by Jean Plaidy
“I have no wish for marriage,” I said.
“It would be wise to take a husband and bear a child,” insisted Cecil.
I did not intend to argue with him further. I would wait until the suitors appeared, which would not be long I was sure. In the meantime I would concern myself with the religious controversy because I knew my people expected me to restore the Reformed Faith and put an end to religious persecution.
I had made up my mind. I would be Head of the Church as my father had been; and there was no need for me to pretend any longer to accept orders from Rome.
Accordingly I wrote to the Princes of Germany, Sweden and Denmark—those lands in which the Protestant Faith had flourished—and I told them that I would like to make bonds of friendship with them since my views coincided with theirs. At the same time I ordered Sir Edward Carne whom my sister had sent to Rome as Ambassador to Pope Paul IV to announce my accession and coronation to His Holiness, asking him also to inform the Pope that I had no intention of using violence against my subjects on account of their religion.
As might have been expected, the Pope was most displeased at this information, but I was not in the least perturbed. If I was to break with Rome my people would not expect me to take orders from him, and his enmity would certainly not harm me in their eyes.
Carne replied that His Holiness was against liberty of conscience and that he could not understand the hereditary rights of one not born in wedlock, and that the nearest relation of Henry VII was, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scotland and Dauphiness of France.
If, however, I chose to place the matter of the right of succession in his hands, he would consider it. I had no doubt that he would—or what his conclusions would be. Thank you very much, I thought. But I decline your generous offer!
What I did do was recall Carne, whereupon the Pope threatened the poor man with excommunication if he left Rome without Papal consent. Poor Carne was in a dilemma. He knew that I was breaking away from Rome and he was a stern Catholic—one of my sister's most trusted adherents. He chose to remain in Rome. I did not blame him. I had said that I did not intend to punish my subjects for worshipping as they pleased, and I meant it.
Even so the Pope was displeased—with me, of course—and he took his revenge on poor Carne and robbed him of his ambassadorial standing and made him governor of an English hospital in Rome.
I told Cecil that we should not insist on his release as at this stage it would be unwise to enter into further conflict with the Pope, and Cecil replied that I was already showing wisdom.
So I dismissed the matter. But I had made my course clear. I knew now the way I had to go.
Religion was only one problem. The overwhelming one in the minds of those about me was marriage. They were all determined that it should take place without delay. Marriage! The subject fascinated me and repelled me. It was not that I did not like men. Indeed I liked them very well. There were two sides to my nature. Oh, I know well that we all have many facets to our character, but to have two so diametrically opposed as those that warred in me made me perhaps unusual. I was shrewd; my wits were quick; I had amazed my teachers with my ability to profit from learning; I possessed those faculties which could make me an able ruler. That was one side. On the other, I was vain, inclined to coquetry; I desired admiration for my person; I craved compliments even though my wiser nature reminded me a thousand times that they were false; I longed for men to pine for love of me even though my wiser self reminded me that they feigned to do so because they were ambitious and lusted after those favors which only a queen could grant. From one side I deluded myself; from the other I saw all—including myself—with the utmost clarity.
Yes, there were two Elizabeths—the one clever and the other foolish; but the foolish one was not so foolish as not to see her folly; and the clever one was not clever enough to stop, or even want to stop, the frivolity of the other.
The foolish one was in love while the shrewd one looked on almost cynically, watching the other closely, knowing that she would never allow her to fall into the trap which could be set for her. The clever one said: “Remember Thomas Seymour.” And the foolish one replied: “It was one of the most exciting times of our life. Seymour was a wonderful man, but no one is quite like Robert Dudley.”
Both acknowledged that there never had been, nor ever could be, a man to compare with Robert Dudley. To ride with him—and his duties demanded that he be constantly at my side—to see the gleam of desire in his eyes when they fell on me, added the greatest pleasure to the thrilling days through which I was living. No matter how often my wise self pointed out that it was in great measure the glittering crown which set Robert's eyes sparkling, still I did not care, and even the cynical one sometimes said: “It might be both, the two of us and the crown.”
The circumstances delighted me. Robert Dudley, the only man whom I would have considered marrying, already had a wife. It was a situation which appealed to both sides of my nature. Perpetual courtship.
Philip of Spain was courting me and his Ambassador, the Count de Feria, was constantly calling on me. The last man I would marry would be Philip of Spain, but I saw no reason for telling de Feria so. I was quite enjoying raising my brother-in-law's hopes. It amused me and it was necessary to keep the King of France guessing. The last thing he would want would be yet another alliance between England and Spain. It was also the last thing I wanted, but I must be diplomatic. So I pretended to consider Philip's proposal.
De Feria was most attentive. What fools these men are! Did they think I would forget their treatment of me in the past?
On one occasion he told me that his master was pleased that I had accepted the allegiance of the Catholic peers in spite of my—forgive him but he must say it—misguided attitude in some matters.
I replied breezily that I was of the nature of a lion, and lions did not descend to the destruction of mice.
He smiled uneasily. I really did enjoy my encounters with de Feria. He was having rather a bad time, and I thought that sooner or later Philip would become exasperated with him. Then I heard that through de Feria Philip was offering bribes to some of the Catholic peers, suggesting that they work for him and try to reestablish the Church as it had been in Mary's reign. The first thing Lord William Howard did—for he was one who had been sounded as a possible recipient of Philip's bounty—was to come to me. I advised him to tell de Feria that I gave my consent to his accepting the money.
I could imagine de Feria's face when Lord William Howard told him that. I could not resist teasing the Spaniard further and when he next came into my presence I said: “I hope, Count, that His Most Catholic Majesty will not object if I employ some of his servants he has here among my courtiers.”
It was a clear indication that Philip's clumsy attempt to set spies about me was not going to succeed.
These conversations with de Feria always put me in the best of moods. The poor Spaniard had little humor. He was courtly, impeccable in dress and manners—all that one would expect of a Spanish Ambassador—but he was serious in the extreme, and he did not understand the frivolous side to my nature at all. If he glimpsed it, he would dismiss it as feminine vagary and most unsuitable in a sovereign. I found it most suitable and often it brought me an advantage as it did now, for instead of giving an outright no and breaking off negotiations, which would give great offense to Spain and delight France, I was reveling in my dalliance with Philip through his solemn Ambassador.
“Do you think a marriage between your master and me would be successful, Count?” I asked tentatively.
“I think it would be most felicitous to both Your Majesties and our two countries,” was the answer.
“When my father went through a form of marriage with his brother's widow that gave rise to much controversy. It was said that it was no true marriage.”
“That was because your father wished to repudiate Queen Katharine and marry your mother.”
“Of that I am aware, but you do not de
ny that the circumstances gave rise to conflict. My father's conscience worried him greatly on that store.”
“Your father had a most convenient conscience,” he said sharply.
Poor de Feria. He was beginning to lose his temper.
“Let us not speak ill of the dead, Count. And a great King at that.”
“I am sure Your Grace will want to face the truth. There need be no obstacle to a marriage. My master is assured the Pope will give a dispensation.”
“The Pope? Oh, he is no friend of mine.”
“That would soon be rectified, Your Majesty, if you were married to the King of Spain. My master would ask for the dispensation and you would have no need to fear the Pope once you were married to the King of Spain.”
“I am sure that the Pope and your master are indeed good friends, but as I have no fear of the Pope, I do not need your master's protection from him.”
He was exasperated but the foolish man did not believe that a woman could rule, and this was one of the attitudes which incensed me and made me determined to show these arrogant men how wrong they were. He went away crestfallen and I was sure anxious not to return to Spain to admit the failure of his mission.
IT WAS ONLY NATURAL that there should be other suitors. Nothing pleased me more. I pretended to consider each in turn. There was the Archduke Charles son of the Emperor Ferdinand, as well as Eric of Sweden.
When I sat with my Councilors, I said: “I do believe that the people would not wish me to take a foreign husband.”
That remark had an immediate effect which amused me very much. In the quiet of my bedchamber, Kat and I would have our little gossip—rather undignified in a queen, but the frivolous side of me enjoyed the indulgence. I always delighted in gossip. In fact, even my sterner side admitted that it was not an entirely wasted pastime. From it I did discover what the common people were thinking. Kat was my intermediary and as she prattled with high and low whenever she had the opportunity, my sources of opinion were very wide indeed.
I knew that the people were elated by my treatment of Philip of Spain. I do believe that had I agreed to marry him, I might have lost a large measure of my popularity. They had had a taste of Spanish intolerance and the subjugation of a queen. They wanted no more of that. Moreover, I do believe that had there been an attempt to force it on them, they would have rejected it strongly.
My remark about not taking a foreign husband had set their tongues wagging. The Earl of Arundel was the first to offer himself. I suppose he thought he had a chance. I did not disillusion him. It was a great pleasure to be asked to marry and I always felt a special fondness for the men who wanted me as a wife. It was ambition that prompted them, of course, but it was reasonable to presume they had some admiration for my person. I was twenty-five years of age and if I was not exactly handsome I did have some good points—my coloring, my lithe figure, my white skin and my beautiful hands. I was attractive without my crown but with it I was irresistible.
I favored Arundel for a while, and Robert was very jealous—an added pleasure.
Once he said: “I curse myself for having made that ridiculous marriage.”
“I have heard your Amy is a very pretty creature,” I said.
He was silent, bemoaning his fate, for he was sure that had he been unmarried, there would have been no hesitation and I would gladly have taken him. There was a modicum of truth in that. It was why the wise side of me rejoiced in Robert's Amy tucked away in the country.
Then there was Sir William Pickering—a very handsome courtier though by no means young. He must have been about forty, but he was well preserved in spite of a life in which gallantry had played a big part. He was rich because his father had been given grants of land by mine. He was extremely charming, and I pretended to consider him. The courtiers then began to make bets as to whether I would marry Arundel or Pickering for they were quite convinced that I would take one of them since I would not have a foreigner. So with all this speculation raising the hopes of first one and then the other, and with Robert glowering jealously on the scene, I found I was enjoying the matrimonial maneuverings.
The Count de Feria was angry and demanded an answer. I did not want to spoil the fun so I hesitated and gave him a little encouragement. People were saying that I would never have taken either Arundel or Pickering. It would have to be a foreign prince. Eric of Sweden was the favorite for a while.
Kat and I used to laugh about it. “I know my Queen. You'll have none of them. At least that's what you say.”
“Most emphatically I say it, but only within these four walls. Just for your ears, Kat. And remember, not a word outside. If you gossip about me, I'll have your head, that I will.”
“Now don't you be too handy with people's heads,” warned Kat. “You always said your sister made the mistake of killing off some of the best.”
“And you would call yourself one of the best?”
“Without a doubt.”
“As you always will be, Kat,” I said seriously.
She was pleased and went on to tell me the latest gossip, which was that the Duchess of Suffolk had married her equerry and everyone was extremely shocked by the misalliance.
“Let her enjoy her equerry,” I said. “Her marriage is not a matter of state.”
“The silk woman was wanting to see you rather specially this afternoon.”
“Oh, what matter of moment has Mistress Montague to lay before me? I will say this for her, she is the best silk woman we have ever had. What say you, Kat?”
“I am in agreement with Your Majesty, and these stockings she has brought look very fine.”
“Stockings! Where are they? Why was I not shown them before?”
“Being so occupied with matters of state …” began Kat.
“Bring them to me at once, insolent creature.”
She did. They had been knitted in silk. The first I had ever seen.
“Try them, Your Majesty,” whispered Kat.
So, of course, I did. They clung to the legs and made them look so much more slender than the cloth ones.
“Tell Mistress Montague that I am delighted with her work.”
“I have anticipated Your Majesty's commands and I have set her knitting others.”
“Good Kat,” I said.
“I knew I was safe,” added Kat, “for if Your Majesty was misguided enough as to disapprove of the stockings, there would be others to take them with the utmost speed.”
Kat returned to the discussion of my marriage and told me what they were saying in the streets. “They are glad you have sent the Spaniards packing and would like an English marriage. Nothing would please them more than to see you married to one of our own. I have heard it said that it is a great pity Lord Robert already has a wife.”
I smiled enigmatically. So they thought Robert would be suitable…if he had not a wife. That was interesting. Lord Robert, yes. He was the only one. But he had a wife—and as I have said I was not altogether displeased about that!
Cecil was very disturbed. Philip of Spain had become affianced to the sister of the King of France.
“Now,” said Cecil, “we have the King of France and the King of Spain united by this marriage; and the King of France has already declared his daughter-in-law, Mary of Scotland, the true heir to the English throne. Our two most powerful enemies will now be allies.”
“But I was right not to enter into a marriage with Spain. It turned the people against my sister.”
Cecil agreed that this was so.
“And the marriage between France and Spain is the outcome of my refusal.”
“True,” agreed Cecil. “We are facing formidable enemies and the best thing for you to do is to marry with as much speed as possible. If you had a child, your position would be more secure.”
“My dear Cecil,” I said, “I have a band of great ministers in whom I trust. I have my people who love me. My subjects will be loyal to me, and if God will be my guide and help me, I have no fear of any ene
mies who should come against me.”
“Your Grace has shown wisdom rare in one so young. The people are with you as they were with your father, and in a manner which both your sister and your brother failed to win from them. I know that you will have the wisdom and the courage to succeed, but still I tell you it would be well to marry and give the country an heir.”
“My dear Cecil, you know I am giving the matter my consideration.”
“I pray Your Grace will continue to do so and come to a quick decision.”
“Marriage is a matter to which much thought should be given before embarking on it. It can be disastrous. I have been hearing of the misalliance of our own Duchess of Suffolk. I am amused that such a proud lady should marry her horsekeeper.”
“Ladies in love often do not consider consequences. Indeed, Madam, what you say is true. The Duchess has entered into matrimony with her horsekeeper. She might say that Your Majesty wishes she could do the same.”
I looked at him while the color rushed into my face.
I could think of no reply. So my feelings for Robert were as obvious as all that!
Cecil continued to regard me quizzically. I wanted to chide him for listening to gossip and for not showing due respect for his Queen.
But my wise self reminded the other that I wanted honesty from Cecil— and in any case whether I wanted it or not, I would get it, and if I objected, he would leave my service. He was that sort of man.
So I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.
THERE WAS A GREAT DEAL OF GOSSIP ABOUT ROBERT AND me. We were always together and he made no attempt to hide his feelings; and I fear that I was revealing enough to show my regard for him. He had such outstanding good looks and presence that he was bound to attract attention. He was very jealous of Arundel and Pickering, and as Arundel and Pickering were jealous of each other they quarreled when they met. Cecil said it was unwise to set them against each other, but I could not resist it and would favor one more than the other in turn. But Robert always had more of everything than others so his jealousy was far in excess of that of Arundel and Pickering.
