Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  “If you wish to send more agents into Spain or France you have my permission,” I told Cecil. “But I will not suffer more restrictions. I need what little freedom I have.”

  I was so used to Cecil’s sigh, a weary expression of fright and annoyance, that I was unnerved when it came not. “Are you quite well, Spirit?” I asked. “You are not sick of the fever that has captured my cousin?”

  He glanced up from his list and stared blankly at my worried face. “I am fine, my lady,” he said, confusion riding his tone.

  “Then why no sigh to punctuate the end of my request for liberty?”

  Cecil chuckled. “What point is there? I know my mistress and her capricious demands only too well.”

  “I think I am quite constant in my demands.”

  “Very well, madam.”

  Later that week, Shrewsbury gained his promised place on the Council and was charged formally with Mary’s care. Shrewsbury was eager to get away. No less eager was Francis Knollys, although Catherine was doing much better, and I had hope of a full recovery. I told Shrewsbury he might go home for Christmas, to see Bess, but he was to be back by January. I pitied Knollys, but he had accepted his post and understood it was vital. I had to set aside personal matters when the need arose, and expected my men to do the same.

  As preparations got underway, the trial continued. Mary was insisting on seeing the casket letters, but I would not allow it. In part this was to protect her, as some were no easy reading, and I knew she had no chance of demonstrating her innocence… But the other part of my reason for withholding the letters was a shade darker.

  The outcome was already decided, and if Mary was to remain a prisoner in my country, I needed power over her. The accusation of guilt was the weapon I had chosen. It was in my interests to have everyone presume she was guilty, for then keeping her would be less of a risk. Fewer men would hitch their fortunes to a murderer.

  But a thought and a proclamation are not the same beast. I could not bring judgement upon her. Only God may judge a queen.

  I would not find her guilty, but I would allow everyone to suppose she was. A slim distinction, but I had always preferred shadows to the glaring sun. Think this unfair if you will. It was, but a queen must use all she has to maintain her authority. Liberty could not be permitted. Mary was too dangerous.

  Mary’s commissioners withdrew from the trial. They said it was at their mistress’ command, which was true, but it also seemed they harboured doubts about her innocence. I asked Mary to formally deny the charges against her, as this would add to the ambiguity I was seeking to extract from the proceedings, granting me means to restore her in the future, if it was to my advantage. She did not need to see the evidence to deny the charges, but this she utterly refused to do unless I promised a verdict of not guilty... something I was unable to offer.

  To Mary’s abiding horror, and Cecil’s unshakable joy, the letters were accepted as genuine. The jury upheld her guilt, but were unsure where to proceed from that point. They knew I did not want Mary proclaimed a murderess, but they could not find her innocent. Options for her were reducing by the day, and an admittedly desperate last-minute proposal I put to Moray, that Mary might return to Scotland to rule jointly with her son, with Moray as regent, was rejected. Another possibility I saw was that she could be a queen in name alone, but remain in England. More than anything I did not want her throne taken from her, but none of my secret proposals were accepted.

  It was clear. The time had come for both Mary and me to accept she would never again wear her crown.

  In mid-December, I brought my councillors and nobles to Hampton Court so they might hear the findings of the tribunal. They also examined the casket letters and glanced over missives Mary had sent to me in the past to compare the handwriting. Whilst it was clear to me that some documents were in my cousin’s hand, and others were not, my men accepted the writing as genuine. Many were grateful to be shown the evidence, although they were sworn to secrecy about the casket letters. They upheld my decision to hold Mary in England if guilt was declared, understanding the other options were too dangerous to consider. Some of them, Hatton included, understood why I did not want to send Mary home.

  “If a queen may be tried, as a common person,” Hatton said. “The sanctity of the throne is debased.”

  “Something I have been endeavouring to impart to Cecil.”

  “He sees her not as a queen anymore, Majesty, but as a criminal. That is why he sees things differently to you.”

  I touched his arm with affection. “Always the careful diplomat,” I said. “You never have an ill word, Hatton, against another man.”

  “Oh, I do, my lady.” His grin was puckish. “But I withhold a great deal, and therefore hope to survive much.”

  “You are like me, Hatton. Vido Taceo has long been one of my mottos; I see all and say nothing. Like the lids upon eyes, you may mask the truth but always open to see it.”

  The next day, I started calling Hatton Lids. It was my habit to create pet names for my favourites, and to gain one was to know oneself a friend of the Queen.

  “Does Hatton overshadow me, then?” Robin asked, bristling with anger after I had sent Hatton away that day.

  “Because you are my eyes?”

  “Just so. The lids cover the eyes, do they not?”

  “You are my eyes, Rob, for you are the tunnel which leads to my soul. Hatton is my lids for he conceals and protects my spirit.”

  “Name Lids a liar, then,” Robin spat.

  “There are uses for you both, and affection enough in my heart for both of you, too.”

  Robin left abruptly, wounded that I had selected a name for Hatton. I returned to my fire. Staring into it, I thought of my royal cousin and her trial.

  Mary had finally sent a statement, but it was too late. She protested against the proceedings, again demanded to see me in person, and claimed Moray and his men had lied about her in order to conceal that they themselves were Darnley’s murderers… a charge that was by no means impossible. In all honesty, I agreed with most of what she said… but she had to understand her life had altered. She was not in any position to make demands.

  I was not about to bring her to court. Quite aside from the issues about her husband, one Queen was enough for England. I did not want another here, demonstrating there was a younger, prettier, easily-weddable, and Catholic alternative to me.

  I wrote back, my first letter since the start of the trial, and told her that if she would not offer a defence I would suspend the trial indefinitely. Mary was affronted. My role as judge implied I was higher than her. She did not see that I was actually refusing to take on the role of her judge, nor did she note that I was leaving ambiguity loose and free so she might be restored in time.

  Mary refused to answer the charges, saying their mere existence was an affront to her royal dignity, and wrote scathingly of our relationship, implying I had betrayed her. She did accept a Protestant Prayer Book I sent, a desperate attempt to get her to understand our faiths were not so different, but she remained Catholic.

  She also remained an obstinate woman who could not accept the realities of her situation.

  The rest of the proceedings were a fix. I will not attempt to deny it. Once Mary’s men had withdrawn, there was little to be said in her defence, but I knew how shaky the evidence against her was, and was not willing that she be condemned for it. Before the tribunal could produce a final verdict, I suspended it.

  Mary wrote to Phillip of Spain, protesting her innocence and treatment. She told him she was the devoted daughter of the Catholic faith, and wanted all monarchs in Europe to know that. Up until that moment, Mary had demonstrated tolerance in religion, but now she was allying herself with the Catholic cause. It was a subtle cry for aid, and did not pass by without concern.

  “She will always be a danger to you and to England, Majesty,” Cecil said as we sat at my fire one night, surrounded by piles of parchment.

  I sighed inward
ly. Cecil’s new refrain was becoming wearisome. Why do men repeat the same words over and over again when you disagree with them? I thought. Sometimes we must accept differences of opinion and move on.

  “I know, Spirit,” I said, staring into the red fingers of the flames.

  Cecil said no more, but went back to his stacks of parchment, a worried crease etched deep into his forehead.

  *

  As we approached Christmas, I received unwelcome news.

  My tutor and friend, Roger Ascham, had died.

  When I was informed, I stumbled against Hatton, and had to be led to a quiet chamber. I stared at the wall, remembering our days in the schoolroom, reading Cicero and Livius. The echo of the sharp rap of his knuckles upon wood when I failed to pronounce a Greek phrase with elegance rang in my mind. I remembered him quizzing me over the New Testament, and the expression of prideful amazement when I corrected one of his facts. Not that that had happened a great deal. Ascham had been a genius, and one of the best of his clan, infused with a passion for knowledge and gentle patience.

  I smiled sadly to think of his outrage at ostentatious show. Ascham had never approved of frippery, and had sent an appeal to me in a work called The Schoolmaster, asking that the court should set an example and dress modestly. It was one of the few times I had ignored him.

  “Royalty and nobility must be set apart, Master Ascham,” I had said. “Royalty has to maintain a glorious show of light and colour, so all are dazzled and cannot turn their eyes from us.” I had smiled, my eyes dancing. “I want no man looking anywhere but at me, Master Ascham.”

  He had understood, if not agreed, but it had never hindered our private meetings.

  I thought of his pet name for me, Hippolyte. “There is also something of the masculine spirit in you, my lady,” he had said the first time he called me by that strange name. “Something of courage and boldness, of fire and of resolve.”

  “Many women own those qualities too, Master Ascham.”

  “But are forced to conceal them, madam. You do not.”

  Something which made me even sadder, but also all the more touched, was to know some of his last thoughts had been of me. I was sent a poem he had written in his last weeks. It was a verse of thanks, to me, for the blessings I had granted England.

  “What were his last words?” I asked the messenger as I sat holding Ascham’s poem in my hands.

  “He said he wanted be with Christ, Your Majesty.”

  That night I went to my window and gazed out, thinking of Ascham, of Kat… of all those I had lost. Sometimes it felt as though I would lose everyone, in the end; as though I were fated to continue on alone as others fell. Losing Ascham was like losing the girl I had been in his schoolroom. Part of my youth died with him.

  Those I had loved all my life were slipping from me, leaving me to face the world without their support. At times such as this, all I wanted was to join them, to see their faces again and bask in the warmth of their love. But they wait for you, I told myself. They know your task is not done.

  “Be with Christ, Roger,” I whispered to the snow. “He will welcome such a man as you with open arms, for he knows your worth.”

  The next day I asked Cecil to publish Ascham’s work, The Schoolmaster. Ascham was dead, but his teachings should live on, preserved for all time, so other fortunate pupils might benefit from his kindly, wise ways.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Richmond Palace

  February 1603

  Death smiles.

  I cannot see it, but I know a smirk lingers under His dark cowl. He likes it when He understands He took something from me. Loneliness is a sickness, and one who has it longs to pass it on. That is why Death is so good at His job; He enjoys it.

  There is a figure behind him: Ascham. As the fierce wind keens, he steps forth and bows. In his eyes I see not death, the dying fire of a mind taken from life. I see life itself. A scholar in the world of man, I have no doubt he became the same in Heaven.

  “How much you must have to teach me, old friend,” I whisper.

  Ascham says nothing, but I see in his eyes it is the truth. There is something tempting in the notion of death, when I think on it this way. I will be released into the company of those I have loved, to learn more from them.

  “I should have been a better student,” I say, and he shakes his head.

  These shades are not permitted to speak. Death holds mastery over them, but there is a denial in Ascham’s eyes, just as there is love. He does not judge me for my failings. He always said it was an honour to instruct me, and perhaps he did not spin falsehoods in saying so.

  “When I join you, you will become my master again,” I whisper.

  Ascham seems pleased. Soon enough, there will be all the time in existence for him to teach me. And this is good, for there is much I have left to learn.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hampton Court

  Christmas 1568

  “This is scandalous!” I exclaimed, my tone suffused with wrath as I gazed upon the young man kneeling before me. “We heard rumours of a battle, Drake, but nothing of this fell treachery.”

  “I am sure, Majesty, the reports you had came from Spain, and were therefore as duplicitous as its countrymen’s late actions.”

  Francis Drake, a young, powerfully built man with broad shoulders and powerful limbs, as well as the ruddy cheeks and keen eyes of all sailors, was the cousin of John Hawkins and had been acting as one of Hawkins’ captains on his latest voyage. Drake came from a family of fairly prosperous yeoman farmers, and, as his accent betrayed, hailed from Devon. Some would later say he sprang from common blood, a poor family, but in truth some yeomen had more income than gentlemen, and lived more comfortably. He was short, thick-set, but robust, and sported a fair beard, a shade lighter than his russet hair.

  Returning home before Hawkins, for reasons that will become apparent, Drake had been sent by Hawkins’ father, William, to Cecil with a letter of introduction. Cecil, upon hearing what the young man had to say, had brought him straight to me. Our meeting was held in secret, for Cecil knew how inflammatory the news Drake brought was.

  Hawkins’ latest fleet had been comprised of five ships: Jesus of Lubeck, my ship, sailed under Hawkins’ command; Minion was captained by John Hampton; Judith under Drake, and the other ships were the Angel and Swallow. The fleet had been out in the oceans for some months, stealing slaves. I had promised Phillip that none of my men would head into the West Indies. It was a downright lie, but to my mind he had no right to exclude English ships from his territories.

  On their way to mend their ships at the port of San Juan de Ulua, in New Spain, Hawkins and his fleet overtook Spanish vessels. This caused confusion. Port officials boarded Hawkins’ ships, only to find they were not the Spanish vessels they had expected, but English ones. Hawkins told them he was not after plunder, only repairs, food and water. The Spanish authorities agreed he could restock and repair, and left. The Spanish fleet under the command of Don Francisco Lujan arrived soon after, accompanied by the new Viceroy of New Spain, Don Martin Enriquez de Almanza.

  The port of San Juan was small, and Hawkins had sent a boat to inform the Spanish fleet that his ships were already in place, and they should make an agreement about how to pass each other to avoid trouble. Terms were agreed, hostages exchanged to ensure good behaviour, and the Spanish fleet moored. Hawkins’ hostages, sent to the Spanish fleet, were gentlemen, but the hostages offered by the Viceroy were simple sailors, dressed up as their betters. Had Hawkins realised, he might have become aware that something untoward was about to occur.

  My men set to task to repair their ships and take on supplies. Fortunately they did not have to careen the ships at that time. This ungainly process meant a ship had to be beached, so the underside of the boat could have barnacles, seaweed, and other clinging creatures removed with flame. Rotten planks would be taken away, and tallow, oil and brimstone applied to prevent too much befouling of the ship when it
got underway again. Seaweed was a particular problem. It would build up and could affect a ship’s speed.

  But as my men worked, the Spaniards were making plans. Hawkins did not know the Spanish fleet had been assigned the task of stopping English trade in New Spain. He was also not aware that the Viceroy knew who he was. Hawkins had become famous, or infamous, in Spain, and Phillip had commanded his men to apprehend him for piracy. Secretly the Spaniards began to amass an attack force on the mainland, and hid three hundred men on a hulk, the San Salvador, ready for use.

  “We were already suspicious, Majesty,” Drake explained. “As we had seen they were shifting weapons between ships. Hawkins sent us to battle stations. Robert Barret, then captaining the Jesus, was dispatched to demand the men on the hulk be disbanded, but the Viceroy, releasing his plot had been uncovered, seized Barret and sounded a trumpet to order the attack.”