Elizabeth I (100 page)

“Not as pleased as I am to be back, Your Majesty.”

“It is quite safe,” I assured her. “I think Knollys is off in another direction these days.”

The next few days were a swirl of headdresses, ruffs, jewels, music, and feasts. In the short winter days some of the men went hunting in the fields beyond the palace, returning with red cheeks and chapped lips. New Year’s Day came and found us all indoors while the ceremony of gift exchange commenced.

“What will be your colors today?” Philadelphia asked. “Remember, it sets the tone for the whole year.”

I laughed. “That is but a superstition, that whatever is done on New Year’s must repeat all year. I will wear black and white today, and I would like all my ladies to do the same. We will look like snow and ice and black tree branches—appropriate for winter.”

As I had every New Year’s for the past forty-two years, I stood and received gifts, then directed the giver to claim a receipt to exchange with the treasury for his or her gift from me.

The line progressed smoothly. I had a chance to linger for a moment or two with each of the guests individually, which was more meaningful than the gifts they handed me. I greeted Lord Keeper Egerton warmly. This past year his service to me had cost him dear. His wife had died shortly after he had begged me to release him from his jailer’s role, and I still felt sad about that. Seeing him here, and seeing him smiling, was a great relief to me. His boyish face had aged and his blond hair now showed streaks of gray.

“I wish you a good year with all my heart, Thomas,” I told him.

He smiled wistfully, as if to say,
Impossible, but thank you.
Then he turned to the young man just behind him and said, “May I present my secretary, Master John Donne? He is my faithful and industrious helper.”

Donne had a saturnine complexion, a long, thin face, and the reddest natural lips I had ever seen. “Your Majesty,” he said.

“Jack writes poetry to amuse himself in his off hours,” said Egerton. “Nothing published yet. But you might enjoy one that I found excellent.”

Oh, God. Not more poetry. I forced myself to smile. “Indeed?” I said, in a tone that should serve as a warning.

But Jack did not heed. He handed me a beribboned scroll and said, “My unworthy effort.” I had to take it.

Shortly afterward William Lambarde came through and presented me a leather envelope. “Hever Castle, Your Majesty,” he said.

“You are quick!” I said. I grasped it eagerly.

“These are not the historical records—I have those at home and must compile them for you—but what I know in my head. It can get you started, and the rest will follow.”

“I thank you,” I said. “I am curious to know everything about it.”

At long last, the day of standing was over. In the privacy of my inmost chamber, I took off my satin shoes and sat down. I opened the leather envelope and pulled out the Hever papers. Lambarde had included drawings and local stories about the castle, as well as a brief description of its history.

Catherine peered over my shoulder. “Perhaps this year we can make that journey together,” she said. She extracted one of the papers and studied it intently.

I handed her the entire packet of papers. “You can peruse all these, to prepare.” I unrolled the poem from Master Donne. “I must do my home-work,” I said. “Reading the offerings of the would-be poets.” I laughed.

The poem was entitled “The Bait” and it began, “Come live with me and be my love.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “This is not only stale but copied!” He had stolen from Christopher Marlowe and even from Walter Raleigh’s parody. Did he think I did not know the other poems ... or, more ominous, that I would be unable to remember them?

But as I read further I saw it parted company from the others after a few lines and said something entirely different.

“Odd imagery,” said Philadelphia. “Slimy nests—fish swimming toward a person—” She shook her head.

“It is arresting,” said Catherine. “Not the usual compliments.”

“I have never been compared to someone wading in the water and attracting fish,” I admitted. “I am not like to forget this one.”

“Christopher Hatton once said you fished for men’s souls with such sweet bait that no one could escape your net,” said Catherine. “But that was so many years ago and was privately said. How could he have known about it?”

The red-lipped Mr. Donne was proving more intriguing than his quiet demeanor had suggested.

More days of merrymaking, until I swore that my guests would not wish to look upon a comfit or drink a cordial or dance a galliard until next Christmas. I know I felt that way. At last the end was in sight and we made ready to celebrate the last day. There was a communion service in the morning, at which I presented gold, frankincense, and myrrh at the altar, and the children of the chapel sang carols. There would be a play in the afternoon, followed by the long-awaited Bean King feast—and then, praise God, they would depart for home.

All morning the workers had been busily transforming the hall into a stage and arranging the chairs and benches for the audience. Upon arrival, I made sure I was seated between our distinguished visitors, Don Virginio Orsino, Duke of Bracciano, and Grigori Ivanovitch Mikulin, ambassador from Czar Boris Godunov. George Carey, the patron of the acting company, sat directly behind me. All around us the buzz of anticipation rose; although other plays had been presented through the holidays, the best was always shown last.

George rose and took his place before the curtain. “My good friends, it is my great pleasure to present a new play called, in honor of its debut,
Twelfth Night
. I trust that it will bring enjoyment to all.” Bowing, he sat back down. “I can only hope this is good,” he whispered to me. “The costumes, at least, are rich, and we have both music and dancing.”

“George,” I said, “everyone’s mood today is so happy that they will enjoy almost anything. Besides, has Shakespeare ever failed you?”

To the Russian envoy I said, “If there is anything you do not understand, please tell me and I shall make sure to translate.”

He sighed. “I think my English is sufficient,” he said.

The play began. As I had been told earlier, it involved separated twins. But since they were a man and a woman, only a blind man could have confused them. No, not even that. A blind man, in real life, would be the first to know they were not the same person because of their voices. The theater could be very silly, and this was one of these times.

There were two women, Viola and Olivia. One had taken a vow of chastity for seven years, and the other was the female twin, disguised as a man. One hardly needed to be a genius to know that they would mistakenly fall in love and problems would ensue. Nonetheless, the predictable tale was executed with skill and tidbits of poetry and song that were charming.

And then, onto the stage strode ... Sir William Knollys. Not the actual man himself, but such a blatant mimic that he was instantly recognized, to the delight and howl of the audience. He sported the same multicolored beard, wore the willow green doublet that was Knollys’s favorite, and had the same mannerism of crooking his little finger when he wanted to make a point. In this his name was Malvolio, the steward of the Lady Olivia, and he made a fool of himself chasing her.

I saw Mary Fitton doubled up with laughter and then realized that Lady Olivia looked like Mary.

Every word that Malvolio spoke was drowned out by the audience’s laughter, to the extent that it was difficult to follow all the dialogue. In one scene, Malvolio was tricked into wearing an outlandish outfit with yellow cross-garters, making him look like a stork. I spotted Knollys sitting on the left side of the audience, hunched over, hands over his hat. But then I saw that he was laughing along with everyone else. The old goat was at least a good sport.

One of the actors in a small part, that of Olivia’s servant, was darkly handsome, with deep-set eyes. I chided myself that my eyes were still drawn to such things.

The actors exited the stage and a clown came out to address us, singing a melancholy song out of keeping with the rest of the play. Its mournful, minor-key refrain of “The rain it raineth every day” was puzzling.

“What is this?” asked Duke Orsino. “I do not understand. He is a clown, but not funny.”

“Neither do I,” I assured him. “Perhaps it is from the wrong play.”

While the stage was dismantled and the hall made ready for tonight’s banquet, I discreetly retired to my bedchamber. I was tired; twelve days of merrymaking had quite worn me out. It would never do to droop during the long evening ahead; it would surely cause comments. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the carved canopy above me. Already it was lost in shadows; the short day had ended while we were at the play.

I hoped that both envoys would return to their masters with good reports. I had done all I could to make the palace shine with opulence for their visit, ordering all the windows washed (no mean task with so much glass and such foul weather), covering scratched tables with fine fabric, and stocking the rooms with extra candles and firewood, as if the cost were irrelevant. I took it as a favorable sign that an Italian duke, whose family politics were intertwined with the papacy, should see fit to visit this “daughter of heresy.” As for the Russians, it was best to keep on good terms with them even as we competed for trade routes.