Elizabeth I (99 page)

The next day the first, and grandest, banquet opened the celebrations. Everyone was invited, so we needed to employ the Great Hall to hold them all. True to their commission, the cooks had confected an elaborate pastry re-creating a walled city. It was wheeled in on a cart, displayed on papier-mâché “grounds” of rolling green with trees of sticks and green tissue. The pastry walls were a foot high, and the little buildings nestled within had roofs of red icing, half-timbers of cinnamon sticks, sweetmeat doors studded with raisins. The largest structure, a cathedral, had tour-de-force soaring steeples, flying buttresses, and a rose window made of colored sugar chips. Several taverns, with tiny painted signs swinging at their entrances, featured drunken patrons reeling out.

“Splendid!” I proclaimed, quite astounded at their creation. “But to destroy it will make us into barbarians, sacking a city.”

“That is why we have concocted a drink to go along with it,” the chief cook said. “You may call it ‘1600,’ but we named it ‘Attila.’” He poured a goblet from a tall pitcher and handed it to me. “Your Majesty, pray taste and tell us if this makes you feel like a destroyer of cities.”

The heated drink warmed the goblet, radiating into my hands. I took a sip and found it unlike anything I had ever tasted—it was sweet, yes, and strong, but it had a bitter undernote, hinting at spices from below the equator.

They waited expectantly. I nodded and took another sip. “Very good, gentlemen. But what gives it the hint of bitterness?”

“Its base is sweet malmsey, but to that I added palm wine, which comes from the Levant, and then extract of dates. Then I ground a bit of manaca root from Guiana into it.”

I took another taste. The sweet wine base called to mind Essex and the wretched sweet wine episode. “Yes, I see. I think you may safely call it Attila. He doubtless drank just such a concoction.” I laughed, trying to thrust the Essex image from my mind. “Sir Walter, do we have you to thank for the manaca root?”

Raleigh bowed. “Indeed. The Indians set great store by it, adding it to their fruits and meat. For us, though, its bitterness means we need to temper it with sweetness.”

I saw that Bess was in the shadows of a pillar, while her husband stood in the light. “Bess, do you use the root for other cooking?” I called out to her, to let her know it was time she came out of the shadows and took her rightful place beside Walter.

Startled at the recognition, she stammered, “Sometimes for baking, Your Majesty,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “You must send us a sample sometime.”

The cooks managed to cut the city apart in deft fashion, slicing the walls, cathedral, shops, and taverns into neat portions. Large as the display had been, the throng quickly gobbled it up. Even the fastidious Robert Cecil ate a portion without getting a single crumb on his face.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “have you met my children? Allow me to present them—William, age nine, and Frances, age seven.” The little Cecils came forward and bowed. The new generation. It would not be long until they were making their way at court and in the world.

“They are lovely, Robert. You are undoubtedly a good father.” He probably approached fatherhood the way he did everything else—prudently and methodically.

“I can only be father, not mother and father,” he said. “I do my best.”

There had been no hint of his remarrying since he had lost his wife three years earlier. He seemed quite a solitary figure. “Your best far excels that of anyone else,” I assured him. At least anyone now living.

George Carey joined us, plate in hand. He was attacking the last bit of his pastry with gusto, smacking his lips. “A superlative start to the holiday,” he said. “And I promise an ending just as impressive. Wait until you see what the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are presenting for Twelfth Night. It’s even called
Twelfth Night
.”

“How obvious,” I said.

“The title is the only obvious thing in it,” he said. “Oh, it’s quite confusing.”

“I have to assume it involves mistaken identities?” I said.

George waved his fork. “How did you know?”

“It’s such an old staple, it will be a challenge to do anything new with it. I hope I will not be disappointed. If I am, I shall forbid any more mistaken identity plays to be performed this season.”

“We are doing some innovative work,” he said. “It isn’t all mistaken identities.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s true,” I told him. Really, I was weary of them. How many times can sets of twins, or brothers and sisters, be separated and then reunited?

“Our main playwright is working on a revision of the Trojan war story,” he said. “In it, Achilles is not noble, Troilus is a fool, and Helen is not worth fighting over, a silly giggling thing.”

That sounded more promising. “When will that be ready?”

“Not in time for this season, unfortunately.”

“Well, tell him to hurry it up.”

Carey bowed and then took his leave.

I saw Southampton lurking in the back. I was surprised he dared come, but then, I had said it was open to all. I called him over. He came, showing no embarrassment or hesitation, bowing low with a flourish.

“So, my erstwhile master of the horse for Essex, how have you passed your time since returning so abruptly from Ireland? And how is your wife, my erstwhile attendant?”

He was dressed all in black. “I pass my time in sadness,” he said.

“Over your marriage or your master?” I asked.

“Over my master,” he said. “How could a loyal friend not?”

“You would do better to apply your efforts to repaying your debts,” I said. “I understand you are some eight thousand pounds in debt.”

He looked back at me with those clear blue eyes. “I am doing everything to remedy it. But I am obligated to support my widowed mother. I have just sold more of my lands, a third of my inheritance.”

“A better way to remedy it is to stop your gambling,” I said. “Those without funds should not bet.”

Southampton was a die-hard gambler, seemingly unable to stop. He merely nodded.

“How is your master?” I could not help asking. “Is he keeping well?”

He looked incredulous. “Well? No, he is anything but well.”

I wished I had not brought up the subject. I wanted to know, but as there was nothing I could do, it was better not to discuss it. “I am saddened to hear it.”

Southampton’s mouth dropped, and in truth, I should just have said nothing. “I shall tell him,” he said.

I saw that Southampton was not the only disgraced Essex follower who had found his way here. Roger Manners, the Earl of Rutland, and his friend Edward Russell, the Earl of Bedford, were drinking near the musicians. Both these young men were as deeply in debt as their leader and doubtless had come for the free food and a chance to find someone gullible enough to lend them money. I hoped there was no one of that description in the hall tonight.

Youth, youth ... Enough of them and their follies. My eyes went to an older man who was putting his plate down. He seemed to be alone, so I sought him out. “You look lost,” I said.

“Never lost, Your Majesty,” he said. “But alone, yes. My cousin brought me, but he’s nowhere to be seen. ‘The Queen invited everyone,’ he said ‘and that means
us
.’ I hope he was not mistaken. I am William Lambarde, Your Majesty.”

“No, not at all. It is a pleasure to meet my subjects. What do you do?” He looked like a scholar of some sort. “Are you at Cambridge? Oxford, perhaps?” I did not want to insult him by naming the wrong university. Teachers and students were notoriously partisan to their institution.

“Neither. I work alone, but I have compiled a book of Anglo-Saxon laws and written a history of the county of Kent. I would have done one of all England, but Camden got there first.”

“Your work must be gratifying. I have heard of it.”

“Kent, Your Majesty, has a rich history. Of course your own Hever is there. I found the original plans and deeds dating back several centuries.”

Hever. Catherine and I must make our historic visit there this year. “Indeed?” I said. “Could you send me your findings?”

“I would be honored,” he said.

John Harington came over and bowed smartly. I noticed that his doublet seemed to have expanded since the last time I saw him, and I was not surprised that he was having a second helping of the pastry.

“Greetings, John,” I said. “I look forward to your rule on Twelfth Night,” I said. “Your only constraint is to refrain from making any comments or jests about the Earl of Essex.”

“That is not a constraint,” he said. “There is nothing remotely funny about him or his situation.”

Even though the nights were at their longest, by the time I returned to my chamber dawn was not far away. I marveled at how quickly the evening had flown.

“I think it was a success, Catherine,” I said.

“You sound surprised,” she said as she unfastened my necklace and gently loosened the ties of the great ruff around my neck. Oh, it felt good to get it off.

“I am. It has not been the merriest of times at court, since the business with Essex. I took the chance that an open invitation would heal wounds and bring the old factions in. The sooner court life returns to normal, the better for everyone.”

Her sister Philadelphia came over to remove my wig. She lifted it off carefully, its tiara and ornaments still clinging to it, and put it on its stand. “I’ve got a fresher eye than my sister, having not been here for a while, but it seems that underneath the smiles there were blacker thoughts. The wastrels—Southampton and company—will go straight back to Essex and report everything.”

“Of course they will. Does he think, because he is gone, all life will cease?” I said.

“No,” said Philadelphia. “But I hope it does not stir him up.”

“To what?”

She shrugged. “A jealous and disordered mind can always find something. I have heard that the atmosphere has changed at Essex House from one of mourning to one of militancy.”

“I know that they have opened the courtyard to all and sundry, and anyone with a complaint or discontent is gathering there. Puritan preachers who are too radical for any regular congregation, disgruntled Catholics, and lately an infusion of Welsh borderers. A strange mixture. But we have our informants. Nothing passes that we are not aware of.”

“That is good,” said Catherine. “Otherwise it would be difficult to sleep soundly.”

78

T
he twelve days of Christmas are the busiest time at court of all the year. From dawn, with morning prayer in the chapel royal sung by the voices of the Westminster choristers, to the tables laden with every conceivable form of fowl, fish, and meat, desserts of cream, ginger, and rose water, fruits in red wine, pitchers and flagons of drink for midday dinner, and on into the evening with masques, dances, plays, and entertainments, there was not an instant of stillness. In the late afternoon people could steal away for a nap before the evening’s activities, but otherwise the time between the end of the night’s play and the new day was so short it afforded little rest. The young did not need the afternoon pause, but the older courtiers relied on it.

On the third night there was to be a masque, and the eighth day was New Year’s, which entailed its own long ritual of gift exchange. Then on to the grand finale, Twelfth Night itself. In between there were concerts, poetry recitals, games, and card playing. And always, of course, the parade of fashion in which each courtier tried to outdo his or her fellows in sartorial splendor; those who declined to enter the contest had the pleasure of rating and criticizing the others.

One of the rewards of the season for me was seeing the faces of those who had been absent from court for any number of reasons. To me, that was a better New Year’s gift than any of the predictable offerings of lockboxes, gloves, ruffs, bejeweled combs, carved bracelets, lockets, poems, velvet-bound books. Robert Carey, Catherine’s younger brother, was always delightful to see again; he was very unlike his portly, sensual brother George. Sir Henry Lee, my retired champion, turned up for the festivities, bringing with him my former maid of honor Anne Vavasour.

She was still beautiful in her wild, dark way. She bowed low before me as we found ourselves in the library together one afternoon. I told her so.

“I thank Your Majesty,” she said, from beneath her spiky black lashes, which framed eyes as blue as an October sky. Lee stood protectively by.

Mary Fitton, another former maid of honor often pursued by men, was here. I chanced upon her gazing at the displays of Accession Day shields in the gallery. Even though her back was to me, I recognized her black hair, which shone with what seemed to be purple glints.

“Mistress Fitton,” I said. She whirled around to see me and then sank low.

“Up, up,” I said. “I am pleased to see you.” She had been driven from court by the insistent pursuit of the married Sir William Knollys as surely as Daphne had been driven to extreme measures by the unwelcome chase of Apollo.