Elizabeth I (115 page)

Clearly this was a crisis for me. Parliament members next began to consider what remedies they might take. Should they draft a bill, legislating the end to monopolies, examining existing ones for legality? Should they take a more conciliatory route and present me with a petition asking me to rescind them?

“I have done all I can,” said Cecil, pacing nervously. “I fear we are losing control. So far they have not directly challenged your royal prerogative, but that is just a matter of semantics ... and of time.”

My position was that my right to grant monopolies was above the law, part of my royal right. Parliament did not have the power to encroach on that or limit my freedom on any prerogative. To grant them this power would be to say that they ultimately ruled England, not I.

And yet, and yet ... I knew a fundamental change was afoot, and to resist it would damage the monarchy more than granting it. Granting it ... Yes, if I granted it freely, as a royal favor, rather than submit to their demands ... no precedent would be set of Crown yielding to Parliament, being subservient to it. That was the way, the only way.

“Tell them that I am grateful for their having brought these dreadful abuses to my attention and that I will remedy them immediately.”

“Your Majesty?” Cecil was perplexed.

“I will end the most egregious of them now, and suspend the others until their legality can be tested in court. I will draw up a proclamation to that effect and put it in their hands straightway. Then I will receive the Privy Councillors and some members of Parliament to thank them.”

“They will be stunned. As am I,” he admitted.

“If one must concede, one should do it in all generosity. It is not only the Lord who loves a cheerful giver. Away now, away. I have a proclamation to write.”

I needed to reclaim the love of my people, so tried and tarnished by the Essex affair and money troubles. But I could not mortgage the ancient privileges of the Crown to do so. The proclamation would fulfill both needs.

Jubilantly Cecil read out to Parliament the royal decree, entitled “A Proclamation for the Reformation of Many Abuses and Misdemeanors Committed by Patentees of Certain Privileges and Licenses, to the General Good of All Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects.” The monopolies on salt, vinegar, alcoholic drinks, salt fish, train oil, fish livers, pots, brushes, butter, and starch were abolished.

“Every man can have or make cheap salt!” he announced. “For those whose stomachs need it, they can now have all the aqua vitae they like. The same for vinegar to treat your indigestion. Those of you who love your ruffs, rest assured that you can starch them cheaply now. You can start sowing woad dye again, though Her Majesty hopes the stink of it will not make your towns so unpleasant she cannot visit you on Progress. She does forbid it in London or near any palace.” As each item was announced, a cheer went up. Finally he cautioned, “The Queen does not abjure her ancient prerogatives.” Then he went on to list the monopolies that would be examined in court: saltpeter, Irish yarn, steel, and many others. Furthermore, copies of the proclamation would be printed and distributed to the members immediately.

Commons asked to send their speaker and a dozen members to me to thank me. I sent word back that it was I who wished to thank them, and that they should come in two days. They began to select the deputation to come, but members from the back of the House cried out, “All! All, all, all!”

I was absurdly pleased that they all wanted to come and told William Knollys, now the comptroller of the household, to invite them all, assuring them I had originally limited the deputation only because of the size of the audience room. But we would find room.

So I would speak to them and thank them. I began to write my speech. But somewhere in the making of it, it changed. I had spoken to Parliament many times, but always with the assurance there would be more speeches in the future. There was no longer that surety. Whatever I wished to tell them, whatever they needed to know, I must say it now and in this speech. It had little, or nothing, to do with the monopolies.

I thought of my early days as a princess; the days I lived outside London, removed from the seats of power, but always with vital contact with the people. They cheered when I came to London, sick and wan, in a litter. The only way to show disapproval of a regime was to cheer the successor or alternative, and that they did. By the time I came to the throne I was buoyed on a wave of love that carried me straight to my coronation. Every time I had ventured out beyond London, beyond the quarreling ministers and courtiers, I had felt that love. I drew strength from it as a plant draws strength from sun and soil. What were the Progresses, after all? A personal visit with my people.

What did I want for them? And how could I tell them what I felt?

This would be my last parliament. I knew that. I do not know how I knew it, but I did. Even if I survived until another one, my words would not be so completely my own.

Was I ill? Was I failing? How, then, could I know this so surely?

There is a day in autumn—often a warm one, as warm as summer—when something seems to turn. The wind comes from a slightly different quarter. The light has a different slant. It shines from an angle through the windows, falls on things it has not picked out for months. It has a different glow. It in itself is harmless, innocuous, but it portends a shift and warns us to prepare. Just so I felt this tide in myself. I must address my people when I could say what I wished, in my own words. Even if I lived another thirty years, I would not be so able.

I worked through the night on my speech. I poured all my feelings about my people, my realm, my kingdom, and myself into it.

Only ten days after the debate had begun, on the last day of November, the speaker and some 150 members of Parliament came to Whitehall. I sat waiting for them under my cloth of estate in the council chamber, and they filed in. Their speaker, Sir Edward Coke, bowed low three times and then gave a long speech about my majesty and glory, rather embarrassing in its fulsomeness, calling upon my sacred presence, my sacred ears, and my sacred sovereignty. When he was finished, the entire company knelt to hear my answer.

I looked out over them. They were of all ages and came from all parts of England. But that was what Parliament was meant to be, to reflect the people over whom I ruled, and through them every man and woman in the land.

First I thanked them for coming and for their appreciation. Then I said, “Mr. Speaker, I assure you there is no prince that loves his subjects better, or whose love can countervail our love. There is no jewel, be it of ever so rich a price, which I set before this jewel—I mean your loves.” I nodded. “For I esteem it more than any treasure or riches, for that we know how to prize. But love and thanks I count invaluable, and though God has raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown: that I have reigned with your loves.”

Few rulers had been so blessed. I watched the expressions on their faces. “Please do rise, for I will speak a bit longer and do not wish you to be uncomfortable.” They got up from their knees. “Mr. Speaker, you give me thanks, but had I not received knowledge from you, I might have fallen into error only for lack of true information. That grants should be grievous to our people and oppressions to be privileged under color of our patents, our kingly dignity shall not suffer it. Yea, when I heard it, I could give no rest to my thoughts until I had reformed it.” I then went on to explain I was always keenly aware that I must answer to God as judge if I failed my people.

“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it. For myself, I was never so much enticed with the glorious name of a king or royal authority as a queen, as delighted that God has made me his instrument to maintain his truth and glory, and to defend this kingdom from peril, dishonor, tyranny, and oppression.” And how many ways I had employed to defend it—diplomacy, marriage flirtations, spies and intelligence networks, all before the last resort of arms.

“There will never queen sit in my seat with more zeal to my country, care to my subjects, and that will sooner with willingness venture her life for your good and safety, than myself. For it is not my desire to live nor reign longer than my life and reign shall be for your good. And though you have had and may have many princes more mighty and wise sitting in this seat, yet you never had or shall have any that will love you better.”

Oh, it was true. I touched my coronation ring, rubbing it softly. “I have been content to be a taper of pure virgin wax, to waste myself and spend my life that I might give light and comfort to those that live under me.”

There was silence in the room. Then I said, “Thus, Mr. Speaker, I commend me to your loyal love, and you to my best care and your further counsels. And I pray you, Mr. Comptroller and my councillors, that before these members depart for their home counties, you bring them all to kiss my hand.”

I sat and waited as they filed up, one at a time. I extended my hand for them to kiss. Each took his leave, until the chamber was empty.

89

LETTICE

March 1602

I
have been a widow for a year today,
I thought with stunned wonder. There was supposed to be a magic in crossing that threshold, the equivalent of applying a soothing bandage to a wound. No longer was it open and raw, but sealed up and healing. That was the belief, in any case. I say it depends on how deep and how wide the wound was.

I had worn black ever since the black day on which Robert stepped onto the scaffold platform. Gradually it had come to seem odd that I would wear any other color.

I had not, of course, been able to visit Christopher’s grave. I was not even sure it was marked. He may have been thrown into a trench beside the church. I could not visit Robert’s grave either, but I had heard that he had a plaque marking it. But since the Tower was royal property, I could not be admitted to the church inside.

My first husband was buried far away in Wales, my second in Warwick, along with our son. So I could not be one of those widows who haunted graves like a ghost. As a three-time widow, I could say that it is far more hurtful to lose someone to politics than to nature. In a sense, Christopher brought it upon himself, but that was no comfort. It meant he could have avoided it, still be here with me. Neither Walter Devereux nor Robert Dudley had a choice in the matter.

People still sang ballads about Robert, still wrote an occasional slur against Cecil on walls, but it was dying away. Memories are short. The Queen counted on that. Her popularity sagged in the aftermath, but her latest performance in Parliament has restored her to the people’s goodwill. She graciously gave in and abolished the hated monopolies, then gave what is being called her “golden speech.” It was an elegy, a farewell. She expressed her bond to her people—her version of a marriage vow—and reflected on what it meant to her to be a queen. It was rapturously received.

But people wondered: Does she know she is ill? It had that ring, the tone of an announcement of mortality. She, who had seemed eternal, was reminding her people that she is not.

And they were preparing for the change. Eyes were looking to Scotland, and King James, as Robert’s had done. They were looking discreetly, but they were looking. I had heard that even Cecil had put out feelers. He will need to secure his place in the next reign. If James brings his own councillors, then Cecil may find himself dismissed. He must gain the future king’s confidence now.

The Queen had been her inconsistent self in regards to the people involved in what was being called “the Essex rebellion.” Southampton still languished in the Tower, although he was pronounced guilty alongside Robert. No execution date had been set, no fine announced. Many others were fined and freed. Will got off with a questioning from the Privy Council about the special performance of
Richard II
but seemed to have suffered no consequences. His plays were still shown at court and he was received there. Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, for all the incriminating evidence that he had had knowledge of the plot and was even toying with contributing troops to it, got off completely. Doing so well in Ireland meant that he was too valuable to sacrifice, and so the Queen looked the other way.