“Welcome. Your voyage has brought great fame to this realm,” she greeted her captain. “And even greater profit so I hear tell,” she finished quietly with a speculative gleam in her eye.
Turning, she drew the sword of the nearest Gentleman Pensioner and lightly touched the shoulders of the man who knelt before her. “Receive your Sovereign’s gratitude. Arise Sir Francis!” she cried.
A great reception and banquet was held on board but as soon as he could obtain leave to depart Edward was riding hell bent for home. The news of the arrival of the Golden Hinde had reached his wife and mother but they had not been able to find out for certain who apart from Drake had also returned.
As his horse clattered into the deserted courtyard, Edward sawed savagely at the bit and his mount’s hooves pawed the empty air as it came to an abrupt halt, but Edward was already out of the saddle and running towards the house.
Jane had heard the noise and was halfway down the staircase when he burst through the door. Her eyes widened for an instant and the colour drained from her cheeks and then she was running, half-falling down the stairs to fling herself with sobs of joy into her husband’s arms.
Eight
Elizabeth’s treatment of Drake and the great acclaim he received from the English people was a direct affront to His Most Catholic Majesty. She pointedly refused to see his ambassador, Mendoza, stating that when His Majesty of Spain ceased to aid her rebellious Irish subjects, then she would listen to his complaints. Inwardly she began to have some misgivings for Spain was becoming a serious threat upon her horizon and she therefore turned her attentions to finding an ally.
To this end she resurrected the negotiations for her marriage to the Duke de Alencon, the brother and heir-presumptive to the King of France.
Alencon was much younger than she and was an extremely ugly little man but as she had no intention of marrying him, he would suffice. He did however possess a very lively wit and a charming personality which she appreciated.
In November, 1581 Alencon arrived and was greeted with a great show of affection by the Queen. She startled the whole court when at Greenwich on the 22nd, she kissed him in front of everyone, presented him with a ring and introduced him to the court as her future husband.
Leicester was intensely jealous and remarked sarcastically, “Are we then to consider Your Majesty betrothed?”
She laughed at him, as well she might, for she knew that the outrageous terms she had demanded of the King of France could never, with dignity, be met.
After some months Alencon became restless for the proposed nuptials seemed no nearer. His reticent fiancé was playing cat and mouse with him. She offered to support and finance him in a campaign to help the Prince of Orange free the Low Countries from Spanish Dominance, mainly as a means of ridding herself of his presence which was becoming tiresome. Reluctantly he agreed and left with £3,000 of her money with which to raise an army. Although she privately bemoaned the cost she admitted to herself that it would be money well spent if it would further delay the marriage.
She began to have doubts though before six months had passed for she had had to send him a further loan and the total cost now amounted to the enormous sum of £300,000 and his management of affairs in the Netherlands certainly did not justify this amount in her opinion. Granted he had captured a handful of the smaller towns, Ostend, Dunkirk, Alost—but Ghent was still in the hands of the Spaniards.
When she learnt of the disaster at Antwerp she was livid! Alencon and his forces had been betrayed by the Provost of that city and his forces had fled before the violence of the citizens. The Dutch at Mechlin had breached the dykes and the floodwaters had played their part in the further destruction of his forces. He himself fled to France.
“He is a false villain like his mother!” she raged to the patient members of her Council. “He keeps faith neither with God nor man!”
Walsingham and Cecil were privately of the opinion that she had brought it all upon herself but that as usual, she would heap the blame upon someone’s unfortunate head. Most probably one of theirs.
While Elizabeth fumed at the waste of good money and manpower, Jane and Margaret were discussing the proposed departure to Court of Martin for whom Edward had obtained a post as a page.
The boy was excited about his first venture into the big world but his mother was not reconciled to the fact. She realised that it was a great opportunity for him but she considered him too young to be exposed to the gossip and intrigue.
“It is hard to realise that they are growing up, that they are no longer babies,” she said.
“I know that full well, ” Margaret replied. “It seems but yesterday that Edward was a child. Aye and an unruly one at times too!”
“Martin is a quiet boy,” his mother continued, “and I fear that he may be a little fretful and unhappy.”
“He will see a great deal of his father and he will be able to come home at times,” Margaret consoled. “It will make a man of him. Sometimes I think he is too quiet.”
Jane sighed and reluctantly agreed with her.
“It will be Beth's turn in a few years.”
“In a few years it will be time to start thinking of a husband for her,” her mother-in-law reminded her.
“Oh not yet! She is far too young!” Jane cried for her daughter was very dear to her.
Margaret said nothing, her thoughts turning ever backwards to Isabelle. Jane looked up as Beth came across the garden towards her. At eleven Beth Allgrave was tall for her age with her mother’s grey eyes and hair which was the same colour as her grandmother’s had been before time had turned it silver. She seated herself on the grass at her mother’s feet and began to unpick a skein of silk which had become tangled.
“How do your studies progress?” her grandmother enquired.
“Quite well. We have finished for today. Martin is collecting his books in readiness to take with him.”
“Has your father returned?” her mother asked.
“Yes, I saw him talking to the steward,” Beth replied.
“Would you find him dear, there are a few details of your brother’s departure I wish to discuss with him?”
Beth rose and crossed the green turf in the direction of the house. She was halfway there when a small figure came hurtling around the corner, nearly knocking her over.
“Paul! What ever is the matter with you?” she cried, catching her youngest brother before he could make his escape. “Have you run away from Mistress Winskill again?”
The little boy struggled furiously but she held him fast.
“I want to play out here!” he panted and his struggles gained strength as his nurse appeared in pursuit.
“Come here, you little fiend!” his nurse cried. “He refuses to do as he is bid and has led me a merry dance I can tell you!”
From her seat under the arbour his mother watched the incident with faint amusement but as Paul’s kicking and screaming reached the proportions of a fine tantrum she put down her work and rose to try to instil some obedience into her wayward son. As she hastened across the lawn, Margaret’s voice followed her.
“You will have trouble with that one, Jane. Mark my words!”
Before Jane had reached the struggling, screaming bundle that was her son, Edward appeared and after making an accurate appraisal of the situation, determinedly picked up his son by the collar of his jerkin and marched him indoors with a forceful expression on his face which boded ill for Master Paul.
Jane sighed and turned around, beckoning Beth to follow. She had to agree with her mother-in-law. Her youngest child was going to prove difficult to manage.
* * *
In the years that followed she was proved right for Paul managed to wreak havoc with all the attempts of his successive governesses and tutors to instil into him obedience and learning. Jane had come to realise that more could be achieved by reasoning than by chastisement and when all else failed, it was to his mother that his distracted and irate tutor
s appealed.
He tormented his gentle sister unmercifully and upon the occasions when his brother returned from court, played endless pranks upon him until Martin had finally caught him one day and had given him a sound beating—whereafter he left his brother in peace but renewed his efforts at plaguing his sister.
After one particularly eventful day in which her son had managed to reduce his sister to tears three times; had so incensed his tutor that he resigned his post and had driven both his nurse and his grandmother to distraction with his wild pranks, his mother decided that the time had come for some drastic action to be taken.
After supper she broached the subject to her husband.
“Edward, something will have to he done about that child,” she said determinedly.
“Which child?” Edward asked absently, his head bent over a sheaf of papers.
“Will you put down those documents and listen to me!”
Edward looked up for Jane seldom spoke so sharply. “What is the matter?”
“Paul. He is becoming quite unmanageable. I am at my wit’s end. Master Fylde has threatened to quit and he is the second tutor we have had this year!”
Edward’s eyes showed a faint gleam of amusement.
Jane became infuriated. “’Tis no matter for amusement!” she retorted.
“No. ’Tis not. But he is too young and too mischievous to be let loose at court. A spell with Drake would do him good.”
“You know he is far too young.”
Edward nodded. “I will speak to him. He must realise that he is too old now for such childish pranks.” He remained silent as an idea formed in his mind. “It might serve to quieten him if I could promise him—upon the condition of his behaviour being greatly improved—that I will speak to Drake or Lord Howard with a view to his joining them when he is old enough.”
This idea was rather a drastic one in Jane’s opinion but after demanding that Edward find some solution she felt she could not now denounce it. So with some reluctance she agreed.
Edward returned to his documents and for some minutes peace reigned.
“You look grave, Edward,” Jane ventured, noting the furrows on her husband’s brow and noticing, too, that there were grey hairs mingled with the dark.
“The news is grave.”
“The death of the Duke of Alencon? That is old news. Her Majesty is running out of suitors, though I hear that she was upset by the news of his death.”
“She is more seriously alarmed by this news. The Prince of Orange has been assassinated!”
Jane put down her embroidery. “What will the Dutch protestants do now? Will the Queen openly declare for them against Spain?”
“You should know Her Majesty better than that. She will not risk war with anyone, not even for the sake of religion; perhaps especially not for the sake of religion.”
“Is that so wrong? She is a woman and all women know that wars are wasteful. All women see that! Men are eager for glory and honour, heedless of the suffering that war brings to those left behind.”
“Jane, the menace of Spain grows daily. One day we will either have to crush the might of Catholic Spain or be crushed ourselves. For twenty-five years the Dutch have been our bulwark against Philip but Alexander of Parma will crush them like straw beneath his heel now that Orange is dead and who then is left to save England?”
Jane’s heart grew cold. She thought of Martin and her wild, but much-loved youngest child. When the day of reckoning came they would have to go. Edward, too, while she and Beth would be left to wait like the countless thousands of mothers, wives and children.
“Elizabeth would never let that happen. She loves her people too dearly, she is a mother to all!” she said firmly.
“Perhaps one day she may have no choice. One day our freedom may depend upon her and men like Drake, Hawkins and Lord Howard. Pray God they will be strong enough to keep the wolf from the door!”
Nine
The summer of 1586 was hot and dry. The sun beat down relentlessly like a ball of molten bronze from a sky of cloudless blue. A heat-haze danced over the palace of Nonesuch and a slumberous peace pervaded its many rooms and corridors.
In a small, cool chamber a man sat poring over a document, a smile of quiet satisfaction in his dark, deep-set eyes. After eighteen years of patient watchfulness Mr Secretary Walsingham finally had in his possession the proof that would once and for all condemn the Queen of Scots.
Sir Francis Walsingham was a dark, swarthy man. His dark hair receding from his high forehead. He had risen—like many of the new nobility—from humble but honest stock. His father had been a lawyer, highly respected in the City and had owned lands in the county of Kent. Francis had also been educated with a career at the Bar in mind but had risen to become one of the few trusted ministers of the Queen. A staunch protestant, he loathed everything that Mary Stuart stood for. He had never been able to comprehend why Elizabeth insisted upon harbouring that 'bosom serpent' as he called Mary but with the evidence he now had she could harbour the viper no longer!
He had for many years maintained (at his own expense) a spy system solely for the purpose of ensuring the safety of his Sovereign and the realm. His money had been well spent for the dividends were now to pay off.
He rose and taking the document with him went forth to find his associate, Lord Burghley and together they went in search of the Queen.
Elizabeth was resting upon a brocade couch for the heat was intense but upon being informed that the matter was of the utmost importance, she agreed to see the trusty pair.
“Madam, I have in my possession a document which I feel you should read and consider most carefully,” Walsingham informed her.
She held out her hand and he passed it to her.
She read it in silence but her mouth grew tighter and her eyes burnt with the flame of anger as she comprehended is contents.
“This is a true account?” she questioned sharply.
“Yes, madam. As you are aware the Queen of Scots is at present residing at Chartley. As there is no brew-house attached to Chartley the beer is supplied by a brewer from the town of Burton. This man is in my employ and all the forbidden correspondence to and from the Queen of Scots, which is concealed in the bottom of a cask, passes through my hands.”
Elizabeth rose wearily. “How long have you known of this conspiracy?”
“Almost from the moment of its conception. I have in my employ one Gilbert Gifford, a renegade Catholic. He has reported to me of the proposed plan by Anthony Babington and his associates to murder yourself and with the aid of the King of Spain, to enlist men to free the Queen of Scots and set her upon the throne.”
“That my own attendants should seek to strike me down! for the despatch of the usurper,” she whispered incredulously, quoting Babington’s words.
“This Babington is a fool,” Burghley intervened. “He has had the stupidity and arrogance to have his portrait painted with his fellow conspirators—no doubt for posterity!” he added scathingly.
Elizabeth did not reply. The words of that fateful letter danced before her eyes.
When all is ready, the six gentlemen must then be set to work and you will provide that on their design being accomplished, I may be myself rescued from this place and be in safe keeping till our friends arrive. I will do what I can to raise Scotland and Ireland. Beware of traitors!
Mary had written those words. Mary to whom she had given aid and comfort and whom she had defended against her enemies and who in return had repaid her with intrigue after intrigue.
“Madam, this time there can be no delay. No further proof is necessary. The Queen of Scots is a vicious woman!” Burghley interrupted her thoughts.
Elizabeth remained silent and the two men exchanged anxious looks.
“Madam, I implore you, strike lest thou be stricken!” Walsingham begged her.
“This Queen has given you naught but trouble since she first set foot in this realm. She has never ceased to plot against yo
u. Norfolk, Throckmorton, Dr. Parry, the Duke of Guise, the King of Spain—the list is endless. She has ensnared half of Europe in plots which endangered your safety.”
“And never has she renounced her claim upon your crown,” Walsingham interposed.
Elizabeth put her hands to her head as if to fend off the words beating upon her ears.
“Madam, she is a traitor—she must die!” Walsingham’s words hammered into her brain.
Slowly she nodded. “Do what is necessary, Mr. Secretary, but leave me now.”
The two men left. Discussing the matter further, they agreed that the utmost caution must be maintained for they were determined that Mary Stuart should not escape her just desserts.
Doubt and suspicion tormented young Anthony Babington. It had seemed such a chivalrous plan. To free the tragic Queen of Scots from the powers of darkness. To cast out the usurper and bring back the old faith to England. He had gathered about him a circle of friends who heartily concurred with his plans. The idea had been suggested to him in the first place by John Ballard, a priest, who had assured him that the Pope and the King of Spain would applaud and aid him. He knew he must be cautious for Walsingham had agents everywhere and he had his doubts about Gilbert Gifford. In fact the more he thought about the matter the more his courage failed. He could feel the rope tighten about his neck and the cold steel tear at his insides—for the traitor’s death was the most awful death devised by man!
He suddenly made up his mind and on the 31st July, he intimated to Poley—a member of Walsingham’s household—that he had information concerning a plot and was prepared to reveal all he knew to his master. This information was duly passed to Walsingham and arrangements were made for them to meet. But Babington somehow got wind of the arrest of Ballard and took fright and fled with some of his friends to St. John’s Wood—a haunt of cut-throats and robbers. From there they made their way to a house in Harrow owned by another friend by the name of Bellamy and it was here that the Queen’s agents arrested them and they were consigned to the Tower.
The Tudor Heritage Page 7
