I was received magnificently at Warwick Castle. There were the usual pageants and songs of praise for my beauty and wisdom. I could almost guess what the next line would be when they quoted their verses, but I liked them none the less for that; and it was delightful to see the pleasure these simple country people took in pleasing me and how conscious they were of the honor of coming face to face with their sovereign.
I would never slight any of them, though I must admit there were occasions when I found it hard not to give way to a yawn. One of these occurred in Warwick where they had arranged a civic ceremony for me, and the speech made by the Recorder went on and on, repeated in parrot fashion, at the end of which he begged me to take a small present from the town. The bailiff then came to my coach and gave me a purse in which was twenty pounds. I took it graciously and told them that I was loath to take anything from them, because I knew that many of them had given what they could ill afford; but I accepted it with hearty thanks and that I should never forget the honor done to me by my good people of Warwick. I then gave him my hand to kiss, which he did in some confusion.
Ambrose whispered to me that the Recorder, a certain Mr Aglionby, had been overcome with terror at the thought of having to address me, and had learned his speech by heart, so perhaps that was the reason why it had been rather more than usually dull.
Fearing that the good Mr Aglionby might have noticed my boredom, I sent for him at once, for it was always my aim that no one should be allowed to think anything but the best of me, which after all was the purpose of these tiring and often uncomfortable pilgrimages I took among my subjects.
He came and I held out my hand.
“Come hither, little Recorder,” I said. “I hear that you thought you would be afraid to look at me and to speak boldly. I now tell you that you were not so afraid of me as I was of you; and I now thank you for putting me in mind of my duty.”
The little man was almost in tears—tears of gratitude and admiration. I knew that he would be my ardent supporter for the rest of his life.
And so into the castle.
That would have been a very pleasant trip for me but for a somewhat unsavory piece of gossip which came to my ears during it.
I had noticed Douglass Sheffield at once, for that instinct I had for picking out women who would appeal to Robert had singled her out to me. I remembered I had heard something about Douglass's and her sister's being enamored of Robert. I had not taken much notice at the time because I imagined many women at Court were enamored of Robert—and I liked to think of their being so.
The gossip came through some of my women whom I heard discussing it. They would never have dared tell me outright but when I heard one say to another: “Do you think the Earl of Leicester really did it?” I pricked up my ears and burst in on them, demanding to know what Leicester had been accused of doing.
It was only my anger which prized the story from them. They were loath to tell me, saying every few minutes that it was only gossip, and I knew how slanderous that could be toward the best of people.
Yes, I did know, and I understood that a man in Robert's position had many enemies. But could this story be true? I knew that Douglass Sheffield and her sister had been enamored of him. Had others seen that—and when Douglass's husband died rather mysteriously, had they fabricated the story to discountenance Robert?
It might well be—but on the other hand it might not.
The gossips said that Robert had had a love affair with Douglass Sheffield. This was possible. He was a man and certainly he had no sexual satisfaction from me. I had often thought that he must seek that elsewhere, and if he did so all well and good…as long as I did not know about it, and it was done discreetly and out of sight. That was one condition which I was sure Robert understood.
Apparently this affair with Douglass Sheffield had gone farther. He had, it was said, written a letter to her which he had asked her to destroy as soon as she had read it, but, foolish woman that she was, she had failed to do this. In this letter he had stated that he would marry her when her husband died, and he had added that damning sentence “and that may not be very long.”
It was like the casket letters all over again. What fools people were to put these dangerous thoughts on paper! What greater fools not to destroy them when they had been read!
She had kept the letter under her pillow to read it many times during the days and nights; and then the little idiot had dropped it; she hunted everywhere and could not find it. Of course she could not, for it had already been found by her sister-in-law who promptly took it to Douglass's husband.
And what did Lord Sheffield do on reading that letter? He decided to go to London to arrange for a divorce from the wife who, with her lover he believed, was seeking to murder him. Then came the damning part. Lord Sheffield died before he could show the letter to his lawyers and his death was due to dysentery—often the result of poison.
Why should Lord Sheffield have died so suddenly when he was about to disclose the relationship between Robert and his wife?
Well, it made a good subject for gossip. The alarming part was that Sheffield was dead. I could not believe though that Robert had planned to marry Douglass. He would know how furious I should be to receive such news, and he would never risk my anger for the sake of that silly little woman. On the other hand, could he have written such a letter? Yes, possibly in the hope of seducing the woman if she were holding out against him; and then when he was about to be exposed could he have arranged Sheffield's death?
I did not know. There was so much I did not know about Robert. Was that why he was so fascinating?
How often I had asked myself: How did Amy Robsart die? Was it an accident? Did she commit suicide? Or was she hastened to her death—and if so who would want that more than Robert? He would wish Lord Sheffield dead if he were going to create a scandal which would come to my ears.
I could never be sure.
It was a disturbing end to the otherwise pleasant visit to Warwick.
THAT AUGUST WE had news of one of the greatest catastrophes the world has ever known. It set Christian men and women all over the world shivering and turning in disgust from the King and Queen Mother of France, at whose instigation it must have taken place.
I refer to the massacre on St Bartholomew's Eve when many of the leading Huguenots of France were gathered together in Paris for the marriage of Marguerite, daughter of Catherine de' Medici, and my one-time suitor Henri of Navarre. He miraculously escaped, but few of his faith did.
The horror of it, the cruelty of it, the folly of it, were hard to believe.
I could not stop thinking of that terrible night when the tocsins rang out announcing the massacre was about to begin and when the Catholics went into the streets bent on murdering those of their fellow countrymen who did not wish to worship God in the same way that they did.
Charles the King, we knew, was mad; but surely that wily serpent, his mother, knew better than this! Why had she roused the city of Paris to this frenzy? Could she not see that generations to come would revile her?
People at Court spoke of nothing else and they spoke in whispers—not with the usual excitement which one sees on people's faces when ill news is told of others. No! There was no one who was not bitterly shocked and dismayed by what had happened.
The French were regarded as monsters; I could not bring myself to receive La Mothe Fenelon, though that cultivated and fastidious gentleman was in no way to blame and I was sure fully realized the folly of this wanton cruelty and the odium in which it would place his country.
I saw him eventually and decided the meeting should take place at Woodstock, but to stress my horror at what had taken place I ordered that all my courtiers should be dressed in black.
There was a deep silence when La Mothe entered the chamber and, taking a few steps toward him, I said: “I regret that I have kept you waiting for an audience, my lord. Pray tell me is it possible that this terrible news we have had is true?”
“I do not understand, my lord. You must explain to me why it was necessary to murder thousands of Huguenots in cold blood.”
I was sorry for La Mothe. It is always a difficult task for ambassadors to try to find excuses for their masters. He flustered through his explanations, stressing the perfidy of the great Admiral de Coligny, who, we all knew, was one of the most saintly men living.
“If the Admiral was indeed guilty of treason could he not have been tried and brought to justice?” I asked. “Was it necessary to kill so many?”
“It was a grim accident. Orders were misinterpreted…”
I took pity on him. One should not blame ambassadors for their kings' misdemeanors.
The Council came to hear his explanations.
“Accidents! Mistakes!” they cried. “St Bartholomew's Eve will be remembered in the centuries to come as one of the greatest blots on the history of France.”
Burghley said: “It is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.”
* * *
AFTER THE MASSACRE there was a strong determination among those about me to be rid of Mary Stuart.
The chief instigator of this was, oddly enough, Burghley. He was by no means a bloodthirsty man, but he was an ardent Protestant and it was such as he who had been particularly horrified by what had happened. I think in his heart he was terrified that if anything happened to me, Mary Stuart would take the throne and he dreaded to think to what terror the country could be brought under a rule of the Catholics. I could understand that. It was not so long ago that we had smelt the burning flesh in Smithfield.
I was the one who hesitated. I could not forget that she was my kinswoman—and, of course, she was royal. I was very like my grandfather who did not want to shed blood wantonly. He would kill though if he thought his throne was threatened. I had believed I would do the same; but somehow I could not condemn Mary Stuart to the scaffold.
Burghley pointed out that I had ample reason for doing so. Had she not written to Norfolk? Did she not join in the plan to kill me and set herself up in my place?
I knew this, but somehow I could not believe that Mary had really agreed willingly to my assassination. Why not? Had she not agreed to Darnley's?
It was Robert who came up with the idea that we should let others remove Mary for us. It was a devious plot and perhaps characteristic of Robert. It occurred to me that he was good at such plotting. Had he plotted thus for the removal of Amy Robsart and Lord Sheffield? I reproached myself for these thoughts. Now he was only thinking of my good as he assured me he did night and day. My welfare was his chief concern.
Burghley was so sure that as long as Mary Stuart lived, there would be a threat of conflict in the country that he supported Robert's rather bizarre scheme. The plan was that I should free Mary ostensibly on condition that she return to Scotland. There she would be in the hands of those two rogues, James Douglas, Earl of Morton, who had been one of Rizzio's murderers, and John Erskine, Earl of Marr, who had become Regent after the murders of Moray and Lennox—both of whom were as eager to see the end of her as I was. These two were to bring her to trial and find her guilty and her execution was to be immediate and to take place not more than four hours after she had been passed into their hands.
A secret mission then ensued and a certain Henry Killigrew, an ambassador who had already proved his worth, was sent to Scotland to try to come to some agreement with these two villainous gentlemen who, it seemed, were quite ready to betray their Queen, provided they could see enough advantage to themselves in doing do.
Burghley had said that it was Killigrew's task to make them see those advantages and to find out what their terms for carrying out this task would be.
The bargaining was sordid and I hated the whole business; and it was only the earnest warnings of both Burghley and Robert that made me go on with it.
It may have been that Marr had no great fear of Mary, seeing himself safe in a Protestant Scotland. John Knox the preacher—the type of man I loathed, a religious fanatic, cruel and intolerant—who hated Mary with a fierce fanaticism, was delighted to join in the plot to kill her.
Eventually Marr had been ready to make an agreement but he died before it could be put into action. It was rather strange—almost as though the saints to whom Mary prayed so frequently really were coming to her aid, for Morton was much harder to deal with and he would not give way. First he demanded a pension which should be as much as it had cost me to keep Mary as my prisoner in the castles of England. I was shocked. I hated to see money wasted for I believed that prosperity came through frugality. I spent money on my dresses—and I will admit I had a goodly array of them—but I always assured myself that they were necessary to the dignity of royalty. I kept good state at my Court; there was rich food and wine served at my table. Not that I ate with any gusto. I had the smallest of appetites, and I always drank my wine diluted with water. I respected money without hoarding it. I think I must have inherited that from my grandfather. People called him a miser but his ways had made a prosperous country, whereas my father's extravagance had left the exchequer sadly depleted. I had taken it upon myself to pay all the latter's debts, and they were heavy, but I did not want anyone to go without the money which was rightly his or hers. I also paid those debts left by my brother Edward. The people knew what I had done—particularly the people of London—and they honored me for it. My father had thought that the privilege of serving the Court was enough for them. I thought they should be paid as well.
I had achieved prosperity—as my grandfather had—by care and a lack of extravagance, except in those particulars which I considered necessary to preserve my image in my people's eyes. They knew this and one of the French emissaries had said that the people of London treated me with something like idolatry.
So now I balked at the thought of paying out so much money to that villain Morton across the Border. And his demands grew greater. He must have guessed how earnestly Burghley wanted the conclusion of this affair and for it to be carried out without leaving a stain on my character. Let Mary be brought to the block by her ungallant knights, he said. Then no one in England could be blamed and we could leave the matter to the barbarity of the Scots.
Then Morton came up with a condition which made the entire plot useless. He insisted that the execution could only take place if three thousand English soldiers under the command of the Earls of Bedford, Essex and Huntingdon were present.
When this ultimatum was delivered to us we knew that it was the end of the venture. The whole idea had been to execute her leaving me free from blame. Morton knew this. Was that why he suggested the presence of my soldiers?
“We are wasting our time,” I said. “Morton knows he has asked the impossible.”
Burghley nodded grimly. “God sent Your Majesty strength to preserve God's cause, your own life and the lives of millions of your subjects, all of which are manifestly in danger.” He added: “God be merciful to us all.”
I had to comfort Burghley. I shrugged danger aside and in my secret heart I was glad we had not been able to find those who would be ready to murder Mary Stuart.
* * *
IN SPITE OF the loathing the French Catholics aroused at this time not only in England but throughout the world, and the sure knowledge that my marriage with Alenon would be against the wishes of the people, I did keep up negotiations with Catherine de' Medici in secret.
She was an extremely clever and most devious woman and I never underestimated her for one moment. It surprised me that she should be so eager to see one of her sons take the crown of England that she still persevered in her efforts with the utmost zeal. Surely such a wo
man could see through my schemes. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she thought that I was as cynical as she was and cared nothing for the murdered Huguenots, not only in Paris but throughout the whole of France, for once started it seemed that the Catholics would not forgo their blood-letting.
However, La Mothe Fenelon presented himself with messages from the Queen Mother.
“Her Majesty wishes Your Majesty to know that the cure is succeeding with Monsieur le Duc and his skin is improving every day.”
He was referring to Dr Penna who had claimed he had an elixir which could in time eradicate from the skin all traces of smallpox. His services had immediately been acquired by Catherine de' Medici who must have believed that her son's appearance was one of the impediments to the marriage.
“That is indeed good news,” I said. “If it is really effective I must have the man here to see what he can do for Lady Sidney.”
La Mothe was pleased. He believed that in spite of everything I was really considering the marriage. It was amazing that he could believe that when I had hesitated before the massacre, I would now agree.
We discussed the disaster of the smallpox which seemed more prevalent than it had a short while ago.
“I suppose our little Prince must count himself lucky to have come through with his life,” I said.
“Indeed, Your Majesty, and in the case of such a charming Prince, that small disability is forgotten when one is in his presence.”
“I suppose there are other parts of his visage to take the mind off the skin,” I said tartly. I was really all eagerness to see that little Prince with his debauched eyes and a nose which some said was split in two giving him a most grotesque appearance.
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