The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (51 page)

They were fugitives now, what few stragglers were left loyal to the madman. Some pitying Londoners helped them escape to a dock on the Thames and they’d rowed, pathetic and bedraggled, back to Essex House.

The four Privy councilors, moments before the rebels’ arrival, had been set free, and the men Essex had hoped would be hostages to be bargained for by the queen—his last hope—had quietly slipped away.

He knew then that the game was up. He ’d frantically burned his papers and diaries, hoping to save his friends from incrimination. He ’d thrown the velvet pouch with King James’s letter into the fire and watched even that hope turn to ash.

Soon royal troops were sniping at his windows. Essex House surrounded, he was a cornered animal. Only Southampton stayed by his side. The guard was calling for surrender. Southampton and he had climbed to the roof and, with no hope left, his friend shouted down at the soldiers their terms for such a surrender. But Essex, sick and crazed, was shouting too—he, his mad protestations of loyalty to the queen. “I moved only to root out the atheists and caterpillars!” he ’d cried. “Atheists and caterpillars!”

The rest had been a blur—their arrest, incarceration at Lambeth Castle till the tide had turned, and transportation to the Tower of London in the wee hours of Monday morning. Essex had fainted once again when they’d rowed through the Traitor’s Gate. Fainted dead away. His twelve-hour rebellion had been the most shameful performance a nobleman could ever have dreamt of performing.

But there was worse to come. Once imprisoned he had fallen into a religious fervor so extreme, so terrifying—with God and his angels sitting in a heavenly Star Chamber condemning him—that he ’d been reduced to a trembling milk pudding. When his trusted chaplain, Reverend Ashton, had arrived and insisted the prisoner purge his soul of all his most grievous sins, Essex—threatened with eternal damnation, and racked with shame—had vomited forth a terrible confession of every plot of which he was guilty, and every person with whom he ’d conspired. Before he knew what had happened, he ’d given up all the friends whom he ’d previously protected. Instantly the good reverend turned on Essex and with a straight face, announced that the contents of his private confession would have to be shared with the Council. He ’d been tricked!

All his friends and conspirators had been quickly arrested.

His and Southampton’s trial for high treason and the verdict of guilty had been a foregone conclusion. Witness after witness had come forward to denounce him, the unkindest of all Francis Bacon. He had offered a scathing indictment of the Lord Lieutenant’s actions, then turned and said directly to Essex, “I know but one friend and one enemy that my lord has. That one friend is the queen. And that one enemy is yourself.”

Essex protested that he ’d meant the queen no harm, that he ’d only wished to stand in her presence to demand assurance of the lawful succession of James, and not the Spanish infanta put forward by Robert Cecil, and for a moment those present seemed to consider the truth of such an argument. But in a moment of drama so high that even Essex gasped with awe, the Gnome—previously absent from court—had stepped out from behind a curtain where he ’d been hiding, to defend himself of the blasphemous charges, and quickly demolished Essex’s case against him.

But Southampton, his friend and close conspirator, had proved the gravest disappointment of all. He had admitted to the early scheming done with Essex, to capture the Court and the Tower, but then swore he knew nothing of his friend’s plans on the morning of the Sunday uprising.
Why, he had never drawn his sword the whole day!
’Twas only by virtue of his love for Essex that he had so plotted in the first place.

Southampton’s groveling and lies had been nothing short of obscene, and even in his woeful state, Essex felt the betrayal as a sharp blade between the ribs.

In the end they had both been found guilty of their crimes and condemned to a traitor’s death—the hanging, disembowelment, drawing, quartering, and beheading that was fair punishment for such treason. But as they were noblemen, they asked the queen’s mercy that they might simply suffer beheading, and that was granted forthwith.

Now here he lay, eyes fixed on the ceiling of an English traitor’s last abode. In his youth he had oftentimes dreamed of rising so high as he had, but never had he envisioned his falling this low. Passion had ever guided his words and deeds, and now he could see that in good part ’twas passion to blame for his bad end.
Yet,
he pondered,
was a life lived without it worth living at all?

But there was something else that needed admitting. He had underestimated the queen, canny old woman with a steel-trap brain. All her hesitation, indecision, dissembling was born not of womanly weakness or senile confusion. It was her way of unbalancing her enemies. Allow them to think she was muddled, unhinged. They’d lower their guard, believe they held the advantage. Then she would spring.

“I deserve death,” Essex whispered aloud. There was no excuse for his treason. None but madness. He believed in the monarchy and he loved his queen despite her unkind cuts to him. Many of them had been deserved. He ’d been reckless and vainglorious his whole life, and had even dared to place himself above her. A person so rash and selfish was bound to receive his comeuppance.

With a clear head that he now prayed he ’d enjoy till the end of his life, Essex saw that beyond the follies of his shallow youth, his recent crimes must have been born of a sick, fevered mind. So many times he ’d found himself incapable of anything more than muddle and confusion.

The pox, despite his best efforts to contain it, had eaten away at his core, had sapped not only his bodily strength but his character as well. He was half of all that he had once been, had become the kind of man he ’d always despised. And suddenly he knew ’twas not worth living in such a state. He should welcome death, welcome it! ’Twould spare him further agonies. If only he could hold this clarity, use the strength left to him by God’s mercy so he ’d not cower in the straw before his peers, a gibbering madman. He would stand tall and walk to his execution a proud nobleman. Speak his last words with calm and dignity.

All of a sudden a vision filled his head, as visions so often do, wholly unbidden and from out of nowhere. He was astride his horse, riding away from the battle at Louth, the battle that never was. His grateful soldiers and the Irish he ’d spared from slaughter all saluted him. But the misery of that moment—his terror that he ’d done wrong by making peace and not war—had lifted now. ’Twas instead replaced by that same celebration in the faces of those whose lives had been saved that day. All the blood—English and Irish alike—still rushing through living hearts and veins had not spilled like some unholy wine on God’s apron.

He had cursed Grace O’Malley that next day, cursed her for her guidance to be merciful, to love her people and his own, and to spare them death. Now, his chest expanding with a light and easy heart, Essex found himself blessing the old woman,
his good mother,
blessing and forgiving her everything. She had led him away from the vengeful Old Testament God and onto the path of a most merciful Jesus. Without Grace he would be going to his Maker with the deaths of two thousand more souls on his conscience.

He breathed easier now and wondered at the lightness in his chest.

Then he smiled, for he saw clearly that Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex and loyal subject to his queen, had seen fit to forgive himself of his many sins, and would walk to his well-deserved death a redeemed and happy man.

21

RICHARD TYRELL had done his job well, and now Grace stood before Elizabeth’s bedroom door. The halls of Court as she ’d been led through were quiet and mournful, the gentlemen subdued, the ladies in their muted gowns no longer fluttering like flocks of painted birds. One of the guards moved to open the queen’s door for

“the old gentleman” and Grace entered. This was Whitehall, not Greenwich as the last time, and a different yet equally resplendent chamber dazzled her eyes. Again, two chairs had been placed by the hearth, but the blazing fire had failed to take the chill from the midwinter morning.

Elizabeth, hardly more than a gorgeously attired stick, stood with her back to Grace, staring intently at the heavy velvet curtains near her stately bed, her arm held rigidly at her side, a rusty sword gripped in her hand.

She ’d not heard Grace enter and was muttering angry oaths under her breath as she moved slowly down the long arras. Suddenly the skinny arm retracted and with a low grunt the queen thrust her blade through the curtain. Again and again she stabbed at the imaginary foe behind it till she was satisfied. When she turned to see Grace watching the bizarre performance, Elizabeth showed not the slightest touch of embarrassment, just murmured, “Never too careful.” Then she gestured with an annoyed sweep of her hand for Grace to sit.

“I’ll stand, thank you.”

Elizabeth glared at her visitor’s insolence, taking scornful note of Grace ’s disguise. “You’re a fool to have come here,” she began. “Have you no fear of a traitor’s death?”

“I’m no traitor, Bess. To be one implies I’m a subject of yours. I’ve never been one nor will I ever be.”

Elizabeth came and stood before Grace, eyeing her fiercely. “Still, you gave your word to me and broke it.”

“Aye, after you broke yours to me. But that’s history, and I’ve not come to talk about an old quarrel between a couple of bad-tempered old bats.” She saw Elizabeth bristle, but went on. “A friend of mine is sitting in the Tower of London waiting for execution.”

“He deserves his fate.”

“I thought we ’d talk a wee while about that.”

“And why would I deign to spend my time discussing such things with the likes of you?”

“Because my interference caused his present condition. ’Tis my duty to speak up for him.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What conceivable part could you have played in his treachery?” Grace moved to warm her hands by the fire. She knew the queen was watching her, taking stock of the slight stoop that her advanced age had foisted upon her. “Essex was fevered and ill the night before he met with O’Neill at Louth,” she began. “He was delirious and weak as a whipped child. I went to him—he trusted me, you see—and spoke to him very comforting like, reasoned with him as to my way of thinking. He had no defenses, see. Was altogether vincible. I was gentle and kind and nursed him like a mother. He opened to me like a flower to the sun, and I thought to myself, ‘Is there no one who is tender to this sweet man?’ In any event I showed him a way to save the lives of his men, whom he ’d come to love, and by the time I left, peace and mercy loomed large in his mind. They were still fixed there when at dawn he rode down to the River Lagan and treated with Hugh O’Neill.” Elizabeth’s face twitched with fury to hear such consequential intelligence never known to her before this moment. But she pulled herself taller and assumed a proud expression. “I forgave him that,” she fairly spat.

“So I’m claimin’ too much credit for myself, am I? You weren’t fit to be tied at the truce with O’Neill?”

“Of course I was! Essex was my choice to lead the largest army England had ever assembled. He was sent to end that ridiculous rebellion once and forever. And he disgraced himself. Disgraced
me
. Made a mockery of my war!”

“Bess,” said Grace quietly, “he was outnumbered two to one. Had he fought O’Neill, thousands of your English soldiers would have died.”

“They would have died
honorably
.” Elizabeth turned as though her legs would no longer hold her, and tottered to one of the chairs by the fire. But she refused to sit, just used the back to keep herself upright. “As I said,” she continued haughtily, “I forgave Essex that cowardly truce.” She was quite insistent, though her face seemed to crumble.

Grace turned to Elizabeth and silently demanded that she say what was on her mind.

“He tried to seize my throne.” The queen’s outrage seemed forced.

“ ’Twas not what I saw in your eyes just then. What other ‘crime ’ did Robert Devereaux commit?”

Elizabeth refused to answer, her lips set in a stubborn line.

“Go on, tell me.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew unfocused as she recalled the scene. “When he returned from Ireland, he broke into my room like a madman. I was not long out of bed, still in my shift. Unkempt. Unadorned. No wig on my head.”

“So you looked a proper hag, did you?”

Elizabeth looked as though she might strike Grace, but she took a breath and continued. “He ’d been my lover not so many years before, and now he saw me . . . like that. I have never known such humiliation.

But”—she fell silent, as if she were putting the thoughts together for the first time—“my hideousness mattered not at all to him. I was a sexless creature. Might have been his grandmother. The crone goddess. He did not see a woman at all.” Elizabeth looked haunted. “And later . . . later he said . . . that my mind was as crooked as my carcass.
Carcass!
That was the word he used to describe this body.” Her lips trembled. “Dead.

Shriveled. Decaying.”

“For Jesus’ sake, woman, you’re sixty-eight years old!” Grace shook her head in disgust. “I’ve no pity for you or your stupid vanity. So this is the reason you’re going to take the poor man’s life?” “Essex will die because he ’s a traitor!” Elizabeth shouted. “I am Elizabeth, lawful Queen of England.” Her voice grew shrill. “I
made
the Earl of Essex, made him the great man he was. Showered him with riches. Titles. The finest commands. And how does he repay me? By rising up with three hundred rebels to usurp me! Ungrateful prick.” She looked away with tears welling in her eyes.

“ ’Twas wrong of him,” said Grace. “Of course it was. But he ’s a man driven by his disease. You must know that. He falls into fits of delirium, loses control of his senses.”

Elizabeth refused to meet Grace ’s eyes. Guilt was plain on her face.

“What is it you’re not sayin’?” Grace demanded. But Elizabeth was silent. “Did you provoke him?”