Queen of This Realm

by Jean Plaidy

  Dr Dee said I should have eternal youth and boundless wealth as soon as he had discovered the elixir of life which he was on the point of doing.

  It was all very interesting and though I did not believe half of it, it amused me in a way and comforted me too. Perhaps like most people I believed what I wanted to believe—which can be a wonderful antidote to the sorrows of life. On the other hand if one would be wise, one must know when one is doing it and perhaps allow oneself the indulgence as long as one recognizes it for what it is. The great secret of success in life, I was coming to believe, was self-awareness; and I was fortunate in having those two selves—the wise and the frivolous—and to know when one must give way to the other.

  I fancied this was something which my sister of Scotland was lacking.

  That was very soon to be proved true.

  IT WAS HARD to believe that we were hearing the truth. Surely even Mary could not be so stupid.

  Rumor was rife, and wild rumor at that. Bothwell was Mary's lover. There was even a tale of his having raped her in the Exchequer House in Edinburgh. I thought about that a great deal imagining her horror—or was it delight?—to be so subdued by the man who, according to all accounts, was something of a brigand and in complete contrast, I should imagine, to young ineffectual Darnley.

  There followed the story of that mysterious night in Kirk o' Field when Darnley had been murdered. I could scarcely wait for the news. My messengers from Scotland were ordered to bring me any news immediately. I wanted to piece together the evidence. I desperately desired to know everything that was happening. I could not help being reminded of the death of Amy Robsart. She had been an unwanted wife; Darnley was an unwanted husband; and a bold lover was seeking to take possession of a wife and a crown.

  Oh Mary, I thought, you are in acute danger. Do you realize that? I did, when something similar happened to me.

  There was a difference. This was proved murder. Nobody could say that of Amy's death.

  There had been an explosion which had clearly been intended to kill Darnley but when the premises had been searched the bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in the garden in their nightgowns. They were untouched by the explosion yet… mysteriously dead.

  There could only be one explanation. The two men had been murdered and the explosion arranged to hide the crime.

  This it had failed to do. Villainy was exposed.

  And who wanted to be rid of Darnley? Who but the Queen and her lover Bothwell?

  More news came.

  Bothwell riding through the streets of Edinburgh, brandishing his sword, calling on any who accused him to come out and he would tackle them single-handed. He must have been a magnificent man for all his crudity and villainy.

  He was tried for murder, but of course it had been arranged that he should not be found guilty, and the verdict should be: “James, Earl of Bothwell, is acquitted of any art or part in the slaughter of the King.”

  And there he was riding through the streets of Edinburgh once more shouting to the people of Edinburgh to come out and tackle him if any thought it was not a true and just verdict.

  Who could have doubted that it was unjust, but who would have the courage to come out and say so?

  You are in mortal danger now, Mary, I thought. Did she ever think of me and wonder what my feelings had been when Robert's wife was found dead at the bottom of a staircase? If she did not, she was a fool. She should remember how I had acted and see that her only chance was to be as aloof, calm and wise as I, now very forcibly, realized I had been. But when had Mary ever been calm or wise or strong?

  She threw away her hopes, her life, her crown most likely when she married James Bothwell.

  It was not even as though he had been free. He was married to a virtuous lady and it was necessary for him to obtain a divorce before he could marry Mary.

  How could Mary have been so foolish! But then her life had been so comfortable during her youth she had never faced death as I had… many times. She had never had to learn how to dissimulate, to act with the utmost caution, to cajole, to pretend, to survive. She had had none of those lessons for which I now thanked God, much as I had suffered when I was learning them.

  But Bothwell naturally had his divorce and she married him; and the whole world—the world of adulterers, poisoners and ruthless schemers— held up its hands in horror at the actions of this poor, simple and too loving woman.

  Her family, the Guises, were horrified and scarcely owned her; Catherine de' Medici declared in public that she was too shocked to give expression to her thoughts although, of course, had she done so truthfully she would have told of her delight in the fall of the girl whom she had hated and driven from France; Philip of Spain was contemptuously silent. I alone felt pity, perhaps because something not dissimilar could have happened to me.

  And this was the woman, this poor weak foolish woman, who would be Queen of England!

  Little James was taken from her and given into the care of the Earl and Countess of Marr; and the Queen must ride beside Bothwell to stand against those who came to depose her.

  There was the disaster of Carberry Hill, and I wondered how much she grieved to fight against her own subjects.

  I could picture her, though nothing so humiliating had ever happened to me. Whatever I had suffered, I had always had the sympathy of the people. I do believe that if I had lost that I should have lost heart. But Mary deserved their scorn. Had she regretted her submission to Bothwell, her abandoning of her self-respect: her placing herself under the domination of such a man, as she rode into Edinburgh with the mob screaming abuse at her? “Burn the whore!” they had shouted. “Death to the murderess!”

  I could imagine her dirty and disheveled. Was that beauty, of which the poets had sung, apparent then?

  So they had kept her in the Provost's House while through the night the mob screamed outside. I could see their cruel faces in the red glow of the torches and Mary there cringing, mourning the glory she had lost.

  And so she became their prisoner. Lochleven first, where she charmed the suceptible young Douglas sufficiently for him to help her escape.

  She had some loyal subjects—enough to enable her to go into battle at Langside against her enemies, to be followed by what seemed inevitable defeat. Mary was put to flight once more and knowing that at that time Scotland was no place for her unless she wanted to go back into captivity, she made her decision which, characteristically, was an unwise one … though I had no reason to complain of this!

  I wondered how she reasoned as she waited there with the few friends left to her, to gaze no doubt across the Solway Firth to England and out to France.

  Her family were now displeased with her; she knew that the Queen Mother of France was her enemy. Should she go to France? There was another choice. England! Foolish woman, did she think I would forget that she had emblazoned the arms of England on her shield? Did she think I would ever forget that she had called herself Queen of England?

  She knew nothing of the world, nothing of people. Certainly she did not understand such as I was. She had listened too long to the poets, and she believed that her beauty had given her a right to act in a manner which would not be acceptable from others. She had never learned the art of survival as I had.

  I was in a state of great excitement when I received word from the Earl of Northumberland that Mary had arrived in England. She had landed at the little village of Workington where Sir Henry Curwen had given her shelter at Workington Hall until the Earl decided that she would be more comfortable at Cockermouth in the home of a certain Henry Fletcher, a rich merchant of the district. Northumberland was not in residence in his own castle. He thought Mary could stay with the Fletchers until he received instructions from me as to what should be done with her.

  There was a letter from Mary for me in which she referred to me as her dear sister and begged for my help.

  “I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible,” she wrote, “for I am in a
pitiable condition, not only for a queen but for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but what I had on my person when I escaped…”

  That must have been very distressing for the fastidious lady who had enchanted everyone with her exquisite gowns.

  “…I hope to be able to declare my misfortunes to you if it pleases you to have compassion and permit me to come to you…”

  Oh, I thought, it is compassion you want now! Very different from a crown.

  “…I will pray to God to give you a long and happy life and to myself patience and that consolation I await from you.

  “Your faithful and affectionate good sister and cousin and escaped prisoner, Mary.”

  I showed the letter to Cecil. He was noncommittal but as excited as I was.

  I said: “The Ladies Grey are under restraint; the Countess of Lennox is in the Tower; and now Mary of Scotland is in England.”

  “God has delivered her into Your Majesty's hands,” said Cecil slowly.

  “Nay,” I replied, “not God, but Mary herself. What now?”

  “She is no longer the prisoner of the Scots.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “She is mine.”

  He nodded slowly. Then he said: “She begs to see you.”

  I shook my head. “I shall not see her… yet. I will let it be known that while she is treated with the honor due to a queen, I cannot receive her until she is cleared of murder. Her actions, if we heard truthfully—and we know of her marriage to Bothwell when Darnley was scarcely cold—have been such that no virtuous lady can receive her, least of all a queen…and a virgin. I have my reputation to consider.”

  He smiled at me sardonically. Was he thinking, as I was, and as so many people would be thinking, of the mysterious death of Amy Robsart in which some rumors had it I had been involved? She must be comparing the similarity of the cases.

  I did not want to see her, to listen to her pleas. I did not want a beautiful and fascinating rival at my Court.

  Cecil agreed with me that a message should be sent to the North and for the time being she should be lodged in Carlisle Castle where she must be treated with the dignity due her rank.

  This was a miracle. The greatest of my enemies had been delivered into my hands.

  THERE ARE PEOPLE who must always be at the center of dramatic events. Mary of Scotland was one of them. It was unfortunate for her that a casket containing letters had been left behind in Edinburgh by Bothwell when he escaped to Borthwick. These were said to be the correspondence between Mary and Bothwell. I believed that some of them were forgeries, but like most good forgeries they could not be entirely false. It seemed certain that some of the letters had been written by Mary and if they were all true she was condemned, not only as being Bothwell's mistress before her marriage to him, but an accomplice in the murder of Darnley.

  Her reputation was in shreds; but she still managed to charm her jailers. It was becoming more and more clear to me that I must not bring her to my Court. There she would no doubt practice her wiles and there were quite a number of Catholics only waiting for opportunities. She would always be a danger and must remain under supervision so that I knew at any given moment where she was.

  She had been moved from several castles and there had been one or two attempts to free her. She seemed to have a way of bemusing her jailers; I did not forget how she had worked on George Douglas when she was sent to Lochleven until he was successful in maneuvering her out of the fortress.

  The Catholic peers came up with a solution. Why should she not marry an Englishman with my consent, and then as I would not consider giving the country an heir, I could name her as my successor which would ensure peace with Scotland.

  The Duke of Norfolk was suggested. I had never liked Norfolk. I remembered his feud with Robert and I knew that they were bitter enemies. Moreover, although he professed to be a Protestant, I believed he leaned toward the Catholic Faith, and it would not have surprised me if he had been one in private.

  If I would marry and provide the heir all this plotting would stop, I knew; but it was too big a price to pay. Besides, Mary of Scotland was a good example of what men could do to a ruler. Robert had been the only one who had tempted me—but no, not even for Robert.

  He seemed to be changing his tactics toward Norfolk, and I gathered, although he said little on this matter to me, that he was inclined to agree with those peers who would like to see Norfolk married to Mary. I knew my Robert well. Was he looking ahead to his future? Was he asking himself what his position would be if I were to die? All human beings were at the mercy of God, and people in high places were often at men's mercy too! Was his sudden friendship with Norfolk a sign that he was thinking of him as a future ruler of England? Favorites of past rulers were often not very popular with the reigning ones. Robert would have a good example of that in his own family for his grandfather had been one of the most highly prized of my grandfather's ministers, but when my father came to the throne he lost his head—more or less for that reason. Yes, Robert in some ways was a very cautious man. I was getting older. Soon it would not be possible for me to bear a child—and I was unmarried in any case. Perhaps Robert in his heart knew that I never would be wed and he was making certain provisions for the future.

  I sent for Norfolk. I looked him straight in the eyes and said: “My lord, you have become a gallant. I see that you are in love. There is no more romantic sight than a man in love, be it with a woman or with a crown.”

  Norfolk looked shaken.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, “I know not what…”

  “You know not what?” I interrupted. “My lord Norfolk, for such a lover as yourself there must be one thought uppermost in your mind and that is your inamorata—the Queen of Scotland. I know, Norfolk, that you plan to change your title of Duke for that of King.”

  I was amused to see the terror in his face. I believe he thought that I had guards waiting to arrest him.

  “Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, “I would not seek to marry such a woman… one who is known to be an adulteress… and some say murderess. I want to sleep on a safe pillow.”

  “A crown might be worth taking a risk for, Sir Norfolk, eh?”

  Norfolk had always prided himself on his rank as the leading peer. I had heard that the family had hinted that they were more royal than the Tudors. He said rather haughtily: “Your Majesty, I count myself as much a prince in my bowling alley in Norfolk as she is in the heart of Scotland. Moreover how could I marry one who pretends a title to the present possession of Your Majesty's crown? If I were to do so, Your Majesty might charge me with seeking the crown of England.”

  “Remember it, Norfolk,” I said grimly. “I might well do that.”

  When he left me I was sure he was well aware of my sentiments regarding the plan to marry him to Mary. She was a menace. Although I had been exultant when fate had delivered her into my hands I was realizing that she was more disturbing to my peace of mind in England than she had been when she was on her throne in Scotland.

  What infuriated me was that she seemed to have the power to win peo- ple to her side. Bereft as she was, her throne lost, relying on my bounty, her reputation become very shady, still she attracted men to her cause. It must have been some essential femininity in her which aroused their protective instincts. I was sure I lacked that quality. I gave the impression that I was able to look after myself—which I was—but why it should be an asset not to possess this gift, I could not see. And yet I could. Men wanted to dominate. It was the very essence of their sex; and there were some women who sought to be dominated and this quality was that which attracted men so strongly. Mary had it to excess. As for myself, I did not possess it at all. My object was to prevent domination. Men professed to love me; they talked of my beauty, my many excellencies; but in my secret heart I knew that it was the crown which dazzled them, not the charms of Elizabeth. They loved me through fear of what might become of them if they didn't; they loved what good I could bring them in power, honor
s and wealth. But they loved Mary for herself. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why the thought of her so infuriated me, and not because of her pathetic claims to my throne.

  Even men like Sir Francis Knollys were not immune to her charms. Sir Francis—my own kinsman and father of the saucy Lettice—had been uneasy with her and in time sorry for her. I trusted Knollys and it seemed to me that he was one of the best men I could have chosen as her jailer, yet I knew she pleaded with him to take her to me and that he pitied her when he gave her the answer he had been ordered to which was that I could not receive her for the sake of my own reputation until she was clear of the charge of murder. Knollys had begged to be released from the duty. But not yet, I thought, not yet.

  He was a strict Protestant and when he took her to Bolton he tried to convert her to his views, and although I continued to trust him I began to feel that it might be unwise to leave one man too long in her company, and I had her transferred to Tutbury where the Earl of Shrewsbury could look after her. Not that I felt Shrewsbury would be aloof from her charms but he did have a very forceful wife who had already been much married and I guessed that she would know how to deal with Mary and be quite unmoved by that excessive femininity. I had the excuse for recalling Knollys when his wife died.

  This was a great blow to me. Katharine Knollys had been born Carey and her mother had been Mary Boleyn, sister to my mother, so there was a strong blood connection. Katharine was a charming, gentle woman. I had often wondered how she came to have a girl like Lettice.

  The whole Court knew how grieved I was by the death of my cousin, and I had her buried in St Edmund's Chapel at my expense. So I took the chance to recall Sir Francis and leave the troublesome Mary in the hands of Shrewsbury.

  Robert was constantly in my company, as devoted and adoring as ever. He was persistent in his efforts to make me agree to a marriage, and I liked persistence in men. One would have thought that as the time passed and we were growing older, he would give up hope, but he did not appear to do so. I think his eyes strayed often to other women. I did not mind that as long as I did not know about them. I was prepared for him to have his light love affairs, providing they remained light, and that any engagements he might have with others could be dropped at a moment's notice when I beckoned.