Watch the Lady (46 page)

It hits him with a force of dread then, the memory of writing a particular letter of his own, about the Infanta, to the Spanish ambassador. So much had happened in the wake of his writing it—the massacre in Ireland, Cecil's humiliation at court, renewed hostilities with Spain, the earl's eventful return—that he had not put his mind to that missive, hurriedly sealed and sent. He had assumed it safely burned by its recipient a year ago. But Lady Rich's letter, with its subtle insinuations, has pushed it up to the surface and he imagines it falling onto Anthony Bacon's desk via one of those shady contacts. What a fool he was to put such treason in writing, for in the wrong hands even ambiguity—and he is sure he had couched the proposal in sufficiently ambiguous terms—has a way of being manipulated into something it is not. He had been so caught up in his peace treaty he had dropped his caution.

“I have never understood what it is about Lady Rich that means scandal slips off her like water off oiled cloth,” says Francis.

“Yes.” Cecil can feel his grip on the situation slipping, as if his fingers have been greased. Going over and over in his head what it was exactly he had written to the Spanish ambassador—how had he worded it?—hoping to God the man had the nous to burn all their communications and not forward them to Spain. He never agreed definitively to champion the Infanta; it was a mere insinuation. But it is not what he actually wrote; it is how it seems that counts. He takes a deep breath and steps to the window, looking out to try to get ahold of his thoughts. The girls down there are red-faced now, lobbing snow with breathless verve. If you didn't know it was a game, it might seem quite sinister. “Tell me, has your brother had much news from the Spanish court of late, Cousin?”

“Anthony holds his cards close to his chest.”

He scrutinizes Bacon for any sign that he might know something, feeling the weight of his trepidation pulling him down. “I need you to prove that you are trustworthy, Cousin.” He surprises himself by saying this, realizes that it is exactly the correct way to take the conversation under the circumstances.

“And how would you have me do that?” Bacon blinks slowly once more and gazes steadily at the other man, continuing before Cecil has formed a reply. “I have an idea of what might cause trouble for Lady Rich in regards to her letter.” Francis Bacon wears a half smile now and steeples his elegant hands together in front of his mouth as if about to pray. Cecil catches a whiff of hope and reins in his eagerness to hear this idea, waiting for Bacon to speak. “Were the letter to be published, it might look as if Lady Rich was trying to muster
public
support for her brother—”

“It would appear to be propaganda rather than a private letter.” Cecil feels goose bumps run up his arms and through his shoulders. It is a devious idea indeed. He wonders momentarily if Francis Bacon was bullied in boyhood as he was. “That would surely visit trouble on Lady Rich.” He imagines himself informing the Queen.

“Eliminate the lady and the knave will lose his lifeblood,” says Bacon. “She is the heartbeat of the Devereuxs.”

Cecil's mind turns towards Lady Rich and his body responds without his permission. He forces his thoughts on to the Queen again. “How will you ensure that nothing leads back to
my
door in this matter?”

“Leave it to me. The less you know the better.”

“I must say, I'm impressed, Cousin. I will see that this is all worthwhile for you.”

“I know,” says Bacon with a conspiratorial smile and no attempt to hide his flippancy. Cecil can only admire his audacity.

“I have never eaten such a large portion of humble pie,” says Essex, walking in, flanked by Knollys and Southampton. A laugh rings out of him, as if his ordeal has been nothing. Penelope is feasting her eyes on her brother, reveling in the sound of his laughter, delighted to see that he has recovered some of his fortitude. They, as many of his family and friends as could be mustered, have waited for him to arrive from York House, where he has been grilled for a full twelve hours by the attorney general and his special commission. He is gaunt, his beard is unkempt and his skin as pale as the white satin doublet that hangs from his bones. He wears, beneath his bravado, the vestiges of that wild fearful look Penelope saw on him back at Nonsuch. “I was on my knees a full two hours.” And there it is again, the chime of his laughter.

“It did the job,” says Lettice, “for here we are, all together!” She places a palm to her breast. A cheer goes up outside in the Strand, where the crowd that gathered to get a glimpse of Essex has not yet dispersed.

“But not quite free,” says Penelope, indicating with a nudge of her head the two guards who stand in the doorway, pretending to ignore this family reunion. Penelope waves at them. Neither moves a muscle, though their eyes pivot slightly. “Are you to be dismissed?”

One—the older, bearded one—says, “There are no orders to that effect, my lady.”

“It's only a matter of time,” says Lettice, stepping towards her son. “You must continue to seek the Queen's pardon. Once she gives you an audience”—she puts one hand on either side of his face as if he is her lover— “well, who could resist this?” She stops short of pinching his cheeks and he sweeps her aside with a gentle but firm shove. “You will be back at court in no time, my darling boy.”

“I should rather retire to the country,” says Essex. But they all know it cannot be. His debts are too great. “Let's have a look at my new little girl,” he says then, taking the infant from his wife's arms, tossing her up into the air, until she squeals with either delight or terror. Frances blanches, unable to look, but says nothing, and Dorothy puts a reassuring arm around her sister-in-law.

It is Penelope who stops him. “Mind her, she is still a babe, you'll crack her little head.” He hands the baby to his sister and crouches down, opening his arms for his boy. Young Robert moves forward slowly, stiff like a wooden puppet, with his mouth clamped tight, as if to tell his father that he will have to earn back his love.

“Robert, my boy, how big you are. Eight years old. Look at you; you have become a man whilst my back was turned.”

The child removes his cap and bows formally. “I am nine, my lord.” Penelope can see that he doesn't know how to behave in the face of his father. Perhaps he thought he would never see Essex again and that he would have to become the head of the family. That memory returns, of her mother impressing upon Essex, when he was not yet eleven and their own father had died, that he was the earl now, head of the Devereuxs. The bewildered look on his little face was heartbreaking. But her brother's heir doesn't seem bewildered; he seems to be steeped in resentment, as if Essex has done him a great disservice in fleeing Ireland and getting himself arrested and losing royal favor. Or perhaps he is simply trying to hide his apprehension, as they all are. Penelope puts a reassuring hand on his thin shoulder; he looks up at her, smiling, suddenly relaxed, and she has a flash of his fearlessly brandishing that grass snake at Leighs. She has become close to her nephew since her brother's incarceration.

A page pours them drinks and they make several toasts. Penelope stands back, watching her family, wishing Blount were with them. Letters fly back and forth between them, he writing of life in the garrison, leaving out, she feels sure, anything that might cause her distress. She had written recently, telling him of the commission set up to try her brother. How relieved they all were that it was not to be the Star Chamber as they had feared, but that the attorney general was to be assisted as prosecutor by, of all people, Francis Bacon. She had confronted sly Francis about it.

“You, who have lived under our roof in the bosom of our family and benefited from the support of my brother—how can you live with yourself?”

“It is the duty of my role as Queen's Counsel.
Sniff
. I am not in a position to refuse.” He had at least squirmed visibly then, like a schoolboy caught pilfering from the kitchens. “I will do my best to see to it that the judgment is lenient.
Sniff
. It could be a good thing that I will be in attendance. I did not seek this,
sniff
, but fully intend to put it to Essex's best advantage.”

The excuses spurted forth from him, with that telltale sniff, making Penelope sure he was protesting too greatly. She knows Cecil wouldn't have allowed Francis Bacon to assist unless he could be sure of his allegiance. Bacon ought not assume her to be such a fool as to absorb his justifications like a sponge. But then he has always dismissed her for being female, as if she isn't capable of grasping things as men do. She asks herself whether Bacon secretly holds the Queen in equal disdain for the coincidence of her sex.

She had written a further letter to Blount only this morning. Her finger is still smudged black with the ink that wrote it. A quick scribble, penned as soon as word came that Essex was to be released—still banished from court and stripped of his offices, but free, nonetheless, and with his loved ones about him. Blount had no need now to march on London with his army, spring her brother free, and deal with his enemies; which is just as well, for as far as she knows he has not yet had firm news of the Scottish King's full support. Without that it would have been too dangerous. But Blount isn't given to folly; he doesn't have the reckless streak of her brother. They had taken the utmost care to stress to King James that they did not seek to overthrow Elizabeth, simply to do away with the evil influences about her. She absently touches the black thong around her neck and imagines the messenger thundering towards Blount.

“Sis!” Essex jogs her out of her thoughts. “You are miles away. Will you give us a song?” Someone thrusts a lute into her arms and she perches on the stone hearth surround to play, asking Lizzie Vernon to join her in a song of two parts. It is a merry tune and gets everyone clapping and humming along, but in spite of all the jollity Penelope cannot get her mind off Blount out there in the wilds. Life would not be so cruel as to kill both the men she has loved in battle—would it?

Anthony Bacon lumbers in on his gouty limbs, spilling into a chair with a great sigh, and someone brings him a stool for his feet. He beckons Essex, speaking to him in a lowered voice that cannot be heard above the music, pulling a pamphlet from a pocket, which Essex pores over, before announcing that he needs some privacy and nodding towards Knollys and Southampton to remain.

As they all file out he takes Penelope's elbow. “Not you, Sis. I need you here.”

Lettice takes Frances and Dorothy, one on each arm, with a huff of protest at being overlooked in favor of her daughter, and sails towards the door in high dudgeon. “I suppose you no longer value the counsel of your mother.”

Once the others have filed out they form a huddle about Anthony Bacon, turning their backs to the guards, who are not close enough to hear if they keep their voices down. Nevertheless, Penelope begins to strum her lute again to obliterate any words that might drift their way.

“So what is it?” says Knollys.

“This has been published and circulated.” He flattens the pamphlet on his lap.

Words jump out at Penelope—“combined enemies,” “evil instruments,” “officious cunning”—her own words; it is her letter to the Queen of a few months past, in print.

“Does the Queen know?” she asks, forcing her fingers to continue plucking notes out of her instrument, but her heart has begun to beat out a hollow rhythm that is all out of time.

“I'm afraid so. My brother came to me with it,” says Anthony.

“Your brother can no longer be trusted, not since he chose to sit in judgment over Essex,” she says firmly, swapping a look with Anthony. They are the only ones to know the full truth of Francis's defection. She wonders how it is possible that siblings could be so different. Anthony loyal to the core, and his brother, Francis, slippery as the muck at the bottom of a pond. Her tune begins to lose its way, becoming discordant. She stops playing, letting the lute drop into her lap.

“Whoreson,” says Southampton, hurling the word with force, causing one of the guards to turn and look.

“I
have
seen him lurking about Cecil's chambers at court lately,” says Uncle Knollys.

“No! Francis Bacon is loyal,” says Essex. “I'm sure of it. He
has
to have dealings with Cecil. It is part of his duty as Queen's Counsel.”

“I'm afraid not, my lord,” says Anthony. “My brother has set his cap elsewhere. But we may be able to use his disloyalty to our advantage.”

Essex looks crestfallen and mutters something under his breath. A chant starts up outside:
Ess-ex
,
Ess-ex
,
Ess-ex
.

“But before we think about my brother I need to warn you, my lady, that Cecil has sent Lord Buckhurst to interrogate you with regards to this.” Anthony taps the pamphlet. “There is this for you too.” He fumbles in his clothes, taking out another paper, a letter with the royal seal. She tears it open, scattering red shards of wax over the floor.

Ess-ex
,
Ess-ex
,
ESS-EX.

“I am confined to my own house until further notice.” She rips the letter blithely, allowing pieces of it to fall like apple blossom. “It's fortunate I have a number of houses, then, isn't it?” Her laugh cuts through the heavy hush, a lone chime, and she looks round at their faces. Southampton has a hand over his mouth, Anthony has a deep crease running vertically down his brow, Knollys stares at his bunched hands and her brother cannot meet her eye. “Cheer up! Buckhurst is no match for me. I have already answered his questions with regards to my letter, back in the spring. He called it “an insolent, saucy, malapert action” and I told him he was wrong, that it was a heartfelt outpouring and demonstration of love to my beloved monarch.” Her laugh sounds empty now. “In the end he could do nothing but agree with me. Buckhurst hasn't the stomach to bring me down.”