by Jane Caro
Oh Mary, I did fight for you. I fought for you repeatedly. Not for your freedom, I grant you, but for your life, your dignity and your rights as a queen. No doubt you looked upon me as your oppressor, but I was your protector too. If not for me, you would have been dead much sooner and died bereft of your titles. Even now that you are gone, I have continued to fight for your honour. Davison is in the Tower, cooling his heels, and I have banished my Spirit from court. I know not when I will feel able to set my eyes upon him again. It is his doing, this terrible deed. He has schemed for it, plotted for your demise as surely – nay, perhaps even more surely – than ever you plotted mine.
It felt as if I was fighting wars on many fronts during that period of my reign. I was fighting to keep my cousin’s head upon her shoulders and I was also fighting for peace – to keep my country from declaring war on the Spanish Hapsburgs in support of the rebellious Protestant Dutchmen.
What is the o’clock? I look to the timepiece upon my wrist. The sight of its jewels glinting in the few shafts of sunlight that penetrate the gloom of my chamber sets me to smiling. I remember very well how pleased I was to receive it.
‘I am weary of affairs of state. I am weary of the lowlanders and their impudent struggle against their Spanish masters.’ I asked my oldest friend, Leicester, dearest Robin, to sit with me beside the fire and share a glass of wine now that the day’s formalities were ended. ‘Cecil talks of nothing but the anticipated revolt by the Netherlands against the Hapsburgs. He wants me to align myself with the Protestant lowlanders; indeed, it seems all of London does. They are hungry for a holy war against the Spanish.’
‘They are good Protestants, Your Majesty. They are weary of their papist yoke.’
‘Do not spoil the evening with talk of politics, my eyes. You forget, I knew the King of Spain, when he was married to my sister Mary. He is no Catholic monster to me but an anointed king, whose company, I confess, I once rather enjoyed. It is entirely possible that I owe my life to him. Had he but said the word, my sister would have had my head from my shoulders in a trice.’
‘God watched over you, my queen, not Philip of Spain.’
‘That’s as may be, my lord, but I am not as eager to take up arms against mighty Spain as others would have me be. But, let us not talk of these weighty matters; let us be gay and foolish and speak of nothing of any importance.’ And I clapped my hands and bade my musicians play.
Robin looked at me and smiled. I saw as he did so that the lines had deepened around his eyes and a small furrow had etched itself upon his brow. I lifted my finger and ran my nail along its length. ‘Take your ease, my lord. The finger of time is painting your cares permanently upon your face.’
‘Yet time has completely missed yours. You are as youthful as the day I first set eyes on you.’
‘I think I was about five years old at the time, my lord, so I think you flatter me.’
‘Perhaps a little, Your Grace, but only a very little.’
‘No matter, I find this subject of conversation much more to my liking.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace. My mind was filled with the matters of the day. Speaking of time, Your Grace. I have something for you that may amuse.’ And Robin reached into a pocket and pulled out a shining trinket. It glittered enticingly in his hand.
‘What is it, my lord? A bracelet.’
‘It is also a bracelet.’ He held it just out of my reach.
‘Also? You speak in riddles.’
‘Here, give me your arm.’
I held it out to him and he fixed the pretty bauble around my wrist.
‘It is not a riddle, it is a marvel. See, here, it has a tiny clock, a timepiece embedded in its span.’
I looked closely at the object and saw that he was right. The bracelet encircled a tiny clock face.
‘You wind it, here, just as you would a clock and it marks the time of your days wherever and whenever you go.’
‘It is ingenious, my lord!’ I was delighted with the novelty and turned my wrist this way and that to better admire the effect.
‘It is beautiful and useful, Your Grace. Just like its new owner.’
I have worn Robin’s gift for a decade or more. As long as it is wound daily, it keeps the time manfully and I could not do without it. I must glance at it a hundred times a day. I see now, that – despite the afternoon sunlight – it is once again hastening on to evening. The shadows lengthen beyond my chamber and another day since the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, passes. A speck of something mars the glass on the face of my timekeeper and I spit on my finger and rub it away gently. As I do so, I hear footsteps approaching outside my door.
A servant has knocked and enters, carrying a bowl of warm water and soap and towels. Philadelphia Carey – or Scrope as she now is – follows close behind, bearing perfumed oils and unguents. Behind her is Blanche Parry, bearing clean linen and gowns. All three hesitate in the doorway, wondering, perhaps, if I am about to assail them with pewter tankards or curses, but I am tired and, no doubt, I stink. The servant places the bowl and jug where she is bade, and Blanche is behind me unlacing my gown. Philadelphia brings a stool for me to sit upon and begins to gently comb and unknot my hair. The wig I discarded lies where I tossed it, in a corner against a tapestry. It looks as if a woman’s head has rolled there, its face turned away from us. The sight of it and, perhaps, the gentle kindness of my ladies brings me undone and tears flow again. Who knew a dried-up old woman like me, whose heart has withered to a husk from disuse, could have so much moisture in her?
‘Hush, Your Majesty, hush. You must not take on so. What is done had to be done and the lady brought her fate upon herself.’
It is only Blanche that I would allow to talk to me in this way. Even Philadelphia, the daughter of my cousin Lord Hunsdon, is silent and keeps her eyes upon her task.
‘I am frightened by what I have done.’ I sob out loud.
Blanche signals for Philadelphia and the servant to leave the room. Once the door has closed behind them Blanche sits beside me and puts her arms about me, as Kat would have done, and I sob against her breast. It is only when my weeping begins to abate that she speaks.
‘Frightened how, Your Grace? Her demise has made you more secure.’
‘Frightened of the judgment of the world, Blanche, and of posterity. Frightened of the judgment of God and the safety of my own soul.’
‘God knows that you have only done what you had to do. He will forgive you, of that I have no doubt. For posterity and the world I cannot answer, but there will be those who judge you harshly and those who applaud what you have done.’
‘Perhaps it is my own judgment I fear most.’ I say this in a very small voice.
‘You are hard upon yourself, Your Grace, and always have been. Those who love you wish you could see the esteem in which you are held, not just by all who know you, but by all who recognise wisdom and mercy in a ruler. You have not just grown to be a real queen, Your Grace, you have become a great queen.
Despite her words or, perhaps, because of them, I merely sob harder with my face buried in her lap. I have never felt less like a queen in my life.
Eighteen
Monsieur de Salignac looked pale under his beard. He hesitated a moment on the threshold of the audience chamber, no doubt given pause by what he saw.
My ladies and I were dressed in deepest mourning and had arranged ourselves in a semi-circle. Our faces were solemn, our demeanour that of the recently bereaved. No fanfare greeted the return of the French ambassador to court. My factotum did not announce his name or list his honorifics and titles, de Salignac walked from the door through a thick and resonant silence, the only sound that of the floorboards creaking under his weight.
‘Your Majesty, I bring greetings from the King of France, and his gratitude for allowing me to return to your presence after so long an absence.’
‘Your visit was much debated, my lord ambassador. There were many who felt that it was too soon.’
‘My gratitude, therefore, is all the greater, Your Grace.’
I took his arm as I stepped down from my throne, then led him quietly away from the assembled multitude, all of whom remained mute and still as I had instructed. What I had to say to the French ambassador I wanted to say in private. The revulsion that had filled my kingdom at the bloodthirsty slaughter in the French capital had been genuine and spontaneous, but I also needed my French allies to be able to save face and escape too public a humiliation. The relationship had been damaged, right enough, but I wanted it to remain intact.
It was while my court was visiting Robin’s great house, Kenilworth, that we received the horrifying news about the massacre in Paris on St Bartholomew’s Day. I had enjoyed the progress, as I always did, and at our destination I had admired the pageantry, fine food, wine and entertainment that my master of horse provided with such flair and distinction. It did my weary soul good to take my ease with him and to let him admire and flatter me.
The longer I spend as England’s sovereign, the more I sometimes feel that the woman I used to be is shrivelling and dying inside me; the magnificence of my office so overwhelms the insignificance of the human being. It was one of the things I valued – indeed, still value – about Robin. He remembers and loves Elizabeth, the woman. When he looks at me I see myself reflected in his eyes, not just my crown. Blanche Parry has the same effect, she also knew me long before I was this icon, this queen, this Gloriana.
Whenever the weather was fine during that glorious summer (and in my memory, the sun always seems to have been shining) my master of horse and I rose early and rode after the stags that were so plentiful in the park around his great house. That morning in August we had saddled up as soon as the sun rose and the helter-skelter ride across meadow, hedgerow and country lane was fast and furious. To this day, despite my increasing years and my rheumatics, I still love nothing better than to mount a fast horse and ride like the wind.
The dogs had cornered a doe in the forest and Robin brought his horse alongside mine to ask if I wished to have the honour of the kill. Truth be told, I was secretly sorry that we had cornered the creature so quickly. It was not the killing that excited me as much as the freedom of riding fast with a strong horse at my command. I was therefore about to bestow the honour on a member of my household (it may have been Hatton, but my memory on that point deserts me) when the servants set up a hullabaloo.
‘A messenger approaches, Your Grace!’
A man was riding at full gallop, waving something above his head. It was clear from his speed that whatever information he had come to impart was urgent and could not wait until our return. My heart sank; the affairs of state could never be held at bay for long.
‘I bring terrible news, Your Grace.’ The messenger was panting with the effort of his ride and also with the importance of his mission.
‘Catch your breath, my good man, whatever it is can wait until you speak clearly. Sirrah, fetch some water for the fellow.’ And water was brought. My hunting companions had gathered about me, eager to hear the tidings. It only took a few moments for the messenger to drain the cup and catch his breath.
‘I bring news, Your Grace, news of a massacre in France – in Paris! A massacre of Protestants or, as the French refer to them, Huguenots.’
‘A massacre?’ I did not know what message the man had been about to impart, but I certainly did not expect news such as this. It took me a moment to absorb his meaning.
‘Aye, Your Grace, thousands have been slaughtered. Women, children – they say infants were strangled in their cribs and that the streets of Paris ran with blood. It happened on St Bartholomew’s Day, they say at the order of Catherine de Medici herself!’
‘But why would the queen mother order such a bloodbath, good sir messenger? What possible benefit could there be in it for her?’
‘They say it was in response to the assassination of the Huguenot leader, Admiral Coligny. They say that the French royal family were terrified his followers would exact revenge for his death, so they decide to act in advance.’
‘That makes little sense to me.’
‘Here, Your Grace, here.’ And the messenger took the letter from the pouch that he had been holding crushed against his reins and attempted to smooth it out so I could more easily read its contents. ‘This letter from your ambassador explains it better than I can.’
I took the parchment and glanced at its contents. It said more or less what the man in front of me was reporting.
‘We must return to the house,’ I said to those around me. ‘This terrible deed requires a response from the Queen of England. I must consult with my council. Our revels are at an end, good my lord,’ I said, turning to Robin. ‘For which you can thank the bloodthirsty mother of the King of France.’
‘Is this the beginning of something bigger than a massacre in Paris, Master Spirit? Do they intend an attack on all the Protestant leaders in Europe?’
Europe was agog over the awful slaughter and all eyes were upon me, the Protestant queen, waiting to see what response I would make to the Catholic dowager queen. Cecil, who had dispatched the messenger to find me in the park, was by my side clutching a sheaf of papers. As we stood in the corner of the room, conferring about what to do next, messengers scurried in and out, adding to Cecil’s growing bundle. News was flowing to my makeshift court as quickly as the fastest horses could carry it.
‘I know not, Your Grace.’ Cecil added yet another message to his pile. ‘I have been assured by our ambassador in Paris that this event simply got out of hand and that the French authorities are deeply embarrassed by the slaughter.’
He looked down quickly at the papers in his hands.
‘Embarrassed, my lord? That seems a small word for such dark events.’
I began to pace up and down in front of Cecil, Robin, Walsingham, Knollys and the others who were joining us from various parts of the great house. We had all been taking our leisure and had been roundly surprised by events. ‘What action should we take, my lords? How do we make our displeasure known yet not inflame the Catholic princes further? I have no wish to make war, as you well know.’
‘We must go into mourning, Your Grace, for the souls of the innocent Protestant victims of their bloodthirsty Catholic neighbours. I have already given orders, Your Grace, that all the musicians, players, acrobats and tumblers should be sent away from Kenilworth and that all such entertainments must cease. It is unthinkable that we should continue to make merry when so many of our fellow Protestants have suffered so much.’
‘Thank you, Robin. That was promptly done.’
‘There is more we should do, to protect your people, our fellow Protestants and most importantly your own person, Your Majesty.’
Robin stepped in front of me and dropped dramatically onto one knee to emphasise the urgency of his plea.
‘I have sent de Salignac packing already, my lord. He has been told that he is not to return to court until I send for him and that his country is in deep disgrace. He left an hour since.’
Robin nodded his approval, but I knew that such a symbolic gesture would not suffice in his present mood.
‘I recommend that we come to the aid of William of Orange, for it is he who is our best bulwark against the rampages of Catholic Europe.’
Damn Queen Catherine! Her thoughtless massacre had given my advisors the excuse they needed to push me closer to aiding the lowlanders in their fight against Spain.
‘What sort of aid, my lord?’
‘It can be done quietly, Your Grace, but I believe we should send the leader of the Protestant Netherlands the funds and men to aid his Protestant cause.’
‘And this can be done discreetly? Without inflaming the French or the Spanish?’
‘It can, indeed.�
�
Cecil joined the discussion and having retrieved a paper from his over-sized bundle, held it out for me to sign.
‘I have already taken the liberty of drafting an order for 30,000 pounds to be sent to Prince William. It only requires your signature.’
I took the document. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ I turned as if to walk away.
‘May I beg a moment longer, Your Majesty. I believe there is more to discuss.’ Walsingham stepped forward to delay me. ‘Your subjects are much disturbed by these terrible events.’
‘Murders, Walsingham, murders of innocents,’ Robin interrupted. ‘Let us not paint them any prettier than they are.’
‘Thank you, my lord, you are quite correct. As I was saying, Your Grace, your subjects are much disturbed by these murders, not simply from Christian sympathy at the plight of innocents, but also for fear of the safety of your kingdom and, indeed, your person, good madam.’
Walsingham held both his hands out as if beseeching me. The others, even Robin, stepped aside to allow him centre stage.
‘The bishops have called for all the Catholic priests currently held in your prisons to be put to death.’
‘That seems a little extreme, Sir Francis. After all, if they were under lock and key in England, they cannot have had anything to do with the massacre in Paris on St Bartholomew’s Day.’
‘Not with their own hands, Your Grace, I grant you, but, as we have seen, Catholics can communicate with one another no matter how tightly they are held and such is their fanaticism they can goad others into performing their wickedness even from behind locked doors.’
‘The Bishop of London has gone further, and called upon you to rid your court of all Catholics and to send Mary Stuart to the block.’ Cecil’s dislike of Catholics was almost as fervent as Walsingham’s.
‘Ah, the Queen of Scots.’ (I did not like the new fashion for referring to my cousin as if she were no longer royal. I did not like how easily they could knock a queen from her rightful throne with words.) ‘I wondered when her name would be mentioned.’
