Watch the Lady (48 page)

Cecil scrutinizes the boy in the vain hope that his expression might reveal something of the spirit in which the summons was made, but his face is as bland as a turnip. He can hear the muffled hubbub of people leaving the chapel below and feels a pulse racing in the soft part of his neck, where it meets his throat—the place one of his henchmen pointed out once where, if you press firmly enough and in the correct manner, you can kill a man.

He turns to Buckhurst: “I must take my leave. Her Majesty mustn't be kept waiting.” He is surprised there is no tremor in his voice and, collecting up a stack of papers from his desk, he leaves the chamber, indicating that the two pages should accompany him.

They make their way to the Queen's rooms. It is dark and cool in the back corridors where the only windows are small and set high up, so when they arrive in the long gallery it takes a moment for Cecil to adjust to the brightness burning through the vast casements, heating the place like a furnace and throwing sheets of light over the floors. Someone has recently strewn fresh lavender with rosemary, and the smell, churned up by the milling throng of people, along with the intensity of the heat and light, assaults his senses. He is admitted without delay, though he would have welcomed a moment to collect his thoughts.

The Queen is seated and has several of her women close by; another group sit in a window seat, poring over what appears to be a book of images, and a few courtiers mill about. There is a fire burning in the great hearth in spite of the summer heat, though it is true these rooms face north, unlike the long gallery. She smiles broadly, saying, “Pygmy, you look as if you have bad news. I sincerely hope you have not.”

Cecil, realizing only then that he must be wearing all his fears on his face, manages a smile in return, bows, and then straightens himself as much as it is possible, standing at his fullest height before her. “No, no, Your Majesty. There is only good news. Lord Mountjoy is having great success at quelling the rebels in Ireland.” He proffers a paper from his sheaf: a letter from Blount telling of the progress he has made. “He has established fortresses in Derry and Newry in the north and Munster has been brought under control.”

“Perhaps I should have sent
him
there at the outset.” She takes the paper and, holding her magnifier over it, scans the text briefly. “He seems to know exactly what he is doing.” Then she turns to one of her women. “Talking of letters, have you got Lady Rich's . . . the one Buckhurst delivered before chapel.”

Cecil feels his legs might collapse beneath him. She has called him in to explain himself here before everybody. His chest is tight as he watches the woman produce the letter. He recognizes Lady Rich's hand; he has intercepted enough of her letters over the years to be familiar with her untidy scrawl. But he notices, too, that it is unopened. So the Queen's smile and warm greeting were genuine. His mind flaps about like a doomed capon. Perhaps he could offer to take the letter off her hands:
Your Majesty needn't bother with such things. Let me see to it for you
. But he knows she would easily discern his purpose; why would he seek to relieve her of a private missive from her goddaughter? He fears he might vomit all over the polished oak floor, all over the carefully plaited rush matting, all over the Queen's embroidered buckskin slippers. The smile on his face feels wrought from granite and he keeps his eyes steady by focusing on those pretty shoes.

“What other matters concern us?” she asks.

The letter sits in her hand as he runs through the business of state—the poor harvest, the dearth of corn, the prisoner (the author of the history of Henry IV) who still festers in the Tower—astonished he is able to do this.

“And there is the question of the sweet wines license, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, that!' She sinks her chin onto her hand. “I would rather ignore that for the moment.”

She lifts Lady Rich's letter, looking confused for an instant, as if she had forgotten it was there. Cecil cannot bear to watch but nor can he drag his eyes away. The seal breaks with a little crack and she unfolds the paper, reaching for her magnifier once more. He scrutinizes her while she reads, for clues as to the contents, but her face is a mask, entirely opaque. When she is done, she directs a look his way so icy it sends a shiver through him despite the sweat that is flowering in his armpits. He is thinking of ways he can discover what is written there, so he can at least arm himself for the possible eventualities that he is trying not to think about. There are a couple of the Queen's women who will do his bidding in return for a favor.

“Have Lady Rich informed that she is free to go where she pleases and may return to court if she so wishes.” Her voice is glacial and she balls the paper tightly before lobbing it into the hearth—a direct hit—where it flares up brightly until it exists no more.

Chartley appears bleak and abandoned on its hilltop, surrounded by naked trees, and its windows are blank like the eyes of a sightless man. A farmer is herding a large flock of geese across the way and Penelope, who has ridden ahead with Alfred, has to wait for them to waddle by at an interminable pace. Little do the poor creatures know they are destined for the Epiphany table. She unpeels her gloves and rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm them up but her nails ache painfully where the cold has got beneath them, and she tries to imagine herself beside a blazing hearth in the great chamber.

Alfred calls out to the farmer to get a move on. They must have waited awhile for that condemned army to pass because she can now hear the rumble of the luggage cart heralding the arrival of the rest of their party. Lizzie Vernon is laughing at something, the geese perhaps, but Penelope doesn't wait to find out what the joke is. She urges Gambit on to a canter and then, once in the expanse of the pasture, speeds up into a gallop until there is nothing in her mind but the wind and the rhythmic thrum of hooves against hard January ground. The burden of worry that has been pressing down on her for months has intensified on this approach to Chartley, where her brother has holed himself away. She has never seen an ostrich, there is not one in the menagerie at the Tower, but she has worn their plumes and seen drawings of them. It is said that they are tall as horses and as swift and that they bury their heads rather than face danger. She might say Essex resembled such a creature.

As she nears she can see her mother's dog scampering about the knot garden and young Robert calling to him from the courtyard. Lettice must have arrived from Drayton Bassett yesterday. They had all planned to come here to prise Essex out of his torpor, but as she nears the house Penelope feels increasingly filled with dread of her mission. She would love to leave her brother to his perpetual rustication but the truth is he cannot afford to retire to the country. His creditors have been knocking the doors of Essex House down day and night and Penelope fears they will not be kept at bay for much longer. She has teased a sum out of her husband but even Rich's wealth will go no way to solving this deficit. Besides, Rich seems to be a little less well disposed towards her brother since his fall from favor.

Robert sees them approach and waves, calling out a greeting; he looks taller, gangly, as if his limbs have grown too fast for his body. She thinks of her own boys back at Leighs. Hoby is thirteen now, on the brink of adulthood, and will soon be off to university. It strikes her with a pang of sadness that her girls will be wed before long. She has just turned thirty-eight and feels old, wonders where all those years have gone, drowned in the river of time. She returns Robert's wave; as he runs towards her he is transformed into her dead brother, Wat, and time has folded back on itself. Sidney is there, waiting in the orchard for her, just visible beyond the bare trees, and she is there with him, her younger self, sitting beneath that summer tree in his arms, as he whispers lines of heartbreakingly beautiful poetry in her ear. The memory is too much to bear and she forces it away, pushing her horse on and into the stable yard, where the grooms are forming a hasty line to greet her.

She comes to a halt beside the mounting block and is helped down by one of them, who says, “Goodness, my lady, your hands are like ice.”

She must have forgotten to replace her gloves at the top of the hill. She imagines them lying discarded in the cold mud and hopes they will be found by someone requiring a little warmth. There are plenty in need: they passed endless groups of pitiful souls begging a penny or a crust along the way. Another bad harvest and heaven alone knows what will become of them. At least there will be the leftovers of those Epiphany geese.

One of her brother's pages approaches, proffering a letter. It is from Ireland. Blount tells of the wild beauty, of the winter landscape and the quality of the livestock, sparing her the bloody details of his campaign, saying only he is gaining ground. But she knows well enough the danger of such an operation, the constant death and horror. He feels her presence close by, he says:
I am the wandering arm of a compass and you its still point
. That makes her sick with longing.
Victor is friendly
, he adds, hidden in a paragraph where he describes his favorite horses. Victor is her old code name for James of Scotland and, reading between the lines, she infers that James intends to send the Earl of Mar to court, to discuss the future. She feels a small flurry of hope; he will take her brother's part—all the more reason to get Essex back to the capital.

She tucks the letter inside her gown, already forming her reply in her head as she enters the house. How will she tell him that her brother is now in a slough of despond so deep she fears he will never find a path out of it? And how to describe the urgent press of Essex's disaffected supporters, who are waiting in the shadows for their champion to emerge and face down his enemies. She must tell him too that they have failed to find any hard evidence to bring Cecil down—how they had hoped that Anthony Bacon would produce something tangible out of his “possible lead.” But it had all turned out to be little more than rumor and supposition.

Her mind twists and turns on the various ways of encoding all that information, hiding it within a simple message of affection, as she stops a moment at the portrait of her father. There he is, still young and vibrant, armor gleaming, even behind the film of dust, as if he had never died in Ireland. That is a cursed place. It cost her a father and perhaps a brother; she cannot bear to think of what it might do to Blount. All she wants truly is to express her sentiments for him in her letter, to make him feel he is loved, to set the business of politics aside.

Lettice is in the great chamber. She looks old and afraid. Penelope has never seen her mother look afraid before.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” says Lettice, by way of a greeting. “Look, your habit is torn and you are covered in mud. I don't know why you didn't take the carriage.”

Penelope doesn't try to explain that she likes the feeling of her horse beneath her, the wind in her face, that it makes her feel alive. “I am glad to see you too, Mother.”

“I'm sorry, my sweet!” Lettice says then. “I have been beside myself with worry. I'm sorry.” She takes Penelope's hands and rubs them between hers. “Come, you are cold, there is a fire in my privy chamber.” Lettice leads the way along the corridor to her own rooms.

“Where is Robin?”

“Abed. He hasn't risen for three days. He will not even look my way, let alone speak to me. I'm not sure it was such a good idea to bring young Robert with me. I should have left him at Eton. I thought it might cheer your brother up to see his boy so well.” The words are pouring out of her.

“I wasn't aware it was quite this bad. How long has he been like this?”

“Meyrick says he has been in and out of this state since he was definitively denied the sweet wines license.”

“Since October! That is nearly three months. Why on earth didn't Meyrick tell us?”

“Your brother forbade him—didn't want to be seen in such a state.”

Penelope turns to the door. “I will go to him now.”

“Wait awhile; warm up, Penelope. You catching a chill will do no one any good.” Her mother tugs at the sleeve of her riding habit. “At least take this off and put on something of mine until your luggage arrives.” But Penelope has pulled herself free from her mother's grasp and is pacing fast to the other end of the house.

Meyrick is in the antechamber playing cards with a couple of fellows she thinks she has seen once or twice about Essex House. He heaves his bulk up to stand, smiling; his freckled face is creased and his marmalade beard is strung with grey. He introduces the men—Henry Cuffe and Ferdinando Gorges—who take her hand, each in his turn. Cuffe has a nondescript face save for a slight underbite and bad teeth, but Gorges must send the maids' hearts aflutter with his conker-brown hair and penetrating eyes, a little close-set, which only adds to the intensity of his gaze.

“Did you serve with Essex in Ireland?” she asks.

Meyrick interrupts them: “I am afraid the earl is unwell. He needs to rest and has insisted I allow him no visitors.”

“He wouldn't mean me,” she says, walking briskly past him and into the bedchamber beyond.

The heavy curtains are all drawn tight, allowing barely a chink of light to breach the gloom, but a fire burns vigorously in the hearth, making the chamber stuffy and airless. Essex's hound unfolds itself and wanders her way, waving its tail halfheartedly, then stands before her with a mournful expression. He rubs his head against her skirts, pressing a wet nose into her hand, as if he's been starved of affection.

She pulls back the hangings that obscure the window, allowing in a stream of thin winter light, and stands for a moment looking out at the derelict fortifications of the old castle, remembering their childhood games. There is condensation on the glass, which she wipes away with her sleeve to better see the view. Robert runs across her line of sight and she hears Lettice calling him to come in before it rains. There are heavy clouds looming and she hopes the luggage cart will arrive before the heavens open.