Elizabeth I (48 page)

The funerals over, the work closets of Knollys and Hunsdon cleared and empty, I felt alone in work as well as in person. I tried to keep this mood from Catherine and be a strong presence for her; Marjorie's crisp, forthright sense of reason provided a needed balance as well.

All was not gone, all had not slipped away into the dark, I kept reminding myself. All the more reason to treasure them while they were still here. Old William Cecil was fading, but I insisted he continue working for me, as if that would miraculously preserve him. Or was it to preserve me? When my ladies were gone and I was alone, I held up the mirror to my face in the gentle light from a northern window and saw what my portraits did not allow to be depicted. The face alone, shorn of its softening frame of hair, or hat, or jewels, was lined, with sharp folds on either side of my nose and my mouth. My lips, always thin, had small constrictions around the edges, as if they were straining to shut. My teeth—I tried not to show them. I had learned a way of smiling that more or less kept them covered. I had always had fair skin; it was still light, but its color was flat. Pink had to be supplied from a rouge pot, not from blood pulsing just beneath.

I was in my Grand Climacteric, my sixty-third year. It was supposedly fraught with peril. When I reached my actual sixty-third birthday in the autumn and thus began my sixty-fourth year, I would have survived a dangerous passage. I could not expect my face not to reflect that. Nor would I wish to be young again. But to be old! No!

This was an ugly summer, the third in a row. Scorching, oppressive sunshine continued to alternate with floods and downpours. The crops no sooner started to flourish than they were drowned. Food supplies would be crucial this autumn; any leftover stores would, after three years, be depleted. I must, somehow, secure extra rations. But from where? The entire Catholic world would be delighted to see us starve. So I could only hope to buy grain from fellow Protestant lands like Germany and Sweden, and word was that they had little to sell. I sent requests, even offering to supply the transport ships, but so far had had no response.

Awaking one morning and hearing the rain drumming—again—outside, I felt despair. The faces of the dying Knollys and Hunsdon kept playing in my mind, weighing me down with a sense of hopelessness. Leicester, Walsingham, Drake, Hawkins—they who had helped shoulder the cares of the kingdom with me had departed, and I was staggering beneath the weight.

Then, suddenly, words from the Book of Samuel whispered in my mind. “How long wilt thou mourn for Saul, seeing I have rejected him from reigning over Israel? Fill thine horn with oil, and go, I will send thee to Jesse the Bethlehemite: for I have provided me a king among his sons.”

How long would I mourn those names? I must stop. God always provided another from among someone's sons. There was always another king, hence the shout “The king is dead. Long live the king.” Today I would move. It was time, long past time, to fill Walsingham's place, empty these six years. I would have a new principal secretary.

Robert Cecil strode into the room, his short legs requiring many steps. He made up for his lack of stature by always being exquisitely groomed. His dark, pointed beard fairly shone, and his cloaks and doublets were cut to disguise the twist in his back. All in all he was a completely respectable representative; if foreign ambassadors had to look at the top of his head, soon enough they would be impressed by what was inside it. And there was an advantage in having your adversary underestimate you. I knew that only too well—although it had been years since I had had that experience. There was no one left who did not understand what they dealt with when they dealt with me.

“Ah, Robert, thank you for coming so quickly.” He always did, but the habits I wanted to continue I made sure to praise. “You always answer my calls so diligently.”

“It is my privilege to
be
called,” he said.

“How is your dear father?”

“Tired,” he said. “His gout is particularly bothersome this summer, and it tries his patience.”

“May God send him relief. The pressing business of the realm has slackened of late, during the summer lull, which must be of some comfort.” The niceties over—although I could have bantered with him all morning, enjoying as always his smooth, modulated voice and sharp wit—I said, “Essex and his boys are upon the seas, doing what they do best. You are here, doing what you do better than anyone else, save your father. It is time you captained your own ship, as Essex and Raleigh captain theirs. The name of yours is: principal secretary.”

He looked first puzzled, then hesitant. God's breath, was he going to refuse it, as Hunsdon had refused the earlship? Were my gifts to be so spurned?

“I am honored,” he finally said. “But I would not be the cause of anyone's breaking of a vow, even for my own advancement.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know that you promised Essex that in his absence you would not make any major appointments, and especially none to me.”

“That is not true! No, it is more than not true: It is a self-serving lie. How dare he? Do you swear that he claimed that?”

“I swear it, upon all that I hold dear. The man said it twice, in case I was hard of hearing.”

“What were his exact words?” I was stunned at the assumption of power and the duplicity on Essex's part.

Cecil put his hand on his chin, as always when he was pondering. Then he took on the bearing and the posture of Essex—he had a wicked sense of mimicry. “ ‘I must inform you, little man, that there will be no important appointments without my knowledge, so while I am away do not look for any advancement. I have it on Her Majesty's own word. She has assured me I may set my mind at ease while I am away on that behalf.' ”

“He said ‘without my knowledge'?”

“Or consent, perhaps. I do not recall the precise word.”

“God's wounds! So he thinks he must consent to my appointments? That I must inform him of my decisions, so he can approve or disapprove of them? Does he make himself Parliament, yea, more than Parliament?”

“I must confess, I was most surprised to hear it, for it did not sound like you.”

“It did not sound like me because I never said, nor ever would say, such a thing! My words to Robert Dudley long ago still stand, and have grown stronger through the years: We shall have here but one mistress and no master.”

“Well I am aware of that, Your Majesty.”

“And because you are aware of it, and accept it, you will be my principal secretary, and we shall work well together. As for him, when he returns, he'll have a surprise.”

“I would not be the cause of a quarrel between you,” he said, politely, happy to be just that.

“Oh, in that case, I must withdraw my offer of the position.” I watched the horror on his face. “For that, after all, is the only way to avoid it.”

“As Your Majesty wishes. My only desire is to be of service to you, either by filling a position, or, in this case, by not filling it.”

How quickly he had recovered his stride. How well he smothered his feelings. “Enough jesting, dear Robert. The place is yours. It could belong to no one else. It has been waiting for you to grow into it. The time is here.” He had just proved it.

I had been hasty when I told myself that there was nobody left who did not know what they dealt with in dealing with me. Someone too young to have learned the lessons of his elders did not know. But Essex would find out. Oh, that he would.

H
aving seen John Dee at Hunsdon's funeral, I thought more and more of paying him a visit. He was mostly in Manchester these days, filling the position I had obtained for him—warden of Christ's College, an old college of priests converted to a Protestant institution. It was not ideal for him, but it was the best I could provide. He had ruined himself by his years on the Continent, engaging in bizarre spiritual quests that involved talking to angels and dabbling in the supernatural and ended, as often with these things, in an all-too-earthly, sordid wife exchange with his partner, supposedly ordered by the angel Uriel. Disillusioned, discouraged, and poor, he had returned to England to find his reputation as low as a turtle's underside.

But he was not the first man to follow a foolish quest, and he should not be treated like a criminal. He had hurt only himself and his own family. He had not squandered the public purse or stolen from the treasury. Surely he deserved credit for his wide knowledge and prior service to me. And so I would continue to support him as best I could.

I ordered the royal barge to make for Mortlake, after sending a message ahead to warn him. I knew surprise royal visits were unwelcome, however much people later treasured the honor, preserving the chair I had sat on and the cup I had held. None of us likes to be taken unawares.

As the barge made its way upstream, parting the water, I saw the debris and scum in the wake behind us. The smell from the dead fish was as bad as ever, and I kept my pomander close under my nose. A few swans were circling near one shore, their pure white feathers smudged with the green scum. There were far fewer of them than usual; I wondered if the rest had died, or flown elsewhere.

There were also fewer boats out upon the river. Business had slowed with the ongoing conflict in the Netherlands and slowed further with the turmoil in northern France and the Spanish attempt to capture Calais. The Spanish did not accept Henri IV's conversion and continued to besiege France. Wars were ruinous for business. When I thought of Antwerp, the former banking and mercantile center of Europe and the vital Continental wool trade, all disrupted and destroyed by these conflicts, I was furious. When would it end, and we could resume normal life? The sheep farmers who could not export their wool, the tailors who could not import finished cloth, the merchants who could not get European loans, all this weakened England.

The Cádiz mission must have been completed by now. It was no sure thing, but if it had succeeded, I would sing its praises. We needed a victory, something to celebrate. It had been almost a decade since the Armada. Memories were short, and the mood of the country was morose.

The boat bumped against the landing, and we were at Mortlake. I stepped out, onto the familiar ground of the little village, the church with its little cluster of houses around it, the big oaks shading the lanes. As I walked, though, I saw green leaves littering the ground and, looking up, noticed how sparse the leaf canopy was. The trees were dropping their leaves well before time, damaged by all the rain.

John Dee was waiting for me in his doorway, a tender smile on his face.

“You are back where you belong, I see,” I said, noting his long beard, as white as milk, and his magus's gown with voluminous hanging sleeves and celestial symbols embroidered on it. “Here, in Mortlake.”