Watch the Lady (20 page)

It was Essex who first brought her the news. They had all been on tenterhooks at court, for they knew Sidney had been injured fighting the Spaniards in the Low Countries, protecting England from the Catholic threat. Everyone talked of his heroism, of how he had removed his leg armor in an act of solidarity with his captain, who had left his back at camp; how he had bravely gone in to rescue a comrade; how a shot had caught his thigh, shattered the bone; how he had offered his drinking cup to a dying man, deeming his need greater. Penelope wondered which stories were true—they all sounded like gestures he might have made. She never for a moment imagined he would not survive. She thought perhaps he might walk with a limp, or a stick, or even lose the leg altogether, but never was he going to die. He was always going to return and continue loving her.

But Essex burst into her chambers unannounced, filthy from the road, wild-eyed like a man who has seen unspeakable things.

“Sidney is dead.” He said it bluntly. There is no way to cushion such news.

“No. You are wrong.” The chamber began to swim and she thought she might fall, but he grabbed her arm and led her to a seat.

“I was there,” he said. “He gave me his best sword, asked that I take care of his wife.”

“His best sword . . . His wife.” She was like a parrot, with no words of her own to speak.

“He gave me this . . . for you.” He pressed a fold of paper into her hand.

“For me . . .”

Rich walked in then. Greeted Essex, seeming delighted to see him, appearing to be completely unaware that his wife was in a trance of shock, her hand gripping at a scrap of parchment. He began to question Essex about the conflict and then said, “I hear Sidney met his end,” flippantly, as if he were talking about someone he didn't know. But then he
didn't
know Sidney. She wanted to ask him why he, who so loathed papism, had not been there fighting for the cause. “Are you ailing?” He turned finally to Penelope, who feared her face was creased with distress. “Not losing the baby, are you?”

She brought her hands to her belly and, taking a sharp inhalation of breath, said, “I am quite well, thank you, husband,” and slipped the letter out of sight.

Essex was striding back and forth on the oak boards, agitated. He had been changed by battle and she knew she had not only lost Sidney, but she had also lost the brazen boy who grinned at her from the deck of the ship, departing to war. She excused herself, pleading exhaustion caused by her condition, and finally, in the privacy of her bedchamber, read the paper, just a scrawled line in a wobbly hand:
Yours 'til the end
.

Essex looked up from the procession now, seeking her in the gallery. Their eyes met; his jaw was rigid as it had been when, as a child, he held back tears. Frances cupped her hand and spoke close to her ear. “It was you he loved. I always knew. He said it to me when we agreed to wed, that his heart belonged to another. I knew it was you, for I read his poems, even the ones he hid from me. He asked if I could accept that.”

Penelope wanted to inquire how she had answered, but couldn't bring herself, and just held the girl more tightly, as they watched the Dutch consignment go by and then the soldiers, weapons down, and another pair of drummers, a lone piper—on and on.

“I did accept it,” Frances added eventually.

“He was never mine in . . .” Penelope couldn't say it.

“In body.” It was Frances who finished her sentence. The girl suddenly seemed so substantial, so calm and stoic beside her, not a featherlight wisp at all. “I know.” It was Penelope who felt as brittle as a dead leaf.

Her mind drifted back to their final farewell. Sidney was so proud to at last have a meaningful commission from the Queen; she had made him Governor of Flushing. He had sought Penelope out to tell her. She hadn't seen him for months—she had been lying-in with Essie, her second girl—but all the old desire gushed to the surface. He was different, more cheerful, and she'd considered that it might have been marriage, or fatherhood, that had done that to him; but it was more likely to have been the long-awaited royal favor. He was knighted at last—she teased him, called him “Sir Philip” with an exaggerated curtsy; he had laughed it off, said it meant nothing, but couldn't quite hide the fact that he was pleased. “The Queen is to stand godmother to my daughter,” he had told her. She wished he hadn't said that, had wanted to pretend he wasn't married with an infant daughter, that he was still entirely hers.

He had tried to see her alone many times since his marriage, had sought to explain himself in letters (he had been obliged to wed, something to do with a promise to the girl's father, she understood; that was the way of things) but she had made an art of repudiating him. After all, neither of them was free. Though she held a possibility in her heart that one day . . . Thinking of it, there at his funeral, shot her through with sorrow. She had relented, just that once, and seen him for that final farewell. Had Jeanne not interrupted them she might have found herself breaking her promise to her husband—was on the very brink of it.

She had never imagined it would take so long for her two boys to arrive. Watching the gloomy parade continue, she wished from the depths of her being that she
had
given herself to Sidney, and she turned her rage inward for wasting all that love. She felt the dregs of her faith in God slipping away. She had often wondered what He was punishing her for by giving her a husband such as Rich and then to deny her a son. She had decided that her daughters signified God's displeasure at her intention to commit adultery, that God was protecting her from sin.

But to cut Sidney down in his prime—it was a ruthless God who would choose to kill Sidney and let Rich live; the idea shocked her, it was a sin too great to contemplate that she might have wished her husband dead. But there it was, a devil clinging onto her with sharpened claws. She could not help thinking that, had she had the courage to defy her own misplaced loyalty to Rich—her own faith in God's plan—that the baby, her third infant, who was shifting in her belly as she watched the mourners from the window, might well have been Sidney's.

If it was God's plan, He was a callous God indeed because that baby was to be her first boy. She may not have borne his child but part of her crumbling self was buried with Sidney, and from that fragment sprouted an understanding that it was she—not God, or her husband, or the Queen, or her misplaced moral code—who would be the agent of her own happiness; she alone who could secure her future. She would forge powerful alliances, secret lines of favor, to ensure that whatever should occur the Devereuxs would be at the sharp end of power. As the final mourners passed and the drumbeat faded she felt herself solidify as if a great force was gathering in her; never again would she leave her fate to God alone.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

Cecil stands for a moment at the window. A gardener is sweeping leaves and another is high up in a tree, coppicing. A branch falls to the ground with a crash. A mizzle starts up and Cecil shivers. The damp at this time of year makes his crooked back ache horribly, and once it has set in it will not leave him until spring. But he is not thinking about the damp and cold; he is thinking, with a frisson of excitement, about Lady Rich and her letter to King James. He has had his eye on Lady Rich and she has been quietly forming allegiances, shoring up her family with powerful friends, for some years now. But with the Scottish King, secret letters of friendship to a foreign monarch and one who has a strong claim to the English throne, has she reached too high? There is room for only a single nexus of power about the Queen. A vista has opened up before him in which he can see the downfall of Essex and that family of his. If only he could have got his hands on one of those letters—hard evidence.

He seeks out his father, finding him in the library. Burghley has nodded off by the fire with his mouth drooping open; a hefty volume must have slid off his lap for it lies spread-eagled on the floor. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes sunken; were it not for the loud snores emanating from him, he might appear dead.

“Father,” he gently strokes Burghley's arm, causing the old man to start out of his sleep, his eyes popping open, his head swiveling in confusion before alighting on his son.

“You startled me. Had I dropped off?”

“You had, Father. Can I bring you something? A little wine?”

“I fancy I
would
like a sip of sweet wine. There is a jug of it on the table.”

Cecil pours out a measure for each of them and pulls up a stool to sit close. They touch cups, their eyes meeting, and simultaneously say, “To we Cecils.” It is a small ritual they have performed for years. The wine is thick and its sweetness comforting.

“You know the Queen intends to award that pup the license for sweet wines when it comes up next year,” says Burghley. They both know exactly whom he means by “that pup.” It has been their private name for Essex ever since he arrived in Burghley's household as a boy, filled to the brim with swagger.

“Sweet wines, that is worth a fortune,” Cecil says.

“Yes, no more ‘poorest earl in all of England.' ”

“A wealthy Essex might prove too great a threat to us.”

Burghley looks at his son's slumped shoulders. “Don't brood on it.” Cecil may have mastered the art of hiding his feelings but his father can see right through him. “With a little fortune she will give him enough rope to hang himself one of these days.”

“I have some news of Essex's sister,” Cecil says.

“What sort of news?”

“From the man I have informing on the Scottish court. Lady Rich has made overtures to King James. Letters of friendship.”

“So the Essex faction are playing their hand early. Rather too early, I fear.” Burghley smiles. “Our beloved Queen has some years in her yet.” Cecil wonders how his father can be so certain, when there have been so many attempts on her life. In the fifteen months since the Spaniards and their Armada were crushed, he has felt their desire for revenge in his bones; his network of informants whispers constantly of it.

“But all the Catholic world wishes her dead.”

“Well then, it is up to us to ensure the papists do not achieve their aim.” Burghley taps the side of his nose. “King James will not be warming her seat just yet. Perhaps never—the fact remains he was not born on English soil . . . and there are others . . .”

“I could have Lady Rich in for questioning.” The thought sends a thrill through him. “Essex must be behind those letters. I can make her implicate him. It is clear they are lining themselves up beside James as successor. That rings of treason. They are building connections.” He is speaking fast, his excitement fizzing in him.

“Of course they are building connections; and they will say it is all for the good of the Queen and England. Don't be so quick to jump. They may have played their hand but this game is a long one. Do not underestimate Lady Rich. You have watched her at court; you have seen how her beauty clouds the fact of her intelligence—
she
will not be so easily manipulated.”

“But we have them.”

“You are letting your personal feelings get away with you. Don't think this is a vendetta; vendettas end only in devastation and we must make sure we Cecils survive—survive and thrive. You have not lived twenty-six years on this earth to be ignorant of that.”

Cecil nods. His father is right—his father is always right.

Burghley continues as if thinking aloud: “Our long-term survival, just as theirs, means putting a wager on the winning cock in the succession: James of Scotland's suit may appear to be the strongest but it may not be the best for
us
,” he begins to count the others on his fingers—“Lord Beauchamp, or his brother; the Stuart girl; even the Spanish Infanta. They all have a claim and, you never know, Essex himself might throw his hat into the ring if his popularity burgeons further.”

“Surely not, Father. Essex is too long a shot.”

“England loves a soldier and Essex has martial skill, teamed with an abundance of charm and a dribble of royal blood. A potent mix, indeed, my boy.” Cecil feels his envy poke at him. “Yes, it's a long shot but don't underestimate him. The English want to think there is someone to lead the armies. The Spanish may have been humiliated but they will be back; all are aware of that. Essex's popularity is founded on his desire to go out and meet the enemy. Makes the English sleep easy in their beds. If only they realized that more can be achieved through intelligence and quiet dealings than bravado, blades, and gunpowder.” Burghley smiles and rubs his hands slowly together.

“Besides, war is expensive.” If Cecil has learned anything in the years he has sat beside his father in council meetings taking notes, it is that the Queen is loath to spend money on anything with an uncertain outcome.

“Watch and wait,” says Burghley. “You have a valuable nugget of information, but that is all it is at this stage. Watch the lady; watch and wait.” Cecil is reminded of being fleeced by a card trickster once, who had said the very same thing—
watch the lady
. He lost all the gold buttons from his doublet. That was a lesson learned. “Essex is young and foolish and may yet be the author of his own downfall, and he'll drag his family down with him.” Burghley pauses, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “Water hollows a stone, not by force but by falling often.”