Elizabeth I (29 page)

In the end he was overridden and I got my subsidy. But I would not forget his obstruction, and the seeds of my mistrust of Essex were planted.

I had now to address Parliament and thank them. I pondered much upon my words. Even though history ultimately judges our deeds, it is fair words that persuade people to allow these deeds and embellish them to make them glorious. I prayed that my words would be stirring.

When I returned to Parliament on its closing day, I was well satisfied with what I would say.

It was April, and Holy Week had begun. The air had softened and it was clear that spring was upon us. The still-unfurled leaves on the branches, seen from the river, were mistily green, and violets gave the grass a purple shadow. The oars dipped into the eddying water and seemed to propel us forward into warmth.

Standing before the Lords, with Commons listening outside the chamber, flanked by Hunsdon, the lord chancellor, on my right and Burghley, the lord treasurer, on my left, I waited while the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal assured them that “if the coffers of Her Majesty's treasure were not empty, or she could have replenished them by her own sacrifice, she would not have asked her subjects nor accepted this, even if they offered it freely.”

I rose and addressed them. “I assure you that you do this so you may flourish; it is not for me. Many wiser princes than myself you have had, including my father, and to whom I am far shallow—but you have had none whose love and care can be greater.”

Looking out at them, their honest faces turned to me, I felt inspired to continue and to warn them against fearmongering. “For my own part, I swear that my heart has never known what fear is. In ambition of glory I never sought to enlarge the territories of my land. If I have used my forces to keep the enemy from you, I have thereby done it for your safety, and to keep dangers at bay.”

They were about to break into cheers, but I had important warnings for them. I silenced them with a look and continued. “I would not have you returning home into the countryside to strike fear into the minds of my people. Even our enemies hold our nature to be resolute and valiant. Only warn the people to be wary and not to be found sleeping. So shall they show their own valor and frustrate the hopes of the enemy.”

The earnest faces before me were resolute. “To conclude,” I said, “I assure you I will not incur any idle expense. Now must I give you all as great thanks as ever prince gave loving subjects, assuring you that my care for you has, and shall, exceed all my other cares of worldly causes.”

I could feel the love in the chamber; it flowed between us, a bond as strong as an arm clasp. I would not fail them; they would not fail me. We were one.

I
t had been a delightful summer day. I had had an invigorating ride out from the stuffy confines of my apartments in Greenwich. After my return, I had enjoyed a picnic of sorts on the high grounds behind the palace. Ale, berries, cheese, and the thickest, sweetest bread—ah, perfection!

Then, awaiting me: the news. It came from France, through both Cecils, father and son, as though they feared to tell me singly.

Henri IV of France had embraced the Catholic faith. In order to ascend the throne, he had abandoned his conscience and bowed his knee to Rome. “Paris is well worth a Mass,” he was reported to have said.

“He ascertained correctly,” said Burghley, his tired voice barely above a whisper. These days he seldom came out; that he did so now spoke volumes. “Paris has steadfastly refused to admit him, and he cannot rule France without Paris.” He looked sad, like an old hound. “That, Your Majesty, is the fact.”

“The fact! The fact?” I burst out. “God's breath! Swithin's breeches! Cannot a person bend or alter facts? Could he not have persuaded Paris?” Even as I spoke, I weighed the likelihood—very poor.

“Paris is resolutely Catholic,” said Robert. “To their folly!”

I thought of all the money I could ill afford poured out to maintain Henri IV as a Protestant claimant. I felt hot fury. I had drained the realm, my poor realm, to prop up this turncoat. Now it was all for nothing.

And I had lost my one major ally. There was no Protestant ruler in Europe now, apart from the Scandinavians. The Netherlands were still in revolt, but nothing resolved. A few German palatines and princes. As for the rest—Spain, Poland, Ireland, Italy, now France—all firmly in the papal grasp.

Oh! Damn the Parisians! Damn the French! Damn Henri! Was the defeat of the Armada all for nothing? Were we to stand alone forever?

“That traitor!” I cried. “After all his assurances to me!” For some reason, the useless death of Essex's brother came home to me. He had died for nothing, nothing, nothing .... I wanted to gouge out Henri's eyes for it, make him pay.

“He did what he felt he must,” said Robert. “His heart was not in it.”

“Damn his heart!” I cried. “I care not for his heart. Let them boil it in holy oil!”

Burghley laughed, a painful exhalation. “Now you sound like your father,” he said.

“If I had the means—if I could—I would lead such an army, to punish that Judas .... He is worse than Philip!”

“Hardly, Your Majesty.” Robert spoke. “He has not declared war on you. His Catholicism will be a matter of convenience only, not one of conscience. You may still count him as an ally.”

“I cannot count a turncoat as an ally,” I said. “I have no respect for such men.”

“Which is better, an ally one does not respect or an outright enemy who is steadfast to his principles?”

“Oh!” I cried. “They should both burn in hell!”

“But in the meantime, which would do you the most good?” Robert pressed.

“They are useless, both of them.”

But in the end, of course, I was to be forced to make a surface peace with Henri IV, after a few chiding letters and finger-waggings. I was powerless to do otherwise. His cynical politic conversion was another milestone on my journey to wisdom and disillusion.

The day of my birth was approaching, as it had sixty years ago. And just as it had been sixty years ago, when my mother had withdrawn into her chambers to await my birth, so I withdrew into the very same chambers at Greenwich. My parents had secretly married in January, my mother crowned Queen in June, and then, from August on, she had been confined to her apartments in Greenwich, as the old custom was. My father, too, had been born at Greenwich, and he wanted to honor it with the birth of his long-awaited son. Everyone was sure I would be that son, or pretended to be sure. Surely some must have had doubts, signs. But they dared not voice them—or perhaps my father did not hear them. When, on that seventh day of September, I was born cloven and not crested, he was stunned. But he put a good face on it, saying, “If it is a daughter this time, sweetheart, sons will follow!” And he kissed my mother.

He named me Elizabeth after his own mother, added “ss” to the proclamations announcing a prince, and sponsored a lavish baptism for me with all the dignitaries of the kingdom.

Beyond the boundaries of his kingdom, no one acknowledged me as legitimate, and the elaborate ceremony my father had arranged to emphasize otherwise had the opposite effect.

Sixty years ago ... These September days were hot—had they been at the time? Was my mother sweltering as she paced from room to room in the locked apartments? Did she pray for a cool day when her labor began? I, too, wished for cooler weather. The stifling heat did little to assuage the occasional attacks I still had. I wandered the rooms, following in my mother's footsteps, trying to imagine what she had felt, as if somehow that would enable me to glimpse her.

I had no memory of her. Try as I would, I could not see her face, could not remember her voice. I had had a ring made that carried her portrait and mine, but looking at that ring was the only way I could ever see her as I went about my day. It was a very poor substitute. Just here she walked. . . . Just here she must have turned, and rested her elbows on the windowsill, and looked out at the wide river below, moving her face to catch the breeze. She eluded me like a shadow.

I had forbidden any celebration of this birthday. I did not wish to remind anyone of my age. Sixty—the very
sound
of it was old, conjuring up a host of other words: “graybeard,” “Nestor,” “elderly,” “sage,” “dotage,” “walking stick,” “gout,” “impotent,” “crone,” “senile.” I knew that was so, because long ago I had thought the same. Now I was supremely sensitive to those words, proof enough that I had arrived there ... or was afraid others would think so.

I was still as erect and robust as ever, and my health was good. Under the wigs my hair had faded to sandy, red streaked with gray. I needed glasses to read, else the letters were just black squiggles to me. I tired more easily and my temper grew brittle earlier in the day. But those were small payments to old Chronos, and I was content enough. The years had fined me little.

No one else in my family had lived so long. Few kings of England had lived so long. I knew my history and I thought, after the Normans came, there had only been five who reached sixty, including the conqueror himself, who expired on the threshold of that birthday. I was grateful.

I would give myself a birthday gift and do my favorite thing: translate philosophy. And who should it be? Someone I had never tried before, someone difficult, to challenge me. I settled on Boethius's
Consolation of Philosophy
, composed more than a thousand years ago when the scholar was facing execution by the Emperor Theodoric. If he could find consolation in philosophy while in prison awaiting his death, I could surely find it when facing nothing more onerous than a sixtieth birthday.

Boethius wrote in Latin, which I always enjoyed translating. The economy of expression in Latin—quite marvelous. If a thought is six sentences long in English, it compresses into three in Latin. It is good we have the language of the ancient Romans to remind us of the elegance of their ways.

The afternoon sped by as I hunched over my desk, shuffling papers and searching for words. Reaching the level of the windows, the sinking sun poured directly into the room, making it hotter. I was about to put the papers aside and call for a cool drink when dear Helena came into the room.

She dropped a little curtsy. “My very best wishes to—”

I rose, put my finger across my lips. “No, my dear. This is a day like any other.”

She understood. But this was not what she had come in for. “I am sent to inform you that you have an unexpected visitor. From Ireland.”

Ireland! Had William Fitzwilliam, my lord deputy over there, returned? Was there very bad news? Had the Spanish made a landing? It could only be a crisis. We were nominal overlords of Ireland, and had been for centuries, but our grasp was shaky.