Elizabeth I (118 page)

Only ten days after the debate had begun, on the last day of November, the speaker and some 150 members of Parliament came to Whitehall. I sat waiting for them under my cloth of estate in the council chamber, and they filed in. Their speaker, Sir Edward Coke, bowed low three times and then gave a long speech about my majesty and glory, rather embarrassing in its fulsomeness, calling upon my sacred presence, my sacred ears, and my sacred sovereignty. When he was finished, the entire company knelt to hear my answer.

I looked out over them. They were of all ages and came from all parts of England. But that was what Parliament was meant to be, to reflect the people over whom I ruled, and through them every man and woman in the land.

First I thanked them for coming and for their appreciation. Then I said, “Mr. Speaker, I assure you there is no prince that loves his subjects better, or whose love can countervail our love. There is no jewel, be it of ever so rich a price, which I set before this jewel—I mean your loves.” I nodded. “For I esteem it more than any treasure or riches, for that we know how to prize. But love and thanks I count invaluable, and though God has raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown: that I have reigned with your loves.”

Few rulers had been so blessed. I watched the expressions on their faces. “Please do rise, for I will speak a bit longer and do not wish you to be uncomfortable.” They got up from their knees. “Mr. Speaker, you give me thanks, but had I not received knowledge from you, I might have fallen into error only for lack of true information. That grants should be grievous to our people and oppressions to be privileged under color of our patents, our kingly dignity shall not suffer it. Yea, when I heard it, I could give no rest to my thoughts until I had reformed it.” I then went on to explain I was always keenly aware that I must answer to God as judge if I failed my people.

“To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it. For myself, I was never so much enticed with the glorious name of a king or royal authority as a queen, as delighted that God has made me his instrument to maintain his truth and glory, and to defend this kingdom from peril, dishonor, tyranny, and oppression.” And how many ways I had employed to defend it—diplomacy, marriage flirtations, spies and intelligence networks, all before the last resort of arms.

“There will never queen sit in my seat with more zeal to my country, care to my subjects, and that will sooner with willingness venture her life for your good and safety, than myself. For it is not my desire to live nor reign longer than my life and reign shall be for your good. And though you have had and may have many princes more mighty and wise sitting in this seat, yet you never had or shall have any that will love you better.”

Oh, it was true. I touched my coronation ring, rubbing it softly. “I have been content to be a taper of pure virgin wax, to waste myself and spend my life that I might give light and comfort to those that live under me.”

There was silence in the room. Then I said, “Thus, Mr. Speaker, I commend me to your loyal love, and you to my best care and your further counsels. And I pray you, Mr. Comptroller and my councillors, that before these members depart for their home counties, you bring them all to kiss my hand.”

I sat and waited as they filed up, one at a time. I extended my hand for them to kiss. Each took his leave, until the chamber was empty.

I
have been a widow for a year today,
I thought with stunned wonder. There was supposed to be a magic in crossing that threshold, the equivalent of applying a soothing bandage to a wound. No longer was it open and raw, but sealed up and healing. That was the belief, in any case. I say it depends on how deep and how wide the wound was.

I had worn black ever since the black day on which Robert stepped onto the scaffold platform. Gradually it had come to seem odd that I would wear any other color.

I had not, of course, been able to visit Christopher's grave. I was not even sure it was marked. He may have been thrown into a trench beside the church. I could not visit Robert's grave either, but I had heard that he had a plaque marking it. But since the Tower was royal property, I could not be admitted to the church inside.

My first husband was buried far away in Wales, my second in Warwick, along with our son. So I could not be one of those widows who haunted graves like a ghost. As a three-time widow, I could say that it is far more hurtful to lose someone to politics than to nature. In a sense, Christopher brought it upon himself, but that was no comfort. It meant he could have avoided it, still be here with me. Neither Walter Devereux nor Robert Dudley had a choice in the matter.

People still sang ballads about Robert, still wrote an occasional slur against Cecil on walls, but it was dying away. Memories are short. The Queen counted on that. Her popularity sagged in the aftermath, but her latest performance in Parliament has restored her to the people's goodwill. She graciously gave in and abolished the hated monopolies, then gave what is being called her “golden speech.” It was an elegy, a farewell. She expressed her bond to her people—her version of a marriage vow—and reflected on what it meant to her to be a queen. It was rapturously received.

But people wondered: Does she know she is ill? It had that ring, the tone of an announcement of mortality. She, who had seemed eternal, was reminding her people that she is not.

And they were preparing for the change. Eyes were looking to Scotland, and King James, as Robert's had done. They were looking discreetly, but they were looking. I had heard that even Cecil had put out feelers. He will need to secure his place in the next reign. If James brings his own councillors, then Cecil may find himself dismissed. He must gain the future king's confidence now.

The Queen had been her inconsistent self in regards to the people involved in what was being called “the Essex rebellion.” Southampton still languished in the Tower, although he was pronounced guilty alongside Robert. No execution date had been set, no fine announced. Many others were fined and freed. Will got off with a questioning from the Privy Council about the special performance of
Richard II
but seemed to have suffered no consequences. His plays were still shown at court and he was received there. Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, for all the incriminating evidence that he had had knowledge of the plot and was even toying with contributing troops to it, got off completely. Doing so well in Ireland meant that he was too valuable to sacrifice, and so the Queen looked the other way.

Then she did the oddest thing she has ever done. No, I cannot say that. But it was the oddest thing she has ever done in regard to our family. When Robert had returned without permission from Ireland, Frances had gathered up letters and papers she thought the government might confiscate to incriminate him. After his death, the people to whom she had entrusted the papers blackmailed her. At first she paid the fee, but they kept demanding more. Somehow the Queen got wind of it and had the blackmailer arrested, tried, and fined. She gave the fine to Frances, as well as the papers, saying, “I would have my winding-sheet unspotted.” Elizabeth never loses the power to amaze and surprise us.

Frances, who cried to Elizabeth that she would not draw breath one hour after Robert had been executed, still lived and breathed. She, too, wore black, and busied herself with her children, especially the youngest, who had just begun walking. But I had the feeling that, at thirty-four, she would lay it aside before long and consider a third husband. She was the sort who should be married.

But for myself, no. I was well past that now.

I had withdrawn to Wanstead, six miles outside of London. I would grow old here. It was a house free of all the dark associations that Essex House had for me. Here there had been laughter and lovemaking, music, summer's pleasures, and happy liaisons. After the opprobrium died down, I would be welcome enough for charitable work. Since I had become an outcast myself, I saw unfortunates in a new light. Looking down upon them from my heights of wealth and safety, I had shrugged them off. The poor you have with you always, Jesus had said. If they were poor, they must be lazy. Or happy. Odd how to assuage our own consciences we assume they must be happy, and spin tales to ourselves about their dancing and singing and laughing. We even envy them! Drowning in our obligations and worries, we ride past them and imagine their lives free of striving and competition, and sigh with longing.

But I knew now they were not to be envied for the weight of poverty that left them unrecognized. It was the children I most wanted to rescue; it was too late for their parents. I would make them my mission.

I was visited occasionally by my respectable daughters. Dorothy seemed far removed from both court and family, still married to the “Wizard” Earl of Northumberland and spending most of her time at Syon House, on the other side of London, upstream on the Thames. Penelope was the acclaimed woman of the hour, the consort, if not the wife, of the hero of Ireland.

Yes, Charles Blount had done the seemingly impossible, had achieved what Robert had so signally failed to do. His hard-fought campaign in Ireland had brought victory. The great turning point came in December. Charles and his forces had been in the north, chasing The O'Neill, when the Spanish landed at Kinsale with their reinforcing units. Suddenly his mission was not to smash the rebels in Ulster, but to prevent their joining forces with the Spanish in the south. He executed this brilliantly. But as always, fate played a part. O'Neill suffered a lapse in judgment and chose to meet the English in the field, in a traditional battle, handing them the victory. He was ill suited for it and was soundly routed. The Irish fled north once again, and the Spanish set sail, never to return. Now all that remained was to capture O'Neill and extract his surrender. He was a beaten man, and the Irish rebellion was smashed.

Elizabeth would be able to add the subjugation of Ireland to her victory over the Armada in the annals of her reign. A worthy achievement for a woman warrior, no matter how reluctant a one she was.

To be honest, for all his blustering, his engraved armor, and his golden tents, her father achieved nothing militarily. His excursions into France were costly and pointless, yielding nothing permanent. She, on the other hand, has saved her realm from invasion and has slammed the back door of Ireland shut to foreign meddling. And she knew what she wanted. In order to press ahead in Ireland, she was willing to overlook Charles Blount's transgressions to get the important job done. Her father would have focused on the “treason” of Blount. Elizabeth wanted to use him, treason or no. Who, then, was the better monarch? Elizabeth would demur even at hinting at a competition between herself and her father, but that might be because in her heart she knew she had surpassed him.

I was shocked to receive a letter from Will, two months after the anniversary of Christopher's death. It was very short, saying merely that he wished to offer his condolences and that, on his way back to Stratford, he would like to pay a call. Would that be acceptable?

I had received few condolence visits, and even fewer guests had come to Wanstead, although in the heady days twenty years past they had begged for invitations. Part of me wished to say no, to keep myself away from anything that smacked of the old life. The other part of me wanted to say yes, still to be connected to the world beyond Wanstead.

I said yes.