by G Lawrence
Chapter Nine
Hampton Court
Spring 1573
This is a good time, I thought as I looked upon the first, gritty light of dawn. Still at my desk after working all night, I put my swan-feather quill into its horn and abandoned my ink made of oak galls. Sitting back, I stretched my aching back. I was tired, but happy.
England was at peace, trade was good, Ireland appeared settled and peace was cautiously attempting to enter France. Some of the sieges had been lifted, and generous terms offered, and I had hope this would continue, bringing an end to war.
But just as I was ready to prance for joy, my favourite dancing partner fell dangerously ill. Sick with a complaint of the kidneys, Hatton’s doctors wrote, saying they feared for his life.
Finding him in bed, ghastly pale with great purple rings under his eyes caused by pain and lack of sleep, I took on his care. Each day I fed him broth and bread, and read books to him. Hatton almost wept to see me so attentive, as much a mother as a mistress, and I was cheered to see his hollow face light up as I entered.
“He suffers pains in his kidneys,” one of Hatton’s doctors told me.
“Like Walsingham,” I said. “Send word to Walsingham and see if he knows any cures. He was consulting with a man on the Continent.”
“That man, madam, is a Jew,” said the doctor, looking appalled.
“A Christianized Jew,” I retorted. Forget not that our Lord Jesus was a Jew, as was the Virgin Mary, and Joseph. Not to mention all forefathers of our faith, my mind silently added. I could not speak such thoughts aloud. Jews were not looked upon kindly in England, or for that matter, in many lands.
Jews had been banished from England by King Edward I. My father had set up laws against them too, but had employed a troop of Jewish musicians at his court, and had welcomed some into England as scholars, when he was attempting to annul his first marriage; rules applied to everyone else, but never to my father. In my reign, Jews had entered England again, but in small numbers, and always quietly.
Although still officially barred unless they converted to the Christian faith, there were Jewish scholars who taught Hebrew at Oxford and Cambridge, and others who worked as merchants or money-lenders in London. There was also a small group of Italian Jews who worked as musicians at my court, and a convert’s house existed in London, where poor Jewish converts lived. Their numbers were small, and they were largely of Spanish or Portuguese descent. This foreign lineage, added to the fact that many worked as money-lenders, an always needed if always despised profession, led to people distrusting them. I knew that many had retained their faith, pretending to convert but privately worshipping in accordance with their own religion. I, unlike my bishops, did not mind. As long as people came to church, all was well. What people did in their own homes was not something I was about to investigate unless it became too obvious.
And Jews were good at concealing their beliefs, much better than many Catholics. But then, Jews had had more practice. Many had escaped the Inquisition, and although they met to observe Passover and Yom Kippur, they were generally subtle about it.
People spun tales about them, but most were entirely untrue. Allegations they coveted money and the lenders amongst them were mean with coin were believable, since such claims could be true of anyone. Most people lust for money, since it makes them secure and money-lenders are, by nature, careful, since they are not a charity but a business, there to make money sprout more money. Wilder tales held that Jews sacrificed children, drank blood, raped women, circumcised men without consent, and went into frenzied spells of madness, stealing away infants to crucify, but if this were true I believe someone would have noticed, and they would have all been rounded up and taken to jail or the Bedlam years ago. The main issue was the same as between Catholics and Protestants; a difference in faith. Jews did not recognise Jesus as the Son of God, which made insecure men tremble, as though someone believing something different to them would cause the world to come undone.
Heretical as some of their beliefs were, I did not believe the ridiculous tales, and did not see our faiths were so different. We all worshipped the God of Abraham.
My doctor looked none too happy about my suggestion, but did as I asked, and Walsingham contacted his man in France to find out more remedies.
When I was rendered unable to see Hatton for two days together, he sent me a letter. “No death, no, not Hell, not fear of death shall ever win of me my consent so far to wrong myself again as to be absent from you for one day… Would God I were with you but for one hour. My wits are overwrought with thoughts. I find myself amazed. Bear with me, my most dear sweet Lady. Passion overcometh me. I can write no more. Love me, for I love you… Shall I utter this familiar term of farewell? Yea, ten thousand, thousand farewells.”
Even accounting for the fever upon his blood, this was a passionate address, and I admit it struck me deep. Hatton’s overtures of love had always carried a ring of truth, but something had altered. There was more than a ring to his protestations. Hatton loved me.
Did I love him? The answer was both yes and no. I loved Hatton as my good friend, and confess I found him attractive, but when I compared my feelings for him to those I harboured for Robin, it was like holding a marsh light to the blaze of the sun.
Yet love, of any kind, is not something to dismiss. It is a glorious invention, the one act of God that makes the world bearable. I was deeply touched by Hatton’s letter, and when I went to him that night, I took it with me.
“You brought sweetness to my heart, my friend,” I said, putting the letter at his side. “When I read this, I felt stronger than I have for a long time, knowing there are men like you behind me.”
“Always shall I be,” he said. “I understand your position, Majesty. Even if you were disposed to wed, I am no match for your blood, but to one who has always felt rootless, perhaps unwelcome, you are the guiding light drawing me to a place of safety.”
“Then abide with me. Get well, Christopher. I want you at my side, always.”
As I became increasingly distracted, thinking of Hatton, Robin danced attendance on me with increasing bouts of mad fancy. I heard, however, he was not only attentive to me, but to two sisters, and the whole court knew of it. When Helena Snakenborgh divulged this, I became vexed with Robin.
The reason for my irritation was not jealousy alone. I was jealous, of course, but what troubled me more was that Robin’s affairs were becoming flagrant. Long ago I had reconciled to the idea that Robin had needs which must be met, and when he was discreet, I turned my envious eyes away. But this was far from discreet. In addition to his long-term mistress Douglas Sheffield, Robin had taken up with her younger sister, Lady Frances. If this was not enough, it appeared some had chosen to resurrect gossip that Douglas had borne Robin’s child some time ago. The damage to her reputation would be crushing, and I was furious with Robin.
“Is there something wrong with you?” I barked as he joined me in the gardens one spring afternoon. “Are you incapable of behaving like a grown man?” Robin stared sullenly at me, all but answering my question. “Two sisters, Robin!” I exclaimed.
“Lady Frances was insistent,” he muttered.
“And you, a strong, capable man, more than twice her size, was ravished, I suppose?” I asked, my tone sharp, barbed as blackthorn. “Had you wished to resist you would have been more than capable. Or are you going to claim she drugged you, or plied you with drink until you were insensible? If so, I will arrest the young woman for forcing herself upon you.”
Robin shook his head. “She came to me many times and often, pleading.”
“If in your right mind, and not rendered feeble by tricks, you had the strength to resist,” I said. “A quiet affair with Douglas was fine, Robin, but this?” I waved my hands in the air with irritation. “I suppose you and other gallants of court are guffawing about two sisters fighting for your attentions? I suppose it is a fine jest to you to have two noble, well-bred ladies of intellige
nce and standing squabble over you like two fishwives grappling for a prize eel? Well, it ends here, today. Your diversion is at an end, my lord. I do hope you enjoyed it, for you will have no more for a time.”
“What would you have me do?”
“End your affairs with both of them,” I snapped. “I will send Frances and Douglas from court, but not in disgrace. Some time away may cause people to forget what they have heard and allow the rumours about poor Douglas and her baby to die again.” I shook my head. “Why she came back to you when you treat her so ill is beyond me.”
Both sisters left court. What I did not know until later was that Robin was visiting one of them in secret.
But it seemed two mistresses were not enough for my Robin. Essex was soon to depart for Ireland, and it became rapidly clear Robin would use his absence to flirt with Essex’s wife.
Lettice was a great beauty. Her eyes were dark as blackberries, and she carried a seductive air. Some said this came from her grandmother, my aunt, Mary Boleyn, and others said she had inherited it from her grand-aunt, my mother, but wherever it came from, it was strong, and Lettice was well aware of its power upon the opposite sex.
She came to court with Essex, so she could see him off, and men flocked to her. Witty, pretty and charming, Lettice was a June rose and every man her bee. Robin, deprived of his two sister-mistresses, more than a little irked at me for sending them away and for offering so much attention to Hatton, turned to her, and she to him. Soon everyone was talking, saying it was a scandal their relationship was so obvious, and before her husband was gone from the shores of England.
“Would it make it better, then, if they waited until he was in Ireland?” I asked Blanche and Kate. “Surely then, they would say it was a scandal they were flirting whilst Essex is absent.”
A few days later I told Robin to cease.
“You have other friends,” he retorted.
“I do not bed my friends,” I said. “Only just have you emerged from one scandal, my lord Earl. Do not seek to swathe yourself in another.”
But Robin would not be reasoned with. I grew increasingly angry, and this irritation, as ever, fell not only upon him, but on other members of his family.
“I would like some of that material,” I said to Mary Sidney one day, seeing her in a new gown. My request came out as more of an order. Mary wrote to her steward, attempting to procure the fabric, and when she failed to get hold of it immediately, I grew more displeased.
“How hard is it to order cloth?” I asked, vexed. “If I knew not better, I might think you did not want to share your good fortune with your Queen, Lady Sidney.”
Mary Sidney was already in trouble with me. I had taken away some apartments from her and her husband some time ago, as they were not using them, and had granted them to other courtiers. Mary kept asking for them back, even though I had said the matter was closed. What annoyed me more was that each time she asked, she raised the subject of having caught smallpox from me.
I was grateful she had looked after me, and sorrowful she had lost her looks for it, but she had been rewarded at the time, and if she was going to hold that over me, using it against me each time she wanted something, I was going to become resentful. Her sacrifice was no sacrifice if she used it as a weapon against me.
Some offer up service for loyalty, not wishing for further reward, I thought, thinking of Walsingham. And others only for advancement and future profit.
I was growing increasingly annoyed with Mary Sidney, and her brother.
Chapter Ten
Oatlands Palace
Summer 1573
“She may go,” I said to Cecil, somewhat enjoying the horrified glimmer fluttering across his eyes. “See to security as you wish.”
Spirit knew there was no point arguing, although he often tried when it came to my cousin of Scots. Mary had been unwell again and wanted to pay a visit to the springs at Buxton, renowned for their healing properties.
Buxton was fairly close to Chatsworth, one of Bess’ houses. It was surrounded by rough countryside, and boasted a well whose powers of healing had been long admired. In my father’s day it had been known as the Spring of Saint Anne, a site pilgrims had flocked to. Thomas Cromwell had rid Buxton of signs of popish indulgence, and had locked up the baths, but my sister had reopened them and droves of courtiers had trooped there, taking gouty limbs and pains to be healed. Although some had called on me to close Buxton again, I had refused. Several of my doctors thought it a true place of healing, and upheld the waters as rich in minerals and good magic. Shrewsbury had built a lodge near the springs, to house Mary if I allowed her to go. She had asked many times, but each time another plot to steal her away had emerged. This time, however, I was willing. Her behaviour had been reasonable. If Mary was willing to be good, I would treat her well.
Shrewsbury also wanted to go, as he too had been sick, and I thought perhaps a reward was in order. The poor Earl had experienced nothing but continual trouble and torment over my royal cousin.
“Let Shrewsbury know I am reluctant,” I continued, “but I will place faith in my royal cousin and will trust her not to attempt anything to her, or my, detriment.”
From the look on Cecil’s face, I knew he had no such trust in Mary.
“Be of good cheer, Cecil,” I said. “Writing to Shrewsbury will grant you the excuse to trade building tips with Bess.”
Bess was engaged in building work at Chatsworth, and Cecil was working on his house of Theobalds, and his London residence, Cecil House.
“I would prefer it if one of your men accompanied them,” Cecil said.
“Why not you, Cecil? The waters would do your gout and the inflamed joints of your hand good, would they not? And you know you will never be satisfied with the report of another man. Take the time, old friend. See to two problems simultaneously.”
Cecil’s gout had granted him pain and suffering, and of late his hands had grown red and swollen. Sometimes, seeing his poor hands clenched about a quill, a red-clawed demonic talon came to my mind. Doctors were treating him, but they cautioned that less work would make him better faster than anything else. They might have saved their breath to cool their pottage. Even if I had ordered Cecil to bed, and taken work from him, Spirit would have disobeyed and done it all the same. There was good reason I called Cecil my Spirit; we were alike in many ways, and one was our dedication, one might say addiction, to our work.
“I will go to Buxton, with your permission, Majesty,” he said. “Although, if I may suggest something, we might make more use of this.”
“How so?”
“What if I pretend to go without your permission? Then, when you ‘hear’ of it, you can recall me in a mighty fury, saying I mean to ingratiate myself with the Queen of Scots.”
“Do you mean to make Mary trust you, or to steal the trust of other men from you?”
“To make the Queen of Scots think I am willing to be her friend, Majesty… but I admit, if men thought I swayed in sympathy towards her, they might reveal if they were up to anything.”
“She has given no trouble for some time, Cecil. I had hoped she had learnt a lesson.”
“No matter how many lessons are offered, she will learn nothing, and when all goes quiet, Majesty, that is the time we should listen closely for whispers of intrigue.”
“Very well. Is there anything else to discuss?”
“Essex is eager to be away to Ireland, Majesty, and asks that his loan be paid with swift speed.”
“He has his orders?”
“Indeed, they were sent last week.” Cecil paused. “He claims there are enemies of his enterprise at court, speaking badly of his mission.”
“He means Robin, of course?”
“I believe so, Majesty. It is true the Earl of Leicester appears envious. He has always lusted for military fame.”
“That which men lust for is often not what is good for them,” I said, thinking of Lettice as much as Robin’s desire for war. “Robin must b
e content with his lot. And his lot is a great deal more than most men. That family are always asking for something. They are never satisfied.” I sipped from a cup of sweet mead and nodded. “Pay the loan to Essex, and get him on his way. Ask him to come to court again so I may formally take leave of him. When people see this venture has my full support, they may cease to criticise it.”
Essex was not the only one preparing for a journey. In early June, Hatton left England to travel to Antwerp in pursuit of a cure for his malady. Antwerp possessed some of the best doctors in the world, and Hatton was certain, after consulting with Dee, that he would find a cure for his kidneys there. My passionate friend was eager to become well again, but was more than aware an elongated trip away from court might bring as many blessings as troubles.
“I beg you would not forget me, Majesty,” he said when he came to take his leave. “And, in an effort to maintain my presence in your heart, I will write every day.”
