Elizabeth I (41 page)

I arose and went to the window, looking out at the mist enveloping the valleys and mountains, swirling like smoke. The Devereux family, on the other hand, seemed to have lost every throw. All the more reason for them to keep rolling the dice. It brought to mind something Suetonius had written about Octavius Caesar—that he kept losing naval battles but figured someday he would win, so he kept betting on himself. And he had, too, finally defeating Antony and Cleopatra at Actium.

The noise in the house signaled that everyone was up. Our hosts graciously provided us with tart ale, fresh green cheese, and hard biscuits to send us on our way. I thanked them effusively and embraced little Eurwen, whispering, “Be sure to send me messages of how you do. I expect all my godchildren to give me reports.” And to her mother I said, “I am privileged to share your daughter with you,” when she tried saying they were not worthy and so on.

Essex was impatient to be gone, and they were probably also impatient to have us gone. A royal visit is always a strain, I knew, much as I would have it otherwise. The guards mounted up behind us and we set out, the rising sun behind us, down into the mist in the waiting valley.

The sun would burn it off later, but for now the dew made the green even more intense, almost glowing in its brightness. The path was slow going; I did not mind, as it gave me a chance to truly see the flowers dotting the meadows and the butterflies fluttering slowly above them. Very few people were about, only some shepherds, visible from a distance.

Suddenly from behind me a horn sounded, and the cry “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” One of the guards rushed forward, spurring his horse on the tricky terrain. “There’s a message!” I halted and waited for him; close behind him was the other guard, and a rider on a froth-streaked horse.

The startling suddenness of it made my heart race. How had they found me? Where had the man ridden from?

He pulled up and swept off his hat in the customary obeisance, then cried, “There’s been an attack! The Spanish have landed!”

Essex had turned around, and he reined his horse up beside us. “What? What?” he said.

“The Spanish have made a landing in Cornwall,” the man panted. “At least four ships, and many troops. They’ve burned Penzance, sacked some other towns—I rode here as fast as I could to find you. Robert Cecil only knew that you were heading toward Shrewsbury.”

I had left him a sealed letter with my itinerary, vague though it was. I had to be reachable. It was a fantasy that I could be free.

“You have done well.” I thanked God that I had left the itinerary and that the man had tracked me down. “Have more ships been sighted? Have there been other landings?”

“There are more ships, but as to other landings, I do not know. The beacon fires have been lit along the coast, and troops are mobilizing.”

“I will return to London immediately.” For an instant I looked across the beckoning hills of Wales, feeling all that the country meant to me, that now I could not visit. But I was a queen again, a warrior whose land was under attack, not a pilgrim, and I must make haste.

The Spanish! Their boots had tramped on English soil, something they had not managed to do even with the mighty Armada. How many of them were there? Four ships full of soldiers—that could be hundreds.

They had struck while my back was turned. Had they known? But no, that was impossible. My journey had been undertaken on a whim, and the ships had left Spain some time ago.

“To London!” I cried.

We were a long way from London, too far to get back in a day, or even three days. After the first fast gallop, we had to slow our pace. Our leisurely journey now ran backward; we rushed over the same paths without stopping to savor our surroundings. Past Wollaston and the redoubtable Old Parr; past Shrewsbury, unable to linger at the site where Henry “Hotspur” Percy had been defeated by Henry IV; quickly through Wolverhampton, where another decisive battle, this one between Saxons and Danes five hundred years earlier than Hotspur, had taken place, with the Saxons winning. Our land was dotted with such turning points. Let not someone later point to Penzance as one!

At length Essex halted and said, “It will soon be dark, and we have been traveling at a killing pace for what seems forever. We need a good rest, better than what we’ve gotten on the road the last two days, and so do our horses. We should stop at Drayton Bassett, only a few miles ahead.” He paused. “The house is empty now.”

At first I shook my head. I had no wish to spend a night under Lettice’s roof no matter how far away she was.

“Please reconsider,” he said. “It is the most sensible thing to do. There are stables, food, and care for the horses, and an entire house at our disposal. I promise no disturbances.”

The thought of availing myself of any of her hospitality was repulsive. But the house was also Essex’s. And he was right—we badly needed a good place to stop, a place with resources and no fluttering family to ask questions. We were in no mood to entertain or be entertained. Finally I agreed.

“I’ll go ahead and be waiting at the house,” he said. “Open it up and air it out, send the skeleton staff out for supplies.” Without waiting for my reply, he wheeled around and cantered off.

The light was already failing, and the weak bodily part of me welcomed the knowledge that there would be a comfortable place to rest; the Queen resented the place itself. My attendants and I picked our way there, having to ask directions in the unfamiliar surroundings. By the time we reached it, it was full dark, and the long driveway leading to the house was ominous with its dense alley of trees, making it impossible to glimpse the house itself until you were almost upon it.

It was mostly darkened, but a few windows showed the faint glow of candles. We dismounted, and true to his word, Essex had stable hands to take the horses, and he himself stood in the doorway of the house to welcome us, his tall frame filling the entrance.

“Welcome to Drayton Bassett,” he said.

We stepped inside, finding ourselves in a stone entrance hallway. Even in high summer, it was chilly. He led us into the winter parlor, through the entrance porch. In spite of the fine Turkish carpets, the house had a fortress-like atmosphere.

“Most of the furniture is put away,” he said. “The house is not much used now. But I’ll uncover these chairs, and the bedchambers are ready. You”—he nodded to the guards—“will stay in the adjoining wing with the rest of the staff. That part of the house, at least, is never closed up. As for you, my dear Majesty, I have allotted you the finest room in the house. It was my father’s, and kept as it was ever since.”

How diplomatic of him, knowing that I would never sleep in his mother’s chamber. I nodded.

“I myself will occupy my usual chamber.”

And where was that? I wondered. But I did not ask in front of the guards.

The supper laid out for us was plain but abundant, exactly what we needed. Thick loaves of bread, hearty hunks of Staffordshire cheese, pears and apples from the estate orchards, gooseberry sauce, and smoked venison filled our grumbling bellies, and the French claret soothed our troubled heads.

The guards politely withdrew, leaving Essex and me utterly alone at the long table. The candelabra between our places made a blaze of light in an otherwise dark surrounding. The candles had burned halfway down and were dripping on the table.

Oppressed with anxiety, I said, “Philip said he would spend every coin he had, down to the last socket of his candlestick, to defeat me. He is a man true to his word.”

“Yes, unfortunately. Or ‘fixated’ would be a better description. He is obsessed with conquering England. And he will not admit defeat.”

“He seems to have infinite resources to commit to our ruin.”

“Most of them he has wasted, and they lie at the bottom of the sea.”

I shivered. It was not just the odd cold in the room. “I pray we get back to London in time to direct our defense.” I paused. “Although there are trustworthy and competent men already there—Admiral Howard, for one.” I was deeply sorry now that Drake, Hawkins, and Raleigh were so far away.

He gave a grunt of dismissal. “The man has no vision,” he said.

“He has common sense, something of great value in battle.”

“Ummm.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, preoccupied.

I thought enviously of my father’s reign. He had only had to fend off paper attacks from the pope; no foreigner had dared to actually invade the realm. But now this wretched Spaniard kept us perpetually in his sights; everywhere I looked he tried to thwart me. He, of course, could say the same about me.

I rose. “I am going to bed,” I said.

He rose as well. “I will follow soon.” He came around the table. “Let me show you back to your room.” He guided me up the main staircase and to the third door on my left. Reverently he pushed it open. Inside several candles flickered on their stand, and the bed-curtains were pulled back. “If you need a fire, it is laid already. I must tell you that there is no one else in this wing, but I know you will have no trouble lighting it. I myself will be just next door.” He let that sink in. No people. Himself with only a wall between us.

“Thank you,” I said. “You are always my good host.”

He nodded. “And you always my honored guest.” He took my hand, raised it to his lips.

He left me. I closed the door softly behind him, enclosing myself within. He had tried to allow for my comfort, setting out washing water, a tray of sweetmeats, a bottle of sweet wine. I picked it up and looked at its label—
vino vernaccia.
One of the wines for which I had granted him the monopoly. I poured out a small glass and savored its deep, honeyed taste. I sipped it in front of the fireplace, with its applewood logs crisscrossed over kindling, waiting to be lit.

I took one of the candles and went about the room, looking. Looking to keep myself from thinking, as if action would blot out the strong, disturbing urges stealing around the corners of my consciousness. Here, on the wall: a portrait. I peered closer. It was Walter Devereux, Essex’s late father, staring back at me. It must have been painted when he was very young. His eyes were direct and his high brow shining, as if he looked into the future hoping for good fortune. But Ireland had destroyed him, as it had so many other good men.

Ireland ... What would Grace O’Malley do if she were I? How would she deal with the Spanish? How would she deal with the young man in the next room?

She would fight one and ravish the other. Or was that just my fancy?

Ireland. I turned again to the portrait of poor, doomed Walter. And next to it I saw the telltale nail, and shadowed spot, where the matching portrait of Lettice had been removed.

Essex was seeing to my comfort, indeed.

Lettice. I had not allowed myself to dwell on her or think about her. The thought of the promiscuous woman and her two promiscuous daughters outraged me. She cut a swath through the men of her station and, like the proverbial cat, kept landing on her feet. Or should I say in bed?

And her son is just two doors down.... A man thirty-three years my junior. Waiting in there. Waiting for me?

He can wait forever. He cannot expect any more from me than I have already given. I have spoiled him beyond reason. But never have I bestowed anything inappropriate.

No one else here, no one nearby. No one to see what you do. Privacy beyond anything you ever imagined. You will never have another opportunity like this. Never again.

God be thanked. We ask him not to lead us into temptation. I am human, and do not know my own weaknesses. I do not want to find their limits.

Ah, but you are past the marriage game, past the point where you can be touched by scandal. The Catholics have always called you an incestuous bastard, child of a notorious courtesan, and your enemies have said you were unchaste. They can think no worse of you and will continue to make up lies. And your supporters will refuse to believe any scandal about the Virgin Queen.