The Betrayal of Mary, Queen of Scots

by Kate Williams

  There was a light dusting of snow across the city – but the streets were crammed. All along the route the city staged allegorical tableaux. In each, a narrator stepped forward as the queen approached and recited in rhyme what the actors represented – each scene was meant to show the queen vanquishing the old world of division and strife under Queen Mary. The first speaker was a child attempting to utter welcoming verses – but they struggled to be heard over the crowd. The queen asked for silence and listened to the child attentively ‘as if the child’s words touched her person’.

  There was no subtlety in the pageants. The first was on a platform showing the Tudor dynasty – supported by actors representing Unity and Concord, Elizabeth herself at the top. At the bottom were Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. The new queen left it in no doubt – Anne Boleyn was no longer ‘the Great Whore’ but the rightful consort of Henry the king. At Cornhill, a child played Elizabeth on the Seat of Worthy Governance while other children acted as the virtues; one, Good Religion, defeated the vices of Ignorance and Superstition. The city had done everything possible to please the new queen. At every stop, Elizabeth watched with fascination and declared her delight in the show. At one tableau, a child offered her a Bible, reciting verses about how to change a ruined state into a great empire. Elizabeth kissed it and thanked the city warmly for it, ‘promising to be a diligent reader thereof’.4

  Elizabeth was keen to show her appreciation of all those who cheered for her. Unlike her sister, who had been painfully stiff and shy in crowds, she waved and often stopped the chariot (somewhat to the despair of those accompanying her, who had hoped for a quicker progress through the chill) to speak to ordinary people along the way or accept small gifts of flowers – she kept one sprig of rosemary, a present from a poor woman, beside her for the entire journey to the Palace of Westminster where she retired, content with a task brilliantly executed.

  Despite the show of unity, there had been division behind the scenes – over religion. It had been customary for the queen to celebrate Mass in her private chapel on Christmas morning, at a service given by the Archbishop of Canterbury. But Pole had not been replaced since his death in November and the Archbishop of York, who suspected Elizabeth was a Protestant, refused to fill in. The Bishop of Carlisle reluctantly agreed to conduct the service. Elizabeth wrote to him demanding he did not include the part of the service known as the elevation of the Host. This went to the heart of the wars over religion. The moment when the bread and wine became the body and blood of Christ was for Catholics the most sacred part of the service, the great miracle of transubstantiation, which Protestants denied.

  The bishop ignored the request and conducted his service as usual. As he started to raise the bread and wine, the queen told him to stop – much to the shock of the onlookers. The bishop carried on – and the queen was incensed. She marched from the chapel, making her feelings clear. In the following weeks, the bishop was not invited back and instead clergymen willing to follow Elizabeth’s strictures conducted the royal service. Three days after the Christmas fiasco, the queen issued a proclamation that the Epistles, the Ten Commandments and some prayers were to be read out in English, although the rest of the service would be in Latin – as had essentially been the case in the reign of Henry VIII. This situation would remain until after the queen and Parliament had decided on measures ‘for the better conciliation and accord of such causes as at this present are moved in matters and ceremonies of religion’.5 But it was clear which way the wind was blowing – the queen, in the eyes of the bishops, was a Protestant sinner. The Archbishop of York refused to crown her and other bishops agreed. Carlisle was again pushed into doing it – but he had one condition: the coronation service should be conducted in medieval Latin. Elizabeth agreed but she would not give in entirely – the Epistle and the Gospel would be read in English. For English Catholics, this was enough provocation to cause them to gather behind any other claimant to the throne who might uphold the true faith – and that was Mary, Queen of Scots.

  On 15 January, her coronation day, the queen emerged from Westminster Hall to the sound of all the bells in London and the pipes and drums of her musicians. She was more resplendent than ever in her coronation robes and a silk mantle, a crimson velvet cap adorned with pearls and gold on her beautiful red-gold hair. She processed along the blue carpet to Westminster Abbey – and as soon as she passed, the crowd fell on the material, tearing at it to get a souvenir of the coron­ation. All the peerage of note and councillors had been waiting in the abbey for hours, under the flickering lights of hundreds of torches and candles.

  The queen pointedly retired when the bishop began raising the Host – much to the delight of the Protestants in the audience. She took the Coronation Oath from an English Bible held up by William Cecil – but did promise that she would be ‘Defender of the True, the Ancient, Catholic Faith’.

  On the chair of state before the altar, she heard herself proclaimed queen four times. When she was presented for the acceptance of her subjects, there was an incredible clamour of shouts and applause, along with bells, trumpets and organ music. She retired to change into a gown of crimson velvet, over which she wore a mantle of gold. Then came the climax of the ceremony – the ring that married her to her people was placed on her fourth finger. She was then crowned, first with St Edward’s Crown and then the Imperial Crown (all seven pounds of it!), which was then replaced with a smaller crown – possibly the one worn by Anne Boleyn at her coronation.

  Elizabeth walked triumphant from the abbey to Westminster Hall, sceptre and orb in her hands, smiling and greeting those lining the route. She and her peers sat down to the huge coronation banquet from three in the afternoon until one in the morning. The queen’s champion, Sir Edward Dymocke, rode in to the banquet and flung his gauntlet onto the floor, declaring he would fight any man who doubted the queen’s right to the throne.

  It was a delightful piece of theatre – engaging and a chance for those there to cheer. But although no one stood up, the queen was surrounded by enemies. Her coronation had been a triumph of pageantry, display and Tudor romanticism, yet the problems of ­religious division were already surfacing, and even though everybody in the hall clapped their queen, some were secretly plotting against her. One Mary – her sister – was dead. But another – her cousin – was watching the throne.

  The queen had received the consecrated (indeed, transubstantiated) bread and wine, but in private, where no one could see. She had been anointed by the same oil as her sister, who had acquired it from the Bishop of Arras. Elizabeth thought it greasy and unpleasant. ‘Likewise for their holy oil, it is great superstition to give credit to it, or to any such feigned things invented by Satan to blind the simple people.’ As far as Elizabeth was concerned, the best use of the stuff was in cooking. ‘Their oil is olive oil, which was brought out of Spain, very good for salads.’6

  On the day after the coronation, the queen retired to bed – suffering from a cold. The pageants continued without her. She had done her duty.

  ‘And in this end, this shall be for me sufficient, that a marble stone shall declare that a queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.’7 Such were Elizabeth’s words to her first parliament in 1559. Her audience probably thought that she was simply aiming to increase her value on the marriage market. She may have been born on the eve of the Virgin’s birth – but no woman remained a virgin out of choice, unless she was a nun. Women were meant to marry, for they were too weak and simple to govern themselves alone, let alone a realm.

  One of Elizabeth’s earliest visitors had been the Spanish ambassador, who breezily suggested she had gained the throne through Philip’s influence. Not discouraged by the queen’s reaction, he then conveyed a marriage offer from Philip, who, eternally arrogant, made the con­­siderate offer of relieving her of ‘those labours which are only fit for men’.8 She turned him down, but clever as always, played the card of modesty and restraint, for she could not afford to lose his suppo
rt. But even though her subjects had no desire to see her marry Philip, they expected her to marry someone. Elizabeth needed a husband to ally with her and fight for her. Edward Dymocke and his gauntlet could only go so far. If Elizabeth did not marry, she would be at the mercy of her enemies and the country would be lost.

  Characteristically and cleverly, Elizabeth put off the decision and devoted herself to pomp and glory.

  As in the coronation, Elizabeth put on the greatest show on earth. ‘She lives a life of magnificence and festivity such as can hardly be imagined, and occupies a great portion of her time with balls, banquets, hunting and similar amusements with the utmost display’, declared one rather overwhelmed envoy. The ‘court of Queen Elizabeth was at once gay, decent and superb’ said another.9 But although the glitter and the sheen was there, it was meretricious – what was underneath was shaky and threatened. Elizabeth was surrounded by enemies. Many around her wished to push her aside and put a man in her place and her greatest threat was France. For there, King Henry II had only one desire – to bring England to heel as subservient state. And his daughter-in-law, Mary, although she was only sixteen, wanted the same. For, unlike Philip of Spain, she had a legitimate claim to the throne.

  Elizabeth knew that most in Catholic Europe saw her as illegitimate, and not the rightful queen, and the royal supremacy had to be restored. Mary’s religious legislation was repealed and the Act of Uniformity passed. The Book of Common Prayer was now the book that all should follow (it was similar to the 1552 Book brought in at the end of Edward’s reign, with some changes) and Mass was now illegal. The Act of Supremacy declared Elizabeth Supreme Governor of the Church of England. She was Governor and not Head – for there were objections a woman could not be the latter. Elizabeth’s opinion was that as long as her subjects obeyed her and attended the services of her church on Sundays, their private thoughts and feelings could be as they wished. As she famously said, she did not wish to ‘open windows into men’s souls’. Her ministers did not always agree with her, judging her na¨ıve about the Catholic threat.

  The queen had dodged the marriage offer of Philip of Spain with skill (and she was most relieved to see him married off to Elisabeth of Valois) – but she could not escape the issue of being wed so easily. Everybody, it seemed, was telling her to marry. As she herself later said, there seemed to be a ‘strong idea’ that ‘a woman cannot live unless she is married’. Even her loyal William Cecil – who surely recognised that his influence would be reduced if his mistress took a husband – was proposing marriage as the ‘only known and likely surety’ for both the queen and the realm. In that first parliament of her reign, she was implored to marry to secure the succession, told that if she were to remain ‘unmarried, and, as it were, a vestal virgin’10, she would be deeply unpopular. Elizabeth was angered by their argument, retorting that she would be forever a virgin.

  At that point, she was probably attempting to hold off Parliament – and dampen the ardour of her endlessly keen suitors. If she had announced that she planned soon to marry, then she would be overwhelmed with proposals and pressure to choose. Deferring the matter was a wise move. Over the years, her youthful speech would become codified into a doctrine, a promise, a myth – and the most brilliant piece of royal propaganda in history. For if the most important role of a monarch is to produce heirs and continue the succession, Elizabeth signally failed. Unlike her sister, Mary, and her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, she didn’t even try to marry. But her fervent refusal was reshaped into devotion to the country and a revelation of personal excellence and sacrifice.

  There were enthusiastic efforts to change her mind. The Church of England clergyman John Aylmer said that if she married one of her subjects, ‘she may not be the head, I grant that, so far as pertaining to the bands of marriage, and the office of a wife, she must be a subject; but as a Magistrate, she must be her husband’s head’. A husband would lead in ‘matters of wedlock’ but she would be responsible for ‘the guiding of the commonwealth’.11 This set-up was rather akin to that of later queens, Victoria and Elizabeth II, who took on the rule of the country but styled their husbands as head of the household. But Victoria succeeded a collection of dreadful and debauched kings and their brothers who had made male rule look so bad that the country was wildly keen on an innocent girl. The alternative to her would have been the Duke of Cumberland, who was rude, untrustworthy and had probably murdered his valet. She also arrived on the throne after society had become more accustomed to arguments about female independence and women maintaining their identity after marriage, even if they promised to obey. Early feminists, such as Mary Wollstonecraft, and even some novels of the time, had begun to promote these new ideas, and the prospect of a woman on the throne was not the horror it might have been.

  Elizabeth II ascended in a quite different era, when the Crown’s power itself was much diminished and female rule was even more acceptable. But in the sixteenth century, a woman who failed to obey and bow to her husband in all things was not just defying society but also refusing to accept the authority of God. Of course, there were many determined and independent-minded wives and obedient husbands. But when push came to shove, if Elizabeth and her husband were to disagree, Parliament would be within its rights to follow the wishes of the husband. Marrying a Habsburg or a Valois from France meant choosing one side over another, and Philip of Spain was too powerful and too Catholic – and, even if he and his ideas did not overrun the country, he might try to haul England into the wars that he so keenly prosecuted and had proved so disastrous for her sister.

  Elizabeth’s initial attempt to stop Parliament from interfering became a vision she would never relinquish. Perhaps if all of her advisors had agreed on a man, then she would have taken him as a husband. Childbirth was risky and even if she had all success and bore a healthy son, this would have opened her up to the threat that she might be deposed for her child. But still, the succession would be secure, and Mary, Queen of Scots swept out of the way in an instant. As it was, Elizabeth was the Virgin Queen and the Queen of Scots was snapping at her heels.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Malicious Talk’

  Elizabeth was surrounded by admiring men. Twenty-five years old on her accession, graceful, vibrant and superbly intelligent, she was wonderful company and if she was never the most beautiful woman in the room, her charisma and glamour made up for a lot. And although she claimed she would never marry, she was openly spending much of her free time with her Master of the Horse and old friend, the handsome flatterer and courageous swordsman, Robert Dudley, who was devoted to the queen, even though he had been married to the heiress Amy Robsart since 1550.

  The Spanish ambassador reported more than friendship. As he put it, ‘Lord Robert has come so much into favour that he does whatever he likes with affairs. It is even said that Her Majesty visits him in his chamber day and night.’ Elizabeth rode out with him every day and spent more time with him than any of her other advisors. The earls of Norfolk and Arundel later complained that he had excessive privilege. Her ministers were permitted to appear in her bedchamber, but not before she was dressed. Yet Robert was allowed to do exactly that, ‘handing her the shift she would put on’.1 They had also seen him kiss her without being invited.

  If she had chosen anyone to end her state of being a virgin queen, it would have been Dudley. But did she? Some ambassadors fussed, but others saw nothing. The Swedish chancellor reported in 1560 that ‘I did see many signs of chastity, virginity and true modesty so that I would stake my life that she is most chaste.’2 After all, there was some distance between the flirtation of handing her a chemise and having full-blown sex. And sex, in the days before reliable contraception, was not a mere dalliance but could have great consequences. As pregnancy and fertility were very poorly understood, women really did think they could get pregnant at any point in the month. As it tends to be impossible for two people who are intensely attracted to each other to have sexual intercourse on a single occas
ion if they remain in close proximity, we might argue that if Elizabeth and Dudley had consummated their relationship once, they would have found repeated occasions to do so. But no lady talked of any gossip and Elizabeth did not fall pregnant. It has been argued by some recent scholars that Elizabeth was infertile, or even born with male chromosomes, but the princes who proposed marriage certainly received information from their spies that she had a correct feminine cycle and Cecil always believed she could marry and fall pregnant, until her age made it too late. When she was thirty, her doctor told a French diplomat that she was capable of bearing ten children.

  It is most likely that Elizabeth and Dudley went no further than flirtation and some heavy petting. For Elizabeth, sex was fraught with dangers. Her early experience at Seymour’s hands had been terrifying, and she realised how quickly sexual activities could change and rebound and lead to her being thrown into the Tower. She barely remembered her mother, but her story was etched into her mind, and she had seen Catherine Howard fall due to sexual congress – and Katherine Parr die in the aftermath of childbirth. Her father, her stepfather in the form of Seymour, the behaviour of Philip of Spain towards her sister Mary – various men along the way had shown her how faithless men could be.

  The pair had much in common: playing together in childhood, staying in the Tower at the same time with the threat of execution hanging over them, and a preference for the reformed religion. Did he grow hopeful? He was the son of traitors, but still, Parliament had wanted to instruct Elizabeth in February that she should only marry an Englishman, although decided against issuing the command at the last minute. Perhaps Elizabeth thought him a safe option to spend time with – for as he was married already, no one would imagine that he was trying to marry her.