by G Lawrence
I sought to tell them of all they had gained through me, not some king, and told them of my own feelings. “… if I were a milkmaid with a pail on mine arm… I would not forsake that single state to match myself with the greatest monarch…”
I fixed them with a steely eye. “But let good heed be taken lest in reaching too far after future good you peril not the present, or begin to quarrel and fall by dispute together by the ears before it be decided who shall wear my crown.”
I smiled at them. “I will not deny but I might be thought the indifferentist judge in this respect. I shall not be at all when these things be fulfilled… which none but myself can speak in this company.”
There was a chuckle. It was death to speak of the demise of the monarch, but I was allowed to recognise I would die, one day.
“Misdeem not of my words as though I sought what heretofore to others hath been granted,” I said. “I intend it not. My brains be too thin to carry so touch a matter…” more laughter at the back. “…although I trust God will not in such haste cut off my days, but that, according to your own desert and my desire, I may provide some good way for your security.”
I left, after telling them to have faith in God and in me. Some listened, and some, naturally, did not.
“She is our god in earth,” Lord North said, “and if there be perfection in flesh and blood, undoubtedly it is in Her Majesty.”
North understood. I was God’s chosen. Only I could understand what the Almighty wanted for England.
I was a mother to many, and a mother, when fulfilling her most sacred potential, grants a future to others. She will attempt to guide her offspring, but knows that one day they will have to find their way without her. This was what I was doing; forging a path my people could follow even after my death, instilling toleration and peace, so they might be guided by my ghost.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1576
Death came calling that April, taking Charles Stewart, Lord Darnley, to join his murdered brother. The young man, his new daughter Arbella a bare six months old, died of consumption.
“Perhaps his sickly health was why the marriage was so rushed,” I said to Cecil. “Margaret understood her son was not long for this world.”
“Perhaps,” Cecil said. “It would certainly explain why she risked imprisonment.” He looked up. “The Countess wants Arbella confirmed as inheritrix of her father’s titles. She asks for your aid in persuading Regent Morton about the Scottish estates.”
“The Scots will dispute her claim. King James is the heir of the elder brother. He is, in truth, the heir to the Lennox titles and lands.”
“Should I send that as your reply, madam?”
“No, we will attempt to secure Arbella’s titles, although I know what Morton will say. He will claim she is too young to take on such a prestigious title, and will tell us to wait until she is eighteen. Many children die in infancy, and he will gamble this will happen to Arbella.” I paused. “In truth, King James is the only one who can reach a decision on this matter, and he will not until he attains his majority.”
“The Countess will continue to push. It is not only Arbella’s estates and income at risk, but Margaret’s dower lands.”
It was true. If the case was left unsettled Margaret was in a great deal of trouble in terms of finance. Although I had no wish to see a member of my family in disgrace over money, I did see there might be benefits. Margaret with money was more likely to cause trouble than Margaret without. But desperation could be dangerous. When people have nothing to lose, they risk everything.
But, I did not want a rift with Morton. I would have to offer a little support to Margaret, but the battle for Arbella’s Scottish inheritance and Margaret’s dower lands would, by necessity, have to be waged by the Dowager herself.
As we responded, offering tepid support to Margaret, I granted permission for Arbella to be taken to Sheffield Castle. Margaret was wallowing in debt and could not support her granddaughter. Elizabeth Cavendish and Arbella went to Sheffield Castle soon after, although Cecil and Walsingham were against it, as they thought, not without cause, this would lead to Arbella coming into contact with Mary of Scots, leading to plans and plots.
And not long after, it seemed this suspicion was correct. “What right does the Scots’ Queen have to make such a statement?” I asked.
“None, in law, Majesty, but they hope her influence will aid them.”
Bess and Margaret had apparently extracted a will, of sorts, from Mary. Although unsigned, and therefore not legal, it stated she would grant the Earldom of Lennox to Arbella and enjoined her son, King James, to obey her wishes. It was a clear sign Mary thought her power greater than it was.
My eyes raced to the gilt ceiling where I hoped to find patience. “However irritating, this cannot harm us. I have not asked the Scots to steal away their King’s property, so they cannot reproach me for it.”
Walsingham nodded thoughtfully. “But it does seem to suggest a close relationship between the three women.”
“Of course they are close. They are kin.”
“I meant perhaps another kind of relationship.”
“You think Mary is attempting to buy them?”
“It is worth considering. What promises were made to bring this about? What was sworn?”
“Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything,” I said, saddened. It was hard to trust, at times. “Look into it, but make no move against Mary without coming first to me.”
Walsingham did not dare sigh, but I felt the air shift as though he had. He was becoming increasingly irritated by my refusal to do anything against the Queen of Scots.
Within two weeks, there was more news, but not about Arbella. Catherine Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke and Shrewsbury’s daughter, had been ailing for some time. I had loaned her family one of my ships so they might seek out a cure, but nothing had worked. She died, aged just twenty-two. I was sorrowful. Catherine had been a sweet girl, of promising intelligence. Bess came to court not long after.
“I know she was not your daughter by blood,” I said. “But I also know you sorrow.”
“Catherine was a dear, sweet girl, Majesty. I have come to help Herbert. He knows not what to do with himself since her death.”
“That young man has had enough sorrow,” I said, thinking of how Katherine Grey had attempted to hoodwink him into marriage, pretending affection when already pregnant with another man’s child.
We talked for a while and I warned her. “Events like this,” I said, speaking about Mary’s will, “lead people to doubt your honesty, Bess. They say perhaps you offered to help her escape in return for this favour.”
Her face pale, she lifted her chin. “I would never do such a thing, Majesty,” she said stoutly. “I admit I asked the Queen to secure the rights of my granddaughter, but I would never do you any mischief in return.”
“Whilst I see the two are separate and possible, others do not. Have a care, Bess.”
“I will take all care, Majesty, of my husband and myself.”
I had no doubt the indelible Countess would do just that.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1576
“Can you not keep petty arguments for private quarters, gentlemen?” I admonished two men, red-faced before me like errant schoolboys. “Do you have to inflict your squabbles on my court, and more importantly on my ears?”
Essex and Robin had argued, publicly, about Lettice. Essex was no more willing to allow his wife to cavort with Robin, and had told him so, using choice words that would echo in many a memory for years.
“Essex will be gone soon,” Robin said in a sullen tone when Essex left.
Essex had finally persuaded me to send him back to Ireland to seek his lost fortune. I was not convinced he would succeed, but in truth, since the Rathlin massacre, Ireland had become less rebellious. I may not have liked Essex’s methods, but could not deny
the result had been good for England, if not for Ireland.
“And his going away makes what you are up to with his wife fine, does it?” I demanded. “What are you doing, Robin?”
“Nothing has happened.”
“Nothing will.” I stared at him with icy eyes. “I see you plotting, my lord. You are distressed I did not fall at your feet, like a fawning maiden, when you put on a show, so you would make me jealous. Lettice is your tool.”
His face flushed crimson. “All I ever wanted was to make you happy.”
“Yet you forget my happiness as soon as marriage enters your mind,” I snapped. “I thought you had abandoned trying to force me to the altar, Robin. Why can you not be content with what we have? A love freed from the bonds of normal convention and power. A love where I am not forced to become something I am not? You protest you would do anything to make me happy. I am happy as we are, Robin.”
“I am not.”
“Then I am sorry. But you swore, Robin, to be my man in whatever way and howsoever I should need you. Those were your words. I need you to be my companion and my friend, my strength and the light which guides me. What I most assuredly do not need is another man trying to force me to become what he wants me to be.”
“I am not trying to force you to do or be anything.”
“Yes you are… And you do not care that I would be stripped of everything as you would gain all. You do not care I would be rendered miserable. That is not love, Robin. That is possession. I am no toy to be played with.”
“And what of me?” he asked. “Am I to have nothing?”
“What is this nothing of which you speak?” I demanded. “You have done well by me, my lord Earl, forget that not. You are one of the richest and most influential men in the world.”
“But I do not have you.”
“In all the ways that count, you do,” I said. “You have my heart, my soul, friendship and respect. But if you ask me to sacrifice my power, to you, you ask too much.”
“Power is more important to you than I am.”
“I could say the same of you. My power is who I am, Robin. It is what allows me to be free. If you ask me to surrender it, you ask me to abandon myself.”
As he fell silent, I went on. “We have companionship, you have wealth, and we have each other. I keep my power and liberty and you retain the same. Can that not be enough? Can we not both be free?”
Robin left in a malcontent mood, and I went to my books, seeking peace. I found it fleetingly with my tomes, but peace was in short supply that season.
“Why will he not carry out my commands?” I demanded of Cecil.
“He thinks there is value in the meetings,” Cecil replied.
We were speaking of Archbishop Grindal, who had refused to enact my command to suppress prophesyings. My relationship with the premier man of my Church was waning. I had not welcomed his support for more stringent measures against Catholics, nor his reforms, and now this.
Grindal protested he was supporting religious tolerance by allowing prophesyings. What he could not see was this would lead to division and rebellion. These ministers were promoting the idea that the English Prayer Book was defunct, and many of their pamphlets and tomes were seditious.
Cecil was more on Grindal’s side than mine. He thought popery the greater evil, and Puritans, no matter how disruptive, were at least Protestants. Only those who utterly condemned the Prayer Book, or governance of the Church would he label subversives, others, Cecil thought, should be allowed to preach. But Cecil did agree Grindal had gone too far. Outright disobedience of my wishes was treason, and Cecil would not support that. He wanted me to talk to my Archbishop, however, reaching a peaceful settlement.
What I wanted was for everyone to cease drifting towards the edges of faith and come together in the middle. Compromise and unity were what I desired. Grindal was urging men to the fringes.
”Hatton says Grindal is a secret radical,” I told Cecil. “He says he is colluding with Puritans and Presbyterians, encouraging prophesyings and instructing them to call laymen to their meetings, as well as inviting nobles to dine, and carrying on the same seditious talk at the dinner table as they do in the pulpits.”
“Grindal wants to spread the word of Christ, Majesty, and preaching the Word of God lies at the heart of the Protestant faith.”
“The Word of God is the word of peace,” I snapped. “Grindal can spread the message of our Lord without encouraging people to riot.”
“I do agree some of these meetings have caused unrest.”
“Indeed they do… gatherings of malcontents, coming together to criticise me, my Church, my bishops and our laws… They go beyond their authority, and that, no matter who does it, is dangerous.”
“I concur, Majesty.”
“If he cannot do as his Queen and the Supreme Governor of his Church commands,” I said. “I will take him from his post.”
Cecil managed to convince me not to act in haste, but I insisted that Grindal should beg my forgiveness. The Archbishop did so, but it was clear our relationship was deteriorating.
“When men think they know what is best for me, is when I am made most unhappy,” I said to Kate Carey that night.
“They think to guide you, Majesty,” she said, taking off my wig.
I watched as she took it to set upon its stand. It was important, so the wig would not lose its shape, but also so it was kept away from fire. More than one lady of court had suddenly found her head ablaze after dipping her head to read by candlelight. We all knew how swift wigs could ignite. Kate set it on its stand alongside my rows of perfume bottles containing ambergris, musk, and civet, laced with lavender, rose, or gillyflower. The bottles sparkled, rich with many colours, bearing jewels on their surfaces and gold on their edges. Many were plugged with cork, but some had a new cap, which screwed shut and open.
Kate turned to me, noting that I had not responded to her comment. With my eyes fixed upon her, I shook my head. “They do not wish to guide, Kate. They think to rule me. That is the truth.”
*
“Were they stolen?” I asked Walsingham.
“We think it more likely the Scots’ Queen dispatched them to supporters in order to raise money for an escape,” was his reply.
I frowned. Mary had complained that she had been robbed of her jewels in a burglary, but Walsingham clearly thought she was not a victim. His spy had been passing on information about Mary’s methods of sneaking out letters and messages.
Books taken from the house were now being watched, as Mary and her supporters were writing messages in them. Bolts of cloth were being checked too, for sometimes notes were written on them, but many messages were allowed to get through, so the recipients could be watched. But watching was all I would permit. Each time something new was uncovered, Walsingham came, asking permission to confront my royal cousin. Each time, he went away disappointed.
“Do you have evidence of this accusation?” I asked.
“I do not.”
“Then I can do nothing,” I said. “You must understand, Walsingham, if I act against Mary without fulsome proof, it will bring the ire of Christendom upon England. If you want me to restrict her, you will have to work harder.”
From the look on Walsingham’s face, if he worked any harder he might soon retire not only from his post, but from life itself.
*
That May, Dee came to the London headquarters of the Muscovy Company in Seething Lane. The hunt for the Northwest Passage was almost ready to get underway, and Dee was in London so he might be called upon for further information in the weeks leading up to the voyage.
Dee dined with the Muscovy Company’s man, Lok, as well as pilots, masters, captains and navigators. One of Drake’s ships was to sail with them as well as the Gabriel, the Michael, and another small ship for scouting.
Dee took Frobisher and Christopher Hall, master of the Gabriel, aside to talk of geometry and cosmology, instilling knowledge of nautical instruments
and navigational charts, and revealing all he had gleaned from the documents of Columbus. Lok had been investing in the latest maps and equipment, including great charts, an armillary sphere, a brass clock and a great globe, made by the leading instrument maker of London, Humphrey Cole. Since all these things were new, the men needed to know how to use them.
“Frobisher and Hall appear a touch mystified by much I have shown them, Majesty,” Dee told me. “They are more concerned with supplies and organising crews. But I think I am getting through to them.” He frowned. “It would help if they would abandon their belief that natural sciences are only fit for landlubbers.”
I chuckled. “I hear you came to blows with a Master Borough on that matter.”
