by G Lawrence
I understood the purpose of the event, but never welcomed it. I did not like people to clamour close to me. Quite aside from the danger of a knife being slipped between the whalebone cage of my stays, I also sometimes suffered waves of panic if I felt hemmed in or trapped. But I had to cede to tradition.
“I am ready,” I said. “I just hope the early summer heat does not cause those waiting to sweat all over me.” That was another reason I did not like the ceremony; the smell. Close packed people are not pleasant to the nose.
I turned to the door. Outside were my Gentlemen Pensioners, as well as barons, earls, and Knights of the Garter. Then came the Chancellor bearing the Seals, flanked by two Gentlemen Pensioners carrying the royal sceptre and sword of state. After them, I processed, in a gown with a long train, so it might be held by a lady of high rank, usually a marchioness.
I walked out, stopping to talk to people as they fell to their knees. Some I raised up, and others, if I felt they needed to remember their place, I left on the floor. I spoke to ambassadors and foreign merchants in their own languages, and offered my hand to kiss. Behind me trooped the ladies of court and beside me walked my Gentlemen Pensioners, guarding me from harm. The Pensioners all carried gilt axes, and there were fifty of them at all times. Petitions were presented, which I handed to my ladies, promising to look over them later. As I reached the end of the hallway, finally approaching the chapel, there was a cry of “Long live Queen Elizabeth!”
I turned to them. “I thank you, my good people,” I said.
Once Mass was done and sung, I made swiftly for my chambers. It was a relief to be able to retire with just the company of my intimates.
“Thank God in Heaven I am not pressed to do that all the time,” I said to Catherine as she took my robes from my shoulders. “If I did, I might think of resigning my crown and running off to sea to join Hawkins.”
“Your Majesty is most patient.” Catherine slipped off my robes and I exhaled with relief.
“Have you had news from Francis?”
“He seems well,” she said. Her tone was unhappy.
“You must not believe court gossip. Never was there a man more true to his wife than your Francis.” I was not actually sure if this was true. There were rumours growing about Francis and my cousin of Scots.
“I do not believe waggling tongues with nothing better to do than slander an honest man,” she said. “I simply miss him, that is all, madam.”
“When I can replace him, I will send for him at once. I do not like to see you downcast.” This, at least, was true. Catherine was a lively spark, but since her husband had left she had dimmed. It brought me a measure of physical pain to see her upset.
“I know, Majesty,” she said. “You have always looked to my comfort.”
“I always will. You are important to me.”
“As you are to me, Majesty.” She offered up a brave smile. “I will seek to hide my pain, so I will not grant you any.”
“Hide nothing from me,” I said. “That would pain me more than anything.”
*
“War again,” I said despondently as I looked up from the latest dispatches from France. “How many wars of religion does this make, Cecil?”
France was facing civil war yet again. Catholics had only just made peace with Huguenots in the winter just passed, more because Huguenot blockades had brought starvation to the people of Paris than for any true wish for religious harmony, but at least it had happened. Now, they teetered on the brink again.
“Three,” he replied, “and not only limited to France.”
“What do you mean?”
“Huguenot leaders have fled to their stronghold in La Rochelle, but the Duc d’Anjou is raising troops from France, Spain, Rome and Tuscany. He calls it a religious duty for Catholics to follow him.”
“And what of the Huguenots’ allies?”
“Calvinist militia and mercenaries have responded to their call,” he said. “Admiral Coligny has asked for aid from us, too.”
“So we can go to France only so the Huguenots might make another treaty with their Catholic neighbours and turn on us again?” I asked, shaking my head as I thought about the last time England had aided French Protestants. “I think not.”
“I agree, in theory, madam, but…”
“But you are afire with the notion of overthrowing Catholic France and bestowing upon her the gentle rain of Protestantism. The answer is no, Cecil.” I put my fingers to my forehead and rubbed. “What of Orange?”
“He marched an army in to support the Huguenots, but has left the country, madam. His troops were on the verge of mutiny. He was granted money and free passage by King Charles, and took it.”
“At least he is out of the miserable picture.” My eyes travelled to the dark-robed man standing in the corner. “What say you, Walsingham?”
Walsingham bowed, but said nothing. It was his way.
“Come,” I said. “If you are here, Cecil must have a reason. If there is no reason, you are of no use to me and I cannot abide useless things.”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on his lips, but was swiftly smothered as he drew them together in thought. What am I to make of such a silent man? I thought.
Walsingham was hard to fathom. Cecil saw great potential in him, and I had to admit he was intriguing. He was a man of university education, yet hardly contributed a word to learned discussions about court. He appeared continuously serious, yet I had heard of his dry humour. Cecil thought him a skilled diplomat, but I had not caught a whisper of an opinion from him.
Walsingham had been born perhaps two years before me. His father had been a barrister, and his mother had been kin to the Denny family, who were related to my dearest Kat. When Walsingham’s father died, his mother had remarried into a family intimately connected to mine; the Careys. Walsingham had studied at Cambridge, trained in the classics, and during my sister’s reign, had fled abroad. As a Protestant and one not willing to hide his beliefs, he had been in mortal peril. On the Continent he had joined up with other English exiles, spending time in Padua, Zurich and Frankfurt. Returning home upon my ascension, he had become a Member of Parliament for Bossiney in Cornwall, and had come to Cecil’s attention. His time abroad had granted him useful contacts, and he had gained a reputation for his quiet ways, yet strong character. His first wife had died after two years of marriage, and he had married Ursula St Barbe, the daughter of a Somerset gentleman, who was also a distant cousin of Robin. They had one child, a daughter, Frances, named for her father.
Lately, Walsingham had grown close to Robin. United in an adoration of cartography, they had gone on to find another; religion. Robin had portrayed himself as the knight of the Protestant faith, ever since his schemes to force me to wed him by working with Spain had been uncovered. He had tried to show himself as a bastion of Protestant devotion and although at first this stance had been but a mask to conceal his fright at being named a Catholic for working with Spain, in time that mask became his true face. It is strange that sometimes we manage to transform ourselves thus; that in pretending to be something, the pretence becomes our true nature. We all may become what we wish to be, if we strive for it. Robin was devoted, although not extreme in his faith, and often tried to convince me to aid fellow Protestants, such as those in the Netherlands.
Walsingham was also a devoted disciple of the Church, but his faith went one step further… into fanaticism. He was a Puritan.
This made me dislike him on principle. Puritans were a sect of joyless, yet zealous malcontents who despised anything Catholic and wanted the Church stripped bare of all frippery. The term Puritan was actually an insult. They preferred to be known as professors, or the godly. Some of them had, however, accepted the term, attempting to render the insult less cutting by swearing allegiance to it. Their preachers rained hellfire and brimstone on those who passed them in the streets, and all they seemed to want to do was talk of damnation and sin. They hated dancing, feasting and anythi
ng resembling enjoyment. Their preachers granted Archbishop Parker endless trouble, and they had refused to adhere to my Church laws in the past, leading to a mass exile of London Puritan preachers being sent into the countryside. They could always be counted on to bring trouble with them to Parliament, attempting to make my religious settlement more and more rigid. But that was not the true reason I despised them.
I distrusted those overcome with religious fervour. They were too keen to make trouble, and were unwilling to hear anyone but themselves. Zealots of either side of the Christian coin I did not welcome. Catholic or Protestant, if a man was too rigid in his faith I had no use for him. My way was the middle way, the path of tolerance. Fanatics wanted me to transform into my sister and set fire to anyone who followed another faith in their hearts. I was not willing to burn my people for their faith.
Cecil and I differed on Puritans. I saw any zealot as a threat to my policies, but he thought popery a greater peril.
My main complaint with that sect, notwithstanding their general lack of joy in life, propensity to frown, and belief that all Catholics should be used for kindling, was that they believed my authority less than it was. Puritans were answerable to God, so they thought, not me. They thought my role as Head of the Church but a title, and tried to impose their ways on my England.
Yet Walsingham was an odd Puritan. He had not been heard making fanatical speeches or rousing men to disobedience. In Parliament, he did not support those who would flout my wishes, in fact, he more often voted for the measures I wanted. He was a patron of the theatre, art and music, so could not have despised all enjoyment. He spoke French, Italian and English, and was fluent in all of them. His one failure was Spanish, a language I spoke well. He was a dedicated reader, loyal to the works of Plutarch, histories of Rome, and books on state and religion. I had been told he was not above making quips about himself, but he only jested with a few people, and certainly not when something serious was in hand.
He was laconic, never one to waste a word. In an age where every man clamoured to be heard, where courtiers boasted, swaggered and shouted their way through life, Walsingham was a rarity. He kept quiet, and that allowed him a rare gift; Walsingham heard all. He was a curious creature; the quiet zealot.
I found this disconcerting. I had no experience of a calm fanatic.
He held one other crucial difference to most Puritans; he did not support Mary of Scots as my heir. It might seem illogical that zealous Protestants would support my Catholic cousin as my heir, but there was some order to their thoughts. Scotland was Protestant, and Mary had shown herself capable of governing, and crucially, not altering, its religion. The hope Puritans had in her was the same as I once had.
I found Walsingham unsettling, and not only for his silent ways. For a long time, I had been assured I noted the most at court. I was the one who listened. I had also been assured I was more intelligent than many of those about me. Although he was a clever man, and I trusted him, this also extended to Cecil. It was reassuring to think that I sat at the head of a body of clever men, yet could outwit them all. But from the first, I had the distinct impression that Walsingham might well be cleverer than me. That was unnerving.
“I would say, Majesty, there are ways to help the Huguenots without committing men,” Walsingham said, his grey-green eyes watchful.
“You would send arms and money, then?”
Walsingham inclined his head. “To risk arms, and a little money, would not imperil England, Majesty, if the knowledge was kept secure from the Valois and Hapsburgs, but it would gain us allies in France.”
“And what of the betrayal of the Huguenots the last time?”
“Men betray for many reasons, Your Majesty, as they become loyal for the same.”
“It would show Your Majesty’s greatness if past slights were forgotten,” Cecil interjected.
I scowled at Cecil, and he fell silent. I was well aware of my virtues. I did not need someone pointing them out.
“Majesty, aiding the Huguenots now would keep France in a state of beneficial chaos,” said Walsingham. “And if they succeed against their Catholic overlords, we would have grateful allies.”
“And if they do not?”
“None would know we interfered, so we would still have allies.”
It was true enough. Unrest in France was to England’s benefit. If France turned inwards, they were less likely to interfere in the Netherlands. Were they to aid Orange, leading to his victory, France might end up with lands in the Low Countries when the rebellion died, becoming just as perilous a threat as Spain was presently.
“I will send money, but not men. I want that made clear.”
“Of course, Majesty,” said Cecil, throwing a thankful glance at Walsingham.
“Care will be taken in the organisation of this,” I said. “I need no more plots against my life. My freedom is restricted enough without the Medici snake or her son sending assassins against me. English support will remain covert.”
“There should perhaps be more sanctions about progress,” Walsingham said. “There, Your Majesty has less protection than in the palaces of London.”
“I will not restrict my liberty any more, Walsingham,” I said sternly.
“Those who plot against you, Majesty, only need be successful once.”
“Thank you, Walsingham,” I said irritably. “You do put a merry outlook on everything.”
Rank Puritan, muttered my mind.
“Your Majesty is not only Queen of England,” he said. “You are England. England must be kept safe.”
I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. I had always had the impression Walsingham was loyal to England first, and me second. It would appear I had read him wrong. It would not be the last time.
He understood, as so many failed to, that I was more than just a figurehead. England was more than my country. It was my soul, my heart. We were one, joined by bonds of life and loyalty, of blood, bone and spirit. If I fell, so did England.
Chapter Eight
Greenwich Palace
Early Summer 1568
“What say you, Oxford?” I asked the impudently handsome man at my elbow.
We were in the gardens. Musicians were playing and court gallants had taken the opportunity to regale us with their poetry. The air was warm, soft as silk, as it wrapped about me.
It was as well something soft encased me, for there seemed only troublesome news from without. In Scotland, Moray was still chasing Mary’s supporters about the country, although it was somewhat reassuring many had surrendered to him. The Netherlands were tearing themselves asunder, France looked fragile and Spain was set on shedding blood… only England was not at war with someone. That should have been a reassuring fact, but when one is surrounded by war, it is hard to find peace.
I tilted my head back to listen to the music, hoping to lose my cares and an ache in my head by doing so. I kept a troop of highly skilled Moorish musicians, who hailed from Spain, because they were far more talented than many others I had met. As they played, we listened to poetry. The one just read was by one of my pages.
“I say the expression is worthy, but the means unpleasing, Majesty,” said the impertinent Earl.
Privately, I agreed, but to see my young page’s face fall to hear his poetry condemned was heartbreaking. People claim men are the stronger sex, but they are frail, easily-wounded creatures. Women, who have suffered more blows as a sex than any man could imagine, are hardier.
“Be of good cheer, lad,” I said. “I enjoyed the poem.”
“And I,” said Christopher Hatton, lounging on the grass not far from Oxford. With a flower twirling in his deft finger-tips, and the habitual feather in his hat fluttering in the breeze, Hatton smiled at my page. “I thought it charming,” he added.
I liked Hatton. He was a handsome man, possessed of the darkness of looks I admired. A fine dancer, who owned a sweetness of manner and continually unruffled composure, Hatton was not of the higher gentry but the
lower. His kin had spare influence at court, but Hatton had risen to my attention. He was a passionate student of Italian culture, could talk with ease and without putting others to unease, understood cultured subjects, particularly art, and was a fine speaker. Hatton was schooled in Latin, enjoyed works of history, and was also a student of the law. An expert horseman, he and Robin were often to be found discussing in minute detail the advantages and disadvantages of every, and any, breed of horse.
And he was kind, something all too often overlooked as a virtue, especially in men. It takes more strength to be caring than cruel.
I sometimes called him my Mutton, for he was as harmless as a sheep.
“We find, as ever, that a poem divides opinion,” I said, casting a sparkling eye on the young lad. “So I claim my vote as the deciding one.”