Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  “And if she grows distressed that you will not meet her, my lady?”

  “You must bear her tears, and maintain I cannot meet her until her name is cleared.” I stared into his eyes, seeing my own black orbs reflected in them. “I would meet her, but my men will not allow it, and I see wisdom in their counsel. I will send you with letters offering sisterly support. My first instinct is to restore her, but it may be some time before that can happen. In the meantime, Mary must be patient, and must understand that since she has placed herself under my protection, I am her master.”

  “I will do all I can, Majesty.”

  “I know, Francis. That is why I chose you.” I offered up an impish smile as he made to depart. As he rose from kissing my hand, I leaned in to his ear. “And you will keep an eye on her,” I said. “Watch her close, Francis. I want no rising sun to blot out my noon light. I want no competitor for my crown.”

  “I will keep both eyes always on her, Majesty.”

  “Be sure to,” I said, my smile falling as fast as it had risen. “Or risk my high, and boundless, displeasure.”

  Chapter Four

  Greenwich Palace

  Late Spring 1568

  A week later, sitting in my chambers as an unseasonable mist spread slow-moving fingers over England, I sighed and tossed a roll of parchment to Robin. “If my Knollys cousin could make it less obvious that he has, against my strict warning, fallen for the Scots’ Queen, I would be a happy woman this day,” I said.

  Knollys had written that Mary was a “rare woman” who had a “stout courage joined to a liberal heart”. I had felt increasingly less and less liberal as I read his praise of her.

  Robin chuckled as he unrolled the parchment and read. “He tries to hide his admiration.”

  “And in doing so reveals himself,” I said waspishly. “I would there were just one man who would not become a simpering stable-boy the moment Mary of Scots flutters her lashes at him.”

  “I never fell for her charms.”

  “You never met her, Robin. Had I sent you into Scotland, I might have lost you too.”

  “There is no woman for me, but you. And no impish mermaid of the north is about to outshine my lioness of England.”

  I smiled. “If only all men thought the same, my dear Eyes.”

  All talk in Council was of Mary: the dangers she posed; possible uprisings in the north; invasion from the Pope, Spain, or France on her behalf; the possibility of offending our Scots allies if we did not hand her over… And although no conclusion was reached, and all had been said a thousand times, still my men wanted to talk. Mary had only been in England a few weeks, and already I was sick of her.

  Men often accuse women of talking continuously, and for no purpose, but they are equal offenders to hyperbole.

  And now the man sent to guard my irritating cousin was gushing about her many virtues. Memories of Throckmorton’s letters, sent during his time in France, assailed me. What spell was it this woman wove over men, so they saw only her virtues? I had thought Knollys an ideal choice for Mary’s gaoler. He was firmly Protestant, loyal to me, and loved his wife, yet within hours of reaching Carlisle, Knollys had apparently become infatuated with this Catholic Queen who threatened my throne.

  People maintained women were the weaker sex. At times, I questioned the merits of collective wisdom.

  If Mary had seen potential in her newly-infatuated gaoler, she had not seen much in the clothing I had offered. Two kirtles, one in dire need of repair, two lengths of black velvet and two pairs of shoes were all I had sent. Mary had not been impressed. Knollys had told her they had been chosen because they were light and could be dispatched quickly, but she knew it was not so. Good, I thought as I read about her hostile reception of the garments. Learn your place, cousin.

  Mary had wept to hear that I would not bring her to court, and enquired as to what method would be used to clear her name. Fortunately for him, Knollys had not told her I intended to put the case to trial.

  I had written to her, demanding to know why I had not been sent a letter of thanks for my charity, and received Knollys’ missive in return. Quite aside from my worries about Knollys falling for Mary, I had other concerns. I was assuring France and Spain I would act decisively, and immediately, on Mary’s behalf. It was all lies. I had no intention of acting with certainty or speed… at least not yet. This situation required thought. I was not about to blunder into a mistake that might cost me dear.

  I glanced up as Catherine Knollys entered my chamber, alongside the whispering, elegant figure of Helena Snakenborg. I motioned to Rob. “Say nothing in front of my Carey cousin,” I whispered. “I would not have her hurt, knowing her husband gazes on another with affection.”

  Robin rolled up the scroll. “You will need a new man in the north,” he said loudly, “if you do not wish to deprive your good lady of the bedchamber of her husband forever.”

  Catherine smiled as she heard him. I was grateful for Robin’s tact. “If title were all that mattered,” I said. “I would send Norfolk. But sending him to the Queen of Scots would be like setting kindling wood to a line of gunpowder.”

  Norfolk was a not-so-secret Catholic sympathiser. He was also young, arrogant and foolish. Sending him to Mary would do no good. He was not one to resist temptation.

  “What about Shrewsbury?” Robin asked. “He is sensible, loyal and recently married.”

  “Indeed, and of high enough rank.” I tapped my lips with my fingertip. I almost went to look for Bess, then remembered she was in the country, tending to her eldest daughter who was expecting her first child. “He possesses a number of good properties, suitable for holding a captive queen, and is rich enough to pay for the extra servants she will require, as well as her household expenses.”

  Robin looked amused. “You wish to keep her at no cost to the Privy Purse?”

  I grinned. “It has always been my habit to avoid spending, Rob. Ever since I inherited a kingdom as poor in riches as it was in religion, I have been a miser, like my grandfather, and England has profited from it. My father thought the way to make money was to spend it. I learned the best way was to bring about peace, avoid war, and spend little on myself.”

  I understood the worth of ostentatious show, for it is the means by which royalty declares their right to rule, but I also understood the value of money. People called me mean, but I had inherited a poor kingdom, and through my stringent economies was making England rich. My own expenses were tight and controlled. Few people in my household drew a salary, as if they came from rich families I believed they could support themselves. They were, however, all granted accommodation at court, ate at my expense, and were offered payments in kind, such as candles and wood. With these basics of life taken care of, I thought there was small need to offer wages too. Lodgings at court varied, depending on rank. The most favoured would boast suites of rooms, whilst maids of honour, chamberers and gentlemen servers shared rooms, divided by sex. Domestic servants slept where they worked, with cooks in the kitchens, and groomsmen in the stables. There were also lodgings for the servants of servants, as maids of honour were permitted one maid of their own and ladies in waiting were allowed more, depending on their rank. Almost everyone in England was a servant to someone, besides me… I was the servant of God.

  My ladies also benefited in other ways. Gifts exchanged at New Years’, cast-offs from my wardrobe, jewelled girdles or books, special clothing for court entertainments, as well as fans, handkerchiefs and combs all went to them. Blanche and Catherine Knollys were usually granted first pick, being my favourite women, but others, such as Kate and Philadelphia Carey, Lord Hunsdon’s daughters, or Helena Snakenborg, also benefited handsomely.

  But my women could make money another way; by spying on me. Information on the Queen was valuable to the right customer. Upon induction into my household, my ladies were warned not to embroil themselves in politics, and I was quick to dismiss anyone who disobeyed, but sometimes, if to my benefit, I tempora
rily excused my ladies of this command and used them to spread chaos about court. Queens are, after all, allowed to break their own rules.

  A few of my ladies drew wages, but they were never generous. Compared to other monarchs of Europe, who would happily bankrupt their countries for fine clothes and food, I was careful with money. Most of my clothes were gifts. I bargained like a horse merchant for my jewels, and managed to accomplish a great deal from limited resources.

  I nodded to my women. “Every day they mend and repair my dresses. I am as careful as an aged widow, Rob, and mean to remain so.”

  “Yet you always look magnificent.”

  “You should steal from my example, my dear Earl. I know how to make a grand show without spending a fortune. A lesson you have never learned.”

  “I am not alone in not paying attention to my lessons.” Robin tapped the rolled up parchment. “The Scots’ Queen believes you will restore her.”

  “I mean to try.”

  “The Scots will never allow it.” His voice dipped low. “You know you will not achieve it, but Mary does not, and she trusts in your words.”

  “Should people not trust my word?”

  “Your promises, yes,” said Robin. “But otherwise, Majesty, what you do and what you say are different beasts.”

  “You think me a dissembler, Robin?”

  He grinned, his handsome face lighting up like the sun. “I think you a vixen, Majesty. One who has learned to be cautious. One who knows that when a great, fat rabbit is dished up on a plate, there are as many advantages as perils to such a meal.”

  Chapter Five

  Richmond Palace

  Late Spring 1568

  Robin had a point. Mary was a pawn placed upon my side of the board, and there were benefits which came hand in hand with the dangers she presented. Mary brought me a measure of power over the Scots, the French and the Spanish… But did her value outweigh the risks?

  My Council saw only peril, and urged me to hand her to the Scots. I would not. There would be a trial of her part in Darnley’s murder. But first, Mary had to agree.

  This was not going to be easy. Mary was my equal, and no subject of my realm, therefore holding her to account under the laws of England was likely to be taxing. She believed, or professed to believe, in my offers of support, but she must have understood by now she was a prisoner, and would not take kindly to that.

  There were other issues to trouble me too. More than one hundred servants of Mary’s royal household had escaped Scotland and gone to her. Mary Seton, the only one of Mary’s Maries to flee Scotland, was amongst them, along with men who had aided my cousin’s flight to England. I was unnerved by their mass appearance at Carlisle. I hardly needed Mary escaping, wreaking havoc about England or racing back to her homeland. If she reappeared in Scotland, our closest neighbour would enter a time of further disarray. I did not want that. An incident at Carlisle had demonstrated this fear was not only in my mind. Mary had been allowed to go hare coursing, and had ridden with such spirit that her guards had become possessed with terror, thinking she was about to break for the border. When they caught her, she had denied any such plan, but it was enough to make everyone nervous. I wanted Mary moved to somewhere not so near the borders, but she had to remain far enough away so I might use the excuse of distance to prevent me from visiting her.

  I settled on Bolton Castle, an isolated spot, high on the craggy ground overlooking the Valley of Wensleydale in Yorkshire. Although the castle’s custodian, Lord Scrope, was Norfolk’s brother-in-law, and therefore not a wise choice in terms of religion, he was the senior official on the western edge of the border. But, as I assured my nervous Cecil, who had as many if not more misgivings about Scrope, it would be but temporary. Upon Robin’s good advice, I had selected George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, to be Mary’s long-term gaoler.

  Mary was miserable to learn she was to shift house. She had thought I would raise an army the instant she came to England, and we would be marching side by side into battle by now to win back her throne. The news she was to move to another dwelling further into England brought home the fact that her captivity was likely to be of longer duration than she had thought.

  Just how long, none of us had any idea, then.

  Cecil thought me a fool. He argued it was both perilous and ridiculous to help Mary, and urged continuously for her to be handed to the Scots. I would not oblige him, but I was left with an abiding problem; how to put Mary on trial?

  “I have come to a conclusion,” I said to my Council one day as tiresome arguments stalked the chamber like panting jackals circling a dying lion. “A tribunal will be set up to question whether the Scottish lords were justified in rebellion and can prove their accusations against my royal cousin.”

  Faces stared at me in shock, but it was a good solution. This way, Mary was not on trial, her lords were. The result would be the same, naturally, but I would not offend the Almighty by judging a fellow regent, and we would have the evidence we required to either clear Mary’s name or condemn her.

  When she heard, my cousin was horrified. No matter the distinction between putting her lords on trial or her, she was affronted I would dare do either. To her mind, I had no right to judge her or her lords. My cousin had not realised that the comfortable world she had once dwelt in was gone for all time. She never was talented at comprehending how others saw her, or at understanding that without her people’s support, she was no Queen.

  The trouble was Mary had for so long been a focus of romantic tales that she had started to believe in that vision herself. In tales of romance, acts of chivalry and bravery come swift to heroines, but no one else upheld her glittering fantasy. To English Protestants, Mary was a nightmare combining all fears, terrors and catastrophic possibilities. To disloyal Catholics, she was their hope for salvation. To my Council, she was a vision of unholy Hell, and to me, she was a question mark. The question required an answer.

  The tribunal had to go ahead. If it found the Scottish lords had been wrong to rebel, I could act for Mary. If it found the lords had been correct, I would seek favourable terms for her release to Scotland.

  I did not want her, but I did not want her dead. That thought was to keep me as much a prisoner as Mary.

  It was not only Cecil urging me to inflict justice on Mary. I had received a visit from my Lennox cousin, Margaret, and her husband. They had fallen to their knees, begging me to exact justice for their dead son from this wanton murderess. Margaret, dressed in deep mourning, had wailed on so long and loud that I had dismissed her, telling her and her husband I would not condemn Mary without trial. I was not about to be bullied into submission, and if any of my subjects thought that, they knew me not at all.

  Mary, hearing about the Lennox meeting, was affronted. Her accusers had been invited to meet me, and she, a fellow queen, had not. Clearly a slight. Growing impatient and indignant, she wrote to me, vastly annoyed by her treatment. I responded, scolding her for impatience. “Pray do not give me occasion to think your promises are but wind,” I wrote. “I assure you, I will do nothing to hurt you, but rather honour and aid you.”

  After dispatching that letter, I was almost buried by the ones Mary sent in response. Every one urged me to act for her, and to bring her to court. She asked me to honour my promises of support, and I assured her I would... once I was sure she was innocent.

  “I do all I can for the Scots’ Queen,” I said to de Silva.

  “And that, my lady, I shall tell my master.” He rose with a smile on his lips, his curly hair bouncing against the nape of his neck. “My King will not think you abuse the Queen, of that you have my personal assurance, Majesty.”

  Whilst I was certain I could depend on de Silva, I was less sure what the French ambassadors thought. My ambassador to France, Sir Henry Norris, was daily assuring King Charles that Mary’s captivity was for her own protection, and I would restore her. Relations with France were being tested at this time even without Mary. Charles and his snak
e of a mother were sure I was sending aid to rebels in the Netherlands, and since the rebels were in league with French Huguenots, I was seen as dangerous. An increase in English pirates preying on French ships in the wide oceans was also a source of contention. Spain, too, was muttering. Although the Duque de Alba was busy in the Low Countries, murdering anything Protestant in sight, there was a possibility Phillip of Spain might turn his eye upon England. Mary might become his excuse to attempt to unseat me. I had to spin lies and keep my foes appeased. England was rich in courage and resilience, but we had not the men or arms commanded by Spain or France.

  My position on Mary was also making my men skittish, Cecil not least amongst them. “Given the death of her sister,” he said late one night. “I believe you should think about restoring Mary Grey to the succession.”