Elizabeth I (78 page)

I left the gardens of Essex House and went out by the water gate. I was not ready to return to the house, where so many men were always loitering about. Robert seemed to have immense numbers of hangers-on, many of them elusive and troublesome characters, men who had not prospered at court or elsewhere and were looking to make their fortunes somehow, without straining themselves. These were younger sons of country families, adventurers who had staked all on piracy and impoverished themselves, disenfranchised religious zealots on both sides, ambitious scholars who found no appointments equal to their merits, and unemployed soldiers. Such were the flotsam and jetsam now sloshing around Essex House.

The Thames gleamed flat and broad in the sunlight, and I asked our boatmen to take me out.

“Where to, Countess?” the head boatman asked.

“To nowhere,” I said. “Up and down.”

“Tide is coming in, and we don't dare go under the bridge,” he said. “But we'll go there and then turn back.”

London was at its best this time of year. Boatmen out on the water were in a jolly mood, waving to and racing one another. The Queen's swans bobbed up and down, white spots covering the water. There were so many of them this year. The swan herders must have been busy this spring, marking all the new cygnets. I had missed the one day when they had to round up all the swans to count and mark them; it had been right after my nonreception by the Queen, and I was not in a mood to watch other creatures being added to her toll.

But today I did not begrudge her her swans. She had nodded once again to the house of Devereux, had gathered Robert under her wing. He had been given one more chance.

We turned before being caught in the gush of water between the pillars of the bridge and made our way back upstream. I watched the city thin and then die away as we passed Chelsea; the bank became lined with willows and reeds. Before long we came around the bend on the south bank with Barn Elms, the home of Frances, the place where old Walsingham had died.

Frances. Was she happy? Did Robert make her happy? Did she care? Did he? I could not read her at all. She was one of those creatures who always seem content, whose inner workings are never visible. Someone had whispered to me—was it Christopher?—that perhaps Robert had chosen her because she was the opposite of me. That after a mother of such storm and drama, he wanted a quiet wife who would make no demands. Well, he had gotten her.

Around another long loop of the river and we were abreast of Syon House on the north bank. The mansion was set far enough back that it was hard to see through the trees. That was the home of my Dorothy now, the new Countess of Northumberland. She had married the odd earl, Henry, not long ago, and entered into his strange way of life, enduring a husband who fancied alchemical experiments with men such as John Dee and Thomas Harriot, smoking tobacco, and stargazing. All my children seemed to have made peculiar marriages.

My daughter Penelope's lover was not as odd as the legal spouses of my other children. Charles Blount seemed a perfectly reasonable man, if one overlooked his and Penelope's flagrant adultery. They had a son already, a boy they had named Mountjoy. In the meantime, Penelope's legal husband, Lord Rich, seemed unperturbed by the situation and often dined with them.

The afternoon sun was glancing off the water and bothering my eyes. I was ready to return and ordered the boat back to Essex House. I took one last look at Syon House, standing like a sentinel, and sighed. If this was the life Dorothy wanted, then I would not question her choice.

By this time of day, more people had gathered at our home. The numbers swelled as the evening drew on, and we were expected to feed them all. Robert was considered a Great Man, and a Great Man had many retainers, all of whom he must provide for. But it was not in his means to do so, so we were heavily in debt and growing more so. Surely these men would go with him to Ireland and feed off the Queen's bounty, not ours!

After supper—once again stripping us bare, like a flock of crows—the men drifted off to wherever they roosted during the night, leaving us a semblance of privacy. Withdrawn into our chambers, there was only the family, and Edmund Spenser, who was staying with us. He was too shaken to return alone to his home of Petworth, and we wished to protect him here. He had forced himself to attend on the Queen, although it had taken all his reserves to do it. He would soon be called to the Privy Council, and that would be an ordeal. He was hardly sleeping, and when he did sleep, he was pursued by nightmares. He shivered and shook in his room because he could not bear for a fire to be lit. The flames, the crackle, the pop of wood—they sent him into a fit of fear. To warm himself he tried wrapping furs and blankets around his body; in truth it was not even cold outside yet, but his thin frame and shrunken spirit chilled him.

We tried broth, heated wine, and soups—anything to warm him from the inside. Irish spirits, of course, were the best, but the very smell of them made him scream.

“We'll have only good, warm Somerset cider, then,” I assured him. Because of the bad harvests, cider was scarce this year, but what we had he was welcome to. If he fancied it, I would outspend myself to get more.

“Umm ... yes.” He sniffed it, as if to assure himself there was no whiff of Ireland. Then he gulped it thirstily. When he had drained the cup, he sank back, running his tongue along his narrow lips. Only then did he look around the room, noting the trunks and piles of clothes. “You are readying yourself,” he commented.

“As best I can,” said Robert. “But anything you could tell me to help me prepare I would gratefully hear. I have never been there.”

“God has been merciful, then,” said Spenser. “The first thing is, take waterproof clothes, as if you were going to sea. The damp is everywhere and will rot the shirt off your back.”

Robert nodded, taking notes.

“Take twice as much artillery as you think you need. It has a way of disappearing. Most of the guns now arming the Irish have been stolen from us. And what doesn't disappear becomes nonfunctional from the damp—powder won't light; rust eats weapons up. Take a good supply of cats with you, good mousers, to protect the grain supply. Snakes would be better.”

“I thought St. Patrick had rid Ireland of snakes.”

“Then we should curse the Irish by importing them. Let them loose to overrun the island!”

“Sketch to me the general divisions of the land,” Robert told him. “I know you were in Munster, at the bottom of the island.”

“Yes, Raleigh and I and many others were given land confiscated after the Desmond rebellion there. But the thing to keep in mind is that rebellion can come from anywhere. No area is secure. If you want to think of Ireland as an oval clock face, then the top of it—from ten o'clock to two o'clock—is Ulster. We had never pacified that part, never even had the pretense of laying down English law there. That's where O'Neill is from, and his ally, Hugh O'Donnell. Then, at around three o'clock, the English have their stronghold—or should I say toehold?—at Dublin and the Pale. It's near to Ulster but until now had been the most secure.

“Going farther down, into County Leinster, we had a number of plantations, all overrun now. Then, farthest south, at five to seven o'clock, Munster, with more of our English settlers. In the west, at nine o'clock, Connaught County was never really pacified; the O'Malleys and the Burkes control that territory.”

“That pirate woman, O'Malley,” said Robert. “I remember when she came to court. She promised to fight for Elizabeth.”

“A good demonstration of Irish reliability,” said Spenser. “It was contingent on England doing certain things, such as removing Richard Bingham. Elizabeth followed through but then sent him back again. Grace O'Malley was not fooled by such transparent gestures, so she has repudiated her loyalty oath. One cannot blame her.”

“Isn't she old?” Robert cried. “Even older than the Queen? How much of a threat can she be?”

“The pirate life keeps her young,” said Spenser. “At least from what I hear. I wouldn't want to grapple with her. She commands a large fleet eager to do us damage.”

“I don't plan to fight at sea,” said Robert.

“She can help the Spanish, who necessarily will be arriving by sea.”

“If I had my way, I'd choose the sea. But the Queen has dictated the terms of the war. It is by land.”

“Who are you appointing as your commanders?” Spenser asked.

“I want Southampton to serve as my cavalry leader, master of the horse, if the Queen sets him free,” he said. “And you, Christopher, as under commander, marshal of the army and a council member.”

He looked surprised and pleased. “Raleigh?”

“No. He's head of the Queen's Guard here and wants to stay close to the Queen's petticoats.”

“Or perhaps he's clever enough to stay away from that bog. After all, he's done much service there, going back twenty years.”

“He was vicious, killing left and right without mercy.”

“It doesn't seem to have done much good,” said Christopher. “Perhaps he, of all people, sees firsthand how futile it is.”

“This time it cannot be piecemeal, like our other efforts. This time the campaign must aim for no less than conquering the entire island, once and for all,” said Robert.

“Good luck,” said Spenser. “You set yourself an impossible task. No one has ever conquered Ireland, and no one ever will.”

Robert drew himself up. “There is no such thing as an impossible campaign, if enough men and enough money are committed. And this time there will be. Sixteen thousand soldiers! Thirteen hundred cavalry! The Irish fear the cavalry; they'll quake when they see it.”

“I've never seen the Irish quake, except with one of their agues,” said Spenser. “Are you in sole command? Are you free to make your own decisions?”

“As far as I know. There will be no one over me.”

“Except the Queen,” I reminded him. “She is the supreme commander.”

“Bah! She knows nothing of warfare. How could she? She's never been on the battlefield. Let's hope her meddling doesn't interfere with what needs to be done.”

“She's paying for it, and she will want to have the last word,” I said.

“Surely this time she will bow to the wisdom of those who know warfare,” Robert said. “She wants to win.”

“She has her own ideas,” said Christopher. “One cannot say they are always wrong.”

“They are always cautious, and here to be cautious is to lose,” said Robert.

“You must not begin by antagonizing her,” said Christopher. When had he gotten so analytical? “For example, by appointing Southampton. She will not permit it; she dislikes and distrusts him. She put him in prison! So do not waste your ammunition, so to speak. Do not get off on the wrong foot with her.”

“Aren't you full of clichés today?”

“Clichés are often true,” said Christopher. “Don't cross her. You'll lose.”

“I need the freedom to choose my own officers.”

“Anyone but Southampton, I would say. It is folly to nominate a candidate who is in prison for offending the Queen.”

“But I want him,” said Robert.

“Learn to want someone else,” I said.

“That's not so easily done,” he retorted.

Oh, that I knew.
Learn to want someone else.
I tried to follow my own dictum to some success. I had long ago ceased to want anything to do with Southampton. I could see him now and look upon him as merely the husband of Elizabeth Vernon and a friend of my son's. Will Shakespeare was more difficult. What I wanted most was to talk to him and hear his opinion on what was looming before Robert. He seemed to know everything that went on. Instead, I had to guess it secondhand through his plays.

His plays kept him in my mind. People talked about him; even the Queen called for him to present his dramas before her. She had liked the play featuring Sir John Falstaff so much she had requested one in which he was the main character, and Will had written
The Merry Wives of Windsor
, which was duly performed at Windsor during the Garter ceremonies. In his own way, he was as much a public figure as the Queen, even if he hid behind his characters. One could say that Sir John Falstaff was a public figure, that Shylock was a public figure, that Romeo was a public figure, while their creator kept his privacy.

The talk wound down. Spenser was yawning and needed his rest. Robert was restless in the chamber. I wished he would seek his wife's company instead of heading out into the night, but I no longer had any control over him.

Christopher and I retired to our chamber. Making ready for bed, Christopher was changing into his nightshirt.