by G Lawrence
“And you would welcome Thomas Keys, a mere soldier, as your future king, would you, Cecil?” I asked, not bothering to lift my tired, bleary eyes from the parchment I was reading.
“Her marriage could be dissolved.”
“The lady herself would not allow that,” I said, scratching through a superfluous line in the document.
There was silence, and eventually I gazed up. Cecil was staring at his papers, a worried crease etched deep into his brow. “You would have me restore Mary Grey as an alternative to Mary of Scots, even though the Grey girl is a proved traitor, and my cousin is not?”
“Mary Grey is the lesser danger, my lady.”
“Only in your mind, Cecil.” I sat back and set my fingers into my eyes, rubbing them hard. “I will not restore the chit, just as I will not be bullied into acting against my royal cousin without due cause.”
“We are surrounded by enemies,” said Cecil. “And now there is one within our own country.”
“We are always surrounded by enemies, Cecil. The sooner you realise that, the more sleep you will get. Every other country in the world wants more than they have. Every other faith wants everyone to think as they do. We will never be free, old friend, of peril, and every ally we make is temporary in the games of politics. But rest easy, Cecil. We will prevail.”
“I wish I had your faith, Majesty.”
“As do I, old friend.”
Chapter Six
Greenwich Palace
Early Summer 1568
That summer, Scotland was afire with the horror of civil war. Moray was chasing down Mary’s supporters in the south-west. His military expedition became known as the “Raid of Dumfries.” In early June, Moray, along with the Earl of Morton and Lord Hume, captured houses and castles belonging to Mary’s arch supporters, and at Dumfries a number of rebels surrendered.
“Are they, in truth, rebels?” I asked. “They support the Queen, do they not?”
“The Queen of Scots is deposed, by her own hand,” Cecil said. “Moray and his men support King James.”
“If you think Moray supports any other than himself, you are blind, Cecil.”
There was more welcome news a little later, when I had word from John Hawkins.
My able sea captain had left England on a mission to disrupt Spanish and Portuguese slave plantations in Africa, and bring me back a handsome profit. Although I liked the trade not, I had been assured Hawkins would only steal away slaves who wanted to shift from bad masters to good ones. I also saw the worth in upsetting Spanish trade routes. That was the true purpose of England’s dalliance with the slave trade.
Hawkins had fallen into the trade by accident some years ago. In search of gold and jewels, he had embarked on a private voyage to Africa and found himself approached by slaves who had asked to be taken away and sold to kinder masters. He had obliged, returning home with a heavy purse and sought my sanction to continue. Assured he would only take away slaves who wanted to be taken, I had agreed.
The true lure of Africa was not slaves, but gold, ivory and spices. There were legends that the gold of Africa was as bounteous as the rain in England. The Pope had granted papal approval to the African gold trade one hundred years ago, and established Portugal as the exclusive traders of this commodity.
“The bar this papal command once imposed was lifted for England when your gracious father broke with Rome,” Hawkins had told me.
The man had a point. If England was no more under papal control, what did Rome’s decrees mean to us? English traders had made for the African coast, afire with the notion of finding more gold than any man could spend. Although slaves were purchased from warring chieftains and kings of Africa who sold prisoners captured in war, precious gems, gold and spices were what everyone was after.
Not all people of Africa were immediately recognised or taken as slaves. Highly organised and successful African Empires existed and thrived. The Oyo and Akan nations in the west, and Benin in the south, owned empires flush with cities, commerce and trade. They spoke European languages; primarily Portuguese, but Spanish and English were becoming common. Benin was the most impressive kingdom, where foreign traders were permitted to build fortresses, and the Benin scale and organisation of trade was almost unmatched. Their cities were described as akin to paradise, with huge earthen-wall fortifications, and wide open streets.
Books on Africa, written by the first merchants who had traded there, offered information, as well as legends. The Arimaspi race only had one eye in the middle of their foreheads, and the Syrbote stood eight foot high and lived by hunting elephants. More gigantic creatures were described, as well as possible reasons for the difference in skin hue between Africans and Europeans. Some said the heat of Africa upset the four humours, leading to a different skin pigment, but if that were true, would the heat not upset the humours of all who travelled to Africa, rendering white men black?
There were other theories. The story of Noah held that his three sons, Ham, Sem and Japhet, were the progenitors of the three races of man. Ham was the father of African races, Sem of Asia, and Japhet of Europe. Ham had humiliated his father, and as punishment, Noah placed a curse upon Ham’s son Canaan, condemning any who descended from him to be the “servant of servants”. Unfortunately for those who argued this, Genesis said nothing about the colour of Ham’s skin.
African dignitaries, as well as black Iberians, nobles from Spain and Portugal, and emissaries from Morocco visited England, and none of them were considered slaves because of the colour of their skin, as devotees to the legend of Ham would have us suppose. Status in England was a question of class, not colour.
But some used the story of Ham to justify the trade in black slaves, although what they used to justify the trade in white slaves, I know not, for that trade was just as common. One of the greatest fears of Englishmen on the coast was that they would be captured by Barbary corsairs, slave-trading pirates who hailed from North Africa.
Some claimed the dark colour of a man’s skin showed moral impropriety. White was the colour of purity, therefore black, as its opposite, must be evil. But this attitude was contradicted as often as it was argued. Black was also seen as the colour of constancy. Balthazar, one of the three wise Kings, was black, as were many saints, and there were also depictions of the Virgin Mary as black. I had perhaps ten Moors in my household. I did not find them any more or less sinful than other servants.
Moors from Spain, the Netherlands, Africa and Portugal had settled in England, and as long as they became christened, if not already, they and their children were largely accepted into communities. Some held positions of prestige, and many black servants were paid higher wages by nobles, as they were either employed for a certain skill, or were seen as rarer, and therefore more desirable. Some were skilled merchants, such as the needle-makers of Cheapside, and I patronised Reasonable Blackman, a silk weaver of the Netherlands who lived in Southwark. Reasonable was not his real name. The merchant had granted it to himself upon baptism to demonstrate his honesty, and, I suspected, because the native English tongue had problems wrapping itself about his true name.
In England, there were no slaves. Any man or woman brought to England as a slave became free upon touching English soil. They would become servants, most likely to the same master, but they would be free.
The fact of the matter was that slavery was a legal condition. Some people, no matter the colour of their skin, were slaves, and some were free. I had no legal right to alter the status of a slave, unless they were brought upon English soil.
Hawkins was still interested in gold, but since he had made a good profit from selling slaves, he was eager to try his hand again. I had sent him with one of my own ships, the Jesus of Lubeck, which my father had purchased from the Hanseatic League. Hawkins sold slaves on to Spanish plantations in the New World, disrupting Spanish interests in Africa, then turning a profit from the very nation he had pilfered from.
I was under no illusions about slavery. It wa
s a filthy trade. I allowed myself to think that we were doing good in a trade suffused with evil, by stealing away unhappy people and taking them to better homes. I told myself Spain, Portugal and Italy had more a hand in slavery than England. The Pope kept slaves and gained large revenues from the trade. The galleys of Spain and France were rowed by slaves. Even Islamic states dealt in slaves, and their involvement began long before England’s. But even with this in mind, a part of me knew I was but another piece of this trade in human suffering.
Think ill of me if you wish. I certainly will not excuse my part. I did many worthy things in my time; great things… virtuous acts… quick tricks to keep peace and keep my people safe. But I also dealt in misery and humiliation. I did so for the same reason all people turn their faces from what is right; for money. I had a realm to protect and feed, people I was responsible to. Does that make this any better? I think not.
We are all accountable for the choices we make. One day, we must answer for what we have done.
The slave trade was tentatively undertaken by England for another reason. We, as a race had been slow to exploration. A hundred years ago, the Pope had divvied up the new territories of the world between Spain and Portugal, and those countries had set this in writing with the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494. England, as an obedient, papal-controlled country, had taken a lesser part in the exploration of the world.
“This restriction is upon us no more,” Robin had said. “We are no more under the heel of Rome, therefore the world becomes open to us.”
This rousing cry was taken up by many. Merchants were heading out to trade with Africa, protected by my ships and the Sea Beggars, and everyone had heard tales of pirates and corsairs who had made their fortunes at sea.
As an island race, it made sense we should make good use of the sea. It was our first defence against our enemies. If England was our castle, the oceans were our moat.
William Winter, my Master of Naval Ordinance and Vice Admiral, had rejuvenated my fleet, and was one of the first to impress upon me the need for a great navy. Spending was not one of my habits, but Winter was careful with my money. My father had been enamoured of great, heavy carracks, with tall towers at bow and stern, suffused with cannon, but Winter advised me to invest in smaller galleons.
“They are quicker, slimmer and more manoeuvrable, Majesty,” he had said. “The galleon has the forward-firing guns of the galley, and the bulky stern armament of the carrack, but no high bow castle. This allows them to attack on a curving course, firing bow, side and stern guns, rather than having to draw alongside an enemy ship to board.”
My ships could bring about surrender via gunfire. English ships also had flatter sails, which were easier to handle, and seemed more efficient than those of Spain or France. Our ships were smaller and swifter, which meant they were more dangerous, too. My navy, although comprised of only thirty ships, was supplemented by vessels from the London Livery Companies, and became efficient and impressive.
We remained pupils rather than masters at this new game. The French still made better ships. The Spanish and Portuguese had greater fleets, and their knowledge of navigation was superior, but they were enamoured of heavy galleys and carracks, not seeing the value of small, nimble ships. Our knowledge of navigation was limited, but growing. We had been slow starters, but we English were swift pupils.
Ambassador de Quadra, my long-dead foe, had complained long and hard about English incursions into what he saw as Spanish waters, and had special umbrage with one Thomas Stucley, a man many said was my father’s bastard son. Stucley was once a tax collector, but had seen there was more profit in piracy. When de Quadra had asked me to arrest him, I had pretended I could not find him, and for good reason. Stucley was then working as a spy for me, keeping an eye on troublesome Ireland, and trialling English incursions into the arena of world trade. His shifting loyalties had eventually led to me withdrawing my coin from his purse only a few months ago, and when I had, he had declared he “cared not a fart” for me or my office, which obviously did not endear me any further to him.
Stucley was not the only pirate I supported. There were plenty, but I kept it quiet. As long as Phillip did not know what I was up to, there was little he could do to stop me. Busy with wars against the Turks and in the Netherlands, Phillip had enough to handle. And as he looked the other way, I had been sneaking into his seas.
West Countrymen such as the Hawkins and Killigrew families, along with the Champernownes, relatives of my dearest dead Kat, ruled the Channel. They aided my people too, capturing supplies of food, cloth and timber when times were hard, and were seen as local heroes. My navy was a hybrid; ships of my own fleet, and of my people, bound to one task; to make money from the sea and any who dared sail close to England.
Hawkins had run into trouble with Spanish authorities on previous trips, but had managed to return with pearls, gold and money. My poor friend de Silva had been forced to lodge complaints with my Privy Council about Hawkins, and I had promised to stop piracy. De Silva knew I was doing nothing of the sort, but was willing to tell his master I was doing all I could. Phillip was assured I was entirely useless at governing my men in any case, so he was not surprised when my ‘efforts’ bore no fruit.
“Hawkins is no pirate,” I had told my friend, “but a merchant, with as much right to the freedom of the seas as any Spaniard. What harm could honest trade bring to the King of Spain? I allow foreign vessels to trade in English waters. Why can your master not extend the same rights to our ships in the West Indies?”
De Silva had managed to convince me, for the sake of appearances, to publish an edict commanding all armed ships to return to port unless they had a licence to sail under my command, only granted if they agreed not to harm England’s allies, such as Spain, but with Phillip’s eye stuck on the Turks, we were able to get away with a great deal.
De Silva had known that he could not stop me or my men, and his assurances to Phillip that everything was under control were simply a means to keep his master thinking he was doing his job. In reality, de Silva was looking the other way. There was talk Phillip meant to send a new ambassador to replace de Silva. My good brother of Spain thought I had bewitched his man, and another might serve him better. I did not want to lose de Silva. He had become a friend, and although I knew his loyalty was always to Spain, I had good reason to suppose he held much affection for me.
There were other dangers to our infant career in piracy.
“One of Spain’s greatest admirals, Pedro de Menendez de Aviles, is gaining a reputation for brutality,” Cecil had told me. “He has slaughtered French Huguenot colonies and left messages, stuffed into the corpses’ mouths, to say they were killed for being heretics. Aviles is not averse to subjecting our men to the same treatment if caught.”
“Then we must not be caught,” had been my answer.
I read the letter Hawkins had sent. Encountering a storm in the Bay of Biscay, Hawkins had almost surrendered and headed home, but the tempest passed, and Hawkins went on. He wrote to praise in particular a young, but promising, kinsman of his, a Master Francis Drake. Meeting up with the rest of his fleet at the Canary Islands, they sailed for Tenerife, where he had made many a peaceful trade. Clearly, this time, this was not to be. Observing commands from Phillip in Madrid, the islanders sent out their militia and Hawkins sailed away, unharmed, but unnerved.
He sent word when they left La Margarita. They had fought Portuguese ships near São Domingo, but had run into trouble with sickness. He had aided an African chief in an attack on a neighbouring village, and although he had lost six men, with forty more wounded, they had succeeded and Hawkins had been granted two hundred and fifty slaves by the grateful chief, taken from the captive defenders. They were supposed to take six hundred, but in the night the chief slipped away with the bulk of his new slaves.
Reaching La Margarita, Hawkins was welcomed to trade and conduct repairs. He wrote to me from that port, letting me know this voyage was not likely to
be as successful as his first, but he would do his best for me.
I rolled up the letter. Even if this trip was not as profitable as his first two, I was certain he would bring me some spoils. And if all else failed, I could always take satisfaction in Phillip’s choler.
Chapter Seven
Greenwich Palace
Early Summer 1568
“Are you ready, madam?” asked Catherine Knollys.
I rolled my eyes and she smiled. My Carey cousin was well aware that I loathed this morning ritual. Having risen early and danced my habitual six galliards, it was time for me to Come Forth of my chambers.
The Coming Forth of the monarch was an ancient ceremony. When keeping full court at one of the major palaces, my going to chapel would be done in state and grand style. It granted the opportunity to show the world that the monarch was alive, hale, and in control. Since many a royal death had been kept secret for various reasons, it was important that my people witnessed I was alive, but it also allowed them access to me. If a man could catch my eye, he might succeed in putting forth a petition which might have taken months to drag through normal channels.