by G Lawrence
If Robin was forming an opinion of his erstwhile bride, others were too. “The Pope sings a new song,” I muttered, reading a dispatch from Rome.
The Pope had evidently decided that Mary, far from being an embarrassment, as once she was, could be useful. He declared misfortune had taught her saintly patience, and God would reward her with eternal glory. He sent word she should keep faith, for it would see her through the most testing of trials. Other Catholic leaders followed suit.
“They will use her to symbolise the martyrdom of the Catholic faith,” said Cecil. “She is becoming a figurehead raised against Protestant nations… most especially, against you, madam.”
I could not disagree. After the Ridolfi plot, Catholic leaders had distanced themselves from Mary, thinking her unwise and rash, but time is a great leveller and it seemed her past sins of foolishness, and even her husband’s murder were becoming forgotten. They thought to use her once more.
I dispatched a letter to Shrewsbury, thanking him in gracious terms for looking after Robin, and sent another to my Eyes, asking him not only to take care of himself, and guard against the plague, but also to gather as much information as possible.
If Catholics were turning to Mary once more, I needed to know what was going on in Shrewsbury’s house.
*
“Peace is such a fleeting friend,” I mourned as Cecil, Walsingham and I looked over dispatches from the Netherlands.
After making peace, Don John had promptly broken it after only five months. John had seized Namur Castle, justifying his actions upon false reports of treachery. The castle was a strategic position; from there he could crush the States General. There was also news that another consignment of treasure was on its way from New Spain. If true, this would allow impoverished Phillip to raise loans, enabling him to conquer the Netherlands.
“War is imminent,” Walsingham said. “And you promised to aid Orange, Majesty, if this occurred.”
“I did,” I said with reluctance. “I will keep my oath.”
I pledged a substantial loan to the Dutch rebels and started gathering five thousand foot soldiers, and one thousand horse. There were immediate rumours Robin would command them, and he heard the gossip. “I am delighted that you, most gracious Queen, are to aid our brothers in religion,” he wrote. “And would beg to ask who is to lead your army?”
I was actually not intending to send troops. I hoped a show of force would be enough to make Phillip and Don John back down, and was displeased this news had leaked its way to Chatsworth. I suspected Walsingham had sent word to Robin, and ceased to share my thoughts with my Secretary. When I sent emissaries to Phillip and continued to talk to the Dutch about aid, however, Walsingham got the idea.
“These are mixed messages, Majesty,” he said, looking to Cecil for support.
“Of course, and for good reason, Walsingham,” I said. “To aid the Low Countries is to deal with a body without a head, and as the head of state, I must deal with a similar soul. Secondly, if we rise against one Catholic state, all others will unite against us, and lastly, it is not fitting I should be called upon to sacrifice my blood for that of strangers.”
“There is still hope left for the defensive league of Protestant states,” Walsingham argued. “We should not abandon our brothers in faith.”
“Brothers in faith they may be, Walsingham, but not blood of our blood. Let the Dutch care for their own. I will open my breast and offer my heart to my people, but I cannot do that for all men. I have only so much blood, Walsingham.”
Walsingham went away unhappy, but in time my caution would be proved justified.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Cecil House, London
Summer 1577
“Your father was a good man,” I said. “A fine soldier, a loyal lord and true son of England. I miss him a great deal, although I suspect you miss him more.”
We were in the great hall of Cecil House, Spirit’s London property. With plague rampaging through England, I could not go into the country, but Greenwich had turned rather ripe, and I had taken the opportunity to stay with Cecil for a few days whilst it was cleansed. Cecil had also grasped opportunity, presenting two Roberts to me; his son, and his ward.
Since taking on young Essex, Cecil had continued the intense education the young man had received under Lettice. Cambridge scholars, therefore firm Protestants, had taught Robert Devereux at the house of his family, and continued to do so at Cecil’s. He, along with Cecil’s son, was learning Latin, French and Greek, his studies aided by Cecil’s wife, Mildred, a known expert in classical and modern languages. They were also learning grammar, rhetoric, hunting, carving, table manners, dancing and prose and poetry. History, geography, natural sciences and moral and political philosophy would follow, along with in-depth study of the Bible. Cecil believed in educating daughters as well as sons, and all his children had received a rounded education. His sons and ward would go on to Cambridge University, with a year either spent travelling in Europe after, or in the Inns of Court. His daughters, not permitted to enter university, would polish off their educations either at home, or in the royal household.
Robert Devereux was a strikingly handsome young man, Robert Cecil was not. Young Cecil had been sickly from birth, was exceedingly short, and stood with a slight bend in his back, from a curved spine.
I had the distinct impression the two boys were not as fond of each other as Cecil often claimed. They hid it well, but there was a glint of rivalry in their eyes. It is only to be expected when young men come together in one house. Each wants to be the centre of attention, and the quest that some men undertake, to dominate each other, seems to breed especially true in youth. Yet there was something different here. I suspected I knew what it was.
Robert Devereux represented the old guard, the nobility. Robert Cecil was a child of the rising fortunes of his talented father. But Cecil had been made, not born, noble. Noble blood tends to resent those who make their way through wit and intelligence. I had a feeling that was one of the issues between the two boys. That… and the love of an often absent father figure.
Cecil was easy to admire, and I believed the two boys vied for his affections. It was natural for young Essex to seek a father to replace the one he had lost, and just as natural for young Cecil to want to keep his father for himself.
I also had no doubt Devereux teased Robert Cecil about his height and looks. Children can be the kindest, and cruellest, of all people. They learn how to harm and heal fast. Young Cecil was just the sort of boy who would be bullied, and young Essex just the kind who would bully. But what Robert Cecil had that Devereux did not was adversity. Nothing teaches us more than failure and hardship. Young Cecil was going to gain a fine education in what it was to be ignored, passed over and degraded. I had received much the same education, so understood its worth, and trials.
“I miss my father a great deal, Majesty,” said young Essex. “But I take comfort knowing he died in service to the Crown.”
“A remarkably wise comment for such a young man,” I said, glancing at Cecil. “This one will have to go to school, Spirit.”
“He is to attend Cambridge soon,” Cecil replied. “Along with my son.”
“Make good use of your time in the halls of Cambridge,” I said. “Learn all you can, for your father was a great man, and I want you to become the same.” I smiled. “One day, you will come to court, and serve me as your father did, with loyalty and honour.”
“I desire the day most keenly, Your Majesty,” he said. “But I will heed your wise words and I swear when I come to court, I will come a man of use.”
I chuckled. “If only all men thought as you, dear Essex, my task would be an easy one.”
“Then I shall seek to make it easier still, Majesty, when I come to court.”
He presented me with ripe cherries and gilded marchpane, thoughtful gifts, and I wondered how he knew of my tastes. He must have asked Cecil, which showed forethought and preparation.
&n
bsp; When he left, I shook my head in wonder. Such a young soul, I thought. Yet he speaks with a tongue as wise in years as it is adept in flattery. That young man will go far.
I did not know how right, and how wrong, I was.
*
Robin returned to Greenwich shortly after I did, stopping briefly to stay with his old servant, Richard Topcliffe, who was now in Cecil’s pay. He told me his old retainer had become obsessed with the security of the nation, and Catholics, which I suspected he had absorbed from Cecil. Topcliffe had served me loyally during the Northern Rebellion, supplying thirty horse and men for use against the rebels, and Robin and Cecil spoke highly of him, seeing he might be of use in the future. Topcliffe had expressed an interest in joining the pursuivant priest-hunters.
“If that is what Master Topcliffe desires, he should speak to Cecil,” I said. “Now tell me, how did your mission go?”
“I saw nothing that would lead me to suspect Shrewsbury has been unfaithful.” He selected a segment of game pie laced with walnuts and raisins from a glazed platter. “But I would wager he harbours affection for the Queen.”
“And Bess knows?”
“Bess has eyes.”
And it seemed she did, for we soon had word that within days of Robin’s departure the Shrewsburys had embarked on a flaming row.
“What was the cause?” I asked Blanche.
“It seems to have begun, as so many fights, over something insignificant,” she said, massaging my legs with oil. “But carried on and now neither will speak to the other.”
“I understand. Sometimes dignity becomes so wounded we cannot be the one to break rank and apologise.”
“It started when Bess engaged men to work on hangings and furnishings at the Manor Lodge.” Blanche’s careful hands worked up and down my legs. “The Lodge Keeper thought them a security risk, and complained to Shrewsbury. Bess sided with the workmen, and Shrewsbury followed suit with his man. They had a heated exchange, and the fight spilled into other areas of friction; Bess has been loaning money to her stepchildren, against Shrewsbury’s instructions.”
“Finances are the destroyer of many a marriage.”
“Shrewsbury left the castle, and his son, Gilbert, tried to bring them back together, but Shrewsbury was so affronted with his wife that he would not listen. When he got home, Bess had gone to Chatsworth, and he was further annoyed that she had left.”
“Despite the fact that he had left that day” I tsked. “Men. They blame women for taking the same actions they employ.”
“Because the world belongs to them, my lady.”
“So they think,” I said with a smile.
Women were always seen as the ones to blame. It was understandable; from birth we were taught we were the weaker vessel, perpetrators of Original Sin, creatures whose arts and allurements existed only to draw men into evil. Women were light of credit, lusty in nature, impatient, facetious flatterers prone to babbling, telling falsehoods, were slaves to emotion and wanted to rule rather than to be ruled.
This was what all men and women were told. Only fools believed it.
To my mind, if women were duplicitous, it was because our society was not willing to hear their truths. If flatterers, it was because they had to appease the men on whom they relied. If desirous to rule rather than be ruled… was freedom not the ardent wish and right of all people?
And if women were judged for descending from Eve, would men want to be judged by weak Adam, who had not the wit to resist the temptation of a simple fruit? I think not.
I kept an eye on Shrewsbury and Bess. Friction between them was decidedly unhelpful and might aid Mary’s supporters. If her gaolers became too obsessed with their own trials, they might not notice the Queen being spirited away. Cecil, no less concerned, went to Chatsworth to appraise the situation, using the excuse of going to Buxton to take the waters for his gout. Whilst he was there, my worst fears were confirmed when Shrewsbury had word of an escape plot, and had to rush from Chatsworth to Sheffield Castle, where Mary was, to deal with it. The Queen denied all knowledge of the plot, and peril faded, but I was left uneasy. This argument was providing opportunity for my enemies. The Shrewsburys had to be reconciled.
With the aid of Shrewsbury’s son, Gilbert, the two were brought together to talk and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no wish to replace Shrewsbury. The man knew his task, and was good at it. The question remained as to how close he was to my royal cousin, but all the same, I did not want to seek another gaoler.
I was wondering how long this arrangement would last, however. Quite aside from his grief with Bess, Shrewsbury was suffering terrible gout in his hands, and was often sick. No matter how good he was at his task, he would not be able to stay in post forever, and if the imprisonment of my royal cousin was causing friction in his marriage, he might well ask for her to be removed.
What finally united the married couple was tragedy. Three days after Cecil departed, their grandson, George Talbot, suffered a sudden fit and died the same night. The Shrewsburys were crushed, and in sorrow they turned to one another.
In the aftermath of her grandson’s death, Bess became more protective of Arbella than before. And perhaps it was as well the child had someone to care for her, as that summer the Scots finally ruled on the Lennox titles, Margaret’s dower lands and Arbella’s rights.
Regent Morton said that Margaret’s dower lands had descended to his King along with the Earldom of Lennox. Margaret was left without income from Scotland, and the Earldom of Lennox was declared extinct. Morton did not want Margaret to gain any money from the Lennox lands, either through her jointure or through the wardship of Arbella, as it would be taken out of Scotland and into England. With the Earldom extinct, all lands and property reverted to the Crown.
I expressed indignation, but did not pursue the matter. The Scots were our friends at the moment, and I was not about to risk that for the sake of Margaret. Besides, enriching that pampered little Lennox could be highly dangerous for my throne.
Chapter Sixty
Greenwich Palace
Autumn 1577
As September rushed in with bustling breezes still carrying the heat of summer mingled with a chill promise of winter, ships came home to Milford Haven in Wales. Frobisher’s search for his precious ore had finished. Spending six weeks in the freezing seas of the north, the crew were tired, but had reached Frobisher’s Strait, as it was now known.
“But the way was blocked by thick ice, Your Majesty,” Frobisher said when he came to tell his tale. “We waited a few days, holding the ships steady amongst raging winds, then sailed up the Strait. We moored in a natural harbour which we named Jackman’s Sound, and claimed the surrounding area for England. We marched with our ensign displayed, and heaped stones on mountains and hills, to mark our possession of the land for our Queen.”
Whilst I congratulated Frobisher on claiming land for England, although what worth it would be I was unsure, he had experienced difficulty in finding more of the promising black stone. Searching for days had only turned up a floating dead fish, which might seem unremarkable, aside from the fact this fish had a horn in his nose some two yards long, leading to the men naming it a Sea Unicorn.
But their search eventually paid off, and a rich seam of the ore was discovered. Tons of the stone were mined and taken aboard their ships, stored and concealed as ballast, in case pirates should attack.
“We had a number of skirmishes with natives,” Frobisher told me. “This time, they were more aggressive.”
Possibly because you took one of them prisoner last time, Frobisher, I thought. Men seemed to forget there was a consequence to every action.
On the way back, the fleet was separated by storms, but returned unharmed. Frobisher had come to present me with a sample of the ore and the horn of the sea unicorn, which I found fascinating.
The ore was locked away in Bristol Castle, and samples taken to the Tower of London to be tested. A German scientist, Jonas Schutz, was selecte
d to examine the ore. He worked for a long time, but all he managed to extract were a few grains of gold. He declared the samples worthless.
Frobisher was furious, and went to him. He found Schutz stripped bare to the waist, toiling amongst black and silver fumes. Frobisher drew a dagger on him.
Whilst a fight was prevented by Schutz’s servants and the Tower wardens, it showed how desperate Frobisher was. He sought out another to test the ore, Doctor Burcott. Burcott had more success, and within days Frobisher was at court, presenting a sample of silver and gold to Walsingham.
I, however, was unsure. To one man the ore appeared rich, carrying the promise of true wealth and to another, it was a worthless stone.
