Death of the Fox

by George Garrett

  Gondomar has the twilight temper of the Spaniard, half jest and half earnest. He imagines, and the King is at no great pain to refute this conjecture, the King is still duped and puzzled by him.

  Know your man: Gondomar has Latin weaknesses—one is lechery. A thin, meager man, he burns hot, a turning spit. In caverns and chambers of his skull English ladies, cool and pale and rosy, shed their stiff gowns to dance naked as witches. Gondomar has them in his power and at his mercy. They crawl and slither toward him, as to an Eastern emperor, hiding the fear in their eyes with their hair, covering him from toes to rearing rosy bishop’s head with fat kisses. Now he is an Indian chief from the New World, naked and blameless, a cannibal king. They are brought before him in huge dishes of gold and he eats their sweetness to the bone. Next, in fury of guilt and frustration, he is a galley slave, with a ragged loincloth or breechcloth to cover his quivering shame, on a galley of Amazons with whips. They whip him till he howls—and shudders for joy …

  A man who is a slave to desire, servant of his lusts, suffers the pains of the damned while he lives. We seek for opposites, true. Believing that we can somehow be made whole again. Little, and we lust for large; fat for thin; cruel for gentle. As if Adam, coupling with Eve, could regain his stolen rib. All men are wounded in that way.

  The King knows the source of these failings. His own love for handsome favorites is a hunger for the beauty he was deprived of; their love for him, kindled by royal gifts and favor, makes him beautiful in his own eyes. It is satisfactory, for no man can live entirely without illusions. Your crippled, leprous beggar dreams himself beautiful. And why not? In God’s eyes all Creation is beautiful. These dreams, though false to the reason of the world, are true to a higher reason. By a little love the heavy soul is somewhat restored, regains a measure of its original lightness, that lightness which is the breath of God.…

  The King has done royal duty by his Danish wife, sown royal seed. He has never, like many another, turned to women, been faithless to his wife and vows. He has never risked the intimacy of other women, for they have loose tongues and cannot be trusted. No fault of their own. It is the way God made them. The King has never been the victim of his hungers. He purges them when they mount. He leaves himself free to dream the great design of the future. Surely God, who knows all secrets and who is Justice itself, will forgive these slight failings.

  Besides, in time of trouble, women can be of small comfort. There is something of the witch in all of them. They owe allegiance finally to themselves. But a man, one who has been favored and not in secret, must die for or with a king.

  Let swarthy Gondomar snigger to himself. He dare not ask himself which of the two, himself or the King, is in truth effeminate. Effeminacy is a state of the soul. Gondomar, like many a Spaniard and many a so-called lusty Englishman, may tup and toss wenches until his eyeteeth fall out, but he has the weak soul of a woman.

  It follows, sure as tides turn and stars follow courses, fantasy’s the silver key to Gondomar. The least acorn planted there will afford more shade than a grove of real oak trees. So much for Gondomar. In him the King now has found a servant in the Court of Spain, all the more useful in that Gondomar believes himself to be the dancing master.

  As for my English …

  As for my English and in especial this Commission appointed to deal with Walter Ralegh.

  When he raged and swore Ralegh must be handed over to Spain, they puffed and stiffened. They argued as much as they dared to.

  He allowed them to cajole, plead, to try to persuade him of the obvious.

  If he gave Ralegh to the Spaniards, he was counseled, such a deed would perplex and anger his subjects. Who, out of ignorance and misunderstanding, might somehow misconstrue this as a fawning gesture made out of fear of Spain.

  The King refused to hear this.

  Was he not the King, after all? This man, already once proved by law a traitor to King and country, had by the King’s bountiful mercy been granted liberty. Only to break oath and faith to the King. The man was a villainous pirate and must be punished for it!

  —Indeed, Your Majesty, it would seem to be most exactly as you have said. But may I humbly suggest it is more fitting that he be punished under English law?

  —Your English law has given me much grief, he snapped. Law is no remedy.

  —Your Majesty has some cause to think so, Bacon said. The Law often dances like an old fishwife in wooden shoes, with little grace and less dispatch. But pray let us remember the melody she dances to is old and pleasing to the many.

  —Spare us figures of speech, Coke said, to himself, but audible.

  —Many a tide has flowed under the bridge since the trials at Winchester, another says. The man is old and sick and touched by the death of his son. The Fox is mangy, stiff-jointed, slow of foot. He cannot work mischief now, may it please Your Majesty.

  —It pleases us not. The wretch has already done mischief enough for a lifetime.

  The Fox has been harmless since he lost his gnawing and biting teeth in ’03. His design was always to spare Ralegh’s life in ’03. Spain wanted him dead, then, too. Part of the price for peace. The King was the better bargainer. Before the time came, Spain feared the results of Ralegh’s death. Came pleading with the King for Ralegh’s life with more conviction than his friends and with more urgency than the man himself. Ralegh in the Tower was like the lions of the royal menagerie, safe so long as caged. Perhaps they hoped he would die naturally. For certain they feared him alive. And with the passing of years even more so, for as long as he lived and did nothing, no act that could be tested, the legend of the man could only grow. To the Spaniards legend became truth. He was a giant, held in check by the whims of the English King. To the King he was a common, but increasingly valuable pawn for peace. There are others who died in the Tower when it suited the King. Ralegh bore a charmed life. And the Fox did not imagine it so.

  Even his voyage had served well. Could not fail to. He could have died on the voyage. Which would have made a simple disposition of the matter. He could have found his improbable gold mine. In which case the King would have some gold. Could continue to press for the Spanish Match, but now as dealer of cards. Returning, Ralegh could have fled to France or to some other nation, his legend having spread wide. Fine; then let them learn that the legend was a man and an old one too. Since he chose an unlikely course and returned to England, he could be useful one more time.

  James was pleased to hear the English plead for Ralegh’s life on honest grounds. The legend had died in England. Which made his resolution easier. Let him die quickly now that the time had come. There might be grumbling for a day or two. Good, better grumbling than pity. A little grumbling, a few ballads and broadsides, and in no time at all the man, half forgotten already, would be less than a memory.

  Unless, of course, there should be any reason for the King to change his mind.

  —Then, may it please Your Majesty, there is another way, says Francis Bacon …

  Give him time enough to test the direction and force of the wind and Bacon is as wise as a wisp.

  Patiently the King let them come to the place where he had been waiting for them. Let them, led by Bacon, spin out the plan of the King’s own design, thinking it their own. The King, with a show of reluctance, agreed, placing responsibility upon them. In turn he signed the warrant and hired himself away to the country.

  Ah, the English in all their native wit and wisdom! Between them they have as much true wit as three folks, two fools and a madman. Their wisdom is all in their beards, when it is not situated in their lower beards. It takes the patience of Job himself to rule them, to rule in such a fashion that they know it not. He has come to understand them well enough. Understanding has not always made him happy.

  Though Walter Ralegh has, unwitting, more than one time been of use and service to King James, he has given the King no happiness. The King does not profess to understand him as well as he does these others.

  Ta
ke the figure of a tennis ball. Ralegh was inordinately fond of that foolish French game, allowing him to use his strength, size, and agility to advantage. Consider a tennis ball, forced to be bounced and played back and forth according to the will of players. Yet imagine the ball as possessing an infinitely tiny degree of liberty, sufficient to deviate a hair or two from its prescribed course. Able to fall short, to take an odd bounce. Now, allowing that the players possess an almost even skill, it may be the tennis ball which decides the game and settles all wagers.…

  How was it, except upon some knowledge of his own freedom, Ralegh not only lived, but thrived through those years in the Tower? And was able to trouble and to prick enemies, including the King?

  Ralegh was wrong, after all, in his remark about true friends and foes. Friend or foe, the distinction is more subtle and secret than either fools or wise men know. It is a strict matter, in this politic world, of circumstance, expediency. Fools and wise men miss the meaning of many an ancient proverb.

  Neither friend nor foe should ever know when your foot is asleep.

  That friend who faints is your foe.

  When friends are needed any wise man can make a friend of a foe.

  Ralegh was able to make the King of England, if not a foe, the contest being unequal by circumstance, then an occasional antagonist. One who sometimes must acknowledge, however briefly, that he has been beset by an antagonist not unworthy, not entirely without power, like a blue buzzing horsefly, to sting a king.

  The King conceives him to be worldy wise. The King, unlike the English, respects a clever fox. The English will not make sport of hunting the fox, considering that creature a varmint, base vermin. Not worth trouble of man or horse or dog. They will rather hunt the hare.

  If Ralegh is foxy, why did he refuse to play the game at the beginning? Before the Queen died James’ agents were everywhere, and among others, they sounded Ralegh out. Ralegh dismissed their overtures lightly, saying he could serve only one prince at a time.

  To James that spells a shrugging indifference.

  To the anxious James of those years, it seemed that Ralegh was bargaining. Would sell his services only for the highest price. If so, James concluded, Ralegh gambled and lost. The final price would be nothing at all.

  Or, rather, say he did service at the highest price, himself the buyer. His payment was his life.

  Yet shadows of doubt remain.

  Suppose it is possible that Ralegh spoke the truth to his agents. May be that Ralegh was unable to live in the hope of the future. Or, if able, then would not allow himself to do so.

  At the last, while so many others were turning away from a dying Queen and looking toward a new dawn, the Captain of the Guard stood in his place, tall and obscure, more shadowy as the shadows lengthened, until her last light was gone.

  Perhaps the future never held much meaning for Ralegh.

  Or perhaps Ralegh came to distrust the future and, in distrust, to deny it. Certain it is that all his investments in the future had failed him—hopes for plantations in Ireland and Virginia, schemes for remote Guiana, plans for the estate at Sherbourne.

  Perhaps his own downfall gave Ralegh some solace. Seeing hopes dashed and worst fears come true served to confirm his certainty that the future was to be distrusted.

  Then, if that were so, how to explain his latest actions. He had achieved the goal of freedom. Only to turn freedom into new bondage. Paid a high price for freedom. Is like to pay the highest price now. For what? The right to gamble upon—the future. Rolled the dice, betting all, and lost everything.

  Yet he has added more doubts with recent deeds.

  Why, like an arrogant blundering fool, did Ralegh come back to England? Having broken his oath and the terms of his commission and knowing he must pay for that.

  Why, the man had more choices than a rich widow!

  Pirate that he always was and is, on land or sea, he could have settled for a life of piracy. Other Englishmen have done so and some, even now, are up to that mischief. None so well known as Ralegh. He might have succeeded in bringing them all together, rallying around him a navy of cutthroats. And with such a crew have come down upon the fat sheep of the Spanish Indies like a pack of starved wolves. And in so doing have ruined the King’s peace with Spain beyond all repairing.

  If it is honor that spurs him—and love of honor is the worst of English vanities—there were honorable choices aplenty for him. From his informers, the King knows of offers of safety coming to Ralegh from France and Venice and Denmark and the Netherlands.

  Suppose he feared for the safety and welfare of Lady Ralegh and his son. Then why has he squandered the best part of their estate upon this voyage? Does Ralegh not know that under protection of a foreign power, he could assure the safety of wife and child?

  Instead he came sailing boldly into Plymouth Harbor. Came home to his county of Devon. Left alone, for a time there, unwatched, he wasted every occasion to escape. Could have fled England, taking wife and child with him.

  Perhaps his boldness was built upon belief that his old friend Winwood could check the King. Yet Ralegh, even before he sailed, knew the plans for the Spanish Match had changed the King’s views and altered the power and influence of his faction. Knew, or should have known, that Winwood’s influence was waning. Knew, before deciding to return, that his actions would have sorely tested Winwood at the least, at most have diminished his powers. And therefore could not, in reason, expect Winwood to risk becoming his advocate.

  What he did not know, not until he landed, was that Winwood was dead. He could not have been depending upon Winwood. Else he would have fled to safety at once.

  Unless, for some reason, he deemed such a flight would work injury to other friends and allies in the faction set against Spain.

  Grant him that much. Then how to make sense of his next moves?

  The King sent Ralegh’s kinsman Stukely to place him under arrest. Stukely, a man Ralegh knew well enough neither to trust nor to fear. Then Ralegh playing a foolish game for time, feigning illness, counterfeiting madness, according to the outworn, theatrical customs of the past age. For what purpose? To gain time. To play for time. Well, since the King was upon his summer progress, the sum of time was already his without such devices.

  To gain private time, then, to write his “Apology” and see that it reached the King before the King’s mind had set.

  If so, fallacious. This “Apology” would work, if at all, at a later time, the last possible occasion.

  Ralegh had no evidence that any of his writings or arguments had ever pleased the King. On the contrary, knew the King to be hostile and suspicious. Why bank hope upon the composition of an “Apology”? One which depended upon the King believing him, taking him at his word. One which, even had the King thrown reason and caution away and chosen to believe it, is far from sufficiently humble or chastened in tone and substance. An “Apology” which admits next to no fault, leaves too many doubts and gaps.

  God’s wounds, the King could have made better arguments on Ralegh’s behalf!

  Perhaps the failure of the voyage has crazed him.

  If mad, why feign madness?

  No, all the “Apology” could do was to arouse the King’s doubts and suspicions more.

  Even the “Apology” was a device. A device for what? For more time? Time to do what? To hatch a plot? Not likely. Too late to begin a plot. If not to hatch a plot, then perhaps to cling to time, waiting for some plot already hatched to begin.

  Or, perhaps not. Perhaps wishing to give that impression, to play upon the King’s fears. And believing the King would at least wait upon the chance of a plot and keep Ralegh alive as the key to it.

  If so, offensive and insulting as well as foolish.

  Best, at the time, to wait and see. Be watchful. Leave him some measure of liberty but keep eyes on his use of it.

  So Ralegh came to London. Where, instead of prison, he found himself in his wife’s house, comfortably lodged there, sti
ll in Stukely’s keeping, but loosely guarded. With freedom to move about the city.

  Did Ralegh not smell a dead rat in the wainscot?

  Evidently not.

  At last he agreed to follow the advice of Stukely. A man he knew he could not trust.

  Nonetheless agreed to Stukely’s plan, the scheme to flee to France. A scheme almost successful. But allowed himself to be foiled, prevented by a single barge and a few armed men. Made no resistance. Was sent to the Tower of London.

  The King was astonished when news was brought of Ralegh’s capture. The King was so struck that he laughed out loud and called Ralegh a coward.

  Surely Ralegh would, could, should have resisted. Would either be killed in the brawl or make good his escape. Preferred not to. Even at the expense of being ridiculed.

  Maybe the heart has gone out of the man. Maybe he has turned coward. Maybe has always been a coward and this occasion exposed him.

  The King cannot accept these conclusions. Too wise and wary to allow himself to believe what’s easy, what he most wishes to believe.

  If wishes were thrushes, beggars would eat birds.…

  No, the King called him coward and professed to believe it. But is not such a fool as that. Even the King’s enemies allow him to be the wisest fool in Christendom.

  There is some complex design in Ralegh’s actions.

  Or there is no design at all. Except to imply that there is or may be.

  A commission was formed to examine him closely in the Tower. A special keeper set on him to watch and report.

  The Commission determined nothing.

  The keeper reported nothing new.

  Perhaps he still believes the King will not dare to kill him.