His great rival, Sir Walter Raleigh, seized on those words. I could imagine how they would be slipped into the Queen's ear. She would hate him the more because once she had loved him. She would still be haunted by the scene when he had slipped into her bedchamber and discovered a gray, old woman.
The rest of the story is well known, how the plot was made that he and others should seize Whitehall, insist on an interview with Elizabeth, force her to dismiss her present ministers and summon a new parliament.
It probably sounded simple when they planned it. How different it was to put it into action. Christopher was secretive, so I knew that something was afoot. I saw little of him during those days because he was constantly at Essex House. I learned afterwards that Essex was expecting envoys from the King of Scotland, in which case he promised himself he would have good reason for rising and hoping for help from the Scottish King.
It was natural that all these happenings at Essex House attracted attention. Essex's spies discovered that there was a plot afoot—with Raleigh at the head of it—to capture him, perhaps kill him, and in any case get him into the Tower. Whenever my son had ridden through the streets of London, people had come out to watch him and to cheer him. He had always been an object of interest and that charm of his had been a source of fascination. He believed now that the city would be for him, and if he rode out, calling the people to rally round him that he might right his wrongs and theirs, they would follow him.
On a Saturday night several of his followers went to the Globe Theatre and bribed the players there to perform Shakespeare's Richard II, so that people might see that it was possible to depose a monarch.
I was so alarmed that I asked my brother William to come to, me without delay. He was as uneasy as I was.
"What is he trying to do?" he demanded. "Does he not know he is risking his head."
"William," I cried. "I beg of you, go to Essex House. See him. Try to make him listen to reason."
But of course Essex never had listened to reason. William went to Essex House. By that time some three hundred people were there—hotheads, fanatics, all of them.
William demanded an interview with his nephew, but Essex refused it, and because William would not go away he was hustled into the house and shut into the guards' room.
Then Essex did the foolhardy thing. He marched out into the streets with two hundred of his followers—my poor misguided Christopher among them.
Oh, the folly of it—the childish stupidity!
I feel sickened even now when I think of that brave, foolish boy, riding through the streets of London, with his inadequately armed men behind him, shouting to the citizens to join him. I could imagine their blank dismay as these worthy people hastily turned away and went into their houses. Why should they rebel against a Queen who had brought prosperity to them, who had triumphantly saved them from destruction by Spain—all because she had fallen out with one of her favorites?
The call of Rebellion went up, and in London and the neighborhood men were called on to defend the Queen and the country, and a force was quickly mustered against Essex. There was little fighting but enough for several to be killed. My Christopher was gored in the face by a halberd and fell from his horse so that he was left to be captured, while Essex retreated and managed to reach Essex House, where he quickly burned letters from the King of Scotland and any which he thought might implicate his friends.
It was night when they came to take him.
I was so angry. His friend Francis Bacon, whom he had helped so much, had spoken for the prosecution. When I thought of all Essex had done for Bacon I raved to Penelope and called him "False friend and traitor!"
Penelope shook her head. Bacon had been called upon to make a choice. He had to weigh up his obligations to the Queen and to Essex. Of course, said Penelope, he must choose the Queen.
"Essex would have chosen his friend," I pointed out.
"Yes, dear Mother," she replied, "but look to what his acts have brought him."
I knew my son was doomed.
Yet there was one bright hope to which I clung: The Queen had loved him, and I could remind myself how again and again she had forgiven Leicester. But Leicester had never raised an armed rebellion against her. What excuse could there be for Essex? I had to be reasonable and admit that there was none.
He was found guilty, as I had known he would be, and sentenced to death—and poor Christopher with him. I was bewildered and desolate, for I feared that I should shortly be deprived of a husband and a son.
It was a nightmare into which I had strayed. She could not do it. Surely she could not do it. But why not? Those about her would assure her that she must. Raleigh—always his enemy-Cecil, Lord Grey, all of them would explain to her that she had no alternative. Yet she was a woman of strong feelings. When she loved she loved deeply, and she had surely loved him. Next to Leicester he had been the most important man in her life.
What if Leicester had done what Essex had dared? But he never would have. Leicester was no fool. Poor Essex, his was a career littered with suicidal actions, and now there was nothing that could save him.
Or was there?
My husband and my son were condemned to death. I was her kinswoman. Would she have a little pity for me? If only she would see me.
I thought she might see Frances. She had always had an affection for her Moor, and this was his daughter. Moreover, Essex had been notoriously unfaithful to Frances, and the Queen would have pitied her for that, and that would surely have softened the hurt his marrying had inflicted.
Poor Frances, she was desolate. She had loved him dearly and had been with him near to the end of his freedom. I wondered whether he had been tender with her then. I hoped so.
"Frances," I advised her, "go to the Queen. Weep with her, and ask her if she will see me. Tell her I beg her to grant this favor to a woman who has been twice widowed and is likely to be so again. Beg her, in her mercy, to see me. Tell her I know that her great good heart is there beneath her stern royalty, and tell her that if she will see me now I will bless her throughout my life."
Frances was granted an audience during which the Queen had commiserated with her and told her it was a sad day for her when she had lost a great man in Sidney and married a traitor.
And, to my surprise, I too was granted an audience.
So, once again, I was in her presence. But this time on my knees to plead for my son's life. She was dressed in black—for Essex, I wondered—but her gown was covered in pearls; she held her head high above the ornate ruff and her face looked very pale against the too red curls of her wig.
She gave me her hand to kiss and then she said: "Lettice!" And we looked at each other. I tried to compose my features, but I could feel the tears coming into my eyes.
"God's breath!" she said. "What a fool your son is!"
I bowed my head.
"And he has brought himself to this," she went on. "I never wished it for him."
"Madam, he would never have harmed you."
"Doubtless he would have left that for his friends to do."
"Nay, nay, he loves you."
She shook her head. "He saw through me the way to advancement. Do not all of them?"
She signed for me to get off my knees and I rose saying: "You are a great Queen, Your Majesty, and all the world knows it."
She looked at me steadily and said grudgingly: "You still have some beauty left. You were very handsome when you were young."
"No one could compete with you."
Strangely enough I meant it. She had something more than beauty, and she still retained it, old as she was.
"A crown is becoming, Cousin."
"But it does not suit all who wear it. Madam, it becomes you well."