Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  Blanche linked her arm with mine, and we walked along the paths in silence. It was often this way with my new Chief Lady of the Bedchamber. Blanche had never attempted to take Kat’s place. She was simply herself. She offered herself to me, heart and soul, and was a gentle presence in my often turbulent life. I leaned on Blanche. She was my crutch.

  “”Will they marry, do you think?” I asked Blanche after some time.

  “I hear Helena’s family has no wealth for a dowry,” she told me. “Although her father is a baron, he has no more coin than a pauper.”

  “My uncle is rich enough for the both of them,” I said. “And perhaps he cares not for her money, if he is enough in love with her.”

  “That is the best kind of marriage,” Blanche nodded. “One that is made on a foundation of love, rather than commerce and trade, as so many are.”

  “Is that why you have never married, Blanche?” I asked. “You have been in my service since you rocked my cradle. Did you never think to wed?”

  Blanche smiled softly. “Perhaps my heart was too like that of my mistress,” she murmured. “I never wanted a husband. I enjoy my position with you, Majesty, and the liberty it gives me. Although I have seen many happy marriages, I believe marriage can be a shackle and I never wished for such a chain. I am like you… I want to be free. That liberty is, to me, more important than finding a man to share my life with. We each of us decide on what is most important in life. I may have missed out on some comforts my married friends have, but then I reason they have missed out on much I enjoy, too. No one can have everything they want. I am happy with the path I have taken.”

  She looked up at the skies. “My grandmother had a saying about happiness,” she said. “In order to find happiness one must find y man lle rydw i mewn heddwch a mi fy hun.”

  “The place where I find peace?” I asked. Blanche had taught me some Welsh, but it was not a language in which I was fluent.

  “Almost,” she said. “It means, ‘The place where I am at peace with myself’.” She nodded to the skies. “That is what I found, my lady, with you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Whitehall Palace

  Winter 1565

  As the chill of winter settled over England, we heard of the death of Pope Pius IV. Pius had been a rather genial Pope, who had done much to attempt reconciliation between England and Rome. I was troubled to hear of his death. The missives from Rome during his rule had been conciliatory and piled with overtures of friendship. He had made no effort to start war on England for its Protestantism. His replacement, Pius V, was not made of the same mettle.

  A former Dominican friar, who had the motto, Utinam dirigantur viae meae ad custodiendas justificationes tuas, O that my ways may be directed to keep thy justifications, Brother Woodenshoe, as he was known before his elevation, spelled trouble for England. As a Cardinal he had prosecuted bishops for heresy. As a Pope he was likely to become a danger to me.

  “Just keep him at bay, Cecil, as we did with the last Bishop of Rome,” I said upon reading the dispatches.

  “This one may be harder to divert than the last, Majesty. He is firm against heresy of any kind, and obviously includes the Protestant faith in his deliberations. He has already made moves to finish the tradition of nepotism in the Vatican; a radical move and one that shows his militant nature.” Cecil sighed. “Pius was ineffectual and moderate,” he mourned. “I fear his replacement will move against England. He is sympathetic to Phillip of Spain. That can bring no good for us.”

  “That I understand, Spirit, so let us find many new and various methods to confound the Pope.”

  “There is another matter, Majesty, although I hesitate to raise it with you.”

  “Then it must be about a cousin, Cecil, for you would not otherwise hesitate.”

  He inclined his head. “Mary Grey, Majesty. She has been writing to me to beg that I petition you for forgiveness. She says she would rather die than incur your displeasure again, and promises never to wound you again.” He sniffed. Cecil did not believe Mary Grey was sorry for what she had done. Neither did I. “She seems quite confused that you have not already forgiven her,” he finished.

  “She can go on wondering, Spirit,” I said grimly. “And she will not be forgiven. Mary Grey has a mind inside her skull, even if she chooses not to make use of it. She saw what happened to her sister when she defied me, and yet chose to do the exact same thing. She will stay where she is; under house arrest in the prison room at Chequers and Keyes can stay in the Fleet.”

  I was in no mood to be generous to traitors. I had quite enough to think upon with the new, energetic Bishop of Rome stomping about the Vatican.

  We worried about the new Pope, but we had a good event to distract us when Anne Russell, one of my maids of honour, married Ambrose Dudley. The couple were wed in the chapel at Whitehall and I promoted Anne to the position of Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, in honour of her new rank as Countess of Warwick. Ambrose was twenty years older than his sixteen-year-old bride, but that mattered not to them. He walked happily through the wedding party, his cane clipping on the ground, providing an accompaniment to the music that played as we danced through the night. Anne was delighted with her new husband and I was pleased to see her so happy.

  As we came to the end of these celebrations, I had word from my cousin Lettice. She had been delivered in November of a fine and healthy boy. What pleased me less was the name she had chosen for her son. Skirting over the name Walter, which would have honoured her husband, the boy was instead named Robert. This led to many supposing that this child was not, in fact, the son of her legally wedded husband at all, but that of Robin! I knew this was false, since Lettice had already been pregnant when she came to court, but the rumours persisted. I wondered what her husband thought of it, since he was often far away from his wife, sorting out strife in Ireland. There was no talk of rift between the couple, however, and they both seemed delighted with their son.

  Love was in the air at the English Court, but hate had taken love’s place in Scotland.

  “Randolph writes that he believes the Queen to be depressed in spirit,” I said to Cecil one afternoon as hail showers pelted the window panes. “She is often sick he says, and much of it with worry.”

  “Mary of Scots chose her bed,” Cecil replied absently.

  “And now must lie with Darnley in it?” I shuddered. “To think of any woman having to lie with that pompous, pox-ridden cumberwold is hideous to me, Cecil. And you and all my lords would have had me jump into matrimony when she did. Do you not see now that no husband is better than a bad one?”

  “Your Majesty would not have to choose one like Darnley,” Cecil reminded me. “Although there is much evidence to the contrary, there are good men, Majesty, many of them. Not all of us are given to lying with whores, humiliating our wives, or pissing out what little sense God gave us along with our wine.”

  “Indeed, Cecil,” I agreed. “I pity my cousin. She has saddled herself with a poor partner.”

  “Perhaps he will die young, Majesty, and relieve her of this burden.”

  “And send England into endless fretting over her next choice of husband? Come, Spirit, you do not wish for that. At least with Darnley, we know where we stand. Wish not for uncertainty.”

  When my cousin pardoned Arran, a conspirer in the troubles with Moray, tensions between her and her new family increased. Arran, who also held the French Dukedom of Chatelherault, and his family were old foes of the Lennoxes. His pardon was taken as an insult, seeing as his family had been involved in the assassination of Lennox’s father. As Christmas drew near, the royal couple had a series of blazing, public rows. This tension spurred Mary into action. Previously, Mary’s state papers had referred to Darnley along with Mary as “the King and Queen,” now they omitted Darnley entirely, placed his title second to Mary’s, or referred to him as “The husband of the Queen”, sure signs that Mary had no intention of naming him King or increasing his influence. Mary a
lso altered the mottos on her coinage from “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder” which had clearly been a message to me, to “Let God arise and let His enemies be scattered,” which, to me, suggested Mary might well be considering her husband one of her enemies…

  Randolph wrote, saying “I know now that this Queen repents her marriage; she hates him and all his kin.” Darnley’s drinking, too, was getting out of hand, so much so that one of Mary’s lords, hosting an entertainment for the couple, asked Mary to moderate her husband’s consumption of wine. Mary tried, but only got a snarl from her husband in reply. In response, Mary refused Darnley the right to bear royal arms, and denied him the crown matrimonial, as well as the title of King. Mary was ensuring she would always be of higher rank than he. It also meant he could not claim the throne, should Mary die without issue.

  Rather than rely on her husband, Mary was increasingly turning to her newly promoted French Secretary, David Rizzio. “Seigneur Davie”, as he was disparagingly called at court, was a mere court musician no longer and had the Queen’s ear. Mary’s affection for Rizzio caused Darnley to fall out with his once-friend, and rumoured lover. According to Randolph, Rizzio was “he that works all” at Mary’s court. The fact that Mary gave precedence to this young man, of no title or noble blood, enraged Darnley. As Rizzio’s influence at court grew, so Darnley’s hatred of him intensified. It is ever the way with those of little talent, to place the blame for their failures upon others. Darnley did not see that Mary elevated Rizzio because he was not only a friend to her, but was useful. Had Darnley ever entertained a thought in his head, he might have tried to alter himself to be more like this talented Italian, but Darnley could not see past the end of his syphilitic nostrils. He blamed Rizzio for stealing the love of the Queen, and for all his problems in life. Rumours began, and I have no doubt they originated from Darnley, that Mary and Rizzio were lovers. In his jealousy and anger, Darnley did not recognise he was alienating the only person who had the right and the power to make him, or break him. Her other lords despised Rizzio too. They believed he was influencing their Queen, and might call upon her to restore Catholicism.

  As the weeks went on, however, Mary’s mood improved. She talked about pardoning the rebel lords if they would offer her loyalty, and she even considered pardoning Moray, who by this point she loathed almost as much as her husband… What was the reason for this alteration in mood? It was simple really.

  My cousin was pregnant.

  No official word was given yet, but Randolph suspected that her illness, the vomiting especially, was due to a babe in her belly. He made sure we understood this was only speculation, but the news was still hard to hear. I frowned as I read his missive, knowing Cecil would have already seen it. This would lead to renewed insistence that I marry. Another cousin, another babe! The production of an heir could only strengthen Mary’s reputation and position, no matter what idiot had sired it.

  *

  That winter, Norfolk and Robin fell out again, and this time their hatred of each other was reaching epic proportions. Each of their factions of followers wore different colours to identify their loyalties, and the youngest members began to have public quarrels and fights. Brawls broke out in inns about London. In an effort to stop the tensions before something serious occurred, I called Robin to my Presence Chamber, and publicly upbraided him.

  “You will keep the peace in my country, my lord, or suffer the consequences!” I said loudly, wanting to reach out and slap Norfolk who was smirking at the edge of the crowds. “I will not have my nobles, those who should be leaders of my people, behaving like aggravated apes!”

  “I will talk to my men, Majesty,” Robin said. His cheeks kindled to be scolded before the court. “And I hope that others will do the same.”

  “I hope so too, my lord.” I frowned at Norfolk, who had the good sense to cease smiling.

  When we left the chambers, Robin asked for a private audience. “I am sorry to have had to do that, Robin,” I apologised. “But Norfolk despises you. If he thinks you are out of favour it may bring these tensions down from the boil.”

  “I understand, Majesty.” Robin bowed. “Of course I do.”

  I started with astonishment. “I thought you had come to upbraid me,” I admitted. “What now… This pleasant tone and humble manner? Are you quite yourself, Robin?”

  Robin chuckled. “I have something to speak of you with, Majesty, and I would like you to hear my arguments without irritation.”

  “Is the talk of marriage?”

  “It is, but I hope you will listen to me seriously, and not take offence.”

  I sniffed. “That, I cannot promise, Robin. You must make sure you do not offend me. You are the one who is speaking, after all.”

  “You should marry Archduke Charles,” he said.

  I almost fell off the chair I was in the process of sitting upon. “What?” The word snapped from my mouth.

  “I think you should marry Archduke Charles,” he repeated. “Your most influential subjects desire it, and if any have offered support to the idea of you and me marrying, it was only because they believed your heart lay with me.” His eyes were sad as he continued to speak. “This admission causes me pain, Majesty, but you have always believed you should marry where it was best for England, not for you. If you are to marry, to give us an heir, then you should accept this match. You cannot put aside the thought that I am not worthy for you, or for England. This being the case, you should marry where it is best for England,” Robin paused. “And yet know, Elizabeth, I will love you for the rest of my days. No other will ever have my heart.”

  “I do not want to marry the Archduke,” I said, frankly astonished by Robin’s speech.

  “Then give in to the wishes of your heart, Majesty, and marry me.” Robin’s swift turn of argument boggled my mind. His eyes pleaded. “Cease to play this game neither of us can win. Make me your consort. Reduce my power and influence as you wish, but allow us to have the life that we were destined for, Elizabeth. Marry me.”

  I stared at him. Had he come to argue for the Archduke only to make me sad, and then throw himself at me? He was trying to play with my emotions. It was another trick. “Will you give me an answer?” he asked after several moments passed in silence.

  “At Candlemas, I will give you an answer,” I promised. I wanted him gone. I could not stand to look on him. The hateful stranger had returned. Had he ever left? Which man was my Robin? I felt I knew him not at all anymore, so shifting, so changeable, so duplicitous was this soul before me.

  Robin left in high spirits, blithely unaware of my feelings towards him, and quickly aggravated everyone at court with his new belief that I would marry him. I had no intention of doing so. All my old suspicions flared into life. I could trust nothing Robin said or did. Robin thought he was clever, no doubt, but when February came and went, he would find himself still single, and I in the same state.

  *

  As Christmas came my cousin of Scots sent official word that she was with child. Although it came as no surprise to me, since Randolph had written of his suspicions, the rest of my court was afire with the news. It led, of course, to my Privy Council attacking me for not being a good girl, like my cousin of Scots. I tried to remind them that no husband was better than a bad one. It did no good, they lectured, protested and pleaded with me. To confuse them, I put great vigour into talks of marriage with my old friend the Archduke, made comments at court about reconsidering a match with France, and pandered to Robin’s every whim. Let the court continue to be confused, not knowing which man I meant to choose! I would play them as I always had. I just wished Kat was here to help me bamboozle them. She had been talented at such games.

  Charles of France, happy to hear I was thinking of marrying him, sent word that he wished to bestow the Order of St Michael on two of my men. I chose Norfolk and Robin, and the ceremony was set for the end of January. Norfolk, however, did not want to share his honour with the likes of R
obin, and came to me in high dudgeon, refusing to attend.

  What a child this man is, I thought as he grumbled.

  “You would give up this honour all for spite, Your Grace?” I asked Norfolk, viewing his enraged face with cold disdain.

  “I wish to share nothing with a man who spreads only discord and disharmony, Your Majesty,” he replied stiffly.

  “I don’t believe the Earl is the only one with a talent for discord, Your Grace,” I said and then breathed in, looking away from him. “Well, if you do not wish for the honour, I will grant it to Heneage or Cecil instead… They will be sensible of the honour.”

  Norfolk started. He had expected me to knight him and set Robin aside, and my mention of offering the honour to other men, of considerably lower title and blood, was an affront to everything he believed in.