Elizabeth I (77 page)

We tried broth, heated wine, and soups—anything to warm him from the inside. Irish spirits, of course, were the best, but the very smell of them made him scream.

“We’ll have only good, warm Somerset cider, then,” I assured him. Because of the bad harvests, cider was scarce this year, but what we had he was welcome to. If he fancied it, I would outspend myself to get more.

“Umm ... yes.” He sniffed it, as if to assure himself there was no whiff of Ireland. Then he gulped it thirstily. When he had drained the cup, he sank back, running his tongue along his narrow lips. Only then did he look around the room, noting the trunks and piles of clothes. “You are readying yourself,” he commented.

“As best I can,” said Robert. “But anything you could tell me to help me prepare I would gratefully hear. I have never been there.”

“God has been merciful, then,” said Spenser. “The first thing is, take waterproof clothes, as if you were going to sea. The damp is everywhere and will rot the shirt off your back.”

Robert nodded, taking notes.

“Take twice as much artillery as you think you need. It has a way of disappearing. Most of the guns now arming the Irish have been stolen from us. And what doesn’t disappear becomes nonfunctional from the damp—powder won’t light; rust eats weapons up. Take a good supply of cats with you, good mousers, to protect the grain supply. Snakes would be better.”

“I thought St. Patrick had rid Ireland of snakes.”

“Then we should curse the Irish by importing them. Let them loose to overrun the island!”

“Sketch to me the general divisions of the land,” Robert told him. “I know you were in Munster, at the bottom of the island.”

“Yes, Raleigh and I and many others were given land confiscated after the Desmond rebellion there. But the thing to keep in mind is that rebellion can come from anywhere. No area is secure. If you want to think of Ireland as an oval clock face, then the top of it—from ten o’clock to two o’clock—is Ulster. We had never pacified that part, never even had the pretense of laying down English law there. That’s where O’Neill is from, and his ally, Hugh O’Donnell. Then, at around three o’clock, the English have their stronghold—or should I say toehold?—at Dublin and the Pale. It’s near to Ulster but until now had been the most secure.

“Going farther down, into County Leinster, we had a number of plantations, all overrun now. Then, farthest south, at five to seven o’clock, Munster, with more of our English settlers. In the west, at nine o’clock, Connaught County was never really pacified; the O’Malleys and the Burkes control that territory.”

“That pirate woman, O’Malley,” said Robert. “I remember when she came to court. She promised to fight for Elizabeth.”

“A good demonstration of Irish reliability,” said Spenser. “It was contingent on England doing certain things, such as removing Richard Bingham. Elizabeth followed through but then sent him back again. Grace O’Malley was not fooled by such transparent gestures, so she has repudiated her loyalty oath. One cannot blame her.”

“Isn’t she old?” Robert cried. “Even older than the Queen? How much of a threat can she be?”

“The pirate life keeps her young,” said Spenser. “At least from what I hear. I wouldn’t want to grapple with her. She commands a large fleet eager to do us damage.”

“I don’t plan to fight at sea,” said Robert.

“She can help the Spanish, who necessarily will be arriving by sea.”

“If I had my way, I’d choose the sea. But the Queen has dictated the terms of the war. It is by land.”

“Who are you appointing as your commanders?” Spenser asked.

“I want Southampton to serve as my cavalry leader, master of the horse, if the Queen sets him free,” he said. “And you, Christopher, as under commander, marshal of the army and a council member.”

He looked surprised and pleased. “Raleigh?”

“No. He’s head of the Queen’s Guard here and wants to stay close to the Queen’s petticoats.”

“Or perhaps he’s clever enough to stay away from that bog. After all, he’s done much service there, going back twenty years.”

“He was vicious, killing left and right without mercy.”

“It doesn’t seem to have done much good,” said Christopher. “Perhaps he, of all people, sees firsthand how futile it is.”

“This time it cannot be piecemeal, like our other efforts. This time the campaign must aim for no less than conquering the entire island, once and for all,” said Robert.

“Good luck,” said Spenser. “You set yourself an impossible task. No one has ever conquered Ireland, and no one ever will.”

Robert drew himself up. “There is no such thing as an impossible campaign, if enough men and enough money are committed. And this time there will be. Sixteen thousand soldiers! Thirteen hundred cavalry! The Irish fear the cavalry; they’ll quake when they see it.”

“I’ve never seen the Irish quake, except with one of their agues,” said Spenser. “Are you in sole command? Are you free to make your own decisions?”

“As far as I know. There will be no one over me.”

“Except the Queen,” I reminded him. “She is the supreme commander.”

“Bah! She knows nothing of warfare. How could she? She’s never been on the battlefield. Let’s hope her meddling doesn’t interfere with what needs to be done.”

“She’s paying for it, and she will want to have the last word,” I said.

“Surely this time she will bow to the wisdom of those who know warfare,” Robert said. “She wants to win.”

“She has her own ideas,” said Christopher. “One cannot say they are always wrong.”

“They are always cautious, and here to be cautious is to lose,” said Robert.

“You must not begin by antagonizing her,” said Christopher. When had he gotten so analytical? “For example, by appointing Southampton. She will not permit it; she dislikes and distrusts him. She put him in prison! So do not waste your ammunition, so to speak. Do not get off on the wrong foot with her.”

“Aren’t you full of clichés today?”

“Clichés are often true,” said Christopher. “Don’t cross her. You’ll lose.”

“I need the freedom to choose my own officers.”

“Anyone but Southampton, I would say. It is folly to nominate a candidate who is in prison for offending the Queen.”

“But I want him,” said Robert.

“Learn to want someone else,” I said.

“That’s not so easily done,” he retorted.

Oh, that I knew.
Learn to want someone else.
I tried to follow my own dictum to some success. I had long ago ceased to want anything to do with Southampton. I could see him now and look upon him as merely the husband of Elizabeth Vernon and a friend of my son’s. Will Shakespeare was more difficult. What I wanted most was to talk to him and hear his opinion on what was looming before Robert. He seemed to know everything that went on. Instead, I had to guess it secondhand through his plays.

His plays kept him in my mind. People talked about him; even the Queen called for him to present his dramas before her. She had liked the play featuring Sir John Falstaff so much she had requested one in which he was the main character, and Will had written
The Merry Wives of Windsor
, which was duly performed at Windsor during the Garter ceremonies. In his own way, he was as much a public figure as the Queen, even if he hid behind his characters. One could say that Sir John Falstaff was a public figure, that Shylock was a public figure, that Romeo was a public figure, while their creator kept his privacy.

The talk wound down. Spenser was yawning and needed his rest. Robert was restless in the chamber. I wished he would seek his wife’s company instead of heading out into the night, but I no longer had any control over him.

Christopher and I retired to our chamber. Making ready for bed, Christopher was changing into his nightshirt.

“I hope he does not antagonize the Queen before he’s even left,” he said.

“Thank you for trying to speak common sense to him,” I said.

“It is hard for you,” he said. “For I know you would just as soon he stayed safely here. Danger seems to court him.”

“You know me well, husband,” I said. I was touched that he could understand how a parent would feel, since he was not one. I went over to him and embraced him. It was good to hold him; I had never ceased to appreciate the physical comfort of him. As I pressed him close to me, I felt both tenderness toward him and stirrings of desire. It had been a long time since I had felt that, for anyone.

He kissed me, reminding me of what I had once craved. I wanted it back again, the longing and the excitement.

Lettice,
I told myself,
he has been right here all along. It is you who have abandoned him. Now reach out and reclaim him, and the joy of the marriage bed. It is your right—even the church preaches that. Does not the marriage vow say, “With my body I thee worship”? They do not mean kneeling and reciting verse!

“Come, my marshall of the army,” I whispered. It was exciting to address him thus.

62

ELIZABETH

January 1599

T
welfth Night, and the torches were blazing high at Whitehall. We had had as festive a season as possible, thrusting troubling thoughts of the Irish out into the midwinter darkness. I called upon all the courtiers to attend me sometime during the Twelve Days, but especially upon this climax of the celebrations.

Tonight there was everything: a banquet with not one but three roasted swans, Raleigh serving as master of misrule, a full contingent of musicians and singers, and a new play, the continuation of
Henry IV
, the play that had introduced Falstaff to the world.

Essex, sitting beside me, leaned over and murmured, “This play is not as entertaining as the first part. All the interesting characters, like Hotspur, have been killed off, and Prince Hal is prissy.”

What I wanted to say, and could not, was that the first part of the play seemed lusty and full of life, whereas this one dwelled on decay, disease, and age—subjects I shunned. There was even a moment when Falstaff was upbraided for having a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly, a broken voice, a double chin, and a single wit and told that every part of him was blasted with antiquity. Instead I said, “You might do better to choose such prissy fellows to have about you than the ones you choose.” Southampton still lingered in prison, and his forbidden wife had been sheltered by Essex. She had just given birth to a daughter. His other ne’er-do-wells, the Earls of Rutland and of Sussex, were little better than Falstaff.

What neither of us would mention, but were both acutely aware of, was the publication of a book entitled
The Life and Reign of Henry IV
by John Hayward. Its title was misleading, for it covered the abdication of Richard II, and in its dedication Hayward compared Bolingbroke to Essex. Hayward would be questioned before the Star Chamber, but why speak of this now? It was Twelfth Night.

Sitting on my other side was Eurwen Bethan. At my invitation, she had come from Wales to spend Christmas with me, and her wonder at all she saw was the greatest holiday pleasure for me. To behold all this for the first time must be indescribable. Eurwen kept her words few, but her eyes shone.

She was now eleven, just on the brink of turning from a rosy-cheeked child into a slim maiden. As I had asked her, she called me Godmother Elizabeth and seemed content to do so, not reckoning it the startling honor a courtier’s child would. At this time of heavy cares of state and growing bodily aches, she was April in my life.

As she was a distant cousin of Essex’s, he was possessive of her, but I brushed off his attempts to intrude between us. I did not want this one pure thing in my life to be tainted by court politics or ambition.

I had over a hundred godchildren, and for amusement, I invited many of them to come together and meet her. They ranged from middle-aged people like John Harington to Catherine’s twelve-year-old Howard niece. They made much of her, petting her and making her one of their company.

The play ended with an actor saying, “Our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine of France; where, for anything I know, Sir John shall die of a sweat.” He bowed. “My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night; and so kneel down before you; but, indeed, to pray for the queen.” He knelt on the floor and I stood, acknowledging him.

“Sirs, you all have pleased me well. I look for more of Sir John in France. And so, good night.”

Now there would be dancing. The stage was cleared, the actors removed their belongings, and the musicians took their places. The burned-out candles were replaced, and the watching chamber lightened.

Essex bent down in exaggerated courtesy and said to Eurwen, “Cousin, shall we dance a measure?”

Although she had never danced before, she learned quickly, her eyes sparkling. Soon others joined them and the floor was filled with dancers treading this slow and stately tune. Essex’s wife sat forlornly on one side. She was suffering from the early stage of pregnancy and kept her hand over her stomach.

Later the dancing would become more lively, but for now older people and children ruled the floor.

When Eurwen and old Lord Buckhurst and Sir Henry Norris and their like had retired, Essex and I finally danced. It was a galliard, a dance I had once excelled at. It involved a fair amount of leaping and feinting, requiring strong legs and good balance. I could still do it, but I grew hot more quickly than I used to.

“After all this time, we still dance together well,” I told him as we passed each other in a step.

He looked back at me quizzically. “Still?” he said. “I would say ‘always.’ ”

“Whether it is always or no, that depends on you,” I said. “I am nothing if not constant. It is you who is mutable.”