He seemed sad eyed as he entered my consulting room, bowing solemnly.
“Come, come, sir, it is too fine a day to look so drear,” I told him. “Soon the winter will give you cause enough.” Outside the Greenwich windows, the autumn sun sparkled on the Thames.
“True, Ma’am, but clouds already hang upon me.”
I had forgotten. Anthony had died. “Forgive me. I forgot that you mourn your brother.”
“It was expected, of course. He had declined for years. Yet the scandal of the Essex affair hastened his end.”
“There was no scandal in it for him, and it is no shame to faithfully serve a master. No one blamed him for any of it.”
“He was devastated at the turn of events.”
Some survive better than others, I thought. “Francis, the new parliament ...” I must steer onto the real road I wished to travel. Talk of Essex was a dead end, literally.
“I will be sitting in it, as you know,” he said. “And it is my highest wish to serve Your Majesty’s concerns.”
“I have many, as you are well aware, Master Bacon. Most of them, as with most of life, have to do with finances. Even the Bible says, ‘Money answers everything.’”
He looked startled. “It does? Where?”
“Ah, Francis, you do not bury yourself in Scriptures?” I laughed to let him know I was teasing. “Ecclesiastes says, ‘A feast is made for laughter and wine maketh merry, but money answers everything.’”
“It certainly pays for everything.”
“In spite of frugality that would rival a desert father’s, and selling Crown lands and jewels and even my father’s Great Seal, the country is sinking toward bankruptcy,” I said. “We must end this pointless war with Spain. Until then, I must call on Parliament once again for money. I hate it, and they hate it, and there is nothing I can do about it!” I felt my neck growing hot with anger at my helplessness. I had tried so hard, and yet England was as bad off as when I had come to the throne.
“I am sure they will grant whatever you request,” he assured me. “As for expenses—I inherited Gorhambury House from my brother. It is a lovely place, but the burden of keeping it weighs on me.”
“I have fond memories of visiting your father there,” I said. “Tell me, is the door still sealed up? The one I walked through?”
“Indeed it is,” he said. “You must return so that we can reopen it.”
“When this is settled, I can make pleasure jaunts. But the ... the recompense for your service at the Essex trial ... Is it not sufficient to allay the expenses of Gorhambury?” How delicately we must tread around the payoff to Francis for so ably opposing Essex in the trial. I had given him the twelve-hundred-pound fine levied on Sir Robert Catesby. Many of the adherents of Essex had been fined and let go. I hated to part with even a penny of the money, but Francis had earned it.
“I am grateful,” he said. “But the expenses at Gorhambury are ongoing. As I noted in my essay on wealth, better a one-time expense than a continual one.”
“And what is a kingdom but that very thing? It must be continually nourished. Yet even as I nourish it, it nourishes me. We draw strength from each other.”
He nodded. Then he said, “There is something that Parliament means to address, and that you may oppose. They will demand a reformation of the monopolies. They say that such reforms were promised in the last parliament and have not been carried through.” He paused, as if waiting for me to explode. I think he even stepped back two feet.
“I am well aware of the problem, but the monopolies are necessary.”
“With all respect, Your Majesty, why are they necessary?”
“How else can I reward people? Good God, I have no means otherwise! Oh, in the middle of my reign, before these ruinous war expenses, I had a surplus to distribute to worthy people. Titles, too, and lands; offices and appointments in the government. Even an honest man could make a wind-fall on the Court of Wards—Burghley did. But in the last decade, that has dried up. I have nothing extra to bestow. The monopolies fill the gap. I would like the income for the Crown, but it is cheaper to yield it than to pay loyal supporters nothing. The monopoly on sweet wines, though, I have kept. It enabled Essex to live like a king, and now it helps pay my creditors.” I stopped for breath. What a tirade.
“The people resent them,” he said. “Your reasons may be valid, but all they know is that they must pay unreasonable rates for common items like starch, playing cards, and salt.”
“We all have irksome things in our lives. God knows, mine started with being a woman in a role cast for a man!”
He inclined his head. Never had a gesture of submission seemed less submissive.
“Oh, very well!” I said. “I know that subject is old. I have, I like to think, overcome it! But the monopolies—there are two kinds. Some are well earned by their discoverer, or their perfecter, someone who finds a better way to tan gloves, or to set type. Why should another profit from his labor? If anyone can come in and snatch, or share, the profits, what incentive do people have to invent something?”
“I do not think those are the ones in contention,” he said. “The ones resented are the ones I named, common household products. There are dozens of them. Did Raleigh invent playing cards? No. Why, then, should he collect duties on them?” His eyes flashed. “Because he is a royal favorite? If so, the Crown takes from the poor to give to the wealthy. It is a reversal of what Robin Hood did, and he is celebrated as a hero.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said.
“I am only warning you,” he said. “As a loyal servant should.” He bowed deeply.
I wrestled with this after he departed. Everything he had said was true. But beyond that lay the question of royal prerogative. It should be within my rights to bestow monopolies on deserving subjects. At what point should I yield to public pressure?
I conferred with Cecil on the upcoming parliament. This would be the first one without his father to lead it, and he would be sorely missed. Even in Burghley’s declining state he had ably managed the one that met in 1597.
“We are on our own, Robert,” I told him. “It is always hard to step into a father’s shoes. Particularly in our cases, when the shoes were so big.”
“Sooner or later it comes,” he said. “I think we are prepared. You have issued orders that the Parliament not waste time in idle talk, proposing vain measures, but tidy up ones already passed and speedily get to the subsidy bill.”
“Yes,” I said. “I want this parliament over by Christmas, not dragged out.”
He nodded.
“And there is something else,” I said. “I have had petitions thrust at me as I walk between chapel and palace, or to public ceremonies. They come from ordinary citizens, angry about the monopolies. I know this Parliament will take up the matter.”
“And our response?”
“I will hear what they have to say and how strongly they press the matter,” I said.
Parliament convened in October of 1601; I opened it at the House of Lords. I was ceremoniously attired in my robes of state, wearing my crown, moving slowly to allow everyone a glimpse of me. The orb and scepter were carried before me. People looked, but few offered the customary “God save Your Majesty.” I felt a chill in the air, and not because it was October. The Essex affair had damaged my popularity.
Entering the chamber, mounting the steps to my throne, I suddenly buckled under the weight of the heavy robes and swayed. Several men rushed to steady me, but it was frightening. I took my seat and clutched the emblems of office, determined to regain my equilibrium. Sixty or so faces looked back at me, with over a hundred commoners standing at the back, and others at the threshold of the chamber.
Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Sir Thomas Egerton, gave his opening speech. He announced that the reason for this parliament was twofold: the war with Ireland and Spain and the need to finance it. He told them to be confident of a good outcome, for “God hath ever, and I hope will ever, bless the
Queen with successful fortune.” He then went on to detail the perfidious plots of Philip II and the dangers I had overcome. Turning to me, he burst out, “I have seen Her Majesty wear on her belt the price of her blood, I mean a jewel that had been given to her physician to do that which, I hope, God will ever deliver her from!”
Dr. Lopez ... I had kept his ring and often wore it, not on my finger now, but on a chain. I nodded vigorously, to show how well I had survived, and to emphasize my health.
The opening ceremony over, I rose to exit the chamber. Outside, the House members pressed tightly and I could barely make my way. I held up my hand to ask for more space, and someone called, “Back, masters, make room!” A loud voice from the rear answered, “Even if you will hang us we can make no more room!”
I pretended not to hear, but oh! I did. What was this surly mood among the members? I did not deserve this. Never had I passed into the House with no greeting or passed out of it with a taunt.
My misgivings about Parliament proved true. They refused to consider the subsidy until the matter of the monopolies was settled. Member after member railed against them, in spite of Bacon’s and Cecil’s attempts to present the Crown’s case. Promises would not content them. A long list of the present monopolies was read out: currants, iron, ox shinbones, aniseed, vinegar, blubber oil, smoked pilchards, playing cards, salt, starch, drinking glasses, and many others.
“Where is bread?” cried one member. “I am sure that bread must be on this list. All the other necessities are!” He snorted. “If we don’t take action now, it will be there by the next parliament!”
“Bloodsuckers of the commonwealth!” a member from Hertfordshire said. “The prices are outrageous and drive the prices of everything up. The increase on bundles of calfskin makes every pair of shoes for the poor cost more!”
“It is not to be borne!” another cried.
Clearly this was a crisis for me. Parliament members next began to consider what remedies they might take. Should they draft a bill, legislating the end to monopolies, examining existing ones for legality? Should they take a more conciliatory route and present me with a petition asking me to rescind them?
“I have done all I can,” said Cecil, pacing nervously. “I fear we are losing control. So far they have not directly challenged your royal prerogative, but that is just a matter of semantics ... and of time.”
My position was that my right to grant monopolies was above the law, part of my royal right. Parliament did not have the power to encroach on that or limit my freedom on any prerogative. To grant them this power would be to say that they ultimately ruled England, not I.
And yet, and yet ... I knew a fundamental change was afoot, and to resist it would damage the monarchy more than granting it. Granting it ... Yes, if I granted it freely, as a royal favor, rather than submit to their demands ... no precedent would be set of Crown yielding to Parliament, being subservient to it. That was the way, the only way.
“Tell them that I am grateful for their having brought these dreadful abuses to my attention and that I will remedy them immediately.”
“Your Majesty?” Cecil was perplexed.
“I will end the most egregious of them now, and suspend the others until their legality can be tested in court. I will draw up a proclamation to that effect and put it in their hands straightway. Then I will receive the Privy Councillors and some members of Parliament to thank them.”
“They will be stunned. As am I,” he admitted.
“If one must concede, one should do it in all generosity. It is not only the Lord who loves a cheerful giver. Away now, away. I have a proclamation to write.”
I needed to reclaim the love of my people, so tried and tarnished by the Essex affair and money troubles. But I could not mortgage the ancient privileges of the Crown to do so. The proclamation would fulfill both needs.
Jubilantly Cecil read out to Parliament the royal decree, entitled “A Proclamation for the Reformation of Many Abuses and Misdemeanors Committed by Patentees of Certain Privileges and Licenses, to the General Good of All Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects.” The monopolies on salt, vinegar, alcoholic drinks, salt fish, train oil, fish livers, pots, brushes, butter, and starch were abolished.
“Every man can have or make cheap salt!” he announced. “For those whose stomachs need it, they can now have all the aqua vitae they like. The same for vinegar to treat your indigestion. Those of you who love your ruffs, rest assured that you can starch them cheaply now. You can start sowing woad dye again, though Her Majesty hopes the stink of it will not make your towns so unpleasant she cannot visit you on Progress. She does forbid it in London or near any palace.” As each item was announced, a cheer went up. Finally he cautioned, “The Queen does not abjure her ancient prerogatives.” Then he went on to list the monopolies that would be examined in court: saltpeter, Irish yarn, steel, and many others. Furthermore, copies of the proclamation would be printed and distributed to the members immediately.
Commons asked to send their speaker and a dozen members to me to thank me. I sent word back that it was I who wished to thank them, and that they should come in two days. They began to select the deputation to come, but members from the back of the House cried out, “All! All, all, all!”
I was absurdly pleased that they all wanted to come and told William Knollys, now the comptroller of the household, to invite them all, assuring them I had originally limited the deputation only because of the size of the audience room. But we would find room.
So I would speak to them and thank them. I began to write my speech. But somewhere in the making of it, it changed. I had spoken to Parliament many times, but always with the assurance there would be more speeches in the future. There was no longer that surety. Whatever I wished to tell them, whatever they needed to know, I must say it now and in this speech. It had little, or nothing, to do with the monopolies.
I thought of my early days as a princess; the days I lived outside London, removed from the seats of power, but always with vital contact with the people. They cheered when I came to London, sick and wan, in a litter. The only way to show disapproval of a regime was to cheer the successor or alternative, and that they did. By the time I came to the throne I was buoyed on a wave of love that carried me straight to my coronation. Every time I had ventured out beyond London, beyond the quarreling ministers and courtiers, I had felt that love. I drew strength from it as a plant draws strength from sun and soil. What were the Progresses, after all? A personal visit with my people.
What did I want for them? And how could I tell them what I felt?
This would be my last parliament. I knew that. I do not know how I knew it, but I did. Even if I survived until another one, my words would not be so completely my own.
Was I ill? Was I failing? How, then, could I know this so surely?
There is a day in autumn—often a warm one, as warm as summer—when something seems to turn. The wind comes from a slightly different quarter. The light has a different slant. It shines from an angle through the windows, falls on things it has not picked out for months. It has a different glow. It in itself is harmless, innocuous, but it portends a shift and warns us to prepare. Just so I felt this tide in myself. I must address my people when I could say what I wished, in my own words. Even if I lived another thirty years, I would not be so able.
I worked through the night on my speech. I poured all my feelings about my people, my realm, my kingdom, and myself into it.
Only ten days after the debate had begun, on the last day of November, the speaker and some 150 members of Parliament came to Whitehall. I sat waiting for them under my cloth of estate in the council chamber, and they filed in. Their speaker, Sir Edward Coke, bowed low three times and then gave a long speech about my majesty and glory, rather embarrassing in its fulsomeness, calling upon my sacred presence, my sacred ears, and my sacred sovereignty. When he was finished, the entire company knelt to hear my answer.
I looked out over them. They were of
all ages and came from all parts of England. But that was what Parliament was meant to be, to reflect the people over whom I ruled, and through them every man and woman in the land.
First I thanked them for coming and for their appreciation. Then I said, “Mr. Speaker, I assure you there is no prince that loves his subjects better, or whose love can countervail our love. There is no jewel, be it of ever so rich a price, which I set before this jewel—I mean your loves.” I nodded. “For I esteem it more than any treasure or riches, for that we know how to prize. But love and thanks I count invaluable, and though God has raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown: that I have reigned with your loves.”
Few rulers had been so blessed. I watched the expressions on their faces. “Please do rise, for I will speak a bit longer and do not wish you to be uncomfortable.” They got up from their knees. “Mr. Speaker, you give me thanks, but had I not received knowledge from you, I might have fallen into error only for lack of true information. That grants should be grievous to our people and oppressions to be privileged under color of our patents, our kingly dignity shall not suffer it. Yea, when I heard it, I could give no rest to my thoughts until I had reformed it.” I then went on to explain I was always keenly aware that I must answer to God as judge if I failed my people.
“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it. For myself, I was never so much enticed with the glorious name of a king or royal authority as a queen, as delighted that God has made me his instrument to maintain his truth and glory, and to defend this kingdom from peril, dishonor, tyranny, and oppression.” And how many ways I had employed to defend it—diplomacy, marriage flirtations, spies and intelligence networks, all before the last resort of arms.
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