Elizabeth I (117 page)

I conferred with Cecil on the upcoming parliament. This would be the first one without his father to lead it, and he would be sorely missed. Even in Burghley's declining state he had ably managed the one that met in 1597.

“We are on our own, Robert,” I told him. “It is always hard to step into a father's shoes. Particularly in our cases, when the shoes were so big.”

“Sooner or later it comes,” he said. “I think we are prepared. You have issued orders that the Parliament not waste time in idle talk, proposing vain measures, but tidy up ones already passed and speedily get to the subsidy bill.”

“Yes,” I said. “I want this parliament over by Christmas, not dragged out.”

He nodded.

“And there is something else,” I said. “I have had petitions thrust at me as I walk between chapel and palace, or to public ceremonies. They come from ordinary citizens, angry about the monopolies. I know this Parliament will take up the matter.”

“And our response?”

“I will hear what they have to say and how strongly they press the matter,” I said.

Parliament convened in October of 1601; I opened it at the House of Lords. I was ceremoniously attired in my robes of state, wearing my crown, moving slowly to allow everyone a glimpse of me. The orb and scepter were carried before me. People looked, but few offered the customary “God save Your Majesty.” I felt a chill in the air, and not because it was October. The Essex affair had damaged my popularity.

Entering the chamber, mounting the steps to my throne, I suddenly buckled under the weight of the heavy robes and swayed. Several men rushed to steady me, but it was frightening. I took my seat and clutched the emblems of office, determined to regain my equilibrium. Sixty or so faces looked back at me, with over a hundred commoners standing at the back, and others at the threshold of the chamber.

Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Sir Thomas Egerton, gave his opening speech. He announced that the reason for this parliament was twofold: the war with Ireland and Spain and the need to finance it. He told them to be confident of a good outcome, for “God hath ever, and I hope will ever, bless the Queen with successful fortune.” He then went on to detail the perfidious plots of Philip II and the dangers I had overcome. Turning to me, he burst out, “I have seen Her Majesty wear on her belt the price of her blood, I mean a jewel that had been given to her physician to do that which, I hope, God will ever deliver her from!”

Dr. Lopez ... I had kept his ring and often wore it, not on my finger now, but on a chain. I nodded vigorously, to show how well I had survived, and to emphasize my health.

The opening ceremony over, I rose to exit the chamber. Outside, the House members pressed tightly and I could barely make my way. I held up my hand to ask for more space, and someone called, “Back, masters, make room!” A loud voice from the rear answered, “Even if you will hang us we can make no more room!”

I pretended not to hear, but oh! I did. What was this surly mood among the members? I did not deserve this. Never had I passed into the House with no greeting or passed out of it with a taunt.

My misgivings about Parliament proved true. They refused to consider the subsidy until the matter of the monopolies was settled. Member after member railed against them, in spite of Bacon's and Cecil's attempts to present the Crown's case. Promises would not content them. A long list of the present monopolies was read out: currants, iron, ox shinbones, aniseed, vinegar, blubber oil, smoked pilchards, playing cards, salt, starch, drinking glasses, and many others.

“Where is bread?” cried one member. “I am sure that bread must be on this list. All the other necessities are!” He snorted. “If we don't take action now, it will be there by the next parliament!”

“Bloodsuckers of the commonwealth!” a member from Hertfordshire said. “The prices are outrageous and drive the prices of everything up. The increase on bundles of calfskin makes every pair of shoes for the poor cost more!”

“It is not to be borne!” another cried.

Clearly this was a crisis for me. Parliament members next began to consider what remedies they might take. Should they draft a bill, legislating the end to monopolies, examining existing ones for legality? Should they take a more conciliatory route and present me with a petition asking me to rescind them?

“I have done all I can,” said Cecil, pacing nervously. “I fear we are losing control. So far they have not directly challenged your royal prerogative, but that is just a matter of semantics ... and of time.”

My position was that my right to grant monopolies was above the law, part of my royal right. Parliament did not have the power to encroach on that or limit my freedom on any prerogative. To grant them this power would be to say that they ultimately ruled England, not I.

And yet, and yet ... I knew a fundamental change was afoot, and to resist it would damage the monarchy more than granting it. Granting it ... Yes, if I granted it freely, as a royal favor, rather than submit to their demands ... no precedent would be set of Crown yielding to Parliament, being subservient to it. That was the way, the only way.

“Tell them that I am grateful for their having brought these dreadful abuses to my attention and that I will remedy them immediately.”

“Your Majesty?” Cecil was perplexed.

“I will end the most egregious of them now, and suspend the others until their legality can be tested in court. I will draw up a proclamation to that effect and put it in their hands straightway. Then I will receive the Privy Councillors and some members of Parliament to thank them.”

“They will be stunned. As am I,” he admitted.

“If one must concede, one should do it in all generosity. It is not only the Lord who loves a cheerful giver. Away now, away. I have a proclamation to write.”

I needed to reclaim the love of my people, so tried and tarnished by the Essex affair and money troubles. But I could not mortgage the ancient privileges of the Crown to do so. The proclamation would fulfill both needs.

Jubilantly Cecil read out to Parliament the royal decree, entitled “A Proclamation for the Reformation of Many Abuses and Misdemeanors Committed by Patentees of Certain Privileges and Licenses, to the General Good of All Her Majesty's Loving Subjects.” The monopolies on salt, vinegar, alcoholic drinks, salt fish, train oil, fish livers, pots, brushes, butter, and starch were abolished.

“Every man can have or make cheap salt!” he announced. “For those whose stomachs need it, they can now have all the aqua vitae they like. The same for vinegar to treat your indigestion. Those of you who love your ruffs, rest assured that you can starch them cheaply now. You can start sowing woad dye again, though Her Majesty hopes the stink of it will not make your towns so unpleasant she cannot visit you on Progress. She does forbid it in London or near any palace.” As each item was announced, a cheer went up. Finally he cautioned, “The Queen does not abjure her ancient prerogatives.” Then he went on to list the monopolies that would be examined in court: saltpeter, Irish yarn, steel, and many others. Furthermore, copies of the proclamation would be printed and distributed to the members immediately.

Commons asked to send their speaker and a dozen members to me to thank me. I sent word back that it was I who wished to thank them, and that they should come in two days. They began to select the deputation to come, but members from the back of the House cried out, “All! All, all, all!”

I was absurdly pleased that they all wanted to come and told William Knollys, now the comptroller of the household, to invite them all, assuring them I had originally limited the deputation only because of the size of the audience room. But we would find room.

So I would speak to them and thank them. I began to write my speech. But somewhere in the making of it, it changed. I had spoken to Parliament many times, but always with the assurance there would be more speeches in the future. There was no longer that surety. Whatever I wished to tell them, whatever they needed to know, I must say it now and in this speech. It had little, or nothing, to do with the monopolies.

I thought of my early days as a princess; the days I lived outside London, removed from the seats of power, but always with vital contact with the people. They cheered when I came to London, sick and wan, in a litter. The only way to show disapproval of a regime was to cheer the successor or alternative, and that they did. By the time I came to the throne I was buoyed on a wave of love that carried me straight to my coronation. Every time I had ventured out beyond London, beyond the quarreling ministers and courtiers, I had felt that love. I drew strength from it as a plant draws strength from sun and soil. What were the Progresses, after all? A personal visit with my people.

What did I want for them? And how could I tell them what I felt?

This would be my last parliament. I knew that. I do not know how I knew it, but I did. Even if I survived until another one, my words would not be so completely my own.

Was I ill? Was I failing? How, then, could I know this so surely?

There is a day in autumn—often a warm one, as warm as summer—when something seems to turn. The wind comes from a slightly different quarter. The light has a different slant. It shines from an angle through the windows, falls on things it has not picked out for months. It has a different glow. It in itself is harmless, innocuous, but it portends a shift and warns us to prepare. Just so I felt this tide in myself. I must address my people when I could say what I wished, in my own words. Even if I lived another thirty years, I would not be so able.

I worked through the night on my speech. I poured all my feelings about my people, my realm, my kingdom, and myself into it.