by David Field
Legislation had allowed Huguenots to worship behind closed doors inside French towns, but openly in country areas and it was in one of the latter, a village called Wassy, in the Champagne region, that Francois, Duke of Guise, contrived to generate an incident that allegedly justified the subsequent massacre, by his armed retainers, of almost the entire Huguenot congregation that had met for worship in a humble barn outside the town wall. The ‘Massacre of Wassy’, as it became known, had provoked a series of retaliatory armed uprisings led by a self-appointed Huguenot leader Louis of Bourbon, known as the Prince of Condé, resulting in strategic towns such as Angers, Blois, Tours and Lyons falling under Huguenot control.
France seemed destined to descend into civil war, which in one very major sense would be of considerable assistance to England in its desire to keep foreign invaders of any description from its shores, but the Prince of Condé had now approached the English Ambassador Throckmorton for military support from his English Protestant neighbours against the Catholic ruling Valois dynasty. It was clearly in England’s interests to lend that support, not only to preserve its public image as a nation that upheld the Protestant form of religion, but also because it provided a convenient and hopefully a not too expensive, excuse to occupy a key town in Northern France from which the Dutch could be sent military assistance against the occupying Spanish.
Walsingham had made secret arrangements for Condé’s envoy Francois de Beauvais to journey across the Channel for urgent negotiations with Elizabeth’s representatives and Cecil had sent Robert Dudley back down to Plymouth to arrange for one of Hawkins’s vessels to cross the water to Le Havre and collect him. Council had already agreed to send English troops over there in armed conflict, but it might be possible to do so much more cheaply, if Condé held as strong a check over the Valois Regency as Walsingham’s dispatch implied. If Cecil got his way, a relatively small force under Thomas Howard could occupy Le Havre, or some other northern French port, on the invitation of the Protestant rebels and then simply decline to hand it back.
This is precisely what happened and Cecil was loudly praised by both Elizabeth and her Council for his negotiation of what became known as the Treaty of Hampton Court, under which three thousand men, largely from the massive retainer force that Howard maintained in the Eastern Counties even in peacetime, took occupation of Le Havre without a blow being struck. But in exchange for additional privileges and a statutory undertaking that there would be no more religious persecutions, the Huguenots agreed to combine with the largely Catholic forces of Queen Dowager Catherine, as Regent of France, to drive the English back out of Le Havre. Howard, seething with impotent rage, was ordered by Elizabeth to withdraw before his entire garrison was slaughtered by superior numbers and the English were again without a foothold across the Channel.
Tom Ashton had already seen enough of Edinburgh to last him a lifetime. The people were dour and unfriendly once they heard their English accents, the food was execrable, the ale was almost undrinkable, and as for the women — well they seemed to Tom to be constructed from the same rancid fat that dripped off every dish that their landlord served up to them.
They had finally received word that they would be received at Holyrood Palace. The two Thomases guided their mounts under the archway of the gatehouse that led to the north west tower of the Palace, in which — or so they had been promised — Queen Mary would receive them.
They handed their horses to a sour-faced stable groom, shook the relentless rain from their riding capes and stepped under the entrance arch, where a liveried menial bowed and scraped them up a staircase and into a lavishly furnished chamber that was the most civilised room Tom had seen since they left London. Heavy tapestries promised protection against the howling gale that was creating music of sorts around the turrets of the upper floors, and a large fire was burning brightly in a generous fireplace, the flames of which cast rippling waves of light upwards and across a large heavy oil painting of some long-forgotten worthy dressed in what looked like animal skins, although there was no mistaking the crown on his narrow head.
The doors at the far end of the chamber opened suddenly and both English emissaries spun round in anticipation of catching their first sight of Scotland’s famously beautiful Queen. Instead, out bustled a squat man who seemed to be walking with a stooping forward motion that soon revealed itself as a hunched back. His voice, when he spoke, was certainly not tainted with that awful gargle that seemed to afflict most Edinburgh people, but neither was his English all that easy to follow, since it clearly originated somewhere in mainland Europe.
‘My greetings with you, gentlemen,’ he lisped unctuously as he bowed. ‘You are from the English Queen Elisabetta?’
‘Elizabeth, yes,’ Randolph confirmed with a frown and the man looked suitably chastened.
‘You will be forgiving me, I hope — in my country it is “Elisabetta”. I am coming from Italy before I serve my Queen. I am David Rizzio, her Secretary.’
It was Randolph’s turn to give a slight bow of acknowledgment as he confirmed his own name and the fact that he had been sent by ‘Queen Elizabeth’s Master Secretary’.
Rizzio nodded. ‘She is wishing to marry her, yes?’
Tom suppressed a giggle as Randolph kicked his ankle in a warning, then corrected what Rizzio had just suggested. ‘She wishes to arrange a marriage between your mistress and the finest noble in all England.’
‘The name of this man?’ Rizzio asked.
‘Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.’
‘We have heard of him. He makes passion with your Queen, does he not?’
‘He does not,’ Randolph replied loudly and firmly. ‘He was once married, but his wife died tragically and now it is to the great advantage of both our nations that he be linked in marriage with your Queen.’
‘You have no princes of royal blood to offer?’
‘No, but with Leicester comes Elizabeth’s undertaking to make your mistress the heir to the English throne.’
‘And you have come here today to meet with her?’
‘If she would be gracious enough to receive us,’ Randolph replied.
Rizzio gestured to two padded chairs to the side of the fireplace. ‘If you would seat there, please,’ he requested, then hobbled out through the adjoining doors with his unique gait.
They heard the sound of the entrance doors opening once again from the room behind and the swish of a heavy gown on the carpet. They rose and turned and for once in his life Tom was struck dumb.
The first thing that anyone realised when they first cast eyes on Mary Stuart was that she was exceedingly tall for a woman and indeed would have stood head and shoulders above the average man. Her height was accentuated by her long, graceful neck and high forehead, in which the eyebrows were plucked almost clean, giving her the appearance of one who was perpetually asking a question. The long oval face was flawless of complexion and her deep hazel eyes would have appeared smiling, had it not been for the hooded eyelids that further accentuated the look of enquiry on her face. She was indeed beautiful by anyone’s standards, but what stunned Tom into silence was the serenity and confidence with which she gazed out at the world, more than a match for any man or woman. To add to her allure, when she spoke she had a seductive way of pronouncing her words, in an accent that Tom took to be French, given her life history thus far.
She did not hold her hand out to be kissed, but waved her hands in a gentle gesture that beckoned them forward, then stood serenely erect as they came within several feet of her, the look in her eyes somehow conveying the instruction that this was far enough.
‘You come from my cousin Elizabeth?’ she enquired.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ Randolph confirmed with a slightly nervous catch in his voice. ‘On the instruction of my immediate master, the English Secretary of State, William Cecil.’
‘Then who is he?’ Mary nodded towards Tom, who wished he could hide under the carpet.
‘My clerk only,’ Ra
ndolph told her. ‘Do you wish him to withdraw?’
Tom was hoping that she would agree with this suggestion, but instead she slid her gaze back towards Randolph and assured him that ‘That will not be necessary, since my own Secretary is also in attendance.’ Only then did Tom realise that the funny little Italian was almost hiding behind her.
‘So it seems that I am to be offered the English crown to which I am already entitled only if I marry some English chouchou?’
‘Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, is nobody’s “chouchou”, madam,’ Randolph replied curtly. ‘He is one of the finest, strongest, most manly nobles in the realm.’
‘But Elizabeth tires of him anyway, does she not, else she would not be seeking to rid herself of him? Men grow so tiresome when they learn that their best days are behind them and that the lady’s fancy has moved on.’
‘I know nothing of what you speak, Your Majesty,’ Randolph blushed. ‘I know simply that my Queen would wish to see the crown of England remain in Tudor hands should she pass into the next world without a natural heir.’
‘I am first and foremost a Stuart,’ Mary bristled, ‘but that does not alter the fact that I am the granddaughter of a Tudor and at least I am not bastard, like your own Queen.’
‘I should perhaps advise you that Elizabeth’s bastardy was revoked by Parliament some time ago.’
‘But not by God,’ Mary replied with a smirk. ‘In the eyes of the true faith, her mother’s lying with her father made her a whore. The throne of England will become mine, as the next legitimate Tudor, whether or not I marry your English vieux cochon.’
‘Be that as it may, Your Majesty,’ Randolph said as he shifted his ground, ‘my Queen would wish to see you happily married to a fine English gentleman, thereby ensuring that the Tudor line will continue.’
‘She could ensure that for herself, could she not?’ Mary countered. ‘And if this Leicester person is such a fine match, why does she not take him for her own and let him continue the Tudor line through her womb? Am I being offered soiled goods?’
‘Most certainly not, Your Majesty,’ Randolph insisted as his facial expression stiffened. ‘Am I to tell my mistress that you will not entertain an offer for your hand from the Earl of Leicester?’
Mary smiled somewhat condescendingly. ‘At this stage you may tell her that I thank her for her admission that the throne that she currently sits upon is not hers under God’s ordinance, but assure her that she may continue to occupy it for her lifetime. As for the offer of her rejected amant, I will consider it once I have his portrait and I may see for myself what I am being offered. I can afford to be selective, given the many offers that I have already received, some of them from men who are still, shall we say, unused.’
‘I shall happily convey those sentiments, Your Majesty,’ Randolph assured her as he bowed.
Tom had been back at his lodgings in Thames Street for barely an hour when Cecil visited him.
‘Can’t wait to give me more work for inky fingers?’ Tom said, then adopted a more respectful tone when he saw the expression on his patron’s face.
‘I have just had an audience with Randolph,’ Cecil told him. ‘He tells me that Mary rejected the offer of Dudley’s hand.’
‘Not quite,’ Tom corrected him. ‘She seems to think that the English crown is hers by right anyway and graciously allows Elizabeth to wear it — as if she had any choice — but as for the Earl of Leicester, she wishes to know more of him before making any decision. She mentioned the need for a portrait.’
‘Does she know that Dudley is Protestant?’
‘She did not allude to his religion — only Elizabeth’s and that only indirectly, by insulting references to her mother. We certainly said nought to that effect while in her presence.’
‘This is good,’ Cecil nodded, ‘and I shall arrange to have Robert’s portrait painted in the most flattering way that money can acquire, then delivered to Edinburgh.’
‘I sincerely hope that you will not send me with it,’ Tom pouted. ‘Edinburgh is the shittiest place I ever laid eyes on and I’ve seen a few in my time. Why did you send me in the first place?’
‘For the very purpose that you are about to fulfil,’ Cecil said. ‘It will be well known that you accompanied Randolph on his visit to Queen Mary and the purpose of it. You may confidently expect to be approached by messengers sent by others to enquire as to how things transpired and it will be enlightening to see who sends them. Whoever they are and from wherever their instructions originate, you are to make out that Queen Mary is keen to pursue a match with Robert Dudley. Understood?’
‘Of course, but why?’
‘Never mind why — just report as I said. You may even soil your hands with a bribe to make your information seem more reliable. And now I must take myself back to Whitehall. I shall expect you in my chambers as usual on the morrow.’
XI
Elizabeth was in her Bedchamber, dressing for a banquet to celebrate the Feast of St Thomas Aquinas. Her dressers fussed around her, while several of her Ladies clustered at the rear of the chamber under the control and guidance of their mother duck, Senior Lady Blanche Parry. First to be draped over Elizabeth’s head was her chemise. Out of instinct her hand went to her throat, then she looked down with a frown at the set of keys sitting on her bedside table. Although she was back once again in Whitehall Palace, she doubted that they would be required, but the sight of them reminded her of something important.
‘Has Robert arrived yet?’ she asked as she turned her head slightly to address Blanche, who shook her head.
‘No, my Lady, although since he is biding at Kew, he should be here well before the banquet commences. The weather is dry and the tracks are good for the time of year.’
Elizabeth grunted, both with discontent and at the determined efforts of the tasking matron who was tightening the corset that went over the shift and made every breath a supreme effort. Over that went her petticoat, followed by the farthingale hoop that would cause her topmost gown to billow down over the dance floor later that night. Then at least she got to sit on the side of her bed while the stockings were drawn up to her still dimpled knees, ahead of the rich cloth of gold gown that would set her apart from all the other ladies at Court, who were currently banned from anything that approached an imitation.
Finally, the neck and wrist ruffs were applied separately, ahead of the jewellery that would add to the overall burden and in particular her favourite pearl necklace, a gift from Robert. Then in honour of the occasion a miniature Prayer Book was attached to her girdle and she smiled quietly at the thought of how the Roman scholar whose feast they were celebrating would have reacted to this most Protestant of documents.
It still wanted an hour before they would be required to show themselves in the Banqueting Chamber on the ground floor in order to receive the invited guests, and Elizabeth took a grateful seat in the specially constructed chair that was wide enough to accommodate her ballooning skirts and beckoned her Ladies around her. They included Catherine Carey, Countess of Nottingham and her daughter Lettice Knollys, Viscountess Hereford, in addition to Mary Dudley, Robert’s sister and the wife of Sir Henry Sidney. They began whispering among themselves excitedly about the festivities to come and Elizabeth took the opportunity to engage in a hushed conversation with Blanche Parry.
‘Go and enquire where Robert has got to. He is the host and the guests will be arriving ere long.’
Blanche scuttled away and the small group of ladies made their way down the private stairs into the rear of the Banqueting Hall, where Elizabeth stood with an angry expression on her face at the continuing absence of Robert Dudley. Blanche scurried over to where Elizabeth was standing, hands on hips and red in the face.
‘Well, where is he?’ Elizabeth demanded.
Blanche braced herself as she answered, ‘He has sent word that he is ill-disposed to attend, my Lady. It would seem that Robert declines to grace our company.’
‘Treason!’
Elizabeth spat, then lowered her voice as the interest of several Courtiers appeared to be attracted to the sudden outburst. ‘Send word to have the Earl of Leicester conveyed to the Tower, on my order!’
‘Should we not perhaps first enquire as to the reason for his seeming ill manners, my Lady?’ Blanche suggested timorously.
After staring at her in disbelief, Elizabeth nodded. ‘Perhaps that were best,’ she agreed with obvious reluctance, ‘but what of this evening’s celebrations? I cannot host them without an escort.’
‘I was speaking with the Earl Marshall as you entered with your Ladies and he assured me that he would deem it an honour to be invited to stand in for Robert.’
‘Norfolk?’ Elizabeth asked petulantly. ‘He would no doubt prove to be about as gracious as a wild boar cornered by the pack. But at least he has the rank and title, so let it be. Tell my Lord of Norfolk that he is to sit on my right when I take my place at board.’
An hour later, Elizabeth had suppressed her earlier misgivings and was content to chat away inconsequentially to her conscripted co-host about the state of the counties to the north of the country, for which Thomas Howard was responsible in his capacity as Queen’s Lieutenant in the North.
‘If I might be allowed to advise Your Majesty outside the confines of your Council Chamber,’ Howard oozed, ‘it was an inspired decision on your part to offer the hand of Robert Dudley to the Scots Queen.’
‘That was Cecil’s idea, as you must recall,’ Elizabeth corrected him with a hint of annoyance, ‘although I must own privily that neither party to the proposed match has shown any great enthusiasm for it.’
‘Indeed?’ Howard queried. ‘I had been led to believe that Mary of Scotland wishes to view his portrait daily in eager anticipation.’
