by G Lawrence
But despite all favour and affection, in public Robin bowed to me. There was a balance to be struck, in order to keep all men loyal. I had found that with Robin. I was not so sure of Norfolk.
*
In early January, amidst the cheery skies of a surprisingly clear day, Walsingham left for France, taking his wife and young daughter with him. Sent with clear instructions to promote the Anjou match, encourage English trade, downplay the northern rebellion, and impress on King Charles that my friendship was dependent on his keeping peace with his Huguenot subjects, Walsingham had a great deal of work to do. He was also to spy on Charles and his slippery mother.
Before his departure, I had asked Walsingham to work towards alliance between France and England irrespective of marriage. Walsingham had understood. Unlike Cecil, he did not seem consumed by a mania for marriage. Perhaps he saw, as I did, that England was stronger when not tied to another country, and was free to deal with all, but it was hard to know what Walsingham was thinking.
I had told Walsingham my conditions for marriage. Anjou would be denied Catholic rites and would attend Protestant services. Being almost a Puritan himself, Walsingham had been in full agreement. For me, the point about religion had to be clear. It was, after all, my escape route.
Walsingham took a house in the Faubourg Saint Germain, and a smaller one in the busy area of Saint Marceau. Saint Germain was his official residence, as it was a fashionable area, and the smaller house was nestled deep in the heart of the Huguenot community in Paris. There, Walsingham could entertain Huguenot aristocrats and philosophers without rousing suspicion, and at his official residence he could greet dignitaries of the French Court. He kept a fine table, rich in delicate dishes and rare meats, and housed many servants.
Norris was relieved to see Walsingham arrive. Norris’ pro-Huguenot stance had made him unpopular with the reigning Valois family, and the cost of his embassy had grown, sending the ambassador spiralling into debt.
Walsingham mostly communicated directly with Cecil and Robin. By this time, I was happy to let trusted men take on various aspects of England’s government, and bring what was important to me. Proclamations, laws and decrees all went through me, of course. I dictated many, and even when Cecil drew them up I spent time editing, changing and annotating. Sometimes my attention to detail drove Spirit quite mad, but it was important. I knew what was best for England.
As Walsingham arrived at the French Court and set about his tasks, I told Fenelon that I was determined to marry. In private, I was less eager. My potential groom was vexing me. Anjou refused to play the game. Much to the ambassador’s chagrin, Anjou had been heard saying that I was an old, lame, toothless, decrepit heretic. Surprisingly, his mother, the Medici snake had come to my defence, telling her son “the greatest harm which evil men can do to noble women is to spread abroad lies and dishonourable tales of us. We princes who be women, of all persons, are subject to be slandered wrongfully of them that be our adversaries.”
I thought this a remarkably astute assessment, but more words came from France I liked not. There were rumours that some of Anjou’s minions, and the Guise, were encouraging him to marry me precisely for the reason that I was older than him. If I died, a few months into the marriage, by fair means or foul, he could marry Mary Stewart and make himself King of both England and Scotland.
Quite aside from the danger this offered, it also demonstrated my potential suitor was an imbecile. Hatching such a plot was one thing, allowing it to be heard by the aged crone he meant to marry then do away with, quite another.
“Notwithstanding the evil report made of my leg,” I said angrily to a deeply mortified Fenelon. “You will note, my lord ambassador, how well I danced at Christmas. I mourn you were not at the Marquess of Northampton’s wedding, for you would have seen how hale I am. With this in mind, I hope Monsieur will not find himself cheated into marrying a cripple instead of a lady of proper paces.”
Tomasina, sitting at my feet dressed in a copy of my gown, pulled a fierce face at the ambassador, only adding to his shame.
Fenelon stumbled to excuse his master, saying the rumours were set about by Spanish spies desperate to stall the match. I was not convinced. “I also hear I have been named a heretical bastard, not only by your master, but his friend, the Guise Cardinal of Lorraine,” I said.
“Assuredly, madam, it is Spain putting these divisive rumours about in an effort to make a rift between good friends.”
I was affronted, hurt and annoyed. Anjou was becoming less and less an acceptable match, but I had to continue with the fiction. “I am willing to believe that this is a trick dreamed up by our mutual enemies,” I said. “I would be a woman of sorrow to think the Duc would slander me so viciously.”
“Your Majesty should consider taking French horses into your stables,” Tomasina said as the ambassador left in haste.
“For what purpose?”
She nodded at the closing door. “Is it not clear that French mares bear the swiftest legs?”
I chuckled. “He has to warn his King about Anjou’s waggling tongue.”
“Slandering women is not the best use of a man’s tongue,” said naughty Tomasina, arching an eyebrow. “I was told the French understood that better than anyone. Perhaps my information is mistaken.”
I laughed. Fools got away with a great deal more than other courtiers. They were allowed to be honest, brutally so at times. If I wanted truth, as well as mirth, I went to Tomasina.
Meanwhile, Anjou’s next potential mate, if his dastardly plan to marry then murder me ever went ahead, had shifted house again. Mary was taken to Sheffield Castle that winter. She kept herself occupied by writing to Norfolk. Her subject was Ridolfi and his plots. Our double agent was busy too, touring the courts of Europe, and apparently telling everyone of the plans he was embroiled in. Alba, in particular, was unimpressed.
“The man has no guile,” I said. “Was this part of the plan?”
“He is being a touch more obvious than Walsingham suggested,” said Cecil. “We do not want anyone actually invading, Majesty, so if Ridolfi’s schemes sound improbable, it is to our benefit.”
“If there is too much improbability no one will agree to support him, and we will learn nothing.”
“There are already whispers that he has support,” said Cecil. “And, when Mary sets something firm on parchment, we will know for sure your royal cousin is bent on treason.”
“She is not one of my subjects. Therefore the question as to whether she is actually capable of committing treason remains.”
“But she is your guest, madam, and has sworn to uphold you.”
I decided to drop this question of technicalities and ask another. Cecil and I were not about to agree. “What is in her letters?”
“Vague suggestions of the plot. Ridolfi has put it to Alba and others that Catholic powers will be called upon to invade, and set Mary on your throne, with Norfolk beside her.”
“Do they have support?”
“Not from Spain,” said Cecil. “The notion of a Francophile on the English throne remains a horror to Phillip. He might support the idea if he was made King, but not for Mary.”
“Perhaps he thinks to use her to further his own ambitions.”
“Perhaps.”
“And Mary supports this plot?”
“It would certainly seem so, and Norfolk with her, but she has committed nothing firm to parchment as yet. Without proof she is involved, we have nothing.”
“Perhaps she is not involved,” I said and shook my head at Cecil’s dubious expression. “It is possible, Cecil. She agreed to all my terms, did she not?”
“Majesty, you know as well as I she will go back on any agreement.”
I scowled. “We do not know that,” I argued. “The letter we intercepted was from Maitland to Ross. Perhaps Mary was not consulted.”
“Madam, simply because you do not wish something to be true does not make it so. I am sorry to have to be the voice of cy
nicism, but if you are that of optimism, there must be a balancing note in our little harmony.”
“I do not see much harmony,” I said, looking away. I knew Cecil was right, but how I wanted him to be wrong! “How long will you allow this to unfold?”
“As long as it takes for us to have the evidence we require, Majesty.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Whitehall Palace
Winter 1571
That January, Drake, now a married man, came home, and was brought to me in secret one night.
“How went your mission?” I asked.
“Well, Majesty,” he said, his dark red hair shining in the light of the candles.
“You watched the shipping routes?”
“And brought you some presents, Majesty.”
I smiled. Although Drake’s mission had been to gather information, I was not displeased he had brought back treasure too. Since he had been sent in secret, with no commission or authority from me, his had been a perilous mission. Had he been caught, he could have been executed as a pirate.
Drake told me of the Spanish shipping routes. For a long time, Spain had been funded by the purse of the New World. No one dared attack their treasure ships, loaded with silver, gold, gems and spices, as they were guarded well and brought by strange paths. Drake had found their treasures were taken from Peru, brought to Panama by mule trains, then shipped to Panama City by boat. There, another mule train took over, wending its way through dangerous jungles and swamps, to the Chagres River, where it was loaded on ships and taken to Nombre de Dios for deployment to Seville.
“There is no regular garrison at Nombre de Dios, Majesty,” said Drake. “And few fortifications.” He paused, rubbing a finger thick with rough skin on his cheek. “It is also quite isolated. The treasure house of the world is a collection of ramshackle wooden buildings, and its only true strength is its isolation.”
“It is sad to leave such a town lonesome,” I said. “Perhaps you should pay a visit, Drake.”
“My ships are being readied even at this moment, Majesty.”
I chuckled. Drake pleased me. His lust for revenge was keen and sharp. He was also a good captain, popular with his men. He knew the risks, and welcomed them. Anything to take revenge on Spain, Drake would embrace.
“God speed, Drake,” I said as he departed, taken from my rooms by means of a private staircase, so none would know what we were up to. “May you find what you seek.”
There was less welcome news as February dawned. Throckmorton, who had been pardoned for his part in the Norfolk marriage plot, died and I was brought low by the news. However entranced he had been with my cousin of Scots, Throckmorton had been a useful man, and had done much for England. My sadness was swiftly replaced by concern when it was rumoured that Robin had murdered him, as Throckmorton had died after dining at Robin’s house.
“He had a chill, Majesty,” said Robin. “That was the method of his death.”
“My doctors tell me you were eating sallats,” I scolded. “You know they are dangerous in the winter months.”
“There was no danger. I ate the same, and I am fine.”
In truth, Robin was growing a little portly. He ate like a starved horse, and although he danced, hunted and walked often, he was busy with work for his many posts, and was not burning fat as once he had. Sometimes, when Robin had undertaken a night of heavy drinking, I looked on his florid cheeks with concern. I was a spare drinker, and had never understood why men and women would throw themselves so recklessly into inebriation, thereby softening their wits. But then, most people had not faced the dangers I had.
I knew there was no purpose in lecturing Robin. Robin would put up with a certain amount of admonishment, but at times I would see him nodding and knew that inside he was shaking his head. It vexed me, but I understood. I did not like being told what to do either.
I declared Throckmorton’s demise natural, and instructed my servants to desist from gossip, but Robin was a powerful lord, and much is believed of such men. The truth was that Throckmorton and Rob had been allies, and Robin was one of the least likely to poison the former ambassador.
Wanting to distract my court, and take care of something I had been planning for some time, that February I held a grand celebration. I was rewarding Cecil. For some time I had considered elevating him to the peerage, for he deserved recognition.
“Arise, Baron Burghley,” I said to Cecil on the day he was elevated. It was a new title. Cecil deserved something unique, like him.
“I will serve you and England all the days of my life,” he told me later, “and I thank you for the title, Majesty.”
“It should have been granted sooner. But all men must note I do not hand out titles without cause.”
Only four peers had been created since I came to the throne. I did not dish out and snatch away rewards with light abandon, as my father had. When an elevation was created, it was deserved.
A few days later, the Earl of Morton came from Scotland on a wholly purposeless mission; to inform me that Mary was not wanted in Scotland. I already knew this, but politics is often more about one nation saying the same thing over and over than it is about originality. Such missions also give men with spare talent something to do, so they do not become bored and bothersome.
There was some advantage to repetition; a few people clearly needed reminding that Mary was unwelcome. Her reputation had been trounced by the tribunal and suspected involvement with the northern uprising, but she retained some support in England, mainly from Catholics, who wanted her named my heir. Others murmured darkly about her.
Kings kill, often and in great volume, but murder for personal gain is wrong, even, or perhaps even more so, for a sovereign. People who supported Mary saw her as a poor, abused woman, slandered into infamy. In some ways they were correct, but Mary was not the helpless creature they thought her to be. Play the victim, she could, but there was a cunning mind beneath that innocent mask.
With the Pope’s sentence of excommunication in mind, however, the notion of restoring a Catholic monarch to Scotland had become far less appealing to the majority. It was safer to have an infant King and his Protestant Council to deal with. There was also fear that were she to be released she might attain an annulment, and to many minds this frequently and often ill-advisedly married Queen was a great risk. Who knew who she might pick to wed next?
My people fear I will never marry, I thought. Yet they fear Mary will.
My cousin had had enough husbands. It was time she understood that.
*
We had further word from Ridolfi that month. Both Spain and Rome had agreed to his plot. Phillip had obviously decided a grateful Mary upon my throne was worth risking much. Alba remained unconvinced, but he stood alone. Mary, upon receiving secret papal support, had agreed, but had been cautious about setting anything firm on parchment.
She had, however, spoken to her friend the Bishop of Ross. Bess’ spy overheard Mary telling Ross that she despaired of me doing anything for her, and thought the negotiations for her restoration were dragging on too long to be honest. Mary declared if I would not aid her, foreign princes would.
Even if I had no proof of her infamy on parchment, that declaration was enough to rupture any remaining trust I had in her.
Letters had been intercepted. Mary believed there was great support for her in England. She had sent a ciphered list of names to Ridolfi of those who would support her, and was still writing to Norfolk, telling him that their plans were coming to fruition. She was cautiously vague in all her correspondence. A careful little vixen.
Norfolk seemed reluctant, which gave me heart, and was alarmed by Mary’s request that he publicly become a Catholic. But as March came, his reluctance was waning, and Ridolfi informed us Norfolk had written to him to arrange a meeting.
Ridolfi returned to England, offered up partial, as Cecil believed, evidence about the plot, and was dispatched to Norfolk.
“You think he kept informat
ion from you,” I said to Cecil when he complained about Ridolfi.
“I do, but I think he did so because he loves to feel the reins of power in his hands.”
“Or he could be working with our enemies… feeding us enough evidence to keep us looking the other way as he works to unseat me.”
Cecil did not discount the possibility. Our man in Ridolfi’s household was not proving astoundingly useful either. He was only privy to certain meetings, and admitted he had no idea if Ridolfi was truly working for us.
Norfolk, showing unusual caution, refused to sign a list Ridolfi presented, requesting men and arms from Spain. Ridolfi added his name to the document later, forging his signature.