Elizabeth I (77 page)

“When I am ready, I will freely tell you,” she said. “Before long, Henry and I may wish to go to Rycote for good.”

Before noon, gifts and tributes began to accumulate in the presence chamber, in spite of my trying not to emphasize the occasion. All the councillors had sent something, each oddly reflective of his personality. Cecil had sent a small portrait of his father, Whitgift a fourteenth-century Psalter, Buckhurst a bound copy of his early poems, Lord Cobham a map of the Cinque Ports, as befitted their warden. These mementos were more amusing than the formal gifts I received at New Year's. Then, a surprising box from Edmund Spenser. It contained a lengthy genealogy of King Arthur and my descent from him.

“Did he rescue this from his burning castle in Ireland?” I wondered. Poets were curious creatures. Yet if they were true poets, their work would be the thing they would rush to rescue above all else. It was impossible to ever write something again in exactly the same way.

“He is nearby,” said my chamber usher. “He presented it early this morning.”

He must have known his firsthand knowledge of Ireland—he had been there most of his adult life—would require him to testify at court. I decided to invite him to call upon me so I could thank him for his gift—and question him before the council did.

Essex did not send a gift, nor did his mother, Lettice. She would have been mad to have done so after the reception of her last one. The most unexpected token came from Wales, a small box of honey and cakes, with a letter from my goddaughter “Elizabeth.” She wished me well and asked if she might come to court to learn English better. “And to see you, most gracious godmother,” she wrote.

I was inordinately pleased. Here in this chamber of aging and politics, she would be a glimpse of the innocence we had all lost. And I was touched that she remembered and felt bold enough to test me to see if what began between us in Wales could grow.

My newly reinstated captain of the Queen's Guard, Raleigh, proudly led his friend Edmund Spenser into my presence. Coming behind them, uninvited, was Percival the Indian, wearing court clothes and holding his head high. Between two such tall and robust men, Spenser seemed shrunken and abject. But that was hardly surprising, given what he had been through.

Although only in his forties, he moved tentatively, like an elderly knight. “Pray you, be seated,” I told him. I would not make this man stand any longer than necessary. I myself took a seat close by and motioned for food and drink to be brought, in case he needed them.

“You have suffered greatly,” I said. “And your country grieves with you.”

His eyes darted all over the room, like skittish little animals that were afraid to alight. “Thank you,” he said in a faint voice.

“Can you tell me what you saw in Ireland?”

Raleigh was shaking his head vehemently. “If I may, I shall tell you, to spare him the repeating of it.” Spenser gave a grateful nod. “His castle at Kilcolman in Cork was set ablaze; his infant son and his wife died there. He barely escaped, with his hair on fire. He had to stumble through the fields swarming with rebels to find his horse, and then rode blindly out into the night. He only found his way to safety when the sun rose and he could see where he was going. His castle home was smoldering behind him.”

“I looked once and then could not look again,” he said. “But I keep seeing it, over and over.”

“The rebels saw him and pursued on foot, but they could not catch him. As he rode toward our garrison, he saw the devastation of the entire countryside. All gone. What we had worked years to cultivate, gone in the night.”

“Gone, all gone,” Spenser intoned.

“You are safe now,” Raleigh assured him. Percival moved to touch his shoulder in reassurance, and Spenser jumped.

“Don't touch me!” he cried.

I wanted to hear more about Ireland, but it was cruel to him. “Thank you for the birthday gift,” I said. “I am delighted to have my descent from King Arthur confirmed in such ironclad details.” He sat stonelike. “And since the publication of all six books of
The Faerie Queene
, I have had the pleasure of reading it slowly and carefully, and I am dazzled by your genius.” I did not flatter here; the man had wrought an intricate work of high art. And he had dedicated it to the Queen, “to live with the eternity of her fame.”

“But as touching Ireland,” said Raleigh gently to Spenser, “I believe you prescribed a remedy for that some years ago.”

“Oh, oh, yes—” He nodded to Percival, who produced a manuscript-sized box. “Here it is. I know what should be done. I am more convinced now than ever that this is the answer.” Struggling to his feet, he handed me the box with trembling hands.

I opened it, seeing the title:
A View of the Present State of Ireland
. “This should be of immediate use,” I said. But obviously it had been written earlier; this poor creature, whose recent observations would be most pertinent now, could hardly hold a pen.

“The only way to rule Ireland is to destroy it and then build it up again, in our own image,” he cried. “Burn it to the ground! Finish what they have started! Only by overriding all law, by stamping out every vestige of their language and customs and clans, can we turn it into a real country!”

The ugly face of violence now showed itself; spawned by the violence he had experienced, he was dyed in that color himself.

Unthinking violence was hideous no matter who was spouting it or who had been wronged. None of us could say we would not feel the same after seeing our families killed, but a gentle poet was such an unlikely avenging killer. If it could convert him, even in thought, it could convert anyone. Oh, what had the people of Ireland turned into, on both sides?

“I shall read your manuscript,” I promised him. “Raleigh, let me tell you of Constancia the tortoise and how she fares,” I said, changing the subject. “She went inert over the winter, and moving her indoors into a barn took four men, as she was so heavy and her shell did not afford any handholds. But she revived in the spring and now paces the Hampton Court garden. I think she is lonely. She seems to yearn. Can you bring her a mate?”

“Only if I can sail to where her kind lives,” said Raleigh. “But the moment you give me leave, off I'll go. Percival, what do you say?”

“I am ready,” he said.

We all laughed gently, and Percival and Raleigh helped Spenser to the door.

A
golden swirl of leaves danced outside my windows. October this year was a honey yellow succession of warm days. The harvest, again, was meager, making autumn like unto a beautiful woman who was barren. Still it was possible to appreciate the season's sterile beauty, to walk in the soft afternoons along brick garden pathways and take pleasure in it.

Essex House was now the center of the preparations for the Irish venture. I trembled to think about it. The Queen, for reasons known only to herself, had settled the fate of England in my son's hands. When he had burst out, “Her mind is as crooked as her carcass!” that day at home, I had hushed him immediately. The very birds of the air might be spies. But that phrase had stuck in my mind. I could not help thinking that perhaps her mind was faltering. She was sixty-five now and her behavior was erratic. She had forgone her Progress this year; the official reason was the death of Burghley, but I wondered if that was just an excuse because it was too demanding of her.

I had to admit that she had acted with uncharacteristic decisiveness in her response to the defeat at Yellow Ford and the uprising. But a Tudor can never accept rebellion or defeat, and her blood called forth her prideful response. It may have been the insult of the “bush-born kern,” as she called him, besting her forces. With surprising speed she had determined to subdue Ireland and had chosen Robert as marshall of the army.

He would go where his father had gone and never returned. To the place that was the graveyard of one English commander after another. His most immediate predecessor, Lord Burgh, had perished last year, some said of poison. If malaria and treachery in Ireland did not do you in, poison finished the job.

This time the army was to be huge—the largest force ever sent to Ireland. They were talking of sixteen thousand foot soldiers and thirteen hundred cavalry. All under the leadership of my son, whose grasp of land warfare was tenuous at best. The only other sole command he had been given was in France seven years ago. Nothing was achieved there, except the death of his brother, my youngest child, Walter. Robert had become a military figure by fierce desire, showing how wishing for something can bring it about, but wishing does not bestow natural ability to go along with it.

Robert could make men follow him, but he did not know how to lead. That was the truth of it. Only luck could guarantee his success. But did not Caesar himself say luck played a large part in his battles? “The luck of Caesar” became a byword.

As I was framing these words, I rounded a corner and startled a flock of magpies quarreling over a heap of leaves and compost. Chattering, they rose up, wings astir. One ... two ... three ... There were seven of them.

Quickly I made the sign to reverse the bad luck, crossing my two thumbs. The devil's own self was Ireland.

I hurriedly left the place where I had seen the magpies and soon heard the chattering of human voices, reminding me of the birds. It was Frances, arm in arm with an extremely pregnant Elizabeth Vernon, Southampton's disgraced wife. She had taken refuge under our roof—another thing for the Queen to hold against us. So infuriated was she that they had married in defiance of her forbidding it that she clapped Southampton in Fleet Prison. There he languished, while Robert brought him news of his wife's condition.
The Queen,
I thought bitterly.
She holds us all prisoner to her whims and prejudices.

I greeted the lady who was now Countess of Southampton, whether the Queen would have it or no. At court she had been known as a beauty, with her sleepy eyes and tumbling curls, but now her face was puffy with the last stages of pregnancy and with weeping and worry. Her belly swelled out the front of her gown like the sails of a ship sailing before the wind.

“It's a boy,” said Frances. “We have just held the wedding ring above her belly on a string, and it swung back and forth. That means it's a boy!”

I smiled. I had done the same with all my children, but I was wrong about three out of the five. “Wonderful!” I said.

She looked so uncomfortable she would doubtless be pleased no matter what the baby turned out to be. I was glad my childbearing days were over; it was a distinctly miserable state. I was also glad I had never revealed to anyone that Southampton and I had been lovers. Robert prided himself on knowing so much, but he was ignorant of this foray on my part. He also never knew about Will.

Southampton had been a good lover. I wondered, fleetingly, if he was different with Elizabeth. Men tended to be, I found, with women they respected. Of course, she had been his mistress for three years first. Ah, well, best not to think too hard about these things.

“All is in readiness for the birth,” Frances said. “The midwife is waiting and the cradle lined with blankets and little mattress.”

“May your time be easy,” I wished her.