by G Lawrence
The shire levies were called. The usual request was for one hundred of each shire, and those who had undergone militia training were certain to be called. Volunteers would also come, and my generals welcomed them, for they were the best kind of soldiers; educated in warfare, handy with a pike, and trained to fire the arquebus, harquebus, or hackbut.
Although private armies held by nobles had started to die out in my father’s reign, mostly for his fear that nobles would use them against their sovereign, I was offered foot-soldiers and cavalry from some of my lords. I was, however, determined to meet this threat without private armies. Accepting them would only encourage nobles to create more. I did issue orders for nobles to send men and arms to join mine, but whole private armies, I would not accept.
Eleven years of peace, I thought as I stood at my window. For eleven years I had ruled, and ruled justly as far as I could see. I had not burned men for their faith, or persecuted them. I had avoided war abroad, although there had been exceptions, and had offered mercy even to traitors. It was all on the verge of being undone.
I thought of my sister a great deal that day. Mary had faced this. When Wyatt’s rebellion came, she had stood at her window gazing out upon ravaged London. Had she felt this too? This utter, aching loneliness?
There was a darkness within me. It was always there, but I, like so many others, kept it hidden. It was the stark awareness of being alone; the void that cannot be filled. An aching maw that opens, baring teeth, offering obliteration. The chaos that we think we leave behind as we enter the world, but which comes to rest inside us. I felt alone, vulnerable and fragile. Even the support of my loyal men and women could not banish the aching gulf inside me. Men were rising against me, and some meant to murder me. I had offered trust and had been repaid with treason.
But despair I could not show. England needed strength and courage. I had to stand tall, undaunted, and mask the burning solitude I suffered.
In my head, words came back to haunt me. “You have experienced treason in trust,” I had said to Drake. “Learn to recognise it, so when it lifts its head again, you will cut it down before it has a chance to strike.”
I had not heeded my own warning.
*
“If Norfolk rouses the eastern counties we are truly in peril,” said Cecil at an emergency Council meeting.
“He must be considering it,” I said. “His flight to Kenninghall is suspect.”
A day later, I received a note from Norfolk. It begged me to excuse his absence, and said again he was ill. He pleaded for pardon, saying he understood he was suspected of much, but had done nothing. Most of all he feared the Tower, saying it was “too great a terror for a true man.”
“True man!” I snorted. “A true man would have shown courage!”
I wrote back, demanding he present himself at court, and said I would do nothing against him unless it was deserved. I told him to come even if he was ill, and to travel by litter if he had to. I felt uncannily as though I had become my sister, and Norfolk me. She, too, had demanded I travel to her when I feigned illness, although she had sent men to bundle me into a litter, a humiliation I did not inflict on Norfolk.
It was at this time that I heard Edmund Bonner, once the Bishop of London, had passed away in the prison I had sent him to. The man had been the instrument of my sister’s wrath upon Protestants, and his death was not mourned. A furious tumult of attacks on him ensued, and he became a stock monster in the plays of the playwrights of the Red Lion. This also led to people digging up old scandal about John Dee, since he had worked with Bonner. Since people did not know that Dee had worked for me during that time, this was unfair, and I did my best to protect him, but I did not want to reveal him. Dee sometimes worked for my Council, on secret missions gathering information. To show his past link to me would be to unmask him as our present agent. And besides, I had other concerns.
The court was in a state of agitated suspense. Every day it was expected that ravening wolves would fall upon us, but nothing happened. Norfolk, if he had been thinking of rousing the east of England, did not encounter much support. From our reports, East Anglia was not taken with the idea of rebellion, and Norfolk was reportedly truly ill, perhaps as much with fear as with ague. He agreed to come to court. A few days later, Walsingham sent word that Norfolk had written to his brother-in-law, Westmoreland, ordering him to set aside thoughts of rebellion.
That, in truth, was what saved Norfolk.
On his way to Windsor, Norfolk was arrested by Knollys, and taken to the Tower. I found myself consumed with wrath. Fear drove me into fits of pure, blinding fury. The only thing that kept me from ordering Norfolk’s immediate execution, trial and justice be damned, was that he had asked his brother-in-law to call off the dogs.
My temper was not aided when we learned that a battle had been fought in France at Moncontour, and the Huguenot army had been crushed. Although we suspected Anjou was exaggerating, Huguenot losses were put at six thousand men, with the Catholic side only losing six hundred. Eight thousand Huguenots surrendered, and Admiral Coligny, leader of what remained, marched east into the Rhone, making for Paris.
Conspirators in England were arrested. Arundel and Pembroke were placed under house arrest, and Throckmorton was questioned and sent to his house in Carshalton. Pembroke was released swiftly, as Robin informed us he had played little part in the plot, but I had no intention of releasing Arundel. Ever since he had attempted to woo me into marriage, and failed, he had resented me. It was about time he learned who was master of England.
“There are degrees of danger,” Cecil said in Council. “If you would marry, Majesty, it should be less.”
“Just how, precisely, would a husband help here and now, Cecil?” I demanded.
“He would make the realm secure, Majesty.”
“Do I not do that? Have we not had a decade of peace because of me? I see no security in marriage. Not with all I have witnessed in my life.” He went to speak again and I held up a hand. “Cease, Cecil, or suffer my displeasure.”
At that time this was a threat like no other.
I gazed upon my other men. “I want Norfolk tried for treason,” I said.
Their faces paled with shock, although I knew not why.
“There is no evidence that he is directly involved with the northern lords,” Cecil said. “To punish him for treason when there is so little evidence…”
“He knew of the plot and failed to inform me,” I snapped. “Failure to disclose treason is treason.”
“There is not enough to convict, Majesty,” Robin said. “The only evidence we have is of him telling Westmoreland to desist in rebellion, which is the opposite of treason.”
“He knew!” I shouted. “He knew what they were planning and allowed it to unfold! That he told them to stop their plotting is not proof of innocence! He was simply worried for his neck, and I would have that terror justified.” I drew myself up. “If England’s laws do not provide, I shall move against him with my own authority.”
“Majesty… that is tyranny.”
“Do not tell a prince what is her right and what is not!” I screamed, bashing my fist so hard into the table that I thought I had shattered bone. Black spots appeared before my eyes and my stomach quaked.
I fainted. The first I knew of this was waking to the acrid stench of vinegar and burning swan’s feathers under my nose. My eyes fluttered open and I waved away the offending feather. Blinking blearily at my Council, who were all so relieved I was awake that they sagged simultaneously like a great pile of washing falling down a hole, I sat up.
My hand was throbbing and my head too. “Leave me,” I croaked. “I need to rest.”
Later that night, as I sat in a chair by the fire, reading to calm myself, Robin entered. “You have more colour,” he said, bending to kiss my cheek. “I thought you had seen Death at the door when you fainted, so pale did you turn.”
“It was my hand,” I said ruefully. “Blanche says nothing is b
roken, but it will have to be bound for a while.” I displayed the offending limb. “I hit it so hard on the table that the pain made me faint.” I frowned at him. “You have come to tell me to be merciful to Norfolk.”
“I have come to tell you to be true to yourself.”
“In what way?”
Robin shook his head. “Elizabeth… you are no tyrant. Proceeding against Norfolk without reference to law is tyranny. The man has been stupid, foolish and reckless, but I would swear he was not in on the plots of the north. If you take measures against him upon your own authority then you act as your father did, and you have always told me how you disliked that method of power. And if you kill Norfolk, you become, too, your sister, when she executed Jane Grey. Do not do this.”
I looked away. I could not meet his eyes. He was right.
“Very well,” I said. “But I will not free him from the Tower. That man needs a lesson in humility, and courage.”
“Are they not rather different things?” Robin smiled.
“Perhaps, but we are all capable of learning, and Norfolk has a lot to learn.”
“Cecil thinks you should find Norfolk another bride.”
“Cecil thinks marriage is the answer to everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Windsor Castle
Autumn 1569
We had more welcome news that October when my cousin Lettice gave birth to her fourth child, a boy, named Walter for his father. She now had her heir, Robert, her ‘spare’, Walter, and two girls, Penelope and Dorothy. But just as she and her family were getting ready to celebrate, I had to call her husband, Walter Devereux, away.
The cause, naturally, was Mary Stewart.
We feared that if she were left at Tutbury, the rebels would reach her. I dispatched Devereux to aid Shrewsbury in taking her to a safer location.
At the end of October, I sent Henry Norris, my ambassador in France, an eight-page letter detailing the recent events. I wanted Charles of France and his odious Medici mother to understand the plot had been foiled and they should remove their interfering noses from my affairs. It said that, by my grace and goodwill alone, Mary of Scots had been saved from certain death. She had been honourably cared for, and, in my great compassion, I had set aside her numerous offences, even though many were notorious.
I told Charles of France that reports of her mistreatment were untrue, and denied I had ever thought of naming her my heir. I wanted it rightly understood that she had no hope of England’s crown, and if he had been inspired to send aid to the rebels because of false reports of her mistreatment, that was to end.
With that done, our attention turned north. Northumberland and Westmoreland were called to court, but they stalled, thinking this was a plot to throw them into the Tower with Norfolk. They thought Cecil was masterminding this, as they did not trust him, knowing his dislike of Catholics. The Earls knew they were in danger. Their objectives were well known, and news of their dealings in the north had spread. Walsingham intercepted a message from Northumberland to de Spes, saying that he had to rebel now, or yield his head to the block due to my wrath.
In response to my messages, and with unusual speed, word was sent from Scotland to say that Moray and his lords had voted on Mary’s union with Bothwell and upheld it as legal. This put an end to discussions of marriage with Norfolk. Shrewsbury was ill, so I sent the Earl of Huntingdon, Robin’s brother-in-law, to oversee Mary’s confinement and help Devereux to escort her to Tutbury, which was better defended. If the rebels thought to free her, they would have a hard time of it.
I had good cause to think well of all we had been doing during the past months. Had we not played our shadow games, the rebels might have taken us by surprise. I had cause, too, to thank Norfolk’s continuous hesitation. Had he joined his kin and allies, worse might have happened.
Shrewsbury was affronted that I should question his ability and loyalty by sending other men, but he submitted to Huntington’s arrival, standing aside as the Earl sent men brandishing pistols to search Mary’s chambers. I ordered her household reduced against her will, and a number of Shrewsbury’s servants, suspected of partiality towards Mary, were also dismissed. The guard about her was doubled. Huntington wrote that he was suspicious of Mary’s friendship with Bess and thought Shrewsbury was unfit to be Mary’s gaoler.
Mary loathed and feared her new guardsman, and, with the help of a maid, the one Bess had set to watch her, she sent a letter to the French Ambassador, Fenelon, begging him to speak to me about Huntington.
“So now we know who the go-between with Mary and France is,” I said when Cecil showed me a copy of her letter. It was clear from the missive that she trusted Shrewsbury, but not Huntington, and it also said that Robin’s brother-in-law had made a surprising suggestion… that Mary should wed Robin.
“Did you ask him to do this?” I asked Robin.
“Certainly not.” He scowled at the parchment. “I did not want her years ago, Elizabeth, and most assuredly not now!”
Bess, alarmed by reports that she was too close to Mary, came to court and presented herself to Cecil and Walsingham. Mary, fearing what she might disclose, wrote to Cecil telling him not to believe a word Bess said.
“Peace, Bess,” I said when she arrived in my chambers after a gruelling morning with Cecil and Walsingham. “I have already told Cecil and Walsingham you were only doing as I asked in getting close to Mary.”
She drooped to half her size. Agitation had made her seem huge, but relief made her twist small. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she breathed. “I thought, given the many criticisms of my husband and me, that we were suspected of much.”
“It is a time of suspicion,” I said. “You know what is happening in the north. It makes men edgy.”
“I swear to you, Majesty, my husband and I are loyal.”
“And I believe you, but measures will have to be taken.” I gazed into her eyes. “I do not blame you, and privately, I would have you inform Shrewsbury I do not blame him. The fault is mine. It is clear that I have allowed my royal cousin too many privileges. Men think to use her against me, believing her security to be lax. But I cannot be seen to be at fault. Shrewsbury must take the blame.”
“I see, Majesty.”
“I know Huntingdon has caused you pains,” I went on. “And he will be removed, eventually, but at the moment the fact that my cousin abhors him is useful, and may teach her to think on you and Shrewsbury with great affection. Hopefully, it will teach her to be grateful when you are restored as sole keepers.”
“Then… you do not mean to replace us?”
I caught a note of disappointment in her tone. I understood. They had already seen how easily they could be accused of familiarity and preference towards the troublesome Queen.
“I do not mean to replace you. I know the burden is great, Bess, but that is what comes with trust. I trust you and Shrewsbury, so you are handed responsibilities.”
“We welcome them.”
I smiled. “Do not lie, old friend. I see your heart.” I put a hand on her plush shoulder. “Bear with Huntingdon, and I will leave Walter Devereux, Viscount Hereford, to aid you. He will act as a mediator between you and Huntingdon. But I want Huntingdon in place for a while, to teach Mary some gratitude.”
As Bess departed, Cecil entered. “Sussex has declared the Earls traitors,” he said, a worried crease on his brow.
The Earl of Sussex was my lieutenant in the north, in charge of my men and military campaigns. He had served me well as Deputy in Ireland during the O’Neill rebellion, and I had thought him a wise man. It appeared I was mistaken.
“I did not issue such a command,” I said, snatching the note from Cecil. “Did you?”
“I did not, Majesty.”
“Fool!” I shouted at the parchment. “I was waiting to hear from the Earls. Sussex has forced their hands! He will throw them into action!”
I was right.
As November came, the Earls mobilised. Although th
eir numbers were unclear, it was thought between five and ten thousand men rallied to their banners. It was not as many as they had hoped, but it was enough.
Men of England had risen. They were marching towards Mary.
Chapter Thirty
Windsor Castle
Autumn 1569
Mary was bundled out of Tutbury and sent to Coventry so fast she barely had time to snatch her gowns from their chests. Safe, deep in the heart of Protestant England, Mary was held, whilst at Windsor we prepared for a siege.
The northern Earls were on the march. They sacked Durham Cathedral, stopping to hear Catholic Mass in its confines, and took delight in ripping up prayer books and English Bibles. Rather than touch it with his hands, Northumberland kicked the Protestant Communion table out of the Cathedral.