Elizabeth I (103 page)

The actors exited the stage and a clown came out to address us, singing a melancholy song out of keeping with the rest of the play. Its mournful, minor-key refrain of “The rain it raineth every day” was puzzling.

“What is this?” asked Duke Orsino. “I do not understand. He is a clown, but not funny.”

“Neither do I,” I assured him. “Perhaps it is from the wrong play.”

While the stage was dismantled and the hall made ready for tonight's banquet, I discreetly retired to my bedchamber. I was tired; twelve days of merrymaking had quite worn me out. It would never do to droop during the long evening ahead; it would surely cause comments. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the carved canopy above me. Already it was lost in shadows; the short day had ended while we were at the play.

I hoped that both envoys would return to their masters with good reports. I had done all I could to make the palace shine with opulence for their visit, ordering all the windows washed (no mean task with so much glass and such foul weather), covering scratched tables with fine fabric, and stocking the rooms with extra candles and firewood, as if the cost were irrelevant. I took it as a favorable sign that an Italian duke, whose family politics were intertwined with the papacy, should see fit to visit this “daughter of heresy.” As for the Russians, it was best to keep on good terms with them even as we competed for trade routes.

Tonight I would wear all white, intensified with diamonds and pearls. Likewise my officers and attendants would attire themselves. There is nothing more formal than white. I groaned a bit as I sat up and steeled myself for the long preparation. It was akin to a knight putting on his armor. But appearance is paramount.

My vast dress, heavy white satin brocaded with white silk and covered with rows of pearls, had its own attached cape that framed my back. A heart-shaped gossamer collar rose up behind my head, its edges twinkling with diamonds. Inside that was a stand-up collar of purest pale lace. My hair—or should I say, my towering wig—was dotted with pearls and fanciful white flowers of silk. My toes, peeking out from under my skirt, gleamed with white satin.

Draping a towel over my shoulders and neck, my ladies applied the face powder of ground alabaster, the rouge and lip color of fine cinnabar.

“You look like Diana herself,” said Catherine, smoothing the makeup with her gentle fingers.

“From a distance,” I said. “And candlelight is kind.”

Philadelphia held out a vial of crushed violets and applied the perfume to my neck and wrists.

“Violet in deepest winter,” I said. “A sort of magic.” The same magic I was attempting: to be something out of season. It was a fitting choice, then.

The Great Hall was ablaze with torches and candles, the long tables covered with bright woven cloths, candelabra placed at intervals, their pale beeswax candles dripping already. The first part of the meal would be ordered and seemly, with servers bringing an endless stream of platters, the meat still steaming from the roasting fires. Nero himself could not have provided more choice and quantity. Showpieces, to be brought in and paraded around the hall before being eaten, were peacock, swan, and pastry fantasies sprinkled with sugar and nutmeg. Washing the food down, the guests had a choice of ale, malmsey, white burgundy, claret, beer, and sack.

Decorous music, provided by lutes, viols, harps, and the clear voices of young singers, filled the hall with delicate melody.

I took my place between the two envoys. Ambassador Mikulin told me that in Russia they constructed ice palaces in winter where they would hold such banquets.

“All made of ice,” he said. “Each candle inside reflects a thousand times.”

Duke Orsino shivered. “Uncivilized,” he said. “No one should live where winter lasts more than a month.”

“We Russians like our winter,” Mikulin said. “If we have a short one, we become despondent.”

I remembered the sables Czar Ivan had sent me. They must wear them year-round.

At length the servers brought in a huge cake; in truth, it was several cakes baked separately, and then fitted together, as no oven could hold such a monster. Trumpeters sounded their silvery notes, followed by a drumroll, and John Harington stepped forward, standing before the cake. “As master of ceremonies, I invite you to take a piece of this cake. Somewhere within this half there is a bean, and within this half, a pea. Let the men take pieces from the bean side and the ladies from the pea. You all know the rule: The man who finds the bean is the Bean King, and the lady the Pea Queen. This night, you are to do whatever they command you. All rules are gone. You may speak to whomever you please, swap stations so that the servant becomes the master, and vice versa. To our distinguished foreign guests, please enjoy this English custom. Now!” He gestured toward the cake, laying down two knives on each side. “Help yourselves!”

There was a mad scramble as people rushed to cut the cake. John brought me a piece. Although I bit carefully, I knew he would have made sure I did not get the pea. Let someone else be Queen for tonight.

For a few moments there was only the sound of chewing. Then Catherine gave a gasp. “I have it. I have the pea!” She held it up for all to see.

“So, Catherine, I am to obey you!” I said. “Give me a task!” The room grew quiet as everyone turned to see what would happen.

She hesitated. Clearly she had not thought anything out, never expecting the role to fall to her. “Recite the Lord's Prayer backward. In Latin.”

“Am I allowed to write it out and then read it backward?”

Used to allowing me anything, she hesitated again. “No,” she finally said. “That would be too easy.”

All eyes turned to me as I tried to write the words out in my mind, picture them, and recite them.
“Malo—a—nos libera sed,”
I started.
“Tentationem in inducas nos ne et.”
I got as far as
“nobis da quotidianum”
—“give us today our daily”—before I got hopelessly tangled up and stopped, laughing.

“That is not fair!” cried Harington. “It's been over forty years since we've had Latin in church here. Who could remember?”

“I would do better with Cicero,” I admitted.

“Oh, but tonight you can't choose!” said Catherine, turning to give another victim his orders.

A few minutes later a cry went up on the other side of the hall. A young man was holding up the bean, looking surprised. He turned it around as if he could not believe it.

“So!” said Harington, rushing over to him. “Tonight you will rule over us all!” He knelt before him. “Your servant, sir,” he said.

The young man said, “Which character in the play would you be?”

“The clown,” he said. “His song closes the play.”

“Then sing for us,” the Bean King demanded.

If he had known Harington, he could not have chosen a worse task. He was a poor singer, unable to carry even as simple a tune as “Fair Annie.” Turning red, he belted out an obscene ditty about a miller's daughter.

That brought the hall to clapping and yelling, and soon everyone was indulging in upside-down behavior: soldiers tripping a dainty measure, women shouting bawdy verses, servers helping themselves to the wine and refusing to pour for anyone, children, long past their bedtime, running wild, overturning tables, unscolded.

The Bean King was thoroughly enjoying himself, ordering people about while stuffing himself with sweetmeats and bolting cup after cup of different wines.

“They say it will make you sick,” he said. “But tonight all rules are suspended, and that means I can overindulge and mix whatever I like.”

“Don't be so sure of that,” I told him. “I do not think the laws of nature are set aside quite yet.”

He squinted at me. Clearly the wine was behaving in its normal fashion inside him. “Your hair is red as a rooster's comb,” he blurted out. “Perhaps I should order you to crow.” He hiccupped. “Crow!” he said.

I threw my head back and gave an imitation of a cock crow. People clapped. Then someone came up to the Bean King and asked him, “But what of your brother? Why is he not here? Did he not want to see it performed?”

“Busy writing. He has to finish something by next Wednesday.”

I wondered who this boy was. He did look familiar, but I could not place him. I kept looking. Then I had it. He was one of the actors in the play, the dark one who had caught my eye.

“Who is your brother?” I asked him. “Who are you, for that matter? I see you had a part in the Lord Chamberlain's Men. Do you belong to that company?”

“No, I do not belong to any one company, but act with whatever one will have me. It is hard to find work.”

“I would think you would be suited to many different roles,” I said. It was true. He could play handsome, he could play plain, shy, bold, strong, or weak. He seemed a shape-shifter as far as his type went. “What did you say your name was?”

“Edmund. Edmund Shakespeare.”

Now I understood. His brother was the author of today's play. “I have met your brother,” I said. “He is quite the success here in the public theater and at court.”

“Yes, I know. He has been generous to me, but I try not to presume. I was only seven when he left Stratford, so in many ways we were strangers.”

“That can happen.” As it had with me and my older sister.

“You don't know what it's like, having him be so famous, and in the same field. I'll never escape his shadow, but I am compelled to keep acting. There isn't anything else I want to do. But everywhere I look, there
he
is!”

“Envy is a corrosive thing,” I said. “Try not to let it eat you, or you will cripple yourself.”

“How would you know?” Truly, this night was a night of uncensored talk.

I laughed. “How young you are, or you would never ask such a question. I certainly know firsthand what it is to follow someone whose success was outsized, legendary. I am, after all, the daughter of King Henry VIII.”

“Oh!” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, forgive me!”

“My dear Edmund, tonight everyone may speak freely. I am doing so in telling you that when I was your age, I never thought to attain one-tenth of the stature and wisdom of my father.”

“And now they say you have eclipsed him, that you have achieved far more.”

“They lie who say that. No one can eclipse or equal him. But it is possible to carve out a separate destiny and success, no matter who your father or brother is.” I reached out and took his chin. “Believe me.”

T
hey were everywhere—sprawled out in the hall, eating, complaining, the stink of their wet wool in the air nauseating. My house was not my own any longer, but a staging ground for disgruntled men—malcontents who looked to my son to lead them. To lead them where, and to what?

He had emerged from his collapse a different man. I had known it the moment I saw his eyes when they opened after his near death. And the distant look in them had never faded away, as if he had traveled to a land so dreadful he could never come all the way back. He seemed stronger, as if he had won immunity, but indifferent, too, to his newfound strength.

We had passed a dreary Christmas and New Year. We had no feast, no celebration. Our only guests, if you could call them that, were the men who milled in our courtyard lamenting their various grievances: the creditors who kept pressing them for payment, their lack of opportunities at court, and the failure of the world to value their services. There were pirates and failed courtiers and disinherited aristocrats, unemployed soldiers and sailors, rough retainers from our estates in Wales, whipped up by Gelli Meyrick.