Death of the Fox

by George Garrett

  —Never mind that at Court there was much outward wise nodding and inward rejoicing at his fall. All that mattered, in truth, was the Queen’s action. She had waited, it seems, for him to confess the truth, to submit to her justice, to beg her pardon. Others, even proud Essex, had done so, and had received the Queen’s forgiveness.

  —Ralegh knew this, but he did not, would not play the part required of him. Months before he had been only a step away from being sworn to the Council and close to receiving a title to nobility. Now he was in the Tower, having lost all that and likely to lose everything. He would play roles, but he would not perform the one which would save him from disgrace.

  —Much was made then, while she lived, and ever since, about the Queen’s jealousy of her favorites. And no doubt, like any woman, she could be jealous, even though by that time in her life—she was nearing her sixtieth year—jealousy was a familiar experience to her. As Queen, however, her reaction must be shock, disbelief, followed by anger and disappointment.

  —Her half dozen maids of honor were young ladies of distinction, her closest and most intimate companions. She had them dressed, usually, all in white, and they were with her everywhere, like the nymphs of Diana. In due time she found them husbands, attended their weddings, was godmother for their children, etc. But until that time came, they were duty bound to her, in chastity and obedience. And they were, as if they were her own daughers, required to have her permission to marry.

  —The Queen was responsible for the welfare of her maids while they served her. Their failures were her own.

  —Bess Throckmorton meant something more to her. She was the daughter of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who had died in the Queen’s service in 1571. He had known Elizabeth since she was a young girl, a princess of ambiguous status in the household of Catherine Parr. When, in the clouds of confused suspicion following Wyatt’s Rebellion, the Princess Elizabeth was sent to the Tower, so was Throckmorton. When Elizabeth came to the throne, Sir Nicholas became one of her men, serving her in peculiarly delicate duties and offices, especially in diplomatic missions to France and Scotland. He was one of the first of her master intelligencers, creating a network of agents and spies, one which both Walsingham and Burghley could not only use, but refine into England’s first line of defense. When Sir Nicholas had died, Sir Francis Walsingham wrote of him: “For be it spoken without offense to any, for council in peace and for conduct in war, he has not left of like sufficiency his successor that I know.”

  —The Queen was sensible of her obligations to the Throckmortons and that she had failed them. More to the point, she was aware that two people close to her had broken faith, and, worse, had been able, for a time at least, to keep their secret; and then to imagine they could keep it longer. Breaking of faith is grave enough. For therein lies the gravest danger to all kingdoms, long before enemies arrive upon shores and borders. But, even so, the Queen had cause to believe that she knew Ralegh. Chastened, sufficiently frightened, he might learn something out of failure, perhaps a clearer definition of loyalty. If the prodigal returned, seeking pardon, he would be welcomed.

  —On the other hand, England was at war, more threatened than ever before. The life of the Queen depended upon knowledge, imagination, cunning, and faith in herself. Now she must question her own judgment. Self-doubt was compounded when Bess returned to serve her, pretending nothing had happened, and apparently believing she could deceive the Queen. And Ralegh, a man of forty years wise in worldly matters, made no move to repent or to avert the Queen’s anger. Either he had, indeed, lost his wits, or he no longer cared what the Queen thought, what she might do, or what he might lose.

  —To the astonishment of all, Ralegh was confined only a brief time in the Tower, then freed to go and do as he pleased, though banished from Court. Her punishment was strangely mild. He had not lost his offices and perquisites, not even the captaincy of the Guard, which she kept vacant.

  —Deprived of none of his blessings, though cut off from advancement, Ralegh continued his various activities, spent as free and lived as grand as before.

  —He built up his estates in England and Ireland. Made of his new seat at Sherbourne not only a most profitable holding—five thousand a year it earned him though very few, even to this day, know that—but a grand manor worthy of comparison with any.

  —He made the voyage of exploration to Guiana in ’95, claiming it for the Queen. And wrote a popular book about that adventure—The Discoverie of the Large, Rich and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana, published in ’96.

  —He served, with the outspoken independence which was his consistent stance before and after, in the vexing Parliament of ’93. Speaking out for the Queen’s interests in such matters as the subsidy, but most eloquently arguing against the repressive acts which Archbishop Whitgift—thus the Queen, who called Whitgift her “black husband” and raised him to the Council—was determined to impose upon both Catholic recusants and rebellious Puritans. Though he was no longer Senior Knight of Devon in Commons, having no more distinction than to represent the Cornish borough of St. Michaels, he was a powerful presence in that Parliament. The Commons in ’93 was more than half composed of new men. Chaotic, troublesome, threatened and browbeaten, subjected to many pressures and dangers, most originating from Whitgift, it was in this Parliament that a small number of men distinguished themselves by resistance to the proposed excesses and by a defense of the hard-earned rights and privileges of the Commons. Walter Ralegh was one of the leaders, as was the Speaker, Solicitor General Edward Coke.…

  —As a result, he came under the suspicion of atheism, together with some friends and servants. The most vulnerable, Christopher Marlowe, was killed in a tavern brawl by two agents of the Archbishop. No doubt a warning to the others. And an ecclesiastical High Commission was formed to examine the suspicion of Ralegh’s atheism. Ralegh did not deign to attend their sessions. Nothing came of the charges, except laughter at the expense of some pompion-headed preachers. And he was so little frightened that he made a mockery of false piety by making a great show of the same himself. When he returned from Guiana in ’95, he announced to the world that he had “seen the wonders of the Lord in the ocean deep.” And he went daily into London to listen to dull, interminable sermons at St. Paul’s, the very model of outward humility.

  —And this gesture proved—to Queen, Court, and the Archbishop, if not to the populace—that he had not changed a whit. Good fortune or bad, he would be himself, no other.

  —In June of ’97 he was accepted back at Court, resuming his captaincy, much as if five years had never happened. And though he was unlikely to advance much higher, he was again to be feared and distrusted, therefore hated. As much as before.

  —Other favorites rose higher, but none were luckier or more trusted by the Queen.

  —For those who looked for justice, it did not fall on Ralegh. Strict justice was reserved for his wife.

  —Elizabeth Throckmorton, tall, blond, fair of skin, handsome in a strong and asymmetrical way, trim of figure and shapely of limb, could have done much worse by herself from among the men of Court. The Queen understood the attraction the older man held for her. Could not blame her for that, though, like a woman, she charged her with any seduction. What did this young woman know of anything? She was too young, too spoiled and safe to imagine the knave beneath silk and jewels. She might have him naked in her arms, as the Queen could never do, but she could live forever and never know him truly, truly naked, as the Queen did. The Queen might even have pitied her.

  —Except that Elizabeth Throckmorton, having had her pleasure, and keeping her secret, returned to the service of the Queen as if nothing had happened.

  —Which meant that Elizabeth Throckmorton believed or allowed herself to hope that Elizabeth, the Queen, was only a stupid old woman.

  —Elizabeth Throckmorton could never be forgiven for this assumption. And—it pleased the Queen to know this—she would never know why. She was too vain to admit the truth to hers
elf.

  —Angry, disappointed, jealous, hurt, yes; for the Queen was a woman. But she managed to transcend that. To be what she was, for better or worse. First and always, Queen of England.

  —After five years out of the center, Ralegh returned to serve the Queen for the rest of her reign.

  —Within weeks of the death of the Queen, Ralegh was rudely stripped of his offices, perquisites, monopolies. Within a few months he was a convicted traitor, a plot beyond testing for truth or falsehood. His Court was the Tower, where he should have been out of sight and out of mind. But for fourteen years, from those walled acres, he managed to trouble the King. Famous men from England and abroad, even Indian chieftains from the New World, visited him. Crowds came to watch silently when he walked the walls for exercise. He won the friendship of Queen Anne and the young Prince Henry, who would have freed him if the prince had lived. “Who but my father would keep such a bird in a cage!” the young Prince exclaimed. And Henry had planned to restore Ralegh’s lost estate of Sherbourne, perhaps a more suitable place than the Tower to wait for pardon or freedom. Sherbourne, which had been taken by a legal trick, devised by Cecil, so that the King could give it to his current favorite—Robert Carr. And all through those years Ralegh nettled and needled the King with his writings—The History of the World, written for Prince Henry, and which the King wanted suppressed because it was “too sawcy with kings,” together with a rash of pamphlets in manuscript on subjects from the art of shipbuilding to “The Prerogative of Parliaments,” each and all offensive to His Majesty’s views.

  —Finally Ralegh was freed to prepare and make his voyage to Guiana. Ralegh was set free earlier than had been planned so his apartments could be used for the culprits in the Overbury poisoning. He left upon a sudden warrant, so swiftly, or conveniently, that he had to come back to gather the last of his books and papers. And thus met, briefly, face to face, the foolish, vain, and marvelously ignorant Robert Carr, now Viscount Rochester, Earl of Somerset, and now no longer the King’s favorite, but a felon, charged in the scandalous poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury. Carr, who had taken Sherbourne from Ralegh and had spurned even to answer Ralegh’s measured and humble letter pleading for it. Met Robert Carr at last in the Tower, himself the free man and Carr the prisoner. Surely he did not really need to return for his books and papers. He could have sent his servants. But he went back to fetch them himself, making it clear even to cloudy-witted Carr.

  —Ralegh was a figure of cold courtesy, soft-spoken, sad-faced, indeed almost apologetic for intruding upon Carr’s misfortune. Which could not fail to drive Carr into a fit of rage. Ralegh accomplished that with ease, assuming the satiric role of the former owner of these grounds at the Tower, instructing Carr in ways and means to make life there more tolerable.

  “You shall find it comfortable enough as soon as you become, like any caught bird, accustomed to your jess and hood and bells,” he told Carr. “Indeed, should it be your misfortune to remain here as long as I have, or for the rest of your natural life, you will find many blessings to be thankful for.”—Carr said nothing, but his eyes blinked and there was a dark cloud on his face. Which, of course, led Ralegh to continue offering good advice.

  “Above all, sir, you must not squander thoughts or good spirits upon what might have been. Nor regret what you have lost. If you must think of the past, as we all must do, think upon those who, in this selfsame place, have suffered so much more and lingered long.”

  “I need no counsel from you!” Carr said, not able to contain himself longer.

  “Perhaps not,” Ralegh said. “Then consider that you are free to ignore my counsel, as any man is so free. Have you not offered counsel which was ignored? And there must have been times when you yourself have ignored the counsel of others. For example, I am certain you cannot always have concurred with your late lamented secretary, Sir Thomas …”

  “God’s blood and wounds!” Carr roared, raising the heads of servants in the room and catching the ears of the many others who were curious about the encounter. “Christ on the Cross! I’d kill you if I could!”

  “Oh, sir,” Ralegh answered, “you must not curse and think of murder any more. Rather be thankful. In the olden times in England they would have boiled you alive for poisoning, you and your handsome Lady Frances too.”

  “By God, I will kill you with my bare hands!”

  “Would you strike an old man? Shame!”

  “If I were free—and mark you, old Fox, I may be free one day soon enough,” Carr said, still so choked with rage he was not able to stop himself from shouting, “I’d have my honor at swords’ points.”

  —Very softly then: “Which is the only place, sir, you shall have honor, as a rogue with a weapon.”

  “Damn your black heart to hell, old man!”

  —And soft still: “Old it is true. But mark you, sir, I shall never be so old or frail that I could not spit the likes of you on the point of a rapier like a poor sparrow. I would cut you clean from your high beard to your lower one, where all your brains dangle.…”

  “Begone, you upstart rogue and beggar! Begone and may you die soon!”

  —Carr turning away, black as a Moor, an ebony face on the edge of apoplexy.

  —And Ralegh: “One word and no more,” speaking to his back. “In my study of history, I could find no precedent for our altered status. Where in the world has the world seen the like? A King’s prisoner able to purchase his freedom while the favorite of his bosom stands in the wreath of the halter. But now I have remembered an example—Mordecai and Haman. Look up the story. You shall have ample time to read. I did.…”

  —Ralegh turned, smiling, and left at the head of his servants. Hearing, as he did so, the shift of Carr’s feet on the stone, the swish and whisper of his clothing, as he too turned. Unable to curse. Unable to run away from torment. Forced to turn and watch the back of Ralegh’s head as he left him. And Ralegh not needing to look back again for the proof of what mind’s eye showed him clear as a portrait. A fierce face, lined with outrage, but strangely weak and harmless, almost pitiable for the bright welling-up of tears in the eyes.

  —To whip Robert Carr naked from Tower to Westminster Hall could have given Ralegh less satisfaction.

  —The Court of the Queen was bright and brilliant, but frivolous enough to be demanding. That much, at least, was our discipline. Those rituals became our purpose. And we were all actors in a quiet play, like one of John Lily’s, performing for ourselves, our only audience. Elsewhere seed was sown, grain grew and was harvested. Elsewhere ships swallowed the wind and sailed over the edges of the world. Elsewhere merchants waxed fat and rich or died in debt. Poor rogues roamed the roads and slept beneath hedges. Elsewhere, as ever, sheep were fleeced and slaughtered for tables.

  —It might be said, and not entirely as satire, that we practiced for the leisure of eternity by enjoying a portion of it here and now.

  —The Court of the King is more extravagant and correspondingly rude. Blame it, as they do, on his hungry flea- and louse bitten Scottish lords who came down like a flock of raucous crows; nevertheless the way of the Court is largely our own doing. With suddenly rewards beyond imagining or asking there for the plucking and taking, with the truth of the dwindling treasury known to everyone except possibly the King, there is a piquant urgency to our fleecing; now or never, it seems; with many of the old formalities and rituals which served the Queen discarded to be replaced by grander pageants and gaudier games; with the King by his tippling setting the literal example while we stumble foolish drunk and besotted, if not in flesh then in spirit; the old center is gone, vanishing so easily it might never have been, and no man can know how long the present humming and whirling will endure.

  —Just at a time when many good servants were gone, the plain fact of service fell upon us, who had lost even the charm of our indifference. The King takes the sense of the Court he was given without ever learning the hidden sentence. He knows the letter, but he cannot read it. Th
e spirit is a mystery to him.

  —To publish the letter of the Queen’s Court is to report nothing of the truth. Lacking an inner spirit, either to be disguised or exposed, the Court of the King is exactly what it seems to be.

  —You will have heard of banquets turning into riot, where the rush and press of crowds causes tables and silver and glasses to be overthrown. Foods and sauces and wines, bread and wasted salt, mingling in a rich paste, to splatter our clothes, until we look like weary travelers from the country of Gluttony. It is true.…

  —Read report of the King crudely butchering a fallen stag, his doublet clotted with gore and excrement.

  —Perhaps you know the account which Harrington once gave of the visit to England of Christian of Denmark. When the two kings vomited at table and were carried off snoring to bed. When the three Court ladies, as Faith, Hope, and Charity in the masque, were too dazed and drunk to stand and deliver their lines.

  —What this means and signifies is—itself. We rush to the banquet table, pigs in silk and satin, destroying as much as we swill and devour. As if the late Queen in her last act ceased to be Diana and became Circe instead and turned our whole crew to swine. Faith, Hope, and Charity are knock-kneed and sweating drunk and cannot recall their lines. A peace-loving King has innocent blood up to both elbows. Idleness is now deadly serious. Men die of it and the good—Prince Henry, for example—die young.

  —The Court the Queen left behind her was an apple, red and ripe, polished to a high luster. Down came the King from Scotland, hungry as a wolf. Bit into that apple with joy. To taste no sweetness, only dust and rot and worms. If he has never fully recovered, well, few men do so when the dreams of a lifetime prove false.

  —But all of that, even this—the old man sleeping in the upper chamber of Westminster’s gatehouse—is epilogue to a play which ended long ago. Ralegh’s last glory, his final triumph came in the last years of the Queen.