by G Lawrence
The tract wended along underground tunnels, reaching the eyes and ears of many. It led to a radical, underground sect of Puritans forming in England. These Presbyterians were largely based in London, but the movement spread to other counties as priests wandered, spreading word. There were some who supported them even at court. Cecil, despite his annoyance at their tracts, thought them at least patriotic, and saw the value in keeping them friendly towards me and my government. Robin, too, saw them as worthwhile. He, like others, was concerned about the rise in radical Catholicism, and believed Presbyterians were loyal, as Catholics were, as he thought, not.
“At such a time,” Robin explained when I accosted him about supporting lay preachers with his own coin, “when there are many enemies surrounding England, we cannot turn our backs on loyal Protestants, even if they be radicals.”
“Can we not?” I sniped. “I despise zealots in any form, Robin. They only cause trouble.”
Despite my hard words, Robin continued to support them. I understood the worth of his doing so. He was correct in saying we could hardly turn our backs on any friends, even if they were zealots. I could not be seen to support them, but through my men, they might be kept loyal.
But they certainly caused division. Stringent and unyielding men always do. My bishops went out of their way to criticise not only radicals, but anyone who spoke out against the present system. A lack of unity was showing in the Protestant faith.
Some started to object to certain parts of the Mass. Puritans already left when there was singing, and others started to follow suit if the congregation knelt to receive Communion. New debates were opening everywhere on the nature of the Church, and Separatists, different to Puritans or Presbyterians, since the latter two groups wanted to remain part of the organised Church, and Separatists did not, started to break away. Separatists held that the English Church was not the true Church. They did not hold with Catholicism either, but wanted to forge their own way. They believed in the elect of Christ, and wanted to form their own churches. These people were dangerous. At least Puritans and Presbyterians, little as I liked them, wanted to remain within the fold of the Protestant Church. Separatists did not. They were few and far between at present, but we would need to keep an eye on them.
I sighed and pressed for conformity. Arrests were made, and people were lectured if they failed to subscribe to the English Prayer Book, but the rift was breaking open. I feared what might happen if we fell into its black, endless depths.
*
At the end of June, the moderated bill I had asked for from Parliament was read, stating that my cousin of Scots had no right to the English crown, and if Mary were to claim any interest in my position, she could be tried for treason. If found guilty, she could be executed if I so decided.
I sent it back, without accepting it. Without my approval the bill was useless and my men knew it. I asked that it be deferred, and smiled to myself, well pleased, knowing that this deferment would never end.
Then I sent a delegation to Mary, who had by now heard of the bill, and told them to lecture her on her ingratitude. Mary simply stared at them, and later, burst into tears.
Cecil, horrified by my unwillingness to act against my cousin, embarked on what he thought was an entirely secret mission. He wanted Mary taken from the succession, and would stop at nothing to attain his goals. I heard of his plots from Hatton.
It was commonplace for men of court, even allies, to spy on one another. There were plenty of disgruntled servants, or those who wanted more than their salaries provided, willing to keep watch.
“I admit myself impressed, Hatton,” I said when he told me of Cecil’s plans. “I thought Cecil was a wily fox, hard to catch sight of in the undergrowth.”
“Most of the time, he is,” Hatton agreed, “but he is a trifle upset, Majesty, which led him to be rather more outspoken than he usually is.”
A trifle upset was a gross understatement, but it was a mark of Hatton’s habitual kindness that he worded it that way.
Cecil had sent Henry Killigrew, his brother-in-law, to Scotland. His mission was to find out whether Scottish lords would put Mary on trial if she was sent back.
“Do you mean to stop him, Majesty?” Hatton asked.
“No, indeed. I would like to know the answer to that question myself. Cecil may continue his little plot.”
Cecil also sent Walsingham’s brother-in-law, Robert Beale, out into the streets, infusing people with resentment about Mary. This, I did not mind, but Beale also started to push for the common man to support the notion of upholding the Protestant cause overseas, which was less welcome.
I could not race in to rescue any Protestant under threat. There was quite enough to deal with in keeping my own people safe, let alone becoming the rescuing knight to the damsel of Protestant causes. If I rushed in, I would become the aggressor. If I held back, only waging war if trouble came from other nations, the responsibility for disturbing the peace of Christendom lay upon my enemies. By following this method, I was coming to be seen as a force for stability and harmony, whilst my enemies were demonstrating they were unstable, volatile and rash. If I could avoid religious polarization, and war, I was doing my job.
In July, Cecil finally surrendered the post of principal secretary, as I had suggested when he was ill, and took on the role of Lord Treasurer. It made no difference in our relationship, but his workload was lessened.
The duties of the Lord Treasurer revolved around England’s finances, always a weighty concern. He had to oversee taxation, manage Crown estates, keep a beady eye on spending, and preside over the Exchequer. Cecil, for all his many gifts, was not a pioneer in the art of raising money, but he had so many other responsibilities that I was content for him to tread water when it came to my purse.
Besides, there were other ways to raise money. Drake was seeing to that.
Cecil sat now in the House of Lords rather than the Commons, and was a Knight of the Garter, Chancellor of Cambridge University, Master of the Crown wards, and Lord Lieutenant of Essex and Lincolnshire. He had quite enough work, and I was glad some of it was reduced by taking on his new role. He remained my principal advisor and was an intimate part of all laws and policies that were brought in.
I had thought of elevating him again, but Cecil did not want further reward. “I am more than content with my offices and titles, Majesty,” he said. “If I rise too high, how will I ever be let down into my grave when the time comes?”
I chuckled. Most people failed to note Cecil’s dry sense of humour. Spirit had a serious role to play, but he was no stranger to mirth. I would hardly have stood for him being so close to me were that the case. At his dinner table, discussions of politics were banned, and he loved music. Although not a devotee of the hunt, Cecil sometimes took to the forests to shoot his bow, and he had a fine eye. In company with intimates, he was witty, amusing and warm. Not many saw this side of Cecil. I was one of the few and fortunate.
As the years went on, many active pleasures were stolen from him as gout took hold. In some ways, I do not think he minded. Gout brought him pain and misery, but Cecil was never more at home than when surrounded by a mountain of work.
Contrary to what you might think, I did not mind his private schemes, or at least, not some of them. Cecil would not have been doing his job if he never challenged me. Cecil and I came to blows on many an occasion, but that was only to be expected when two strong-minded people work together.
For the most part, Cecil was always my friend, and he was usually my ally. Our methods differed, as did our opinions, but we were close. In many ways, Cecil was both the father mine had failed to be, and the best friend I had always needed. He did not hide his thoughts from me, nor I mine from him. That is the best kind of friendship, where, even though two people might not always agree, they are always willing to hear each other.
Find such a friend as I had in Cecil, and hold them to you. Do not let go.
It is pleasing to hear you are righ
t, that you are vindicated in all you say and do, but to find one who will always tell you the truth, no matter how little you wish to hear it, is a precious, and always underestimated blessing.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Richmond Palace, Theobalds, and Gormanbury
Summer 1572
I tapped my quill happily against a sheet of figures. The parchment told me our trade with Morocco was growing, amounting to almost ten thousand pounds that year alone. It was close to outstripping our trade with Portugal.
“The new horses in your stables are bringing excellent health to their foals,” Robin said.
“Ensure they are granted the best hay,” I said, my eyes roaming the parchment as I spoke. “And keep them from the fields strewn with giltcup flowers. I do not want them running to fat.”
There was silence and I glanced up from my papers to see Robin staring at me, a strange smile on his face. “What is it?” I asked.
“I will never understand how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Read a paper on one subject, and simultaneously converse on an entirely different topic.”
I laughed. None of my men could understand this talent. My godson, John Harington, had once spent time regaling people with the mysterious skill I had for completing many streams of work at the same time. He had told his men how he had seen me write one letter, whilst simultaneously dictating another to Blanche and holding a conversation with Cecil.
My men found this talent astonishing, I less so. Often, the skills we have simply come, and we cannot understand why another is incapable of undertaking a task we do with ease. I could not explain how and why my mind was able to compartmentalise itself in order to do several tasks at the same time. The only thing I could think was that separate areas of my mind dealt with different tasks; like a hive of minds, all working within one central one. However it had come about, it was certainly a useful talent for a queen to possess. It did not function that way all the time. It depended on the issues I was confronted with. Greater subjects and worries could consume my mind as they would any other. Smaller concerns, however, my mind could deal with two or three at a time.
I smiled. “I am as pleased with your efforts in my stables, Robin, as I am with trade in Morocco.”
“And I am glad of it, but still never will I understand the mysterious ways of your mind.”
“A dear happiness. Were I predictable, you would grow tired of me.”
“That would never happen.”
I looked back to my papers as Robin continued, listening as I read, and entertaining my own thoughts. Men had gone out to trade and live in Morocco. England was afire with tales of the markets of Safi, Agadir and Marrakesh, source of the sweet dates, sugar, and almonds that were so popular in England.
English trade with the Africas was no longer reliant on Spain or Portugal. Morocco had taken over, and in addition to spices, cloth, silk, ivory, gold, sugar and meleguetta pepper, we were taking on a growing amount of saltpetre, the key ingredient for gunpowder. In return, we were exporting weapons and ammunition.
We were attempting to keep this quiet. I did not want Phillip hearing we were not only trading with his rivals, but were arming people who would threaten his Iberian trading posts.
“I think you should bring more Irish horse to England,” I said as Robin finished his speech. “I like the fine strength they bring to my stables.”
“I have already sent for more,” he said, casting a last, amused, and wondering glance at me as he bowed to depart.
*
As summer burst into full bloom over England, a Monsieur de la Mole was sent from France to further Alençon’s suit. Joseph Boniface de la Mole was a nobleman who served Alençon and also his brother, Anjou.
And he was a handsome devil.
Charming, well-spoken, saucier than the saucery at Hampton Court, and with soft eyes which I suspect hid a myriad of exciting sins, he was just the kind of man I found hard to resist. There were rumours I was not alone in this. Walsingham suspected de la Mole was the lover of the Valois Princess, Margot, although he admitted he had no proof. There had been rumours that she was not as chaste as one might expect, and de la Mole was but one of her many lovers. I took all such claims with a hefty pinch of disbelief. After all, it was rumoured my lovers were legion, even though no man had ever entered my bed or any part of me. But if de la Mole was Margot’s lover, I would not have blamed her. He was an enticing, exciting man.
The second purpose of his visit swiftly became obvious. The French wanted me to join the war in the Low Countries. King Charles was being rapidly persuaded by Admiral Coligny that to intervene would rid him of the menace of Spain, and the King was showing more enthusiasm than his mother would like. King Charles wanted Alençon to become Regent of the Netherlands, thinking that if his brother ruled, then Spain could be ousted for good and trade would benefit.
Progress was usually an excellent excuse for me to avoid ambassadors. I could easily claim I was far too busy hunting, appearing before my people, or dancing to hear of weighty subjects. That was one reason I enjoyed progress so dearly. It was an escape not only from normality, but from reality. But I made an exception for de la Mole. Not for him would a summer be spent racing after me, trying to gain an interview. France was important to England, so I made time to meet him. The fact that he was as refreshing to the eyes as Buxton spring water to the body, made this task a great deal easier.
I suspected he had, in fact, been selected as much for his looks as for other talents. The Medici woman behind the French throne might well be a snake, but snakes are upheld for their wisdom. She knew I would be more receptive to a man who was pleasing to the eye. De la Mole was a skilled ambassador, mistake me not, but he was selected, too, as a pretty piece to charm me.
Does the way men think of women rub off on us, too? I wondered. One day will we all cease to think of each other as people, and become but tools for hands to use?
“No matter my aversion to Phillip of Spain,” I told de la Mole as we strolled in my gardens at Greenwich, “he remains the anointed ruler of the Low Countries. If I offer support to this idea, what is to stop Phillip upholding enemies who would displace me? And besides, my lord, the sanctity of the throne is something which should never be called into question. You must have noted how lenient I have been with my cousin of Scots. I do this to uphold the throne, in whatever form and to whomsoever it may be granted. If one king overthrows another, balance is upset, and nations fall. Your master must understand this.”
I will not fight your King’s battles for him, I thought. In this respect, Catherine de Medici and I are finally in agreement on something.
“My King has made no threat against Spain, Majesty,” said de la Mole. “But with Alba on our very doorstep, we must defend ourselves against the threat he poses.”
“I am no happier about the Duque and his troops than you or your master,” I said. “But there are other, more weighty, considerations.”
There were benefits to Alençon becoming regent of the Netherlands, but also drawbacks. A powerful French presence in the Low Countries was no more reassuring than a Spanish one, and the House of Valois was hardly stable. Its sons were changeable and erratic, and there was also word that Charles was sick. The King had no sons, and should he die, Anjou, my old and most reluctant suitor, would come to the throne. Anjou was even less reliable than Charles, and seemed subject to the will and complaints of his minions, or mignons, as they were known.
I agreed to think about not only de la Mole’s suggestions regarding the Low Countries, but also about marriage. I had favourable reports from Walsingham that the Duc was, if not handsome, wise, agreeable and possessed a fine sense of humour. The issue of Calais was also apparently being considered, and Walsingham thought there was hope there too.
As I thought over the French proposals, we prepared for progress. In the previous year I had only gone a few miles from London. This year was to be different, with more houses visi
ted and people honoured.
As we departed, I came from the palace and stale air hit me as a wall into which I had charged. It was hot, even in the early morning. We travelled though the Thames Valley, heading for Theobalds, where we spent a most pleasant few days. Bess was with us as far as St Albans, where she split from the giant snake of carts and horse winding about the roads to bid me farewell.
“You make for the north?” I asked.
“For Chatsworth first, Majesty, then for my lord at Sheffield.”
“Send my regards to Shrewsbury. Tell him I am content with all he has done, and not to believe ill reports. There are plenty who would criticise you and him for the task you have freely undertaken, but I am not one of them.”
“He will be grateful to hear that, Majesty.”
“Tell him he will know, with swift speed, if I am displeased,” I said, a merry twinkle in my eye. “For he will hear my wrath from the north as though it were right at his elbow.”
