He required no further bidding. At Richmond he brushed aside those who would keep him from the private apartments. The Queen lay on a pile of cushions in her closet. The skin on her face was drawn unnaturally taut, revealing the outline of the skull beneath. She seemed glad to see him and at first asked none of her sharp questions.
‘I am tired, Robin,’ she complained and kept sighing, reminding him of the terrible day after the Scottish Queen’s execution when she had instructed him in what terms to deliver to King James the news of the ‘miserable accident’ to his mother.
‘Your Highness would be more comfortable in bed,’ he suggested after a while, and all at once her suspicions were aroused.
‘So you too would have me dead! Do you believe me ignorant that once I am in bed they will never let me up? Are you one of those false ingrates who have already sold their allegiance to that mincing Scots creature?’
She turned her face to the wall and would not speak to him again - she, who was the ingrate; she, who had never rewarded his years of service; she, who had played him false over Norham and the East March. Her wig had fallen off, her rouge was smeared, the black teeth were jagged with gaps, the royal breath fetid with decay. He stared in contempt at the spiteful, parsimonious hag whom chance had seated on the throne of the Plantagenets and empowered to punish the noblest Englishmen of her time. His father had been right to spurn her on his deathbed. His anger uncontrolled, he spurned her now on hers.
The days at Richmond passed slowly. Melancholy, obstinate and sullen, the Queen refused all medicine and all advice from her physician. Her throat troubled her and she complained of feeling tied by a chain of iron about her neck, but how, pray, could that be healed by physic and bed? She knew her own constitution and the physician was a fool. For three days and nights after Carey parted from her, she sprawled on her cushions in a cold sweat without speaking a single word.
The dead Burleigh’s son, the new Mr Secretary Cecil, was sent for and raised the courage to tell her that she must go to bed. He succeeded only in breaking her silence. She replied that he was a little man, that ‘must’ was not a word to be used to princes, and that his father - by comparison with whom he was a pygmy - would never have dared address her thus.
Next the Lord Admiral was sent for, the most eminent and intimate survivor of her own generation. He had conquered the Spanish Armada, but failed to move the dying Queen. When he begged her to be reasonable, she demanded to be told whether his wife had been reasonable when she sent the Earl of Essex to the block by secreting his token.
Only when she became too weak to remonstrate were the physician’s orders obeyed. When she was laid in bed at last, the Archbishop of Canterbury was summoned and she revived sufficiently to abuse him. His Church, it seemed, was not at all to her liking, nor his bishops. She did not go as far as to express regret at the rupture with Rome, but appeared to be notifying God that as Head of a Church of which He might disapprove, she must not be considered past redemption. If it displeased Him, it displeased her no less. When the Archbishop fell silent, she inquired pettishly whether God had struck him dumb: she did not object to his prayers.
Carey had continued to be granted access to the palace. His sister informed their eldest brother, the Lord Chamberlain, that the Queen wished it. Of all the Queen’s ladies, Lady Scrope was in closest attendance, and when members of the household, with the Council and Officers of State, knelt round the great bed, Carey was among them and his sister crouched beside the Queen’s pillow ready to interpret their sovereign’s last words and wishes.
The Archbishop prayed and the Queen listened, her glazed eyes directed at the canopy above her. When he announced to the assembled company that she had been a great Queen here below, she nodded. When he went on to warn her that she must now prepare herself to meet One greater than herself, the King of Kings, her jaw was seen to tighten. Beyond speech, she signed with her hand and he stopped.
Lady Scrope bent over the bed and after some whispering announced that the Queen wished for prayers to continue. When after a further half hour the Archbishop faltered, the Queen gave the same sign, and at a glance from Lady Scrope he resumed until the royal eyes closed, apparently in sleep.
As soon as the last ‘Amen’ was spoken, whispering broke out all round the bed. These signs, it was agreed, meant that their sovereign lady had at last surrendered to the inevitability of death and was convinced of the necessity of preparing her soul for the life to come. Had the time for one last question arrived? The Lord Admiral thought so. After consultation with the Archbishop and the physician, he boldly addressed the bed.
‘Is it your Highness’s wish to name your successor?’
The whispering died and everyone craned not to miss the response.
Lady Scrope bent low.
Carey stood beside her, alert for the smallest gesture, but the Queen made none.
‘Does your Highness name James of Scotland?’ Carey asked, pitching his voice clear and loud.
At once there was confusion. The Queen’s eyes flew open and fixed him with a look he was never to forget. Cecil elbowed a path from the foot of the bed and dragged Carey away with his own hands.
‘Clear the room,’ he commanded, his bent shoulders shaking with rage.
Without a further opportunity to speak to his sister, Carey was expelled from the palace. His eldest brother, to whom he appealed, told him to count himself lucky to be let go. He must not return. Carey submitted to being ushered away, but at the gatehouse on his way out he bribed the porter with an angel. Indeed he would return, and that was a fair price for re-admission.
Yet in the morning the same porter refused him. By order of the Privy Council, he declared. No one was to be admitted but members of the Council itself and the Queen’s most immediate attendants. Disobedience would mean the loss of his place, imprisonment even. Thus he muttered when Carey pressed him. The orders were strict and the guard had been doubled. He regretted that even a second angel would open no doors.
‘It is no matter. I came but to inquire after the Queen’s health,’ Carey told him, speaking more loudly for the benefit of the guard within. ‘How did Her Highness pass the night? At ease, I trust?’
The porter avoided his eye. He could not say of his own knowledge, but a report had reached him of wonderful improvement. Hour by hour her strength was returning.
Carey did not believe it. He walked in the park and along the river bank, convinced that the Queen had died and the Council was suppressing the news while it debated the succession. March had almost ended and with it a long winter. From an unclouded sky the sun shone without heat, its reflection pale in the silver water of the Thames. The approach of summer could not be long delayed. Who would be basking in its warmth? That was the question.
The Howards beyond doubt. Already in the guarded palace they would be making their accommodations with Cecil the kingmaker; for Mr Secretary’s will would surely prevail. Brother George, the Lord Chamberlain, would prove as weak as the March sun. Ever pliant, he would not dare oppose the strongest faction. And their choice? How could it be other than James? Cecil’s alarm at Carey’s question to the dying Queen sprang from the fear that she would upset his plans by making a public declaration of her unalterable abhorrence of the Scottish King.
Such an act would have strengthened Ralegh’s hand. Rumour had it that he and Northumberland were determined to prevent the accession of the King. England would not stand for a foreigner on the throne – this Ralegh had stated openly. She had prospered under one Queen, he said, and would welcome another. His candidate was Arabella Stuart, a Tudor through the female line, and English bred. She would be Ralegh’s means of wresting power from Cecil and the Howards.
While he walked, Carey weighed in his mind the balance of advantage to himself. The downfall of his enemies would be sweet, but his word - and the promise of advancement - bound him to the King. Ralegh he had not met since that day at Enfield. The high and mighty Sir Walter harboured grudges
, but needed allies. Unless he stooped to win them he would not succeed, and in defeat the danger to his associates would be extreme.
Carey’s steps took him back to the palace gate, where he was again rebuffed. Without confirmation from his sister, it would be madness to presume the Queen’s death. He demanded of the porter that at least she be told of his coming, but all the Ladies of the Bedchamber were said to be confined to the inner apartments, severed from all communication.
Yet in the evening, at his third attempt, a message from her awaited him. She wrote that she had been expressly forbidden to see him. Before it reached his hand the letter had already been opened. He returned with it to his lodgings for the night and there planned his next move. His fortunes were at hazard and it vexed him to be frustrated by a porter and a handful of guards.
Rising early after a short night’s rest, he paid his account, packed his goods and ordered his horse to be saddled and made ready in the stable. Then he went to the palace again on foot, this time with an appearance of urgency. As he had judged, the night porter was still on duty, a man who did not know him.
‘Sir Robert Carey.’ He announced himself. ‘Required immediately in the Queen’s presence. This is the letter of authorization.’
He displayed his sister’s letter and waved it in the porter’s face. The man stood his ground.
‘It is not from the Council.’ He was unable to read, but was suspicious at the absence of a seal.
‘It is from Lady Scrope on behalf of the Queen herself. Let me pass.’
With a show of rough impatience he pushed the porter aside and brushed past the two guards. When they remonstrated, he demanded to be told whether they did not recognize him and know him for the Lord Chamberlain’s brother. One of them confessed it, and at Garey’s scowl and abrupt command they fell back.
Without a backward glance, he hurried up the stairs. At the top, in turning towards the corridor which led to the Queen’s ante-chamber, he snatched a quick look over the balustrade. The porter was sending one of the guards for an officer. His time would be short. Even for early morning, the palace was strangely quiet. There were no servants to question him. He tried the handle of the ante-chamber door, half expecting it to be locked, but it opened readily. Inside sat the Ladies of the Bedchamber in disarray. Their eyes, reddened with tears, betrayed the truth. After a moment of surprise his sister sprang to her feet and ran across the room towards him.
‘What are you doing here, Robin?’ she scolded. ‘It is forbidden. I did not send for you. You must leave at once.’
Before he could reply, the lieutenant of the guard had entered the room and was tugging at his arm.
‘The Queen grows well.’ His sister continued speaking, earnestly and in haste. ‘We are distressed at the pain she suffers, nothing more. It will be many weeks before Her Highness is fully recovered, but there is no longer fear for her life, praise God.’
‘Praise God,’ he repeated. ‘I could not return to my post without news of her.’
He held out his hand in farewell and she took it, telling him that his concern for their cousin and sovereign did him credit. He shook off the lieutenant’s arm to embrace her and as they kissed he could feel her loosening a ring from her finger. When it slipped into his palm, his heart turned over.
Mission accomplished, he allowed himself to be escorted roughly from the room. Outside, while the guard commander leaned over the balustrade to call to his men, Carey secretly unclenched his fist. The sapphire set in the King’s gold ring winked at him, proof positive that the Queen was dead. Being led downstairs, he worked the token unseen on to one of his fingers.
This time they would not let him go. Without a pass from the Council, the lieutenant told him severely, no man was allowed either in or out. He must await the Council’s pleasure in the guardroom.
‘Inform Lord Hunsdon of my presence,’ Carey commanded in return. ‘As you should be aware, he is my brother and a member of the Council and will give you the necessary order. Meanwhile if you wish me to enter the guardroom, I give you due notice that your men will have to bear me there by force. By the look of them you will require the assistance of more than two.’ He braced himself, a fighting soldier sneering at palace guards who had never risked their lives in the field.
Overawed, the lieutenant obeyed his command and sent for the Lord Chamberlain. The wait proved brief.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why are you here again, Robin?’ The Lord Chamberlain was flustered and querulous.
‘I came to pay my respects to Her Majesty and bid farewell to you and Philadelphia. My leave is done. I must return to Alnwick.’
‘How came you to be admitted? During the Queen’s illness the palace is closed. No one knows that better than you, since you yourself occasioned the order.’
‘Our sister left a message for me with the porter. It was thought to come from the Queen. I have spoken with no one but her, and she has told me only of our cousin’s blessed recovery. No harm has been done, as the lieutenant will witness.’
‘You deceived the porter. Do you deny that?’ His lordship lowered his voice in appeal. ‘Robin, Robin! Are you intent on disgracing the family? You could be ordered to the Tower for this. Have you no thought of my position?’
‘Indeed I have. Of your position and many others which I myself might hold. On the Border there is ample time for thought. I promise you, you are safer with me at a distance. If you let me out, I will be gone within the hour.’
‘Promise me then, in return, that you intend no mischief.’
Lord Hunsdon’s glance was solemn, his brow lined with power and authority, but Carey knew the real face beneath the mask of office. Under the surface lay hidden the George who had always been feeble-hearted, tenacious in forwarding his own interests, but hollow and ineffectual in all else. To the Howards a convenient cipher, to Cecil a high-born pawn; a trembling dignitary who would require little further persuasion to see an unruly younger brother off the premises and away from court.
‘Mischief!’ Carey feigned amazement and anger. ‘Whatever mischief can you have in mind, brother?’
His lordship avoided the question with a sigh of exasperation. ‘I am this minute going out of the palace myself. You had best leave with me.’ He addressed the porter. ‘I will answer for Sir Robert. You may let us both pass.’
The porter demurred and looked to the lieutenant for support. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but I have been told that all passes must come from Mr Secretary on behalf of the whole Council.’
The lieutenant’s support was forthcoming and, with a bow to the Lord Chamberlain, he left them to seek Mr Secretary’s permission.
‘Why should we tarry longer?’ Carey urged his brother. ‘These fellows cannot prevent us. Let us go now.’
It was shameful to witness the head of his family and the Lord Chamberlain of England, in all his dignity, so frightened of a budding Cecil that he could not move a foot. They were still arguing when the lieutenant returned. He brought, not the permission they sought, but Mr Secretary himself, who viewed Carey with a hostility he did not bother to conceal.
‘By no means can we consent to Sir Robert’s departure, my lord,’ he announced. ‘I am informed that he has spoken with my Lady Scrope. Without doubt she will have communicated a message to him. What other reason can there be for his intrusion?’
‘What message could she have communicated?’ Carey demanded. ‘My sister spoke to me in the hearing of all. Her words will have been reported to you, unless I am much mistaken.’
‘I refer to a written message, Sir Robert. Your hands touched, I believe.’ While Carey’s denials were hot, Cecil’s accusations remained cold.
‘If you believe that, you may have me searched, though I protest that it is a strange world where a brother’s farewell to his sister arouses suspicion. Search me. I have nothing to hide.’
To his brother’s discomfort, Carey fiercely returned Cecil’s hostility. It made him tremble with anger to be su
bject to the orders of a mis-shapen dwarf of common birth, and one who was Essex’s executioner. Yet, with a monarch dead and a successor not proclaimed, this black bunch of spite was the ruler of England.
‘I do not excuse his conduct,’ the Lord Chamberlain pleaded with Cecil, desperate for peace, ‘but it were best if he return to the Middle March.’
In reply, Cecil beckoned him aside, and after a whispered conference announced their joint acceptance of Carey’s offer to be searched. The two guards were summoned and in a closet off the guardroom he took off his clothes and surrendered them one by one for inspection. Lady Scrope’s message was seized from a pocket and borne away. Humiliated and insulted, Carey stood naked until the guard who had taken it returned and without a word carried away all the clothes.
Tired of shivering, he jumped up and down and exercised all his muscles in turn whilst - he could only conclude - her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State did him the signal honour of personally examining every article of his clothing. Cecil, he comforted himself, would learn nothing except that neither rich fabric nor cleanliness was fashionable on the Border.
But even when his garments were brought back the search was not over. With shamefaced apologies the guards transferred their attentions to his body, combing through his hair, peering and probing under his armpits and between his legs, searching between his toes. The ring, together with one of his own, they examined minutely for scratches and hidden cavities. Finally these were returned to him and permission was received for him to dress.
His brother, more solemn-faced than ever, rejoined him. There were two passes in his hand. ‘Come,’ he beckoned and together they passed through the gate unhindered. Outside, on the palace green, his anger burst.
‘Inform me now what you are about, Robin. The letter from our sister betrayed you to Cecil - that you lied to obtain entrance. As God is my witness, he would have detained you, had I not persuaded him that you were nothing worse than a clumsy meddler and best far off in the marches. It is lucky for all of us that nothing more incriminating caught his eye, for I warn you that if you are set on enmity with Cecil, I cannot protect you more.’
Disgrace And Favour Page 8
