The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (37 page)

His face, therefore, wore a gentle, amused smile when Elizabeth turned to greet him. He could see tension in her still rod-straight spine, and jaws clenched tightly.
She is as apprehensive as I am,
he thought.

Then, moving swiftly to the queen, he fell to both knees before her and bowed his head. He said nothing, for Essex was sincerely overcome, and by the faint rustling of her stiff taffeta skirts he was aware that Elizabeth too was trembling with emotion.

In this way they remained for some time, a private tableau—great, silent waves of unutterable remembrances and fathomless passions sweeping over the pair of them. Then he felt her hand on his head. Not a light, glancing touch—signal for him to rise—but the palm and fingers clutching the dome of his skull.

“Your Majesty.” He found that he was overcome with emotion and his eyes were filling with tears. Any further words, he feared, would be sobs.

“Rise, Robin,” she said.

As he came to his feet, Essex discreetly wiped the wetness from his cheeks and blinked back further tears. He wished to show his sub-servience to Elizabeth, but he refused to appear weak or sniveling. He towered over her, as he always had—as tall as she was for a woman—but her dark eyes were defiant now, as if to say, “Your superior size means nothing to the Queen of England.”

“First, I wish to say thank you,” he began. “Your personal physician did me a world of good. I’ve never been so ill as I was last month.”

“I believed it was all for show at first,” said Elizabeth, “to gain my sympathy. But when Robert Cecil reported you to be near death I realized”—now
her
eyes threatened to overflow—“that I did not wish to lose you just yet.”

He smiled.

“And England,” she went on quickly, with an added stiffness to her tone, “has need of your services. Do have a seat,” she said, indicating two chairs by the fire.

Essex waited for Elizabeth to sit first, but she made no move toward the hearth, saying, “Please . . . I prefer to stand. These days,” she continued, carefully laying her quill in its holder on the silver desk, “I detest sitting or lying down. It seems a great waste. Does that make sense?” Essex thought before he answered, for he realized Elizabeth was speaking from the core of herself, and he did not wish his reply to appear frivolous or thoughtless.

“Perfect sense,” he finally agreed, holding her eyes. “We will spend eternity lying down.”

“Yes,” she said, and her tone softened. “So you are feeling better?”

“I’m very well, Your Majesty, and more so to be in your presence again.”

It seemed as though she were holding her breath, waiting for the next words to be spoken.
His words. His apology.

“I have discovered that I cannot survive this world without your love,” said Essex. He saw her chest flatten in relieved exhalation. “Indeed, I believe it was knowing that the doctor sent to care for me during my recent infirmity was your personal physician . . .
sent by you
. . . that saved my life, Your Majesty.” He paused and spoke the next words carefully. “I am deeply ashamed of my behavior and beg your forgiveness.” She stood silently, gazing out the mullioned window, seeming to consider the choice of his words and the sincerity with which they had been spoken. Her tongue played about her lips, unconsciously caressing them.

“You failed to destroy Philip’s fleet at Ferrol,” she finally said, a shrillness having crept into her voice. “A very dangerous mistake. Spain is still liable to attack our shores, or sail to the aid of the Irish rebels.”
No, she was not quite ready to forgive him. He must yet endure her scathing
abuse, and he must stay calm. Would she open the wound of the Azores?

’Twould be difficult to remain temperate speaking of that catastrophe.

“I must refer all my accidents to God’s will, Your Majesty. I attempted three times to attack the fleet at Ferrol, and
three times
He turned the fury of the heavens against us. I, above all men, knew the desperate importance of the second Armada’s destruction, but I
swear
the matter was beyond the power or valor or wit of man to resist.”

“God.” Elizabeth uttered the single word with more sarcasm than piety. “God is a jester.”

Essex barked with laughter at Elizabeth’s blasphemy.

“For years,” she went on, “He allowed us all to believe that He was indeed King Philip’s helpmate, enriching Spain with the staggering wealth of New World gold, giving strength to Philip’s ravening armies in the Netherlands, allowing the assassination of a man as saintly as William of Orange. And then, in the final hour at Gravelines, He sent the English fleet a great gale that blew the Armada into the North Sea.

God must surely have laughed at such a trick.”

“Then you must agree that He was behind our failure at Ferrol.”

“I suppose. Yes. He presides over the terrible plagues that sweep London, and allows for Philip’s Inquisition.” Elizabeth’s gaze grew unfocused. Essex could see her mind’s eye turning backward into the past.

“He was there overwatching as a king loved a woman to distraction, then allowed that love to turn swiftly to a hatred so profound that she would lose her head to a Calais swordsman”—Elizabeth found and held Essex’s eyes—“and there in the bestowing of the French pox on my most vital councilor and England’s greatest general.” Essex looked away, shamefaced.

“My physician confirms ’tis a syphilitic condition. Pray God you do not fall victim to its madness. You will continue the mercury cure. I know you fear its effects on your appearance. But you’re no longer young, Robin. Vanity of your face and figure will mean less to you in future years. Look at Robert Cecil—your ‘Gnome.’ His infirmities have not stopped him from rising to great heights. You shall simply shoulder the indignities like a man, for you are too necessary to England to leave her just now. So you will continue the mercury. ’Tis a royal command.”

“Yes, madam.”

“I choose to believe that many of your weaknesses have been induced by the pox and will be eliminated with the cure. Of course some of the flaws in your character were forged early—by that witch of a mother who bore you, for one.” Elizabeth began to pace about her chamber.

“Your youth was spoiled by no fault of your own. Your father died young. Burleigh’s wardship was cruel to a boy as sensitive as yourself.

And your one hope—Leicester, who would have guided you brilliantly through your manhood—was lost as well. And there are inherent ten-dencies—arrogance and bullheadedness. And you haven’t an ounce of restraint.” Elizabeth moved to Essex’s chair and smoothed his cheek with the back of her hand. “ ‘My wild horse.’ You allow your dark passions to lead you. Do you wish my advice?”

“Yes, I’ll listen to your advice.”

“Will you take it?”

She was pushing him to the limits of his pride.

“I will take your advice.”

“You must conquer yourself, Robin. You find enemies lurking in every dark corner, and you are far too proud for a man not born of royal blood.”

Essex was discomfited by Elizabeth’s words, for they rang uncomfortably true. “Am I to be allowed a chance to defend myself and my honor?”

“Do it gently, Robin. I have already heard how much wrong I have done you and how, by my actions, I have ‘disgraced my sex.’ ”

“I was drunk when I wrote that, Your Majesty.” “I suppose I
have
broken all boundaries of womanhood,” she said, sounding almost pleased with herself. “I have always believed that I was a man concealed beneath a woman’s skin.”

“You are indeed,” he said, finally coming to his feet to face her. “But that is why you are great.”

“Am I great, Essex?”

“Oh, Majesty, yes! Who before you—man or woman—has led so wisely and so long? Behold England and you will see the miracles that you have wrought. Your father’s court was all but medieval, Edward’s a fanatic perversion of Protestantism. And Mary’s . . .” Essex’s expression of revulsion was enough description. “Elizabeth,” he said, taking her hands in his, “England under your rule has become a
fabulous
place.”

“Yes, it has.” Now the queen stood even taller, and she grew puffed and magnificent in her pride. “Essex, I have dreamt it, as John Dee had done so long ago—England is meant to rule the world! She will colonize the East, colonize the New World—aye, let Spain be damned! No place on this earth will be untouched by our influence.” Her eyes were afire. “I will not live to see such wonders, but I tell you this. I
shall
know the conquering of Ireland. ’Tis just out of my reach now, but that will change shortly.”

“It must be so,” he agreed, “with such one-minded persistence.”

“ ’Tis not at all ‘one-minded’ when it comes to Ireland. No, I cannot claim the scheme for my own. ’Twas my father’s . . . and Thomas Cromwell’s. A great plan it was. Ireland has beckoned to the English kings for centuries—a jewel well worth plucking, but none began to succeed till Henry conceived a plan.”

Finally Essex felt on solid enough ground to disagree. “Surrender and Regrant was sound enough in principle, but it was based on a false assumption.”

“Oh?”

Essex had piqued the queen’s interest, it appeared, though he hoped not to anger her with his opinions.

“And what was that assumption?” she demanded.

“That the Irish have no pride of heredity. No character.” Elizabeth nodded, agreeing. “That is why the program must and will be altered.”

Essex’s confidence was growing, his powers as a sage councilor returning. “The strongest of the chieftains refuse to share power,” he said, “and the people are more loyal to them than we ever conceived of.

We must therefore rescind our offer for joint rule.”

“Yes!” Elizabeth agreed with vehemence. “We must conquer them
absolutely
. I do mean in my lifetime to finish what my father began—Ireland under English control.”

At these words Essex was struck by a sudden thought—perhaps ’twas more a memory. Grace O’Malley had once sat across the fire from Elizabeth in this very chair, the goblet of warm spiced wine in her tanned fingers fueling the great sprawl of her life story. He was tempted to remind the queen of her, but before he could, Elizabeth spoke.

“Do you remember the rebel woman Grace O’Malley?” she said.

Essex smiled. He and Elizabeth were once again racing along the same track, like a brilliant rider on a great horse, their minds moving as one.

“I know you remember her,” said Elizabeth with a sly grin. “For two nights you lay on the floor of the passageway like an eavesdropping child.”

Essex laughed to have been caught out so easily. “You did not mind my hearing?”

“Only in one respect,” said Elizabeth, looking away. “Her life was so extraordinary. I feared you would think it more so than mine.” Essex was startled by the queen’s naked honesty. “She is a great leader, Elizabeth, but she cannot compare with you.”

“You’d
best
say that!”

“I mean it with all my heart!”

Elizabeth moved to the fire, warming her hands there. “I was just now remembering—besides the first clear picture she drew for me of Ireland—the great unintentional trick I played on the woman.”

“Trick?”

“In the beauty of her storytelling she offered me an understanding of her country, her people—not savages as we all assumed, but bearing a humanity of a different sort, pure in their Gaelic roots.
My
Gaelic roots, Essex, and yours. It reminded me that our ancestors worshiped the same gods and goddesses as Grace O’Malley’s. Once I understood the true nature of their world, the people ’s proud spirit, I became even more determined to possess them. She had pleaded for mercy for the Irish, but instead she ’d instilled a greed in me to
own
Ireland. It would be the first of England’s colonies, I decided. That emerald island teeming with fierce, great-hearted subjects whom I would somehow make love me! I instantly knew what had happened. Knew I was allowing her, with every word uttered, to dig independent Ireland’s grave. That is why I granted her every request. I liked the woman, respected her, and I tricked her.”

“Well, she ’s tricked you in return. She supplies Tyrone with Spanish weapons for his war.”

“We must discuss this war . . . and Tyrone,” Elizabeth said, her face growing hard with thoughts of that ignominious defeat at Yellow Ford.

The only army that might halt the rebels’ march into Dublin had been vanquished and was now leaderless. The Irish Privy Council had sent an embarrassing, groveling letter to Tyrone, begging him for mercy on Bagenal’s remaining troops, and even Tom of Ormond had felt Elizabeth’s displeasure. “It was strange to us,” she had written her cousin Black Tom, “that when almost the whole force of our kingdom was sent to strike a blow against the rebels, you—a man who, by your reputation and strength of nobility should surely have carried the day—should be absent, engaged in an action of far less importance.”

“Someone must be sent to defeat Tyrone, and quickly,” said the queen aloud. “We can ill afford any more of his victories. Every one breeds more confidence in his army. If we fail to regain control”—Essex could see a muscle twitch above Elizabeth’s eye—“Dublin will fall.”

“That is impossible,” he said.

“You, in your self-imposed exile, my lord, have no way of knowing how serious are the breaches in our defense. Ireland has been left without a high commander for more than eight months since my lord Burgh’s death. Tom of Ormond leads as best he can but he is stymied—separated from his countrymen by his Protestant religion, and distrusted by the English in Ireland because he was born Irish.” Elizabeth had very suddenly grown red and agitated. “I have discussed our choices for Lord Lieutenant with the Council, and we ’ve agreed that Lord Mountjoy is best.”

“Mountjoy!” Essex was all at once as agitated as the queen.

“Why does it not surprise me that you object to our very well-considered choice?” she said. “Your good friend. Your sister’s lover.”

“Lord Mountjoy is hardly a soldier, madam. He is more bookish than martial, with scant experience in the wars. He has few followers and very little estate to back him up. And we
know
that a man who commands your armies must reach deeply into his own pocket!” Essex’s voice had risen an octave in the course of one sentence, and he was beginning to lose his composure. “The success you demand in Ireland requires a great nobleman, Your Majesty. One who commands respect from his soldiers and is as rich in purse as he is in experience.”