by G Lawrence
“How are we to know what Norfolk has actually agreed to?” I asked Cecil. “If Ridolfi forges his signature here, why not on other documents?”
“But he told us he forged this signature,” Cecil said.
“But will he inform us about other forgeries?”
Cecil had no answer, but some of Ridolfi’s information was valuable. Cecil was most interested in the names Mary had sent, and was carefully selecting men to infiltrate these noble houses. Whilst Cecil threw himself into this task, I became fraught with anxiety.
This was ridiculously dangerous. What if these men should mobilise and succeed? Cecil assured me we would lay the plot bare soon, once we had all we needed, but I was left fearful and wary. I jumped at shadows, sent my women to distraction with my fluctuating temper, and could not sleep.
Even when I did manage to drift into dreams, they were filled with dreadful visions… My time in the Tower as a prisoner… chests in which I was locked and could not free myself… Hands holding me down on a bed… chains and locks and keys and cells… Ghostly visions and whirling, phantom assassins beset me, and I woke screaming, sending my ladies into a panic and guards rushing into my chamber with their swords drawn.
All of them had to be commanded to keep silent. If there was a plot against my life, none could know I was aware of it before Cecil was ready to spring his trap.
Death walked beside me. He was there everywhere I turned, a shadow vanishing about the corner of a corridor, a shade flitting backwards into the trees. He stalked me, His cold hand on my spine, His eyes becoming as one with the darkness of night. When I stared into the skies, as dusk fell, I could feel Him, leering at me, pride and excitement riding His lips.
And it was not only dreams and Death out to plague me. The question of what to do with Norfolk and Mary once this was laid bare consumed my soul. They were plotting against me... But execute them? Mary was out of the question. Her death, no matter how justified, would bring war upon England and she was a crowned Queen, part of the sacred bloodline of my own house. And Norfolk, too, was my cousin. Could I spill blood of my blood? Stain my soul with the death of kin? I knew not. Cecil saw no issues. If they were traitors, they should die.
Ridolfi left for Rome, taking the plot to the Pope, and we soon had word that he had received papal blessing.
“That came swiftly,” I said to Cecil, a breath of distrust on my tone. “How do we know Ridolfi is not still an agent of the Pope?”
“We have an eye on him,” said Cecil.
“I hope it is a keen one,” I grumbled, liking this double-dealing less and less.
Needing to balance the threat of Spain and Rome, we stepped up negotiations for marriage with Anjou. That March, the Medici snake sent word. There were four main conditions for marriage: Anjou and his men were to have freedom of worship; he would be crowned and rule jointly with me; he would receive an allowance of sixty thousand pounds each year, and if I died without heirs, he would keep his title and allowance for the rest of his life.
“I can allow my husband to rule jointly at my side,” I said to Fenelon. “He can be known as King, but he will not be crowned. That sacred rite is reserved for English blood, my lord.”
“I will put your compromise to my master,” said Fenelon.
“I will also agree to the suggested allowance, but not to a life pension. I can excuse Anjou from Protestant services, but I cannot allow him to worship as a Catholic, even in private. To do so would flaunt the laws of England. Others would take from his example.”
“When your Majesty intended to meet your cousin of Scots some years ago,” Fenelon protested. “It was said you offered her the right to worship as a Catholic.”
“I did, but that was for a temporary stay in my kingdom. This would be permanent, and under entirely different circumstances.” I did not mention that Mary was permitted to hear Catholic Mass in her comfortable prison. If Fenelon did not know, there was no sense in offering him another bargaining tool.
“But Your Majesty keeps her altar much as a Catholic one,” Fenelon protested. “There is music in your Royal Chapel, candlesticks and crucifixes to look upon… Your Majesty retains much of the Catholic Mass in your own Chapel.”
“I am a Protestant, my lord,” I said. “But I agree there is little difference between the faiths. I fail to see why the Duc could not worship according to the rites of my country with a clear conscience. The service is not so different from that of Catholics. I could have the Book of Common Prayer translated and sent to France, so he might see this.”
“If there is small difference between the faiths, why not permit the Duc to worship freely?”
“This is a matter of law, my lord ambassador. English law must be upheld. I am sure, as a wise man, your master will understand this.”
Faith would be the deciding issue, so I stuck to the notion that it would be dangerous to allow Anjou religious freedom. Most of my men agreed, so it was an easy point to hold fast to. To my satisfaction, the talks certainly alarmed Spain. Phillip had no wish for France and England to align. The negotiations also kept France out of the unfolding plots surrounding my royal cousin.
It was the dance of diplomacy. The only question was who had the lightest foot?
Chapter Forty-Three
Whitehall Palace
Spring 1571
“Has Perrot dallied too long in moonlight?” I asked Cecil. “Or has he become infatuated with the wild ways of Ireland?”
Sir John Perrot had gone to Ireland again, this time to take up the post of President of Munster. His first act had been to send a messenger to find Fitzmaurice, who was still at large. The message had not been an invitation to talks of peace, but to a duel. Perrot had sent word that this duel should be fought with twenty-four on each side, but his offer had been met with understandable incredulity.
“Fitzmaurice has more sense than Perrot,” Cecil said. “His reply was that if he killed Perrot, you would simply send another man, Majesty, but if he was killed there was no one to succeed him.”
“When our foes have more wit than our allies, we are in a sorry state.”
Fitzmaurice had been quiet for a while, but recently he had looted Kilmallock. Ormonde’s brother, Edward, was in hot pursuit, and had reclaimed some of the stolen cattle Fitzmaurice had taken. There was no great threat from Fitzmaurice anymore, but with Spain considering supporting Mary I did not want Ireland falling apart.
“Can Sidney not stay?” I asked. Sidney was capable, intelligent and popular, but he was also losing money fast and had asked to be replaced.
Cecil spread his hands. “He cannot afford it, madam. If he stays he will be ruined. FitzWilliam is a good man. He will make a fine Deputy.”
“At least Tirlagh O’Neill is not disposed to rebellion,” I said. Tirlagh had claimed the title of O’Neill after Shane’s death. He had the potential to make a great deal of trouble in Ireland, but thus far he had aided my men by staying out of disputes and rebellions. One reason was his health. During a celebration at his house, his fool had accidentally shot him.
“That must have been some entertainment,” Robin had chuckled. “We should hold gatherings that wild at court!”
“I prefer dancing to death,” had been my reply.
“Should I send someone to Perrot?” Cecil asked, drawing me back to the present.
“Send Ormonde to stop this lunacy,” I said. “And send word to Perrot too. Tell him to stop behaving like a schoolboy.”
“Shall I moderate your words, madam?”
“No. Little boys who cannot behave must be scolded as such.”
“As you wish, Majesty.”
*
To my utmost relief, by the time spring blew fresh and wild across England, my ulcer had finally healed. I was, however, left with a slight limp. Refusing to use a cane, thinking it would make Anjou and his miscreants snigger, I was forced to conceal it as best I could. That infirmity, added to my growing concern about Ridolfi and his plotting, made my tem
per fragile.
In light of the rumours wending from France about my old age, I took great care with my appearance. My gowns were of silk, taffeta, velvet or cloth of gold, encrusted with gemstones, and fabulous, heavy embroidery. My starched ruffs grew larger, and my wigs more elaborate. The fashion which had stood at the start of my reign for a girlish, innocent appearance had vanished, and in its place magnificent fakery was emerging. Only my women saw me without cosmetics on my face, or a wig on my head, and I wore low-cut gowns, displaying my cleavage as was permitted for an unmarried woman. My skin was still tight and plump, offering a pretty sight to those who glanced. I bathed often, for I abhorred ill scents, and perfumed my skin with rose, lavender, marjoram or musk. But I was careful never to overdo myself. I had to look magnificent, regal, and as young as possible, but I never went too far.
My jewels were one area where I indulged myself. I was proud of my collection, and had been working on it for years, purchasing at very reasonable prices from the cast-off collections of other royalty. Re-set and re-moulded, the cast-offs of other sovereigns became new and glorious. Whether standing in day or candle light, I blazed like the sun. Pearls were a favourite of mine, as they represented purity, but I wore diamonds, emeralds, rubies and more gold than a man could carry in his purse, all of them adding to the mystery and majesty of my position.
Usually, my everyday wear was simpler. I kept to plain dresses and often spent a private morning in a fur-edged nightgown. At that time, however, it was important that when I was before my people I appeared magnificent, and so I dressed up each day as though off to a festival.
Yet strain pressed upon me. I suffered headaches as the Ridolfi plot unfolded, and was often a short-tempered beast. People judged me for it. Women were supposed to be meek, mild and clement, but I had the responsibility of a nation upon my slim shoulders, and was called upon each day to make choices that would make others faint. I slept little, ate like a sparrow, and was often in my rooms working as the world slumbered. Little food, rest and great responsibility do not make for a settled mind. If any had had sense, they might have noted I was, most of the time, remarkably clement considering the pressures upon me.
Cecil, too, took little rest. His wife nagged him continuously about wreaking his health upon the altar of England, but he knew there was no one else who could do what he did. The same was true for me. We were bound to England, Cecil and I.
That March I told my Council I would marry Anjou as long as an advantageous settlement could be reached. There was general rejoicing. Many thought I had finally come to my senses, although why Anjou should have tempted me where other men failed to was beyond them. But still, their Queen was ready to be a natural woman, and take a husband. England would be saved, and all would be well.
“They say the Pope will do nothing against you when you marry the Duc,” said Blanche. “They say he will retract the sentence of excommunication.”
“Perhaps he could make it an engagement present,” I said with a glimmer in my eye. Blanche knew as I did there would be no marriage. “Still,” I said. “I do wonder about our ages.”
“He is perhaps too young for you, Majesty,” said Lady Cobham.
“There are but ten years between us!” I said loudly. Lady Cobham should have saved her comments for a more intimate moment. I hardly wanted it being said far and wide that I was an aged crone.
There were in fact almost twenty years between Anjou and me, something everyone was aware of, but the unfortunate lady merely blushed and said she assuredly had heard of larger age gaps.
“Were I a man, and he a woman,” I pointed out. “No one would consider age a problem.”
It was true enough, although for good reason. The purpose of marriage was children. Thirty-seven was old to bear a child. It was not impossible, other women had done it, but it was unlikely, and my family’s fertility was questionable. My sister had failed twice, mistaking phantoms in her womb and mortal sickness for the child she so desperately desired. My mother had suffered several miscarriages and my father’s first wife many more. Dead children, lost children, phantom children… they haunted my family. I knew not if I was capable, and had no wish to try and humiliate myself, as my poor sister had.
Others did not hesitate. Wasting no time, Catherine de Medici dispatched an envoy, Guido Cavalcanti, carrying a formal marriage proposal from her utterly unwilling son, along with a portrait of Anjou and a list of demands. It was the same list I had heard of before, which irritated me, and I was further angered by Anjou’s reluctance. Did the man understand nothing of politics? Even if he did not want me as a wife, he should pretend! Vexed, I added increasingly ambitious demands to the negotiations, including the return of Calais, and stood firm on the matter of religion.
“Are you deliberately attempting to overturn negotiations, madam?” Cecil asked one night.
“We cannot compromise on faith, Cecil. I thought you of all people would understand that. And Calais is not only important for the pride of England, but for the wool trade, and strategic purposes too. When we lost Calais, we lost control of the Channel.”
It was a valid point. Calais had been the seat not only of our fleet’s defence of the Channel, but of our wool exporters. English wool, destined for all other ports of the world, had been spun in Calais. We had altered our ways, but were it to be restored our traditional trade route would be too.
It seemed, however, I might have overplayed my hand. Rumours I was unwilling spread not only in England, but Spain too. The Duke of Feria claimed I would no more marry Anjou than I would him.
He was correct on both counts.
Cecil was alarmed by my reluctance. He thought, not without reason, that marriage to France would secure England against Rome and Spain. I was endangering that. I sent Robin to him, bearing tales that Anjou was not as committed a Catholic as he was pretending to be, and the French stance on religion would dissipate as negotiations continued. Cecil was only partially appeased.
“He said he was disappointed in me,” said Robin with a chuckle. “He said I was wrong to support you, and we were putting England at risk.”
“More at risk will I and England be if that lad comes here with a vial of poison up his sleeve, ready to administer on our wedding night.”
As messages went back and forth, my cousin of Scots was busy penning her own. Sending word from Tubury Castle, Mary wrote to Ridolfi. He was to gain support from France, Spain and Rome. She wrote of her treatment at my hands. “The evil entreatment which I undergo of my person, and other indignities and affronts to which I am subjected, the jeopardy in which I stand of my life, menaced as I am with poisoning and other violent deaths”.
Quite what these indignities were, I knew not. She had been honourably cared for, and not abused. But Mary was not done with ingratitude, and went on to criticize my honesty, saying I had tricked her into thinking I was working for her, when I was not. She apparently thought I was plotting her demise. Another ridiculous thought. If I wanted her dead, it would have been easy enough to accomplish by underhand means.
Despite her anger, Mary was careful. Her letters did not actually sanction my being killed or deposed. There was a suggestion there, but nothing firm. Were she one of my subjects, however, her letters would have been considered treasonous enough.
Shrewsbury was ill with gout, and Bess often away on family errands, matchmaking for her and Shrewsbury’s large families, or overseeing her estates. I made no move to send more help. I wanted Mary to think she was safe to plot to her heart’s content, so I might have all I needed when the time came.
But what of that time? I asked myself. What will you do with her?
My wavering uncertainty was Mary’s best ally. She thought she had plenty; Spain, France, Rome as well as men of England, but she was wrong.
My hesitation was her greatest, if not only, friend.
Chapter Forty-Four
Richmond Palace
Spring 1571
In April, I sent word
to Walsingham in France that I would not be moved on the issue of religion, and he was to give no assurance to the contrary, no matter how loud Cecil wailed. Walsingham made the message more palatable, but he had come to support the proposal, not least because Huguenots wanted the alliance.
Attempting to persuade me, my ambassador informed me that he thought Anjou might well convert to Protestantism, and his objections on faith were being made merely to appease the Pope. If this was true, my position could be compromised. What if they agree to all my demands? I thought worriedly. I might have to wed this odious boy!
I continued to hope that Anjou’s reluctance would keep me safe. Perhaps it was of benefit to have an unenthusiastic suitor, no matter how insulting to my pride.
“Good news from Scotland, Majesty,” said Cecil, entering and interrupting my thoughts. “Lennox and his men have finally taken Dumbarton.”
