Just a Queen

by Jane Caro

  As I look back upon it now, I can see the religious differences that so bedevil this modern world had already caught me in their snare. I was aware of the need to tread carefully, of course, but I never dreamt that the conflict between men over God would one day bring me to such a terrible place, and my cousin to such a dreadful end. Indeed, my cousin hardly registered in my mind in those halcyon days. My thoughts were taken up with smaller difficulties, although they loomed large enough at the time. Cecil and I knew that the leaders of my church needed to conform to certain necessary rituals – whatever their personal beliefs – but I did not want to have direct confrontations with any of them. My plan was to tread softly and move mountains with generosity and reason. In those days I was still foolish enough to believe that such puny weapons had real force. It only strikes me now that Cecil – canny though he has always been – must also have been somewhat naive to allow me to deceive myself in such a way. How much we have both learnt and how painfully! The sticking point for public ceremonies was transubstantiation. Was the Elevation of the Host a literal worship of the blood and flesh of Christ, miraculously transformed from the bread and the wine, or blasphemous idolatry? My Catholic subjects believed one thing, my Protestant subjects another. Both thought the other’s position was heresy.

  This desire to avoid unnecessary confrontations and win friends rather than enemies was why I needed a discreet word with the Bishop of Carlisle. It was only a matter of time before I could solve the (I thought) minor problems of form and ceremony and reassure my subjects that as long as they were loyal to me and obeyed the law, the way they worshipped privately was their own concern. With that amicably settled, I believed I could then move on to issues of greater substance. How naive I was! The symbolic importance of religious differences has haunted my every waking moment from that day to this. But challenging Oglethorpe’s loyalty to certain Catholic rituals was not my only reason for wishing to talk to this somewhat obscure prince of the church. Frankly all the other bishops had refused my overtures.

  Plump and gorgeous in his robes of office, Oglethorpe took a deep breath, his colour rising with nerves. ‘I did not ignore your communication, Your Grace. As I told your messenger, you are the mistress of my body and my life, but not of my conscience.’

  His voice shook a little as he spoke, though he need not have feared. Had he dissembled I would have had less respect for him.

  ‘So you will persist in elevating the bread and wine at tomorrow’s Christmas service?’

  ‘Aye, Your Majesty, I will.’

  ‘I respect your conscience, my lord, but I must also respect my own.’

  ‘I would expect no less, Your Grace.’

  ‘Well, we agree on that, at least. I have another favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Name it. I will do anything that is within my power – and my conscience.’

  I raised a quizzical eyebrow and saw him blanch a little.

  As I said, I was still an unknown quantity to the men of my court, particularly those who had served my sister. Equally they were an unknown quantity to me, and my major task was to test these men and discover what they were made of and where their loyalties really lay. So I watched the good, if nervous, bishop carefully. ‘Can you find it within your conscience, my lord, to officiate at my coronation?’

  ‘Within my conscience?’ He dropped to his knee – his relief and surprise palpable. ‘It would be my greatest honour and delight to place the crown of England upon Your Grace’s head, in accordance with God’s will. My loyalty towards you is first among all earthly men, and second only to God. I am your humble servant and a loyal Englishman, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for that. There are others who lack your faith in God’s intentions.’ (Every other senior clergyman in the land, it seemed.)

  ‘Then it strikes me they are great fools, Your Grace, and not good Englishmen.’

  I smiled as I looked down upon him and then bent and handed him up. He was a little stiff and staggered slightly as he rose to his feet. He put real weight upon my steadying hand. I can see now that he was already weakened by the malady that was to kill him only a few short months hence.

  ‘Unused to being on your knees, my lord bishop,’ I chided him. ‘Surely not!’

  He had the grace to laugh ruefully. ‘So used, good madam, that as you see, I find it hard to rise from them.’

  And then we laughed together and were good friends, despite our religious differences.

  It was a pleasant interview. Perhaps that is why it remains in my mind, but it was also a deceptive one. It lulled me into thinking that I could solve the deep divisions in my realm with a smile and a jest.

  A few weeks later, when the time came for the Elevation of the Host at my coronation, I withdrew. I could not stop the bishop worshipping God in his own way, but I would not give his actions tacit approval by remaining in his presence while he did so. I did not believe the bread and wine became the literal flesh and blood of Christ and I would not pretend that I did. The eyes of Christendom were upon me; no matter what each man believed, they all asked themselves the same question: what signals would my behaviour send about my attitudes to religion? Would I be a fanatical Protestant like my brother, or a pragmatic one like my father? If I had submitted to the full form of the ancient service – as my sister had so often entreated – my Catholic subjects would not have been reassured and my Catholic rivals across Europe would not have been convinced, but my Protestant subjects and allies would have been outraged. Cecil and I knew the message I needed to send: I was a Protestant queen, but not a fanatical one. When I declared that I did not wish to make windows into men’s souls, I knew that it was not enough for me to sincerely mean what I said: I must send messages through my actions that my words would be matched by my deeds.

  Three

  ‘The King of France is dead, Your Majesty.’ Cecil stood before me brandishing a letter from Ambassador Nicholas Throckmorton. It was July, the excitement over my coronation had faded and I was embarking upon what I now realised was the stark reality of ruling a kingdom. Nevertheless, after only eight months on the throne, I was still new enough at my job to hope that if I applied myself diligently to my papers, I could escape into the sunshine to ride and stretch my limbs. As I look back on it now, I see that I was approaching my task as if I were still a resident of my schoolroom, working hard to please my tutor. The sheer relentlessness of my role had not yet become apparent. Before Cecil entered the room, I had been within sight of the end of my labours, and had allowed myself glances at the still bright sunshine outside. As I heard his startling news, all hope of escape was immediately dashed.

  ‘How so, my lord? The last we heard he was hale and hearty.’

  ‘A jousting accident. A lance splintered in his face, piercing his eye and brain. The doctors hoped to save him, but to no avail. It was Montgomery’s lance, Your Grace – the captain of his Scots guard. Fortunately for him, the king pardoned the Scotsman as he lay dying.’

  ‘God have mercy on his soul.’

  ‘Amen, Your Grace.’

  The news was disturbing, but it also gave us reason for cautious optimism. King Henry had been a wise and wily ruler, a man who perforce had to be taken seriously. His son was fifteen and, according to all reports, physically frail and deficient in both character and wit. A weaker France is always to be greeted with pleasure in England. But, as I have said, our optimism was cautious. As I knew from my own recent experience, a change of ruler changes everything, and fear is sharpened by change and danger follows the sharpening. I poured myself a glass of wine from the pitcher by my table. If I could not access one form of relaxation then I would allow myself another.

  ‘Will you share a glass with me, Cecil?’

  He nodded and, waving away the servant who had leapt forward to do the task, I poured another for my friend and secretary. I rose from my table and walked towards the win
dow. I could at least look at the gorgeous afternoon.

  ‘So, if Francois is king, the Queen of Scots is now Queen of France.’

  ‘Aye, madam.’ Cecil drank deeply from the glass. ‘It is a fine vintage, Your Grace.’

  ‘Aye, French burgundy, fittingly enough.’ And we enjoyed it together, silently contemplating what this changing of the guard in France might mean for us.

  As I have said, I had thought little about my cousin Mary since gaining my throne. I had much else to occupy myself with, not least, despite all my efforts, the delicate game of placating the most zealous of my Protestant subjects. A jest and a smile might have worked well with Bishop Oglethorpe, but they were not proving as effective with the sterner members of my court.

  The ranks of fanatical Protestants in my kingdom were swelling, as those who had fled from my sister’s Catholic tyranny returned from Flanders and Geneva and other parts of Protestant Europe where they had taken refuge. They came back to England with their prejudices hardened and their demands for religious conformity ever more vociferous. Of course it was not just my Protestant subjects I could not satisfy; my Catholic ones were just as discontented. I had already begun to realise that it is beyond the powers of even monarchs to please both sides at once, or, as I grumbled increasingly to Cecil, any of them ever. Now – thanks to the fatal lance of one of her countrymen – the Queen of Scots had become the focus of my attention for perhaps the first time.

  ‘A Scotsman, was it?’ I broke the silence, a suspicious thought about the splinter that had entered King Henry’s brain now entering my own. There was rebellion in Scotland, an uprising against Mary Stuart’s formidable mother, Mary of Guise, who ruled Scotland as regent in her daughter’s stead.

  ‘There has been some speculation about that, Your Majesty, but according to Throckmorton it is baseless gossip. Montgomery did not wish to joust with the king and tried to cry off. It was Henry himself who insisted on one final bout.’

  ‘Bah! How foolish to tempt fate when your own is not the only one at stake. At least that is one fear you need not have for me, Cecil. I will never be foolhardy on the jousting field.’

  ‘Nay, Your Majesty, but I have seen you fearless on a horse.’

  ‘You do my fearing for me, good master secretary, so I have no need of it.’ I jested with my councillor, but I was already aware of just how many men’s necks relied on my continued good health. At least Henry had an heir of his own blood and his own religion. Mary of Scotland was the natural heir to me, and a follower of the old faith. A fact not lost on those who most feared it, nor on those to whom it offered great comfort and hope. ‘She has styled herself Queen of England from birth, has she not?’

  ‘Aye, madam. That she has.’

  ‘I remember. I was only nine when she was born, but even then I thought her a greedy little infant, hungry for crowns.’

  ‘Now she has the crown of France, perhaps she can be persuaded to give up her claim on that of England.’

  ‘Perhaps, my lord – though if I were the new Queen of France, I would not do so. It remains a chip to be bargained with and I would never give one of those away without receiving something of value in return.’

  ‘Not all women are as wise as Minerva, Your Grace. Indeed, I have only ever met one.’ He smiled at me shyly. Cecil has always been a ponderous flirt, but unlike others with more honeyed tongues, he meant what he said.

  Damn that Scotsman and his deadly lance! I have always loathed his brutish race: they have caused me to lose more sleep than even those savages the Irish. A jousting Scot may have inadvertently brought me to the state that I find myself in almost thirty years later – with my head aching and my eyes red and sore from the tears I have shed. Had Henry retired from the field that day, as he was advised, Mary may yet have kept her head and I my unblemished conscience. But these are foolish longings. Fate is as fate does. There is no avoiding it.

  How little I worried about the young Queen of France in that golden summer of 1559, the first year of my reign. She was safely across the Channel, married to the young king of another country. Her likeliest fate was to be the mother of kings of France and of Scotland. Cecil, my privy council and I discussed the possibility that a son of hers could perhaps one day unite the kingdoms of Scotland, England and France. Indeed, it caused my privy council and me some amusement, as I recall, to think of the consternation such an outcome would cause our common enemy, the King of Spain. But such a future seemed remote. I was young and newly on my throne. The men around me were still certain that I would marry and have sons of my own. Little did we then realise that the problem of the Queen of Scots would one day be England’s and England’s alone. In other words, the problem would be mine.

  Ah! Another storm of tears threatens to undo me. I double over, clutching at my belly; the pain of my guilt and shame grips me in my innards and clutches at the softest parts of me. I must have howled aloud, because the door has opened and I can see the face of my cousin and lady-in-waiting Philadelphia Carey peering timidly around it. She reaches towards me as if to enter and offer comfort, but I have had my fill of cousins. I grab blindly at the first object that comes to hand – a large and valuable wineglass half full with a fine bordeaux that I cannot bear to taste. Even in my extremity, I notice a fly floating on its surface.

  ‘Get out!’ I shriek at the poor woman and hurl the glass in her direction. It smashes into a thousand blood-red pieces on the door she has hastily closed.

  ‘Please return my compliments to His Majesty King Francois, Monsieur l’ambassadeur, and my congratulations on his accession to the throne.’

  The new French king’s ambassador, Michel de Castelnau, was presenting his credentials.

  ‘And may I compliment you, Your Grace, on your mastery of the French tongue. It is rare to hear my language spoken with such elegance and refinement by an Englishman, let alone an Englishwoman.’

  I had begun to feel slightly irritated by the constant surprise at my ability to string two words together, or wield my authority with a lightness of touch and some wit. Many of the ambassadors, envoys and plenipotentiaries who came to present their credentials as representatives of their masters (and they were, at that time, all masters) reacted to meeting me as if I was an amusing small dog able to perform all manner of tricks. I disliked the assumption of inferiority that was behind their praise, but I held my tongue.

  ‘My kinswoman, the queen. What can you tell me of her?’

  ‘She is in fine health, Your Majesty, and will be gratified to hear of your kind enquiry.’

  ‘She is my closest living relative, as you know: the granddaughter of my father’s oldest sister, Margaret, who was also Queen of Scotland. But, alas, we have never met, so I am curious, Monsieur l’ambassadeur, to know what the young Queen of France is like.’

  It was not precisely true that she was my closest living relative: my Carey cousins, the children of my mother’s older sister, had that honour. But while I could (and did) prefer them and shower them with favours, royal they could never be. Nor could our closeness of blood ever be referred to out loud. They reminded people of my mother and that did me no good at all.

  ‘She is a great lady.’

  ‘But what does she look like? Is she dark or fair? Is she tall or short? What colour are her eyes, what colour is her skin, her hair? Is she considered beautiful or not so well-favoured?’ I knew I was unlikely to receive plain answers from de Castelnau, but my desire to know more about my royal cousin burned fiercely. I had written to Throckmorton with similar enquiries, but he was clearly besotted with the woman and sent me a description that bordered on that of a lover. My interest was not simply because she was my closest relative; it was also that she was a fellow queen. With the deaths of my brother and my sister, of Queen Catherine Parr and Queen Anne of Cleves, I had gained a throne, but lost all my peers.

  ‘She is considered fair of face, Your Grac
e, and has brown eyes and dark hair leavened with flecks of gold. She is tall for a woman. Many men must stretch their necks to meet her eye. She is young and charming and kind. King Francois is lucky indeed to have such a consort.’ His answer depressed me. He confirmed what Throckmorton had written. Here was a woman who was indeed formidable. She could bind men to her with charm and beauty. She was nearly ten years my junior and in the flower of her youth. No doubt she would bear the King of France many children. It was as well she was safely across the Channel, where I heartily hoped she would stay.

  ‘And is she accomplished, my lord? Can she play musical instruments and dance gracefully, read, write and sew a fine seam? Is she a good horsewoman; does she enjoy the hunt?’

  ‘Indeed, majesty, she is generally considered an accomplished young woman. Not in your league, of course, Your Grace. The superiority of your rare talents is acclaimed throughout Europe.’

  ‘And is the French queen curious about me?’

  ‘Ambassador Throckmorton has told me that she asks detailed questions about your appearance, clothing, jewellery and accomplishments at every opportunity.’

  This news gratified me more than any flattery. Just as she was my only peer, I was hers. I began to hope we might be of value to one another, as fellow queens. France and England were allies. Our mutual enemy was my erstwhile brother-in-law, King Philip of Spain. But my hopes were dashed almost as soon as they were formed.

  ‘The King of France is dead, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Another one?’ It was not the news I had expected to hear.

  ‘Francois.’

  ‘They are rather careless with their kings in France, it seems.’

  ‘Aye, madam, it is as well that Henry’s widow, Catherine de Medici, has had so many children.’