by Jean Plaidy
He was a celebrated man, a man much admired for his scholarship and nobility. Such men are dangerous.
He had, of course, been touring the country, staying in Catholic houses, hiding himself away in priests' holes when Walsingham's men of my secret service came prowling round.
He was caught eventually in the house of a gentleman at Lyford in Berkshire, betrayed by a man named George Eliot who had been a steward in one of the houses he had visited. Campion was taken with two other priests and lodged in the Tower.
Walsingham was sure that there were plots brewing all over the country and that the object of these was to kill me and set Mary Stuart on the throne. He suspected every Catholic priest of being a traitor. I knew this was not the case and I believed that many of these men were concerned only with religion, but they could in truth be spies and I did see the need to scent them out.
Walsingham's method, when a priest was caught, was to draw from him the names of the houses he had visited, the intention being to keep a watch on those houses for possible plotters. The priests were often reluctant to betray their friends and in some cases they had to be cruelly persuaded. Campion was one of these. I was sorry to hear this.
“He has been racked,” said Walsingham, “but even in the extremity of his pain would admit nothing.”
I did not want to hear of this man's being tortured. I could not forget his young, innocent face when he had made his Latin oration to me. He was a brilliant scholar and I hated to think of such a man's being destroyed. Surely it would have been possible to reason with him, to point out the folly of setting such store in a few differences in the same religion. He might ask the same of me, but the answer was, of course, that I served my people. The majority of them wanted a Protestant monarch, so they had one. They had had enough of Catholicism during my sister's reign, and even though it was necessary now and then to arrest and torture men like Campion, who were fundamentally good, we were not inflicting on our people the horrors which were being endured under the dreaded Inquisition.
I would fight with everything I had to keep that fanatical institution out of my country; and that was why, if it was necessary to inflict torture on those Catholics whose aim was to introduce Spanish methods into this country, we must do so. It was nothing compared with what the Catholics were doing to those whom they called heretics.
I told Walsingham that I should like to see Campion and speak to him myself.
Walsingham was taken aback and said he would be afraid for my safety if such a man were admitted to my presence.
“Afraid of Edmund Campion! My dear Moor, that man would not hurt a fly.”
“He is a fanatical Catholic, and Your Majesty knows that the Catholics plot to set the Queen of Scots on your throne.”
“I do not think Edmund Campion will harm me.”
I was so insistent that it was arranged that Campion be brought from the Tower that I might see him.
Robert was greatly alarmed at the prospect. “The man may have a concealed weapon,” he insisted.
“He has come straight from the Tower, Robert. He has been grievously racked. I doubt he can walk without pain and difficulty.”
Robert said: “I cannot allow it.”
“And I cannot allow my subjects to forbid it, Robert,” I replied.
He was on his knees, taking my hand and kissing it.
“How can you torment me so? How can I rest while you are in danger?”
“Nonsense!” I retorted. “And you can rest very well in the arms of your she-wolf. You have more to fear in that woman than I have in Edmund Campion!”
He begged at length to be allowed to be present at the meeting and that it should take place at Leicester House. I agreed, for that meant Lettice would have to move out and that always pleased me.
So Robert, the Earl of Bedford and two secretaries were present when Edmund Campion was brought to me.
I was horrified to see that once handsome young man; he now looked haggard and he found walking difficult. Poor man, they had treated him roughly on the rack. I felt angry with his tormentors and exasperated with him. He might have been leading a very pleasant life at Oxford.
I told him this and that it displeased me to see him in such state, to which he replied that he did what God told him to.
“Oh,” I said sharply, “you are on intimate terms with Him then?”
He said that he conferred with God.
“You appear to think that none of the rest of us do.”
“Oh no, Your Majesty,” he said. “I trust all will pray to God and come to the truth.”
“Then I will pray for you, Edmund Campion,” I retorted. “I will pray that you cease this folly. I would rather see you as I saw you once before in Oxford using the talents God has given you than here like this.”
“God has spoken to me,” he said. “I do His work.”
“And fine trouble that has brought you!”
“It is of no matter, Madam. What happens to my body is but passing pain. I look to eternal bliss.”
“Which is reserved for those who worship in the way you choose for them, I suppose.”
“I believe in the Catholic Faith,” he said.
I could see that it was useless to try to reason with him. I felt impatient with him and yet he saddened me. I wanted to show those present that he was a good man, an innocent man; all he wanted was to worship in a certain way. If only the stupid man would do it quietly in his home! Why did he have to go round the country hiding in priests' holes, behaving like a criminal?
I said to him: “Do you acknowledge me as your Queen?”
He answered fervently: “Not only for my Queen but my lawful Queen.”
I had known it. He was no traitor.
“Do you believe that the Pope could excommunicate me lawfully?”
He hesitated. He did not want to admit that he considered the Pope to stand above me in the Church for that indeed was against the law.
He said cautiously: “It is not for me to decide in a controversy between Your Majesty and the Pope.”
I did not want to implicate him further because I feared he might go so far that there would be no hope of saving him.
If only it had been possible to save him I would have done so, but he would not help me to it. He was determined to be a martyr.
Shortly after he was arraigned with seven others at Westminster Hall. He was a brave and a brilliant man and he answered his judges with wit and distinction; but he was in a pitiable state and I heard that he was unable to hold up his hand when pleading in the required manner because he had been so brutally racked. The wretched George Eliot, who had been responsible for his capture, was the main witness against him and his evidence was proved to be unreliable. But Walsingham, stern Protestant that he was, was determined to allow no possible spies for Philip of Spain, no adherents of Mary of Scotland, to slip through his net. He wanted a verdict of guilty and he got it.
When Lord Chief Justice Wray asked the prisoners if they had anything to say as to why they did not deserve death, Campion replied: “It is not our death that we fear. We know that we are not lords of our own lives and therefore for want of an answer would not be guilty of our own deaths. The only thing we have to say now is that if our religion does make us traitors then we are worthy to be condemned; but otherwise we are, and have been, true subjects of the Queen. In condemning us you condemn all your ancestors—all ancient priests, bishops and kings—all that once were the glory of England. What have we taught, however you may qualify it with the odious name of treason, that they did not teach? God lives. Posterity will live. Their judgment is not so liable to corruption as those who are now going to sentence us to death.”
Such talk could not fail to impress and inspire… and perhaps alarm… and people grow vicious when frightened.
I was deeply disturbed—as I so often was by the need to inflict death… I had not forgotten my mother's fate. I thought that Campion should not have been condemned, though I knew th
at, as a practical matter, Walsingham was right. I was in acute danger. The blow could come from the least expected quarter. I had to put my safety in the hands of my good and careful Moor; and he would allow no one the chance of harming me if he could help it.
I was glad that Edmund Campion escaped the final painful humiliation. They cut him up after his death, not before. What a concession!
I prayed for him that night. I asked forgiveness of God for my part in his death, and I took some comfort to know that he had left that poor tortured body of his behind him forever.
I knew that he was a good man, and I could not forget his bright and clever face as it had been when he had welcomed me to Oxford.
I COULD NOT keep Anjou dangling forever, much as I should like to gain more time. The situation in the Netherlands was even more delicate. That poor country had constantly asked me for aid against the Spanish and I had hesitated to give it, fearing it might involve my people in conflict. The French, however, had become very alarmed at the prospect of Spain's obtaining dominance there. On the other hand, they were a Catholic country and we were menaced by the Catholics of Europe who might join together to attack England. Fortunately there was a bitter rivalry among themselves.
My little Prince had always been a trouble to his family. His mother had no great love for him, nor had his brother; and it must have seemed a good idea to send him to the Netherlands to help the people against the Spaniards, since the last thing France wanted was to see a triumphant Spain. Anjou had flirted with the Protestant Faith, though he was no more stable in that direction than he had been in others. Therefore, why should he not go to the Netherlands independently of France—but secretly aided by them—and wage war on Spain?
This seemed to me an excellent idea. It was fighting my war for me and it was a state of affairs which I wanted to continue for as long as possible— as long as he was fighting independently of France, for to contemplate French domination of the Netherlands was even more alarming than that of Spain as they were closer to us and could invade more easily.
It was a very complicated and intricate situation and it needed the most skillful diplomacy. I must keep Anjou fighting in the Netherlands and he must be on my side… not that of the French. The French doubtless saw the marriage as bringing England back to Catholicism and obviously thought that when Anjou was victorious, they would join up with him and his victory would be that of the French.
I had no doubt that the wily Catherine de' Medici believed that she could rid herself of her troublesome son and win the Netherlands for France at the same time; and I had to keep her believing that that was what she was going to achieve.
But she was becoming impatient. Walsingham reported that the King of France and his mother were exasperated by my delaying tactics with regard to the marriage; they were behaving in a very cool manner toward the English envoys and himself. Not content with complaining to my Council, he had the temerity to write lecturing me.
I smiled to think of what my father's reactions would have been to such a letter. Walsingham's head would have been in acute danger. But I understood. I respected my Moor. He was a man of courage and immense ability so I meant to keep his head where it could best serve me, even though it meant suppressing my irritation. There was logic in his reasoning and it did bring home to me the fact that I could not play this game much longer.
It was galling to see that my devious diplomacy was not always appreciated by my most able ministers. I had to play the part of a vain, coquettish woman—not so difficult for in some ways I was one—but they did forget that I was also an astute politician. When they came to look back over the past three years, they would see what advantage I had brought to my country by holding off the French while I could build up our defenses. I had plans, too, which might amaze them, for my little Anjou was a weathercock in his politics and I believed that he would sway toward whichever side could bring him a touch of glory. Poor little Frog, so unprepossessing, with a brother a King occupying a throne which he had hoped to get for himself, and with a mother who dominated her children and decided the policy of France. They would see how my plans for him worked out … if they would only be patient. But I must play the game my way and I could not yet explain to my Moor, or even to my Spirit. There must be no hint that matters were otherwise than they appeared to be, and if I was to play my part with conviction, I had to believe in the role I was playing.
It was agreed that Anjou should come to England again and this time there should be a definite decision.
Walsingham returned. “You knave,” I said to him. “In the beginning you were against the marriage … none more so. Now you see it as inevitable…as part of an alliance with France. You are like a weathercock, Master Moor.”
He was disconcerted but unrepentant. Men such as he do what they think right and no one—king or queen—is going to divert them.
I gave him a sharp slap on the arm and said: “You will see.” But he knew that though I was displeased with him, I recognized him as a devoted servant, and his allegiance was even stronger because he respected me, though he believed, like the rest, that I had gone too far in this matter of the marriage. It was going to be difficult to extricate myself. I alone had to do that, and I was not quite ready yet. I had still to keep the French anxious and the Spaniards guessing.
When Anjou came, fresh from his victory after the relief of Cambrai, we welcomed him as the future consort of the Queen should be received, and so we set out to entertain him royally. We erected what we called a temporary banqueting hall in Whitehall which cost the amazing sum of one thousand, seven hundred and forty-four pounds, nineteen shillings, and we went to the further expense of putting the guests in luxurious lodgings in the area. I gave a splendid dinner party and so did Leicester and Burghley. The language presented some difficulty and Burghley produced some clever young interpreters, so that there should be no misunderstanding of what was being said and it should be clear that we wished to honor our guests. Among those clever young men was one who had come into prominence lately: young Francis Bacon, son of Nicholas and nephew of Burghley, who had already brought him to my notice.
We did everything we could to make this a splendid occasion. I wanted no one to guess just yet that I intended to break off the negotiations. All the finest furnishings were brought to Whitehall—pictures, carpets, plate, everything; and we had great entertainments such as jousting and bear-baiting as well as the banquets.
I had lulled the fears of the French and added to those in my subjects' minds. That could not be helped. There would have to be an understanding soon.
Anjou returned to France, triumphant, with plans to come to England in October—six months later—when all the documents would be ready and all that would be needed was his signature and mine.
There were rumors from the Continent. The French were growing restive. The Spaniards were secretly jeering. Delay, they said. Constant delay. The Queen of England does not intend to make this marriage.
Burghley told me that the Spaniards were gambling on it—one hundred to one against.
It could not go on. My ministers were very anxious. They had almost made up their minds that there would be a marriage. I was touched to realize that one of their main anxieties was that I might attempt to bear a child and endanger my life. There was no doubt that they wanted me to remain their Queen.
When October came, Anjou arrived at Rye. My clever Walsingham— the eternal spy—had arranged that prostitutes should be supplied for the French to make them happy. Not only did these women make the French happy, but Walsingham and Burghley also, because they came away with details of secret documents which gave us an idea of the French attitude. Thus we learned that if there was no marriage this time, there would be an end to the negotiations.
There was no doubt in the minds of my ministers that I had brought myself to an impasse and it seemed to them that there was no way out but through marriage.
I was as determined as ever to remain unmarried b
ut I would not admit this… yet.
When Anjou and I met we greeted each other with great affection. He fell to his knees and regarded me, his grotesque face alight with adoration.
I stooped and kissed him, telling him that I had longed for this meeting. Robert was standing by and I noticed with pleasure that he looked very angry.
“Let us walk in the gallery,” I said to Anjou. “I want to hear of your journey and to tell you of my joy in seeing you.”
Anjou and I walked a few paces ahead with Robert and Walsingham behind when Mauvissiére the French Ambassador came in unannounced. He made his way straight to me and said that he had orders from the King of France that he must without delay have a statement from me as to whether or not I intended to marry the Duc d'Anjou.
Here was a difficulty. What could I say? It was a matter of yes or no; and I was not yet ready for a no.
So I replied in the only way possible. I said: “You may write and tell this to the King: The Duc shall be my husband.”
Then I turned to my little Prince and kissed him on the mouth, and taking a ring from my finger I put it on his.
Anjou was overcome with joy. He immediately took a ring from his finger and put it on mine.
We had plighted our troth.
“Come with me,” I said, and I led him from the gallery to a chamber in which many of my courtiers were gathered. I told them in a voice which was audible throughout the room what had taken place.
The news spread rapidly. There was to be a marriage.
ROBERT BURST INTO my chamber. I had never seen him so upset.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “How dare you come in thus unannounced?”
He said: “I have just witnessed that scene in the gallery.”
“Scene? My Lord Leicester, I don't understand you!”
This was how I liked Robert—all fire and jealousy. He could not be regretting a crown now since he was no longer free to marry. This was pure jealousy… for me.