Watch the Lady (42 page)

“He is on his way here with a group of men, Southampton amongst them. They may have arrived already, for they were hot on my heels.”

“Nonsense! The earl is in Ireland.” His elation is replaced with impatience.

“I came upon his party on the road and made haste to inform you before he arrived.”

“You must be mistaken. Even the earl hasn't the audacity to leave his post without Her Majesty's permission.” He is wondering how it is possible that such an event is unfolding without his knowledge, wondering how it is that he pays so many to inform him and yet he is still in the dark.

“I hear them,” says Grey, moving towards the window. “They are in the yard below already.”

Cecil steps the few paces to the window. He can see a number of grooms scurrying about with saddles and tack in their arms and some horses drinking at the trough, striated with sweat; it is clear that a party has arrived recently but there is no sign of the earl. Cecil is about to turn and give Grey a piece of his mind for wasting his time, when he sees the unmistakable head of trailing auburn hair. It is Southampton disappearing through the stable arch.

“You are certain you saw Essex himself and not just his men?”

“I did most certainly, sir, with my own eyes.”

He is thinking fast now, his conscience pushed to the side. If Essex has abandoned his post, it is treason. A memory flashes through his mind, of his father counseling patience:
The earl might yet be the author of his own downfall
, he had said more than once. But a blanket of dread drops over him with the realization that Essex might have been driven to threaten the Queen's person. He is remembering the incident in the council chamber, when he was on the brink of drawing his sword against her.

Cecil suppresses the notion that it is
he
who has driven the earl to this,
he
who is to blame, and stands a moment, his hands on the sill. The vast army in Ireland is in Essex's pocket to a man—he remembers the atmosphere as the earl had left London, as if he were some kind of god. He looks out at the hills in the distance, half expecting to see the dust of an approaching army churning up a murky cloud and a line of mounted men on the horizon. He is not ready for this.

He turns, barking at his page for his gown, which he fastens hastily over his rumpled clothing. The Queen will be in her bedchamber with her ladies; he must warn her. “What time is it?”

“The sun is barely risen,” says Grey.

“Warn the guards. Tell them that the Earl of Essex has abandoned his duty to the Queen and
must
be apprehended at all cost.”

Cecil's thoughts are whirring as he makes his way through the palace to the Queen's rooms, remembering that his head is uncovered, smoothing his hair with his palms. He almost trips on the stairs, his hem becoming entangled on his foot, but recovers and runs along the corridor holding his cumbersome gown in his fists, speculating fretfully on whether Essex has finally lost his mind and there truly is an army on its way to lay siege to Nonsuch.

He arrives at the door panting, barely able to find enough breath to tell the guards to let him in.

“The Queen is not alone,” says one of them.

Of course she is not alone, she is never alone, he is thinking but says, “Just admit me!”

“We have orders to admit no one, sir.”

He can hear a faint commotion from behind the door. “Who is in there?”

“The Earl of Essex, sir.”

“Tell her it is I who wishes to see her.”

“Our orders were explicit. “No one, no exceptions.” I am sorry, sir.”

Cecil leans against the wall, defeated.

“Is he armed?” he asks.

“He removed his weapon before entering.” The guard points to a bench by the window, where the earl's sword has been discarded. Relief washes over him but then he begins to consider other ways the earl might do her ill, imagining a sharp poniard hidden in the folds of his shirt, or a phial of poison. He looks out once more across the countryside for evidence of an approaching army. But there is no sign.

He looks back to the guards, thinking to insist upon being granted entry, but they refuse to meet his eye, standing stiff, jaws tight, and he thinks better of it; the Queen will be surrounded by her ladies anyway.

Eventually, Essex appears in the doorway. His clothes are filthy from the road and a film of dust sits on him, collecting into dark lines around his eyes—he must have rushed directly to the Queen without stopping even to sluice his face with water. He is smiling and says, “Good morning, Cecil,” as if it is any ordinary day. “You look unusually disheveled.”

“Uh . . . uh,” Cecil has lost his tongue and stands stupidly, staring at the earl as if he is an apparition and attempting to straighten his clothing, riled that he, England's most important politician, is made to feel insignificant by this wayward earl.

“You are surprised to see me? Surely your spies have told you of my whereabouts. No? You're losing control.” He laughs, picks up his sword, slinging the belt over his shoulder and strides away, whistling. Just as he reaches the end of the corridor he turns, saying with a smirk, “You won't be admitted. She's not dressed yet,” as if laying claim to the Queen's body.

Cecil feels the hatred well once more as he rushes back to his rooms, to dress himself properly and give orders for scouts to be sent out to assess whether the earl has support in the vicinity.

Once done, he sits as his page polishes his shoes to a sheen, awaiting the Queen's summons. By the time he is called he is spick and span in black velvet. He asks his boy to brush his shoulders one more time before making his way back to her rooms, glad to find the guard has been changed. The pair who had witnessed his agitated dithering and his demeaning exchange with Essex are nowhere to be seen.

The Queen is with three of her women, who are putting the finishing touches to her outfit: one pinning a large jewel onto her dress, another helping her into her overgown, and the third slinging about her neck a string of plump pearls, that hangs down lower than her belly.

“I am glad to see you,” she says with a taut smile, sending her women to the far reaches of the chamber with a brisk wave of the hand. “Come closer.” He approaches and sits on the stool beside her. “I suppose word has reached you that Essex has . . .” she pauses, clearing her throat, “returned.”

Cecil nods. “I have been made aware of the situation, madam, and took the liberty of ensuring that he came only with—”

“Without an army,” she interrupts. “Yes. He told me himself that he was only accompanied by a trusted coterie. ‘Enough to protect his person' was, I think, how he put it. But I am glad you had the wherewithal to see to it that we are not about to be laid to siege. We wouldn't last long in this place, would we?” She makes a little snort of laughter. It is true Nonsuch was built for pleasure, not to resist an army. She seems astonishingly calm and Cecil can feel his old admiration burgeoning.

“What was his business?”

The Queen leans her elbow on the arm of her chair and rests her chin on the heel of her hand. “He made a truce with Tyrone.” Her eyes darken, revealing her fury. “My
enemy
, Tyrone.”

“The single thing you commanded him not to do.”

She nods slowly. “I am betrayed, Pygmy. It looks like surrender.” He is strangely glad to hear the old pet name. It makes him feel closer to her. “They will all think that the English have capitulated.” By “they” Cecil supposes she means the whole of Europe. “I've called the council,” she nods her head in the direction of the door to the inner chamber. “But wanted to give you the full picture before we go in.”

“If I may be so bold, I would suggest that the earl be put under lock and key. You cannot be seen to be—”

“Yes, yes, my indulgence has been stretched to the limit. We will make a list of charges.” She sighs, closing her eyes, dispirited. “I shall sign it myself.”

“I am most sorry for this, madam,” says Cecil. The swelling of his conscience is dampening the thrill of victory. “It is doubly distressing when it is those you love who betray you.”

“I loved him as if he were my own son.” Cecil thinks he can see her resolve harden as she adds, “But he is not my son. He is the son of my enemy.”

The room is shuttered and silent, save for the soft bustle of the midwife folding linens in the corner and the trembling susurration of Frances's breath. Penelope had removed the clock as Frances said its tick made her anxious. Frances lies on the bed in the gloom, curled on her side, holding a pillow as if it is a lover. “God save me,” she murmurs, reaching for Penelope's hand. “I fear this infant will kill me.”

“You must not allow such thoughts. This baby will be born, as have all your others.” Penelope can't bear to look at her big sad eyes. She remembers the dread she herself felt in the days before her babies were birthed, each time wondering if God would take her. “I will sing to soothe you.” Penelope hesitates a minute, her head suddenly infested with an inappropriate ballad about a woman of loose morals that she heard at the Curtain Theatre the other day. So she picks up her lute and strums without singing. The midwife begins to hum along. They have already been waiting a full day and a half since the first labor pains came.

“Promise you will not leave me,” says Frances, grabbing Penelope's wrist. Her face is screwed tightly as if she is trying hard to prevent herself from crying.

“As long as I am needed I shall remain.” Penelope does not relish the idea of a birth—the blood and the screaming and the hours and hours of fretful waiting and always the possibility of death, brightly denied, yet looming. “I will be aunt to this little one. Of course I wish to welcome him into the world.” They had hung Frances's wedding ring on a length of her hair and dangled it like a pendulum over her belly, as they always do for amusement in the longs days waiting for a birth. The ring had swung cleanly back and forth, indicating a boy, and they had congratulated her, though they all know it is just as likely to be a girl.

Lizzie Vernon appears in the doorway, beckoning Penelope. She slips out into the corridor. There is alarm in Lizzie's expression and she is squeezing her hands together tightly so her knuckles are white. “What is it?” Penelope is going through the possible sources of her cousin's vexation: a case of plague in the household, someone they know committed to the Tower, a death in Ireland. She swallows.

“Your brother is under arrest.”

“What do you mean? Has he been taken prisoner?” She tries not to think of the stories she has heard of the brutal way the Irish treat their captives, consoling herself with the thought that Essex would be political leverage for them; it would not be in their interests to harm such a jewel.

“No, I fear it is worse.”

“Worse, what could be worse if he is not dead? What is it you are not saying, Lizzie?”

“He is at Nonsuch.”

“I don't understand. Where did you dig up this fantasy?”

“I had word from Southampton. They are together. Essex made a truce with Tyrone, and they rode hard from Ireland”—Lizzie is speaking fast, barely drawing breath—“so he could explain himself to the Queen, before his enemies at court got wind of it and poisoned her mind to him.”

The information settles into her like a large object sinking in a body of water. “And the Queen—”

“She let him explain himself initially and he seemed to think he was understood. But then she called a council meeting and since has ordered him arrested. Now she”—Lizzie pulls a letter from her sleeve and reads from it—“sees it as a betrayal. Says he has surrendered to the Irish against her specific command. He is being held in rooms at Nonsuch.” She pauses, still scanning the paper. “They are calling it treason.”

Penelope sinks onto the bench beside the door, sensing cold fingers of panic reaching for her.

“He says you must go to him. Southampton will wait for you at the sign of the keys in Ewell. He will make sure you get to your brother unseen.”

Penelope rifles in the drawer of a nearby desk, finding paper, quills, and ink, hurriedly scrawling a note to Alfred the groom at Essex House, instructing him to bring horses in haste. She seals the paper and calls to one of the pages to deliver it.

“I'm sure I can find a way out of this.” Her voice is brisk, revealing nothing of her chilling sense of foreboding. She fears that her brother has gone too far this time, fears that he has used up the last shreds of the Queen's goodwill and that all the Devereuxs' painstakingly laid plans are about to go up in flames. What was it the Queen said of her lenience? That it was not infinite. It is a sickening thought. “Would you get word to Dorothy?” she says. “Ask her to inform Mother, and can you stay with Frances? She's in a terrible state and I promised I wouldn't leave but . . .”

“Of course, anything you want.”

“Don't tell her what the real reason for my absence is. We mustn't give her another source of apprehension. Think of a white lie.”

•  •  •

When Alfred arrives, he has a couple of Essex House guards with him carrying torches. He asks no questions, though he must wonder what this night dash to Nonsuch, with Penelope improperly dressed, wearing just a heavy cloak over her petticoats, is all about. As they set off into the night, Penelope tries not to think about the thieves and brigands they might encounter traveling in the dark. She girds herself with a swig from the flask that Alfred offers and the fact that she has three strapping men to protect her, though on second glance one of the guards looks to be barely out of boyhood.

“How long should it take?” she asks.

“It's under twenty miles. If we make haste once we're on to open land, we should be there well before dawn.”