Blood of my Blood

by G Lawrence

  “He is lost. There is no use sorrowing.”

  “This is for certain, about Allen’s new powers?” I asked Walsingham later as the rest of my Council departed.

  He waited until the door closed. “I have it from a member of the college who has turned and is working for us.”

  Walsingham had contacts everywhere. His time on the Continent had earned him many friends and allies, and he used them well, drawing information from places like Padua, Basel, Frankfurt, Strasbourg, Geneva and Zurich, collecting them in his web.

  I paused, narrowing my eyes. “You did not say this in Council. Do you suspect my advisors of disloyalty?”

  Walsingham shook his head. “Only of lack of discretion. If it were to be said, upon pillows of the Winchester Geese of Southwark, or to a mistress or friend, that we had a man in Allen’s college, that man would lose his life.”

  “They are not so foolish.”

  “The less they know, the better for us, Majesty. After all, if a man does not know something, he cannot possibly pass it on.”

  I smiled. “You are right, of course. Have you thought about further measures?”

  Walsingham knew what I was asking. “There are men trained in such arts as might be practised against Allen.”

  I nodded. “Keep him watched, but unleash no dogs as yet.”

  “He is but one man, Majesty, and by all accounts he leads that school as no other could. Take him out of the picture, and the portrait stands bare.”

  “It would be easy to believe you, Walsingham,” I said. “But that is not true. Kill Allen, and he becomes a martyr. You know the power of such men; in death they become only more alive. Kill Allen and we will inflame other Catholics. Kill him, and I will face more assassins than we can manage.”

  I shook my head. “No. We must find other ways to frustrate them.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Windsor Castle

  Autumn 1575

  Returning to Windsor that autumn, I found good news waiting. Reports on England’s finances showed that most of my debts were cleared, trade was good, and although the harvest was poor that year, unsurprisingly after all the rain, England was prospering. Restoration of trade with the Low Countries was one of the reasons, and glancing at reports, I could only thank my dogged determination to keep talks open with both sides of that conflict. Had I listened to my men, England would be in debt by now, and embroiled in war.

  As Bruges and Antwerp became rapidly less important trading ports due to war, London surged ahead. Where, in my father’s reign, English coin had been distrusted, and for good reason since it had been debased, now, in my reign, English coin was trusted. Gone were the days when men would look with cynicism at my father’s face on coins and call him Old Copper Nose because the thin layer of silver on his coins came off so easily, leaving his face shining an embarrassed, ruddy shade of amber. Now, men looked down at my face, gold or silver on the front of my coins, knowing with sure affection and certainty that what the coin swore it was worth was indeed the truth.

  There were additional benefits. Men might howl about the numbers of immigrants in England who had fled wars in France and the Low Countries, but it could not be denied they had brought a much-needed influx of new skills and trades. Silk-weavers from Antwerp had come, increasing imports of that material to England threefold with their Cathay contacts, and this industry also employed people making damask, satin, taffeta, armoisin, and velvet.

  The number of immigrants who were heads of households had doubled, and they were expanding their trade, producing cheaper alternatives by mixing raw silk with wool and linen. Needle-makers, too, had increased, many of them of African descent, and although some complained that England was stuffed full of foreigners, the truth was we needed immigrants. They brought trade, and knowledge that England did not possess. Opening our doors to the rest of the world had strengthened England in finance, trade and politics. Our new adopted children were enriching England.

  There were issues of course. Foreigners brought their own faiths to England, and stranger or foreign churches had been established. These churches were Protestant, but there were many forms by this time. French churches, Dutch churches, Polish churches, and others which seemed to appear from nowhere had come to England, and whilst I worried about lack of unity, I did not stop them forming. Archbishop Grindal was the man I had appointed to look after them. He was moderate, and did not interfere with their ceremonies, but instead offered instruction in the faith of the Church of England. Stranger churches were permitted to worship their own form of Protestantism under a special licence from me, and they were grateful. It was, after all, a right they had been denied in their homelands.

  Some men complained, as the role of women was often more prominent in these stranger churches, but I did not mind. To my way of thinking, a few women preachers was a good thing. Many men did not see it that way, and called women preachers the “lower sort” of preachers, but perhaps that was just fear speaking. Men had been attempting to silence women for centuries, fearing that if they opened their mouths, the power of men might fall. In truth, allowing special licence for stranger churches to practise their faith with freedom allowed me to set some women into liberty, something I was more than happy to do, provided they did not go too far and rebel against my laws.

  But as peace, wealth and health settled upon England, my patience and personal affairs were tested.

  Frustrated that his latest efforts to tumble me into marriage had borne no fruit, Robin made for Lettice as the swallow wings for England when spring returns. He made no secret of his affection. His hand was on her waist as they strolled about the gardens below my windows, his face was close to hers as they shared gossip, and his laugh bounced from the walls of my palaces as she entertained him with her sharp, often cutting, tongue. Rumours about the depth of Robin and Lettice’s relationship grew, augmenting into a furious fire of gossip. To say I was less than pleased would have been a gross understatement.

  This was payback. A hefty fine I was to pay for having ignored his ostentatious wooing.

  I was not the only one disturbed. When Essex returned that November, he too heard the rumours. Essex did not have a great deal to be merry about in general; his campaign had been one disaster after another, he had lost men, money and much of my respect, and although he gained some rewards upon return, they were not enough to subdue his debts. He wanted to come to court immediately, but I told him to repair in the country for a while. I had no wish to see him. I knew he wanted to return to Ireland and I did not want him there. Sidney was doing well, repairing much of the damage Essex had done. Ireland had a safe pair of hands on her now. I had no wish to send Essex again.

  I also knew he was bound to plead for more money. Essex had known the risks and accepted them. It was not for me to bail out every lord whose ambition was greater than his skills.

  “There is a rumour the Earl has altered his will,” Blanche told me.

  “To what end?”

  “A woman in his house told me the Earl altered it so that if he died, his children were to be brought up by the Earl of Huntingdon.”

  “He does not want his wife, their mother, to have guardianship?”

  “It would seem not, Majesty. One of Mendoza’s servants claims Essex suspects his wife has been untrue, and doubts the paternity of his children.”

  “If that were the case he would disinherit them,” I said. “Whilst I see what goes on between Lettice and Robin now, I do not think she would stoop so low as to bear cuckoo children, and for Robin to ignore the knightly honour of chivalry would be a desecration of his vows as a knight.” I sighed. “Besides, all of Lettice’s children were conceived when her husband was home, anyone with an eye to see or mind to count can see that.”

  The affair between Robin and Lettice was just the kind I despised, for it was public. Much as court was a pretty scene concealing an ugly backdrop of power and lust, so veils are drawn over many aspects of life. Unseen vice was not u
ncommon, nor a problem. Obvious sin was.

  In the streets of London, people were talking about it and it was said that Lettice’s son, Robert, was Robin’s bastard. Whether true or not, it seemed Essex may have believed it, for he was reportedly cold towards his eldest son, and had embarked on furious rows with his wife. When Essex came to London, he cold-shouldered Robin. Lettice went on as though she had not a care in the world, and many thought her behaviour unnatural.

  “I do not care,” I said miserably to Hatton when he recounted another tale of Robin and Lettice. He looked surprised, as I had asked him to find out all he could. The truth was my teeth were paining me and nothing stemmed the hurt. In some ways it was as though the pain Robin was inflicting on my heart was appearing in other parts of my body, seeking to torment me just as he did.

  *

  A child of dubious fate came into this life that November. Arbella Stewart was born to Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles, Lord Darnley, and as soon as she was born, although a girl, she was talked of for the succession, and as a possible bride for King James. The baby’s name indeed hinted as much, as Arbella was an ancient Scottish name, a variant on Annabella, which had been the name of the Queen of Robert III.

  I was not unduly worried. Few men would support a female claimant, and Arbella was a babe in arms. I would need to keep an eye on her grandmothers, Margaret Lennox and Bess, but at present Arbella was merely an annoying addition to my life, rather than an insurmountable problem.

  But her birth cemented the link between Margaret Lennox and Mary of Scots. My royal cousin became Arbella’s godmother, and although not permitted to attend the christening, Mary sent presents for the child. My Lennox cousin, who had been released from house arrest, bonded with her daughter-in-law over Arbella. They wrote to each other often, and Margaret signed her letters, “Your Majesty’s most humble and loving mother”. She offered Mary solace, saying she no more thought her guilty of Darnley’s murder, and that Mary should be allowed to see her son. Margaret now believed that Regent Morton had been heavily involved in her son’s murder. Through intercepted letters we had learned this, but I was not about to confront Morton; because of him Scotland was steady again.

  “The grandmothers may come to place hope in this child,” Walsingham said. “King James, as an alien, may be seen by many to hold a lesser claim.”

  “But even Margaret still supports him,” I pointed out. “Look at all the presents she ships to Scotland.”

  Margaret had been sending books, gloves, clothes and other presents to the Scots’ Court to ingratiate herself with her grandson. She could little afford these; Lennox had left her deep in debt.

  “But I agree it is worth watching them,” I said. “Apart, they are troublesome. Together, the two grandmothers are a formidable force.”

  In addition to setting Walsingham on the hunt, I asked Robin to write to Shrewsbury, telling him to allow Bess into Mary’s company more often. Through those letters it was said I permitted this for Mary’s comfort, but I sent secret letters to Bess, asking her to keep watch. I trusted Bess more than Margaret, and Bess had no reason to allow Margaret to conspire with Mary, sending Arbella’s future into disarray and potentially endangering Bess and Shrewsbury too. I said I wanted to know if anything dangerous passed between the two, and Bess agreed to keep watch.

  Finding the halls of court too confining at that time, as they seemed crowded by Robin, Lettice or people talking about them, I went hunting in Windsor’s park. I killed six deer with my crossbow, shooting from the saddle as I rode. When the last fell, I had wounded but not killed her, so I alighted. As my men held the doe down, I drew my deadly-sharp dagger. Many women shied from the kill. I did not. If I had brought a creature down, it was up to me to kill it. It was crueller to leave a creature suffering than dispatching it to a quick death.

  Cutting her throat with my hunting knife, I did my task swift and clean.

  I wiped my crimson blade on a cloth, my face sombre. I had been thinking of another doe, one of court, whom I would like to turn my knife on.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Whitehall Palace

  Winter 1575 - 1576

  By December, gossip had bred, spawning into minds and hearts. Mendoza confidently claimed Lettice had two children by Robin, and named Essex a cuckold.

  Gossip about Lettice was not confined to Robin. That winter there were whispers she and Essex were in debt. One would not have noticed anything was amiss if one went by their New Year’s gifts, however. Essex presented me with a large section of black velvet, trimmed with white satin and black knots. Lettice offered the front piece of a kirtle, a pair of fine sleeves, and a partlet of green satin with a frontage of lacework. But soon rumour came bounding, baying Essex and his wife were indeed in debt, and living beyond their means.

  Essex was attempting to gain financial compensation for his adventures in Ireland, although with small success, as I took to avoiding him at court. I knew he was in straits, but I also thought he was exaggerating. Nobles often do, when there is money to be gained. I had sent several offers of positions, but Essex refused them. If he was as desperate as he claimed, he would have accepted them, no matter how junior. This, added to their troubles with Robin, sent Essex and Lettice tumbling into arguments, often. There is nothing like money to make a couple argue.

  But in February, Essex’s arrogance crumbled. Merchants of London would offer him no credit, and he was writing almost daily to Walsingham, pleading for my favour. Unable to support a life at court, Essex and Lettice left for Chartley.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. But if rumours were rife about Lettice and Robin, they were also growing about Shrewsbury.

  “Some think him too close to the Queen of Scots,” said Cecil.

  “Such rumours have been spun before,” I replied, staring into the fire. Flames curled; the lapping tongue of a greedy phoenix.

  “But this time his wife is not happy about the gossip.”

  “I would not expect her to be. Would you wish to hear your wife was dallying with another man, Cecil? No matter what trust you place in the one you love, to hear they may be intimate with another rocks even the most secure heart.”

  “There is a change in the Earl. He has become not only careful with money, but frankly miser-ish.”

  “Because I reduced Mary’s allowance? Is he supplementing her income where I refused to?”

  “Not as far as I know, Majesty,” said Cecil. “That would be rather counterproductive to your orders.”

  “Then what is his concern?”

  “He thinks his wife spends too much on Chatsworth.”

  “That is his concern, not ours.”

  “He has also been unwell,” said Cecil. “And when I turned his third son down as a husband for my daughter, Elizabeth, it did not help his frame of mind.”

  “Why did you turn him down?”

  “I think her too young, Majesty. I have no objection to her marrying at fifteen or sixteen, but would rather she were closer to twenty. I also think the gossip that he is too close to Mary bears further investigation.”

  “You thought the rumours false last time. What has changed?”

  “Just something gnawing in my mind, Majesty.”

  “Your men are still in the house?”

  He nodded. “They will report anything suspicious.”

  I looked from the window. Mary of Scots, my own personal cuckoo, had been quite quiet for a time. She still complained, of course, protesting she should be brought to court, released or reunited with her son. And large complaints were not allowed to become lonely, for a host of small ones kept them company. Not enough coin in her purse, bad chambers, poor company and more recently, a complaint that she missed the dry, potent ale of Scotland, brewed with bog-myrtle leaves and heather tops.

  But I was accustomed to her wailing and although irritating, it did me no harm. She was losing her looks, and this made me take heart, but I knew the attraction she held for men was only partly due to her face
and figure. There was another type of magic in Mary. She exuded confidence and desperation in equal measures. We humans are susceptible to combinations of emotion. One alone can become irritating, but if one emotion combines with its opposite we find it almost irresistible. Looks or no looks, Mary remained a danger.

  *

  “I simply cannot understand what is taking so long,” I said to Walsingham and Cecil. “How many years does it take to rebuild a spire?”

  Fifteen years ago, during an astoundingly powerful storm, the church of St Martin Ludgate had been hit by lightning. The ensuing fire had destroyed the building, and the bolt had also blasted St Paul’s Cathedral. The oak steeple had caught fire, and molten lead from the roof as well as burning timber had cascaded down, setting fire to four of St Paul’s other roofs. The blaze had run out of control, and people had gathered to watch, standing about, staring, and not aiding at all.