Essex received the party of four and complained to them that his life was in danger and that he was only protecting himself, whereupon Egerton put on his hat, which proclaimed that he came in his official role, and made the usual statement.
“I command you all upon your allegiance to lay down your weapons and depart, which you all ought to do, thus being commanded, if you be good subjects and owe that duty to the Queen which you possess.”
It was Essex's chance—not to come back into favor; he would never do that and he knew it—but to save his life.
But of course he would not help himself.
He pushed the councilors aside and left the house accompanied by two hundred armed men—among them his stepfather Christopher Blount.
I heard about it afterward—how he rode through the streets of London calling to the citizens to come and join him, really believing that James of Scotland would send an army to his aid. He was my enemy in truth, for the plot was to replace me, kill me if need be. It was galling to realize that this young man whom I had loved and tried to put into Robert's place could behave so.
Did he really believe that because he had enjoyed certain popularity with the Londoners he could turn them against me! I had been their beloved sovereign for more than forty years. They loved me. The Londoners were as shrewd as any people in this kingdom—or any other—and they knew that I had brought peace, prosperity and victory at sea which had made them secure. Did he really believe that they would overthrow me because a foolish boy was annoyed with me? Did he really believe I could be replaced by a princess from Spain or a young man from across the Border?
His little rebellion was soon quelled. Sir Christopher Blount was wounded and captured; and very soon Essex and Southampton, with others, were in the Tower.
HE COULD NOT be anything but guilty. He was a traitor who had plotted against the Crown, who had tried to raise men against the Sovereign and planned her assassination in order to put another in her place. It was blatant treachery and there was no other name for it. Therefore there could be no other course than to find Essex, with Southampton and Christopher Blount, guilty. They were sentenced to death and again it was my bitter duty to sign the death warrants.
I decided to spare Southampton's life for I was sure he had been drawn into the conspiracy by Essex, and eventually he was condemned to life imprisonment. Christopher Blount was to suffer the death penalty.
I knew there were some who believed I would not sign Essex's death warrant. They remembered how I had hated signing that of Mary of Scotland. They believed that I was weak where my affections were concerned; they considered how many times I had forgiven Leicester. It was true, I was faithful in my affections, and had I not forgiven him time and time again?
But there was a difference. I had not loved Essex as I had loved Leicester. My love for Robert had been as real as life itself; for Essex it was but a fantasy. I had tried to believe I was young again, capable of arousing love and desire, and when that brash young man had burst into my chamber so unceremoniously he had destroyed a dream and with it himself.
On a cold February day Essex walked out of his prison in the Tower to his execution.
He looked very handsome in a cloak of black velvet over a satin suit and wearing a black hat. He mounted the scaffold calmly and bravely, although he had been less so after his sentence and had accused all manner of people, including his own sister, of drawing him into intrigue; and he had heaped reproaches on Sir Francis Bacon, whom he had believed to be his friend and who had acted as one of the prosecution's lawyers.
“Oh God be merciful to me, the most wretched creature on Earth,” he prayed.
He took off his hat and standing there beside the scaffold he addressed the assembly.
“My lords and you, my Christian brethren who are to be witnesses of this my just punishment, I confess to the glory of God that I am a most wretched sinner, and that my sins are more in number than the hairs of my head; that I have bestowed my youth in pride, lust, uncleanness, vainglory and divers other sins…
“Lord Jesus, forgive it us, and forgive it me, the most wretched of all… The Lord grant Her Majesty a prosperous reign and a long one, if it be His Will. Oh Lord, bless her and the nobles and ministers of the Church and State. And I beseech you and the world to have a charitable opinion of me for my intention upon Her Majesty, whose death upon my salvation and before God, I protest I never meant, nor violence to her person, yet I confess I have received an honorable trial and am justly condemned. And I desire all the world to forgive me, even as I do freely and from my heart forgive the world…”
When he had taken off his ruff and his gown, the executioner came forward and as was the custom asked his forgiveness.
“Thou art welcome,” he replied. “I forgive thee. Thou art the minister of justice.”
He took off his doublet and stood there in his scarlet waistcoat. Then he prayed for humility and patience.
Would to God he had cultivated those qualities in life. If he had done so, he would not have been standing where he was at that time.
He knelt on the straw and put his head on the block; and that was the end of my Lord Essex.
The End Draws Near
HE WAS DEAD, BUT I COULD NOT FORGET HIM. His handsome face appeared in my dreams and when I awoke I remembered that I should never see him again, and I was overcome with sadness.
They were all dying around me—all those whom I had loved and it seemed that I was outliving them all. How much longer? I wondered sometimes. I was sixty-eight years old. Not many lived so long. Surely my time must soon be at hand.
These thoughts occupied me very much in the quiet of the night, and I used to think: “What will happen when I am gone? Who will take my place? There must be no war. War is no good. England has known peace too long to appreciate its blessings.”
It would have to be her son. He was the natural heir. They had brought him up in Scotland as a Protestant, so there would be no difficulty about religion.
How strange! Mary Stuart's son, James the VI of Scotland and the first of England. I wondered what he would be like. The son of one of the most foolish of women and that oaf Darnley! If she had called me bastard—and many would secretly say that I was—at least I had had a great king for a father and a mother who must have been one of the most fascinating women in England, to make a king break with Rome for her sake. That had turned out well. It was better to be free of Rome; and the English, I was sure, would in the future, thank God for Queen Elizabeth.
Another of my friends fell ill that year. I was very fond of the Countess of Nottingham and immensely grateful for what her husband—Howard of Effingham—had done for his country at the time of the war with Spain. I visited her and as I sat with her it became clear to me that she had something on her mind.
Her hands were hot and feverish, her eyes wild. I said to her: “You must lie quietly. You need your breath, my dear.”
But she could not rest and when she said: “There is something I must tell you,” I was not surprised.
Then it came out. She had a terrible secret and she could not rest without my forgiveness for she knew that she was about to die.
I said she must tell me what was troubling her and relieve her mind. It was hard for me to believe that she had ever done me any harm.
She said: “It was the ring…”
I bent closer to her. “What ring?” I prompted.
“It… was to have been given to you. Sir Robert Carey sent a messenger with it…to give it to my sister when she was in attendance on you.”
She hesitated again and I said: “Yes, yes, your sister, my dear Lady Scrope.”