by G Lawrence
“The Duc worries for my heath?”
“He has no wish to do a single thing that would cause you pain, Majesty.”
To one who had just had their heart broken, this was almost overwhelming.
I started to think on Anjou with great affection. Finding no love in my life, I turned to fantasy. Sometimes, dreams are all we have. I brought Simier to me each day, and started to call him my Ape, a play on the Latin in his name. Hatton informed him how great a compliment it was to gain a pet name from me.
“It is apt,” he said. “I aim to ape you in all things, Majesty.”
One morning I caused a scandal to erupt by going to his chamber before he was fully dressed. He had on a jerkin and hose, along with a nightgown, of course, but this intimacy caused many to talk, Robin not least amongst them.
“You should be more reserved, Majesty,” he said.
“Plenty of times I called on you in the morning whilst you were sat about in your nightgown, and you objected not then.” I stared at him, feeling spiteful pleasure rise in my soul. “Jealous, Robin?”
“How could I be, of such a man with such a master?”
“I see nothing wrong with either,” I said in an irritatingly airy tone. “I find Simier charming, and his master more so. I feel as though I am twenty again. I think the youth of the Duc infects me… love too, perhaps.”
“Love,” spat Robin. “You do not love him.”
“Do I not?”
“You have sworn your heart to me.”
“Once I did, but things change, Robin. You taught me that.”
I swept out of the room, quite delighted. A few days later I was only more pleased when I heard Robin was scuttling about court like a moon-mad weasel trying to get everyone to oppose the Anjou match. There was much darkness in me then, and it would have been easy to surrender to it, but I did not, for there was something else rising; new hope, of a new life.
Everyone was soon remarking on how well I looked. People saw me flirting again, laughing again, with a smile always on my face. One of the French ambassadors, Michel de Castelnau, started telling everyone I looked fifteen years younger, and his master was the elixir that had brought me eternal youth.
People said I would bear a child right away after the wedding night, for it was well known that if a woman enjoyed intercourse, as I was sure to, being so in love, she would bear children. Catherine de Medici sent word she would not rest until she saw me in bed with her son.
Unpleasant a thought as it might be that the Medici might want to put me to bed with my new husband, I could not help but fall for Anjou. I wanted so desperately to be loved.
“If your Majesty would marry me,” said one of Anjou’s letters. “You will restore a languishing life...”
A languishing life, I thought, wondering if I had not the same; a lost existence, where happiness had been surrendered to the needs of duty. Perhaps together we might find purpose beyond the rigid lines of service.
Perhaps together, we might find hope.
*
“They will spend a year in jail,” I said to Cecil. “Blower will be released, since there is scant evidence he was involved. Harding and Prestall will go jail.”
Cecil was none too pleased I was proving lenient towards those who had claimed to use dark magic against me, but I would not be moved.
February had come with wild winds, bitter as betrayal, as well as driving rain and occasional flurries of snow. Word had come of Drake. He was in Lima, raiding its port, Callao. Phillip was complaining long and hard, but I ignored him. He was ignoring his promises, so I would do the same.
We were speaking of the waxen image makers again. Another man, Thomas Elkes, had been detained and had confessed to making the images. He claimed they were crafted not to harm me, but to help a wealthy young nobleman to catch a young lady he desired. Satisfied, I had ordered his release, and Cecil was not merry about it.
“The man was using magic for harmless purposes,” I said. “And innocent men have been tortured because of it.”
“He could be lying.”
There was that possibility, of course, but it seemed unlikely. Given Harding and Prestall’s previous record of malcontent, however, it did not seem sensible to set them free. Life imprisonment would suffice for them, and Blower would be released.
Hysteria about witches was increasing. If I allowed myself to be whirled up in it, innocents would die. It was all too easy for men to look at sudden misfortune and blame some toothless crone. I was not about to allow hysteria to rule England.
Chapter Eighty-One
Windsor Castle
Spring 1579
A replacement for Stucley, I thought.
Walsingham stood before me, a dour expression on his face. Word had come from his Spanish spies that Phillip had found a new man to engineer an invasion of England via Ireland. The man in question was no other than Fitzmaurice, the rebel lord who had caused such trouble in the past.
Irritated by my pirates, Phillip was taking revenge. Fitzmaurice was being equipped with ships and men, had papal support, and was due to set sail soon for his homeland.
“Plenty of the Irish are ready to join us, and plenty more Fitzmaurice,” Walsingham said. “The suppression of their culture is talked of a great deal, and they think to rid their lands of English influence.”
“I knew that would come back to bite us,” I replied.
We had suppressed Irish culture and language, but only because it had been used as a tool against us. It was not so for other places. Wales had retained its language, and I had allowed certain parts of the Bible to be translated into Welsh for its people to use, largely because Blanche had urged me to.
“It had to be done, Majesty. It was a weapon.”
“And is a weapon they now wield again.” I drummed my nails on the table until one of them splintered. “I wish Drake were in England. We could send him to deal with this fleet.”
“There are other men, madam.”
“True enough.” The number of English pirates was rising, fed by promises of swift riches. “Ask West Countrymen, like Champernowe and Hawkins to be on their watch, and send word to Ormonde. My cousin needs time to muster men.”
“It will be done, but there is another threat.”
“Allen,” I said.
“You heard?”
“I see him in your eyes, as a ghost.”
“He has a new college, in Rheims, and there is word Allen will go to Rome to petition the Pope for more aid.”
“You have eyes on him?”
“I have a new man.”
“His name?”
“Will remain a secret, Majesty, but he is referred to as Barnard.”
“To keep his true identity secret?”
“Indeed.”
“And you have faith in him?”
“He is adept at listening and talking but little.”
“Your kindred spirit, Walsingham,” I said, smiling.
*
Robin has been gathering allies, I thought as I listened to the Lenten sermon in church. He is truly frightened.
That thought granted me more pleasure than the sermon. The preacher railed, prophesising that my marriage would bring about the destruction of England. “Marriages with foreigners can only result in ruin to the country,” he blasted, setting his eyes upon me. “Queen Mary, sister to our gracious Queen, wed a foreigner and caused the martyrdom of so many persons, who were burnt all over the country.”
Whilst he was in mid-stream, blathering about the many ills I would do England, I rose. “Come,” I said to my ladies. “I need hear none of this.”
I left before the sermon ended, much to the shock of my men. As I departed, I heard the preacher falter and saw Robin’s face darken. Cecil, on the other hand, looked delighted.
“I want preachers banned from speaking about my marriage,” I said to Cecil later. “They should not interfere with matters they have not the wit to understand.”
Cecil was m
ore than happy to bring about my order, and went further, banning anything they might think to say that related in any way to my marriage. Cecil’s desire to see me married and breeding was one matter, but there was another that made him press for marriage. Phillip was casting his dark eyes upon Portugal. An elderly Catholic Cardinal had been crowned King, but was set to die, some said any moment, without heirs. Phillip had a strong claim. If Phillip inherited Portugal, he would be master of an even vaster empire than before, and would gain the means to crush the Netherlands. Cecil thought marriage to Anjou, uniting France and England, was the only remedy that would cure this ambition. If France joined with Spain, certainly, we would be undone.
“Union with France would split the Catholic cause asunder,” Cecil said. “Rendering France no more a threat and Spain only weaker.”
“I think the reports of the French Crown joining with Spain exaggerated, my lord,” Walsingham interjected. “A better move would be to support the Netherlands against Phillip.”
“Since when have you ignored the threat of Spain?” I asked.
“I ignore nothing, madam. But Anjou’s efforts in the Low Countries are minimal at best, and the King of Spain knows he is a minor threat. The French Crown is being held back by the rise of Huguenot power, and the Guise are no longer the force they once were. International threat from a combined Catholic league is reduced, but if you would lend more money to the Huguenots and sent military assistance to Orange, the Protestant cause would rise, only stronger than before.” He paused. “I think marriage with the Duc unwise at this time, my lady. It would make matters worse.”
“In what way?”
“By alienating the King of Scotland,” he said. “James wants to be named heir to the English throne, and if you marry there is the possibility he will be replaced. Kill his hopes, and you will murder the chance of long-lasting peace between our nations.”
Although I knew he had a point, I was not about to abandon my dreams, or the chance of seeing Robin sweat. “I will think on the matter,” I said.
*
Another lost, I mourned, pressing my fingers into my eyes and feeling tears drip over them. Another gone.
Death, annoyed that He had failed to entice Blanche into the darkness of eternal sleep, had struck at another. Isabella Harrington, mother of my godson Boy Jack, and a woman who had shared captivity with me when I was a prisoner, died that May. Isabella had often shared my bed, and confidences. But no more. Death stole her from me.
She was buried five days after her demise, interred in the church of St Gregory in St Paul’s churchyard. And with her death, I turned more to my remaining friends.
“These are too rich for me,” Blanche said, her hand stroking the furs on the table.
I smiled. The sables were beautiful. They had been extracted from a coat I was having re-tailored, it being my habit to take old clothes and make them new by inserting fresh material, furs or gems. When they had been taken from the cloak, I had stopped my women using them anew. I wanted Blanche to have them.
“They are yours,” I said. “Nothing is too fine for you.”
“But I cannot wear them, Majesty. Sable is only permitted for nobility. I am not of that rank.”
“To me, you are the highest of this land. And you will wear them. Nothing keeps a woman warmer than sable, Blanche.”
“Not even the love of a man?” asked naughty Tomasina.
“Love turns cold,” I said. “Furs do not.”
“I want you warm,” I said to Blanche. “You scared me when you fell ill.”
“I will endeavour not to scare you again, Majesty,” she said with a smile, “lest you empty the Treasury in buying furs for my old bones.”
I smiled, and later presented her with more. Furs from Russia, shipped by the Muscovy Company, adorned her robes. I wanted to protect her. Brushing so close to losing her had brought into sharp relief how important she was. At times, it felt as though she was my only friend, the only one who could shelter me from the storm.
Unless there is another, I thought, taking out a miniature of Anjou.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Hampton Court
Late Spring - Early Summer 1579
“What would you have me do, Bess?” I asked wearily. “Ride to Scotland and demand the King invests the title upon Arbella?”
Bess was at court, campaigning for her granddaughter. Although it was highly irritating, I had to admire her refusal to surrender. She had heard that the King of Scotland was considering granting the title of Earl of Lennox to Esme Stewart, Lord of Aubigny. Esme, the younger brother of Matthew Stewart, had a right to the title, was also Scottish, and was, as Cecil had feared, becoming a great favourite of the young King’s.
Although a Catholic, and in many ways a foreigner, since he had spent most of his life in France, Esme was reportedly dabbling with Calvinism, as he knew it would make him more acceptable to the people of Scotland. He had high ambitions, and there was word James would make him a member of his Privy Council. Bess was alarmed because she saw the title slipping away, but since Arbella was a subject of the English Crown, James was unlikely to invest the title in her.
“Attempt patience,” I said. “The girl is not yet out of the nursery, and already you are making her unpopular about England with these constant requests to elevate her in title and coin.”
Bess left unhappy. I cared not. In the nursery Arbella might be, for now, but I was already sick of her.
I then heard through my women that whilst at Buxton, staying with the Shrewsburys, Robin had met Arbella. I learned that he had suggested this young girl might be a fair match for his bastard son born to Douglas, and was not overly pleased to hear this. Clearly Robin’s aspirations for the throne were not over. This made me even less willing to work for Arbella.
*
“The Duchess of Savoy…” I heard Cecil say, his voice rising above the din of feet pounding the floor and the strings and flutes of my Moorish musicians as they played, “… was a woman of sallow and melancholy complexion, in all respects inferior to Her Majesty, and yet she accomplished the feat of producing a son and heir when she was older than Her Majesty is presently.”
I smiled. Cecil had been arguing for weeks it would do me good to marry. “Your health would benefit, Majesty,” he had said. “High and low, in country after country we have searched for a cure for your many ailments. But there is one left untested.”
Cecil said the remedy for the pains in my face and belly was marriage, although he admitted there would be hurdles put in the way by my men. Although he had reservations about Anjou, seeing how happy the Duc had made me of late had persuaded Cecil that the match should go ahead. He had always wanted me to wed, and if this was the only match I would accept, Cecil would support it.
I watched the dance as I pondered. Ladies slipping delicate feet through intricate steps, men bounding after them like bold stags. Skirts billowed as ladies danced away, teasing smiles on their lips evoking glimmering lights of determination in the eyes of their partners. Each dance seemed to symbolise marriage; women flitting away and men chasing them, desperate for conquest.
Walsingham was against me marrying Anjou. Others were for and against, and there was no agreement. Robin was proclaiming marriage and childbirth, far from aiding my health, would kill me… something he had ignored when he was the prime candidate. Hatton admitted himself sorrowful to think of losing me, “but,” he had said. “If it would make you happy…”
In years past, this confusion would have pleased me, but this time I was seriously considering abandoning my maiden state, for one last chance at happiness.
Yet with that thought, others came. Just considering the abandonment of power brought terrifying nightmares when I did sleep, and robbed me of slumber when I did not. Fits of panic had increased, and I was on edge, restless and uneven in happiness. At one moment I thought Anjou might offer me all I had missed out on, and at others that he might steal everything from me. If my men were
confused, they were not alone.
Anjou’s envoys floated through the crowds, freely offering opinions on the match. Simier was persuasive, telling all he met of the grand affection his master held for me. Many spoke of the age difference between Anjou and me, but Simier repeated my words to them. “Her Majesty will be at once a blessed wife and sacred mother to my Prince,” he said. “Few women could guide and be guided at the same time, but Her Majesty is a woman above all others; a light in the darkness, who will lead my master to his true path.”
