Queen of This Realm

by Jean Plaidy

  He said: “It was merely an idea. When one has responsibilities to others, one has to seek the best for them.”

  “Oh yes, indeed. I tell you this: I will see that no such glory comes to your wife… through her cubs. You will regret the day you married her. Her daughter is like her… leading Philip Sidney on to write poems about her and then to marry Rich…I suppose because he lived up to his name.”

  “She married Rich most reluctantly,” said Robert.

  “Oh? Had she her eyes on James of Scotland?”

  “You misjudge her.”

  “Poof! I am glad Philip Sidney is having Walsingham's girl and not marrying into that breed. That must be a comfort for your sister. And as for your plans, they are at an end. Do you understand?”

  “They had not gone very far. Just an idea…”

  “Robert Dudley, I advise you to curb your ideas. They could carry you into trouble.”

  He did not speak and as always when he was downcast I was sorry for him.

  I had already made up my mind that the suggestions for these grand marriages had come from her not him. After all, they were for the glorification of her children.

  I dismissed him, pretending to be angry with him, but after a few days he was back; and it was as though that incident had never happened.

  I SUFFERED A sad loss that year. I had a great affection for my men, and although it was a different kind of love I had for some than for others, my feelings went deep. Sussex was a man I had admired; he was not exactly in the courtier class; there had never been any frivolous flirtation with him, but I had respected him. He lacked the brilliance of men like Burghley and Bacon, nor had he the astuteness of Walsingham; he lacked the charm of Robert, Hatton and Heneage and such. But he was a good man—a man of high principles. Many were the differences I had had with him, but I respected him for that. He had been ill for some time and I hated illness. It frightened me. They all knew this and did not speak of it in my presence— except in the case of Robert, who used it to extricate himself from difficult situations. That was different. Real illness was a depressing subject and because those about me knew how I felt regarding it, they behaved as though it did not exist.

  I had seen Sussex laboring to get his breath and trying to pretend this was not so. I had insisted on one occasion that he go to the baths at Buxton, and he had gone. He had hated leaving Court, partly because he believed that, without anyone to curb him, Leicester would be more powerful than ever.

  He loathed Leicester and greatly deplored my devotion to him. Like most upright and somewhat self-righteous men, Sussex imagined that others were worse than they were. He saw himself as an honest man, a man who would put his life at risk rather than act against his principles. While I respected such attitudes I often distrusted the men who held them. They grew into fanatics, and I had found that those who set themselves up as of impregnable virtue could often be much more cruel than those who suffered from ordinary human frailties. I knew Robert was ambitious, greedy, selfseeking, devious, ruthless and perhaps even capable of murder. But he was still the most exciting and attractive man I had ever known.

  Understanding them all, seeing clearly into their minds and not being of a very upright nature myself—except perhaps where my country was concerned—I could forgive men their foibles and love them none the less for them. I was as good a statesman as any of my men, but in addition I possessed a certain insight which was entirely feminine. It was not merely intuition—but that might have been part of it; it was an immense interest in people, which most men lack. They are too absorbed in themselves to bother much with other people's motives. Women want to know what is going on; they are insatiably curious. This gives my sex that extra knowledge of how people's minds work; it helps us to assess how they will act in certain circumstances. I had this quality in excess; I was entirely female; but at the same time I could grapple with state matters as skillfully as my most able councilors. Since I could bring to problems my feminine flexibility and did not mind a little not-always-honest juggling, I was more fitted to rule my country than any of my men would have been, clever though they were. I owed this to the fact that I picked my advisers with skill; I understood them; I accepted their foibles; and I gave them my loyalty, which is the best way of getting that most essential gift in exchange.

  Another fact was that I loved them all. They were my men and my children. They knew this and because in every man there is a desire for a mother figure…I was that too. I scolded them as though they were my wayward children, and they loved me for it. Even to those who looked upon me as a mistress—by which I mean a lover—I was a mother too. I looked to their health and when any one of them was ill that gave me great concern, which was what I felt for dear old Sussex at this time. He was fifty-seven years old—not so much older than I, seven years to be precise. A sobering thought.

  Then came the day when I was asked to visit him at his home in Bermondsey. I went at once and was deeply grieved to see how ill he was.

  I took his hand and he tried to kiss mine but I would not let him exert himself. “No, my dear friend, I forbid it. You must rest. Save your breath. That is your Queen's command.”

  “My lady,” he said, “my joy in life has been to serve you.”

  “I know it well,” I told him. “I want you to do something more for me. I want you to get up from this sick-bed and come back to Court.”

  He shook his head. “I shall never rise from this bed, Your Majesty.”

  “You are too young to die.”

  “I have grown old in your service.”

  “Come, Thomas Radcliffe, we both grow old. But I am not so old yet that I can dispense with your services.”

  “I have long felt death close to me, Your Majesty,” he said, “and my greatest regret in leaving this life is that I may no longer serve you. I shall leave the Court to others…”

  I shook my head. He looked so mournful that I knew he was thinking of Leicester who he thought had an evil influence over me; and yet when I had been incensed by Robert's marriage and had declared my intention of sending him to the Tower, it had been Sussex who had restrained me and pointed out that I could not do so. There had been a chance to take revenge on his enemy then, but he had not done so because it would have been wrong and harmful to me and because he was ever a just man above all.

  I wept for him. “I cannot afford to lose my good men,” I said. “I love them dearly. My lord, you have been very dear to me.”

  I took a tender farewell of him and said that I should send every day— or come myself—until he was well, for he was constantly in my thoughts.

  Hatton was with him at the end. He reported to me what he had said. It was: “I am passing into another world and must leave you. Beware of the gipsy. He will betray you. You know not the beast as I do.”

  By the gipsy he meant Robert, who had been given that name by some because of his dark hair and dark flashing eyes.

  Poor Sussex! Even in death he could not forget his jealousy of the man I loved beyond them all.

  A few days later he died.

  I WAS VERY AMUSED to hear that Dorothy Devereux had astounded them all by snapping her fingers at their grandiose plans for her and had run off with John Perrot's son, Thomas. The young pair had fallen in love. It was an unusual story that we had from the vicar of Broxbourne in whose church they had been clandestinely married. He said that two men had asked for the keys to the door of his church, which he had refused. They had then departed, but feeling that there was something unusual in the request, the vicar had gone along to investigate, to find that the door of the church had been forced open and inside a young couple were being married.

  “Why,” I said, “this Dorothy Devereux has spirit. I will say that for her. And she has taken Tom Perrot and saved herself from her stepfather's proposed match with the heir of Scotland!”

  I laughed with my women. Sir John Perrot, father of the bridegroom, was said to be a very close relation of mine. Whether he was or n
ot remains a mystery, but I had to admit that I never saw a man who looked more like my father. Sir John was reputed to be his illegitimate son by Mary Berkley, who married a certain Thomas Perrot. Sir John was an enormous man; his build was exactly that of my father; he had a somewhat quarrelsome nature and was constantly involved in brawls. My father had encouraged him, and my half-brother Edward had made him a knight and helped him through financial troubles. And it was the son of this man whom Dorothy had married.

  I could imagine Lettice's wrath for I was certain she was the one who had goaded Robert to his outrageous plans.

  That was a year of death.

  The first blow was the news that my dear little Frog had passed away. I had always known that he was no commander of men. He was a courtier, simply that. It had been a cruel joke to give this poor little man the name of Hercule—though he had been called Franois later. Not even of medium height, disfigured by the pox; it was as though Nature had regarded him as a joke, a travesty of a man. However education and upbringing had given him social grace but that somehow had made the contrast between manners and appearance more grotesque.

  I had treated him badly, played on his vanity, allowed him to believe that I had thought him attractive… all in the name of politics… and my own desire to be admired, of course.

  And now the little man had died—not in battle, but in his bed. He had lived a life of debauchery, I knew, which somehow seemed more to be deplored because he was so ugly and could only have found partners to share in his frolics because of his wealth and royalty.

  I went into mourning for him and wept a little. Perhaps some of my men thought I was acting but I did feel a genuine grief.

  Then there occurred another death—one which was to shatter the whole continent of Europe. William of Orange was murdered.

  This was a great blow to the Protestant world. He was one of their most respected leaders—an upright, noble gentleman who had given his life to the protection of the weak against the strong. In his youth he had been a Catholic and had discovered through Henri Deux of France, that France and Spain were formulating a plot to destroy the Protestants in the two countries. The massacre which had taken place on the eve of St Bartholomew's Day had been only a step toward this. When William heard that the Duke of Alva was raising an army to come against Holland and that his object was to exterminate what he called heretics and set up the Inquisition in that country, he became a Protestant and steeled himself for the almost impossible task of fighting Philip of Spain. He was determined to sacrifice everything he had— including his life—to preserve the welfare and liberty of his people.

  But there was no holding back the Spaniards and Alva arrived with ten thousand troops and established what he called The Council of Troubles and which the Netherlanders called The Council of Butchers. In a short time he had put twenty thousand innocent townsfolk to death.

  William escaped to Germany where he attempted to build up an army, while his people were submitted to a tyrannous Spanish rule.

  It had been believed that William could never regain his land. The Spaniards were there in strength; the bloody Inquisition was established and the most cruel deaths were being suffered by people who had committed no fault beyond—if that can be called a fault, which I called a virtue—refusing to accept the Catholic Faith.

  Then a great event occurred—one of which the Dutch were justly proud. Many Dutchmen having been driven from their land had taken to the sea and formed themselves into a company of pirates who robbed the Spanish ships coming into Holland. They were known as the Beggars of the Sea. They captured the town of Briel which they fortified and declared they were holding for “Father William.”

  It was a turning point because it showed the Spaniards that they had not won the complete victory which they believed they had, and it enabled William to return to Holland. William the Silent—as they called him, for he was a man of few words—was in control again, proclaimed ruler of the land.

  They were a valiant people, those Dutch, and they were heartened by the Huguenots of France who, disgusted by the massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve, came to Holland to help in the fight. William was seeking allies. That was when he had turned his eyes to us.

  I wanted to help him; but I had a great aversion to involving my subjects in wars—however righteous. It was for this reason that I had been so pleased to send Anjou to Holland. It was not only to be rid of him but to assist a worthy cause.

  Philip must have hated William the Silent, the man whose name was a magic talisman among his followers. He was a perfect leader; his people were devoted to him; he shone with his desire to make any sacrifices which would bring about their liberty.

  Philip knew such men were dangerous, and desperately he wanted him out of the way. There had been many attempts on William's life—none of which had come to anything. His people believed that God preserved him to be their savior.

  And so it seemed until that dismal day in July of the year 1584 when, in his city of Delft, he was shot dead by a certain Balthasar Gerrards. The irony was that Gerrards had begged from William himself, asking for alms for a poor Calvinist, and William had responded to his appeal. With the money his ruler had given him Gerrards bought a pistol and shot the great man dead.

  Gerrards was immediately arrested and tortured. He confessed that he was Philip's spy and was executed most barbarously for the Dutch knew that he had dealt them the most cruel blow possible, and they wanted revenge. But revenge could not bring back William the Silent.

  When we heard the news Burghley immediately called a meeting of the Council.

  The position was grave, he said. The death of William meant that the responsibility for saving the Dutch from Spain now rested with England.

  I was loath to accept this. I could see a long-drawn-out war fought on Dutch soil if it was true—I would never allow it to be the soil of England. I could see men dying and money wasted … and little success with it. If William had not been able to drive out the Spaniards, how could we?

  “He was very successful in the circumstances,” said Burghley. “If he had had more resources, who knew what he might have done?”

  We had equipped Anjou to fight the Spaniards, I pointed out, and the Dutch owed us money which they had not repaid. They were hardworking people and were not poor. It was merely that the state of the country made it difficult for the government to impose taxes.

  They agreed that what I had said was true but pointed out to me the danger of Spain's taking over complete control of the Netherlands, which would bring them uncomfortably near to us. We must never forget that the most dangerous enemy we had was Philip of Spain.

  Could we not work out something in conjunction with the French? They would not want to see Spain victorious.

  Our relations with them were not very friendly. They were still smarting from the humiliation suffered by the Duc d'Anjou and were probably realizing now that I had never intended to marry him and had merely dallied to gain more time to see what happened in the Netherlands.

  There would be new uneasiness in France because the scene had changed there with the death of Anjou. Henri Trois had no son and the nearest heir was Henri of Navarre, himself a Huguenot.

  I was disturbed when I heard that in desperation Holland had offered the sovereignty of the Netherlands to Henri Trois provided he would give them military help. This threw us into a panic for the idea of a Frenchdominated Netherlands was almost as alarming as a Spanish one. However Henri declined, for which we were grateful, but the situation was fraught with danger.

  I was glad some of my counselors agreed that it would be unwise to meddle. Walsingham was one of them. We could not hope to succeed, he said; and our best plan was to make sure that our own country was well defended. We should push ahead with more rapid building of ships and make England impregnable.

  I agreed wholeheartedly with this. Henri Trois was as unhealthy as his brother, I pointed out. They were a diseased race, those Valois. If he were to die ever
ything would change in France, for Huguenot Henri of Navarre would come to the throne.

  Walsingham's men brought alarming news. The Duc de Guise had formed an alliance with Philip of Spain. It was their avowed purpose that, when Henri Trois died, they would prevent Henri of Navarre from taking the throne and would purge France of its Huguenots so forcefully that in a short time they would have an all-Catholic country. They would extend their methods until the whole of Europe became Catholic.

  Faced with such a problem, I did what I always did. I prevaricated.

  I needed time, I said, to work out what was the best thing to be done.

  THAT YEAR THERE was yet another death. Poor Robert, he was very sad. He had been so proud of the boy. I was sorry I had castigated him so sharply for trying to make an alliance for the child with Arabella Stuart.

  I always made excuses for Robert. After all, I asked myself, what father worthy of the name would not want the best for his child?

  He came to me and told me that he had received news of his son's illness and asked leave to retire from Court. I gave it at once and sent him off, saying that I would pray for the swift recovery of the little boy.

  I believe they were both at young Robert's bedside when he died. I even felt a little sorry for Lettice. She was, after all, a mother. But she had other children—four of them; whereas poor Robert had only one—unless one could count Douglass Sheffield's boy.

  My thoughts were with him during that time, and it occurred to me that in spite of all his scheming he had failed to get what he wanted most. He had wanted to share my crown and I had denied him that, and the older we grew the more I realized my wisdom in doing so. He had tried to make grand marriages for his son and stepdaughter and I had foiled him in that, too. But I had made him the most powerful man in the country, and the richest. Not that he would ever feel himself to be rich! Whatever Robert had, he would spend more. Robert loved extravagances and it must cost him all he had—and more—to run those magnificent places of his where everything had to be of the best.