by G Lawrence
Walsingham pointed out that I had been assured Huguenots would have freedom of religion. “You will have them live without exercise of religion.”
“Even as your Mistress suffereth the Catholics of England,” Catherine replied.
“My mistress never did promise them anything by edict,” said Walsingham, his lawyer’s brain working fast. “If she had, she would have performed it.”
“The Queen, your mistress, is to direct the government of her country, the King to direct his,” said the Medici.
“I do not ask these questions out of curiosity, but to render account to the Queen, my Mistress.”
Walsingham had more interviews with the King’s mother, in which I asked him to demand an answer to a question; if the charges against Coligny had been true, why he had not been apprehended lawfully? “The Admiral was wounded, and in bed,” Walsingham pointed out, “and surrounded by the King’s own guard. Would it not have been easy to apprehend him?”
“There was no time for the usual machinery of justice,” lied the Medici. “Huguenots were amassing, and the conspiracy posed immediate danger to the King.”
“The forces commanded by Count Montgomery were, as I heard, only forty strong,” Walsingham replied. “And only four had pistols.”
“You have heard wrong,” interjected the King. “There was great danger, and much had to be done with speed.”
“My Mistress is not convinced by all she has been told,” Walsingham said. “She is prepared to order my recall, for she fears for my life.”
It was no small threat. Recalling an ambassador was the traditional prelude to war. Charles responded, saying that if I recalled Walsingham, he would recall his ambassador, and those actions would be tantamount to declarations of war. “You will be protected, my lord ambassador,” he said to Walsingham. “Of that you have my personal assurance.”
Walsingham, thinking the word of the French King worthless, wrote to say he thought further diplomacy was madness. “The best way not to be deceived by them, is not to trust them,” he wrote.
“Walsingham must steel his heart,” I said to Cecil. “I have a man to replace him, a Catholic noble, the Earl of Worcester, but he needs time to prepare.”
“It may be said that I fear too much,” Cecil read from Walsingham’s letter. “Surely, considering the state we stand in, I think it less danger to fear too much than too little.” Setting the parchment on a stool, Cecil stared at me. “He is right, Majesty. Fearing too little means we are little prepared for what might come.”
“We are prepared, Cecil. The Channel is full of our ships, the militia is on alert and all forts of England are readied for battle. That is fear and preparation enough. More, and we descend to hysteria. Send word to Walsingham. He is not to threaten the King again. We will say he departs France for personal reasons, carrying no diplomatic significance, but he must wait until his replacement is ready.”
As I left the chamber, terror was rising in my breast. Forcing my heart to calm as I strode into the gardens, I grappled with a rising wave of panic. Such fits assailed me often, and I knew how to vanquish them. I needed space, air, and solitude.
I will not allow insanity to dictate the fate of England, I thought as I walked the paths. I will not!
Chapter Four
Windsor Palace
Autumn 1572
“She regrets now the beast she let loose,” I said to Robin as we walked in the gardens. Early frost glimmered on branches and twigs, casting silver light upon the world. We had returned from progress, finding Windsor and London still, quiet, as though waiting. “Did she think the Duc of Guise would simply play his part then retire to the wings, allowing her to claim the stage? Catherine de Medici finds that the beast of blood and ambition she set free has taken up a seat at court. She feared losing power to Coligny, but in killing him, has created a far more dangerous adversary.”
The Duc of Guise, now a hero to Catholics of France for murdering Coligny, was reportedly striding about Paris with maids throwing flowers at his feet as he walked upon cobbles which still bore stains of blood. He had risen in popularity, and was now advising the King. As Catherine had cut off the head of her Huguenot monster, a Catholic one had arisen in his place.
“Who should regret, if not her?” Robin asked. “For all the horrors that snake unleashed, if she should feel only an echo of pain in her heart for the rest of her life, it would be something.”
“Do you think she will?” I asked, my nose starting to burn in the cold air. “Those who make such choices, do they feel what they have done, or do they push their sins aside, excuse them in the eyes of God, and go on, never looking back? No one thinks they are the villain of the tale, Robin.”
I stared at the trees. They were cinder, glowing orange and red, a blaze of crimson fire, as though awash with blood. I shivered, thinking of my own sins. One day, would I stand before the Almighty, and would eyes other than His look upon me? Would the eyes of slaves I had sent my men to steal and sell burn into my soul? Would Norfolk watch me, his eyes reproachful, knowing I had sent him to his death in order to spare the life of Mary of Scots?
I started as Robin tucked my robe tighter about my bare neck. “You should have more care,” he said, his eyes a strange, beguiling mixture of anger and affection. “You will catch cold.”
A dart of love, swift and deep, struck my soul as I gazed into his eyes. I saw worry there as well as adoration. The sickness I had suffered in the summer had returned, as though the pain of the people of France had become noxious vapour, pouring into my humours, sending them into disarray. The end of September had seen me ill with headaches, aching bones and cramps. I could eat little, and spent most days merely sipping broth and beer.
“How shall cold ever catch me,” I murmured, “with you to warm me?”
“He will catch you, for you seek him out,” he scolded. “You should walk no more in the night air. Lingering sprites will take hold of your spirit.”
“All that steals my spirit is sickness of heart; poison, born of sorrow, which comes to live within me.”
“Where may one find the antidote to such poison?”
“In one place alone,” I said with a smile, “in the good hearts of my people.”
It was true enough. That was the only cure. I had feared revenge would be taken, but my people had reminded me not to underestimate them. There had been no violence, no riots, no spilt blood. My people had shown me peace where I had expected war.
It was October. The dying breath of day carried a chill scent of the coming night. Rich wood smoke fluttered upon frosty winds. Leaves cascaded from trees as the gentlest rain. One side burnished copper, crimson or rich brown and the other stark, unyielding white, they lay upon paths, rustling gently, whispering secrets. Geese were flying in the iron skies, their wings arches against the grey light shimmering above. Upon the air was the sound of whistling, as men laid hedges and herded sheep, bringing flocks from high, wind-ruffled hillsides to gentler pastures below.
And in this approach of beauty, ugly choices had to be made.
We walked on through the gardens and entered the palace, making for my chambers as I thought.
Reassured by my people’s reaction to the massacres, or rather their lack of a reaction, in physical terms at least, I had begun negotiations of peace once more with France. Catherine de Medici was desperate to maintain our alliance. She had suggested I meet Alençon in Jersey, on neutral ground, and I had declined. I was in no humour to meet this prospective husband she so desperately wished me to take, even though I had heard that Alençon had spoken out against the killings, and was supporting the, now captive, King of Navarre and his cousin Conde. I maintained I would come to no decision until assured King Charles intended to deal with his remaining Huguenot subjects justly and with mercy.
King Charles had joined with his mother, and had sent a startling offer. As the violence in his country had stumbled to an ungainly end, tripping over piled bodies in the streets, a daug
hter had been born to Charles and his new wife.
“He wishes me to be godmother?” I had asked Sieur de Mauvissiere, Charles’ special envoy, when he had brought the proposition before me.
“The King would be honoured if you would take up this sacred position for his daughter,” said the ambassador, the white plume of feathers on his cap bouncing ferociously as he nodded.
“The King does understand I am officially an excommunicant?”
“The King does not hold with Rome’s decision on the matter, Majesty.”
“Clearly.”
I had hesitated. This was quite a sign of friendship. For the King of France, named Most Christian by Rome, to offer me the post of one of the princess’ godmothers was not only a sign of rebellion against the Pope, but also a clear indication of desperation. Was Charles willing to forgo all Catholic allies in favour of England? Apparently so, for this would win him no friends.
Mauvissiere had looked wary, as well he might. Anti-French sentiment was rife at court, and Fenelon had no doubt warned him to choose his words with care, and watch his back with the same vigilance.
“And the King would be happy with a Protestant godmother to his Catholic daughter?”
“The King understands you, Majesty, see but small difference in the twin sides of the Christian faith.”
Here was an opportunity to bond in a manner that had never been attempted before. Charles’ offer may be, to him, all about diplomacy, but to me it was a way to seal the gap between the faiths, something which had ever been my goal.
“I will think on it,” I had said. “I can offer no firm answer, and I hope, given the recent turn of events, the King will understand my hesitation.”
I was not about to offer such a mighty bond between us easily or swiftly. Charles and his mother had sinned grievously. They could wait to hear if their Protestant ally would become further bonded to their house.
I had other matters to consider. There had been more calls to execute my cousin of Scots. Why she should be blamed for this atrocity, I knew not, but many thought her involved, not only for her faith, but because her family, the Guise, had played a starring role. But I had other plans.
In the summer, I had sent word to the Earl of Mar, Scotland’s Regent, to discuss the possibility of sending Mary back to her homeland and trying her there for murder. Mar had, at first, said that the trial would only be enacted as a means to keep Mary under control, as a prisoner in Scotland, but as talks went on, and Mar insisted that English soldiers be present at Mary’s execution if she were found guilty, I had come to understand he had no intention of merely holding her. He wanted her dead. If English soldiers were present at the execution of a regnant Queen, I would be implicated. I could not send her home. For a while it looked as though there was no hope, but then something else happened.
Mar died, apparently of natural causes, although poison was widely rumoured. He met his end at Stirling that October, and James Douglas, the Earl of Morton became Regent. I had high hopes for Morton. He had been part of the Treaty of Berwick, which had allowed my soldiers into Scotland to battle Marie of Guise. His pro-English stance reassured me, but he had also been part of the assassination of David Rizzio and subsequent capture and abuse of Mary whilst she was with child. This, I liked not.
But I had reasons for thinking he might be more flexible than his predecessor. Mar had been willing to accept English aid against those who still supported Mary, and Morton acted in the same vein, sending word to my Carey cousin, Lord Hunsdon, that he wanted men to aid him in taking Edinburgh Castle, which was still held by Mary’s supporters. He might get support from me, but if so, I wanted to start negotiations about Mary again.
As we walked into my chambers, I glanced at Robin, only to find him smiling gently. “Your people adore you, Majesty,” he said, continuing our conversation. “They would follow you into Hell, and will certainly follow you into peace.”
“I have been assured, in the lack of violence, that they are as one with me in thought and heart. No English blood will be spilt as French was in Paris and beyond.” I frowned. “The French want you to represent me at the baptism.”
“Then you have agreed to their proposal?”
“No, but I will. It is important for peace, and given that I am an excommunicant, it was quite a gesture for Charles to make.” I paused. “But I will not send you, Robin. You are a known champion of the Protestant cause. Sending you would put you in danger.”
“I am happy to face danger in the service of my Queen.”
“But I am not happy to risk losing you.” I smiled, listening to my two female lutenists, playing in a corner of the chamber. “The honour, and risk, go to Worcester.”
Robin did not look pleased. I set my hands on his face, cupping his strong chin. “I cannot lose my Eyes,” I murmured. “For how would I see?”
“And as you send Worcester to Paris to make peace with Charles, you send arms to the Huguenots?” Robin asked, his hands moving to my sides, holding me in an almost unseen embrace.
“I want them armed, should they have need.” My orders had been sent in secret, and arms delivered in secret too, just like all shipments we had sent to La Rochelle. Peace with France was required, but I was not willing to trust Charles and his serpent just yet.
“And as that goes on, Cecil moves to lift the embargo with Spain,” Robin said, his hands stroking the soft silk of my purple gown.
“If Cecil acts on one front, I can be free to trade with the other. That way, should we decide to switch sides, we can.”
“If Phillip would ever accept overtures of peace from you,” said Robin. “He does not trust you.”
I smiled. “The feeling is entirely mutual. But Alba is willing to talk, even if Phillip is reticent. If we can keep Spain talking, and France too, the dance goes on and no end has to come of it. As long as they are both busy chattering away, they are not thinking of coming to my land to create the same kind of hell unleashed in France.”
“France is busy enough with her own Hell.”
It was true. Huguenot forces were mounting in the countryside, and there were rumours of civil war erupting yet again. Huguenot fortresses like La Rochelle were preparing for an onslaught. No wonder Charles and his mother wanted England to become the best of friends again. They were facing hostility on all sides.
“At least this means they are no more thinking of interfering in the Low Countries,” I said.
“A small blessing.”
“We must be thankful for small blessings, Robin,” I said, stroking the curls at the nape of his neck. “Sometimes, they are all we have.”
Chapter Five
Windsor Castle
Autumn 1572
“Bring some small ale… like that I had at Oatlands last year,” I said to one of my gentlemen servers.
The man, baffled as to what that ale would be like, or how different it was to other ales, bowed and walked away, heading for the kitchens. He would ask a maid on the way, I was sure. Although I often pitied my servants, as I was hardly an easy mistress, it was their duty to follow commands, and they were accustomed to my odd requests. Recently, I had sent one of the grooms of my Privy Chamber from Greenwich to Whitehall in the middle of the night simply to fetch a white satin bolster for my bed that I had forgotten.
I wanted a good jug of ale, for I had a letter to read.
It was from Drake. Sent by a passing ship and brought to court in secret, so none would know he was acting upon my orders, the letter contained news of his mission to Nombre de Dios, the treasure house of Spain.
His youthful crew had sailed out that May. Drake captained the Pasco, with his younger brother John as master of the Swan. Their youngest brother, Joseph, was also part of Drake’s crew.
“Without incident we passed the islands of Dominica and Guadalupe,” he wrote, “stopping for provisions and water, but when we came to Port Pheasant, we found signs of trouble. There was smoke rising from the forest, near to the base I had es
tablished, leading me to believe that the port, which I thought uninhabited, was not. Undaunted, and restless with curiosity, I sent a boat and led my party to shore. We found a fire some few days old, still smouldering and this was the source of the smoke. But there was more; a warning written on parchment and nailed to a tree:
Captain Drake, if you fortune to come to this port, make haste away, for the Spaniards which you had with you here the last year have betrayed this place, and taken away all you left here. I departed from hence, this present of 7 of July, 1572.
Your very loving friend, John Garret.
Whilst discomforted to find that my brother of Plymouth, Garret, had been so moved as to leave warnings for me as he sailed away, I was not torn from my purpose. I brought the pinnaces to shore and set my men to work. We erected a stockade for security, and felled trees for defences.
