Elizabeth I (76 page)

Now he was dead. Doubtless more candles were lit all over Spain, in little churches and in the great fortress of Escorial, where Philip spent his last years. They would not yet know of it in Peru or Panama, but next year requiem Masses would be said for him there. His obsequies would just go on and on, reverberating around the world.

I should feel some sort of triumph, or at least relief. Instead I felt naked. Losing my steadfast enemy felt oddly like losing a steadfast friend; both defined me. First Burghley, now Philip. They both had left sons to carry on after them, but the son is never the father.

I had the damning intelligence about Philip's message to The O'Neill. It saddened me, killing my stubborn belief that when our last moments on earth seize us, we become better than we have been in life and even the petty man becomes, briefly, noble. Instead, with his last breath, Philip had focused on his hatred of me and England.

Once you were young,
I thought, looking again at the portrait.
But the only remnant of you that remained so was your intense ability to hate: malevolence burning bright in a withered old face.

They were all here, by God, including Essex. I had sent that wayward puppy a summons that even he dared not ignore. They were sitting glumly around the polished council table—the entire Privy Council, from the ancient Whitgift to the young, new Lord Cobham. The days since Yellow Ford had brought a flood of bad news, as well as a flood of fleeing settlers. Edmund Spenser had just barely escaped with his life from his burning house and barn; he was back in England, glad to be safe, and now composed verses re-creating the horrors—flames, looting, slaughter—he had witnessed in Ireland.

Today we would move forward, take command of the ship. We could drift no longer, or we would be dashed upon the rocks of Ireland, as the Armada had been.

Up and down the long table, fit for a monastery refectory, they looked to me to steer them. Essex sat alone at the farthest end, facing me, as if he were my antipode. I motioned him to move, take his place among the other councillors. Scowling, he did so, seating himself on Carey's side of the table, shunning the side with his enemies Cecil, Admiral Howard, and Cobham.

“Gentlemen, one might mistake this for a funeral,” I said. “The only person to have died is Philip, and I would not expect such long faces on our side. Archbishop, it is fitting that you lead us in prayer before opening this momentous council.”

His bushy black eyebrows rose, and he prayed in a sonorous voice.

“Amen,” all chorused.

“Robert Cecil,” I said, “as principal secretary, please summarize the choices facing us.”

He stood, clutching the papers he had prepared—not because he knew he would have to present them but to order his own mind. I was sure that in his wardrobe all his shoes—polished and properly soled—were lined up according to season. “Very well,” he said, nodding to all. “We have only three choices. One, withdraw and surrender Ireland to the Irish. Two, tread water and do the minimum to retain it. Three, throw our greatest force against it and subjugate it utterly. The first choice would be tempting were it not for the Spanish. It is thrift and common sense to rid oneself of a nuisance, unless someone is waiting to pick it up and turn it against you. The second choice has already been tried, and has failed. That leaves only the third.”

“To my sorrow, I affirm that you are right,” I said. “So we meet today to decide how to implement it, not whether to implement it. The die is cast—cast by Spain, not us.”

“Very well, but how can we do this?” asked Lord Keeper Egerton.

“Money, money. It requires money we don't have,” lamented Buckhurst.

“It will have to come from Parliament,” said Lord Cobham, “and we just called a parliament. It is too soon to call another. They won't be in a giving mood.”

“We still have the subsidies to collect from the last one,” said Admiral Howard. “And in this time of danger, they may have to meet again.”

“It's always ‘this time of danger.' How long can I lay that burden on my people, extracting money from them out of fear?” I wondered. “But it has all been true, not a ploy on my part.”

“All the money in the world won't help without someone to lead the attack,” said John Herbert, the second secretary. He seldom attended council meetings but kept the notes from all of them. “We need a commander. A military genius.”

“Perhaps we can get the witch of Endor to call up Caesar?” said Whitgift. “All our good ones are dead.”

“Someone has to lead them. They can't be led by a ghost.”

“Ireland has made ghosts out of scores of commanders,” cried Essex, “including my father!”

“This time will have to be different,” said Carey, beside him. “This time, the commander will have to be a man who will not be broken by Ireland, but will break Ireland. A man who can draw others to enlist and serve under him. Someone whose very appointment makes a statement.”

“But who can that be?” asked Herbert, for all of us.

We all knew there was only one man now in the realm who could fit that description. Only one man who was both nobly born and a military commander. Only one man whom the people would demand be appointed. There was no choice.

Essex leaped up. His voice grew tremulous, as if he were speaking underwater. “ ‘Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, Here am I; send me.' Send me!” He rushed over to me, threw himself on the floor. “I am called! I am called!” he cried.

For what seemed several moments no one spoke or even moved.

“Are you certain of that?” I finally said.

“ ‘I heard the voice of the Lord saying'...”

“Did you actually hear it, or are you merely quoting the Bible?”

He raised his head like a naughty child, peeking out from under his hair, which had flopped down over his forehead. “The Lord speaks through Scripture,” he said.

“Spoken like a good Puritan,” I said. “But Catholics are right to warn that Scriptures can be read many different ways, and the devil wants to use our weaknesses to deceive us into false interpretations. Get up. You do not need a quote from the prophet Isaiah to justify your qualifications. The fact that you have served in overseas military operations is more persuasive.”

He pulled himself up on his hands and knees and then stood upright, looking at me. His face was unreadable, blank.

“It seems that the position is yours,” I said. “God have mercy on you, and on England.”

I was sitting in the dark. Not that I meant to, but twilight and then full dark had crept up on me as I sat stiffly in my chair in my inner chamber. Supper had come and been sent back; I had no appetite.

I had had to appoint him. There was no one else. England had been weak on land for years, but never worse than now. Our larder of leaders was empty. But there was one thing Essex had that all the other failed commanders had not: a personal reason for wanting revenge on the Irish. Ireland had robbed him of his father, sending him to an untimely grave. I could only pray that somehow, in this crucible of need, he would convert his long-fallow potential into honorable action.

I was as bad as the Spanish—to have only prayer to rely on. What was it Philip had supposedly said as he launched the first Armada—“In confident hope of a miracle”? My hope was not even confident. In any case, no miracle had rescued them. Was it folly to think we would fare better?

The next day was my birthday. I was sixty-five. Was that anything to celebrate? Yes, something to be thankful for, but not to advertise. I had not planned any formal recognition of the day, knowing that to remind anyone of my age was not politically wise. Nonetheless, Marjorie and Catherine had small tokens for me, chosen with their usual thoughtfulness. Marjorie gave me a cordial flavored with meadow herbs from Rycote. A sip took me to the midsummer fields of that lovely part of the country. Catherine had secretly embroidered a pincushion showing our family connection. She and I were two flowers dangling from a very green and twining stalk. Her flower was lower than mine, one rung down on the genealogical ladder. But so skillful was she in the design that its asymmetry was pleasing. “I am three generations down from Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn, and you are only two,” she said.

“I was just old enough that I remember them, vaguely,” I said. “They died when I was five or six. Not long after—after my mother. Your grandmother Mary outlived them all but still did not live long enough for you to know her.”

“We are not a very long-lived family,” said Catherine.

“That's a foolish thing to say! I am sixty-five now. And my mother hardly lived a natural life span. Thomas lived to be sixty-two and Elizabeth fifty-eight.” How well I knew all these details.

“That still makes you older than any of them.”

“Quiet!” I laughed. Then the laughter died. “You are right. And I am always thankful for each day.”

“I must laugh at you children,” said Marjorie. “For I am well into my seventies. I remember the Boleyns personally, and I saw King Henry as a young man. A sight never to be forgotten. He was glorious, shining like the sun. ...” She stopped herself. “I don't feel old,” she said. “But every day my body reminds me.”

Seeing her every day, as I did, the changes had been subtle, and her younger self from past years shaded what I saw. But it was impossible to deny that she had grown old, even if she kept her strength and liveliness.

“Do you wish to retire?” I suddenly asked. “I kept my dear Burghley too long, and I vow not to make that mistake again. It is no friendship, no respect, to command service when the person no longer wishes to serve.”