by G Lawrence
“As it should be, Majesty,” said Oxford, clearly a sycophantic lie. Oxford thought his poetry was the only verse worthy of attention. He did not respect my opinion.
“I will not tell you your poem is perfect,” I said to my page. “But none are. Reading is a subjective experience, and if you attempt to please all people, you will fail. I would tell you to practise, and please yourself when you write. In truth, your opinion of your work is the only one that matters.” I smiled generously. “But I would also tell you that I, the recipient, enjoyed it, and that is something to your credit.”
The boy looked pleased as he stuttered his thanks and fell back.
“Do you have something for me this day, Norfolk?” I asked my Howard kinsman.
The Duke stepped forward, happy to be granted a stage on which to perform. Norfolk enjoyed being the centre of attention. He had a rather inflated idea of his worth. Although my only Duke, he was not the only man of worth about court, and in truth, his worth really only came from his blood. I was happier to support men who had powerful minds and the courage to use them. Norfolk was of the old guard, and thought the higher nobility were the only men of value in England, simply because they had been born into the right family.
Yet, I was fond of him. He had given me trouble in the past, spent time warring with Robin, and acted as though he should be
King rather than me, but Norfolk was family. I had little kin left after the purges of my father and siblings, and I had locked away many of those who remained for treason. Troublesome, Norfolk was, but he had not betrayed me as the Greys, Lennoxes or Mary of Scotland had.
As Norfolk read his work, a poem about a captive princess, I glanced about the gardens. William Parr, my uncle by marriage, was with Helena Snakenborg, as always. Still waiting for his first wife, from whom he had separated many years ago, to expire so they might be together, Helena and Parr were never far from one another. Although forced to live apart, Parr kept Helena in grand style. He had appointed ten of his own servants to wait upon her, and ensured all she wished for was brought swiftly to her hands. But Helena told her lord that all she really wanted or needed was him.
Mary Radcliffe, one of my favourite maids, was talking to Lord Admiral Clinton, along with Charles Howard and his wife, Kate Carey, about Clinton’s adventures in the Irish Sea. Walsingham was chatting to Robin, no doubt about some map they had both admired, and my Irish cousin, Black Tom, was laughing with Blanche and the Earl of Sussex.
I let my eyes settle on Tom. I was fond of him. My Ormonde cousin was daring, young, witty, handsome and strong, but he was also wise for his years. He avoided trouble where he could and kept his hands clean when he was able. Naturally, being at court, he could not avoid all trouble. He was a good friend of Sussex, which meant he was not good friends with Robin. Tom was not likely to convince Robin to warm to him in any case. I was fond of them both, and had lately invited Tom to teach me Gaelic, so I might converse with any visiting Irish nobles. Robin had become annoyed at our intimacy, as he did not welcome rivals. It also meant Robin’s allies were unlikely to support Ormonde. Henry Sidney was one of them.
Annoyingly, this rivalry between Ormonde and Robin meant that my men had decided to interfere with Irish affairs. Ireland was never entirely steady. A rebellion some years ago, under Shane O’Neill, had led to great unrest.
Shane had been the legitimate son of the Earl of Tyrone. When his father died, Shane was not the only claimant, and there had been a rash of murders to settle the succession. Shane, however, had claimed more than the title of Earl. He wanted to be named The O’Neill; king of the province of Tir Eoghain.
“My father did away with the Irish tradition of keeping many small kings,” I had said to Cecil when we had heard of Shane’s ambitions, “but Shane has support I cannot ignore.”
I had agreed to recognise his claim, providing Shane submitted to my authority and that of my Deputy in Ireland, the Earl of Sussex. It was a more just offer than my father would have thought to make, but Shane refused. In retaliation, I had supported another claimant, Brian O’Neill.
Battles ensued, and Ireland was a dangerous place to make war. The Irish did not fight as armies did on the Continent. Skirmishes were common, and ambushes frequent. The enemy was elusive, skilled, and far more aware of the strategic benefits of bogs, mountains, forests and hill passes than my men. Since Ireland was rich in cattle and sheep, roaming armies could steal herds to feed their men, offering swift manoeuvrability. The Irish still fought largely with bow and arrow, and pikes. In my armies, archers were dying out, replaced by men who wielded musket and arquebus, but the Irish were highly skilled with the bow, and could do a great deal of damage in raids and surprise attacks.
It was a mixed country in terms of allegiance. Those of the Pale, an area made up of Dublin, Meath, Westmeath, Kildare and Louth carried English blood in their veins, but further in, an Irishman might go his whole life without meeting an Englishman. Ulster was the area least under English influence, and that was Shane’s domain.
My father had dissolved monasteries in Ireland, as in England, although in Ireland he had missed a fair few of the more remote ones, but the nobility of Ireland had sworn allegiance to him, and later to me, over the Pope. But the common faith was Catholic, and some held to it. As in England, I had left doctrinal matters loose and vague, so Catholicism might pass away, like a ghost in the night, but the Pope was determined to bring Ireland back beneath his skirts, and asked its people to rebel against me, to oust Protestantism. He also sent Jesuit priests to keep the faith alive.
My armies had some success, but they could not capture Shane, so Sussex tried more desperate methods, such as poison. Nothing worked. I suggested we cease hostilities and recognise Shane. He had shown his worth as a military man and leader of his people, and, I had reasoned, would be valuable if on my side. I had also feared Shane would become a tool for Spain. Ireland was vulnerable. It was linked to Spain by shipping routes, they shared a religion, and Irish soldiers often joined Spanish armies as mercenaries. If Spain found a foothold in Ireland, England could become vulnerable to invasion. Phillip was rumoured to be in contact with Shane.
Escorted by my cousin, Black Tom, the Earl of Ormonde, Shane had come to London. We talked for a long time.
“You like this man, do you not?” Robin had asked when Shane departed.
“I admit I do,” I had said. Shane was troublesome, there was no denying that, but he was clearly intelligent, shrewd and brash.
Terms had been agreed. Shane swore loyalty to me, and promised to bring Ulster under control. He vowed to submit to my Council, and the Earls of Kildare and Ormonde were to act as arbitrators with his foes. I recognised his claim to be the O’Neill, even though under Brehon Law, the law of ancient Ireland whence the title came, I had no authority to do so. But this mattered not. I had to preserve the fiction of control, and my recognition was important to Shane.
But as we negotiated, in Ireland there were further troubles. Two other claimants to the O’Neill title arose; Sir Turlough and Brian, Baron of Dungannon. Turlough assassinated Dungannon, and when Shane returned, he not only crushed his rivals, but went back to warring with past enemies, the O’Donnells and MacDonnells. He also stole cattle, and pillaged towns and villages.
In fighting his ancient enemies, he had claimed to be serving me. One of my conditions had been the expulsion of Scots mercenaries. Gallowglasses, or Redshanks as they were known, were hired by warring clans and only added to the chaos in Ireland. There were permanent settlements of Scots, acting as henchmen for Irish chiefs. Others came across the seas to work as hired thugs. On occasion, my Deputies hired them. They were respected warriors, even if they caused trouble for us.
Shane waged war against his rivals, and was successful. Too successful. Shane laid waste to the Pale. We came to terms once more, and once more Shane ignored our agreements and went on acting like a warlord. He made himself King of Ulster in all but name. Eventually I sent Sir Henry S
idney to Ireland, to restore order.
As we marched on Shane, he tried to make terms with France, but failed. Undeterred, he turned to Rome, and sent word to the Pope that he was seeking aid to keep Ireland Catholic. Pius V made plans to send the Inquisition to Ireland under Shane’s authority. This was unwanted in much of Ireland. Although Catholicism held sway in some areas, others, like Dublin, Kildare and Armagh, had acknowledged my Supremacy and followed English Church law.
“He would bring papal soldiers upon the people of Ireland,” I had seethed. “And use them to invade England!” My former admiration for Shane had vanished, like vapour rising from cobbles, when I had heard he was willing to bring the servants of Rome into my territories.
When Sidney marched into Ireland, support for the destruction of Shane was growing, even amongst his own people. Sidney was a good Deputy, popular with the Irish chieftains, who named him “Big Henry of the Beer”. They put their support behind him. Shane had reigned for fifteen years using fear; pillaging, kidnapping, murdering and burning to terrorize his foes. It was time for his rule to end.
Routed by the O’Donnells in the Battle of Farsetmore, and with his own clan vying over whom was to take his place when he died, Shane ran to unlikely allies, the MacDonnells. Shane had their chief, Sorley Boy, as his captive, and offered his release if the clan would join with him. They welcomed Shane in, but Shane did not know they had made terms with Sidney. That night they hacked him to death. Officially his murder was explained as a drunken brawl. In reality, it had been murder, done at my command. He was succeeded by Turlough Luineach O’Neill.
There was no denying Shane had been brutal, but he had also been effective, astute and intelligent. Without a legal way to remove him, my men had used underhand methods.
“Will you punish Sidney?” Robin had asked.
“No,” I had said. “The face of royal rule is very different to the deceitful methods we undertake to enforce it, Robin. There are many acts a queen is called upon to do which should be out of the question.” I had sighed, rising from my chair. “We will accept the official verdict, of the drunken brawl, and let that be an end to it. Shane’s reign of terror ends here, with his death.”
Since the death of Shane O’Neill, Ireland had been quiet, but small wars, rival claims, and frictions between clans meant there was always something going on. The main issue troubling me at the moment was enmity between Ormonde and the Earl of Desmond.
The trouble was largely to do with land. Each held contested ancient rights to certain territories. Desmond’s men raided Ormonde’s lands, and Tom retaliated. I had called them to court, and had been less than impressed with Desmond, finding him proud, foolish and vain. A mild term of house arrest had been inflicted on him, but he had been allowed to return to Ireland. A mistake on my part.
Some time ago, the earls had fought a private battle, the only one of its kind in my reign, as far as I was aware. A private battle is one fought without a royal commission on either side. In times of ancient unrest, they had been common, but not so now. At the Ford of Affane, Desmond had been defeated, wounded and captured, and I was enraged when I heard. I had summoned them once more, inflicted a royal scolding, and extracted promises of peace. Desmond went home, Ormonde stayed, but the fight was clearly not over.
Robin and his supporters upheld Desmond, hoping to reduce Ormonde’s influence. Those who wanted Robin reduced in status supported Ormonde.
If only they would leave private wars alone, I thought. We might have fewer public ones.
“Wonderful, Your Grace,” I praised as Norfolk finished his poem. Actually, I thought it less skilled than that of my page, but telling Norfolk he had less talent than a servant would only spell trouble. “A fine offering.”
“My thanks, Majesty,” he said.
“And who was this lady of the castle?” I knew full well the subject of the piteous poem had been my cousin of Scots. Norfolk was attempting to covertly offer support to the captive Queen. I meant to make him uncomfortable.
“She is the captive muse, Majesty… the elusive nymph all poets wish to find and yet are unable to.”
“If she is held in a castle, cousin, is she not easy to locate?”
Hatton snorted, and concealed his mirth by holding a handkerchief to his lips, pretending he had sneezed.
“Perhaps the good Duke needs to re-think his metaphors,” suggested Oxford with a sly grin.
“She is captive to the bonds of her task,” Norfolk went on, clearly making it up as he went along, “yet her prison is in a distant, often unreachable kingdom.”
“I see,” I said. “Perhaps a few more lines to make that clear, Norfolk. We would not want anyone misinterpreting the poem, would we?”
I thought I saw Walsingham’s eyes flit to Norfolk and then to me. As I turned, I saw nothing on his face to suggest he had been listening, but he had. There was little that sneaked past Walsingham.
Chapter Nine
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1568
Summer should be a time of sweet blessing, but that year the season brought only warnings of danger. An informant of Walsingham’s, Captain François, sent word there was a plot afoot to poison me. Such claims were hardly unique, but with my cousin of Scots waiting in the wings, this one was taken seriously.
“Franchiotto says the Guise are behind it, madam,” said Cecil.
“And who is this Franchiotto?”
“An agent of Italy, working undercover for the French Crown.”
“Does that make him a double or triple agent?” I asked. “When men work for many potential masters it is hard to know which they truly serve. I would also question what his interest in keeping me alive is. Whether loyal to France or Rome, his first impulse cannot be to work for my safety.”
“Walsingham assures me he is a Protestant, Majesty, and you are the hope of all men united by the true faith. Franchiotto has recently defected, at great personal risk, after seeing the abuses meted out against Huguenots by King Charles.”
Cecil went on to explain he had put Walsingham in charge of the matter. It was the first mission he had granted to this man, and Cecil trusted Walsingham would provide the evidence we required to keep me safe. Franchiotto had handed Walsingham a list of three men who were a danger to me, and Walsingham had also found out that the Cardinal of Lorraine, Mary Stewart’s Guise uncle, was considering raising troops and sending them to free Mary. There was talk of French-backed schemes to overthrow me and my government, and Walsingham had powerful men, the Lord Mayor of London amongst them, reporting to him and passing on the names of travellers recently come to England.
When I thought of Walsingham, I had come to see a spider’s web in my mind; invisible, until sunlight shines through it or rain falls upon it. Strands, bobbing and weaving, unseen and unheard.
“Put my women on alert to check for pins in my bedding and clothes,” I said. “They will prepare my food and test perfume before I wear it. The usual measures, Cecil.”
It was routine, now, this preparing at any given moment for someone to slip a poisoned pin into my gowns, or a draught of death into my ale. I was guarded like a vestal virgin: ladies slept in my bed and on my floor; guards were set about me every moment of the day and night, and precautions to secure my well-being were constantly in place. Everywhere I turned, someone was watching me. It was easy to feel trapped.
“And send to Master Jane of the Tower Ward for more needles,” I added. “If we fear for the ones presently in use, we will need more.”
“The Blackamoor, madam?”
“Aye, Cecil, for he makes the best.”
“Only because he and the other Moorish needle-makers will not share the secrets of their craft.”
I chuckled. “Why should they? They make the best, so why teach others to do the same and reduce their profits? Master Jane has four Italian servants, a wife, and keeps a good house. Why put all that to risk by sharing his secrets?”
Why indeed? Master Jane was n
ot the only one who understood the advantage of keeping secrets. I had plenty, and it seemed France and Spain did too.
With France annoyed at our suspected intervention to aid Huguenots, and sheltering of political refugees, it was not surprising they might make an attempt on my life. Another possible candidate was Phillip of Spain, of course. He had expelled my ambassador, Dr John Man, for calling the Pope a “canting little monk.” I had been rather tickled by my ambassador’s choice of words, Phillip had not. It was not surprising. Phillip had no more a sense of humour than he had the ability to understand my place on the English throne.
There were other potential candidates. Doctor William Allen, he who had caused trouble by preaching in support of the Catholic faith, had left England to stretch the wings of his ambitions. He had set up a college for theological students in the university quarter of Douai with the express purpose of training up Catholic priests and sending them to England, so the old faith would not die.
