Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  What was clear was that the house of Valois was not, and had not been, in control. The massacre had started with them, but had ended in chaos. It made them appear not only cruel, callous and vindictive, but weak.

  Huguenots ran for the countryside, and began to amass.

  France was teetering on the edge of war.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Kenilworth

  Summer 1572

  On the 3rd of September, as I was hunting in the forest near Kenilworth, news of the massacre came, shattering my happiness, and sending me into the depths of a grief so long and dark I thought I might not find my way from it.

  I stood in that forest, frozen like a doe that sees Death stalking her. As far as I could see, there were trees and leaves; fresh flowers bloomed, bobbing on the edges of the wood, oblivious to the horrors which assailed me. My mind tumbled over what was said by the pale-faced messengers, and I could hear nothing… nothing but the trees whispering as they moved, nothing but the gentle water of a spring, burbling nearby.

  But in my mind there was screaming, there was terror and there was blood.

  “My God,” I whispered to King Charles and his mother. “What have you done?”

  Horrors clamoured in my mind. In that moment, I felt as though I were there, running in the streets, hiding in dark alleyways from men who would kill me. I saw hunted faces in my mind, and the expression of feral predators that pursued them. I saw blood, running thick and sticky down the wet streets, flowing past flowers strewn and dying in the gutters, which had been thrown for the celebration of a marriage that was supposed to end all strife between the faiths.

  I saw children, huddled and screaming, crouched helplessly at the side of their slaughtered mothers. I saw men falling in the act of trying to defend their homes and families from the rank, endless rage of those who would kill with the name of God upon their unholy lips.

  Would this spread? Would this horror come for England? Was this a sign the French intended to make war on all those of my faith? Had the treaty been but a way to push us into comfortable complacency, so they might mount an attack on us?

  Amongst these churning questions, one thought came clear and loud.

  England was once more alone, as was I.

  How could peace be maintained with France after this, but how could I break with them knowing I would leave England friendless, alone and isolated? If I broke the Treaty of Blois, called off plans to marry Alençon, or spoke out against France, what would happen to England? And if I did not, what would happen to my country? Would Protestants rise against Catholics, fearing their Queen meant to protect them? Would Catholics hear of this and think to act as their fellows in religion had done in Paris? Would my people hold Mary Stewart to blame? Her relatives, the Guise, had been involved, and as with the massacre at Wassy, she would be blamed for the actions of her kin.

  I stumbled, and Hatton caught me, holding me up. As I turned my face to him, I saw his eyes widen. I knew he could see the emptiness in my soul.

  A gulf had opened. A maw was widening. The void within was threatening to consume me, and take all that was once Elizabeth of England into impenetrable darkness. Never had I felt more keenly aware of my solitude as in that moment.

  I had a terrible choice to make; break with France or remain friends with those who had slaughtered people of my own faith.

  Treason in trust… betrayal at a time of ultimate happiness. Faith of my faith, blood of my blood had died. Death had come to France, and I feared now He would turn his gaze upon England.

  Something tore within me, echoed by the same sensation in the air. As my soul was rent by the deaths of so many, so was England’s. There was a hole where our hearts should have been. This void, once filled by the love of our people, was raw, burning and bloody. I could see it, this soul-wound, this pain. A tear in the fabric of the world, it was no scar, for it would always bleed, it would always scream. There was no healing it.

  The world was trying to fall apart. I had to hold my part of it together.

  “Walsingham,” I croaked, turning to the messenger. “Is Walsingham alive?”

  “He is, Majesty,” said the man. “We are told he opened his home, at great personal risk to himself, to save those fleeing on the streets. Phillip Sidney is with him.”

  “And Walsingham’s wife and child?”

  “Both safe, Majesty, for now.”

  “We make for Kenilworth,” I said. “And from there prepare to head back to London.” I turned to Hatton. “Send word ahead to Woodstock. I will be there earlier than expected. We can break our journey back to London there.”

  “Of course, Majesty,” he said. “Are you well?”

  I must have been pale of face. I nodded, but said nothing. As Hatton ran off, I stared into the darkness of the woods.

  The trees shifted in the breeze, their leaves dancing. The brook still burbled, the sun shone still, yet everything had altered.

  As we went to leave, I looked back. Few restful days had I had in the past few years, but I had found peace here. It seemed that time was done. As we rode away, I could feel the forest reaching out, begging me to return. It was as though hands were caressing my shoulders, a lover trying to beg his mistress back to bed.

  On a hill, I stopped. My heart was heavy and my soul troubled. I knew not what was coming, but I knew it could not be good. “Hold fast to me, my England,” I said, my eyes upon the whispering forest.

  “Hold fast to me. I will not let you fall. We shall not become the horror we must face.”

  Epilogue

  Richmond Palace

  February 1603

  We are limited beings.

  We can only hold sympathy for so many. This is why we protect family and friends with fierce devotion, and turn our eyes from the needy. This is why we allow wars and killings to occur. There is them, and there is us, what we know and what we do not. Because we are limited beings, we limit our sympathy. That was why massacre came to Paris that day. Years of war, raging sorrow and anger against the other, the stranger, the one of another faith combined with our limited capacity for sympathy, and brought about horror. Death stole into the hearts of the people of France that day, reminding them of their isolation from the other, and loyalty to their own. It could have occurred in any town, any city, any place. Anywhere people might be reminded of their solitude, and their distance from others.

  Death played the people of France, using their loneliness and fear against them, using the realisation they could not know another truly… and He succeeded.

  “You were pleased with your work,” I say to Death.

  He answers not, but bows His head in recognition, and agreement.

  “You should not be,” I say. “They made it too easy for you. There was no victory for you in Paris that day. The mob stripped it from your hands, old friend. They stole away your triumph.”

  Death shifts His feet. I feel Him glaring from beyond the dark cowl.

  “You do not like that I tell you truths,” I say. “You do not like to face them.”

  I smile grimly. It is pleasing to taunt Death. I have been doing it for many years.

  He lifts a hand, as though He means to take me now, but I shake my head. “Go to,” I say. “It is not yet time for me. It was not then and is not now.”

  His hand falters.

  “You know this is not the end of the tale. You would not want to miss what follows, dearest Death. You had a part to play in all of it.”

  The hand falls, and He looks my way.

  Here ends Treason in Trust, book five of the Elizabeth of England Chronicles.

  In book six, Blood of my Blood, Elizabeth will deal with the aftermath of the Massacre of St Bartholomew’s Eve, as well as trouble from Spain, the Netherlands, and a most personal betrayal from the one closest to her…

  Author’s Notes

  I would, at the end of this book, like to apologise if any of the comments therein have caused offence, especially with regards to the s
lave trade, and Ireland. The paragraphs concerning racial skin pigmentation are, of course, intended as a way to show what the Tudors thought about the differences between races, and certainly do not reflect my opinions. Please do not take the opinions of the characters in this book as mine.

  Likewise, the attitude presented towards Ireland does not reflect my own. This was a violent time, and atrocities were done in Ireland. There is no excuse for what was done to the people of Ireland by the English, and I, hailing from Ireland on my Grandmother’s side, would certainly not want to cause offence by anyone thinking I was excusing or justifying the horrors that went on there.

  I hope, both with the comments about the slave trade and Ireland, I showed what was done, thought and said by the Tudors on race and empire, and showed an understanding that atrocities were not justified, even then, even in a time when violence was commonplace.

  My interpretation of the Ridolfi plot is just that; an interpretation. The part played by Roberto Ridolfi in the events of England remain unknown, and the man himself remains swathed in shadow and guesswork. Was Ridolfi, the banker and suspected papal spy, turned by Walsingham and made an agent prevocateur for England? No one knows, but many historians believe this to be the case, although which side Ridolfi was truly working for remains unknown.

  I chose to stray from the accepted theory about Robin Dudley in the Norfolk-Mary marriage plot in this book. Many historians accept that he, at first, supported the match, and ran into trouble with Elizabeth when she found out, but I chose to follow a tantalising theory brought up in Sarah Gristwood’s book Elizabeth and Leicester, which suggested that Robin may have been acting as an undercover agent for Elizabeth and Cecil so they could discover what Norfolk was up to, and if his plans posed a threat to Elizabeth or her closest advisor. It certainly seems odd that, if Robin had been initially working with Norfolk, he suffered no punishment at all, and members of his family, such as Ambrose Dudley and the Earl of Huntingdon, took on vital and trusted roles in the subsequent crushing of the rebellion.

  I also took liberty with the story of Francis Drake. The young sailor certainly went on reconnaissance missions to Panama, if his journals can be believed, but whether this was on the orders of Elizabeth is unknown. He may have been acting on his own, he may have been sent by the Crown. I chose to take the latter view.

  One last point is that most historians place Walsingham’s house in Paris as being in the Faubourg Saint Germain area near the Notre Dame. One historian, John Cooper, however, has stated that his house was in the Huguenot quarter of Saint Marceau. Unsure which line of thought to follow, I granted Walsingham a house in each.

  Thank You

  …to so many people for helping me make this book possible… to my proof reader, Julia Gibbs, who gave me her time, her wonderful guidance and also her encouragement. To my partner Matthew, who will be the first to admit that history is not his thing, and yet is willing to listen to me extol the virtues and vices of the Tudors and every other time period, repeatedly, to him and pushed me to publish even when I feared to. To my family for their ongoing love and support; this includes not only my own blood in my mother and father, sister and brother, but also their families, their partners and all my nieces who I am sure are set to take the world by storm as they grow. To Matthew’s family, for their support, and for the extended family I have found myself welcomed to within them. To my friend Petra who took a tour of Tudor palaces and places with me back in 2010 which helped me to prepare for this book and others; her enthusiasm for that strange but amazing holiday brought an early ally to the idea I could actually write a book. To all my wonderful readers, who took a chance on an unknown author, and have followed my career and books since. To those who have left reviews or contacted me by email or Twitter, I give great thanks, as you have shown support for my career as an author, and enabled me to continue writing. Thank you for allowing me to live my dream.

  And lastly, to the people who wrote all the books I read in order to write this book… all the historical biographers and masters of their craft who brought Elizabeth, and her times, to life in my head.

  Thank you to all of you; you’ll never know how much you’ve helped me, but I know what I owe to you.

  Gemma Lawrence

  2018

  About The Author

  I find people talking about themselves in the third person to be entirely unsettling, so, since this section is written by me, I will use my own voice rather than try to make you believe that another person is writing about me to make me sound terribly important.

  I am an independent author, publishing my books by myself, with the help of my lovely proof reader. I left my day job in 2016 and am now a fully-fledged, full time author, and very proud to be so!

  My passion for history, in particular perhaps the era of the Tudors, began early in life. As a child I lived in Croydon, near London, and my schools were lucky enough to be close to such glorious places as Hampton Court and the Tower of London, allowing field trips to take us to those castles. I think it’s hard not to find characters from history infectious when you hear their stories, especially when surrounded by the bricks and mortar they built their reigns and legends within. There is heroism and scandal, betrayal and belief, politics and passion and a seemingly never-ending cast list of truly fascinating people. So when I sat down to start writing, I could think of no better place to start than a time and place I loved and was slightly obsessed with.

  Expect many books from me, but do not necessarily expect them all to be of one era. I write as many of you read, I suspect; in many genres. My own bookshelves are weighted down with historical volumes and biographies, but they also contain dystopias, sci-fi, horror, humour, children’s books, fairy tales, romance and adventure. I can’t promise I’ll manage to write in all the areas I’ve mentioned there, but I’d love to give it a go. If anything I’ve published isn’t your thing, that’s fine, I just hope you like the ones I write which are your thing!

  The majority of my books are historical fiction, however, so I hope that if you liked this volume you will give the others in this series (and perhaps not in this series), a look. I want to divert you as readers, to please you with my writing and to have you join me on these adventures.

  A book is nothing without a reader.

  As to the rest of me; I am in my thirties and live in Cornwall with a rescued dog, a rescued cat and my partner (who wasn’t rescued, but may well have rescued me). I studied Literature at University after I fell in love with books as a small child. When I was little I could often be found nestled halfway up the stairs with a pile of books in my lap and my head lost in another world. There is nothing more satisfying to me than finding a new book I adore, to place next to the multitudes I own and love… and nothing more disappointing to me to find a book I am willing to never open again. I do hope that this book was not a disappointment to you; I loved writing it and I hope that showed through the pages.

  This is only one of a large selection of titles coming to you on Amazon. I hope you will try the others.

  If you would like to contact me, please do so.

  On Twitter, I am @TudorTweep and am more than happy to follow back and reply to any and all messages. I may avoid you if you decide to say anything worrying or anything abusive, but I figure that’s acceptable.

  Via email, I am tudortweep@gmail.com a dedicated email account for my readers to reach me on. I’ll try and reply within a few days.

  I publish some first drafts and short stories on Wattpad where I can be found at www.wattpad.com/user/GemmaLawrence31 . Wattpad was the first place I ever showed my stories, to anyone, and in many ways its readers and their response to my works were the influence which pushed me into self-publishing. If you have never been on the site I recommend you try it out. It’s free, it’s fun and it’s chock-full of real emerging talent. I love Wattpad because its members and their encouragement gave me the boost I needed as a fearful waif to get some confidence in myself and make a go of a
life as a real, published writer.

  Thank you for taking a risk with an unknown author and reading my book. I do hope now that you’ve read one you’ll want to read more. If you’d like to leave me a review, that would be very much appreciated also!

  Gemma Lawrence

  Cornwall

  2018