Elizabeth I (64 page)

I had a soft spot in my heart for the King of Poland, for he was actually Swedish, and one of my fondest memories was the oddly touching courtship of King Eric XIV of Sweden—before he went mad, that is. His brother, the elegant and sophisticated Duke John, had come a-courting in his brother’s name. In any case, Duke John’s son, who sat on the Polish throne as Sigismund III Vasa, had been
elected
. His country was now a commonwealth, whatever that was. The Poles had made this transition over twenty years ago. But it was obvious such an anomaly could never last. How could a king be elected, for all the reasons of majesty examined in
Richard II
? A king or queen was not merely someone holding an office, like a sheriff, but appointed by divine will.

The August day was heavy and lowering, threatening a downpour at any moment. Turbulent black clouds tumbled through the sky, rumbling ominously. Inside, the fluctuating light through the windows made winking patterns on the floor.

I stood beneath my canopy of state, with its rich embroidery and scalloped border, flanked by both Cecils. Burghley leaned on a cane but refused to sit; young Robert was attired in his most solemn, statesmanlike gown, even wearing a hat. Farther on the side were the other council members: Charles Howard, lord admiral; George Carey, the new lord chamberlain; Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst; William Knollys; Archbishop Whitgift. Their ladies, along with other courtiers, stood on either side of the long aisle where the ambassador would walk. I saw Francis Bacon and John Harington among them, and young Robert Dudley, numerous Carey and Knollys brothers and sisters and cousins, my maids of honor and ladies of the privy chamber. This would be enjoyable—panoply without deeper meaning.

The ambassador was announced, and he made his way down the long aisle. He was a stout little man, dressed all in black velvet with a high buttoned collar and a jeweled chain, from which dangled a star-shaped insignia of some Polish order. As he passed the smiling faces, he gave a tight-lipped twitch in response.

He approached, took my hand, and kissed it with papery-dry lips. Then he stepped back, and I took my seat on the throne to hear his formal address.

He began in sonorous Latin reciting his master’s titles. “
Sigismundus Tertius Dei gratia rex Poloniae, magnus dux Lithuaniae Russiae Prussiae Mascoviae Samogitiae Livoniaeque, necnon Suecorium Gothorum Vandalorumque hoeredicatrius rex
.”

My Latin secretary obligingly translated. “Sigismund III Vasa, by the grace of God King of Poland, grand Duke of Lithuania, Russia, Prussia, Masovia, Samogita, Livonia, and hereditary king of the Swedes, Goths, and Wends.”

I nodded in approval and motioned him to proceed. He continued in Latin, but not in a polite address. Instead, standing truculently before me, he said that his king was angry that after numerous polite requests that we stop hindering their ships and merchants trading with Spain, we continued our outrageous conduct, against all international law and custom. We were prohibiting their free trade and assuming a sovereignty over other kings, which was intolerable. The King of Poland would trade with whom he pleased, Spain as well as anywhere else, and hereby warned the Queen of England that if she would not stop this behavior, he would make her stop.

There was a stunned silence. Such a breach of manners and protocol had never been witnessed between a representative ambassador and his sovereign host. I opened my mouth to reply, but realized he did not speak English. Latin it must be, then, although I had not spoken it in years.

Anger coursed through me, but I put my thoughts in orderly columns like well-trained soldiers and marshaled them out.

“
Expectavi legationem, mihi vero querelam adduxisti
.” “I expected an embassy, but you have brought me a quarrel.”

He looked surprised and annoyed that I would respond. What did he expect, the fool? Did he think I had not understood his Latin? “Oh, how I have been deceived!” I continued. “Your letters assured me that you were an ambassador, but instead I find you a herald. Never in my lifetime have I heard such an oration. I marvel much at so insolent a boldness in open royal presence; neither do I believe if your king were present that he himself would deliver such speeches.”

Would these words be correctly reported back to his master? “But if you have been commanded to use suchlike speeches—which I greatly doubt—we must lay the blame here: that since your king is a young man and newly chosen, not by right of blood but by right of election, he does not so perfectly know the protocol of managing diplomatic affairs with other princes as his elders do.”

The man still stood smugly—or perhaps he was having trouble following my rapid speech. “And concerning yourself, you seem to have read many books, but the books of princes you have not so much as touched, but show yourself utterly ignorant what is proper between kings,” I informed him—the little snail. “Know you that this is the law of nature and of nations: that when hostility arises between princes, it is lawful for either party to obstruct the other’s provisions for war, no matter where they originate from, and to foresee that they be not converted to their own hurts.”

Enough of him. “For other matters, which this time and place do not serve, you may expect to be questioned by some of our councillors. In the meantime, fare you well and repose yourself quietly.”

I turned to my court and said, “God’s death, my lords! I have been enforced this day to scour up my old Latin that hath lain long rusting.” A burst of applause filled the chamber, and the ambassador backed out. It was a long way to walk backward.

If this performance was an indication of the competence of elected kings to fill royal shoes, it was damning.

As evening drew in, I invited guests to gather in the privy chamber for a music recital. The rain was still dripping, making a measured background to the virginal and the lutes. Our mood was mellow after the incident with the Polish ambassador, and John Harington challenged Francis Bacon to carry on a conversation with him entirely in Latin for five minutes.

“As our gracious Queen has proved she can do,” he said, winking at me.

“The Queen has no rivals there,” Bacon said. “And to follow in her footsteps would be embarrassing. Let us try another tongue. I challenge you in Greek.”

“You sidestep the issue. You know I have not studied it.”

“But I have,” said Robert Cecil.

And off they went. I could follow it all, and truth be told, had to bite my tongue to keep from correcting one of Cecil’s verb tenses.

We all had a repast then, where each person contributed something to our feast, Charles Howard fine Reine Claude pears preserved in sweet wine, Buckhurst sherry from Portugal, and Marjorie Norris a potent Irish drink called
uisce beatha
, of which we had thimblefuls only, on account of its being so strong.

At the mention of Ireland, a pall descended over our spirits. Ireland was still in turmoil; rebellious native Irish, under their new leader, The O’Neill, were still hostile and growing in number. Marjorie’s son John, “Black Jack,” our best soldier, had not prevailed against them, had tangled with Russell, our lord deputy, and had asked to be recalled. His wish was granted, but we needed time to find his replacement. In the meantime he clamored to be allowed home.

“May it be the last thing he has an opportunity to send from that godforsaken, stricken land!” Marjorie burst out.

“He will soon be home,” I assured her. “In the meantime, let us enjoy his gift, as his farewell to Ireland.”

Gingerly we all took a sip.

“It takes a man indeed to quaff this!” I cried, my mouth stinging.

Bedtime at last, the cards spent, the virginal covered, the lutes put away. Sticky cups and empty flasks sitting on trays throughout the chamber, candles burned down. It was safe now to open the windows and let fresh air in, the rain having stopped.

I was already in my nightclothes and preparing to go to bed when a nervous rap sounded on the chamber door. The guard opened it and a hand thrust itself in, clutching a letter.

“For you, Your Majesty,” the messenger said. He stepped smartly outside the chamber to allow me to read it in private.

I disliked the very feel of the letter, heavy with moisture, as if weighted down with its news. It had to be something bad to be delivered so late at night, urgent for me to know before sunrise. It could, of course, equally have been good news that could not wait. But I did not think so.

Slowly I opened it, unfolding it on the table where a candle still burned. Marjorie and Catherine stood on either side of me like protecting angels. I could almost feel the feathers of their wings.

“Sir John Norris passed from this world in my arms,” wrote his brother Thomas Norris. “While awaiting permission to leave, he—”

I felt like an intruder reading this. Slowly I turned to look up at Marjorie, seeing only her strong jaw at this angle. “My dear Crow,” I said, “this is for you, not me.” Rising, I handed her the letter, and we exchanged places.

She read, then burst into tears. “He’s gone,” she said. “My brave son!”

And our best soldier, I thought. England’s loss as well as hers. “What has happened?” I asked.

“He died of gangrene from a thigh wound,” she said.

“Like Sir Philip Sidney,” said Catherine.

“Damn Ireland!” cried Marjorie. “I’ve already lost a son there! My oldest, William, died there, and now John! There’s still Thomas and Henry on that wretched soil! And Maximilian died in the Brittany war!”

“You have bred six sons, all six of them soldiers,” I said. “It is a dismal thing to lose three. But I fear it is in the nature of their profession.” I reached out to comfort her, but she turned away.

“They were serving you,” she said. “It was under your orders that they went to Brittany and to Ireland, that they are still serving there.”

“At least he had his brother with him,” ventured Catherine timidly. “He did not die alone, as so many must.”

“We can be thankful it was swift,” I said. He had not lingered for almost a month, like Sidney. “And, as Catherine said, to have his brother with him must have been a comfort. To him, and now to you.” I reached out to her again and this time she let me embrace her.

In stepping out into the privy chamber to tell the messenger there was no reply tonight and to return in the morning, I saw the empty
uisce beatha
bottle. It was good we had drunk it. I threw it out. One less thing to cause Marjorie pain when she looked at it.

52

October 1597

A
ll my crops had failed. Everything I had sowed—or so it seemed—had yielded only thistles, corpses, and ignominy. The actual harvest of the land: scanty and rotten. Ireland: Jack Norris was just one of many killed there, if not by bullets and arrows, then by their cruel diseases, treachery, and climate. And our mighty seaborne assault on the Spanish enemy had been a financial and military fiasco. The legacy of Drake had burned out, leaving us vulnerable to our enemies. A purposeless—no, worse than purposeless, inept and stupid—chase after treasure ships in the Azores had fizzled as spectacularly as sodden fireworks. The men and their expensively outfitted ships had returned home in humiliation. The passing bell had tolled for England’s adventures at sea.