by G Lawrence
“And the grant he asks for, madam?”
“If the voyage to the Northwest Passage is successful because of his guidance, he will have it,” I said. “Ensure he understands that. Hopefully it will make him concentrate all his efforts on this task.” I smiled. “Sometimes, with a man like Dee, guidance is required. His mind is so busy, so active… it longs to follow every path that opens. But no mind can manage such a feat. He needs someone to rein him in. Dee will concentrate on this task, for now. Other treasure we can think about at a later date.”
Dee settled down with his books, maps and charts, seeking to minimise the risk inherent in the mission, and I set my head back, dreaming of the Northwest Passage, and the riches it might bring.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Richmond Palace and Greenwich Palace
Late Winter 1575
In February, I heard that Bess’ daughter had at last given birth, and expected to be sent word that the Countess was making her way to London, but word did not come. Further irritation glowed within me when I learned that the new mother had given birth at Sheffield Castle, where my cousin of Scots was being held.
“There are too many people allowed into that place,” I snapped at Cecil. “I want it rightly understood that Sheffield Castle is not to be used by the Shrewsburys as their home. It is the place offered up to my cousin to keep her safe, and to keep me safe from her.”
Cecil agreed, as well he might, since he was still interrogating members of Shrewsbury’s household about the marriage plot. Although I had prevented Walsingham’s investigation, I wanted to know if Mary had been involved. I wondered if she had agreed to it as a means to get closer to Shrewsbury and Bess, and thereby gain liberty. Lady Cobham, one of my friends, had been implicated, and I had told her to take herself off to her estates in Kent. I had no doubts about her loyalty and did not want her stained by this accusation.
Floods of people coming for the birth of Gilbert Talbot’s new heir, George, worried me. Too many unauthorised people entering Sheffield Castle was not what I needed. In response to angry, fearful messages sent from London, Shrewsbury denied a great deal of people had come to witness the birth. He said only one midwife had attended, and the child had been christened with him, Bess, Gilbert and two of Shrewsbury’s other children present and that was all. I was in no mood to hear him.
My annoyance at the Shrewsburys did not, in this case, affect my relationships with their kin. In early spring, Catherine, one of Shrewsbury’s daughters and the wife of the new Earl of Pembroke fell ill in London and I went to her. At Baynards Castle I found her, and went to sit with her twice, both times staying late into the night.
In March, I released Margaret from the Tower, but kept her, her son and new daughter-in-law under house arrest at their house at Hackney. Bess’ friends at court were trying to get me to approve the marriage and forgive my friend. In truth, there was little I could do about the marriage. It had been done legally… aside from ignoring the Royal Marriages Act. I could have separated the couple, stripped away Bess’ privileges, and punished Shrewsbury, but then I would have had to find new gaolers for Mary. That would create opportunities for those who might spirit her away, and I also had no wish to make her imprisonment more onerous than it had to be.
I had often thought Mary and I were but a whisker from each other in terms of what fate decreed for us. Were I one day in her position, I would want a kindly guardian.
I also understood that whilst Bess was ambitious, she was loyal at heart. She had gone against me, it was true, but in all other matters her integrity was without question. It would not do, of course, to forgive too easily, for then others would think to do the same. At court I maintained a show of anger, to keep Bess, Shrewsbury and their new Lennox kin anxious, and it worked, for reports said they were nervous as a chicken watching a maid gather rosemary and honey, but in private I became less concerned.
In truth, this illicit marriage might have done me good. Elizabeth Cavendish might hail from a wealthy family, but she had no royal blood. Unlike when Mary and Darnley had married, uniting blood claims to my throne against me, Elizabeth had no royal connections. This marriage might have elevated Bess’ family and enriched Margaret Lennox’s, but it had not brought the children of the line closer to the throne. They would maintain a claim, naturally, but the Cavendish blood in their veins would weaken that claim, not enhance it. It could have been worse.
If Margaret really knew what she was doing, I thought, she would have set her son after Mary Grey.
Bess sent peace offerings of expensive cloth, and Lady Sussex spoke for her, but as Bess’ supporters rallied, my cousin of Scots was losing hers. We heard the Cardinal of Lorraine, Mary’s Guise uncle, had died in December. With his death, the last and greatest of the Guise power in France fell. He had been Mary’s most secure tie to France, and with his death, she lost a great deal. My royal cousin had used her uncle to reach the King of France, as sometimes her letters were ignored by her brother-in-law. Upon hearing the news, Mary became ill again. Doctors said she had a fever, but to me it seemed she was in a fever to recover her lost support.
“She had only just sent her uncle a letter asking him to restore the favour of Catherine de Medici to her,” said Cecil when we heard.
“The snake of France has no wish to restore Mary to anything,” I said. “She is busy enough with her own problems.”
France was a mess. Sieges were being bombarded, Alençon was wandering somewhere, and the fact that King Henri had married into the Guise family had done little to convince Huguenot subjects that any offers of peace or religious unity were true. Some of his commanders had defected, and there was word the Crown wanted to negotiate with the remaining rebels.
“It will be interesting to see who Mary of Scots turns to after this,” Cecil went on. “Her aunt, the Duchesse of Nemours was once a sympathetic correspondent, but she has turned cool of late. The Scots’ Queen will plant her hope in the new generation of Guise, but most of them she knows not, and they will have scant wish to embroil themselves with her plots.”
“Unless she offers them swift and foolish paths to glory, or if the Guise matriarch Antoinette de Bourbon returns to keep company with affection for Mary.”
“But she never liked Darnley or Bothwell as her husbands,” said Cecil, “and said so at the time of both foolish marriages.”
“It matters not, Cecil. My cousin will cling to France, come what may. You may not understand, but there are clear signs.”
“Such as?”
“Her dresses.”
As Cecil frowned, I smiled. “You think the garb of women inconsequential?” I asked. “It is not so, Cecil. Look at my wardrobe, flush with every style of the world, all brought to England so my women and tailors can copy them. I am like Alexander the Great, who lashed four gryphons to a basket and climbed inside so they could show him the world. He did so with his gryphons, as I do with my clothes.”
“What has this to do with the Queen of Scots?”
“Mary has never altered her gowns. She remains true to France. Loyalty shines from the bills for her clothing; agents in Paris send patterns for French Court dresses, she orders head-dresses and veils that might originate in Italy, but are popular in France. She owns jewellery like that worn at Henri’s court, and her rooms are arranged as they were in France.” I spread my hands. “You might think all this foolish, Cecil, but I see her heart. She clings to France as a limpet to a rock. It is the place of her abiding fantasy, of all she once had and has no more. There, she knew what it was to be rich, powerful, loved and beloved… that is not a dream we abandon.”
“So you think she will try to find new supporters amongst the younger Guise?”
“I do.”
“Then that is what we will watch out for, my lady.” Cecil paused to glance at his notes. “Essex is distraught that you want to call his expedition off,” he said, moving on. “And entreats you to grant him more time.”
“We cannot dou
bt his belief in himself. No matter how many failures, Essex always thinks he will win in the end.”
“It is more likely to be desperation,” Cecil pointed out. “He holds no position at court. Ireland is his path to riches and glory, if it could be successful.”
I nodded, that was true. “Send word I will not call it off yet. But I need results, Cecil. Mere promises of glory are not enough.”
How I would regret those words.
As Death touched the family of Mary of Scots, He came to another. That February Robin came to me. His sister, Mary Sidney, had lost her nine-year-old daughter Ambrosia.
The news made me soften towards Mary. I had been vastly annoyed with her, but hearing of such a loss made that irritation vanish, like mist over summer fields when the sun rises. I sent condolences, and offered to take their last surviving daughter, Mary, into my household as a Lady of the Presence Chamber. I also invited them to come on progress with me that summer.
Sometimes, we have cause to thank Death. He steals much, but sometimes He can remind us of affection, and of the short time we truly have with those we love.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Richmond Palace and Greenwich Palace
Late Winter - Early Spring 1575
I laughed out loud and for a moment it looked as though Cecil might join me. “A win for us, I think,” I crowed.
I had finally agreed to some of Phillip’s terms, and Don Luis de Requesens confirmed the rights of English merchants in Antwerp. In return for Requesens promising to expel English Catholic exiles, I officially closed my ports to the Sea Beggars, and forbade my subjects from succouring Dutch rebels until they resumed obedience to Phillip.
Quietly, however, I kept lines of communication with the Sea Beggars open, allowed them to use the Isle of Wight as a base, and continued to send aid to Orange. The balance of power in the rebellion would be maintained until Phillip made sensible terms with his people.
Word had come from Requesens that morning. He had expelled English Catholic exiles from the Netherlands, including all the men in Allen’s college. And although Douai was largely Catholic, the people of the city were with Requesens. They had jeered at the students as they were told to pack their bags and leave.
“Douai’s trade has been utterly ruined by religious wars,” Cecil said. “And the people suffered much under Alba. They have no love for Allen and his men.”
“And the students are running,” I said with undisguised glee. “I do hope Allen knows he is rendered homeless because of me. He thought to disrupt my Church, but I will break his college.”
Students from Allen’s school were heading to Cambrai and Liège, towns on the French border. Unfortunately, Walsingham soon found they were being approached with offers of places to stay and money to support their nefarious cause, which did not please me, but at the very least we had upset Allen’s schemes for a while.
Requesens went further, expelling all English exiles in Brussels, Antwerp, Mechelen, and the Louvain too, soon after. They fled to Rheims, placing themselves under the protection of King Henri. This was noted by Huguenots without any happiness, and rumours of full-scale war in France began anew.
Allen went to Rome where our spies told us he presented an interesting proposal to the Pope. England could be won back, Allen said, to the Catholic faith if only the Pope would send a mere five thousand musketeers under the command of Thomas Stucley, a spy who had once worked for me. The ‘Enterprise of England’, a plot already formed in Spain, but which seemed to have gathered dangerous moss as it rolled, was to sail from Italy to Liverpool, a stronghold of Catholics. Phillip was involved, but was reticent to loan troops or money, since he was spare of both. Phillip was on the brink of bankruptcy and was concerned that if he went ahead, I would join the war in the Netherlands in earnest.
Phillip knew I had been offered the thrones of Holland and Zeeland. If he even made an attempt to take my country, I would accept, and this poverty stricken prince would be facing war on every front of his territories.
*
“So you have come to the conclusion my wishes were correct in sparing Mary of Scots?” I asked my midnight companion.
Cecil looked weary. He had been up, as ever, at six of the clock. Since I often worked through the night until that hour, I thought this arrangement worked for us. All through the day and night there was always one of us toiling for England.
“I would not go as far as that, Majesty, but I do think the threat is reduced.”
Cecil had just been telling me that with France embroiled in Civil War, Regent Morton proving successful against Mary’s supporters in Scotland, and with Mary’s continued imprisonment, he felt the hazards posed by her had faded. There was, he said, little chance Mary would gain supporters in England now, and much had gone quiet about her.
Mary was still trying of course, in more ways than one. Her secret message channel had been unmasked and her supporters were being watched, but she was attempting to gain supporters by other means. The new French Ambassador, Castelnau, had requested permission to ask her advice on English hunting dogs, which I had agreed to. When the Ambassador no more needed the dogs, Mary had told him to send them to King Henri as a present. She had sent a pitiful letter, saying she wished she could try them out herself, but as a woeful prisoner, could not. It was true her hunting privileges had been revoked when the message channel had been unmasked, but she had enjoyed the liberty of hunting in all times previous. If she had lost her freedom, it was because of her actions, not mine.
And she had other interests. She had started her aviary at Sheffield Castle, rearing turtledoves and Barbary fowl. More recently she had attempted, as I had thought she might, to forge bonds with her younger Guise kin, but without any notable success thus far.
“But that does not mean we are out of danger,” he went on, picking at a platter of fine Suffolk cheese, Spanish marmalade and manchet bread I had ordered from the kitchens. “Allen’s priests are infiltrating England, and must be stopped.”
Allen’s priests had increased in number and there was word of more sneaking into England, landing in Wales, Ireland or Cornwall, on beaches where there were no guards. Some were Englishmen, trained in Allen’s school and sent back home, where they might rely on kin or old friends to conceal them. Requesens’ expulsion had sent some of them scurrying for the shores of home.
“You have my full permission to root them out,” I said. “I want them here no more than you.”
“I will call on Walsingham for aid,” Cecil said. “He is well again and eager to return.”
Walsingham had been away nearly four months. At times he had seemed close to death, and at others merely in a great deal of discomfort.
But as men were arriving in secret on the shores of England, one had left Ireland. Fitzmaurice, our old, dedicated troublemaker, had been spotted on a ship bound for France.
“He lost his lands,” Cecil said. “There is word he will attempt to reclaim them with help from Catholic powers.”
“I thought we might have seen the last of him when he was granted the pardon for his life,” I said. “Does Walsingham have someone in France who can follow him?”
“We are attempting to arrange it, my lady.”
“Arrange it quickly. I do not care for the thought of that man out in the world causing trouble. He has given me enough already.”
*
That April, the Treaty of Blois was renewed with France, and although I had no real reason to, I invested Henri with the Order of the Garter. There had been doubt about whether Henri would renew the Treaty, so the honour I granted was more of a thank you than any true belief on my part that he was a knight worthy of admiration.
I had word from Walsingham in the same month; he had finally managed to get a spy into the household of my cousin of Scots. Cecil wanted to keep an eye on her, for we knew any reprieve was only temporary.
But sad news came as May reached its height. On the 17th, Matthew Parker, my Archbishop of Can
terbury died. He had been ailing for some time, and passed away just as he had lived; quietly.
“I will miss him,” I said when Cecil arrived to discuss his replacement. “Parker was a good man; moderate, careful and cautious. I want another like him.”
I did not need a replacement with secret zealous or puritanical leanings. Puritans were causing enough upset without aiding them by placing one of their sect into the highest, or almost highest, position in my Church. They had enough supporters in high places, Walsingham being one of them and Robin another.
Walsingham saw the Puritan faith as honest. It was stringent, joyless and controlled where Protestantism was often fractured and Catholicism, in his mind, was corrupt. Walsingham liked truth and I honoured that about him, but it is not beneficial to tell the truth all the time.
Perhaps it was the role he played at court and in Council that brought about Walsingham’s appreciation for truth. Walsingham dealt in dishonesty, it was his trade, so when he looked to religion, he wanted one that was honest and straightforward. He often petitioned me for Puritans I had punished for causing disorder or supported their prophesyings, which I wanted banned. Sometimes I listened with patience, more frequently I lost my temper.
