juice, and the wild hedge pear with its bitter juice for making perry. He grafts many different types onto one stock so he can compare the yield more accurately. And there are many other treasures in his gardens. I could not recount them all. I have a keen interest in foreign plants, and he has kindly agreed to cultivate some to see how they flourish here.”

  “It is never a chore to do what one loves,” said Francis. “My plantings give me pleasure.”

  “Indeed, God himself walked in a garden and found it soothing. That was before there were thorns, weeds, and brambles,” I said. “Sir Walter is correct. One may not boast of oneself, but it is no shame to boast of the deeds of another. It is my father who is also the father of England’s present-day orchards, for in the same year as I was born he sent his fruitier to the Continent to bring back the best new varieties of apples, pears, and cherries, since the wars had so devastated our old stocks. He set up a farm at Teynham to serve as a model, and from there the stock that flourished was sent out. So if today Kent and Surrey are our prize gardens and the source of much of our produce, it is due to the foresight and investment of good Ki
ng Henry VIII.” I looked up and down the table. “Everyone knows he founded the Royal Navy, and the Church of England, and the Royal College of Surgeons, but how many recognize what he did for English agriculture?”

  “To the King!” Francis drank to him, and we all followed suit.

  “He would love this occasion,” I said. “The good English air, and good English food, and good English people. Those were most precious to him.”

  Our banquet was a showcase of Francis’s estate’s bounty. There were venison and coneys from his hunting reserve, lamb from his fields, fish and waterfowl from his river, and fine bread from his wheat fields. Only the wine was imported, and he confessed that he had started a vineyard to begin making English wine.

  “Now that would be a greater victory over the French than Agincourt,” said Helena.

  The day was perfect—almost. The meal was perfect—almost. I said so, thinking out loud.

  “Why, what would Your Majesty change?”

  “I would move the day back six weeks, to early July. We have missed the cherry time—my favorite fruit.”

  “That is not surprising, as the cherry is the emblem of virginity,” said Francis. “And here in Surrey, it ripens at the very height of our fleeting summer.”

  “So much is cherry ripening a time of fairs and feasting that poets use it to suggest the brief time of merrymaking in our lives. Was it not Chaucer who wrote, ‘This world is but a cherry fair’—passing quickly, soon withered away?” said Raleigh.

  “But to control the seasons, even the masterful Sir Francis cannot do that,” said Catherine. “What we have missed we have missed. We will have to come again next year, and come in time.”

  “Where Her Majesty is is always the right time. For she herself is time, and it must bow to her, as her loyal subject,” said Francis. He gave a quick nod and his servers left the area. They soon returned with covered silver bowls and white serving napkins. One by one they placed them before us. Finally, when the last one was set down, Francis commanded mine to be uncovered. A server whisked the silver lid off, revealing a mound of huge, succulent, ripe cherries.

  Oh, how cleverly they could fashion imitations in Venetian glass. I had heard of their work, which would fool even nature. I laughed. “And this fruit will keep forever. Thank you, good Francis.”

  “No, Your Majesty. It will soon perish. It is real.”

  That was impossible. “Have you some magic tree, then, that ripens late?”

  “No,” he said. “I have only the normal Kentish Red, which ripens in early July. It is what I have set before you.”

  Gingerly I picked one up. It was not even chilled. He had not packed it in ice (although how could it have kept for six weeks even on ice)? It was smooth skinned and its flesh was firm. I bit into it and its juice filled my mouth.

  “It is real!” I said in wonder.

  All up and down the table the other diners bit into theirs.

  “Again, one is free to brag on another,” said Raleigh. “My good friend Francis covered a cherry tree with a canvas to keep the sun from ripening the cherries at the usual time. He doused the canvas with water to keep it cool. Without the direct sun, the cherries kept growing until they were much larger than normal. Then, when it was within a week of Your Majesty’s visit, he removed the tent and let the sun bring the fruit to perfection. He is the cleverest gardener who ever lived.”

  “I only prayed that Your Majesty would not change your mind, once the covering was off the tree,” said Francis.

  I had had gifts of rare jewels, fashioned into exquisite gold pendants and necklaces. I had been given exotic plants and animals from distant lands. I had had extravagant literary tributes. But this homely, simple gift brought tears to my eyes. “I think it is the rarest gift I have ever received,” I said. “I thank you, Sir Francis.”

  We lingered under the trees all afternoon, with young musicians walking through the rows, playing and singing for us. At last we returned to the house, where lamps had already been lit, making it glow from the inside like a lantern. In the long gallery, we continued the musical evening. Sir Francis had two virginals, and I sat down to play on one, relishing the feel of the slender keys under my fingers. This instrument had a rich, mellow tone. The open windows invited in the heavy scent of night-blooming flowers, and I could see a late-rising moon just struggling to clear the garden wall. Quiet English countryside. Quiet English paradise.

  We were to go hunting the next afternoon, and Sir Francis busied himself in the morning with the hounds and the beaters. Thus, he was not at home when Admiral Charles arrived from London, his boots crunching on the gravel of the entrance path.

  Catherine, who could recognize his footsteps, flew out to meet him. I was always touched to see long-married couples eager to see each other. The white-haired Charles would not inspire faster heartbeats from most women, but he only needed it from one.

  “We have been cosseted and entertained so lovingly by Sir Francis,” said Catherine. “I thought you would never come! He’s planned an afternoon of hunting—and the Queen and I are going to Hever the day after. It’s so lovely here.” She grabbed his hands and almost dragged him up the steps of the house.

  “Welcome, Charles,” I said. “Now Catherine can truly enjoy her stay.”

  He went down on one knee. “I fear your stay must end, and mine can never begin,” he said. He rose. “Bad news. The Spanish have been sighted on their way to our coast.”

  The sun still shone on my face, but its warmth vanished. “I had feared this.” I had not been to inspect the coastal towns yet, but it was too late. I would have to decamp to London.

  I turned to Catherine. “No Hever Castle this time, my dearest.” Suddenly I was sorry I had not taken the Mary Boleyn necklace from Lettice. I would now have given it to Catherine, her other granddaughter, as a consolation and a promise. “But we will go. I promise it as firmly as fate will permit a queen to plan for the next year.”

  My idyll was over.

  67

  Everything ran backward. Back along the road to Southwark, back through Southwark, the same vendors and the same advertisements for plays, back past the theaters and the bear pits—not leisurely now; we were in a great hurry. The faces looked up at me, the hands waved, and I felt myself to be a shield between them and disaster. They looked trustingly at me, secure in my keeping. My person was their protection, as it had been for forty years. I would not fail them now.

  The council was waiting, ready to act. I looked out at their faces: Robert Cecil, narrow faced, unblinking. Henry Brooke, Lord Cobham, wild frizzy hair barely contained under his cap. George Carey, dark eyed like a Spaniard. The old workhorses: Lord Buckhurst, William Knollys, Archbishop Whitgift, sitting quietly, waiting.

  “I came forthwith,” I said. “I could discern no disturbance or action in the countryside I passed through, but that was a long way from the coast. What reports do you have?”

  Admiral Howard stood and asked Cecil, “The report I brought to Her Majesty is a day old. What news do you have since then?”

  “None, my lord,” said Cecil. “Since the fleet was first sighted two weeks ago on the north coast of Spain, we have had no word. They may be far up the French coast by now.” Anticipating my question, he said, “We have ordered the coastal militias to assemble and the beacons readied. We await your decision about what ships to deploy.”

  “I would deploy some on the west coast,” said Cecil.

  “Yes, the Armada is likely targeting Ireland for a landing,” said Carey.

  “I am thinking more of a force coming from Ireland,” said Cecil.

  William Knollys shook his head, making his three-colored beard tremble. “From Ireland? You think O’Neill will attack us? Or that Grace O’Malley?”

  “The man I am thinking of has the same first name as I but a loftier title. He has a spirit of disaffection and a large army. I have never thought he went to Ireland to subdue the Irish, but rather to reinstate himself in the Quee
n’s favor. Since the Irish campaign has gone sour, he may try another route to imposing his will on the Queen.”

  Essex. Cecil had spoken the unspoken thought.

  “We have forbidden his return,” I said. “We withdrew that privilege. He cannot return until his task is done.”

  “When has he ever obeyed when it did not please him to obey?” said Cobham.

  Both Cobham and Cecil were adversaries of Essex, Cobham having become one when I bestowed the Cinque Ports post on him rather than the importuning Essex. I had to keep that in mind. But their words could not be dismissed.

  “Charles Blount—now Lord Mountjoy—has also said we should be wary, take precautions,” said Cecil.

  Mountjoy was the most experienced soldier left behind guarding England. His words carried weight.

  “We consider ourselves warned,” I said.

  My nerves were on end. Each agonizing day there was no further word of the Spanish and no word from Ireland. I knew the fate of the realm was delicately balanced.

  Finally something happened, but not what we were scanning the horizon for. Rather than rely on a letter, Essex sent his secretary, Henry Cuffe, to report to us.

  I had met Cuffe before. He was formerly a scholar of Greek at Oxford and had welcomed me there with a poem on one of my official visits. At the time, I had been struck by his good looks and oratory; I had thought he would go far. But somewhere along the line he had left academia and cast his lot with politics. It had saddened me when I learned of it. Like many, I endowed the scholar’s life with an aura it probably did not possess in daily living.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, dropping to one knee. “I am honored to be the one entrusted to present the correspondence of the earl to you.” He held out a box.

  I took it, motioning him to stand. Inside was a report from Essex. Quickly I read it, my eyes whipping through the formal phrases and postures, devouring the true contents. The earl’s army was greatly weakened. He had lost many men. Nonetheless, he was going north to confront O’Neill, on my orders.