Elizabeth I (108 page)

Two of Raleigh's guards in their scarlet uniforms, ornamented front and back with the golden Tudor roses, fell in behind us. I was glad of it and did not try to elude them. They clutched their velvet-handled, gilded halberds tightly, and the heavy sound of their boots was reassuring. They were exceptionally tall and strong; in fact, they were selected for their physiques. I only hoped that their prowess equaled their stature. The privy garden was very large, with green and white painted rails bordering gravel walkways between squares of ornamental plantings. My father had set it out, and the wooden columns with gilded heraldic beasts in every square had not changed. The middle of the garden featured a large fountain and the elaborate sundial from Catherine de' Medici that indicated the time in thirty different ways. I looked up; the sun was not quite at its zenith—which would still be low in the sky these February days—but it was approaching it.

“I am guessing it is eleven o'clock,” I said, turning to Catherine and the guards.

“Not quite, Your Majesty,” said one of the guards.

“I am guessing it is past eleven,” said Catherine.

“Now we will have our answer,” I said, peeking at the device.

“You are correct,” I told Catherine. “It is a little past eleven.”

Oh, what had happened to my embassy? They should have returned by now, Essex in tow. Something had gone wrong, dreadfully wrong.

“We can wait no longer,” I said. “I must send to know what has become of Lord Egerton and the others.” The garden, the heraldic beasts, the fountain, all were invisible to me. All I could see was Essex House.

Back in the state apartments—well guarded with a double row of men—I sent for Cecil. He was nearby in his own court quarters and appeared almost instantly.

“Something has gone awry,” I said. “They should have returned by now. We must send to know what has happened.”

Still all was quiet. No mobs were descending on us.

“I have already done so, Your Majesty,” said Cecil. “Forgive me if I was premature.”

“No, it saves time.” Time, time—it seemed to be barely moving. Was it my enemy or my friend?

C
ecil's men returned very quickly, shaken and out of breath. They brought the attendants of the original party with them. We received them all in the privy chamber. Behind me was the huge mural of my father and his Tudor dynasty.

“Tell me what you know, and tell all of it. Spare me nothing,” I ordered them.

They looked at one another, as if trying to select a spokesman. “For God's sake, men, one of you speak!” I cried.

A small, balding man stepped forward, clutching his hat. “I was with Lord Egerton,” he said. “When they reached Essex House, the deputation was surrounded by a sea of jeering men in the courtyard. I could not hear anything they said, but finally Essex himself came out. Over the tumult I could just hear Essex yelling that traitors planned to murder him in his bed and he would now defend himself. Then Lord Egerton put on his hat and read out a statement, and held up the Great Seal.”

“He had to invoke his office, then,” I said. “The document called for them to submit to my authority, lay down their arms, and state their intentions, on pain of treason. What happened next?”

The man looked tormented. “They—they shouted to kill Lord Egerton and to dash the Great Seal upon the ground.”

I stared. For a moment I was unable to speak. “And then?”

“Essex escorted them into the house. All of them! Then he locked them up, and set a guard on them!”

“What? He is holding the Crown representatives hostage?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He hung his head.

“Look at me. Stand up like a man. It was not you who did it. Where are they now?”

“They set out toward the City, followed by all their rabble from the courtyard. The men shouted that Sheriff Smythe of London was on their side and had a thousand men ready to rally. I think they mean to call out the citizens of London, try to recruit them to their cause.”

“But what is their cause?” No, that was a foolish question. More accurate was, What is their pretended cause?

“I heard Essex yelling, ‘For the Queen! For the Queen! The crown of England is sold to Spain! A plot is laid for my life!'”

Cecil smothered a laugh. “He has gone over the edge, then. The only one plotting is he himself.”

“And as he entered the City through Ludgate he cried, ‘England is sold to Spain! The Spanish Infanta is to rule here!'”

I turned to Cecil. “What of the men you assigned to follow him?”

Cecil coolly flicked his finger. “Roger—what did you find?”

A young man, thin and dark eyed, stepped forward. “I did follow them,” he said. “They ran up to St. Paul's, evidently hoping to catch the big crowds there, but it was too late. The sermon was over and people had scattered. Then they rode farther into the City, toward Fenchurch Street, where Sheriff Smythe lives. But the sheriff had exited out his back door. So they have sat down to a meal at his expense!”

“I do not follow,” I said.

“When they found him not at home, they invaded his quarters and helped themselves to his wares—beer, cheese, and beef. They are still there, guzzling.”

“They are eating, when they are trying to raise a city to arms?” I asked. I wanted to make sure I understood.

“Yes, that seems to be the case,” admitted the man.

“So we have time to secure the City?” I asked. “What of the sheriff?”

“He seems to have vanished,” said the man.

“And his thousand men?”

“A fantasy,” said the man.

“I have dispatched the Earl of Cumberland, with a small detachment of troops, and have ordered a chain to be drawn across Ludgate so they cannot escape by the route they came. We have also drawn up a barricade of coaches to block the Strand near Charing Cross and locked all seven gates of the City,” said Cecil.

I turned to him. “Why, Robert Cecil, you have the mind of a soldier!” I said. “Good work.”

“With your permission, I will send my elder brother, the Lord Burghley, out in the City to proclaim Essex a traitor and promise a pardon for anyone who deserts him now,” said Cecil.

“You have it,” I assured him.

I sat down to my midday dinner. I tried to eat as heartily as ever, but it was a ruse. I meant for people afterward to say, “She did not alter anything, not even her demeanor.” Sometimes the outward aspect must be our all.

Once again, the waiting. News only slowly trickled back in.

Lord Burghley had read his proclamation.... The men sitting in the sheriff's house had sneered that a herald would proclaim anything he was paid to.... Some of Essex's titled followers had deserted, including the Earl of Bedford and Lord Cromwell. Essex had called for a clean shirt, as his present one was sweat soaked. . . . Christopher Blount had tried to secure more weapons....

Essex rushed out into the street, his napkin still around his neck, and yelled that he was fighting against atheists and Spain (a strange combination) for the good of England. The sheriff approached Essex and told him that he, the lord mayor, and the Privy Council requested that he surrender and go to Mansion House. Essex ignored him, turned away, and made for Ludgate again, evidently seeking to return to Essex House. But there he ran into the chain barring his way, and the Earl of Cumberland with his pikemen. Essex tried various ruses to get through, including a lie about a free pass from the lord mayor and the sheriff. But bless him, the captain was an unimaginative fellow and kept repeating that his orders were to bar the way.

Then Essex's followers lost patience; one of them fired his pistol, yelling, “Shoot! Shoot!” and rushed the pikemen. But they were stalled, and the pikemen returned fire. A shot passed through Essex's hat; his page was shot dead. Christopher Blount attacked the pikemen with his sword; he was gored in the cheek then clubbed on the head and fell, unconscious, on the street. Essex fled, leaving his stepfather to the enemy. From there they rushed back into the City, then managed to make their way back into boats toward Essex House, where their hostages awaited. Lord Monteagle fell into the water, nearly drowned, and was captured.

It was dusk. Undoubtedly the sundial in the garden illustrated the exact passage of hours. But all I had to do was look out the window and see the gathering gloom to know what hour it was.

“Where are they?” I cried. It was not over.

“No one knows,” Cecil said. “But it is assumed they have reached Essex House by now.”

“By God!” I cried. “I am minded to go out into the streets this moment and see which of us rules! Let us have it out!”

Cecil looked horrified. “Your Majesty!” he cried.

“Are you afraid they will choose him? If so, let it be! Let us duel here and now, a clean choice!” I meant it.

“You cannot trust the rabble,” he said.

“If I cannot trust the rabble, I am no longer Queen,” I said. “Bring me my cloak. Call my guard!” I would face off with him, on the street outside.

“That is foolish,” said Cecil. “Not because they would choose him over you—they would not—but because in the confusion of battle, which may yet come, God forbid you might be injured.”

“I shrink not!”

“But you cannot risk it—not if you are to be a mother to your people. You cannot leave them unprotected.”

He was right, of course. I would have faced Essex down, on any field he chose, but I must think of my people. They would be left with a fine legend of their fighting Queen, but abandoned into Essex's hands. “For now, I will wait,” was all I allowed him.

Darkness would soon follow. There would be more to come. “Dear Catherine, now it is your husband who must save the day,” I told her. I had ordered the admiral to coordinate the Crown's forces. They would surround Essex House on both the river side and the Strand side. I had also ordered that cannon be transported from the Tower and stand ready to demolish the house if resistance continued.

“He has ever served you and will acquit himself well again,” she assured me. “In all the crises of your reign, he has been your stalwart.”

“Would there had been no crises,” I said. “But if they must come, what a blessing to have a man like Charles to deflect them.” Essex had gone mad. “A pity to lose one's life due to delusion,” I murmured.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Catherine.

“I grieve for Essex,” I said.

“Then you are as mad as he!” she cried.

“Why? The loss of a once-fine young mind is a tragedy.” I stopped.

“I beg you, do not grieve publicly for him.”

“I have not, and I will not,” I said stoutly. But oh! I was grieved beneath my anger and arousal.

The City had not risen. The people had not flocked to Essex's cause. His recent popularity had counted for nothing in the end, against their longtime loyalty to me. He had not stolen my people's hearts from me. I was deeply thankful and breathed a prayer.

Full darkness had fallen. The attendants came in to ready the bedchamber for sleep, but I ordered them away. “I shall not sleep until these foul rebels are under lock and key in the Tower. Away with you!”

A message from Cecil: The freed hostages were waiting in the presence chamber. “Come,” I told Catherine, and we hurried there. Egerton, Knollys, Lord Chief Justice Popham, and the Earl of Worcester stood, surrounded by jabbering, questioning councillors. They fell silent as I entered.

“My loyal men,” I said. “Did you have a hard day of it?”

Egerton stepped forward and knelt. “Unexpected, but not hard. Essex took us inside to protect us from the mob—there is no other word—in his courtyard. But they followed us up the stairs, calling for violence. He ushered us into the library, then turned the key on us, after promising to return swiftly.”