by G Lawrence
A bad harvest three years ago had brought famine, followed a spare year later by blood when rebels rose to destroy churches, statues, and icons. Compromises were reached, and peace restored, but it was only temporary. A year ago, an army of Calvinists had marched upon Zeeland. Phillip responded brutally. Nine thousand men under the command of the Spanish Duque de Alba had marched into the Netherlands. The rebels were crushed, and their leaders had fled, William of Orange amongst them.
Alba unleashed a reign of chaos and fear.
He took power from nobles and granted it to his Spanish and Italian ministers. Town leaders were arrested and executed, people were killed and tortured, any sign of resistance was to be stamped out. Twelve thousand people were tried for treason, nine thousand condemned to lose their property, and over one thousand executed… But it did not have the desired effect.
“Exiles have turned to William of Orange,” Cecil had informed me. “He has become the figurehead of the resistance.”
Alba had declared Orange a traitor and confiscated his property, but the Duque had no right to do so. William was a prince, the ruler of the principality of Orange. He was within his rights to wage war upon those who would take his lands. Alba had kidnapped Orange’s son, but the Protestant Prince remained undaunted.
French Huguenots joined the rebels, as did men under the command of Louis of Nassau. Huguenot leaders, Admiral Coligny of France and the Prince de Conde, had become convinced that the slippery Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, had entered into a pact with Phillip to be rid of them as part of the ideal of exterminating Protestantism. Huguenots joined their brothers in faith to fight in the Netherlands, and in France there had been attacks on Catholic priests and friars, leading to rumours that another war of religion was about to erupt.
In England, we were no less concerned. Refugees were pouring in from the Low Countries, and Antwerp was the only market from which England could borrow money. Our bonds of commerce were ancient and important. The Merchant Adventurers, a powerful company trading in London and Antwerp, worried that trade was at risk, and if it was, England was in peril. Cecil was watching events closely, and wanted me to aid the rebels. They were Protestants and Phillip a Catholic. The choice for Cecil was simple.
But I had urged for reconciliation. Phillip might be cold, cruel and heartless, but he was the anointed sovereign of the Low Countries, chosen by God. Much as I could not move against Mary for the sake of the sanctity of the throne, I could not sanction rebellion against Phillip. I was being urged to send support to the rebels, but I could not do so openly.
That did not mean I was not tempted. Phillip had caused trouble for me in the past, and was averse to the notion of me on the throne. If Phillip won, then his army, the best-equipped and mightiest in Europe, would be but a short sail from England.
“Another consideration is that William of Orange is a prince in his own right,” I had said to my eager Cecil. “Which man does God want on the throne? I know not.”
“God would want an ally of England in power,” Cecil had replied.
“Do you know so much of the mind of the Almighty that you may speak for Him?” I had responded. Cecil did not answer
I was less sure than Cecil, but the doubt granted me means of excusing English interference in the Low Countries.
Englishmen were already heading for the Netherlands as volunteers for the rebel army. United in religion, they saw the ousting of Phillip as vital to the survival of the Protestant faith. I felt no such obligation. My people had to come first.
Openly support rebels, I could not. Spain had more men, ships, arms and money than England… but that did not mean I could not support the rebel cause as long as I concealed what I was doing.
John Hawkins, a sea captain, had freed Flemish prisoners from a Spanish galley that had arrived in England. The official line was they had escaped. In reality, I had ordered them released. I also allowed the Sea Beggars, pirates, or more accurately privateers, sailing under letters of marque and reprisal from William of Orange, to sail from English harbours. They attacked Spanish ships.
Once, letters of marque had been issued by a sovereign when one of their merchants had been attacked by a wolf of the sea, and was unable to claim legal redress. In times of peace, such letters had been issued so merchants might gain a letter in return, promising compensation. But in truth, letters of marque were granted to enable captains to take revenge upon ships sailing under an enemy flag. By this time, letters of marque were issued as a means for sovereigns to attack enemy shipping during times of war. A smaller, weaker nation could inflict a great deal of damage on another country if they managed to disrupt their shipping routes.
Allowing private vessels to undertake the task of attacking enemy ships saved a sovereign the expense of creating a large navy. Privateers were state-sanctioned, licensed pirates. They kept journals of their voyages, and handed over their goods to an Admiralty Court. They paid a percentage of their spoils to the Crown and could not, in theory, be prosecuted for piracy.
Pirates were much the same, except they were not sanctioned, and kept their loot. Sailing under either red or black flags, which meant no quarter would be granted, or would be granted, respectively, pirates were sea robbers. Merchant ships usually surrendered, and, at least most of the time, would keep their ship. It was not always so. Sometimes pirates took the ship too, setting the sailors off at the nearest beach, but it was more common they took treasure, goods and slaves, leaving the men alive as long as they did not cause trouble. Of course, there were exceptions.
Both privateers and pirates were formidable men, accustomed to the sea, its harsh quality of life, and the freedom it brought. Often second or third sons, these were no ordinary merchants but men with ambition and the lust to satisfy it. They were accustomed to sea battles, the perils of navigation and maps, and dangers such as fever, starvation and sickness. The Sea Beggars were working for William of Orange against Spain, and whilst Phillip declined to uphold their letters of marque, he was well aware they were a force to be reckoned with.
I was aware too, which was why I had allowed them to operate out of English ports. The Sea Beggars were keeping steady the balance of power in the Netherlands and were useful in other ways. The main danger to English shipping came from Scottish pirates. Along the north-eastern coast and the Irish Sea, Scots attacked ships and pillaged coastal towns. The Sea Beggars kept them at bay.
I gained a small share in the Sea Beggars’ spoils, as well as keeping the rebels in the Low Countries as friends. It was a way of keeping Phillip teetering on the tips of his regal toes.
There were many attacks on the sovereign rights of kings that fateful year; France was lurching on the verge of civil war, Phillip was suffering outright, bloody rebellion, and in England, I was dealing with a quiet, one-woman invasion.
My cousin was a stormcrow. Disaster dogged her every step. It was not an auspicious time, if there were such a thing, for her to come to England.
Chapter Three
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1568
Early the next morning as I walked in the palace grounds, birds singing above me and the earth surrendering to the weight of my feet, Francis Knollys came. My kinsman by marriage, husband to my beloved cousin, and some said half-sister, Catherine Knollys, née Carey, he was one of my most trusted men.
“Cousin,” I called with unfeigned warmth, adjusting the great pouch of notes and letters which I habitually kept at my waist. I kept all the notes until their affairs had been dealt with, then threw them away, to be replaced by more. Robin sometimes said I was a walking library of ideas. “I am grateful you have woken with the dawn to attend upon me.”
Francis smiled as he bowed. “I welcome the dawn, Majesty. There was a time, when we were in exile during your sister’s reign, when I thought I would never again witness the beauty of England’s dawns. Since we returned, I have never allowed them to become lonesome. I rise as you do, with first light, and welcome every
day with joy in my heart.”
I smiled. It was true I often liked to be up with the dawn, but equally true that many morns I did not. Working late through the night meant I sometimes slept into the day. Long past the time when the Bow Bell sounded, and bellmen set out into the streets crying, “Remember the clocks, Look well to your locks, Fire and your light, And God give you Goodnight”, I remained at my desk, and sometimes, as the pale fingers of dawn stretched into the skies, I was still there. If I was wrapped in slumber by midnight, I rose at dawn. If awake until dawn, I slept until the late morning. I seemed to need little sleep. I was a creature of the solitary night, more at home in darkness than day.
“I wonder if you will welcome the charge that comes with this day’s dawn,” I said, my tone dry. “Walk with me. I have an office that needs a good man to perform.”
“The Queen of Scots, Majesty?”
“Indeed.”
I stared to the horizon. Like us, England was awake. Outside the city, the kilns of Islington brought the destitute to their warm fires, and wives of yeomen were already up, gathering watercress and yarrow from ditches. In villages, milkmaids had long ago begun their day and were marching for London to sell their wares at street markets, alongside old women crouched beside baskets of nuts or vegetables. Widows were already wandering the streets, selling strings of onions or bags of oysters. Farmers toiled in fields outside the city walls, bringing life to dull earth, as shepherds drove flocks to new pastures.
Inside London the streets were already packed. Young lawyers browsed the rows of booksellers and stationers clustered about the churchyard near St Paul’s Cathedral, as people emerged from the jumbled briar of townhouses, small dwellings, prisons, trade halls and alleyways, to begin their day.
Upon the Thames, boats were gathering to ply their trade, their boatmen braying, “Westward Ho!” or “Eastward Ho!” to people meandering down stone staircases to wharves and landing steps, leading to and from the confusion of alleyways on the banks of the Thames. London Bridge was always busy, even in daylight’s first hours, with people perusing shops and stalls, stopping to visit the chapel of St Thomas Becket, or to gawp at the skulls of traitors, stuck on poles, bleaching white under the sun. Crossing the river by boat was quicker and safer than using the streets and a breakfast of a hot pasty, cup of ale, or a pricy, imported orange, could be bought from the baskets of wandering maids. Moors from Spain and Morocco haggled with apothecaries, and Flemish craftsmen shook their heads in wonder at the offers of refugee Huguenots from France for fine lace and cambric. Wealthy ladies and the wives of prosperous yeomen hired litters to navigate the busy streets and markets, and ballad-sellers, standing on barrels at street corners to sell a song, called for people to name their favourites. In dark alleys, thieves already waited, their daggers sharp so they might cut through purse, or flesh, and shops selling cheese, spices, gloves or fans, were opening their shutters for early trade.
Inns were serving up breakfasts of cold meat and ale for customers who had the money to pay, and their innkeepers were already outside, barking at their maids to sweep the steps clean, or bargaining with roaming players who wanted to perform in the inn that night. Other players made their way to the Red Lion at Mile End, a permanent playhouse attached to an old farm, which had a trapdoor to allow the players to enchant their audiences with sudden appearances and disappearances on stage. I smiled to think of their tricks. Dried peas were rattled on metal sheets to create the illusion of rain, and pebbles in a drum aped the music of the sea. Canvas sheets were used to make the sound of the wind, and the shells of the nuts of India were used to fabricate the clopping of horses.
Across the river, to the south, lay noisy Southwark, home to all vices, where shipwrights, prostitutes, sailors, and foreigners roamed. There, bull-baiting and bear-baiting went on, as well as dog fights, screaming brothels, acrobats performing, wrestlers grappling and hastily-picked fights. The streets were thick with the scent of bear-sweat and dog-blood, as well as the tang of ale, the ever-present stench of piss and the smell of crisp pies baking. Tanning and brewing went on in Southwick, which hardly aided the stench, but it was not enough to keep people away. Players flocked to perform in inns and houses, and also sought the company of the ‘Winchester Geese’, a band of prostitutes who operated from the Bishop of Winchester’s old manor house.
Southwark was known as the place to be, if one desired excitement and not a little danger.
Boats carrying coal, timber, cloth or food along with woad from Toulouse and soap from Plymouth, bobbed on the Thames, heading for the huge warehouses for imported goods along the river. The city’s guilds occupied the once-hallowed halls of former monasteries, and the grand town houses of the rich stretched along the Strand, their marble and brick fronts shimmering in the sunlight. Cheapside, famous for metalwork, sung with the sound of goldsmiths’ hammers, and merchants’ stalls filled the slim lanes, their owners calling for people to come and buy, buy, buy.
I adored my London. It was noisy, smelly and often brash, all things I did not warm to, but there was something about it I could not rip from my heart. London lived. No matter what its people faced, they strove. No matter what hardship they encountered, they soldiered on. They were indelible in the face of trouble, ineffaceable in the midst of toil. Once set on something, no Londoner could be dissuaded.
It was something to be admired.
Knollys and I fell silent for a moment. Crisp birdsong fluttered over our heads, and a fresh wind blew, billowing through flowers emerging upon the meads, and ruffling crisp-stalked reeds at the edge of ponds. Peace and life; this is spring. If only there was such harmony in my heart as there was upon my gardens.
“I must send someone to guard the Queen of Scots,” I said. “Someone who understands that whilst my cousin cannot be left at liberty, she must not be treated as a prisoner. Someone who understands appearances must be maintained.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“I also need a man who will remain immune to her charms,” I went on. “They say her escape from Lochleven was brought about because her captor, George Douglas, fell in love with her. Ambassador Throckmorton, too, slipped under her spell. You are true to my cousin Catherine. I trust you to guard Queen Mary, and not fall for her wiles.”
“I treasure your faith in me, Majesty.”
“See it is not debased,” I said. “You are to make for Carlisle and take charge of her. Inform Northumberland, if he has reached her first, that he is to go home and stop interfering in my affairs. Prevent any other Catholic lords from visiting. Tell my royal cousin I cannot permit her to come into my presence whilst doubt remains about her husband’s death, but I would have her know I intend to work for her restoration. Once Mary is honourably acquitted of the charges against her, I will receive her and work to bring about reconciliation with Scotland.”
“Is that wise, Majesty?” Knollys asked. “Sending her home would be to replace an advantageous Protestant government with a Catholic one.”
Inwardly I sighed. How many times had I heard that over the past few days? It was as though men thought I was blind to the obvious.
“Whatever faith she is, Francis, she was chosen by God to rule Scotland.”
“One might argue, madam, that her removal from the throne might be what God intended.”
“People say that of me, too, Francis.” A dangerous note edged into my tone.
“None who have wit, Majesty.”
I smiled. “Well said, coz,” I said, patting his arm. “Many will claim me senseless for considering aiding a woman who has brought nothing but strife to me, but as one chosen by God to rule, I must respect others who were likewise chosen.”
As we passed a group of courtiers, I nodded to Bess St Loe, now Bess Talbot, since she had married George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury. There was only one Duke in England; Norfolk, my arrogant and often troublesome cousin. In marrying her Earl, Bess had become one of the premier women of England.
My
frequently-married friend had lost three husbands, and the death of the last, William St Loe, possibly at the hands of his own brother, had struck her hard. She had shied from Talbot’s love at first, fearing to open her heart only to suffer loss again, but he had convinced her. I was glad of it and had approved the match. Bess was a woman of fire and spirit, who deserved happiness. Talbot called her “My None”, a strange pet name. Some took it to mean there was no one else for him, and others thought it an amalgamation of “mine” and “own”. The Shrewsburys were happy, and I was glad for them. There had been enough suffering over these past years. It was time for life, not death, to rejoice.
“I have heard the Scots’ Queen has little clothing,” I said to Knollys. “The Countess of Shrewsbury will show you the items I mean to send.” I paused to take a breath. “You will be shocked, Francis, when you see what I have selected, for they are no glorious gowns fit for court, but cast-offs which I intended for my maids.”
“You mean to insult the Queen, Majesty?”
“I mean to make her aware of her situation. Mary is reliant on English hospitality now, Francis, and my charity. I will send better cloth in time, but she must understand that she is now a queen in name alone. If she wants to be restored, she must fall under my command, not regard herself as a queen equal to me.” I waved a hand as his face creased with consternation. “Construct whatever excuse you desire to deflect her anger,” I said.