Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

Bess laughed and turned her horse. “May God keep you, Majesty.”

  “I will pray He returns the favour for you, Bess.”

  By the end of July we were at Gormanbury, the mansion home of Lord Keeper Bacon. His wife and two sons greeted us and took us to Bacon.

  I gazed up at the house. It was grand, but Bacon had told me so much of it that I had expected it to be larger. “You have made your house too little for your lordship,” I said, teasing him.

  “No indeed, madam,” said Bacon, a wry twist upon his lips. “Your Highness has made me too big for my house.”

  I chuckled and we went indoors. The unusually hot spring had ceded to a fluctuating start to summer. The skies could not make up their minds. One day it was hot, sultry and uncomfortable, the next it rained. That day, mizzle was seeping into my clothes.

  That evening, dried and dressed anew in a most becoming gown of green velvet, I presided over the entertainments. Bacon had called upon children to dance for us before we dined, and since the weather had obligingly decided to turn from mist to sunshine, it was held outdoors.

  The dancers put on a fine show and I sent Hatton to reward each with a coin. Later, we dined well and then there was a dance. I took Hatton’s hand, then Heneage’s, and then Robin came for me. “Do you have spirit enough left to honour me with a dance, Majesty?” he asked.

  “When it comes to you, my Eyes, I always have spirit. And if not, you grant it to me.”

  I danced that night like a free soul. There were challenges to face, and mountains to climb, but that night I felt at liberty from all my cares.

  With Robin’s hands on my thin waist, heaving me into the air, I felt as though I might sprout wings from my shoulder blades, and fly, as a bird, loosed upon the winds of the earth.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Coventry and Warwick

  Summer 1572

  We made for Coventry and rode under blue skies, fresh from a night of deep rain. The paths were wet, shining with lingering moisture, and there was a fresh, intoxicating smell risen up from the earth. As we rode that morning, we passed a row of bowing men, pausing from their silent task of fishing on a stone bridge over a nearby river. I lifted my hand to them and smiled. The men joined arms with each other and danced a little jig for me as we passed, which made me chuckle.

  The hooves of our horses clopped along the roads, and over our heads, the canopies of oak and ash trees had bonded, their branches interwoven, like people reaching out to hold hands with one another. Golden grain, whispering in the wind, lit up the horizon like fire, and blackbirds trilled merrily in the trees. The wives of yeomen glanced up from harvesting their gardens, peas, cabbages and carrots in their earth-caked hands, and curtseyed to our procession. Elder and meadow-sweet were transforming from flower to seed, and lime trees were just bursting into bloom, much to the happiness of roaming bees.

  All things were made new, or so I felt.

  Coventry was an important stop. It had played host to my cousin of Scots during the uprising, and I wanted its people to know I was grateful. We stopped at Whitefriars, where I had stayed some years ago with the Hales family. Sir John, my former host, had died earlier that year, but his nephew, John Hales II, was a charming replacement.

  “The house, really, is that of Henry Berkeley now, Your Majesty,” the young man told me as he led me to my chamber. The more important a guest was, the faster they were shown to their rooms. As Queen, I was never left to wait in the Great Hall. “My family have moved to another property,” he went on as he guided me through the dark hallways.

  “What do you call your new house?”

  Hales chuckled. “You have caught us, my lady. At the moment, it is simply known as ‘New House’. I had hoped for something a little more prestigious, but we have grown rather fond of the name.”

  “There is nothing wrong in that. It is all the little oddities and traditions of a family which make it unique.”

  Whitefriars had, as the name suggested, once been a friary. Closed during the suppression of the monasteries under my father, it had once been home to a Carmelite order, dependent on gifts and money from pilgrims. Much of the decoration had been stripped out, but it still possessed a large church, part of which Hales senior had converted into a grammar school, and cloisters which had been made into residences. The school had been moved during the reign of my sister, when Hales senior had fled overseas. Despite his being abroad, my sister had fined Hales for the discovery of a Protestant printing press in his house.

  It was a pretty place. Red sandstone bricks made the outside walls glow in the afternoon sun, and the interior was painted white. There were patterned clay tiles on many of the floors, and I was rather pleased to note that many original features had escaped the purges of my brother’s zealous reign.

  One element of the Protestant faith I could never understand was its aversion to beauty. Some seemed to think beauty was created solely by the Devil, to tempt them, but I disagreed. God made the world. If He was averse to beauty, why had He made so much of the world a treat for the eyes? Those who turn from beauty turn from God. The Almighty wanted us to look upon His works and marvel, taking that beauty into our souls, to replenish our spirits. In contemplating beauty, we edge closer to understanding His eternal soul. There was no sin in prettiness. The only sin was to become too obsessed with it. God understands that everything in moderation is a blessing, as a glut of anything is unhealthy.

  The rest of court was housed in nearby properties, but there was also a sea of tents in the park. It was impossible to grant everyone a chamber on progress. Even I, on rare occasions, slept under canvas. My tents were warmed with braziers, had wooden floors, plush seats and comfortable furniture, as well as beds stocked with thick blankets. At times, if summer was as summer should be, it was refreshing to sleep outside. Cool night breezes, riding the breath of retreating, balmy air, brought relief. But if summer was damp or chilly, I preferred to stay inside a house.

  I was pleased with Coventry. The Recorder told me that my people had “a greedy taste” for me, and I welcomed their hunger.

  Crowds of common people cheered for me, and my soul soared to hear them. I had come through fire and blood and betrayal, and had emerged, not unscathed, but still fighting. It was a lonely existence, being a queen. Set above all others, I stood alone. I was seen by all, yet understood by none. I was before them, but a part of me was always hidden, unknown.

  But even if we could never be intimates, my people were with me. They wanted me, needed me, and loved me. They never knew it, but they were my strength. I could face the void of loneliness, the emptiness that haunted me, as long as they were there, holding on to me, never letting go. The void would always be there, but my people would not let me fall.

  *

  Warwick was our next stop. We were to stay with Ambrose Dudley, at Warwick Castle, but first we visited the city. I arrived in Warwick in a magnificent carriage, with Ambrose’s wife, Anne, at my side. The carriage looked a great deal more comfortable than it was. I loathed the unwieldy contraptions. Every divot in the road could be felt even through piles of cushions, and the hard seats hurt my back. But it was necessary. I wanted the crowds to see me, and also to note I was favouring Anne. She was a good woman, and I liked her a great deal, but it was important to uphold the links between Ambrose and me too. He was one of my most experienced and important generals, and had done me good service.

  The town’s Recorder, a Master Aglionby, delivered a halting, flustered speech of welcome. By the time he finished, half the crowd looked as though they might laugh. The other half was split between those who were utterly confused, not having been able to catch his meaning, and those who were angry this spluttering man had insulted me by his ignominious speech. Aglionby saw all this too, and became mightily red in the face.

  As his speech ended, the bailiff, Robert Phillips, came to me, approaching the end of my carriage to kneel and present a pretty purse, containing twenty pounds. I looked at Robin. “My l
ord, this is contrary to your promise,” I said. Robin had sworn, in accordance with my wishes, that few gifts would be offered. Presents from nobles were one thing, since they had plenty of coin, but my people spending their precious money on me I did not want. They already had to pay taxes. But to refuse the gift now it had been offered would offend them, I was sure.

  I turned to Phillips and the crowd. “Bailiff,” I said. “I thank you, and you all, with all my heart, for your goodwill. I am loath to take anything at your hands now because I know that a mite of some hands is as much as a thousand pounds in others. Nevertheless, so you do not think I dislike your goodwill, I will accept it with most hearty thanks to you all, praying to God that it may perform, as Master Recorder says, such benefit as is hoped.”

  I extended my hand to Phillips and he kissed it. I then called to Aglionby. “Come hither, little Recorder,” I said, a catch of warmth in my tone.

  He was standing, shamefaced, a little way from me. “It was told to me you would be afraid to look upon me, or speak to me boldly,” I said, “but you were not so afraid of me as I was of you. And now I thank you for putting me in mind of my duty.”

  “I would thank this good Recorder for his words of welcome,” I announced to the crowds. “I have always been fond of a riddle, and there was riddle enough in his words, but I could fathom his meaning. I thank you all for welcoming me to Warwick. I carry deep and abiding love for you all in my heart, and your good Recorder has assured me you carry the same for me. We are good friends, therefore, are we not?”

  There was great cheering. “I most heartily thank you all, my good people,” I said and looked to Aglionby. “Fear not, little Recorder,” I said quietly. “Tell any who asks that the Queen was not displeased with you.” I pinched his side. “You did well enough.”

  Aglionby muttered his thanks and fell back. His cheeks were still red, but there were tears of relief in his eyes for my kindness.

  When we reached Warwick Castle there was a dancing display in the gardens. I watched from the windows as young lads and girls tripped and slipped about, dressed in ancient-styled costumes. Sweet music played; harps and lutes, as well as a drum which sounded as a heartbeat of my soul. As they finished, I applauded. “A fine show!” I called. “A fine show that shall be rewarded!”

  Each took home a purse of money, and they were not the only ones to be rewarded. I took the time to entertain de la Mole handsomely. I had him to supper, and the next day entertained him by playing the spinet. One night there was a firework display, and a mock water-battle on one of Ambrose’s many lakes. Oxford led the attacking company, with Robin and Hatton on the opposing side. The two teams rowed out onto the lake as the sun started to set. Flaming torches blazed about the shores, and the water was dappled red, as though blood danced amongst the emerging stars. On the banks, Ambrose had set up tents. I sat in one with de la Mole, lying back on plump cushions of velvet and silk. About the slippery edges of the lake, courtiers gathered. The air rang with the sound of Robin and Oxford shouting commands to their men, with the clink of coins changing hands as courtiers wagered on the pageant, and with the delicate stream of notes floating from Ambrose’s musicians.

  “I wish now I had accepted the Lord of Leicester’s offer to take part,” said de la Mole, leaning forward, his eyes hungrily assessing the battle. “I think it might have been greatly pleasurable.”

  I laughed, watching my men as they bashed boats and jousted with oars. “Why did you refuse?”

  De la Mole turned, his face infected by a cheeky smirk. “Ah, Majesty,” he said. “In your country I am the infidel. I would trust Lord Robert with my life, but some of the other men in your retinue might think to abuse me in order that they might honour your country.”

  “France and England are at peace, de la Mole. We are friends.”

  “To an Englishman, a Frenchman will always be the enemy,” he said. “No matter how many treaties are signed, it will always be so.” He sniffed and drew himself up, assuming a mockingly tragic expression. “I will shoulder the burden. For my position allows me to draw close to the most beautiful Queen in the world.”

  “You flatter me, sir.”

  “I tell only the truth.”

  “Tell me of the Princess Margot,” I said. “I hear she is known as the most beautiful woman in France.”

  “She is no rival to you, madam.”

  He was lying. Even de la Mole’s experienced and well-trained face could not conceal the glint of love that came to his eyes. I knew then that Walsingham had been correct. If de la Mole was not Margot’s lover, he certainly loved her.

  “Tell me of her all the same.”

  His eyes softened. “She is not as tall as Your Majesty, but has long, golden hair that is much admired. She boasts a clean, pure complexion, and a ready wit, but she is always kind.”

  “She sounds wonderful,” I said. “I regret that my offices in England do not permit me to personally meet my royal brothers and sisters. Sometimes I think much more would be done for peace if this were possible.”

  “I think your separation from my masters a great shame, Majesty,” de la Mole agreed.

  “Your Princess is one I would like to meet.”

  “I will tell her that, Majesty, and she will be overjoyed.” He paused. “Perhaps I can trust you to keep a secret? One which will paint her in the light she deserves?”

  “You can trust me, my lord ambassador. I hold more secrets than any man would think possible.”

  He nodded. “And I believe you, so I will confide.” His eyes strayed to the water, ostensibly by accident, but I caught a shadow of regret in them. De la Mole did not want me to see it. “The Princess does not want to marry the King of Navarre, but has agreed to sacrifice her personal happiness for the sake of her country. It is her earnest wish that her marriage might bring about stability and peace. But she does not love the King.”

  “We can hope love will grow between them,” I said. “But I know it sometimes does not. Your Princess will become a queen soon, de la Mole, and to be a queen often means placing personal wishes to one side, as you attend to duty.”

  My eyes were drawn to Robin. Standing, flushed of cheek and mighty in victory on his boat upon the lake, he lifted his hands to demonstrate his side had won. At his back, a mellow gold and contented ochre sunset flamed, lazy in her glow, yet transformative in her power. Robin was become a god of old.

  “Sometimes,” I said in a soft voice, “there is much for women in positions of power to regret. But we must do what is propitious for our countries, rather than satisfying the wishes of our hearts.”

  I turned to him. “Support your Princess, my lord ambassador. She makes this marriage not for her own wishes, but for her people, and that is a hard task, much to be admired.” I touched his arm. “And if her heart lies elsewhere, I hope the man who has it in his possession knows its worth.”

  “He does,” said de la Mole, almost in a whisper.

  “Your secret is safe with me, my friend,” I murmured. “I would never use such a thing as honest love against another, for often it has been used against me.”

  “I have no secrets, Majesty,” he said, the mask of the ambassador slipping back over his handsome features.

  “Oh, I think you do, Joseph,” I said. “But I know only too well what it is… what it costs… to deny love. I will speak no more, but only wish all the best for you, and your enchanting Princess.” I smiled. “Keep in mind one truth, my lord ambassador. Evil men, no matter their successes, will never be happy. They cannot be. They remain permanently unsatisfied. Their deeds separate them from others, and their evil infects all, so they never understand peace. The virtuous, regardless of their sorrows, are blessed, for they can and do experience joy. Your Princess is one of the fortunate. Whatever comes, whatever trials and sorrows she faces, she is capable of experiencing joy, for she knows what it is to sacrifice something for others. That is something evil men and women will never have.”

  “He that
loves not, abideth in death,” murmured de la Mole.

  “And only he who loves knows life,” I added.

  I glanced back to the water. The boats were coming in. Despite being on the winning team, Hatton was soaked through.

  “Did you fall in?” I asked, laughing, as I put a hand to his sopping sleeve.

  “I had a little help, Majesty,” he said, his eyes wending towards Robin.

  “My Lord of Leicester attempted to drown one of his own men?”

  “Perhaps not drown, Majesty… perhaps he sought just a little revenge.” Hatton smiled. “I mind not. Our side won through in the end. That is what matters.”

  “Make for the house,” I said. “And change into warm and dry clothes. Do your task swift, Hatton, or you will miss the fireworks.”

  Hatton made it back just after the display began. The lake shone black and silver under the light of the moon and the pitch of night. High above us, fireworks exploded, cracking against the air, cresting blue, silver and gold into the skies.