Elizabeth I

  “Cádiz,” I said, holding it, examining its gilded wings. “The last time he was happy.” I stroked the angel’s head.

  “We all have a time that turns out to be our pinnacle of happiness,” she said. “But at the time we think there is more to come.”

  “What was yours, Frances?”

  She stopped smoothing the cloak she was ready to fold. “I think it was when Robert first made clear his intentions,” she said. “I had had one noble knight in my life. I had not thought to have another. I was seventeen when Philip died and I thought my life was over. Truly, it just began when I married Robert.”

  “You said you would not draw a breath an hour after his death,” I reminded her. “Yet here you are, still breathing.”

  “We surprise ourselves,” she said. “Each breath I draw, I draw in pain. But I have to keep breathing so my children are not orphans.”

  Our pain was compounded when we learned that others had managed to buy their way out of execution. The Earl of Rutland got off for twenty thousand pounds, the Earl of Bedford for ten thousand, and Lords Sandys, Monteagle, and Cromwell for five thousand, four thousand, and three thousand, respectively. The Earl of Southampton, although condemned along with Robert, still lived in the Tower. His mother was said to be pleading powerfully for him, and I knew that she would end up paying a huge fine and he would go free. Technically these men were still prisoners and would be until the last penny was paid, but freedom loomed.

  I petitioned the lieutenant of the Tower to be able to see Christopher or to write to him, but he said that was not possible. Then I inquired—oh, dreadful question—whether his body would be released to the family. The answer came back, no. The body of a convicted felon was the state’s, and he would be buried in the churchyard of St. Peter ad Vincula—outside, as befitted a man of low rank. Only one glimmer of mercy shone through: The Queen had commuted his sentence to beheading. He would not suffer the horrors of hanging, disemboweling, and being drawn and quartered, as the unfortunate Meyrick and Cuffe did on March 13.

  On the morning of March 18 I broke my word to myself. I would force myself to look on at Tower Hill. I, who had brought him into the world, had not witnessed Robert’s exit from it. Perhaps the last duty I could perform as a wife was to accompany Christopher on the final steps of his journey. It was to be public, unlike Robert’s.

  But as I approached the area of Tower Hill, the thick crowds made me regret my decision. I had never attended a public execution, but they were supposed to serve a moral lesson, striking fear into the hearts of the onlookers. In practice, though, they treated it as an amusement, like bearbaiting and cockfighting, only better, since the victims were people and not animals. I tried to shut my ears to the jolly laughter and chatter of the crowd. All these people were free, free to waste their lives and substance, free to abuse their gifts, while Christopher was not even free to write a letter. I hated them.

  Ahead of me loomed the slope of Tower Hill, with the scaffold perched upon it. So many had died here, so many sanctified it by their blood. Thomas More, who supposedly quipped as they steered him up the steps that he appreciated their help in mounting the scaffold, but as for the coming down, he would shift for himself. Cardinal John Fisher, whom Henry VIII had warned that if the pope sent him a cardinal’s hat there would be no head to put it on. Henry Howard, the poet Earl of Surrey. Guildford Dudley. Thomas Cromwell. All of Anne Boleyn’s supposed lovers, as well as Catherine Howard’s genuine ones.

  I threaded my way through the crowd, more tightly packed the closer I got to the scaffold. Finally I was jammed between two hulking men, but their size prevented anyone from pushing me aside. I was as close as I could get, and I could smell the hay strewn over the platform—fodder to absorb the blood. The headsman, with his black hood, was waiting, as was the block. Two clergymen stood by. At length there was a roar and I saw two men being brought out—Christopher and Charles Danvers. They would pass close to me as they mounted the steps, and I found myself paralyzed as I watched them approach. Christopher would come within an arm’s length, but I could not move. Then, suddenly, I could, and reached out and grabbed his sleeve. He turned, unrecognizing, and the soldier guarding him hit my arm away. Then he mounted the steps, dragging his feet.

  The bandage was gone but a livid scar ran down the right side of his face. He seemed dazed, unable to comprehend what was around him. The Crown representative read their crimes and their sentence. The clergymen stepped forward to speak in low tones to the men. Then the official asked if they wished to make a statement.

  Christopher seemed to suddenly awaken. He spoke in a clear voice of his treason and said that he deserved to die. He said he forgave all his enemies, especially Sir Walter Raleigh. Then he cried, “I die a Catholic!” Looking wildly around, he saw me. “No, no!” he said. “Go!” Still I stood rooted, and he said, “Obey my last wish!”

  He had given me permission. I could go, and not witness the horrible end. I obeyed. Turning my back on Tower Hill, I ran, my hands clapped to my ears. But I still could not drown out the shouts of glee that went up when the headsman struck.

  87

  ELIZABETH

  April 1601

  Easter morning, April 12. The winter was over, all of it, gloriously over, and the pall that had descended on February 25, Ash Wednesday, the day of Essex’s execution, lifted at last.

  The gloom that had attended Lent this year—both in nature, with its bone-chilling mists and lingering frosts, and in my heart—now dissipated. I had thought the sound of birdsong and the bright yellow of new-sprung flowers would never come again, or if they did, would have lost the power to gladden me. But they still had the magic to make things new.

  Throughout the land people gathered to watch the sun dance as it rose on Easter morning, an old belief. Here in the palace we put a bowl of water in the eastern window of the privy chamber to catch the phenomenon. Catherine, Helena, and I bent over it, watching eagle-eyed, but the sun only danced because of ripples in the water.

  “I suppose one needs truly to believe,” said Catherine. “One needs to look with the eyes of a child.”

  “Yes, we are all too old and have seen too much,” agreed Helena. “Even little Eurwen will be acquiring the eyes of her elders now. Most likely this is her last Easter to see the sun dance.”

  “Most like,” I said. “She will be thirteen now.” The age I was when my father died. On that day I had stopped being a child. “I will bring her back to court.” I needed to, for she had lost a kinsman and would forever associate me with the act of his death if I did not bring her close to me again.

  We were still at Richmond, unusually late for this time of year. Usually we had transferred to Greenwich by now. But that had allowed Helena to stay with me longer, and I enjoyed that. Attired in our most sumptuous dress to honor the occasion, we, along with the entire household, attended the Easter service. The pale light from a hundred tapers in the chapel royal was lost in the blaze of sunlight streaming in the windows; only the thick Easter candle, meant to burn for forty days, held its own.

  The wider world soon came calling in the persons of French and Scottish envoys. Both came on account of Essex—the French to ascertain what had happened, the Scots because he had called them. By the time James responded to Essex’s plea that he send troops to assure that Cecil did not take over the government and give the succession to the Spanish, Essex was dead. Gamely James’s envoys carried out their diplomatic mission, seeking to distance themselves from the fallen courtier. I entertained the Scots and assured them of our continued friendship and support. They almost trembled with eagerness to mention the succession but read the warning in my eyes.

  As for the French, Henri IV had sent Marshal Biron as his envoy to express his condolences and thanks for my safety. It took all my willpower to arrange suitable entertainment to honor him. But I needed to be sure of French support, particularly in the coming months, when we wished to bring the dragging, draining, pointless war with
Spain to a close.

  So I smiled and teased and flattered Biron. When he touched on Essex, I assured him I would have spared him had I been able. I said this with a sigh of melancholy. If I had been able ... so many things I would have done. Or not done.

  “Ma’am,” he said, leaning near me in affected confidentiality. “Do you know what my sovereign said upon hearing of your masterful handling of the uprising?”

  “I am sure I cannot guess,” I replied, and waited for him to tell me.

  “He said, ‘She is only a king! She only knows how to rule!’”

  “Ah, well,” I said, flattered against my own better judgment. But finally to have attained parity as a king—the competitive and meaner part of me danced a little dance and nodded upward toward my father. Son or no son, he had had what he sought in the succession to his reign.

  After the French emissaries were dispatched, it was time to address some matters at home. The East India Company merchants planned to send four ships to the Far East. However, they wanted my blessing on their venture and asked me to write letters to the exotic rulers they expected to meet with, and to provide them with the proper gifts to present.

  “For if we come in the name of our Queen,” said the spokesman for the company, “they are like to pay us more heed.”

  “But they will have never heard of me,” I said.

  “Oh, that does not matter,” he said. “The mere sight of the royal seal will impress them.”

  “How many do you expect to encounter?”

  “Perhaps half a dozen. Could you provide letters for that many, just to be on the safe side?”

  “I can draw them up, but leave the name blank, so you can fill it in,” I said. “And as for gifts, what would catch the fancy of these rulers?”

  “Something from England,” he said. “But it must be waterproof and unbreakable and not subject to spoilage on the long voyage.”

  “You set me a hard task, gentlemen,” I said. “It is difficult to find something uniquely English that will also fit those criteria.”

  “Oh, and it must be small as well. We do not have much space on board.”

  “I must think upon it,” I said. “What lands do you hope to reach?”

  “Sumatra, Java, the Moluccas,” he said. “And whatever else we stumble on. Perhaps even China.”

  I could almost smell the spices, wafting across the warm water from the islands. “The tropics rot cloth, so I cannot make a gift of that. A delicate clock would rust in the sea air. Dogs are out of the question, although the sultan of the Turks was impressed with our native breeds, the bloodhounds and mastiffs.”

  “We can trust Your Glorious Majesty to provide exactly the right gift.”

  “I will do so,” I said. “I am proud that we are sending English ships and merchants so far away. We have established many trading stations all over the East. In years to come they should pay off.” Our failure to set up any permanent colonies or even trading posts in the New World was a pity, but it could be counterbalanced by those on the other side of the globe. At least we knew that was rich in spices, pearls, and silk. So far the New World had yielded only gold, unfortunately in the hands of Spain. “Do you have any thought, or hope, of finding Terra Australis Incognita? If it exists, that is.”

  “We are not equipped to go that far south,” he said. “And in any case, it would be so cold there that the spices we seek would not grow.”

  “But it probably is a myth,” said his companion. “So far no one has sighted any land that far south.”

  “That is for another generation, then,” I said. “We must leave them something of their own to discover.”

  That afternoon I thought hard about what I could possibly send to the Far East with them. Their restrictions were so severe even a fairy could not find berth on their ships. Something small ... something waterproof ... something unbreakable ... something impervious to salt ... something unmistakably English ...

  “I have it!” said Helena. “It is so obvious.”

  “Is it? Then why is it not obvious to me?”

  “When I came from Sweden with Princess Cecilia’s embassy, King Gustav sent miniatures of himself to everyone—do you remember?”

  “Yes, I do. I still have one—somewhere.” More and more I had to say that, not having a precise recollection of where long-unused things were. “It was charming.”

  “Well, then—you could send a similar gift to the foreign rulers. They would never have seen an English queen. It would be a novelty for them. You can order duplicates of a portrait you have already approved.”

  “Yes ... I suppose ... Very clever of you.”

  “A little glass plate will allow it to withstand the salt air, and the size will be perfect. And imagine what they will think when they see what a ruler of Europe wears. They will covet the same!”

  “Thank you, Helena. You have done me a great favor.”

  “Just one thing. As a reward, I want one for myself.”

  “You shall have it.”

  Over the years, my costumes had become even more elaborate. I gave the people an unchanged portrait of their Queen, a fixed element in their lives. All else might change, but your Queen does not. That is the message I wished to send them. But I was getting old, and I noted the telltale signs: how increasingly impatient I had become with repetitions, how rigid about carrying through with something. To others that looked like stubbornness, but I knew it was because if I did not do it immediately, it would slip my mind. And there was forgetfulness, which I had been living with for a while. The constant effort to disguise these things—these failings?—were worse than the failings themselves. Yet I knew the keen eyes and the whisperings, the wolves ready to pounce if they smelled weakness. I would not give them that opportunity.

  The letters of introduction, illuminated in red and gold, presented to the captains went thus:

  To the most high and most mighty ____________ , of the ___________ , most puissant, sole, and supreme lord and monarch.

  Elizabeth of England, France, and Ireland by the grace of God queen, to the most high and mighty prince, __________ , greetings.

  And then followed a letter setting forth our intentions and our well wishes, in English, Latin, Spanish, and Italian. I gave them the letters along with the completed miniatures and sent them on their way.

  The summer passed pleasantly. The harvest was still not good, but neither was it disastrous. The Continent was quiet. The government ran smoothly with Essex gone, its chief irritant removed. I appointed the Earl of Worcester and the Earl of Shrewsbury to fill vacancies on the Privy Council and enjoyed the quiet balmy days of July and August.

  Then came September, and the news I had hoped never to hear: The Spanish had landed in Ireland. Thirty-three ships, with five thousand troops, arms, and ammunition, had anchored at Kinsale on the southern part of the island. They were under the command of Don Juan de Águila, who had led the attack on Mousehold in 1595.

  Our troops were primarily in the north, fighting O’Neill and his adherents, and these reinforcements were in the south. If the O’Neill forces could get south and join with the Spanish, we would be outnumbered.

  Quickly I ordered reinforcements to Ireland and wrote Lord Deputy Mountjoy, “Tell our army from us, that every hundred of us will beat a thousand of them, and every thousand, ten thousand. I am the bolder to pronounce it in His name, that has ever protected my righteous cause. I end, scribbling in haste, Your loving sovereign, E.T.”

  If only it were true that our numbers counted disproportionately. But that was wishful thinking. We had been winning in Ireland. Now came the test. At last the Spanish had directly engaged us on land.

  “Old Sixtus,” I muttered. “It is too late for you to offer your reward of gold to Spanish boots on our soil.” He had not lived to see it. Good.

  It is satisfying to outlive one’s enemies, and the schemes of one’s enemies. One of the unheralded benefits of age.

  88

  Autumn,
and the time of gathering in. My sixty-eighth birthday came and went, and I did not encourage anyone to mark it. I did not want to remind the world of my age. But I could not escape marking it myself.

  I took a short Progress to Reading and Hampshire and was pleased to see farmers selling their produce along the road. The wagons were not heaped as high as they would have been in a good year, but at least there was something. That sharp smell of leaves crackling underfoot filled my nostrils and made me think—as that autumnal scent would always make me think—of Marjorie. I had just heard that Henry Norris had died and joined her in the family tomb. He had not endured long without her.

  With a sigh, I turned my thoughts to more immediate and pressing concerns. The subsidies granted by Parliament in 1597 had run out this spring, and I had called another one to meet in October.

  This one would be difficult. They grew ever more demanding and encroached more and more upon my royal prerogative. Traditionally, Parliament’s role was to advise, and advise only. But they could introduce bills for me to approve. I could—and did—forbid them to put forward bills on the church, the succession, and monopolies.

  I halted my horse and looked around the fields, the stubble in them like little picket fences. Like the farmers who tilled these fields, I must tend to Parliament. Both grew unruly without care. Both must be made to yield for our subsistence.

  I conferred with Francis Bacon, who had become quite an accommodating servant of the Crown. His trenchant mind was at my service, as he had proved in the Essex trial. Afterward he had been vilified as a turncoat, so he wrote an apology to defend himself. I am not sure it convinced anyone.