Elizabeth I (31 page)

“But what motive would he have?” Robert asked. “He isn’t Spanish; the Portuguese hate the Spanish for taking their country.”

“Perhaps he isn’t a loyal Portuguese,” said Francis. “Has Portugal treated him well? They have an Inquisition and he fled from it.”

“But so does Spain.” Robert was not convinced.

“Who knows why a man decides to dabble in the world of espionage? Perhaps for the simplest of reasons: money. The Spanish cannot help but pay better than the Queen.”

“Lopez has a large family and is not rich,” said Anthony, clearing his throat to speak. “So he had need. My agents in Spain have been tracking the spies that Philip is financing in England. One of them, Ferrera da Gama, is staying with Lopez in his Holborn house. That implicates Lopez. Lopez is trusted by the Queen and provides her medicines and drugs. Who better to poison her? Assassination is much cheaper than invasion and achieves the same end.”

“Perhaps we should detain this Ferrera,” said Francis.

“Yes, and in addition, alert the officials of Rye, Sandwich, and Dover to open and examine all letters from Portugal.”

“Yes!” said Robert. “And easily explained, as I am the Privy Councillor responsible for Portuguese affairs.”

Lopez ... Roderigo Lopez ... “Robert, has he not treated you?” I asked.

“Yes, I have consulted him on occasion,” said Robert.

“Better not take his medicines!” Francis said with a laugh.

“He has had no reason to poison me,” Robert said.

“Until now. If he finds out you are on his tracks, then—” Francis made a choking noise, grabbing his throat.

Lopez ... There was more about him. Lopez. God in heaven, yes! People had accused him of supplying Leicester with the poison that supposedly killed my first husband, and Nicholas Throckmorton, and the Earl of Sheffield. As a result, when Leicester himself died suddenly, I was suspected of poisoning him in self-defense. Ultimately I had Lopez to thank for these calumnies.

“London is swarming with foreigners,” said Robert. “Why they are tolerated I cannot fathom. They make a veritable nest where traitors can hide.”

“There are foreigners, and then there are foreigners,” said Anthony, his voice straining to be heard. “The diamond cutters who fled Antwerp, the starchers who starch our ruffs, we surely would not expel them. They pay double taxes as well.”

“The Dutch, the Huguenots, the Swiss, very well. But how have these crafty Spanish crept in?”

“The Portuguese pretender Don Antonio has outstayed his welcome,” said Francis. “Living upon Her Majesty’s bounty and protection these fifteen years. He knows his cause is withering, so he and those surrounding him are taking desperate measures. I think they are transferring his birthright to the Spanish. That means Spanish agents, all sheltering under his wing.”

“Isn’t Lopez a Jew?” asked Robert.

“He converted, along with some hundred or so of his countrymen,” answered Francis.

“There’s a name for them. I can’t remember it,” I said.

“Marranos,” supplied Anthony. “Of course, the conversion doesn’t count in Spain. There had been Marranos for years, living happily, and then the Spanish expelled them in 1492.”

“Stupid, stupid Spanish,” said Francis. “There went all the brains in their court. They have been exhibiting stupid behavior ever since. Not that we should mind.”

“Spain is only wealthy because she robs the Americas; otherwise she is the least productive nation in Europe. Can you name a single thing she makes? Everything is imported,” said Robert. “For the Armada, she could not even make barrels that didn’t leak. Pitiful. Francis is right. No brains.”

“But this Lopez—” Anthony steered the subject back. “Is he really a Christian? I mean, Jesus himself was Jewish, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t a real Christian, if you follow me.”

“How can we ever know? And what difference does it make?” asked Robert. “With
The Jew of Malta
playing continually to huge crowds here all year, he will already be suspect in people’s eyes. Why, there’s even a line in it about poison. Everyone knows they poison wells.”

“ ‘Everyone knows,’ ” scoffed Francis. “The lies that ‘everyone knows’ can fill a thousand scrolls.”

“If only Kit could have seen this success,” said Anthony. “The play was doing well when he died, but nothing like this.”

“He drank too much,” said Robert. “I know poets say it gives them insight, and perhaps it does up to point, but if he hadn’t had a taste for the drink—”

“He couldn’t have been lured to his death,” said Francis. “A drinker is an easy mark. Easy to lure, and easy to smear. ‘Christopher Marlowe, killed in a tavern brawl’—a nice cover story. He was silenced by someone higher up, someone made uncomfortable by his espionage activities. So have a care, Anthony.”

“I don’t go to taverns or meet with people at inns in Deptford,” said Anthony. “I can barely get here to Essex House.”

“There are slippery stones out in front of Essex House, where a weak man might stumble and hit his head,” warned Francis.

“There are slippery places in court, and close to the Queen, where a proud man might stumble and end up in the Tower,” retorted Anthony. “So have a care, Francis.”

We all trod on slippery ground, it seemed. Our spy service empowered us to the Queen but entangled us with dangerous elements—disreputable Englishmen and enemy foreigners, who had no scruples. We must watch our steps indeed.

26

ELIZABETH

New Year’s Day 1594

I
had been standing for hours, receiving the customary New Year’s gifts. It was fortunate that I did not mind standing; in fact, I was noted for my ability to stand for very long times. Everyone at court gave me New Year’s gifts, and I in turn presented a great number of them, although I myself did not hand them over. Instead, recipients were given a receipt and sent to my treasury, where they were allowed to select a gilt plate, tray, or cup.

Burghley had creaked forward and presented me with a writing set, while Robert Cecil had proffered a comfit box for sweetmeats. Archbishop Whitgift had obtained a prayer book with an olive-wood cover, carved in the Holy Land, and the Earl of Southampton gave me a bound copy of a poem.

“Not written by me,” he hastened to add, “but by a poet I am proud to be patron of.” He brushed his fine hair off one shoulder. I saw that he had left off the more flamboyant of his jewels, as well as his rouge. Perhaps he was becoming more restrained now that he had turned twenty.

I flicked open the packet.
Venus and Adonis.
“Frolicking of the immortals?” I asked.

“An immortal story,” he said.

A William Shakespeare was the author. I knew the name. He had written plays about Henry VI.

“Do you compose verse yourself?” I asked Southampton.

“I try, but it is not fit to pass beyond my own chamber,” he said.

“There are many others who ought to say that but do not have the good sense to do so,” I said. “Thank you, and a blessed year for us all.” I waved him on.

Might it be so. The one just past had had its troubles, but 1594 looked promising.

“Your Most Gracious Majesty.” Dr. Lopez was holding out his gift, a latticed gold box. I opened it and looked inside, seeing two chambers with seeds and golden powder.

“Aniseed and saffron, which your generosity has granted me a monopoly in,” he reminded me.

Monopolies—the way I could reward faithful servants without having to take money from the treasury. “I thank you, Roderigo. Your remedies have been most helpful,” I said. His Turkish herbs had done their cooling duty and now I was seldom troubled by the heat attacks.

“I have a new shipment just in,” he said. “I should like to bring them to you.”

“Tomorrow, then,” I said. I waved him on. I would have enjoyed speaking further to him—I always enjoyed his conversation—but the line was long behind him.

Young Essex now stepped up, resplendent in a white velvet outfit with pale blue trimmings. It was a good choice of color for him, setting off his wavy reddish hair. He wore no beard, making his sensuously full lips his most notable feature.

“Your most glorious Majesty, it is more than I deserve that I may kiss your fair hand.” He bent low and took my hand, raising it to those plump, warm lips. I pulled it quickly away.

“What do you desire this year, Essex? Last year was a good one for you—Privy Councillor, settling yourself in your London household—what is left?”

“To desire and to deserve are not the same thing, Your Majesty,” he said. “Well I know I deserve nothing, but I desire ... everything.” He raised his gaze to stare directly into my eyes.

He was a silly lad, transparent in his flattery, his naked hunger for recognition almost touching, his bids to counterfeit an amorous interest embarrassingly seductive. He almost made me believe it.

“What have you brought me?” I asked briskly. The line behind him was still very long.

He stepped still closer and lowered his voice. “If I were to give it now, and you laid it aside with the other gifts”—he glanced over at the table weighted with the ones that had come before—“the wrong person might see it. With your kind permission, I wish to present it in privacy.”

He knew all the tricks. I sighed. “Very well. You may make an appointment through the vice chamberlain.”

“Tomorrow?”

Tomorrow I was seeing Dr. Lopez, and I did not want to be rushed.

“No, perhaps the day after. The vice chamberlain knows my schedule.”

As he took his leave, I saw that the line stretched even longer now. New Year’s Day was a test of endurance here at court.

The soles of my feet were tender, but other than that I suffered no ill effects from the New Year’s ritual. I could blame the foot soreness on the shoes I had chosen to wear; I should never subject new shoes to such an ordeal. So, at sixty I could still stand all day long and feel no worse than I had at thirty. That was a fine New Year’s gift, that knowledge, better than all the bejeweled book covers and embroidered gloves and hanging pendants. I had given it to myself.

I awaited Dr. Lopez, a fine wool shawl about my shoulders. It was always cold in my chambers at Whitehall; even the bedchamber, small as it was in relation to its fireplace, remained chilly. That was what came of being so near the river, where the winter mists hung near the shore and crept into all the dwellings. It seemed a year since we had seen the sun. I shuddered as a chill swept over me. A little personal heat at this point would be welcome, but I did not wish it back again.

Where was Lopez? It was not like him to keep anyone waiting. He was always prompt and considerate. I paced a bit, kept company by Catherine and Marjorie. We all bemoaned the lack of exercise during these dreary months, but Christmas season at court was a compensation; their husbands, Charles and Henry, were here now. There were still four days left of Christmas, with plays, masques, and feasts, ending with the wild antics of Twelfth Night.

“I am grateful that your menfolk are keeping Christmas at court,” I told Marjorie and Catherine. Well I knew that Henry would prefer to be at Rycote, where the hunting was good, and that Charles liked to use the winter months to inspect the harbor facilities up and down the coast. Neither man enjoyed court frivolities. Perhaps that was why I trusted them.

“Indeed, it is a gift to us as well,” said Marjorie. “If I did not have him here at holidays, it would be easy to forget I am married. Our sons are always away fighting in some action or other, so there is no family life to speak of.” She said it lightly, but I knew it grieved her that though she had four sons still living, she hardly ever saw any of them.

“My dear Crow,” I said, teasing her with the old nickname, although her dark hair was fading. “At least they return to the nest every once in a while.” Those of my own family had flown away, never to return.

All I had of family were from my mother’s side, the closest being the children and grandchildren of Mary Boleyn, my aunt. Catherine was one of those, my first cousin once removed. She bore no resemblance to either her grandmother Mary or my mother. Where my mother’s face was long, with a pointed chin, Catherine’s was as round as a full moon. My mother’s eyes were said to be dark and “invite to conversation.” Catherine’s were placid and comforting and never narrowed in anger. My mother was slim and Catherine was plump.

I remembered my aunt Mary Boleyn, who died when I was ten. She came little to court, for she had married a groom after her first husband died of sweating sickness. It was said to be a marriage of passion. If so, the passion was played out in private. The few times I was old enough to remember, she told me little stories about my mother, her fondness for apples and dried pears, how she liked telling Aesop’s tortoise and hare story to her niece and nephew, her fumbling attempts to braid her hair the French way when she was young—anecdotes but nothing more. Now there were so many things I would ask her; then I did not know how.