The Girl in the Mirror. Sarah Gristwood

the court a little, to savour the greater depth of the bows that greeted me. Maybe – for one has, after all, experience in this world – I would, underneath, have felt a little flat, as often one can do after the event, but I’d sent for my sister Philadelphia and surely, at the very least, I could have enjoyed having her see me in my day of glory – she may have been grabbing everyone’s attention ever since she was in the nursery, and her husband may be the tenth Lord Scrope, but he isn’t an earl, and entitled to wear the purple, is he?

      Well, enough of that. Everything was in train for my husband to preside over the new session of Parliament today. Instead what happens? A galloping messenger to say Lord Essex’s ship has been sighted off Plymouth, so we’ll have him trying to explain his latest folly, and trying to take the gloss off our new honours in any way he may. Oh yes, and as if that weren’t enough, they say a Spanish fleet is once again on the way.

      Of course the two things are tied together. Essex’s job was to smash the Spanish fleet in the harbour, and ensure our safety. Instead he sets off on a wild-goose chase, all around the seas.

      For Essex to disregard his orders is no new story. Sometimes when I reckon up his transgressions, I am frightened at the tally. None of the others, not even his stepfather, would have dared break the rules so frequently and I cannot help worrying, as on a sore tooth, at how the queen has let him do it with impunity. Whether her indulgence has become a habit, whether it’s that his battle cry seems to sound with the voice of half the young men at the court, and the sheer clamour makes her weary? Whether, even, the noise makes her doubt her own judgement or whether – my mind just touches on the thought – there is (was? is) something about his young man’s urgency? Something she allows herself to feel, and just for a breath I remember a time when feeling seemed easy.

      Anyway, as any politician knows, the outcome is half the story: oh, you don’t get to be queen’s lady all these years without being a politician, in your heart. Essex was to have gone after Spanish treasure, yes, but only after he had destroyed the Spanish ships in their harbour. Then again, if the fleet had failed to sail, as fleets had failed before, if the treasure had proved rich, then maybe he would have been forgiven, even by the queen, though I for one would have kept the tally. Instead we have still a fleet to face, and barely a groat of prize money.

      I knew it was bad when the boy came so early to say Burghley himself was waiting to see her majesty. He’s an old man now, and you wake early as you get old, but to face the day is another story. I knew it was bad, since he was here so that Robert wouldn’t have to be. Bad news rubs off on the man who brings it, and it’s only when you’ve been together as long as Burghley and the queen that you acquire a measure of immunity.

      We sent word the queen would see him as soon as we’d dressed her, but he’d have known as well as I do that wouldn’t happen quickly. She sat still while we adjusted her wig, and pointed out where the white paint on her chest was looking patchy: I had the feeling she was jibbing, like a nervous horse, at having to face what might come this day. She made us try on three different gowns, until I for one could have screamed with the tension, but I think she put on strength with the finery. She signed me to stay as the girls left, and Burghley gave me a terse nod as he came in.

      It was brusquely, almost with a sense of familiarity, that he said a dispatch had come in and that all the rumours are true, another Armada really is on the way. We had, after all, been here before – what, three times since that first appalling time, since Leicester’s death, since Tilbury? I swear, the first thing I felt was pure exasperation. Dear God, does Philip never learn? If he’s so sure he’s doing God’s work, does he never ask himself why God’s winds don’t allow him to succeed, once in a while?

      But of course it’s serious, it has to be taken seriously. The more so for the fact that every year, every false alarm, tires us as much as it must tire the poor starved and taxed Spanish peasantry. We have more ships than we had before Tilbury, but we also have less energy. And all I could think is, why now? Why couldn’t they, why couldn’t fate, have just given these few days to me? As we pace the Privy Garden so fast the girls hustle to keep up with her majesty, I am in a bustle of anger that makes the crisp October air seem hot to me. I’ll admit that stupidity has always irritated me, even with my children when they were young.

      If these messages are true, Spain’s fleet will be on the seas by now, while Essex let their treasure ship pass by, full of bullion from the Americas, through a sheer stupid piece of vainglory. It’s the thought of that bullion that’ll be working in the queen, making her anger rise up like bile, even more than when we first heard the tale of Essex’s folly. It’s the Cadiz voyage all over again, but worse – too serious, the possible results this time, for anyone to forgive him lightly.

      We don’t know it all yet, and the queen won’t let her real anger out, not immediately. Like wine laid down, time only ripens the taste of her fury. But I’ll admit the fatigues of the last few days are getting to me. The crunch of the gravel under my boot only echoes the harsh sound in my head, and when the girls lag behind to giggle or exclaim over a late flower, I take it on myself to call to them not to be so lazy, and not delay her majesty.

      Cecil Autumn 1597

      The burst of friendship was never going to last. That was foreseen, naturally. But what has happened since the fiasco of this last voyage has an air of irrevocability. Essex is sure, now and forever, that Ralegh and I are his enemies: he will make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. But more, he is convinced every man is against him. Every woman too, maybe.

      Even if he thinks it, fool to show it so clearly. The queen has always been impatient with folly. But more than that, she is growing suspicious, and you don’t raise a Tudor’s suspicion lightly. I must try, again, to persuade Charles Howard to take Essex’s insult quietly. Yes, even though Essex is trying to get them to reword the very patent of poor Charles’ earldom, so that Essex can claim credit for the whole of last year’s Cadiz victory. Yes, even though the queen wavers over granting Essex another honour – what, Earl Marshal? – that would let him outrank Charles’ brief position as the premier earl in the country. ‘Your very patience shows your strength,’ is what I’ll have to say. ‘Believe me, the queen will appreciate you the more that you were willing to put aside your own grudges for the country.’ Briefly, I toy with the idea of speaking to Charles’ wife, but perhaps no word of advice is necessary to that shrewd lady.

      What is it that Essex really wants? Just – just! – to be first in honour with her majesty? Or – there are things it’s treason to think, or to say. Yes, even for a state secretary, who must consider all things clearly.

      Now he’s sulking at Wanstead, his house in the country. More folly – it’s another of Ralegh’s new aphorisms: distance breeds suspicion. The prince is most mistrustful of the mighty subject they cannot see. Absence magnifies your faults, and makes forgiveness come more slowly.

      Where there is suspicion, there must be certainty. Not action, not yet, but it will come. There is a man: Ralegh’s cousin. I have begun to consider Ralegh differently. He bristled up like a country squire when one of the jesters had a touch at him the other day – oh, nothing so crude as a mockery of his Devon burr, but a strut of the walk that made the court smile knowingly. He looked baffled and angry, like a dog when it knows it’s being laughed at – but all the same, I begin to have a new respect for his abilities. It was he who brought this cousin, this Sir Ferdinando to me. Ferdinando Gorges, what a name. I hope I never have to give it to her majesty. But the man has the touch of tarnish on him, the readiness for things to go badly.

      The laying out of plans, the agent’s consent, is like a seduction and, like seduction, it goes slowly. Small agreement by small agreement, until the final consent is a surety. Then a bargain that lies dormant like a seed in the earth: not knowing what the crop, or what the cost, or who in the end will pay.

      The autumn is coming in. As I stroll in the garden to clear my head, the corrupt sweet smell of rotting leaves accompanies me. Often, I see the boy Jan sketching, and something about the nape of his neck, thin and vulnerable, almost reminds me of my daughter Frances. There is a figure waiting in the shadows by the door – one of the two secret secretaries. Of course, he wouldn’t have sent a page this