by G Lawrence
The old gossips may have had a point. Our relations with Spain were cordial, but carried an undercurrent of frost. They did not trust us, nor we them.
Where he could not persuade me about Spain and the Low Countries, Walsingham had more joy with Mary of Scots. Although there had been little noise from her since Norfolk had lost his head, literally as well as figuratively, I was persuaded to allow Walsingham and Cecil to keep a tighter watch on her communications.
Her letters were intercepted, secret channels were found… and were allowed to continue operating as long as we had copies of the letters. Whole chambers dedicated to Mary, her servants, possible spies, informants, suppliers and supporters, as well as her letters, were set up in various shadowy quarters of my palaces. In these dim rooms, working late by candlelight, Walsingham’s most trusted men toiled, deciphering letters, messages and meanings, and uncovering snippets of information.
Bit by bit, Walsingham pieced together a picture of Mary’s supporters, her links to the Guise, to Rome, to English and Scottish exiles, and to her support for them, through pensions, good words and benefits. Although when showed some of these letters, the more alarming of which showed support for traitors such as Westmorland and other rebels of the Northern Rebellion, still at large in Spain, I was disturbed, I and Walsingham and Cecil knew there was nothing firm enough in our hands to accuse my cousin of treason.
At least, not yet.
Chapter Fifteen
Whitehall Palace
New Year’s 1574
“I accept the gift with a merry heart,” I said loudly, ensuring everyone in the Privy Chamber heard. Looking around, I saw more than one surprised face.
In my hands I held a pair of bracelets, made of pomander and agate beads. It was insignificant in terms of costliness, but it was the sender, not their present, that was important.
The bracelets were from Mary Grey, and they marked a change in our relationship. This was the first gift she had dared to send since her ill-fated marriage and subsequent incarceration. Since attaining freedom, she had lived quietly and frugally, saving her limited income to spend on her house. Her clothes were reportedly simple, her jewels scarce. She had inherited some from her mother, including a set of bracelets set with jacinth stones of which she was proud, but little else. This gift, therefore, had cost her a great deal. With encouragement from Blanche, she had dared to send a gift this New Year’s, and I had publicly accepted it.
Many took this as a sign I would bring her back to court, and Protestant subjects rejoiced, but neither I nor Mary Grey were ready for that yet. I because I wanted to see if she would get up to anything now she was at liberty, and she, because at the present moment Mary could not afford to reside at court. A court dress alone would consume all her precious money, so it was in both our interests to wait, and see what transpired.
But if this gift and my reception of it brought hope to some, it did to me too. I had no wish to wrangle with any more cousins. If Mary and I could make peace, I would welcome it. Perhaps I owed that to her family. I had, at least in part, been the cause of her sister Katherine’s death, and my own sister had certainly been responsible for the demise of Jane Grey.
*
It was Twelfth Night, the Feast of the Epiphany, and the customary chaotic celebrations that came with it had ensued. We were at Whitehall for the raucous event that year. In the Chapel Royal, I handed out gifts of myrrh, frankincense, and gold coins, and later card games, such as Primero, as well as dice, were played. We wagered hard and played fast. There was many a winner and a loser made that night. I was usually one of the winners, not least because I frequently cheated. Since no one was about to call out their Queen, and I was really rather talented at deception, I always got away with it.
Cheating at cards was, I thought, no more or less a sin than cheating at politics. Each was a game, and only those with the best hand, the nerve to fake a better one, or the will to cheat, would best the others.
What we did not know was that as we celebrated, in Douai men were preparing to bring us grief. They were making ready to leave for England. In time, Walsingham found intelligence on them. Graduates of Allen’s college, they were all newly ordained Catholic priests. They had trained for three years, learning Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, so they might read Scripture in its original form, and therefore be equipped to argue with Protestants. They had worked through their Bibles numerous times, debated not only the Catholic side of any argument, but the Protestant, to arm them against their foes, and thought themselves prepared to offer up answer and argument against anything put to them.
More advanced students, like these men, were trained in the English Bible too, so they might instruct and advise English Catholics, waiting for the day I would die or be overthrown. Allen thought that Protestants, encouraged to study the Bible from infancy in vernacular form, presently had an advantage over Catholics, who relied on priests to understand the Word of God. But his priests would be prepared. There would be no hesitation, no room for an alternate argument to slip through. It was a war of words, and Allen sent his men armed to the teeth. These priests could argue for their cause, their religion and their way of life, stirring up religious indignation against heretics who would subdue Catholics. They would set the true faith before the people of England, holding inaccuracies, absurdities and blasphemies of heretics up to the light to show them for what they were; falsehoods. That was how Allen thought, and irritatingly, he had prepared his men well. They were dangerous. Wolves sent disguised as sheep, into the field of faith.
With the excitement that rebellion against the established order can bring to the blood, as well as the fire of religious zeal warming them, these men cast sails into the cold wind on the shores of the Low Countries, heading for England.
*
“The man was almost torn apart by the mob,” said Walsingham, looking from Cecil to me with a sense of undisguised, and rather inappropriate, approval for the mob in question. “Were it not for the magistrates, the masses would have ripped him limb from limb.”
A man of Doncaster had dared to slander me in public. Thinking he would have the full support of his fellows, he had turned to the crowd, expecting a cheer, perhaps, and they had set upon him. Walsingham had come back to court to inform me of this. Once again ill, he had been forced to retire in March for several days.
“Send our thanks to the magistrates for keeping order,” I said. “I would not have justice done in such a manner in my kingdom.” I paused and frowned. “I wonder why the mob turned on him so?”
Cecil shook his head and allowed himself a smile. “Majesty, for a woman who wears dresses with so many eyes on them, you can be, at times, remarkably blind.”
“Are you insulting me, my lord Baron?”
“Never have you been as popular as you are now, my lady,” he said. “It is odd you do not see it, but your people adore you. They will not have a word said against you.”
It was peculiar to see Walsingham and Cecil both staring at me in such a way. Admiration shone in their eyes, as well as bafflement as to why I could not see this truth.
For my part, it was true I saw the love of my people when I went before them, but never had I witnessed first-hand their hatred of my enemies. I had always supposed that some of the passion they showed as I stood before them was but the natural deference subjects show to a sovereign, and although I had always taken heart that some of them felt more, a great deal more, this was something new. My people would not simply cheer me, but would fight those who slandered me. They would protect me.
I had never felt anything as powerful as the emotions that ran through me then; pride, joy, bemusement, and a crushing sense of loneliness lifted from my heart for a spare, short moment.
“Send our thanks to the magistrates,” I said, turning my eyes away so my men would not see the tears in them.
Chapter Sixteen
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1574
“Mary Sidney should have mor
e care for my temper,” I said testily, picking at a bowl of grapes and clinking a finger against my Venetian glass goblet, so the server might know to fill it with small ale. Venetian glass was becoming most fashionable, and was starting to replace pewter and silver on many noble tables. Because of this, it always stood proud on mine.
I was speaking to my ladies whilst supposedly eating, but in truth I was talking to myself, and picking at my food. I had never been a hearty eater. Too many fears in youth had granted me a nervous belly, and food made my mind sluggish. I also abhorred that I had to eat at prearranged times. Surely, it was healthier to eat when and if the stomach called for fuel, than to make oneself a slave to court ritual and eat on the strike of the clock, hungry or not?
Naturally, I had no choice in the matter. Tradition had to be observed, and so, each day, my meals were prepared in the kitchens, and brought to my Presence Chamber. Forty Gentlemen Pensioners, dressed in red, with the royal arms embroidered in gold thread on their backs, would enter, accompanied by my ladies, offering bows and curtseys to the empty seat at the table, representing me. With the dishes surrounded like foes, a gentleman would take the cover from one dish, a lady would cut a piece or take up a spoon of it, giving it to the guard to test for poison. Providing he did not collapse clutching his throat, they would go on to the next and the next, until all dishes were tested. Wine and beer were handled in the same way. As they moved about, they performed honours as though I were there, but I was not. I had no patience to sit at the table for hours each day, wasting my time, whilst these ceremonies were performed. When all this was done, the dishes were sent to me, and I selected a few to pick at. This pageant was repeated for all three courses presented at each meal, and was done three times a day.
Ridiculous, you may well think, and you would be right. I served the throne, as God’s handmaiden, but even I thought the ceremony foolish. Cecil believed testing for poison was vital to my survival, and that I could see, but to my mind the only other use for this antiquated, time-wasting farce was that it kept certain people, who otherwise would have become embroiled in troublesome plots, occupied.
When food was finally brought to me, I had usually lost all appetite. This is why it always amazed me when cooks managed to put on weight. The scent of food floating about me for a while robbed me of hunger.
I tried, however, to eat certain dishes, for my ladies often prepared them, and I did not like to see their faces fall if I brushed past something that had taken hours to create. When I saw a lady’s eyes widen as I got close to a platter, or heard a soft intake of breath, I knew she was waiting to see if I would try it. In truth, perhaps my ladies were the sole reason I did not waste away. My affection for them pushed me to eat more dishes than I would have done otherwise.
Wise women knew how to tempt me. I was addicted to sweet treats. I could be tempted by savoury dishes, such as sallats smothered in vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil and sugar, swan in a sugary, cinnamon-rich chawdron sauce, or boiled capon swamped in honey and mustard, but ladies who knew me best, like Lettice, Philadelphia and Kate Carey or Blanche, turned their hands to create sweetened butter, which one ate with a delicate spoon, gilded marchpane, glittering under the light of the candles, candied fruits eaten with tiny forks, a new implement imported from Italy, or sweet tarts of egg, custard and tiny borage flowers. Some crafted goblets made of Persian sugar paste, filled with sweet hippocras, so when one drank, sugar melted into wine, making it richer and sweeter. Those who knew me really well crafted gingerbread and brought sweet mead to court, knowing those items could tempt me like no other.
When I ate it was in my Privy Chamber, away from prying eyes, and I used a napkin of which I was most fond. Embroidered with two busts of me, along with my mother’s falcon badge and coat of arms, it was a private sign of my love for her. I used my mother’s emblems on my book covers too, and on certain favourite musical instruments. I did not speak of her, knowing that to affiliate myself with her, the infamous fallen queen, would harm my reputation, but if any had eyes to see, they would have seen my love for her.
But if love for my mother burned in my soul, I was having problems remembering affection for Mary Sidney. Still irritated at what she called my ‘rude handling’ of her, Mary had been complaining to the Earl of Sussex about her new chambers. Sussex was her brother-in-law and my Lord Chamberlain, but in truth he was not a wise man to complain to. Sussex was Robin’s foe, and loathed the favour my Eyes enjoyed, but since Sussex was responsible for the allocation of court chambers, Mary had gone to him, bemoaning her lot, and asking for the restoration of her former rooms.
“She says her new chambers are cold and the furnishings are scant,” said Blanche, disapproval riding her breath. “And claims her health was damaged by the smallpox she contracted for love of Your Majesty, and is further damaged by her chambers.”
I pursed my lips. Just how often was that to be brought out to guilt me into doing what she wanted? “Tell Sussex Mary Sidney is to stay where she is,” I said, tossing the grape I had been toying with back into its glazed green bowl.
“I believe he has already said as much, Majesty,” said Blanche.
I nodded. Sussex had no wish to aid Mary. He did not want yet another Dudley in a position of influence, currying favour for Robin. I glanced up to see Blanche looking wary. “What is it?” I asked, lowering sticky fingers into a silver bowl held by Katherine Howard, then wiping them on a linen cloth.
“Sussex claims Mary Sidney failed to return some garments lent by Your Majesty to her for the birth of her son,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Did she?” Blanche kept a close eye on the Mistress of the Robes and her accounts.
“It would seem so. I sent word to Sidney. He says they were entrusted to a female servant, and the matter is being looked into. He assures me there was no intention on his wife’s part to keep them, but the servant may have acted improperly.”
“Or illegally,” I pointed out. “If she stole them.” I threw the cloth onto the table and stood. As I did, my musicians played a brief tune, to let all know I was done with my meal. “I want those items accounted for, and tell Mary Sidney if she wishes for worse treatment, to continue in the vein she has started. She has served me with loyalty in the past, but it is the present I am concerned with.”
“Majesty,” said Blanche.
“And tell her if she wishes for friends at court, she should remain so with me,” I called as I left the room. “Sussex has no reason to aid her, but I am not an ungenerous mistress, if my people have enough wit to understand the worth of my gifts.”
I left, shaking my head. If Mary Sidney thought to sway my hand by going around me to my men, she was much mistaken. The more she complained, the less favour and fewer benefits she would receive.
As I left, I motioned to my Moorish page to follow me. I was fond of him, finding him not only attractive to look at, with his burnished black skin and fine, dark eyes, but because he was good at his job, and useful at other tasks too. His name was Paul, granted to him upon baptism, for his original name twisted English tongues. His family hailed from Africa, but he had been born in Spain and had come to England to seek his fortune. When he was introduced to me by Robin, I had employed the lad and found him an excellent page, but he also had a great deal of information on Spain, and was a talented information gatherer, when required.
Servants of Moorish, or African, descent were becoming fashionable. They were exotic to look upon, which was the reason most nobles were coming to employ them, but in my household no servant was merely an ornament. Everyone had another role. My fool, Tomasina, was excellent with figures, and all my ladies doubled not only as my companions but spies and spreaders of disinformation. Paul was often overlooked at court, thought a mere decoration, which was why he was so valuable. Those who are overlooked go unnoticed, and learn much.
Some were opposed to those of darker skin because they thought them devils, or that the hue of their skin demonstrated moral incom
petence. I held a different thought. God loves wondrous variety. This much was clear to me by looking at flowers. God, surely, did not need so many kinds and types, so why spend His precious time crafting so many different blooms? Because He adores a field strewn with pinks, reds, golds, greens, whites, blues and many meldings of all those hues. I thought the same was true of people. Why should we not look upon this variety and understand this was His work?
Of course, to some, variety is suspect. If someone does not look like you, they must be an enemy. A ridiculous thought, but one used to subjugate people all over the world. I had played a part in the slave trade with John Hawkins, but was free of it now and glad of it. It meant I could look upon my black servants without shame.
Other nations were following this line of thought. Although France had used slaves to row her naval galleys, the practice had ceased. It was said any slaves arriving in France could shout, “France et liberté!” and that would set them free. A few years ago, a Norman merchant had arrived in Bordeaux with a hold full of slaves and was arrested when he attempted to sell them. The Parlement of Guyenne had set the slaves free, saying, “France, the mother of liberty, does not permit slaves.”
