Elizabeth I (31 page)

“The rest of my story is more violent and less entertaining. Richard died and then followed struggles to retain my land and livestock. Then your man, Richard Bingham, appeared and entered into the fray. He became my enemy and has behaved in ways that do not honor his mistress, the Queen of England. No wonder we call him ‘The Flail of Connaught.' ” She thrust a sheaf of papers at me. “The particulars are all here.”

I was wrung out from her story. “What shall we do about all this?” I finally said.

“I will serve you faithfully, as I promised, taking up the sword against your enemies. But in return, order Bingham to release my family.”

That seemed right to me.

I was nodding to agree when she added, “And remove him from office. He is not fit for it!”

“So I shall, if you promise to stop aiding the rebels against me. For I know it is not just Bingham you fight but others of my agents as well. You are not called the mother of the Irish rebellion for nothing.”

She looked caught out but shrugged graciously. “I promised to serve you,” she said. “Is not the promise to stop opposing you implicit in that?”

“No, as you pick and choose what you will oppose.”

She leaned forward. “Do I have your word?”

“Do I have yours?”

There was a long pause. “Yes,” she finally said.

“The word of a pirate?” asked Marjorie Norris. “What is that worth?”

“When given to a friend, it is ironclad,” she said.

“And when given to an enemy, worthless,” I answered. “Am I your friend?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I do not choose my friends lightly. They must pass certain tests. You have passed.”

“And how is that?”

“I have met my match in courage,” she said. “For that is the real reason I came—to see you and take your measure.”

“You
are
bolder than Drake,” I admitted, doubting my wisdom in openly bestowing such a compliment on her.

S
he has decreed that cloaks will be short next season at court,” said my son. “No courtiers may appear in cloaks reaching past their knees. And we are not allowed to alter the old ones. Now there's another unnecessary expense added to our list!” He was sitting before the fire, wrapped in a deep green cloak of the sort now forbidden, staring moodily into the flames.

“What the Queen wants is necessary by definition,” I said with a sigh. It did get tiring. Jump here, jump there, all on her whim. “Will you have to borrow to do it?”

“Not yet,” Robert said. “The duties on the sweet wines during this cold time of year will suffice. But once it is warmer—” He spread his hands.

Yes, what was he to do next year? There was no military command for him in the offing, and, aside from regular attendance at the Privy Council, my son was unemployed. Francis and Anthony Bacon busied themselves with the new ring of spies, trying hard to bring in information that Robert could present to the Queen and earn her gratitude. But they had found little, and Francis's attempt to block the double subsidy bill in Parliament had earned the Queen's wrath. She now wanted nothing to do with him, so his stubborn stand on principle had injured all of us. For a man so intelligent, Francis seemed determined to act stupidly.

I was back in Leicester House, or rather, Essex House. What cared I for what it was called, as long as I was back in London? I was not welcome at court, but I could see Whitehall out one window and the Strand out another. All of London thronged past our gates, and a great deal of it entered the house, where we could hold our own little court.

This had once been a bishop's palace on the Strand, and some said the ghosts of old churchmen wafted through the halls of the rebuilt house. If so, they would scarcely recognize its maze of suites of bedrooms, picture gallery, gardens, and kitchens. Upon Leicester's death it had passed to me and then to Robert, who promptly renamed it Essex House. When I gave it to him, it was bare and empty. The Queen had forced me to auction off its furniture to pay Leicester's debts to her. Rumor had it she had bought our bed, just for spite. Refurnishing the house was taking a long time. Prices had risen since Leicester had furnished it. So the walls, which the Queen could not order stripped of their oak paneling and gilded paint, looked out onto nearly bare rooms.

“Warmer!” Here in England we longed for sun and warmth, but its impact on the Devereux income forced me to dread its arrival. “Yes, summer is our enemy. Unless you can turn the winter to your further advantage now.” Oh, why could the Bacon brothers not come up with
something
? All their promises and fine talk had led nowhere.

“Christmas is coming,” Robert said. “The court will be in close quarters. The Queen will crave my company, and then—”

I could not help laughing. “For another dance? Another whisper together at a performance? It is lovely she sometimes calls you Robin and sometimes lets you call her Bess, but words are cheap. She always prefers words; they cost her nothing.”

“I feel like a stalled ox,” muttered Robert. “I can go neither forward nor backward nor to the side. There is nothing for me to solve or rescue to make my name.” He smacked at the cloak. “Nothing to do but dress up and prance, quarrel and chase women.”

“You are too quick to do the last two,” I warned him. “Stay away from duels, and do not womanize where the Queen will hear of it. To say she does not approve is hardly necessary. Look what happened to Raleigh. She is touchy about fidelity. And you are a married man.” I feared Robert had inherited my amorous nature; little Frances was not keeping him purring by the hearth. But caution must be the watchword. Those who transgress had better be alert.

“Have I not pledged my loyalty to her time and again?” He sighed.

“Stay out of her circle of ladies,” I said. “Go elsewhere in London. There is no shortage of women in the city.” How I was to regret that advice.

I rose; it was growing dark already. Lamps must be lit. These November afternoons closed in dreary mist, and the sun set almost invisibly. The servants lit the wall sconces and brought in several table lanterns. Just as I was about to call for our supper, the Bacon brothers were announced, and Francis and Anthony entered the chamber, Anthony shuffling painfully across the floor and sinking onto the first bench he reached. He gave a plaintive hack or two, but Francis's eyes were shining.

“Welcome, friends,” said Robert. “You brighten the chamber, just as gloom was clutching us.”

“Our findings will brighten
you
,” said Francis. “Oh, that they will!”

Robert drew up chairs around the table and moved two of the lanterns together to increase the light. He patted the tapestry on the table. “Something to show me?” he asked. “Here, or in Europe?”

“Lucky for us, right here,” said Anthony. “Right in the Queen's own chamber!” He rubbed his long fingers together, seemingly out of triumph but really just to warm them.

Oh, this was marvelous. The closer to the Queen, the greater the threat, and the greater our reward for thwarting it.

“Where?” asked Robert.

“Her personal physician, Dr. Lopez!” cried Francis. “I have proof that he is intriguing with the Spanish.”

“But what motive would he have?” Robert asked. “He isn't Spanish; the Portuguese hate the Spanish for taking their country.”

“Perhaps he isn't a loyal Portuguese,” said Francis. “Has Portugal treated him well? They have an Inquisition and he fled from it.”

“But so does Spain.” Robert was not convinced.

“Who knows why a man decides to dabble in the world of espionage? Perhaps for the simplest of reasons: money. The Spanish cannot help but pay better than the Queen.”

“Lopez has a large family and is not rich,” said Anthony, clearing his throat to speak. “So he had need. My agents in Spain have been tracking the spies that Philip is financing in England. One of them, Ferrera da Gama, is staying with Lopez in his Holborn house. That implicates Lopez. Lopez is trusted by the Queen and provides her medicines and drugs. Who better to poison her? Assassination is much cheaper than invasion and achieves the same end.”

“Perhaps we should detain this Ferrera,” said Francis.

“Yes, and in addition, alert the officials of Rye, Sandwich, and Dover to open and examine all letters from Portugal.”

“Yes!” said Robert. “And easily explained, as I am the Privy Councillor responsible for Portuguese affairs.”

Lopez ... Roderigo Lopez ... “Robert, has he not treated you?” I asked.

“Yes, I have consulted him on occasion,” said Robert.

“Better not take his medicines!” Francis said with a laugh.

“He has had no reason to poison me,” Robert said.

“Until now. If he finds out you are on his tracks, then—” Francis made a choking noise, grabbing his throat.

Lopez ... There was more about him. Lopez. God in heaven, yes! People had accused him of supplying Leicester with the poison that supposedly killed my first husband, and Nicholas Throckmorton, and the Earl of Sheffield. As a result, when Leicester himself died suddenly, I was suspected of poisoning him in self-defense. Ultimately I had Lopez to thank for these calumnies.

“London is swarming with foreigners,” said Robert. “Why they are tolerated I cannot fathom. They make a veritable nest where traitors can hide.”

“There are foreigners, and then there are foreigners,” said Anthony, his voice straining to be heard. “The diamond cutters who fled Antwerp, the starchers who starch our ruffs, we surely would not expel them. They pay double taxes as well.”

“The Dutch, the Huguenots, the Swiss, very well. But how have these crafty Spanish crept in?”

“The Portuguese pretender Don Antonio has outstayed his welcome,” said Francis. “Living upon Her Majesty's bounty and protection these fifteen years. He knows his cause is withering, so he and those surrounding him are taking desperate measures. I think they are transferring his birthright to the Spanish. That means Spanish agents, all sheltering under his wing.”

“Isn't Lopez a Jew?” asked Robert.

“He converted, along with some hundred or so of his countrymen,” answered Francis.

“There's a name for them. I can't remember it,” I said.

“Marranos,” supplied Anthony. “Of course, the conversion doesn't count in Spain. There had been Marranos for years, living happily, and then the Spanish expelled them in 1492.”

“Stupid, stupid Spanish,” said Francis. “There went all the brains in their court. They have been exhibiting stupid behavior ever since. Not that we should mind.”

“Spain is only wealthy because she robs the Americas; otherwise she is the least productive nation in Europe. Can you name a single thing she makes? Everything is imported,” said Robert. “For the Armada, she could not even make barrels that didn't leak. Pitiful. Francis is right. No brains.”

“But this Lopez—” Anthony steered the subject back. “Is he really a Christian? I mean, Jesus himself was Jewish, which doesn't mean he wasn't a real Christian, if you follow me.”

“How can we ever know? And what difference does it make?” asked Robert. “With
The Jew of Malta
playing continually to huge crowds here all year, he will already be suspect in people's eyes. Why, there's even a line in it about poison. Everyone knows they poison wells.”

“ ‘Everyone knows,' ” scoffed Francis. “The lies that ‘everyone knows' can fill a thousand scrolls.”

“If only Kit could have seen this success,” said Anthony. “The play was doing well when he died, but nothing like this.”

“He drank too much,” said Robert. “I know poets say it gives them insight, and perhaps it does up to point, but if he hadn't had a taste for the drink—”

“He couldn't have been lured to his death,” said Francis. “A drinker is an easy mark. Easy to lure, and easy to smear. ‘Christopher Marlowe, killed in a tavern brawl'—a nice cover story. He was silenced by someone higher up, someone made uncomfortable by his espionage activities. So have a care, Anthony.”

“I don't go to taverns or meet with people at inns in Deptford,” said Anthony. “I can barely get here to Essex House.”

“There are slippery stones out in front of Essex House, where a weak man might stumble and hit his head,” warned Francis.

“There are slippery places in court, and close to the Queen, where a proud man might stumble and end up in the Tower,” retorted Anthony. “So have a care, Francis.”

We all trod on slippery ground, it seemed. Our spy service empowered us to the Queen but entangled us with dangerous elements—disreputable Englishmen and enemy foreigners, who had no scruples. We must watch our steps indeed.

I
had been standing for hours, receiving the customary New Year's gifts. It was fortunate that I did not mind standing; in fact, I was noted for my ability to stand for very long times. Everyone at court gave me New Year's gifts, and I in turn presented a great number of them, although I myself did not hand them over. Instead, recipients were given a receipt and sent to my treasury, where they were allowed to select a gilt plate, tray, or cup.

Burghley had creaked forward and presented me with a writing set, while Robert Cecil had proffered a comfit box for sweetmeats. Archbishop Whitgift had obtained a prayer book with an olive-wood cover, carved in the Holy Land, and the Earl of Southampton gave me a bound copy of a poem.