Elizabeth I (87 page)

Farther down the table were the rest of Essex’s stalwart followers. I spotted Henry Cuffe, and there were several others who looked familiar. I must have seen them in passing at court, but none of them were talented enough to merit an appointment.

The courtiers who had accompanied me to Nonsuch were eager to press Essex and his companions for details of the Irish campaign, as if they were hearing exploits from the Trojan war.

Cecil, Knollys, and Hunsdon kept to themselves at one side of the table, eating quietly and only looking at the intruders from the corners of their eyes. The chatter rose; my relative silence did not call attention to itself.

“Ah, how blessed to taste English meat again!” said Southampton. “What they called lamb in Ireland was boiled army boots.”

“What they called bread was stale coffin wood!”

“What they called ale was horse’s piss!”

They laughed uproariously at their wit. All the while I was listening for the sound of horses and the tramp of feet in the courtyard, signaling the arrival of support from London.

“You met with Hugh O’Neill?” asked one of my lower-ranking chamber-women. “What was he like? Is he handsome? Fearsome?”

Essex leaned back, lifting his chin as if he needed to think. “He’s like an old hunting beast sporting many scars. Shaggy like a bear. But sweet spoken, full of that Irish charm. Fearsome? You wouldn’t know to look at him he’s killed so many.”

“Would you want your daughter to marry him?” the questioner giggled.

“No, my daughter’s to marry Roger here,” said Essex, turning to Rutland. “We are to be brothers-in-law!”

I broke in. “Your stepdaughter Elizabeth Sidney? She’s not yet fifteen. Why, my lord, did you keep this from me when we spoke of her?”

“It is—the details are not settled yet, so I thought it premature to make an announcement.”

“Premature indeed,” I said. “She’s but a child.” I fastened my glance on Rutland. “If you think to repair your debts by marrying a rich man’s daughter, you are chasing the wrong quarry. A debtor’s daughter married to a debtor will never have wherewithal to live.”

Essex turned red at having his financial straits exposed. But he held his tongue. What else could he do? All his living came from my generosity, and if that did not stretch far enough, he had only himself to blame.

“Merrily, merrily,” said Blount. “Anyone who marries for money earns it the hardest way.”

“Anyone who marries for love will mostly likely wish to swap places after a year,” said Bedford, laughing.

“What would the poets say?” asked one of the ladies. “You wrong them to belittle love.”

“Poets are for sale like the rest of us. Else they would not hawk their books at St. Paul’s bookstalls.”

After more of this inane banter, at long last the meal ended. I rose and left the hall. As I passed through the gallery, I saw that the two courtyards were still empty.

I retired to my chamber, as if to rest in the midday. But inside, I paced. As every hour passed, it became clearer that Essex had not brought his army with him, or even part of it. He had drunk with his fellows at table and basked in the attention from the stay-at-homes, who he thought envied him. He had had his reward. Now I would call him back again and bring him to heel.

He came promptly, all smiles. But the time for smiles was over. I aimed hard questions at him and demanded direct answers. Why had he mangled his mission so badly in Ireland? Had he gone without the intention of carrying out my orders? Why had he obeyed the urgings of the Irish Council instead of me? Why had he deserted his post, disobeyed my explicit orders against returning, and flouted all authority?

He seemed stunned, and stammered something about my sweet majesty’s temper being so changed toward her Robert.

“The Robert I knew is gone,” I said. “The Robert who swore he loved me, as his sovereign and his cousin, would never have betrayed me this way. Now answer my charges.”

The color flared across his face, red chasing white. “I am ever your Robert,” he said. “But I like not this manner toward me.”

“Like me no likings, but explain yourself or suffer the consequences. It is not for you to like or dislike what I do. It is the privilege of majesty to do as it will and for you to suffer it.” I had dropped the false sweetness and now spoke plainly the disgust I felt.

“I—I had no thought of disobeying, I—The conditions there changed everything! All we had planned, here in England, was different in reality.”

“Bah. How is sixteen thousand soldiers different on Irish soil than English? You seek lame excuses, when the reason for failure lies in your very person. I knew you were not the man for this task, for all your titles, plumes, and pompous display. Knollys would have been better. Mountjoy would have been better. Anyone would have been better!”

“Anyone?” he said. “Anyone?” he yelled. “I will not permit such an insult!”

“I decide what you will or will not permit. With the collapse of your Irish command, you have surrendered all power over your own person. I dismiss you, sir. You will be sent for later, to answer these questions, for, by God, you
will
answer them!”

His hand twitched, as if he would strike me. But he knew better this time. Instead, he drew himself up and bowed stiffly. “If my Queen commands, I must obey.”

“You have learned this truth too late to help you.”

An ache like a smarting slap spread from my chest to my shoulders and then through all of me. In absolute clarity, I saw him for what he was: a man without any of the qualities I had endowed him with—whose bluster and beauty had been convincing for a while. But no more. The door closed and he was gone. It was not only the Irish campaign that had collapsed.

69

T
hat evening, at my request, the three members of the Privy Council examined Essex for several hours. In answer to their questions, he repeated his excuses and self-justifications. They were not convinced and were deeply suspicious of his motives. At eleven that night they sent their recommendation to me that he be arrested. I gave orders that he be confined to his room. In the meantime, guards and soldiers had arrived from London.

Bidding Catherine and Helena a restful night, I knew there would be none for me. Between dawn and midnight the entire landscape of my court had changed, and in a monstrous way. I was left with an unfinished war, a leaderless army, and an empty place at the table of councillors.

I could not escape the thought that I was partly responsible for what Essex had become. He was a man of outsized charm and talent. Those dazzled my mind. Like a foolish parent, I had petted him and looked the other way when he disobeyed. Any punishment I gave him was light and passing, soon forgotten. And so, like a headstrong horse, he now ran unchecked.

The rest of the Privy Council arrived the next morning, having ridden almost all night. After learning that Essex was under house arrest and studying the notes from the initial questioning the day before, they ordered him brought before them for a formal hearing.

In the hall where hunters were wont to recount their exploits under the hewn-oak beams of the high ceiling, the Earl of Essex was brought out to stand bareheaded before all eight of his erstwhile peers in the Privy Council. He was ordered to answer six charges:

First, that he had been contemptuously disobedient to the Queen’s instructions expressly forbidding his return to England.

Second, that many of his reports from Ireland had been presumptuous.

Third, that once he was in Ireland he had disregarded his instructions for his mission and substituted others of his own liking.

Fourth, that his sudden departure from Ireland was irresponsible and dangerous in light of the situation there.

Fifth, that he had broken all protocol in breaching Her Majesty’s privacy.

Sixth, that he had abused his privilege of awarding knighthoods in Ireland by bestowing them on unworthy men.

The hearing went on for five hours. It took them only fifteen minutes to reach a conclusion, which they recorded and sent to me.

The Earl of Essex had transgressed in all six of these charges. His explanations were not satisfactory. They all awaited my verdict.

The next day was Sunday. Archbishop Whitgift conducted morning prayer in the chapel, and I was thankful to lose myself there. After the service I took a quiet dinner in my private rooms and asked Catherine and Helena to come on a walk with me.

We left the palace and walked across the inner courtyard, with its gleaming gold panels set in ivory white stucco and the huge statue of my father and my brother watching over it all.

What would you do?
I asked them.
Father, would you ever have let Essex grow as big as he has? Edward, be thankful you did not live to detect the treachery that surrounded you.

It was a perfect autumn day, the sort that Nonsuch was built to celebrate. Swirls of golden leaves drifted down, surrounding us. Some landed on the trimmed topiary like badges of honor, yellow against the green uniforms. Beyond the formal grounds, we walked toward the grove of Diana, its wooded lanes opening before us. There she still stood, creamy and white against the foliage, the splashing waters of her bath lapping at her feet. Her hands were crossed to shield herself from the eyes of the hapless Actaeon. He had come upon her in her nakedness, and for that he must die.

“A lovely piece of work,” Marjorie had said when once we looked at it together, “but the story always revolts me. The man saw her naked. He didn’t mean to. Why should he be killed for it?” At the time her question seemed sensible. But now I knew the reason.

Because mortals must not look upon the divine? Because a man intruding into the privacy of a woman’s bath is assaulting her, in effect if not intent?

The eyes of the statue Actaeon were terrified and bewildered. He could barely comprehend his transgression. The eyes of Essex when he barged into my chamber had held no such uncertainty. He had acted as if he belonged there. That was his great trespass and his effrontery.