by G Lawrence
“You care more for the cause of Puritans than for mine!” I once shouted at Walsingham. He had the good sense to back down.
In truth, many were amazed I tolerated so much from one man. Others would have found themselves deprived of their post, or in the Tower for the things Walsingham dared to say to me. But I appreciated his loyalty, the courage and strength of morals he had shown in France, and his work in spyery was unmatched. For the right man, I would put up with a great deal, as Robin had proved more than once.
“I suggest Edmund Grindal as Archbishop Parker’s replacement, Majesty,” said Cecil.
I thought about it. Grindal had risen far during my brother’s reign, and had been offered the post of Bishop of London. Although unable to take the post due to my brother’s death, Grindal had worth. He had fled overseas when my sister had assumed the throne, but returned when I became Queen and had risen steadily in the Church. He had served on the committee to revise the liturgy, was a committed Protestant and although he had objected to my decrees on priests wearing certain vestments, had served well as Bishop of London, then as Bishop of York. Most notably, Grindal had condemned Thomas Cartwright who had pressed for the power of bishops to be dissolved, which would have led to chaos. He seemed to have the energy and moderation my Archbishop would require.
“I will approve him,” I said.
I mourned Parker. When time permitted, I went to my Chapel Royal and listened to the music of Tallis. Parker had lauded Tallis as the foremost talent of my court. As I heard voices joined in song, separate entities bonding to make one glorious strain, I felt closer to Parker, this man who had sworn to care for me after my mother had entrusted me to his spiritual care. Although, in truth, he had not done this, and I had had to all but chase him about England until he accepted the post of Archbishop, Parker had been all I had needed him to be.
“And,” I whispered to Parker. “In doing that, you fulfilled your promise, old friend. I had no need of you as an infant, but when I became Queen, you kept your vow. Rest easy in the knowledge you fulfilled your oath.”
I thought I heard a sound, as though a breath held, released.
*
In May, Dee moved his books, charts and maps into Muscovy House, seat of the Muscovy Company, and set to work. In the months leading up to the voyage to find the Northwest Passage he was always there, nose tucked so deep in a book he might have become one of the pages.
Dee instructed Frobisher and his men in the use of mathematics and celestial navigation, attempting to arm them for their voyage. Many found his work enthralling, Robin not least amongst them. Drake was one of the few men who truly understood what Dee was talking about, as he was a trained navigator, one of very few in England at that time. But I could not spare him for this voyage. Drake was preparing ships to go to Ireland and aid Essex.
Hatton had come home, despondent about the potential for success. “Essex drifts between outlandish confidence and outright misery,” he told me.
“Thank you for trying,” I said.
Dee presented his notes at court, and once we had seen the papers, Walsingham hid them. We needed no foreign spies to find this work. As Dee was preparing to guide others in a voyage, another came to take his leave; the Earl of Oxford.
The Earl was to leave for a tour of Europe, part of the traditional rites of a young man of court. On such voyages, noble sons would immerse themselves in culture and debauchery in equal measures, and come home with a few tales to spin at the fireside, and, more often than not, a few reasons to visit the apothecary, and spend months imbibing mercury.
Oxford had grown restless. Married life suited him not, and he wanted adventure. Although I was fond of him and his wild ways, I could see keeping him at court would only cause trouble. He came to say farewell and I greeted him at court.
“Godspeed, Oxford,” I said when we had talked for a while. “Go on your travels and bring back grand tales for me.”
“Majesty, I promise to delight you for years upon my return.”
As he bowed, there was an ungainly blast from his breeches. All around the room, people stopped talking and turned to stare. It was unheard of for a man to fart before the Queen of England.
I could barely keep my countenance as Oxford rose hurriedly, bowed and almost ran from the room. All through the rest of the audiences that morning I kept remembering it, and a smile would break upon my face at the most inappropriate moments. When finally I got to my chambers, I leaned against the door, howling with laughter until tears streamed down my face. My ladies, followed, some breathless and gasping with mirth like me, and some, quite surprised by this reaction, staring as though we were mad.
“Never in all my days will I forget that!” I said, leaning on Blanche for support.
“What a disgrace for the poor man!” she said weakly in between hiccups of amusement.
“Oxford has always been a bit too sure of himself,” I said. “But now he cannot even be sure of his own arse!”
Within hours it was about London, and people were saying that Oxford had fled to the Continent because he had farted in my presence. Of course it was not true, the trip had been planned for months, but I did nothing to stop the rumours. They tickled me.
As my amusement at Oxford’s ignoble bottom departed, another favourite was causing wind to stir. This time of gossip. Hatton had asked for Ely Place in Holborn, then the seat of the bishops of Ely. It was a peaceful spot, and had gracious gardens which Hatton coveted. When he had brought the proposition to me I supported it. Not only would Hatton have a good house where I would be no doubt invited to dine and walk in the gardens, but the Bishop of Ely, Richard Cox, had caused me trouble, and I saw this as a way to punish him.
“It is only a lease,” I said to Cecil when he came to complain on the Bishop’s behalf.
“He says it is being claimed by harpies and wolves of court,” Cecil said mildly. Although he had put the petition to me, he had no great interest in it.
“Mutton will have it,” I said. “Instruct Lord North to bully the Bishop. Threaten him with interrogation by the Council for exploiting Church lands. Then he will hand it over.”
“Has he been exploiting Church lands?”
“What Bishop does not?”
North did as requested and Cox crumbled. Exploiting Church lands came with the possible punishment of a bishop losing his seat and being defrocked, so Cox was not about to gamble. The house was leased to Hatton, sparking off fresh rumours that all this had come about because we were wildly in love.
“For my part, it is true,” he said.
“My Lids,” I said warmly. “You know I adore you too.”
“But your heart is England’s, Majesty. That I understand.”
At the same time, I granted Hatton an annuity of four hundred pounds per year for life. Despite this, he was always in debt. Sometimes I bailed him out, sometimes I did not. Whilst I was fond of Hatton, I did not want him growing too reliant on my favour. Men needed to be capable of helping themselves when trouble came, not always running to me.
There are many tales where wandering, noble knights come to rescue damsels in distress, but to my mind, the world would be a better place if we all, male and female, learned to look after ourselves, rather than relying on a mythical hero to sweep in and take all trouble and toil away.
We must all be our own knights, our own heroes. That way, we know who to turn to when darkness falls.
Chapter Thirty
Windsor Castle
Spring 1575
“Dutch leaders are taking offence that no answer has come,” Cecil warned.
“I can give no answer if I have not come to a decision. They must wait.”
The Dutch wanted to know if I would accept the offered crowns, but I was still not prepared to do so… but not prepared either to refuse. Keeping possibility alive was holding back Phillip from acting against England and keeping France nervous. But it was not only the Dutch who were unhappy with me. My own people were.
Many of my Council thought I should accept, led of course by Robin and Walsingham, and people in the streets were calling for it too. I had hoped to delay, using this offer as a bargaining tool against my enemies, but this was becoming harder.
To distract myself, I left court. Many times Dee had invited me to tour his famous library. I had offered him rooms at court, but he had refused as he thought all the scheming and noise would interfere with his studies. With my ladies and Privy Council in tow, we went to Mortlake. Dee had been expecting us, but something terrible had happened; his wife had died and was to be buried that day.
“I was rather at a loss, Majesty,” he said. “And did not think to inform you.”
“The sorrow is mine. I am so sorry, Master Dee. We will leave and come back another day.”
“If you would not mind, I would like to show you my library today.”
“You are sure you would not wish to wait?”
“I would rather have something to do, Majesty. I am at a loss and would be occupied.”
I nodded. Sorrow is like that. Sometimes, if we cannot find a task for our minds and hands, it threatens to rob us of our wits.
Dee took me inside and I marvelled at his library. It was quite possibly the largest in England, and held volume after fascinating volume. “There are three thousand books,” Dee said as I walked about the shelves in reverential, silent awe.
“That is more than Oxford or Cambridge,” I said, astounded.
“And another thousand manuscripts,” he added, a shy note of pride creeping into his tone.
There were books, maps, documents on all subjects under the sun… and the smell… it was glorious. Nothing smells like books. I breathed in Dee’s library, feeling it fill my lungs, my heart, making me stronger.
He showed me other items, too; a lodestone; Mercator globes; sea compasses and a mirror of Aztec obsidian, bequeathed to him by the English diplomat William Pickering, which produced illusions to fool the eye. He also showed me some of the horoscopes he drew up for nobles.
“You are careful about this work?” I asked, looking at charts.
“I am, Majesty.”
Dee knew what I was asking. During my sister’s reign he had been arrested for conjuring the future through horoscopes of me, my sister and Phillip. When his accuser lost a child and another went blind, Dee, then in prison, had been forced to confess to all number of false charges. My sister, at that time certain she was with child, thought Dee a sorcerer out to murder her baby. He had been taken to the Tower, facing accusations of witchcraft. Dee never spoke of what happened in the Tower. He confessed all that was required and was released into the household of Bishop Bonner soon after, apparently working for the Catholic cause… but that was when my sister had lost Dee, and I gained him. Dee had started working for Cecil, and for me, gathering information and protecting those of our friends whom he could.
“Just be careful as to what you promise nobles,” I said. “Sometimes noble minds run loose, getting ideas above their station, and besides, I would not like to think of any of your neighbours looking at you and thinking you an evil witch.”
“I am more careful now than I was as a youth,” he said with a sad smile. “Time and experience are good teachers, Majesty.”
We only stayed an hour, so he had time to prepare for the funeral. “Thank you for taking time, today of all days, to show me your wonders,” I said as we left.
“Thank you for giving me something else to concentrate on, Your Majesty,” he said, clasping my hand and kissing it.
*
Twin portraits of me and Robin were painted that year, upon his request. He wanted to hang them near each other in his house, he said, so even when apart, we were always together.
“Sometimes, Robin,” I said, wondering how I could speak for the wash of love drowning me. “I wonder how any other women in the world could fall in love, for how could any other man compare to you?”
So often, tales of love end when a marriage has taken place, or a damsel has been won, missing out all the years of toil and work that marriages actually take. When such tales omit the longest and most lasting part of marriage, they miss out not only all the horror and hurt, but the mystery and majesty too. For there is something strange and magical that happens when you love someone for a long time. You fall in love not once, but many times.
Most do not understand. Those trapped in loveless marriages see plainly how one might learn to hate, and hate deeper, with each passing year, but love is usually seen as something that comes once, a single strike, and then simply remains without altering.
It is not so. We change as life, loss, happiness, failure, joy, grief, hurt and betrayal mould us. We alter, to survive. And if we change, so does our love. When we stay true to one heart for our entire lives, we find that heart changes too. And as these new people, altered by the changing winds of fortune, remain with each other, a miraculous thing happens; we fall in love again, with the same person, but for different attributes and reasons.
It was so with Robin and me. Our love had come about in the heat of youth and passion, had cooled to a warm glow in the middle of our lives, and neither of us were the same people we had once been. Elements remained, of course, little threads of our former selves still woven into the blanket of our lives, but much had changed.
There is something magical in falling in love with the same person. It is not the same as the first time. It is like a wound, yet one you accept gratefully, which lies in your belly, and as you fall in love again, the wound is lashed deeper. There is pain, for there always is with love, but the warmth that this wound brings compensates. And with each strike, as love falls upon us again and again, the wound of love is made deeper. It will never leave. It will always be there, even if love fades one day, it will become a scar.
In the days and weeks that followed, I thought about this, and became so warm towards Robin that something unfortunate triggered in his mind; he thought I had changed my notions regarding marriage.
“What do you mean?” I asked Mary Sidney when she broke the subject.
“Majesty, your recent affection for my brother has led him to hope, where once he had given up. Please, Majesty, do not punish him for this. He is so happy. I almost cannot bear it for I know…” she trailed off, but I knew what she had been about to say.
There was no hope of me marrying Robin. Not now. I was irritated he had allowed the thought back into his head, yet could not blame him for it. It was my fault. I had not kept the balance I had always relied on to control all my men. I had fallen to the wayside of that path and had dragged poor Robin with me.
“I will not see your brother hurt,” I said. “And I will say nothing to him of you coming to warn me, Mary, I promise.”
“Thank you, Majesty. I just thought you should know. If he should broach the subject and you were not prepared, you might react with anger, and I cannot think what that would do to him.” She twisted her hands. “He is so full of hope, Majesty, and when hope is lost…”
“Fear not,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “I will find a way to let him down easily. I cannot promise it will not hurt, but I will do my best to minimise the pain.”
As I pondered on how to let Robin down gently, I had news of my cousin of Scots. Mary had been ill. Laid low by a fever, she complained she was being made old before her time, by me. She felt she needed to vomit all the time, she wailed, and had pains in the left side of her body. Her legs were swollen and her head pained her. Worst of all was lowness of spirits, for which she wore an amethyst ring, said to counter depression. She feared poison, and had asked the French Ambassador to procure her some unicorn horn, which, it was said, could counter the effects of any poison. But at the same time, she had been asking for a miniaturist to come and paint her, so she might send her portrait to people she loved.
“Clever little vixen,” I murmured. I understood Mary’s mind. It is easy for people to forget you when they have nothing to remembe
r you by. She wanted to send her image far and wide, so her supporters would remember her, and her charms.
Even knowing this, and much to Cecil’s horror, I permitted a miniaturist to go to Mary at Sheffield Castle. I could never rid myself of curiosity about Mary and wanted to know what she looked like now. It was also a right of the Crown to grant images of oneself to supporters, and I would not deny her anything I could grant safely.
When I gained one of the pictures, I was surprised. Gone was that fresh-faced maiden and in her place was a woman with a drawn face, hawkish nose and a pinched, bitter mouth. By contrast, her body was clearly running to fat. Her eyes were morose, but her fingers, so like mine, were still thin and long, pale and pretty.
