by Jean Plaidy
Francis Bacon, I commented, was a young man who thought himself very clever. As for Essex… his behavior hurt me more than anything else.
I helped Burghley to his feet. His joints were very stiff.
I embraced him warmly.
“We are getting old, my friend,” I said. “We notice it … and so do others.”
MY FEELINGS FOR Essex were changing. I could not entirely abandon him, for he still had the power to charm me, and when he was with me, in spite of everything, I was still able to forget his faults. But there were times when I could not escape the thought that he was waiting for me to die. He wanted a new King—young James—and he and his sister were endeavoring to make sure of his favor when the change came.
It was perfidious of him. How could he pretend to love me! And how foolish I was, because I missed Leicester so much, to turn to this cruel young man.
He was philandering with one of my maids of honor, a Mistress Bridges. I pretended not to see what was going on, but it was really quite blatant. I heard that poor Frances was very unhappy on account of his infidelities. It had been a very sad day for her when she had married Essex.
He was his mother all over again. What could one expect from the cubs of the she-wolf!
I dismissed Mistress Bridges from Court for a few days—not because of her liaison with Essex, which I pretended to know nothing about, but because she had used the privy gallery to watch a tennis match, and the rule was that ladies should not use it unless they first asked for permission.
Essex knew that I was annoyed, for it was his game the girl had gone to see, and as I was very cool to him—and had been since Burghley's revelation—he retired from Court with the excuse that he had overexerted himself at the game and had a return of his fever.
Henri Quatre, having changed his religion, was fairly firm on the throne of France and, like myself, he was one who believed that peace brought prosperity. He was therefore trying to bring about a peace with Spain in which he wanted me to join.
Burghley was in favor of this, Essex against it. Burghley said that we needed peace and there was more to be gained from it than war. Essex made a fiery speech in which he extolled the bravery of the English, who had once defeated the Spaniards and would do so again.
Burghley did a strange thing then, which afterward people said was prophetic.
He took up a prayer book and turned the leaves. Then he placed the book in Essex's hands, indicating the words: “Men of blood shall not live out half their days.”
We had other matters nearer home. Burghley stressed the fact that Ireland was giving trouble again, and it was really necessary to appoint a strong Lord Deputy and that we should give full consideration to this without delay.
We were at Greenwich and I called a meeting there.
Burghley was not well enough to attend but his son Robert Cecil was present. There was also Howard of Effingham who, much to Essex's chagrin, had now become the Earl of Nottingham, Essex himself and the Clerk of the Council.
I began by saying that I believed the best man to send to Ireland was Sir William Knollys, who had proved himself to be reliable, shrewd and honest.
Cecil said that he was in complete agreement and he believed that Sir William should be sent without delay.
It was then that Essex raised the objection. Knollys was not the man, he said. It was obvious to him that we should send Sir George Carew.
There was silence in the chamber. Robert Cecil looked taken aback, but I realized the motive behind Essex's outburst. I found that now I was always looking for motives behind his actions. Sir William Knollys was his uncle and he could rely on his support at Court, so naturally he did not want to lose him. It could be said that Knollys was of the Essex faction, whereas George Carew supported the Cecils. To lose Carew would be a blow to them; to lose Knollys would be equally inconvenient for Essex.
I had already agreed with Robert Cecil and the Admiral that Knollys was our best man, and Essex had had the temerity to ignore my views and express his own.
I said firmly: “Knollys should be informed at once that he should prepare to leave for Ireland.”
“It is a mistake!” cried Essex. He was behaving like a petulant boy who has been denied a coveted plaything.
I was really angry with him. His follies were becoming intolerable. I thought of his philandering with the ladies of the Court and his reckless involvement with the King of Scotland. It was time he realized that he was not so sure of my favor that he could behave in such a manner. Robert, in spite of all that had been between us, had never been discourteous to me or raised his voice against me in public.
I saw his blazing eyes and the angry color in his face before he very deliberately turned his back on me.
There was a hushed silence in the chamber. I could not believe he had gone so far. This was something I would not endure. I strode toward him and boxed his ears.
“And now,” I shouted, “go and be hanged.”
That was not the end. He faced me, his fury evident. Then he put his hand on the hilt of his sword as though ready to draw it against me.
“I would not have taken such a blow from King Henry, your father,” he cried. “It is an indignity which I never could—nor would—endure from anyone… No! Certainly not from a king in petticoats.”
I was so taken aback that for a few seconds I did nothing, and just as I was about to call the guards, he dashed from the room.
NEVER HAD SUCH conduct been known. It was being discussed throughout the Court. This is the end of Essex, it was said.
Of course he should be in the Tower. He should suffer the traitor's death. But I was so shaken that I was uncertain how to act.
He is a foolish boy, I said to myself again and again.
He is a dangerous young man, said that wise part of me. Remember the letters to Scotland. What is the use of caring for him? He brings misery to all those who come into contact with him. Poor Frances Walsingham! I pity her. I can even be sorry for his mother.
I knew that his friends were trying to persuade him to attempt a reconciliation. If he had begged forgiveness, I supposed I should have granted it. I had to admit I missed him at Court. But the weeks passed and he remained in sullen retreat.
Then I ceased to think of him, for Robert Cecil came to tell me that his father was very weak indeed.
I went to his house in the Strand and I was shocked to see how ill the poor man was. He lay back in his bed, his eyes apologizing because of his inability to rise. I took his poor swollen hands in mine and kissed them.
I said: “My dear, dear friend, I did not know how ill you were until the Elf told me. Had I known I should have been here ere this.”
“Your Majesty is so gracious to come to me.”
“I shall come… and keep coming… until you are well again.”
He shook his head and said: “I shall rise no more from this bed.”
“I forbid you to say such things. You must get well. You have been beside me so many years. What should I do without you?”
He was overcome with emotion and so was I.
I rose from his bed and asked what food they were giving him. He could only take liquid food, I was told, and only a little of that. His hands were so swollen that he could scarcely lift a spoon to his lips.
I ordered them to make him a gruel which I knew was especially nourishing, and when it was ready I took it to him and fed my minister as though he were a child.
He said that his greatest grief in leaving this world was that he would no longer be able to serve me.
“No queen ever had a more faithful servant,” I assured him. “I have scolded you sometimes, dear Spirit. I have raged against you, have I not? But I never ceased to love you. Nor have I ever been in doubt of your worth.”
I sat in silence by his bed, staring into space. There could be no disguising the fact that he was near his end.
He said: “Robert will serve you well. I have brought him up with this object. He has a
sharp and clever mind.”
I nodded. Poor Burghley, he was such a good man and God had ill rewarded him in this life. He had loved his family and looked after them all; and in his care for my well-being he had brought forward his second son, Robert, knowing full well that his first-born, Thomas, who was something of a weakling, lacked the ability to follow in his father's footsteps. I knew I had another treasure in the Elf; but he was not his father. I should never know his like again.
I thought of how I should miss him, for, excellent minister that he was, he was also friend and confidant. We had shared so much—even ailments. He had suffered from his teeth and so had I. Many a pleasant half hour we had spent chatting about our pains. And when he—devoted family man that he was—had lost his daughter some years before, and his wife a year later, it was I who had tried to comfort him.
Life was cruel. His mother had died only a year before his daughter, so that there were three deaths in a row and all were people who were very near and dear to him. He had had trouble enough through his daughter's marriage with Oxford, and I knew full well how often he had wished that marriage had never taken place. But he had great comfort in his grandchildren. Such a good man, I mourned, and such sorrow!
The end was inevitable. I was going to lose another friend, perhaps the most able of them all. I felt lonely and bereft. They were all slipping away from me.
I visited him as frequently as I could while he lingered on, and if a day came when I could not go, I sent one of my ladies to inquire after him, and take affectionate messages and cordials from me.
I felt very very sad and could think of little else but Burghley during those days of waiting for the end.
Why did he have to die? Of course he was in his seventy-sixth year, and that was a goodly age. I remembered all he had done for his country and I doubted England had ever had a more faithful servant. It was so rare to find a man who was excellent in statesmanship and able to enjoy a felicitous family life at the same time. There was not a better husband and father in the land; his grandchildren loved him and his constant thought was for the welfare of his family. Thomas Cecil, the eldest son, must have been a bit of a trial to him because he was wild in his youth, and lacked that fine, keen brain which the younger son, Robert, had inherited. But Burghley with that great good sense, which went side by side with his tenderness toward his family, did not hesitate to bring along Robert, the slightly deformed little Elf whom he was now bequeathing to me. I should honor Robert—not only for his father's sake but for his own. It was typical of Burghley that he should have left me well provided for. We had such a lot in common; his love of music was another of these interests. I was going to be so desolate. I had named him aptly as my Spirit, and I should miss him sorely.
On the day he died his son Robert brought me a letter which his father had written to him. Burghley had been just strong enough to dictate it to his secretary, but he had signed it as well as his swollen hands would allow him “Your languishing Father, Burghley.”
“I pray you diligently and effectually,” the letter ran, “let Her Majesty understand how her singular kindness doth overcome my power to acquit it, who, though she will not be a mother, yet she sheweth herself, by feeding me with her own princely hand, as a careful norice; and if I may be weaned to feed myself, I shall be more ready to serve her on the earth; if not, I hope to be, in heaven, a servitor for her and God's church…”
He had added a postscript:
“Serve God by serving the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the devil.”
I lifted my eyes to Robert Cecil's face. They were filled with tears.
I said: “My grief is as great as yours.”
HOW I MISSED Leicester at that time! The old days were gone forever. Men were not as they had been. They were a disappointment to me. My men were all leaving me—Hatton, Heneage, my dearest Leicester and now Burghley.
I had Robert Cecil, but then he was not handsome, and I did enjoy having handsome people around me. Essex, it was true, was very attractive in appearance, but so feckless and unreliable that he gave me more pain than joy. He was still sulking in exile. Yet if he had been a little humble, a little contrite, I could have pardoned him.
Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, was a good-looking man and I would have favored him. He was clever and a lover of the arts. He had become the patron of my favorite poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, and I applauded him for this; but he was reckless and arrogant, and did little to win my favor.
I could have had a great interest in him for his chief passion in life was literature; but he was such a wild young man—living among actors and writers of plays in odd corners of London. He was an adventurer of sorts but not the like of Raleigh and Drake. He was a man who wanted to experience life at all levels. He annoyed me because he must have known that I would be interested in him, yet he snapped his fingers at the Court and preferred to consort with his literary friends.
He had become a great friend of Essex; and that was one of the reasons why I watched him with some anxiety. I felt sure that Southampton would be a bad influence on Essex.
For one thing he was said to be fond of his own sex and I heard that he had had many love affairs with men at the Court and outside it, which in itself was enough to make me view his friendship with Essex in some dismay.
Some months previously he had made an unpleasant scene in my Presence Chamber. True, it was after I had gone to bed, but I frowned on such conduct whenever it took place.
Southampton had been playing primero with Raleigh and another gentleman. On my departure the Squire of the Body, Ambrose Willoughby, asked them to stop play, which was the custom after my retirement.
Southampton swaggeringly told him that he had no intention of stopping play until he wished to, at which Willoughby retorted that he would call the guard and forcibly stop the play. Raleigh, who had apparently been winning, pocketed his gains and said he would leave. This infuriated Southampton who shouted after Raleigh that he would remember this against him. Raleigh, who never failed to take a financial advantage, shrugged his shoulders and went off smiling; but Southampton then turned to Willoughby whom he blamed for the whole matter. A fight ensued during which Willoughby got the better of Southampton and pulled out some of his hair.
When I was told of this next morning, I laughed aloud. I complimented Willoughby and made it clear to everyone that I was delighted because Southampton had been taught a lesson.
I suspected that Essex condoled with him. Let him! I thought. Essex was still in exile.
My dislike for Southampton did not diminish when I heard that he had challenged Lord Grey of Wilton to a duel.
Fortunately I heard of this in time and forbade it, sending messages to both Southampton and Wilton telling them that they should reserve their services for me, and not hazard their lives in private quarrels.
I would be glad to be rid of Southampton. I was growing to dislike him more and more. For one thing I found his friendships with other men distasteful. He was constantly with people like Francis Bacon; and they were all friends of Essex. Southampton was always in the center of some quarrel. If he was not challenging someone, he was urging others to do so. One of his friends, Sir Charles Danvers, picked a quarrel with a Hampshire nobleman named Long and killed him. Before Danvers could be brought to justice Southampton smuggled the murderer out of the country.
I was relieved when Southampton was given a minor post in an embassy in Paris. But while he was away I discovered that one of my ladies, Elizabeth Vernon, had become pregnant. This state of affairs always enraged me, and when I had slapped and pummeled the secret out of the girl, I was appalled to find that the man responsible was Southampton.
I sent her away in disgrace and shortly learned that, hearing of her plight, Southampton had hastened home from Paris and married her.
And all this without asking my permission! They were both sent for a spell in the Fleet Prison. They were not there long, but I did make
it clear that Southampton's chances at Court were over.
I had at last decided that Essex should return to Court. I should have been very happy if he had given me an apology, and would most willingly have accepted it; but it seemed that was asking too much of his proud nature.
He did appear at Burghley's funeral. More than five hundred followed the hearse, and Essex, shrouded in a hooded black mourning cloak, was conspicuous among those who came to show their respect to the great statesman. I heard that he had seemed overcome with grief—some cynics suggested that it might be more for his own plight, than for the loss of the man in whose house he had once lived.
After the funeral he had gone to Wanstead House, there to live quietly as he was not received at Court.
If only he would have sent one little word to tell me he was sorry for his really outrageous behavior, I would readily have put it down to the indiscretion of youth. But he did nothing of the sort. He was too proud to admit himself in the wrong.
I thought then: What will become of Essex in the end? He has no greater enemy than himself.
News came that he was very ill at Wanstead. Some said he grieved because of his exclusion from Court. He was arrogant and foolish, but he was still Essex, the one to whom I had looked to soothe the hurt left by the loss of Leicester.
So I gave permission for him to return to Court, and I implied that that unprecedented scene in the chamber when I had boxed his ears, was forgotten.
But such scenes are never forgotten. I would remember that one for as long as I lived; and when he returned, pale and wan, but as arrogant as ever, I found myself longing for Leicester more than ever. It had become clear to me that there was no one who could take his place, and it was folly to pretend there ever could be.
Ireland was as usual in upheaval. We had not sent Sir William Knollys or anyone so far; but someone must go now. I wanted Lord Mountjoy to take the post. In spite of his irregular life with Penelope Rich he was an extremely able and reliable man, and I really believed he might have a chance of succeeding in this very difficult task.
