Elizabeth I (91 page)

At the Privy Council hearing in Star Chamber—which Robert did not attend—before laymen and judges of the kingdom, the government read out its grievances. Lord Keeper Thomas Egerton began by lamenting the tide of rumors and false reports that were causing unrest in the kingdom. He mentioned the libels against court members, the cowardly writings on palace walls. Far from being spontaneous, these were orchestrated by a traitor somewhere, or a group of them. He did not accuse Robert directly, but he had no need to. Everyone understood whom he meant. He then went on to stress the gravity of the Irish situation and the shocking deportment of the commander in leaving his post abruptly and contrary to royal command.

Lord Buckhurst, the treasurer, followed with specific figures of the expense of this large, lavishly provisioned army, which could have mowed through Spain if it had been turned in that direction. Instead, it had dissipated all its advantages. The truce, dictated by The O’Neill, negating all the English achievements, or hope of them, mocked the Queen’s honor. And Essex had agreed to them—and who knew what else, in the privacy of their unwitnessed talk.

Others chimed in, accusing Essex of wasting public money, disobedience, gross incompetence in the campaign, and making a dishonorable and unauthorized treaty with the enemy.

But there was no sentence from the Queen. No indication of what she intended to do with him. He was to remain at York House. And—almost as an afterthought—his household was to be dispersed. He had no need of retainers or servants now, and they were to quit Essex House immediately.

“We are stripped,” I said, stunned. All around me the servants were taking their leave, finishing their last tasks. They dared not linger with the Queen’s explicit orders that they vacate—had not their master come to his sorry pass by disobeying a direct order from her?—yet they did not wish to leave things in chaos. One hundred and sixty were to be dismissed. We were allowed to retain only the ones absolutely necessary to keep the household running—a very few cooks, groundsmen, stable hands, boatmen, and chamber scourers. I had no experience of living this way.

“I had little thought of becoming a dairymaid at my age,” I said to Frances. “Yet I will have to learn to milk.”

Southampton decided to decamp; he certainly would not remain in an echoing, empty space like the ruined Essex House.

“Back to Drury House for me,” he said, airily. “It’s in the fields, but who needs the river?”

“We women will stay until the Queen orders us to depart along with the last of the servants,” I said. It was the nearest we could be to Robert.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, bowing, and taking my hand. He turned the palm up and caressed it an instant, too quickly for anyone to see, and looked me in the eyes. His face was blank but his eyes burned into mine. I remembered when those blue irises had filled my vision.

“You are welcome,” I said, pulling my hand away.

“And where’s the rehearsal to be?” A familiar, lost voice called into the room. Will stepped in, looking around in the gathering gloom. He stopped when he saw me.

“Not here, Will,” said Southampton. “I’m moving. The servants have gone, and like a rat abandoning a sinking ship, I’m after them.” He looked slyly at me. “I had offered the hall here as rehearsal space for his new play. Will wanted to recite his part privately to see how it flowed onstage, before getting anyone else’s opinion.”

“If I walk through it as an actor, it is far more revealing than reading drafts,” he said. He seemed embarrassed to have come upon me. Undoubtedly Southampton, in telling him the house would be empty, had implied I was moving. It would have been ideal private rehearsal space.

“So you have returned to acting?” I asked. This stiff, impersonal conversation was awkward.

“Only in small parts,” he said. “Nothing that would make a real difference in the performance.”

“He gets tired of being himself,” said Southampton. “Oh, don’t we all?”

“You are welcome to use this space. God knows it is being wasted. Just don’t mind the lack of attendants,” I said.

“It is better without them,” he said.

“You have had a hand in the politics of the day,” I said. “Your plays about English kings have been linked to Robert, and not to his benefit, as you well know. The flattering mention of him in
Henry V
has, alas, not come true.”

“He hardly returned home with the Irish rebellion broached on his sword, as you so charmingly phrased it,” said Southampton.

“He broached himself on his own sword,” I said. “If it makes me an unnatural mother to state it, then so be it. I am not blind to his faults.”

“I have left English history as a subject,” Will declared. “I have been in ancient Rome, most recently, and now am engaged in Denmark. My newest effort is set there, at Elsinore.”

“Politics again!” cried Southampton. “Anne of Denmark—King James’s wife—she’s from Elsinore! That was one of her family castles. James spent time with her there on their honeymoon. Are you hinting at the succession? You know it’s a hot topic.”

Will smiled. “No, it has nothing to do with that. It’s a reworking of an old play about a Danish prince, Hamlet, whose father has been murdered by his uncle. You would agree, there is no connection to the present royal family.”

“What part are you playing?” I asked. “You don’t look very Danish.”

“I’m playing the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Since I have to wear a helmet, no one can tell whether I look Danish or Italian or Scottish.”

“That’s good,” said Southampton, “because you don’t look any of those. You have the most boring, common English face I’ve ever seen.”

“Why, what’s wrong with looking English?” I asked.

“It’s the ‘boring, common’ part he objects to,” said Southampton. “Who of us wants to be that—although by definition that’s exactly what most of us are.”

“You are welcome to use this space whenever you like,” I said, changing the subject. Robert had not wanted to be ordinary, and therein lay his doom. “I promise not to intrude.”

The dreary business of dismantling proud Essex House continued. This was the second time I had witnessed it, and it wrung my heart. Both times were at
her
insistence. After Leicester died, she had ordered it stripped to repay his debts to her. (What sort of love was that?) Slowly and painstakingly, I had built it up again, only to have its contents vanish once more. At least this time I did not have to render the goods, only cover or store them to protect them from neglect. The rooms grew emptier, each chair removed or tapestry folded away a memory dismissed. Our living contracted down into a very few rooms, while the rest of the house was ghostly.

Will did return, to help Southampton move or, rather, to help him sort through his papers to make sure none of his own were mixed in.

“For someone so indifferent to publishing, you are very possessive about your scripts,” Southampton said.

“I’m possessive so that they can’t be published,” said Will. “Why should the publisher make money that should be mine? If a stray copy should land in one of those men’s hands, they’ll print it and keep all the money for themselves. They’ll include all the mistakes—they’ll print any version, no matter how corrupt. Or, I should say, a version as corrupt as they are. So”—he hugged his manuscripts to his chest—“I will keep them close.”

Southampton shrugged. “I don’t have any. I gave them all back. Look all you like.”

“That is one reason I like having rich friends,” said Will. “I need never worry that they will rob me.”

“I’ll collect the last of this tomorrow,” said Southampton. He turned to me. “Until next we meet, Lady Leicester,” he said, bowing smartly.

May it not be at Robert’s hanging, I prayed. But even to say the words was to call it into being, so I was silent.

Will continued poking through the pile of leftover papers on the floor. He knelt down, setting a candle to one side, looking carefully at each item he pulled forth. Finally, he held one up and said, “Aha! Here’s one overlooked.”

It was only a single sheet. “That cannot be a full play,” I said. “It must be only one small revision.”

“No, it’s a sonnet I wrote when he was my patron. In it I urged him to marry and replicate himself. So, since he has obeyed, it would seem to have done its work.” He waved it dismissively.

Without thinking, I reached over and grabbed his arm. “Don’t destroy it!” I said.

“Keep it, then,” he said. “I will always know where to find it, should I ever need to publish the sonnets. And perhaps, if his daughter grows up to be ugly, or, in any case, not as dazzling as he, he may need to consult them again.”

He turned to look down at his hand, still clutching the paper, as he pressed it into mine. He moved quickly away and stood over the pile of papers, hands on hips. “That’s all, then,” he said.

“Shall I expect you for a rehearsal?” I asked. “You are welcome to use the space.”

“Thank you,” was all he said, turning to the door.

I was left looking around my abandoned home. Oh, would life ever return to it?

72

ELIZABETH

December 1599

I
n the deepening twilight that is London in mid-December, church bells began to toll. The sound penetrated through the blue gloom bells began to toll. The sound penetrated through the blue gloom with a sharpness not possible in warm weather, an ominous ring, like the keening of grieving women.

It meant that someone of great importance had died. But there was no one of that rank and stature near to death. Lord Burghley had gone, Sir Francis Drake had gone, Lord Leicester had gone, and now little men populated the court and the realm. Immediately I summoned Raleigh, stationed with his guards in the watching chamber.

“What is this?” I asked. “All the churches of London announce a death.”

“I shall inquire and bring an answer upon the instant,” he said, looking as puzzled as I.

While I waited, I stood with Catherine looking out at the darkening waters of the Thames rippling past. There were fewer boatmen out in these blustery days, but still I saw a number of craft diligently making their way up and down river. Londoners were a hardy lot.

“I hope people do not think it is I,” I said, with a light tone that did not match what I felt inside. I knew that people were attuned for those bells, that all across the land there was speculation about what span of my life still remained. They had been wondering ever since I turned fifty.

Catherine knew better than to utter a platitude. She merely reached out and took my hand.

“Ma’am!” Raleigh strode through the doors. “They say it’s the Earl of Essex. He sank low last night and now has died.”

I had known he was ill, but he always collapsed with illness when things went badly for him. It was nervous prostration, not true disease. But this time he had succumbed. Still, it came as a shock.

“The Irish flux, then,” I said. “Poor man. Send for Thomas Egerton. What a sad thing, to have the man in his charge die. I never meant to inflict this great a burden upon a man of such good conscience.”