Elizabeth I (28 page)

The Parliament continued to meet all through Lent, paralleling the dreary weather of the season and the labored, penitential readings for services. Archbishop Whitgift loved Lent; it allowed him to indulge in his Old Church proclivities. Late dawns and early dusks called for flickering altar candles. Searching one’s conscience lent itself to confession and abstention; fasting purified the soul. The time-honored wheel of the church year turned slowly, and the six weeks of Lent could seem very long indeed, depending on the privations one embraced.

There were no plays, few court festivities, no music, and no wedding solemnizations. The courtiers put away their gaudy clothes, and many returned to their homes in the country.

Though Puritans rejected the church year, holding a liturgical calendar to be popish, they seemed to keep Lent all year and wish the country would keep it along with them. Fortunately, political setbacks had curbed their power lately, and so their challenge to my government, and the threat of some sort of Calvinist-type reformed religion being imposed upon us was allayed.

I found solace in the old forms, although I did not flaunt them. I had, after all, grown up with them, and they were comfortingly familiar to me. I liked the whispered “Remember man you are dust and unto dust you shall return,” followed by the flattened thumb smearing ashes on my forehead; I did not flinch from examining the list of transgressions I might have committed—lack of charity, lack of compassion, vanities, and self-delusion. In private I wore the memento mori that Essex had given me, sometimes drawing it out of my bosom and staring at the hollow eye sockets. When I looked in the mirror, my white face and the dark shadows of my eyes traced the same anatomy. The skull beneath my powdered cheeks was all too clear.

Death was very much on my mind, as this Lent plague still raged about us. Many had died in London, and the sound of the bells and the low, mournful cries of “Bring out your dead” did not abate. I sent what food and goods I could to help the survivors, but there was little anyone could do to stop the ravages. I ordered the theaters closed, as well as the concerts at the Royal Exchange, to keep crowds down and try to slow the spread of sickness.

“Queens have died young and fair,” a poet said. I was no longer young, and Wentworth had just loudly reminded me I must die. I would die. Someone would sit on the throne after me. Who was that someone to be?

There were those who thought I could not bear the thought of death, seeking to avoid all mention of it, as if that would keep it at bay. But they were wrong about my motives. What I wished to keep at bay was attention turning to my successor and bypassing me. As soon as I named him, I would be creating an alternative government, someone to whom disgruntled persons could turn for redress. I would be rendering myself obsolete. I had said it plainly: “Think you I will set my winding-sheet before my eye?” From that, people thought it was the shroud I shunned, not being dead politically before my time.

It would have to be James VI of Scotland. We all knew that. But I would not formally name him. He was the only possible claimant who met England’s needs. All the other candidates were either foreign, or Catholic, or more distant relatives. Since it was so obvious it would be James, why could they not stop harassing me about it?

I was not overly impressed with James, but he was the best to hand. As a thrifty monarch, I had nonetheless felt it a good investment to put James on an allowance, subject to his good behavior. As a result, he raised barely a murmur when his mother was executed.

James was said to be odd, but how could he be otherwise with such a mother and such a father? It was a miracle he was not insane. If he had a penchant for pedantry and favorites, it was a small price to pay for what he had been through. I hoped my people would welcome him ... sometime in the far distant future.

Robert Cecil brought me reports of Parliament’s debates. He sat in Commons, his father in Lords. Essex likewise sat in Lords, his retainers in Commons. I was shocked beyond words to learn that Francis Bacon, Essex’s man in Commons, had objected to the subsidy to fight the Spanish, speaking out loudly against granting it in the time period we requested it.

Sir George Carey answered him robustly, saying that the Spanish had already sent 140,000 escudos of gold into England itself to corrupt the nobility, in addition to bribing the Scots.

“The Queen is determined to dispatch Sir Francis Drake to encounter them with a great navy!” he had cried. “Shall we deny her the means?”

Bacon rose and said the country could not afford the subsidy. “The gentlemen of the realm must sell their plate and the farmers their brass pots.”

This disloyalty stunned me. Was he appealing to the masses over and above the peril of the country? Was Essex behind this? For Francis Bacon was his man and could have no justification on his own. Was his master seeking to undermine me, courting popularity directly with the people?

In the end he was overridden and I got my subsidy. But I would not forget his obstruction, and the seeds of my mistrust of Essex were planted.

I had now to address Parliament and thank them. I pondered much upon my words. Even though history ultimately judges our deeds, it is fair words that persuade people to allow these deeds and embellish them to make them glorious. I prayed that my words would be stirring.

When I returned to Parliament on its closing day, I was well satisfied with what I would say.

It was April, and Holy Week had begun. The air had softened and it was clear that spring was upon us. The still-unfurled leaves on the branches, seen from the river, were mistily green, and violets gave the grass a purple shadow. The oars dipped into the eddying water and seemed to propel us forward into warmth.

Standing before the Lords, with Commons listening outside the chamber, flanked by Hunsdon, the lord chancellor, on my right and Burghley, the lord treasurer, on my left, I waited while the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal assured them that “if the coffers of Her Majesty’s treasure were not empty, or she could have replenished them by her own sacrifice, she would not have asked her subjects nor accepted this, even if they offered it freely.”

I rose and addressed them. “I assure you that you do this so you may flourish; it is not for me. Many wiser princes than myself you have had, including my father, and to whom I am far shallow—but you have had none whose love and care can be greater.”

Looking out at them, their honest faces turned to me, I felt inspired to continue and to warn them against fearmongering. “For my own part, I swear that my heart has never known what fear is. In ambition of glory I never sought to enlarge the territories of my land. If I have used my forces to keep the enemy from you, I have thereby done it for your safety, and to keep dangers at bay.”

They were about to break into cheers, but I had important warnings for them. I silenced them with a look and continued. “I would not have you returning home into the countryside to strike fear into the minds of my people. Even our enemies hold our nature to be resolute and valiant. Only warn the people to be wary and not to be found sleeping. So shall they show their own valor and frustrate the hopes of the enemy.”

The earnest faces before me were resolute. “To conclude,” I said, “I assure you I will not incur any idle expense. Now must I give you all as great thanks as ever prince gave loving subjects, assuring you that my care for you has, and shall, exceed all my other cares of worldly causes.”

I could feel the love in the chamber; it flowed between us, a bond as strong as an arm clasp. I would not fail them; they would not fail me. We were one.

24

July 1593

I
t had been a delightful summer day. I had had an invigorating ride out from the stuffy confines of my apartments in Greenwich. After my return, I had enjoyed a picnic of sorts on the high grounds behind the palace. Ale, berries, cheese, and the thickest, sweetest bread—ah, perfection!

Then, awaiting me: the news. It came from France, through both Cecils, father and son, as though they feared to tell me singly.

Henri IV of France had embraced the Catholic faith. In order to ascend the throne, he had abandoned his conscience and bowed his knee to Rome. “Paris is well worth a Mass,” he was reported to have said.

“He ascertained correctly,” said Burghley, his tired voice barely above a whisper. These days he seldom came out; that he did so now spoke volumes. “Paris has steadfastly refused to admit him, and he cannot rule France without Paris.” He looked sad, like an old hound. “That, Your Majesty, is the fact.”

“The fact! The fact?” I burst out. “God’s breath! Swithin’s breeches! Cannot a person bend or alter facts? Could he not have persuaded Paris?” Even as I spoke, I weighed the likelihood—very poor.

“Paris is resolutely Catholic,” said Robert. “To their folly!”

I thought of all the money I could ill afford poured out to maintain Henri IV as a Protestant claimant. I felt hot fury. I had drained the realm, my poor realm, to prop up this turncoat. Now it was all for nothing.

And I had lost my one major ally. There was no Protestant ruler in Europe now, apart from the Scandinavians. The Netherlands were still in revolt, but nothing resolved. A few German palatines and princes. As for the rest—Spain, Poland, Ireland, Italy, now France—all firmly in the papal grasp.

Oh! Damn the Parisians! Damn the French! Damn Henri! Was the defeat of the Armada all for nothing? Were we to stand alone forever?

“That traitor!” I cried. “After all his assurances to me!” For some reason, the useless death of Essex’s brother came home to me. He had died for nothing, nothing, nothing .... I wanted to gouge out Henri’s eyes for it, make him pay.

“He did what he felt he must,” said Robert. “His heart was not in it.”

“Damn his heart!” I cried. “I care not for his heart. Let them boil it in holy oil!”

Burghley laughed, a painful exhalation. “Now you sound like your father,” he said.

“If I had the means—if I could—I would lead such an army, to punish that Judas .... He is worse than Philip!”

“Hardly, Your Majesty.” Robert spoke. “He has not declared war on you. His Catholicism will be a matter of convenience only, not one of conscience. You may still count him as an ally.”

“I cannot count a turncoat as an ally,” I said. “I have no respect for such men.”

“Which is better, an ally one does not respect or an outright enemy who is steadfast to his principles?”

“Oh!” I cried. “They should both burn in hell!”

“But in the meantime, which would do you the most good?” Robert pressed.

“They are useless, both of them.”

But in the end, of course, I was to be forced to make a surface peace with Henri IV, after a few chiding letters and finger-waggings. I was powerless to do otherwise. His cynical politic conversion was another milestone on my journey to wisdom and disillusion.