Elizabeth I (74 page)

Chastened, he emerged from his darkened chamber within the hour, dressed appropriately, seemingly alert and engaged. I sent him off to eat while I sat, shaken, at his reckless words. He had already almost taken an irretrievable step, a step too far. The dreadful folly of having tried to draw his sword on her, his hotheaded words comparing her to her father—and saying she was lesser than he and commanded less respect—and then his refusal to apologize, put his career, if not his life, in jeopardy. As she had reminded him, had she been her father, he would not have gone free from that room. And now she looked for some gesture on his part to show contrition. But he refused to take even the smallest step toward her, shooting out angry letters to others (which undoubtedly had been shown to her) and then staying away from the council, even for emergency sessions in the wake of the disaster in Ireland. The greatest military defeat the English had ever suffered there, and when the hour had come to make decisions, he had absented himself.

The Queen. I was still smarting from her insulting rejection of me and my gift, when she had invited me to court. It was a mean-spirited little drama, meant to humiliate me. It was unworthy even of her. Well. I would never see her again, except at a distance. But my son still must make his fortune by pleasing her. Perhaps he was so hostile to her on account of me. But it was too dangerous. She could be spiteful, but we could not afford it. Robert must make his peace with her.

The next few days passed uneventfully enough, as Robert regained his bearings and his health. After one of these bouts he always needed a recovery period. He never did explain why he laughed so much at Philip’s death—perhaps now he did not remember. But Anthony Bacon brought information about Philip’s last days, and they were no laughing matter.

It was sad to see a man in declining health describing another’s similar situation. Anthony had grown even more frail and nervous and had attacks of shaking and heart pounding that came upon him suddenly. When that happened, he would jerk and sweat and have to cling to the arms of his chair. His brother Francis seldom visited us now; Robert had made his disdain for his advice so blatant that his erstwhile friend stayed away.

“Philip had been suffering for some time,” said Anthony. “He had a cancer of some sort, and his body was covered with sores. He lay in bed for at least fifty days, and brooded and brooded upon the loss of his last Armada. He feared it meant the end of his Enterprise of England, the one thing that had mattered to him. He felt a special responsibility for the English Catholics; after all, that is one reason he had married Mary Tudor. Now he had failed them.”

“He must have felt that God deserted him,” I said.

“So it seems,” said Anthony. “He kept gazing at that waiting coffin. Did you know, he had over seven thousand saints’ relics? They failed him, too.”

“Pitiful.” I thought of the bedridden old man, his body a putrefying mass of sores, with the coffin staring him in the face. He did not even have any teeth and had to exist on mush.

“Before you feel too sorry for him, let me tell you what the bastard did.” Anthony’s voice rose as he gathered his strength. “His last official business was to dictate a letter to The O’Neill congratulating him on his great victory at Yellow Ford and offering him support. Cheering on the Queen’s enemy, he was passing his sword on to the next generation.”

“Let him rot in hell!” No matter my own personal feelings for or against Elizabeth as a woman and a cousin, she was the Queen of my country and to insult her was to insult England.

“With all his saints’ elbows and tongues and knucklebones,” said Anthony. “I heard he had a square inch from the skinned St. Bartholomew and one of St. Lucia’s eyeballs.”

“Popish rubbish, and let him fester in it. They probably buried him chin deep in such stolen body parts.”

“His heir, Philip III, is only twenty and does not seem as devout. He will probably auction off the relics to raise money.”

“Well, don’t buy any!” I said. There would be scant market for them in England in any case.

“I don’t know; I’ve always wanted one of those pieces of the true cross. Although I’d settle for a vial of the Virgin’s milk.” He gave a great snorting laugh that soon turned into a painful cough.

“Call upon St. Blaise,” I said. “That’s the cure for sore throats.”

Robert strode into the room, looking puzzled. “Whatever are you laughing at?”

“Philip again,” I said. “Anthony was just talking about his collection of saints—parts of them, anyway.”

Robert shivered. “Such a gruesome hobby,” he said. His own piety, which came upon him in fits and starts, was of the Protestant variety—inherited from my father, most likely.

“I brought intelligence about Philip’s last hours,” said Anthony.

“Doubtless they were impeccably Catholic and involved a vision of some sort,” said Robert.

“Yes, indeed, a vision. It wore an Irish cloak and had long hair and a bloodthirsty yell. Philip commissioned it—against us.”

“A ghost? He called upon a ghost?”

“Would that it were. This one is alive enough—The O’Neill. Philip gave him his dying blessing, as it were. Said Yellow Ford was a great thing, and for him to go forth and do more, at Spain’s expense.”

Now Robert’s face went pale, pale as it had been in his sequestered room where he had hidden from the sun. “He did that?” he murmured.

“If we doubted the battle lines were drawn, we now have our proof,” said Anthony. “Ireland is Spain’s surrogate, and it has won a mighty victory against us.”

Robert let out a mournful sigh, as if all the deaths there, including his father’s, entered into him. For once, he had no words ready.

Early the next morning a summons came from Greenwich. Her Majesty commanded the presence of the Earl of Essex at court, immediately, upon pain of severe punishment if disobeyed.

60

ELIZABETH

September 1598

T
he candles flickered in unison. When one leaped up, the other mirrored it, as if they were competing to illuminate Philip’s face. He would have liked that, I thought. He would have felt it an angelic tribute. He was comely and youthful in this miniature portrait, the one he had given my sister upon their betrothal. I had seen her look hungrily upon it before she had beheld him in person. He had a restrained smile in this picture, a teasing promise of high spirits—a promise he never fulfilled. After she died I had kept it; it served to remind me that the willful enemy plotting my demise had once been my friend in England and that no one is entirely a monster.

Now he was dead. Doubtless more candles were lit all over Spain, in little churches and in the great fortress of Escorial, where Philip spent his last years. They would not yet know of it in Peru or Panama, but next year requiem Masses would be said for him there. His obsequies would just go on and on, reverberating around the world.

I should feel some sort of triumph, or at least relief. Instead I felt naked. Losing my steadfast enemy felt oddly like losing a steadfast friend; both defined me. First Burghley, now Philip. They both had left sons to carry on after them, but the son is never the father.

I had the damning intelligence about Philip’s message to The O’Neill. It saddened me, killing my stubborn belief that when our last moments on earth seize us, we become better than we have been in life and even the petty man becomes, briefly, noble. Instead, with his last breath, Philip had focused on his hatred of me and England.

Once you were young,
I thought, looking again at the portrait.
But the only remnant of you that remained so was your intense ability to hate: malevolence burning bright in a withered old face.

Our duel continues, my old brother. It goes on, because you would have it so.

They were all here, by God, including Essex. I had sent that wayward puppy a summons that even he dared not ignore. They were sitting glumly around the polished council table—the entire Privy Council, from the ancient Whitgift to the young, new Lord Cobham. The days since Yellow Ford had brought a flood of bad news, as well as a flood of fleeing settlers. Edmund Spenser had just barely escaped with his life from his burning house and barn; he was back in England, glad to be safe, and now composed verses re-creating the horrors—flames, looting, slaughter—he had witnessed in Ireland.

Today we would move forward, take command of the ship. We could drift no longer, or we would be dashed upon the rocks of Ireland, as the Armada had been.

Up and down the long table, fit for a monastery refectory, they looked to me to steer them. Essex sat alone at the farthest end, facing me, as if he were my antipode. I motioned him to move, take his place among the other councillors. Scowling, he did so, seating himself on Carey’s side of the table, shunning the side with his enemies Cecil, Admiral Howard, and Cobham.

“Gentlemen, one might mistake this for a funeral,” I said. “The only person to have died is Philip, and I would not expect such long faces on our side. Archbishop, it is fitting that you lead us in prayer before opening this momentous council.”

His bushy black eyebrows rose, and he prayed in a sonorous voice.

“Amen,” all chorused.

“Robert Cecil,” I said, “as principal secretary, please summarize the choices facing us.”

He stood, clutching the papers he had prepared—not because he knew he would have to present them but to order his own mind. I was sure that in his wardrobe all his shoes—polished and properly soled—were lined up according to season. “Very well,” he said, nodding to all. “We have only three choices. One, withdraw and surrender Ireland to the Irish. Two, tread water and do the minimum to retain it. Three, throw our greatest force against it and subjugate it utterly. The first choice would be tempting were it not for the Spanish. It is thrift and common sense to rid oneself of a nuisance, unless someone is waiting to pick it up and turn it against you. The second choice has already been tried, and has failed. That leaves only the third.”