by G Lawrence
“I am sure she would not dare do such a thing without permission,” Cecil said, although his tone was less sure than his words.
“Humm…” I said. “Keep an eye on them.” I stretched my arms. “What more?”
“King Charles and his mother are willing to send Alençon to Dover, Majesty.”
I had been delaying this meeting for some time, unwilling to bring a prince of France to England whilst hostility abided in my people’s hearts, but I had to admit I was curious about Alençon. And with Allen’s priests drifting into England, perhaps it was time to offer a little more hope to Catholics, to keep them on my side.
“Agree to it,” I said, making Cecil’s bushy eyebrows shoot upwards. I smiled. “I am curious about this Prince of France. Even if he proves unsuitable as a consort, he may make a valuable ally in a foreign court. He showed compassion to Huguenots in the massacre… many say it was only because of him that some nobles in the palace were spared. And we need friends, do we not? Invite the Duc to England. I will meet him.”
“As you wish, Majesty. There is one last matter.”
“Which is?”
“Ireland.”
I groaned. Every report from Ireland was mired in woe. Lord Lieutenant FitzWilliam was still refusing to work with Essex despite being warned that he would be recalled if he did not. Essex had achieved nothing and was continually begging for more money, men and supplies. The suppression of Irish culture had led to hostility, and our plan to colonise Ulster was getting off to a quivering start. Many of Essex’s men had left him, recognising a doomed cause when they saw one, and more had left with excuses of sickness. Plague had spread through Essex’s camp, decimating his forces, and Irish lords, seeing this, were causing trouble.
I had been considering recalling FitzWilliam and replacing him with Essex, since I was unimpressed by my Lieutenant’s infantile tantrums, but the more I heard, the more faith I lost in Essex. He moaned I would not send more troops, even though he had agreed to personally accept the risk of this venture, and seemed utterly incapable of negotiating with Irish lords who, all spying the weakness in him, played him as a fool time and time again. Keeping FitzWilliam in post, I had appointed Essex the Earl Marshal of Ireland and Governor of Ulster, hoping to bring the two men into some unity by making their positions of equal weight. It had been Robin’s idea and I had thought it sagacious, but it had not worked. FitzWilliam continued to attempt to scupper Essex’s boat, and all Essex could do was whinge.
“What now?” I sniped. “Tell me not that the two little boys I sent to Ireland have had another spat?”
“Essex has negotiated a truce with Turlough O’Neill.”
“That is something.”
“There is more,” my friend warned.
“More I will like not at all, given your tone.”
“Essex thinks he was deprived of the post of Lord Lieutenant by the Earl of Leicester. He has heard the Earl spoke of the posts with Your Majesty and you were persuaded not to appoint him Lieutenant. He writes this is due to the enmity the Earl harbours towards him.”
“He is correct I was persuaded not to appoint him,” I said. “But not for the reasons he supposes. I did not appoint him because he has shown little aptitude or competence. Essex spends all his time complaining that the reason he does not succeed is because he does not have this resource, or that troop of men. I want men who rise to meet challenges, not ones who hang back, blaming everyone else for their failures. That is why he was not appointed. I know not that he is able, and until it is shown he is, he will get nothing more from me.” I sighed. “And what reason would Robin have to sabotage him?”
“There is one reason, Majesty. There are rumours the Earl wants Essex’s wife.”
“Well, he cannot have her,” I said. “She is married.”
“They have been close, these past few years.”
“My cousin is a respectable woman, and would not act against the bonds of marriage. What is between Robin and Lettice is simple flirtation, the game of courtly love, no more. You know as well as I that Robin would not dare risk all I have granted him by attempting something, and Lettice would not risk losing her children, as she surely would if unmasked as an adulteress.”
I paused. Although I would defend Lettice and Robin before Cecil, I was not nearly so certain there was nothing going on. “I will have Robin write to Essex,” I said, “And explain that he has on this occasion, as on so many others, been infamously slandered by nefarious men. I want Essex concentrating on Ireland, not thinking about what is going on at court in his absence. Robin will write, explaining all this is false, and that will be an end to it.”
I shook my head. “But if Essex does not produce results soon and fast, Cecil, I will call him home. I am rapidly losing faith.”
Chapter Eighteen
Windsor Castle
Easter 1574
“Why should that stunted, diseased fool come here?” Robin demanded, his cheeks hot with the fire of jealousy.
“Because it is useful to me,” I replied, my eyes seeking the more clement shade of yellow celandines flocking at the edge of the gardens.
“Why do you need more men about you?” he grumbled.
“Should I make it one fewer, by sending you away?” I asked lightly. “Curtail your jealousy, my lord Earl. Whether Alençon comes with a marriage proposal or not, he is a foreign prince and will be welcomed to England. He could be a valuable ally, and I will not have pointless envy destroying possible benefits.”
“You will have to set a guard about him. They say the French piss in hearths and down staircases more than privies, and shit where they please.”
“Charming,” I said dryly. “Enough Englishmen piss from windows, Robin. And I am sure the Prince will relieve himself in a more honourable way than many of our men. Now, grant me some relief, and cease to complain.”
Robin was not the only one unhappy about Alençon’s proposed visit. There was gossip of a Catholic plot. Alençon, it was whispered, was not coming to marry me, but murder me.
Fears about Allen’s agents, and possible threats from France, led to investigations. Due to information from Walsingham’s agents, fifty-three people were rounded up in London that Palm Sunday for attending illegal Catholic services. Most were of the gentry. Lady Morely’s chambers in Aldgate were raided, along with Trinity House, seat of Lady Guildford, and the house of a Master Carus in Limehouse was also assaulted. Priests were found and arrested, but as they were carted off, decided, most unwisely, to shriek that they gloried in their work, would die for their faith, and declared that five hundred Masses were sung each day in England.
“A ludicrous boast,” I told Walsingham when he came to report. “Of all the priests ordained in the Catholic faith before I came to the throne, there can only be a few hundred left, and the replacements Allen is sending will not bolster their number that greatly.”
“But replacements are being sent, my lady,” he pointed out. “And therefore your plan to allow the Catholic faith to die out naturally is in peril.”
“Catholicism, unlike Protestantism is entirely dependent on priests. Protestants seek a personal relationship with God, but Catholics are forced to seek Him through emissaries of their Church. Without priests, these people are without faith. We must continue as we have done, Master Walsingham. The Catholic faith will pass, and in its place, people will become content with my Church.”
“The Dean of Norwich sent a warning to his Bishop,” Walsingham said, taking a letter from his pocket. “The days be dangerous,” he read aloud. “The Devil is busy to lull men asleep in security and to be negligent in their offices… The greatest diligence is too little, and the least spark of careless negligence is too much.”
“It sounds as though the Dean may have been schooled by you,” I said irritably. “Are you accusing me of negligence?”
“Assuredly not, madam,” he said, rolling up the parchment. “But I agree with the Dean.”
“Of course yo
u do.”
My entire policy on religion had been moderation, yet I was surrounded by those who desired extremes. For fifteen years I had worked to gently oust Catholicism, replacing Catholic priests who died, or were arrested for conducting secret Masses, with Protestants. My plan had looked sure to work. Allen was putting all that in danger.
But I would not succumb to hysteria. Arrests had been made, troublemakers would be punished, but I would demonstrate I was fair. As some Catholics went to jail, others who had been in the Marshalsea prison for many years were released, including John Feckenham, the last Abbot of Westminster Abbey, a high profile prisoner. People spoke in wonder at my generosity.
And many of my policies were working: bell-ringing, bonfires and festivities for my Accession Day were rapidly replacing the feasts of Candlemas and Corpus Christi; the seasons were marked by the collects of the English Prayer Book rather than blind adherence to Saints’ Days, and parish life centred around the sermons of my moderate priests and bishops, who spoke in glowing terms of the harmony I had brought to England. Most people appreciated the fact that England had not fallen into a pit of war and fire, like France and the Netherlands, and credited this to me. People could see trade was improving, the invasion promised by the Pope had not occurred, and that I tried to deal with my people fairly, Catholic or Protestant. “Our England,” the Bishop of Winchester said in a sermon, “is sailing with full sails and a prosperous breeze.”
The man had a point, but of course there were those willing to make trouble. Recusants who could not deny their faith or wanted to rebel against the established order ended up in prison. There was a jest, oft repeated at court, that if one wanted to find a Catholic in England, the best places to look were either at the side of the Queen, or in a prison. The jest held truth. I protected Catholics who were loyal to me and shut away those who were not.
The numbers of people arrested for attending secret Mass had increased, there was no denying it. If a man wanted to find an unrepentant papist, prisons were the best places to examine. It was not a good place to end up, especially if one was poor. Prisoners had to pay for their keep, food, drink, and if they were gentlemen, their servants. They supplied their own bedding and beds, which were then ‘donated’ to their gaoler at the end of their stay, and bought fuel, candles, linen and food from the gaoler. If wealthy, they lived well, and might even entertain guests in their quarters. If poor, their conditions were harsh. Gaolers sought profit, so were inclined to take better care of wealthy prisoners. There was also a distinct problem with this system that we had not dealt with. Since gaolers were in their position to make money, they were easy to bribe. They might be paid to carry notes to the outside, to allow potentially risky visitors to enter, or to turn ears and eyes away from some conversations.
But without reforming the entire system, and laying the cost of every single prisoner on the state, which would only increase taxes upon ordinary people, these were risks we had to take. I saw no reason why my people or I should pay for the keep of criminals. They had done wrong, so would pay.
My prisons were, with one exception, places of detention alone, made to enforce the notion that disobedience to the state brought about swift and ghastly punishment, as loyalty engendered rewards. The Clink in Southwick sat between a row of former brothels and was an unhealthy place. It was also where a great deal of Catholics arrested in London were sent. I did not want them dispatched to the Bridewell, the one exception from the rule that prisons were places of detention alone… and for good reason.
The Bridewell was situated between Fleet Street and the Thames. Founded as an experiment by my brother, it operated on the theory that teaching inmates new skills, such as weaving, spinning or carpentry, as well as subjecting them to harsh punishment, might persuade them to reform. There, vagabonds, drunkards and prostitutes were regularly flogged, and just as regularly brought to classes to learn new skills. I was unsure of the merits of this prison and did not send Catholics there as they would be treated more harshly than in other prisons, but the Bridewell was useful because of its infamous notoriety. Sometimes people were threatened with a spell in it, simply to force a confession from their unwilling lips.
Catholics who ended up in prison often complained they were being locked away for their faith, but they were not. They were recusants who had repeatedly failed to attend Mass, or who had been caught flouting laws of religion. I had allowed enough loop holes, gaps and leniency in my laws to allow those of moderate faith to continue to practise in secret, and those who could not, and made themselves obvious, were punished for it.
Perhaps in retaliation, we heard Allen had issued invitations to ‘the more learned heretics’ of England, so they might learn from him and alter their faith. None who were invited went.
As I stewed about Allen, there was news from France. Alençon, far from being on his way to woo me, had been arrested.
“For what crime has the King imprisoned his own brother?” I asked the ambassador.
Justifiably embarrassed, the ambassador told me the Duc had been found embroiled in a series of plots against his brother, Anjou, which also involved the captive King of Navarre, and both Duc and King had been put under house arrest. What we heard later was a little different to the explanation of the ambassador.
The Court of France had been at Saint-Germain when a force of Huguenots had been sighted, apparently on their way to steal the King of Navarre away from the clutches of the Medici snake and her son. Many of the court, including the Guise had fled, and the King had called upon his Swiss Guard to defend him. Fortunately for the King of France, less so for the King of Navarre, the Huguenots were not well organised, and there were not enough men to storm the palace. Alençon had admitted an escape plot to his mother, thinking she would be more merciful than the King. This led to his arrest, and Navarre’s. The court and its King had fled, with Charles muttering bleakly, “They could at least have waited for my death,” as he was hurried by litter away from danger.
Rumour held that the King of France was sick unto death, so perhaps the true reason Alençon had been imprisoned was to prevent him from making a play for the throne, passing over the claim of his elder brother, Anjou, who was in Poland, playing King. That Navarre, another possible claimant to the throne, and a Protestant one at that, was embroiled, caused Walsingham to think that another uprising or massacre was about to occur, and the princes had been locked away, much as Coligny had, in order to murder them quietly.
The Princes were not the only ones in trouble. That charming young man, Joseph de la Mole, who had entertained me so well in the summer before the massacre, had also been arrested, along with a nobleman named Annibal de Coconnas. There was word a waxen image had been found in de la Mole’s chambers, supposed to represent King Charles, and the young man I had so admired was facing charges of witchcraft. We had word they were using the boot on him, a fearsome weapon of torture. Two iron plates studded with spikes were attached to the lower leg, then slowly pressed together, crushing bone, muscle and flesh.
Horrified as I was for the captivating young man, and for his rumoured lover, the Princess Margot, I had to make the Prince my first priority. Margot, even though many said she loved de la Mole, was forced to do the same, and soon was leading the defence of her husband, knowing she must save the King of Navarre, in order to protect her country from further war.
Walsingham had contacted his men in Paris, attempting to reach Alençon, and Thomas Leighton had been hurriedly dispatched to the French Court in an attempt to bring about peace between the brothers, but reports we had received were not encouraging. Alençon thought he would soon be in the Bastille, and appealed to us for aid. Cecil had sent money to bribe his guards, but the possibility of escape was slim at best.
And despite his incarceration, the French still urged me to accept Alençon as my husband.
“Would you think it unreasonable, my lord ambassador, if I told you I would prefer a free man as my husband, rather than one und
er arrest, suspected of treason?” I asked wryly, making Hatton chuckle into his lace sleeve. “If the Duc were set free, I would accept him at my court,” I went on. “Surely, his brother the King must understand this is likely to be a plot put about by the Duc’s foes, in order to cause division in the royal family?”
My efforts to have Alençon released went nowhere, but other men made attempts. The Count of Montgomery, a Huguenot captain who had escaped France after his lance accidentally killed King Henri, father of Charles, Alençon and Anjou, in a jousting accident, launched an assault into Normandy. Although it was done without my permission, I did little against him. To me it seemed the peace treaty we had signed with France had brought small reward to its people or ours, and France always seemed on the cusp of descending into anarchy.
Marriage negotiations were put on hold, and I felt a curious sense of disappointment. My interest in this young man had been growing, and I had wanted to meet him, despite the fact it would make turning him down, which was inevitable, harder. The fact that he had been apparently attempting to aid his brother-in-law, Navarre, to escape, only made Alençon more interesting. That he was willing to flout his King, and his mother, to aid his brother-in-law made the young man sound adventurous, bold and rakish… attributes I had always admired.
