Elizabeth I (38 page)

Thus it has been, and thus it must remain. Always I was Gloriana, the Faerie Queen, Imperial Votaress.

32

LETTICE

January 1595

T
welfth Night, and I had to spend it drearily sorting through my correspondence, although I did eat the traditional cake—or a piece of it. I did not find the bean, the token of license and good luck. I hoped that did not presage what the rest of the year held in store for me.

Twelfth Night, and soon my son would be returning from Hampton Court, where he had danced attendance on the Queen, literally. I hoped he had scored some successes there. I knew Southampton and he had gone in high spirits.

That had left me all alone here to rattle around in Essex House. Christopher had gone to inspect the shipyards for his commander, the admiral, who was also enjoying himself at Hampton Court. I was just as glad to have him gone. The two of us alone together was no longer the thrill it had been.

Was it marriage? Why, oh why, when I had panted to be with him when I was still married to Robert Dudley, was I so indifferent now? And the same for Dudley—when I was still married to Walter Devereux, I had rushed to Dudley’s bed in hot haste. All this cooled as quickly as a cake set out on the counter straight from the oven. Was it the everydayness of living together? Was it that the same hands, throat, lips, hips grew stale like the cake if it sat out too long? I did not know what it was, but it worried me that I preferred Christopher’s absence to his presence lately.

And lately ... Oh, had it really happened? Had I actually gone to bed with Southampton, my son’s friend? For several days afterward I had pretended it never occurred; or rather, I refused to think about it. It was not the age gap—for, after all, Christopher is some sixteen years my junior—but the fact that it was my son’s companion. What if Southampton told him?

The thing with Southampton must end. It must not be repeated ... well, except for this next appointment. He was at Hampton Court and I could not cancel it, not without attracting attention to myself for writing to him. I would have to go through with the assignation. And then, no more.

Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton. I licked my lips in remembering some of his precocious techniques. He was a daring person and that translated into his physical actions. I laughed softly to myself that there were those who thought him girlish, or that he preferred men. This misconception allowed him unlimited access to women. Perhaps that was why he cultivated it.

He had of late taken up with one of the Queen’s maids, Elizabeth Vernon, whisking her to his apartments right under the Virgin Queen’s nose. Sometimes he and Robert entertained both ladies, the Southwell one and the Vernon one, together. I had tried to warn Robert off Southwell but in vain, although her pregnancy would send her away soon enough. As for Southampton, his involvement with Vernon served to mask whomever else he romped with.

So young, and yet so dissipated. Ah, well. One person’s dissipation is another’s opportunity, and in our last time together I would take every opportunity to extract such pleasure that I would long remember it. Then ... farewell, Southampton.

It was set for tomorrow night. Robert would linger at court for a few days after most had departed, hoping to have some quiet time with the Queen. Southampton would come to Essex House in the early evening on the pretext of finding Robert there, and affect surprise when he was not. I had already told the servants they were not needed for tomorrow night.

There was a soft knocking at the door. I let it repeat itself to make sure no doorkeeper was still on duty. All was in readiness. The candles were burning brightly in the hall and in all the rooms, and potpourri of sweet roses and marjoram was scattered about in silver bowls. I had set out several kinds of wines, including a selection of the ones Robert had the tax concession on—muscadines, malmseys, and vernages. The best cheeses from Staffordshire and dried fruit were arranged on platters on a polished table in the library.

I had chosen a red velvet gown with a low neckline. Those who think people with red hair should avoid red are dullards. The hair has an orange glow that is different from crimson. The Queen knows that well enough—there is a famous portrait of her as a child wearing a red gown. Well, we are cousins and share the same coloring, and the same sense of style. Around my neck I had fastened a ruby necklace—more red. I was ready. I took a deep breath, ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them, parted them, and opened the door.

A stranger stood there.

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. I was both disappointed and nervous. What if Southampton arrived now, and this stranger spotted him?

“Yes?” I finally said.

He looked puzzled that I had opened the door myself. He could see something was amiss. His dark eyes seemed supremely intelligent, the sort that would miss nothing. Damn!

“Lady Leicester?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It could have been no other,” he said. “Your beauty, for all that it is legendary, is singular and recognizable.”

Well. He knew how to give a compliment. But what did he want? I must get rid of him.

“I have a manuscript for the Earl of Southampton, my patron,” he said. “But the Earl of Essex wanted to read it first, so I promised to bring it here.”

Patron. Southampton. “You must be that Shakespeare fellow. The one who wrote”—let my memory not fail me—“the long poem
Venus and Adonis
?”

“The same.” He kept standing there, and did not hand over the package tucked under his arm.

“Won’t you come in?” I was forced to ask.

Quickly he stepped in, shaking a light dusting of snow off his shoulders. Now he presented the leather case. “It is only a first draft,” he said. “But he insisted on reading it.”

I led him in to the first chamber and put the manuscript down on the nearest table. What was the least amount of time I could politely spend before sending him on his way? Oh, Southampton, be slow in arriving!

“I came directly from court. I was to tell you that neither Southampton nor Essex can leave just yet. They have appointments that cannot be broken. But your son will be here day after tomorrow, and Southampton the day after that.”

I felt as if I had just been kicked in the stomach. I actually almost lost my breath. So it was not to be. If Southampton had to follow Robert, we would have no opportunity to be alone again.

“I see.” Suddenly the red gown made me feel like a dressed monkey, the kind fools use in their antics. Well, I might as well entertain this fellow. Now that I thought of it ... I had read snatches of his poem and it concerned the goddess Venus throwing herself at a young shepherd who would have none of it.

Was that what I had done with Southampton? Was this his way of telling me that I was unwanted, like Adonis told Venus? And how symbolic, to dispatch this poet who wrote about it. How like Southampton, to do it in this literary fashion.

“—well received at court,” Shakespeare was saying. “I plan to make changes in it before presenting it again.”

“I beg your pardon?” I must force myself to pay attention. And no point in sending him away. No one else was coming. Why waste the wine, the cheese, and the candles?

“I was saying,” he said slowly, “that my play
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
was well received at court.” He was studying me, well aware that I was distracted. He was trying to ascertain why.

“Robert mentioned it,” I assured him. “He was proud of the way it was played. Congratulations to you. If it made a good impression at court, you are well on your way.”

He looked amused at what I said, as if he wanted to correct me but was too polite. “I go back and forth between pure poetry and plays,” he said. “And lately I have written sonnets for Southampton, urging him to marry and pass on his beauty to another generation. I rather like those. They allow me to ruminate on time and eternity and such like.” He grinned. “Poets enjoy that.”

“It is a theme that never itself grows old.” Grows old. Was I imagining it, or was he looking at me knowledgeably? Had Southampton told him? Was I a curiosity to him, an aged Messalina? “Would you care to see our library? You can inspect our selection of poets, and perhaps tell us what we lack.” I led him up the stairs, down the polished and silent hallway, and into the magnificent paneled library.

If he was surprised to see a table laden with wine and food, he did not show it. It was obvious I had been expecting someone; now it was equally obvious I expected that person no longer. “Would you care for malmsey? Or perhaps vernage?” I asked.

“I always favored vernage,” he said.

I poured out two goblets of it and handed his to him slowly. I touched the rim of mine to his. “Drink well,” I said, taking a sip.

His stillness unnerved me. He seemed to be in complete command of himself, not needing to chatter. He turned away and began to inspect the books lining the shelves, nodding now and then. He seemed utterly absorbed in examining the collection. The bust of Augustus looked on from his pedestal.

“What is this?” he suddenly said, picking up a marble fragment from a shelf. He ran his fingers over it.

“It is what remains of a face,” I said. “A friend brought it to us from Rome, where such pieces of antiquity are lying about for the finding. The best ones, of course, are taken by the pope for his collection. But I rather like this, for all its flaws.”

He turned it so the candlelight showed its contours, more strongly than if direct light had shone on it. “All the features are still here, in vestigial form, softly suggesting, letting us supply what is missing from our own imagination. In that way we become part of it ourselves.”

“Vestigial! I would not have expected that word, but yes, you are right.” He was making me increasingly nervous. He saw too much. I felt as naked as Eve in the Garden when God went looking for her. “More wine?” I hurried over to the table to get the flask.

“Outworn buried age,” he said fondly, still cradling the carving. “Yes, more wine.”

I refilled his glass, and mine as well. A pleasant lightness was stealing into my head.

He was not exactly handsome, but he was pleasing. His dark hair was thick and had a natural curl; through it winked a gold earring. He had unusually red lips. I tried to avoid looking into his eyes because they made me nervous. Instead I looked at his collar, his cheeks, the lips, the hair. “So you are pleased with your patron?” I asked. Even as I said it, I knew it sounded silly.

“Oh, very,” he said. “He is most generous, and appreciative. What more could a poet want?”

“To be free of a patron,” I blurted out. “Even the best is a yoke!”

“No poet can be free of a patron, not even one as successful as I after
Venus and Adonis,
” he said matter-of-factly. “But a playwright can be, and that is my intention.”

“I’ve no doubt you shall be successful.”

“Perhaps there is a chance of success in your ... friendship as well, Lady Leicester?” He looked boldly at me.

I stared back at him. He was tantalizing, that was the only word for it. He teased just by his presence and the eyes that saw through me. “Perhaps,” I heard myself saying. “I am always open to new friendships.”

“Indeed?” He put his glass down carefully, and laid the marble carving beside it. “Do you have many close friends, Lady Leicester?”

“I believe you know several of my friends,” I said. “And you may call me Lettice if you like.”

“I prefer ‘Laetitia,’ ” he said. “That must be your real name? So much more elegant and classical.”

“Like the marble carving?” I could not help laughing. What an odd conversation this was!

“Just like the marble carving.”

It had never happened like this to me, a seduction with a stranger who did not bother to seduce, just drifted into it with classical references. I found it more exciting than compliments, verses, music, and innuendos, for it was so unusual.

The couches scattered around the library served us well; we migrated from one to another, as if each experiment had to be conducted on a different couch. Once I looked up to see Augustus, illustrious emperor and busy adulterer, sternly eyeing us, and I laughed. Perhaps that old reprobate was learning something. This one was.