Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  “To England,” he said and smiled. “But I am content to be your second love.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hampton Court

  Spring 1569

  “I, too, am low in spirits,” I said to the ambassador. “But I am not the cause of my cousin’s grief.”

  John Leslie, the Bishop of Ross, had been sent by Mary. He wanted to negotiate for her release and restoration, and to sway me into this by means of an emotional bribe; Mary was ill again.

  This, I already knew. I also knew she wanted to be released and restored, so he need not have bothered carting his portly bottom to court.

  Mary was low because her supporters had failed to reach an agreement with Moray. Bess wrote that she had no appetite, and wept almost constantly.

  “I wonder sometimes that she does not dissolve, like salt,” I had said to Blanche.

  “If only she were so easy to disperse,” was the answer of my friend.

  Bess had also written that Mary was contemplating how to annul her union to Bothwell. Clearly my royal cousin had finally understood everyone despised the man, and she thought he was the major impediment to her glorious return to Scotland… but this also suggested Norfolk’s proposal had got through, and she was considering it.

  Bothwell had been taken prisoner in Denmark. I had no objection to Mary being freed from her odious marriage to a rapist, but had no intention of allowing her to wed Norfolk. My Howard cousin was rich, powerful and unaccountably popular with the common people, perhaps because they knew, as did everyone else, that he was Catholic. Many of my people still held fast to the old ways. If he became King of Scotland, if only in name, Norfolk could hold sway over my Council, work to banish or perhaps execute Cecil, and would gain a claim to my throne through Mary. Although there was nothing to suggest, at present, that he was plotting to overthrow me, it was not so great a leap of imagination.

  Bess and Shrewsbury were watching Mary’s letters, but Cecil had told them secretly that some had to be allowed through. If we were ever to get Norfolk to reveal his intentions, he had to have some hope his plans might work. If all his letters failed to reach Mary, this would not happen.

  It was also a test for Mary. Norfolk’s plans were a possible escape route. If she agreed to marry him, without my permission, that was incriminating enough. If she agreed to any other measures, such as taking my throne, I would know her true heart.

  Shrewsbury was having problems with his guest. In spite of his commands that her household was to be reduced, Mary had actually managed to increase it. People who had left Scotland for her arrived often, and Shrewsbury had to house them, thinking they might do more harm if they were set loose into England. Many people came and went from her chambers, ostensibly on diplomatic missions, which were permitted, but they were making him anxious. He did not know that some of them were Cecil’s people, sent to ensure that we read Mary’s letters. She had already sent some, in a not un-complex cipher, to Norfolk, singing his praises. More dangerously, she had also sent some to Alba, asking him to remember her.

  That Mary had altered her cipher was worrying. The simple one she had used during the first months of her incarceration had been replaced with several new ones, and they took longer to work out. This suggested she was aware her letters were being intercepted, and perhaps had much to hide.

  I tumbled from my thoughts on Mary when I realised the Bishop was staring at me, waiting for an answer. I had not, in actual fact, heard the question, but since we had talked of the same issues over and over, I had a reply to hand.

  “I cannot do more than I am doing for my sweet cousin,” I said warmly. “But I will step up efforts on her behalf.” I frowned. “I am increasingly displeased with Moray. The Regent refuses to discuss terms for my cousin’s restoration, and without him, I know not what I can do for her. I have no wish to make war on my neighbours. I am sure, being a man of the cloth, and therefore of peace, you understand my concerns.”

  “Assuredly, Majesty.”

  For more than two hours the Bishop and I talked of Mary. I expressed sympathy and affection, promising to do all I could. When he left, inflamed with enthusiasm by my promises, he was certain Mary was teetering on the verge of being restored. I sent him to my Council, so he could discuss particulars, and he was brought in on their talks over the next few days. At the same time, however, the good Bishop was apparently meeting just as often with Norfolk, Pembroke and Arundel.

  “Mary has said she will accept Norfolk with all happiness,” Robin said as we played cards together. “She thinks you will approve their match, given that you suggested Norfolk as a husband for her some years ago.”

  “Under entirely different circumstances,” I said, playing with my Queen of Diamonds. “I come to think that woman is a fantasist, a fault not uncommon in my line.”

  Mary was about to move house again. Much as with my palaces, no one house could be stayed in permanently as the stench of drains, soiled rooms and sewers became unbearable after a long period of habitation. Men had the habit of pissing wherever fancy took them, something which had led to me ordering crosses to be painted against walls about my palaces. Men might dare to piss on the walls of my house, but not on a holy symbol. And if this was true of my court, the seat of all gentlemanly deportment and grace, it was also true of every other dwelling in England.

  Bess went ahead to Wingfield Manor to make it habitable, and ten days later, Mary and Shrewsbury joined her. Mary might have complained about how rankly she was treated, and that she had nothing, but when they moved house the carts carrying her goods numbered thirty.

  Mary liked Wingfield. It was an old building, but in a much better state than Tutbury. It stood on a hill, surrounded by sheer, abrupt approaches, and had a good, four-storeyed, watchtower. Inside, it boasted a grand great hall with an oriel at one end and large windows, making it a light, pleasant space. Mary had a suite of rooms on the western side of the north court, and although they were small compared to what she was used to in Scotland, they offered spectacular views over the orchards, resplendent with white and pink blossom. Bess and her husband adroitly took rooms over the gatehouse, so they could see who was coming and going.

  And there were many who were doing just that, not the least of them a visitor from Scotland. He was one of Mary’s supporters, but unfortunately for Mary, bore no good news. He told her she was seen as a murdering adulteress who had treated her people poorly and listened to ill advice, and they had no wish to see her again.

  Gossips say the truth hurts, and this was certainly true for Mary. She wept long and hard, protesting that all she had done was for her people. I am not sure how she reached this conclusion. Marrying Darnley had hardly offered Scotland a great king, and Bothwell was potentially worse, but Mary dwelt in dreams.

  In May, Shrewsbury wrote in high dudgeon to Cecil, saying that Mary had come to his chamber at night, when his servants were abed, to weep and protest. Cecil assured him he had the right to control where Mary wandered, and she blamed Cecil for this privilege being revoked.

  “I told Shrewsbury to limit her wanderings,” I told Spirit. “If Mary creeps into his room, he has only himself to blame.”

  Mary’s tears had cause to dry when the Bishop of Ross returned. Instructed by Robin to say I would perhaps sanction a match between Mary and Norfolk, given time, he brought her the news she wanted.

  “I am become a spider,” I said to Robin. “Casting my webbing to capture a fly.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Richmond Palace

  Early Summer 1569

  A balmy breeze flowed over the gardens of Richmond, washing a breath of gillyflowers over my face. About me sat a crowd of people, talking, laughing and conversing as we supped on marchpane and comfits of candied fruit and nuts. Italian players performed alongside a band of female acrobats. My fool, Tomasina de Paris, made jests about courtiers, making us all laugh. I smiled down at her. Short, Tomasina was, but she made up for lack of height with strength
in wit and stature of mind. Not only did she keep us all amused, but she also oversaw my household accounts. My dwarf had a talent for figures, and under her tight control expenses were reducing.

  I looked to the skies. The grey hair of dusk, lit with the fire of life yet dwelling within, had been shaken from its bonds to cascade across the heavens. The skies seemed to stretch forever above us, a mingled mass of pink and grey, silver and blue. The sound of the musicians’ songs drifted in the breeze as it alighted on corn cockle and gillyflowers, jostling for position in the raised beds. Borage and comfrey blazed their blue flowers against the green of their leaves, and bees seeking one last sip of sweetness before night fell, drifted from flower to flower in the gathering dusk.

  It was a sweet evening, yet I had much on my mind.

  As one royal cousin moved house, a noble one had too. Mary Grey, still under house arrest, had been moved to the home of Sir Thomas Gresham, the Lord Mayor. Gresham House, his London seat, was in Bishopsgate, and Mary was permitted to walk in the gracious gardens, and have free use of his chapel. She had an allowance, as well as books to read, but it was not a happy home.

  Gresham was not an ideal gaoler. He was almost blind, his marriage was in trouble, his only son had died, and the presence of my Grey cousin caused further problems. Although Mary herself was the ideal prisoner, calm, meek and careful, her presence and their responsibilities prevented the Greshams from going away, and Gresham’s wife complained she could not visit her aged mother in Norfolk. The Greshams were not a tranquil couple. The death of their heir weighed upon them and they argued frequently. Gresham was soon writing for permission to relinquish his charge, citing the fact that his wife nagged him continuously about her.

  Mary took to reading to avoid the conflict. She was fond of Protestant prayer books, and owned three Bibles. Mary also read Italian and French works, and was reportedly enamoured of the writings of Isocrates, who offered advice on conduct during times of trial.

  Her brother-in-law, Hertford, I had released from custody upon the death of Katherine Grey, and he had gone to his family seat of Wulfhall in Wiltshire. His boys had both been sent to the Duchess of Somerset at Hanworth, and Hertford was allowed to write to them. Lord Beauchamp was already showing a gift for Latin, and the younger boy, Thomas, was fluent in French. Mine were not the only eyes on these boys. Hertford’s sons had long been a focus of hope for Protestants. Many wanted me to legitimize them and recognise them as my heirs, but I would not. The boys were born out of wedlock, to traitors. I would not reward treachery with elevation.

  In Scotland, the war went on, although Moray seemed in control. He had held talks with chiefs of the Highland and island clans, and it seemed that trouble there, in support of Mary, might die away. She still, however, retained international support, since Mary was seen as an unjustly deposed monarch.

  I was pulled from my thoughts as Tomasina cracked a fresh jest I failed to hear, and about me courtiers laughed. I joined in, as I did not wish my fool to think I was not paying attention, or had taken offence at her jest. Fools gambolled close to the edges of acceptable behaviour, but I encouraged them, as long as they did not step over the brink.

  As I looked around I saw febrile anxiety in my people, only barely masked by their laughter. They were pretending all was well, but it was not.

  It had been an uneasy summer. With Norfolk plotting, Mary of Scots following suit, and many lords out to destroy Cecil, it was not surprising. There was the tang of rank, fetid fear on the breeze, conjoined with excitement. Some thought this the end for Cecil, and were gathering their nerve to ask for his positions when he fell, as they were sure he was about to.

  I was in no less a state of suspense. I was waiting for Norfolk to tell me of his scheme to marry Mary. At some point, if his intentions were only to marry her, he would have to come to me. Clandestine unions had been done before without my knowledge, but Mary was a prisoner, and so sneaking her to a chapel, or Norfolk into her chamber, was unlikely to happen.

  But there was some doubt amongst our web of spies as to whether Norfolk only intended to marry Mary, or if he meant to go further. Robin said Norfolk was only thinking of marriage, but I was not so sure. If he was innocent of other plotting, why not suggest the union? Now the trial was over, it was no longer high treason for him to think of marrying her, and I could only say no. He could not be sent to the Tower for suggesting an idea.

  There was another reason I was suspicious. Bess’s spy had passed on copies of letters from Mary to Norfolk. They were courting letters, showing affection, which clearly was false since the two had never met. Mary signed herself “your assured Mary” and at times called him “my Norfolk”. Gazing upon them, I pitied her. Clearly, Mary wanted to establish some kind of romantic fantasy in this relationship which was only about power and politics. She had done so before, with Darnley, and with Bothwell after their rushed wedding. Perhaps she wanted to feel a ghost of the love she had known with François. Although Cecil found it mystifying, I understood. We all want to be loved.

  Another suspicious element was a cushion Mary had sent to Norfolk. It was done through proper channels, so it would appear she was merely sending friendly gifts to notable magnates, but the cushion displayed a green vine being cut down. Cecil pointed out that this could represent me, and was a secret sign Norfolk and Mary intended to depose me.

  “Or it could just be a cushion, Cecil,” I had said, only to receive a sceptical glance in reply.

  I did not want to believe Norfolk was plotting against me. I had lost enough kin already.

  “Let us go inside,” I said to the crowds. “The air has become chilly.”

  In truth it was my heart that had grown cold, thinking of what I might have to do.

  *

  “More trouble,” I spat as I read the dispatches.

  James Fitzmaurice FitzGerald, a member of the ruling family of Munster in Ireland, had taken it upon himself to invade Kerrycurrihy, in Cork, claim the castle, hang the garrison, and lay waste to the surrounding area. Declaring all Protestants were to be expelled, he had become popular with rebellious Irish Catholics. Fitzmaurice was in truth looking to his purse rather than piety, as he was reacting to the Earl of Desmond, who had granted the barony of Kerrycurrihy to another man. Fitzmaurice thought it should be his, as it had been a hereditary inheritance of his family. He was also proclaiming some dangerous notions. Fitzmaurice said English rule in Ireland had been a gift bestowed on King Henry II by the Pope, and since my father had broken with Rome, Ireland was no longer a possession of England. They were free to seek a new King, he declared, and not suffer under the boot of English tyranny any further.

  In truth, the man had a point. Ireland had been bestowed upon England by the Pope, and if the break with Rome meant we English were no more excluded from the oceans because we were not bound by papal law, then Ireland was no more our kingdom.

  But what Fitzmaurice failed to understand is that the right to hold a land and the power to do so were two different things. My grandfather’s claim to the throne of England had been far weaker than that of the King he usurped, Richard III, but my grandsire had won his throne by right of combat. This was not uncommon. What claim did William the Conqueror have to the English throne but a muttered promise from an aged King, who also promised it to other men?

  The right to rule was one thing, therefore. The might to rule, quite another.

  And what of the wit to rule? There were plenty of people who would claim I, a suspected bastard, had no right to sit upon this throne, and yet I did. I might claim my grandfather had been chosen by God to govern England, and I, as his descendant, was likewise chosen, but the truth was my intelligence, and that of the men about me, kept me on my throne.

  Ireland, like Wales, had been taken into English custody hundreds of years ago, and it was our possession. I was not about to allow something so valuable to drift from my fingertips. I could understand why many of the Irish feared us, and hated us. They had rebelle
d, warred amongst each other, and time after time English soldiers had been sent to subdue them. No nation welcomes war, of any kind, especially those made upon their innocent people. But no matter the rights and wrongs of how Ireland was granted, or what justification we had for keeping it, it was ours. The Irish were my subjects, and Fitzmaurice was a rebel who needed to be taught a lesson.

  Besides, the true reason he had taken to arms was due to money, not morals. I was not about to hand over Ireland to the likes of Fitzmaurice; men using national pride as an excuse to line their own coffers.

  It seemed Fitzmaurice only had partial support from his fellow Irishmen in any case. Many of them, even if they thought he had a point, saw straight through his proclamations. More worryingly, it transpired he had support from my own kin. Ormonde’s younger brothers were riding with Fitzmaurice.

  This was not baffling. Ormonde and Desmond had long been enemies. In uniting with Fitzmaurice, Ormonde’s brothers thought they were unseating their foe.

  “Bring Ormonde to me,” I said to Cecil.

  Tom duly arrived, but rather than be blessed by the smile that was usually on my face when I saw him, he met a dark scowl. “Your brothers are out of control,” I said once I had explained the situation.