Elizabeth I (102 page)

I touched his arm and shook my head. He must not say such things, not in front of others. But Robert shook my hand off querulously.

“I’m concerned for her. If she is incompetent, unable to rule, then Cecil and his minions will get control,” he said. “Her behavior toward me proves that she is not herself, that her mind is deteriorating. She locked me up, then held me without trial, then took away my livelihood on a whim—” He looked about to burst into tears. “Me, whom she loved!”

His version of events conveniently left out any provocation on his part. I must speak to him privately. But for now it was enough to hush his attacks on her.

“She has lately asked for more leniency for Catholics and even ... Jesuits!” hissed Thomas Lee. I had always found him sneaky and violent, an ominous combination. “More proof that she is being persuaded to offer conciliation to Spain. That, from the Queen who braved the Armada.”

“Each thing by itself might have an explanation, but taken all together, there’s only one pattern: a Spanish one. Note whether she takes to wearing a mantilla. I wouldn’t be surprised,” murmured Bedford.

“Maybe she’ll take up bullfighting!” cried Sandys.

This elicited a roar of laughter.

“She’s a man in all other ways, so why not fight bulls?” said Meyrick.

I had to get them out of the house. This was dangerous talk. I spoke up. In case anyone was spying, I wanted him to report that I had defended the Queen. “Please. She is our Queen, and to speak thus of her is un-English.”

“Scared you’ll be reported?” sneered Meyrick.

I stared back at him. It was the first time he had openly challenged me, but I had sensed a duel between us for Robert’s loyalty and attention. “You are the one in danger of that. You should watch your mouth.”

“Spoken like a cowardly woman,” he said. “But what else would you be?”

“I am the mistress of this house,” I said. “Leave it. Speak your treason outside, with the faceless crowd.”

Robert stood. “No. I am the master of this house. You may stay.” He shot a look at me, robbing me of words. I had never thought to see this day. I had lost my son.

I left them to fulminate, shout, and denigrate the Queen. Robert had cause for resenting her, but most of the others could only blame their failure to achieve status at court on themselves. Elizabeth was astute, and through the years I had noticed that she used the aristocrats for window dressing at court, to dance and fulfill ceremonial positions, but the real power was held by clever commoners like the Cecils and Walsingham. She avoided anyone who reeked of personal trouble or instability, which let out most of the men in the next room. That they would hate her for it made sense. But now they would seek their redress through Robert. They would lead him into ruin, if he let them.

But in his present state of mind, he could not even think clearly. And now he had turned aside from me and cast his lot with them.

Nonetheless, at night they had to go home and Robert had to return to his own chambers to sleep. I prowled the hall waiting to catch him; I met him as he rounded the stairs, hurrying to his rooms.

“Robert.” I blocked his way. “I must talk to you. In private.”

“Not now, Mother.” He tried to brush me aside, but I refused to budge. Strong man that he was, there has never been a man strong enough to dissuade a determined mother.

“Yes, now.” I opened his door and was the one to usher him into his own room. Meekly he followed. It was a bad sign that his resistance could be so easily broken.

“Be quick about it,” he said. “I still have work to do tonight.”

“What sort of work?”

“In all due respect, Mother, it is none of your business.”

“Your business is my business.”

“Not any longer.”

“Our fates are bound together. Nothing can happen to you that does not affect me, and the entire family. Think of your children before you embark on any rash ventures.”

“The children will fare well enough. What I do does not matter, now that I cannot support them.”

“The family still has its good name. I beg you, do nothing to tarnish it. Leave your children an unblemished legacy, even if they are poor. There is no disgrace in honest poverty.”

He laughed. “Odd words coming from you. You have fled from poverty your whole life.”

“I see more clearly now.”

“Mother, please leave. I told you, I have work to do.”

“And I asked you, what sort of work? What sort of work is done late at night, in secrecy?”

“Very well, then. I am going to write to King James as Cuffe suggested. He must be warned about Cecil and the Spanish.”

“As Cuffe suggested. Why do you listen to him?”

“He makes sense. For the first time, someone speaks logically and with my own best interest at heart.”

“Are you sure of that? What are his own interests in this?”

“He hasn’t any. That’s why I trust him. And now, Mother, I must get to my task.” He sat down at his writing desk and pulled his ink and pen out of their container. He took a fair, blank piece of paper and began writing.

The next few days were difficult ones for me. In spite of my retort to Meyrick, I
was
frightened. The crowds of disreputable men grew in the courtyard, some of them so unsavory I wondered what wayside ditch they had crawled out of. At the same time, companies of radical Puritan preachers, forbidden a pulpit or a license to preach openly in parks or markets, held forth, standing on boxes to create their own makeshift platforms.

The Catholics, backed by international forces, presented an external danger to the realm. The Armadas were the supreme example of that. But the radical Puritans created a much more subtle one, for they corrupted and influenced the thinking of everyday citizens. The Puritan parliamentarian Peter Wentworth had gone to the Tower for questioning the royal prerogative. But these preachers went further.

From my window—for I dared not venture out in the midst of this unruly crowd—I could hear the ringing words of one of them. When he spoke, the men fell silent, spellbound.

“For is not a ruler appointed by the Lord?” he cried. “Thus it has been of old. The prophet Samuel was commanded by the Lord to seek out Saul to anoint him King of Israel. But”—and here he paused provocatively—“when Saul failed to obey the Lord, the Lord withdrew his favor and his royal appointment. He told Samuel, ‘I am grieved that I have made Saul king, because he has turned away from me and has not carried out my instructions.’ Samuel then informed Saul, ‘You have rejected the word of the Lord, and the Lord has rejected you as king over Israel.’” He looked around, gauging his audience. “To drive the point home, Samuel tore the hem of Saul’s robe and said, ‘The Lord has torn the kingdom of Israel from you this day!’” He held up his own cloak and ripped it. “And thus the men of the Lord must do when the king... or queen ... departs from the right path. Calvin taught us that we citizens have a right and responsibility to restrain and correct any sovereigns who have abused their duties to God and their own people. Yea, and if they will not submit to correction, to depose them!”

A cheer went up, growing until it enveloped the whole courtyard.

Then a clear voice asked, “But in what way may sovereigns abuse their duties?”

The preacher looked startled, as if he had not expected to answer from his lofty perch. “You will know it when you see it!” he said.

“Different men see different things in the same action. I pray you, be specific.”

The preacher drew himself up like a brooding hen. “We cannot ask the Lord to be specific!”

“No, but we can ask men to be. I leave the realm of spiritual duties to God and someone’s conscience, but when you speak of political matters, that should be specified. In what way, precisely, does a sovereign fail to fulfill coronation oaths? Not protecting the realm? Not enacting fair laws? Depriving men of rights? I am puzzled, sir.”

“You are a devilish troublemaker!” cried the preacher. “Everyone knows what I mean!”

“No, not everyone!” Now other voices joined the dissenter. “Give us one example. If you have one, it should be easy.”

“All right, then! Holding men without cause in the Tower, because they said something that angers the sovereign. Like our own Peter Wentworth, taken from Parliament in the midst of his speech and locked up!”

“Yes, yes!” the courtyard voices cried.

“And he died there!” someone yelled. “Died for speaking his mind about royal meddling!”

Now the yard erupted in cheers and shouts. It was true, all too true, about Wentworth. Elizabeth should not have done it. But that did not fit the description of a tyrant. Someone can be judged a tyrant or a bad ruler only on the basis of his or her entire reign, not one isolated incident.

But that subtlety was lost on them.

As the days of January wore on, Henry Cuffe and Gelli Meyrick found more “proof” that Cecil was subverting the government and planned to destroy Robert and his followers. Southampton was out riding along the Strand when Lord Grey, his enemy—and one of Cecil’s adherents—attacked him. They had been at odds for years, forbidden by the Privy Council to duel. So they settled it this way. In the fray, Southampton’s page had his hand hacked off.

Soon thereafter, Robert began frequenting Southampton’s Drury House for long meetings. Once again I tried to confront him and get him to confess what he was doing. Once again he tried to elude me.

“You seek to interfere and meddle,” he said. “So we will no longer meet here, where you can eavesdrop.”

This was the first time I had had a chance to really look at him in days. He seemed healthier; he had put on a little weight, and his color was good. But his eyes were still not his own. They belonged to someone else. He had a black velvet pouch fastened around his neck, which he kept touching.

“What is that thing around your neck?” I asked. I feared he was now dabbling in the occult. I reached out toward it, but he shrank away.