Elizabeth I by Margaret George Page A

it. “Do not keep overmuch company with Essex here. He has a bad influence on young lads like you.”
    â€œOh, now that I am in my twenties, I am a bad influence on youth?” Essex teased. “You should keep us far from court, then. Send me out on another mission. I have the armor, and I am longing to go.”
    I had put him under Drake in Portugal in the so-called Counterarmada, meant to follow up our defensive victory with an offensive one. Essex’s role had been swashbuckling and, in the end, ineffectual. My investment was squandered.
    â€œThen you pay for it!” I snapped.
    Just then Sir Francis Drake appeared, as if we had conjured him up by speaking of naval operations. The former hero of the Armada was not my favorite sight just now. But with characteristic sangfroid, he pushed his way over to me and fell on his knees.
    â€œYour Gracious Majesty!” he said, kissing my hand.
    He had not dared to show his face at court since the bungled Portugal venture. The sultan’s generosity was providing him an opportunity.
    â€œDo not forget so soon all the services I have done you, all the jewels, the gold, the hidden passageways in the sea, and singeing the King of Spain’s beard. Let me prove myself again.”
    But I must hold fast to what financial reserves I had. There would be no missions for Francis Drake this year.

    My ladies were clumped together near one end of the table, hovering over a plate of the loukoum , as well as an artfully arranged tray of pistachios, almonds, and hazelnuts. I motioned to Frances Walsingham to come to me.
    â€œFrances, I have spoken to your father. He is very ill. You must leave court to go and attend him.”
    She bowed but I noticed her eyes straying to Essex. Everyone’s eyes strayed to Essex. She had a special relationship to him, though, as her late husband, Sir Philip Sidney, had bequeathed his sword to Essex, as though passing on his noble reputation. As yet, beyond looking noble, Essex had done little to earn it.
    Frances lingered a moment by his side, and then—did my eyes deceive me?—she touched her fingers to his. He hastily pulled them away, refraining from looking at me. Southampton pulled on his sleeve, his high voice distressed. “Come, sir,” he said.
    With one look back, Essex said plaintively, “If you might receive my mother—”
    I shot him a withering look and did not dignify his request with an answer. Lately he had pestered me about it, as if that would change my mind. My mind did not bend under advocacy. If it was right, it needed none. If it was wrong, no amount of wheedling would soften me. Lettice was in the latter category.
    Among my own ladies I tried to avoid the false and foolish, but often political considerations dictated that I take someone’s daughter or niece, and, pity has it, we cannot always know what will come from our loins. Thus solemn councillors had daughters like Bess Throckmorton. So even here, there were two sorts: the true, such as Helena, Marjorie, Catherine, and her sister Philadelphia, and the flighty—Bess Throckmorton, Mary Fitton, Elizabeth Southwell, and Elizabeth Vernon. As one might expect, the frivolous ones were prettier than the reliable ones. Still, as Solomon said, “As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.” Just as I was imagining a golden ring in Bess Throckmorton’s elegant nose, Sir Walter Raleigh’s broad shoulders hid her from view.
    He had been lingering overmuch in the privy chamber when Bess was about, I had noticed. He, as captain of the Queen’s Guard, was charged with protecting the virtue of my ladies, even holding a key to the chamber of the maids of honor. Thus far nothing improper had occurred that I could detect, but my suspicions were up. He seemed lately to have singled Bess out for his attentions. I made it my business to interrupt them.
    Bess immediately