by G Lawrence
Catholic exiles were in support of Allen, and sent their sons to his school. In him, they saw hope for the future. Since these people were largely nobles, they were funding Allen’s dangerous project, making him only more of a threat. Allen’s converts were perilous enough from all I had heard. They lashed themselves with whips and wore their skin raw with hair shirts, flagellating themselves to honour Christ. Quite why the Lord of Heaven would want his people to harm themselves, I would never understand, but Catholics adored the mortification of the flesh; they were as addicted to it as they were to guilt. Allen had been heard arguing that his men, these zealots, merely intended to save English souls, put in danger of eternal damnation by me, but he fooled no one. Those men were being trained to rupture my religious settlement, turn loyal English Catholics against me, and bring down my government. They had the support of the Pope, Philip of Spain, and the fanatical Society of Jesus; Jesuits.
Allen’s subversive mission was vastly annoying. My plan had been to allow the old faith to die out quietly, to expire as its last servants did, naturally and in old age. I replaced hardened Catholics with moderate Protestants, allowing my middle way of tolerance to be maintained. Allen was attempting to upset this happy ideal. Irritatingly, he had seen into the heart of my plan, and was working to disrupt it. There is nothing more galling than an intelligent enemy.
His actions were also counterproductive. The mere existence of Allen’s school inflamed my Protestant subjects and Council, tipping them into thinking all Catholics were a threat. Allen’s mission would only lead to more trouble for Catholics in England, and I wanted none of that.
Why is it, I thought, that when there is no trouble present, men seek to make it?
I had not engaged in mass executions, persecutions or threats against English Catholics. I had been fair and just, so why make trouble for me? There were plenty of other states where kings and sovereigns were less fair.
Allen’s rebellious little school was still, however, in its infancy, and whilst Allen would not hesitate to pressure men to assassinate me, he did not presently possess the means or money to do so. He was reliant on voluntary contributions, but even those from the Pope and Phillip had been spare according to our sources. It was much more likely that my good brother of Spain, shaky ally of France, or ever-hostile Rome, were behind this latest plot. The only other possibility was those who wanted Mary on my throne, or lords in Scotland who stood against the flowing ocean of objection about Mary, and wanted her returned.
In truth, it did not matter who it was. I knew my enemies. What mattered was making sure their plots did not flower, so they might not decorate my tomb with them.
But whatever the threats growing abroad, I had enough to worry about at home. In another letter, Mary had upbraided me. “Remove, Madam, from your mind that I am come hither for the preservation of my life, but to clear my honour and obtain assistance to chastise my false accusers; not to answer them as their equal, but to accuse them before you. Being innocent as, God be thanked, I know I am, do you not wrong me by keeping me here?”
Drifting between outright rage and distressed weeping, Mary complained of her usage. But given Mary’s disingenuous response to my generosity in keeping her safe in England, rather than sending her to death in Scotland, I became only more resolved to see the tribunal go ahead. I announced I would stand as judge, and once her innocence was certain, I would bring her to court.
I could have been less generous, could I not? Mary was just too fool to see it.
Mary protested that she could not be tried by me, as, being a prince, she had no judge but God. She thought Cecil was keeping us apart, but she was mistaken. I had no intention of meeting her until, and if, her name was made pure again. Knollys managed to persuade her that this tribunal was my way of restoring her, and I kept writing, asking her to “have some consideration of me, instead of always thinking of yourself.”
I also asked her to write to the tribunal willingly, to show her innocence. “O, Madam!” I wrote. “There is no creature living who wishes to hear such a declaration more than I, or will more readily lend her ears to any answer that will acquit your honour.”
More than anything I wanted to believe Mary was innocent. Quite apart from silencing my fears, it would make everything I wanted to do a whole lot easier.
It had been agreed that two of her men would come to England to put forth her case. Lord Herries and the Bishop of Ross were clear supporters of the Queen’s Party, which was growing fresh support in Scotland.
“If Queen Mary will remit her case to be heard by me, as her dear cousin and friend,” I said to them. “I will send for her rebels and know their answer as to why they deposed their Queen.” I regarded the two men with narrowed eyes. “If they can allege some reason for doing so, which I think they cannot, I will restore Queen Mary to her throne, on condition she renounces her claim to England, abandons her league with France, and all attempts to restore the Mass in Scotland.” I stared at them. “My word is my bond. As it says in the Orations of Isocrates to Nicocles, ‘a king’s word is more to be trusted than other men’s oaths’.”
Immediately after that meeting, I sent word to my ambassadors in Spain and France that I would restore Mary, and told Moray, now Regent of Scotland, that I would not. I was clear of mind, but as long as confusion reigned in all others, I had the upper hand.
I sent word that Mary’s household must be reduced. As Knollys dismissed six, ten more would show up, and I did not want skilled escapists about her. From one hundred, her people were reduced to sixty. Mary wept over some of them, such as ‘little Willie’ and George Douglas who had aided her escape from Lochleven, but she let them go. Some she dispatched to her ambassador in Paris, so he might provide a living for them. She had sent for her clothes some time ago, and many gowns had been released. Mary Seton was a talented hair stylist, and although my cousin complained she was short of cosmetics, she took great care with her hair and dresses. Seton procured wigs for Mary, since her hair had been cropped to aid her escape, and every day gave her a new style, maintaining the honour of her Queen.
As Mary played with her hair, others were engaging in more dangerous games. My kingdom had been largely at peace in terms of religion for ten years, but there were secret Catholics in all quarters. I minded not what religion people followed in their heart if they attended legal ceremonies and made no noise about their faith. There were many who wanted me to be harsher, root out all Catholics and burn them, but I would not die to become reborn as my sister. For all my generosity, there were still dissenters. Mary brought hope to many who hid their true faith, and as I outwardly supported her, their hope increased.
“There are many who whisper the Queen was forced into her third marriage by fear,” said de Silva as we wandered in my gardens one day. I caught the scent of musk on his skin, and inhaled its sweetness.
“I notion I uphold, my friend.”
“There are those who say that once the accusations against her are shown to be false, she will be restored, not only to her throne, but as heir to yours, Majesty.”
“Those who say the second should hold their tongues.”
“Her friends are growing, Majesty, in number and ambition.”
“You think her a threat.”
“My master would have her free,” he said. “But my heart tells me this will bring danger to you.”
“She is my guest, Lord Ambassador.”
De Silva sighed, aware I was not telling the truth. “Majesty, if my master calls on me to return, I will not be here much longer, and if I may, I would offer advice while I am able.”
“Which is?”
“To keep a steady, and unyielding eye upon your cousin.”
“I never had intention of doing otherwise.”
Finally understanding her situation, at the end of that month, Mary agreed to the trial.
*
“You wanted to ask a favour of me, Mary?” I asked my chamberer.
Mary Shelto
n, now Heveningham since her marriage, was one of my women, just as she had been my mother’s. Her connection to my mother was one of the reasons I had taken her into my service, but she had also shown herself to be useful, quiet and modest, and her marriage, approved by me, was a good match.
People were fond of claiming that I preferred my servants unmarried, and they were right, in part, for I found people attended their duties better if not constantly called away to bear or care for children. I thought the same of priests. My clergy were permitted to marry, but even though I had approved this, I thought they served God better without the distraction of a wife and family. But this was not the reason offered up when I was censured for wishing my ladies unmarried.
People thought I was jealous. They thought I wished to wed, and since I could not without eroding my power, they believed I was consumed by sexual envy, unable to rest unless I punished all those who were more fortunate. I will admit there were times I wished I could have married Robin, but I was more than aware of the advantages of my single state. Many people think of what they have not and wish they could claim it, but most of them would not trade lives. The reason people accused me of unbounded sexual jealousy was so they might make me easier to understand. Of course a woman without a man must be desperate! Of course she must pine and waste away! They wanted to slot me into a box of their prejudices, so they might make sense of me. The true reason was not as exciting as the one they upheld.
I did not mind my maids marrying if they remained constant and loyal to me, and married well. I despised women marrying beneath themselves. Was marriage not slavery enough, without adding the shackle of loss of status? Did women not see they were powerless as it was, without accepting further degradation? Of course, those who would marry beneath themselves argued love was the justification. Perhaps love is reason enough for marriage, but I had witnessed countless unions which started out with both sides claiming they would uphold and honour each other, yet had slid into the usual round of the man lording his power over the woman, keeping mistresses and humiliating her. At least with a title, one knew where one stood. To my mind, women ought to be sensible enough to think not only of their hearts, but of their futures. Marrying a well-placed man and increasing the station, not only of themselves, but of their daughters, was what I thought sensible.
So, indeed, I cautioned my women about marriage. Many would only get to choose once, since women often died in childbirth. But some marriages I minded not. Mary Shelton’s had been one.
Mary Shelton had served my mother in her last days in the Tower, and after her execution had retired from court. Perhaps she had been sickened by the experience. She had returned a few years ago and found a place in my household.
As I looked upon her, a curious memory came to me; a dark long gallery, lit by candlelight and spindles of illumination cast by diamond-pained windows. A woman’s hand was before me, an open palm. It was my mother’s hand. She had been holding a ribbon and had made it disappear. I remembered gazing up with wondering eyes, asking how.
“Magic,” she had whispered, a smile upon her face.
Like so many memories of my mother, I had no idea if this one was honest. I was not quite three when my father sent her to her death. My memories of her were spare, often confused, as though my mind, knowing how I missed her, offered up false pictures if it had no true ones to bring comfort.
Sometimes, my memories of her were stretched, unfeasibly thin, like creamy calf-gut pulled apart by eager hands; white and wide and transparent… thin enough for light to shine through without effort. At other times, my memories were rich; golden and ochre, bloody sunsets of autumn spilling over a cobalt sky. Yet these flashes of brilliance were ephemeral; an intense flare, gone as soon as it ignited.
What I had were snippets: soft hands that smelt of roses; long, taping, elegant fingers; dark hair under a veil, glimmering like the wing of a raven; the sound of a throaty laugh; huge black eyes, like the deepest of pools under the winter sun, glowing with the warmth of love.
And I remember laughing. I think I laughed a lot, once… when she was with me.
The memory brought an ache to my heart as old wounds, never truly healed, tore. Spare memories. Tiny, insignificant moments, were all I had left of her. Whether some were true and some false, I knew not, but I treasured all of them. They were all I had of this strange figure, this lost queen, this fascinating woman I had never had a chance to know.
I put my fingers to one of my rings. Made when my dearest Kat was still alive, only my goldsmith and the ghosts of my past knew its secrets. It opened to show two portraits, one of my mother and one of me. A silent reminder of Anne Boleyn worn upon my flesh every day. An unspoken honour offered up to my mother.
“I wanted to ask a favour for my daughter, Abigail, Majesty,” said Mary Shelton.
“For her to enter my household?” I asked, already knowing this was the reason. “Spaces are limited, Mary.”
“I understand, Majesty, but if one does not ask for that which one wants, one will never know if it is achievable.”
I smiled. “True enough.” I paused. Mary was a good woman and I liked her husband too. Anthony Heveningham was a fine man, a wealthy landowner, and a loyal subject. Perhaps there was room for another maid of honour.
“Send the girl to me when you bring her to court, and I will consider her,” I said.
“Thank you, Majesty.”
As she rose to depart, I had the impulse, which so often came when she was near, to ask about my mother and her last hours. But as she stood I suppressed it. Something in me wanted to know all, and something wanted to know nothing. Nothing could not hurt me, as something could. Was it cowardly? Perhaps, but there was a measure of self-preservation in my actions.
I did not want to tear open old wounds. I was not sure I could stand the pain.
Chapter Ten
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1568
“I am granting you the position of Keeper of the Royal Parks,” I said to Hatton as he knelt before me.
Dark blue eyes glanced up, snapping with handsome fire. There are raging flames beneath that calm exterior, I thought. There was hunger inside Hatton, but he hid it well. Understanding there were many enemies to be made at court, especially since he was rising in my estimations, Hatton was careful to conceal his ambitions. But the eyes do not lie. In that moment I saw the driving urge within. I welcomed it. Men with ambition are men who need something. I was the source of all somethings; the gateway to the life they lusted for.
I could grant monopolies on certain goods, like wine, beer, or the import of currants, saltpetre, or glass. Men in my favour could earn the exclusive right to control the sale and acquisition of lead, tin, salt or blubber oil. They could regulate the trade of smoking pilchards, or salting fish. Robin held the rights to the retail sales on sweet wine, which kept his coffers filling as fast as he tried to empty them. These grants and monopolies could make men rich. And they were all in my personal gift.
The ambition I saw in those eyes was not the sole reason for Hatton’s elevation. If ambition was all I valued, Norfolk would have been my greatest friend. Hatton was something else. There was something in him which called to me. Hatton was pursuing me as his mistress of courtly love. It was a usual practice at court. Men chased women of higher status, offering up declarations of love, and poetry, and were rewarded with attention and advancement. Yet although I had played this game with many, and was wise to all the tricks men may employ to woo a woman from the seat of sensible behaviour, there was something in Hatton that made me think his protestations were honest. Much as the eyes do not lie about ambition, they cannot, either, feign affection. When one thinks one sees affection where there is none, it is because the onlooker dupes themselves. Hatton admired me, not only because I was the Queen, but for my own qualities too.
Robin was the love of my life, and always would he be, but that did not mean I could not admire others, nor they me. It was also not to my advant
age to grant all my affection to just one man, even if I loved him. My flirtations were enacted as much for politics as pleasure. There were a great many men vying for power at court, and it was important to keep a balance. Flirting with one, one day, and another the next, kept everyone, especially the men in question, guessing. My favourites had to be fast on their toes to keep up with me. No one was allowed to become too secure. Not even Robin. There was too much that could go wrong.
Attention also attracted jealousy and made enemies. If I only celebrated Robin, everyone would unite against him. Spreading my affections across many men kept hostilities at a controllable level. It also offered humility. I enjoyed a touch of arrogance in my admirers, but too much was dangerous. If they thought they controlled me, they might start thinking they could control my throne.
Feminine wiles were useful to me at times. I might moan about the way women were seen in the world, but I was not averse to using prejudices to my benefit. Sometimes I was the mighty, fearless and often enraged Queen, and at others I became the soft, ductile maiden. The softer sides of my femininity made my men protective, and the harder edges kept them wary. They had to understand their power came from me, and for it to be maintained, they would have to remain loyal and constant.