by G Lawrence
The Exchange had been built three years earlier. It was a magnificent building, an indoor market, with stone halls and walkways, separated by marble pillars. The market stalls were largely unused at the moment, and the idea was that sending me to open it would encourage trade.
With the court in tow, I left Somerset House, one of my London properties, travelling by litter, and entered the city through Temple Bar. Up through Fleet Street and Cheapside we rode, to the deafening sound of crowds cheering for me. Children hailed me with their dolls made of bone and wool. Smiths saluted me and aldermen bowed deep as I passed, reverence clear on their faces. Men with stumpy, ruined teeth opened their mouths wide to scream my name, as spinners stood from looms set outside their houses to catch the light, to lift their hands and call to me.
The rebellion had made my people both thankful and grateful. No man wishes to see his house or business sacked, and I had kept London safe. Yet it was more than simple gratitude. As I rode, I saw the eyes of old men mist with tears, and watched as children and their mothers threw flowers to line my path. My people had become protective. They saw me as strong, resilient and brave, but they also felt for me. There was love on those streets, wafting like sweet air, as I rode through London.
I dined at Gresham’s house in Bishopsgate. I did not see Mary Grey. The Greshams had locked her away, fearing that if I caught sight of her I would enter an ill mood. But if I saw nothing of Mary, I saw and heard far too much of Lady Gresham. The woman fawned upon me so obsequiously that I became quite nauseous. She would not stop talking. Evidently a committed social climber, Lady Gresham had been sadly granted few attributes to achieve this, such as any measure of charm. A rather dull play was performed too, during which I was only able to keep my eyes open because Lady Gresham insisted on explaining each scene to me… a service I did not require.
Later, we went to the Exchange. I wandered, stopping to admire marble pillars, arcades and the grasshopper badges of Gresham’s family, whilst also talking to traders and merchants. The stalls had clearly been hastily set up. Gresham had wanted it to look full, and had convinced many merchants to take stalls by promising they would pay no rent for the entire year. I pretended not to notice that some stalls were a trifle haphazard, and instead admired those with pleasing arrangements, as well as pretty little wax lights set upon each table.
At one stage, Gresham, overcome by my attention to every minute detail, bought a large pearl from one of the stalls, had it crushed and dissolved in wine, and drank to my health. Remembering that the ill-fated Queen, Cleopatra of Egypt, had done the same, I warned Gresham to take care “that the grasshopper is not bitten by the asp.” But I kept a smile on my face as I quipped, so the man would know I was teasing him.
I instructed my ladies to make costly purchases. If the Exchange was to live up to its potential, it was important that my people saw it as a fashionable haunt. Where court led, London followed. Spilling our coin into the Exchange would encourage others to follow suit.
At the end of the day I called for my heralds and trumpeters, and formally named the building. Much to Gresham’s delight, my visit had the desired effect. The very next day all of London, or so it seemed, turned out to shop there, and in the days, weeks and months that followed it was continuously busy. Merchants flocked for places. There were cloth merchants, apothecaries, booksellers, goldsmiths and men blowing and crafting glass. I instructed my ladies to shop at the Exchange frequently, and I made purchases too. Some of my favourite silk handkerchiefs came from one of the stalls there.
Due to his good efforts, and pitying him for the wife he was saddled with, I agreed to consider sending Mary Grey to another prison. Gresham was delighted.
But if there were happy events after the fateful rebellion, there were others that were not. That January, Mary Shelton died. When I heard, I regretted not only losing her, but also my chance to ask of my mother and her last hours.
In time, I did not know whether to regret never asking Mary about my mother. Perhaps it was better not to know. What could she tell me? That my mother had faced death with courage? That I knew.
In time, I came to understand what I had wanted to ask.
I had wanted to know if I had been in my mother’s last thoughts. I had feared to ask… in case I was not.
*
“Why is it so hard to find one man?” I asked myself aloud as I read Ormonde’s latest letter. The rebellion was over in Ireland, but Fitzmaurice, despite his lack of support, was proving hard to locate. But he is a lesser danger now, I thought. Without the backing of his people, Fitzmaurice had lost support from Rome and Spain.
“We should appoint presidents of Munster and Connaught,” Cecil said. “As well as ruling Councils. That way, we will have a sure foot in Ireland.”
“You wish to decentralize power?” I asked.
“It is clear, madam, when it comes to Ireland different measures must be taken. The counties are unsteady, each in their own way. If we had ruling Councils, answering to a president, they could keep an eye on each territory.”
I agreed. Sir John Pollard was appointed President of Munster, and Sir Edward Fitton selected for Connaught. There were delays, as the men set their affairs in England right, and as they bargained for greater pay, which I was unwilling to grant. There was also resistance. Irish lords did not like English men ruling them. Ormonde was granted the task of bringing the lords into line. Ormonde was feared for his brutality in war, but respected for his clemency, which was often granted. It was a winning combination, and I was satisfied with him.
This was not the only measure we took in the aftermath of rebellion. For his competent control over the Gentlemen Pensioners, Hatton had been rewarded with more posts and offices. They were not remarkable in their generosity, but Hatton used his newfound wealth well. He was also seeking to make friends with Robin, knowing my favourite was jealous of him.
Robin had no equal in my eyes, and he should have understood that, but love makes us insecure, especially when the object of our affections is determined to remain single and at liberty, and has flocks of adoring men, honest or not, about her. But no one could ever take the place in my heart reserved for Robin. It was simply not possible. No mere visitor was Robin. He was part of my heart, a shard of my soul.
At my urging, Hatton worked to become better friends with Robin. Whilst some insecurity was valuable, with Robin, too much was dangerous. Besides, I liked Hatton. I wanted Robin to understand there was much worth in him.
“Go to the stables and ask his opinion on your horses,” I had instructed Hatton not long after the rebellion died. “Robin would talk even to an enemy about horseflesh.”
I immediately regretted this slice of advice. From that day onwards, it was taxing to get either of them to talk about anything else.
Evidently, however, they did speak of other matters. Doctor John Dee received a combined commission from Hatton and Robin that January; to analyse the state of the nation. In the wake of rebellion, it seemed everyone wanted to follow Cecil’s example and start making lists. Dee was to identify potential problems, as well as advantages, so we might predict trouble.
As Dee set to work, I sent for two men to return to court. Huntingdon was removed from the household of my cousin of Scots, much to Mary’s relief. I hoped his harsh measures had sufficiently frightened my royal cousin so she might avoid future plots. The second, Hertford, was welcomed back to court.
This was done to appease Cecil. He had been badgering me to accept Hertford’s sons as my heirs. This, I would not do, but I could make it appear as though I were considering it. This would grant hope to those who wanted Hertford’s sons to inherit England, and, I hoped, would thrust Mary Stewart into understanding that there were other candidates for the succession. At the same time, I set Thomas Keys, Mary Grey’s ‘husband’, free from the Fleet. I decided he had suffered punishment enough. Mary Grey was heartened when Blanche wrote to tell her that Keys had been granted a post at Sandgate Castle in
Kent, and had been reunited with the children of his first marriage.
Hertford was inspired by his return to court, and spent most of his time dancing attendance upon me. I received his attentions with pleasure. He was a bright young man who might have risen high had it not been for him thinking he could marry my Grey cousin without consequences. When not with me, he was often with Frances Howard, the sister of Lord Howard. Some said they might marry, but I told Frances to be cautious. I thought Hertford might be playing with her heart, seeking an advantageous marriage. Upon Hertford’s return, the Protestant party at court believed I would legitimize his sons any moment, and make them my heirs.
Poor fools... Did they not know me at all?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hampton Court
Winter 1570
Just as I was thinking of pardoning Norfolk, another rebellion erupted.
Lord Dacre, a powerful man affronted by loss of territory in the north, called people to arms. Few went. Fortunately, with my royal army already in the north, this uprising was vanquished in less than a week by Hunsdon.
What a fool is Dacre? I thought. That he would see one rebellion fail for lack of support, and yet decide to rise? Clearly arrogance and stupidity abounded, feckless and fancy-free, in some men.
I wrote to Hunsdon, using my pet name, “my Harry”, for him as I always did when affectionate. I was overjoyed my Carey cousin was the instrument of my victory. The Battle of Gelt Bridge, which ended Dacre’s ungainly uprising, saw three hundred rebels slain. Dacre only had three thousand to begin with, so this was an end to his plans. Dacre escaped, following Northumberland and Westmoreland into Scotland. Finding himself a wanted man in Scotland, since Moray had no wish to shelter anyone who might support Mary, Dacre fled to Brussels. Westmorland escaped to Flanders with his Countess, and Northumberland, apparently unable to follow his friends, remained at large in Scotland.
Later that day, I passed an eye over the list of those arrested. One name surprised me; Master John Appleyard. Appleyard was the much elder half-brother of Amy Dudley. Appleyard, along with others such as Arundel, had suspected Robin was the author of Amy’s mysterious death. Arundel had conducted an investigation into her demise some years ago, with the intention of removing Robin from favour, if not sending him to death for murder. When Arundel had begun his investigation, it had set Appleyard off too. Although initially convinced that his brother-in-law was innocent, Appleyard later formed suspicions that Robin was indeed a murderer. The main reason was that Appleyard had pressed Robin to continue investigating after my coroners had proclaimed Amy’s death an accident, and Robin had refused. To Robin’s mind, the deed was done, and he had been exonerated, so there was no sense in digging up old bones.
Not so for Appleyard. Robin’s reluctance made him suspicious. He had pressed on, finding a mysterious boatman who apparently knew much of the sordid affair. Appleyard claimed the boatman had revealed the name of the murderer and said that high persons at court, such as Norfolk, Sussex and Heneage, wanted Robin tried for murder. Two years ago, as I became angry at buried slanders dragging themselves back up through the earth, Appleyard had appeared before my Council, and flatly denied that Norfolk or any of the others were involved. He retracted his accusations, but maintained his sister’s death had not been properly investigated. He was held in the Fleet for a time, and there he admitted he was wrong to have accused Robin. He said he accepted the official verdict, and was released, disappearing until this moment, when he had chosen to take up arms against me.
“Old bones,” I said when I saw his name on the list. “When will we be free of Amy’s ghost?”
Perhaps surprisingly, Robin pleaded for Appleyard. Upon Rob’s request, I sent Appleyard to prison rather than to the hangman’s rope.
Although Appleyard’s part in Dacre’s rebellion had reopened old wounds, there was much celebration at court. As we were celebrating our triumph, however, ill news came.
On the same day I had opened the Exchange, Regent Moray had been assassinated.
Lords who thought Moray lusted to become Scotland’s King had moved against him. My principal ally in Scotland was no more. Moray had been shot as he rode through the main street of Linlithgow, the first time an assassination had been performed by means of a gun. I did not mourn. I had never liked Moray and despised that he had deposed my cousin, but I grieved for the loss of stability in Scotland.
I shut myself away that day, thinking of the possible repercussions. Chaos in Scotland was not wanted. There had been peace between England and her nearest neighbour for some time, and I little wanted a pro-French party getting into power, demanding Mary’s release. Demonstrating my fears were justified, William Maitland, head of the Queen’s Party, immediately called for Mary’s restoration.
Mary, hearing of Moray’s demise, celebrated, and tried to contact her son’s guardians. I put a swift halt to this. Mary thought that with Moray’s death she would be welcomed back with open arms, but the party supporting her restoration was small. The majority, to my relief, did not want her back.
Despite lack of support, the Queen’s Party raised fresh resistance, and I was faced with a hard decision. If I sent aid to the King’s Party, France and Spain might turn on me. If I did not, the Queen’s Party might win, and demand Mary back.
France and Spain insisted I use this time to restore her. I said I would consider it, but only under certain circumstances. Neither I, nor my Council, wanted Mary back in Scotland at that moment; she was too perilous for me to risk releasing my grip. The party supporting James concurred with us. I had to stall France and Spain.
I held a meeting at Hampton Court to discuss terms for Mary’s restoration, but only to appease my enemies. Mary was stuck in a loop of existence; she could not go home and I would not allow her to go anywhere else.
As we digested Moray’s death and the implications, further ill news came. Pope Pius decided to add to my troubles… and those of every loyal Catholic in England.
He excommunicated me.
I was incensed to hear that Westmorland and Northumberland had written to Pius asking him to do this, and despite the fact that the Bishop of Rome held no power in England, this was not something to dismiss lightly. His bull, the Regnans in Excelsis, was intended to cause trouble. It formally deprived me of my kingdom, and absolved Catholics of their loyalty and obedience to me.
The bull called me “Elizabeth, the pretended Queen of England, the Servant of Wickedness”, and accused me of “having seized on the Kingdom, and monstrously usurped the place of Supreme Head of the Church in England and all the chief authority and jurisdiction thereof”. It said that I persecuted the faithful, a downright lie, and called upon Catholics to “betake ourselves of the weapons of justice against her.”
I was declared a heretic, cut off from the united Body of Christ. “We do declare her to be deprived of her pretended title to the kingdom aforesaid, and of all dominion, dignity and privilege whatsoever; and all others who have been in any sort sworn unto her, to be for ever absolved from any such oath, and all manner of duty of dominion, allegiance, and obedience… And we do command and charge all and every the noblemen, subjects, people and others aforesaid, that they presume not to obey her, or her orders, mandates and laws, and those which shall do the contrary we do include them in the Sentence of Anathema.”
The bull also said, “there is little doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with the pious intention of doing God’s service, not only does not sin but gains merit”.
It was absolution for any who would think to murder me.
The bull was a call to arms, granting leave to foreign princes to invade, and for Mary’s supporters to set her upon my throne. It also commanded English Catholics to assassinate me, or rise in rebellion. Indeed, any who failed to heed the call would suffer the same sentence imposed on me, and excommunication not only threatened their souls, but excluded them from rites such as baptism, marriage, and even burial. Catholics coul
d obey me and consign their souls to eternal damnation, or rise, and risk death.
As I read the bull, I felt the cool breath of Death upon my neck.
“He is simply jealous of my jewels,” I said to Hatton and Heneage, in a vague attempt at humour, touching a locket at my throat engraved with my motto, Semper Eadem.
My array of jewellery was famous, and the Pope had spoken in envy of it. My jest caused my men to snort with amusement. They thought me courageous, but in truth I was anxious.
Later that day, I went to my window to look out on Hampton’s parks. Do you know what you have done? my mind asked Pius. You have condemned your own people, you fool!
I was coming to think there was something inherently self-destructive in the Catholic faith. Perhaps the thrill of martyrdom was too compelling.
The Pope had made every Catholic in my realm my potential enemy. He had done this, not I. Every single one of them would now be regarded as traitors. I would never have asked for this, and I knew, even then, I would have a hard time maintaining my stance of clemency.
