by Jean Plaidy
I discussed the proposal at great length with Cecil, who was now Lord Burghley. I thought it was time I showed my appreciation and had made him a baron. It was no more than he deserved.
Anjou was nineteen. I was at this time thirty-seven, so I could reasonably demur about the differences in our ages. He was a Catholic, of course, and the English did not care much for Catholic consorts. One only had to refer back to the last reign and remember the abhorrence in which the country had held Philip of Spain.
But there was little I enjoyed more than these marriage projects, although I knew in my heart that I was going to refuse them all. I had not said no to the only man for whom I might have forsaken my freedom to turn to some arrogant sprig even if he did come from a royal house. I had no need of royalty. I had that from my father and my glorious ancestors; but I did like the world to know that although I continued in the virgin state it was from my own choice and I had had, and was still having, ample chances of changing it.
Those téte-é-tétes with La Mothe Fenelon, who was the French Ambassador at that time, always stimulated me and I loved to hear about the perfections of the Duc d'Anjou and his burning desire to become my husband.
I had plenty of spies at the French Court—Walsingham saw to that— and they brought back the true state of affairs there, so I knew that Anjou was at this time carrying on a passionate love affair with the Princesse de Cléves; and his only desire for marriage with me was to gain possession of my throne.
I remember well those conversations I had with La Mothe Fenelon. He would look at me with assumed admiration and tell me how worthy the Duc d'Anjou was to be my husband.
“The only person who is worthy of the alliance,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied lightly, “I know he is highly esteemed at the Court of France for his excellent qualities. He is worthy of the highest destiny the world can bestow on him. But is it not true, my dear friend, that his thoughts are lodged on a fairer object? I am an old woman, who but for the need to get an heir should not speak of a husband. Often I have been sought, but by those who would wish to wed a kingdom rather than a woman. The great are married without seeing each other, so the choice cannot lie with their persons.”
Poor La Mothe Fenelon! He was faintly embarrassed but could not show it, of course. He knew that I was prevaricating and probably found it humiliating to have to work so hard to try to make me accept his Prince.
“And there is the King himself,” I went on. “He is now a married man. I trust he knows great joy in his marriage.”
La Mothe assured me that he did.
“Then let us hope that he does not indulge in the gallantries of his forebears. If he takes after his father and grandfather perhaps he will not be such a faithful husband.”
He was taken aback and I was sure he did not know whether I was favorable to the match or not. That was how I wished it to be.
One day I gave my leg an unpleasant knock against the bedpost and cut it open. The wound would not heal and I was quite lame for a while. I had to sit with my leg on a stool for it was quite painful to move about freely. Every little thing that happens to a royal personage is reported, often embellished, and to such an extent that it is magnified sometimes for good but mostly evil; and as in his last years my father had suffered from a festering in his leg, it was immediately assumed that I was afflicted with the same ailment.
The news, naturally, was taken to the French Court and I heard reports of Anjou's reactions to it. It was clear to me that he had no wish for marriage and it was only his mother's persistence which made him agree to negotiations.
Although I did not want him, I did not care that he should be against the match and only agreed to it because of his mother's persistence, and I was very disconcerted when Walsingham's spies reported to me a rather alarming conversation which had been overheard between Anjou and one other.
“Monsieur,” said the other, “you would do well to marry the old creature who has had for the last years an evil in her leg which will not heal. Let them send her a potion from France destined to cure all ills, and let it be of such nature that you will be a widower in the course of a few months, after which might you not marry the Queen of Scotland and become the undisputed ruler of the two kingdoms?”
That threw me into a rage. How dared they talk of me so—and plot my death!
Never, Monsieur d'Anjou! I thought. You will never get the better of me.
But I was even more enraged when I discovered that the wily Queen Mother was putting out feelers for a marriage between Anjou and the Queen of Scots.
Burghley soothed me, and so did Robert. He looked at me reproachfully, dumbly asking why I would not take the only man whom I could trust and who had loved me over the years.
I wanted to shout at him: “You fool, Robert, do you think I am going to marry any of those French fops! While we are negotiating we are keeping the friendship of France. Spain is against me. The Pope is against me. Scotland is as troublesome as ever, and I have the Queen of that country in my hands. I need friends, Robert; and while I am negotiating to marry a Prince of France, the French at least must be my allies.”
Then the Emperor Maximilian, no doubt disturbed at the thought of a French marriage, offered his son Rodolph as a prospective husband. He was even younger than Anjou.
Catherine de' Medici was greatly disturbed by the thought of a marriage with Maximilian's son and she cajoled and threatened Anjou, and even asked Walsingham to talk to him and make him see the advantages of a match with England.
I was amused. The more suitors the better. Then another appeared. This was Henri of Navarre—a rather crude but adventurous young man; and it was diverting to consider them all striving to win the prize—which was the crown of England.
It was a moment of great triumph when, at one of our banquets, I called for dancing and taking Christopher Hatton as my partner, I performed with him for the amusement of the Court. I leaped as high as I ever had and pirouetted many times. The applause rang out as I sat down and beckoned La Mothe to sit beside me.
“You can tell Monsieur d'Anjou that I danced higher than any in my Court and the reports of my sore leg are greatly exaggerated. It is as clean and white now as it ever was, and there are years of life in the old creature yet. Pray tell those chemists who thought to prepare a dose for me that they will have to produce something very clever if they will have a French prince marry Mary Queen of Scots and take my kingdom and hers into French keeping.”
Poor La Mothe! He was quite taken aback. He ought to have known what an excellent spy service I had through the good work of my swarthy Moor.
I thought the farce with Anjou had gone on long enough. It had served its purpose in keeping the attitude of the French open, so I sent word that if Anjou came to England he must change his religion. This gave him a graceful way out, and his reply was that he feared he could not do that.
I was amused when his indefatigable mother, refusing to accept defeat, offered Anjou's brother, the Duc d'Alenon.
This seemed a good joke and I could not help laughing when the proposition was put before me; and Burghley, with Leicester, joined in my amusement.
In the first place Alenon was even younger than his brother. Twentytwo years separated us; he was very small and no one could call him handsome. He had indulged overmuch in fleshly pleasures which had aged him prematurely; his skin was pitted with smallpox; and his ill-shaped nose was so large that it hung down over his mouth. He must have been a most repulsive object. The amusing side to this was that he had been christened Hercule; and anyone less like the great hero there could not have been.
Yet I did not give even him a definite refusal. I planned to have a little diversion with the hideous Prince.
All this coming and going of ambassadors suing for my hand did not prevent my round of engagements. At Greenwich I performed the Maundy ceremony, washing the feet of thirty-nine poor women. I have to admit that one of my yeomen of the laundry washed the women's feet f
irst and, when they were clean, I came with my maids of honor who carried basins filled with herb-scented water, so I was presented with feet that had already been cleaned. Dirt and evil smells sickened me, and all knew of my passion for cleanliness so this seemed an acceptable way of performing the ceremony. Each of the chosen women received a gown, shoes and a wooden platter on which was half a salmon, ling and six herrings, in addition to a purse containing twenty shillings with which they seemed highly satisfied.
In August of that year I went on one of my pilgrimages through the countryside to show myself to the people, which was what they wanted. I always made sure that they had a good view of me and I paused on the way to chat with them, and thank them personally for the little presents they brought me, and however humble these were I always made them feel they were just what I needed. These journeys gave me as much pleasure as they gave the people, for always I was aware of that which was more important to me than anything else—the approbation of my subjects.
I was particularly happy on this occasion because Robert was beside me and we spent a short time at Warwick Castle, the home of his brother Ambrose, a charming man who had served his country well. He had been in the Tower with Robert when I had been there for he was arrested with his brothers for complicity in the plot to set Lady Jane Grey on the throne. I liked him well. He was something of an invalid due to a poisoned bullet which had struck him when he was defending Le Havre. I was especially fond of all Robert's family and I had never forgotten what I owed to his sister who had so valiantly nursed me during my attack of smallpox which she had caught, to be left disfigured.
I was received magnificently at Warwick Castle. There were the usual pageants and songs of praise for my beauty and wisdom. I could almost guess what the next line would be when they quoted their verses, but I liked them none the less for that; and it was delightful to see the pleasure these simple country people took in pleasing me and how conscious they were of the honor of coming face to face with their sovereign.
I would never slight any of them, though I must admit there were occasions when I found it hard not to give way to a yawn. One of these occurred in Warwick where they had arranged a civic ceremony for me, and the speech made by the Recorder went on and on, repeated in parrot fashion, at the end of which he begged me to take a small present from the town. The bailiff then came to my coach and gave me a purse in which was twenty pounds. I took it graciously and told them that I was loath to take anything from them, because I knew that many of them had given what they could ill afford; but I accepted it with hearty thanks and that I should never forget the honor done to me by my good people of Warwick. I then gave him my hand to kiss, which he did in some confusion.
Ambrose whispered to me that the Recorder, a certain Mr Aglionby, had been overcome with terror at the thought of having to address me, and had learned his speech by heart, so perhaps that was the reason why it had been rather more than usually dull.
Fearing that the good Mr Aglionby might have noticed my boredom, I sent for him at once, for it was always my aim that no one should be allowed to think anything but the best of me, which after all was the purpose of these tiring and often uncomfortable pilgrimages I took among my subjects.
He came and I held out my hand.
“Come hither, little Recorder,” I said. “I hear that you thought you would be afraid to look at me and to speak boldly. I now tell you that you were not so afraid of me as I was of you; and I now thank you for putting me in mind of my duty.”
The little man was almost in tears—tears of gratitude and admiration. I knew that he would be my ardent supporter for the rest of his life.
And so into the castle.
That would have been a very pleasant trip for me but for a somewhat unsavory piece of gossip which came to my ears during it.
I had noticed Douglass Sheffield at once, for that instinct I had for picking out women who would appeal to Robert had singled her out to me. I remembered I had heard something about Douglass's and her sister's being enamored of Robert. I had not taken much notice at the time because I imagined many women at Court were enamored of Robert—and I liked to think of their being so.
The gossip came through some of my women whom I heard discussing it. They would never have dared tell me outright but when I heard one say to another: “Do you think the Earl of Leicester really did it?” I pricked up my ears and burst in on them, demanding to know what Leicester had been accused of doing.
It was only my anger which prized the story from them. They were loath to tell me, saying every few minutes that it was only gossip, and I knew how slanderous that could be toward the best of people.
Yes, I did know, and I understood that a man in Robert's position had many enemies. But could this story be true? I knew that Douglass Sheffield and her sister had been enamored of him. Had others seen that—and when Douglass's husband died rather mysteriously, had they fabricated the story to discountenance Robert?
It might well be—but on the other hand it might not.
The gossips said that Robert had had a love affair with Douglass Sheffield. This was possible. He was a man and certainly he had no sexual satisfaction from me. I had often thought that he must seek that elsewhere, and if he did so all well and good…as long as I did not know about it, and it was done discreetly and out of sight. That was one condition which I was sure Robert understood.
Apparently this affair with Douglass Sheffield had gone farther. He had, it was said, written a letter to her which he had asked her to destroy as soon as she had read it, but, foolish woman that she was, she had failed to do this. In this letter he had stated that he would marry her when her husband died, and he had added that damning sentence “and that may not be very long.”
It was like the casket letters all over again. What fools people were to put these dangerous thoughts on paper! What greater fools not to destroy them when they had been read!
She had kept the letter under her pillow to read it many times during the days and nights; and then the little idiot had dropped it; she hunted everywhere and could not find it. Of course she could not, for it had already been found by her sister-in-law who promptly took it to Douglass's husband.
And what did Lord Sheffield do on reading that letter? He decided to go to London to arrange for a divorce from the wife who, with her lover he believed, was seeking to murder him. Then came the damning part. Lord Sheffield died before he could show the letter to his lawyers and his death was due to dysentery—often the result of poison.
Why should Lord Sheffield have died so suddenly when he was about to disclose the relationship between Robert and his wife?
Well, it made a good subject for gossip. The alarming part was that Sheffield was dead. I could not believe though that Robert had planned to marry Douglass. He would know how furious I should be to receive such news, and he would never risk my anger for the sake of that silly little woman. On the other hand, could he have written such a letter? Yes, possibly in the hope of seducing the woman if she were holding out against him; and then when he was about to be exposed could he have arranged Sheffield's death?
I did not know. There was so much I did not know about Robert. Was that why he was so fascinating?
How often I had asked myself: How did Amy Robsart die? Was it an accident? Did she commit suicide? Or was she hastened to her death—and if so who would want that more than Robert? He would wish Lord Sheffield dead if he were going to create a scandal which would come to my ears.
I could never be sure.
It was a disturbing end to the otherwise pleasant visit to Warwick.
THAT AUGUST WE had news of one of the greatest catastrophes the world has ever known. It set Christian men and women all over the world shivering and turning in disgust from the King and Queen Mother of France, at whose instigation it must have taken place.
I refer to the massacre on St Bartholomew's Eve when many of the leading Huguenots of France were gathered together in Paris for the marri
age of Marguerite, daughter of Catherine de' Medici, and my one-time suitor Henri of Navarre. He miraculously escaped, but few of his faith did.
The horror of it, the cruelty of it, the folly of it, were hard to believe.
I could not stop thinking of that terrible night when the tocsins rang out announcing the massacre was about to begin and when the Catholics went into the streets bent on murdering those of their fellow countrymen who did not wish to worship God in the same way that they did.
Charles the King, we knew, was mad; but surely that wily serpent, his mother, knew better than this! Why had she roused the city of Paris to this frenzy? Could she not see that generations to come would revile her?
People at Court spoke of nothing else and they spoke in whispers—not with the usual excitement which one sees on people's faces when ill news is told of others. No! There was no one who was not bitterly shocked and dismayed by what had happened.
The French were regarded as monsters; I could not bring myself to receive La Mothe Fenelon, though that cultivated and fastidious gentleman was in no way to blame and I was sure fully realized the folly of this wanton cruelty and the odium in which it would place his country.
I saw him eventually and decided the meeting should take place at Woodstock, but to stress my horror at what had taken place I ordered that all my courtiers should be dressed in black.
There was a deep silence when La Mothe entered the chamber and, taking a few steps toward him, I said: “I regret that I have kept you waiting for an audience, my lord. Pray tell me is it possible that this terrible news we have had is true?”
“Your Majesty, I come to lament with you over this sad accident. My King deeply regrets that for the sake of his life and that of his family it was necessary to put down traitorous plots of men who had conspired against him. What has happened has been as painful to the King of France as though one of his arms had to be cut off to save the rest of his body.”
