Elizabeth I (25 page)

After the meal, my girls—I kept calling them that, even though they were in their late twenties—drifted off together, leaving the men, Frances, and me to the fire in a privy chamber. Now that the family ceremony was over, Francis Bacon joined us, and another man I did not recognize.

“My brother Anthony,” said Francis, pushing him forward.

The man almost hobbled as he approached me. “An honor, Lady Leicester.” I had been allowed to retain my highest title, Countess of Leicester, rather than being demoted to plain Lady Blount, wife of a knight. His voice was thin and raspy at the same time, as if it had to travel a long way from his concave chest. He turned to Robert and nodded. “My lord,” he said.

“Welcome,” said Robert. He seemed more sure of himself, taking over the role of host from me.

“Anthony has just returned from France, as have you, dear Robert,” said Francis. Unlike his brother’s, Francis’s voice was smooth, strong, and seductive. “You served the Queen on the battlefield and he served her in more shadowy venues,” he said. “He had the good fortune to be ... associated ... with the work of your late father, Frances.”

“So he was a spy?” Frances said. “Pray speak plainly. There are no birds here to fly to court.”

What had got into her? Had she taken up the mantle of her father?

“Please, I do not merit that title,” said Anthony, swaying on his feet.

I motioned for Robert to slide a chair over for him, and he sank down upon it, relief spreading across his face. He was clearly in bodily distress. “For ten years I gathered information for Secretary Walsingham. Not only from France, but from all over the Continent. France was a convenient collecting station. But changing conditions there, and my poor health—” He gave a hooting, raucous series of coughs and ended by mopping his mouth with a handkerchief.

“My brother is now in a position to transfer his services here,” said Francis. “And we, if we are wise, will know how to use them.”

“My wife says to speak plain,” said Robert. “Pray do.”

“Do I have your absolute word that the wood lining these walls”—He thumped the wall behind him—“is as far as my answer goes?”

“Of course, man! Speak up!” said Robert.

“Very well. It is so simple I am astounded you have not proposed it already. It is this: The great Secretary Walsingham is dead. He who protected the Queen for so long, who broke conspiracy after conspiracy and crowned his achievement with the challenge of ensnaring Mary Queen of Scots, in legally irrefutable proof, has left a great void. The Queen is naked—so to speak—before her enemies. There is no one who has been able to replace Walsingham.”

“Nasty little crookback Cecil has tried to manage the network Walsingham left behind,” said Christopher, who usually remained silent in political exchanges.

“It is in tatters,” said Francis. “It is like a faithful hound that only obeyed one master. We must construct a new spy system and run our own intelligence service. In that way we will win not only Her Majesty’s gratitude but power as well. Power to vanquish the Cecils and make our own fortune.” He looked knowingly at Robert. “Will you authorize this? We will work for you. You will present the findings to Her Majesty.”

Robert’s face was blank. His eyes shifted from one face to another, as if asking permission. I nodded, locking my eyes with his. This was the way. This was where the battles would be fought. I felt a stirring of excitement in me at the challenge and, along with it, relief that I could feel anything again.

“My father had five hundred spies in fifty countries in his network, as far away as Constantinople,” said Frances. “Can you ever match that?”

“Indeed, yes, I have been managing many of those very strings of informers,” said Anthony. “I know how to do it.”

“My father died horribly in debt,” said Frances. “He paid for much of the service himself. The Queen wanted protection but was unwilling to pay for it. Father’s motto was ‘Knowledge is never too dear.’ That was before the bills came due and his purse was empty.” Her voice rose.

Robert attempted to put his arm around her to quiet her, but she pushed it away.

“Indeed, yes, that is the weak spot in my proposal,” said Francis. “How to pay for it. We are all somewhat short of funds.”

What an understatement. Christopher and I were reduced to pawning my jewelry, and the Bacon brothers were eking out livings as a lawyer at Gray’s Inn and as a poorly paid secretary to a poorly paid secretary.

“Yes, there is that little matter,” I could not help saying.

“But the Queen will surely be rewarding me after my service in France,” said Robert.

“She awarded Cecil a place on the Privy Council while you were prancing before the walls of Rouen, issuing the governor a challenge to personal combat, claiming that the cause of King Henri was more just than that of the Catholic League and that your mistress was more beautiful than his,” snapped Francis. “Silly posturing. Can’t you see? You must give Her Majesty some service she needs—what
she
wants, not what
you
want.” Francis Bacon was a relentless prosecutor, as he was known to be in the law court.

“I was the commander. I had to make a brave showing, else I would shame my Queen,” said Robert.

“You shamed her when you disobeyed her orders and knighted men who had no merit to be knighted. Can you not see that it looks as if you are building up a body of men beholden to you?” said Francis.

I could see Robert thinking, weighing whether he had the stomach to press on with this. He might make his familiar I-want-to-retire-to-the-country statement. He sighed and then said, “Perhaps you are right.”

“We will set up our intelligence network. Some of it will involve nasty characters, but you need not sully yourself with them. Scapegallows with names like Staring Robin and Welsh Dick and Roaring Girl—but you will never meet them. Others, like Kit Marlowe, I daresay you would not mind sharing an ale with at the tavern; he works clean, works for your cousin Thomas Walsingham, Frances.” Francis nodded toward her.

“What about the Catholic priests?” said Robert. “The Jesuits who scurry from house to house, hiding from the law. Can we harness them? Christopher, you’re known in Catholic circles.”

He gave an uneasy laugh. “I was brought up Catholic, yes, and had entrée into that circle plotting for the Scots queen,” he said.

“Work on your Catholic contacts,” urged Robert. “They know a lot.”

“I’m not sure it’s safe to traffic that way,” I said. I did not want to endanger my household. I glared at my son.

“The theater is another place crawling with men whose pasts—and presents—one does not want to delve into too deeply,” said Christopher with a laugh. “But we can enjoy their plays. See villainy on the stage and not ask how they know the thinking of villains so well.”

“Next, we must indeed build up a party,” said Anthony. It was the first time he had spoken since his coughing fit. “And we must set up a line of communication with Scotland. That is where the succession is going. He will be our king before long, and those who have approached him and rendered him friendly service earlier will fare well in the new government.”

For all my promise that nothing would go beyond this room, there were other ears in the house, and sounds carried. This was so close to treason I signaled for them to be quiet, and I tiptoed across the room and flung open the door. Nothing. The hallway was empty, dark. I shut the door again.

“We understand,” I said. “No more needs to be said.”

“A certain person is almost sixty,” said Robert. The stubborn, reckless boy. “And we can count on those numbered days.”

“Enough!” I said.

A mother always has the right to command her children to obey, no matter their ages.

22

ELIZABETH

May 1592

S
uddenly the ruff was choking me. I did not want to call attention to it, so I fingered it carefully, trying to pull it away from my neck in a manner that no one would notice. My neck was clammy, slippery, and then I felt my face start to pulsate and ripple with heat. God’s curse! It was here again, when I thought I was quit of it. I had not been bothered thus for months.

I cranked the window open and leaned out of it, praying for a breeze. But there was none. The May sunshine shone upon a calm garden beneath my rooms at Windsor. I had stayed on here after this year’s investiture of the new Knights of the Garter, thinking to enjoy this palace that was always too cold in winter. But this moment I would have welcomed a blast of winter wind.

“A fan, Your Majesty?” Someone had extended one where I could take hold of it discreetly. But no matter how smoothly I took it, the fact remained that someone had noticed, someone had seen my discomfort.

I turned to see the self-satisfied face of Bess Throckmorton. Embarrassed, I clutched at the fan.

“Perhaps a wetted handkerchief—” she began.

“No, thank you!” I said, while longing for one. I struggled to master myself. It would pass. It always did.

She bowed her head in mock servility. I did not like her, and I never had, for all that she was the daughter of my faithful ambassador Sir Nicholas Throckmorton. There was something sneaky and vain about her. Especially lately, when she had taken a sudden leave of court with a flimsy excuse. Now she was back, but there was something different about her, an extra haughtiness that shone through.

I had had to resort of late to writing notes to remind myself of things I could not always trust myself to have at my fingertips, and she had found one of the notes and brought it to me with a puzzled look. But that was a sham, as she knew very well what it was. Did she tell others—her young friends—that the Queen needed notes to remember things now? If I forbade her to say anything, that would call more attention to it, so I tried to make light of it, tearing up the note and saying it was of no moment, memorizing it before I did. As soon as I was alone, I wrote it out again, and this time I made sure to put it in the box where I properly kept them.

My older ladies understood well enough. Marjorie—my Crow—was far on the other side of it, being already in her sixties. The others, Helena and Catherine, were in their forties and beginning that passage that was so easy for some and so difficult for others. It is an unsettling thing when one’s fertility begins to ebb and the window that opened in girlhood now begins to close. But now that mine was closed, let these torturous attacks of heat and sweat be gone! They were nothing but cruel reminders.

I would dismiss the ladies and send them out into the gardens to amuse themselves. Once they were gone, I would send for my physician and see if he had any remedy for this unpleasantness.

They took advantage of what they assumed was my generosity and left the chambers with telltale swiftness. I summoned Dr. Lopez from his home at Holborn, praying he would come quickly.

He was resourceful and reliable. And sure enough, before the river tide had turned or the ladies returned, Roderigo was announced in the outer chambers. If he was put out by having to rush here on such a fine day, he did not show it. Instead, his face lit up as he saw me. He exclaimed, “I am so relieved to see Your Majesty standing here in all her glory, not lying on a sickbed.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Why should I be?” I snapped. I felt that horrid heat starting to sweep over me again. Curse it!

He smiled. “The summons was so sudden,” he said. He had a leathery face that reminded me of a sailor, a prominent nose, and a rather yellow complexion, like the slanting sunshine of late afternoon.

“Let us withdraw and I shall explain,” I said.

Finally secluded behind closed doors, I told him of the return of my distressing symptoms. He kept nodding but said nothing. When I finished speaking, he remained silent.

“Is there no remedy?” I burst out. “You know me, you know everything about me.” And it was true; he had fled the Inquisition in his native Portugal at the beginning of my reign and began to serve as my physician then. He had treated the young Elizabeth and now he treated the older one. He had seen me through the smallpox, the leg ulcer, headaches, and sleeplessness. He had been among the esteemed physicians who had examined me prior to Monsieur’s suit to determine how many years of childbearing yet remained to me. There were no secrets from Roderigo Lopez.

“Time is the main remedy,” he said finally.

“Time! I have granted it five years already. I suffered with it and then it subsided and now it is back, like—the Armada!” There were reports a new Armada was being built and would soon be dispatched to do what the first had failed to do. God’s truth, I could deal with the Armada more easily.

“There are some herbs from our good English fields,” he said. “They work—if you have willingness and a strong imagination. Then there are others, from the land of the Turks, that are stronger.”

“I want those.”