by G Lawrence
Robin tried to distract me, not only with business, but pleasure. He told me of Leicester’s Men, a company of players he had formed. “They will be my men,” he boasted. “My own players.”
“And they will be licensed,” I told him. “And wear the livery of their lord.”
The reason I wanted this was so that such companies of players would be set apart from masterless vagabonds who roamed the streets. If Robin’s company got up to mischief, as players often did, they would be easily traced by their clothing and punished.
Cecil smiled to see Robin’s unease as I mentioned licences, but in general they were peaceable companions in my chambers. Although often at odds in terms of politics, the old rivalry that had once consumed my Eyes and Spirit was long-forgotten. Where once justices of the peace in each shire had worn either Cecil’s livery or Robin’s, as a sign of their loyalties, this happened no more. Agree all the time, they certainly did not, but work together often, they did. They united at such times out of mutual devotion to me.
As I lay sick, some said dying, it was postulated that the reason for my illness might be unnatural. Poison was suggested. I was of the opinion that I had eaten something poor, possibly a fish dish I had partaken of on the day before I lost all appetite. But many saw the hand of Phillip, or Mary, behind my illness.
As ever when I became ill, the succession leapt into everyone’s minds. When I recovered, I tried to pass the illness off as nothing, but was badgered into allowing Parliament to sit as a matter of urgency. They wanted to pass resolutions against Mary, to prevent her from taking power if I died.
I agreed, with ill grace, and set all my energy into getting better. When I emerged from my chambers, wan and thin, I met with Fenelon, and told him I had dismissed ideas of poison, as well as the theory of the bad fish, and thought instead my sickness had come about from complacency.
“I have been so hale these past four years,” I said. “That I became used to the idea and ignored the strict discipline my physicians formerly had imposed upon me, by purging my body and drawing blood from time to time.”
I did not want reports of my ill health circulating, neither did I wish people to think I had been poisoned. Even if I had, the attempt had failed. Rumours of poison only led to trouble, and with Parliament looming I did not need anyone thinking I was about to be murdered. Mary of Scots would be implicated, and she was in enough trouble as it was.
One day, just as my belly recovered, my teeth decided to pain me. Doctors treated me with parsley and marjoram, but the only true relief came from putting a sharp clove in my mouth and holding it to the gum. As my gums became numb, I was taken with the feeling that the season of Christmas had invaded my mouth. Later, one of my doctors brought spurge to me. This had a more lasting effect when applied to the offending tooth. All pain left me, and I became quite light in spirit. It is astounding what joy the removal of constant pain can bring.
As I got better, Cecil fell ill. He had been suffering from gout, and that April had such a virulent attack that his life was said to be in peril. I went to his bedside as he had come to mine. “You must get well, old friend,” I said, holding his hand. “You know I am lost without you.”
Cecil tried to smile, but he was in immense pain. His feet were hideously swollen. Red, searing flesh was stretched tight over his toes, wrists and elbows. He was hot and shivery, and although his men were keeping him cool by applying wet towels, the cloths rapidly became heated and uncomfortable.
His doctors were treating him with infusions of oak and ash, known for their potency against gout, along with tansy seeds and their flowers. They wanted him to take a spoonful of dandelion juice in milk each day when he was well again, to ward off the illness, and told him he should consume less red meat, beer and cheese.
“I hardly eat much flesh as it is,” Cecil told me. “I take from my Queen’s example.”
“We will see you are well stocked with fine fish, so you never think yourself hard done by at dinner,” I said.
One doctor suggested another reason for Cecil’s illness might be the strain of his position. With this in mind, I suggested a change.
The ancient Earl of Winchester, one of the few octogenarians I had ever met, had died, leaving the post of Lord Treasurer free. I had offered it to Robin, and had been more shocked than I could say when he turned it down, saying he had not the experience or knowledge required. There was a time Robin would have grasped any post, large or small, and clung to it with a grip of iron, but clearly those days had passed.
“You would remain my chief counsellor,” I warned Cecil. “But the workload would be lessened.”
“I will take the post, Majesty,” he said.
It was a sign of the severity of Cecil’s illness that he accepted. He lived on work, thrived on it, but was becoming aware of his limitations.
That month I signed another order to execute Norfolk, and called it back again. My wavering was causing everyone to think Norfolk might escape with his life, but I remained unsure. I could not get the twin voices inside me to agree, and although I knew it made me look foolish, weak and hesitant, I could not kill him in good conscience.
But another part of me knew there was another reason to stall. I did not want to face that reason, did not want to admit I had even thought it, but it was there. The reason I was unwilling to admit knowledge of it was because I could not stand what it implied about me.
I knew there would come a time when I would need Norfolk, not to live, but to die… at the right moment.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Whitehall Palace
Spring 1572
Antipathy to Mary was on the rise. Petitions from nobles arrived each day, begging either for her release or execution, and there was talk amongst the common people that I should rid myself of this emissary of Satan and have done with it. Parliament wanted stern action, and I knew I was going to have trouble defending both her and Norfolk.
Others were punished. Arundel remained under house arrest, as did Stanley, and Percy was in the Tower. Lord Cobham and his wife lost their positions. Officially, Cobham was placed under house arrest because of his brother asking him to keep quiet the reports he had found from Ridolfi, but his arrest was, in reality, all for show. Cecil had asked Cobham to keep the letters quiet. Cobham was a cover, a veil we cast over our secret dealings.
“I am sorry to have to do this to you and your husband, Frances,” I said to Lady Cobham, my Mistress of the Robes, when she came to me, officially to be scolded, but in truth so I could explain the situation. “I will see both of you restored in time, but for now you must play the part.”
I was sad to do such a thing to the Cobhams. Lord Cobham was a fine man, and Frances a good woman. Although frequently pregnant, she never allowed the state to prevent her from doing anything. “It is not a sickness,” she always declared with a chuckle when anyone spoke of her continuing to attend to her duties to me even when eight months heavy with child. Even when in her lying-in chamber, Frances was always thinking of me, and she made beautiful sleeves for my gowns, always presented to me upon her return to court. Although an often absent mother, she was an attentive one, not only seeing to her children’s tutors and diet, as many mothers did, but making visits to them whenever she could be spared, and taking on their education herself at such times. She was a woman with the skill to balance her home and public life, and both her career at court and her family flourished because of her inexhaustible vim and pluck.
“We are happy to do anything for you, Majesty,” she said. “We will retire to our estates, and await the joyous day we might return.”
Officially, they were under house arrest, but their imprisonment was not onerous. They were permitted to ride and hunt, as well as conduct business. Lord Cobham wrote secretly to me, and told me that his ‘disgrace’ was granting him time to get to grips with much that he had been unable to concentrate on due to his work for the Cinque Ports. I promised that when they were restored, I would reinstat
e their positions and grant back-pay for their posts. I kept my promises.
The Cobhams bore their disgrace well, especially since it was entirely undeserved. I was happy to know there were people like them in the world; individuals willing to suffer so we might prevail as a whole. If there were more people with such an altruistic frame of mind, the world might be an easier, more welcoming place.
*
That April, as swallows winged wild and swift into England seeking nests and tasty insects, we concluded the Treaty of Blois with France. This treaty secured our defensive league, made us allies without marriage, and offered the protection England so desperately required.
Each country was to provide military and naval assistance in the event we should come under attack from Spain or the rebellious Netherlands, which were more a threat to France than England.
We got the best deal. We were under no compulsion to commit to involvement with French affairs in the Netherlands. France, with King Charles being heavily influenced by the Huguenot leader, Admiral Coligny, looked poised to intervene. Catherine de Medici feared this, and was trying to sway her son against military action. The treaty also did not rule out the possibility we might renew trade with Burgundy, and France had, to all intents and purposes, recognised King James as the ruler of Scotland. France promised to intervene no more on Mary’s behalf, and Lennox’s successor, the pro-English Earl of Mar, had become regent for his infant King, which was also to our advantage.
French support for Mary died with that treaty.
At least I may rest easy about one of England’s neighbours, I thought, staring upon a mural of Adam and Eve.
After the Ridolfi incident and the uprising of the north, France had less interest in supporting Mary in any case. Charles and his mother were somewhat embarrassed by their links to her. But the lengths and depths to which Mary had committed to the plot remained unclear. Shrewsbury had been instructed to apply pressure to make her confess, but she had stood firm. Mary could be naive, but she was no simpleton. She knew we had nothing and did not mean to offer up evidence we could use against her. Disturbingly, she reminded me of me, during my time of house arrest. But you are not your sister, I consoled myself. Mary plays the part you took on as a youth, but you are the old master of the game.
Walsingham, although he had been ill with a malady in his waters and weakness in his eyes, had worked long and hard on the treaty with the help of Sir Henry Killigrew and Ambassador Smith. Poor Walsingham was investigating the possibility of surgery for his complaint and was consulting a Christianized Jew, Roderigo Lopez, who was famed for his skill. Lopez thought Walsingham had stones in his kidneys, and there was a risky, but potentially beneficial operation to remove them.
Lopez had told Walsingham that older men were more likely to contract stones, even though their humours were cooler than those of young men. Aged men had a weak expulsive faculty, and did not expel urine with the same force as youths. Lopez banned him from meat, shell fish, cheese, and many fruits, and urged him to undertake the operation. Walsingham agreed, but would not allow him to do the operation until the treaty was signed.
Even to the detriment of his health, Walsingham will protect England, I thought. It was one of the first times I felt genuine friendship for him. It would not be the last.
As a reward, I sent Walsingham a portrait of my family. My father sat at the centre, with my brother kneeling beside him. On one side were my sister and Phillip, followed by Mars, the ancient God of War, and on the other was me, a larger, more imposing figure than my sister, holding hands with figures representing Peace and Prosperity. At the bottom of the portrait was an inscription; “The Quene to Walsingham this tablet sente; Mark of her people’s and her own content.”
It was an expensive gift, and a rare one. It was not often I commissioned portraits, but I made an exception for Walsingham. I hoped he would be proud to display it in his chambers, but I heard from Robin that Walsingham was disappointed, not with the gift, but with the treaty. My defensive compromise was not to his liking.
“He thinks we should combine forces and embark on a joint campaign in the Netherlands… to oust Spain for good.” Seeing my face growing angry, Robin hurried on. “It is not only of military advantage,” he protested. “Were our allies to hold the waters from England to France and up to the Low Countries, trade would be safe, and much improved.”
“And how many lives would that cost?” I asked. “It is easy for men such as you, Rob. You sit at the edge of battle as common people fight. You reap benefits as they are rewarded only with death and suffering.” I shook my head. “I am no warmonger. If Spain makes trouble, I shall answer, but I will not subject my people to suffering unless England is threatened first.”
“Sometimes, Majesty, a threat should be crushed before it has time to lift its head.”
I eyed him angrily. “I hear Walsingham’s words from your mouth,” I said. Walsingham had said similar things in the past. Robin flushed, caught out. “Sometimes, Robin, we should be cautious before leaping into war with allies only just made.”
“Walsingham is confident the French would see it through.”
“I am less so. France is fragile. Only just have they recovered from civil war, and there is still dissent amongst their people.”
Seeing his disappointment, I went to him. “Come,” I said with warmth. “This is no time to pick holes in our good work. Let us celebrate, my lord. Your feast tonight will fill us with hope, joy and food. As we eat, let us think not of what trouble might come, but what has been achieved.”
Robin left with a downcast face. I sighed to see it. Why can he not enjoy the present? I asked myself. It is important to take pleasure in what one has achieved. The present is just as important as the past and future.
Plenty of others did celebrate. That night at Whitehall there was a grand feast to celebrate the treaty. Robin organised the event, one of the greatest efforts he had made thus far at court. We feasted on fish, filling our bellies with roasted carp, bream, trout and pike, as well as shrimp in creamy broth, and lamprey cooked three ways. That night was the first I had been able to take to the floor after my illness, and I took great pleasure in dancing with Hatton.
“He moves as sunlight,” I said to my ladies when we stopped to rest.
Hatton floated like air, like the moment you see a shaft of sunlight flit through a window and witness particles of dust, normally invisible to the eye, floating in the air. It is as though, when this is seen, one can see the air itself, a wending stream caught in sunlight, an invisible essence, betrayed only by the dancing dust.
Robin took my hand for the galliard, and when we danced, although I will admit Hatton was superior to us both, those watching saw two persons made one. Our timing was faultless. Each clap of hands, shift of hips, and leap into the air was perfect. When we finished, there was great applause, and I stood, marvelling. I had not noted all other dancers had fallen back to watch us. That was Robin’s power. When he took hands with me, he was the only man in the world.
We went to our beds late that night, suffused with new energy. England had witnessed mighty peril, but we had emerged only stronger than before.
But I was not allowed to remain happy for long.
Although the Treaty of Blois was not subject to marriage to make it binding, Catherine de Medici had not surrendered.
“Jesu!” she exclaimed to Smith. “Does not your mistress see plainly that she will always be in danger until she marries? If she marries into some good house, who shall dare attempt aught against her?”
Smith was in agreement. He said that if I had just one child the problems with Mary of Scots and other foes would “be clean choked up.”
“Why stop at one child?” asked the fertile Queen Mother. “Why not five or six?”
“Would to God she had one!” Smith said passionately.
“No indeed,” replied the Medici. “The Queen should have two boys, lest one should die, three or four daughters to make allia
nces with us again, and other princes to strengthen the realm.”
“Why then, you think Monsieur le Duc should speed?”
“I desire it infinitely,” said the Medici woman.
She might desire to see me drowning in babies, but I did not. I little wanted to endure one birth, but the French Queen Mother would have me birth a litter.
I was a queen, not a rat. Leave birthing an entire generation to other women. I had other things to achieve.
I had everything I wanted, so why pretend to continue to desire marriage? I could pull the marriage card from my sleeve anytime we needed to use it, and in remaining single, I would always hold that card in my fingertips, ready to play. Remaining single was, in truth, a great strength, not only for me, but for England.
The French continued to thrust Alençon at me, saying if I had been disposed to take a fancy to Anjou, why not transfer my affections to Alençon, who came of the same lusty father and vigorous line?
“Vigorous line!” I exclaimed to my ladies. “They may have a point in terms of numbers, but not in stability.”