by David Field
‘I thank you all for your attendance, both here and in the progress from the Tower. Be in no doubt that such love and loyalty as you have displayed will not go unrewarded. I shall formally become your Queen on the morrow, but even today I am able to assure you that the future of England is in the forefront of my heart and mind. You should now all disperse to your homes, that we may all be refreshed for tomorrow’s momentous event.’
With that she bowed and turned to walk back into her Withdrawing Chamber. Blanche Parry hesitated for a moment, caught Robert’s eye, then nodded. He walked towards the heavy doors, one of which was unceremoniously opened for him by the page who had its management.
On the other side of the door, Elizabeth did her best to repair the damage. ‘Please forgive me, dearest Robert, if I was somewhat churlish when first I came in from that wondrous progress that was all of your making. As Blanche will have advised you, I took one of my sick headaches from the clamour and stress of it all. I owe you much gratitude.’
‘I did it all out of love of you, Lillibet,’ Robert assured her as he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Not the love that is due to a monarch by a loyal subject, but the love of a man for a woman.’
‘Please Robert, no more in that vein!’ Elizabeth begged him. ‘Say rather the love of one lifelong friend to another. And so what of tomorrow’s ceremony and the vexatious matter of the raising of the host?’
‘It is all agreed to your satisfaction,’ Robert assured her. ‘At a moment during the Mass shortly before the host is to be raised, the Bishop will indicate with a gesture of his head and you may move behind the rood screen to St Edward’s Chapel that will mask the raising from your sight.’
‘What of the banquet to follow?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘All in hand and the finest seen these many years, although no doubt you will rail against the cost.’
‘You will take the seat beside me at the banquet?’
Robert looked back lovingly into her eyes. ‘Nothing would keep me from your side on such an occasion. But it will be a long evening, I fear.’
‘And you must ensure that I do not over-indulge in the wine, Robert, since I must meet with Cecil the following day in order to agree the agenda for the first official meeting of my Council two days thereafter.’
‘At least I may rest at home during those days, since I am barred from your Council.’
Elizabeth pouted. ‘Let us not renew that argument, Robert. It would not be good for the image of my rule were it worded abroad that my Council is padded with favourites.’
‘I am but one favourite,’ Robert countered, ‘although hopefully the greatest of these. Why would you not wish the counsel of those who love you most dearly?’
‘For that very reason,’ Elizabeth replied testily. ‘As Cecil advises me, I must ensure that the counsel I receive is not what I wish to hear, but what I need to hear. Those who love me most dearly would be inclined to give me my head, which might not be best for England. If it is of any consolation, you will of course join me for dinner after the meeting of Council and I will advise you of what transpired.’
‘I shall be at home, as I previously mentioned.’
‘But it is a short journey from The Strand,’ Elizabeth reminded him.
‘I was referring to my house at Throcking.’
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in a mixture of apprehension and disbelief. ‘You go back to reside with your wife, when you are required here by my side? I forbid it!’
It was Robert’s turn to stare blankly back at her. ‘You would deny a man access to his own wife, after all he has done in your service these past weeks?’
‘This particular man, yes,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘You are to attend me at all times, in your capacity as Master of Horse, until such time as I no longer require you at my side.’ Their eyes locked in mutual defiance and the ominous silence was only broken when Elizabeth tossed back her dark red locks and told him, ‘That is a command, Robert. From your Queen.’
Sunday 15th January 1559 was an occasion to remember with awe. The winding procession along the freshly laid blue carpet was so long that its vanguard had reached the wide open doors of Westminster Abbey before the tail had left Westminster Palace. First to hove into view were the carriers of the four massive Swords of State, the Earls of Derby, Rutland, Worcester and Westmorland. They were followed by the Lord High Steward, the Earl of Arundel, bearing the sceptre and slightly behind him, carrying the orb of State, the Lord Treasurer and Marquess of Winchester. A few paces behind came the crown, proudly held aloft by the Earl Marshall of England.
Then the ecstatic crowd pressing against the barriers caught sight of their new monarch, decked out in the traditional finery. As Elizabeth stepped up to the prepared throne in the centre of the crossing the ceremonials began and over an hour later the new Queen emerged back into the frosty sunlight, holding the orb and sceptre with all the tenderness appropriate for newborn infants.
She was now ‘Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, Queen of England and Ireland’ and God preserve anyone who dared argue otherwise.
III
‘Remember, when we go in there, that above all your Council are praying for a resolution of England’s religious practices.’
Elizabeth nodded silently at Cecil’s sage advice, then reached out to take Robert Dudley’s hand. ‘Would that you could be by my side in there,’ she murmured.
‘Good luck, my Lady,’ Blanche Parry said as Elizabeth rose and nodded for Cecil to precede her into the Council room at Whitehall Palace.
The assembled members rose in unison and the nervous murmuring of conversation died instantly. Sir Nicholas Bacon, in only his second day as ‘Lord Keeper of the Great Seal’ took a deep breath and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘I speak for all the members of this humble Council when I offer my heartfelt congratulations on Your Majesty’s coronation and assure you that our every loyal thought and effort shall be towards the prosperity of the realm that you now grace.’
Elizabeth indicated with a delicate hand gesture that the Council members should resume their seats. ‘I thank all of you for those good wishes, gentlemen,’ she assured them, ‘and hope that you are content for the business of this Council to be managed by my most trusted adviser William Cecil, who will henceforth be known as the Secretary of State for England.’
The defiant look that accompanied the announcement left no-one round the table in any doubt that any objection would have serious career consequences and the only response came in the form of nods and whispered expressions of agreement. Elizabeth nodded down the table for Cecil to open the proceedings.
‘At this most propitious of times,’ he began, ‘there are several matters which it is beholden of us to consider as a matter of some urgency. The first is the future of the nation’s religious observances.’
‘More burnings?’ came the anxious enquiry from Matthew Parker, former Dean of Lincoln, seated halfway down the table.
‘And why not?’ demanded William Barlow, soon to be Bishop of Chichester and an ardent Reformer who had spent some years in exile to avoid the wrath of the late Queen Mary. ‘If it was good enough for true believers such as ourselves, why not the damned heretics who blaspheme daily by raising the host?’
Elizabeth raised one hand and it fell anxiously silent. ‘It is precisely that outpouring of bitterness and revenge that I wish to avoid. No, my lords, there will be no burnings, but neither will Catholic abominations be allowed in our churches. We are met to find some compromise between the two. The Church established by my illustrious father shall no longer be sullied by heathen practices and superstitions such as have previously disgraced our divine worship. We shall re-issue the English Book of Common Prayer that was the proud legacy of my late brother Edward and we shall insist that all men attend the simple service conducted each Sunday in each parish, or be fined.’
‘And how does Your Majesty intend to punish the heathen Catholics?’ was Parker’s next question.
Elizabeth smiled graciously and replied, ‘I shall not punish them for what lies in their hearts, unless it be treasonous.’
It fell silent and Cecil came to her rescue. ‘What Her Majesty means is that she has no wish to punish by law what may be the true urgings of men of any religion, of whatever form. She will, however, come down most heavily on anyone who allows the passion of their religious beliefs to curdle into rebellion against her throne.’
‘You will tolerate any form of worship?’ Barlow said incredulously.
‘What men feel in their hearts — even practice in the privacy of their homes — shall be a matter of conscience between themselves and God,’ Elizabeth replied serenely. ‘We shall only proscribe what they do in our churches.’
‘And Your Majesty will do so as the Supreme Head of the Church of England?’ Parker asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I shall govern the Church, certainly, but I will not set myself up as its supreme head in the manner that you suggest. For one thing it would proclaim me as some form of prelate and for another it would not do for a woman — even this woman — to preside over a religious hierarchy.’
‘And yet you must be seen to be at the apex of our Church in some way,’ Parker argued, ‘in order that our religious observances may be seen to be one and the same as our national identity.’
‘Perhaps “Supreme Governor”?’ Cecil suggested gently from the far end of the table and when Elizabeth looked down at him with raised eyebrows he nodded gently in a sign that she should consent. She thought silently for a moment, then nodded.
‘If it will move this debate forward, then so be it.’
A sigh of relief went round the table as this most difficult of issues was safely circumnavigated, although they must now descend to points of detail.
Back inside the Withdrawing Chamber Robert Dudley was showing signs of boredom and impatience. He’d got up and stared out of the window several times, had sat for some minutes drumming his fingers on the side table from which Elizabeth’s needlework had been tactfully removed by Blanche Parry and was now peevishly prodding the fireguard with the toe of his boot under the anxious gaze of the ‘Queen’s Senior Lady’, who was seated in a corner with her own needlepoint.
‘Have patience, my lord,’ she urged him quietly, ‘since they have much to discuss.’
‘And I have much business of my own to conduct,’ Robert reminded her petulantly. ‘Does she intend to keep me penned in here daily, like some sort of hunting mount in a stables, only to be taken out when there are deer to be pursued?’
‘You are important to her, as am I,’ Blanche assured him, ‘and she will wish our reassuring company when she comes back.’
‘If I am that important to her,’ Robert retorted with a pointed nod at the dividing door through which the low drone of conversation was audible, ‘why am I in here and not in there?’
Blanche put down her needlepoint. ‘In there, my Lady is Queen of England. In here she is Elizabeth Tudor and can relax among those who love her most honestly, without thought of personal gain or preferment.’
‘It was Cecil who talked her out of my having a seat on her Council, was it not?’ Robert demanded. ‘He fears that she loves me more and will therefore be more inclined to listen to my counsel.’
Blanche thought hard before replying, then steeled herself for what had to be said.
‘You speak of my cousin and the man who steered my Lady safely through those terrible years in which her wicked sister sought her downfall — perhaps even her death. In addition to that, he has the ear of every noble in England and has some thirty years of skilful negotiation and Statecraft behind him. Is it better that England be guided by Cecil, or that Elizabeth be counselled by you?’
As they sat at supper, Blanche looked discreetly away as Elizabeth held Robert’s hand. Cecil was absent on business of his own and Elizabeth was hoping to enjoy a pleasant evening in her most favoured company before she was obliged to face her Council again the following day.
‘So what does Cecil require that you turn your mind to on the morrow?’ Robert asked.
Elizabeth tutted. ‘Why must you spoil these most pleasant of times with thoughts of Council business, my sweet?’
‘Because — my sweet,’ Robert replied with heavy sarcasm, ‘It is the only way I may know how you will be spending the morrow, since I will, I assume, be required to return here to share your breakfast. I have two questions. The first is where your mind — which of course means Cecil’s mind — is directed regarding an alliance. Surely it must be with France?’
‘Why “surely”?’
‘Because an alliance with Spain would encourage that dreadful Philip to seek again for your hand in marriage. You have already declined him, and in my hearing.’
‘I was not free to marry at that time, since my sister was still alive and he was married to her.’
‘But he will renew his odious entreaty, will he not?’ Robert persisted. ‘If — as you seek to assure me — you want none of him, then surely our best alliance lies with France?’
Elizabeth inclined her head from side to side in a gesture of uncertainty. ‘That was my first thought also, but Cecil advises that France means us no kindness. The Catholic Mary is set to rule France as consort to the Dauphin, while her mother Mary of Guise resides back in Scotland, where she daily gathers more and more French troops to her side. We are surrounded on both sides should they continue in their Catholic opposition.’
‘Is there no remaining Protestant presence in Scotland?’ Robert asked. ‘And if it is simply a matter of driving French troops from Scotland, why may I not lead your army north?’
Elizabeth leaned sideways. ‘The very nation that only a moment ago you were suggesting that we seek an alliance with? It is as well that I have Cecil to advise me. But you said you had two questions. What was the second?’
‘Linked with the first,’ Robert said warmly as he leaned in towards her and kissed her lightly on the lips, ignoring another cough from Blanche Parry. ‘If you are to refuse Philip of Spain because your heart lies elsewhere, who is that lucky man?’
‘Ask me again when you are no longer married, Robert,’ Elizabeth replied under lowered eyelids. ‘And now, if you have supped adequately and we are to avoid scandal, you must reclaim your horse from the stables.’
The ‘private business’ of Cecil’s was an invitation to the London lodgings of the Spanish Ambassador Gomez de Feria, who — or so rumour had it — was shortly to be pensioned off by his lifelong friend and patron Philip of Spain. Cecil had little doubt of the reason for the invitation and de Feria got straight to the point as he handed Cecil a goblet of sherry and waved him into the seat by the fireplace.
‘Now that you are Secretary of State, my dear friend, you will be able to persuade your Queen that it is in the best interests of England to accept the ongoing offer of marriage from my master King Philip.’
‘There are two serious assumptions built into that question, my Lord Ambassador,’ Cecil replied. ‘The first is that Her Majesty would be open to any persuasion on my part and the second is that a marriage with Spain would be in England’s best interests.’
‘You realise that you are surrounded by the French? Over your northern borders in Edinburgh, as well as across the Channel?’
‘I would be a poor Secretary of State if I did not keep myself daily acquainted with the location and disposition of the nation’s potential enemies. By such means, for example, I am aware that your master continues to hold down the Dutch and that our friends and trading allies in the Low Countries are little better than slaves under his dominance. As a Protestant nation, England must not be seen to ally with Catholic oppressors.’
‘Is that why your envoys are seeking a husband for Elizabeth in the Low Countries?’
Cecil smiled condescendingly. ‘You are to be congratulated on the efficiency of your spies, Ambassador, but they have presumably also advised you that as yet no suitable prospect has been ide
ntified.’
‘And if such a man were identified, would Elizabeth do your bidding?’
‘She is my Queen, Count de Feria, not my horse,’ Cecil replied starchily.
The Ambassador inclined his head in a gesture of apology. ‘A thousand pardons, my lord, but my real question was whether or not the rumours are true and that the only man with access to Elizabeth’s heart is her Master of Horse.’
‘It is true that they are close,’ Cecil replied evasively, ‘but you forget that Dudley already has a wife.’
‘A sick wife, or so I hear,’ de Feria replied. ‘A malady of the breast, I am informed. What then, should she die?’
‘We will meet that eventuality when it arises,’ Cecil replied sharply. ‘For the moment you may advise your master that should he wish to formalise a proposal of marriage, it will be treated with the honour that it merits.’
IV
Both Elizabeth and Cecil soon came to realise that they had been lulled into a false sense of security by the ease with which the religious reforms had been steered through Council. This was obvious on the second day allocated for discussion of pressing matters, when the clamour of differing opinions around the table regarding which nation England should seek an alliance with suggested that this would be far from easy to agree upon.
As could have been predicted, the traditionalists — and most notably those of a Catholic persuasion — were in favour of an immediate and enduring peace treaty with Spain, preferably reinforced by a royal marriage. Their arguments barely rose above the obvious one that Philip of Spain was currently the most powerful monarch in Europe and by virtue of his stranglehold on the Low Countries was well placed to wreak havoc on England’s cloth trade. Cecil was obliged to remind those in favour of such an alliance that the matter of a possible royal marriage was down the agenda for discussion on a later date when they began clamouring vociferously for Elizabeth to lose no time in letting the Spanish Ambassador know that she would look favourably upon a proposal for her hand from the man whose navy also dominated the trade routes to the New World.