Elizabeth I (41 page)

“We still have a far way to go,” said Essex. “I have sent ahead to find a place where we can spend tonight. It is just in the village over the next hill. They say it has a fine view of the Berwyn Mountains.”

Ah, this was so different from a Progress. So haphazard, so free. I wondered who our hosts would be, but it hardly mattered.

They turned out to be distant—very—Devereux cousins. They were the path Essex's branch of the family had not chosen—obscurity and peace. They had a small manor, sheep, and grazing fields. They seemed more excited to meet their exalted cousin than the Queen. That pleased me. Let someone else have the fawning and the—what had Essex called it?—the bad verses and the dull speeches.

After a simple supper of mutton stew and coarse brown bread, we strolled outside while they prepared our bedchambers. Sunset had almost come, and the burst of yellow light from the west illuminated all the hills and valleys and wrapped them in a golden glow.

“Standing here,” I said, “I can believe that Merlin came from this land. It does not look real. Tell me, Robert, when we actually get there, does it look more real?”

He smiled. “No. It is magic all the way through.” He paused a long time. “
Dwi yu dy garu di
.”

I shook my head. “I have to admit it—I cannot understand your words.”

“I said”—he took my hands—“that I love you.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

I stiffened. He had said it, the straight statement, not wrapped in disguised courtier's words, albeit in another tongue. How should I respond? His whispered “I love you” raced through my head, sweet as a delicate melody. I kept looking straight ahead, not daring to see his face.

A few seconds passed. Forever passed. I heard my own foot scraping the gravel on the path, heard him clear his throat, say, “I once lived near the sea on the coast, at Lamphey. After I left Cambridge. We have a family house there—”

“Oh, Robert, where do you
not
have a family house?” My voice sounded oddly high, but at least he had given me something to respond politely to.

“My uncle George still lives there,” he said. “It's an old religious house, and your father gave it to our family when the monasteries were dissolved. It's in a lovely spot.

“Look down there,” he said, pointing. “Far into those valleys. The green is so bright it looks like malachite. My father sleeps down there in his tomb. It's difficult to get there,” he said, his voice rising. “When he died in Ireland and they brought him back here for his funeral, I wanted to go as chief mourner. But they wouldn't let me. Said I was too frail. So I never got to bid him farewell.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine. Truth be told, I don't remember much about him. He was away so much, always gone to Ireland. But he once wrote me a letter telling me that Devereux men did not live long, and I should be daring in the pursuit of fame. As if to prove the early death curse, he died at thirty-seven.”

“Ah, well, you have a long way to go, my lad. What are you now—twenty-what?”

“Soon to be twenty-eight.”

“Oh, only another eighty-five years to go until you match Old Parr.”

Twenty-seven. And I almost sixty-two. Only a fool could believe ... But “
Dwi yu dy garu di”
danced itself through my mind, fleeting like a Greek chorus.

“Somewhere there's Llangorse Lake,” I said. “Blanche Parry owned land around one shore. It was famous for eels, I believe.”

“It was also famous for a lake monster,
afanc
in Welsh,” he said. “As a child, I was told about it. I sat watching once for hours, but didn't see anything except the reeds along the bank and the men minding the eel traps.”

“Was someone teasing you about it?” It was the sort of thing one told a child, then laughed to see him wait and watch.

“Oh, no! One of the old bards had a poem about it. It goes:

“No word on what it looks like?”

“Just a regular monster, I assume. Long neck, scales, breathes fire—Syfaddon is the Welsh name for the lake, by the way.” He looked very excited just talking about the
afanc
.

“Do you wish to slay a dragon, as one of Arthur's knights?”

“I was born too late, and I admit it,” he said. “But that does not stop the longing.”

“To be Welsh is to long, to yearn,” I assured him. “Always for that thing in a haze down the valley, or too far to sight.”

“
Hiraeth
,” he said. “A longing for unnameable things.” He reached for his little finger, pulled off a small ring. “Welsh gold,” he said. “To keep Wales near you wherever you go.”

The room they gave me to sleep in was a square one, its single window facing the mountains. They had heaped the straight, narrow bed with covers, pillows, and a worn tapestry. An elaborate iron lantern rested on a table, already lit, and a small vase of flowers stood on the windowsill. From the sweet scent of the reeds underfoot I knew they had just changed them and sprinkled them with summer herbs.

“Ma'am—Your Majesty,” one of the daughters said, pushing open the door slowly to peek in. “Is there anything else you desire for your comfort?”

Her face was pure summer—tanned, glowing, blue-eyed as the flowers of the field. Two long blond braids fell over her shoulders.

“What is your name, child?” I asked.

“Eurwen,” she said.

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

“My mother says it means ‘gold and fair.' ” Her voice was tremulous. I realized that I must frighten her.

Welsh gold.
“She was right to name you that,” I assured her. I held out my arms. “Here, take hold of my hands.” Cautiously she approached, then held her palms out, but kept her elbows close to her body. I took her little hands and squeezed them. “I thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “Please do not be afraid of me. For I assure you, I am more afraid of you than you are of me.”

She hung her head and giggled.

“Oh, it's true,” I said. “When you think of me, remember how hard it is for me to meet strangers all the time. You do it so seldom. And I hope now we are friends and not strangers.” I released her hands. “You have made me feel so welcome. Did you gather those flowers yourself?”

She nodded solemnly. “I tried to find yellow ones but I could only get white and blue.”

“My favorite colors!” I told her. “I will love looking at them.” I wished I had something to give her, but what little I had come away with had already been dispensed. “You asked me if I needed anything else. No, I have all I want here. But if you want to give me a gift, and let me give you one in exchange, could you allow me to become your godmother? I have many godchildren, and I can assure you they are all special to me.”

“Oh . . . yes,” she said, her blue eyes widening. She did not know what to make of it. That amused me, since everyone at court constantly jockeyed to see if I would consent to be their children's godmother.

“Very well then,” I said. “From now on you shall call me Godmother Elizabeth, or if you want to be very grand, Godmother Queen. And I shall add Elizabeth to your name.... Oh, but it should be the Welsh Elizabeth. What is that?”

“Bethan,” she said.

“Then Eurwen Bethan you shall be to me,” I promised her.

After she slipped out, closing the door as quietly as she could, I made ready for bed. I needed no attendant to undress or prepare me; this was simplicity itself. How much of my life was layered in extraneous wrappings? It was head-spinning to be free of them, like a moth escaping from a cumbersome, confining cocoon.

I crawled into the rigid bed, as strict and straight as a nun's pallet. The daylight was fading into a deep blue, and night creeping up like a mist. I could hear Essex laughing and talking with his relatives in the other room. Doubtless he would go on until midnight. I had pretended they needed time together, but the truth was I needed to sleep.

Let him regale his hosts with his feats and tales until the nightingales sang.

Gradually the room darkened, and through the window I could see the first stars pop out in the sky. His feats and tales ... What were they? Time was passing. He was twenty-seven, soon to be twenty-eight.

At twenty-eight I had been Queen for three years already. My father had been King for ten years. Of course, there were people who came into prominence later—Burghley was thirty-seven before I appointed him my secretary of state. My father did very little of lasting fame for the first twenty years of his reign, until he was in his thirties. But Essex was impatient, fretting like a horse kept in a stall.

A horse. Henri IV had described Robert as one needing a bridle more than a spur. He was correct. Essex was eager to gallop off to glory, but he had no destination.

T
he morning light came early here, and the simple room had no curtains. I awoke to see the clouds separate their milky white from the colorless sky that came just before dawn. Then, gradually, the sky became infused with blue tint, and day was here.

I had slept better than I did on my palace bed, but that may have been due to extreme fatigue. After each of his labors, Hercules undoubtedly slept very soundly. And now another long but exciting day awaited me. We would venture into Wales itself, and I would behold the land where the Tudors originated. We traced our lineage back to a twelfth-century prince, Rhys ap Gruffydd, but the family entered English history when my great-great-grandfather Owen Tudor took up with Henry V's French widow, Catherine Valois. Owen had been lurking as her valet, and at some point they became lovers and married secretly, or the other way around. It was in Wales that my grandfather landed to assert his right to the throne after being exiled in Brittany, risking all on one throw of the stone. That was ever our way. So far we had won every throw.

I arose and went to the window, looking out at the mist enveloping the valleys and mountains, swirling like smoke. The Devereux family, on the other hand, seemed to have lost every throw. All the more reason for them to keep rolling the dice. It brought to mind something Suetonius had written about Octavius Caesar—that he kept losing naval battles but figured someday he would win, so he kept betting on himself. And he had, too, finally defeating Antony and Cleopatra at Actium.

The noise in the house signaled that everyone was up. Our hosts graciously provided us with tart ale, fresh green cheese, and hard biscuits to send us on our way. I thanked them effusively and embraced little Eurwen, whispering, “Be sure to send me messages of how you do. I expect all my godchildren to give me reports.” And to her mother I said, “I am privileged to share your daughter with you,” when she tried saying they were not worthy and so on.

Essex was impatient to be gone, and they were probably also impatient to have us gone. A royal visit is always a strain, I knew, much as I would have it otherwise. The guards mounted up behind us and we set out, the rising sun behind us, down into the mist in the waiting valley.

The sun would burn it off later, but for now the dew made the green even more intense, almost glowing in its brightness. The path was slow going; I did not mind, as it gave me a chance to truly see the flowers dotting the meadows and the butterflies fluttering slowly above them. Very few people were about, only some shepherds, visible from a distance.

Suddenly from behind me a horn sounded, and the cry “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” One of the guards rushed forward, spurring his horse on the tricky terrain. “There's a message!” I halted and waited for him; close behind him was the other guard, and a rider on a froth-streaked horse.

The startling suddenness of it made my heart race. How had they found me? Where had the man ridden from?

He pulled up and swept off his hat in the customary obeisance, then cried, “There's been an attack! The Spanish have landed!”

Essex had turned around, and he reined his horse up beside us. “What? What?” he said.

“The Spanish have made a landing in Cornwall,” the man panted. “At least four ships, and many troops. They've burned Penzance, sacked some other towns—I rode here as fast as I could to find you. Robert Cecil only knew that you were heading toward Shrewsbury.”

I had left him a sealed letter with my itinerary, vague though it was. I had to be reachable. It was a fantasy that I could be free.

“You have done well.” I thanked God that I had left the itinerary and that the man had tracked me down. “Have more ships been sighted? Have there been other landings?”