by G Lawrence
“I do not attempt to deny I think he would be a good resident ambassador,” Cecil said. “And it would be a test, I agree, of his skills.”
I agreed. Walsingham had shown he was useful.
I knew it not, but I was sending him into grave and unholy danger.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Whitehall Palace
Autumn 1570
That September, I turned the corner of thirty-six years of age and entered my thirty-seventh year of existence, and it was then that a new husband was proposed for me, one which, from the start, I thought faintly ridiculous… mainly, but not exclusively, for his age.
I had been offered young bucks before. Charles of Austria was a great deal younger than me, as was Erik of Sweden, but this one was striking.
The proposal came from France. Catherine de Medici wanted to offer an olive branch in the form of her favourite son, the Duc d’Anjou. My little plan to draw France to me had worked.
Anjou might be Catherine’s favourite, but he was no one else’s. Vain, capricious, cruel, hot-headed and lascivious, he was unpredictable and dangerous.
He was also nineteen.
I was old enough to be his mother, and just a little shy of being considered of an age to be his grandmother. The thought of a mad young stag about court did not appeal to me either, and what I heard of Anjou was not encouraging.
Anjou had dabbled with Protestantism in his youth, but was now dominated by the Catholic faith. Despite this, he was not beholden to chastity, and slept with both men and women, much as Darnley had. This did not concern me. I was attracted to women, often finding them just as pleasing to the eye as men, so I understood when men harboured passions for their own sex. But the depths to which Anjou indulged his lusts were another matter. Suffering a husband would be quite enough to deal with without the prospect of gaining a lecher such as my cousin of Scots had endured.
If any potential husband of mine was to keep a lover, of either sex, it would have to be discreet, and from what I had heard of Anjou, discretion was not something he was familiar with.
Anjou wore staggering amounts of perfume, a double row of rings upon his fingers, and pendants in his ears. He was much enamoured with women’s clothing, and apparently often turned up to court events in a gown, with paint and powder on his face. If this were done in private, I would not have held any qualms. I sometimes wore men’s underclothes when riding, seeking to avoid granting my courtiers a glimpse of my private regions, so I understood there were advantages, whether personal or pragmatic, to wearing the clothes of the opposite sex. But I also had a reputation to think of, and not only mine, but England’s. The Court of France, known for its loose morals and radical ways, might accept Anjou in a gown and cosmetics, but I knew my men never would. They wanted the distinction of gender clearly imposed, and to have a king or consort cavorting in women’s garb would horrify them.
In some ways, this was hypocritical. Since I had come to the throne, fashion for men had begun to wend towards the feminine… not that any of my men would admit this, but it was clear to see.
Tunics were worn tight to the chest, and men’s breeches were growing larger in volume, aping the wide-hipped forms of women. This fashion had also spread to armour. Peascods bulged from men’s waists, tapering to a point, accentuating the abdomen, and the elaborate codpieces, and padded torsos, once so favoured by my father and his generation, had died out.
Almost in response, women’s dress was becoming slightly more masculine. There were fewer French hoods and more caps and hats seen about court, and tight bodices showing off wasp-waists became common. Women sported padded sleeves, which made their upper arms look muscular. I know not if any had noted this, but despite their growing interest in feminine fashion, a prince in a dress was a step too far for my men.
To me, Anjou’s predilection for women’s clothes meant little, but to my men it was an unseemly and unnatural blurring of the line between the masculine and feminine. Such a thing would make them uneasy, for they would take it as an attack on the sanctity of their masculinity. To my mind, if a person was secure in their skin, seeing another of their sex dressed differently was no threat. The trouble was, many people were not secure, and therefore took any aberration as a threat.
There were further considerations. Some information I heard of Anjou disturbed me more than the notion of a husband stealing my gowns or face powder. Anjou had spent years as the leader of the King’s army in France, waging war against Huguenots. Atrocities committed by him and his men were notorious. I had little wish to wed a man who would view me as a heretic and an enemy.
Anjou was also a prince who gathered minions. I had favourites, and they held power, but I was always in control of them. Anjou’s consorts made continual trouble in France, plotting, scheming and at times, if reports were correct, murdering to get their way. I needed none of that kind of trouble.
I also heard from Henry Norris that Anjou himself was not keen on the proposition. His mother wanted a crown for her most-beloved son, my ambassador wrote, and was not picky about which one. Alliance with England would be to France’s benefit, and Catherine wanted Anjou upheld as the great man she thought him to be, but Anjou was not so eager. He, like me, thought the age gap too great, and had let loose some unflattering comments about me at the French Court.
That being said, my erstwhile suitor of Austria had let me down, and to appease my people some offering of false hope had to be made. There was fear, an ever-present shade upon England, that if I died without heirs, there would be no bar to Mary taking the throne, restoring Catholicism, and possibly making England into but an extension of either France or Spain. I expressed interest in the match, whilst saying I thought the age gap was rather large, but the French became immediately suspicious. My aversion to marriage was famous. They thought I was playing them.
They were right, but if I was to continue undiscovered in this farce for a time, it was important they believed in me.
“I want you to support the match,” I said to Robin.
“You want to marry this painted man?”
I chuckled at Robin’s scandalised tone. “Not sincerely,” I said. “Not at all, if truth be told… but the people are anxious in the wake of the rebellion. They want Mary of Scots’ claim ended, and England to be made safe through friendship. I want to pursue this, and I need support. Eventually, Anjou’s faith will cause the same problems as it did for Charles of Austria, but if it looks as though I am eager, and you with me, I can keep negotiations going.”
“Thereby appeasing the people and court,” Robin finished for me.
“And keeping France from coming out in support of Mary,” I added. “There is no danger. Anjou does not want to marry me. He thinks me an old woman, and however much that might assault my dignity, it will be useful.”
“Any man who would turn you down is a fool.” Robin’s voice had a catch in it.
A wash of love, so violent and hasty that I thought I might drown in it, flooded over me. In his eyes I saw the old sorrow, that of a man who desires to be fully with the one he loves, and cannot. Be not sad, Robin, I thought. For I love you and you me. That is more happiness than many people can boast of.
“Thank you, Rob,” I said, touching his face.
He put his cheek closer to my hand. I ached to feel his sadness. It was met by sorrow in my own heart. There would always be regret for me when it came to Robin, but our path was decided, and we were, in truth, more fortunate than many to have found and kept the one we loved in our lives, for the rest of days.
*
“That man is a fool,” I said to Cecil. “How is he related to me? There is no guile in him. I must be all Tudor and Boleyn and no Howard, for the Howards appear to understand nothing!”
Norfolk had been found writing to Mary of Scots without permission, and had fallen for Ridolfi’s trap and sent money to her supporters in Scotland. The Duke had fallen at the first hurdle.
God’s Death, Norfolk! I curse
d inside my furious mind. Have not enough of our kin died upon the altar of power?
Cecil shook his head, but I could see he was pleased Ridolfi was already earning the ludicrous sums we had provided to enable him to stir up trouble and test my kin’s loyalty.
“I want Norfolk’s house searched,” I said. “And Mary’s rooms, too. If they have been concealing aught else, then God be with them!”
“I would caution against that, Majesty,” said Cecil. “To leave him at liberty would allow us to find out more. The Duke thinks he is safe. Let him linger in that fiction.”
“You would trap him in further trouble.”
“I would. This is not enough, madam, to fulsomely prove treason.”
“Aside from the fact he swore he would not meddle in Scottish affairs,” I reminded him.
“Aside from that. But consider, Majesty, your people respect Norfolk. They think his integrity is without question. Were we to hold him for this small infraction, it would have to be dismissed in time, for there is not enough here to truly prove treason. If he were left at liberty, we might find out about other plotters in England, as well as if your royal cousin is willing to embroil herself in any of their plans.”
“So be it,” I said, expelling a fraught breath as though I could send angry disappointment out of my flesh along with it. “Continue with the game.”
As I fumed, Cecil and Mildmay went to Scotland to negotiate terms for Mary’s restoration. The Bishop of Ross was to act as our intermediary and they were to call on the captive Queen on the way there and back. It might have seemed a strange time, but the façade of negotiations had to continue to appease France. Everything we did in the wake of the rebellion was intended to draw war, invasion and further uprisings away from us. Our immediate mission was to make England safe again, by whatever means.
I sent Cecil with a letter for Shrewsbury, telling the Earl I was content with his guardianship of Mary and intended for it to continue until the Queen was freed. I also warned Shrewsbury about the recent interactions between Mary and Norfolk, and asked him to step up his watch, but allow some letters to get through. I did not want Mary resorting to other, more secret channels, and thereby preventing us from intercepting any plans hatched between her and Norfolk. One golden afternoon in early October, I said goodbye to Cecil and Mildmay as they rode off for the north.
The demands I made which would lead to Mary’s restoration were the same as I had set out some months before, but in addition, my men went with a list of all the wrongs she had done me. From her usurpation of the royal arms of England, to her marriage with Darnley, marriage to Bothwell, plotting with Norfolk, suspected involvement in the uprising, and instigating trouble on the borders, it was a damning list of complaints.
I added all the ways I had aided her, such as taking no revenge for these ills, supporting her right to her throne, upholding her son, refusing to publish the casket letters and keeping her in honourable estate. I hoped it would show her how lenient I had been.
It did not.
Mary saw herself as the aggrieved party. Perhaps it was only to be expected. She had been pampered and spoilt as a child, and that tends to make a person think they are, as all people want to believe, the centre of the universe. Mary reacted by weeping, and saying she was much amazed at the charges.
What was surprising to my people was that Mary agreed to most of my terms. She stood firm against a few, however, saying the wording of one article, that her abdication had been “for the good of her people”, was unacceptable. She also maintained that if her son was to come to England she would have to be granted the right to visit him. The Bishop of Ross told her to accept and she did.
I was not so surprised. We had already known Mary would pretend to submit to my terms, and would forget her promises the moment she was at liberty.
Some rejoiced at the news she had agreed. Others, reminding their companions how Mary had abdicated and gone back on her word, thought she was not to be trusted. They were right.
Within two weeks, Cecil and Mildmay were riding home with a settlement. We would have to present it to the Scots, and I had no doubt it would take time for them to decide, seeing as they were still in a state of confusion after Moray’s sudden death and Lennox’s ascension. The settlement did not exclude Mary from the succession. It did not make her my heir, either, but Mary was satisfied with it, or pretended to be.
“At the right moment, we can release the news that she has been writing to Norfolk and working with de Spes,” Cecil said. “Then all negotiations will be at an end.”
“In the meantime I will show myself to be joyous that she has agreed,” I said. “And you will be heartbroken, Cecil.”
“I shall demonstrate a fractured heart and wounded soul.”
“What did you think of her?” I asked suddenly. I could never rid myself of curiosity about Mary.
“She is a wet woman,” Cecil said, making me snort. He grinned as I coughed, choking on mirth. “She cries a great deal,” he said with a wry expression. “No wonder people aligned her with the mermaid. That woman could make an ocean of her tears.”
“No men know what to do with women’s tears,” I said.
“Which is why I am grateful, madam, that you do not assault me with similar outbursts.”
“You men,” I teased. “Masters of the world, lords of battle, yet a little water sends you into swift retreat. Perhaps that is what women should do, Cecil, mount a guard of weeping damsels and send them to every war. Hardened knights would flee, war would perish unwaged, and conflict would be at an end.”
Cecil’s beard rustled, suggesting there was a smile lurking beneath.
Chapter Forty
Whitehall Palace
Autumn 1570
That November, as cattle, pigs and sheep were herded into towns to be sold before the feast of Martinmas, after which they would be slaughtered for winter, I sent for Ambassador Fenelon to talk about the match with Anjou.
Taking care that I looked not only beautiful, but rich and powerful as well, as Fenelon’s reports would go straight back to the Medici snake and her hatchling son, I prepared with care. I was a touch too old to play the timid, reserved damsel, but I had another mask to wear; that of the old maid, worried she has lost her chance at happiness and is desperate to win it.
“I regret, oftentimes, not marrying when I was younger,” I said to Fenelon.
“My master can remedy that sorrowful estate, Majesty,” he said.
“I think I am too old, my lord ambassador, to consider marriage.”
“Your Majesty is ageless,” he gushed. “And more beautiful than the sun, or her sister the moon. My master is eager, for he has heard of your beauty, grace and wisdom.”
Not quite what I have heard, Fenelon, I thought waspishly. I hear your master calls me the old heretic hag.
“I, too, have heard much of the Duc,” I said, allowing a silly giggle to escape my lips. Robin barely kept his countenance. “But the Duc is nineteen, little more than a boy… and I am thirty-seven.”
“So much the better for you, Majesty!” Robin almost shouted. He started to laugh, ostensibly at his own jest, but I knew it was an expulsion of the mirth he had been trying to hide.
I chuckled and blushed. It was not feigned. This was hardly a discussion to hold before so many. “My good friend, the Lord of Leicester, is in support of the match,” I told Fenelon. “I have spoken to him many times about it, and he tells me my fears are groundless, for your master is renowned for his wisdom, learning and dedication to his people. He says these skills show him to be a mature man.”
“I will tell my King and his gracious mother of your support, my lord Earl,” said Fenelon, nodding respectfully at Robin. “They will be delighted to hear the Queen’s closest friend supports the match.”
Fenelon went to Robin after the meeting, to check he was in earnest. Finding my beloved convincing, he sent word to France that a formal proposal should be issued, and said he was utterly persuad
ed that the woman who had proved the most eligible, yet unmarriageable, Queen in Europe, was ready to be wedded, bedded and subdued.
“Poor fools,” I said to Robin that night as we sat on cushions near the fire. Early snow was falling. The streets of London were awash with white snow, thick in the middle of streets and thinner at the edges where overhanging eaves sheltered the cobbles. Icicles hung from the edges of thatched roofs, bared teeth of white and blue, and wagons left dirty trails in the slush. Shutters were closed up everywhere, keeping the warmth inside. The hearth burned bright, and I had my hand in his hair, stroking the little curls at the back of his neck. “They think they have me.”
“Do you really wish you had married when you were young?”
“I only would have taken one man. When you were made unavailable, there could be no other.” I smiled. “If I were to take another man, he would not stand a chance. He would always be compared to you, my Eyes, and would always come up short. You are the only one I trust, Robin, with my heart. All these other men…” I waved a hand, my golden rings glinting in the candlelight. “… They do not want me. They want my crown.”