Elizabeth I

  I felt as if I had just been kicked in the stomach. I actually almost lost my breath. So it was not to be. If Southampton had to follow Robert, we would have no opportunity to be alone again.

  “I see.” Suddenly the red gown made me feel like a dressed monkey, the kind fools use in their antics. Well, I might as well entertain this fellow. Now that I thought of it ... I had read snatches of his poem and it concerned the goddess Venus throwing herself at a young shepherd who would have none of it.

  Was that what I had done with Southampton? Was this his way of telling me that I was unwanted, like Adonis told Venus? And how symbolic, to dispatch this poet who wrote about it. How like Southampton, to do it in this literary fashion.

  “—well received at court,” Shakespeare was saying. “I plan to make changes in it before presenting it again.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I must force myself to pay attention. And no point in sending him away. No one else was coming. Why waste the wine, the cheese, and the candles?

  “I was saying,” he said slowly, “that my play A Midsummer Night’s Dream was well received at court.” He was studying me, well aware that I was distracted. He was trying to ascertain why.

  “Robert mentioned it,” I assured him. “He was proud of the way it was played. Congratulations to you. If it made a good impression at court, you are well on your way.”

  He looked amused at what I said, as if he wanted to correct me but was too polite. “I go back and forth between pure poetry and plays,” he said. “And lately I have written sonnets for Southampton, urging him to marry and pass on his beauty to another generation. I rather like those. They allow me to ruminate on time and eternity and such like.” He grinned. “Poets enjoy that.”

  “It is a theme that never itself grows old.” Grows old. Was I imagining it, or was he looking at me knowledgeably? Had Southampton told him? Was I a curiosity to him, an aged Messalina? “Would you care to see our library? You can inspect our selection of poets, and perhaps tell us what we lack.” I led him up the stairs, down the polished and silent hallway, and into the magnificent paneled library.

  If he was surprised to see a table laden with wine and food, he did not show it. It was obvious I had been expecting someone; now it was equally obvious I expected that person no longer. “Would you care for malmsey? Or perhaps vernage?” I asked.

  “I always favored vernage,” he said.

  I poured out two goblets of it and handed his to him slowly. I touched the rim of mine to his. “Drink well,” I said, taking a sip.

  His stillness unnerved me. He seemed to be in complete command of himself, not needing to chatter. He turned away and began to inspect the books lining the shelves, nodding now and then. He seemed utterly absorbed in examining the collection. The bust of Augustus looked on from his pedestal.

  “What is this?” he suddenly said, picking up a marble fragment from a shelf. He ran his fingers over it.

  “It is what remains of a face,” I said. “A friend brought it to us from Rome, where such pieces of antiquity are lying about for the finding. The best ones, of course, are taken by the pope for his collection. But I rather like this, for all its flaws.”

  He turned it so the candlelight showed its contours, more strongly than if direct light had shone on it. “All the features are still here, in vestigial form, softly suggesting, letting us supply what is missing from our own imagination. In that way we become part of it ourselves.”

  “Vestigial! I would not have expected that word, but yes, you are right.” He was making me increasingly nervous. He saw too much. I felt as naked as Eve in the Garden when God went looking for her. “More wine?” I hurried over to the table to get the flask.

  “Outworn buried age,” he said fondly, still cradling the carving. “Yes, more wine.”

  I refilled his glass, and mine as well. A pleasant lightness was stealing into my head.

  He was not exactly handsome, but he was pleasing. His dark hair was thick and had a natural curl; through it winked a gold earring. He had unusually red lips. I tried to avoid looking into his eyes because they made me nervous. Instead I looked at his collar, his cheeks, the lips, the hair. “So you are pleased with your patron?” I asked. Even as I said it, I knew it sounded silly.

  “Oh, very,” he said. “He is most generous, and appreciative. What more could a poet want?”

  “To be free of a patron,” I blurted out. “Even the best is a yoke!”

  “No poet can be free of a patron, not even one as successful as I after Venus and Adonis,” he said matter-of-factly. “But a playwright can be, and that is my intention.”

  “I’ve no doubt you shall be successful.”

  “Perhaps there is a chance of success in your ... friendship as well, Lady Leicester?” He looked boldly at me.

  I stared back at him. He was tantalizing, that was the only word for it. He teased just by his presence and the eyes that saw through me. “Perhaps,” I heard myself saying. “I am always open to new friendships.”

  “Indeed?” He put his glass down carefully, and laid the marble carving beside it. “Do you have many close friends, Lady Leicester?”

  “I believe you know several of my friends,” I said. “And you may call me Lettice if you like.”

  “I prefer ‘Laetitia,’ ” he said. “That must be your real name? So much more elegant and classical.”

  “Like the marble carving?” I could not help laughing. What an odd conversation this was!

  “Just like the marble carving.”

  It had never happened like this to me, a seduction with a stranger who did not bother to seduce, just drifted into it with classical references. I found it more exciting than compliments, verses, music, and innuendos, for it was so unusual.

  The couches scattered around the library served us well; we migrated from one to another, as if each experiment had to be conducted on a different couch. Once I looked up to see Augustus, illustrious emperor and busy adulterer, sternly eyeing us, and I laughed. Perhaps that old reprobate was learning something. This one was.

  Afterward—it was nearly growing light—he mentioned that I should take a look at the manuscript he had brought.

  “You might recognize something in it,” he said. “It concerns a man who comes to another’s wife, and the welcome he receives.”

  Disappointment flooded me. How cold-blooded of him to tell me that.

  “Not such a one as we have given each other, Laetitia,” he quickly assured me. “Ours is different.” He fastened his cloak and put on his hat. “It grows light. I must leave.”

  Just then a thud announced the arrival of a servant. “Hurry!” I said.

  He dashed down the steps and was out the door before old Timothy dragged his broom to the hall to begin sweeping.

  33

  ELIZABETH

  August 1595

  This summer had been cold and rainy, like last year’s, and I could see the stunted crops in the featureless fields as Essex and I rode west across the country to Shrewsbury. We were on a pilgrimage of sorts, a visit to an oracle.

  Robert had told me one spring night of a man living near Shrewsbury who was the oldest man in England.

  “His name is Thomas Parr, and he was born in 1483,” he said. “That makes him one hundred and twelve years old.”

  “When will you cease to be a liar, Robert?” I had giggled. We had been up late playing cards, and I was light-headed.

  His face had gone rigid, insulted. “I am not lying! I have heard of him since I was a child. My sisters visited him once. You don’t believe me? I’ll take you there!”

  “I had planned a Progress in the opposite direction.”

  “Change your plans. Better yet, forget the Progress and come alone with me.” He put down his cards and leaned toward me. “Aren’t you bored with Progresses? They are always the same. How can you stand another speech, another bad drama, another off-key choir?”

  I could stand it because I had to, and because it was
expected of me. And seeing their eagerness to perform, their desire to please, was important to me.

  “Stop tempting me to neglect my duty,” I chided him, picking up his hand and stroking it. Such a fine hand.

  “I am temptation,” he whispered. “I’ll act as your guide, I’ll show you my ancestral lands, on the border of Wales. Yours, too—your grandfather was Welsh, and we are cousins,” he reminded me. “Your child-uncle Arthur lies buried at Ludlow, and my father is buried at Carmarthen, near Merlin’s cave. It is in our blood. You must see it!”

  I let his hand go. No. I should go on a Progress to assure my people. It was my duty. But—

  “Very well,” I said, raising my eyes quickly, hoping to catch his honest expression.

  He looked delighted. Nothing else, no flitting triumph or consternation in his face.

  “Oh, thanks be to the gods! I had not dared to hope my poor appeal would be heard. But I truly meant it. We will journey to an enchanted land. Together.”

  And here we were, the sun finally dipping toward the west on this long summer day, halfway to our destination. Far behind us, the necessary guards trailed. I did not take any ladies. The ones my age would have creaked and complained about a journey of this duration, and the younger ones would not have been interested.

  “Tomorrow we will push on to Shrewsbury and Old Parr,” he said cheerfully, although it was quite far. His vigor and strength would eat up the distance. And I would pretend mine would.

  That night, spent in a simple Devereux holding in Evesham, I was so tired I could have slept on boulders. But I had awakened rested with the morning’s light, ready for another hard day.

  Westward through the countryside the landscape changed. This part of England caught more of the wind and rain coming from the sea, and it was wilder and greener than the eastern counties. As we got closer to Wales, this would become even more marked.

  Shrewsbury, a market town on the river Severn, lay only ten miles from the beginning of Wales proper. Much wool came through here; I was familiar with the name on tax rolls. But Old Parr lived in the nearby hamlet of Wollaston, easily found by asking. Old Parr was famous, more famous than anyone else who had ever lived there.

  “He’s a hundred and fifty!” one boy cried. “He’s so old, he looks like a piece of leather!”

  “No, he’s two hundred!” a little girl said. “My great-great-great-grandmother knew him. He looks like a locust shell!”

  Their father put his arms around their shoulders. “He isn’t quite that old,” he said. “But—you know what the Scripture says about Moses? That he was a hundred and twenty years old and he was still a ... a vigorous man? Well, Old Parr had to do public penance for adultery when he was a hundred!” He chortled with admiration.

  “We must see this for ourselves,” I said. “My thanks for the kind directions.”

  They bowed, thanking me for speaking to them. I handed them a fan for a memento. It was all I had, having deliberately come away with very few trappings.

  Old Parr’s dwelling turned out to be a small stone cottage on the crest of a hill, encircled with a fence. The latched gate was not guarded, and we were free to walk in.

  It was dim inside and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw a small figure sitting on a stool in the corner. He leaped up, startling us.

  “Who’s that? Who’s that?” he called, grabbing a stave propped by his stool and flailing about with it.

  “It is the Queen,” I told him. “Come a far way to see you.”

  He spat. “Go on, liar!”

  There was someone else in the room, and she rushed over to him, wrenching the stave away. “Father! Father!” she said. “What if it is the Queen?” She turned to me, wiping her hands on her apron, squinting to see me. “I—I cannot believe it—but no one would dare such an impersonation!” She sank down on her knees. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. We are—I am—speechless.”

  “Rise, mistress. I hope you will not remain speechless, for I am here to learn from this most unusual subject of mine. I am sure he has wisdom to impart, for the years whisper it in our ears, whether we will or no.”

  Essex was standing awkwardly in the doorway. “This is the Earl of Essex, whose family is from these regions. Indeed, it was from him I learned of your father.”

  “What does she want?” Parr said querulously.

  “That is no way to address your sovereign!” said Essex. “Apologize. Years do not confer immunity from manners.”

  “Quite so, Father,” said his daughter. “Think of all the Englishmen who would faint away with this honor—the Queen in his own house!”

  I laughed. “Well, my oldest subject—I think I am safe in calling you that—I am the eighth monarch you have had. How many do you remember?”

  He settled back onto his stool, wiping his clouded eyes with the back of his hand. “Forgive me, my Queen. I meant no disrespect. My memory comes in with the first Tudor, King Henry VII, your grandfather. I was only two when he claimed his crown, and he remained King until I was twenty-six. He was the King of my strength, as the Scriptures say. Then the great King Harry, your father, that was from twenty-six to sixty-four, yes. And I was already seventy-five when you, his daughter, became Queen. But that was not so old, no! Moses was that old when he was called back to Egypt. And look at all he did!”

  “So you have lived here all this time?” I looked around the little room. There was nothing extraordinary about it; it was a room like thousands of others.

  “Not all the time,” he said. “I joined the army when I was seventeen, joined your Welsh grandfather Henry Tudor’s army. That is the only time I have left here, and after that stint in the army I had no desire ever again to leave, I can tell you that! Nasty business, no matter who’s fighting. No matter what their cause, good or bad. Wounds and rotten food—no thanks.”

  As my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could see his daughter better. She was younger than my maids of honor.

  “What of your family?” I asked. His wife must be long gone. What of the rest?

  He gave one of his bursts of wheezing laughter. “No! Only my daughter here! Born of my sin.” He sounded immensely proud of it. He crossed himself. “And I’ve done penance for it!” he almost shrieked.

  His daughter spoke up. “Calm yourself, Father.” She put her hands on his shoulder and turned to me. “I am the daughter of Katherine Milton, the woman he took up with. I think my father would not have been known outside our village except that his public penance revealed his age.”

  “I betrayed my wife!” he announced gleefully. “With a younger woman! And in these parts they still believe in public penance for adultery. I had to stand draped in a white sheet in the parish church for it.”

  “That is quite a feat for a man a hundred years old,” I allowed. “And that was twelve years ago!”

  “It killed my wife,” he confided. “The shock, the scandal. But I am thinking of marrying again.”

  Essex burst out laughing. “Is that so?” he asked.

  “Yes. A man needs a wife.” He nodded vigorously.

  “No doubt you do,” I said. I peered at him. He had shaggy white eyebrows that overhung his lids, like a magus’s, and bright brown eyes. For a man of his years, his skin was not too wrinkled, and I noticed he was sitting straight on his backless stool. Around the room were crude portraits of all the monarchs he had lived under—Edward IV, Richard III, Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary, and myself. The one of me showed me at my coronation. I liked that.

  “I have brought you a velvet cloak,” I said, now doubting the appropriateness of it. “What do you have for me? I want only words, no gift.” As if he had any objects to give. “Tell me what you credit with your long life.”

  “It’s all in the diet!” he said. “I believe that eating mainly green onions, cheese, coarse bread—none of that dainty fare!—ale and buttermilk is what did it.”

  “It can’t be just the food,” said Essex, “for all yo
ur neighbors eat the same.”

  “No, there’s more,” he said slyly. “And I could tell you if—”

  Essex slapped a half groat down in his palm so swiftly his words were not even interrupted.

  “—you were so kind as you have just been. It’s not only what goes in the belly, but what comes out of the head. My motto has always been to keep your head cool by temperance and your feet warm by exercise.”

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “It’s enough,” he grunted. “If you think it’s easy, why then do so many fail to do it?”

  “True, most people manage one but not both.”

  “Now, there’s a little something else ...”

  Essex pressed another coin in his palm. “Do tell.”

  “The rest of my secret is this: Rise early, go to bed likewise, and if you want to prosper, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.” He clamped his lips together. “There, that’s all I know.”

  “It has preserved him all these years,” his daughter said.

  “God bless him,” I said.

  “Will you be sending me a wedding gift?” he asked as we took our leave.

  “You incorrigible old rogue!” I called back at him. “Yes. You have earned it!”

  34

  We were still laughing as we mounted our horses and rode away; my guards, having overheard what had passed inside the house, were guffawing, too.

  “I forgot to ask him how old his intended is,” I said.

  “They say there is no man so foul, or so old, that some woman won’t have him,” said Essex. “And he is famous, too.”

  “But he hasn’t any money for all his fame, to offset the drawback of being over a hundred,” I said. I drew abreast of him. “Do you agree with him? That a man must be married?”

  He smiled warily. “Ah, my Queen,” he said, “you’ll not trap me into speaking of marriage. I know the subject easily affronts you.”