He caught his uncle, Baron Thornleigh, looking at him, which snapped Will’s thoughts back to the present. Elizabeth had called in his uncle Richard along with Sir William for this private discussion. She stood with her back to the tall oriel windows—voices in the garden had drawn her attention—and both of her advisers stood waiting: the spare-framed Sir William, forty-eight, bearded, professorial, brilliant; Uncle Richard, twenty years older but more erect, more imposing, a veteran of trade missions and the sea. The moment Will had seen his uncle arrive a quarter of an hour ago he had burned to ask him whether Justine had told him yet of their decision to marry. But he could not do so in the presence of the Queen; could not speak at all unless spoken to. His uncle’s grave countenance told him nothing: He was here on matters of state. Patience, Will told himself. Talk to him later.
But it was hard to be patient. Will was itching to be independent. At the moment, his uncle paid for his ongoing law studies at Gray’s Inn, and though the law term had ended with the start of summer he faced four more years of attending lectures and sessions of moot court before he could become a barrister and earn a living. Or—and that’s why this meeting was so important—he could leap ahead through advancement here at court, win a post with an immediate income. Familiar with the issues around Mary, Queen of Scots after preparing Sir William’s papers, Will had a rough mental draft of how he might make the leap. He only needed the right moment.
The men waited in silence as Elizabeth watched whatever was going on in the garden below. The morning sunshine streaming in behind her gilded her slim silhouette. A canary in its cage flitted down from its perch. Across the room two ladies-in-waiting sat in a cushioned alcove silently busy at their tasks, one embroidering a stretched hoop of silk, the other stringing a lute. Will heard, outside, the soft whack of a tennis ball.
The voices in the garden drifted away and Elizabeth turned back, all business. She fixed her dark eyes on Sir William. Her powers of concentration always impressed Will, and especially today with the pressure she was under. The Spanish and French ambassadors, lords of their own hubs of power here at court, pressed her daily to tell them her intentions about Mary, and at this very moment her full council was assembling down the corridor for a meeting with her to decide on her policy. She had asked in Baron Thornleigh and Sir William to lay out the options first.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow to Sir William, an indication of her desire for him to continue.
“Paramount, Your Majesty, and most alarming,” he said, anxious to warn her, “is the Scottish queen’s request, repeated in her many letters to you, that you help restore her to her throne, by force if necessary. This is utterly impossible. Any English intervention would antagonize our Scottish allies. And why should we? Having supported the Earl of Moray’s government, we have established crucial ties with them. They are England’s bulwark against our common nemesis, the French. To provoke Moray would run counter to our interests. Any move to restore the deposed queen could hurl us into war with Scotland.”
These were strong words. War. Will watched Elizabeth. She betrayed no alarm.
“Indeed,” Sir William continued, “even to allow her to come to court as your guest, as she continually petitions you . . .” He held out his hand to Will, who grabbed the sheaf of Mary’s letters and handed it to him. Sir William held it up in a theatrical show of its volume, then thudded it back down on the desk. “A flood of entreaties. But to succumb to her would be unwise. If you show her the honor of bringing her to court you would sully your reputation, both at home and abroad, for many would see you as the protector of a murderess and adulteress.”
A shadow of distaste flitted over Elizabeth’s features, but still she said nothing.
“However,” Sir William went on, “there is also a danger, perhaps an equal danger, if you let her roam freely in your realm. Look to the north, Your Majesty. Catholic sympathies there have merely slumbered. Mary’s presence could rouse them, rouse some mighty lords to rash passions over religion.”
Will knew the likely candidates. The Duke of Norfolk. The Earl of Northumberland. The Earl of Westmorland. Powerful men, all. Norfolk was the richest man in England. The latter two controlled vast territory in the north, far from the reach of the Queen’s justice.
“Mary Stuart could inflame these passions,” Sir William warned. His provocative use of her common name was intentional, Will knew. Moray’s government had forced Mary to abdicate and had taken stewardship of her infant son and crowned him King James. “Indeed, I fear she already has, for my lord Northumberland smarts at your denying him the honor of housing her at his castle. Your command that she be lodged at Carlisle under the care of Lord Scrope was judicious. Scrope is loyal. But the longer Mary remains in England, the greater the danger that Your Majesty’s council will break into factions, those lords who champion her religion against those who hold dear the religious settlement that is the hallmark of your reign. We dare not reopen that dark chasm.”
He took a moment to let the danger sink in. Then he concluded, “My recommendation, therefore, is twofold. First, keep Mary away from you. Second, keep her in custody.”
Elizabeth did not take her eyes from him as she digested this. Will could almost hear her mind at work on the problem, but her expression, though somber, gave no hint of how she rated Sir William’s advice. She looked at Will’s uncle. “Lord Thornleigh? What say you?”
He did not hesitate. “That Your Majesty has no grounds for keeping the lady in custody. The charges against her have not been proved. She took refuge in your realm in good faith. You would appear a tyrant.”
Her chin jerked up a fraction. Tyrant was not a word to throw in the face of a queen. There was a chill of silence.
Undeterred, he carried on. “As for her remaining free in your realm, Sir William may have a point about Catholic sympathizers. Mary may attract that kind of high feeling. But what’s the alternative? We must not send her back to Scotland. That would put her life in peril. When Moray locked her up, John Knox demanded in his every sermon that she be put to death. And the Scottish people are all for it. That howling mob when Moray brought her into Edinburgh as his prisoner.” He shook his head in disgust. “The curses they hurled at her.”
Whore, the people had called her. Will had read the reports. The people believed she had colluded in the murder of her husband, Lord Darnley, so she could be united with her lover, the Earl of Bothwell. After less than three months of widowhood, she had married Bothwell. Then, when her army lost to Moray on the battlefield, Bothwell fled to Denmark. Will didn’t know if Mary had colluded, and in fact he was glad the case was ambiguous. It gave him the opportunity here that he needed. At least, he hoped it would if the stalemate continued.
“I grant,” his uncle went on, “there are some in England, especially among these hard new Puritans, who would rejoice at Mary’s execution. But I say her death would be bad for us. It would destabilize Your Majesty’s realm, for she is your heir presumptive. Sir William warns of factions if Mary remains freely among us, but sending her back to her death could spark a power struggle for supremacy among your lords jockeying to be named your heir, and that could become truly bloody.”
Elizabeth was visibly annoyed at this mention of the succession. “Have a care, my lord,” she said, “that you do not stray from the issue.”
He made a slight bow, deferential enough to acknowledge her command but stiff enough to display his disagreement.
Will was impressed by Elizabeth’s forbearance. Her council were unanimous in their anxiety at her unmarried state, and since her coronation nine years ago they had ceaselessly urged her to accept one of her royal suitors, for everyone wanted her to produce an heir lest civil war ensue should she die. An attack of smallpox a few years ago had left her unconscious for days, and the moment she had recovered they had doubled their efforts to persuade her to marry. Will himself had witnessed one of their torrents of advice, which Elizabeth bore with grim tolerance. Actually, she had en
tertained several candidates, but chosen none. It was unusual, Will granted—all monarchs married. Yet he admired her caution. After all, by marrying she would make some foreign prince the king of England. The thought made him shudder.
His uncle winced slightly as he shifted the foot he had his weight on. Some discomfort there, it seemed. But he pressed on. “If Your Majesty agrees that Mary cannot be sent back to probable death, nor be kept in custody, yet should not be allowed free rein in England either, there is another alternative. Send her to France. She grew up there. She owns extensive lands there. Let her settle into one of her fine French châteaux and you will be done with this vexing problem.”
Sir William’s frown showed his strong disagreement. “That would only add fuel to the fire,” he said. “Reunite her with her powerful Guise relations who hunger to see her as queen of England? They continually harp on her right, as the great-granddaughter of Your Majesty’s grandfather, to be England’s monarch. If we oust her from England she would spur on the Duc de Guise’s campaign that she claim Your Majesty’s throne now. And, as we know too well, he is far from alone. Unofficially, France and Spain support Mary. As does the pope.”
Will bristled at the stance taken by Europe’s two most powerful nations. He was sure all loyal Englishmen felt the outrage he did that Catholics had never recognized as valid the divorce of Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII, from Catherine of Aragon, and therefore the legitimacy of his marriage to Anne Boleyn. In their eyes, Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth, was a bastard. Will’s feeling was: Damn their eyes.
“Mary herself is not innocent in this,” Sir William warned. “We know she has sent beseeching letters to every potential ally in Europe. I need not remind Your Majesty that the most dire eventuality for England would be a Catholic League, led by France and Spain, backed by the pope, zealous to put Mary on your throne.”
Lord Thornleigh shook his head in opposition. “The French king is too busy hunting down Protestants and massacring them. His country is being torn apart by religious strife. His full attention is there. As for Spain, Philip is basking in his conquest of the Netherlands with its enormously rich trade with England. He will not endanger that trade to help the French press their dubious claim here. No, with all due respect to Sir William, the most dire eventuality for England would be civil war, and Mary’s demise could spark it. Like it or not, she is Your Majesty’s legitimate heir.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “Thank you for your counsel, my lord. And yours, Sir William.” Grave of face, she turned to the canary’s golden cage as though for a glimmer of diversion. Will thought, She’s not satisfied with their arguments. They keep going over the same ground. They need to look at the problem another way. It gave him a jolt of excitement. Did he dare speak up now?
Elizabeth nudged her finger in between the gilded bars, and the bird fluttered down onto her fingertip. It teased a small smile from her. She murmured some affectionate words to the bird, then flicked her finger to send it fluttering back up to its perch. Withdrawing her hand, she turned to the waiting men. “Here is my answer. I will not abandon Mary. She is my cousin, and has sought my protection in good faith. More to the point,” she added sternly, “she is a queen. Anointed by God. Subject to none.”
Sir William seemed about to interject, but she held up her hand to forestall him. “Make no mistake, sir. By law, she is not bound to answer to her subjects. Much as I value our good relations with Moray’s government, he crossed a dangerous line when he imprisoned Mary. God’s wounds, we set an evil precedent if we countenance rebels threatening their monarch’s life! Furthermore, I would have the ambassadors know that I stand by Mary. Philip of Spain and Charles of France shall not call me derelict in defending a fellow sovereign.” She let out a tight sigh, then said in a new tone, wryly aware, “However, neither will I send her to France to stir up trouble in those parts.”
Will noted Sir William’s relief at the last point. Will felt the same, and was again impressed by Elizabeth’s unsentimental pragmatism.
“Your fellow councilors are expecting us,” she said. “Let them wait.” She added pointedly to both men, “Devise a way for me to deal with Mary honorably.”
She moved to a sideboard near her ladies’ alcove where a decanter and goblets stood ready. The two ladies instantly left their tasks and went to serve her. Will watched his uncle and his patron exchange a tense look. His uncle rubbed the back of his neck, deep in thought. Sir William clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace.
Excitement coursed through Will. Do it now.
“Sir William,” he said quietly, moving to him. “May I have a word?”
He looked annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted. “What is it?”
Will kept his voice low. “Her Majesty needs more time.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean she is under too much pressure. All attention is concentrated on her, on what action she will take. That’s what we should look to change.”
“Change? The privy council expects to be told her policy today. So do the ambassadors.”
“And so they shall. But what if the policy we announce is one that shifts people’s focus away from Her Majesty and onto Mary.”
“I don’t see it. How?”
“By feeding their curiosity. Mary is notorious throughout Europe. Everyone wants to know, did she collude in her husband’s murder or not? Did she have him killed so she could marry her lover? Bring that to light and we make this case turn not on Her Majesty but on Mary. On her innocence or guilt.”
“A trial?” Sir William looked interested, but skeptical. “English courts have no jurisdiction over foreign monarchs.”
“I would call it an examination into the facts, sir, born of Her Majesty’s desire to restore stability in Scotland. It would give her more time. Perhaps more important, at its conclusion it would yield straightforward grounds for her to act, because whatever decision she takes then could not be seen as arbitrary.”
Sir William seemed tempted. “I doubt she would agree to it. She is much troubled by any appearance of dishonoring her fellow queen.”
“But, sir, by launching such an inquiry she would display her heartfelt support for her fellow monarch. She could officially declare that she intends to help restore Mary to her throne just as soon as it is established that Mary is innocent. How could Mary or her supporters gainsay that?”
Sir William was now paying keen attention. “Nor could they hold the high ground if she were found guilty.”
Will nodded. “Her Majesty, of course, is correct that by law Mary is not bound to answer to her subjects, but that argument serves us ill, for it casts Mary as the party with rights superior to those of the Earl of Moray. Not so if the case turns on murder. After all, sir, there is a higher law—Thou shalt not kill. From it even crowned heads are not exempt.”
Dusk was gathering when Will hopped out of the wherry onto London’s Queenhithe wharf where fishing smacks, tilt boats, and wherries crowded the water stairs. He tossed the wherryman an extra tip for bringing him down the Thames from Whitehall Palace and made his way past fishwives’ stalls and city men beckoning the wherries with calls of “Oars!” Will felt so buoyed up he began whistling. Hard to maintain the tune, though, because a smile kept twitching his mouth. Not only had Sir William taken his idea to Elizabeth in his presence and given him full credit for it, the Queen herself had considered the proposal then and there. Never one to be rash, she had mulled it, sipping her wine and strolling to the window as her two advisers waited and Will tried to keep his racing heartbeat under control. Then she had turned, flicked a glance at Will, and told Sir William, “I like it. It gives me breathing room, and with no loss of honor.”
Striding across Thames Street, Will abandoned the tune he was whistling—the grin had won.
In the fading daylight food vendors were packing into baskets their unsold eel pies and rabbit pastries, muskmelons and fragrant strawberries. Apprentices trudged ho
me, weary from their day’s labor. Will’s own afternoon had been a marathon of work with Sir William, who had immediately begun to formulate the parameters of the official inquiry about Mary, but Will didn’t feel tired, just invigorated. A cart clattered by with hogsheads of ale and he gave a thought to how satisfying it would be to relax in a tavern with a foaming tankard, but he strode on, for he was on his way to visit his mother. He hadn’t seen her for several weeks. In term he lodged at Gray’s Inn, and lately Sir William had given him a room at Whitehall to have him close at hand. Will was looking forward to giving his mother the happy news. Today, he had made his mark.
The thought of what that promised expanded the very breath inside him. A secure income. Justine! His every sense felt sharpened to the city’s sights and sounds and smells. The church bell clanging near the Glaziers Hall. The bawling of sheep, faint at this distance, as they were herded across London Bridge where the first lanterns would soon be lit in the houses that crammed both sides. Across the river, flags snapped in the evening breeze atop the bear gardens of Southwark. Dart-shaped swallows swooped overhead for insects. In the air there was a scent of fresh sawdust and the river’s ever-present seaweedy tang. And what was that other smell? Gingerbread?
“Wait,” he called to a little girl wrapping the last of her gingerbread babies into burlap. He bought two of the treats and gave the girl an extra penny. His mother liked gingerbread.
Crossing the busy thoroughfare of Cheapside, Will zigzagged through the traffic. Gentlemen on horseback trotted by. Ladies’ maids ambled home with baskets of produce. Merchants and traders, clerks and lawyers marched to and from the imposing edifice of the Mercers’ Hall. He sidestepped a couple of grimy boys scurrying to snatch some cabbages that had tumbled off the back of a wagon. Voices rose from St. Paul’s Cathedral to the west. Its yard was always bustling with booksellers’ stalls—one of Will’s favorite haunts. St. Paul’s interior was the city’s busiest meeting place, where people came to transact business, exchange news and gossip, or hire a serving man or a scrivener. The cathedral’s roof looked naked to Will since its steeple, once the tallest in Europe, had been lost seven years ago in a fire from a lightning strike. Would it ever be rebuilt? he wondered. The city aldermen kept haggling about the expense, and everyone knew that competing guildsmen had come to blows over it more than once. What an exasperating, brawling, magnificent city, Will thought. He loved London.
Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05] Page 6