Elizabeth I (46 page)

In the meantime the preparations for the voyage would go forward, with the swarms of young men thronging our halls. My son had to supply their colors—his livery of tawny gold—although they were responsible for their own weapons. He also ordered his badge,
Virtutis Comes Invidia
—Envy is the Companion of Virtue—to adorn the liveries. I did not think the motto suited his situation, but I held my tongue. Lately I was having to do much of that. I was dying to know what had passed between him and the Queen on their private trip. But I could not ask.

Now we were keeping quiet company in the inner hall in the hour before supper.

I reached over and patted Robert's arm. I felt entirely content—except for my father's illness. (Why must there always be an “except for ...”?) “Your preparations seem to be well in hand,” I said. “You have given the tailors plenty of time. Everything should be ready.”

He shook his head. “I dread getting the bill.”

The bill. The reckoning. “If you can just hold them off until your return,” I said, “you will have riches enough.”

“The Queen expects booty—in addition to all the other goals of this mission. I can only pray that a Spanish treasure ship comes along at the right time.”

“That is truly out of your hands,” I reminded him. “But God is known to rain his favors down.” I thought of all the men going. “Everyone is joining you. My husband—how will it feel to outrank and command your own father-in-law? And Charles Blount, your sister's lover.”

“It is something I must accept,” he said. “My inherited rank places me in high command. Christopher is a good soldier and I will rely on him.”

“That's a diplomatic answer,” I said.

I hated knowing that Christopher had been an underling to Leicester first, and now to my own son. It lessened him a little in my eyes, though I would never show it.

“You know that I am not noted for my diplomacy,” he said. “I meant what I said. I will rely on Christopher, as I have for many years. Loyalty is the highest virtue of all. What good are any of the other virtues without loyalty?”

Did he know about Southampton and Shakespeare? I looked quickly at his face, but it seemed ingenuous. “Indeed,” I said. “And are you being loyal to your wife these days? I worry about Frances.”
Change the subject, Lettice!

He looked surprised. “The Queen made no fuss about Elizabeth Southwell,” he said. “Odd. I expected her usual temper tantrum. Perhaps her vision is going bad. Or her acute senses are failing her. She seems not to notice that Southampton has been creeping around with Elizabeth Vernon, another of her ladies.”

Southampton! “I have heard she is almost as pretty as he.” I laughed lightly.

“Children should romp together, don't you think?” he said. “Why, they are six or so years younger than I am, and, as everyone keeps reminding me, I'm not even thirty yet.”

“You did not answer me about Frances.”

“We are very happy these days. And, Mother, Frances is a resilient woman. She survived the loss of Philip Sidney and she will survive my loss, should it come to that.”

“Oh, do not speak of it!” I did not think I could bear it.

He shrugged. Perhaps that is the only way to go into battle. “I have a plan that will ensure my fame and success long beyond this mission. I want to hold Cádiz, turn it into a military outpost so we can harass Spain and maintain a foothold in her very guts.”

“Replacing the lost Calais?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Your vision is bold.”

“The Spanish crisis needs such far thinking. Those men on the Queen's Privy Council—they scurry around trying to secure only what they see in front of their shortsighted eyes.”

“God knows you have been stifled on the council and stalking the halls of court. Perhaps you belong in the field after all, for there have been few heroes there for two generations. May you make your name there, and come back with something that will endure. The jewels and gold and spices from a plundered ship will soon be spent; the strike against the Spanish will injure but not kill them. But a permanent outpost—yes, that can be your gift to England.”

“I want to do something that will outlive me,” he said. “Some notable act, some unique gift. Perhaps Cádiz can be that, for me.”

“You are so many men, Robert,” I said. “May they all become one.”

While Essex House filled with tailors, boot makers, armorers, heraldry purveyors, banner makers, nautical instrument engineers, and map illustrators—a veritable manufacturing city gathered on our grounds—I slipped away, as often as I could, to visit my ailing father. I never took the ostentatious coach, and I wore plain gowns and left my jewelry at home. The other high-ranking officers at court had fine mansions along the Thames and the Strand, but Father, who had served the Queen during her entire reign and as her lord treasurer for the past twenty years, chose to live near St. Paul's, within the old walls of the City. Even in his decline, he came to Privy Council meetings every day, sometimes using a litter. But I never found him lying down when I came to see him. No, he was always sitting, usually at his desk, rustling through papers.

I had always been too busy, too involved in my own comings and goings, to give much thought to his situation. Now I was drawn to this house, and to him. I did not deceive myself that he was in need of me. I had many brothers and sisters. But what comfort they gave him I did not know. They, too, were busy with their own comings and goings. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, my life had quieted down. There was little to strive for. My husband was not a courtier and would rise no higher. My son must make his own way, and no longer listened to me. He had his own family now and seemed on the very brink of power. My daughters, beauties though they were, had not used that beauty to further their positions. I had my lovers, but perhaps they were just a mask for the lack of any grand purpose in my life.

“Hello, Father!” I called to him. He was, as I expected, at his desk. He turned slowly to see me.

“Good afternoon, Laetitia,” he said. He always called me by my formal name. Like someone else did.

“It's a glorious day,” I said. “Will you show me what the garden is doing?” Spring was far advanced now.

“I haven't been out there today,” he said, pulling himself stiffly to his feet. “But I daresay it would do me good.”

Together we descended the stairs into the walled garden, with its bricks baking in the sun. There was an old cherry tree in the middle with a bench underneath. Several sleek cats lay dozing in the shade and stretched and yawned when we approached.

“Lazy rascals,” said Father. “Why aren't they out catching mice? They're not worth their keep!”

I leaned down and stroked the one closest to me. It answered me with a rumbling purr. “Perhaps their mouse-catching days are over,” I said, then could have smacked myself. “Or perhaps they know it is better to enjoy this garden. Tell me, Father, what is coming up?”

“I'm not sure. Your sister Anne took charge of the garden last autumn.”

“Look, here's lily of the valley, and white violets,” I said. “And sweet Williams coming up here. You will have a fragrant border.”

“My roses survived the winter well,” he said, making for the fence where they were staked. “All reds,” he noted.

“No Tudor red and white?” I was teasing. Such roses were an artist's creation but did not grow in nature.

“No, red in memory of the first manor we were granted, by Jasper Tudor, Henry VII's uncle, for the annual rent of one red rose every midsummer.” He fondled the stems lovingly.

“When was that?” His stories used to bore me. Now I wanted to hear them.

“In 1514. I was three years old. I swear I remember it, because my parents put red roses all over the house to celebrate. In any case, the unmistakable scent of the red rose always brings to mind wonderful gifts. I love to smell it through the open windows in June.”

Three years old in 1514 made him eighty-five now. I marveled at him.

“I don't approve of perfumes, but if they must be worn, let it be rose!” He smiled.

I preferred the heavier musk scents from the east, but I merely nodded. My mother had always refrained from perfumes, in keeping with her Puritan beliefs. My mother ... gone now for almost thirty years. Suddenly I wondered how lonely my father had been all this time, and felt ashamed that I had only just now thought of it. Tears sprang to my eyes. I had seen so little beyond myself. Now I was seeing wider and it was blinding me.

My father's dimming eyesight meant that he did not notice the beginning of my tears, and I checked them quickly.

“Well, you've got what you want,” he said suddenly.

I did not know to what he referred. “Is that so?”

“I mean the counterattack against Spain. My grandson will distinguish himself and be happy at last.”

“The command is split between him and the lord admiral,” I reminded him. “And then there's Raleigh with one squadron, eager to prove himself again. It will not be easy.”

“Nothing ever is,” he said. “Surely you did not think otherwise?”

“Father—how have you lived all these years without Mother, as a bachelor? Has it been difficult?” That was what I wanted to talk about, not the Cádiz expedition.

“Didn't I just say that nothing is easy? I don't hold with Catholics, but Thomas More was right when he said we mustn't expect to get to heaven on feather beds.”

Yes. Of course. He had his religion to sustain him. And now he was looking at me, disappointed. I had betrayed myself in asking the question. “Laetitia, if you could just understand the consolations of true faith, you would find that contentment you've always searched for. You were an unruly child, but I know that was because you were missing the most important thing in life. We brought you up in the faith, but ... God has no spiritual grandchildren. Faith is not handed down; it must be grasped by your own hand. Just as Jacob had to wrestle with God himself in order to know him. It wasn't any good just being Abraham's grandson.”

He had now lost my attention. My ears and mind closed. I didn't care about Abraham or Jacob. I never had. I never would. Those stories that sustained him meant nothing to me. I preferred the popular history plays that showed real people in recent times making decisions, and where those decisions led. That was immediate; that described my own world.

“Your own grandson, my son, seems to have a strong tie to God.” One of his many sides that surfaced every so often was that of a religious devotee, given to fasting and extravagant displays of contrition. It did not last long.

“Seems to have? ‘Seems' is a lukewarm word. It means one can't detect it.” He shook his head, then made his way over to the bench, where he sank down gratefully.

“Father, we cannot see into another's soul,” I said, sounding pious.

“True, but we can get a good idea from the outside reflection. Still, that's what
she
says. She'll make no windows into men's souls. Would have been better if she had!”

“You weren't so pleased when her sister did,” I reminded him. “It meant you had to leave the country.”

He sighed. “Yes. But whenever the Lord leads you somewhere, it is a blessing. I got to meet Peter Martyr and correspond with Calvin himself. Me, Francis Knollys!” He turned to me and took my hands. “Laetitia, I hope you are well. I mean, in your heart. I see that you are over fifty now. That time of life for a woman can be difficult, if she does not accept her ... her station.”

He meant I was getting old and I must recognize that and not make a fool of myself trying to overcome it. It would always win.

“Why, Father, I am only the age you were when you were just starting to serve under the new Queen. Life was beginning for you!”

“That was a unique occurrence,” he said. “Do not think it can be repeated. No, you should look inward and be prepared, as we all must be—”

I was looking inward, too much so. I patted his arm, then stood up. “I'll come again soon. I want to see those flowers bloom.”

He had lived so long. He had so much wisdom. Why could he not impart it, not even a little bit of it?

Shakespeare was fifty years younger, but he seemed to have thought more deeply about such things. All my father could do was cast his thoughts in a rigid religious template. Perhaps I was only using Shakespeare's body as a means to learn how to think. That was an unsettling idea.

D
eath. Death. So many deaths! I had barely come weeping from the bedside of Francis Knollys when I was summoned to that of Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon. And before that, the dread news of the deaths of Francis Drake and John Hawkins. I felt as if I had taken body blow after body blow. Knollys and Carey not only were strong supporting pillars of my council but were dear to me. I did not think I could bear their loss, strange as it sounds, after losing so many others. But this was different—they were not only my most trustworthy servants but also dear kinsmen.