Watch the Lady (36 page)

His resolve is renewed by his imaginings. He recently had a meeting with the Spanish ambassador at which they had danced around the issue, until Cecil came to understand what it was that would make the deal palatable for the Spanish King. There is a high price for peace with an enemy of such long standing. He pulls out a piece of paper, girded by the image of his dying father. He dips his quill and a little glut of fear collects in his chest. He is writing without thinking:
I feel sure some kind of accommodation can be arrived at in respect of the Infanta's claim
. He can hardly believe he is thinking such a thing, let alone recklessly committing it to paper. But that is the condition for peace and once he has them at the table he can always find a way to slide out of it. It is not a promise, after all.

His servant appears in the doorway and he slips the paper between the pages of a ledger, out of sight. He will seal it and send it later. His fingers are prickling; is it fear or something else? He doesn't know, but his heart is knocking urgently at his chest.

“Lord Mountjoy is here, Mr. Secretary,” says his man.

“Send him in.” His voice sounds odd, high-pitched—guilty.

“I am most perturbed to hear about your father,” says Blount as he enters.

Cecil replaces the lid on the inkpot, stands, and moves towards him, noticing how tidily the man is put together, how discreetly dressed, his hair a neat black halo beneath a fashionably high-crowned hat, his mustache trim, everything in its place; just a single pearl in his ear nods to a restrained flamboyance. “Lord Burghley is an old man. But one can never be prepared.”

Cecil doesn't want to think of his father's failing health now; fears it will make him drop his guard. A page takes Blount's cape and hat.

“Let's sit.” Cecil, careful not to glance at the ledger and invite suspicion, waves an arm towards the window seat, which is flooded with August sun, making a grid of shadows over the cushions. He forces himself to focus on the matter in hand, wants Blount to feel at his ease, as if this is a gesture of friendship, rather than business alone. Blount sits with a smile, giving nothing away of the curiosity he must be feeling at being invited to visit Cecil, who is, after all, if not quite an enemy, then an inhabitant of the other camp.

“Is he at Theobalds?” asks Blount, declining the page's offer of wine.

“No, he is here. We have positioned his bed so he has a view of the gardens, which are splendid at this time of year.”

“I am told they are marvelous. I hope one day to have the chance to see them.” Blount folds his hands together in his lap, and Cecil notices that his nails are perfectly clipped and clean, like his own, which pleases him, makes him feel optimistic. There is nothing of the decadent dishevelment of his friend Essex on this man. “I hope one day to cultivate a fine garden myself.”

Cecil is surprised by Blount's continued small talk, his seeming lack of desire to move on to the reason he is here. “I was lucky enough to see a row of sunflowers recently—a most unusual sight.” Cecil knows that Essex has acquired some of those rare blooms for his garden and wonders if Blount is subtly advertising his allegiance by mentioning them. “Quite monstrously large and vividly colored.” He makes a circle in the air, describing the shape, and Cecil can't help thinking of those clean fingers caressing the body of Lady Rich. “I couldn't decide if I liked them.”

“I myself am not particularly fond of the things. Find them rather vulgar.” Cecil hopes he will not be drawn into a discussion about the aesthetic virtues, or otherwise, of the sunflower, for it may become apparent that he has never actually seen one, only a drawing. “I will take you on a tour of our gardens, if it would please you.”

“It would, indeed. I believe you have some very pretty fishponds.” Cecil considers taking him outside now, but hesitates. He cannot be sure they will not be overheard in the gardens, with all the casual weeders they take on at this time of year. It would be impossible to verify each one of the army employed to keep the place as it should be.

The two men lock eyes, Cecil noting the attractive dark velvety brown of Blount's, quite able to see what it is about this man the Queen likes so much. Aside from the air of efficiency, those eyes are warm, trustworthy—intelligent but without apparent guile. He tries to soften his own expression in return, wondering if the years of scheming are carved into his face. “You are the kind of man I should like to see on the council.” He doesn't elaborate, waits for Blount's response. But Blount says nothing, simply nods and waits for Cecil to continue, seeming not in the least uncomfortable with the silence that ensues. Cecil is thinking increasingly that this is a man he would like to have on his side. He imagines it—dividing the Essex faction by getting his claws into Lady Rich's lover. The thought excites him.

It is Cecil who eventually breaks the silence. “I could make such a suggestion to Her Majesty.”

“I was under the impression that I was being considered for Ireland,” says Blount, smoothing his mustache with a finger, first one side, then the other. “I wouldn't be much use to the council over there.” He smiles, widely and generously, as if he has just paid a compliment.

Cecil cannot tell if he welcomes the Irish position or not. “Lord Deputy is a position of great honor but Ireland is a very distant place.”

“A great honor, yes,” says Blount. “Very distant . . . and dangerous . . .” He hesitates before continuing. “I am not entirely sure I have the required martial experience for such a task.”

At last, thinks Cecil, he is revealing something of himself. “You were most effective in keeping the Spanish threat at bay on the coast last autumn.”

Blount offers up that congenial smile again. “I was simply doing my duty.”

“And you have a reputation as an excellent scholar.”

“I have a modest interest in bookish pursuits; this is true.” He is choosing his words so very carefully.

“I will advise the Queen of your merits.”

“If you so wish it.” Cecil is finding him frustratingly abstruse. He had hoped at least that Blount would reveal some enthusiasm for the idea of getting his backside onto a council pew. But he is clearly too subtle for that. “What I would be most keen to do is . . .” He pauses.

“Is what?” urges Cecil, losing his patience slightly, awaiting to hear exactly what it is Blount wants.

“To see your gardens.”

It is all Cecil can do to prevent himself from smashing a fist on to the windowsill. “Of course.” His smile must seem forced—this man will take some wooing but he is sure it will be worth the effort.

They rise and Cecil is calculating how to configure their exit so as to allow him time to cache the ledger, with its hidden letter, safely away from any prying eyes until it can be sealed—though his servants know he'd have their hands cut off if they were caught rifling through his private papers.

As they are at the door a messenger arrives. “Not now,” Cecil barks, allowing his impatience free rein, now there is someone other than Blount to direct it at. “Can't you see I am busy?”

“I believe you have need to hear this news urgently . . .” The man is talking nervously into his ruff.

“Would you be kind enough to excuse me, my lord?” Cecil says to Blount, who tactfully moves into the outer chamber. Cecil closes the door and turns to the messenger, waiting for him to say something.

“There has been a most terrible defeat in Ulster.”

“Go on.” Cecil is trying to untie the muddled threads of knowledge he has of the Irish conflict.

“A massacre of Englishmen.” The man's face seems ghoulish.

“How many?”

“Something nearing two thousand.”

“Good Lord!”

“Our men were attempting to liberate the besieged garrison fort of Blackwater.”

Cecil is trying to picture a map of the region. “That is on the boundary of Tyrone's territory, is it not?”

“It is. Tyrone joined forces with another of the rebel leaders, so they outnumbered us greatly. It was an ambush.”

“Two thousand dead—that is hardly an ordinary ambush.” Cecil feels a little out of his depth. He is unused to the language of war.

“The Irish methods are different.”

Cecil nods, “Yes, different,” though he is unsure exactly what the man means.

“Their tactics are reliant on surprise.”

Surprise sounds like such an inappropriate word, more suited to a birthday gift than a massacre. Cecil is chilled to the bone at the thought that one day it might be his own precious son facing that Irish army with their “different methods.” He puts a hand to the wall to steady himself. “What intelligence has our man out there garnered?”

“Tyrone's broad plan, once the English are driven out, is to recognize Spain as their ruler.”

“What evidence have you of such a plot?” Cecil is trying to collect himself. This is exactly as Essex predicted. It has been whispered about for so long he thought it wouldn't happen; he chose to ignore it. He suddenly feels at a loss, as he used to, and wonders if Blount already knew of this. Perhaps they are all laughing at him for his ignorance.

“A letter from Spain was intercepted.”

“Get me that letter. I want it in my own hands.”

“I do not think that is possible; it was intercepted and read but not copied. There was not the time, I am told.”

“Did any other eyes see it?”

“That I cannot answer.”

When the messenger has gone, Cecil stands alone a moment, his thoughts turning over, wondering if the man is trustworthy. He might also be working for Essex and feeding him titbits too, when the time suits. He, Cecil, might be on strings like a puppet and not even know it. He wishes he could consult his father. His father would calm him down, make him see sense. But he is barely conscious, will not last the month. That thought sends a gust of panic through him, real fear, as if it will blow his body inside out like a discarded doublet. Pull yourself together, man, he says silently, before taking the ledger from his desk and sliding it into a drawer out of sight.

As Cecil enters the outer chamber Blount looks up. He has a book in his lap, which he closes, placing a thumb between the pages so as not to lose his place. Cecil scrutinizes the bookcase to see which is missing. It seems to be Plato—benign enough.

Cecil expects Blount to ask what the urgent news is, but he taps the book in his hand, saying, “Good actions inspire in their turn more good actions. Christian doctrine can be found in the ancients, wouldn't you say?”

“I . . . I . . .” Cecil does not know what he thinks about this for his mind is abuzz with other matters. “There has been a massacre of our men in Ireland. Two thousand dead.” He watches the other man for signs that he knows this already.

“Oh, my goodness,” Blount says, with a look of what appears to be genuine shock. “I pity the mothers.”

“I'm afraid our garden visit will have to wait. I must get myself to Whitehall.”

“Indeed,” replies Blount, rising, replacing the book, lining it up with its fellows. “Send word if I can be of any assistance.”

As he waits for his litter to be prepared, Cecil wonders what exactly Blount had meant by that, whether it was a gesture that implied a potential alliance, or simply a genuine offer of help. The man is utterly indecipherable. Time will tell, but for the moment a new idea is beginning to form that might put this situation to best use. He will impress upon the Queen that the only man capable of handling a situation such as has arisen in Ireland is the Earl of Essex himself.

How should he form his suggestion?
There is no greater commander in England
, he imagines saying.
The esteemed earl is the sole man with the skill to overcome the rebels effectively
.

No, he must allow her to believe it is her own idea:
It would take a great leader of men to quell such angry forces, Your Majesty. It is such a very important role and one that will cover its incumbent in glory—it needs a person of great courage
.

Who is such a man?
she will ask.

But she will already have half the answer forming in her mind, as he shakes his head saying,
We must consider carefully; such men are rare
.

He might list some unsuitable possibilities, all his own allies, as if he is making an attempt to elevate one of his own, which she will dismiss with something like,
Pygmy, you have no understanding of martial matters
.

It will take time, months maybe, but Cecil is nothing if not patient these days. And when it comes it will be like a flare of flame in the Queen's head:
Our man is Essex. He is the only one
.

I am sure Your Majesty is right, but I was of the understanding he
—he will offer her a look that suggests his nose is a little out of joint—
that the Earl was in disgrace
.

Now, now, I will not have you sulk, Pygmy, over Essex being preferred for such high office
, she will say.
You will accept my decision on the matter, whether you agree or not
.

He is helped into his litter, thinking how fortunate it is that the Earl remains at Wanstead and not at court to fight his corner.

As Penelope watches her daughters kneel before the Queen, she sees Elizabeth as they must see her: an intimidatingly stern old woman, her face smeared with a thick, chalky-white substance that has rubbed away in places to reveal the sallow skin beneath. Her mouth is stretched into a thin, tight smile that does not reveal her teeth, which Penelope know to be quite rotten and a source of consternation to her. Her wig is the color of marmalade, curled and festooned with jewels; her dress is heavily embroidered, swathed with strings of fat pearls and cut girlishly low, exposing an expanse of breast also thickly spread with white, which has gathered in the pits and wrinkles, so, instead of disguising, rather accentuates them. She wears the heart-shaped ruby that was Lettice's gift. Penelope tries not to look at it.