by Jane Caro
‘If your parents had been of your mind, where would you have been then?’ Smothered gasps greeted the Dean of St Paul’s as he fulminated in his pulpit. This was the closest anyone had ever ventured since I became queen to mentioning the unusual circumstances of my parents’ marriage. It remains one of the only times it was held up to me as an example to emulate! Nevertheless, I held my silence and merely tapped my foot noisily on the cathedral’s stone floor. The dean knew full well he was trying my patience, but – perhaps emboldened by what he interpreted as God warning me through his church – he remained undeterred.
‘When Your Majesty was troubled by sickness, we heard continual lamentations. Alas. What trouble shall we be in? For the succession is so uncertain and there is such division in religion. What shall become of us?’ And so on, as he metaphorically wagged an impertinent finger at his queen! The congregation’s silence was deafening and amplified the tap-tap-tapping of my foot. It was all I could do not to bellow at him from my pew, but he wanted nothing more than to reveal me as an emotional female, unable to govern herself – never mind a country – and clearly in need of a man to govern her. My flesh burned with fury, but I held my temper until, at last, the man stopped speaking. I needed no prompting, but rose swiftly to my feet and, sweeping my entourage before me, left his church without the usual courtesies. To this day, I doubt that any meddlesome priest would have dared to lecture my father quite so publicly about his private life. How easily men take it upon themselves to tell women what they are like and what they should do, even when the woman they lecture is their rightful queen.
My parliament went a step further. They were less concerned about whether I married or not – I suspect it was beyond their imagining that I would stubbornly remain a spinster. Their concern was that the succession be settled immediately. They wanted me to name my heir. I could see why they were so afraid of what might happen if their queen was to die, and I did acknowledge that I was just as mortal as the next woman. I had been forced so lately to confront my own human frailty. But I had not lived through the dark days of my sister’s reign without learning something about human nature. I knew, only too well, that once a successor is clearly identified people’s thoughts turn inexorably to the second in line, particularly if the current occupier of the throne has disappointed them in some way. My sister Mary stubbornly resisted naming me as her successor until the bitter end, so I now resolved to do the same, and for the same reasons.
But also like my sister, whether I would say so publicly or not, I knew who my rightful successor was. Lady Katherine Grey or Henry Hastings be damned. They were not the next in line. Whatever the Protestants of my council, my parliament or even my country wanted, it was the granddaughter of my father’s oldest sister – not his youngest – who had the greatest claim: my cousin, the Scottish queen. I also knew that should I say as much publicly I would bring nothing but trouble upon myself and my kingdom.
‘And so I do assure you all,’ I said at the conclusion of my speech to parliament, ‘that, though after my death you may have many stepmothers, yet shall you never have a more natural mother than I mean to be to you all.’
They cheered themselves hoarse at these words, tossing their caps in the air with enthusiasm.
It was my cousin I had in mind as I talked of a stepmother, but the thought of her on my throne – rightful inheritor though she might be – made me resolve to be especially tender with my health. At that time, I still feared she was my superior in charm, in intellect, in ability to rule a kingdom. I yearned to be England’s greatest and most beloved queen. I wanted no rival to take my throne and outshine me. Older than my cousin I might be, but I resolved then and there to outlive her. The irony of that decision, given our current fates, does not escape me.
‘Your Majesty.’ The man had a thick Scottish burr but, like so many of his nation, an authoritative air that was attractive.
‘Sir William.’ I held out my hand. My cousin’s ambassador, Sir William Maitland of Lethington, had requested a private audience.
‘My mistress, the Queen of Scots, wishes me to tell you of her concern about Your Grace’s recent ill health and her great relief at your swift recovery.’
I doubted the truth of that, but courtesies are courtesies. ‘Your mistress is very generous. Please pay my respects to my dearest cousin and thank her for her good wishes.’
‘It does you great credit, madam, that all your subjects were so anxious during your extremity and so eager for your recovery. I have rarely seen a monarch held in such high regard.’ Which, as we both well understood, was a diplomatic way of addressing politely the hubbub that had ensued about the succession. A hubbub, I refrained from reminding him, that was occasioned by my subjects’ fear of losing me and gaining Mary in my place.
‘They cannot love me half as well as I love them.’
‘And, no doubt it is the love they bear you that leads so many to be concerned about who will follow in your mighty footsteps.’
I looked down upon my feet, shod that day in slippers of crimson velvet. They peeped beneath the hem of my black and white gown and hardly looked capable of anything mightier than a fine dance step. I looked up to see the ambassador waiting for my next word. I was still tired and a little shaky, having risen so recently from my sick bed, but I was also tired of so many interrogating me over the issue of the succession. It is frightening enough to understand that one has nearly died, without everyone you meet seeking to discuss the possibility that it may happen again at any time. From irritation, perhaps, or inexperience, I decided to speak nothing but the plain truth.
‘For my part I know of no other claim to succeed to my throne that is better than that of your mistress. Nor do I know of anyone who I would prefer to follow me.’
Despite his years of maintaining diplomatic composure no matter what he heard, I could see that Sir William was surprised that he had achieved his aim quite so easily. He struggled to find something to say in response (nothing takes the wind from a man’s sails like a quick victory). ‘God save Your Majesty.’
‘It seems He has done so already.’
‘Nevertheless, your recent time of peril has brought into focus the need to name your successor.’
‘And I have just done so – to you, Sir William.’
‘It is most gracious of you to be so fair and frank, Your Majesty, but you have not named the Queen of Scots as your heir officially.’
‘Officially?’
‘The Queen of Scots has asked me to tell you that she would like to be named your successor by order of parliament. I suspect your subjects and the House of Commons would like it well enough too.’
‘They want a named successor, that is true, my lord.’
‘And settling the succession in such an amicable and public way would strengthen the friendship between two formidable queens and their two countries in the eyes of all Christendom.’
‘Think you so?’
‘Of course, Your Grace. That two such wise and powerful women, so close in kinship and responsibility should publicly display their friendship before all the world could only draw you closer, as allies and fellow queens.’
‘So you think I could love my winding sheet?’
Sir William’s face went blank and a little colour drained from his naturally ruddy complexion. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. I smiled and gestured that he had my permission to say whatever it was that he wanted to. He merely stuttered and blustered a little, but could find no words.
I spoke for him. ‘You forget, good sir, that I know what it is to be second. I have watched how the natural inconstancy of men waxes and wanes if they see a credible alternative to their rightful ruler. You forget I spent many weary years as a prisoner merely because some of those men insisted on fixing their rebellions upon their hopes for me. If I named my heir publicly, as so many wish me to do – and they do not all want me to name
your mistress, my lord, be assured of that – every fool with a grievance, every fanatic with a passion, every malcontent in the nation, would turn their heads, hearts and hopes towards my successor. It is the nature of men to look to the rising sun, hoping to be in a better case than they are with the setting one. So long as I live, Sir William, and you can tell this to your mistress, my eager cousin, I will be the Queen of England. When I am dead, the one that has the most right shall succeed.’
Six
It is many hours since I first banished my attendants and closed my door against them. It is only minutes since I heard a timid knock and turned to see Philadelphia Carey – now Lady Scrope – once again standing at the door. She holds a pitcher of wine and some bread and cheese. I know why they have sent Philadelphia to the lion’s den. She is my close relative, the pretty young daughter of my cousin Lord Hunsdon.
I do not speak, nor do I bellow. I merely signal that the frightened girl should put the tray on the table by the door. She does so and then steps towards me, opening her mouth as if to speak. I hold up my hand and gesture for her to leave me. She pauses for a moment and seems about to beseech me, but does not. Instead she sighs, nods and then backs towards the open door. As I indicate, she pulls it closed behind her. I wait until I hear the catch connect before I heave myself up from the low stool that I have perched upon for so long.
Once, when I was new upon my throne, I was as slender and nimble as the girl who has just left the room. Now, twenty-five years later, my old bones tremble and creak with the ague and my ladies can no longer do up my stays quite as tightly. I look down at the green gown I am wearing. I no longer remember how many hours it has been since I donned it. It is stained and grubby and probably smells of sweat, grief and smoke from the fire. I care not. I have neither the energy nor the desire to change it or to bathe. I pour myself a goblet of wine and pick at the cheese. It is a fine Wensleydale. Blanche has chosen it specifically to tempt me.
It is strange to remember that the woman who now lies headless in her grave has been faceless to me all my life. How is it that a woman I never met, never knew – except through other people’s reports and her own letters – has had such a hold on me that she can bring me to such squalor and despair? When was it that the Queen of Scots and I unknowingly embarked upon the journey that would bring us both to such misery? In the days when first I and then poor Mary Sidney battled the smallpox, I never imagined the Queen of Scots would prove an even more formidable foe.
After the untimely and tragic death of her first husband (his father died on the jousting field, this frail youth ignominiously from an infection of the ear) my cousin wanted to return to her kingdom, and why would she not? No longer the Queen of France, she had no reason to stay in the court where she had lived so long. But the closer she came to my realm the more nervous my advisors became. I was also uncomfortably aware that all in Christendom compared us constantly. We were two youthful, and now, unmarried queens, from either side of the religious divide. She was nineteen in 1561 – I was nine years older. I had been a queen for three years, she for the whole span of her life and in our first contest of wills, she bested me easily.
‘The Queen of Scots asks for safe passage through English waters for her journey from France to Scotland.’
‘She means to come home, then?’
‘With Francois and her mother dead, she has little choice. Nothing we hear of her encourages me to think she is the type of queen who would retire quietly to a convent.’
Cecil barely looked up from his papers. My secretary had his own office and his own assistants, but he often spent many hours in my presence, where we worked side by side. Our talk, as we ploughed through correspondence and reports, now turned more regularly to my widowed cousin – bereft of a crown matrimonial and determined to claim the crown regnant. In those days, we still thought of our focus on the Queen of Scots a temporary state of affairs. She was an irritation, an important one, perhaps, but nothing more.
Suddenly an idea took hold of me. She had annoyed me, this smug young queen. She had claimed my throne since she was a child; now she was prevaricating over signing the agreement that would publicly remove that claim once and for all during my lifetime. My ministers were not the only members of my court who had taken barely disguised pleasure in acquainting me with the unpleasant jests she had made about me marrying my horse-master. Worse, my very own ambassador, Nicholas Throckmorton, seemed to have entirely lost his head over the woman, writing me irritating reports that praised her wisdom and modesty and her willingness to listen to good counsel. I could read the criticism behind that praise. If she was wise, modest and open to advice, it was clear to me that Throckmorton, like many others, thought that I was not. They pitted us against one another in a rivalry not of our making.
Yet, I was curious about this young queen who was at once so like me and so different. If I gave her the safe passage she asked for, she might come to my kingdom and we might meet. The idea excited but also frightened me. It was an event I had long anticipated. The Queen of Scots was the only one of my peers I longed to know. I was mildly curious about other rulers, but resigned to the fact that it was rare for monarchs to meet.
My father and the current King of France’s grandfather, another Francois, competed in every way when they faced each other in what was supposed to be a demonstration of their mutual regard and friendship. Neither could afford to lose face before the other. My poor sister had abased herself before her husband, the King of Spain, hoping for the love and support that he had neither the intention nor the ability to give her. Perhaps these are the reasons that, even as I yearned to set eyes upon my cousin and fellow queen, the actual possibility of such a meeting made me shy away. She was younger than I was, taller and by all accounts prettier, with an ability to charm the hearts and minds of men beyond any I could lay claim to. Her rights to her kingdom were undisputed and, much as I hated to admit it, I still had a great deal to prove. If we met, we could be compared in fact as well as in fancy and I might come off the loser. That I could not contemplate.
‘What if I am not of a mind to give her safe passage?’
At my words Cecil put down his quill. ‘What do you mean, Your Grace?’
‘I do not wish to give her safe passage. Request denied.’
Cecil looked rather startled now, and scratched gently at his beard. ‘Is that wise, Your Grace?’
‘I don’t see why not. She has been playing me for a fool for some time and I dislike her over-confidence. I think it is time the Queen of England showed her younger cousin her teeth.’ And I bared my teeth to Cecil and made the shape of claws with my hands and growled to emphasise the point. Cecil merely looked a little more startled and scratched at his beard. As I have said, he was (and is) a wonderful and staunch advisor, but he has never been playful. I relaxed my mock-growl and laughed.
‘Now, good Sir Spirit—’ It was my new nickname for him, half admiring and half teasing – he so understood the spirit of my reign and diplomacy, and yet was so ponderous in all he did and said.
‘Send her envoy my reply just as I have asked you to: request denied. Tell her that she must first ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh before we can start talking of passports. Why should I give her everything she wants when she offers me nothing in return?’
‘I would counsel against this, Your Majesty. It is always wise to give what you can in the game of diplomacy and withhold only what you must. Safe passage costs you nothing and generosity will gain you credit. Refusal of such a small thing may be interpreted as capricious.’
‘I care not. Send it, just as I have said. Let her see that the Queen of England will not simply dance to the Queen of Scots’ tune.’ And I left the chamber with a hop in my step and a flounce of my skirt. This is what it should feel like to be a queen, and the Queen of England too, I thought to myself, as I skipped towards my private apartments. ‘Mess with me at your peril!’ I said to no
one in particular. But in my heart of hearts I knew even then that I did not make the decision to refuse her a passport out of strength but out of weakness. I did not want to stand beside someone who was younger, taller, prettier and wiser.
Only a few weeks later, the snub rebounded, just as Cecil had warned. Far from bringing a cub to heel, the opposite occurred. Once my petty behaviour became public knowledge, the wisdom of the world’s two most famous monarchs was indeed compared and I was the queen who was judged foolish and inexperienced.
Far from publicly declaring that she had no claim to my throne while I still occupied it, as I had hoped, the Queen of Scots simply refused to accept the snub or the limitation. My ambassador recorded Mary’s words on the subject and dispatched them to me in his report post haste. My spirits sank as I read them.
‘I am only sorry,’ said Mary, according to Ambassador Throckmorton, ‘that I demeaned myself by asking for something I didn’t need. I didn’t need England’s permission when I came to France thirteen years ago and I do not need it to return now.’
Worse, as I scanned the ambassador’s letter, I saw that she had not just revealed my lack of power but had not hesitated to emphasise my inexperience.
‘Your queen has called me young and inexperienced, and that may be so, but I hope I know how to behave properly to my friends and kinfolk. I will certainly never allow my bad temper to betray me into using unbecoming language to another queen. Despite your queen being my nearest kinswoman, I am not without friends and I will not allow myself to be bullied.’
As I read her last words, I groaned aloud and thrust the parchment away from me. I felt nauseated by the humiliation. ‘Tell the Queen of Scots that I will send her the safe passage and I will invite her to visit us here at court – no – I’ll go one better and ride to meet her at whichever of our ports best suits the prevailing winds.’
‘It is too late, I fear, Your Grace. The Queen of Scots has sailed for Edinburgh already.’