Elizabeth I

  Essex began to fall apart, as he did under pressure. “Cecil! You and Cecil! He’s leading a Spanish conspiracy, and you are in on it! When I cried out in the streets that the Crown was sold to the Spaniard, it was not of my own imagination. A trusted councillor had told me that Cecil said the Infanta’s claim was as good as any other’s.”

  A great silence fell, and Essex smiled. Now he had said it. Stony faces of judges, jury, and prosecutors stared back at him. Then there was the sound of curtain rings sliding over a rod, and from behind a curtain at the top of the steps emerged Robert Cecil, who had not been present until now.

  He limped down the stairs and took his place opposite Essex, staring him down. The tall, black-clad Essex faced Cecil, more than a head shorter.

  Furious but, unlike Essex, able to speak coldly and calmly, Cecil let loose. “My Lord of Essex! The difference between you and me is great. For wit I give you preeminence—you have it absolutely. For nobility I also give you place. I am not noble, yet a gentleman. I am no swordsman—there you also have the odds; but I have innocence, conscience, truth, and honesty to defend me against the scandal and sting of slanderous tongues, and in this court I stand as an upright man, and Your Lordship as a delinquent.” He paused to draw breath, then continued, “I protest, before God, I have loved your person and justified your virtues. And had I not seen your ambitious hunger inclined to usurpation, I would have gone on my knees to Her Majesty to have helped you, but you have a wolf’s head in a sheep’s garment. God be thanked, we know you now!” He shook his head. “Ah, my lord, were it but your own case, the loss had been less. But you have drawn a number of noble persons and gentlemen of birth and quality into your net of rebellion, and their bloods will cry vengeance against you.”

  Still standing on his height and nobility, Essex mocked, “Ah, Master Secretary, I thank God for my humiliation, that you in the ruff of all your bravery, have come hither to make your oration against me today.”

  But Cecil brushed the insult off and pressed him. “Which councillor was it who quoted me about the Infanta? Name him if you dare. If you do not name him, it must be believed to be a fiction.”

  “Aha!” crowed Essex. “Southampton here heard it as well.”

  “Who was it, then? Again I say, name him!”

  “It was ... the comptroller, Sir William Knollys.”

  “Summon him here,” ordered Buckhurst. “I know he has absented himself out of family loyalty, so he would not have to testify against his nephew, but now he must come. And do not tell him what this is about. He must be utterly ignorant of the coming question.”

  The proceedings were suspended while Knollys was fetched from his home and escorted into the court. He stood before Buckhurst, who detailed Essex’s accusation against Cecil and asked if he had ever heard the secretary express those thoughts.

  Knollys took a deep breath and thought out loud. “Yes ... he did speak of it. But ... it had to do with something else. Something else ... What was it?” He shook his head as if he could tumble his thoughts around inside. “Oh yes. It was when that Jesuit had written the tract ‘Conference on the Next Succession.’ Cecil said it was impudent of him to claim that the Infanta had the same rights in the succession as anyone else.”

  “That was what he said? That it was wrong of the Jesuit to make that claim?”

  “I believe his exact words were ‘a strange impudence,’” said Knollys.

  Buckhurst wagged his head from side to side. “And so now we have it. You have lived under an illusion, Lord Essex. An illusion of your own making.”

  The court was adjourned while the jury members withdrew to make their verdict. When they assembled again, they stood and, one by one, placing their left hands on their right sides, made the pronouncement: “Guilty, my lord, of high treason, upon mine honor.”

  Essex stood quietly, asking only for clemency for Southampton. Southampton whimpered and asked for mercy.

  Buckhurst pronounced sentence. “You shall both be led from hence to the place from whence you came and there remain during Her Majesty’s pleasure: from thence to be drawn upon a hurdle through the midst of the city, and so to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck and taken down alive—your bodies to be opened, and your bowels taken out and burned before your face: your bodies to be quartered—your heads and quarters to be disposed of at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and so God have mercy on your souls.”

  Essex looked around, his head held high. “I think it fitting that my poor quarters, which have done Her Majesty service in diverse parts of the world, should now at the last be sacrificed and disposed at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” Then he bowed, flipping his cape out.

  The court was stunned at his arrogance and lack of contrition.

  The prisoners were returned to the Tower with the executioner’s blade now turned toward them.

  84

  I was sitting in a high-backed chair, rigid like a Byzantine icon, as the day drew to its close. I had not eaten all day, fasting in order to feel more keenly what was happening in Westminster Hall. The hall’s carved wooden ceiling had looked down alike on the joyous and the tormented, and that just within my own family. Today what did they see, what did they hear?

  A knock; then a messenger entered. “They are pronounced guilty,” he said.

  I stood. “When?”

  “Just now. I have run straight from the hall.”

  It was so nearby he was not even out of breath. “Both of them?”

  “Yes, both Essex and Southampton. They are on their way back to the Tower.”

  I went to the window and peered out. There were enough boats on the river that it was hard to know which one carried the prisoners. I let the curtain fall. “They shall never leave it,” I said. “They go upon the river for the last time.” What must it be like to ride anywhere, knowingly, for the last time?

  “Mr. Secretary Cecil clinched the day,” he said. “He made a surprise appearance from behind a curtain, just as in a play. But he turned the tables so thoroughly against Essex that the earl had no recourse. Standing beside that strapping man, never did Cecil, in his small stature, play taller. He will be providing a transcript of all the happenings. The scribes are copying furiously this very moment. But it will take several hours.”

  “But you have brought me the meat of it,” I said. “The rest is pastry decoration.”

  It was done, then. It was done. I felt immense relief to be delivered from the long-hovering threat, but no satisfaction. Just so I had felt when Walsingham had exposed the Scots queen unequivocally and the judges had pronounced sentence. My suspicions had been confirmed. But I would rather have had them turn out to be unfounded.

  I gathered my women about me. These faithful companions of my chamber deserved to hear immediately what had happened. Then I withdrew with Catherine, and we were alone in the bedchamber.

  “Once more I will be thanking Charles for his timely service to the realm,” I told her.

  “He still has Essex’s sword,” said Catherine. “What will you tell him to do with it?”

  “It should be returned to the family,” I said. “When all this is—over.”

  “When will that be?”

  “As soon as the papers can be drawn up and arrangements made.”

  “Arrangements? The executioner, a grave plot? There is already a scaffold at Tower Hill. He will not be going to Tyburn, I assume?”

  “No, nor to Tower Hill. He will have a private execution on Tower Green. A new scaffold must be built. It has been almost fifty years since there has been an execution there. Lady Jane Grey was the last one.”

  “Why send him there?”

  “Because he requested a private execution.”

  “Or because it would be too dangerous to permit the public to witness it out on Tower Hill?”

  “Both, Catherine. If the public makes a ruckus, then it reverses our victory. He must perish out of sight.”

  The trial had taken place on Thursday; over t
he weekend Essex agonized with his Puritan chaplain, Abdyias Ashton, whom he had asked for ere he surrendered. He had relapsed into a state of frenzied religiosity that focused entirely on his soul and excluded his grieving family. He would not see his wife, mother, sisters, or friends. Instead he confessed all to Ashton, who then insisted on bringing Privy Councillors to partake of these unburdenings. So on Saturday, only two days after the trial, a very different Essex writhed in front of the admiral and Cecil, breast beating and then writing out four pages of confessions, allegations, and blame.

  “Well, men, you have witnessed his breakdown,” I told them, as they presented me with the original papers—not a copy. His tiny handwriting, shrunk to get as much as possible on the pages, made it hard to read. “It is never a pretty sight.”

  Before me Charles and Cecil stood stiffly. The confession began with his admission that he was “the greatest, the vilest, and the most unthankful traitor that ever was born.” He was exaggerating, as usual. But he named names of everyone associated with his plot, drawing in Lord Mountjoy and his mistress, Penelope. She had insulted him and egged him on by telling him that everyone thought him a coward, he said. “Look to her, for she has a proud spirit,” he warned.

  “It runs in the family,” I grunted.

  “In the midst of all this, he suddenly demanded that his attendant, Henry Cuffe, be brought in to face him,” said Cecil. “And then he accused him to his face of leading him into it all.”

  “Ah, he is the same man despite his protestations of reform,” I said. “He has ever sought to blame others for his misdeeds. It is always someone else’s fault—in his eyes.”

  “But not the law’s,” said Cecil. “The law has spoken.” He hesitated, then shot a glance at Charles. “There is one other thing ...”

  “You must tell it,” said Charles.

  “Essex admitted in our presence that, and I quote, ‘the Queen will never be safe as long as I live.’”

  “Those were his exact words?” I said.

  “Indeed,” said Charles, “though I hate hearing them repeated.”

  “He only admits what we already knew,” I said, more lightly than I felt.

  “As regarding the others—Cuffe, Meyrick, Blount, and the rest,” Charles said, “they will stand trial after these first two are dispatched.”

  “What of Southampton?” asked Catherine. “You did not mention where he was ... was to go.”

  “Not Tower Green,” I said. In truth, I had thought little about him. He was so inconsequential.

  “If he is to join Essex on his exit from this world, then you should decide,” said Cecil.

  That annoyed me. “Do not issue orders to princes,” I said. “I shall decide when I decide. Have the papers been drawn up?”

  “They will be ready tomorrow, and awaiting your royal signature,” he said.

  “Sunday. I would never sign an execution warrant on a Sunday!”

  “Monday, then,” said Cecil.

  “Monday it shall be, then. And the execution can proceed on Tuesday. Ready everything.”

  He had said not one word about me in his confession, or to the councillors, or to his chaplain. This time there were no appeals, no tear-stained letters, no poems, and no protestations. At last the golden tongue and pen of the earl had fallen silent.

  Nor was there to be any word from me. What could I possibly say? If I said all I felt, it would fill not four pages, as Essex had done, but a hundred. Where have you gone? I wanted to say. What infected you, corrupted you? Was there anything I could have done to alter it? Did I play any part in it?

  But those questions were not ones a queen could ask a subject, and this subject would never have the self-knowledge to give an honest answer. So: silence on both sides.

  Provision must be made for his body. It had to go somewhere after it fell on the scaffold. I gave orders that a grave be prepared in the little church of St. Peter ad Vincula, which stood only yards away. It served as the final resting place of many executed prisoners. The higher ranking were inside the church, and the lesser people were buried in the graveyard around it. I had never been able to force myself to go inside, for all that it had fine marble monuments. My mother lay there, and I could not bear to think so closely upon how she was taken there, still warm from the scaffold and not in a proper coffin. Others kept her company, a whole host of them: her brother George, and Thomas More, and Queen Catherine Howard, and Lady Jane Grey. But if I stood there and looked, there would be only one grave I would see: hers.

  I mean no disrespect, I told her in my mind, as I had a thousand times. But, Mother, I have made my peace with it all, as I have had to.

  Lent was about to begin. We always had a play at court on Shrove Tuesday. I must think of that. I must select something. Life must go on, flow smoothly, as it always had.

  Although we did not observe the carnival excesses of Catholic countries, nonetheless we traditionally marked the last days before Ash Wednesday in our own distinctive manner. At court we had a “farewell to luxuries” banquet, and attended a play. The plays were usually lighthearted, but this year that would not do. Shakespeare had a new one. We would see that. It was the least he could do for us, after allowing his company to cooperate with Essex and stage Richard II with the forbidden scene.

  Monday, as promised, the heavy parchment death warrant was placed reverently on my desk to be signed. I did so, not wishing it to linger in my possession, and dispatched it to the lieutenant of the Tower. A little later I realized that I had not specified what day the sentence was to be carried out, so I sent a message telling him to proceed Wednesday morning. I also ordered that there be two executioners, in case one was incapacitated at the last moment. It was to be a private execution, but there must be witnesses—the Queen’s Guard, led by Raleigh, and nobles, aldermen, and councillors.

  The banquet proceeded normally. The usual ceremonies were performed, the plates and dishes magnificently presented, the delicate glassware filled with the best wine. The chatter, however, was subdued. The only subject that must not be mentioned drowned all the others.

  It was a relief to take our places to watch the play. Let the actors talk and act while we sat mute and motionless. The subject of the play was the Trojan war—nothing could have been further from the events around us.

  “Shakespeare seems to have deserted our realm and our time for the ancient world,” said Catherine, by my side. “First a play about Caesar, now this.”

  “A love story—Troilus and Cressida?” said Charles, making a face.

  Catherine pretended to be offended. “And what is wrong with that?”

  “I am too old,” said the admiral. “Love affairs are not my main concern any longer.”

  “Charles!” She smacked him with her fan teasingly.

  Nor mine, I thought. Love affairs have ceased to have any meaning for me. Nonetheless, I can still tolerate them onstage or in a poem.

  I settled back, expecting heroic characters, combat scenes, and tragic lovers—all earmarks of the Trojan war—told in Shakespeare’s haunting language.

  Instead, the play featured two unsavory characters, one of whom had the most scurrilous view of life and people I had ever heard. Every time he came onstage—which was far too often—I winced. He opened the play and closed it, wishing diseases on his audience as his farewell to us. As for the famous names of Homer, they were transformed into unrecognizably mean little people. Hector chased Patroclus for his armor, coveting it. Instead of a duel between the noble Hector and the warrior Achilles, Achilles killed an unarmed Hector in cold blood. Helen was an empty-headed strumpet, Cressida a liar, Troilus a fool, Ajax an ox. There was not one character I would invite to my table. And Shakespeare’s beautiful use of words had shrunk as small as his characters. Convoluted parallels, tortured usages, not a single line that sang in the mind. Only one passage, spoken by Odysseus, sent a chill through me and seemed to whisper, This is what has just happened. It was “Power into will, will into appetit
e, and appetite, a universal wolf, so doubly seconded with will and power, must make perforce a universal prey, and last eat up himself.” Essex’s wolf appetite had devoured him. Had the playwright thought of him when he had written it?

  I wanted to apologize for inflicting the play on everyone. But the mood of it—disillusioned, hollow, sad—perhaps reflected what we were all feeling. I said good night and brought the evening to a close. It had been a fitting penance for whatever part I had played in the downfall of Essex.

  Dawn, and Essex would soon be led out to the block. I shut the doors of my inner chambers and did not admit any company, even my ladies. The day plodded on; the sun approached its highest point, ending the morning. I could not read, nor fasten my mind on anything. I sat down at the virginals and began to play from memory; it required no effort of the mind or will. The sweet, round notes floated around me, caressing like supple fingers. When thoughts flee and words are inadequate, music can act as timely balm.

  There was a soft knock. No one would knock except for something—the one thing—that I must be told.

  “Enter,” I said.

  The door swung open and Cecil entered, then walked softly over to me. I stopped playing.

  “Your Majesty, it is over,” he said. “Essex died this morning.”

  I nodded. I could not speak. In a moment, I continued playing. Cecil left.

  The next day I ended my isolation and readied myself to hear the details. It was necessary that I hear them, although there was nothing I wanted less. Let him have vanished in a wisp of cloud, easily flying from life to death, an instant translation between the two worlds.

  Raleigh, as official observer, recounted it all to me in private. Essex had been led out at eight o’clock by three clergymen. He was dressed all in black—satin doublet and breeches, velvet cloak, with a wide hat and startlingly white ruff.