It was perhaps fortunate that the people who postulated the theory that Simier had bewitched the queen were not present to witness this extraordinary scene. Seldom had he seen two people so strange to one another, and yet so utterly fascinated with each other.
Elizabeth still had not said anything, nor was she, at that moment, capable of doing so. Never had she been so struck by another human being, not even by Robert at the height of their romance. Had things really changed that much for her? She had taken the French prince in at a glance. He was positively diminutive, slight of body, and his face was every bit as scarred as she had been led to believe. Her heart went out to him at the sight of it. There but for the grace of God…! And yet there was something in his eyes, a softness, an eagerness to be accepted, to be wanted, to be liked…what the poor creature must have suffered at the French court!
But she was Elizabeth the queen before she was Elizabeth the woman. The queen took charge.
“I am glad of your arrival, sir,” she said, more coldly than she had intended. “I am pleased that Your Grace has finally come to see me, and that you were persuaded that all this standing upon ceremony was unnecessary.”
Alençon made to speak; his voice failed him; he cleared his throat. Finally he was able to say, “Your Gracious Majesty, had I known, I would not have deferred such happiness for a single day, as that which swells my heart at the sight of you.”
She peered at him closely. Her head told her that it was just so much flattery, expected on such an occasion; but her heart cried out something quite different. She who was so adept at reading the intentions, the characters, of other people, saw sincerity in his eyes. He still held her hand; she tugged slightly on it and he arose. She was a full head taller than he was. No matter. What she perceived inside of him far outweighed any external considerations such as height, build, or facial scars. She believed that she was peering into the soul of a fellow sufferer; someone who craved love but who had never been vouchsafed even a glimmer of it. Thoughts of Robert flitted through her mind. What had he done, he who professed to love her so much, when he believed his ambition had been thwarted with finality? He had married her cousin! So much for that sort of love!
Her eyes softened as she gazed at Alençon. On the face of it, he was ugly. But if one looked beneath the hideous smallpox scars, there were the vestiges of what would have been a handsome face. But it was more than that; there was humor in his countenance, and a certain wry wit danced in his eyes. For the first time in a life in which she had made her full-bodied, robust father the yardstick for male attractiveness, she realized just how meaningless the external being was. It was a revelation. Look at Robert! Never had there been, to her eyes, a more perfect man. He was tall, he was handsome; at least he once had been; but now that he was running to fat, he had lost some of that indefinable allure that was part of why she loved him. If love were blind, why did she see Robert’s flaws so clearly, now that he was wrinkled and paunchy? She sighed. His marriage to Lettice had gone a long way to eroding some of the unshakable affection she had always felt towards him, although she would never completely lose her desire for him.
She abandoned her inner eye and swung the beacon of her gaze back onto Alençon. So what, she wondered, was this inexplicable feeling she was experiencing? There was attraction, astounding to her in that she had never really felt such attraction for anyone except Robert, and once upon a distant time, Thomas Seymour. But there was also a sense of protectiveness, a desire to soothe that troubled brow, to caress that poor, ravaged face.
Alençon still held her hand; she reached out her other hand and laid it gently on his cheek. It was warm. He let out an involuntary sigh; if there was one thing that had always been sadly lacking in his life, it was the touch of another human being. He had his whores, of course; a man must have some outlet. But there was no love there, no fondness.
“My little frog,” she said in a whisper. “Yes,” she said more firmly. “You are French; henceforth you shall be my frog.”
Simier had melted into the background as he watched the extraordinary scene unfold before him, but now he came back into the forefront. A royal nickname! There could not have been a better portent for the future.
Elizabeth turned her thoughts inward once again, but she smiled at Alençon. She had at first believed that he was here only for a crown and for whatever could be wrung out of England to his advantage. And always in the back of her mind was the danger that his motive for seeking her hand in marriage was much darker…that he truly planned to depose her and place Mary Stuart on the throne. But the look in his eyes told a different tale. He wanted, he needed, love, as badly as she did. Suddenly everything fell into place in her mind; Robert was lost to her; she needed an heir; Alençon, judging by his letters and his demeanor, loved her and wanted to marry her. And so it should be done.
Tutbury Castle, August 1579
Mary stood at the window gazing out over the dismal marshes. Tutbury in summer was the worst place in the world to be. Why could they not make their visits here in fall or winter, she wondered, for the hundredth time? It had been a hot summer so far and the stifling weather showed no signs of abating. Not a breath of air stirred, but although the movement would have been welcome, the stench that she knew it would bring along with it was not. The only thing that stank worse than the marshes was the fetid moat, which was much closer to the castle. It was an offense to the eye as well as to the nose, with its green slime and black mud. The odor of decay emanating from it was overpowering.
She had at first been at beautiful Chatsworth in the spring, and then when that had required sweetening, they had moved on to Sheffield. She begged Elizabeth for another visit to Buxton to take the waters, and that had been granted. But she was dismayed when informed that once she departed Buxton it would be for Tutbury. Between Lord George’s properties and Bess’s, there were other places. Why, she wondered, must it be Tutbury?
She sighed and Seton looked up from her embroidery with a worried expression on her face. It had always been unlike Her Grace to be hopeless or despondent, despite years of misfortune. But for the past year or so, Mary’s despair had been kept at bay only with great effort on Seton’s part. Melancholy was a constant threat in Mary’s situation; it must be avoided at all costs or the queen would be undone. But truth to tell, Seton was weary of the task. She wondered how much longer she would be able to perform her duties to the Queen of Scots, who was, after all, also her childhood friend and companion in her exile. The years since Andrew Beaton’s death had been hard ones for her; she longed to retire from the world once and for all. But how could she leave Mary at this juncture? The answer was, she could not.
Mary turned from the window with tears in her eyes.
“Why, Seton?” she cried. “Why has God raised me up so high only to cast me down?”
“It is not God who has cast you down, Your Grace,” replied Seton with complete assurance. “It is the Queen of England.”
Mary shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said, dashing away with an impatient finger the tear that had spilled its bounds and made a crystal track down her cheek. One must be honest, at least with oneself; Elizabeth had merely completed that which her own people had begun at Carberry Hill. But she had long since come to terms with the fact that she must take responsibility for her own actions and mistakes, and their consequences. And she had no wish to burden Seton any further; so much of what she was feeling she had learnt to keep to herself. But she was dreadfully worried about James.
“Oh, Seton,” she cried on a sob. “What is to become of him?”
There was no need to ask to whom the queen referred. Seton knew that Mary worried about her son night and day.
It was ironic indeed, thought Mary, that when the Earl of Morton had been deposed from the regency the year before, he had gone to Loch Leven to lick his wounds. Only his exile had been self-imposed! She had promptly declared James regent in Scotland, not as king, but as prince. But her triumph was short-lived.
She had since suffered three blows which had knocked her so far down that she simply could not rise up again, no matter how hard she tried.
The first blow came when she learned that Elizabeth sent a letter to James offering to sanction his kingship. Her treacherous cousin convinced him to affirm her own previous abdication and allow himself to be reinstated as king of Scotland. James had wholeheartedly agreed with the plan, and had taken steps to abandon her cause in favor of Elizabeth’s offer of support. She was devastated by the news, but she had to remember that James was still a boy, with a boy’s pride; she must not mind.
The second blow came when Morton resumed power after retaking Stirling Castle. The people of the Queen’s Party had risen, but an accord was reached, and a coalition government formed. The very worst thing! James was once again back under the thumb of a man who had participated in Darnley’s murder. And from what little information she was able to get, he was very badly treated. He was allowed no exercise, and the grim Protestants afforded him no entertainment.
She had tried to arrange a marriage for James with a Spanish princess, to encourage Philip to come to her aid. But that scheme came to nothing because Catherine had a similar plan to marry him to a French princess. Neither plan had come to fruition. Checkmated again!
Mary forgave James his treachery; she was his mother. But she was bitterly disappointed, both in James and in the entire dismal situation. And then things had quietened down. The alliance between the Regent Morton and John Stuart, Earl of Atholl, once her enemy but now a staunch supporter of the Queen’s Party, appeared to be successful. Then the news had reached her in April that Atholl was dead, poisoned at Regent Morton’s own table; the coalition was dissolved. A grieving Lady Atholl had applied to Elizabeth, begging to be allowed to come to serve the queen to which her husband had pledged his loyalty; but much to Seton’s disappointment, her request was denied. Had Lady Atholl been permitted to come, Seton would have surely been able to return to the Continent, to her beloved France, to live out her days in prayer and contemplation in a convent. But alas, it was not to be. At least not yet.
The final blow was the knowledge that Alençon had deserted both the Guise and her own cause to pursue a marriage alliance with Elizabeth. The possibility of such a match had been mooted for years; but now Alençon was to come to England. Such a visit was virtually unprecedented. If the marriage negotiations were not in earnest, a royal visit, even an ostensibly secret one, would have been unthinkable. And should the marriage actually take place, it would be the death knell to all her hopes. She had thought that appearing to support the marriage to Alençon might afford her some relief; but she could see now that that was a forlorn hope. Had Alençon allied with her Guise relations, he could have come at the head of an army to liberate her. But she could see now that the duc was lazy and would rather gain his crown through a political alliance rather than war. She must accept that there was now no one who could, or would, help her to regain her throne. Even her own son had abandoned her cause. She felt isolated, forgotten, useless and superfluous.
Mary gazed about the room that was her prison at Tutbury. Such a well-appointed cage! But that was unfair; Lord George always did his best to ensure that she was comfortable, wherever they were.
Her eyes alighted upon the elaborately carved chess set that had been his New Year’s gift to her. She sighed. Her life had always been much like a chess game. Except that now it seemed she was no longer a queen, but a pawn.
Greenwich Palace, August 1579
Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting resembled a swarm of colorful butterflies as they flitted about the room. It was a pleasant day; the windows of the great chamber were thrown wide. A gentle breeze lifted the edges of the draperies. Strewn all about the chamber was a variety of fabrics in a rainbow of colors, so much so that they rivalled the gowns of her maids. All over the great bed, draped over chairs, peeking from open drawers and chests, were bales and rolls of rich crimsons and scarlets, dark, mysterious sapphire, vibrant emerald green, intriguing shot silks that emanated violet or aqua as the light played upon them. Then there were the bright yellows, cinnamon, russet, and the delicate lilac that was Elizabeth’s favorite. And standing in the corner were two enormous rolls, one of cloth of gold, and the other of cloth of silver. There was nothing like the anticipation of a royal wedding to heighten the already charged atmosphere of the royal court.
But there was plenty of time yet before a wedding must be planned; for now, the entire court was agog with preparations for the grand ball being given in honor of the French prince. Courtiers had sent as far afield as Flanders for supplies of silks and satins, damasks and brocades, velvet, and yet more cloth of gold and silver. Elizabeth and her needlewomen perused the trove, admiring this fabric, that subtle shade, saving this one in a special pile, casting off another.
It was into this scene that Robert insinuated himself uninvited.
Elizabeth looked up from a bolt of purple and blue shot silk to see him standing in the doorway. She knew that he was insanely jealous of Alençon, and while this was gratifying, it also annoyed her. Elizabeth cocked her head at Blanche, who understood instantly; she shepherded the ladies and maids out of the room.
When they were alone, Robert said, “You certainly are making a fool of yourself.”
Elizabeth did not look at him; she went on exploring the smooth feel of the silk she held in her hands. “You are jealous.”
“Humph,” Robert replied. He studied his well-manicured hands. “Of that repulsive gnome? Hardly.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, a sure warning sign. “There are qualities other than a pleasing countenance that a man may possess to charm a lady, and the Duc de Alençon possesses those in abundance.”
Robert’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? And what might those be, may one enquire? Correct me if I am wrong, but is the illustrious duc not of the house of England’s greatest enemy, and a papist to boot? Is it possible that these other qualities can outweigh the danger of such a match? How can you have lost sight of the fact that these marriage negotiations were meant to be only so much political posturing?” He had been with her just the week before when she had become angry at Sunday service; the preacher had railed from the pulpit against the French match. She had stalked out, with her fists clenched and a stormy expression on her face. It was the first inkling he had had that things were not as they should be.
“Alençon told me that he would gladly convert to please me, if only he were not heir to the French throne. Such a position requires that he remain Catholic.”
Robert dropped his hands and cried, “God’s breath, Elizabeth, listen to yourself! Heir to the French throne! Is that not reason enough to drop this absurd affectation of love for him? Have you considered what will happen when…” There was, after all, two-and-twenty years between them; the queen must expect to die first. And then where would England be?
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide and Robert stopped abruptly. It was treason even to imagine the death of the monarch, let alone voice it. “You, sir,” she said softly, “are treading on dangerous ground.”
Robert returned her level gaze. “Perhaps,” he said. “But these are things that must be said, and that a queen must consider. For instance, have you thought about what the consequences would be of an heir to England who is also heir to the throne of France? Christ on the Cross, Elizabeth! That would spell ruin for England!” There! He had said outright that which everyone else on the Council had only danced around; what the common people of England were protesting so loudly in the streets.
To his surprise, her eyes softened at the thought of what producing an heir for England would mean. What had up to this point been an abstraction had taken on new meaning. A child of her own! She had banished the thought, the desire, from her mind, as a practical impossibility. But since Alençon’s coming, the idea had taken shape and form in her mind. She knew a brief moment of sympathy for her father, who had tried so hard to get a son. But his mind had been
warped; was she not a brilliant, successful queen? One must, after all, give credit where it was due…
“And besides,” she said, “a daughter would be Queen of England, but the Salic Law in France would prevent such a one from taking that throne.”
The natural corollary statement would have been that any child she bore to Alençon might very well be male; and a son would present more problems than he solved. But instead, Robert said an unforgivable thing.
“It is a debatable point, to be sure. But who knows? Your Grace may not be able to conceive a child.”
He regretted it as soon as the words left his lips; but words once spoken cannot be called back. Her face flushed, her eyes flashed, and her fists clenched. He had made her angry. Good, then. Perhaps anger might make her see sense, where soft words and the pleadings of her Council and her people had failed. Why could she not see that such an alliance, such association with France, was a powder keg? She had always had such keen political insight; she must truly be smitten with Alençon to be so blinded to the facts. It hurt him terribly to think that he had truly lost her affection. But then what did he expect? He loved Lettice; he was happy with her. But he loved Elizabeth more.
“How dare you say such a thing?” she cried. “Have you not heard the reports of my physicians? No one is more suited to conceiving and bearing a child than myself! Why, Cecil has a neighbor who is six-and-fifty, and is expecting a child!”
“Yes,” rejoined Robert, “and that is a very great risk at such an age!”
Elizabeth’s fist came crashing down onto a side table with surprising force for one so seemingly frail. “That is a vile insinuation! The Duchess of Savoy bore a healthy child at fifty!” But she had forgotten, in her rage, how well Robert knew her; he knew that behind the anger, behind the bluster, lurked fear.
Suddenly his face seemed to crumple and there were tears in his eyes. “I worry so much for you,” he said. “I do not know what I would do if…”
In High Places Page 79
