Elizabeth I (67 page)

“Point taken, my Cynthia. I shall never hesitate to speak truth, then.”

The next morning I found that the tortoise had destroyed half the plants in my New World garden, flattening the beans, eating off the tops of the potatoes, stripping the pumpkin vines of their leaves, and squashing the flowers. Constancia had mowed through like an elephant and now dozed innocently in one corner, the sun warming her thick shell.

The naughty creature. I was of a mind to make Raleigh take it to Sherborne and let Bess mind it. But it was winsome, even though it wreaked havoc—like Essex and Raleigh.

The parliament of 1597 was a dreary affair, long awaited as an answer to the want and unrest stalking the land. The finest minds in the nation gathered to address the crisis; as will happen, the finest minds quarreled among themselves. There was a feeling of helplessness and confusion all around, knowing that the problem was caused by two things beyond our control—the weather and past history—and yet the solution could not wait for our wisdom to grow.

In the end, we passed a series of poor laws—legislation both to help and to control the population of needy. Some—like Francis Bacon—claimed that landowners fencing their tracts for sheep and evicting farmers had caused the shortage of cropland that was the root of the problem, and his supporters tried to make a case for limiting or even tearing out the enclosures. But like king Canute commanding the tide to stop, it was futile. The process had gone on too long to be rolled back now. Nonetheless, Bacon made an eloquent case, painting a picture of the future countryside, stripped of its villages and farmers, suffering the fate of abandoned Troy, nothing but weedy meadows.

The land issue having been taken care of—Bacon got two bills passed—Parliament moved on to the rogues and the honest poor, each requiring a different cure. The rogues were identified as begging scholars, fake shipwrecked sailors, fortune tellers, bearwards, false claims collectors, illegal workers, pretend charity workers, and actors—except those under a nobleman's patronage. These were all to be whipped and sent back to their home parishes, there to remain, with no more vagabondage on the roads.

Should any of these types be, in addition, an agitator or a leader of the lower classes, he should be banished to someplace abroad, never to return upon pain of death. Or, if a suitable place of permanent banishment was not available, he could be sent to the galleys instead, there to row for his own eternity.

As for the honest poor, a dole from their local parish was to replace begging. These were people unfit for work, through no fault of their own: the blind, the lame, the old, the frail. In addition, the parish would raise money for the raw materials for cottages for the poor, employing able-bodied poor to build them and providing apprenticeships for the children.

These laws were intended to put an end to all begging and wandering. Whether they succeeded or not, it was a noble effort. I did not know of any other country that had ever attempted it, and I was proud of our trying.

Jesus had said poor people were always among us, but he had not meant there was no obligation to help them. Up until now, helping the poor had meant that one person gave charity to another. Now, in England, we were saying that the government itself mandated relief for the poor. It was no longer enough to merely put a coin in an orphan's hand. Each village and hamlet had to be responsible for the poor souls who lived there.

As for the villains who mocked the poor by pretending poverty in order to claim false charity, they must be exposed and rooted out.

These were laws Parliament could be proud of.

All this while Essex was sulking in his house, refusing to take his place in the House of Lords or to come to Privy Council meetings. He had some thirty of his adherents in Parliament to carry out his bidding but did not grace the chamber with his appearance. He was insulted that I had created Lord Admiral Charles Howard Earl of Nottingham, and that Charles would preside over Parliament as lord steward, walking before everyone else. It had been my surprise, a well-earned reward to Charles. Essex also was driven into a fury by the wording in the patent that elevated Charles, giving him credit for his action against the Armada in 1588 and also for the Cádiz mission. Essex derided Howard's part in the Cádiz affair, thinking himself its one and only hero.

Through messages and messengers, he demanded that I reword the patent to omit the credit for the Cádiz mission. He hinted that “trouble” might happen if he and Howard were forced to appear in public together. He called for personal combat between himself and Howard, or one of Howard's relatives, Howard himself being obviously too old to put up an equal fight.

This bad behavior came at a most inopportune time, as King Henri IV of France had sent an ambassador, Andre Hurault, Sieur de Maisse, to ascertain our feelings toward him since his conversion to Catholicism and his inability—or disinclination—to repay the large loans we had made him. Henri was fond of Essex—as people were who knew him only from afar. His absence from court would raise questions. Somehow I would have to placate the tiresome boy, lure him back for appearances' sake. After the French had gone was time enough to decide what to do with him. I thought of him now as a problem to be solved; he had worn down almost all my affection for him. Only a thin veneer of it remained, like a ring whose coating has eroded from careless and rough wear.

It was also important that I put on a good show of appearance, so that when de Maisse reported back to his master he could tell him how healthy and young I looked. It was most unfortunate that I was troubled with a boil on my face that stubbornly refused to heal. I had to resort to thicker face makeup than usual—doubling the amount of crushed marble and eggshell to convey the requisite pearly whiteness. Catherine helped me; she was expert in mixing the right proportions of beeswax and powdered cinnabar to put on my lips and cheeks and knew how much water to use in making the face paste.

“I must look my best,” I said, “for the French notice every little thing.”

She was in high spirits; her husband's promotion had pleased her immensely, as I granted very few titles and seldom elevated anyone without good cause. Doubtless she felt his recognition was long overdue but would never nag about it. “'Tis said the French especially appreciate older women,” she said.

I sighed. “They have that reputation. But the question is, how much older?” I turned the mirror this way and that, seeing how my face looked in different light. The boil was well camouflaged. I would draw eyes away from my face, in any case, with those old standbys, dazzling clothes and whopping jewels.

“I think the Italian gown for today,” I said. “They will judge any French gown I wear with too practiced eyes, but I will get credit for my taste in selecting the latest from Italy.” She helped dress me in a gown of silver gauze, with bands of gold lace, making me all ashimmer. I called for a ruby and pearl garland to drape across my bosom. As an unmarried woman, I was entitled to wear open-necked bodices. Of course, I always filled the gap with jewelry.

The ambassador was charming and urbane, but the French never sent any other kind. We spoke of many things, I attempting to discover exactly what Henri was thinking, de Maisse doing the same for me. The most urgent matter was the impending French peace treaty with Spain. They were anxious to have us join in, but how could we? King Philip, in spite of one wrecked Armada after another, kept sending them. It was true that our recent policy of attacking Spain overseas must now end—not from conviction, but from lack of effectiveness. But that did not mean we could afford to cease to arm ourselves against an invasion or to trust Spain.

Irritatingly, de Maisse kept inquiring about Essex. I gave one lighthearted answer after another, all the time conferring with the Cecil father and son about what to do to bring Essex in line before the ambassador departed.

“We cannot afford this,” I told them, after the ambassador had gone. “Do you agree?”

Seldom had I seen both of them nod together. Young Cecil, Robert, had become more and more polished and self-assured as his responsibilities increased. Old Cecil, Burghley, had faded even in the few weeks I had not seen him. His mind was as alert as ever, but it was clear that his neck had less and less strength to hold that clever head up. As a team, the vigor was sliding toward the son.

“Yes, the puppy must be brought to heel,” said Burghley, “before he spoils the hunt.”

“Let us see—what brings a puppy to obedience?” asked Robert. “There are punishments. But he has already been punished—scolded and demoted. So what reward can we buy him with?” After a moment's thought, he had answered his own question.

“Offer something that costs you nothing and soothes his vanity,” he said coldly. I was struck by his utter dispassion and his bald way of putting it.

“Something military, since he sets such store by that,” said Burghley.

“We could offer him the lord admiralship,” I said. “Howard is just as glad to retire from that post.”

“No, it would be seen as taking Howard's leavings,” said Burghley.

“What about Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal?” I asked.

“Not lofty enough,” said Robert. “He likes something high sounding. What title is lying vacant? What about ... Earl Marshal of England?”

“Horrible associations,” I said. “It is vacant because its last holder, the Duke of Norfolk, was executed for treason.”

“He won't care about that,” predicted Burghley.

“Won't he realize that, since the post has been suspended for twenty-five years, it can hardly be vital to the realm's functioning?” I asked.

“He is too vain,” said Robert. “He will look only on the outer trappings and not care how hollow they are.”

“How harsh you are about his character,” I said.

“He spent a few months living with us when he was nine,” said Robert. “I came to know him well, and the grown man has not changed from that willful child who has ever relied on his looks and charm to carry him to the highest echelons of success.” It was impossible to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

“My son is right,” Burghley said. “Why do you think we never encouraged him to be part of our household?”

“Earl Marshal of England it shall be, then,” I said. They were right: It was an honor that cost me nothing. In a sense he was already regarded as the military leader of the realm, so this added nothing beyond letting him walk in procession ahead of Nottingham, outranking him on formal occasions. A cheap price.