Watch the Lady (34 page)

He turns his mind back to the earl now, picturing him mounting the scaffold. There he would be in his finery, for the last time. He would make his speech, asking God and the Queen for forgiveness in the usual way. His man would remove his outer clothing, leaving him in his fine linen shirt, the shape of his body visible beneath: a perfect specimen of manhood. The gathering would be silent until a lone voice will shout “Traitor!” and the crowd will erupt, jeering and screeching, baying for blood.

The blindfold will be tied then and he will kneel. The executioner will make the signal and with a steely flash it will be done. His head will drop, with a dead thud, to the boards, blood spurting from the stump, blood everywhere, all over that snowy linen shirt, all over the faces of those at the front of the crowd. Cecil can feel it—a warm splat against his own cheek. Then the executioner will grab a fistful of those gorgeous raven curls, hold the head up to a raucous cheer, and those star-bright eyes will be extinguished.

The setting sun, and music at the close,

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,

Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

William Shakespeare,
Richard II
, Act II, Scene 1

Cecil screws up a pamphlet, tossing it towards the corner with force, emitting a groan of frustration. It is another panegyric to Essex.

“England's great hope,” he mutters, quoting the pamphlet as he leaves his rooms, making his way to the council chamber. His ire simmers. He had been angry when it was decided that Essex would lead the army to Cadiz and angrier still when the man covered himself with glory, destroyed the Spanish fleet, occupied the city. Cecil had to listen to everyone, down to the boy who lays his fires, talk of “Essex's finest hour.” From his window at Burghley House he had watched the swarms come out into the streets to cheer the return of the conquering hero—hadn't seen a crowd such as that since Sidney's funeral nearly a decade before. The chant of
Ess-ex
,
Ess-ex
,
Ess-ex
rings on in his head. The alehouses are still full of stories about the earl's great triumph, how a second Armada had been dispersed and England saved from Spanish jaws. That was two years ago, though the pamphlets continue to appear with regularity and Essex's popularity burgeons unimpeded.

Cecil had believed the book would bring the earl down, had been entirely convinced of it, had imagined the charge of treason, the death warrant that the Queen was going to sign with a pen handed to her by him, Cecil—then that perfect head struck from its shoulders and left on a pike for the seagulls to peck at. But it was a mere matter of months before the Queen relented. He got on his knees as usual, tilted that pretty face up to hers, and convinced her of his innocence. “Someone seeks to blacken my name, Dearest Majesty. I had no knowledge of this”—he thwacked the book hard with his fingers—“this monstrous treason, this filthy Catholic plot.” He was probably telling the truth, Cecil begrudgingly supposed.

Cecil had been charged with hunting down the author, and the earl had been sent away for a spell in charge of the Northern Council, which seemed more privilege than punishment, though Essex railed at “being sent away from my Queen's glorious person' and had to be teased from a sulk of monstrous proportions. He had been forgiven, as he always was. Cecil's disappointment was eating away at him, hollowing him out. He had thought he would see Essex go in a torrent of blood. His father had, as ever, been right: patience, patience, drip, drip, drip.

For Cecil has noticed, over recent months, that the Queen's infatuation with her favorite is beginning to erode. The effect is subtle but nonetheless apparent. Things have never been quite as they were before that book came to light and, besides, the Queen is tiring of the earl's warmongering with Spain now the immediate threat has receded. War is expensive and she has the mind for peace. But something else quite unanticipated is afoot: instead of his popular esteem working in Essex's favor, Cecil can sense that the Queen doesn't like it; they are
her
people, after all, and it doesn't do if they cheer more loudly for the earl than for their Queen. The man's popularity is poisoning his favor with her, like a corpse in a well.

Cecil has come to understand that the Queen likes
him
all the more for the fact that he is generally loathed—drip, drip, drip—and his long-awaited appointment as Secretary of State is testimony to that.

“You are late, Secretary,” the Queen says as he scurries into the council chamber. “I trust you have a good excuse.”

“I do, Your Majesty.” He is on his knee, looking at the floor. It has not been properly swept and there is dust collecting in the corners. He has to resist brushing off the edges of his gown where it might have gathered as he knelt.

“Well?” she says.

“I think it is a matter Your Majesty would prefer to hear in confidence.”

Essex, who is sitting slouched back in his chair beside her, huffs loudly. There is an air of louche dishevelment about him that lacks respect, as if the usual formalities do not include him. Cecil takes his seat amongst the privy councillors between his father and George Carew, who nods and smiles at him—Carew is proving a useful ally.

“At least let us know to what it pertains,” drawls Essex.

“Indeed,” agrees the Queen.

“It is regarding My Lord of Southampton.” He looks at her now. The paint on her face, rather than hide her age, increases it, and he has a memory of how she used to be, so vibrant, filled with verve and resilience, which has faded to a disarming frailty. He calculates her years, coming to the number sixty-four, and a sense of urgency grips him with the thought of what might happen when she passes. There will be bloodshed in the scramble for her throne; of that there is no doubt. He wonders if he is sufficiently shored up yet with supporters to survive such events.

“I sent him away,” says the Queen. “He's not been so tiresome as to get himself killed, has he? I should not like that; despite his misdemeanors, I liked the boy.” Essex is looking uncomfortable, thrumming his fingers on the table. Something seems to dawn on the Queen's face. “I sincerely hope he hasn't married my maid”—she flicks a vicious look towards Essex—“your cousin, Lizzie Vernon. Now that
would
be foolish.”

Cecil nods. “I am afraid so, Your Majesty.” He does not add that the couple wed at Essex House with the help of the earl and his sister, nor that the bride was already great with child when she made her vows. The Queen will discover all this soon enough, but he is enjoying watching Essex's discomfort. Essex is not stupid enough to jump to his friend's defense, however.

“Shame you seem always to be the bearer of bad news, Pygmy.” Cecil flinches inwardly at the reprised pet name. She had not used it since he was made Secretary of State and he feels it renders him a figure of fun rather than a statesman. “Have it dealt with.” Not a flicker of emotion registers on her face. “There are more pressing things afoot,” she continues, sweeping a hand from left to right, as if to indicate that the topic is dismissed for the time being. “Ireland! There is the question of whom we shall appoint as Lord Deputy. We were thinking of our nephew, Sir William Knollys.”

Cecil watches Essex swap a brief look and a minute shake of the head with Knollys, whose expression is unreadable. Cecil had planted this idea in the Queen's head a few weeks ago and is glad to see it coming to fruition. Essex's influential uncle far from court: drip, drip, drip. He glances at Burghley, seeing rather than the usual half smile he wears when things are going the preferred way, that his forehead is clammy with sweat and his breathing is labored. He indicates to one of the pages to pour a drink and places it carefully in his father's hand. Burghley swallows it back with a grimace as if in agony and the Queen stretches out her long fingers, placing them on his sleeve—a gesture of fondness. She cannot be unaware of the cruelty in insisting on his continued presence at court, though he is approaching eighty and ought to be enjoying his dotage. She strokes his arm as one might a beloved pet.

Essex seems oblivious to this subtle, silent communication. “Knollys would be better used here, Highness,” he says loudly.

“We think him well suited to the Irish position.” The Queen's reply is firm and Cecil notes that she is not using the usual “I” for her sometime favorite. Her hand lingers still on Burghley's arm.

“Spain is fast encroaching on Ireland and we need a firm rule there. Knollys is of a more diplomatic than martial disposition,” says Essex.

“I do not believe the Spanish threat on the Irish front to be as great a threat as the esteemed earl deems it,” says Cecil, trying to keep his tone even and absent of sarcasm. He is encouraged when the Queen looks towards him for reassurance. “It is likely based on rumor, madam. None of my own sources has come up with anything tangible.” He notices the Queen relax a little, her shoulders lowering beneath her ruff.

“Perhaps your sources are not earning their keep, Secretary,” sneers the earl.

“You think too much of blood and slaughter, my lord,” says Burghley, looking calmly towards Essex. Cecil can hear the wheeze in his chest. “You are familiar, I suppose, with the fifty-fifth psalm:
The bloody and deceitful men shall not live half their days
.”

“You mean what exactly by that, my lord?” snaps Essex.

The councillors look back and forth as if watching a game of tennis.

“My father means,” says Cecil, “that life is short for he who would fight first and speak later.”

Essex's eyes flash cold and he opens his mouth but then seems to quash his retort, waiting a moment before speaking. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Enough!” barks the Queen.

But Essex seems to have his blood up. “I nominate George Carew for the Irish position. Who stands with me?” The Queen's mouth is tightening into an angry knot. Cecil feels Carew shift nervously beside him.

“We were not aware that we asked for your opinion, Essex.” The Queen's voice is magnificent, imperious, would stop any man in its tracks—any man but Essex, apparently.

“Carew has martial experience. You served me well in Cadiz, didn't you?” Carew makes a vague awkward nod in the earl's direction. “Well enough for me to knight him.” Essex has turned back to the Queen, who is rigid-faced.

It is probably not wise of the earl, thinks Cecil, to remind her of his liberal bestowal of knighthoods. But Essex is losing his reason. Cecil looks round the table to see whom he can count on to take his part in this—his father-in-law, Lord Cobham, is one; he assesses the others, making a tally in his head, wondering about Ralegh, sitting opposite, stroking his beard—the man is infuriatingly opaque.

“Carew is
your
man, now, is he, Essex?” The Queen's sarcasm is sharp; the entire council are aware that Carew is Cecil's man.

“Carew is trustworthy,” says Essex, thrusting his chin in the air.

“Are you saying Knollys is not?” The Queen is playing with him now, like a cat with a ball of wool, and Essex is becoming unraveled.

“They both have many fine qualities.” This is Nottingham, the Lord High Admiral, with one foot in each stall as usual.

“Knollys is better suited to the Irish job.” The Queen slaps her palm to the table, as if to indicate that the issue is decided.

Ralegh is smirking.

“You are
wrong
,” the earl blurts, almost at a shout.

There is a collective sharp intake of breath and the whole company is suspended, awaiting the Queen's response.

“You need some of that insolence knocked out of you.” She has turned to Essex and pulled back a fisted hand. A rosy stain moves over her pale skin, visible even beneath the white paint, betraying her fury.

He looks her straight in the eye. “I am not some small boy to have his ears boxed by his mother,” he says, before standing, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and turning his back to her.

The Queen is out of her seat in an instant, her fist flying to meet the side of Essex's head, spitting the words, “Brazen varlet!”

With the quick reflex of a soldier, Essex brings his hand to the hilt of his sword. The company gasps as one. The Lord High Admiral jumps up and grabs the earl from behind, pulling him away, and the Queen settles back in her seat quite calmly, as if nothing has happened. “Get rid of him!”

They all wait a moment, expecting her to add, “Lock him up!” For if threatening to draw your sword on the Queen is not high treason, then Cecil doesn't know what is. But she says nothing and the Admiral sets about unbuckling Essex's sword belt.

The earl struggles, complaining angrily about the affront to his dignity, how he will not put up with such a thing. The offending sword is flung aside, landing near to Cecil, close enough for him to see the Sidney insignia on its pommel. He had forgotten that Sidney bequeathed Essex his best sword, as if to hand him the role of chivalric knight to England—so much for that. The Admiral manages to hustle the earl to the door. “For God's sake, man, pull yourself together.”

Cecil shuffles his papers, not daring to look up for fear that his triumph is smeared over his face. As the earl is pushed over the threshold, he turns back and shouts at the Queen, “You are as crooked in your disposition as you are in your carcass,” before the door is slammed behind him. The council look round at each other. The Queen is God's envoy on earth and it clearly shocks them profoundly to a man, seeing her treated like some kind of quarrelsome fishwife. Cecil dares a glance in his father's direction and can see the faint suggestion of a smile on him. Drip, drip, drip.