Watch the Lady (52 page)

She seeks out Frances, finding her at prayer in her closet, and stands quietly in the doorway, watching her. Her eyes are shut, her mouth moves, and her head sways slightly from side to side as if she is in a trance. Penelope finds herself envious of the intensity of Frances's supplications. Her own faith is worn thin, like Gorges's doublet, and she cannot think of how to speak to God beyond the rote thanks for the health of her children. Her gratitude is threadbare too.

Frances opens her eyes and stands, turning towards her sister-in-law. “Has he spoken to you? I cannot get any sense out of him.”

Penelope doesn't know what to say, just shakes her head and lifts her shoulders slightly.

“I know,” Frances says. “He is in the grip of something.”

“Do you not want to leave, go to your mother and children at Barn Elms? You could take the barge.” Penelope goes to the window, from where there is a good view of the Strand. London seems to be going about its business: two women in high hats trundle along with a handcart, a boy kicks a ball aimlessly against a wall with a rhythmic
douf, douf, douf,
church bells chime out in unison for matins. The sky is clean and pale blue. It is a day too bright and pretty for a rebellion.

“I will stay,” says Frances. “He does not know it, but he needs me—needs us—you and me.” Penelope can see, then, the depth of Frances's stoicism and that her anxious disposition is merely a veneer covering a loyalty that is solid and steady and rooted.

“You truly love him, don't you?”

She smiles with a little nod.

“Are you prepared for death?” Penelope doesn't know why she asks this but once it is out she feels she has released something dark into the room. Her mind goes over the possible outcomes of this day but none is happy.

“I am.” Frances's eyes flick up as if invoking God.

Penelope is distracted by a small procession of riders and a coach headed up the Strand from the direction of Whitehall. She watches as they come to a halt at the gates below. A page, in the palace livery, jumps down from his horse and for a moment she thinks it is the Queen herself come to see Essex, instantly reflecting on the stupidity of such a thought. The Queen would not visit a disgraced earl like that, though she did once, Penelope remembers. She came with physic when he was ailing—administered it herself. That was in the days when Essex could do no wrong and his disgrace was only ever paper-thin.

Frances, who has joined her at the window, says, “Isn't that your uncle?”

She leans in towards the glass, close enough to feel the whisper of a chilled draft on the skin of her face. Uncle Knollys is being helped out of the coach, followed by three others: the Lord Keeper, the Lord Chief Justice, and Worcester, who is a family friend. Penelope's spirits are lifted a little on seeing such a benign delegation.

This is certainly not an arrest—there are a number of servants with them but no guards. The two women exchange a hopeful smile and watch as the men walk towards the house. The main gate has been barricaded and several men with muskets can been seen on the inside of it. They shout that no one will be admitted without permission from the earl—Penelope hears it quite clearly from where she stands—and Knollys, who knows the house well, leads the way round to the east entrance. Penelope and Frances move into the adjacent chamber, where there is a view over the wicket gate at the side.

There is no barricade there, only one of her brother's captains drilling a group of men, none of whom appear to be armed. She opens the window and shouts down, “They are friends—family. Let them in,” feeling the smallest inkling of hope. The captain admits the delegation but stops the servants, save for a single page boy, slamming the gate firmly, leaving them outside holding the horses. Essex's lurcher bitch bounds over to Knollys, greeting him exuberantly, and the consignment of men approach, gathering round the party in a hostile cluster, with more joining their ranks. They start to jostle and jeer. Penelope opens the window to try to catch what her uncle is saying but they are in a tight huddle and their words cannot be heard above the heckling.

The small delegation makes for the side doors, and the two women rush to the head of the stairs. They watch as the group is led to the great chamber and announced. It is only a few moments before Essex appears with Southampton and a number of others, leading the visitors up the first flight of stairs and along the gallery.

“To the study?” suggests Frances.

“I suppose so,” says Penelope. Hope takes hold in her. “I'm going down there.” She descends the stairs two at a time and turns into the gallery, where the bright day lies in crisscrossed squares on the floor. Approaching the study, she has a sudden surprising memory of taking this exact path years ago in the dark, on the night when Sidney waited for her in that same chamber—it was used as a music room then and the house was Leicester's. She wonders if her life would have been different had she gone to him that night, whether it might have taken another path.

Her brother appears in the doorway with Southampton, barely acknowledging her presence. Meyrick and another man, both with muskets slung over their shoulders casually as if they are satchels, follow them out and the door is shut with a firm
thunk
. They stand one on either side of it, Meyrick bringing his weapon round to the front of his body, holding it now in both hands. Southampton turns the key and hands it to Essex, who gives it to Meyrick. She tries to catch Meyrick's eye but he will not look at her. Her feeling of hope pops, like a soap bubble, to nothing. This is not right. She can hear her uncle shouting from within, “For God's sake, Essex, do not do something you will regret!”

She turns to her brother who is striding towards her. “What have you done?”

Knollys's desperate voice comes again. “I will not be able to help you this time.”

Essex cannot meet her eye either, and tries to walk past but she grabs his sleeve and pushes him to the wall, surprised by her own strength. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

“They think I will follow them to the palace like a puppy”—he jabs towards the closed door repeatedly with his forefinger—“where Cecil and his cronies and that fiend Ralegh will be waiting to do me in. I would not survive five minutes in that place.” He is pent up, trembling beneath her hands, and his eyes rotate, making him look like a lunatic.

“It is Uncle Knollys in there.” She points towards the guarded door. “
He
would see no harm is done to you. Worcester too, he is a friend. They are trying to help—”

“You seem to forget”—he has his face close up to hers but still will not meet her gaze—“that the Lord Keeper in there was my jailer all those months at York House, and as for Popham . . .”

Penelope concedes silently that Lord Chief Justice Popham has never been a friend of the Devereuxs.

Southampton is hovering. She turns to him with a question on her face but he just makes a small shrug. “I follow the earl's lead.”

“Were you truly his friend you would see that he is not . . .” She doesn't bother finishing, for they are not listening. Just says to her brother, “It has gone too far. You cannot turn back. My only advice now is to find your courage and get the thing done properly.” She hardly recognizes herself.

He pulls himself free of her and puts two fingers to his mouth, whistling sharply. His other hand is on the pommel of his sword. Footsteps scurry on the stairs and a page appears.

“Fetch our breastplates,” Essex says to the lad. “And my double-bladed poniard, the sharp one, and the short musket, you know the one. And pick a weapon for yourself.” His voice is smooth and calm, as if he is ordering meats for a banquet. The boy blanches a little. Perhaps he is imagining himself in pitched battle with grown men.

Essex is fondling his sword hilt as if it is a woman's hand. “Not that,” says Penelope, pointing to it. “Leave Sidney's sword out of this.”

Essex laughs, seeming now entirely in control of himself—not mad at all. “You women can be so very sentimental.” He unbuckles his belt and swipes it off, handing the whole thing—belt, sword, scabbard—to her. It is not as heavy as she'd expected, not like that broadsword she'd tried to wield at the theater. No, this weapon is slender and agile, a thing of great beauty. “We will take all the men—how many have we—two, three hundred?”

Southampton is nodding. “The Welsh force is not yet here. Shouldn't we await their arrival?”

“There's no time for that. Tell the men to prepare to march on London immediately. There we shall gather Gorges's promised force of a thousand and any others who will join us.”

“At last you make a decision,” says Penelope, unable to hold her tongue. “Sadly, it is the wrong one. If you had any sense you would march on the court while the council is in session. Get them all before they are prepared—Cecil, Grey, Cobham, Ralegh—in one fell swoop.” She looks to Southampton for support but he turns his head away.

Essex throws her a withering look. “What would you know of such things?”

She is left standing in the long gallery holding the sword and, without thinking, she buckles it about her own waist, feeling then like an Athena or some other warrior queen from the myths. She runs her finger over the hilt, feeling the embossed initials
PS
, then draws it, enjoying the metallic swipe of sound, thrusting at an imaginary opponent, circling it through the air with a swish. It whispers a warning in her ear.

“The delegation is being held at Essex House,” says Cecil, reading from a note that was delivered by one of his men.

“Under guard?” asks the Queen. “They are held hostage?”

“I believe so. Essex is leading his men to the city to muster troops.” Cecil is afraid—there is a sharp sensation in his gut, as if he has swallowed a shard of glass and it is lacerating his stomach. He tries to expel thoughts of Essex and his men hunting him through the corridors of the palace, cornering him, brutalizing him. He can feel their boots making contact with his skull; he can feel the sensation of the floor scraping beneath him as he is dragged by the feet; and he can hear the crunch of his bones as he is thrown into the bottom of a barge to be taken downriver to the Tower.

There is a clamour of voices as the council members all try to make themselves heard above each other, until the Queen thwacks the table hard with the clerk's ledger. They all turn towards her. She shows nothing of what must be roiling beneath her surface.

She points to Cobham. “You first, what do you know?”

“I have word the earl has a thousand men at his disposal in the city.”

“I doubt he can gather those numbers,” says Ralegh, who seems unperturbed and is cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick.

“He is more beloved of the people than—” starts Cobham.

“More beloved than
us
,” the Queen cuts in. “Was that what you were about to say?” She seems less troubled by fear for her life than the indignity of being thought less popular than the earl.

Cobham mumbles, flush-faced, wittering on about how of course no one is more beloved than she.

“Nevertheless,” says Cecil, “we must ensure Your Majesty's safety.” He cannot get those thousand men out of his mind. They might well be bearing down on the palace already, brandishing their weapons, baying for blood. “This is not a fortified place.” The Queen looks at him as if he is an idiot for stating the obvious. He sits on his hands to stop them trembling.

The Lord High Admiral suggests sending the Queen by barge with a consignment of guards to the safety of Windsor Castle. “We simply cannot match the earl in men at such short notice.”

Another prefers Hampton Court, “for they will not think to look there,” and a general squabbling starts up about the best place for the Queen to go for her protection. Cecil stops himself from suggesting that he should accompany her, hoping she will want him by her side anyway.

“Enough!” says the Queen. “We will not slide off to Windsor or anywhere else. We shall remain here, where we belong. We have faced worse than this.”

There is a moment's silence. Cecil wonders if they are all thinking, as he is, that she has not faced worse than this. There have been assassination attempts, some close calls, but never a usurping army marching on her. He is trying his best not to think of himself, trying to gather a few fragments of courage to face whatever it is that is on its way.

“Send Cumberland with a detachment of troops, the hardest men we have.” She is talking directly to Ralegh. “Trap the earl in the city walls. And send someone into London with word that the men who stand down shall be pardoned.” She sinks back in her chair. “Ensure the palace guard is on full alert.” She stops, looking round at the collected councillors dispassionately. “We shall reconvene on the hour.”

Ralegh is the first out of his seat, barking orders at his steward, who is waiting outside in the gallery. The others follow suit, bustling about, looking for their pages, calling for their weapons and armor. Cecil finds himself praying silently.

“Cards, Pygmy?” says the Queen. He must be staring at her openmouthed, for she adds, “Catching flies?”

“Cards?”

“Yes, I thought separating you from that purse of crowns I see nestling in your doublet might be a fitting distraction from the . . .” She pauses, seeking an apposite word, Cecil presumes, then adds, “Anticipation.” She beckons a page, asking him to bring a deck.

Cecil admonishes himself silently for his lack of mettle, which contrasts starkly with the Queen's apparent nonchalance in the face of such great danger. Much as he tries to push the dark thoughts away, his wayward mind runs through all the possible disastrous outcomes of this situation, digging up the old anxiety (worn thin with overexamination) of that letter to the Spanish ambassador. Surely, he reasons, if the Queen knew of it I would not be at her side now, allowing her to win my bag of coin from me.