by G Lawrence
I was Deborah, the judge and restorer of England, as she had been of Israel. No one was going to undermine my God-given authority.
This bill went to the Lords, and many peers rejected it, saying that it infringed on their noble rights. The Lords were willing to support an altered version as long as it did not extend to them, but I exercised my right to veto.
“I will not force an inquisition on my subjects,” I said. “Men must be permitted to worship as is their right, in private. I will not take that from them.”
The bill failed, and those who supported it were unhappy, but I was not.
The men who wanted this hard measure taken were interfering in matters not their own. I was the Supreme Governor of the Church. I had been appointed by God to do what was right for England, and that was just what I was going to do.
Three Acts were passed. The Treasons Act made it illegal to question my right to the throne, or say I was a heretic, usurper or tyrant. This had a clear purpose. If Mary used any of these terms for me, we had reason to move against her.
Another Act made bringing Papal bulls into England or receiving or handling anything bearing a papal stamp treason. Items of popish worship, such as rosaries, Agnus Deis, religious images and crucifixes were outlawed, subject to loss of property and wealth, and the Act Against Fugitives Over the Sea made it law that Catholics who had fled to other countries were commanded to return within six months, or forfeit lands and goods to the Crown. This was in truth a strike against William Allen. English Catholics supporting his college would no more be allowed to draw on funds from home to grant to my enemies.
Although I approved this Act, I had included a proviso. The wife and children of any exile gone abroad due to his conscience, who was not accused of treason, would be provided for within England. I was well aware that women sometimes suffered for the choices of their husbands and it was better that loyal wives and their offspring stayed in England, so the children might be raised to see me as fair and just, rather than duplicitous and evil.
All these Acts were a strike against English Catholics. I was not happy about it, but some measures had to be taken, and I kept the more radical of bills and punishments at bay.
One man, Thomas Norton, thought the Treasons Act did not go far enough and wanted its provisions extended so that no one could stake a claim, justified or not, to my throne in my lifetime. It was clear he was talking about Mary, and I rejected it.
“This being brought unto us,” I said to the Commons, “we misliked it very much, being not of the mind to offer extremity or injury to any person. For as we mind no harm to others, so we hope none will mind it unto us.”
When Parliament closed, I made a few choice comments about people who had wasted time, as well as those who had the presumption to tell me what to do with my own Church. They were “meddling in matters neither pertaining to them nor within the capacity of their understanding,” I told them.
I had all I wanted. I had maintained a space still, for those who were loyal to me, but cherished the old faith, to continue living in England, but had introduced measures to detect and deal with treason swiftly. Cecil thought me too lenient, but he had no way to introduce further reforms or sanctions without revealing the Ridolfi intrigue. He was not about to do that when he was so close to springing his trap.
Secret plots have their uses, I thought as I left Westminster, smiling.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1571
In those anxious days of summer, I spent a long time chattering away to my ladies on the subject of Anjou.
“I find his countenance most appealing,” I said as we gazed upon his portrait. It was untrue. Anjou was nothing to Robin.
“He cuts an impressive figure,” said Lady Cobham.
“A true son of France,” said Blanche, a sardonic glimmer in her eyes.
“I am resolved to have him,” I said. “I feel something when I look upon him, something strong and enduring. I know this match would be best for England, but I come to think it is also best for me.”
“There is inequality in your ages, madam,” said Lady Cobham, “and I have always believed marriages are happiest between parties of the same age, but since it please God that you are the eldest, the Duc will be content with your other qualities.”
“His youth should not inspire you with fear, Majesty,” added Lady Clinton. “He is virtuous, and Your Majesty is better calculated to please him than any other princess in the world.”
“I will place all my affection on this prince, and love and honour him as my lord and husband. I hope this can be enough for him.” I twisted my lips. “Do you think he will despise me if I am unable to bear children?”
They rushed to assure me it was not so, citing my wisdom, beauty and lineage as just reasons why the Duc should be wildly in love with me. Within days, rumour had spread through court, saying I was so taken with Anjou that nothing would prevent our marriage.
Fenelon was certainly convinced. He was overjoyed to hear of the private conversations in my bedchamber, and I made sure Blanche kept him well informed. Hearing of my fears about our ages, he sought to reassure me.
“God has so well preserved Your Majesty that time has diminished none of your charms and perfections,” he said. “Monsieur looks older than your years!”
Because cruel thoughts and ill living bring strain upon good looks granted by God, I thought.
“You will find in the Duc everything you could wish for your honour, grandeur, the security and repose of your realm, combined with perfect happiness for yourself,” gushed the ambassador.
Fenelon was starting to sound faintly ludicrous.
“Do you think the Duc might be persuaded to come to England in secret?” I asked in a hushed voice. “So we might meet not as lords and princes, but as people?”
Although Fenelon eagerly jabbered that he was sure his master would find the notion romantic, France turned it down. Perhaps they remembered when my father had been seeking another bride, and perhaps another grave to fill, and sent word that he would like to inspect the royal ladies of France, so he might take his pick. François I had turned him down, and his daughter-in-law, Catherine de Medici, did the same to me.
Do you fear your son being sent as a pack horse for inspection, Catherine? my mind asked. Or do you tremble to think I will see his flaws?
With rumours of imminent marriage unfolding, we had news of Ridolfi. He had arrived in Spain, welcomed with open arms by Phillip.
“The last stitches are being sewn,” said Cecil.
There was word that the invasion force was being mustered in the Low Countries with Alba as the commander. Norfolk was to rouse English Catholics, rise up and take control of me and London simultaneously. Mary would be liberated, proclaimed Queen, and Norfolk would wed her, so they might rule jointly and restore the Catholic faith.
But we already knew there were chinks in their armour. Ridolfi appeared to have wildly overestimated the numbers of Catholics ready to rise.
“It has made Norfolk confident,” Cecil said.
“Confident enough to miss what is blindingly obvious, apparently,” I said. “How is it that Norfolk believes Ridolfi’s estimates? Norfolk is in England, surely he can see there are not as many traitorous lords as Ridolfi has suggested?”
“Norfolk believes what he wants to believe. The man is cast so deep in his own fantasies that he knows not what reality is anymore.”
“And has Mary agreed to this?” Cecil’s face shifted. “Do not lie to me, old friend,” I warned.
“She has neither written nor said anything certain in support of the plot,” he admitted. “But it is all there… in abstract thought and word.”
“That is not enough, Cecil.” I sighed, passing a hand over my gritty eyes. Sleep was hard to find those days. Try thinking there is an assassin in every dark corner and you will not rest easy either. “Without solid, irrefutable proof, I can do nothing against her.”
/>
“I will get it, Majesty,” Cecil said. “Just grant me time.”
But time was a spare commodity. The plot was advancing. If Spanish troops landed in England I was in serious danger, but then, like a shaft of sunlight on a dull day, there was good news.
“One of Dee’s friends in the Low Countries sent word, Majesty,” Cecil said, almost crowing with delight. “Alba does not believe Ridolfi’s claims about the numbers of Catholics ready to rise, and has told Phillip that to invade on the word of a useless blabbermouth would see the invasion fail, the cause of popery damaged, and send Mary into mortal danger.”
“Did you tell Ridolfi to exaggerate?”
“We told Ridolfi to overestimate numbers so they would appear suspicious, indeed,” said my merry Cecil, “and to annoy the Duque.” Cecil grinned. “It appears he succeeded.”
“Whilst I am pleased, we still have English traitors to deal with.”
“We have lists of their names, and mounting evidence against them,” said Cecil.
“Will you not tell me who you think is involved?”
“Not yet, Majesty,” he said “It is better that you act the same towards all people, for the purpose of pretending we know nothing of the plot.”
“Very well,” I said. “But make sure your evidence is tight, Cecil. I want no traitors escaping when the time comes.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1571
That July Robin was joyous. He received good news. The charge of treason levelled against him by my sister during her reign had been overturned by a court of law, and finally his family was free of the stain of betrayal.
If he was pleased by this, he was less so with me. Hatton had been much in my company, and Robin was jealous.
I was not about to abandon Hatton, even for Robin. Hatton was often in agreement with me, held similar, moderate views on religion, and supported me against my Council. Think not that all of this was done for flattery and advancement. There were times he disagreed with me, and told me so, but most of the time, Hatton could be relied upon to support me. There were times I needed someone like him.
As a Council Member, Robin was often volatile, and at times unpredictable. He had a heart of fire, and whilst I admired his zeal and passion, there are times for calm waters to run in the stream of life. Balance was required. With Walsingham my man of shadow and secrets, Cecil the voice of reason and caution, Robin the zealous, and Sussex the man of military experience, I had a full complement of opinions. Hatton, although not a member of the Council at that time, was useful to me. He was calm and considered, which made some men think he was too cautious, fearful or hesitant, but it was not so. He had a mind, but liked to think before he acted. This was often not true of Robin, and never more so than when he was roused to jealousy.
And there was more than one man he disliked at that time.
Oxford was often with me. He was a talented musician, poet, dancer, a champion jouster and one of the best horsemen I had met since Robin. He bore a slender, lithe figure and bewitching hazel eyes, but he was a man of mind as much as of action, and wrote beautiful poetry. He was also reckless, impulsive and erratic, traits which, although they precluded him from serving on my Council, excited me. There was great hope amongst Robin’s foes that Oxford would displace him in my affections, but there was only one Robin.
“How am I to know your heart is still mine, when you offer smiles and affection to others?” Robin asked when I tried to assure him I still loved him.
“How am I to know your heart is still mine when you invite Douglas Sheffield to your bed, and keep many mistresses about London?” I retorted. “The answer to this riddle, Robin, is trust. I trust that despite keeping mistresses, you love me, and you need to trust that whilst I have other friends, I love you.”
My logic was only partially successful. Robin thought himself the wounded party, despite the fact that he was keeping intimate company with many women, whilst all I was doing was flirting.
There was talk I might set aside Anjou and wed Oxford or Hatton, who were both without wives. I smiled to hear it. See, Anjou? I said to my reluctant suitor. Other men desire me.
It was also useful to keep France from growing too confident. I did not want them thinking I was an easy catch.
*
“Walsingham thinks it a good idea.” Cecil’s tone was defensive.
“Perhaps he does, Cecil, but I am not about to offer open support to the rebels. We have been embroiled in the wars of other lands before, old friend. It did no good for England.”
“But we are already involved.”
“Phillip does not know that,” I said. “He only suspects. Going along with Walsingham’s plan, especially right now, would be premature.”
“I agree, it might persuade Phillip to command Alba to invade,” said Robin. “But if France were persuaded to join us…”
“I admit the idea of a defensive league is more to my liking than marrying that foolish boy of France,” I said. “But this could bring about war.”
Walsingham had written with a new notion. He was certain talks of marriage with France were going nowhere, which I thought rather uncannily astute given all my efforts. Walsingham was a little too quick for comfort. I had always prided myself on being one step ahead of my men. With Walsingham, I had the unsettling feeling that I was, in fact, one pace behind.
He suggested another path to national security. It centred on forming an alliance with France, but also with the Netherlands. Orange, now an exile in France, along with his brother, Louis of Nassau, had sent word to Walsingham they were interested, and went a step further, saying the league should not be merely defensive, but offensive. United, England, France and the Low Countries would wage war against Phillip in the Netherlands, dividing territory between us once the war was won.
Walsingham admitted he was not experienced enough to offer counsel on what we should do, but was in support of the idea. Spain had already shown itself an enemy, he wrote, and an offensive league could be justified by Phillip’s assault on Drake and Hawkins, his trade embargo, and de Spes’ encouragement of the northern rebellion. There was another reason, too. Thomas Stucley, my erstwhile spy, had been named Duke of Ireland at Phillip’s court. Supporting Orange would “advance the cause of religion throughout all Christendom,” Walsingham wrote, “an act worthy of a Christian prince.”
“Victory is a true possibility, if France and the Netherlands are with us,” said Robin. “I realise you do not like war, Majesty, but when there is true hope of triumph…”
“I dislike war not because of the possibility of failure, but because it wastes good money and even better men,” I said tartly. “And everyone thinks they will succeed, Robin. It is a fiction that must be maintained, or no one would ever march towards Death so merrily.”
I frowned. “We will have Walsingham put the proposal to Charles and his mother,” I said. “And I will want to know what sums of money would be involved. But this must be done quietly. Alba’s men must stay in the Low Countries. I want none on English soil.”
Seeing Robin’s eyes light up like dark oak after rain, I shook my head. “I have no answer for you on the league, and I will not until I know what support it has from France. Orange and his rebels are not in a strong position at the moment. France will be the deciding factor, Robin, but I promise to give both the defensive and offensive leagues my full consideration.”
“That is all I wish for,” he said.
“Tush,” I scolded. “What lies, sweet Robin! You would be a commander of war. I see it in your eyes. Were your experiences in France not enough to show you war is a filthy thing?”
Evidently not. Robin longed for glory. My rule did not grant men many ways to excel in war. But what men like Robin failed to understand was that peace brought prosperity, not war. I also did not want to send my people into such horror. Men who talk of generals with frank admiration fail to remember that most of the time they are f
ar behind the front lines, protected by a shield of men. Commoners who bear the brunt of every bloody charge are the ones who truly win wars. If they all refused to stand, what would even the most skilled general do? But common soldiers are not celebrated, and die without recognition, thrown into mass graves, lost even to those who would come to mourn them.
I was no warmonger. But there are other ways to wage war, without committing men to battle.
Robin left unhappy. My reluctance to go to war only added to his frustrations about my other favourites. When, a few days later, he was still growling about court, I called him to me. “I want you to cease this foolish behaviour,” I said.