by G Lawrence
Heedless of the mizzle, I refused to halt the proceedings and only called for a fresh cloak and hat when the choirs and delegates were done greeting me and I had accepted their gifts. I wanted them to think I was spellbound by their speeches of welcome. But it was with a great deal of much-hidden relief that I put on the warm cloak and set the fine riding cap on my soggy wig. I was wetter than a mermaid’s tail, chilled blood to bone.
But I did not let that stop anything they had planned. We toured the cathedral where my uncle, Arthur Tudor, lay buried, and I was entertained by a consort of cornets, sackbuts and singing. Afterwards, I was taken to my chambers in the Bishop’s Palace.
“Thank the Maker!” I exclaimed, seeing my bath had been brought into my bedchamber. Ignoring my doctors, who thought it lunacy, I bathed in steaming hot water that night, lying there for more than an hour, washing chill from my bones and anger at Robin from my head.
As I lay there, steam pouring above my brow, wafting sweet scents of musk and rosemary over my skin, I thought about my visit. I had chosen to come to Worcester as it was the seat of the woollen trade, and the trade needed a boost. Knowing my visit would aid trade was why the city fathers had gone to such effort, and I was not about to let them down. I would command my ladies to make purchases from shops, stalls and traders, and order wool for my own use. We were to hold meetings in the morning to see how my government could aid merchants in restoring the trade to better health. With this weather, I thought. It should be on the rise. Wool is, after all, a serviceable cloth, excellent at keeping out water.
On Sunday, we rode through the city, rain lashing us and wind pulling at our clothes. I travelled in an open coach, despite the weather, so my people could see me. As we rode towards the morning service in the cathedral I shouted to the sodden people, “I thank you! I thank you all!” and I sincerely meant it. To turn out on such an inclement day, simply to greet me, was a true honour I would not forget.
*
“Dear God,” I said, feeling sick.
“It was a military target, madam.”
I stared from the window, watching rain snake down the panes like the tears of God. And the Almighty had just cause to weep; Essex had seen to that.
News had come from Ireland, and it did not please me.
Drake and other West Countrymen had been sent to aid Essex in taking Rathlin Island, the stronghold being used by rebel Irish chieftains and their Scots allies. Rathlin was no stranger to rebellion. Once said to have been the refuge of Robert the Bruce when he was hiding from English forces, the castle was named for that hero of the Scots and was an isle of myth and legend.
I had approved the taking of the island, as it was a strategic base, and Drake had been sent with a fleet to cut off Scottish galleys protecting the isle. Drake had done well, bringing together a naval blockade that might well have been sufficient to force rebels on the island to surrender, but Essex had desired a more fulsome, dramatic victory.
Sending three hundred foot soldiers and eighty horse to Drake so the troops might be shipped to Rathlin, Essex had put a man named John Norris in charge of his forces. There was a skirmish as English soldiers chased the surprised Scots into their castle, but only one man, an Englishman, was killed.
But Death was not sated. A siege had begun, where Drake directed cannon fire against the castle, but Norris and his troops were beaten back upon attempting to storm the fortress. Norris was preparing another onslaught when word came from the Scots’ leaders that they wanted to negotiate.
They were willing to surrender the castle, they said, but Norris would not hear them. Knowing the castle would fall eventually, as it was cut off from food and fuel, he wanted to take it by force. Norris told the Scottish leader that pardon would be granted for their families if his life was offered in return. The man surrendered.
What happened next was hideous. The castle surrendered, but then was stormed. The constable, his family and the son of an Irish chief were secured and saved, but everyone else, every man, woman, child and baby were slaughtered. The helpless, the feeble, the wounded, the young, the old… none were spared.
Insane with bloodlust, English troops rampaged through the island hunting down fleeing people. Two hundred were slaughtered after the initial fall of the castle, and for days English soldiers wandered, butchering those who remained, bringing the total to somewhere approaching five hundred souls. Sorely Boy MacDonnell, son of the Lord of Islay and Kintyre, helplessly watched the slaughter of his people. Essex’s letter was not contrite or sorrowful, it was boastful and merry. Reading it made me nauseous.
“I told Essex I wanted no unnecessary bloodshed,” I said, still staring at the rain.
“He says it was done because the people meant to rebel again,” Cecil said. “And for the resistance they showed before surrender.”
“Yet they surrendered. And still were treated like rebels.”
“Madam, they were rebels,” Cecil said. “This is a lesson to all in Ireland who would think to flaunt your will.”
“And a lesson that English promises are not to be trusted,” I said, turning to him. Another report had come at the same time, from an anonymous source, although I suspected it was Drake. That report stated that the rebels had been offered their lives, all of them, if they would surrender the castle, and once they had, Norris had gone back on his word.
Drake had, as far as we knew, not taken part in the massacre. He had been unloading guns, arms and men at the shores of Rathlin, and had patrolled to ensure no reinforcements landed on the Island. Eleven Scottish galleys had been captured or destroyed with fire whilst the massacre went on, so Drake would have had no time to join in with Norris and his men. It was also wildly against his principles to slaughter captured prisoners. Drake had always protected Spaniards who had surrendered, and had even sheltered them against the wrath of his allies, the Cimarrones. Survivors of the destroyed galleys had been taken onboard his ships, to be ransomed at a later date. He had not stopped Norris, it was true, but Drake was not in charge of this madness, Norris was, put there by Essex.
“Would you censure Essex, or Norris?” Cecil asked.
“My heart censures them,” I said. “But what can I do in reality? If I condemn my men for breaking a rebel base all rebels in Ireland will think us fractured and unstable.” I shook my head. “I will send congratulations to them,” I said, my tone strained with distaste, “but I want Sidney in Ireland again. He was popular, and is a moderate man. Recall FitzWilliam. He and Essex are not working well together in any case, but with Sidney there in his stead, perhaps Essex might be brought under control.”
As Cecil rose, I touched his shoulder. “Tell Sidney not to hold the island,” I said.
“But it is an important base, Majesty.”
“What it is now, Cecil, is a symbol of English treachery,” I said. “That is what it means to the Irish. Tell Sidney I want no garrison on it. Norris thinks to lord himself there, using it as a badge of his victory. I will not have that. And bring Drake back to transport Sidney to Ireland. I want Sidney to understand what type of men he is dealing with.”
“There is no proof Drake wrote this anonymous report, madam.”
“I hear his voice in it, and his, like mine, mourns this needless slaughter.”
By the end of that year, Rathlin was abandoned. Norris and Essex complained and I ignored them. Soon after, I asked Essex and Norris to return to England. Criticize their actions, I could not, but I wanted them no more in Ireland, not unless I was assured they would honour terms of peace made.
Chapter Forty-Two
Woodstock Palace
Summer 1575
Two days later, we left Worcester to dine with my cofferer, and city dignitaries turned out en masse. My visit had brought new commerce, and they were thankful. As they made to dismount and kneel in the mud, I stopped them. “I pray you, keep your horses and do not alight,” I said. “I have no wish to watch honest Englishmen soil their fine woollen breeches with mud.”
Returning to Worcester that night, it was raining, and still there were people present to welcome me back. I did not hurry past. The muttering of my ladies grew as I stopped to talk to person after person, honouring them all with a snippet of conversation.
“You will catch your death like this,” Blanche said.
“I will catch nothing more or less than the affection of my people,” I replied. “Look at them, standing here in the lashing rain and filthy mud, just to see me. Should I rush past and make their efforts in vain? I think not. They waited for me in a tempest, the least I can do is make that effort worthwhile.”
At the last feast to mark the end of our trip, all the wool merchants of Worcester attended. By the end of the night, many of my courtiers had promised to invest in the industry, and I was feeling satisfied.
If I could have blocked out the sound of ghosts screaming to me from Rathlin Island, I would have been entirely happy.
*
Woodstock was our next stop. We stayed with Sir Henry Lee as our host, as he was leasing Woodstock from the Crown. It transpired that Lee, perhaps inspired by events that summer at Kenilworth which were already famous about England, had devised his own entertainment.
When first I heard of it, I was downcast, for from the description it appeared to be another pageant about marriage, but when it was performed, I found it quite different.
It was a tale of two knights, Contarenus and Loricus, the second knight being one of the pseudonyms Lee employed when jousting. A hermit came forth and told the tale, of a princess who fell in love with a knight of poor means and small wealth. The second part of the tale, performed the next day, told of how the noble Princess Gaudina rejected her humble beloved knight because of her duties to the state. The rendering of this tale brought me to tears. Finally, I thought, someone understands me!
This tale was so pleasing to me that Lee promised he would have copies of the play made for me in Latin, Italian and French, and he kept his word, as some time later, that New Year’s, I was presented with them as a gift from him.
After the play, we were taken to a banqueting house, decorated with sprawling ivy, where the tables were covered with turf and wild flowers. It stood under a great oak, in recognition of the old tale of when I had first been told I was Queen. The table was set with platters of gold plate and posies of wild, fragrant flowers hung from the roof, along with gilt emblems of the arms of England and my initials.
“It looks as a part of the forest,” I breathed when I saw it.
“Perhaps it is not as grand as some of the entertainments my Lord of Leicester put on for you, Majesty,” Lee said humbly. “But I hope it pleases.”
“It does more than please me,” I said. “I think this one of the most beautiful things I ever set eyes upon.” I turned to him. “And I adored your pageant. The triumph of patriotism over love, of mind over heart, is something I wish more of my people could not only understand, but take inspiration from.”
“My Lord of Leicester did, in fact, suggest another play,” Lee said. “He said that you had been eager to see it, but poor weather had prevented it being shown.”
I knew which play that was.
“But I heard from Master Walsingham, Majesty, that you had actually said you did not wish to see the performance, and so went ahead with my own. I do hope I did right?”
I touched his arm. “You did,” I said. “Your play was vastly pleasing to me, even more so because it was penned by your hand.”
“I hope I did not offend the Earl. I did say my people had put a great deal of effort into this pageant, and that was why I wanted it performed for you, Majesty, but he did seem a little irritated I did not follow his suggestion.”
“Worry not about the Earl,” I said as we entered the glorious pavilion to the sound of sweet music. I smiled at Paul as he held open the tent door for us. “I will deal with him.”
As I sat, being served grande sallats of spinach, watercress, boiled carrot and radish, along with eggs boiled in rosewater, and strawberries, cherries, tarts and pies, I wished the sweetness being offered to my mouth would block out the bitterness of my heart.
Chapter Forty-Three
Woodstock Palace
Summer 1575
“How many times must I say the same thing before it manages to burrow into your ears, gentlemen? I will not send an army to the Low Countries.”
Peace talks had collapsed between Requesens and Dutch rebels, Orange had formally renounced Phillip’s sovereignty, and more men had risen, turning rebellion into revolution. Independent states of the Netherlands had sent an embassy pleading for aid, led by the Baron Ode St Aldegonde, Orange’s most trusted man. They had again offered me a crown in return for aid, but had added something new. If I refused, they would offer the throne to France.
When that news came, or that blackmail, I should say, I had been so enraged I had stormed to my rooms, locking myself inside. Alone, until my ladies screamed they would batter their way in, I had had a little time to rage and then to attempt to bring myself under control.
This was not what I wanted, but my position had not changed.
“Our resources are limited,” I went on. “And for all his faults, of which there are many, Phillip is an anointed prince.”
“As is Orange, Majesty,” Cecil pointed out.
“And England is in a good state,” said Robin. “Your debts are cleared, Majesty, trade is rising.”
“The present bounty of England has arisen because I resolutely ignored constant arguments for war.” I paused, fixing a steely eye on Robin. “Our policy shall continue as it has before; covert aid to the Huguenots and Protestants of the Low Countries, but no English armies marching in.”
“Phillip will not talk to his subjects,” Robin said.
“In time, he will be forced to.”
“I do not think that will ever happen, Majesty,” said Cecil. “No matter how sweet it sounds.”
“That which is good takes more work than that which is bad,” I sniped. “You should not expect quick triumph and easy victory, my lords. This is a long game, and in the end what will be achieved will be greater and more lasting than what we might gain by rushing in now.”
All around the table, eyes met eyes that held the same lack of belief. They thought me a fantasist for rigidly clinging to the same arguments, but I was not dwelling in fantasy. Peace takes effort, for it is an ongoing slog of continuous, ineffably tiring toil to make people get along. War, a short outburst of foolish anger, may seem more decisive, but is a fool’s game.
“And besides,” I said. “We are about to renegotiate the trade deal made with Spain two years ago. I do not mean to disrupt that by marching into war against them.”
I stared at Cecil and saw the light of doubt kindle in his eyes. Turning from him, I asked, “Is there any other news to debate today?”
“William Allen, Majesty,” said Walsingham.
“What is our pest up to?”
“The Pope has granted him powers of absolution and dispensation.”
“He will crown him a cardinal next,” I said dryly.
“The Pope has also granted an annuity,” said Walsingham, “of one hundred gold crowns. The college was in financial difficulties, but now they will survive.”
Requesens had banished Allen and his men, but they had been sneaking back to Douai. Knowing I was not upholding my end of our bargain, Requesens had no intention of harming men who were so obviously against me. He and his master needed Allen; he was something to hold over me, in case I thought of claiming Holland and Zeeland.
“We also have word that Edward Campion has become one of Allen’s most trusted men,” Walsingham went on. Faces darkened all about the chamber.
Once a priest of the Church of England, Campion had worked as a tutor in the house of Lord Vaux, a known recusant. Some time ago, he had fled his homeland, converted to the Catholic faith and, travelling to Rome, had become a Jesuit. He was intelligent, zealous and dangerous.
Cecil had once called him one of the “diamonds of England”, in the days before he became a traitor. Indeed, Campion had impressed me when I had heard him preach at Oxford some ten years ago. I had thought he had a bright future in my Church and had not been the only one impressed; Robin had become his patron. Campion’s family had served mine with loyalty, and it was a great personal sorrow that he had turned against me. He had his own dedicated band of followers now, called Campionists, and possessed a respected, international reputation as a scholar, author and learned man.
“The loss of that man is a blight upon England,” Cecil mourned.
