Elizabeth I (117 page)

A blast of wind tore at my skirts, and I clutched the reins. The horse’s mane was flapping. “Let us gallop, then,” I ordered, spurring him on. He leaped under me and it was all I could do to keep my seat.

We were on an abbreviated summer Progress. Originally I had intended to go west, leaving London and stopping first at Elvetham House, then on to Bath and Bristol. But the journey was too ambitious and I had to curtail it, substituting an eastern Progress. We had stopped first at Chiswick and now were heading for the house of Thomas Egerton and his new wife, the dowager Countess of Derby. Two years ago he had begged to be released from supervising Essex at York House, because his wife was dying. Now both his prisoner and his wife were gone, and he had taken a new one, a lady with literary tastes—or pretensions. Well, he deserved his happiness. Good for him.

I took less with me on this Progress, and fewer people. People grumbled about the inconveniences, so I had jokingly said, “Let the old stay behind and the young and able come with me!” That had given the ailing ones an excuse to stay home.

There were a number of “young and able” along. I had, as I wished, invited Eurwen back to court, and she rode now in company with some of the younger maids of honor, and there were handsome young men, like Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Clanricarde, one of the “good” Irish. I found myself disliking him, though, and it took me a while to realize it was because he resembled Essex. That was not fair to the man, but the other ladies made much of him, so he was not lacking. There was also the saturnine John Donne, Egerton’s secretary and lately a member of Parliament, who skulked in the back and did not seem eager to reach his master’s home. He had been jolly enough at Chiswick, but every mile closer to Harefield drew his already long face even longer.

The ride here had immersed us in the glory of a high English summer. Rich midsummer flowers had replaced the delicate hues of spring in the meadows, and fledglings were practicing their flying, swooping skillfully from their nests. Cottage doors stood open, and housewives were spreading linens out on hedgerows to dry. Boys practiced archery in the open fields. Summer was the time of village festivals, and we passed several on our way. It was also the time of weddings, and from a distance I saw a bridal party making its way through the fields to a little stone church. The fields stood high, and this harvest promised to end the run of poor ones.

My realm was faring well. It grew and prospered under the sun.

Now the weather had turned. We dashed to the shelter of Harefield Place, just beating the rain. Our horses were whisked away to the stables, and Sir Thomas and his new wife, Alice, welcomed us into the house. Just as Alice was making her curtsy, the skies opened up and rain pelted the courtyard.

“Even the skies hold back their anger for you,” said Sir Thomas.

“Or release it on cue, as they did for the Armada,” said Admiral Charles.

“It was an English wind,” agreed Raleigh.

The rain having blown itself out to sea, the next day was fair. Sir Thomas had planned an outdoor fete, so it was hurriedly arranged, lest the weather prove fickle. The country theme continued, with long tables set up in the adjoining meadow and servers dressed as shepherds and dairymaids pouring local ale and syllabub from crockery pitchers and presenting bowls of possets, curds, and clotted cream for fresh-picked strawberries. An enormous warden-pear pie was carried out, its pastry emitting steam, and hastily carved up. Afterward there would be dancing for the young people under the trees and games for the higher ranking. The central amusement was a huge cut-glass tub brought in by a man costumed as a mariner, who announced, “In order to fish, one needs calm waters. These our gracious Queen has provided for us—security, quiet, and bounty.” He placed the tub on the table and withdrew. Twenty or so red ribbons trailed over the side, and the ladies were to take a ribbon and pull their prize “fish” from the depths of the tub. Each prize had a verse that miraculously addressed the concerns of its mistress.

Eurwen, being the youngest, was most excited about the prize, while the novelty of the stunt had worn thin with more experienced women. She extracted a jeweled hair comb and a verse that proclaimed her fortune did not lie with a dark-eyed man.

“How dark do you think his eyes should be to exclude him?” she asked anxiously.

“At least as dark as coal,” I assured her. “They should be so black you cannot see the pupils.” That left in most of the men she was likely to encounter.

Catherine, Helena, and the rest pulled their prizes out and dutifully examined them. I extracted a pair of delicate rose-colored gloves that fit me perfectly. The verse attached to them merely proclaimed that I was prudent and had many admirers.

“A whole world full of them!” said Sir Thomas, peering over my shoulder.

“Indeed, Your Majesty has become a sort of eighth wonder,” said Raleigh. “Forget the pyramids and the hanging gardens.”

“Are you saying I am as old as those things?”

“No, but you are as mighty as they. Besides, they have all vanished but the pyramids. Where lives the man who can stroll through the hanging gardens? Can a sailor still be guided by the lighthouse of Alexandria? No. But you will survive longer than they have.”

Perhaps in memory. Long ago I had stated that my only desire was “to do some act that would make my fame spread abroad in my lifetime, and, after, occasion memorial forever.” It had been one of those offhand comments that, later, I realized was more revealing than I had meant it to be.

“I shall choke on my clotted cream if these flatteries continue,” I said.

“I have another gift for Your Majesty.” I turned to see John Donne standing behind my chair. “It addresses this subject.” He looked around furtively and withdrew a paper from his doublet.

“Thank you, John.” Just then I saw Sir Thomas glowering at him, and before I could open the paper, John scurried away.

It was entitled “The Autumnal,” and it began, “No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace, / as I have seen in one autumnal face.”

I jerked my head up. He had dared to say it, dared to say what everyone pretended was not true. But the phrase “one autumnal face” ... What a harmonious sound. And was it really so frightening? Did we not celebrate autumn? My eyes darted down the page. “Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night” ... “If we love ... transitory things, which soon decay, age must be loveliest at the latest day. / But name not winter faces, whose skin’s slack, lank, as an unthrift’s purse ...” He had not called me a winter face but an autumnal one. He differentiated between them—one desirable, the other pitiable.

Sir Thomas gently tugged at the paper. “Do not read anything he writes,” he said. “He has proved an untrustworthy man. I mean to dismiss him after this visit.”

“Why, Thomas, what do you mean?” He had seemed diligent and intelligent.

“A climber, a man who does not know his place! He has abused my trust and eloped with the niece of my late wife—a woman far above him in station. If he sought to make his fortune that way, he is sorely disappointed. Our families have cut them both off. And he will lose his position. Let the lovers stew on that!”

“You are not very poetic, Sir Thomas. And here your new wife is a sponsor of literary efforts. I wonder that she does not take the young lovers’ part.”

“Marriage is not a matter of love but of necessity and common sense,” he said. Spoken like a man who had lost two wives—both dearly loved—to death, and now barred the door against further loss. It was not only Pharaoh who hardened his heart. And it was not only a face that made someone autumnal.

“Think before you punish him,” I said. “Remember your own youth.”

That night the rains returned, driving sheets that made it hard to see out the windows. The steady sound of it, beating as if on bronze, drummed into our ears.

“It does not bode well for the rest of the Progress,” I said to Catherine and Helena as we prepared for bed. “Perhaps we should give it up. It is hard enough to house a royal Progress, but in foul weather it is too great a strain.”

“It’s July,” said Catherine. “And did it not rain on the fifteenth? St. Swithin’s Day?”

“I believe you are right,” said Helena. “I knew it then. I knew we were in trouble.”

“We should cut our travels short and return home,” I said.

Catherine stood closer to me. “My dear, I want to suggest another, private Progress later in the year. Do you remember, we were going to visit Hever?”

“Yes. We talked about it. We had never been there, for all that our mother and grandmother were born there. Thank you for reminding me. We should not delay, but go before winter.”

“There is another who should join us, who belongs there.” Her round face, usually so placid, looked solemn. “You know who that is.”

Yes. Lettice. I nodded.

“She is as close to Hever and the Boleyns as we are.”

I closed my eyes. The she-wolf. Wife of my despair, mother of my sorrow. But my cousin. Autumn. Was it time? Was it time for all that to be over? I had told Sir Thomas, “Think before you punish him. Remember your own youth.” Was I bound to obey my own orders? We did not have forever, and Leicester and Essex were as vanished as the hanging gardens. Soon we would follow them. “Very well,” I finally said. “You issue the invitation.” I could not bring myself to do it, but I could let our mutual cousin speak for me.

After several more days of incessant rain, we took our leave of Harefield. Sir Thomas presented me with a multicolored cloak to represent a rainbow. “From St. Swithin,” he joked. “For there can be no rainbow without his rain.”

91

A
fter I gave Catherine my order—or my blessing—for her to tender the invitation to Lettice, I did not refer to it again. We returned to Greenwich and I busied myself with the usual duties of the realm. Feeling more energetic than I had in ages, I went hunting after a ten-mile ride, causing much comment at court. I announced that I felt better than I had in twelve years. I went to bed feeling I did not need to rest at all.

But when I awoke, oh, what a change. My legs ached and my knees felt as though they were encased in a brace that would not bend. As for my arms, I must have strained my shoulders, for they stung when I reached up. Catherine, who had long since given up vigorous hunting, inquired timidly if I felt as well upon arising as I had upon taking to my bed the night before.

“Never better!” I said stoutly. “In fact, I think I shall take a long walk this morning. I cannot get enough fresh air.” Then I forced myself out to walk briskly through the orchard and up the rising hill behind the palace in full view of strolling courtiers, who remarked how vigorous Her Majesty was this morning. Appearing so was my aim.

The park, its big oaks framing both sides of the walk, rose to a goodly height. Resolutely I trudged on, not wanting to stop, but my legs were burning. I was puzzled by the extent to which the ride yesterday had affected me, causing aches and pains all over.