Elizabeth I (75 page)

“To my sorrow, I affirm that you are right,” I said. “So we meet today to decide how to implement it, not whether to implement it. The die is cast—cast by Spain, not us.”

“Very well, but how can we do this?” asked Lord Keeper Egerton.

“Money, money. It requires money we don’t have,” lamented Buckhurst.

“It will have to come from Parliament,” said Lord Cobham, “and we just called a parliament. It is too soon to call another. They won’t be in a giving mood.”

“We still have the subsidies to collect from the last one,” said Admiral Howard. “And in this time of danger, they may have to meet again.”

“It’s always ‘this time of danger.’ How long can I lay that burden on my people, extracting money from them out of fear?” I wondered. “But it has all been true, not a ploy on my part.”

“All the money in the world won’t help without someone to lead the attack,” said John Herbert, the second secretary. He seldom attended council meetings but kept the notes from all of them. “We need a commander. A military genius.”

“Perhaps we can get the witch of Endor to call up Caesar?” said Whitgift. “All our good ones are dead.”

“Someone has to lead them. They can’t be led by a ghost.”

“Ireland has made ghosts out of scores of commanders,” cried Essex, “including my father!”

“This time will have to be different,” said Carey, beside him. “This time, the commander will have to be a man who will not be broken by Ireland, but will break Ireland. A man who can draw others to enlist and serve under him. Someone whose very appointment makes a statement.”

“But who can that be?” asked Herbert, for all of us.

We all knew there was only one man now in the realm who could fit that description. Only one man who was both nobly born and a military commander. Only one man whom the people would demand be appointed. There was no choice.

Essex leaped up. His voice grew tremulous, as if he were speaking underwater. “ ‘Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, Here am I; send me.’ Send me!” He rushed over to me, threw himself on the floor. “I am called! I am called!” he cried.

For what seemed several moments no one spoke or even moved.

“Are you certain of that?” I finally said.

“ ‘I heard the voice of the Lord saying’...”

“Did you actually hear it, or are you merely quoting the Bible?”

He raised his head like a naughty child, peeking out from under his hair, which had flopped down over his forehead. “The Lord speaks through Scripture,” he said.

“Spoken like a good Puritan,” I said. “But Catholics are right to warn that Scriptures can be read many different ways, and the devil wants to use our weaknesses to deceive us into false interpretations. Get up. You do not need a quote from the prophet Isaiah to justify your qualifications. The fact that you have served in overseas military operations is more persuasive.”

He pulled himself up on his hands and knees and then stood upright, looking at me. His face was unreadable, blank.

“It seems that the position is yours,” I said. “God have mercy on you, and on England.”

I was sitting in the dark. Not that I meant to, but twilight and then full dark had crept up on me as I sat stiffly in my chair in my inner chamber. Supper had come and been sent back; I had no appetite.

I had had to appoint him. There was no one else. England had been weak on land for years, but never worse than now. Our larder of leaders was empty. But there was one thing Essex had that all the other failed commanders had not: a personal reason for wanting revenge on the Irish. Ireland had robbed him of his father, sending him to an untimely grave. I could only pray that somehow, in this crucible of need, he would convert his long-fallow potential into honorable action.

I was as bad as the Spanish—to have only prayer to rely on. What was it Philip had supposedly said as he launched the first Armada—“In confident hope of a miracle”? My hope was not even confident. In any case, no miracle had rescued them. Was it folly to think we would fare better?

The next day was my birthday. I was sixty-five. Was that anything to celebrate? Yes, something to be thankful for, but not to advertise. I had not planned any formal recognition of the day, knowing that to remind anyone of my age was not politically wise. Nonetheless, Marjorie and Catherine had small tokens for me, chosen with their usual thoughtfulness. Marjorie gave me a cordial flavored with meadow herbs from Rycote. A sip took me to the midsummer fields of that lovely part of the country. Catherine had secretly embroidered a pincushion showing our family connection. She and I were two flowers dangling from a very green and twining stalk. Her flower was lower than mine, one rung down on the genealogical ladder. But so skillful was she in the design that its asymmetry was pleasing. “I am three generations down from Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn, and you are only two,” she said.

“I was just old enough that I remember them, vaguely,” I said. “They died when I was five or six. Not long after—after my mother. Your grandmother Mary outlived them all but still did not live long enough for you to know her.”

“We are not a very long-lived family,” said Catherine.

“That’s a foolish thing to say! I am sixty-five now. And my mother hardly lived a natural life span. Thomas lived to be sixty-two and Elizabeth fifty-eight.” How well I knew all these details.

“That still makes you older than any of them.”

“Quiet!” I laughed. Then the laughter died. “You are right. And I am always thankful for each day.”

“I must laugh at you children,” said Marjorie. “For I am well into my seventies. I remember the Boleyns personally, and I saw King Henry as a young man. A sight never to be forgotten. He was glorious, shining like the sun. ...” She stopped herself. “I don’t feel old,” she said. “But every day my body reminds me.”

Seeing her every day, as I did, the changes had been subtle, and her younger self from past years shaded what I saw. But it was impossible to deny that she had grown old, even if she kept her strength and liveliness.

“Do you wish to retire?” I suddenly asked. “I kept my dear Burghley too long, and I vow not to make that mistake again. It is no friendship, no respect, to command service when the person no longer wishes to serve.”

“When I am ready, I will freely tell you,” she said. “Before long, Henry and I may wish to go to Rycote for good.”

Before noon, gifts and tributes began to accumulate in the presence chamber, in spite of my trying not to emphasize the occasion. All the councillors had sent something, each oddly reflective of his personality. Cecil had sent a small portrait of his father, Whitgift a fourteenth-century Psalter, Buckhurst a bound copy of his early poems, Lord Cobham a map of the Cinque Ports, as befitted their warden. These mementos were more amusing than the formal gifts I received at New Year’s. Then, a surprising box from Edmund Spenser. It contained a lengthy genealogy of King Arthur and my descent from him.

“Did he rescue this from his burning castle in Ireland?” I wondered. Poets were curious creatures. Yet if they were true poets, their work would be the thing they would rush to rescue above all else. It was impossible to ever write something again in exactly the same way.

“He is nearby,” said my chamber usher. “He presented it early this morning.”

He must have known his firsthand knowledge of Ireland—he had been there most of his adult life—would require him to testify at court. I decided to invite him to call upon me so I could thank him for his gift—and question him before the council did.

Essex did not send a gift, nor did his mother, Lettice. She would have been mad to have done so after the reception of her last one. The most unexpected token came from Wales, a small box of honey and cakes, with a letter from my goddaughter “Elizabeth.” She wished me well and asked if she might come to court to learn English better. “And to see you, most gracious godmother,” she wrote.

I was inordinately pleased. Here in this chamber of aging and politics, she would be a glimpse of the innocence we had all lost. And I was touched that she remembered and felt bold enough to test me to see if what began between us in Wales could grow.

My newly reinstated captain of the Queen’s Guard, Raleigh, proudly led his friend Edmund Spenser into my presence. Coming behind them, uninvited, was Percival the Indian, wearing court clothes and holding his head high. Between two such tall and robust men, Spenser seemed shrunken and abject. But that was hardly surprising, given what he had been through.

Although only in his forties, he moved tentatively, like an elderly knight. “Pray you, be seated,” I told him. I would not make this man stand any longer than necessary. I myself took a seat close by and motioned for food and drink to be brought, in case he needed them.

“You have suffered greatly,” I said. “And your country grieves with you.”

His eyes darted all over the room, like skittish little animals that were afraid to alight. “Thank you,” he said in a faint voice.

“Can you tell me what you saw in Ireland?”

Raleigh was shaking his head vehemently. “If I may, I shall tell you, to spare him the repeating of it.” Spenser gave a grateful nod. “His castle at Kilcolman in Cork was set ablaze; his infant son and his wife died there. He barely escaped, with his hair on fire. He had to stumble through the fields swarming with rebels to find his horse, and then rode blindly out into the night. He only found his way to safety when the sun rose and he could see where he was going. His castle home was smoldering behind him.”

“I looked once and then could not look again,” he said. “But I keep seeing it, over and over.”

“The rebels saw him and pursued on foot, but they could not catch him. As he rode toward our garrison, he saw the devastation of the entire countryside. All gone. What we had worked years to cultivate, gone in the night.”

“Gone, all gone,” Spenser intoned.

“You are safe now,” Raleigh assured him. Percival moved to touch his shoulder in reassurance, and Spenser jumped.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried.

I wanted to hear more about Ireland, but it was cruel to him. “Thank you for the birthday gift,” I said. “I am delighted to have my descent from King Arthur confirmed in such ironclad details.” He sat stonelike. “And since the publication of all six books of
The Faerie Queene
, I have had the pleasure of reading it slowly and carefully, and I am dazzled by your genius.” I did not flatter here; the man had wrought an intricate work of high art. And he had dedicated it to the Queen, “to live with the eternity of her fame.”

“But as touching Ireland,” said Raleigh gently to Spenser, “I believe you prescribed a remedy for that some years ago.”

“Oh, oh, yes—” He nodded to Percival, who produced a manuscript-sized box. “Here it is. I know what should be done. I am more convinced now than ever that this is the answer.” Struggling to his feet, he handed me the box with trembling hands.