by G Lawrence
Freeing Mary did make me feel better. It was an offering to the light within my soul. But my offering to the darkness had to be made too. On the 31st of May, I signed Norfolk’s death warrant. The next day I went to the Tower.
Standing in its confines, looking up at the great White Tower at its centre, and the inner ward where the Beauchamp and Devereux Towers stood, I was reminded how much I loathed the place. Here, my mother had died, along with many other members of my family. Here, I had been a prisoner. Here, my grandmother had died in childbed. I rarely visited the Tower. Not since my coronation had I come, and for good reason.
This was Death’s house. Here, He reigned.
I did not like to be reminded how close I had brushed to Death, but there was a person, perhaps even now gazing down upon me, who was awaiting the fate I had dodged so ably all those years ago. If Norfolk was to die, I would ensure that he did so in honourable, and noble, estate.
“The scaffold is prepared?” I asked. “And the executioner, you have ensured that he has skill? If I hear the Duke suffered, I will be most displeased.”
The Lieutenant of the Tower took great pains to show me the preparations they had made, and to assure me the headsman knew his trade. I walked upon the site they were to use, inspected the weapon, and went over the procedure with my men.
“Grant him all he wants to eat and drink,” I said. “And treat him with respect. Traitor he may be, but he is my cousin, and once a loyal son of England.”
A noise outside interrupted my thoughts. “What is that roaring?” I asked.
“A pirate captured in Your Majesty’s harbours is being taken to execution,” said the Lieutenant.
Foreign pirates, or even those of my own country who dared to pillage my shores, waterways or seas, were hanged at Execution Dock on the north bank of the Thames, a mile from the Tower of London. The gallows were set upon the shore near the low-tide mark. They were hanged in such a place to demonstrate their crimes had impeached upon the authority of the Lord High Admiral. The bodies of men executed there would be left, becoming slowly submerged by the lapping water. Three tides passed over them before they were taken down.
It was a rotten place to die; rank mud covered the banks and the whole area stank of seaweed and sewage. Despite this, large crowds always gathered to watch a pirate brought to justice as he travelled from Marshalsea Prison on the south bank, across London Bridge, and to his noose at Execution Dock. The procession was led by the Admiralty Marshall, carrying the silver oar representing the authority of the Lord High Admiral.
It was not unusual that the drop of the gallows was not sufficient to bring about death, so amongst the crowds there were often friends of the condemned man, willing to rush forth and take his legs, dragging him down to a quicker death. If the rope broke, the man was heaved up upon the gallows again, and hanged anew. When dead, the man’s body might be buried, but it was more likely to be sent to Surgeons’ Hall for the students and masters to dissect. Privateers, protected by letters of marque, did not suffer such a fate… or at least, not usually.
As the roaring on London Bridge died down, I went to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, and told my ladies to wait for me. At the altar, although it was not accepted practice anymore, I knelt and bowed my head, as much to the bones of my mother as to God.
“Forgive me,” I whispered to my mother. “If you think ill of me for this, remember I sacrifice noble blood to save that of royalty, of a queen. There was no one to save you, Mother, but I can save her.”
As I left the chapel and made for my boat to take me back to Greenwich, I felt eyes upon me. I turned and saw a man in one of the windows of the towers, staring at me. Slowly, but with grace, he bowed.
I inclined my head, but swiftly turned away. I could not look Norfolk in the eyes.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1572
Norfolk died on the 2nd of June at seven in the morning. Before the executioner took his head, Norfolk spoke to the crowds, telling them he had never been a papist, but the sentence upon him was justly deserved. “For men to suffer death in this place is no new thing,” he said. “Since the beginning of our most gracious Queen’s reign I am the first, and God grant I may be the last.”
Dressed in black satin, he declined to wear a blindfold and died well. The executioner took his head with one blow, and he was buried in the chapel, beside the bones of my mother and his Howard cousin Queen Catherine. It was twenty-five years since his father had died in the same place during the last months of my father’s reign.
When the news was brought to me, I went to my chamber and stayed there all day. I could not face anyone. Whilst there was general rejoicing at court, there was nothing but guilt where my heart should have been. I was subdued, mired in thoughts of the past, unable to reconcile the grief and guilt within me.
That night Cecil came, thinking to distract me with a report from Walsingham. It held the opinions of leading Huguenots on Mary. “Go away, Cecil,” I said dully, looking away from him. “I cannot think on my royal cousin now, not on the day I was forced to send a noble one to death.”
I was not alone in my sorrow. When Mary of Scots was informed, she wept. Mary had been fasting in protest, thinking this would prevent Norfolk’s execution. She continued after his death. Shrewsbury and Bess had been in London to witness Norfolk’s end. Shrewsbury went home shortly after, whilst Bess remained. As Shrewsbury returned to take over from Sir Ralph Sadler, who had been acting as Mary’s temporary guardian, he was worried by Mary’s thin frame and depressed state of mind.
“After all the effort I have gone to, to keep her alive, she could now starve herself to death!” I exclaimed. “You might think she would show a little more gratitude, or understand that no one cares if she succeeds!”
Mary understood now that I could not see her dead, and thought that granted her power over me. It did, in some respects, but sulking like a spoilt child was not about to win me over.
When Bess returned, she attempted to bring Mary to her senses by being calm and collected, but it made no impact. Mary was convinced, not without reason, that she was the cause of Norfolk’s death. Bess pointed out that he had been judged on his own actions, but the former Queen was inconsolable. As Bess attempted to get her to hear reason, a hint of coldness entered their formerly friendly relationship.
It did not help, either, when some days later Shrewsbury uncovered a nest of letters under a stone in the castle grounds from Mary to her supporters. We found Mary had switched her cipher, understanding the last had been compromised. Cecil’s man thought these might be harder to translate.
“What more good can they do us, anyway?” I asked despondently. All fire had gone from me.
A few days later, I had my answer. In the early hours of the morning, Mary dropped from her window at Sheffield Castle by means of a rope, but was quickly taken into custody. Sir Harry Percy, her would-be saviour, was also arrested. This caused immediate panic, and led to many questions about Shrewsbury’s diligence and aptitude.
Gilbert Talbot, Shrewsbury’s son, defended his father, saying that there was a host of men about Mary and unless she possessed magical powers to transform herself into a flea, she would never escape.
“My husband is utterly committed to Your Majesty,” said Bess who had returned to court with her stepson. “It saddens him greatly to hear some would doubt him.”
“Then know I am not one of the some,” I said. “I placed great trust in Shrewsbury, Bess, and am not displeased with how he has handled himself. My cousin is duplicitous, and his task is hard. When you write to him, tell him I am only grateful for all his hard work.”
Mary sank into depression and sickened. Unable to eat or sleep, she vomited continuously. Poison was suspected, and doctors were sent. Shrewsbury wrote to Cecil that he thought her heart was “filled with a deadly hate against the Queen’s Majesty,” adding that she was overtly hostile towards him.
My hea
rt, too, was hostile, but against my own self. Norfolk was one of my greatest regrets.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Richmond Palace
Summer 1572
“Your husband should be mindful of the honour I grant him!” I shouted at the unfortunate Mary Sidney. “I do not create appointments for my own amusement!”
Mary Sidney had come to ask that an honour I had intended to bestow upon her husband, Sir Henry, either be excused or come with an increase in his estate. Sidney had lost money due to his appointments in Ireland and Wales, and when I had offered him a barony, he had accepted, but later said he had not the income to support his title.
I was angry at Mary Sidney for another reason, and one less fair. Robin and Douglas had resumed their affair, and everyone was talking of it. Secret affairs I cared nothing for, but ones out in the open were another matter. As was my unfortunate habit, I often took frustrations I felt with one member of a house out on all of them. Mary Sidney was bearing the brunt of my annoyance about Robin.
“And I cannot restore the apartments of which you speak,” I added. “They have been granted to another, for your lack of use. You only have yourself to blame that they are yours no more.”
Mary Sidney and her husband were not at court often enough to warrant me holding chambers for them, and they had been allocated smaller rooms, with fewer furnishings, and painted panelling on the walls rather than tapestry. Mary was unhappy. But what was I to do? I had to grant good chambers to those who were actually at court, not hold, clean and maintain glorious rooms for those not using them.
Mary Sidney left unhappy. When I calmed down, I felt guilty. She had sacrificed her looks and health for me. I did not repay her well.
*
That month we had news of Drake, only tantalising snippets, gossip carried on the wings of the wind. We heard of Drake’s adventures from travelling ships. It was common practice for passing ships to exchange news of home, and hand on letters so they might be delivered to patrons. Drake had sent one back to me.
“We are almost at Port Pheasant,” he wrote. “And the Cimaroones are keen to aid us. Soon, Your Majesty, we will take Nombre de Dios and claim her treasure for England.”
I envied his freedom, but I had taken freedom of another kind and paid the price for it. My freedom lay in my own captivity. I was a slave to England just as I was her master. Drake’s price was different. The sea offered him freedom, and he risked his life in its service. Were Drake and I so different? I thought not.
We had our masters. Mine was the throne, and his, the wide open oceans. They held us fast in their hands, and would see us brought to glory, or drowned in our ambition.
*
Portraits were painted of me that year. Few had been done in the last decade, and the ones which graced the walls of my subjects’ homes had become out of date, largely because I refused to sit for more. I found the whole business ineffably tiresome. Standing about, holding one pose, and being unable to talk was not a good use of my time. Had I been able to read I could have made use of those wasted hours, but no. I had to keep still.
In my entire reign, I sat only five times for painters. All other portraits of me were copied from the originals. This, to me, was sufficient. There was no need to create an exact image of my face. I was a symbol. It was easy enough for a skilled painter to reproduce what he needed from existing portraits, and leave me to my work.
Yet I appreciated the need to have a new one. I would not appreciate it, however, if I appeared aged.
My goldsmith, Nicholas Hillard, was also a fine painter. I offered him the designation of Queen’s Limner and he accepted. At my request, he painted me in favourable light, in the open alley of one of my gardens. I wanted fresh, golden light to illuminate my face, making me appear young.
When this commission was complete, I began to take an interest in the way I was portrayed in portraits. It was more important to me that my royalty, along with symbolism to demonstrate my chastity and other virtues, was made clear, rather than relying on absolute realism. I wanted to appear ageless, more an icon than a person, so my people would set their faith in me.
In a world that changed so frequently, I would become a constant; a fixed mark on the parchment of history, as perpetual as the sun as it rose, or the moon in the night’s sky.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Windsor Castle
Summer 1572
That June, the Duc de Montmorency and Ambassador de Foix were sent to England to ratify the Treaty of Blois. They were also sent with a second mission; to get me to marry Alençon.
I entertained them well, and conferred the honour of the Order of the Garter upon Montmorency, but where marriage was concerned, I was reticent.
“The Duc is twenty-two years younger than me. Is not the age gap somewhat ridiculous, my lords? I admit there is a need to settle the English succession, and I fear for the loneliness of my country amidst the crowds of Europe, but I cannot reconcile myself to the notion of marrying such a young man.”
They told me Alençon was wise beyond his years, talented, learned, and sober in his reflections, more like an aged man than a young gallant.
It made me less interested in him than before. He sounded like a dull dotard.
“The Duc is amenable to flexibility in religion,” said de Foix. “He will still wish the right to hear Catholic Mass, but he has agreed not to celebrate his faith in public. He will exclude Your Majesty’s subjects from his quarters when Mass is being said, and will attend English services.”
“Allow me to put your new suggestions to my Council,” I said.
As Council debated, word was sent to Walsingham to ascertain just how flexible the Duc was willing to be. I also asked if he could find out if King Charles would be willing to surrender Calais. I did not want to marry, but Calais might be worth a sacrifice. The French understood how valuable it was, but if they were desperate enough, they might consider it.
Calais was important to the future of England. For England I would sacrifice much, perhaps even my own freedom.
*
In June, an old argument lifted its head again. Thomas Cartwright, he who had petitioned for further and harsher Church reform, came back to haunt me.
His demands had been made into a tract, called An Admonition to Parliament. Written by a John Field, it was more an appeal to the common man than to Parliament or me. The authors understood their demands were radical, and were therefore more likely to be accepted by the rising wave of young zealots, immersed in Puritan doctrine, than by me.
The tract contained criticisms of superstitious, popish traditions, such as kneeling for Communion, and observing holy days, but also continued the argument Cartwright had begun, for the Church to be restructured, entering a time where it was governed by a ministry of elders and ministers. In Puritan minds, the present order of the Church was ungodly, for Christ had proclaimed all men priests under the love of God.
“I want the presses prevented from producing this, Cecil,” I said angrily. “This will cause division.”
“I agree with all my heart, my lady,” said Cecil. “Even those who follow the Puritan way of life are shocked by the radicalism inherent in this work.”
They were indeed, and many supported me in closing down printers who dared to publish such frank and divisive criticism of my Church. Moderate Puritans were more concerned with reforming the liturgy, spreading the word of Christ, and enriching the nation with godly thought, than they were with the structure of the Church. Those attempting to bring about change in the English Prayer Book were horrified as they thought, not without reason, I would turn on any suggestions for reform because of my annoyance at this one, radical sect.
But, as ever, there were those who supported the work and the ideals it held.
Why do people not see that life requires balance? I wondered. Why do they not appreciate compromise, so all may live in peace?
Radicalism was nothing but trouble. Extremes cannot be reason
ed with. What these men could not see was that no one could ever be entirely satisfied. Laws, religious settlements, traditions… they had to work for the majority. They had to be inclusive. Men like Cartwright wanted everyone to agree with them. Some might say I wanted the same, but this would have been unfair. My Church worked for all, if they had enough faith and trust in their hearts to worship as was required by law, and keep their beliefs inside them.
Only those who are insecure cannot keep their faith quietly.
The men responsible for the tract were sent to Newgate Prison for a year, and my bishops, worried about their power being eroded, sought out more presses and authors to punish, but it did not stop the work being read. Although I had to ban the work, by banning it I had ensured it was widely read.
We are contrary beings, we humans. Tell us not to do something and immediately it is all we wish to do.
