Blood of my Blood

by G Lawrence

  “And alienate France? If we have not France, to whom do we turn? To Spain, where Phillip danced a jig and laughed merrily to hear of the deaths of thousands? To Rome, where the new Pope maintains I am a heretic bastard with no right to the throne? And if not to those powers, then whom do we reach out to? To the Low Countries where all is mayhem, or to Protestant princes of the north, whose kingdoms are too small to offer true support? Where do we turn, Cecil? If you have an answer, share it, for I am at a loss.”

  Cecil’s eyes dropped to his lap, staring at one of his habitual lists.

  “You will find no answer there, old friend,” I said. “And there is no answer that will satisfy my people, or the private wishes of my heart. Would to God I might take up a sword myself, Cecil, and fly to Paris to take revenge upon the Mother of the King! All my life I have spoken with the tongue of peace and yet now, with rage and sorrow burning my blood, I would make war if I could.”

  I was not the only one harbouring vicious desires. Robin, once more the knight of Protestant causes, was urging violence as a cure for violence. Many of my Council thought the same. But if I rushed in now what would it cost England? I could not condone what had occurred, but I was in a difficult position, trapped between the necessity of retaining England’s allies, and the raging wrath of my people.

  I stopped, leaning on a chair of dark oak for support, my fingers stroking carved Tudor roses. “I cannot wage war,” I said. “I must set aside my private wishes, and do what is right for England… and my people must do the same. If we do not keep a channel open with King Charles, Catholic Spain and Catholic France may unite, and what of England then? We must choose which devils to make friends with, Cecil, and we must choose well. Our future depends on it.”

  “This is a dark choice.”

  “Both dark and light are necessary, old friend, in the dealings of kings.”

  Cecil thought for a moment. “And that includes the devil of Scotland, madam?”

  I scowled. Many were calling for Mary to be arrested and executed, thinking she was part of this widespread Catholic plot to subdue England. Those calling for her head evidently did not see that to execute her without any proof of involvement would provoke the Pope or Phillip of Spain to attack on her behalf. With France reduced to a tenuous, and potentially dangerous ally, we hardly needed more Catholic powers rising to threaten us.

  “She will be kept under watch,” I said.

  I walked to the window to look out upon Woodstock. The sun was setting, phoenix flame upon the dazzling horizon. Birds were roosting. I wished I had their happy ability to find safety. Everywhere I turned danger was close, a physical presence at my side, as was Death.

  Perhaps it was fitting we had come to my old prison. Even in my time in the Tower of London I had never surrendered to despair, not as I had here. A prisoner in limbo, fluttering on the edges of possibility, I had known what it was to be shut away from the world. Woodstock had, in truth, been a greater test than the Tower, for there I dwelled under the shadow of death, imbuing me with the desire to live. Here, I had come to understand what it was to be ignored, rendered insignificant, as my sister had intended.

  And was I not now facing the same? On the day I heard of the massacre, I had entered a new cage made of suspicion and bloodshed rather than of locks and doors. I had become once more a watcher on the edges of events. What good were all my powers when I could not save people of my faith from death, when I was not sure I could save my own people, blood of my blood, from seeking a revenge that would destroy all that was good within them? Insignificance is a small, lonesome place to dwell. I did not welcome it.

  “Is Fenelon still waiting?” I asked.

  “Indeed, Majesty, at Oxford. We have not allowed him closer than that, although he begs daily to be admitted into your presence.”

  I snorted. Of course. The Ambassador was desperate to explain away the events in France and maintain peace. I had refused his request to come to me for two days.

  “Tell him to come tomorrow. It is time for France to answer for what they have done.”

  Chapter Two

  Woodstock Palace

  September 1572

  It was a barren, black landscape that met the French Ambassador when he came to Woodstock the next day. At my command the whole court had dressed in black since the massacre. And it was deathly quiet. No music played, no laughter was heard, no voice raised above a murmur. I had sent my musicians, dancers and acrobats home, banned all fireworks and feasts. Catholic countries might have gone wild with celebration for the deaths of so many, but England would not. We would greet this tragedy as we greeted the ambassador of the country where it occurred; in blackness, in silence, and in anger.

  Fenelon approached the dais, a sheen of sweat glistening upon his brow. He feared he might become the focus of Protestant rage and retribution. A shard of spite struck through me as I thought of Walsingham, still performing his duties even under fear of his life. If my man had to endure terror in France, it was fitting Fenelon should mirror that here.

  Courtiers lining the walls stared at Fenelon with undisguised hostility. Men flicked dagger-points with thumbnails and women glowered. Eyes burned into his neck, where beads of sweat, glimmering like pearls, raced from nape to spine. Robin, at my side, was a tower of fire and ice. Wrath radiated from him like rays of the sun.

  As Fenelon reached me, I saw his eyes flicker with concern at the stark expression on my face. My eyes bored into him, my lips did not lift into a smile. My face was pale, but not only from sorrow and anger. As we had heard of the massacre, I had fallen ill. Blanche blamed the night air, for in distress I had taken a walk, thinking to soothe my troubled soul with the peace of darkness, and had come back bearing aching bones and shivering flesh. A day in bed had set me right, or so I had thought, until I fell ill again a week later with pains in the belly, and had to spend a week abed.

  “Most gracious Majesty,” Fenelon began, his voice uncharacteristically reedy with restrained alarm. “I bring my King’s most felicitous fraternal greetings.”

  “From what I hear, lord ambassador, there is little that is fraternal or felicitous in France at this time. It would seem the people of France have forgotten ties of blood and promises of protection sworn. And if such can be forgot with ease between brothers of the same country, I wonder what worth the promises of France hold for allies of a different race, and differing faith.”

  “Majesty, false rumours are abroad that I fear you have heard,” Fenelon stumbled to say. “I swear to you, my King has been maligned. He acted only to preserve the lives of his family, and the peace of his nation.”

  Great muttering erupted around us. I arched an eyebrow at Fenelon.

  “A plot against the King’s life was uncovered,” Fenelon went on, “which thrust His Majesty into actions which, although regrettable, were not without justification.”

  Before the ambassador could sign his own death warrant, I rose and led him to a window seat. “Do you wish for a dagger in your back, lord ambassador?” I whispered grimly. “If so, continue to speak as though the massacres in France were justified, and you will render me quite unable to protect you from the wrath of my men.”

  “Majesty, I swear to you, this is as I have been told it. The King uncovered a dangerous plot dreamed up by Huguenots to murder him and his family, and place Henri de Navarre upon his throne. Many leading Huguenots were embroiled, and orders went out to take them by force. When they resisted, they were killed.”

  “And all who died in the streets of Paris were likewise embroiled? Every man, woman and child slain were in on this plot?”

  “When news spread, His Majesty’s subjects became enraged. His Majesty did not intend what occurred. It was a regrettable consequence of the love of his people.”

  “You would tell me love did this?” I asked, colour rising on my cheeks.

  “Love may bring out the worst, and best, in all of us, Majesty.” Fenelon paused. “The King regrets what was done
to his innocent Huguenot subjects, and wishes me to assure you, his valued ally and beloved sister, that there will be no persecution of Huguenots, and the edicts on religious tolerance will not be revoked.”

  I smiled without humour. “Since there are few Huguenots left in France, lord ambassador, and those who are alive are fleeing to my kingdom, you will forgive me if I think those promises bear little weight.” I looked away from him.

  “Sometimes, Fenelon, people look upon me and think me an unnatural creature. They understand not my impulses or what drives a woman to sit in the seat of a man. They think I am without emotion, lost to the natural sensations of a woman. But when I heard of the killings, I wept. I wept long and I wept hard, lord ambassador. I felt as though I stood in those streets as blood ran down the gullies, as I heard the screaming of my own children, my own mother, my own father. Whatever provocation there was which led your King to order the deaths of so many, there can be no excuse for such widespread, unholy, and cursed violence. Never again tell me there was justification for what occurred, for there is none. Just as there are no words to explain what such ruthless brutality will rend into the soul of humanity.”

  Fenelon remained silent as I gazed about the chamber. “Do you see the eyes of my men, lord ambassador? Do you see how they burn?” Fenelon inclined his head and I continued. “I see in them a fire lit in France, and I will be damned to the lowest pit of Hell before I allow those flames to ignite England. Where your master allowed this monster free, I will chain it to the ground. And in order to do this, I must act against all of my Councillors and every impulse screaming in my blood.”

  I stared into his eyes. “Tell your King that as he is my brother, and a fellow monarch, I am duty-bound to accept his version of events.” As Fenelon breathed an audible sigh, I continued. “But if he wishes to keep my friendship, your King will do everything within his power to make amends for the blood that has been spilt, and to restore his honour, which is now blemished in the eyes of the world.”

  “And the matter of marriage between Your Majesty and the Duc de Alençon?”

  I turned my black eyes on Fenelon and stared at him until he looked away. “There is no matter of marriage,” I said. “Nor will there ever be, unless I am assured the King of France means to protect his subjects…. All of them.” I nodded to the dais. “You will stand before me and offer your government’s explanation of the event, and I will listen. But, if you value your life, and peace between our countries, Fenelon, make it convincing. And if you must refer to it as anything, call it an accident, for if you say one more time that it was justified, I will not wait for my men to take your head. I will take it myself.”

  We returned to stand before the court, and Fenelon said he had come to lament with us. King Charles had, he protested, been forced to act for fear of his life, but the slaughter had been an unwanted accident. “What has been done is as painful to my King as if he had cut off one of his own arms to protect his body,” Fenelon said, his eyes darting to Robin, still glowering like a demon.

  “This is a different explanation to the one I have heard from my own ambassador,” I said. “And the difference must be explained. But as my brother of France is a king, and the word of a king is sacred, we will accept his word that this was an accident.”

  There were a great deal of angry murmurs, but I fixed eyes of molten steel upon my courtiers. What I said had to be accepted. If it was not, all Hell would break lose in England.

  “I understand you are hurt, Your Majesty,” Fenelon said, “and your good people with you. I sorrow this accident has stirred English hearts to anger, where once, not so long ago, we were good and loyal friends. I will write to my master and his mother, telling them only their sovereign balm can heal this hurt.”

  Fenelon put on a good show, but he convinced few. The Huguenot plot of assassination would suffice as a reason why I was still allies with France, and why my people should not rise against their Catholic neighbours. Coligny was dead, and whatever lies were spread about him could not hurt him now. I had to protect my people, my country, and the only way to do that was to hold my part of this troubled world together, and keep allies close, no matter how I despised them, to keep foes at bay.

  Chapter Three

  Windsor Palace

  Autumn 1572

  Missives came from London, reporting that despite fears to the contrary, the capital seemed at peace. The Watch patrolled at night and militia in the day, keeping radical preachers from stirring riots, and furious people from slaughtering their neighbours out of fear. Thus far, our measures were working. I therefore decided to continue with progress, attempting to install an air of harmony in my people. Through Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire we rode, stopping at the houses of lords. My men were alarmed, thinking it unreasonable folly, but in the whirling fog of chaos falling upon the world, I had to maintain order. The best way to do that was to continue on as usual, keeping the myth of normality alive.

  “The Bishop of London writes to urge you home to London, madam,” Cecil said one morning as a blood-red dawn broke over the skies, threatening rain. “He says your presence will comfort hearts oppressed by fear.”

  “And one of the measures he suggests to offer comfort is murder,” I noted, my eyes coming to end of Sandy’s letter. In his missive was a list of measures for my safety, including the suggestion I should “forthwith cut off the Scottish Queen’s head.”

  “Many think it a reasonable measure,” Cecil said.

  “There is no evidence my cousin was in any way involved with the massacre. And despite all that has been said in Council, no French ships have been sighted sailing for England. I know you all think the slaughter in France was but the start of a wider plot to destroy Protestantism and depose me, but there is no evidence to support that.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “Act against Mary now, without proof and with hands governed by hysteria, and it certainly will bring invasion upon us.”

  “Without her, Catholics would have no suitable candidate to replace you.”

  “Nonsense, Cecil. With her death the claim of Phillip of Spain would be made stronger, and you know it.” I sighed. “The answer is no.”

  “It is the only way to prevent your murder, Majesty.”

  “It is not,” I said. “The way to prevent that is to stand apart from the madness infecting the world. Act in haste and without thought, Cecil, and we become as the people of Paris. No, we will stand fast and hold our nerve. That is the English way.”

  But it was not only Cecil and the Bishop of London urging me to murder Mary. Robert Beale, Walsingham’s brother-in-law and a clerk of my Council, composed a work soon after, writing of a conspiracy of Catholic nations against Protestants. He saw Mary as part of the inherent danger of Catholicism, and said she was the chief peril within England. There was only one remedy, he wrote, “the death of the Jezebel.”

  Walsingham’s voice joined Beale’s from Paris. He had met with the King and Charles’ serpent mother several times since the massacre. Walsingham explained that Catherine de Medici protested she was at a loss to understand why friendship seemed in peril with England, and why the marriage between Alençon and me was no more to be negotiated. Of course you do not understand, I thought. You keep no heart in that hollow chest.

  Walsingham had wasted no words, telling the Queen Mother that, due to the massacre she appeared to have forgotten, trust was in doubt between our nations, and therefore marriage, the ultimate gesture of trust, could not be spoken of. He went on to explain that the French King had violated the edicts granting religious liberty to Huguenots, and we had heard France intended to invade England.

  Catherine was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a blunt way, but she remained calm. She told Walsingham the treaty signed between France and England was made between those nations, not between Admiral Coligny and Queen Elizabeth, and differences in religion had not prevented it being signed or respected. She went on to suggest we had been misled in thinking Coligny w
as a great friend to England, as she had seen his will, in which he told his King to beware of England and its Queen.

  She thinks I am only upset that a potential political ally is dead? I thought as I heard of this meeting. Catherine apparently only considered Coligny’s death to be of consequence. The other ten thousand people or more who had died were evidently trivial.

  Walsingham asked to see the document, much to her surprise, and was handed it. “This merely shows the Admiral was a faithful servant to his King,” he said, “for it is only wise to be cautious about making friends with other nations.” He went on to insist the edicts promising freedom of worship to Protestants had been abused.

  “They shall enjoy the liberty of their consciences,” said the Medici snake.

  “And the exercise of their religion, too?” asked Walsingham.

  Catherine said that was not possible. There was one religion in France, as in England.