Earthly Joys. Philippa Gregory

planted bulbs?’

      ‘Hundreds last autumn, for a show this spring.’

      ‘We’ll dig them up and take them with us!’

      John shook his head in silent disagreement but said nothing. They walked slowly towards the ornamental mount. A stream played beside the path on a bed of white marble pebbles. John hesitated. ‘Let’s walk up,’ the earl said.

      Slowly the two men followed the twisting path. John had pruned the rambling roses which bordered the path on either side and they lay flat and tidy like withy fencing. Cecil paused for breath, and to ease the pain of his lame leg, John put his arm around his master’s waist and held him steady. ‘Go on,’ Cecil said and they walked slowly side by side round and round the little hill. There were a few foolishly early buds on the roses; John noticed the deep crimson of new shoots, red as wine. At the top of the hill there was a round lovers’ seat, with a fountain plashing in the middle. Tradescant swung his cape down for his master to sit, and the earl nodded for John to sit beside him, as an equal.

      The two men looked out across the palace gardens spread below them like a tapestry map. ‘Those woods!’ the earl mourned. ‘The trees we have planted.’

      ‘The bluebells underneath them in springtime,’ John reminded him.

      ‘The orchards, my peach-tree wall!’

      ‘And the courts!’ Tradescant nodded at the smooth grass laid out in every courtyard of the rambling palace. ‘There isn’t grass like that anywhere else in the kingdom. Not a weed in it, and the mowing team trained to go to half an inch.’

      ‘I don’t see any mud in the knot garden,’ Robert Cecil remarked, looking at the garden as it was meant to be viewed – from on high.

      ‘There isn’t any now,’ John said with rare impatience. ‘Because I’ve been washing the stones in freezing water all morning.’

      ‘I shall be sorry to lose the hunting,’ the earl said.

      ‘I shan’t miss the deer eating my young shoots in spring.’

      The earl shook his head. ‘You know they say that this is the fairest garden in England? And the greatest palace? That there never was and never will be a palace and garden to match it?’

      John nodded. ‘I know.’

      ‘I couldn’t keep it,’ the earl said. ‘It’s his revenge on my father for the execution of his mother, you know. He wanted to take my own father’s house, his pride and his joy. What could I say? I hedged and twisted and turned and showed him other men’s houses. It’s my own fault. We built it too grand and too beautiful, my father and I. It was bound to draw out envy.’

      John shrugged. ‘It is all the king’s,’ he said simply. ‘The whole country. And each of us is nothing more than his steward. If he wants anything, we have to give it.’

      The earl threw him a curious sideways glance. ‘You really believe that, don’t you?’

      John nodded, his face open and guileless. ‘He is the king under God. I would no more refuse him than I would skip my prayers.’

      ‘Please God he always has subjects as loyal as you.’

      ‘Amen.’

      ‘Leave washing the stones now and start preparing the plants for moving, and dig up those damned bulbs.’ The earl got to his feet with a grunt of discomfort. ‘My bones ache in this cold weather.’

      ‘I’ll leave the bulbs,’ John replied.

      The earl raised an eyebrow.

      ‘You’ve given him the house and the grounds,’ John said. ‘I can be generous too. Let the king have these tulips in spring and I shall go myself to the Lowlands to buy you a fine crop for Hatfield, as we planned. We can make a new garden at Hatfield, we don’t have to scrump from here.’

      ‘A lordly gesture from a gardener?’ Cecil asked, smiling. ‘I have my grander moments,’ John said.

      Hatfield House in Hertfordshire had been the home and the prison of the young Elizabeth during the dangerous years of her half-sister’s rule, when she had been a studious girl with a deep fear of the executioner’s axe. It had been Robert Cecil’s father who had come to her in the garden to tell her that she was now queen.

      ‘I’ll keep the tree she was sitting under,’ Robert Cecil said to Tradescant as they surveyed the quagmire the workmen had made in the building of the huge new house. ‘But I’m damned if I’ll do anything with that poky little hall. It can’t have been impressive even when it was new-built. I’m not surprised the queen was in the garden. Nowhere else to sit.’

      ‘If you cut away all around it so that it stood on a hill instead of so low, you could make it into a banqueting hall for summer, or a masquing theatre …’

      The earl shook his head. ‘Leave it. An extra hall with its own kitchen and stables is always useful if someone important comes with a big entourage. Come and see the new house!’

      He led the way up the garden, John following him slowly, looking everywhere with his quick perceptive glance. ‘Fine trees,’ he remarked.

      ‘They can stay,’ the earl said. ‘Mountain Jennings does the park and a Frenchman has designed the garden. But you plant it.’

      John suppressed an instant, unworthy pang of envy. ‘I’d rather plant a garden than design it anyway.’

      ‘You know it comes to the same thing after the first summer,’ Cecil said. ‘The Frenchman goes back to Paris, and you have a free hand then. Anything you don’t like, you can tell me it has died – I’m not likely to know.’

      John chuckled. ‘I can’t see me lasting long in your employ if I kill off your plantings, my lord,’ he said.

      The earl smiled. ‘Never mind the plants, what about the new house?’

      It was a large stately house, not as big as Theobalds, which was built as a palace and had sprawled to become a village, but it was a grand beautiful house in the new style, fit to display the staggering wealth of the Cecils, fit to welcome the prodigal luxury of the Jacobean court, fit to take its place as a great display house of Europe.

      ‘Surrounded by great courts on every side,’ the earl pointed. ‘A hundred rooms, separate kitchen and bake house altogether. I tell you, John, it has cost me nigh on thirty thousand pounds for the house alone, and I expect to spend as much again on the park and gardens.’

      John gulped. ‘You’ll be ruined!’ he said bluntly.

      The earl shook his head. ‘The king is a generous master to those who serve him well,’ he said. ‘And even to those who serve him ill,’ he added.

      ‘But sixty thousand pounds!’

      The earl chuckled. ‘My money,’ he said grimly. ‘My show house, and in the end my grand funeral. What else should I do with it but spend it on what I love? And what a garden we will make, won’t we, John? Do you want me to scrimp on the plantings?’

      John felt his excitement rising. ‘Have you the plans?’

      ‘Over here.’ The earl led the way to a little outhouse, his boots squelching in the mud. ‘As soon as the workmen have finished you can sow grass here, get the place clean.’

      ‘Yes, my lord,’ John said automatically, looking at the plans spread out on the table inside.

      ‘There!’ Cecil exclaimed.

      John leaned over. The parkland was so immense that the grand house, drawn to scale, showed as nothing more than a little box in the centre. He ran his eye over the gardens. All the courts were to be planted with different flowers, each with their own ornate knot garden in different patterns. There was to be a great walk of espaliered fruit trees, and a grand water feature of a river running along a terrace edged with seats and