Just a Queen

by Jane Caro

  Cecil produced yet another letter from the large pile that lay upon his writing desk. ‘It is from Archduke Charles in which he renews his suit for your hand.’

  ‘Not now, Cecil, not now. I am not in the mood to hear courtly expressions of love.’

  ‘I understand, Your Grace, but he will expect a reply and soon. Given the chaos on our northern border, the Hapsburgs would make good allies, especially considering – heaven protect Your Majesty – that if any misadventure should befall you, Mary would no longer be acceptable to your subjects as their queen.’

  ‘Must we talk of this now, my lord? My head aches with all this scandal.’

  ‘I think we must, Your Grace. What if Mary nominates her French relatives to adopt the infant Prince of Scotland? Then the two powers of France and Scotland could combine to threaten us. An alliance with the Hapsburgs through Charles would keep such threats at bay.’

  ‘I doubt the Scottish Protestant lords would let the prince out of their sight for a moment, no matter what his mother might negotiate with her French relatives, but send Sussex to Spain to negotiate the betrothal, if you must. However, do not forget, my lord, that Archduke Charles is a devout Catholic and that will not make him any more attractive to my people than he is to me.’

  Sussex went to Spain and as the diplomatic niceties and delicate matter of religious sensibilities were argued in the Spanish court, Mary, in her island prison, miscarried Bothwell’s twins. That at least, was a blessing. It is hard to imagine the complication two more children of her blood could have added to a world already riven by so many competing claims.

  There are many who believe that the business of women in this life is love, while the business of men is war and its twin brother power. Women create life and men take it, I suppose. Yet no one admired Mary for the love she bore the man she now called husband. Instead they condemned her for it – more than condemned her, they despised her. As Mary lay in her weakened state after the death of her twins, the lords of Scotland forced her to sign a deed of abdication. It was rumoured that those brutal men threatened the poor, friendless woman with death if she did not sign. Such was the fear of Mary’s legendary charm – indeed many now claimed she was a witch, able to befuddle men with her powers – she was kept in isolation in her island prison, allowed few attendants and almost no visitors. I wonder if they even told her that they had crowned her infant son James VI of Scotland.

  I was enjoying the gardens at Hampton Court when the full catastrophe of Mary’s dubious status, a queen who was not a queen, was made clear to me. It was a glorious spring afternoon, the bulbs were blooming in the lawn and my ladies and I were drawn away from our duties by the fragrance and warmth of the garden. If memory serves me correctly, Mary Sidney was playing upon her lute as the rest of us lounged on cushions and carpets, enjoying the sun. Suddenly a man loomed above me, silhouetted against the sky. I covered my eyes to see who had interrupted my pleasure, but before I could make out his face, his familiar voice told me all I needed to know, and my pleasant mood departed on the instant.

  ‘Cecil, what brings you from your desk? I do not suppose it is the glorious weather.’

  My earnest Master Spirit glanced around him, as if he had only just registered that the day was fine. He frowned and made a small gesture with his ink-stained hands as if to say that he could not be expected to notice such trivialities. ‘Your Majesty, I bring urgent news from the Scottish court.’

  ‘Help me up, sirrah,’ I said, ignoring Cecil, and signalling to my page. ‘And stop playing, Mary, if you would be so kind. Our leisure is at an end.’ As I stood, I could see Cecil’s worried face properly, and behind him, a knot of other concerned privy councillors. Something of great importance indeed had occurred. ‘Well, what is it? What emergency causes you to interrupt our pleasures so abruptly?’

  ‘It is the Queen of Scots, Your Majesty.’

  ‘It is always the Queen of Scots, my lord, even though she is queen no longer.’

  ‘She has escaped, Your Grace, and is gathering an army to fight for her throne.’

  The shock sat me back down on my cushion. ‘How, my lord? In God’s name, how?’

  The need to hear the answer to that question got me back up from the cushion, unaided this time. As I rose I saw that all in the garden were as eager to know as I was. However, I did not want all and sundry to hear our conversation. I needed time to think how to respond.

  ‘Perhaps it would be wiser if we discussed this great matter in private.’

  Her famous charm had woven its spell yet again. She had befriended a young page and persuaded him to steal the keys to her chambers. No doubt he saw himself as a great romantic hero and fancied marrying a queen and ruling Scotland by her side. The very same fantasy, ironically, that led first Darnley and eventually Bothwell to their doom. It is remarkable to me how many people lose all sense at the mere whiff of royal status. If they actually achieved it, they might not find the reality of its gifts quite as satisfying as they expect. Maybe she made him bold promises, who knows? Poor deluded youngster, his life was forfeit.

  She had disguised herself as a serving wench and left with the besotted page and another young woman – no doubt equally bewitched – and they simply walked out of the dread prison, into a waiting skiff and rowed themselves to freedom. As Cecil told me the tale, there was a part of me that thrilled at her adventure. Certainly I felt admiration for her audacity. Here was a woman, deeply flawed, no doubt, but with such courage and determination. If she was my enemy, she was formidable.

  Once I also lived on the edge of life, fully aware that death was possible at every moment. I thought I hated it and yet, as I spent my days with the meticulous and thorough Cecil, ploughing my way through one state matter to the next, I found myself returning in my imagination to the terror and triumph of my cousin’s daring escape. She who was so near to death was very alive.

  But not for long.

  Twelve

  ‘I fear, Your Majesty, you have the wolf by the ears.’ Dr Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, had dined with me and we were lingering over a good bordeaux and some fine cheese; I was absentmindedly crumbling bread between my fingers. Just before my mother’s execution, as Dr Parker liked to remind me, she had commended me to his protection. My mother’s name may never have passed my lips, but I kept those who had been close to her, such as Kat and Blanche, close to me and I still wore her likeness in a secret compartment of the ring that never left my right hand.

  I pushed the bread away from me. ‘Indeed, my lord bishop, and so it feels. I have the wolf firmly, but I do not know how long I can hold on.’

  ‘She has written to you?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, a furious letter. It seems she suspects us of having quietly aided and abetted the Scottish rebels, if not in deed, then certainly in policy.’

  ‘For a kingdom-less queen, with no soldiers, supporters or power base to speak of, she presumes a great deal. Especially since her defeat at Langside.’

  ‘She has spirit, my lord.’

  ‘Would that she had a little less of that and a little more wisdom.’

  Mary’s attempt to raise an army to take back her kingdom had ended in ignominious defeat. Her ragtag forces had been comprehensively routed by the rebels and she had fled across the border into England and thrown herself upon my protection. Her husband, James Hepburn, whom she had raised from Earl of Bothwell to Duke of Orkney upon their marriage, had fled by ship to Norway – the country of his first wife.

  Dr Parker poured himself another generous glass of the excellent bordeaux and leant back in his chair. ‘Carlisle Castle is dangerously close to the Scottish border, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I know. I have been thinking of asking my cousin to come to court. What is it they say, my lord? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?’

  ‘But which is she, Your Grace? A friend or a foe?’

>   ‘That is a very good question. Cecil thinks she is a foe, but I have not as yet settled upon an answer.’

  ‘Until you know the answer, Your Grace, I would not advise inviting her to court. That would send a message of support and approval that could compromise your own standing in the eyes of the world. Your reputation is rising very quickly at the moment, Your Grace. I would not allow the disgraced Queen of Scots to jeopardise it.’

  ‘You sound like Cecil, Archbishop. He counsels just as you do.’

  I was beginning to be referred to in some quarters as the Virgin Queen. There was much about this term that I liked. It implied a virtue and an unworldliness that worked well for my purposes. It also did much to distance me from any who remembered the reputation of my mother (and there were still many who did). Given that Mary was now routinely referred to as a whore and a she-devil, it also did much to emphasise the difference between my reputation and hers. But the phrase also contained an echo of the Virgin Mary, the holy mother of Catholic veneration. It was this expectation, this touch of the divine that made me uneasy. I am a queen, yes, but an earthly one. I know myself to be as weak and inadequate and unworthy as any other mortal creature, more so – sometimes.

  My iconic status increased the security of my grip on power, but also increased my sense of being an imposter. I knew that beneath the glorious clothes and imperious manner I remained just a woman.

  ‘There are many Catholics in the north, Your Majesty, and I hear that they have wasted little time rushing to Carlisle Castle to pay their respects to the Queen of Scots.’ Dr Parker was leaning forward, his plate also pushed to one side. The flames from the fire were reflected on the sheen of his skin. The room was close and we were both sweating a little.

  ‘I do not doubt it.’

  ‘They may form a Catholic faction around her. She is a dangerous woman and must be watched carefully.’

  ‘Cecil fears she may try to return to France.’

  ‘That would be disastrous.’

  ‘Yet if I am seen to give Mary any support in England, the Scottish lords may turn to their old alliance with the French and that is just as dangerous. The Scottish lords have the infant king as a bargaining chip. I have been left with his disgraced mother whom nobody wants.’

  ‘Except the Catholics in your own kingdom, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You offer me little comfort, Dr Parker.’

  ‘There is little comfort to be had when one holds a wolf by the ears, unless one manages to put it in a cage.’

  ‘But I have no legitimate reason to condemn a fellow monarch to a prison cell. If I was to do such a thing, I would be roundly condemned for it. The eyes of the world are upon me, my lord.’

  ‘She is accused of murdering her husband, Your Majesty. Why not institute an inquiry into her guilt or innocence? You can bring her further into England while she awaits the results of such a commission and hold her with all the pomp and circumstance required of her status while you do what any wise and just ruler would do: examine the evidence.’

  ‘What if she is found to be innocent, my lord? What then? Must I use force of arms to restore her to her throne? I cannot see the Scots meekly accepting her back merely on my say so.’

  ‘Cross that bridge when you come to it, good madam. A judicial inquiry takes time to set up and gather evidence, time to review and time to consider its verdict. In the meantime, you can loosen your grip on the wolf and yet keep it safely and humanely caged. Do not allow it to realise it is a prisoner; treat it rather as an honoured guest.’

  ‘You give wise counsel, my lord. I thank you most heartily for it.’

  He had cheered me considerably. Whenever I have faced a dilemma, I have often found that delaying a decision is the wisest course. Events have a way of rectifying themselves without any interference by me. However they turn out, for good or ill, if I have prevaricated and done nothing, no consequences or blame can attach to me. My tendency towards waiting infuriates many of the men in my court. They are all for action. They are the sex that want to do something, to rush in and threaten, and force a resolution. Like many of my own sex, I have learnt that sometimes it is better to wait and tread softly if I must tread at all. So the inquiry that Dr Parker had suggested bought me time, if nothing else.

  In preparation, against her vociferous protests, I had my cousin moved deeper into my kingdom, away from the dangerous northern border to Bolton Castle in Yorkshire. My informants reported that she cried and threw objects at them when they told her that she was to be moved. She even declared that if they intended to take her hence they would have to pick her up bodily and carry her to Bolton.

  I felt sad when they told me of her futile passion. Poor little queen, she had not yet understood that she no longer had any agency. I was a prisoner once too. I knew only too well the desolation that slowly descends as the captive realises his or her utter powerlessness. But this was an entirely new experience for the Scottish queen. Imperious from infancy, she no doubt still expected that the world would return to rights very soon and she would be restored to all her former glory. How bitter it must have been for her to realise slowly just how permanent her situation now was. What happened to the Queen of Scots would from now on be decided by me alone. It was a responsibility I did not want, but could not avoid.

  Once she was in Bolton Castle and I felt I had released the wolf safely into its gilded cage, I wrote to her of my decision to institute an inquiry. I did not tell her it was to explore whether she herself was guilty of husband-murder. To broach such a subject directly would have required powers of diplomacy that were beyond me. The inquiry was simply into the events surrounding Darnley’s death. ‘Oh madam,’ I wrote, ‘there is not a creature living who more longs to hear your justification than myself; not one who would lend a more willing ear to any answer which will clear your honour. But I cannot sacrifice my own reputation on your account.’

  Yet, as I sit here now, on this cushion, my aching back against the wall, I know I lied in that letter. What would I have done if she had been exonerated? Would I have gone to war with Scotland and imposed my will upon the Scottish people? Would I have insisted they accept the woman they had reviled as their queen? It is a question that I never had to answer because Mary’s half-brother and the Regent of Scotland, the Earl of Moray, fortuitously discovered a casket of letters from Mary to Bothwell and what was contained within that ornate little box undid her entirely.

  Moray swore that the letters had been taken from one of Bothwell’s servants after the defeat at Carberry Hill. Some have claimed they were forgeries, but they were the people interested in seeing the queen exonerated. The queen herself refused to either deny or confirm whether the eight damning letters or the foul sonnets which accompanied them – love poems written to Bothwell while her husband was still alive – were authentic or not.

  ‘The charges against me are false,’ she declared, ‘because I, on my word as a princess, declare them to be false.’ Such a response, while haughty and spirited, did little to ease suspicions on either side.

  Francis Knollys read the incriminating letters to my council in a solemn and shocked voice, intoning them with all the melancholy of a tolling bell.

  ‘I do here a work that I hate much but I had begun it this morning.’ Knollys read the queen’s words slowly and dramatically. ‘You make me dissemble so much that I am afraid thereof with horror, and you make me almost play the part of traitor.’ And then she in Knollys’ voice confronted the very solution that had also come into my mind. ‘Think also if you will not find some invention more secret by physic, for he is to take physic at Craigmillar and the baths also.’

  Despite the incongruity of Knollys’ deep, masculine instrument reading such intensely feminine words, not one person in my privy council moved as the horrific murderous plan unfolded. What we heard were the words of a desperate woman plotting with her lover the murder of her husband
. Royal or not, beloved darling of the Catholics of Christendom or not, unless these writings were proved a forgery, nothing could save her.

  ‘You have enough evidence here to condemn her to death, Your Majesty.’ Robin spoke as soon as Knollys folded the last of the notorious letters and replaced it in the small casket in which they had been found.

  ‘Unnatural woman, unnatural wife. She is not worthy of drawing breath in the same kingdom as Your Majesty.’ Knollys was shaking with fury as he closed the ornate metal lid.

  ‘We must wait for the verdict of the inquiry, my lords. We must be seen to observe the letter and spirit of the law and only then decide what must be done.’ Cecil could always be relied upon to counsel caution.

  ‘The letters are very convenient for the man who brought them to our attention, Your Majesty. We must not forget that.’ The Duke of Norfolk’s words may indeed have been wise ones, but he was a Catholic and one of the first of the northern lords who had rushed to pay his respects to the Queen of Scots at Carlisle Castle. Indeed, there had already been whispers about where his loyalties lay.

  ‘What mean you by that, my lord of Norfolk?’ Robin was immediately on his guard. ‘Are you accusing the Earl of Moray of forgery?’

  ‘I am not, my lord. I am merely suggesting we proceed cautiously, because if I can see that these letters serve his purpose so fittingly, well then others less well disposed towards our own queen will see the same.’

  ‘I have no intention of executing a sovereign queen. If the inquiry decides that she is guilty, she will be held in comfort and with all due deference for her own protection.’

  ‘But for how long, Your Majesty? She is a robust woman, she has shown herself able to endure much in the way of hardship, she may yet live many decades and she will be the focus of all dissatisfaction and discontent, as well as of those who are ambitious and those who believe a Catholic monarch should sit on your throne. You will be nursing a viper, good madam, and it may bite you.’ Robin was determined.