Elizabeth I (112 page)

The trial had taken place on Thursday; over the weekend Essex agonized with his Puritan chaplain, Abdyias Ashton, whom he had asked for ere he surrendered. He had relapsed into a state of frenzied religiosity that focused entirely on his soul and excluded his grieving family. He would not see his wife, mother, sisters, or friends. Instead he confessed all to Ashton, who then insisted on bringing Privy Councillors to partake of these unburdenings. So on Saturday, only two days after the trial, a very different Essex writhed in front of the admiral and Cecil, breast beating and then writing out four pages of confessions, allegations, and blame.

“Well, men, you have witnessed his breakdown,” I told them, as they presented me with the original papers—not a copy. His tiny handwriting, shrunk to get as much as possible on the pages, made it hard to read. “It is never a pretty sight.”

Before me Charles and Cecil stood stiffly. The confession began with his admission that he was “the greatest, the vilest, and the most unthankful traitor that ever was born.” He was exaggerating, as usual. But he named names of everyone associated with his plot, drawing in Lord Mountjoy and his mistress, Penelope. She had insulted him and egged him on by telling him that everyone thought him a coward, he said. “Look to her, for she has a proud spirit,” he warned.

“It runs in the family,” I grunted.

“In the midst of all this, he suddenly demanded that his attendant, Henry Cuffe, be brought in to face him,” said Cecil. “And then he accused him to his face of leading him into it all.”

“Ah, he is the same man despite his protestations of reform,” I said. “He has ever sought to blame others for his misdeeds. It is always someone else's fault—in his eyes.”

“But not the law's,” said Cecil. “The law has spoken.” He hesitated, then shot a glance at Charles. “There is one other thing ...”

“You must tell it,” said Charles.

“Essex admitted in our presence that, and I quote, ‘the Queen will never be safe as long as I live.'”

“Those were his exact words?” I said.

“Indeed,” said Charles, “though I hate hearing them repeated.”

“He only admits what we already knew,” I said, more lightly than I felt.

“As regarding the others—Cuffe, Meyrick, Blount, and the rest,” Charles said, “they will stand trial after these first two are dispatched.”

“What of Southampton?” asked Catherine. “You did not mention where he was ... was to go.”

“Not Tower Green,” I said. In truth, I had thought little about him. He was so inconsequential.

“If he is to join Essex on his exit from this world, then you should decide,” said Cecil.

That annoyed me. “Do not issue orders to princes,” I said. “I shall decide when I decide. Have the papers been drawn up?”

“They will be ready tomorrow, and awaiting your royal signature,” he said.

“Sunday. I would never sign an execution warrant on a Sunday!”

“Monday, then,” said Cecil.

“Monday it shall be, then. And the execution can proceed on Tuesday. Ready everything.”

He had said not one word about me in his confession, or to the councillors, or to his chaplain. This time there were no appeals, no tear-stained letters, no poems, and no protestations. At last the golden tongue and pen of the earl had fallen silent.

Nor was there to be any word from me. What could I possibly say? If I said all I felt, it would fill not four pages, as Essex had done, but a hundred.
Where have you gone?
I wanted to say.
What infected you, corrupted you? Was there anything I could have done to alter it? Did I play any part in it?

But those questions were not ones a queen could ask a subject, and this subject would never have the self-knowledge to give an honest answer. So: silence on both sides.

Provision must be made for his body. It had to go somewhere after it fell on the scaffold. I gave orders that a grave be prepared in the little church of St. Peter ad Vincula, which stood only yards away. It served as the final resting place of many executed prisoners. The higher ranking were inside the church, and the lesser people were buried in the graveyard around it. I had never been able to force myself to go inside, for all that it had fine marble monuments. My mother lay there, and I could not bear to think so closely upon how she was taken there, still warm from the scaffold and not in a proper coffin. Others kept her company, a whole host of them: her brother George, and Thomas More, and Queen Catherine Howard, and Lady Jane Grey. But if I stood there and looked, there would be only one grave I would see: hers.

I mean no disrespect,
I told her in my mind, as I had a thousand times.
But, Mother, I have made my peace with it all, as I have had to.

Lent was about to begin. We always had a play at court on Shrove Tuesday. I must think of that. I must select something. Life must go on, flow smoothly, as it always had.

Although we did not observe the carnival excesses of Catholic countries, nonetheless we traditionally marked the last days before Ash Wednesday in our own distinctive manner. At court we had a “farewell to luxuries” banquet, and attended a play. The plays were usually lighthearted, but this year that would not do. Shakespeare had a new one. We would see that. It was the least he could do for us, after allowing his company to cooperate with Essex and stage
Richard II
with the forbidden scene.

Monday, as promised, the heavy parchment death warrant was placed reverently on my desk to be signed. I did so, not wishing it to linger in my possession, and dispatched it to the lieutenant of the Tower. A little later I realized that I had not specified what day the sentence was to be carried out, so I sent a message telling him to proceed Wednesday morning. I also ordered that there be two executioners, in case one was incapacitated at the last moment. It was to be a private execution, but there must be witnesses—the Queen's Guard, led by Raleigh, and nobles, aldermen, and councillors.

The banquet proceeded normally. The usual ceremonies were performed, the plates and dishes magnificently presented, the delicate glassware filled with the best wine. The chatter, however, was subdued. The only subject that must not be mentioned drowned all the others.

It was a relief to take our places to watch the play. Let the actors talk and act while we sat mute and motionless. The subject of the play was the Trojan war—nothing could have been further from the events around us.

“Shakespeare seems to have deserted our realm and our time for the ancient world,” said Catherine, by my side. “First a play about Caesar, now this.”

“A love story—
Troilus and Cressida
?” said Charles, making a face.

Catherine pretended to be offended. “And what is wrong with that?”

“I am too old,” said the admiral. “Love affairs are not my main concern any longer.”

“Charles!” She smacked him with her fan teasingly.

Nor mine,
I thought.
Love affairs have ceased to have any meaning for me. Nonetheless, I can still tolerate them onstage or in a poem.

I settled back, expecting heroic characters, combat scenes, and tragic lovers—all earmarks of the Trojan war—told in Shakespeare's haunting language.

Instead, the play featured two unsavory characters, one of whom had the most scurrilous view of life and people I had ever heard. Every time he came onstage—which was far too often—I winced. He opened the play and closed it, wishing diseases on his audience as his farewell to us. As for the famous names of Homer, they were transformed into unrecognizably mean little people. Hector chased Patroclus for his armor, coveting it. Instead of a duel between the noble Hector and the warrior Achilles, Achilles killed an unarmed Hector in cold blood. Helen was an empty-headed strumpet, Cressida a liar, Troilus a fool, Ajax an ox. There was not one character I would invite to my table. And Shakespeare's beautiful use of words had shrunk as small as his characters. Convoluted parallels, tortured usages, not a single line that sang in the mind. Only one passage, spoken by Odysseus, sent a chill through me and seemed to whisper,
This is what has just happened.
It was “Power into will, will into appetite, and appetite, a universal wolf, so doubly seconded with will and power, must make perforce a universal prey, and last eat up himself.” Essex's wolf appetite had devoured him. Had the playwright thought of him when he had written it?

I wanted to apologize for inflicting the play on everyone. But the mood of it—disillusioned, hollow, sad—perhaps reflected what we were all feeling. I said good night and brought the evening to a close. It had been a fitting penance for whatever part I had played in the downfall of Essex.

Dawn, and Essex would soon be led out to the block. I shut the doors of my inner chambers and did not admit any company, even my ladies. The day plodded on; the sun approached its highest point, ending the morning. I could not read, nor fasten my mind on anything. I sat down at the virginals and began to play from memory; it required no effort of the mind or will. The sweet, round notes floated around me, caressing like supple fingers. When thoughts flee and words are inadequate, music can act as timely balm.

There was a soft knock. No one would knock except for something—the one thing—that I must be told.

“Enter,” I said.

The door swung open and Cecil entered, then walked softly over to me. I stopped playing.

“Your Majesty, it is over,” he said. “Essex died this morning.”

I nodded. I could not speak. In a moment, I continued playing. Cecil left.