Earthly Joys

PHILPPA GREGORY

EARTHLY

JOYS

Contents

Cover

Title Page

April 1603

April 1603

July 1604

August 1604

October 1605

May 1607

June 1607

August 1607

Summer 1608

January 1610

Summer 1610

Autumn 1610

Spring 1611

Autumn 1611

May 1612

October 1612

November 1612

September 1616

Summer 1618

Spring 1620

1622

1623

1624

March 1625

Spring 1625

May 1625

Summer 1626

Summer 1627

Autumn 1627

November 1627

Winter 1627

Spring 1628

Summer 1628

Late Summer 1628

November 1628

December 1628

Spring 1629

1630

Summer 1631

Winter 1632-3

Summer 1633

Winter 1633-4

Spring 1634

January 1635

Spring 1635

Summer 1635

1636

December 1636

1637

December 1637

Spring 1638

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

April 1603

The daffodils would be fit for a king. The delicate wild daffodils, their thousand heads bobbing and swaying with the wind, light-petalled, light-stemmed, moving like a field of unripe barley before a summer breeze, scattered across the grass, thicker around the trunks of trees as if they were dewponds of gold. They looked like wild flowers; but they were not. Tradescant had planned them, planted them, nourished them. He looked at them and smiled – as if he were greeting friends.

Sir Robert Cecil strolled up, his uneven tread instantly recognisable in the crunch of the gravel. John turned and pulled off his hat.

‘They look well,’ his lordship observed. ‘Yellow as Spanish gold.’

John bowed. The two men were near each other in age – both in their thirties – but the courtier was bent under a humped back and his face was lined by a lifetime of caution at court, and with pain from his twisted body. He was a small man, little more than five feet tall – his enemies called him a dwarf behind his hunched back. In a beauty-conscious, fashion-mad court where appearance was everything and a man was judged by his looks and his performance on the hunting field or battlefield, Robert Cecil had started his life with an impossible disadvantage: crooked, tiny, and struggling with pain. Beside him the gardener Tradescant, brown-faced and strong-backed, looked ten years younger. He waited in silence for his master to speak. It was not his place to prolong the conversation.

‘Any early vegetables?’ his lordship asked. ‘Asparagus? They say His Majesty loves asparagus.’

‘It’s too early, my lord. Even a king new-come to his kingdom cannot hunt deer and eat fruit in the same month. They each have their season. I cannot force peaches for him in spring.’

Sir Robert smiled. ‘You disappoint me, Tradescant, I had thought you could make strawberries grow in mid-winter.’

‘With a hothouse, my lord, and a couple of fires, some lanterns, and a lad to water and carry, perhaps I could give you Twelfth Night strawberries.’ He thought for a moment ‘It’s the light,’ he said to himself. ‘I think you would need sunlight to make them ripen. I don’t know that candlelight or even lanterns would be enough.’

Cecil watched him with amusement. Tradescant never failed in the respect he owed his master, but he readily forgot everything but his plants. As now, he could fall silent thinking of a gardening problem, wholly neglecting his lord who stood before him.

A man more conscious of his dignity would have dismissed a servant for less. But Robert Cecil treasured it. Alone of every man in his train, Sir Robert trusted his gardener to tell him the truth. Everyone else told him what they thought he wanted to hear. It was one of the disadvantages of high office and excessive wealth. The only information which was worth having was that given without fear or favour; but all the information a spy-master could buy was worthless. Only John Tradescant, half his mind always on his garden, was too busy to lie.

‘I doubt it would be worth your effort,’ Sir Robert remarked. ‘There are seasons for most endeavours.’

John suddenly grinned at him, hearing the parallel between his own work and his master’s. ‘And your season has come,’ he said shrewdly. ‘Your fruiting.’

They turned together and walked back to the great house, Tradescant a step behind the greatest man in the kingdom, respectfully attentive, but looking from side to side at every pace. There were things that wanted doing in the garden – but then there were always things that wanted doing in the garden. The avenue of pleached limes needed retying before their early summer growth thrust wands of twigs out of control, the kitchen garden needed digging over; and radishes, leeks, and onions should be sown into the warming spring soil. The great watercourses which were the

wonder of Theobalds Palace needed weeding and cleaning; but he strolled as if he had all the time in the world, one step behind his master, waiting in silence, in case his master wanted to talk.

‘I did right,’ Sir Robert said half to himself, half to his gardener. ‘The old queen was dying and she had no heir with as strong a claim as he. Not one fit to rule, that is. She would not hear his name, you had to whisper King James of Scotland if she were anywhere in any of her palaces. But all the reports I had of him were of a man who could hold two kingdoms, and perhaps even weld them together. And he had sons and a daughter – there’d be no more fretting over heirs. And he’s a good Christian, no taint of Papistry. They breed strong Protestants in Scotland …’

He paused for a moment and gazed at his great palace set on the high terrace looking towards the River Thames. ‘I don’t complain,’ he said fairly. ‘I’ve been well repaid for my work. And there’s more to come.’ He smiled at his gardener. ‘I’m to be Baron Cecil of Essenden.’

Tradescant beamed. ‘I’m glad for you.’

Sir Robert nodded. ‘A rich reward for a hard task …’He hesitated. ‘Sometimes I felt disloyal. I wrote him letter after letter, teaching him the way of our country, preparing him to rule. And she never knew. She’d have had me beheaded if she had known! She’d have called it treason – towards the end she called it treason even to mention his name. But he had to be prepared …’

Sir Robert broke off, and John Tradescant watched him with silent sympathy. His master often strolled into the garden to find him. Sometimes they spoke of the grounds, the formal garden, the orchards, the park, of seasonal plantings, or new plans; sometimes Sir Robert spoke at length, indiscreetly, knowing that Tradescant could keep a secret, that he was a man without guile, with solid loyalty. Sir Robert had made Tradescant his own, as effectually as if the gardener had gone down on the loam and sworn an oath of fealty, on the day that he had trusted him with the garden of Theobalds Palace. It had been a massive task for a twenty-four-year-old but Sir Robert had taken the gamble that Tradescant could do it. He was a young man himself, desperate to inherit his father’s position at court, desperate for older and more powerful men to recognise his merit and his skill. He took a risk with Tradescant and then the queen took a risk with him. Now, six years later, both of them had learned their craft – statesmanship and gardening – and Tradescant was Sir Robert’s man through and through.

‘She wanted him left ignorant,’ Sir Robert said. ‘She knew what would happen to her court if she named him as heir; they’d have all slipped away from her, slipped away up the Great North Road to Edinburgh, and she’d have died alone, knowing herself to be an old woman, an ugly old woman with no kin, no lovers, no friends. I owed it to her to keep them at her beck and call to the very end. But I owed it to him to teach him as best I could … even at a distance. It was to be his kingdom, he had to learn how to govern it, and there was no-one but me to teach him.’

‘And he knows now?’ John asked, going to the very heart of it.

Sir Robert was alert. ‘Why d’you ask? Is there gossip that he does not?’

John shook his head. ‘I’ve heard none,’ he said. ‘But he’s not a lad who has sprung up from nowhere. He must have his own way of doing things. He’s a man grown; and he has his own kingdom. I was wondering if he would take your teaching, especially now that he will have his pick of advice. And it matters …’

He broke off and his master waited for him to finish.

‘When you have a lord or a king,’ John went on, choosing his words with caution, ‘you have to be sure that he knows what he’s doing. Because he’s going to be the one who decides what you do.’ He stopped, bent and whisked out the little yellow head of a groundsel plant. ‘Once you’re his man, you’re stuck with him,’ he said frankly. ‘He has to be a man of judgement, because if he gets it wrong then he is ruined; and you with him.’

Cecil waited in case there was more but John looked shyly down into his face. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to suggest that the king did not know what he has to do. I was thinking of us subjects.’

Sir Robert waved away the apology with one gesture of his long-fingered hand. They strolled together up the great avenue through the large formal knot garden towards the front terrace of the palace. It was done in the old style, and John had changed nothing here since his arrival as gardener. It had been laid out by Sir Robert’s father in the bleak elegance of the period. Sharply defined geometric patterns of box hedging enclosed different coloured gravels and stones. The beauty of the garden was best seen if you looked down on it, from the house. Then you could see that it was as complex and lovely as a series of neat diagrams of cropped hedging and stone. John had a private ambition to change the garden after the new fashion – to break up the regular square and rectangular beds and make all the separate beds one long whole, like an embroidered hem or scarf – a twisting pattern that went on and on, serpentined in and about itself. When his master was less absorbed with statecraft John was going to suggest melding the beds one into another.

Once he had persuaded Sir Robert to follow the new fashion for the knot garden he had an ambition to go yet further. He longed to take out the gravel from the enclosed shapes and plant the patterns with herbs, flowers and shrubs. He wanted to see the whole disciplined shape softened and changing every day with foliage and flowers which would bloom and wilt, grow freshly green, and then pale. He had a belief, as yet unexpressed, almost unformed, that there was something dead and hard about a garden of stone paths edged with box enclosing beds of gravel. Tradescant had a picture in his mind’s eye of plants spilling over the hedges, of the thick green of the box containing wildness, fertility, even colour. It was an image that drew on the hedgerow and roadside of the wild country of England and brought that richness into the garden and imposed order upon it.

‘I miss her,’ Sir Robert admitted.

John was recalled to his real duty – to be his master’s man heart and soul, to love what he loved, to think what he thought, to follow him to death without question if need be. The image of the creamy tossing heads of gypsy lace and moon daisies encased by hawthorn hedging in its first haze of spring green vanished at once.

‘She was a great queen,’ John volunteered.

Sir Robert’s face lightened. ‘She was,’ he said. ‘Everything I learned about statecraft, I learned from her. There never was a more cunning player. And she named him at the very end. So she did her duty, in her own way.’

‘You named him,’ John said dryly. ‘I heard that it was you that read the proclamation which named him as king while the others were still hopping between him and the other heirs like fleas between sleeping dogs.’

Cecil shot John his swift sly smile. ‘I have some small influence,’ he agreed. The two men reached the steps which led to the first terrace. Sir Robert leaned on John’s sturdy shoulder and John braced himself to take the slight weight.

‘He’ll not go wrong while I have the guiding of him,’ Sir Robert said thoughtfully. ‘And neither I, nor you, will be the losers. It takes a good deal of skill to survive from one reign to the next, Tradescant.’

John smiled. ‘Please God this king will see me out,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a queen, the greatest queen that ever was; and now a new king. I don’t expect to see more.’

They reached the terrace and Sir Robert dropped his hand from John’s shoulder and shrugged. ‘Oh! You’re a young man still! You’ll see King James and then his son Prince Henry on the throne! I don’t doubt it!’

‘Amen to their safe succession,’ John Tradescant replied loyally. ‘Whether I see it or not.’

‘You’re a faithful man,’ Sir Robert remarked. ‘D’you never have any doubts, Tradescant?’

John looked quickly at his master to see if he was jesting; but Sir Robert was serious.

‘I made my choice of master when I came to you,’ John said baldly. ‘I promised then that you would have no more faithful servant than me. And I promise my loyalty to the queen, and now to her heir, twice every Sunday in church before God. I’m not a man who questions these things. I take my oath and that’s the end of it for me.’

Sir Robert nodded, reassured as always by Tradescant’s faith, as straight as an arrow to the target. ‘It’s the old way,’ he said, half to himself. ‘A chain of master and man leading to the very head of the kingdom. A chain from the lowest beggar to the highest lord and the king above him and God above him. Keeps the country tied up tight.’

‘I like men in their places,’ Tradescant agreed. ‘It’s like a garden. Things ordered in their right places, pruned into shape.’

‘No wild disorder? No tumbling vines?’ Sir Robert asked with a smile.

‘That’s not a garden, that’s outside,’ John said firmly. He looked down at the knot garden, the straight lines of the low clipped hedges, and behind them the sharply defined coloured stones, each part of the pattern in its right place, each shape building up the design which could not even be seen clearly by the workers on the ground who weeded the gravel. To understand the symmetry of the garden you had to be gentry – looking down from the windows of the house.

‘My job is to make order for the master’s pleasure,’ Tradescant said.

Sir Robert touched his shoulder. ‘Mine too.’

They walked together along the terrace to the next great flight of steps. ‘All ready for His Majesty?’ Sir Robert asked, knowing what the answer would be.

‘All prepared.’

Tradescant waited to see if his master would speak more and then he bowed, and fell back, and watched Sir Robert limp onward, towards the grand house, to supervise the preparation for the visit of the Lord’s Anointed, England’s new, glorious king.

April 1603

They had news of the arrival long before the first outriders clattered in through the great gates. Half the country had turned out to see what sort of man the new king might be. The whole royal court moved with the king – the baggage trains behind his carriages carried everything from silver and gold cutlery to pictures for his walls. One hundred and fifty English noblemen had attached themselves at once to the new king, their hats banded with red and gold to demonstrate their loyalty. But travelling with him also was his own Scots court, drawn south by the promise of easy pickings from the fat English manors. Behind them came all the retainers – twenty for each lord – and behind them came their baggage and horses. It was a massive battalion of idlers on the move. In the centre of the whole train came the king, riding his big black hunter, and scarcely able to see the country he had come to claim as his own for the lords and gentry who milled about him.

Half of the commoners who had joined the progress as it moved along the dusty roads were turned back at the great palace gates by Sir Robert’s retainers – a private army of his own – and the king rode down the great sweep of the tree-lined avenue to the house. When they reached the base court the followers broke away, looking for their own apartments and shouting for grooms to stable their horses. The king was greeted by Sir Robert’s chief servant, the master of the house, who had a paper to read to welcome the king on coming to his kingdom, and then Sir Robert himself stepped forward, and knelt before him.

‘You can get up,’ the new king said gruffly, his accent extraordinary to those subjects who had only ever heard a monarch speak in the queen’s ringing rounded tones.

Sir Robert rose, awkward on his lame leg, and led his king into the great hall of Theobalds. King James, prepared for English wealth and English style, nonetheless checked at the doorway and gasped. The walls and the ceilings were so massively carved with branches and flowers and leaves that the walls themselves looked like the boughs of a wood, and on the warm spring day even the wild birds were misled and came flying in and out of the huge open windows with their vast panes of expensive Venetian glass. It was a flight of fancy in stone, wood, and precious metals and jewels, an excess of folly and grandeur in one splendid hall as big as a couple of barns.

‘This is magnificent. What jewels in those planets! What workmanship in the wood!’

Sir Robert smiled, as modest as he could be, and bowed slightly; but not even his courtier skills were able to conceal his pride of ownership.

‘And this wall!’ the king exclaimed.

It was the wall which showed the Cecil family connections. Other older members of court, other greater families might sneer at the Cecils who had come from a farm in Herefordshire only a few generations ago; but this wall was Sir Robert’s answer. It was emblazoned with his family shield showing the motto ‘Prudens Qui Patiens’ – a good choice for a family who had made their fortune in two generations by advising the monarch – and linked by swags and ropes of laurel and bay leaves to the coats of arms and branches of the family. The garlands showed the extent of the Cecil power and influence. This was a man who had a cousin or a niece in every noble bed in the land and, conversely, every noble family in the land had, at one time or another, sought the seal of Cecil approval. The rich swooping loops of carved and polished foliage which connected one shield to another were like a map of England’s power from the fountainhead of the Cecil family, closest to the throne, to the most distant tributaries of petty northern lordships and baronetcies.

On the opposite wall was Cecil’s great planetary clock, which showed the time of day in hours and minutes as it shone on Cecil’s house. A great solid gold orb represented the sun, and then at one side was a moon hammered from pure silver, and the planets in their courses, all moving in their spheres. Each planet was made from silver or gold and encrusted with jewels, each kept perfect time, each demonstrated in its symmetry and beauty the natural order of the universe that put England at the centre of the universe and mirrored the arrangement of the opposite wall that put Cecil at the centre of England.

It was an extraordinary display even for a house of extraordinary displays.

The king looked from one wall to another, stunned by the richness. ‘I’ve seen nothing like this in my life before,’ he said.

‘It was my father’s great pride,’ Sir Robert said. At once he could have bitten off his tongue rather than mention his father to this man. William Cecil had been the queen’s adviser when she had hesitated over the death of her cousin, Queen Mary of Scotland. It was Cecil’s father who had put the death warrant on the table and told the queen that, kin or no, monarch or no, innocent or no, the lady must die, that he could not guarantee Queen Elizabeth’s safety with her dangerously attractive rival alive. It was William Cecil who had responsibility for Mary’s death and now his son welcomed the dead queen’s son into his house.

‘I must show you the royal apartments.’ Robert Cecil recovered rapidly. ‘And if there is anything you lack you must tell me, Your Majesty.’ He turned and waved to a man holding a heavy box. The man, whose cue should have come later, started forward and presented the jewel box on one knee.

The gleam from the diamonds completely obscured Cecil’s small blunder. James beamed with desire. ‘I shall lack nothing,’ he declared. ‘Show me the royal rooms.’

It seemed odd to Cecil, taking this stocky, none-too-clean man into the rooms which had belonged exclusively to the queen, and were always left empty when she was not there, filled only with the aura of royalty. When she was in residence, on her long and expensive visits, the place was scented with rose-water and orange blossom and the richest strewing herbs and pomanders. Even when she was absent there was a ghost of her perfume in the room which made any man coming into it pause in awe on the threshold. There was a tradition that her chair was placed in the centre of the room like a throne, and like a throne it was vested with her authority. Everyone, from serving maid to Cecil, bowed to it on entering the room and on leaving, such was the power of England’s queen even in her absence.

It seemed odd, against the grain of all things, and wrong in itself that the heir she had never seen, whose name she had hated, should cross her threshold and exclaim with greedy pleasure at her carved and gilded wooden bed where he would now lie, the rich curtains around it and the hangings on the walls. ‘This is a palace fit for a king indeed,’ James said, his chin wet as if he were salivating at the sight.

Sir Robert bowed. ‘I shall leave you to take your ease, Your Majesty.’