Elizabeth I (97 page)

As the days dragged by, I wandered the streets of London to distract myself and get away from my own family. We were so collectively miserable that we only reinforced one another's darkness. Out on the streets I could forget, if only for an hour or so, the thing that preyed like a demon on my mind.

As much as it was possible to lift my spirits, my walks through the streets helped me return to the house feeling better than when I had left. The hurly-burly of life was out there, and waiting to welcome us back. But on the third day of June, when I stepped into the hallway, I saw someone who made me feel worse: our erstwhile friend Francis Bacon. He was deep in conversation with Christopher and Frances, standing in that stiff way that was his hallmark. He turned when I walked in, forcing a smile.

“My dear Lady Leicester,” he said, bowing, “I am so pleased you have returned in time for me to see you.”

He looked older—but did not we all? These had been aging days for us.

“Welcome, Francis,” I said. “How is the Queen's counsel?”

“I do have Her Majesty's ear,” he said quietly. “That is why I am here. I was telling your husband and Frances that there is to be an inquiry and hearing in two days in which Robert will be examined. Four lawyers will specify his misdemeanors before a commission of eighteen.”

Again! Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Eight months since he was first imprisoned! This is justice?”

“It is not a trial,” said Bacon.

“Then what in God's name is it?” cried Christopher. “How long can you hold a man without trial? We've already had two mockeries of hearings—the first at Nonsuch and the second in the Court of Star Chamber. Nothing was resolved, and Robert was kept imprisoned.”

“It is—it is—a deep inquiry as to the—the circumstances.”

“What's the purpose of it?” said Frances.

“The purpose,” said Christopher, “is to shush the murmurs against the Queen for holding him without reason.”

Bacon shook his head. “I came in friendship, to let you know. If you take it another way, then I regret coming. Fend for yourselves.” He turned to the door.

“We have been fending for ourselves,” I said. “We need no admonitions from you to do so.”

Christopher moved to block his way to the door. “Who are these lawyers who will lay out the case?”

“Sir Thomas Egerton, the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, will chair the meeting. The sergeant at law and the attorney general will present the facts.”

“You said four lawyers, Francis,” I said.

“Four, yes, four. I am—I am—to speak last,” he admitted, looking around Christopher for a way clear to the door.

“That which thou doest, do quickly,” growled Christopher, stepping aside and almost thrusting him out.

“I am no Judas,” said Bacon. “I came to prepare you. I am the only one who dares to come here openly. You have your slinking spies and informants, but never forget it was Francis Bacon who came here in daylight.”

After the door shut behind him, I said, “Snake though he is, he spoke true. No one else wants to be seen with us.” I was a long way from my Puritan childhood, but Scripture once learned is never forgotten, and the words from Isaiah,
Like one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised,
whispered in my mind.
By arrest and judgment he was taken away.

“Once they trailed behind us, singing Robert's praises,” said Christopher. “They waited hours for a glimpse of him.”

“Yes, I remember.” That golden day when he rode away to Ireland at the head of his troops ... It would only cease to exist when my mind faded. “But now we must address what is coming. I am not sure people have forgotten him. Otherwise the Queen would not feel it necessary to justify herself in this public manner.”

“There, now, you've said it. It is nothing but an exercise in self-justification,” said Frances. “Her reputation is what she values above all, the love of her public, and she will defend that to the death, for she cannot reign without it.”

“Then this hearing, or commission, or quasi trial, is nothing but a means to clear her own name,” said Christopher. “The verdict is already decided. If she is to be right, then Robert has to be wrong.”

S
ome of the most glorious summer days in memory passed, as if taunting us. May, celebrated in English poems and songs as a gladsome time but often in real life cold and rainy, in this year of 1600 lived up to its reputation, as if the new century wanted to set a standard. The trees in the palace orchard exploded in blossoms; every garden tree bristled with new leaves so bright they glowed like stained glass. Hedges bloomed in fragrance, and wildflowers in the fields outside the city walls carpeted the ground in color and scent. The first few days of June were even more beautiful, promising us a summer that would pass into legend for perfection. But as if in mockery of nature, what I must endure indoors was mean and ugly.

The Essex hearing had been forced upon me, and like anything forced upon me, I wanted to vomit it up. It was my paramount goal to avoid ever being in such a position. But once again Essex had led me where I did not want to go.

“I have you to thank for this,” I told Francis Bacon, who had come to Whitehall to tender his respects before setting out for York House. He bowed low but, wisely, said nothing.

“Well, are you prepared?” I barked at him. “This had better be the last of these hearings. I still think a trial would have settled things better. But no, you and Cecil warned against it, and you are the cleverest heads available to me, so it gave me pause. You had better be right!”

He smiled that self-contained smile. “I know I am, Your Majesty. A public trial would have fanned the flames of popular support. Essex would have used it to showcase his strengths and make the people forget his transgressions. Then
you
would have been the one on trial. This way, in a closed session before commissioners and two hundred of our own select audience, we can control the information.”

I grunted. I was sick of Essex and his dominating all public discourse. Even locked away, he managed, as if he were a vapor, to waft out into the general air. People were demanding to know why the hero of Cádiz (how quickly they forgot Ireland!) was being held without charge and without trial. What they could not see, could not understand, was that without his irksome presence, the government was running better and the Irish campaign was showing success at last. In his absence from public life he had shown just how unneeded he was. So, in a bid to put an end to the murmuring, there was to be a hearing and an examination of all the facts. What there would not be was a pronouncement of “guilty” or “not guilty.” What would happen to him was up to me, not a judge.

York House would serve as the setting. Francis, as one of the four lawyers to preside, adjusted his hat and made ready to leave.

“Take care in all things,” I said.

Essex was brought in to kneel before the long table where the commissioners sat; later he was given a cushion, and after that a chair. The examination went on from eight in the morning until seven that evening. The entire Irish debacle was pawed over and Essex's manifest failings proclaimed. It had all been said before, at Nonsuch. Bacon read portions of the letter Essex had written after the episode in the Privy Council when he had tried to draw his sword on me. In it he had tried to throw the blame on me, saying, “What, cannot princes err? Cannot subjects receive wrong? Is an earthly power or authority infinite? Pardon me, pardon me, my good Lord, I can never subscribe to these principles.” While that may have shed light on his attitude of grievance, it added little to the subject at hand.

In the end, while no sentence was pronounced, he was stripped of his offices—Earl Marshal of England, Privy Councillor, master of ordnance. Only the post of master of the horse, his earliest office, would remain, at the personal command of the Queen. He was ordered to return to custody in his house until Her Majesty made her pleasure known.

Exhausted by these proceedings and still weak from his recent illnesses, he took to his bed again to recover.

“You did well,” I told Bacon.

“I hated doing it,” he said. “It felt like stabbing a blindfolded child.”

“Blindfolded?”

“He couldn't see what was coming,” said Bacon. “He was helpless.”

Now he made me feel ashamed, which was his intention. “It is true, he was in a vulnerable position,” I agreed. “But a child cannot learn until he is humbled. Your friend has shown a stubborn reluctance to learn. Now perhaps, far from being blindfolded, his eyes will be opened.”

“What do you mean to do with him?” he asked bluntly. “That is the only question remaining, and yet it could not be raised.”

“I cannot set him at liberty until I know it is safe to do so. When I can trust him, we shall see.”

“What does he have to do to set your mind at ease?”

“I am not sure, Francis. I will know when I feel it.”

Things quieted down. Life went on, seemingly merrily, in the summer days. There were weddings, boat outings, and garden parties. The hearing at York House had served to discredit Essex with anyone of standing, so he no longer had a party at court, and the squabbling and factionalism that had plagued us dissipated. It was an immense relief, and a rest well earned for me.

In July I released Richard Berkeley from his duties as Essex's keeper, but I still did not allow Essex to leave his house. Gradually I was setting him free.

In late August I lifted the restrictions on his movements. He need no longer be confined to his house. He could go anywhere he liked—but not to court. He was not to set foot at court.