Elizabeth I (98 page)

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just kept shaking his head. So I did what I do with the children. I said gently, ‘Come to bed now. Rest.’ He obeyed, crawled in, and fell asleep in my arms.” She gave a sigh. “Or so I thought. But while I slept, he must have left the bed and availed himself of something—some draft, some potion—perhaps to make him sleep sounder—but I did not know we had any such medicine.”

“Call for a physician. We have to find the bottle!” I looked again at Robert, still and pale.

Left alone in the chamber, I was frantic. Where could it be? I took his silver-topped staff and poked along the tops of the cupboards, then rifled the insides. I felt on the underside of the mattress ropes, then stopped myself. This was foolish. A man does not go to such lengths to hide an empty bottle, only a full one. One of the windows was open a crack; I could feel the draft. Pulling aside the thick curtains, I opened the casement and looked down. Lying beneath the window, half under a bush, was a flask. I rushed down to retrieve it, pushing the branches aside and scrabbling to grab it. My fingers closed around it and I dragged it out.

It was empty, and it smelled sweet, like Robert’s breath.

By the time I returned to the room, our physician was there, leaning over Robert, ear to his chest, listening.

“I have it!” I said, holding the flask.

The physician, Roger Powell, turned and held out his hand for it. He looked for a label, then shook it. “There is still some inside. Get a cup so we can pour it out.” In a moment he had one, and he drained the flask of its small amount of greenish liquid.

“I know what that is,” said Frances. “He brought it with him from York House. It was given him when he had the flux, to stop his vomiting.”

“Who gave it to him?” Powell’s voice was sharp. He sniffed the liquid.

“Whoever treated him. I was not allowed to see him. At one point the Queen sent her own physicians.”

Accusation hung in the air. But that was foolish. The potion had helped him when it was used as prescribed.

“It is made from the deadly nightshade,” said Powell.

“Is there an antidote?” I asked.

“A rare one—the Calabar bean. It comes from Africa.”

“Is there anywhere in London where we can get it?”

He looked distressed. “It is popular for witchcraft. If you know anyone willing to admit to witchcraft, then you know more than I.”

“There must be someone who supplies it. Perhaps down at the docks.”

“Witchcraft isn’t openly practiced. We would have to find someone who is trusted by that group.” He looked over at Robert. “And find him or her fast.”

Suddenly I was grateful for the disreputable characters who gathered out in our courtyard. I had told Robert to send them away, that they gave a bad impression of disloyalty, but he had ignored me.

It took only a few minutes to find a ragged Welsh boy eager to run such an errand. He would say he needed it for a love potion, as he was sick with love for one who spurned him. “Hurry, and there’s an extra groat for you,” I promised him. We might be poor, but we had money for this.

I returned to the chamber, where, under Powell’s direction, we burned camphor under Robert’s nose in an attempt to awaken him and propped him up on pillows in hopes that it would stimulate him. By now the word was out all over the household, and Cuffe, Meyrick, and Christopher tried to enter the chamber, but Powell told them to stay out and let Robert have enough air.

The boy returned in two hours, clutching a burlap bag with a smooth-skinned brown bean inside about the size of my thumbnail. It looked completely harmless as I held it up and turned it around.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Powell. “I’ll grind it and then we can measure the powder. I will have to estimate the exact dosage, and that will be difficult since I do not know how much nightshade was in the potion. We want only enough to counteract the nightshade, not go beyond it and act as a separate poison.”

He worked fast and all I could do was pray. There were so many unknowns. If we had guessed wrong about the potion—if the flask was not connected with Robert at all, or had been thrown out at an earlier time—if he overdosed on the antidote—

The strain of it made me burst into tears, and it was Frances now who had to comfort me. She was calm, but that was because she did not realize all the implications of our ignorance about the dosage.

It was noon before the draft was ready, and we had to spoon it into Robert’s slack mouth, then hold his jaw shut and massage his throat. The liquid went down. Then, when the cup was empty, we settled down to wait.

I felt poisoned myself; I was dizzy and numb. Perhaps handling the bean had infected me. But no, it was only the powder that was active. I sat in a corner chair, reliving all the other times I had kept watch in his chamber. This was the worst.

It was dark before he stirred, very slowly. He moved his right arm up and brushed his forehead. Still he remained silent, with closed eyes. A flush spread across his cheeks, making red sprinkles. Then, another movement: He licked his lips with a pale pink tongue.

Powell was instantly beside him, bending over him. “A cloth,” he ordered. “Cool water and distilled feverfew.” It was brought and he wiped Robert’s face, stroking it back into life. At last Robert’s eyes opened and he looked around blankly.

“Thank God you are safe!” cried Frances, throwing herself across his covered legs. Powell jerked her away.

“No weight on him!” he barked. Then he flexed Robert’s arms and massaged the hands. “Come back to us,” he ordered him, like a magus.

Robert gave a faint smile. He lifted one hand and squeezed Powell’s fingers.

He slept through the night and the next morning found his voice again. His first words would be crucial. Had he meant to end his life?

He held up one hand. “Where have I been? I am so weak.”

“You don’t remember?” I asked.

“I remember nothing, just going to bed.”

“You took nothing?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and took some of the medicine I had for the flux.” He shook his head slowly.

“Does it help you sleep?” I asked.

“It calms the stomach and makes you drowsy,” he said. “I was at my wits’ end; I was wide awake. I was wide awake because ...” He was remembering. Oh, let him not! But it was too late. “... the Queen ...”

“Think not of the Queen now!” said Frances. “Forget all that came before. Rest, my dearest.”

In two days he was eating again and his strength had returned. But his eyes looked different, as though they had seen too much and now belonged to someone else.

And if he had not meant to end his life, why had he thrown the flask out the window so no one would know what he had taken?

77

ELIZABETH

December 1600

W
e had gotten through the harbinger year of 1600 and all was well; nay, better than well. In November, a resounding Anglo-Dutch victory against the Spanish at Nieuport meant that our fifteen-year military involvement on the Continent could end, and happily. In Ireland, Mountjoy had continued to turn the Irish tide back, and O’Neill, while not captured yet, commanded dwindling forces. To expand our trade, I granted a royal charter to the East India Company, competing with the Portuguese in Asia. It would make its first voyage next month. I also had in mind to reestablish a colony in the New World; the new edition of Richard Hakluyt’s
The Principal Navigations, Voyages, and Discoveries of the English Nation
excited public interest in the venture. With the dawn of the new century, Dee’s prediction of a British empire did not seem so impossible.

Essex had come and Essex had gone. His popular support, which at one time had seemed so threatening, had melted away. The songs about England’s sweet pride had died out in the taverns. The scrawled insults to Cecil had ceased.

Yet even as the people forgot him, and as he faded from public consciousness, he grew in mine. Bacon’s calling him Icarus had set that image in my mind and transformed him into Greek mythology. There had been something ancient and otherworldly in him. People said he was born out of his time, and perhaps he was. His beauty and attitude of expectation stayed with me always, reminding me of the potential in him that I had believed in once and, somewhere deep inside me, believed in still.

There was much to celebrate this Christmas, and I meant it to be a jolly one. Everyone was welcome at court, and I invited all the foreign envoys and secretaries and called for all my ladies to attend me. It was good to bring everyone under one roof. I would keep it at Whitehall this year. Eleven plays were slated to be performed for us in the Great Hall. I requested special musical compositions for the occasion and appointed John Harington to be master of ceremonies. I also ordered the kitchens to create a new dish of some sort—it could be meat, pastry, or even a drink. If it was successful, we would name it “1600” and it would stand as a remembrance of the first year of the new century.

The influx of ladies who did not keep regular attendance in the privy chamber meant we needed more beds and that the so-called maidens’ chamber would be crowded. But that was all in keeping with the season.

The holy day was over. We had worshipped in seemly fashion in the royal chapel, relived the sacred night in Bethlehem when the shepherds gathered, the angels sang, and the lowly manger was transformed into a symbol of God’s love. The sweet voices of the choir had floated in the chill air, recalling that angel chorus. With bent head I had given heartfelt thanks for the benefits that had devolved on England this past year and surrendered up my personal losses and pain—the death of Marjorie, the collapse of Essex.

Now the festivities would begin.