ONE
10 April 1593, Westminster
Here it came again: that basilisk glare laden with Her Majesty’s displeasure. Francis lacked the courage to meet her eyes, but the glare, delivered in this most public of places, was part of his punishment. Dropping his gaze or turning his head would only arouse her contempt. His vision clouded — perhaps in some inward form of self-protection — but he managed to remain erect, with his face turned in her direction.
The Lord Keeper’s nasal voice droned forth from his position at the queen’s right hand. His rigid posture betrayed his anxiety that she might turn some of that simmering wrath on him. So far, she had ignored him, instead surveying the assembly, her gaze moving like a beacon from face to face, hardening only when it turned toward Francis. Or so it seemed to him.
Her throne dominated the Upper House at Westminster Hall, raised two steps above the common floor and sheltered by red brocaded hangings shot with gold. She’d come to observe the closing of her eighth Parliament. All the lords and commoners had crowded themselves into the hall. Not to hear the Lord Keeper’s summary of the contentious session, but to be seen by Her Majesty fulfilling a vital role in her government.
His Lordship’s voice, propelled by his portly frame, drove past the inner square of judges seated on red wool sacks and the rows of lords in ermine arrayed on benches. The monotonous drone even penetrated the throng of members of the House of Commons crowded into the back of the chamber. Whenever his speech returned to the matter of the triple subsidy — the overlarge tax to sustain the war against Spain in the Low Countries — both he and the queen turned their stony eyes toward Francis. Many heads among the seated lords turned his way as well.
His cheeks burned. He could only hope his beard might mask that visible shame. He had spoken against the tax, pointing out that it laid too great a burden on the people in a time of bad harvests and plague. He was right — he knew it still — but his objections had earned Her Majesty’s wrath.
He’d tried to stand at the back of the hall, fearing this public censure, but had been inevitably pushed toward the front ranks of the commoners. At least he was spared the sight of his fellows’ stabbing glances. His objections had added many days of heated debate to the proceedings. Still, he could feel their disdain burning into his back.
At last, the speech ended. Her Highness gave her royal assent to the bills passed by both Houses and so dissolved the Parliament. She rose. All men knelt as she paced the length of the hall. Francis lifted his head in hope as she drew near, receiving a final glower for his effort. The Lord Keeper, three steps behind her, added a touch of malice to his reproof, a sneer twisting his thin lips. Even the Earl of Essex, Francis’s patron, could offer nothing more than a rueful shake of the head.
Francis lingered until nearly all had left, not wanting to hear what anyone might choose to say. He walked back to Gray’s Inn alone to spare himself the jostle and gossip at the wharf. He crossed the yard without raising his eyes from the gravel and entered his own house, closing the heavy door behind him with a sigh of relief. He knocked once on the door of his brother’s chambers and entered without waiting for a response.
He found Anthony, as expected, seated at the writing desk near the front windows. The desk had traveled home with him from France last year, its origins bespoken by the graceful carving of each polished walnut leg. Anthony always dressed as if about to pay a visit to someone important, although his gouty legs kept him confined to these two rooms. He’d been returned to Parliament as the member from Wallingford in Berkshire but had heard all the arguments at second remove and voted by proxy. Yet he’d dressed today as if he’d meant to go, in dark blue velvet with a ruff composed of several layers of nearly transparent white silk.
Francis dropped heavily into his favorite chair, positioned between the desk and the hearth. “She hates me.”
Anthony set his quill in its holder and offered a sympathetic frown. “It isn’t quite that bad.”
“Yes, it is. She and the Lord Keeper kept scowling at me all through the closing speech. Along with half the lords and most of the commoners.”
“I warned you,” Anthony said. “She called this Parliament for the specific purpose of approving that triple subsidy. You should have taken the opportunity to demonstrate your willingness to comply instead of sticking at every little hitch.”
Indignation warmed Francis’s heart. “One enormous hitch, which no one else addressed. The people can’t pay so much in so short a time. We’ve had two summers of bad harvests. The city is rife with plague. Add an extra tax to their burdens and we risk riot or even open revolt. There’s enough resentment as it is, with refugees from the Low Countries filling the city and taking work from Englishmen.”
Anthony shrugged that off. “She needs the money. We need it. The Duke of Parma has taken Brussels. He controls most of Brittany. He’s scarce two hundred miles from where we sit. We can’t allow him to advance, and we can’t stop him without troops. And troops cost money, lots of money every week.”
“I know that. I’m not opposed to additional funds. I just wanted them spread out to make the burden easier to bear. People won’t pay taxes if it means taking food from their children’s mouths.”
“They can’t put food on the table in a house that’s been burned by Spanish invaders.”
Francis growled. He didn’t believe invasion was quite so imminent. The Dutch were doughty soldiers. They could hold the line without so much aid from England.
“It’s a dangerous precedent,” he insisted. “We can’t allow this extraordinary rate of taxation to become the rule. I wanted the exceptionality noted as part of the measure. It’s important to look to the future as well as the needs of the present.”
“That may be so,” Anthony said, “but sometimes our lofty principles must be set aside in order to maintain the good relations that enable us to press them another time. You can’t always say what you think, Frank. Politics is the art of compromise — and discretion.”
“I know.” Francis slumped in his chair. “I’d do it again though. It’s my duty to see through the exigencies of the moment to the deeper consequences. They know it as well as you do. That’s why she keeps me dangling in her train.”
“She may well cut the string this time. She expected unanimous support. You’re lucky you haven’t been confined to your house, like Cousin Edward.”
“Edward insulted a Privy Council member to his face. And I have been expelled from court — again.” Francis kicked at the brick floor of the hearth. “How long will it take to dig myself out this time, do you think?”
“Oof!” Anthony rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t begin to guess. You’ve really done it this time, brother dear. She’ll say you’ve sown seeds of dissension throughout the House of Commons and she won’t be entirely wrong.”
Francis gave him a bitter look. “Nobody pays that much attention to me.”
“Everyone does. You underestimate your powers as a speaker. No, you’ll have to grovel. You should seek out some wretched duty and perform it without complaint. Something grindingly dull. And then another one, and then another. By then, her temper will have cooled. But she won’t forget. She never does.”
“I could quit.” Francis drew himself up again, placing his hands firmly on the oaken arms of his chair. “I could leave politics once and for all and retire to Twickenham to study philosophy.”
Anthony laughed out loud. “You say that every time you put a foot wrong.”
“I mean it this time.” Desire for that life swelled in his heart as he spoke the words. “I’m wasting my time. I’m thirty-two years old and have accomplished nothing of importance. If I’m banned from court, I’ll move to Twickenham.” The mere thought of those eighty-seven acres of peaceful green parkland on the Thames, well west of the city’s discontents, soothed his soul. “I’ll study the workings of Nature and write down whatever I see, without fear of bruising a great one’s pride.”
“Nonsense. You’ll weather this affront like the last one and the one before that. I give it three weeks.” Anthony picked up his quill and returned his attention to his work.
Francis shot his brother a sour look, then addressed his next remarks to the fire. “Politics is inimical to truth. Truth is essential for science. Therefore politics is inimical to science. I am incapable of not telling the truth. Therefore I am better suited to philosophy than court.”
“Have it your way,” Anthony said without looking up. “But you’d better tell Lord Essex before you publish your first great discovery. He doesn’t like to be kept in the dark.”
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