Elizabeth I (21 page)

I would be going south this time, on a lengthy Progress. Eagerly I mapped out my route: leaving London, I would journey down through Sussex and pay a visit to the coastal cities of Portsmouth and Southampton before swinging back toward London. The two Cecils and I hunched over maps, dispatched letters to the prospective hosts en route, and discussed political benefits from the journey.

“I have a mind to wait in Southampton for a secret visit from Henri IV,” I said. It would make perfect sense for him to cross over to Southampton and for us to put the final touches on our treaty. Besides, I was curious to see him, my mirror image and theological companion: a male Protestant ruler of a contentious country.

“As the common folk say, Ma'am, I would not hold my breath,” said Burghley, wheezing himself. “Henri IV is a wily creature.”

“His Protestantism may not be as firm as Your Majesty's,” said Robert—
Sir
Robert Cecil. I had knighted him earlier this summer in recognition of his outstanding statecraft and loyalty. I had also appointed him, at the age of twenty-eight, to the Privy Council. His father was proud. But Robert had earned it, not inherited it. Thus began, this summer, what later became known as the war of the two Roberts: Cecil staying at home practicing politics, Essex abroad waving a sword.

“I don't care how firm it is, as long as he wears the label,” I said. “Overdevoutness in a ruler is dangerous—it leads to the like of Philip II.”

Oh! How glorious it was to mount up and ride away, out of the city and into the countryside. August is a heavy, rich month, the time when harvests are coming in and we can see the actual results of our labor. If it lacks the bustle and promise of spring, it can claim the fullness of completion.

Behind me stretched the rumbling wagonloads of things we would need on our journey. I carried all my own furniture—my bed and all its hangings, my wardrobe and writing desk, chairs, and cabinets—as well as my personal effects. Several more carts of trunks held my clothes. Most of the court was traveling with me, except for those lords who needed to attend to their estates. I was well aware that everyone did not regard the Progress as the holiday that I did; in fact, many courtiers considered it a hardship to traipse around the countryside and stay in accommodations that might not be up to the standards of comfort they craved.

I had selected Cowdray as our destination, the home of Sir Anthony Browne. He was old—well, perhaps not so old; he was only six years older than I. He was a Catholic, and open about it. Yet at Tilbury, when Philip was counting on my Catholic subjects to betray me and join his invasion, he had brought two hundred horsemen to me, declaring his intention “to live and die in defense of the Queen and my country.” When the crisis came, he had sided with me rather than the pope. Now I would visit him in his home and show, personally, my appreciation of his loyalty.

On and on we trudged, churning up columns of dust. The wagon train stretched as far as I could see when I turned back to look. The novelty of it drew people out to stand by the paths and watch. I was weary and my face was stinging from the dust, but I smiled and waved, sitting erect in the saddle. This might be their only glimpse of me in their lifetimes. This is how they would remember their Queen.

We rounded a bend in the road, dipping down as we approached a stream spanned by an old stone bridge. As I rode across it, I heard a commotion upstream and then saw a flock of geese swimming toward the bridge. A group of boys chased them, waving sticks and yelling. One jumped into the water and swam after the birds, but they swiftly outdistanced him.

From the bridge I called out, laughing, “You'll never outswim a goose!”

The boys stopped and stared. It was clear I was no ordinary rider. But still they could not comprehend exactly who this woman was, surrounded by mounted men and followed by a huge retinue.

“They escaped! We'll be whipped if we can't catch them,” one said.

“Escaped from your farm?” asked Cecil, pulling up beside me.

“No, from the goose fair!” said his companion. “Hundreds of geese for sale or swap, and ours got away!”

“Let them go,” I said. “We will pay you for them.” Already the geese were way past the bridge.

“But our parents will punish us for not minding them properly,” said the first boy, standing waist deep.

“Oh, not after I explain to them. Can you take us to the goose fair? And let us meet your parents?”

The second and third boys on the river path now had that look on their faces that showed they suddenly realized who I was. They started nudging each other, whispering. Finally one stuttered, “Are you—are you our Queen?”

“None other,” I assured them.

“But—here at Branston's Crossing? Here, with us?”

“Indeed I am. I am on a Progress to Cowdray, with all my friends. And after you bring me to the fair, I shall dismount and you can see for yourselves. I am eager to meet
your
friends.”

Archbishop Whitgift was shaking his dark head, ominously. He glanced up at the sun, which was halfway down the sky.

“It's the Queen! The Queen!” the boys chorused.

“Now, quiet,” I warned them. “Shall we not surprise your parents, and the fairgoers?”

They scampered away, motioning us, and we left the main road, telling the convoy of wagons to wait, and followed the dusty path along the riverbanks. We had not gone far when we heard the clamor of the crowd, and then we came upon the fair.

The noise had come not from people but from a multitude of geese, furiously honking. Spread out across both gentle, sloping banks of the river were flocks of them, their owners bargaining with eager buyers. Cages, feed, tents, and other paraphernalia related to goose keeping marked off each owner's proprietary area.

The boys ran ahead of us, clearing the way. But unable to keep a secret, they cried out, “The Queen! The Queen!”

Everyone but the geese froze. A hundred heads turned toward me. I held up my hand. “Please, my good people, I assure you, I come only to see firsthand what a goose fair is like. I trust you will show me.”

The boys ran to get their parents, who hurried over to me. They stared, dumbfounded. “You—Your Majesty,” they stammered.

“Be at ease,” I told them. “I am your guest here, and I rely on you to show me what a goose fair is all about.” I dismounted and my groom led my horse away. Then I turned to the parents. “And what are you called?”

“I am Meg,” said the woman. “Meg Harrigan.” She pushed her hair back, straightening her scarf. She was a stocky woman with a stained apron.

“I am Bart,” her husband said. “Your Majesty, I—we—”

I hushed him. “It is
my
privilege to be here.” I laughed, genuinely lightheartedly. “I am never invited to such things, only to dull diplomatic banquets and speeches. You cannot appreciate what you are spared. Now—show me your geese! And pray, do not punish your sons, for they were giving their all in trying to recover the lost ones.”

Stunned, moving like sleepwalkers, Meg and Bart showed me their geese. It was the common response, and I am used to it. It was my task to make them relax, assure them that in my presence they need only be themselves.

“So every year at this time there is a goose fair here?” I asked.

“Yes. It has been going on since Norman times. We bring our best geese and look to acquire others to improve our flocks. We are very proud of our geese here. They provide some of the best feathers in the region, as well as prized meat.”

“And they can honk to warn of invasion,” said Cecil, attempting to be familiar.

But Meg and Bart did not know about the Capitoline geese who had honked and warned the ancient Romans about enemies sneaking into Rome. They looked blank and smiled uncertainly.

“Never mind,” I said. “That was a long time ago. Now”—I drew them away—“tell me of your farm.”

“We—we grow wheat and have an orchard. We ... get by. We do not have much extra, but we fare well enough.”

Suddenly the crowd lost its inhibition about the mysterious visitation, and now people were flocking toward me.

“My dear people!” I cried, holding up both my arms. “I am the guest of the good Meg and Bart here, and honored to be with you today.” I turned to Bart. “What is the main prize here?”

When he looked blank, I said, “Fairs always have games, and games always have prizes, and one is the best of all. What is yours?”

“It is—it is—the hunt for the golden goose egg.”

“Oh! There really is such a creature, laying such eggs?” I teased.

“No. It is just pretend. There's a gold-painted wooden egg hidden, and the child who finds it is rewarded with a new pair of shoes.”

“Do you know where the egg is hidden?” I asked.

He laughed. “Of course. I hid it!”

“If I were to find it—?”

“I would have to direct you there, Your Majesty,” he said solemnly.

“Then do so.”

While everyone watched, spellbound, I followed Bart as he led me past a rock and a thick-trunked tree and then to a little dip in the field. A small rock, easily lifted, revealed the golden egg. I extracted it and held it up.

“I have found it!” I cried.

People dutifully clapped. Of course I had found it. I had been led right to it, by a captive subject. How could he have refused? Now the game was ruined. The Queen would leave and there would be nothing for the people at the fair.

“It is lovely,” I said, rotating it. “Exquisitely painted. So beautiful that I will take it with me and treasure it always.”

Again, wan smiles from the children. The Queen was all very well and good, but what of their game, spoiled?

“What do you think is fair value for this?” I asked. “A beautiful wooden egg, carved by my treasured subjects. To me it is beyond price.”

They looked back at me, silent, unsure of what to say.

“I declare it is beyond valuation,” I said. “But still, I should pay for it. What say you to—fifteen gold pieces? To be shared among you?”

Now people shrieked. “Oh, blessed Queen!” they cried.

“And for the loss of your geese,” I said, turning to Meg and Bart, “here is—” I counted out coins that I was sure were way beyond the value of the escaped geese. “And now,” I announced, “I would like to meet as many of you as can come forward. And please, teach me about geese—what makes a good one and what makes a bad one. I can only judge them by how they appear on my table.”

They streamed toward me, and I had an afternoon, unsought, that meant more to me than any formal banquet or ceremony.

The dun, brush-filled fields stretched away on both sides; twilight fell. Then, suddenly, like an apparition, a glint of green. Cowdray Park hove into view, lush lawns studded with chestnuts, a long causeway lined by a double avenue of trees ushering us over the sunken River Rother and into the grounds. From the bridge I could see the great stone facade of the manor, with its noble gatehouse. Over it the family motto, “
Suivez raison
”—“Follow reason”—was mounted.