Leicester evidently did not believe she was in earnest, however, since he at first seemed very willing to assist the negotiations. Shortly before Christmas 1570 he brought the French ambassador de La Mothe Fénelon to the queen’s apartments, where they found her dressed even more splendidly than usual and evidently expecting them. The ambassador broached the subject by recalling how she had often expressed regret at not having married sooner and how she had said she would only take a husband from a royal house, which made him think she would permit him to speak to her of the Duke of Anjou. Graciously Elizabeth answered that she had understood the duke’s affections to be lodged elsewhere, an allusion to rumors that he might marry a great Catholic princess, but then she unbent and went on to say, with becoming modesty, that she was already old, and if it were not for the consideration of leaving heirs she would be ashamed to talk of a husband, being one of those who were courted for their kingdoms and not for themselves. French princes, she added pensively, had the reputation of being good husbands, and greatly honoring their wives, but of loving them not at all. When, in a later conversation, the ambassador declared lyrically that he would advise any princess who sought true happiness to take a husband of the House of France, she could not resist introducing a sly reference to some of the more celebrated mistresses of recent Valois kings.
Elizabeth’s half-concealed fears of being neglected and unloved were often visible during this courtship. She relished the teasing compliments on her sexual and maternal prospects that it inspired, pretending to disparage herself and pointing out the difference in age between herself and Anjou so as to elicit reassurances from her listeners; if they were not forthcoming she was instantly offended. Leicester knew how to treat her—when the queen demurred that Anjou would always be so much younger than herself, he answered with a broad smile, “So much the better for you.” Lady Cobham, less tactfully, ventured to remark that the most successful marriages were usually between people of a similar age, to which the queen said sharply, “There is only ten years difference between myself and the Duke; I trust he will find compensation in the other advantages.” That the difference was really eighteen years Elizabeth knew very well, since she constantly expressed anxiety on the subject to de La Mothe Fénelon. At a grand dinner at the end of January 1571, she told him again that she was forced to marry to oblige her subjects, but she was frightened of not being loved by her husband. With great gallantry the ambassador replied that he knew someone by whom she would be both loved and honored, and told her that at the end of nine months he hoped to see her the mother of a fine baby boy. Elizabeth was delighted with that remark, and smiled and talked of it vivaciously for a good while. Her pleasure in such speculation seemed only to increase as time passed.
The great diplomat Walsingham, negotiating the affair for Elizabeth in France, knew how much importance the queen attached to the physical appearance of her suitors, and he scrutinized Anjou carefully. To Leicester, who was keeping in close touch with the progress of the affair, he sent a description of the Valois suitor that was not overenthusiastic. Anjou was about three inches taller than himself, “his body of very good shape, his legs long and slender but reasonably well proportioned.” He added cautiously, “What helps he has to supply any defects of nature I know not. Touching the health of his person I find the opinion diverse, and I know not what to credit, but for my part I forbear to be over-curious in the search thereof, for divers respects.” Opinions of the young duke seemed to vary greatly. A Venetian diplomat wrote frankly, “He is given up to voluptuousness, it dominates him; he covers himself with scents and perfumes; he wears at his ears a double row of rings and pendants; he spends fantastic sums on his shirts and clothes; he charms and beguiles women by lavishing the most costly jewels and fripperies on them.” But a more partial sketch was delivered by a member of the French court, who wrote Walsingham a glowing account of Anjou’s beauties of body and mind, declaring that neither pen nor paintbrush could do justice to the duke’s eyes, to the charming line of his mouth when he spoke, or the sweetness that won the hearts of all who met him. If this courtier’s lengthy praises of the duke were intended to speed his suit with Elizabeth, the latter part of the description was misconceived, for the writer went on with equal enthusiasm to affirm Anjou’s unswerving devotion to the Catholic faith, swearing that he would live and die in his religion. It was ironic that he should have concluded, “If the Queen your mistress is not satisfied with so worthy a person, she will never marry; there is nothing she can do from now on but take a vow of perpetual virginity.”
Anjou had no more personal inclination to marry Elizabeth than she felt to have him. He was under strong Catholic pressure not to forward the match; the Spanish ambassador and the Guises constantly represented its evils to him, pointing out that Elizabeth was a confirmed heretic, excommunicated by the pope, and that she was not only far too old for him and unlikely to have children, but a woman of scandalous reputation. They urged a glorious armed conquest of England rather than the shameful compromise of such a marriage, and the moody, unstable duke became increasingly recalcitrant under their influence. The specter of Philip of Spain’s marriage to Elizabeth’s half sister was summoned up again, and it was said, with every truth, that if Anjou were to marry Elizabeth he would not be king, but only the husband of the queen. “My son has told me,” Catherine wrote despairingly to de La Mothe Fénelon, “that he wishes never to marry her, having always heard her honour ill spoken of by all the ambassadors who have been in England.” To spur de La Mothe Fénelon to do whatever he might to salvage the situation, Catherine added dramatically, “So, Monsieur de La Mothe, you are on the point of losing such a kingdom as that for my children.” But with so much at stake for both parties the affair could not end thus. Under Catherine’s dominating influence Anjou was brought to a state of grudging compliance for the time being; although the two queens doubted each other’s sincerity in the affair, Catherine could not afford to let the negotiations founder through the reluctance of her favorite son.
Elizabeth seemed anxious to allay suspicions that she might not be in earnest by showing a convincing degree of interest in the marriage. “I do perceive Her Majesty more bent upon marrying than heretofore she has been,” Leicester wrote. The long list of disappointed suitors to the queen, which included his own name, was evidently in his thoughts, as it was in Elizabeth’s; her history of failed courtships had made prospective husbands wary. Catherine de’ Medici expressed fears that her son was being mocked, as others had been, and at one point Anjou said mulishly that the Queen of England’s only aim was to dally with the French for a time, which they would soon regret. To combat such talk Elizabeth adopted a pose of injured innocence, instructing Walsingham to explain to the queen mother that her rejection of Philip of Spain, early in her reign, had been from the highest of motives, but that she was now quite determined to marry. Catherine was to be offered the most earnest assurances of Elizabeth’s sincerity in this courtship, anything that would spin out the negotiations for as long as possible without her having to give any specific pledge. “We pray the Queen mother not to be over-curious in requiring so precise an answer,” Elizabeth instructed, “until the matter may be further treated of and explained, and not to think it any touch to the honour of her son to be named as a suitor to us as others of as great degree have been, though the motions took no effect, rather for other impediments than for any mislike of their persons.” Elizabeth gave the flattering appearance of being far from misliking Anjou’s person, and as usual was very eager that he should pay her a clandestine visit; she conceived a romantic plan by which she should await Anjou at the coast while he slipped across from France on the morning tide to meet her. Though that encounter never took place, a pretense of personal contact was established, in florid, formal compliments which passed between the prince and the queen. Elizabeth praised Anjou’s beauties, mentioning the elegance of his hands, in which respect she knew he could return the praise; in conversation with de La Mo
the Fénelon she whispered coyly that she found the duke very desirable. The response she hoped for was immediately forthcoming—the ambassador promptly assured her that they were both very desirable, their only fault being that they had not already made themselves possessors of each other’s perfections. Elizabeth’s greed for such gallantries was insatiable. She wanted to know whether de La Mothe Fénelon had told the duke about the charms of her arm, her foot, and other parts which she discreetly refrained from naming, and altogether she presented the appearance of an unmarried, middle-aged woman excited at the prospect of acquiring a fine young husband. She could afford to indulge her love of being wooed, and to encourage this courtship by seeming to be enamoured of all that she heard of Anjou, for there were “other impediments” great enough to halt the affair when it should become necessary.
Though the French wished Anjou to be settled abroad, they had no intention of allowing the English to dictate the terms on which they would have him. When a draft of proposed conditions was brought to England, in April, by one of Catherine de’ Medici’s most trusted Italian servants, Guido Cavalcanti, Cecil and Leicester had the task of examining the proposals, but it would not have taken a detailed scrutiny to show them that the French were making demands that Elizabeth could not submit to. The draft stipulated that the marriage ceremony was to be performed by Catholic rites alone, and the duke and his servants were to practice their religion freely and openly at all times; Anjou was not only to be crowned king but to govern jointly with Elizabeth; he was to receive £60,000 a year from England’s revenues, even if no children were born of the marriage, and if the queen were to die before he did—which seemed likely, considering the difference in their ages—the payments were to continue. It was evident that in this courtship, as in the archduke’s, the gaping problems of religion and the consort’s status would provide grounds for lengthy diplomatic dispute.
Skillful, prudent Cecil suggested compromises. Ever anxious that Elizabeth should take a husband and secure the succession, and conscious that every year her chances of marriage and childbearing grew slighter, he patiently endeavored to forward the Valois match in spite of its notable drawbacks. “I see no continuance of her quietness without a marriage,” he had written in March. Cecil was encouraged by the belief that the queen was at last sincerely disposed to marry, however, and for a time it seemed that the match would succeed. In a letter to Leicester, Walsingham had argued forcefully that unless Anjou married the queen it would be most dangerous, for “if England refuse, then is Scotland more ready to receive him.” To keep that threat at bay Elizabeth was happy to appear fascinated by her young Valois suitor, while her ministers loyally labored over the terms of a contract that was never to be signed. Leicester, who gave the impression of supporting the match, knew very well how her mind worked and what the outcome was likely to be, and some of the observations in his letters to Walsingham offered clues for the initiated. The queen was resolved to marry, he wrote, but she wished to deal “as privately as may be devised,” for less reproach to both parties if nothing should come of the negotiations. He reported that Elizabeth found Anjou most acceptable in person and situation, but she was determined not to be swayed on the religious issue—a decision of which Leicester truthfully expressed cordial approval, his piety and self-interest united. Elizabeth could safely inform Catherine de’ Medici that she was ready to accept Anjou, as long as certain difficulties could be settled, just as she had been able to assure the discontented Parliament of 1566 that she would marry unless “some great let happen.” The great let, the hindrance that still barred the path of Elizabeth’s suitors, was religion, and behind that immovable obstacle she could always take shelter from the chase.
Soon after Cavalcanti returned to France with the English amendments to the draft contract, de La Mothe Fénelon had to face an unpleasant scene with Elizabeth. It had come to her ears that a notable French courtier had been joking at her expense, publicly mocking the courtship with Anjou by saying in front of a large number of people that she had a sore on her leg which was incurable, and that this would be a good pretext for Anjou to give her a potion that would make him a widower and thus enable him to marry Mary, Queen of Scots, and become the absolute master of the isle. De La Mothe Fénelon denied it energetically, and demanded to know who had spread such a tale, so that the miscreant might be punished, but Elizabeth would reveal no names. In the first heat of anger and chagrin she swore she would take up with Spain again, to France’s cost; though reason prevailed over rage, the story continued to rankle with her, and for some time after she would make haughty references to it when she saw the French ambassador, telling him on one occasion that she was sorry he had not seen her dance at Lord Northampton’s ball, since he would have seen that the Duke of Anjou was in no danger of marrying a cripple. For a woman accustomed to ceaseless extravagant flattery any hint of mockery was doubly painful, and to this, as she was acutely aware, she would always be vulnerable while her love dealings were with a suitor whose age was so laughably different from her own.
But the threat of another, far deeper discord hung over the match, which no diplomatic reassurances could smooth away. “I prize quietude of conscience and the continuance of the peaceable reign which I have begun and desire to pursue higher than all the favors which princes of the world and all kingdoms can confer upon me,” Elizabeth had written to the emperor, with proud sincerity. To marry Anjou would almost certainly be to forfeit that quietude and disrupt that peace. Anjou could not be permitted to go to Mass publicly and practice his faith openly, since that would be against the laws of Elizabeth’s realm; to allow him to do so would be to expose England to the kind of religious strife that had so recently torn France apart. But, Catherine urged, the strength and assistance of the King of France would be Elizabeth’s best protection against all such troubles. Walsingham told her diplomatically that he believed more good than evil must come from the match, and added that in England civil wars tended to be sudden and violent but short-lived, as there were no strongholds or walled towns that could hold out over long periods. Perhaps, in the months following the massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve, he would remember that remark, as the gallant Huguenot inhabitants of La Rochelle held out against their king’s besieging forces, with Elizabeth’s tacit support. For the continuance of her peaceable reign she needed protracted negotiations with France for a marriage that would almost certainly have brought an end to her quietude.
Of all the suitors who ever paid court to Elizabeth, Anjou was the most reluctant. Representatives of the aggressive Catholic faction such as the Spanish ambassador and the papal nuncio counseled him to resist the match at all costs, while on the other side Charles IX and Catherine de’ Medici demanded his obedience to their own authority. The simmering hostility between the royal brothers more than once flared into heat; in June, Charles IX accused Anjou of accepting bribes from the Catholic clergy to remain in France as the champion of the Roman faith. “I tell you plainly, I will have no other champion here but myself,” he swore, and threatened to make some of the priests shorter by the head, at which Anjou rushed to his rooms in tears and stayed there for the rest of the day weeping. Catherine tried to keep Walsingham from hearing anything about the incident, but there was no concealing the prospective bridegroom’s dissatisfaction with his role, even though he had, in one of his more amenable moods, been induced to tell Walsingham that he regarded Elizabeth as “the rarest creature that was in Europe these five hundred years.”
By the autumn of 1571, when Walsingham became ill and had to leave his post at the French court for a time, Elizabeth’s situation appeared alarming. As more and more strands of the web of plotting that had been spun around Mary, Queen of Scots, came to light, English relations with Spain deteriorated dangerously, while the Spanish and the Guises wooed Charles IX and Catherine. There were even plans afoot for marrying Anjou to a Polish princess instead of the Queen of England. At all costs Elizabeth wanted to preserve her courtship with th
e Valois prince; in an endeavor to breathe new life into the dying negotiations she went so far as to instruct Walsingham to give way over the religious issue. But by now Anjou had become so obstinate that the English ambassador could see little hope of a satisfactory outcome to the affair, whatever concessions Elizabeth might offer to make, and it was clearly impossible that the crucial question of the religion of England’s prospective king-consort could be set aside for long. When Catherine blandly apologized for Anjou’s insistence that he must be free to hear Mass in public with full ceremony, and his refusal to accept any form of compromise, Sir Thomas Smith came out with a reply that spoke for all loyal Protestant Englishmen. “Why,” he exclaimed bluntly, “then he may also require the four orders of friars, monks, canons, pilgrimages, pardons, oil and cream, relics and all such trumperies. That could never be agreed to.” And he proceeded to outline the reasons for the unpopularity of Catholicism among Elizabeth’s subjects, telling Catherine of the cruelties of Queen Mary’s reign and the treacheries of the present time. It was obvious that Elizabeth could not take a fervent Catholic for her husband, and it was obvious too that Anjou would never be prevailed upon to sacrifice his religious loyalties for the sake of marriage. There was, however, still a means by which Elizabeth might protract her dalliance with France, and Catherine hope to see a Valois prince at last acquire a magnificent share of the rule and revenues of England. Catherine’s youngest son, the Duke of Alençon, would soon be eighteen years old; he had reached an age when he too might be considered eligible to become a suitor to the queen.
The Men Who Would Be King Page 17
