Elizabeth I (67 page)

“It’s what the rest of the court will think, as well,” he said.

“She is willing to let people think anything they like if it serves her purpose,” I said.

“Well, the title serves
my
purpose! So much for Francis Bacon’s advice about eschewing a military role. I can hardly wait to see his face when I show him this.” He smacked the paper affectionately. “I am the highest soldier in the land!”

I hid my misgivings.
Why, Lettice,
I asked myself,
can you not just receive this with gratitude?

Robert returned to court like a Roman general to a triumph. His parade through the streets to cheering crowds proved that he was still the people’s darling, and his absence had merely whetted their appetite for a glimpse of their hero.

I would be a liar if I said, even to myself, that hearing their cries and seeing him ride out, so handsome and fine, did not make my heart swell. When a mother holds her baby for the first time, does she not, in a secret place in herself, envision him a grown man, riding to splendor and acclaim? So few ever grow up to that. But mine had.

Robert returned to the swirl of court festivities for the French embassy, and he came home with tales of the dancing, the banquets, the music. The Queen, it seemed, had gone the distance in entertaining them, sparing nothing. Robert said she had even dusted off her flirtatious behavior for Monsieur de Maisse, wearing her lowest gowns and masses of pearls, fishing for compliments on her looks and wit.

“She even said, once, that she was never a great beauty but was accounted one in her youth,” Robert recounted the morning after a fête. He laughed. “She gave him that sideways glance, leaving the poor man no response but to proclaim that indeed her beauty had been renowned in its day, and was still dazzling.”

“He never should have said ‘in its day,’”I said.

“She didn’t care for that,” he admitted. “She also teased him about her age, in one moment saying she stood on the brink of the grave and then, when he expressed concern, chiding him, saying, ‘I don’t think I shall die as soon as all that! I am not so old, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, as you suppose.’ It left him quite in a dither.”

“As she intended.”

“She
did
look quite fetching,” he said.

“I wonder how long it took to make her so? Probably hours!”

Behind my laughter was the base of my own experience with that. I could still look the same from a distance, but ... closer took an effort, and some time.

In the days that followed, and through Christmas, I beheld the glitter of the court from a distance, seeing it through Robert’s eyes. I had been restricted to that for a long time, but now there was the tantalizing knowledge that soon I would be standing there seeing it for myself. Next to the wonder of miraculously seeing someone who did not live in our age—King Alfred or the Emperor Constantine—this was the greatest restoration I could imagine. I began planning my clothes, and what gift I would present to her. I was almost glad I had so long to think about it. It had to be just right.

Christopher was not particularly excited about it, but he had never had the experience of falling from favor. And these days he seemed more interested in spending his time with his seagoing companions than pining for court. There was also the delicate matter of Southampton and Elizabeth Vernon to worry him. They were going to approach the Queen and ask permission to marry but were waiting for the most opportune moment. Elizabeth was pregnant and they would have to marry, permission or no. Only the Queen’s preoccupation with the French embassy had kept her keen eyes from noticing the girl’s condition, which would soon be obvious to all. Christopher was jittery for his friend, fearful he might even be sent to the Tower. It all depended on what mood Elizabeth was in. But Southampton had never been a favorite, so he could hardly be accused of “disloyalty”—what she branded any of her male admirers who dared to take up with a woman who was actually available. So probably the worst they would have to endure would be a display of temper and some unpleasant names.

Anthony and Francis Bacon’s spy service managed to intercept and copy Monsieur de Maisse’s reports to his king. They regaled us with the ambassador’s impressions of the Queen.

“ ‘Here she says, “Alas, that you, who have met so many princes, have come all this way to see a foolish old woman,” ’ ” read Francis.

“I hope he did not fall into that trap,” said Robert. “The proper answer is to shower her with compliments.”

“Yes, that is what he did. And then he notes, ‘When anyone speaks of her beauty, she says that she was never beautiful, though she had that reputation thirty years ago.’ ” He paused. “Now hear his comment to his king: ‘Nevertheless, she speaks of her beauty as often as she can.’ ”

I giggled and the men burst into gusts of laughter.

“His honest assessment of her looks: ‘As far as she may she keeps her dignity, but her face is very aged: It is long and thin.’ ”

I had not really seen her in so long I was startled to hear her described thus. Twenty years is a long time, but like me, she still looked the same from a distance.

“He goes on about the fact that the English will not agree to a peace with Spain—”

“Of course we won’t!” bellowed Robert. “That would be insane.”

Francis sighed as he read more of the copied dispatch. “Even he ends as her admirer. ‘It is not possible to see a woman of so fine and vigorous a disposition both in mind and in body. One can say nothing to her on which she will not make an apt comment. She is a great princess who knows everything.’ ”

Gloriana, the Faerie Queen, could still cast her spell, then.

The twelve days of Christmas ended, and a sleet-filled January descended. The distractions of the holidays finished, I could now give myself over to considering what gift I might present to her. The only appropriate thing would be a piece of jewelry. I hated it that Leicester had left her that magnificent six-hundred-pearl necklace, which should have gone to me. She had her portraits painted in it, clearly cherishing it and wearing it as proudly as a bride. So I would never give her pearls. She also had black ones from Mary Queen of Scots. No more pearls for her.

Emeralds? Rubies? Sapphires? She already had so many. Jade? That was more unusual. But I probably could not obtain it in time.

I must give her a jewel no one else ever had. Or ever could. Something to take her breath away, bind her to me. But I could not afford such a gem. Nor, even if I could, would it be unusual enough. Even the deepest red ruby, pulsating like a glob of blood, was seen on too many necklaces and rings at court.

We were of the same family. Was there anything, anything I had inherited that she might value? Mary Boleyn . . . I did have the Boleyn
B
necklace. She had given it to my mother; after my mother died I had kept it in memory of her but never worn it.

I had never known my grandmother Mary Boleyn. She had died the summer before I was born. I was said to be very like her in looks and temperament. I knew that, like me, she had married a younger man after her husband died, and it had caused a bit of a scandal—not because he was young but because he had no rank. Well, I knew all about that: two earls as husbands, then a plain gentleman, turned into a “Sir” only by my previous husband knighting him.

I remembered her young husband, though—William Stafford. He had come with us to Geneva when we fled England during Queen Mary’s reign. There he had died, unfortunately just before it was safe to return. What an unhappy life my whole family had had. We seemed to be under some sort of indictment. It was only through my son that we had a chance at going down in history. The rest of us would be forgotten, lying in forgotten graves.

I kept my grandmother’s necklace in a stout table chest with brass bindings. I had not opened the little box inside, containing the necklace, in many years. The hinge was stuck, and for a moment it refused to open. I did not want to break it, but I kept prying the tiny lids apart and slowly it gave way. Inside lay the initial
B
pendant with three pearls hanging from it, suspended on a gold chain. Carefully I drew it out, held it in the palm of my hand. The gold was undimmed, but the pearls had clouded a bit, their luster filmed over. It had been many years since it had hung on a woman’s neck. Someone told me once that pearls should be worn next to the skin to keep them shining, and that the best way to do that was to have a kitchen maid wear them when she worked. That seemed a good way to lose them to thievery, so I had never tried it. But the pearls needed moisture. I would rub some olive oil on them.

A world lay in that necklace—the vanished hopes of the Boleyns. Truly, dull though they might be, these were pearls of great price. I had said no pearls, but these were different. They came trailing a lost world, the one from which we both sprang.

As the days wore on, we awaited the royal summons. Robert assured me that she would be issuing it shortly; she planned her schedule only a few days ahead.

“Assassins,” he said. “They must not know her whereabouts in advance.”

I carefully selected my clothes for the forthcoming occasion. I would dress plainly, soberly, and keep my red hair, still my best feature, neatly tucked under a cap. But most important, what would I say? And what would be the setting to say it in? She would receive me in a great public ceremony, as she did everyone she wished formally to recognize. That would be in the presence chamber, before the entire court. But afterward ... would she invite me to supper? Or to sit beside her at a musical performance, where we could talk privately?

What would I tell her? Should I leap backward over the troubled years, back to our youth, when we were both Protestants under threat? Once we had been friends; I had looked up to her, my decade-older cousin, admired her, wished to be like her. She always seemed so sure of herself, so circumspect, so self-contained. I never saw her make a mistake, take a false step, whether in games or in speech. Later I came to resent it as a standard I could never attain. I made mistake after mistake, spoke when I should have kept silent, misread motives, wanted things too fiercely for my own good. It had taken me a lifetime to learn what Elizabeth was seemingly born knowing. But now that I had, wearily, come more or less to the same place, I was ready to make peace, yes, even to bow to her as the wise one, the victor.