Elizabeth I (54 page)

I had not been there a week when Robert Cecil sought an urgent audience. He rode quickly from London and was there by late afternoon. I was waiting, knowing it could not be good news. I was not disappointed.

“Your Majesty, may it please God you are well,” he said quickly, pulling off his hat, rattling off the formal address like a popish priest muttering his beads by rote.

“What is it, my good man?” He was becoming more and more indispensable to me as his father faded from the scene. He alone, of the young replacements in the Privy Council, was worthy of the one he was replacing. The others—pah. Little men.

“Two acute dangers! One at home, one abroad. Here, there has been an apprentice-led food riot in London. But more serious is a conspiracy of the hungry mobs in Oxfordshire to attack landowners who have enclosed their fields for sheep grazing. Our reports say that their grievances have made them reckless, crying that ‘rather than they would starve, they would rise' and they will ‘cut down the gentlemen rather than their hedges' and ‘necessity hath no law.' ”

“Where in Oxfordshire?”

“In midshire. They plan to gather on Enslow Hill, midway between Woodstock and Oxford, there to march on several landowners, robbing and killing them, burning their houses, and thence to Rycote to take Sir Henry Norris prisoner before beheading him. Then on to London, they say.”

So it was beginning, the dreadful political harvest from the too-scant food harvests. “Enslow Hill, you say?” There had been another rebellion there, in 1549. Their choice of the same gathering spot meant they saw themselves as finishing what had gone awry the first time.

“Yes. And the day chosen is St. Hugh's Day.”

November 17—my Accession Day. The symbolism could not have been more pointed.

“Do you have any intelligence about the numbers involved?”

“It is impossible to say how many will join when the hue and cry is raised. The ringleaders only number some fifty or so. Bartholomew Steer, a carpenter, is the leader and organizer; he comes from a village that once was a monastic estate and now has been enclosed for sheep. He also worked for Sir Henry Norris, so he has personal grievances against him as well.”

“This is what we feared and were hoping would not happen.” But this third year of bad harvest had pushed the people to desperation.

“We are working to infiltrate them. They meet and communicate at the various village fairs. In the meantime, we can quietly muster troops. Henry Norris has been alerted, and you know he can command supporters.” Cecil spoke confidently, reassuringly.

“What else? You said two things.”

“The Armada, Your Majesty. Philip has prematurely launched the Armada he was preparing for next spring. He was so incensed at the attack at Cádiz, he vowed immediate revenge. Our spies there have confirmed that the nobles thanked God on their knees for the coming of Essex and Admiral Howard because it catapulted Philip into action. The second Armada, planned and discussed for so many years, at last is launched.”

“The particulars?”

“It is under the command of Don Martin de Padilla, admiral of Castile.”

“Oh, God!” Padilla had been general of the oared galleys at the victory at Lepanto against the Turks and had defended the entrance of Lisbon against Drake in the ill-fated 1589 raid. “Unlike Sidonia, he is competent.”

“There are about a hundred and fifty ships,” said Cecil. “The same size as the first Armada, as our 1589 Portugal raid, and as the recent Cádiz mission. We cannot confirm how many soldiers are aboard.”

“We would not expect them to sail so late in the year. They could count on that. And knowing that, they could also count on our having disbanded our fleet, so we would be totally unprotected. Where is their target? Where shall they make landing?”

He looked frustrated. “Our intelligence has not revealed it. It could be either Ireland, or, if England, the Isle of Wight, the Thames, or the west coast.”

“In other words, anywhere!”

He tugged at his ear. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

I clutched the arms of my chair, as if to draw strength and steadiness from the solid English oak. Attacked from within and from without. No standing army, and a disbanded fleet. What to do? What to do? I must decide, and quickly. Every hour counted.

Cecil was standing, waiting for me to speak, ready to carry out whatever I ordered.

“I must think,” I said. “You may stay the night in your accustomed chambers and in the morning take my orders back to London.” I had assigned Cecil permanent quarters in all the palaces so he could always be nearby if need be. I stood up. “Avail yourself of any of the fresh horses in the stable,” I said. “The autumn has never been lovelier, and you may find it soothing. I daresay you did not linger to look at the fields and meadows on your way here.”

He smiled. “I did not,” he admitted. “But it would be a balm to do so now. I spend too many hours indoors at the council table.”

“It will sap you,” I said. As it had me. “Beware of constant council tables and no exercise. A man needs to see the sky at least once a day.”

After he departed, I should have taken my own advice and gone outside. I thought better in fresh air. But I had to tell Marjorie of the danger at Rycote. I hurried to my apartments and found her reading quietly, head bent into her book.

Her hair was smoke gray at the part now, although the ends were still black, as befitted my Crow.

“Marjorie.” I bent over and took her book gently. “Does this give you pleasure?”

She looked up, her eyes still dark and clear. “Oh, indeed. I am learning about the fall of Constantinople.”

“There is solace in history,” I said. “But now we must speak of the present, and its dangers.” I drew her up. “I have just had word that there is a threat against Rycote, and Sir Henry.” I told her what I knew.

“Bartholomew!” she cried. “To think that sweet child would wish us harm. He was always following us about; his father had been a carpenter as well, and brought little Bart along on jobs. While his father worked building stalls and stairs, Bart would hang at my knee, asking questions. I gave him a pup once, from a litter we had.”

“Marjorie, he is no longer a child but an angry man who bristles with violence. Cecil said Henry had been warned, but perhaps I should send troops to protect him.”

“Oh, no. That would shame him. We have four surviving sons, soldiers all, and that is protection enough. I should go!”

“Your sons are not here; they are in Ireland and the Netherlands. You must not go anywhere near. It would only give Bart a target. Should he capture you, he would have Henry in his hand as well.”

“I am sure he would never harm me.”

“Because you were kind to him as a child? The lion is not the same as the cub. No, you must not go!”

Marjorie paced the room, her heavy footsteps sounding on the worn floorboards. She was a big-boned woman, broad and tall, as befitted the mother of six sons, all military men, one of them the ablest soldier in England: Black Jack Norris. I always found her as stalwart as a soldier herself, and she had calmed me in many a crisis. But now she was trembling. I touched her shoulder and she jumped.

“I think troops would be prudent,” I said. “At least until Henry can rally his own.” Both he and Marjorie were in their midseventies. He was still vigorous, or liked to maintain that he was, being on horseback every morning before others were up on foot. But I appreciated how much of that might be posturing. He would need help; he would have needed it even if he were forty. The evil of those rebels, seeking to maim and kill, must be scotched, and quickly. That they would think of visiting such cruelty on my subjects was an insult to me, and they would answer for it. They must be met with force before they could do harm.

She shook herself to gain control. “I always thought danger lay in foreign battlefields,” she said. “Home was the place you retired to in safety.”

“In my land, that should be true. This is an aberration.” We had been spared the hideous wars of religion that tore apart Europe. “A short-lived one, I hope.” Then I told her about Spain's Armada.

“Oh, my dear lady,” she said. “Troubles from within and without.”

I pinched her cheek. “Now do your duty of cheering me about the Spanish, as you always do.”

She laughed, the old Marjorie again for a moment. Then the smile faded. “We must pray for another English wind to blow them to pieces,” she said.

I sat glumly in my bedchamber, my face cupped between my hands. I had asked Catherine to bring me my jewels. I would have to pawn some; the painful selection must be made. Catherine had dutifully set down several coffers, all locked. She, as keeper of the Queen's jewels, carried the keys.

“This one has the historic Crown jewels,” she said, pointing to an ebony-inlaid one with a rounded top. “This one contains the everyday jewels, if you can call them that.” She touched a polished walnut one with gold fittings. “And this holds your personal ones.” That box was covered in mother-of-pearl.

I would never sell the personal ones—the pearls from Leicester, the emerald pendant from Drake, the Three Brothers ruby pendant from my father and his heavy gold chain, the
B
initial necklace from my mother, the frog pin from François. No, never. So I pushed that one aside. No point in even opening it.

Neither would I sell the historic ones. It was not possible. They belonged to England and must be here for the next person who sat on the throne. There was the thin gold coronet of Richard the Lionheart, set with tiny lapis studs from the Holy Land. There was a globule-shaped dark ruby worn by Henry V at Agincourt, inherited from the Black Prince; the square sapphire coronation ring of Edward the Confessor; a gold cross of Alfred the Great. I liked to take them out and tell myself the stories connected to them, such as the tradition that in personal combat with the Duc d'Alençon, Henry V almost lost the ruby when Alençon smashed at it with a blow to the helm, barely missing. We monarchs like to dare all, exposing our precious things in battle.

Battle. It was because of battle I was having to sell these treasures. Battles on land, in the Netherlands, battles on sea, now battles at home.
But Henry V
, I promised him,
your ruby did not survive Agincourt to be squandered now on the pitiful King of Spain
.

The everyday jewels ... I would have to start casting them out to keep myself afloat, like a sinking ship throwing off precious cargo to save itself. Drake had had to do so on his way home once, throwing overboard three tons of cloves worth a fortune, but worth nothing if he could not free his ship from the rocks where it was stuck. And so the spices floated away, and he floated free. Thus it must be for us, I thought, pulling out a delicate gold and pearl necklace with hanging droplets of sapphires—a gift from the ambassador of Denmark. Diplomatic gifts would be the first to go, the easiest to let go of. There were pendants with rubies and dull uncut diamonds, earrings with medium-sized pearls, nothing outstanding in either the workmanship or the gems. Those came from France, Sweden, and Russia. Then there were the onyx necklaces from Spain, presented when we still had Spanish ambassadors here. The Spanish like black, I thought. Black jewelry, black-robed priests, black deeds.

There were heavy gold bracelets, now out of style, presented by long-dead courtiers. They would yield a good price, though, for their gold, and the givers would never know their fate. Brooches that were so heavy they pulled embroidery, pins that did not fasten properly, rings that were too large and went round and round on my finger—those could go. I was getting a tidy little pile. But how many ships could they buy? How many soldiers could they provision? Nestled among them, incongruously, was the gold-painted wooden egg from the long-ago goose fair. I smiled. It, too, was a treasure—but only to me.

Well, I had begun. I would pawn these and see what the yield was before I cut any deeper. I also had more Crown lands I could sell, although that was a last resort.

Catherine did not make it easier. She stood behind me, looking sadly at the glittering heap. She leaned over and pulled out an amber necklace. “Oh, you aren't going to sell this, are you? I remember when Ivan IV sent this!”

“I never liked it,” I said. “It was an ugly color.”

“But it was highly prized in Russia, where they like their amber dark.”

“They are entitled to their preferences,” I said.

“It was a shame about Ivan,” she said.

“That he ended up called ‘the Terrible'?”

“Yes, because he had great ability and insights,” she said. “Not the least, of course, courting your friendship.”