Elizabeth I (106 page)

“How many men do you—we—have?”

“Over a hundred and twenty nobles, knights, gentlemen. The sheriff of London says he has another thousand for us. Others will join in as we march.” His voice was becoming steadier as he awoke. “We have a plan for taking Whitehall. I'm to be posted near the great court gate and take control of that. Ferdinando Gorges thinks it won't work. He's a coward.”

“What does he think you should do instead?”

He shook his head. “I don't know,” he said.

“But he must have an opinion.”

“There were a lot of opinions, most worthless.”

“What did you settle on?”

“We didn't. There is no plan.” Suddenly he was alert and would betray no more; his judgment and wariness had returned.

“No plan? But how can you proceed, if there is no plan?”

“I don't know. I know nothing. There is no plan.”

As unbelievable as it sounded, this turned out to be true. But at the moment I only thought he had returned to himself, had brought down the portcullis that guarded his thoughts. At least I had found out a few things—too few.

“If you betray us, you will pay the highest price,” he suddenly said.

“Why do you think I would betray you, my own husband?”

“You betrayed husbands one and two, why not husband three?”

Just so, I learned he had turned against me. Had the rebels stolen his wits and loyalties so completely? What did they offer him in return?

The secret meetings at Drury House continued. I made no effort to ask Christopher about them—it was hopeless—and watched Robert closely, but I learned nothing. The February days, dreary and bone-chillingly damp, stretched a pall of gloom over the house. Only Frances with her pregnancy provided a spot of happiness and normalcy, as we talked about what she might name the baby. She was willing to choose something from our family tradition, as if she wanted to please Robert and commend herself to him.

It was the evening of February 6. Nothing special in that date, no anniversary of momentous happenings. I was sitting before a low-burning fire and thinking of adding more logs—strange how one remembers such details—when a visitor was announced.

It was quiet in the house. Regular visitors did not come now; the clandestine ones sneaked in and the rowdy ones milled in the courtyard. I rose, ready to receive him or her. My mind was blank. I expected no one in particular.

Will walked into the small room. He took off his hat and said, “Laetitia.”

The moment he spoke I knew he was here on dangerous business. His voice was higher than normal and his smile seemed artificial.

“Yes, Will,” I said. “What troubles you?” I could see this visit was political, not personal.

“A risky thing has happened. Your husband and a group of men from a tavern dinner came over to Southwark tonight to request that my theater company perform
Richard II
tomorrow afternoon. They offered to pay us well. But what it means—I am leery of it. They want us to enact the abdication scene—the one forbidden to be printed.”

“Who else made this request?”

“Gelli Meyrick, Lord Monteagle, Charles Danvers, and Christopher. Others I did not recognize. My company financial manager, Augustine Phillips, tried to put them off. He said such an old play was unlikely to attract much of an audience. But they then guaranteed payment equal to a full house. What objection could he then give?”

“None,” I admitted.

What was there about him that made me want to confide in him? It was all I could do not to blurt out, “Will, help me! I am lost!” Instead I had to smile and say, “Pray stay a few moments. Let me just add another log to the fire and call for some ale.”

I expected him to clutch his hat and say, “No, I must go. I cannot be seen.” Instead he nodded and said, “I would like that.”

We sat across from each other beside the fire. For the first time I could see him apart from my wants, a man with concerns of his own. “You would risk the Queen's displeasure if you were to do it. She would be alarmed. What do you think is the purpose of it?”

“Your husband stated it baldly. ‘To rouse the populace,'he said. Evidently he and his fellows are hoping to overthrow the Queen, make her abdicate like Richard II. They want to rally supporters by showing this play.”

Oh, God. Robert was in the thick of it. Christopher and Meyrick and Southampton and the others were not the beneficiaries. It was all for Robert. Did he hope to—was he planning to take the throne himself? Who else was a candidate? Would they go to all this trouble and danger for James of Scotland? What could he promise them that would make them want him instead of Elizabeth?

“This is dreadful,” I finally said. Christopher's confession about their plans had confirmed a coup against Elizabeth. All I could do was sit and watch, relegated to the sidelines.

“It is more than dreadful,” said Will. “It is the end of our world. My career will be ruined—I will be seen as the traitorous playwright. Your son is doomed. He cannot win. And Elizabeth is destroyed. She will not recover from this betrayal—I mean, her spirits and her trust. She lives by the love of her people.”

“Don't perform the play!” I cried. “Stop it now.”

“Phillips has already taken the money. In the theater, box office is all.”

“We both stand to lose all,” I said. There was a wonder in stating it so simply.

“All,” he said. “It is a cruel reward for Elizabeth in the sunset of her reign, to be greeted with this. And for me! Would that I had never written that play!”

“You will survive this,” I assured him. “I am not so sure about the house of Devereux.”

He shook his head. “If Robert attempts this folly ... yes, it will doom him, if not his house. There is no support for him. Why cannot he and his supporters see that?”

“They have blinded themselves with bitterness and wishful thinking. Will”—I reached my hand out to him—“I have tried everything to make them see clear. But I am ignored and shunted aside. I am helpless. All I can do is watch. Watch them go down to ruin.”

“Save yourself,” he said. “Distance yourself. That is what I will do.” He stood up. He dropped my hand. “I plan to be in my rooms, writing my new play, when the day comes.”

“Do you know the actual day?”

“No. I think they are past planning. I think they will just set out, willy-nilly, with no forethought. They will be quickly destroyed.”

“We must rescue ourselves,” I said, thinking even as I said it he must think me an unnatural mother. I quickly added, “We are, after all, not the main players. The leads go to others; the stage is commanded by them.”

He smiled. “Laetitia, one would think you were to the theater born.”

“Life is a play,” I said. “Surely you of all people have noted that?”

I saw him make his way toward the door and recalled happier times, when both our moods were so different, “Yes, frighteningly so,” he said, leaving my threshold.

I
t was still. Too still. Around Whitehall, the throngs that usually swept through our public right-of-way had melted away, leaving the buildings stranded in a sea of pavement and dead grass.

“I have never seen it so quiet,” I said to Catherine, standing beside me as we looked out upon the empty grounds. “They say such silence comes just before an earthquake, that the animals sense it, the birds fly away.”

“Or before an eclipse,” she said. “The sky darkens, the air cools, and all is hushed.”

For days the city had been agitated, with reports of fiery little Welshmen sleeping in attics and cellars, fresh horses being stabled in whatever makeshift stalls could be found, the movement of goods along the western roads from Wales and the northern ones from Scotland. Yet, like the faint trembling and wisps of smoke before a volcano erupts, it was impossible to know exactly what it portended.

“An eclipse is always a bad omen,” I said. “And so is anything that mimics one.”

Catherine shook her head. “We have lived through many of them, and we will live through more.”

“Bless you, Cousin. You are my right arm.”

“No, I am your left,” she said. “Here is your right.”

She had seen Robert Cecil enter before I did, followed by Raleigh. I turned to face them. “What is it?” They were clearly vexed.

“There's been a special performance of
Richard II
this afternoon at the Globe!” cried Cecil. “They are just getting out now—a mob of men, grinning and shouting.”

“It was commissioned by Essex's men. They guaranteed a payment to cover it, no matter the size of the audience. It's an old play, and the actors didn't want to stage it,” added Raleigh. “No actor wants to perform something passé.”

“Did they show
the
scene?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. What was the point of staging it otherwise?

“Indeed they did,” said Raleigh. “The Essex men insisted on it; it was part of the agreement.”

I had the best spies in the realm. I appreciated that. But they could not know everything, be everywhere. I had someone who attended on Gelli Meyrick and another who served Frances Walsingham in her chamber. I had been less successful in placing anyone in Essex's private quarters. His movements, and his aims, were shrouded in obscurity.

Twilight was falling; it came early on these February days. The play had finished just in time to allow the audience to disperse before darkness enveloped them. A faint mist lay over the river already, and it would creep up out of its banks and envelop the city.

“It must end,” I said. I suddenly knew this was the hour. The time to strike.

“Are you sure?” asked Cecil. “Perhaps we should wait, let the plot—whatever it is—come to a head.”

“That is always the question,” said Raleigh. “Do we leave the plotters unmolested, in hopes that they will unequivocally incriminate themselves? Or do we cut it off before it can reach dangerous fruition?”

“We have done both, in the past. The rising of the northern lords in 1569—we forced them into action before they were ready. The Scots queen—we had to let that develop far enough that we had enough evidence to proceed,” I said.

“It is always a gamble,” said Cecil.

“I think we must follow the pattern for the northern lords,” I decided. “If unchecked, this fomenting rebellion may overwhelm us. We cannot afford to wait for more evidence.”

I sounded more certain than I felt. There was no doubt that Essex, with his popularity, presented a dilemma like that of the Scots queen. My actions toward him must be decisive, and without ironclad evidence of his hostile intent, my motives would be suspect. God knew I could not afford to offend public opinion at this point.

“What shall I do? Arrest him?” asked Raleigh.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Don't give him a chance to slip away.”

“Send a messenger and command him to appear before the Privy Council tomorrow.” He had turned away the friendly warning from Buckhurst's son, insulting me in the process. For my father, that would have been enough. He would have been in the Tower already. But calling me an old bitch, while it showed gross and shocking disrespect toward my person, was not treasonous. I reasoned carefully, keeping my scepter and my self distinct, trying to see where he had insulted one without injuring the other. To do otherwise would taint the brilliance of my reign by insinuations of the kind his followers put about, to risk losing the people's belief in me.