by G Lawrence
“I would have done anything to make you happy.”
“You do make me happy. No one else has the power to make me joyous, or sad, as you do. If I cannot have you, I will take no one else.”
“There is no one else for me, either.”
“Not even Douglas Sheffield?” I teased and giggled as he blushed. “Do not think me a simpleton, Rob. I know all that goes on at court.”
“And… you do not mind?”
“Men have needs. As long as that is all it is, I look the other way.” My fingers tightened in his hair. “But if I ever hear you love another, it will be a different matter.”
“I love only you,” he said, wincing. “Although that is hard to remember whilst you pain me.”
I chuckled, releasing my grip. “See to your needs, Rob,” I said. “But remain as I am, single and free. That way I know your heart is mine.”
“It has been in your keeping since we were eight years old,” he said. “To remove it now would be to kill it, and the man who draws life from it.”
He kissed my fingers, and we settled down into the cushions, watching the fire burn as we listened to my musicians sing songs of love.
Their music was pleasing, but what did they know of love? It is not as it is in books or songs. Our love was enduring, faithful, everlasting. It was not dependent on me lifting my skirts, or Robin charging in to rescue me from the hands of a wicked man. It was eternal.
*
That November saw the first celebration of my Accession Day, a holiday which was to become important to the English calendar. Protestants supported my special day, seeing it as a means to replace other, more pagan, or Catholic, days of celebration. Before that year, the date had been marked by church bells pealing, but that year it became a public holiday, complete with court celebrations, jousting, dancing in villages and towns, feasting, and bonfires lit in the night. My Council wanted it to outdo all papal holidays in Europe. Prayers were offered for me at Masses up and down the country, sermons praising me as England’s saviour were read, festivals were held in towns, and special books, containing prayers I had written personally, were distributed. That night, my subjects would lift a cup of ale to my name as about London fireworks exploded into the night’s sky. Children would come home from their posts as apprentices to play hide-and-seek, barley-break and shovel-board. Royal ships at sea would rupture the peace with cannon shot, and feasts would go on until the early hours.
At Whitehall, a joust was held. My champion, Henry Lee, led the answerers, and over ten thousand people trooped in gaily to watch. Young court gallants were excited to gain the opportunity to show off their skills and perhaps acquire advancement in the process. Each knight, dressed in classical style, presented gifts to me in the stalls, where I sat dressed as Diana, goddess of chastity and hunting. My champion, bearing my favours, would defend my honour against all who challenged him, and afterwards, the knights’ shields would be displayed in the Shield Gallery.
There were detractors, of course. You may have expected criticism would come from Catholics, sorrowing that papal holidays were fading away, but no. Objections came from another quarter.
Puritans.
Puritans thought my Accession Day akin to idolatry. They complained I was being set up as a figure of veneration in place of God. I ignored them. Puritans were joyless creatures, and would protest at any entertainment. Fortunately, they stayed away to save their souls from the sin of pleasure. They were not missed.
I would never understand how or why people would object to a little diversion. I was quite capable of learning many solid, good and worthy subjects in my days, then taking to dance and celebration in the evening. Study and pleasure were not mutually exclusive. I spent hours reading books of history when I had the time, and surrendered to the discussion of philosophy and games of wit later that night. At the same time, I enjoyed hearing foolish tales of people falling over, and liked practical japes played at court. Tomasina was most talented at jests, and she, along with Richard Tarleton, my favourite comic player, discovered by Robin whilst the man kept swine for his father, kept me and my ladies amused even in the darkest of times.
There was space enough in life for seriousness and for play. There was no cause to exclude either. I made that clear to my people.
At that stage in my life, I was more secure in myself than ever I had been as a youth. I revelled in my maturity, even though it came with problems, such as loss of hair, or pains in my leg.
Auburn hair, like mine, was still the height of fashion, and that which curled a little, as mine did, was most admired. Although my hair was thinner than it had been, there were times I still displayed it, pinned, curled, and adorned with pearls, gems or other jewels. Even if it was at times padded out with carefully inserted hair-pieces, it still looked glorious. My ladies were careful with my remaining hair, washing it in cold, herb-infused water, rubbing it with a clean linen cloth to remove dirt, and at the same time they would also expel wandering lice who had decided to hitch a ride on my regal head.
Lice were a problem for everyone. Some wore sections of fur at their throats for the express purpose of capturing the little irritants. Others stuffed ladies bedstraw or tansy into their clothing to ward them off. I found the most effective method was regular washing and combing.
But wigs were becoming more frequently employed than my own hair. Although I sorrowed for my real hair, there was a delight in wigs. Rather than spend hours in a chair as my women styled my hair, I could take up a wig, already prepared in the style I desired, and have it pinned upon my head. It also meant I could wear one style in the morning, and another at night, without additional effort.
My skin was whitened with mixtures of egg-whites and powdered shell, alum, borax, poppy seeds and water. I wore it quite thin, compared to some ladies, and added a dusting of alabaster powder, which made my face shine as though I were a diamond.
Despite the few infirmities I suffered, I enjoyed the feeling that came with my longer years. I was certain of my convictions and personal power. People rate youth as the most beneficial time in life, but I would disagree. As a woman approaching forty, I was happier than I had been as a girl. I understood myself, and once one can say that, there is little one cannot do.
It might seem, with my wig-wearing, and application of increasing amounts of cosmetics, that I was insecure, but in truth this attention to my looks was done for another reason. The fiction of my youth had to be maintained.
It was important I looked young. People think, no matter all evidence to the contrary, that the young will not die. They are too vital, too full of life. It is how we refute the possibility of death. The younger we are, the further from Death. That is how we fools think.
And if this is true of men, it is even more so of women. Life is unfair to women in this respect. We live longer than men, if we endure the strains of continual childbed, but men are not judged, as we are, for succumbing to old age. There are many who measure a woman’s worth by her ability to breed. The mother is a sacred creature, and therefore once women pass the time of their ability to grow seed in the earth of their bellies, their time of use is done.
This depends entirely on the notion that women are creatures only of body. As far as I was concerned, my mind was of far more use to England than my womb, but that was not the way most people thought. If I appeared old or aged, my people would worry about the succession and my lack of heirs, leading to trouble.
I maintained an appearance of youth for them, but in truth, at nearly forty, I felt more attractive than I had at fourteen. Confidence was the reason for this, and it was felt not only by me, but by the men surrounding me.
Confidence is magnetic. It draws people in. It is why some who would normally be considered ugly become devastatingly attractive, and why those who are insecure do not shine as they might, despite owning good looks.
I still possessed a lithe, strong body, restless and perhaps boundless energy, and a sharp, sometimes cutting, wit. I w
as more a woman at that time than I had been before.
Perhaps it was fitting, therefore, that the first year my Accession Day was celebrated was also the time I felt I had come to truly possess my own mind and body. I had come through fire, rebellion, distrust and treason. I had been tested and I had not fallen.
That year, truly, I became Queen.
Chapter Forty-One
Hampton Court
Winter 1570 - 1571
In December, as the commotion caused by my Accession Day waned, and tongues turned their attention to the coming of Christmas, talks of marriage resumed. Fenelon came to discuss the French match and I sent Robin to greet him, maintaining the fiction that my favourite supported the union. Rob played his part well in public, but in private he was dismissive.
“The boy is riddled with disease,” he said before Fenelon entered, “and seems much taken with his own reflection.” He scowled. “And has spent the better part of three years slaughtering Protestants.”
I smiled. I knew his reasons had nothing to do with Anjou’s suitability. Robin was jealous. I found it pleasing. Jealousy can be an ugly, destructive force, but to see a touch of it upon the cheeks of the one you love can also warm the heart. Cecil had informed me Rob complained often to Walsingham about the match. Robin and Walsingham were growing close. Robin saw what Cecil did in Walsingham; a ready mind and an eager ear. Cecil was none too pleased that Robin was secretly a detractor of the French offer. Cecil had supported it, thinking it his last chance to get me breeding. Cecil was advising Fenelon not to push for Anjou’s religious rights too soon, lest he scare me off. My poor Cecil thought that if I was handled carefully he might win.
“God commanded we be fruitful and multiply,” Cecil told me.
“Yet He, in His infinite wisdom, also held that some of His children should remain chaste, to further His work,” I said, turning to him. “I am Head of the Church, Cecil. I have always thought the clergy do God’s work better when unmarried.”
“It is not healthy for women to remain maids,” he protested.
“Marriage is often unhealthy too,” I pointed out. “Childbed is more often a place of death than life. There are risks either way, but, old friend, I would rather be sick than dead.” I waved a hand at his fraught face. “I have said I will think on the match,” I said. “And that I hold to.”
England was my spouse, my people my children. This was the only wedding I would go through with. Yet unlike many who married for love, as I had with England, I was not fool enough to believe in happily ever afters. Marriages take work. That is why most love stories end when the couple marry. Falling in love is easy, what comes later is not.
My people loved me, but female rulers were not, as a rule, respected. I was in a position to understand this only too well. I had been a regnant Queen for eleven years, had been schooled well, and possessed, I do not flatter myself, a remarkable mind far above the common way, yet still I struggled, not only with the intricacies of politics, but in attempting to get people to accept that I, a woman, was a capable ruler. If I, who had trained for the throne since childhood, struggled, imagine what it was like for women who could not read, write, and were offered no opportunities. It was an uphill struggle to a summit they would never reach.
I thought my method of ruling was correct. What I sought was balance; men with hale minds, brought on to advise, but not master me. Were I granted a husband, he would take my power and I would be denigrated in the minds of my people. With me in control, talented men could mould England and guide me, but I held the reins. They contributed to the discussion, but I was the last word.
“Your mistress is keen on the match,” I said to Fenelon.
“Majesty, she desires you as a daughter-in-law above all other blessings in this world.”
“But it would also solve many problems, would it not?” I asked with a mischievous grin. “I hear the Duc d’Anjou is not on good terms with his Guise cousins, and although the Queen Mother has made terms between Huguenot and Catholic factions, she worries Anjou will come to trouble with the Guise. France needs support. England would grant that.”
“There are, naturally, political considerations for any union between countries, my lady,” Fenelon said. “But the prime motive is your beauty, lineage and wisdom.”
The French think me a swooning maiden, I thought, wont to fall for pretty lies. Were I a king, ten minutes would be spent on wooing and ten weeks on the political advantages.
Not that I minded. I might resent being treated like a simpleton for the lack of a shaft between my legs, but it was useful that people thought this way, for then I could simper, prance, and delay any attempt to heave me before an altar.
During Christmas I made sure to dance often and with great zest and energy before Fenelon. Little as I wanted to be chained to Anjou, I did not want the Duc’s cruel jests about my age and strength infecting my people.
There was also a less political reason. I was vain enough to want my suitors to actually want to marry me. It is pleasing to be desired, and the fact that Anjou slandered me was not.
But it was part of the game too. Many thought the game of courtly love innocent. It was not. It was a thin veneer of respectability cast upon an ugly game of power. I was aware the game could be used against women, for it had been employed to bring my mother down.
And although some claimed that courtly love granted women a measure of control over their lives, it was not so. Women could not win. Surrender, and you were labelled a whore. Hold out, and you were named cold, frigid, and unnatural. This dichotomy could not be breached. Men had been fed the idea there were but two types of women; angels and witches, whores and virgins. That was it. The myth continued to exist, even though people knew there was a truth, or many, in between. It spoke to the foolishness of men for falling into the trap in the first place, and any woman who bought into this myth was even more foolish. Anyone with sense could see there were not but two types of men, but many shades and slips in between. The same was true of women.
I have often thought the founding fathers who apparently created these myths must have encountered trouble with their women, and decided to take out their humiliation upon every other woman throughout the eons of existence. It was not the fault of Christ. Jesus Christ respected women, and often treated them as equals. His followers were not so fair. They left a trail of horror for women to plough their way through.
The only way to succeed was to avoid falling into the trap.
*
At New Year’s I was presented with gifts. One I always expected, as it was the same every year, was from Francis Knollys. Every year he sent me a purse of sovereigns. The only difference was the colour of the bag they were presented in.
Another present was less welcome. Robin tried to persuade me to accept a gift from Norfolk.
I wanted to show I was willing to consider it. Norfolk was unaccountably popular amongst the people, despite doing little for them, and there had been petitions for him to be pardoned. I read his letter, admitted it was wisely and dutifully written, then took the jewel my kinsman had sent into my hands. For more than fifteen minutes I stared at it in silence as the court watched quietly. I wanted it to be seen that I had considered Norfolk’s offer of friendship carefully, but I could not accept the gift. If I did, Norfolk would be restored to favour, and I was not ready to do that. There remained too many questions about his loyalty.
“I am sorry, for I love my kinsman well,” I said, handing the gem to Robin. “But I cannot accept either gift or giver at this moment. Strains of past betrayals weigh upon me. Until they are released, I am not at liberty to accept.”
If I was not willing to accept gifts, Robin was. He held great favour at court through me and I rewarded him for his loyalty. He had an impressive body of servants; watermen, laundresses, guards, gentlemen servers, and official officers. He was permitted to dine alone, rather than with the rest of the court, and owned many houses, estates and tracts of land. But his greates
t power was influence. Everyone knew of our relationship, and this brought Robin greater riches than I could have offered. He was approached by other courtiers and lords, and brought petitions to me. And for every success he achieved, and even for those he failed in, he was paid well.
Robin used a great deal of his wealth on himself, indeed, he was always in debt, as his expenses were enormous. He garbed himself like a peacock, and was always a leader in new fashions. But this was important for a man at court, and it was not the only way he spent money.
Like me, Robin was generous to charity and educational institutions. As I granted two thousand pounds, a mighty fortune, in alms each year, he built churches for his tenants, and sponsored promising scholars. His foes did not like to admit there was another side to Robin. They liked to think of him as a gaudy butterfly, with no substance, but Robin was a social reformer, dedicated to his interests, not only in fashion, but in doing good.
