by Jean Plaidy
Who knew, in time, she might even marry him!
He was her “Eyes” once more. No one could amuse her as he could. She doubted not that if he would remember all she asked of him, he would rekindle that old affection which had seemed to die.
He was cautious now; he was wiser; he was not content merely to be the courtier. He would be the statesman also. He stood with Cecil to govern the country.
It became clear to those about him that they would be wise not to ignore him in the future. He might have his differences with the Queen; but he was still her favorite man.
When he fell ill, she was herself filled with anxiety. She visited him in his apartments on the lower floor of the palace and, examining them, declared that she feared they were damp and not good for his health. He should be moved to better quarters immediately, for she could not allow her Eyes to run such risks.
The quarters she chose for him were immediately adjoining her own.
A gasp of astonishment greeted this decision. It was an indiscretion which might have been committed in the days of her early passion for the man.
It became clear that, although there might be differences between them, those differences would be as ephemeral as lovers’ tiffs, provoked rather for the enjoyment of ultimate reconciliation than through anger or by a lessening of their love.
EIGHT
As time passed, Robert was constantly with the Queen, but their relationship had become a more sober one. He was still her favorite, but they were like a married couple who have passed through stages of passion to trust and friendship, which was, in its way, more satisfying than the earlier relationship had been.
All eyes were now watching events in Scotland, and the matrimonial adventures of Queen Mary were leading all England to think that, in remaining unmarried, Elizabeth was again showing her sagacity.
After the murder of Rizzio, the Queen’s husband—Darnley—had met a violent death in which many believed Mary to have played a part.
Elizabeth was alert. She thought of Mary in that wild and barbaric land, a dainty woman, brought up at the intellectual but immoral Court of France, a passionate and lustful woman who had a power to attract men which was apart from her crown.
Mary was weak in those characteristics which were the strength of Elizabeth. She would be impetuous where Elizabeth would always employ the greatest caution. Yet Elizabeth knew that there were some in the country—and this applied particularly to those staunch Catholics, the Northern Peers such as the Percys and the Nevilles—who would like to see Mary on the throne of England. Therefore, everything that Mary did was of the utmost importance to England.
But Mary was a fool in some matters, whereas Elizabeth was the wiliest woman in the world.
Elizabeth thought often of all that had happened to Mary. Had she, wondered Elizabeth, planned the murder of Darnley with that ruffian Bothwell? She knew that the barbaric chief—which was how she thought of Bothwell—had had to divorce his wife in order that he might marry Mary. Was it true that he had raped and abducted the Queen of Scots?
Mary was a fool to give great power to a man like Bothwell. Mary forgot that which Elizabeth would never forget—the dignity of queenship.
Cecil came to her with fresh news.
“Madam, the lords of Scotland have risen against Bothwell and the Queen. They accuse them of the murder of Darnley. Bothwell has escaped to Denmark and the Queen of Scots has been brought captive to Edinburgh.”
“A prisoner…in her own capital city!” cried the Queen.
“The people of Edinburgh have abused her as she passed through their streets. They cry out that she should be burned alive. They say she is an adulteress and a murderess, and should not be allowed to live.”
“How dare they!” cried Elizabeth. “And she a Queen!”
Cecil looked at her. His eyes were steady. He was telling her without words that if the people of Edinburgh should take it upon themselves to do what they would call justice to the Queen of Scotland, Elizabeth would be without a powerful rival. Perhaps his thoughts ran on as hers did. If they could have the baby Prince brought to England and put in charge of the Queen’s Parliament, much trouble might be saved.
Mary’s disaster was Elizabeth’s opportunity—as Cecil saw it.
But Elizabeth could not get out of her mind the picture of Mary, a captive, riding through the streets of Edinburgh, while the mob shouted at her. All other emotions were submerged by the horror of that picture, for Mary, like Elizabeth, was a Queen. How could one Queen rejoice in the insults thrown at another? Elizabeth might be jealous of Mary; she might even hate Mary; but she would never approve of insults being thrown at an anointed Queen, for no such evil precedent must be set.
Cecil, watching her, marveled at her yet again. The woman and the Queen! He could never be sure with which of them he had to deal.
When the little coffer of silver and gilt was brought to England, feelings ran high against Mary, for the coffer contained those letters—always known as the Casket Letters—which Bothwell was reputed to have left behind him in his flight. These letters—if they were not forgeries—damned the Queen, labeling her as Bothwell’s accomplice in the murder of Darnley.
Still Elizabeth would defend her. And when Mary escaped from her captors, raised men to fight for her, was defeated and threw herself once more on Elizabeth’s mercy, though there were many to urge the execution of this dangerous woman, still Elizabeth continued to remember that Mary was a Queen. Elizabeth must uphold the status of royalty. Kings and Queens might err, but the common people must see them as the chosen of God, and the peers must never be allowed to judge them. Mary was certainly a foolish woman; there was little doubt that she was a murderess; there was still less that she was an adulteress; but she was a Queen.
“The lords have no warrant nor authority by the law of God or man,” said Elizabeth, “to be superiors, judges, or vindicators over their Prince and Sovereign, howsoever they do gather and conceive matters of disorder against her.”
That was the Queen’s verdict, and she did not forget that Mary and Bothwell stood in relationship to Darnley as once she and Robert had to Amy Robsart.
She would have a dangerous enemy to contend with, but that enemy was merely a woman and a foolish one; she had the Catholics to consider; but these matters were tangible. A subtle canker growing in the minds of the people was an entirely different matter; for that grew unseen and unchecked; it could undermine all thrones, all royalty.
She offered Mary asylum in England, first in the Castle at Carlisle, then, as she felt that to be too near the borders of England and Scotland, in the Castle of Bolton at Wensleydale. Let her stay there while the Queen of England waited on her old friend Time.
Mary was tempestuous, arrogant, and willful. She had expected to be received at Elizabeth’s Court. She had not come as a prisoner, she complained, but as a visiting Queen.
Elizabeth could deal with that matter. Mary, she answered, was being given protection, for her position was a dangerous one. The Queen of England would be remorseful to the end of her days if aught happened to her dear sister while she was in her care. And as for coming to the Court, Mary would readily see that the Queen—as an unmarried woman so closely related to Lord Darnley—could not, in propriety, receive Mary at her Court while she was still under suspicion of Darnley’s murder.
Her dear sister of Scotland must understand that nothing would delight her more than to hear that the truth had been discovered and Mary proclaimed innocent of her husband’s murder.
So Mary had to be content with her captive state; and the Queen waited, ever watchful of her dear sister, yet determined to show the people that Queens were above reproach, no matter what charges were brought against them.
This was necessary, for Amy Robsart had a disturbing habit of rising from the grave now and then. The people must not be allowed to make unhappy comparisons.
It was at this time that the rift with Spain became too wide to be ignored.
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br /> To England the Queen was a symbol. She gathered handsome and chivalrous men about her; they must be gallant and adventurous. She wished to be to them a fair ideal, the mistress they all wished to serve because they were in love with her perfections; yet she was the mother, and their welfare was the clearest concern of her life. She was Woman, warm and human, yet because she was an anointed Queen, she was invulnerable and unassailable. She wanted her men to be bold, to perform feats of courage and adventure for her sake; these she rewarded with her smiles and favors. She was a spiritual mistress; they must be faithful to her; they must perpetually seek to please her; their words to her, their thoughts of her, must be the words and thoughts of lovers. They must all be in love with her; to them she must be the perfect woman. But they must never forget that she was mistress of them all. And while to her handsome and gallant courtiers, to her statesmen and soldiers, she was the queenly mistress and beloved woman, they must constantly remember that to her people she was Mother—the all-embracing Mother—and her thoughts and her energies were directed toward the good of her people. She wished England to be a happy home for her people—a prosperous home—and as, to her belief no home could be happy and prosperous unless it were peaceful, she abhorred war.
Often she would say to her ministers when she reproved them for urging her to some action, of which she did not approve, against a foreign power: “My father squandered great wealth in war. I have studied the histories of many countries, and I have never yet seen any good come out of war. There is a great waste of a nation’s substance and its man-power; there is poverty, famine, pain, and heartbreak but never good. I am not a King to seek military glory. That has no charm for me. I am a Queen—not the father but the mother of my people; and I wish to see them content in their home. I know this contentment can be brought about by our prosperous merchants, by good harvests. My people would love me less if I wrung taxes from them to pay for wars, as others have done before me. And I am a mother who wishes to keep her children’s love.”
So did she hate the thought of war that she would grow angry if any spoke of it; and often during a meeting of the Council she would slap a statesman’s face or take off her slipper and throw it at him, because she believed he was urging his fellows toward a war-like policy.
But at the same time she longed to make England great; and England was beginning to be aware of her sea power. John Hawkins had begun the slave trade, which was proving profitable for England; he was taking cargoes of men and women from West Africa to Central America and the West Indies for the local planters. His young cousin, Francis Drake, had given up dreaming dreams on Plymouth Hoe and had joined Hawkins. These two intrepid seamen of the West Country had already come into stormy contact with the Spaniards on the high seas and off the coasts of Mexico and Peru. Martin Frobisher was wondering why the sea and the new lands should be left a prey to Spain and Portugal. Were not the English as bold—if not bolder—than the Spaniards! If English ships lacked the elegance of Spanish galleons, the bravery of English seamen made up for that. Moreover, did they not serve a Queen before whom they wished to show their mettle!
She applauded them, but silently. She was the mistress before whom they might strut, at whose feet they must lay their treasures. But it was to be clearly understood that they must bring no harm to her family. If these adventurers looked upon the Spaniards on the high seas as their natural enemies, if they took on the role of pirates and stole the plunder which the Spaniards had already stolen before them—that was all well and good; but her family must remain safe. She would not go to war on behalf of her pirates. What they did was their own affair. They must finance their own adventures; she would not tax her children to provide the funds. Let them show themselves true men—men who believed in their ventures; she would love them all the better for that.
Thus she secretly encouraged her adventurers while openly she washed her hands of them. Spain looked on in puzzled irritation. What could be done against such a woman? She made her own rules. She was perversely feminine when it suited her to be.
She had always had the common touch, but during these years the affection of the people deepened for her. They accepted her at her own valuation—as someone more than human. Yet she was continually showing them how human she was, continually discarding formality, which she said was made for her, not the Queen for it. She had pet names for those who served her. First, of course, was her beloved Eyes; and now a new young man, Christopher Hatton, had won her favor. Handsome, charming, capable of making flowery speeches, he was also the most excellent dancer she had ever known. She called him her “Lids.” Meanwhile Cecil had become her “Spirit.”
The trouble with Spain had increased with the dismissal of her ambassador, Dr. Mann, from Madrid. Elizabeth bridled. The Queen would not, she said, lightly forget this insult from Spain. She added that Philip had never forgiven her for refusing to marry him, and that was why he had sent that odious de Spes as ambassador to replace his charming predecessor. De Spes did not compliment her nor flatter her, and she disliked him intensely; she was sure he was determined to misrepresent her to his master.
She was in this mood when four Spanish ships on the way to Flanders were chased by French pirates and forced to take refuge in Southampton, Falmouth, and Plymouth.
When Cecil and Robert brought the news to her she smiled complacently.
“And what do these ships contain?” she asked.
“Bullion,” Cecil told her. “It comes from Genoese merchants, and is a loan on the way to Alba in Flanders.”
“And Your Majesty knows well for whom that money is intended,” said Robert.
“I do. It is to pay those soldiers of his who are making it possible for him to stay in that wretched land and torture its people.”
“I fear so, Your Majesty,” said Cecil.
“It makes me sad to think of those poor souls,” she said, “at the mercy of Alba and his Inquisition.”
“Many of those who have escaped have found refuge in this land,” Robert reminded her. “They will bless Your Majesty until they die.”
“Poor men! Poor men! And this bullion is to pay those wretches…those soldiers who serve such tyrants. What think you, my dear Eyes? What think you, Sir Spirit, would His Most Catholic Majesty do if that bullion never reached his tyrant Duke?”
“He would say that of Your Majesty which I would not dare utter,” said Robert.
“I did not ask what he would say, Robert. I asked what he would do.”
Cecil said: “His hands are tied. He could do nothing. His forces are not at his disposal. He has too much territory to guard. If the bullion did not reach Alba it is possible that his soldiers would mutiny.”
She gave her high laugh and her eyes sparkled. “Then, my dear lords, the bullion must not reach Alba. Have not the French pirates attempted to attack the ships in my ports? Let the bullion be brought to London for safekeeping. It is private property, is it not? It is the property of Genoese merchants. I cannot see that it belongs to His Most Catholic Majesty any more than to me. We could use a loan, could we not? And here it is on our very shores.”
Cecil was silent. Robert was gleeful.
“God’s Death!” he cried, using one of her oaths. “Why should we not crush this Catholic domination? Why should Your Majesty not be supreme head of the Protestant world?”
“There speaks the soldier,” she said, giving him a sharp tap on the cheek. “Let us have war that my lord of Leicester may distinguish himself and bring great glory to his name! Nay, Robert, the good things are won in peace. Is that not so, Master Cecil?”
“At this time, Madam, it would be daring enough to confiscate the bullion.”
“What reprisals could be taken by our little saint in his Escorial?”
“I do not think he is in a position to do overmuch. But there is the wool trade to consider and, as Your Majesty is well aware, our best customers are the Low Countries. Alba could seize our merchants’ goods there.”
“Well, we could seize the goods of the Netherlanders in England, which I believe are greater. Think of the riches these Netherlanders have built up in our country. Why, if we seized their goods and property here they would make such an outcry that the Spaniards would be forced to come to a peaceful settlement. Nay, my dear lords, no harm will come of this. We shall have the bullion as our loan; and this will teach these Spaniards to have more respect for Englishmen on the high seas. Hawkins was treated maliciously by those Spanish Dons in Mexico. Shall I allow my subjects to be treated thus?”
“But Hawkins gave as good as he got, Your Majesty,” said Robert.
“As good as he got? Nay, better, which is what I would expect of an Englishman.”
And in such good mood was she that Robert dared show his jealousy of her newest favorite.
“This Hatton man,” he said, when Cecil had left them. “Your Majesty cannot truly be so delighted with his company as it would seem.”
“But I am, Robert. I am. I declare my Lids are as necessary to me as my Eyes…or nearly so.”
“How can you say that?” he demanded passionately.
“Because it is true, dear Eyes.”
“Your Majesty seeks to torment me.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because I have loved you long and you grow tired of such enduring devotion.”
“God’s Body!” she cried. “Never would I tire of fidelity. It is to my way of thinking the most endearing quality.”
“And Your Majesty doubts mine?”
“I doubt it not, dear Robin. Doubt not mine for you.”
He kissed her hand, wondering whether he might speak to her of marriage, but he was more cautious than he had been in the days before that spell of disfavor. She smiled at the frown between his brows, and she thought: Dear Robin, he grows older. He loses those handsome looks.
There were streaks of white in the once black hair; the skin beneath the eyes was a little pouchy, the fine line of the jaw a little flabby. A tenderness came over her. She would not tell him so, but she loved him no less than she had in the days when she had so often thought of him as a husband. If her thoughts were calmer now, they were no less affectionate.
