Just a Queen

by Jane Caro

  At last, I raised my head and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Did he, indeed, my lord? This is the first I have heard of it. And yet he presided over the judges who sentenced his niece, my mother, to death.’

  In response to my words, the great duke sighed deeply and hung his head. I ignored his discomfort and continued to recite the facts of our shared and unfortunate family history, calmly, precisely and accurately.

  ‘Whereupon, my lord, as I am sure you recall, I was declared a bastard and disinherited. Your grandfather, the third duke, later succeeded in having another of his female relatives married to my father, a relationship that also proved fatal. Indeed, my lord, your grandfather only escaped execution himself because my father died the day before the sentence of death was scheduled to take effect. Your own father, of course, condemned for treason against my brother, was not so lucky. He kept his appointment with the executioner. For a single family, the Howards have a sorry record of treachery, my lord.’

  At this he fell to his knees, clasped his hands in front of his face and beseeched me for mercy. Tears started from his eyes.

  ‘I am no traitor, Your Majesty. I harbour no treasonous thoughts or treacherous plans involving your cousin, the Queen of Scots. You remember, Your Grace, you remember it was I who denounced the whore of Scotland’s terrible letters, it was I who said they contained such foul and abominable matter that it was beyond imagining that they could be written by a prince! Should I seek to marry her, being so wicked a woman, such a notorious adulterer and murderer? Then, indeed, Your Majesty, I would be mad.’

  I looked at him steadily for a full minute or two and, this time, he met my gaze, although I could see by the working of his face and his tears that to do so was a struggle. I turned back to my papers, carefully blotted my notes and neatened the pages by banging the edge of the bundle on my table. Then I placed them in a folder and trimmed and cleaned my quill. Only when I had completed these methodical tasks did I turn back to my cousin.

  ‘I am pleased to hear you speak thus, my lord. Now, raise yourself from your knees and go about your business.’ I stood and extended my hand as he struggled to rise. He was a young man then, about three years my junior, but his legs were trembling and threatening not to support him. I allowed him to lean a little on me.

  ‘Do not distress yourself,’ I continued. ‘But, as I say, you come from a family of traitors and so it is my duty to make sure that you do not follow in their footsteps.’

  He was standing now and towering above me. I smiled at him and raised myself on my tiptoes so that I could kiss him gently on either side of his tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘It is due to the great love I bear you that I feel it necessary to warn you, particularly when I hear false whisperings such as those you have wisely revealed to me.’

  He nodded, clearly not trusting himself to speak. Then I signalled that he might leave my presence and he bowed shakily and did so with haste.

  I wished Thomas Howard no harm. I hoped that a small fright might be enough to warn him that he was watched and that his ambitions were foolish and more likely to end in disaster than triumph. I was pleased that he had been so easy to frighten and congratulated myself briefly on preventing him from doing something really foolish.

  Once my cousin had left my presence, however, it soon became clear that my sage advice had fallen on deaf ears. Worse, some in my own court convinced themselves that a marriage between Norfolk and Mary would be fine and that a child of theirs would cement the succession. It was looking more and more likely that a child of my own flesh might never arrive. In 1569 I was still of an age when motherhood remained just possible.

  In vain did I argue that a child of the Queen of Scots and the Duke of Norfolk – given Mary’s devout Catholicism and the duke’s own papist tendencies – would only increase the divisions in our kingdom. When I made the case against such a marriage to my council some of them pouted like so many sullen schoolboys. To be fair, most of them sought only to use the threat of such a union to pressure me to marry and have a child. How little they understood me.

  In my private chamber, alone in my bed, I lay sleepless and terrified at the thought of Mary and Norfolk marrying. The only future I could see proceeding from that union was my own short journey to the Tower and thence the scaffold. Looking back, even now, from the safety of so many years, I still cannot quite believe how close I came to that fate and how fortunate I was to avoid it.

  ‘Why has the Duke of Norfolk disobeyed my summons?’ I was pacing around the room, as agitated as I can ever remember. There were rumours of rebellion everywhere. In a repeat of his clandestine behaviour on progress, the duke had left court and then my capital without permission. Worse, he had renewed his suit for my cousin’s hand, despite his previous denials of ever having desired it, and now he had been overheard making veiled threats that he had ‘friends’ who would assist him. We even received word that he had written to those ‘friends’, who were now revealed as the Earl of Northumberland and the duke’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Westmoreland. We also heard rumours of a Spanish fleet anchored off the Netherlands just waiting to invade my kingdom and place the Queen of Scots and her would-be king on my throne. I was anxious and, I am not ashamed to admit it, found myself breathless and faint at the thought of how slender my grip on power really was, even after a decade! I felt as I had when I arrived as a prisoner of my sister at the gates of the Tower by barge in the rain. My legs trembled, the back of my neck tingled and I could not sit still for more than a few moments at a time. I had thought myself safe upon the throne, and I was forced once again to remember that safety was always an illusion. I commanded the Duke of Norfolk come to court and answer for his treachery.

  ‘He pleads ill health, Your Majesty.’ Cecil raised a laconic eyebrow. I remember pleading the same when I was under suspicion from my sister, Queen Mary Tudor. ‘He has gone to his stronghold of Kenninghall in Norfolk, Your Grace.’

  ‘The devil take his treacherous soul!’

  ‘He has written protesting his loyalty to you.’ Cecil waved a parchment at me. I brushed it aside. I had no desire to read the man’s lies.

  ‘He has also written to Northumberland and Westmoreland, urging them not to stir and, as he puts it, by doing so risk his head.’

  ‘Ah, so he hasn’t completely lost the use of it then?’

  Cecil grinned.

  ‘Why has it come to this, Cecil? Have I not helped these men? Have I not shown them kindness and endeavoured to treat them with favour – my cousin Norfolk most of all? What possesses them to betray me so quickly and so easily?’

  ‘It is not unusual for a man’s ambitions to exceed his judgment and such men are always to be feared. They tell themselves that what they wish to have they both should have and can have.’

  ‘And Norfolk wants my throne.’

  ‘Perhaps not, Your Majesty; more like he wants his future son to have your throne – once you have vacated it, of course.’

  ‘You put too fine a point on it, my lord. It is treason however you dress it.’

  ‘Aye, that it is, but as long as the succession remains in dispute, men will have such treasonous thoughts, as long as the Queen of Scots draws breath.’

  ‘I will not have her executed, Master Spirit. I have told you this before. I will not kill an anointed queen.’

  ‘Well, then, you must marry, Your Majesty, and have a child as is natural for women and is required of princes.’

  ‘Is not the Duke of Anjou once again pressing his suit?’

  ‘He is, Your Grace, and a fine choice he would be.’

  ‘Well, write to him encouragingly, if you must. We shall pretend that I rejoice at the thought of marrying a man young enough to be the very son you so yearn for me to provide.’

  I was so anxious for my own safety in the face of Norfolk’s scheming that I hardly thought of the plight of
my royal captive. She remained safely under my control in Tutbury Castle. The doubts I had harboured as to the wisdom of keeping her my prisoner were fast disappearing. Dangerous as she was under lock and key, as a free woman, determined to regain her throne, she would present a danger and a temptation that many of my subjects would be unable to resist. In prison she was and in prison she must remain. Even so, when the spies who kept Cecil and me informed of everything Mary did made their next report, I was moved to pity.

  The queen, so our spies informed us, had finished her latest tapestry. She was gifted at the art and it filled many of her weary hours. The tapestry apparently was very beautiful indeed and all who saw it complimented her upon it, but it was the subject of her endeavour that had the most impact upon me. It featured a tabby cat, finely stitched in orange thread with a crown upon its head. Beside the handsome cat was a little mouse, a plaything for its pleasure.

  Fifteen

  ‘They wear the regalia of the crusaders, Your Majesty.’

  ‘They claim to be resurrecting the pilgrimage of grace, the rebellion that so divided the country in your father’s time. They carry the old banners and cry out to the people to join them in returning England and the crown to the one true religion!’

  ‘Westmoreland and Northumberland have ridden through Durham, Your Grace, in North Yorkshire. Their destination was the cathedral where they declared their allegiance to the Pope and a Catholic England.’

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

  ‘Do you have proof of this?’ I turned sharply towards Francis Knollys; his was a direct accusation against my royal cousin.

  He looked away. ‘Not yet, Your Majesty, but our agents will be diligent and they will find the evidence.’

  ‘When they find such proof, good Sir Francis, bring it to me. Until then let us concentrate on what we actually know to be true rather than what some of us wish to be true.’

  ‘I have evidence that people in high places are involved.’

  Now I turned towards William Cecil, whose low voice and calm authority cut cleanly through the anxious babble of the rest of my council.

  ‘I am curious to see it, my lord. Bring it hither.’ I ushered him into a private inner chamber, leaving the rest of my privy council to cool their heels in the outer one. I did not wish to be pushed by the opinions of others into making a hasty decision.

  I shudder even now, all these years later, at the memory of what happened to those foolish rebels. I did not witness any of the summary executions, the hangings, drawings and quarterings that decimated the followers of the two foolish and traitorous northern earls. I authorised the executions and then I tried not to think about them. I have no desire to see the pain and sufferings of others, however justified. There are some in my service who seem to take nothing but pleasure in witnessing such events and the common people love to make a holiday of public executions and consider such gory spectacles great sport. I lived too long under the shadow of the axe to ever take the sufferings of others so lightly.

  Despite the terrible price paid by those people who rose up in Yorkshire – six hundred went to their deaths and many others lost all their goods and land to the crown – their ghastly fate did not have the effect that we hoped. The three years from 1569 to 1572 were fraught with rebellion, just as my council, my Archbishop of Canterbury and Cecil himself had warned me. Since Mary had become my prisoner it seemed I really did have the wolf by the ears. The various plots and rebellions that were reported to me all seemed to have been fomented by my troublesome royal prisoner – if not directly instigated, then certainly inspired by her. It wasn’t only the foot soldiers of rebellion who paid the ultimate price. Some prominent members of the Catholic nobility also paid for their disloyalty. Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland lost his head. It seemed he had learnt nothing from the fate of his father – also Thomas Percy – who had been executed as one of the rebel leaders of the original pilgrimage of grace. Why is it that so often if the father was a traitor so will be the son? Northumberland’s co-conspirator, the Earl of Westmoreland and his wife, Jane Howard, the Duke of Norfolk’s sister and so also my relative, were luckier. They fled to the Spanish Netherlands to live out their days in penury and exile.

  During this time of anxiety and turbulence I often felt overwhelmed, but as queen it was my duty to hold my feelings in check. Such was my inner turmoil, in contrast to my outer calm, I took up my pen to write out my thoughts and help soothe my fevered mind. Perhaps it was the discipline of rhyme and metre that gave me relief as I wrote this, late one evening by candlelight. I enjoyed putting a shape to the chaos.

  The doubt of future foes

  Exiles my present joy

  And wit me warns to shun such snares

  As threatens my annoy

  For falsehood now doth flow

  And subjects’ faith doth ebb

  Which should not be if reason rules

  Or wisdom ruled the web

  The daughter of debate

  That discord aye doth sow

  Shall reap no gain where former rule

  Still peace hath taught to know

  No foreign banished wight

  Shall anchor in this port

  Our realm brooks no seditious sects –

  Let them elsewhere resort

  My rusty sword through rest

  Shall first his edge employ

  To poll their tops who seek such change

  Or gape for future joy

  Vivat Regina

  The words rolled off my quill and by the final line, I felt calmer and able to sleep. Would that the muse would come upon me now, sleepless in my barred chamber, but I feel no inspiration. My ‘rusty sword’ is bright with blood and now it is my poor, grief-stricken mind that feels dull and tarnished.

  The poem may have soothed me, but even after the northern rebellion had been so comprehensively thwarted, there were still rumours of a Spanish fleet lying off the coast of the Netherlands. A fleet, or so the panic merchants declared, that was just waiting for a word from Mary to come to her aid and begin the conquest of England. Now the rebels were either dead or fugitive, I was beginning to doubt the truth of such fear-mongering. Cecil and I had received no such intelligence and we had excellent spies at every port big enough to shelter such an armada.

  Moreover, despite the more traditional religious beliefs in the north of my country, most of the nobility remained steadfast and refused to join the rebels. The two treacherous earls raised few men beneath their standard. Even so I felt it prudent to move my cousin south and hold her more securely behind the thick high walls of Coventry.

  It was not simply by way of armed rebellions that the presence of Mary as a prisoner sent ripples through England. No sooner did we deal with one crisis than another reared its ugly head. Pius V issued a Papal Bull excommunicating me as a ‘paramount heretic and tyrant’. This declaration by the leader of the Catholic world was much more of a real danger than a few disgruntled lords over-estimating their own popularity and power. After the Papal Bull, any religious fanatic in the land (or in any other land) could assassinate me safe in the knowledge that spilling my blood would speed his way to heaven. As it is impossible to truly know what goes on in the mind of another, this now put all my Catholic subjects under suspicion. Perhaps the northern lords and the Pope felt they were doing what they could to aid Mary, but their belligerence just made her existence more precarious.

  With each new development, Cecil reminded me dourly that in the person of the Catholic Queen of Scots I nursed a deadly papist viper at my bosom. I understood the danger and, when the news of the rebellion first broke over my head, I felt real fear, but as time passed I became more sanguine or, perhaps, more resigned. I am not easily frightened. I have survived much and have learnt that most of fear is anticipation. Better to wait until danger really confronts you than imagine it
sitting in wait in every darkened corner.

  ‘Well, Cecil, what is this evidence of treason in high places?’

  ‘We have uncovered another plot, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Another?’ I sighed and turned to look out of the window. It was a dull day and rain was falling fast. I did not hide my impatience. Rumours of such plots were occurring almost every day. The rising of the north and the Papal Bull had unsettled my ministers and some were jumping at shadows.

  ‘What is it this time? The pastrycooks have been bribed to bake venomous snakes into a pie for my delectation? Or is it the under-gardeners who are to sow gunpowder with the hollyhocks and blow me to kingdom come?’

  ‘This seems a little more serious, Your Grace.’

  I turned and did him the honour of looking at him directly. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘An Italian banker named Ridolfi, who now resides here in London, claims to have put together an army of 45,000 men for the sole purpose of killing you, Your Majesty, and placing the Queen of Scots upon your throne. It is said this plot has the blessing of the Pope, the Spanish and all the Catholics in Christendom.’

  ‘It may have their blessing, Sir Spirit, but does it have something more tangible – like gold to pay their armed forces?’

  ‘I do not yet know, Your Grace, but such a conspiracy must be taken seriously. Ridolfi names peers and knights of your realm, good madam, who can be relied upon to join the rebellion. But that is not the worst of it.’ Cecil paused and looked grimly over the spectacles he had recently begun wearing. There was something about his gaze that made me stand a little straighter (I had been reclining against the window sill) and lean forward. Cecil did not jump at shadows.

  ‘Well, do not seek to spare my feelings. Tell me all of it – particularly the worst.’

  ‘The Duke of Norfolk appears to be up to his neck in this plot, Your Grace.’