Watch the Lady (49 page)

“Go away—leave me alone.” Her brother's voice emanates from behind the tightly drawn bed-curtains.

“It is I, Robin.”

“Sis?”

She swipes the drapes aside to find him half propped up on an elbow, blinking like a mole and shading his eyes with his forearm. He appears sallow and has dark rings beneath his eyes that make him look as if he has suffered a beating. She climbs up onto the bed, shuffling herself over to sit beside him.

“Thank God it is you, I thought it was that rabble out there come to hustle me into action. My dearest Sis.” He looks at her with lifeless eyes. “You have to help me.”

“That is why I am here.”

“I cannot sleep for the terrible dreams and I am in the grip of this . . .” He stops. His breath is slightly wheezy. She notices the dark leather pouch she had returned to him on his release discarded amongst the blankets and picks it up. “I fear I am losing my mind.”

“I hear that the Queen has not answered any of your letters.”

“I am an outcast, Sis.” He says this with all the drama of a player performing one of the great tragedies.

“Come on, Robin. You need to collect yourself.”

“Not you too—you're as bad as that bloody trio of ghouls out there.” He waves a limp hand in the direction of the door. “Push, push; do this, do that; plotting my comeback. Henry Cuffe would have me on the throne if he had his way.”

“Well, Cuffe will not have his way,” she says, taking on the bossy tone of the older sister.

“They do it for themselves, not for me. I'm tired, Sis. I don't think I have it in me anymore. There is nothing left, I am empty as my purse. And as for this.” He takes the pouch from her hand. “I had such high hopes to see King James named as successor, England's future secured. I truly believed it was best for all. I used to be able to see it clearly. Now I can see nothing. If only I could sleep.”

“I have not come here to push you into anything. I have come to help you.”

“I'm beyond help—just want to sleep.”

She wants to shake some of his self-pity out of him, but it is more than that—his misery is indelible. “You cannot hide yourself away here forever. You must face your demons. And besides, you have responsibilities, duties—a wife, children. You are not any ordinary person, able to do as he pleases; you are an earl, and it comes with a price. Think of young Robert—your heir. Remember we are
all
but custodians of the Devereux name.” She wonders, though, if he is not irrevocably broken, whether something in him has shattered.

“Pity poor young Robert Devereux with me for a father.” His cynicism cuts through the air like a sword through flesh, and it is all she can do to prevent herself from snapping back a retort to quit his pathetic solipsism.

“Something I do know,” she says, “is that this will pass.”

“Pass it may, but I shall still be as penniless as those beggars roaming the roads. Beggared yet an earl.” He emits a snort of derisive laughter. “Have my creditors broken apart Essex House and sold it off brick by brick yet?”

“Enough.” Penelope cannot hide her impatience now.

She hears voices in the outer chamber and Lettice enters, closing the door firmly behind her, to stand at the foot of the bed. “What's this I hear from Lizzie about Anthony Bacon? She says he has failed to get any hard evidence of Cecil's dealings with the Spanish.” She seems annoyed, directing what she says at her daughter. Penelope hadn't wanted to bring this up just yet, had wanted to lay the path for the bad news, to allow Essex to retain some sense of hope.

“What do you mean?” Essex says, his voice staccato.

“What she means,” says Penelope, taking her brother's hand and trying to sound as soothing as possible, “is that Pérez could only come up with anecdotal evidence of Cecil's meddling in the succession. There is nothing firm to make a case with.”

She feels Essex deflate beside her, as if punctured.

“But that's simply not true,” says Lettice. “I have firm proof from another source.”

She can sense Essex perk up, like a hound with a sniff of a hare. “What proof, Mother?”

“My brother once witnessed Cecil discussing the Infanta's eligibility for the throne. He saw it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears. He told me so only the other day. If that is not evidence, then I don't know what is.”

“Uncle Knollys?” says Penelope. “Your brother told you he has heard Cec—”

“That's what I said.”

“When did this overheard conversation take place? Why did he not mention it before?” Penelope asks.

“Some time ago, I believe.” Lettice begins to fiddle with a tassel on her gown. “Perhaps he thought Pérez might come up with something more tangible.”

“It is not written evidence but I suppose it is better than nothing,” says Penelope. “Would he stand by it?”

“I can only assume so,” says Lettice.

Essex has flopped back onto the pillows.

“See,” Penelope says to her brother, “it is not all bad news. Uncle Knollys is a trusted source. His testimony would hold weight.” She is trying to make it all seem less tenuous. “Blount has developed a strong line of contact with Scotland. King James intends to send the Earl of Mar to London. He will touch favorably on
your
position too. See, this is
good
news, Robin. Our work is coming to fruition.” She tries to inject her voice with conviction, suddenly understanding what can be done to serve their ends. “I think you should write to Mar and inform
him
of Cecil's underhand dealings. If Mar—a king's ambassador, a neutral party, as it were—cast a shadow on Cecil, it might cause the Queen to see things differently.”

“You mean she might be more favorable towards me?” he says, sitting up, a little more animated, and reaches for the discarded pouch, putting the thong over his head.

“That is exactly what I mean,” she says.

“However did I spawn such a creature as you, Penelope?” says Lettice. “You would do well as a privy councillor.”

“Is that a compliment or a criticism?”

“Oh, a compliment, of course.”

Essex has got out of bed and is stretching. “If you two ladies might give me my privacy I will dress and see you at supper. And I think we should plan my return to London.”

Lettice smiles at her daughter with a nod, as if to congratulate her on this transformation. “I will send word to have Essex House prepared for your arrival.”

Penelope takes her brother's shoulders. “Don't let your men get too ambitious.” She nods her head in the direction of the antechamber. “They may become carried away and it will do you no good. Keep them well harnessed, for their aspirations could visit trouble on us all.”

Cecil instructs his coachman to make a detour past Essex House. He wants to see for himself if the rumors are true about the earl's return. Court has been whispering of it and Cecil can sense the shifting of allegiances; it is as if everyone is waiting for a move to be made before they will show their hand. His clerk, who sits beside him, blows his nose loudly into a grimy handkerchief. Cecil shudders and sidles along the seat away from him, leaning out to see the gates up ahead, admiring for a moment the two pairs of glossy black horses harnessed to his carriage, each with perfectly matching white socks. Heads turn as they pass—that is the intention.

The Essex House gates open to let a group of riders pass out and Cecil can see a hubbub of activity in the yard beyond. Servants rush back and forth, clutches of men gather around braziers, smoking, talking, laughing; others are cleaning their muskets and some are practicing their swordplay, shouting out as they score points. There is little doubt that the earl is in residence. Cecil scans the front windows and sees a woman looking out. It is either Lady Rich or her sister—impossible to tell which at such a distance. She waves in his direction. He is taken by surprise and jerks his head out of sight, then feels foolish. He should have waved back, or at the very least held her gaze.

The clerk sneezes loudly; Cecil puts a hand over his own mouth and nose, muttering, “For goodness' sake.”

The man apologizes into the filthy square of linen.

“Find out exactly who is at Essex House,” Cecil demands. “I want numbers of servants, hangers-on, everybody. Use whatever means you must.” The man looks at him gormlessly. “Go on, out you get.” The clerk gathers his cloak about himself before jumping down into the street and Cecil taps the carriage roof to gain the coachman's attention. “To Whitehall!” He is sure the rheumy clerk will be completely ineffectual in the task he has been set but at least the man is not still in the confined space of the carriage, spreading his contagion.

He thinks of that female figure in the window. Nothing has happened since Lady Rich's letter; none of his fears have yet come to pass, but that doesn't mean nothing is going on. He had a month of terror, jumping at every arrival, imagining himself arraigned and taken to the Tower, and several more months of a less intense fear, which still lingers. In his darker moments he has even begun to think about how he will form his scaffold speech, trying not to allow his mind to wander to the inevitable thoughts of what it might feel like, that noose tightening about his neck—no swift axe for one such as he, another reminder of his lack of nobility—struggling for breath, and, worse, the nothingness after, the not existing, or facing eternal damnation, for surely that is what lies ahead. He has begun to pray with renewed zeal, collating his sins, hoping it is not too late for forgiveness.

Once at the palace he stumbles upon Knollys, who takes him to one side, saying, “I am glad to see you.” He kneads his hands anxiously, making Cecil wonder what is wrong. “I have concerns for my nephew. I fear he is setting up his own court in opposition to the Queen and she is not happy, to put it mildly.”

“I have just passed Essex House—there is certainly quite a gathering.” Cecil has a vision of the Queen in a temper. It is a terrifying thought, even in the imagination.

“I have tried to warn him of the folly of allowing people to congregate in such a way.” Knollys continues to work at his hands, as if making bread. “He is so full of rage it is impossible to make him see sense.”

“Rage?” says Cecil, not sure what to make of it. The two men set off towards the steps that lead to the great hall.

“His sorrow has transformed to bitter anger. He raves; in my opinion he is not at all in his right mind. He believes he has enemies everywhere.”

“When did you see him?” Cecil stops short of pointing out that the earl
does
have enemies everywhere.

“I went there this morning. I tried to reason with him.”

Cecil is about to say that the earl needs bringing into line, but he stops himself. “The poor fellow needs our help, I don't doubt. I will try to petition Her Majesty.” Knollys looks visibly relieved, allowing his hands to drop and swing at his sides. “And who is with him?”

“Many . . . too many, and some who, I fear, are poisoning his mind. Men who served with him in Ireland . . . Henry Cuffe and Ferdinando Gorges seem to have attached themselves to his crowd, as well as a fair number of disaffected nobles; and the usual circle: Meyrick, Anthony Bacon, Southampton, you know the ones.”

“Is Gorges not a kinsman of Ralegh?”

“I believe so,” says Knollys. “Has a wild streak, I'm told.”

“Ralegh will not appreciate one of his cousins taking sides with Essex.”

“No, indeed,” says Knollys. “There has never been any love lost between Ralegh and my nephew.” He has begun to knead his hands again. “I passed a virtual army of common soldiers gathering in his courtyard.”

“You have cause for concern.” Cecil strokes a reassuring hand over Knollys's shoulder. “I will do my best to placate the Queen.”

In the great hall a group of players is rehearsing. One is dressed in a woman's garb and parping out a speech in a voice high as a pipe, with grossly exaggerated facial expressions and arm gestures. Knollys insists on stopping to watch for a full five minutes until the fellow collapses to the floor with a wail, apparently dead. Cecil finds the whole thing ridiculous, wonders how anyone could be moved by such a grotesque display, and is about to say as much, when a slow handclap starts up on the other side of the chamber. He looks up to see the Queen with a clutch of women.

“Your Majesty,” he says, whipping his cap from his head and dropping into a deep bow.

“Up, up,” she commands, as if he is one of her hounds. “What do you think of him?” Her arm sweeps round in the direction of the player.

Cecil inspects the Queen's face for clues as to how to form his response. “Extraordinary, Your Majesty.” He has got into the habit of scrutinizing her forensically for signs of displeasure. She has been aloof these last months, that is true, but it is impossible to say whether this coldness is deliberately directed towards him, or is a more general distance.

“You are not so proficient at hiding your true thoughts as you might think, Cecil.”

He thinks—it is more hope really—that he can detect the ghost of a smile. “There are many things I am not good at, Your Majesty. Alas, my failings are insurmountable. I find much drama beyond the limits of my narrow comprehension.”

“False modesty doesn't suit you.” Her look causes his insides to shrivel a little. “Do you truly believe I would award you such high office if I felt your grasp of things was lacking? I am not surprised that someone of your pragmatism would find this kind of thing”—she nods towards the group of players—“somewhat fanciful.” She returns that hard look back to him. “I do, however, appreciate honesty.” She pauses, still holding him with her eyes, and he shuffles uncomfortably, noticing a trailing thread on her gown, which he longs to snip off. “You know that well enough, surely?”