Elizabeth I (29 page)

The day of my birth was approaching, as it had sixty years ago. And just as it had been sixty years ago, when my mother had withdrawn into her chambers to await my birth, so I withdrew into the very same chambers at Greenwich. My parents had secretly married in January, my mother crowned Queen in June, and then, from August on, she had been confined to her apartments in Greenwich, as the old custom was. My father, too, had been born at Greenwich, and he wanted to honor it with the birth of his long-awaited son. Everyone was sure I would be that son, or pretended to be sure. Surely some must have had doubts, signs. But they dared not voice them—or perhaps my father did not hear them. When, on that seventh day of September, I was born cloven and not crested, he was stunned. But he put a good face on it, saying, “If it is a daughter this time, sweetheart, sons will follow!” And he kissed my mother.

He named me Elizabeth after his own mother, added “ss” to the proclamations announcing a prince, and sponsored a lavish baptism for me with all the dignitaries of the kingdom.

Beyond the boundaries of his kingdom, no one acknowledged me as legitimate, and the elaborate ceremony my father had arranged to emphasize otherwise had the opposite effect.

Sixty years ago ... These September days were hot—had they been at the time? Was my mother sweltering as she paced from room to room in the locked apartments? Did she pray for a cool day when her labor began? I, too, wished for cooler weather. The stifling heat did little to assuage the occasional attacks I still had. I wandered the rooms, following in my mother’s footsteps, trying to imagine what she had felt, as if somehow that would enable me to glimpse her.

I had no memory of her. Try as I would, I could not see her face, could not remember her voice. I had had a ring made that carried her portrait and mine, but looking at that ring was the only way I could ever see her as I went about my day. It was a very poor substitute. Just here she walked. . . . Just here she must have turned, and rested her elbows on the windowsill, and looked out at the wide river below, moving her face to catch the breeze. She eluded me like a shadow.

I had forbidden any celebration of this birthday. I did not wish to remind anyone of my age. Sixty—the very
sound
of it was old, conjuring up a host of other words: “graybeard,” “Nestor,” “elderly,” “sage,” “dotage,” “walking stick,” “gout,” “impotent,” “crone,” “senile.” I knew that was so, because long ago I had thought the same. Now I was supremely sensitive to those words, proof enough that I had arrived there ... or was afraid others would think so.

I was still as erect and robust as ever, and my health was good. Under the wigs my hair had faded to sandy, red streaked with gray. I needed glasses to read, else the letters were just black squiggles to me. I tired more easily and my temper grew brittle earlier in the day. But those were small payments to old Chronos, and I was content enough. The years had fined me little.

No one else in my family had lived so long. Few kings of England had lived so long. I knew my history and I thought, after the Normans came, there had only been five who reached sixty, including the conqueror himself, who expired on the threshold of that birthday. I was grateful.

I would give myself a birthday gift and do my favorite thing: translate philosophy. And who should it be? Someone I had never tried before, someone difficult, to challenge me. I settled on Boethius’s
Consolation of Philosophy
, composed more than a thousand years ago when the scholar was facing execution by the Emperor Theodoric. If he could find consolation in philosophy while in prison awaiting his death, I could surely find it when facing nothing more onerous than a sixtieth birthday.

Boethius wrote in Latin, which I always enjoyed translating. The economy of expression in Latin—quite marvelous. If a thought is six sentences long in English, it compresses into three in Latin. It is good we have the language of the ancient Romans to remind us of the elegance of their ways.

The afternoon sped by as I hunched over my desk, shuffling papers and searching for words. Reaching the level of the windows, the sinking sun poured directly into the room, making it hotter. I was about to put the papers aside and call for a cool drink when dear Helena came into the room.

She dropped a little curtsy. “My very best wishes to—”

I rose, put my finger across my lips. “No, my dear. This is a day like any other.”

She understood. But this was not what she had come in for. “I am sent to inform you that you have an unexpected visitor. From Ireland.”

Ireland! Had William Fitzwilliam, my lord deputy over there, returned? Was there very bad news? Had the Spanish made a landing? It could only be a crisis. We were nominal overlords of Ireland, and had been for centuries, but our grasp was shaky.

“She is waiting in the guard room.”

“She?”

“The pirate. That pirate woman, the mother of all rebellions in Ireland.”

“Grace O’Malley?” We had exchanged letters; she had appealed to me on behalf of her son, being held prisoner by my governor of Connaught, in Ireland. I had sent her a list of eighteen questions to be answered before I proceeded, and had not received them. If her answers had sounded right, I stood more than ready to help her. She had won me over by her first letter, in which she had asked me “to grant unto your said subject under your most gracious hand of signet, free liberty during her life to invade with sword and fire all your highness enemies, wheresoever they are or shall be, without any interruption of any person or persons whatsoever.” I could certainly use her, and from what I knew, what she promised, she delivered. She sailed in her own ships, took musket and sword against her enemies—even, at one point, the Turks!

“Yes. She is anchored in the Thames at the palace landing steps. ’Tis said she is as fine a sailor as Drake himself.”

That, of course, was impossible. She had not sailed around the world, fighting her way around the very tip of South America, finding a new passage through to the Pacific. Still, one could still be a superlative sailor without such heroics.

“I shall receive her with the rest of the court present.” Whoever was here this afternoon could be present. “In the presence chamber.”

Helena hurried away, and I stood pondering the Irish woman’s real purpose in coming. She had provided me with an unexpected birthday commemoration, ensuring that this one would stand out in my memory.

I waited upon my throne in the presence chamber, its long wall of windows ensuring that I would be able to see Grace O’Malley very well. The hastily assembled courtiers lined both sides like choristers in choir stalls, everyone bursting with curiosity to behold this famous woman. And what did I expect? Someone with tangled hair, wearing a wolf skin? Or in pirate garb, men’s breeches and high boots?

“Gráinne Ní Mháille!” the usher announced. “Grace O’Malley.” The doors swung open to reveal a tall red-haired woman dressed in a fine gown. Two of my guards flanked her, and then the captain ordered a ceremonial search of her person. She held out her arms to make it easy for them. One of them cried out, “A dagger!” and snatched it from its sheath. The other guards drew their swords, holding her at blade point.

“You come into my presence with a dagger?” Surely she did not mean to attack me before all these witnesses. She stared back at me and did not reply. Then I realized she did not speak English, of course. I tried French and got an equally blank stare. Then Welsh, hoping I had found someone to speak it with. Nothing.

“Is there anyone here who speaks Irish?” I asked. “What about you, Francis?”

Bacon seemed to know everything, so perhaps he knew that language. He attempted to speak to her in a halting sentence or two. Then she spoke. Her voice was low and strong.

“Your Highness, she speaks Latin,” said Bacon, relieved. “She asks if you do.”

“Of course I do!” And had just spent the afternoon thinking in Latin. How fortuitous. “Francis, can you translate for the court?”

He nodded.

“Why, Mistress O’Malley, have you concealed a dagger on your person?” I asked.

“It was not concealed, Your Majesty. It was quite openly worn. I wear it for my own protection. There are many who would kill me.”

“In Ireland, perhaps, but not here.” I had heard of the attempts to kill her, but everyone in Ireland constantly attempted to kill his enemies. Grace had outsmarted and outfought all her would-be assassins.

She smiled at me, a dazzling smile, one that revealed a full set of teeth. “Here, there, everywhere.”

I nodded. “You may approach the throne.”

She walked toward me, but when she came to the spot where she should have bowed, she kept walking. The guards took her forearms and stopped her.

“You have forgotten the necessary submission,” they reminded her.

“I have not forgotten,” she said. “But I do not submit myself to you as Queen of Ireland, for I do not recognize you as such. I have submitted to your overlordship only as Queen of England.”

“Then bow to the Queen of England as a guest, not a subject.” God’s wounds, but she was trying my patience!

She did so, and now was standing within ten feet of me.

“You may speak your piece,” I said.

“With Your Gracious Highness’s permission,” she said, “I will tell it all.” She laid out her case swiftly, with none of the storytelling the Irish were famous for. Perhaps she knew the stark facts would speak louder than any dressing upon them. She was twice married and twice widowed. Her first husband had been killed in battle. By him she had two sons; by the second, one son. Sir Richard Bingham, my governor of her region of Connaught, had killed one of her sons, Owen, and taken the other prisoner, where he was holding her half-brother as well. The third son he had tricked into declaring loyalty to him.

“He holds them against all law,” she said. “He refuses to release them. He is a cruel and barbaric liar and torturer. Before he stole them, he stole my livestock and property.”

“And you, mistress, have always followed the law?” I laughed. She followed no law but her own, and practiced bold piracy wherever she could. She had led many rebellions against the English before finally submitting, and I knew her submission was conditional.

“Except when others did not. I have found that when dealing with a law-breaker, keeping the law myself puts me at a disadvantage in responding.”

Her Latin was impressive. She reeled off those sentences, with their changes in tense and object, as easily as singing a ditty.

“And I understand that you responded rather vigorously.”

She threw back her head and laughed loudly. “I harried his ships, used mine to ferry troops against him, and raided his seaport towns. He could not seize my ships, and they were as good as horses to me.”

Perhaps she
was
another Drake, using her ships like an army.

“I would not want you for an enemy,” I said.