Watch the Lady (50 page)

“I do, Your Majesty. If I am being honest, I believe drama can lead people into ill morals.”

“Ha!” she says, seeming amused. “
You
would know about that.” The shriveling sensation returns to his gut.

“And it has the power to incite insurrection.”

“On that count you are right, but that is not a reason to dislike it; it is more a reason to respect it.”

“I cannot disagree, Your Majesty.”

“And talking of drama, what news of my favorite earl?” Her mouth turns down as she says this and Cecil cannot tell if it is in disdain or sadness. “I understand he has returned to London.”

“He has, Your Majesty,” says Knollys, still kneading.

“I fear there are pressing things to discuss.” Cecil looks about the chamber and can count at least a dozen who are straining their necks to hear what is being said. “Behind closed doors.”

“Understood,” she replies, proffering a gloveless hand for him to take.

He sees it as if for the first time, twisted and liver-spotted like an ancient piece of wood, traversed by a tangle of blue veins, knuckles painfully swollen. She had always had such beautiful hands, slender and silken. He glances over her, seeing the crêpelike skin of her neck and breast, the sunken hollow of her throat, the lines carved into her face; and her eyes are filmy—the eyes of an old woman whose time has almost run through. He had thought he had time, time to form his allegiances, time to smooth his path to the next regime, but he has not. She snatches her hand away before he has a chance to take it.

They move slowly to the privy chamber, the Queen leaning heavily on Knollys, and when they are there she sinks into her chair, demanding a cushion for her back, which Cecil fetches for her. The two men hover, awaiting the command to sit, which does not come.

“So?” she says.

Cecil swallows. “I fear the earl has become surrounded with bad advisors.”

“That is exactly what his sister says of me, that there are those about me who . . .” She stops in midflow, her eyes planted on Cecil. His stomach pitches. “Oh, never mind.”

“A great number of”—Knollys seems to search for the right word—“disaffected men have gathered at Essex House, and I fear they will incite the earl into some kind of rebellion.”

“Perhaps they have all been watching too much drama,” says the Queen, raising her eyebrows. “Don't you think, Pygmy?”

On hearing that name, the tension drops from him instantly. He can only imagine that the sensation is something like being released from an hour on the rack. She is laughing with abandon at her joke. Cecil joins in. “Yes, too much drama.”

Knollys doesn't laugh, he is taut as a bowstring, worried about his errant nephew, no doubt. “If . . . if I might make a . . . a suggestion, madam.”

The Queen turns to him, shoulders heaving, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing it thickly with white makeup, which finds its way onto her dark dress. “You are right; it is no laughing matter. How many are there?”

“A good two hundred.”

“Oh dear,” she says, the mirth falling away from her face as if it never was. It is replaced not with anger, as Cecil expects, but a look of desolation. “And what is your suggestion, Knollys?”

“It might be judicious to summon the earl—allow him to come and explain himself to Your Majesty personally. Perhaps if I were to go there with one or two others, talk some sense into him and bring him back to you?”

She turns to Cecil for his opinion. He nods. “I think it the best course of action.” He is so accustomed to making the pretense of supporting the earl for the sake of his own reputation, he is quite surprised by the strength of genuine sentiment he has at the thought of giving Essex a chance. He would be in his rights to oppose the suggestion; after all, the hordes amassing at Essex House might well pose a serious threat to the safety of the Queen's person, to the safety of England. He cannot stop looking at the smear of white on the Queen's dress, wants to go at it with a wet cloth. This is his chance to topple his great foe and he is not taking it. “It might defuse the situation.” He is thinking now of the Queen's old age and his own uncertain future.

He has long suspected that letters of friendship have continued, over the years, to pass between Scotland and Essex House, though he never did manage to get his hands on one, despite his best efforts. All the other possibilities—the Infanta, the Stuart girl, Lord Beauchamp, or his brother—are freighted with problems. It is King James who holds all the cards in this game now: he is closest in blood, he has two boys and a fertile wife and, most of all, he is male—England has tired of having a woman at the helm; the small fact that James was not born on English soil has become a moot point in the light of all the advantages. If James favors Essex then so must Cecil, if he is to have a hope of surviving into the next regime. “I truly believe the earl means you no harm, madam.”

“I sincerely hope you are right.” She takes a deep inhalation. “And Lady Rich, is
she
there?”

“She is, madam,” says Knollys. “With a number of women: her sister, Lady Southampton, and Lady Essex.”

The Queen covers her face with her hands as if she is entirely spent. “Penelope and her brother were the nearest I had to my own children.” Cecil is surprised to see her so wistful. It is not usually her way. “But the fact can never be got away from, they were spawned by a she-wolf.” That's more like it, he thinks.

“I know they love you,” says Knollys, “and would do you no harm.”

“Call a council meeting,” says the Queen, slipping her authority on like a cape. “We shall see what
they
have to say about this.”

Essex House is teeming. Penelope's only refuge from the unruly horde is in her private rooms, but even in that small sanctuary, where she sits with Dorothy and Lizzie Vernon, she can feel the atmosphere of suppressed violence and dissent pressing in on her. Her brother's supporters—the soldiers milling in the courtyard, the men swaggering about the great hall, the close friends in his privy chamber murmuring heatedly behind the closed door—are all in a state of high alert, like an army the night before a battle.

“I wish to God he had accepted the Queen's summons yesterday,” says Penelope. “I have a terrible feeling about this.”

“My husband said Essex was afraid to go to the palace.” Lizzie has lost her usual ebullience. “Thought it was a trick, that he would be arrested.”

“It's true he was afraid,” says Dorothy. “He confessed as much to me.” She looks strained and Penelope sees for the first time the age on her sister's face, a certain gauntness behind her obvious beauty, and wonders if she too wears that same look.

“I tried to persuade him otherwise,” Penelope says. “I showed him a letter Uncle Knollys sent to me, with firm assurances that the Queen would allow him to speak for himself. Even Cecil wants this resolved . . .” She was going to say “peacefully” but can't bear the implication. “Or so our uncle said, but Essex is driven by his suspicions—” She stops, meeting her sister's black eyes. “I fear he is not quite in his right mind. There are people putting ideas into his head.”

“Which people?” asks Lizzie.

“What sort of ideas?” says Dorothy simultaneously.

“Nefarious ones.” Penelope wishes Blount was present, not only for the fact that the strings of her heart are tugged to breaking point with fear for his safety, but also for the fact that she has great need of his advice. He would know the best course of action. “I overheard Gorges and Cuffe discussing—”

“Who
are
those men?” interrupts Dorothy. “They hang around Robin constantly. Even Meyrick appears to be in their thrall.” She puffs out an angry snort of air. “What were they discussing?”

“The fact that Essex's claim on the throne is greater than the Infanta's.” Penelope hadn't intended to divulge this, had feared fanning its flames, but it had been niggling at her for hours.

Her sister gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.

“You mean they would see your brother on the throne of England?” Lizzie's voice is shrill with shock. “But that is
high treason
.”

“Oh, Lizzie.” Penelope rests her elbow on the arm of her chair and drops her forehead into her palm. Despair prods at her. “It is all treason, if they want it to be, but, yes,
that
would be incontrovertible.” She glances over at her sister, who is like a woman drowning, her breath shallow, eyes flitting. “A grab for the throne is altogether different from a desire to remove the evil influences on the Queen's council and insist that a successor be named.” She is aware that she sounds as if she is reading from a script. “That is all we have ever wanted—the security of the Queen and England.” She knows she is being a little disingenuous, for truly what they have wanted before that is the security of the Devereuxs.

“But if it gets out amongst this lot,” Lizzie points out of the window towards the crowded courtyard, “that the earl's inner circle are saying such things, it will . . .” The color has fallen from her face. Lizzie's little dog, at her feet, seeming to sense the atmosphere, begins to whimper and scratch at her skirts.

“It will ignite them and start something that cannot be stopped,” says Dorothy; her hands are shaking slightly.

“It may well be too late already.” Penelope shuts her eyes and thinks of Blount, sending him a silent message of love. When he left it was
his
life she feared for, and now she is not so sure it won't be hers hanging in the balance before the week is out. “But even so, I think I will try and talk to them”—she thinks of Gorges with those close-set eyes, Cuffe's bland face, and Meyrick hanging on their words like a lovelorn maid—“make them see what danger they are visiting on Essex with this seditious talk.” She wishes now that she had pulled them up when she overheard their conversation, made them see sense. “It is unlikely they are the only ones who think this, but I cannot sit here doing nothing.”

“Cuffe and Gorges are not here,” says Dorothy.

“Where are they?”

“I don't know, they said something about going to see a playwright with Meyrick and a number of others. They want him to put on a play tonight. All quite harmless.”

“Who was the playwright?” asks Penelope. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing to attention.

“I don't think they mentioned him by name.”

A well of dread opens up in her. “Did they mention a particular play?”

“They did.” Dorothy pauses. “The Life and Death of some king or other.”

“For God's sake, Dot, can't you be more specific?” says Penelope, regretting her impatience, for Dorothy looks as if she has been slapped.

“You know me. I do not have a memory for such things. Why is it so important, anyway?”

“Might it have been Richard II?” Penelope's tone is softer, coaxing.

“Yes, I believe it might have been. Which one was Richard II? Wasn't he the one that was usurped?” She looks across at Penelope. “What is it? What's wrong?” Her eyes are glazed with fear.

“Listen, I think you should leave—both of you. Go home to your children. I shall tell your husband, Lizzie.”

“What is it?” It is Lizzie asking this time. “You're frightening me. What's the play about, that it causes you such upset?”

“It tells of a weak king with no heirs, who is deposed by a strong pretender beloved of the people.”

“Oh!” Penelope can see understanding alight in both her cousin and her sister. Dorothy reaches out for Lizzie's hand, holding it so tight that the sinews in her wrist protrude.

“Don't be alarmed. I simply think it would be . . .” Penelope almost says “safer” but stops herself. “It would be better if you were at home.”

“But should
you
not also go home?” asks Dorothy.

Penelope thinks of her children, thankful that they are safe in the depths of Essex. Rich is there too. A realization strikes her now that Rich's departure yesterday was not, as he had said, occasioned by a tenancy dispute that needed his attention; he was a rat leaving a doomed vessel. He had not even tried to persuade her to go with him. She wonders why she is even taken aback by this.

“I cannot leave Robin. This is his hour of need and if I can limit the damage . . .”

“But
I
am his sister too,” insists Dorothy.

“Leave this to me, Dot. You go to Mother. She will be beside herself.”

Dorothy expels a slow breath. “If you wish it so.”

Lizzie's face begins to crumble, her eyes spilling tears. Dorothy holds her, rocking slightly. Penelope watches them, her mind a whirr, planning what must be done.

“Go, before it is too late,” she says, once Lizzie's tears have subsided.

“What about Frances?” asks Dorothy.

“I imagine she will insist upon staying with Robin.” Frances has surprised her lately. That timid mouse of a woman has found her courage. She is reminded of her words at Sidney's funeral:
It was you he loved
. Those were not the words of a timorous creature; that stoicism was always in her; indeed, perhaps that is what Sidney admired. She has never really thought about that before, had always believed he'd married Frances through loyalty to her father; her jealousy must have clouded her perception.

The two women gather their things in silence. Lizzie picks up her little dog and heads for the door, turning back, holding a hand out for Dorothy. Penelope smiles and blows a kiss, making light of it, then stands a while at the window, glad they are gone to safety, yet wishing she did not feel so alone; even Fides is in the country with the children. She looks down at the courtyard, where someone is standing on a box, speaking to a gathered crowd. She cannot hear what is being said but judging by the fists punching the air it is a rousing speech. Her mind is turning over and over on what she can do to douse their misplaced enthusiasm.