The next few days passed uneventfully enough, as Robert regained his bearings and his health. After one of these bouts he always needed a recovery period. He never did explain why he laughed so much at Philip’s death—perhaps now he did not remember. But Anthony Bacon brought information about Philip’s last days, and they were no laughing matter.
It was sad to see a man in declining health describing another’s similar situation. Anthony had grown even more frail and nervous and had attacks of shaking and heart pounding that came upon him suddenly. When that happened, he would jerk and sweat and have to cling to the arms of his chair. His brother Francis seldom visited us now; Robert had made his disdain for his advice so blatant that his erstwhile friend stayed away.
“Philip had been suffering for some time,” said Anthony. “He had a cancer of some sort, and his body was covered with sores. He lay in bed for at least fifty days, and brooded and brooded upon the loss of his last Armada. He feared it meant the end of his Enterprise of England, the one thing that had mattered to him. He felt a special responsibility for the English Catholics; after all, that is one reason he had married Mary Tudor. Now he had failed them.”
“He must have felt that God deserted him,” I said.
“So it seems,” said Anthony. “He kept gazing at that waiting coffin. Did you know, he had over seven thousand saints’ relics? They failed him, too.”
“Pitiful.” I thought of the bedridden old man, his body a putrefying mass of sores, with the coffin staring him in the face. He did not even have any teeth and had to exist on mush.
“Before you feel too sorry for him, let me tell you what the bastard did.” Anthony’s voice rose as he gathered his strength. “His last official business was to dictate a letter to The O’Neill congratulating him on his great victory at Yellow Ford and offering him support. Cheering on the Queen’s enemy, he was passing his sword on to the next generation.”
“Let him rot in hell!” No matter my own personal feelings for or against Elizabeth as a woman and a cousin, she was the Queen of my country and to insult her was to insult England.
“With all his saints’ elbows and tongues and knucklebones,” said Anthony. “I heard he had a square inch from the skinned St. Bartholomew and one of St. Lucia’s eyeballs.”
“Popish rubbish, and let him fester in it. They probably buried him chin deep in such stolen body parts.”
“His heir, Philip III, is only twenty and does not seem as devout. He will probably auction off the relics to raise money.”
“Well, don’t buy any!” I said. There would be scant market for them in England in any case.
“I don’t know; I’ve always wanted one of those pieces of the true cross. Although I’d settle for a vial of the Virgin’s milk.” He gave a great snorting laugh that soon turned into a painful cough.
“Call upon St. Blaise,” I said. “That’s the cure for sore throats.”
Robert strode into the room, looking puzzled. “Whatever are you laughing at?”
“Philip again,” I said. “Anthony was just talking about his collection of saints—parts of them, anyway.”
Robert shivered. “Such a gruesome hobby,” he said. His own piety, which came upon him in fits and starts, was of the Protestant variety—inherited from my father, most likely.
“I brought intelligence about Philip’s last hours,” said Anthony.
“Doubtless they were impeccably Catholic and involved a vision of some sort,” said Robert.
“Yes, indeed, a vision. It wore an Irish cloak and had long hair and a bloodthirsty yell. Philip commissioned it—against us.”
“A ghost? He called upon a ghost?”
“Would that it were. This one is alive enough—The O’Neill. Philip gave him his dying blessing, as it were. Said Yellow Ford was a great thing, and for him to go forth and do more, at Spain’s expense.”
Now Robert’s face went pale, pale as it had been in his sequestered room where he had hidden from the sun. “He did that?” he murmured.
“If we doubted the battle lines were drawn, we now have our proof,” said Anthony. “Ireland is Spain’s surrogate, and it has won a mighty victory against us.”
Robert let out a mournful sigh, as if all the deaths there, including his father’s, entered into him. For once, he had no words ready.
Early the next morning a summons came from Greenwich. Her Majesty commanded the presence of the Earl of Essex at court, immediately, upon pain of severe punishment if disobeyed.
60
ELIZABETH
September 1598
The candles flickered in unison. When one leaped up, the other mirrored it, as if they were competing to illuminate Philip’s face. He would have liked that, I thought. He would have felt it an angelic tribute. He was comely and youthful in this miniature portrait, the one he had given my sister upon their betrothal. I had seen her look hungrily upon it before she had beheld him in person. He had a restrained smile in this picture, a teasing promise of high spirits—a promise he never fulfilled. After she died I had kept it; it served to remind me that the willful enemy plotting my demise had once been my friend in England and that no one is entirely a monster.
Now he was dead. Doubtless more candles were lit all over Spain, in little churches and in the great fortress of Escorial, where Philip spent his last years. They would not yet know of it in Peru or Panama, but next year requiem Masses would be said for him there. His obsequies would just go on and on, reverberating around the world.
I should feel some sort of triumph, or at least relief. Instead I felt naked. Losing my steadfast enemy felt oddly like losing a steadfast friend; both defined me. First Burghley, now Philip. They both had left sons to carry on after them, but the son is never the father.
I had the damning intelligence about Philip’s message to The O’Neill. It saddened me, killing my stubborn belief that when our last moments on earth seize us, we become better than we have been in life and even the petty man becomes, briefly, noble. Instead, with his last breath, Philip had focused on his hatred of me and England.
Once you were young, I thought, looking again at the portrait. But the only remnant of you that remained so was your intense ability to hate: malevolence burning bright in a withered old face.
Our duel continues, my old brother. It goes on, because you would have it so.
They were all here, by God, including Essex. I had sent that wayward puppy a summons that even he dared not ignore. They were sitting glumly around the polished council table—the entire Privy Council, from the ancient Whitgift to the young, new Lord Cobham. The days since Yellow Ford had brought a flood of bad news, as well as a flood of fleeing settlers. Edmund Spenser had just barely escaped with his life from his burning house and barn; he was back in England, glad to be safe, and now composed verses re-creating the horrors—flames, looting, slaughter—he had witnessed in Ireland.
Today we would move forward, take command of the ship. We could drift no longer, or we would be dashed upon the rocks of Ireland, as the Armada had been.
Up and down the long table, fit for a monastery refectory, they looked to me to steer them. Essex sat alone at the farthest end, facing me, as if he were my antipode. I motioned him to move, take his place among the other councillors. Scowling, he did so, seating himself on Carey’s side of the table, shunning the side with his enemies Cecil, Admiral Howard, and Cobham.
“Gentlemen, one might mistake this for a funeral,” I said. “The only person to have died is Philip, and I would not expect such long faces on our side. Archbishop, it is fitting that you lead us in prayer before opening this momentous council.”
His bushy black eyebrows rose, and he prayed in a sonorous voice.
“Amen,” all chorused.
“Robert Cecil,” I said, “as principal secretary, please summarize the choices facing us.”
He stood, clutching the papers he had prepared—not because he knew he would have to present them but to order his own mind. I was
sure that in his wardrobe all his shoes—polished and properly soled—were lined up according to season. “Very well,” he said, nodding to all. “We have only three choices. One, withdraw and surrender Ireland to the Irish. Two, tread water and do the minimum to retain it. Three, throw our greatest force against it and subjugate it utterly. The first choice would be tempting were it not for the Spanish. It is thrift and common sense to rid oneself of a nuisance, unless someone is waiting to pick it up and turn it against you. The second choice has already been tried, and has failed. That leaves only the third.”
“To my sorrow, I affirm that you are right,” I said. “So we meet today to decide how to implement it, not whether to implement it. The die is cast—cast by Spain, not us.”
“Very well, but how can we do this?” asked Lord Keeper Egerton.
“Money, money. It requires money we don’t have,” lamented Buckhurst.
“It will have to come from Parliament,” said Lord Cobham, “and we just called a parliament. It is too soon to call another. They won’t be in a giving mood.”
“We still have the subsidies to collect from the last one,” said Admiral Howard. “And in this time of danger, they may have to meet again.”
“It’s always ‘this time of danger.’ How long can I lay that burden on my people, extracting money from them out of fear?” I wondered. “But it has all been true, not a ploy on my part.”
“All the money in the world won’t help without someone to lead the attack,” said John Herbert, the second secretary. He seldom attended council meetings but kept the notes from all of them. “We need a commander. A military genius.”
“Perhaps we can get the witch of Endor to call up Caesar?” said Whitgift. “All our good ones are dead.”
“Someone has to lead them. They can’t be led by a ghost.”
“Ireland has made ghosts out of scores of commanders,” cried Essex, “including my father!”
“This time will have to be different,” said Carey, beside him. “This time, the commander will have to be a man who will not be broken by Ireland, but will break Ireland. A man who can draw others to enlist and serve under him. Someone whose very appointment makes a statement.”
“But who can that be?” asked Herbert, for all of us.
We all knew there was only one man now in the realm who could fit that description. Only one man who was both nobly born and a military commander. Only one man whom the people would demand be appointed. There was no choice.
Essex leaped up. His voice grew tremulous, as if he were speaking underwater. “ ‘Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, Here am I; send me.’ Send me!” He rushed over to me, threw himself on the floor. “I am called! I am called!” he cried.
For what seemed several moments no one spoke or even moved.
“Are you certain of that?” I finally said.
“ ‘I heard the voice of the Lord saying’...”
“Did you actually hear it, or are you merely quoting the Bible?”
He raised his head like a naughty child, peeking out from under his hair, which had flopped down over his forehead. “The Lord speaks through Scripture,” he said.
“Spoken like a good Puritan,” I said. “But Catholics are right to warn that Scriptures can be read many different ways, and the devil wants to use our weaknesses to deceive us into false interpretations. Get up. You do not need a quote from the prophet Isaiah to justify your qualifications. The fact that you have served in overseas military operations is more persuasive.”
He pulled himself up on his hands and knees and then stood upright, looking at me. His face was unreadable, blank.
“It seems that the position is yours,” I said. “God have mercy on you, and on England.”
I was sitting in the dark. Not that I meant to, but twilight and then full dark had crept up on me as I sat stiffly in my chair in my inner chamber. Supper had come and been sent back; I had no appetite.
I had had to appoint him. There was no one else. England had been weak on land for years, but never worse than now. Our larder of leaders was empty. But there was one thing Essex had that all the other failed commanders had not: a personal reason for wanting revenge on the Irish. Ireland had robbed him of his father, sending him to an untimely grave. I could only pray that somehow, in this crucible of need, he would convert his long-fallow potential into honorable action.
I was as bad as the Spanish—to have only prayer to rely on. What was it Philip had supposedly said as he launched the first Armada—“In confident hope of a miracle”? My hope was not even confident. In any case, no miracle had rescued them. Was it folly to think we would fare better?
The next day was my birthday. I was sixty-five. Was that anything to celebrate? Yes, something to be thankful for, but not to advertise. I had not planned any formal recognition of the day, knowing that to remind anyone of my age was not politically wise. Nonetheless, Marjorie and Catherine had small tokens for me, chosen with their usual thoughtfulness. Marjorie gave me a cordial flavored with meadow herbs from Rycote. A sip took me to the midsummer fields of that lovely part of the country. Catherine had secretly embroidered a pincushion showing our family connection. She and I were two flowers dangling from a very green and twining stalk. Her flower was lower than mine, one rung down on the genealogical ladder. But so skillful was she in the design that its asymmetry was pleasing. “I am three generations down from Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn, and you are only two,” she said.
“I was just old enough that I remember them, vaguely,” I said. “They died when I was five or six. Not long after—after my mother. Your grandmother Mary outlived them all but still did not live long enough for you to know her.”
“We are not a very long-lived family,” said Catherine.
“That’s a foolish thing to say! I am sixty-five now. And my mother hardly lived a natural life span. Thomas lived to be sixty-two and Elizabeth fifty-eight.” How well I knew all these details.
“That still makes you older than any of them.”
“Quiet!” I laughed. Then the laughter died. “You are right. And I am always thankful for each day.”
“I must laugh at you children,” said Marjorie. “For I am well into my seventies. I remember the Boleyns personally, and I saw King Henry as a young man. A sight never to be forgotten. He was glorious, shining like the sun. ...” She stopped herself. “I don’t feel old,” she said. “But every day my body reminds me.”
Seeing her every day, as I did, the changes had been subtle, and her younger self from past years shaded what I saw. But it was impossible to deny that she had grown old, even if she kept her strength and liveliness.
“Do you wish to retire?” I suddenly asked. “I kept my dear Burghley too long, and I vow not to make that mistake again. It is no friendship, no respect, to command service when the person no longer wishes to serve.”
“When I am ready, I will freely tell you,” she said. “Before long, Henry and I may wish to go to Rycote for good.”
Before noon, gifts and tributes began to accumulate in the presence chamber, in spite of my trying not to emphasize the occasion. All the councillors had sent something, each oddly reflective of his personality. Cecil had sent a small portrait of his father, Whitgift a fourteenth-century Psalter, Buckhurst a bound copy of his early poems, Lord Cobham a map of the Cinque Ports, as befitted their warden. These mementos were more amusing than the formal gifts I received at New Year’s. Then, a surprising box from Edmund Spenser. It contained a lengthy genealogy of King Arthur and my descent from him.
“Did he rescue this from his burning castle in Ireland?” I wondered. Poets were curious creatures. Yet if they were true poets, their work would be the thing they would rush to rescue above all else. It was impossible to ever write something again in exactly the same way.
“He is nearby,” said my chamber usher. “He presented it early this morning.”
He must have known his
firsthand knowledge of Ireland—he had been there most of his adult life—would require him to testify at court. I decided to invite him to call upon me so I could thank him for his gift—and question him before the council did.
Essex did not send a gift, nor did his mother, Lettice. She would have been mad to have done so after the reception of her last one. The most unexpected token came from Wales, a small box of honey and cakes, with a letter from my goddaughter “Elizabeth.” She wished me well and asked if she might come to court to learn English better. “And to see you, most gracious godmother,” she wrote.
I was inordinately pleased. Here in this chamber of aging and politics, she would be a glimpse of the innocence we had all lost. And I was touched that she remembered and felt bold enough to test me to see if what began between us in Wales could grow.
My newly reinstated captain of the Queen’s Guard, Raleigh, proudly led his friend Edmund Spenser into my presence. Coming behind them, uninvited, was Percival the Indian, wearing court clothes and holding his head high. Between two such tall and robust men, Spenser seemed shrunken and abject. But that was hardly surprising, given what he had been through.
Although only in his forties, he moved tentatively, like an elderly knight. “Pray you, be seated,” I told him. I would not make this man stand any longer than necessary. I myself took a seat close by and motioned for food and drink to be brought, in case he needed them.
“You have suffered greatly,” I said. “And your country grieves with you.”
His eyes darted all over the room, like skittish little animals that were afraid to alight. “Thank you,” he said in a faint voice.