Still, he did not move from beneath the archway, unwilling to spoil their pleasure in the foolish game. Mary stooped then, controlling her laughter, and made her cast. The heavy ball trundled across the smoothed lawn, urged on by her excited cries, but stopped short of its target. “I have you now, my dear,” Pembroke said, and Elizabeth gave a little cry of disappointment.
“Uncle Pembroke, it’s not fair. You have all the luck today. “
“You may play my bowl, Mistress Elizabeth,” Greville interposed smoothly, glancing toward the trellised arch. “I want a word with your father. If you’ll excuse me, my lord?”
Pembroke nodded, already studying the pattern of the scattered balls with the same concentration he would give a line of verse, or a newly printed manuscript.
“Hurry back, and bring Philip with you,” Mary said cheerfully, but her attention was also obviously on the game.
“Philip? What’s wrong?”
Sidney managed a smile, knowing already that he could not deceive his closest friend. “Waiting. Wanting to be started, I think.”
“I see.” Greville smoothed his moustache, absently twisting it to the proper upward curve, studying Sidney out of the corner of his eye. “Shall we walk?” He took Sidney’s arm firmly without waiting for a reply, turning him down the shadowed tunnel. Sidney resisted for an instant, then relaxed with a rueful smile, and let the other man lead him back into the arbor’s green light.
Greville watched him sidelong as they walked, gauging his moment. “Have you spoken with Frances?” he asked at last.
Sidney shook his head. Greville could seem so guileless, so utterly innocent in his questions, when in truth he was perhaps the most crafty man at court—and that very innocence kept one from resistance. After a moment, Sidney laughed. “You’re worse than Marlowe, you know. I think the reason the two of you don’t get along is that you’re cut from the same cloth. Yes, I spoke with her.” The smile died from his face. “And I think I’ve driven her into Essex’s arms at last. God, what am I to do?”
Greville kept his hand on the other man’s arm. “What happened?”
Sidney stopped, staring blindly at a vine twining its way through the hedge. It bore a delicate flower, pale yellow, the petals already fraying from the stem. “She wanted to know what I intended to do about Nathanial—the boy Marlowe brought with him.”
Greville nodded.
“I didn’t think it needed to be explained. The boy needs a home, and I will be damned if I’ll send him back to Northumberland. It’s the only thing to be done. But she doesn’t want him here.”
Greville smiled sadly. Of course she doesn’t, he thought, and of course there’s nothing else you could do to protect the boy—what a tangle. He hesitated, searching for just the right words, and Sidney rushed on, unheeding.
“I told her I thought it would be good for Elizabeth to have a companion of her own age, that, if the boy proved clever, he could be trained as a clerk or a secretary… She did not agree.” In spite of himself, there was a world of bitterness in the words. “She fears Elizabeth—a child of ten, mind you—might form an affection for him, that we should fear a mesalliance. Good God, I intended to send him away to school in a few years anyway—” He broke off abruptly, glaring at the flower.
Greville waited, uneasily twisting the end of his moustache, but Sidney seemed to have made an end. Greville sighed. “There is a thing you can do, Philip. To make things easier for her, I mean. She’s a proud woman—name of God, she’s a Walsingham—and she blames herself for losing your son.”
Sidney turned on him, his eyes hot and hard. “Damn it, I’ve never—”
“Never uttered a word of blame,” Greville agreed. “No. Nor blamed her by your manner. Don’t you think that makes it worse? She does blame herself, and others have blamed her—”
Sidney looked away, his face set. “She has no need—it would be foolish to feel guilty for it, and I never thought my wife was a fool.”
Greville made a face, but accepted his defeat. “Be that as it may, Philip, there is something you can do that will make it better.”
“Oh?” Sidney’s tone was not encouraging.
“Take the boy with you. You don’t have a page at the moment, do you? He’s been in a noble household, he should be able to learn his duties quickly enough.”
Sidney paused, turning the suggestion over in his mind, searching for flaws. Greville was right, unfortunately, and Sidney sighed. “That would be kinder, wouldn’t it? God, Fulke, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought she’d see that. Damn Marlowe anyway for bringing him here.” Greville grinned at that, and Sidney managed a rather rueful smile. It faded quickly. “Fulke, all I’ve done is clear the way for Essex.”
Greville snorted, feeling himself on somewhat firmer ground. “I told you, she’s a Walsingham, and therefore a woman of discernment. “ Sidney lifted an eyebrow in pointed question, and Greville sighed. “Of course, I don’t understand what her majesty sees in him, either. He seems to have the most astonishing effect on women of sense.”
“I’ve never been able to see it, either. Not after Robin,” Sidney agreed softly.
“No. Leicester was a man.”
“Take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.” Sidney took a deep breath. “God help me, I’ll do as you suggest. You’re right again.”
Greville smiled. “There’s a price, Philip.”
Sidney looked up, startled,, but answered instantly, “Name it.”
“Let me come with you.”
“My God, Fulke, there’s nothing I’d like better, but this isn’t an ordinary embassy—”
Greville held up his hand. “I guessed as much, and Robert’s told me some of what he knows. And, to be perfectly blunt, her majesty’s still as stingy as ever. I can help with the immediate expenses.”
Sidney shook his head. “My affairs are better than they used to be, I promise. But I would welcome your company.” He grinned suddenly. “If only to lend presence to the delegation.”
Greville smiled back. “That’s settled, then. Shall we join the others?”
Sidney hesitated for a moment. He knew he should probably go to Frances, inform her of his decision regarding the boy, but he could not bring himself to force a second confrontation in a single day. He nodded, and let himself be drawn back toward the bowling alley.
PART TWO
Chapter Seven
Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.
Francis Bacon, Apothegms, attr. to Elizabeth I
The court had removed to Richmond. The air was sweeter there, the park wider and wilder, and, though the young men who danced attendance on her might pine for the excitements of London, the queen of England felt herself renewed. Come the height of summer, she would go farther afield: to Hampton Court, or, better still, to her beloved Nonesuch. It was too early in the year, and there was too much business still to be attended to, to think of that, but Elizabeth sighed a little, and did not heed the pretty youth who sang for her in her privy chamber. The boy—he wore the livery of the choir school—faltered, aware of her inattention, and his exquisite voice cracked. Elizabeth recalled herself enough to smile at him, and the boy sang on. His cheeks were red with shame, but the blush faded as he gained confidence again. The queen’s smile grew almost wistful as she listened. Her Robin, her own Leicester, had sung that song for her many a time, though his voice had never been as pure as this. Sitting here, with the windows opened to the breeze from the immaculate gardens, heavy with the scent of sunlight and early flowers, her ladies in white and silver murmuring over their embroidery, she could imagine that he might still come riding up to her, across the magnificent park, to sweep her away with his compliments.
She laughed a little as the song ended, and beckoned to the boy, who came up to her with a pretty bow, blushing again. “Well sung, lad, you have a lovely voice. And you may tell your teachers, too, you’ve been well trained.” She gestured to Lady Rich, who sat near
est the royal chair, and that lady rose quickly. She curtsied, and presented the queen’s purse; Elizabeth took it, and, without examining the contents, handed it to the boy.
“Take this,” she said, “and see that you and your fellows dine well.”
The boy bowed again, and stammered shy thanks, clutching the purse. Elizabeth could see one wondering finger tracing the monogram embroidered on the heavy canvas, and was absurdly flattered by the naive admiration. A steward came forward at Lady Rich’s discreet signal, and drew the boy and the young music-master who’d accompanied him away toward the kitchens. They would be fed there, and sent home in one of the royal barges, a treat that would feed their conceit for weeks. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, still smiling. After a moment, one of the younger ladies-in-waiting took up the discarded lute, and began idly to pick out a tune, the instrument golden against her snowy silks.
“Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth looked up at the steward’s apologetic voice. “I beg your pardon, but my lord Burleigh craves a word with your majesty.”
Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Admit him. And you, my ladies, be so good as to withdraw.”
The ladies-in-waiting were far too well trained to resent such an order, but rose hastily, silks rustling, filing out through the door at the far end of the apartment. Only Lady Rich hesitated and, when the queen did not order her to follow the rest, seated herself on a cushion by the door, just out of earshot.
“My Lord Burleigh,” the steward announced gravely, “and the Master of the Revels.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose further, even as she extended her hand for their salutations. “Well, Spirit, I hadn’t expected to see you again today. Sit down, sir, by all means.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Burleigh lowered himself stiffly onto the stool that stood by the queen’s feet, and folded his hands over the head of his ebony cane. Sir Edmund Tilney hovered unhappily at his shoulder, and Elizabeth shot him a wary look.
“What brings you here?”
It was Burleigh who answered. “It’s a matter of a play, your Majesty.”
“A play?” Elizabeth frowned.
“Yes, your Majesty,” Burleigh said. “It was brought before Sir Edmund in the usual way, and he judged its contents to be of interest to me. I recommended that the license be refused, and thought, further, that the matter should be brought before your majesty.”
“What is this—play?” Elizabeth asked, and glared at the Master of the Revels.
“It’s entitled The Astronomers, your Majesty,” Tilney answered. He was sweating freely beneath his heavy gown, though the privy chamber was not particularly warm. “Written for the Lord Pembroke’s Men, by one Benjamin Jonson—a new playwright, your Majesty, but of unsavory reputation.”
“That matters less than the matter of the play,” Elizabeth said tartly. “Which was?”
The Master of the Revels so far forgot himself as to wipe his brow. Burleigh said, with deliberation, “It concerns a lady of title and fortune, a very great lady indeed, who is gulled of that same fortune by a pair of astronomers. One of them is a fool who believes he speaks with angels, and the other—the younger—is a lascivious rogue who seduces the lady, persuades her to marry a man much inferior to herself when it is clear he has gotten her with child, and then persuades the cuckold that the child is an angelic changeling.”
There was a dangerous silence. The queen’s mouth contracted into a thin line, and the jewels at her throat winked suddenly, as though she breathed more quickly. Burleigh continued, with even greater deference, “I could not think, your Majesty, that this was a fitting time to mock so excellent a servant of your Majesty’s as Doctor Dee.”
Elizabeth drew a deep breath, and looked at the master of the revels. “You did right to refuse the license, and did well to bring it to my lord Burleigh’s attention. I compliment you on your acuteness. “ She looked back at Burleigh, her painted brows drawing together into an angry frown. “Spirit, where is the Earl of Pembroke?”
Burleigh bowed his head in thought, outwardly Unmoved by his mistress’s awful tones. “I believe he is either at Penshurst or at Wilton, your Majesty. I do not think he is in London.”
“Fetch him,” Elizabeth said, and rose from her chair. Burleigh rose with her, hastily, and the Master of the Revels bowed very low. “I wish to speak with him. As soon as possible.”
Burleigh bowed profoundly. “It shall be done, your Majesty.”
It took two days for Burleigh’s messengers to find the earl, and another day for Pembroke to post hurriedly up to Richmond. Elizabeth received him in her presence chamber, a sure sign of her displeasure, and Pembroke’s nervousness was very evident in his voice.
“I am here at your command, your majesty,” he said, with his most deferential bow. “How may I serve you?”
Elizabeth eyed him judicially. “I understand you lend your name and countenance to a company of actors, my lord.”
“I have done so, an it please your Majesty,” Pembroke answered.
“It does not please me,” Elizabeth snapped, but she had heard honest confusion in Pembroke’s voice, and her temper eased a little. “They do not please me.”
“Indeed, your Majesty, I am most heartily sorry, and will do whatever I may to make amends,” Pembroke answered. “Say but the word, and they shall be chastised even as I chastise myself.”
“Have you read a new play—your company’s new play, my lord—entitled The Astronomers?”
Pembroke shook his head. “No, your Majesty, I have not, nor was it offered to me for my opinion, though it seems I was remiss in not demanding it. But, sooth to say, your Majesty, I didn’t know they were planning to offer a new work.”
“I do believe you, my lord,” Elizabeth said. She fixed Pembroke with another long stare, the deepest lines easing from her face. “Were you at Penshurst when my Spirit’s men found you?”
“No, your Majesty, “ Pembroke answered, warily, “but I’d just returned from there.”
“Then you’re aware that Philip Sidney rides to Scotland as my ambassador?” Elizabeth waited until Pembroke had bowed his head in acknowledgement before she continued. “I speak in confidence, my lord, when I say I fear that this—satire, I suppose one must call it—has something to do with his mission there. It is a matter of some arcane concern, foreseen by Doctor Dee, and I find it troubling that this play seems intended to undermine confidence in my astronomer.”
“I can’t say, your Majesty,” Pembroke stammered, “not having seen the manuscript.”
“It portrays an old astronomer who is the foolish dupe of a younger man, a rogue and criminal,” Burleigh interjected quietly, “who tricks his master into believing he speaks with angels.”
Pembroke’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Ned Kelly,” he said softly.
“Just so,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll be plain with you, my lord. The mob has attacked Doctor Dee before, and I’ll not have that again, not now. Tilney has refused to license this—play—which should be enough for any band of common players. Nonetheless, my lord, I wish you to convey my personal displeasure.”
“I will certainly do so, your majesty,” Pembroke answered. He hesitated, but then, encouraged by the queen’s moderating tone, said cautiously, “Is it only coincidence, your Majesty, that this happens now?”
Elizabeth smiled without humor. “If it is not, my lord, I trust you to find it out.”
Pembroke made his deepest bow. “I shall, your Majesty, I swear.” Elizabeth’s expression softened then. “I know you will, my lord, for I’ve ever counted on your good service. But the time’s too dangerous for such a play.”
“And so I will tell them,” Pembroke answered fervently, and kissed the hand extended to him. “So I’ll tell them indeed.”
Chapter Eight
We must make philosophy wait and submit to divinity. Every science must keep its proper bounds.
Thomas Hall, Vindiciae Literarum
&nbs
p; It took several days for Sidney, occupied as he was with the complex business of his departure, to find a moment’s private conversation with his wife. Even then, hesitating at the door of her withdrawing room, he could hear Madox’s respectful tones and her own low-voiced replies, and knew he could find reason to delay another hour or more. He shook away the craven thought, and tapped lightly on the door, then pushed it open before he could change his mind. Madox looked up at his entry, and made a respectful bow. Frances glanced toward him, but said nothing.
“I trust everything’s arranged to your liking, madam?” Sidney asked, and knew he sounded hostile.
“Admirably so, sir,” Frances answered, quite calmly. “You may go, then, Madox,” Sidney said. “I wish to speak to Lady Sidney alone.”
Madox blinked, looking as close to discomfited as Sidney had ever seen him. The steward bowed again, and moved with stately dignity toward the door. As he pushed it open, Mary swept in, past Madox’s polite reverence.
“Good day, Frances, Philip. Do either of you ride today?” Mary herself was dressed for riding, her mannish doublet only emphasizing the magnificent femininity of the body beneath, a man’s tall hat perched precariously atop her artfully untidy curls. Frances’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, well aware of the contrast between her own sad-hued gown, the partlet pinned close to hide her slenderness, and Mary’s abundant beauty. Penelope Rich was just another such, she thought. But… the brown girl, she has house and land; Fair Stella, she had none. Or not enough of either, to recoup the Sidney fortune. She pushed aside the thought, and managed to respond with a sort of off-hand grace.
“I thank you, no. I still have a great deal of business to attend to.”
“Philip?” Mary glanced at her brother, apparently unaware of the barb hidden in the other woman’s words.
“Not at the moment, Mary,” Sidney answered.
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