Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  As I was attempting to install national harmony, personal concord was tested. Robin decided to lecture me, never a clever idea, on the value of restoring Mary with limited powers. Robin thought he was echoing my sentiments, and would get a kind reception, but I became annoyed. I knew I was not about to send Mary home, and the deception was troubling me. I was playing with her hope. Even my sister, in the darkest days of her suspicion, had never done such a thing to me. That thought made me uneasy, and as Robin spoke, my conscience sought to ease itself with anger.

  “Enough!” I shouted. “I know all of this! You forget yourself, my lord Earl, I did not ask for your opinion.”

  “I only came to offer thoughts on the matter, Majesty,” he said stiffly, his brown eyes betraying deep hurt.

  “I have enough men willing to speak on both sides,” I said. “I come to think you are too friendly to the Queen of Scots.”

  Robin left, fleeing my temper, which was easily roused those days. There is enough noise in my head. I hardly need someone else weighing in, I thought as I stormed to my gardens.

  Robin stayed away for a few days, but soon we made peace. That was our way. I wonder if it runs in my family? I thought as we reconciled. People had often told me that my mother and father had been a volatile couple, always in the middle of a fight or making up for one. Robin and I were much the same. We agreed often enough, but when we fought, even angels covered their ears. In some ways, we had become like an old married couple. We flirted, danced attendance on each other, fought and made up.

  I loved him, as, I often felt, no woman had ever loved a man. It is common for people in love to think they are the only ones who have experienced such blinding intensity of emotion, but with Robin and me there was a uniqueness to our relationship. I, the female, was the one with the power for one thing, and for another, despite rumours to the contrary, our union was platonic. This brought a level of spiritual devotion that could not be matched. People like to think the only expression of love is in the physical, but it is not so. It was the meeting of minds, of souls that was important, not the bashing together of various body parts. He desired more, but I was unwilling, and unlike other women, I could not be forced. The relationship was on my terms, and it brought me great satisfaction.

  “I am happy to see you merry again, Majesty,” Rob said as I took his arm.

  “You always make me a merry woman.”

  Robin did not dare point out that was a lie, especially at this time. My changeable temper had become intensified by a physical malady. An ulcer had appeared on one of my legs, the result of a horse bashing my calf with his hoof. It brought me great pain and refused to heal. Memories of a similar condition which had made the end of my father’s life abject misery assailed me. I could not help but wonder if this malady was sent by God to test me, much as He had tested my father.

  Yet even keeping in mind the notion that the Almighty was testing me could not appease my temper that summer. I pinched, slapped and snapped at my ladies, and turned on Robin swiftly when I felt enraged.

  It is a common fault to allow infirmity to claim control of our emotions, and I was no saint. There are those who suffer in silence, but I was not one of them. I insisted on going on progress as usual, and was enraged when I was told I would have to travel by litter, or on some roads, by carriage. The carriage was a vastly uncomfortable method of travel, introduced from the Low Countries. The occupant was not protected from the bumps and humps of the road, the seating was uncomfortable, and the speed slow, compared to a horse. They were also dangerous. Men driving them often did not slow down for people walking in the road, they frequently overturned when they encountered stones and holes, and some years ago I had heard of children who had been crushed to death by them against walls. Carriages were a fool’s method of travel. I despised them.

  But there are times when a queen, no matter how ill-tempered, must cede to the will of her people. My doctors told me that if I wanted to go on progress, it had to be managed carefully or I would suffer the ulcer for longer.

  The ulcer was not the only weight I carried. Since my dangerous youth, I had been subject to occasional fits of anxiety, sometimes so strong they claimed control of me. To my mind, it was to be expected that echoes of that which I had been unable to cope with at the time should come back to assail me. Some of the attacks had abated when I took the throne, slinking into the back of my mind. Sometimes I hoped that the power I had inherited would banish them altogether, but it was not to be.

  The mind is a curious place of shadows, corners and traps, and once something has made a home in it, it does not leave. I could not stand closed windows, or people too close to me. Such situations brought on fears of being trapped, powerless, and helpless. I encouraged men in flirtation, but did not want them overstepping their boundaries. The only exception I ever made was for Robin, in the days when I thought we might still be able to marry. All other men had to pay attentions at a distance, for to do otherwise would not only endanger my reputation, but brought back memories of Thomas Seymour and his hungry, greedy eyes, hunting me as a child.

  I was subject to highs and lows of temper, depression and sadness, which often came from nowhere, and, I had reason to believe, stemmed from my earliest memories; ones of fear and pain, when my mother was ripped from me. I carried onerous responsibility and had to make choices that would make a lesser person crumble, but some of my ailments, I knew, were pains I had forced deep into my mind during times of strain, and were unleashed often when I should have been at peace.

  I could not think ill of my mind for doing this to me. The times I forced fear and pain beneath the shadows of my mind were done for a reason; to allow me to concentrate on the task, or trouble, at hand without the burden of terror or horror to beset me. My mind had done this often in my youth, forcing me to set aside terror so I might endure. It was a technique of survival, a way of making me rational in times of trial, and I thanked God for the ability. But it did not come without cost. The price was that I had to accept even my times of peace and harmony would be afflicted by echoes and memories of abject terror leaking into my mind.

  Sometimes I suffered fits of panic, so acute that I thought my heart was shattering in my breast. Accompanied by shallow, desperate breathing, they were quite enough to overwhelm me, and the worst of it was, I had to hide, or attempt to hide, this from my people.

  My ladies knew, of course. There was little I could keep from them, but others were fooled by the thought that my maladies stemmed from remaining a maid. They thought any hysteria was a response to not being bedded by a virile man, when in fact it was simply the lost emotions I had banished deep within trying to find a way out, so they might be felt, as all emotions desire to be.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Greenwich Palace

  Summer 1570

  As Midsummer arrived, I appeared to be on the verge of sending Mary back to Scotland. Everyone was talking of it, marvelling at my generosity, and revelling in the notion that our troublesome prisoner would soon be gone.

  It was a fiction, one of the best ever I created.

  Mary was going nowhere until she passed or failed my test.

  To maintain my fable, I sent word to Shrewsbury and Bess of further liberties Mary was to be allowed. Her supporters had complained she was not permitted enough exercise, so I said I was happy for her to walk, or ride, as long as she was with the Shrewsburys. There had been further rumours men meant to free Mary, and I made it clear I earnestly desired to grant more freedoms, but was being held back by those who would steal her away. I permitted her further liberty in sending and receiving letters… something I immediately regretted.

  “The Queen of Scots wrote to the Countess of Lennox,” Cecil said, “asking her to dismiss rumours that she murdered her son, and claiming to be entirely innocent.”

  I sighed. I had wanted to believe that Mary had not been involved, but I had come to think she had been. I remained unsure of the depths of her complicity, but
Mary was no simpleton. She must have known something was going on. If she had thought of ridding herself of Darnley, I could not think ill of her. The man had been a wastrel, a soul more at home in the body of a useless, strutting peacock than that of a man. I was not alone in thinking the world a better place for his permanent absence.

  Yet I understood why Mary maintained she was innocent. If she ever admitted guilt, her return to Scotland would come with a death sentence. There is nothing men fear more than a woman who has killed her husband. It is the old fear, the grand fear… that one who should be under the heel of their master might rise. That was why women who stepped out of the normal and accepted boundaries of femininity were chastised and punished so severely; for the terror that they would learn there was no reason they could not outdo their masters, and the power of men would fall.

  They had to keep us in our place. Mary had broken from that position. She played the part of the woeful woman because it was correct, and a lot of it was true, for she had been abused, but a lot was also put on for show, so she might gain acceptance, and be welcomed back by a world ruled by men.

  “And what does the Countess of Lennox have to say to her daughter-in-law?” I asked.

  “We are watching out for replies,” said Cecil. “The Queen of Scots is a canny creature, at times, though, I think.”

  “How so?”

  “She petitioned the Countess for advice about bringing James to England. Appealing to Margaret Douglas’ vanity in wisdom, and reminding her of their powerful connection of blood and issue, is clever.”

  “Be not so astonished, old friend,” I said with a chuckle. “Mary has Tudor in her blood. It might be a weakened strain, but it is there.” I tapped my fingers restlessly on the table. “Keep an eye on the Countess of Lennox. Since Darnley’s death she has been less a plotter in my court, but I would not have that change.”

  “I already have men in her house.”

  “Is there any house you do not have men in?”

  “A few, Majesty.”

  Responding warmly to my leniency, which many thought astounding given the circumstances, Mary sent a present. She had sent many since becoming my prisoner, thinking to woo me into allowing her full liberty. This one was a small writing bureau, accompanied by a locket which bore the inscription of a cipher we had used during our time as cautious friends.

  I held the locket in my hands before court. “Would to God that all things were in the same state they were in when this cipher was made betwixt us,” I said to my ladies.

  I refused to wear the locket until Mary sent word of agreement to my terms for her release. “I cannot wear it, even for love of my cousin, whilst she remains in doubt to me,” I told my men.

  There was some good news. Summer brought peace to France. Terms were agreed, and in August, they were finalised. Huguenot rights were reinstated, and war fell from France, exhausted, after his many efforts.

  In Scotland, the Queen’s party had been unsuccessful in restoring Mary and the King’s party had won through. The Count of Lennox, my preferred candidate, was named Regent. Lennox was to rule for his grandson until James came of age, and I thought him a good choice, despite my reservations about his wife. My main reason was that Lennox was utterly committed to James, as any grandfather should be. Unfortunately, Lennox’s first act was to execute Archbishop Hamilton. Lennox suspected Hamilton had played a notable part in Darnley’s murder, and his execution led to increasingly hostile disputes between Scottish nobles. Since I was not about to trust Lennox implicitly, given that he had betrayed me in the past, Margaret Lennox was brought to court as an unofficial hostage for her husband’s good behaviour and adherence to the wishes of England. It was also done so Cecil could keep one of his ready eyes on her correspondence.

  Trust must be won. It cannot be granted without cause… as my royal cousin proved, ably, not long after. Lennox intercepted coded letters from Mary’s supporter, Maitland, to the Bishop of Ross. They stated that Ross was to accept any demands we made for Mary’s restoration without question, as the only purpose of the negotiations was for Mary to regain her liberty. As soon as she was free “means shall be found to make both England and Scotland loathe to enterprise against her,” wrote Maitland.

  Mary meant to go back on any promises made.

  *

  That summer, with trust in mind, I allowed myself to be persuaded, in public, that Norfolk was an imbecile rather than a traitor. Robin and Cecil were his main advocates. Some found this surprising, but there was a good reason. There was no solid proof Norfolk had committed treason, but I remained unsure of his loyalties. We needed a test. Ridolfi had been instructed to play the first card in our little game and provide money for Norfolk to send to Mary’s supporters in Scotland. If Norfolk fell for the ruse, he would be again guilty of disobeying me. If he refused, I would know he had learnt his lesson.

  I hoped he would refuse the money. Now that I had calmed down I had no wish to execute Norfolk, and his continued presence in the Tower was embarrassing since he was the primary nobleman of England. I wanted him loyal, and grateful, so I agreed to his conditioned release. It was made clear that it had taken a great deal of effort from Robin and Cecil to bring this about. Norfolk had to understand that I was willing to act against him, and he was told if he played with my trust again, it would be for the last time. He swore never to embroil himself in treason again, and left for his house with a swift-stolen, much-relieved breath.

  Plague was rife in the Tower at that time in any case, so it was dangerous to leave Norfolk there. He was taken to his London residence of the Charterhouse, kept under house arrest. We settled down to wait for Ridolfi’s first move, and as we did, there was much to distract us.

  Norfolk’s marriage had been prevented, but everyone was eager for another to take place. My envoys to the Court of Austria sent word that summer, and to my, much hidden, delight, they sent only bad news.

  I had resurrected the Austrian match so often that many thought the Archduke existed merely so I might marry him one day. But this time, much to the dismay of my subjects and my unbounded glee, Charles declined, and soon after married a princess of Bavaria. I sent messages to him, filled with shock after being publicly rejected, and my men were affronted too. I was the greater prize, the better match. To reject me was to reject England. The anger of my Council was useful for a while, as was my pretended distress. I was heartbroken, so how could I possibly consider another match? I went about court demonstrating long-suffering sorrow, and each night went to bed with a great, smug grin on my face.

  Another event to cheer me occurred when the Scots finally caught an errant hare in their snare. Northumberland was captured, handed to my northern lords, and put to death in York. I gave no thought to pardoning him. He had known the consequences of his actions. His younger brother, Henry Percy, succeed to the title of Earl of Northumberland. During the rebellion, Henry had remained loyal to me and had fought alongside my men.

  A few days after we heard of Northumberland’s death, Cecil came to me. “Norris wishes to leave France, Majesty,” he said, taking a seat.

  Usually, I did not allow anyone to sit as I stood, but Cecil was an exception, and our moonlit meetings were less formal than those held during the day. At those times, Cecil was more friend than advisor.

  “He has been in post a long time,” I said.

  “Almost four years, I believe.”

  Sir Henry Norris was my ambassador in France. The son of another Henry Norris, one of the men executed with my mother, I had granted him a post at court for our connection of grief, but had promoted him for his able statesmanship. He had been useful in France, negotiating tricky waters with delicacy and sending back ample information gathered by dishonest means. I would be sad to lose him, but I did not want him in post if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “I have a suggestion for his replacement,” said Cecil.

  “What a shock.” I grinned at Cecil. “Whom?”

  “Walsingha
m.”

  I nodded. I had been expecting it. “He is qualified?” I asked.

  “University educated, astute, resourceful and shrewd,” Cecil replied. “He has good connections in Europe, understands the game of spyery, and speaks Latin, French, Italian and English.”

  “And he has the means?”

  Ambassadors were expected to pay for their own houses whilst in post, as a way to reduce the strains on my always decrepit purse. They had to maintain a grand household, in keeping with their position, and although they received a small wage, they needed to be able to support themselves and their servants. Some men had been ruined by accepting an honour they could not afford.

  “He has money from his estates. It should be enough.”

  “We don’t want to bankrupt him, Cecil.”

  “We need him in France, my lady. If problems ensue, he is the man I want there.”

  “And it would be a test, to send him as a special ambassador, for preparation for the role of resident ambassador,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “I see your plotting, Spirit.”