by G Lawrence
Treason in Trust
Book Five of the
Elizabeth of England Chronicles
By G. Lawrence
Copyright © Gemma Lawrence 2018
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this manuscript may be reproduced without Gemma Lawrence's express consent
This book is dedicated to my cousin, Hilary, and her beautiful family.
“I have found treason in trust, seen great benefits little regarded.”
Elizabeth I
“All great and precious things are lonely.”
John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Thank You
About The Author
Prologue
Richmond Palace
February 1603
The wind blows fiercely, keening about the palace. There is a wailing in its din… A voice that longs to be heard; sharp and shrill, filled with aching loneliness, it sails upon the wind, a restless traveller seeking a place to call home.
There is no such place. The voice knows this, yet still it calls, bound to the endless, enduring hope that one day another voice will respond, leading it home. It dances upon the wind, singing of its barren heart as it curls about the wings of the storm. Lilting, lifting, dancing, sailing, it is bound and it is free; it is lost and it is found.
But always, it is alone.
Listening to it, I wonder if it is not my own voice, taken from my breast and thrown into the wind. Its lament is the sound of a heart that has known agony and has thrust pain inside, where it cannot escape. This is loneliness; this distant space, the inner void. This place where we come to understand that which we attempt to avoid thinking about every single day; we are alone. That we were birthed into this world from the body of another human, and that was the last time we understood what it was to truly know another soul.
We touch other people so briefly, after that first moment we come screaming into the world, lost in a miasma of pain and blood. We are released, unable to form words to explain the rending, tearing, absolute agony of separation… For in that moment we know, although we cannot rationalize it, we are forever bound to solitude, to loneliness.
Death understands this. He, like all constant, eternal beings, is alone. He is one of the unfortunate, for He is aware of his loneliness. Some people manage to fool themselves. Eternal beings are not so easily deceived, nor am I. As I sit contemplating the loneliness that has dogged me since the first moment of my life, He watches. There is sympathy beyond the darkness of His hood.
Death and I are similar souls.
Eternal, I am not, but aware of my separation from others I am. Every day I am watched by eyes too numerous to count, and have been since the moment of my birth, but although I am seen, I am not known. I have stood, before all my people, before all the world, and yet have been known by none. Some broke through to a part of my heart, but none to all. It was necessary that I be crafted this way, shaped by the hands of God to make me into a creature of shadows and secrets. It was how I survived, but it came at a price. To know oneself alone in an ocean of people, is to be the loneliest person on earth.
Death understands me. Perhaps this is why He no longer sighs at me for taking my time in telling this tale. Death likes a story. He has witnessed the end of many. He is a watcher… destined to walk as a part of the lives of men, yet apart from them all. He understands my loneliness. It is within Him, too.
We stand alone.
And this hard, irrefutable truth, is brought to our eyes never more clearly than when we find the minds of others working against us. In a normal man’s life, this is known as betrayal. For a queen, it is named treason.
There are those who betray their Queen because they believe she is misguided or evil. Some become disloyal to their spiritual leader because they uphold a different faith. Some deceive an equal, thinking it is their right, and some betray allies, careless of their friendship. This is treason; where the wants of the people and the wishes of their monarch conflict. It is the point where men take matters in their own hands, fearing to trust the one that rules them.
This is the unknown gulf; the mystery of another soul. We look into the eyes of another and think we know them, but we do not. We never can. There is a world inside each mind; a raging, seething tumult of chaos and possibility.
Treason in trust… betrayal in hope… loss of faith in that which we put faith in… And when the stakes are high it is harder to trust.
Always I tried.
Sometimes, I failed.
Chapter One
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1568
“What am I to do with her, Spirit?”
I was not looking for an answer. I knew Cecil had none to offer. My question was a plaintive request, an appeal to God, asking what I was to do with a queen who had lost her crown, lost her war to regain it, and ended up destitute, a threat upon my shores.
Mary Stewart: the fallen Queen of Scots. Only God knew what I should do, yet the Almighty was not about to unclasp His mind to me. There is a reason we were granted free will; God likes to test His creations.
And this was a test sent by the Almighty, for Mary had not intended to come to England. After escaping her island prison, leaving her ravaged country in a state of civil war, she had set sail for France, thinking to take refuge with her Guise and Valois kin, but churning sea-winds had sent her crawling to my shores. Perh
aps, understanding my cousin was welcome nowhere, God had dispatched those winds, sending her to me, knowing I was her best bet for survival. But I was certain He meant to test me, for what greater test of my morals, courage and strength could there be than sending my once-enemy, perhaps enemy still, into my hands?
Ever since the days she had quartered her arms with those of England, and entered feasts at the Court of France with heralds shouting, “Make way for the Queen of England!” Mary had been a quivering thorn amongst the stable roses of my life.
Cecil and my Council wanted her gone. It would be easy to raise a hand and send her back to Scotland. There, she would be handed over to her bastard brother, the Earl of Moray, and the uprisings of her supporters would end. I had no doubt Moray would make Mary stand trial for her part, whatever that was, in the murder of her odious husband, Darnley, and potentially she would lose her life. I could dispatch her to France and risk King Charles becoming embroiled in the affairs of Scotland and England. Yet how could I send her to Scotland knowing she would die? How could I send her to France knowing King Charles would use her to regain his unsteady foothold in Scotland? Long and hard had we fought, losing English blood and English men to conflict in Scotland. Sending her away was trouble; that much was clear. My only other option was to keep her, and accept what fate decreed.
But to keep her was not without risk. I had ruled for ten years, and aside from the odd, and always, to my mind, unwanted incursion into another land, England had been at peace. I meant to keep it that way. But with Mary here, a pretender to my throne, peace was not likely to survive. Catholic dissidents saw her as the true heir to my throne, especially since they had never recognised my parents’ marriage as legal. Even Protestants might be willing to accept a coup if it brought about what they desired; a woman willing to marry and bear children upon England’s throne. Oh yes, Mary was dangerous. I should be rid of her as soon as possible, but there was another problem.
Mary protested she had come to me, thinking that I, the woman she had insulted, then tried to appease, and then insulted again, would protect her.
The trouble was my irritating cousin was not entirely wrong.
No matter what she had done, Mary was an anointed Queen. If I were to see her abused, used, held for trial, executed, or exiled, I was acting not against a subject but an equal. Royalty was sacred. We could not be treated like common criminals.
And there was another issue. To act against Mary or hold her prisoner might bring men to think the bonds of sacred sovereignty were not so hallowed. Men might believe they could do the same to me.
What to do then? I knew not. Cecil knew not, and God was silent.
“You should send her to Scotland, Majesty,” said Cecil after a pause where only our breathing interrupted the stillness of the darkened chamber.
It was night; long past the hour when even the most raucous, feral courtiers were abed. Cecil often came to me as the hush of blackness fell. We had become two owls, perching side by side throughout the darkling night. I slept little. In my youth I had passed many nights when I thought I might not see the pink fingers of dawn stretch across cobalt skies. Something in me told me to stay awake, to await dawn, so I might know there was another day for me to live.
Sometimes, after one of these late-night meetings, I would send Cecil to bed but not retire myself. I kept working. My poor Spirit often had to reconcile himself to being woken before dawn to continue the business of the realm.
And I liked darkness… the cool, calm still of night. Some say the night makes them feel lonelier. Shadows stretch and worries emerge as armies to plague the mind. Strangely I did not feel that way. The day was suffused with light and noise and sound… all making me feel only more separate, more alone. In the glaring day, nothing can be hidden; our loneliness is made starker, obvious. At night, the stars were my company, my friends… souls who understood my loneliness. Some found the dark sinister, but not me. Darkness is imperturbable, composed and dulcet, collected and refined. The night refreshed my soul, held me safe in a cocoon of sweet blackness; the womb of the world. I was a creature of shadow, at home in pale moonlight and drifting darkness.
Darkness and light exist in all things. We all cast shadows if we stand in the path of light, just as we all need the darkness to see the light. Some say darkness should be banished, but what then would become of light? However insubstantial a shadow, it lends depth, texture and substance to light. Darkness becomes not so dark when you understand the only monster you need to fear is the one within you. That is the creature we face in darkened hours. Most people do not care to see it, but I had many reasons to look upon its face.
They were within me. Each needed to be faced, to be allowed to rear their heads, so they did not become caged beasts, with the power to overcome me.
“Send her back, and see her executed?” I asked, passing a finger down the soft spine of a low-glowing candle on the table. Amber light flickered as the breath of my finger passed by. “Tried as a common criminal, her head taken by the axe?” I shivered, thinking of my mother; another reason I could not betray a fellow queen.
“And see justice done, my lady.”
“Justice… for Darnley, you mean?” I asked, staring at Cecil’s face, always slightly pink, in the candle’s radiance. “Do not pretend, Spirit, that you harboured any more affection for that wastrel than me. There are few who deserve death, but Darnley offered nothing to life, so death was the best place for him. And whilst I do not think my cousin was involved, if she was, I would call the act self-defence. He put her and her son in danger.” I drew in a breath. “Send her to Scotland, and her enemies will take her head. The majesty and mystery of the throne will be debased. Men may come to think that I, too, may be done away with.”
“Her ill reputation does not affect you, madam.”
“The reputation of every king affects me, Cecil. We are set apart from other mortals, therefore we are of one clan. People like to judge groups of people, linked by the slightest bonds, as one and the same. It is easier for our shallow minds to comprehend than if we attempt to see all people as individuals. Allow men to kill one prince, and many more will fall.”
“I admit there are perils to every possibility,” he said, making a steeple of his fingertips and tapping it against his lips. “Simply for the sake of argument, Majesty, were she to stay, she might grant us control over the Scots. She is the leader, no matter how ineffective, of the Queen’s Party, and Moray of the King’s. He wants her, so we have a bargaining tool.” He frowned. Dark shadows playing upon his face transformed my Cecil into a wolf. “But in England, Majesty, she will be dangerous. The Earl of Northumberland has already set out to greet her and no doubt offer his protection. Catholics may rise and set her upon your throne.”
“I know, Cecil.”
“Keeping her as a prisoner will inflame other nations. Spain and France will use this excuse to meddle in England’s affairs. They will say you have no authority to hold her.”
“And they would be right. What authority do I hold over one whom God has chosen to rule? If other kings have no authority over me, I wield none over them.”
“Then she must go back.”
“I cannot do it. Neither path may I take.”
“So what is to be done?”
I rubbed the corner of my eye where little crow’s feet had started to emerge. Concealed behind paint and powder, they could not be seen, but I knew they were there, lurking. I was no more the fresh young damsel, come to the throne on a wave of popularity, hope and zeal. In some ways I mourned the demise of that girl, but I welcomed the confident woman I had become. I was surer of myself and my abilities than I had ever been. I might take care to conceal them, but wrinkles were a small price to pay for wisdom... Although at that moment, I did not feel wise. The greatest lesson is there are always more lessons to be learnt.
“I know not,” I said. “This is a question with no answer.”
My only option was to bring about reconcil
iation between Scotland and its destitute Queen, but my men did not agree. Cecil, in particular, thought it unreasonable folly to seek to replace a friendly, Protestant government with a potentially hostile Catholic one. He had a point. He wanted her sent back, a prisoner. I could not allow that.
Cecil was a clever man, but he did not understand. He could not. Ties of blood are weighty, but the shared sanctity of the throne is sacrosanct and hallowed. If I handed Mary to her enemies, and allowed her to be treated as a criminal, I would bring the inviolability of the Crown into question. Allow men to see a queen is a person like all others, and that is the day monarchies of all countries tumble to dust.
“She has placed herself under my protection, Cecil,” I said, watching an owl land upon the freshly-clipped lawn, talons outstretched. Whatever she caught died quickly; a strangled cry dying swiftly in its throat. The owl clasped her prize and winged into the night air, silent wings bearing the body of a white ghost high into the skies, disappearing into the darkness. “And my protection she will have, although there may come a time she will have reason to regret it.”
“Because you will send her back?” Cecil’s voice was hopeful. Foolishly so.
“Because I will keep her, under my terms.” I turned to him. “She desires my protection, and she will have it. But she must surrender to me, Cecil.”