Elizabeth I (84 page)

“It is real!” I said in wonder.

All up and down the table the other diners bit into theirs.

“Again, one is free to brag on another,” said Raleigh. “My good friend Francis covered a cherry tree with a canvas to keep the sun from ripening the cherries at the usual time. He doused the canvas with water to keep it cool. Without the direct sun, the cherries kept growing until they were much larger than normal. Then, when it was within a week of Your Majesty’s visit, he removed the tent and let the sun bring the fruit to perfection. He is the cleverest gardener who ever lived.”

“I only prayed that Your Majesty would not change your mind, once the covering was off the tree,” said Francis.

I had had gifts of rare jewels, fashioned into exquisite gold pendants and necklaces. I had been given exotic plants and animals from distant lands. I had had extravagant literary tributes. But this homely, simple gift brought tears to my eyes. “I think it is the rarest gift I have ever received,” I said. “I thank you, Sir Francis.”

We lingered under the trees all afternoon, with young musicians walking through the rows, playing and singing for us. At last we returned to the house, where lamps had already been lit, making it glow from the inside like a lantern. In the long gallery, we continued the musical evening. Sir Francis had two virginals, and I sat down to play on one, relishing the feel of the slender keys under my fingers. This instrument had a rich, mellow tone. The open windows invited in the heavy scent of night-blooming flowers, and I could see a late-rising moon just struggling to clear the garden wall. Quiet English countryside. Quiet English paradise.

We were to go hunting the next afternoon, and Sir Francis busied himself in the morning with the hounds and the beaters. Thus, he was not at home when Admiral Charles arrived from London, his boots crunching on the gravel of the entrance path.

Catherine, who could recognize his footsteps, flew out to meet him. I was always touched to see long-married couples eager to see each other. The white-haired Charles would not inspire faster heartbeats from most women, but he only needed it from one.

“We have been cosseted and entertained so lovingly by Sir Francis,” said Catherine. “I thought you would never come! He’s planned an afternoon of hunting—and the Queen and I are going to Hever the day after. It’s so lovely here.” She grabbed his hands and almost dragged him up the steps of the house.

“Welcome, Charles,” I said. “Now Catherine can truly enjoy her stay.”

He went down on one knee. “I fear your stay must end, and mine can never begin,” he said. He rose. “Bad news. The Spanish have been sighted on their way to our coast.”

The sun still shone on my face, but its warmth vanished. “I had feared this.” I had not been to inspect the coastal towns yet, but it was too late. I would have to decamp to London.

I turned to Catherine. “No Hever Castle this time, my dearest.” Suddenly I was sorry I had not taken the Mary Boleyn necklace from Lettice. I would now have given it to Catherine, her other granddaughter, as a consolation and a promise. “But we will go. I promise it as firmly as fate will permit a queen to plan for the next year.”

My idyll was over.

67

E
verything ran backward. Back along the road to Southwark, back through Southwark, the same vendors and the same advertisements for plays, back past the theaters and the bear pits—not leisurely now; we were in a great hurry. The faces looked up at me, the hands waved, and I felt myself to be a shield between them and disaster. They looked trustingly at me, secure in my keeping. My person was their protection, as it had been for forty years. I would not fail them now.

The council was waiting, ready to act. I looked out at their faces: Robert Cecil, narrow faced, unblinking. Henry Brooke, Lord Cobham, wild frizzy hair barely contained under his cap. George Carey, dark eyed like a Spaniard. The old workhorses: Lord Buckhurst, William Knollys, Archbishop Whitgift, sitting quietly, waiting.

“I came forthwith,” I said. “I could discern no disturbance or action in the countryside I passed through, but that was a long way from the coast. What reports do you have?”

Admiral Howard stood and asked Cecil, “The report I brought to Her Majesty is a day old. What news do you have since then?”

“None, my lord,” said Cecil. “Since the fleet was first sighted two weeks ago on the north coast of Spain, we have had no word. They may be far up the French coast by now.” Anticipating my question, he said, “We have ordered the coastal militias to assemble and the beacons readied. We await your decision about what ships to deploy.”

“I would deploy some on the west coast,” said Cecil.

“Yes, the Armada is likely targeting Ireland for a landing,” said Carey.

“I am thinking more of a force coming
from
Ireland,” said Cecil.

William Knollys shook his head, making his three-colored beard tremble. “From Ireland? You think O’Neill will attack us? Or that Grace O’Malley?”

“The man I am thinking of has the same first name as I but a loftier title. He has a spirit of disaffection and a large army. I have never thought he went to Ireland to subdue the Irish, but rather to reinstate himself in the Queen’s favor. Since the Irish campaign has gone sour, he may try another route to imposing his will on the Queen.”

Essex. Cecil had spoken the unspoken thought.

“We have forbidden his return,” I said. “We withdrew that privilege. He cannot return until his task is done.”

“When has he ever obeyed when it did not please him to obey?” said Cobham.

Both Cobham and Cecil were adversaries of Essex, Cobham having become one when I bestowed the Cinque Ports post on him rather than the importuning Essex. I had to keep that in mind. But their words could not be dismissed.

“Charles Blount—now Lord Mountjoy—has also said we should be wary, take precautions,” said Cecil.

Mountjoy was the most experienced soldier left behind guarding England. His words carried weight.

“We consider ourselves warned,” I said.

My nerves were on end. Each agonizing day there was no further word of the Spanish and no word from Ireland. I knew the fate of the realm was delicately balanced.

Finally something happened, but not what we were scanning the horizon for. Rather than rely on a letter, Essex sent his secretary, Henry Cuffe, to report to us.

I had met Cuffe before. He was formerly a scholar of Greek at Oxford and had welcomed me there with a poem on one of my official visits. At the time, I had been struck by his good looks and oratory; I had thought he would go far. But somewhere along the line he had left academia and cast his lot with politics. It had saddened me when I learned of it. Like many, I endowed the scholar’s life with an aura it probably did not possess in daily living.

“Your Majesty,” he said, dropping to one knee. “I am honored to be the one entrusted to present the correspondence of the earl to you.” He held out a box.

I took it, motioning him to stand. Inside was a report from Essex. Quickly I read it, my eyes whipping through the formal phrases and postures, devouring the true contents. The earl’s army was greatly weakened. He had lost many men. Nonetheless, he was going north to confront O’Neill, on my orders.

“I am even now putting my foot into the stirrup,” he wrote, “and will do as much as duty will warrant and God enable me.”

“So he has set out?” I asked Cuffe. “He has truly gone?”

Cuffe nodded.

“Where does he plan to engage O’Neill?”

“Our intelligence tells us he is in the vicinity of Navan. We will march there and confront him.”

“Does your intelligence give you any reckoning of the size of his army?”

“It is difficult to gauge. The Irish army is not a solid body like ours. It assumes many shapes and numbers, contracting and expanding with the weather and its mood. But we think it is around six thousand men.”

Twice the size of ours! “I see.”

“But a stout fighting Englishman is worth five of—”

“Spare me this, Cuffe. You know it is nonsense. You are an intelligent man. Give me credit for being intelligent as well. So the earl goes out to confront his enemy, having squandered his strength and advantage, to meet him now from a position of weakness.”

“That is too dark an assessment, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Convince me otherwise,” I countered.

He reeled off a list of excuses—the advice of the Irish Council, the unhealthiness of the land, the perfidy of our allies.

“Pish!” I said.

He laughed. Then he said, “It is not our mistakes up until now that will count. It is what will happen when the earl finally confronts The O’Neill.”

He spoke true. “Surely he won’t be such a fool as to challenge him to combat.” Essex’s favorite, meaningless, offer.

“The O’Neill is twenty years older,” said Cuffe. “It might not be a bad strategy.”

“Pish!” I said again. “As if he would gamble away his kingdom on such a thing. He’s older, and as wily as they come. Even if Essex won, O’Neill would not honor it. He would only pretend to, using it to buy time. No, I utterly forbid such an action.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He looked miserable—the dilemma of the intellectual man forced to serve, and excuse, his inferior.

“I will write my instructions to your master.” How he must hate that phrase, and its truth. “But I count on you to convey them in all the force I have just used to you.” I took a deep breath. “And now let us speak of other matters. You, sir, I remember from Oxford. What made you abandon that home to make a new one with the Earl of Essex?”

“Even scholars need to eat, Your Majesty,” he said. “Service with the earl offered better worldly prospects.” He stood, the remnants of his pride still visible in his posture.

“Worldly prospects, yes,” I said. “But there is more. There is another world beyond that world.”

“Do you mean heaven? That’s too far away.”