by G Lawrence
“It is your life we are trying to protect now.”
“Death has always been my close and ever-constant companion. Trust me to know how to avoid Him.” I sighed and passed a hand over my eyes. “I will not stain my hands with royal blood.”
“She would not hesitate to murder you,” said Cecil.
“I do not know that,” I said. “And even if she would do such a thing, does that mean I should? Men are capable of many sins, Cecil. Should I adopt all of them, just because they already exist? If everyone followed that example, there would be no goodness left.”
I stared at him. “I will act as my conscience dictates. I will not follow a path others might take simply because it exists. That path leads to chaos, and if I know one thing, Cecil, it is that I am one of the few capable of holding back the darkness. That is my task, my sacred duty. I will not flinch from it, no matter the temptation.”
“If you will not execute or exclude your royal cousin from the succession,” Cecil said. “You must agree to act against Norfolk.”
I looked away. I had known for some time this would be demanded, and little as I liked it, Cecil was right. I had done all that I could to protect Norfolk, but with my Parliament baying for blood, something had to be offered.
Norfolk’s death was the price I had to pay to keep Mary alive. It was a sacrifice. One cousin for another, one drop of blood spilled to keep another heart beating. Norfolk was a bull hauled to an ancient altar, called upon to give life so others might live.
This was the truth I had feared to face. I had known it was a possibility, and perhaps that, as much as mercy, had stayed my hand. This was not justice. Mary had done as much to deserve death as Norfolk, but she was royal, and he noble. As commoners will inform you, weightier punishments are always handed down to lesser members of society. Norfolk was lower than Mary. He would pay the price for both of them. There was no other way.
This was a choice not made by the light within me, but by the darkness.
I agreed to execute Norfolk. That night I slept not at all. I lay in my bed, listening to the echoing footsteps of my guards outside and the soft breathing of Blanche and Helena, sleeping beside me. I stared with wide, open eyes at the hangings which decorated my bed. Little draughts blew, causing them to flutter in the darkness, and the silver moon streaked though wooden shutters holding back the night.
Sometimes, when night closed about me and I seemed sure to be swallowed by darkness, both within and without me, I would open a window and look to the stars. I did so that night, my hands quietly taking down the shutters and opening a window so I could breathe the cool air. The stars shone, showing the darkness is never as close to our skin as we think. The endless blanket of blackness is kept from us, held back, pinned to the outer reaches of Heaven by the constant stars. Even the darkest times cannot wholly overcome us, for there is always a little light, if one looks.
And we need both darkness and light. We all carry both in our souls. There are uses for each, and each must be balanced.
I thought of Norfolk, and I mourned though he was yet living. I wondered if my father, on the night before my mother was to die, had lain awake as I did now. He had hidden his conscience deep, no matter how often he protested it was at his side, guiding his actions. Could I do the same? Bury yet more of me inside my soul, allowing it never to trouble me?
I knew then that I did not want to. The sins we hide fester in our blood, birthing a monster. I would not become that, not for safety and not even for England. I had to retain a part that was pure, no matter how tempting, how easy, it would be to surrender to evil.
Chapter Sixty
Greenwich Palace
Late Spring - Early Summer 1572
That May, Drake set out on another voyage, heading for the New World. Phillip’s ships, stuffed with gold, silver and spices were about to encounter trouble.
Drake was to make for Nombre de Dios with two ships and seventy-three men, and had high hopes the Cimaroons would aid him, knowing they shared his hatred for the Spanish. For Drake, this fire had only intensified when we had been sent news of the men left behind in the New World after the attack on San Juan de Ulua. Many had been tortured, and one, certainly, the captain of my own ship, the Jesus, had been burned at the stake for his faith.
I said goodbye to Drake quietly at court, heartened by his resolve. He always managed to make me smile. Drake was sly, frequently dishonest, somewhat arrogant and boastful, and I was sure was capable of cruelty, but he was also clever, stimulating, charming and magnetic. It was easy to see how he inspired his men to such loyalty. I did not think him a great military man, but in control of small fleets, he commanded absolute obedience.
He was also lucky. That quality should never be underestimated.
This time, Drake was sailing as an investor in his own voyage. The spoils brought back on his last two trips had increased his wealth, and he was happy to plough it back into his ships, to bring further reward. Taking his two brothers, Joseph and John, with him, Drake set sail into the wind, seeking plunder and revenge.
Other matters of the sea were with me as spring turned to summer. The Sea Beggars had officially been expelled, so it was time to keep my end of our bargain.
As Humphrey Gilbert came to me, I was almost swallowed by a wave of sorrow. Gilbert was the son of Katherine Champernowne, my dearest Kat’s sister. He had come to court years ago with his brothers, John and Adrian, and their younger half-brothers, Carew and Walter Raleigh. Kat had introduced them at court, and I had marvelled at how greatly they resembled her. The young Walter Raleigh had been particularly striking, not only in his semblance to Kat, but in his own good looks.
“I remember you and your brothers with affection,” I said to Gilbert. “How is little Walter now?”
“Not so little, Majesty,” he said. “The lad is almost a man, and eager for action.”
“Your family will grant him plenty,” I said. The Champernownes all but ruled the western shores. With the aid of Walsingham, they had been putting together a private fleet in conjunction with the Huguenots of La Rochelle, and sailed under letters of marque issued by the Queen of Navarre and Coligny. They were pirates, adventurers, and vital to the safety of England.
Even in death, Kat reached out a hand to protect me.
I told Gilbert my plans for aiding the Sea Beggars. He, along with Arthur Champernowne, would sail from England taking eleven hundred volunteers with them. The volunteers were actually men of their western ports, whom I knew would follow Gilbert and Champernowne anywhere. They would help the Sea Beggars to take Flushing, Brill and Sluys, ports Orange needed to control if he was to maintain his war against Phillip.
“In gaining these ports, we will also keep the French from getting a foothold in the Netherlands,” I said. “Officially, you and Champernowne are acting alone, as it must appear my government has nothing to do with this adventure, but understand you have my support and that of my Council.”
Gilbert was happy to undertake this secret task. He had a keen eye for excitement, and had proved ruthless in Ireland. I knew he would grant no quarter when taking the ports.
A little later, and without English aid, the Sea Beggars seized Brill in Zealand, effectively opening up the land war in the Low Countries again. Later that summer I sent Gilbert and Champernowne to aid the Sea Beggars. They did not succeed in taking Flushing, but had success with the other ports, and the Sea Beggars were grateful, as was Orange. When Gilbert and Champernowne returned they were publicly chastised.
In private, I rewarded them.
*
As summer dawned, Douglas Sheffield returned to court, clearly not with child. When I enquired, Robin told me that the child had been a girl, but had been born early, and died a few moments after birth.
I had to turn my face from him. His obvious relief in escaping having to acknowledge a bastard child, at the cost of that child’s life, was too much to bear.
It was as though I were looking into the fa
ce of my father, knowing that I, a mere girl, was not important to him.
Douglas and Robin remained estranged from one another for a time, but later their affair resumed. She was clearly a more forgiving woman than I would have been in the same circumstances.
Chapter Sixty-One
Greenwich Palace and The Tower of London
Late Spring - Early Summer 1572
Half way into the month of May, we received news from Rome. Pius V, the man who had made me a target for every disloyal Catholic in Europe had died. I cannot tell you that this news was met by a great deal of sorrow by me, or my people. In fact, there was general rejoicing.
“Do we know who will succeed him?” I asked.
“They have already chosen,” Cecil informed me. “It was a shockingly brief conclave, lasting only one day and night.”
“Then I presume whoever the new Bishop of Rome is, he is rich enough to have thrown a great deal of money about?”
“It would seem the support of Phillip of Spain was the deciding factor,” said Cecil glumly.
“And who is this man?”
“He was Ugo Boncompagni of Bologna,” he said. “And now is Pope Gregory XIII.”
“Do we know much of him?”
“He trained as a lawyer,” Cecil said. “Taught men such as Reginald Pole, and Alexander Fernese, and served as papal legate to Spain, forging, so they say, a lasting bond with its King, which is presumably why Phillip supports him.”
“The name...” I said ponderously. “He is a reformer, like the first Gregory?” It was common for Popes to select names which would indicate the tenor of their reign. Gregory I had been a great reformer of the Church.
“He would seem to be, although reform in the Catholic Church is more about shifting old dirt to new places, than truly making a clean sweep.”
Cecil looked downhearted and I put my hand on his. “Did you think we would have a new Pope who supported England, old friend?” I teased, making him smile. “Fear not, Cecil. The last Bishop of Rome did naught but make my people giggle at his bluster. This one will do nothing but the same.”
“That is he a lawyer is not a promising thing for us.”
“That he exists and will not let us exist is even less promising,” I pointed out. “But if Rome has lawyers, so does England, and ours are better than theirs.”
“He has a bastard son,” Cecil said thoughtfully.
“Good, spread that news about. I want my people in no doubt as to the infamy of Rome and her miscreants.”
When Cecil left, I went back to my desk.
Three times had I signed Norfolk’s death warrant and three times the deed had gone undone. But now there was no escape, and I knew it. Although I understood this had to happen to keep Mary safe, I despised that I was forced into this position. I made up my mind not to call on Parliament for some time, years if I could manage it. They thought they knew what was best, but England was my task, my responsibility. It was for me to make decisions for the good of my people, not them.
That May, however, it was not only Parliament attempting to sway my hand on behalf of my cousins. There was another, much closer to me, who intervened, although with a different cousin and different fate in mind.
Blanche came to me. It was not often my oldest friend approached me with petitions. She understood her power and used it wisely.
“I have a request, Majesty,” she said quietly one day as I stood staring at the grounds, seeing nothing but Norfolk’s face.
“Which is?” I asked, an irritated tenor rupturing my voice. Turning to her, I felt chagrin immediately and took her arm. “I am sorry, old friend,” I said. “I am not myself.”
“How could anyone be, with the trials you face, my lady?” she asked. “He is your kinsman. As the old saying goes, gwyn y gwel y fran ei chyw.”
“The crow’s chick is white?”
“The crow sees its chick as white,” she said. “Others fail to see any good in Norfolk, but you see his worth, so it pains you to take his life.”
“It is good you speak Welsh to me, Blanche,” I said. “You remind me of my blood.”
“Cenedl heb iaith, cenedl heb gallon,” she said.
“A nation without language is a nation without heart,” I said, smiling. “I know that one, for you have said it often enough.”
“And I come on another matter of the heart, that of mercy.”
“On behalf of Norfolk?”
“No, my lady, another of your blood.”
“Whom?”
“The Lady Grey,” she said. “As you know, she has been writing to me, and I would entreat you on her behalf.”
“You know what trouble she has caused me.”
“I do, but Mary offered less than her sister. I think they both married in truth for love, Majesty, but whilst Katherine Grey caused political upheaval, Mary Grey did not.” She smiled sadly. “The man is dead, and there were no children. Mary has paid her due to you, with time and with grief. I think it time to relent. It will help you, too. As you are forced to act against one member of your family, another may be spared.”
“You wish to save my conscience, Blanche?”
“I wish to help Mary Grey, Majesty, but I admit I think it would do you good.”
I paused to deliberate. Mary Grey had written a series of embittered letters to Cecil, asking for my mercy but also showing she was still greatly angered. This was understandable. I had separated her and her husband, and he had died because of the prison I had sent him to. Anger is a natural part of grief. It is our way of coping with the agony of loss. We are thrown by our emotions into action and deed, and no matter how foolish many of the consequences can be, anger saves us from vanishing into the pit of perpetual despair.
But no matter how bitter Mary Grey remained, Blanche had a point. Perhaps Norfolk was enough sin for my conscience to cope with. Releasing Mary might help me to balance the scales.
There were other benefits. Releasing Mary might appease my men. She was a Protestant alternative to my cousin of Scots. If she were reinstated, people might rest easy, and stop calling for Mary Stewart’s head.
“She does not have income enough to support herself,” Cecil said when I told him my thoughts. “But if she were released, Gresham would be overcome with relief.” Cecil paused, tapping his lip with a goose-feather quill. “Gresham suggests sending her to her stepfather, Adrian Stokes.”
“Her mother’s Master of Horse,” I said, shaking my head. “I still find it hard to believe we did not see the illicit marriages of the Grey girls coming, considering Frances Grey wedded her servant spare weeks after her first husband’s execution.”
“Stokes has recently remarried,” Cecil said, “to Throckmorton’s widow. I doubt he will want his stepdaughter, and certainly not if he has to provide for her. He has new stepchildren to support.”
“And if I paid her a small allowance?”
Cecil’s bushy eyebrows darted up with surprise, making me smile. “I do not claim to be happy about it, Cecil,” I said. “But I come to think, unwise as her marriage was, perhaps she meant me no harm. I could never have thought the same of Katherine Grey… but Mary was always a quiet, good girl. Now the risk inherent in her marriage is gone, perhaps there is room for mercy.”
“I support you wholeheartedly, but why this sudden turn of mind?”
I stared at the oak table, its surface burning with the lustre of beeswax polish. A faint hint of lavender wafted up my nose, calling Kat to my mind. “Death takes much. Perhaps life should answer with the opposite.”
“Many people will be pleased, Majesty,” he said.
“Do not allow them to get ahead of themselves,” I warned. “At present, this is no pardon. It is a trial to see how she does.”
The allowance was granted and Mary Grey left the Gresham house to make for that of Adrian Stokes and his new wife. Their house of Beaumanour was in Leicestershire, and was the same dwelling Mary had resided in when she, her sister Katherine and their mothe
r were seeking somewhere quiet to live, or more accurately, hide, after the execution of Jane Grey.
The house was not so quiet now. Stokes had inherited seven stepchildren; six sons and one daughter, a spirited young chit named Bess Throckmorton. Mary also knew his new wife, as Lady Throckmorton had befriended her in childhood, and always cared for her. Mary’s old room at Beaumanour still bore her name, as did the chamber of her sister, and she was happy enough. Blanche told me she had begun saving.
“What for?” I asked.
“For a house of her own,” said Blanche. “She does not wish to be dependent on her relatives, Majesty.”
