by G Lawrence
I had to formally call off negotiations of marriage with France. Although I needed them as allies, to continue to offer hope about marriage was frightening my men. England had remained at peace so far. I did not need anyone becoming fearful, lashing out against Catholics.
“We were sorry,” I wrote, “to hear, first, the great slaughter made in France of noblemen and gentlemen, unconvinced and untried, so suddenly, as it is said at the King’s commandment, did seem with us so much to touch the honour of our good brother as we could not but with lamentation and with tears of our heart hear it of a prince so well allied to us… But when was added unto it, that women, children, maids, young infants, and suckling babes were at the same time murdered and cast into the river, and that liberty of execution was given to the vilest and basest sort of the popular, without punishment of revenge of such cruelties done afterwards by law upon those cruel murderers of such innocents…”
I went on to explain I had come to understand the only people who had been arrested or questioned after the massacre were Huguenots; no Catholics had been brought to justice. In seeing this, I said, it seemed clear that Charles of France meant to ignore justice and root out the Protestant faith in his lands. I wanted Charles to understand I was calling off negotiations because of his treatment of Huguenots, both during the slaughter and after. If he was willing to uphold their right to some religious liberty, as promised, and would punish men who had embarked upon mass murder, I would resume talks, but not before.
It was blackmail. If Charles did as I wished I would relent. If not, we could remain allies but not become sworn kin. He needed to choose between stability and fragility. With cities all over France under siege and with rebellion looming, I thought he was likely to make peace with England and with his people, rather than further war.
He might retaliate, complaining I allowed no religious freedom to Catholics, of course… ignoring the lax imposition of my laws. But I, unlike him, had offered no religious freedom. It was vital I did not, for England had been fractured by religion in the past, and it was my job to stick the shattered pieces back together again. That meant a united front. My Church worked for the majority, if they allowed it to. The Catholic Church of France did not work for Huguenots.
With blackmail done, I gratefully headed back into the embrace of enjoyment. On Twelfth Night, Robin presented me with two glittering collars, set with precious stones. I took to wearing them on alternating days, wallowing in the love that flowed from them, rich and deep, as perfume against my skin.
But if I was pleased with Robin, I was not so with Cecil. I believed he was embarking on his own plan of nefarious blackmail. Rumours about Hatton and me had only increased, and I was sure Cecil was behind them, trying to shame me into abandoning at least one favourite. Unwilling to cede, I had called Hatton back to court for New Year’s. He presented me with a beautiful coin set with rubies and diamonds, along with two pearl pendants, and I had granted him a set of silver-gilt plate. Plate was a common gift I presented to courtiers, but the amount Hatton received was remarkable; four hundred ounces was a greater amount than anyone had ever been given by me. I meant to show my people, and more importantly, Cecil, that Hatton was not gone from my affections, and no gossip could make him disappear.
Rumours of another man who was talented at poking about where others thought he had no right filtered back to England that winter: Drake.
Although there was no letter for me this time, I heard Drake had been sighted in Cartagena, and had plundered and captured several Spanish ships. Although the port was already on alert, hearing that El Draque, the Dragon, as the Spanish had started to call Drake, was nearby, my wily pirate had evaded capture. He had made an alliance with the Cimarrones, escaped slaves now living within hidden settlements in the New World, which the Spanish feared greatly. So strong was this alliance, it was said, that Drake was now constantly in the company of a former slave, named Diego, who had become his chief advisor.
Stories of Drake were leaking into England from many sources. He was terrorising the coast of New Spain, it was said, seizing all ships entering Cartagena, and sending the Spanish into a medley of confusion and terror.
“He is doing well,” I chuckled to Robin. “Phillip will rend his hair from its roots, spend all his time demanding I do something, and will send men to chase Drake, leaving him less time to concentrate on the Netherlands or England.”
“Phillip will be none too pleased to hear of Drake’s successes,” said Robin.
“Phillip must learn to share the seas, or see his spoils taken from him. If he would allow my men and merchants the same rights as his own to trade and shift goods, I would not have to resort to piracy.”
Robin laughed. “Only you, my dear Elizabeth, could come up with such an excuse.”
I offered him a roguish smile. “We are all pirates and thieves, in truth,” I told him. “Some of us are just better at not getting caught.”
“And would you see that thought enter the Inns of Court, my Queen?”
“Certainly not. For a thief to steal the purse of another man is a crime, for that purse is not bottomless, nor endless, and will lead to misery for his family. For a queen to send men to steal from a covetous king who will not share trading rights with other nations is simple redistribution of the wealth of the world.”
Robin smiled, shaking his head at my twisted logic.
“We were once promised to one another, Phillip and I,” I said. “He cannot forget that he once was fated to be my master. That is what makes him so enraged; the thought that he should rule me.” I looked to the gilt ceiling. “Poor fool. He cannot see I have no master.”
Phillip sent his ambassador to court, demanding I do something about Drake. I sympathised… then promptly did nothing at all. Drake was useful to me, and when he came home I would have a share in his bounty. I was not about to prevent my man from creating chaos for Phillip. That would decrease my share in the spoils and would free Phillip to concentrate on England or the Low Countries. I wanted my good brother of Spain distracted, and Drake was infinitely distracting.
Phillip was not alone in experiencing troubles that winter. Shrewsbury wrote to Cecil, asking to be discharged of his task of guarding my cousin of Scots.
“He says his is a thankless task, Majesty,” Cecil said. “And with the late, false rumours, we might understand that.”
I tapped my fingers on the tabletop, feeling vaguely ashamed. Rumours had arisen claiming Shrewsbury’s security was lax, and Bess was too intimate with the Scottish Queen. Shrewsbury had been ill, and this was given as the cause for his laxity, but when I had fallen sick, alarm had risen swiftly. I had heard the rumours, and had sent men to Shrewsbury to scold him… only to receive reports that the security about Mary was tight, well-handled and solid. My men could not understand where the rumours had sprung from.
But Cecil had an idea.
“I think the rumours were set loose to create doubt in Your Majesty’s mind,” he had told me. “The Queen of Scots’ supporters realised they could do little to free her whilst she remained under Shrewsbury, so sought to make you take her from him by using foul slander. In another place, with a less careful guardian, they might finally spirit her away.”
Hearing this, I had felt immediate chagrin. Were it not for my falling ill, I would not have tripped into this trap set by my enemies. I had treated Shrewsbury badly; a poor reward for faithful service.
“I want him kept in post,” I said. “Would it not fan the lingering embers of this gossip to take him away now? Would not his reputation be ruined by people thinking I am taking him from this post out of fear he has grown too close to Mary Stewart?”
“Perhaps, Majesty, but I am not sure he cares. He has been unwell. The task is long, hard, inflicts much toil on the mind, and his wife is often away, dealing with their other affairs, and therefore cannot aid him.”
It was true Bess was spending much time away, dealing with her property at Chatsworth, and organising
betrothals for the many children of their past marriages. Shrewsbury was said to resent this, but Bess was only doing what was required of a dutiful wife. Someone had to keep their affairs in order.
The rumours about Shrewsbury and Bess were traced back to two chaplains on their estates, and the men were punished. I expected each day to receive a note from Shrewsbury resigning his post, but it did not come. He was a good man, Shrewsbury, and would not simply resign, leaving me without a suitable guard for my irksome cousin. And since he was not about to resign, I was not about to cause myself more problems and discharge him. He was a good gaoler, and I needed him. My men had to accept that responsibility came with problems.
But soon Shrewsbury was writing to Cecil with a plan of what was to be done with Mary in the event of his death. “Is he so close to peril?” I asked sharply.
“I think he is exaggerating so you will replace him, Majesty.”
As I struggled with what to do with one cousin, another sent word. She sent it, as always, not to me, but to Blanche, for Mary Grey and my oldest friend were on good terms. “She wishes to run her own household, Majesty,” Blanche said, handing me the letter.
“Already she has the funds?” I asked, a touch astonished as my eyes scanned the parchment. “She must have saved every last penny.”
“Perhaps you are more alike than you know, madam.”
“Perhaps.” I handed back the note. “Tell her she may go ahead with purchasing this house in St Botolph’s-Without-Aldgate, and I wish her well with it.”
Mary Grey moved into her house that February. Situated in a small London parish, her modest house was her pride and joy, and she set about taking on good servants. Blanche told me it was furnished well, but in keeping with Mary’s income, and my Grey cousin managed to retain one carriage, with which she went visiting her relatives. My lady also told me that Mary’s one indulgence was books. She owned several Protestant Bibles, works by William Fulke about the wonders of my father’s Reformation of the English Church, and carried Foxes’ Book of Martyrs wherever she went. Mary Grey offered no more trouble, and although forced to keep a wary eye on her, in case greedy men might think to marry her in order to stake a claim to my throne, I was assured that she, unlike her sister, had learnt her lesson.
Mary had been denied permission to raise Keyes’ orphaned children, as I thought that would make people think she had truly been married, but some of them visited her and they had a close, affectionate relationship. To this, I turned a blind eye.
“She would like, one day, to return to court,” Blanche mentioned as she rubbed oil into my scalp. My hair, long retreating from my head, was almost gone. Wigs had to be worn all the time now, to my great sadness.
“We will see,” I said.
*
There was more good news that month. Finally, after negotiating a pardon for his life, Fitzmaurice, the rebel who had given us so much trouble in Ireland, surrendered.
“Release the Earl of Desmond from prison,” I said, speaking of Fitzmaurice’s ally. “But limit his military forces from now on.”
“It will be done, Majesty,” said Cecil.
“And praise Sidney and Ormonde,” I added. “They did well.”
Ormonde did the best out of everyone in truth. By siding with me, his cousin and Queen, Ormonde had become the most powerful lord in the south of Ireland. I breathed a sigh of relief. All warring chieftains had surrendered, and we were seeing the first light of a dawn of peace upon Ireland. But we had to ensure another uprising could not occur. This rebellion had gone on for far too long, and had encountered too much support. I sent word to Sidney that Scottish mercenaries, the gallowglasses, who had taken part, were to be arrested and either banished or executed. Terms were to be deliberately harsh, to make Ireland less appealing to them in the future. Their expulsion would cut off military support for any chieftains who thought to rise again.
But we went further. Fitzmaurice’s rebellion had been distinctly nationalistic. He had worn Irish clothes, refused to speak anything but Gaelic to his men, tales had been told of him in the bardic fashion, and he had raised private armies. My father had once suppressed the Gaelic language, Brehon Law, and other customs, thinking they led to sedition. Although I was not entirely convinced of this, as men will rebel for many reasons, I resurrected the laws suppressing Irish culture.
Brehon Law was declared obsolete, and Gaelic, Irish dress, bardic poetry and the mustering of private armies were banned. Many protested, but Irish culture had been used as a weapon against me, and I would react to it as such.
“A nation without language is a nation without heart,” I said to Blanche.
“You sorrow for ordering this?” she asked.
“I do, but it must be done. I cannot leave weapons in the hands of my enemies.”
As Ireland howled for the loss of its heart, an event occurred, drawing England and France together. Princess Marie Elisabeth of France was baptised, and I was named godmother. William Somerset, the Earl of Worcester was sent as my proxy for the ceremony.
I thought of this child, born into a world and time of such pain. She was the only grandchild of the Valois line, but would not inherit the throne. Salic law prevented her from claiming her birthright. The most she could expect was to marry well and bear a son, but he would stand behind King Charles, the Duc D’Anjou and Alençon in line for the throne.
But if there was good news from France, there was also bad. A siege had begun at Sommières, as Catholic forces worked to suppress Huguenot. The garrison there battled their assailants with hot iron and boiling oil.
“We can only hope the Huguenots will hold out,” I said to Cecil. “And that King Charles listens to me, and makes peace.”
“He wants to resume talks of marriage.”
“They know my price.” I looked at Cecil. “Speaking of talks,” I went on. “I hear from many a source that you are still encouraging gossip about Hatton. If you do not cease, Cecil, I will banish you from court.”
“I have done nothing, my lady.”
“Liar,” I said. “Labour not under the misapprehension that you are irreplaceable, Cecil. I would not like to do without you, but I am capable of doing so if tested.”
“Majesty, how would it benefit me to slander you?”
“To force me to do as you wish,” I said. “And I will be forced by no one, Cecil. Carry on, and I shall reward Hatton more, and more, and more.”
Thinking of another time I had suspected Cecil of forcing my hand, when Amy Dudley had died, I became only more annoyed. Although I did not welcome the thought that Cecil had paid men to murder Amy, it was possible. At the time, I had seemed on the verge of accepting Robin as my husband when his wife died. Many said she would have passed by natural means, had she not fallen, or been pushed, down those stairs. If there was one person who would have benefited from me being rendered unable to marry Robin, it was Cecil. And little as I wanted to think of him as a murderer, Cecil possessed the ability to set himself outside of the bonds of natural justice, if he thought what he was doing was right for England.
As my spat with Cecil continued, I had him banished from my chambers. Each day he came, and each day was sent away. Eventually, Robin came to intercede for him.
“Do you seek to uphold Cecil so the lids might be removed of your eyes, Robin?” I asked, making reference to my pet names for Robin and Hatton.
“I speak for him because you love him, Majesty.”
“How do you know I love him?”
Robin grinned. “You blast those you love with more tempest-fire than those you do not, Majesty,” he said, a cheeky twinkle in his eyes. “So I know you adore Baron Burghley, for you pour wrath upon him for a minor argument.”
Unable to resist his mischievous expression, I chuckled. “Fine,” I said. “I will forgive Cecil, and no more will be said, but make it clear my forgiveness is granted only if he meddles no more.”
I knew Cecil would, of course. They all would. No courtier could re
sist the temptation. They could not help themselves. Double-dealing, plotting and subterfuge made courtiers rise and fall, founded fortunes and unmade them. Plotting against one another was also not only their job, but their vocation.
When Cecil returned, he had news. “More trouble at Oxford, Majesty,” he said.
I scowled. Oxford was an irritant. Whilst Cambridge was firmly Protestant, Oxford, England’s only other university unless one counted the Inns of Court as some did, was a Catholic stronghold.
Cambridge had been one of the first English institutions to embrace Protestantism, and in my father’s reign Lutheran groups had gathered there to discuss the New Learning. My father had not welcomed Protestantism any more than Catholicism, and when Thomas Cromwell had become his chief minister, the universities of England had been commanded to surrender both heretical and papistical beliefs in favour of edicts of the Crown. Cambridge men, like Walsingham, I was sure of, but Oxford had retained ties, albeit quietly, to Rome. My sister had only enforced this by founding two colleges there, and under Cardinal Pole, Oxford had become the vanguard of the restoration of Catholicism. We had experienced trouble from its hallowed halls in the past, as young men were educated to resist my religious settlement. Although it was officially allied to the Crown, the old religion remained strong in Oxford. Many past students had left England and gone to the Continent, becoming students of William Allen, the leader of the Catholic college in Douai, who was training priests to infiltrate England.
