“Then why have you turned against me?”
Francis Bacon was silenced by the question, the truth of which he could no longer deny. Finally he spoke. “Why? Because you refuse to listen to me, Robert. My best advice is altogether lost on you. I clearly warned you to deal gently with the queen. To downplay your popularity, which makes her jealous. And to curb your military zeal. Yet you flounce indignantly from Court at the smallest perceived slight. You blatantly court public affection, and you have accepted not one but
two
of the highest military titles in the land.”
“Look, I really must go,” said Essex, turning to continue on to the castle ’s north entrance. “I’ve a Council meeting to attend, and I’m already late.”
Bacon caught up with Essex, curiosity overcoming his indignation at the brush-off. “Are you discussing Ireland?” he asked.
“Is there much else the Council discusses these days?”
“I’ve told you I think that throwing yourself wholeheartedly into the
‘Irish question’ behooves you politically. Your father made his mark there, and there is nothing more important to the state just now. Whoever triumphs in Ireland will be forever bathed in glory as well as Her Majesty’s favor. ’Tis shocking to admit, but even Spain is eclipsed by the damned Irish Rebellion. Will you discuss Lord Burgh’s replacement?” Bacon persisted.
“Is there
anything
goes on at Court that you do not know about?”
“Very little.”
“Then you must know I’m putting George Carew forward for the post.”
“For Lord Deputy of Ireland?” Bacon was incredulous.
Essex smiled, pleased he had managed to surprise.
“What better way to rid myself of an enemy?” said Essex. “Send him to the hellhole that eats men alive, and let the Devil take him.”
“But Carew is Robert Cecil’s dearest friend,” Bacon argued. “Your motives will be utterly transparent. You’ll look a fool, Robert.”
“You’re growing very tiresome, Francis. I really have had enough of your advice.” Essex picked up his pace and lengthened his stride, leaving Bacon behind.
Francis Bacon stood and watched the Earl of Essex disappear into Whitehall Palace and sighed deeply. His patron, his friend was walking straight into trouble—trouble of the deadliest nature. And there was not a thing in the world he could do to prevent the coming disaster.
B
Y GOD, his head hurt!
It was throbbing, pounding in his ears. Essex wished desperately to just sit down, but Elizabeth, next to him at the head of the Council table, was standing, as she often did these days, refusing to be seated while she conducted the affairs of state, sometimes for hours on end. And of course her Privy Councilors—except for old Burleigh, who looked too frail even to be alive—were not permitted to sit in the queen’s presence. Essex’s stomach began churning and he was gripped by the fear that his bowels might suddenly turn to water right here in the Privy Council Chamber. Indeed, this rumbling and nausea had ceased only occasionally since his excruciating
Guaiacum
treatment.
And his physical ills had been exacerbated by the litany of affronts and injuries that Elizabeth had already directed at him this morning. She could sense his weakness—he was sure of it—and seemed determined to push him to the edge, force him to strike out at her publicly so that she could justifiably rebuke him. Crush him. Indeed, “pull down his great heart.”
And Burleigh, sitting at Elizabeth’s left hand, had had a go at him as well. When Essex suggested that England needed once and for all to bring Spain to her knees with an all-out military effort, the elder Cecil had insisted that
negotiations
were the preferable road to peace. The old buzzard had fairly trembled with indignation, accusing the earl of seeking war, slaughter and bloodshed, even more than Spain did. He ’d gone so far as to lay open the Bible that sat on the table before him—Essex wondered if the whole performance had been planned—and read aloud from Psalm 55. “ ‘Bloodthirsty and deceitful men shall not live out half their days’!” Burleigh shouted out like a Puritan minister. Using all his restraint to keep from reaching across the table and throttling the old man where he sat, Essex had skewered Burleigh with his eyes.
“How dare you accuse me of loving war? It has taken my health, stolen the lives of my brother and many dear friends, subjected my person to the rage of seas, plagues, famines, and all manner of terror and violence. Of course peace is preferable to war,” Essex had continued, holding the eye of one Privy councilor after another, “especially for a trading nation like England. But I strongly object to these ‘peace negotiations,’ for they
will bring no peace
! Can you not see that the Spaniard has no interest in peace? These talks would only give them time and advantage—breathing space to lay their plans and rebuild their forces.
They
cannot be trusted!
”
Essex was sure he ’d spoken wisely and well, but all at the table just stared at him with stupid, blank expressions, as though they had forgotten King Philip’s rabid obsession with turning the whole world Catholic.
Forgotten the Armada of ’88. Forgotten Cadiz. The Council had turned against him, he suddenly realized.
Robert Cecil must be poisoning their
minds. That was the only possible explanation.
Now the report from Ireland was dragging on incessantly, and Thomas Windbank’s monotone was trying more than Essex’s patience.
Burleigh’s eyelids were decidedly heavy, though Robert Cecil, standing next to his father, nudged him discreetly when the elder Cecil seemed in danger of nodding off. The councilors had so far learned that the Munster Plantations were thriving and relatively calm, despite the fulminat-ing uproar in the north and west of Ireland. Tom of Ormond was, of course, still loyal to the Crown and holding his territories around Dublin and the Pale against any rebel incursions. In Connaught, Richard Bingham’s replacement, Conyers Clifford, was having some limited success, and Bingham himself was imprisoned in the Fleet. He had apparently been as despised by his fellow governors as he had by the Irish, and was serving time for extortion and corruption.
Essex had come to attention at the mention of Bingham and turned his eyes to the queen, trying to discern a reaction to the name. The “Flail of Connaught” had finally been removed from his post, as she had promised Grace O’Malley he would be, but it had taken five years. But there was no reaction in Elizabeth’s expression, which remained hard, the eyes lizardlike.
Red Hugh O’Donnell, who’d made a daring escape from Dublin Prison was now leading a fierce rebel force in Ulster. He was moving down across his southwest border into Connaught, where Tibbot Burke—leading the better part of the Burke clan—was resisting him.
Again Essex detected no visible response in the queen at the mention of Grace O’Malley’s son.
High Admiral Howard, at Essex’s right, interrupted Windbank’s report. “There is a rumor abroad that the Earl of Tyrone was complicit in his son-in-law’s escape from Dublin Prison.”
“The Earl of Tyrone is loyal to the Crown!” It was Burleigh who’d piped up, clearly less somnambulant than he appeared.
“We cannot ignore Tyrone ’s many local incursions,” said Howard.
“Especially his attack on the fort at the Blackwater River. That is England’s primary stronghold in northern Ireland.”
“Tyrone always submits afterward and asks for pardon,” Burleigh argued.
“But his truces never hold for long.” Howard was more than a little skeptical. “Indeed, a list of those broken truces is piling up rather quickly,” he said. “I have also heard tell that our lord of Tyrone is raising a proper army, having Spanish arms delivered to him by the pirate woman O’Malley.”
“Even if he has raised an army,” Essex interjected, “we have no need to fear it. Many of the regiments we ’re sending into Ireland have been brilliantly trained in the Netherlands war. The Irish are not
soldiers
.
They’re ragged rebels.” The truth was, Essex had so far failed to immerse himself in the details of Elizabeth’s Irish wars, and was still only half educated about them.
“I agree that any rebel army that might be raised would be of no consequence,” Admiral Howard agreed, “though I should point out that while the Netherlands contingents are good soldiers, the bulk of the men mustered from the English countryside are for the most part vagrants, convicts, and younger sons of younger brothers.” The admiral turned and spoke directly to the queen. “But all of this misses the point, Your Majesty. We are arguing the Earl of Tyrone ’s
loyalty
to England. And I have heard a further rumor, one that greatly disturbs me. I have heard that in a sacred ceremony in the midst of a field at Tullahogue, Tyrone sat himself on the ancient rock throne and received the title of “The O’Neill.”
“That would indeed be a great betrayal of our trust,” said Elizabeth,
“
if
proved to be true. He has sworn to eschew all Gaelic titles, especially one that would elevate him so greatly.”
“If Tyrone has accepted the O’Neillship,” mused Howard, “he might as well be crowned the King of Ireland.”
“I tell you he is loyal!” cried Burleigh, slapping his hand on the Bible before him. “He loves England. He appreciates the many favors she has bestowed upon him, from childhood onward. He may be forced to pretend allegiance to the place of his birth, foment small rebellions here and there, even assist in the escape of his son-in-law. But like our dear cousin, Tom of Ormond, he knows his duty. More, he craves that which is English. How else do you explain his marriage to Mabel Bagenal?”
“A beautiful girl half his age? Very easily,” Lord Windbank said with a smirk.
“No,” insisted Burleigh. “He had the choice of any of his country-women, even young enough to be his granddaughter. But he pursued and married Mabel to bring the flavor of England into his household, as well as to prove his loyalty to us.”
“Her family does not see it precisely that way, my lord,” said Essex.
“They say she was raped and abducted by Tyrone.”
“Nonsense!” cried Burleigh. “Utter nonsense!” Robert Cecil spoke now. “My father so believes in Tyrone ’s integrity that he has made him and his bride a handsome wedding gift.”
“What have you sent my lord Tyrone?” asked the queen, placing a gentle hand on Burleigh’s own gnarled one. Her indulgence toward the feeble old man seemed almost desperate.
“Tyrone wrote that he was building a proper English castle to house his new wife,” Burleigh answered, “and it required a proper lead roof. I am sending him a shipment of the materials he requested.”
“Will you send him my best wishes on his marriage, my lord?” Elizabeth fairly crooned, gracing Burleigh with her warmest smile.
Essex felt blood rising in his cheeks, and before he realized it he had blurted out, “With the state of the world as it is, can we afford to stand here discussing bloody wedding gifts?”
“And what would you have us next discuss, my lord Essex?” The queen’s voice had grown quite cold again.
“Thomas Burgh, Lord Deputy of Ireland, a man who—through his honesty and industriousness—might well have brought an end to the conflict in Ireland, has died,” said Essex. “A replacement is needed, and needed quickly. I propose George Carew for the post.” There was an uncomfortable silence all round.
Francis Bacon had been right,
thought Essex.
They all saw through his devious reasoning.
“Curious. Very curious,” said Robert Cecil, putting into words the thoughts of every person in the Council chamber. “Your stepfather, Lord Leicester, did precisely the same thing twenty-two years ago. He named his enemy—your father—Lord Deputy of Ireland, just to be rid of him. George Carew is my friend. I think you wish him ill, to send him to Ireland to conveniently die as your father did.”
“I object, Your Majesty!” Essex cried, but his righteous indignation fooled no one.
“
I
propose”—Elizabeth’s brittle voice interposed itself between her two squabbling councilors—“William Knollys for the post. Your uncle, Robert.”
Essex felt his blood beginning to boil. He thought he might jump out of his skin and he silently cursed the pox, cursed the treatment, cursed Burleigh and Cecil, and even, God help him, Elizabeth and her contemptuous jibes.
“I name George Carew for his supreme levelheadedness and administrative genius.” Essex spoke directly to the queen, with cold fierceness.
“Lord Knollys is older and wiser.” The statement spoken with even-ness and calm closed the argument like a book being slammed shut.
But Essex was seething. All of her insults, blame for the loss of the merchant fleet at Cadiz, her methodical persecution of his friends. All undeserved. He had loved her, shown nothing but loyalty, intrepidness, and bravery.
“Lord Knollys is half as competent as Carew!” he shouted. “Half as intelligent!”
Elizabeth stiffened at his raised voice, and when she spoke it seemed the blood had frozen in her veins. “You, my lord Essex, are a
ridiculous
man.” Essex’s eyes stung with unexpected tears, and a lump in his throat muted any possible response to the appalling insult. He turned on his heel with the intent of going, but found himself clutching the back of his chair, for his knees were threatening collapse.
“You dare turn your back on your queen!” he heard her shriek.
In the next moment, Essex’s head exploded in pain. Elizabeth had lashed out and boxed his ear!
“Go and get hanged!” she cried.
When he wheeled round in fury, he was unaware that his hand had clapped instinctively over his sword hilt. But the gesture—threatening and treasonous—had been observed by everyone in the room.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in very real terror and she stepped back.
Howard leapt at Essex, clamping his hand round Essex’s sword arm, restraining any further movement. But there was no struggle in him.
He ’d never intended a physical assault, but his pent-up fury vomited freely from his mouth.
“This is an outrage, an
outrage!
” he shouted in Elizabeth’s face.
“Why should an heir of the most ancient aristocracy of England bow down to the descendant of some Welsh bishop’s butler?” He was hardly aware of the shocked gasps all round him, for he was not finished. “I would not endure such vile treatment from any man,” Essex snarled.