by G Lawrence
“He thinks shadows are the place for him, and light for you.”
“Why should I stand in glaring sunlight?”
“Because you are the Queen, Majesty.”
“Royalty has need of a little shelter from the forces of the world, Cecil. Walsingham must share his shadow.”
“And he is annoyed you will not send the men conspiring with the Queen of Scots to the Tower.”
“What harm has she done me of late?”
“He thinks she will do harm in the future, and you should prevent it.”
“I will not act against people unless they do so against me.”
“That, madam, is his greatest fear.”
I called Walsingham to court when I was well. He, too, had been ill, so we were a pair of wasted wraiths when we met. “I hear you are unhappy,” I said stiffly when he had bowed and enquired after my health.
“Not unhappy, madam. Ill at ease.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “I know all you do is for England. I will always hear you, Walsingham, but may not always heed you. I trust you. I wish you would place the same sacred honour in me.”
“I do trust you, Majesty,” he said. “But there are times…”
“I, too, wish to box your ears on occasion,” I said, grinning. “This is what happens when two strong-spirited people work together. You and I, we have good minds, do we not? It is often hard to think that another may have good reason, just as good as yours, for what they say. Understand I am as intelligent as you, and I will do the same, my friend. That way, we may find more patience with each other.”
He was staring at me in a strange fashion and I lifted an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“You speak as a friend to a friend, rather than as mistress to servant.”
“We are friends, Walsingham. The best kind of friend is one who challenges convictions, and in doing so opens the mind of their friend to new routes, thoughts and possibilities.” I smiled. “You are such to me, and I to you.”
Not long after, I started to use a new name for Walsingham. People supposed it a vague insult, or that his habitual dark clothing was the origin, but it was not so.
I called him my Moor. Black is the colour of constancy. If there was one thing Walsingham was, it was constant.
Chapter Fifty-One
Richmond Palace
Autumn 1576
“Your tutors tell me they are pleased with you,” I told my fifteen-year-old godson, John Harrington. “I am merry to hear you are a promising scholar.”
“I take from the example of my Queen and gracious godmother,” said the young man, whilst his mother, Isabella, beamed with pride. “I know that you read, Majesty, whenever business of state does not steal you away.”
“Which it does, a great deal of the time,” I said and smiled. I was fond of John. His parents had served me with loyalty, and John, or Boy Jack as I called him, was a creative, intelligent lad. He was a little in awe of me, and on a visit to court some three years ago had regaled my men by telling them that he had seen me carry on a conversation whilst dictating one letter and writing another, all at the same time. This story had greatly added to my image of intelligence and diligence, and a queen never can have too many rumours of that nature. There are enough men willing to spread lies that all women are foolish and degenerate, after all.
“But it is true I do take time to read each day,” I said, climbing from my dais and going to him. “I hope you will always do the same.”
“I will for you, if not for myself, Majesty.”
John was at Eton College, his schooling paid in part by me. I had brought him to court as I wanted him to start taking an interest in affairs outside the classroom, and had been sending him copies of my speeches to Parliament. “Boy Jack,” I had written in one. “I have made a clerk fair my poor words for thine use, as it cannot be such striplings have entrance into Parliament assembly as yet. Ponder them in thy hours of leisure, and play with them until they enter thy understanding; so shall thou hereafter, perchance, find some good fruits hereof when thy godmother is out of remembrance.”
One day, I would be no more. I wanted to ensure the leaders of the future were schooled well in their task, and might understand my motivations. One day, after all, they would write the books that others would study as history. I wanted to ensure I was presented well in such tomes.
*
In early October, as maids wandered London selling bags of ripe pears and plump, purple damsons, Frobisher and his battered ship arrived home. His vessel was almost swamped by people desperate to catch favourable news. Had they found the Northwest Passage? Was the fate of England about to alter?
The Michael had come home some months before, bearing ill news. They had seen Frobisher’s ship sucked into a tempest, and feared he was lost. But Frobisher’s arrival put paid to that rumour, and he was welcomed home with joy.
The first sight to greet my people was a captive Frobisher had brought home, a native of lands they had visited. Frobisher brought him to court.
Staring with amazement at the man’s broad and distinctly frightened face, at his full, fat body, short legs, little eyes and dark, black beard, I found Frobisher’s prisoner a wondrous sight.
“We think him a Moor or Tartar, Majesty,” Frobisher said. “Or that his ancestors were.”
“It seems likely,” I said. The man looked churlish and ill at ease, which was only to be expected when one is a prisoner. “What will you do with him?”
“He will enter my household,” said Frobisher. “So all men may see him and wonder on our voyage.”
The unfortunate prisoner was unwilling to comply with Frobisher’s plans. He died, spare months later, and doctors said he had either died for our climate, or for grief at being separated from his people.
Frobisher told his tale, speaking of ice, fog and snow they had encountered and of the isle of Friesland, once thought a myth, where they had landed. They had passed through realms of ice, sailing past great towers of frozen water, enduring storms and turbulent seas. Frobisher had found Meta Incognita, the Limit of the Unknown, or so he claimed. He swore it was Atlantis, lost to the realm of myth and legend. Their captive had come from a skirmish with natives of that land, and Frobisher claimed he had seen the Northwest Passage, although some of his men appeared less certain.
His captive persuaded a few, though. Although natives of Cathay were not often found in Europe, there were a few, and this man bore facial similarities to their race.
Although the Northwest Passage had not been conclusively found, other lands had, and Frobisher had brought back something besides the native which made many interested in further exploration. It was not wondrous to my eyes, but many said it might contain something beneficial to my purse. It was a stone, and men of natural science wanted to examine it. They thought it might hold gold.
“Does it?” I asked Cecil one night.
“Lok of the Muscovy Company thinks it may,” Cecil said, “and he is something of an expert on metals and their origins. There is a story that Frobisher’s wife put a piece of the rock into the fire and when it was taken out, and washed with vinegar, it shone with glinting gold.”
This certainly was interesting. Even without the Northwest Passage, finding a country rich in gold was worth further financial risk to explore, but I wanted to be sure. All too often people became excited about a story, and began to think it was true for it being often repeated. I wanted to know there was gold in this rock before investing more money. Samples were sent to assayers who would inspect metal compounds in the rock. The news that came back was less than promising.
“Williams says there is nothing in it but a trace of metals, and no gold,” said Cecil, speaking of William Williams, assayer of the Tower of London. “A gold refiner called Wheeler, in London, found nothing either.”
“That is disappointing.”
“But one man…” Cecil said, checking his notes, “… an Italian named Agnello, thinks there is gold in the sam
ple.”
“I imagine Frobisher will believe him rather than the others.”
“Lok too,” said Cecil. “He wants to present this sample to you.”
Lok duly arrived at court bearing his sacred rock, and I inspected it. “I certainly see gold,” I said.
Had I known that by those words I would start a sickness, I might have kept my mouth closed. Frobisher announced the island they had visited was rich in precious metals, and the Queen herself had seen its potential. Soon men were clamouring to invest, seeing quick spoils on the horizon. This fever for gold grew. Soon it was all anyone could speak of.
“I, too, will invest,” I said to Lok. “I think this worth a gamble. But I do not want the Northwest Passage forgotten.”
Frobisher and Lok promised not to forget, and bustled away to organise another trip.
*
“I command you to remove all Puritan methods of worship from my churches,” I said in a tone so hot I might have baked game pies to perfection in my mouth. “I swear to the Lord, Grindal, if you do not obey me I will remove you from your post permanently.”
I had suspended Archbishop Grindal’s powers, but this had not blighted his stubborn spirit, and he was still allowing prophesyings to continue. I also had word he was allowing Puritan ways to creep into churches, against my express command.
“In good conscience,” he said. “I cannot do that, Majesty.”
“Because you are a Puritan yourself!” I spat. “Have you no respect for your Queen and Spiritual Leader?”
“I hold the utmost respect for you, Your Majesty.”
“Do not spin falsehoods from your mouth like blessed truths. You are lying, Grindal. Lying to my face, and I like it not.”
Grindal went away and completed his six-thousand-word written defence of prophesyings. He maintained they spread the Word of God. I did not agree with a single word.
Grindal also dared to say that I was a mere woman, and should leave matters of religion to those who knew more. Grindal was demonstrating he was not only rebellious, but deeply, irrevocably, imbecilic.
“The man is acting in outright defiance of me,” I said to Robin, fuming. “I will bar him from court. I am his Spiritual Leader. It is his place to obey me.”
Members of my Council spoke for him and I would not hear them. Robin took on the position of mediator and suggested many a compromise, and Cecil more, but neither I nor the Archbishop accepted any of them.
We were locked as stags in a struggle to command the Church of England, and neither could give way. But there is always a winner and a loser when stags rut. Grindal was about to find that whilst he thought me a mere woman, I was just as strong as any male.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Whitehall Palace and Greenwich Palace
Late Autumn 1576
There was an air of change on the wind as autumn brushed the sleeve of winter. My laundress, Elizabeth Smith, who had served since first I came to the throne, retired, replaced by Anne Twiste. An inconsequential post, you might think? It was nothing of the sort.
My laundress had to be a trusted woman, beyond reproach and above selling the secrets of her Queen. My laundress was amongst the few who knew my monthly courses were ebbing, and I did not need that information getting loose, wreaking havoc about the world. I accepted Twiste because she had been chosen by Smith, and I would have trusted Elizabeth Smith with the darkest secrets of state. She had remained loyal and true, coming to inform me which men sought the secrets of my monthly linen pads. There were many callers to the royal laundry, both past and present. When married to my sister, Phillip had come sniffing about my underwear, seeking signs I might grant him children when my sister died.
It was not only my good brother of Spain who possessed a morbid fascination for my undergarments. French spies had attempted to infiltrate my laundry, Robin had enquired about my courses when first courting me, Erik of Sweden had sent men to rifle through my delicates, and Cecil made regular visits to check I was still able to bear children. Smith told them all I was capable, and divulged no more. Because of her, my secrets remained my own.
It was a good post, and many wanted it, for it came with regular gifts of money, clothing, food and trinkets, as well as a horse and carriage for their personal use, so they could travel swiftly from palace to palace with me. I accepted Twiste, and was immediately pleased with her, for I sent one of Smith’s old maids on a mission to test Twiste, and the maid swore that her new mistress was as careful as the last.
The next change was the opening of the Theatre in Shoreditch. Plague had abated as autumn rolled in, and, considering it safe, the Theatre was allowed to open its doors. A flag flew from the roof, and a trumpet blasted to call guests to the stalls. Playbills had been plastered to walls, posts and doors, and people flocked to see this new wonder.
Puritans railed against it, of course. They thought people would go to playhouses and ignore the Church, although they were doing that just as often as customers of the Theatre by attending their rebellious little meetings. They did not like, either, that players encouraged emotion in others, and made sexual jests on stage. They thought young boys playing women encouraged dangerous passions, and were subversive, as they dressed up as kings and queens one moment and as commoners the next.
“If they are so worried about subverting authority,” I said to Hatton. “They should cease attending prophesyings.”
“The faults we see in others, we do not recognise in ourselves.”
“I think that particularly true when it comes to men of zealous faith. In truth, if men want to better the world, they would do more good by recognising and rectifying their own sins first. But often they are too busy pointing out the flaws in everyone else to do such a thing.”
Puritans also claimed players were making themselves into forms of idolatry, detracting from the mystery and majesty of God. But whilst many held Puritan sympathies in theory, when it came to entertainment, they were ignored. Since Puritans disliked them so, I became even warmer to players. Finding a common enemy is a marvellous way of uniting hearts.
Burbage and Brayne did well almost immediately, for the Theatre was popular. It was a large wooden building with three galleries surrounding an open courtyard.
“They say it cost over three hundred pounds to build,” Robin said.
“A mighty sum. I hope the people of London are hungry for plays, keeping Burbage and his brother-in-law well fed.”
It seemed they were. People flocked to the Theatre, paying a penny for a standing position in the courtyard, or two pennies for the galleries. For three pennies they could hire a stool to perch upon, and Burbage and Brayne understood how to make money, for they constructed separate compartments in the galleries where the nobility could sit, keeping them away from commoners.
“My men are to be amongst the first to perform,” Robin said proudly. “Burbage is one of my players.”
“I hope he does you proud.”
Robin smiled at me. My heart leapt and for a moment I thought it might break. Sometimes it was so easy to forget we had been warring, and I had suspected him of murder. When he was with me, it all seemed impossible, but when we were apart it was a different matter.
The last change that came that autumn arrived in November.
As maids gathered hazelnuts, said to be the fruit of wisdom, it appeared those nuts should have been sent overseas. Events took a turn for the worse for Phillip of Spain in the Netherlands. But they might have taken a better turn for everyone else, I thought.
Spanish troops had mutinied, turning on their generals for want of pay, leading to riots. But more shocking was the sack of Antwerp, which occurred in early November.
Forewarned of an impending attack, the governor of Dutch-held Antwerp had brought six thousand men into the city, but his troops were untrustworthy. On the 4th of November, the Spanish attacked. Hastily erected defences were torn down, and the troops brought in to defend Antwerp switched sides, and joined with the Spanish
, looting and burning everything in sight. Civilians attempted to resist, but were no match for the combined forces of Spain and renegade mercenaries. More than seven thousand people were slain, cut down attempting to protect their homes and families.
“People are calling it the Spanish Fury,” Walsingham informed me.
“A name most apt,” I said, gazing with horror upon the figures for deaths.
This foul event had an unexpected consequence. Furious and sorrowed, Dutch Catholics and Protestants, once separated by religion, joined forces under the leadership of Orange against Spain. Flemings and Brabanters united with Dutch and Zealanders, calling for the expulsion of Spanish troops from their country. The States General signed the Pacification of Ghent four days after the sack, unifying all rebellious provinces of the Low Countries with loyal ones.
