by G Lawrence
“Have you heard anything about Mary Sidney of late?” I asked Paul as we walked to my bedchamber. At my side, my pouch of documents swung. It was weighty that day.
“She and her husband have been employing John Dee as their alchemist, Majesty,” said the young man, his tone low and careful.
“Has she indeed? He is supposed to be working on the secret of the philosopher’s stone and creation of gold for me, not them.”
“Which is why I thought you would want to know, my lady.”
I nodded. As we entered my chamber, I turned to him. “Keep an eye on her for me, and see what more you can discover about her and Dee.”
“Of course, Majesty.” Paul went about his duties and I looked on with approval. The young man had promise.
A few days later, Dee’s name was mentioned again, although in different, more pleasing circumstances. Richard Grenville, a former Sheriff of Cork, came with a proposal to sail northwest and find a passage to Cathay, home to silk, spices, ivory and rice.
The Northwest Passage was possibly a fable. It was a navigable route to the lands of Asia from the New World. Men had been sent out in my father’s time, and my brother’s, to find it, and other kings had also dispatched men. If found, it would be immensely valuable, but many men had been lost in past attempts, and all had failed.
Reading Grenville’s proposal, I knew it had been written in conjunction with Dee. I could hear his voice rising from the parchment.
“What do you think?” I asked Cecil.
He set the paper down. Entitled, “The Discovery Traffic and Enjoining of Lands South of the Equator Not Already Possessed or Subdued by Any Christian Prince,” the tract took great pains to inform us Grenville would not trespass on lands or dominions of Spain, but wanted to explore Terra Australia Incognita. “He seems to offer no risk to the present treaty with Spain,” said Cecil.
“Do you think this is honest? Or does he wish to emulate Drake?”
“It would seem his intentions are exploration.”
“And using this we could deny that he set out with any other purpose, if he turns a hand to piracy.” Smiling at Cecil, I went on. “I like to have a good excuse up my sleeve.”
“So you will grant him a letter patent to sail?”
“I will.”
I did, but retracted it some time later when the Spanish Ambassador complained, knowing full well that Grenville intended to plunder rather than explore. I had experienced quite enough difficulty explaining away Drake’s haul, and relations with Spain were delicate. As France remained a precarious ally, my ambition to irritate Phillip would have to wait. The other reason was the reaction of the Muscovy Company. They had been granted an exclusive licence to explore the Northwest Passage, and when I granted a licence to Grenville, they howled long and hard. Walsingham, a shareholder in the Muscovy Company, had complained to me, as had others. The Muscovy Company were more important to English trade than Grenville, so it was sensible to retract his letters patent.
But the Northwest Passage, were it to be discovered, would be endlessly beneficial for England. For the time being, I set aside the idea, but it would rise again and I would support it, for if found, it would bring England to a seat of greater wealth than ever we had known.
Chapter Seventeen
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1574
Just as England’s general state of hovering on the verge of hysterical panic about Catholic threats passed by, a new threat emerged.
“What is wrong with Catholics?” I asked Robin waspishly. “Some few are determined to die as martyrs, and if their brothers in faith have not a mind to leap into bloody death with them, they will force them into it.”
I had thought much the same when the Pope had excommunicated me. Pius’ bull had not endangered me half as much as it had English Catholics… the very people the Pope was supposed to protect. And now, the same was happening again. One Catholic had decided to place the whole sect in danger, and just as the terror of the massacre had died down.
“You knew that when Allen’s college opened it would do no good for you, my lady,” Robin said in between picking at his teeth with a silver toothpick. It was a mark of our closeness that he was doing this in my presence, since it was hardly the most attractive activity. But I barely noted it. There is something to be said for longevity of acquaintance. If fortunate enough, you find new things to adore about the one you love, until even habits that irritate become almost endearing… until you are annoyed with them, of course. Then, tiny flaws are unsurpassable mountains of irritation.
“I had hoped it would die a death for lack of funds after we stopped self-exiled Catholics taking their coin overseas,” I admitted.
William Allen’s college of priests in Douai had, according to reports, graduated its first class of troublemakers. Leaving the Spanish Netherlands, they had been spied making their way to England, where they would work to restore the Catholic faith, keeping it alive just as I hoped to see it waste away. Allen had seen to the heart of my plan, and was working to thwart me. As I tried to gently ease the Catholic faith from England, Allen was working to breathe life into the corpse of Catholicism, sending men to perform the rites of the old Church, and no doubt simultaneously filling my people’s hearts with sedition.
The Act Against Fugitives over the Sea had ensured that Allen’s college had run dry of funds, as intended. No more could English exiles strip funds from English estates and ship them overseas to pour into Allen’s hands, but unfortunately this had not stopped the man. A steady flow of Catholic works were being brought into England, and despite the valiant efforts of my customs officials, it continued. Allen had found alternate means of funding, too, from Phillip and the Pope.
And his college was becoming famous. Younger sons of Catholic gentlemen went there to study, as did some simply seeking adventure, or a place to call home. Everyone and anyone was welcomed. Allen turned none away. Those short of means would be offered a month’s free board and instruction in the Catholic faith, which led to many staying on, because in Allen’s college they could eat, drink and survive. Charity can be a profitable way to convert people to your cause, although I would not call it charity in that case but bribery. Allen was bribing men to enter his house, so he might twist their minds, using food and soft beds.
And such treatment inspired loyalty. I knew it, as did Allen. He was converting young, easily influenced dolts to his personal cause, spelling danger not only for my merciful, moderate and hard-won policies, but for the dolts in question.
Allen harboured no delusions. Once unleashed, he was placing his students in mortal danger. When they reached England, they were on their own, subject to travelling by night, the horrors of living secretly and always under threat of being found, the loneliness of their state in Catholic houses, not to mention what the law, and my officers, would do to them when found. They would be held and punished as traitors. Enticed into his sect with food and drink, with a sense of home and belonging, their minds were warped, their souls compelled through a sense of being beholden to Allen. Then, they were set loose to encounter all the danger and peril that Allen himself would not care to face.
I thought Allen a devious, unworthy man. He was using these young men to do work he quailed to take on himself. He was a puppet master, pulling strings from the safety of Douai.
Walsingham had reports of four men on their way to England, but descriptions were patchy at best, and they were not likely to land at a port where they would be detained and searched. One of the disadvantages, I was coming to realise, of being an island nation, is that there are so many shores; many places where many men may leap from boats, scurrying into the wilderness, to make trouble. In addition to Allen’s zealous students, there was word the Society of Jesus was sending Jesuit priests to England too. They were not known for holding moderate views.
And Allen’s men were coming armed, not with weapons made of steel or iron, but with words. They had been well trained, according t
o Walsingham, prepared to argue against Protestant dogma. Protestant priests varied in learning and abilities, and some were not prepared to take on men trained in rhetoric and debate. And if they were not prepared, laypeople did not stand a chance. The worry was these men would infiltrate houses, most likely of gentlemen, and would spread Catholic teachings, and make new converts.
Although this was irritating, and had sent my men into a panic of paranoia, I was not overly concerned about Allen’s band at that moment. Four priests and a few Jesuits we could handle. What I was concerned about was what this would mean for my Catholic subjects. They had just started to rest easy after the massacre, and now this. Every secret Catholic in England knew, as I did, this would spell trouble for them. Allen was putting all English Catholics in danger, whilst claiming to be saving their souls.
“This is but the death-rattle in the throat of Catholicism,” I said to Cecil later that night. “A few priests sneaking into England will not be enough, Cecil. Four priests cannot keep alive the rites of the old Church. This is a setback, I agree, but they will not win, old friend.”
“And if they send assassins?”
I eyed Cecil with a touch of amusement. “Are they here to instruct Catholics or inflict death upon me, Spirit?” I asked. “You must decide. They surely will not have time to do both.”
I watched him heave a sigh and went on. “We will take care, as always, but this trickle cannot stem the tide of true faith. Marriages, christenings, funerals… they are only recognised if a Protestant priest performs the rites, and many will not risk loved ones heading to eternal damnation. Four priests cannot perform those rites for everyone in England, so our people will turn to my Church. As we educate our people, using learned Protestant priests, the teachings of Rome die out. This is not a sudden strike of lightning, Cecil, but a steady fall of gentle rain. And it will work, in the end, of that I have no doubt.”
“Allen will continue to send men.”
“And we will counter him, but I do not want this getting out, Cecil. To do so will not only make Catholics fear reprisals, but will encourage those with a mind to disobey me to do just that.”
Catholic recusants, those who would not attend Protestant Mass, were already known. Walsingham, of course, had a list. A few years ago a prison had been set up for recusants on the Isle of Ely. The hope was that separating them from the main body of my people would prevent them spreading disharmony. Only those considered traitors were executed, most were simply held in prison. Since the Act against carrying or importing papal bulls had been passed, it was easier to find those of a mind to work treason, and I made it clear that arrests were made not due to faith, but disloyalty. I had no wish to make martyrs. Catholics arrested in England were arrested for treason, not for religion, and those who wished to follow the Catholic faith quietly did so, paying a small fine for not attending Church. My men had attempted to persuade me into increasing the fine, or taking harsher measures, but I had vetoed all such attempts. Quiet Catholics did not trouble me. Zealots, however, did.
Allen’s missionaries would rile up those who already had a talent for disobedience, but I would not allow him to cast all English Catholics into the same cauldron and persuade my Council they were all a danger to me and to England.
“Find these men, arrest and punish them,” I said, “but do not let them cause the chaos they wish to inflict. If they are permitted to spread paranoia and terror, they win.”
“As you wish, madam.”
“And set free some of the better behaved Catholics on the Isle of Ely, and in the prisons of London,” I said. “We will send a message; those with a will to obey our laws will be upheld as true men.”
Cecil looked none too pleased, but it was a good plan. If I could demonstrate I did not view all English Catholics as a threat, it would make the moderate more likely to turn to us in loyalty, rather than Allen. He meant to spread terror and division. I would respond with unity and mercy.
“Is there more to speak of tonight?”
It was late. Soon the nightsoil men would be heading into the streets, emptying the cesspits of the city. One man, the most junior, would be lowered into the pits to scrape waste into buckets. It was dangerous work. Men sometimes suffocated inside the pits, overtaken by noxious vapours, and using a lantern had been known to cause explosions. Because of this, they charged high prices, which meant cesspits in poor areas were cleaned out infrequently. Most people threw what refuse they could into the Thames, to be swept away along with the bodies of dead dogs and cats, and the occasionally human corpse as well. But through and in darkness, the nightsoil men toiled. Their reeking carts, filled with brimming barrels of human waste, would creak out of the city by early morn, heading for the farms of yeomen, who would buy their waste to feed the soil beneath their crops.
Cecil inclined his head. “A little. Your royal cousin has been pestering Shrewsbury for some pigeons.”
“Why would she want them?”
Cecil’s eyebrows ruffled. “She said as pets, Majesty, but Shrewsbury turned down her request. He thought they might be used to carry messages to her supporters.”
“I think her uncle of Guise uses them for that purpose,” I said. “Uphold his decision. Mary will have to be content with her dogs. She has plenty, after all.”
I rubbed a finger into the corner of my eye. Shrewsbury had been clamping down on Mary of late. More reports that he was too lenient had erupted at court, causing Shrewsbury to write to the Council. “I know her to be a stranger, a Papist, my Enemy,” he had written. “What hopes can I have of good of her, either for me, or for my country?” Although the letter had convinced me he was trying his best, others were not so happy with him. If I died, which some seemed to think a constant possibility, Mary was my nearest heir. They thought Shrewsbury was unlikely to be harsh with her, for if she came to my throne she would punish him first, but if he was kind, he would find himself rewarded.
In truth, I wondered if this was not what was in the minds of all who continuously attempted to persuade me to either imprison her more harshly or execute her. Many of my men had spoken against her, most notably after the Ridolfi plot and Northern Rebellion. They feared if she became Queen, she would exact revenge. Everyone who spoke for her wanted future rewards. There were few who actually sympathised with Mary. To all others, she was a means to an end, good or bad.
“The Countess of Shrewsbury has been lately driving many people to distraction,” Cecil added.
“How so?”
“She is seeking a husband for her last unmarried daughter, Elizabeth. A match was proposed with the son of Katherine Willoughby, Dowager of Sussex, but it would seem that particular young man has formed an attachment to another maid.”
“Why is Bess having trouble? Is the girl objectionable in some way?”
“From reports she is pretty and obedient,” said Cecil. “Perhaps it is her mother. Shrewsbury tells me Bess commanded him to send letters to any and all nobles he knows, so perhaps the eagerness of the mother is putting them off.”
“It is so easy to forget, when two people marry, they wed not only one person, but a whole family.”
“And with a formidable mother-in-law, can come many trials.”
I chuckled. “Has Bess surrendered her quest for the moment?”
“She is at Huntingdon, with Katherine Bertie and the Countess of Lennox,” said Cecil.
“I do hope the good Countess of Shrewsbury is not considering Charles Darnley as a prospective husband for her daughter,” I said, a dangerous note entering my voice. “That boy is my cousin. It is up to me whom he weds.”
My Lennox cousin’s last living son, Charles, was the younger brother of Henry Darnley, the murdered King Consort of Scotland and father of King James. Charles had royal blood, albeit diluted, and much as I had been enraged that his brother had married my cousin of Scots without permission, I would be the same, if not more, if the younger Lennox followed suit. But I was aware of the ambition in the heart o
f my friend, Bess, Countess of Shrewsbury. She wanted her children to marry well, and Charles, with his drop of royal blood, was a mighty prize to win for her daughter. The boy not only had a slim claim to my throne, but to that of Scotland too, and any of his children would be blood-kin to King James and to me.
But at that moment, although I could hear warning bells pealing in my mind, I was not overly concerned. For one, all knew what happened to those who married without my permission and Charles had nowhere to hide from my wrath. The second consideration was that Charles was sickly. Consumption had plagued him for years. If he died there would be no more danger from the Lennox line.
The last consideration was that Elizabeth Cavendish was no match for Charles Darnley in terms of blood. His great-grandfather had been a king, hers a mere clerk. Her father had been but a knight where his was an earl. Knowing the rampant ambition of Margaret Lennox, I thought there was small chance she would support such a match.
