Elizabeth I (68 page)

I would tell her how grateful I was to be received again ... how sad the years away had been ... how fine she looked ... how I had longed to embrace my dear cousin and to enter into her life again.

I would not ask her forgiveness because I had committed no crime—beyond wounding her vanity. Best to leave that unsaid. But what I wanted to say—and never could, of course—was that Leicester was not worth it. In the years since his death, it had become obvious that he left no memory or legacy; he had been all presence and no substance. Even his supposed friend, Edmund Spenser, wrote:

“Vapoured to nought” ... Yes, he had completely disappeared from memory, from history. There had been nothing there, or it could not have vanished so instantly and completely. Even a beloved hound lingers longer in the memory of its owner than Leicester had done in the country’s consciousness.

Leicester should come between us no longer. Let him keep to his grave.

January gave way to February, and still no summons. More and more nervous, I kept questioning Robert about her mood, her health. Was she well? Keeping to her chamber?

Quite well, he said. Attending plays and enjoying them. Playing her virginals regularly, dancing with her ladies.

Could he not remind her of her promised invitation?

He laughed. “Mother, you have forgotten her nature. To remind her of anything is to rebuke her, and she does not take that kindly. Lately it is worse, as she actually does forget things and is fiercely sensitive about it. In the past, her ‘forgetting’ was politic, a way to make people dance to her tune. Now it is real.”

What if she had truly forgotten? I had not reckoned on that. “Do you mean ... Is she becoming senile?”

“Only selectively,” he said. “With her, it is hard to tell.”

“Can you not whisper a hint to her?”

“That might be dangerous,” he said. “One does not want to anger the tyrant.”

“I assume you mean that as a general principle, not that she
is
a tyrant?”

He shrugged. “What was the definition of a tyrant in ancient times? A ruler who behaved capriciously and unpredictably, with absolute power. She has long done so, excusing it by her ‘sexly weakness’—blaming it on being a woman. But a tyrant in petticoats is just as much a tyrant as one in breeches.”

“You should try to put those thoughts out of your mind and be in love with her again,” I warned him. “For politics’ sake.”

At last the invitation was delivered. The Countess of Leicester was bidden to Whitehall on February 28, to come to Her Majesty’s privy chamber.

I clasped the letter to my bosom. This was my deliverance; this was my reward for years of patient waiting and for the pain of recognizing my own part in our estrangement. A biblical phrase came to me (we never forget our childhood drills) that in its beauty and peace was like a caress from God: “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.” God can actually restore time, a Geneva preacher had said. Others can restore the goods, but only God can restore time.

My time would be restored, and Elizabeth and I would be young cousins again.

I waited nervously in the privy chamber, standing with a group of courtiers who were expecting her to emerge from her inner rooms at any moment. It was ten in the morning, and soon she would be going to dinner, passing through the chamber. Suddenly my dress felt too tight; I had trouble taking a good breath. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. She must be coming. But moments passed and nothing happened. At length a guard announced that Her Majesty would not be coming through the privy chamber; she had taken the private door from her apartments.

She had deliberately done this! I could hardly grasp her meanness in inviting me for a specific time and then avoiding it. I was insulted, shocked, disappointed beyond words. And more important: What should I do now?

Robert had a suggestion: He could ensure an invitation for me to a private banquet that she would attend.

An invitation to a great dinner party given by a rich noble, Lady Shandos, was procured, and I took myself to it, again wearing what I called my modesty outfit. Lady Shandos made a fuss about welcoming me and gave me a seat high in ranking.

And when would the Queen arrive? Her carriage was reportedly ready outside the royal apartments, waiting for her departure.

It waited and waited, and the voices at the banquet table grew tired and hushed. Then came a message for Lady Shandos: Her Majesty would not be coming.

I clutched at Robert’s doublet, back in the privacy of Essex House. My fingers made welts on it, stigmata of desperation. “What is happening?” I cried. “Why is she doing this?”

“The woman’s name is whimsy,” he said. “It extends from something like a sudden change of dinner venue to aborting military plans at the last minute. Can you count the number of times she has sent me on a mission only to try to cancel it after I am on my way? I’ve lost count. That’s why I always try to get far away from court as quickly as I can, before she changes her mind. Once she tried to pull me back from Plymouth as we were waiting to embark for the Lisbon raid. She even sent a ship after me!”

“It’s too much to be a coincidence,” I said. “It has happened twice now.”

“Twice? Twice is nothing to her!”

“Do you hate her?” I suddenly asked. “For your words are venomous.”

He seriously considered my question, as if he had never examined the possibility. “Hate her? Not her, but ... what she is becoming. Her mind is growing as crooked as her carcass!”

“Robert!” What if someone heard? “Have a caution!”

“We’ve no spies here,” he said. “I am sure of it.”

“Do you truly think ... ,” I whispered, “that she is failing?”

“No, not failing, but growing more devious and obstructive. She goes less and less in a straight line to anywhere, that’s what I meant by ‘crooked.’ ”

“If so, then we must figure out a way to cross her path as she ducks and dodges.” Even as I said it, I realized that meant I had let go of the hope we could come to a true meeting of the minds. That saddened me.

“We will waylay her outside her private chambers—‘run into’ her in the private passage outside the royal apartments. Remember, I have access to them,” he said.

“I don’t like the idea of it,” I said. It would hardly be conducive to a pleasant meeting.

“It’s this or nothing,” he said. “She gives us no other choice. Now make yours.”

With great misgivings, I decided to try it. I disliked everything about the method, but perhaps the surprise element would work in my favor. She would be caught off guard and might drop her hostility. Surely she had soft feelings for me somewhere in her memory.

The modesty outfit was getting a bit worn, considering it had never actually been seen by the Queen. I carried the beautifully wrapped Boleyn necklace, ready to present it and make my speech.
Your Majesty, I wish you to have this, which belonged to your aunt, my grandmother, in token of the ties between us.
Or something like that. I was careful not to rehearse it overmuch, fearing to rob it of spontaneity and sincerity.

It was midafternoon, and the Queen would be returning to her rooms after dinner and some conferences. Robert knew the way she took, coming in from the gardens to avoid traversing the suite of public rooms and the gallery. He stationed himself at one doorway and motioned me to stand directly in front of it. As we waited, at first I felt shaky with wondering what she would do when she saw us. Then that worry passed and changed to wondering if she might outwit us once again and avoid the private passageway. Finally it all dropped away and I just wanted to get it over with. I could not stand another moment of this.

Just then I heard voices down the passageway; several women swept down it together. Then the Queen, with two attendants, rounded the corner. She stopped when she saw me, hesitating. She was puzzling whether to proceed or turn abruptly and go back. But this passed through her mind in an instant and the hesitation was almost unnoticeable. Squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up—where was this crooked carcass Robert had described?—she came slowly toward us. Her face was blank, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure.