Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  It was a grand show, only spoiled when sparks set fire to four houses in the nearby town. Only one was destroyed, a house belonging to Sir Henry Cowper, and the next day I sent for him and his wife.

  “I am grieved the event of my happiness should have brought you loss,” I said. “I hope no one was hurt?”

  “All my servants made it from the house without incident, Your Majesty,” said Cowper. “But the house is now no more than ruins.”

  “I have organised a collection. We, as an entire court, will reimburse you.”

  The collection raised almost thirty pounds, and I added a little more from my Privy Purse. Cowper had enough to rebuild his house, and in a grander manner than before, so I think he saw the fiery incident as a blessing in disguise.

  “How generous you are, Majesty,” said de la Mole after Cowper had gone. “I wonder if many princes would be so thoughtful.”

  “I would hope all of them would be. My entertainment came at the cost of that man’s house. It is only fitting the hurt should be mended.”

  “Will you kiss his wound, as mothers do?” the cheeky young man asked.

  “I like to think I am a mother to my people. I reward them for good behaviour and spank them soundly when they misbehave.”

  A delighted smile spread up de la Mole’s face. “One might consider misbehaving, Majesty. The punishment sounds rather enticing.”

  “Get you gone!” I laughed. “Before I consider such a fate and your King declares war upon me.”

  For all our intimacy on progress, I would not satisfy de la Mole by committing to Alençon. “I find myself unable to give an answer,” I said to de la Mole and Fenelon one day. “I have always said I cannot marry a stranger. What if he likes me not, or I him? If we only see each other once we are promised, and do not please each other, we would be in a sorry state.”

  “We could arrange a meeting, madam,” said Fenelon, “but only if you were committed to marrying the Prince.”

  “And there we meet an impasse,” I said. “I cannot commit to marrying him unless I see him, and he cannot commit to a meeting unless I agree to wed him.” I sighed. “I would have you explain to the Duc that I must be assured we could grow to love one another before I agree to marriage.”

  “I shall certainly suggest a meeting to His Highness,” said Fenelon.

  I sent two letters to France. In the first, I declared I could not marry Alençon due to the difference in age. In the second I said I was willing for Alençon to come to England to press his suit in person, and only then would I make up my mind. I added that the visit could be secret, without pomp or show, so that if Alençon did not like me, or I him, royal dignity could be maintained.

  The letters contradicted each other, which was, of course, the point. I told Walsingham to present them to King Charles at the same time, knowing they would cause confusion. It had always been my habit to obfuscate, to keep people guessing. The game had to be strung out. Hope that I would marry was important, and kept my men off my bejewelled back. But if Calais was offered… then, I would seriously consider marriage.

  Cecil, who was troubled by his gout again, and had spent almost the whole summer either in bed or in a carriage, was downcast. “This game is the same as you played with the Archduke Charles,” he said.

  “A game it may be, Cecil, but I hold to the same ideals,” I replied. “I tell you truly, if they offer Calais, I will seriously consider abandoning my maiden state, but only for Calais.”

  “Walsingham has enough troubles, madam, without you adding to them.”

  Walsingham was struggling with the cost of being an ambassador. He had already written, asking for more money, but I had refused. Walsingham had been aware of the financial risks in taking the post, and I had to be cautious with my coin. If I set a precedent with him, it would only lead to other men asking for and expecting more money from me.

  “Walsingham will never be short of work,” I said. “And was aware of the dangers to his purse before he left.”

  “This desire to meet Alençon will be rejected, and I am sure you are aware of that, Majesty.”

  “Everyone in the world, aside from royalty, at least gets to meet the one they will spend their lives with, Spirit. All I want is the same chance.”

  “Royalty is different.”

  “I do not see why,” I retorted. “My marriage is important not only to me, but to my people. If it is ever to be done, Cecil, I will see it done right.”

  *

  That July, Hatton replaced Sir Francis Knollys as Captain of the Queen’s Guard. It was a sign of true trust, as it allowed official right of entry to my Privy Chamber. Hatton retained his post as a Gentleman Pensioner, but his new role would bring us closer than before.

  I touched his cheek as I finished telling him of the appointment. “Guard me well, Hatton.”

  He looked up. “With my life, my lady.”

  I was surprised to see he was deadly serious.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Kenilworth

  Summer 1572

  On the 18th of August, the French Crown took a step which few had thought they would go through with to ensure peace; the marriage of Princess Margot de Valois and Henri, King of Navarre.

  Navarre was a Huguenot and Margot a Catholic, and there were rumours she was none too pleased with the match. Less than pleased was one thing, but I heard reports that at the moment she had been called on to affirm her match at the altar, she had said nothing, and her brother, King Charles, stepping forwards with a bright red face, had set his hands to her head and forced her to nod, granting the officiating bishop licence to seal the marriage.

  It was not unusual for young women to be forced into marriage, but it was less common that this be so publicly known.

  French Catholics were unhappy. Their Princess was a devoted Catholic, one of their own. Her new husband was not. Henri was also less refined than many expected of a king. He spoke frankly, showed short patience for those who held opinions contrary to his own, and ate a great deal of garlic, which subtle Parisians found unappealing to their delicate noses.

  But the match was made, and the bride, no matter how unwilling, was married. There was celebration in Paris, and the city was packed with Navarre’s men, Huguenots who had come, assured this union would grant them full freedom of religion in time.

  The Peace of Saint-Germain-en-Laye had been agreed two years before, ending the French wars of religion, but it was a fragile truce. The Guise and other Catholics refused to accept it, but as the Guise had fallen from favour, Admiral Coligny and the Huguenot party had risen. The Admiral was now part of the King’s Council, and there were some who said Coligny was like the father Charles had never had. Much as she resented Coligny’s growing influence over her son, Catherine de Medici had displayed a pragmatic face to the world and accepted the rise of the Huguenot party, knowing they were in a strong position, for they controlled the towns of La Rochelle, La Charite-sur-Loire, Cognac and Montauban.

  The marriage was intended to seal the peace, but there had been much opposition. The people of France had been warring with each other for years, and now were told to simply make friends with those who had killed their friends and family, burned their crops, wrecked their businesses and desecrated their holy churches. This was true for both sides. Catholics and Huguenots had both committed atrocities against each other.

  Two bishops had refused to marry the couple. The Pope had said it was an insult to God and a danger to all souls to allow it. The Cardinal of Bourbon, the reluctantly officiating bishop, said he only blessed the marriage as the uncle of the groom, and would not bless it in his capacity as a priest. Italian prelates had to be brought in, in order that the ceremony might go ahead at all, and the marriage was not consecrated in a church, but on the steps outside the Notre Dame. As Catholic Mass was celebrated inside the cathedral, Navarre and his men waited outside. Crowds of angry people gathered, taunting and jeering the waiting Huguenots.

  Phillip of
Spain condemned it, along with the new French policy of allowing Huguenots some freedom of worship, and there was much talk against it in the streets. Parliament had also opposed the match, and much of the court was absent from the ceremony, citing religious objection.

  “Do you think this the most unwelcome wedding that ever was?” Robin asked me.

  “Let us hope it leads to more welcome outcomes,” I replied.

  It did not help that taxes had been high that year and the harvest poor. The price of food was extortionate and the display of lavish enjoyment for the marriage was enough to rile the people, who were starving. There had been small riots, easily enough put down by the King’s Guard, but still a source of concern. It had taken a great deal of time for Catherine de Medici to persuade Cardinal Bourbon to officiate, especially since the Pope had not granted permission.

  But it was done, and as the Court of France entered into rejoicing, we did the same. Riding out to Kenilworth, one of Robin’s houses, we made merry.

  Robin was a superb host. He organised tennis matches, sports and hunting trips. Dances were held each night, and as I partnered Hatton or Robin, I could feel all the strain of the past two years drifting from me.

  That night I was awoken from strange dreams by a tapping sound. It shifted into my slumber, becoming the beak of a falcon pecking at the grave of a rose. When finally the noise pervaded my mind, calling me from sleep, I rose and quietly went to the window, stepping delicately about the pallet beds where my women slept. My bare feet stepped upon the fresh reed matting, strewn with the most expensive herbs Robin could afford, trying not to make a sound.

  Taking down the shutters, I found the noise had come from a branch whose twigs touched the windows in a delicate caress. I watched as the dark finger tapped restlessly at the window and smiled.

  The night had missed me. She had woken me to be with her.

  All majestic beings are lonely. This is why the stars shine and the sun burns. It is why the moon casts light upon the earth in the hours of hollow darkness and why trees sing as the breeze ripples through their leaves.

  God is lonely too. How could He not be? He created a world in which His children might live, granted us freedom, and is forced to listen, for unimaginable eons, as people complain about the trials they must face, never understanding that God owes us nothing. We owe God for granting us the chance to live, to breathe, to watch as seasons unfold and the world turns. To have granted such wonder, only to have those He made in His image complain, must indeed be a lonesome existence.

  I took a seat at the window, and drew a blanket about my legs. I stayed awake, keeping the night company.

  *

  “Very well, Cecil,” I said. “But negotiations must go on in private. I want none to hear of this.”

  Cecil assured me this would be the case. We were talking of a new solution to an old problem.

  The Earl of Mar, Scotland’s new Regent, had proposed a way of sending Mary back to Scotland. Mar suggested there was a way to send her home, and keep England safe. She could return as the mother of the King, but Scottish lords would remain her son’s guardians. Her freedom could be limited, and they could hold her as we did in England. She would be granted no right to appeal her case, but no charges would be put against her. Mary would be rendered politically impotent.

  But amidst all these diplomatic manoeuvrings, there were darker hints of what might happen to Mary if she went home. “By some good means wrought,” Mar wrote to one of his men, “so they would without fail proceed with her by way of justice, so as neither that realm nor this should be damaged by her hereafter.”

  This intercepted letter suggested that the generous offers of safety and immunity Mar was putting to me were false; a way to get hold of Mary and to kill her.

  Yet I was willing to talk. There was a voice in my head telling me that I could take this excuse, release Mary on the basis of Mar’s offer, and if he went back on his promises, I could not be blamed. My reputation would be safe… but could I send her back, knowing she would die?

  I knew not, but I would find out more. Perhaps time would grant wisdom.

  Perhaps God was watching, for soon enough there would come a sign, a sign of what happens when a ruler sets aside their personal morals.

  *

  We rode out to hunt the next dawn. As the grey eyes of the world opened, spilling hues of blue and white, yellow and pink into the dawn skies, we rode out. The air was chilled as remorse, as refreshing as wine. The forest waited. Leaves moved in the wind, silver undersides and verdant tops flickering in the breeze, beckoning us to come. Clouds stretched as gossamer robes across the heavens, and birds winged above, oblivious to us as we passed by on horseback.

  Despite the promising skies, and the skill of Robin’s huntsmen, we found nothing to pursue that day. Robin was displeased, but I told him it mattered not. To my men, the purpose of the hunt was blood, but to me it was in the enjoyment of the countryside.

  We retired to tents in Robin’s grounds. Striped green and white, they offered welcome shade. Robin’s musicians played for us as we sat upon the grass, under the glaucious skies, glimmering blue and green, white and silver. Sheltered by stiff, strong oak leaves, we ate freshly cooked meat, dripping with fat and blood, as well as fresh, white cheese, soft bread and fine wine.

  That night there was another dance. Not in the least tired after my day of pleasure, I took hands with Robin and then Hatton, Oxford and Heneage. I danced every dance and everyone marvelled at my strength.

  We did not know that as we danced and sported, people, so many people, were dying in terror and bloodshed.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Richmond Palace

  February 1603

  Once before, for you, I became a speck of dust, floating on the wind in the dark chambers of court. Allow me to become such again, to become unbound from my mortal frame, to drift on the breeze, over the slow-heaving, white crested seas, and take to France.

  I will show you a time of horror, too keen and brutal to be fiction. And it began, as all tales of horror should, with peace.

  The marriage of Margot and Navarre had sealed a deal of peace between the King and his Huguenot subjects. Whatever the feelings of the newly married couple, there was rejoicing amongst Huguenots that with this marriage, peace and religious tolerance would come.

  They were wrong.

  For days after the wedding, the Court of France celebrated, but there were signs all was not as it should be. Anjou arranged pageants and jousts, but it was noted that no matter what, Huguenots who took part not only lost all competitions, but were humiliated. In one pageant they were held captive by devils, and in another were made to play Turks, who were cut down by the King and his brothers. Huguenot guests writhed in anger. Their King was being insulted. Navarre seemed to accept everything with a merry heart, and counselled his men to take part and keep the peace.

  In Paris, street fights between Huguenots and Catholics were on the increase. Masses of beggars, thieves and murders emerged from the infamous Court of Miracles each night, roaming the streets and adding to the chaos. The hot streets were still packed during the night, and as the celebrations at court continued, the seething anger of Paris rose, intensifying as though the sun herself had come to its streets.

  A few days after the wedding, Admiral Coligny was still in Paris, waiting to discuss grievances with his King in relation to the Peace of St Germain. On his way back from the Louvre, walking to his house on the rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain, he noted that the laces of his boots had come undone, allowing his overshoe, there to protect his fine court shoes from the dust of the Parisian streets, to slip away. He stooped to tie them.

  A shot rang out. Then another and another.

  Coligny’s laces saved his life. The shot that was intended for his heart missed its target as he ducked towards his shoe. One bullet entered his arm, shattering bone, and another smashed into his hand. Wounded, but by no means dead, he was carried to his room as hi
s men raced to search the building. They found a smoking arquebus on a bed in one of the upstairs rooms, and heard the sound of a horse galloping away from the cloister of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois to the rear of the building. The assassin had fled.

  There was uproar. The Admiral of France, leader of the Huguenots and high advisor to the King himself, had been shot in an assassination attempt. And not just any attempt, but in broad daylight, and but a hundred paces from the palace of the King.

  Names flew about. Some blamed the Guise, whose father had, as they believed, been assassinated by Coligny several years ago. Alba, too, was suspected, for Coligny had sent troops to aid Orange’s rebels. The last name whispered was that of the King’s Mother, Catherine de Medici. All knew she feared Coligny’s influence over her son.

  The last name, so it would appear, was correct.

  Upon hearing of the attempt, King Charles, who was playing tennis, slammed his racket down, shouting, “What? Nothing but trouble?” The King believed the Guise were behind the attempt. It was a fair assumption; the house the shot had come from belonged to a former servant of the Guise, and it was well known the Duc desired revenge upon Coligny for his father.