Elizabeth I

by Margaret George

  “Are you sure of that? What are his own interests in this?”

  “He hasn’t any. That’s why I trust him. And now, Mother, I must get to my task.” He sat down at his writing desk and pulled his ink and pen out of their container. He took a fair, blank piece of paper and began writing.

  The next few days were difficult ones for me. In spite of my retort to Meyrick, I was frightened. The crowds of disreputable men grew in the courtyard, some of them so unsavory I wondered what wayside ditch they had crawled out of. At the same time, companies of radical Puritan preachers, forbidden a pulpit or a license to preach openly in parks or markets, held forth, standing on boxes to create their own makeshift platforms.

  The Catholics, backed by international forces, presented an external danger to the realm. The Armadas were the supreme example of that. But the radical Puritans created a much more subtle one, for they corrupted and influenced the thinking of everyday citizens. The Puritan parliamentarian Peter Wentworth had gone to the Tower for questioning the royal prerogative. But these preachers went further.

  From my window—for I dared not venture out in the midst of this unruly crowd—I could hear the ringing words of one of them. When he spoke, the men fell silent, spellbound.

  “For is not a ruler appointed by the Lord?” he cried. “Thus it has been of old. The prophet Samuel was commanded by the Lord to seek out Saul to anoint him King of Israel. But”—and here he paused provocatively—“when Saul failed to obey the Lord, the Lord withdrew his favor and his royal appointment. He told Samuel, ‘I am grieved that I have made Saul king, because he has turned away from me and has not carried out my instructions.’ Samuel then informed Saul, ‘You have rejected the word of the Lord, and the Lord has rejected you as king over Israel.’” He looked around, gauging his audience. “To drive the point home, Samuel tore the hem of Saul’s robe and said, ‘The Lord has torn the kingdom of Israel from you this day!’” He held up his own cloak and ripped it. “And thus the men of the Lord must do when the king... or queen ... departs from the right path. Calvin taught us that we citizens have a right and responsibility to restrain and correct any sovereigns who have abused their duties to God and their own people. Yea, and if they will not submit to correction, to depose them!”

  A cheer went up, growing until it enveloped the whole courtyard.

  Then a clear voice asked, “But in what way may sovereigns abuse their duties?”

  The preacher looked startled, as if he had not expected to answer from his lofty perch. “You will know it when you see it!” he said.

  “Different men see different things in the same action. I pray you, be specific.”

  The preacher drew himself up like a brooding hen. “We cannot ask the Lord to be specific!”

  “No, but we can ask men to be. I leave the realm of spiritual duties to God and someone’s conscience, but when you speak of political matters, that should be specified. In what way, precisely, does a sovereign fail to fulfill coronation oaths? Not protecting the realm? Not enacting fair laws? Depriving men of rights? I am puzzled, sir.”

  “You are a devilish troublemaker!” cried the preacher. “Everyone knows what I mean!”

  “No, not everyone!” Now other voices joined the dissenter. “Give us one example. If you have one, it should be easy.”

  “All right, then! Holding men without cause in the Tower, because they said something that angers the sovereign. Like our own Peter Wentworth, taken from Parliament in the midst of his speech and locked up!”

  “Yes, yes!” the courtyard voices cried.

  “And he died there!” someone yelled. “Died for speaking his mind about royal meddling!”

  Now the yard erupted in cheers and shouts. It was true, all too true, about Wentworth. Elizabeth should not have done it. But that did not fit the description of a tyrant. Someone can be judged a tyrant or a bad ruler only on the basis of his or her entire reign, not one isolated incident.

  But that subtlety was lost on them.

  As the days of January wore on, Henry Cuffe and Gelli Meyrick found more “proof” that Cecil was subverting the government and planned to destroy Robert and his followers. Southampton was out riding along the Strand when Lord Grey, his enemy—and one of Cecil’s adherents—attacked him. They had been at odds for years, forbidden by the Privy Council to duel. So they settled it this way. In the fray, Southampton’s page had his hand hacked off.

  Soon thereafter, Robert began frequenting Southampton’s Drury House for long meetings. Once again I tried to confront him and get him to confess what he was doing. Once again he tried to elude me.

  “You seek to interfere and meddle,” he said. “So we will no longer meet here, where you can eavesdrop.”

  This was the first time I had had a chance to really look at him in days. He seemed healthier; he had put on a little weight, and his color was good. But his eyes were still not his own. They belonged to someone else. He had a black velvet pouch fastened around his neck, which he kept touching.

  “What is that thing around your neck?” I asked. I feared he was now dabbling in the occult. I reached out toward it, but he shrank away.

  “Nothing that need concern you,” he said.

  “Is it witchcraft? I must know!”

  He laughed, a genuine laugh. “No, Mother. Such things hold no lure for me. It is—I’ve received an answer from King James, and I must keep it about my person at all times.”

  “What does he say?”

  “If I told you that, there would be no need to keep it close to me. Rest assured, he means no trouble.” He bent over and kissed the top of my head. “Now, dear Mother, I must go!”

  “Please give my greetings to Southampton. Tell him I regret the incident on the Strand.”

  “It is proof that we have not imagined their malignity against us.”

  “Who? What malignity?”

  “Grey is a creature of Cecil’s. Clearly they think they can attack us with impunity. They plan violence against us. It has gone beyond conspiracy now. They are ready to act.”

  “But Grey was punished. The Queen put him in prison.”

  “That was just for show, to cover their real intent. He’ll be out soon, mark my words.”

  A week later, Lord Buckhurst’s son Robert Sackville called on us. I received him, realizing this was the first visitor we had had from what I increasingly thought of as “the real world” since December. It was a poignant reminder of what our life had once been.

  “We welcome you,” I said.

  He was a lanky man with a nervous habit of smoothing his abundant hair. “Thank you,” he said. “Is the earl at home?”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I shall call him.”

  Robert soon descended the stairs, fluffing his cuffs. He seldom dressed formally these days and was out of practice. He gave a stiff little smile. “Greetings,” he said.

  “My father, the lord treasurer, wished me to convey to you his friendship and good wishes.”

  Instead of saying “thank you,” Robert snorted with laughter.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Sackville.

  “His friendship,” said Robert, as if it were a joke everyone would understand.

  “My lord, he is indeed your friend, as many are at court. But it is difficult for those friends to defend you when your behavior invites sinister interpretation.”

  “Won’t you sit?” asked Robert. “Let us go into a private room.”

  Was I invited? It would have been awkward to exclude me, so I slid in after them.

  Robert called for refreshments, as he would have done in his past life. Ale, poppy-seed cakes, and currants were brought out.

  “Now then,” said Robert, popping a cake into his mouth. “Go on with your good wishes.”

  Sackville had been unnerved by Robert’s demeanor, but he coughed and said, “These I have already expressed,” he said. “But your friends wish you to know that the Queen is alarmed at the rough company and swordsmen who frequent
your halls, the subversive preachers in the courtyard, and the lavish entertainments going on at Drury House in your name and by your partisans. It all seems very strange to us.”

  Robert gave that skittish laugh. “Strange? Strange? I assure you, it is no such thing.”

  “It alarms Her Majesty,” Sackville repeated carefully and distinctly.

  “Let the old bitch be alarmed!” said Robert. “What do I care?”

  Sackville just stared. Slowly he put down his goblet and his half-eaten cake. “I see,” he finally said. “Good day, then.”

  He turned and left the room. I heard the door open and close, then his footsteps on the path outside.

  “Robert! Are you insane? Oh, what have you done?”

  “I’ve told the truth. I stand by it. And it might interest you to know that they’ve already let Grey out of prison. That proves that even the law can’t—or won’t—protect us against them. The lines are drawn. We will meet their attacks with equal force.”

  Robert went to Drury House that night, but the next he stayed home, sitting before the fireplace and reading. He sat, wrapped in furs, and kept a flagon of ale close at hand.

  Frances was sitting on the other side of the room, embroidering. Her time was near, and I hoped the new baby would bring them some joy in the midst of this unhappiness.

  “You stay home tonight, Robert,” I stated.

  “Indeed,” he said, reaching for his glass. He took a long sip of it.

  “It is good to see you here.”

  “I have to be here,” he said. “With all the suspicion, I cannot be seen at Drury House. I have to fool them!” He gave a laugh. “But my men will meet at Drury House, as always, to draw up a strategy for our resistance. There, I’ve told you. That makes you my accomplices!”

  “Your resistance? What resistance? Against what?”

  “I’ve said enough. Just know that many are with me in this. Some close to you—closer even than I. At least in the eyes of the law.”

  “Do you mean Christopher?” Oh, God, let it not be so.

  “Ask him where he’s been tonight,” said Robert. “When he finally gets in.”

  80

  I had not been back in the room for an hour when Christopher reeled in. His breath stank. I almost retched, and backed away. He stood swaying, looking at me warily.

  “Why, wife, you shrink from me?” He lurched toward me, and I backed farther away.

  “You are drunk,” I said. “I will see you in the morning.” I left the room. I would find someplace else to sleep tonight. God knew we had enough rooms in this huge house.

  But when I settled myself in one of the empty guest rooms and ordered a fire to be kindled in the cold fireplace, I was shaking. I was lost in a thicket of secrets, feeling my way blindly. Robert was deep in plans, and Christopher was his accomplice. That these plans were dangerous no one need tell me. Every day Meyrick was marshaling more Welshmen, bedding them in stables and houses throughout the city. Every day messengers arrived, bearing sealed letters that Robert eagerly ripped open, then took up to his rooms. They were already under government scrutiny, and their disrespectful reception of Lord Buckhurst’s son would reverberate in the palace. And when the Queen heard herself called “the old bitch,” her fury would know no bounds.

  What were the meetings in Drury House about? Perhaps I could pry it out of Christopher. In times past, when he had been my hungry admirer, he would have told me anything. Unfortunately, then he had had nothing to tell me. Now, when he had changed so much and left me—in thought if not in person—he was sealed in silence.

  Tonight he was woozy with drink; tomorrow he would be sober and cold. If I returned to our bed ... if I caught him just as drunkenness slid into sleep, then perhaps he would let slip what he knew. The thought of embracing him, coaxing him, was repellent, but it had to be done. I forced myself to leave my newfound sanctuary and return to our room.

  He was sprawled across the bed, fully dressed, snoring. The ale fumes hung over his head like a fog, and I had to hold my breath to lean close to him. I gauged his depth of sleep; still too deep to rouse. Patiently, I stretched out beside him. I would wait, wait to catch him at a vulnerable moment. I must not allow myself to slumber even for an instant.

  It was a long night. I was aware of every sound as time slowly passed. I heard the scurrying of mice behind the panels. This would have bothered me in another time; now mice were the least of my concerns. Far more alarming were the clankings and muffled voices from the courtyard where nearly two hundred men kept constant vigil. Sometimes I heard the splash of oars as a boat docked at our landing stairs, carrying more conspirators.

  A faint light was showing around the drawn bed-curtains before Christopher groaned and rolled over. “Oh, God—” he muttered, in a normal voice, not slurred or papery thin.

  Now! I slid close to him. “Oh, my poor dear,” I murmured.

  “Uh,” he uttered.

  I stroked his forehead. “What a night you must have had,” I whispered. “All that ale—”

  “Too much ale,” he mumbled.

  Each word was articulated clearly. His mind was hitched back to his tongue, then. “Tell me what you have decided,” I said. “I need to know. I am in as much danger as you,” I assured him. “But I need to know what sort of danger.”

  “Uhhh—” He winced as he opened his eyes and the dim light hit them. He put his forearm up over them to shield them.

  “What have you decided at Drury House?” I pressed.

  “Nothing yet. Three ways we can go ...” His voice trailed off. “... argue ... which is best.”

  He was going to tell me. He was still groggy enough to suspend his judgment and guard. “What three ways are those?”

  He was silent for so long I feared he had gone back to sleep. I nudged him.

  “Attack the court first ... surprise them. Or march into the city to get more men. Or capture the Tower, to control the city?”

  “How many men do you—we—have?”

  “Over a hundred and twenty nobles, knights, gentlemen. The sheriff of London says he has another thousand for us. Others will join in as we march.” His voice was becoming steadier as he awoke. “We have a plan for taking Whitehall. I’m to be posted near the great court gate and take control of that. Ferdinando Gorges thinks it won’t work. He’s a coward.”

  “What does he think you should do instead?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “But he must have an opinion.”

  “There were a lot of opinions, most worthless.”

  “What did you settle on?”

  “We didn’t. There is no plan.” Suddenly he was alert and would betray no more; his judgment and wariness had returned.

  “No plan? But how can you proceed, if there is no plan?”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing. There is no plan.”

  As unbelievable as it sounded, this turned out to be true. But at the moment I only thought he had returned to himself, had brought down the portcullis that guarded his thoughts. At least I had found out a few things—too few.

  “If you betray us, you will pay the highest price,” he suddenly said.

  “Why do you think I would betray you, my own husband?”

  “You betrayed husbands one and two, why not husband three?”

  Just so, I learned he had turned against me. Had the rebels stolen his wits and loyalties so completely? What did they offer him in return?

  The secret meetings at Drury House continued. I made no effort to ask Christopher about them—it was hopeless—and watched Robert closely, but I learned nothing. The February days, dreary and bone-chillingly damp, stretched a pall of gloom over the house. Only Frances with her pregnancy provided a spot of happiness and normalcy, as we talked about what she might name the baby. She was willing to choose something from our family tradition, as if she wanted to please Robert and commend herself to him.

  It was the evening of February 6. Not
hing special in that date, no anniversary of momentous happenings. I was sitting before a low-burning fire and thinking of adding more logs—strange how one remembers such details—when a visitor was announced.

  It was quiet in the house. Regular visitors did not come now; the clandestine ones sneaked in and the rowdy ones milled in the courtyard. I rose, ready to receive him or her. My mind was blank. I expected no one in particular.

  Will walked into the small room. He took off his hat and said, “Laetitia.”

  The moment he spoke I knew he was here on dangerous business. His voice was higher than normal and his smile seemed artificial.

  “Yes, Will,” I said. “What troubles you?” I could see this visit was political, not personal.

  “A risky thing has happened. Your husband and a group of men from a tavern dinner came over to Southwark tonight to request that my theater company perform Richard II tomorrow afternoon. They offered to pay us well. But what it means—I am leery of it. They want us to enact the abdication scene—the one forbidden to be printed.”

  “Who else made this request?”

  “Gelli Meyrick, Lord Monteagle, Charles Danvers, and Christopher. Others I did not recognize. My company financial manager, Augustine Phillips, tried to put them off. He said such an old play was unlikely to attract much of an audience. But they then guaranteed payment equal to a full house. What objection could he then give?”

  “None,” I admitted.

  What was there about him that made me want to confide in him? It was all I could do not to blurt out, “Will, help me! I am lost!” Instead I had to smile and say, “Pray stay a few moments. Let me just add another log to the fire and call for some ale.”

  I expected him to clutch his hat and say, “No, I must go. I cannot be seen.” Instead he nodded and said, “I would like that.”

  We sat across from each other beside the fire. For the first time I could see him apart from my wants, a man with concerns of his own. “You would risk the Queen’s displeasure if you were to do it. She would be alarmed. What do you think is the purpose of it?”