In High Places
The third book of The Tudor Chronicles
BY BONNY G SMITH
Other than actual historical persons, this is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to persons living or dead is unintentional.
All opinions are mine and not those of any entity named herein.
In High Places
Copyright © 2018 by BONNY G SMITH
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
ISBN-13: 978-1729696484
ISBN- 10: 1729696481
Also by BONNY G SMITH
The Tudor Chronicles:
The Nymph from Heaven (Book One) – A novel of Mary Tudor Brandon
The Baker’s Daughter (Book Two) – A novel of Bloody Mary
In High Places (Book Three) – A novel of Mary, Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I
In Progress: This Mighty Realm (Book Four) A novel of Elizabeth 1
The Interpol Series:
The Heart of the Dragon
The Seven Diamonds
In progress: The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Only the Heart Knows Why
The Secret Lives of Inanimate Objects: Thirteen Tales of Murder, Mystery and the Macabre
Dedication
To all those who delight in history.
Acknowledgments
Editing by Richard A. McClure and Denise M. Kearns
Cover Design by Kimberly J. Sluis
“Though God hath raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown; that I have reigned with your loves.” – Elizabeth’s ‘Golden Speech’, 1601
“In my end is my beginning.” – Mary Stuart
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There are a great many differences between the versions of English we speak. For instance, vocabulary differs, as well as spelling and sometimes, usage. I have strived to be consistent in my application of words in my narrative and dialog. I ask my readers’ patience and indulgence with the version of English I chose for particular words to which these differences apply.
Chapter 1
“Thou hast dealt as wonderfully and as mercifully with me as Thou
didst with Thy true and faithful servant, Daniel…whom Thou
deliveredst out of the den of greedy and raging lions.”
– Elizabeth, from her coronation prayer
Hatfield Palace, November 1558
I t was late afternoon and already the day was drawing in. The clouds brooded and lowered dark gray, and in the distance seemed to take on an ominous shade of slate blue. It had been cool and damp since sunrise, threatening rain, but none had fallen yet. Sir Thomas Cornwallis assessed the clouds with a gimlet eye; it soon would. The roads were still muddy from past storms, and it had taken Sir Thomas and John Boxall the better part of the day to reach Hatfield Palace from London. Just as they crested the rise and the palace at last came into view, the first tentative raindrops began to fall.
Although they had been received cordially, both men remembered well that the Princess Elizabeth was a Tudor; in Sir Thomas’s experience of royal service through the reigns of three Tudor monarchs, he knew that one must be wary of the unpredictable and frightening temper Her Grace was possessed. And above all they must be careful what they said as well as the manner in which they said it; for this girl, this woman, was almost certain to become the next Queen of England, and that in short order. Queen Mary lay dying at St. James’s Palace; indeed, at this very moment she might already be dead.
The room to which they had been brought was so silent and still that it might have been empty; the only sounds were the crackling and snapping of the fire on the hearth and the rustle of the creamy vellum in her hands, as Elizabeth slipped the first page of her sister's letter beneath the second.
Sir Thomas was Queen Mary's steward and Boxall, the Dean of Windsor, her Secretary of State; both were privy councilors. The task had fallen to them to inform Her Grace that at long last her sister had, albeit reluctantly, named her heir to the throne of England.
Elizabeth stood with her back to the two men. After so many years of practice in keeping her own counsel, honing the skill of masking her emotions, and living by her wits, it was unlikely that her face would have betrayed her feelings to them. But she still wished for a modicum of privacy in which to read her sister’s letter. The situation must be dire if Mary had finally, after all this time, agreed to explicitly name her as her successor. Such a declaration was, in the final analysis, a mere formality; still, even she must own that it was an important one. It changed nothing, but it should serve to sway those who might otherwise be minded to doubt the validity of her claim or balk at her accession to the throne.
Elizabeth read the missive through fully three times before she turned, her countenance inscrutable, to face her sister’s men. She was glad that she had turned her back on them to read it, for the letter had angered her with its high-handedness and its list of conditions under which the queen condescended to bequeath to her that which was already her own by right of inheritance and by English law.
Another might, if only for the ability to do so, have kept the two weary men standing on their feet, even after such an arduous journey; Elizabeth had bade them sit by the fire and warm themselves. But it was not with any care for their comfort that she had done so; for now as she prepared to address them, she had them at a disadvantage. She now stood tall, looking down upon them seated in their chairs.
Sir Thomas drew a sharp breath when he beheld the princess’s eyes. He had never been this close to her before; he had seen her only a handful of times at court, and that only at a distance. Elizabeth had been standing in front of the hearth, her face backlit by the fire, when the two men entered the room, knelt, and offered up the queen’s letter to her. Sir Thomas had stolen a quick glimpse at the princess’s face and, when he did so, had perceived her eyes in that moment to be identical to the deep, dark pools that her mother’s had been.
He had been only twelve years old and a page at the royal court when the enchanting, captivating daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn had returned to England after almost ten years at the French court. Many had scoffed at Anne Boleyn’s ability to fascinate, but young Thomas had succumbed fully to the lady’s mysterious, undeniable charm; he had been smitten well and good with a painful case of calf love for the Lady Anne. He understood completely, as few did at the time, King Henry’s infatuation with the intriguing Mistress Boleyn. In an age when flaxen hair and eyes the color of cornflowers were the ideal of true beauty, he, like the king, had found Anne’s dark loveliness irresistible.
But as his first love’s daughter faced them, this time the fire reflected in her eyes and he almost gasped aloud. For Elizabeth’s eyes were not brown at all but truly golden, with tiny copper-colored flecks in them. It lent them a unique allure. Sir Thomas stole a sideways glance at John Boxall only to discover that that gentleman had not had the temerity to meet the princess’s formidable gaze; his eyes were fixed firmly upon the floor.
Even as these thoughts swept through his mind, Elizabeth drew breath to speak. She was still holding the pages of her sister’s letter in a delicate, porcelain-white hand, with fingers that were longer and slimmer than any he had ever beheld. The silence was becoming uncomfortable when finally Elizabeth spoke.
“I am very sorry to hear of the queen, my sister’s, illness,” she said, and her voice sounded to Sir Thomas’s ears as velvet might feel upon the skin. “But there is no reason why I should thank Her Grace for her intention, h
ere stated in these pages,” she tapped the letter with an impatient finger, “of bestowing upon me the crown of this realm. For Her Grace has not the power to give me that which is already mine, my lords. The throne of my father is my own by hereditary right and by Act of Parliament; I cannot lawfully be deprived of it. That I shall ascend the throne of England when my sister no longer rules this land is a foregone conclusion, my lords, and one reached long since by all but Her Grace.”
Neither man spoke; indeed, for some curious reason, they seemed to be in silent accord as to their trepidation to even look up at her, let alone meet the princess’s steely gaze. After an appreciable silence during which it became evident that neither man would respond, she went on.
“Furthermore, my lords, as to the conditions,” and she spoke the word infused with unmistakable scorn, “under which Her Grace will consent to bestow upon me that which is mine by right, I say this. You may tell the queen for me that regarding the payment of her debts and the care of her servants, I shall accede to these requests as far as it lies within my power to do so. But as to making no changes to the Council, I think myself as much at liberty to choose my own councilors as Her Grace ever was. Regarding religious practice in England, I promise only this; that I shall not change it if the Catholic faith can be proved and upheld by the word of God. For such shall be the sole foundation and rule of religion whilst I am queen of this realm.”
It galled her that Mary should even think to make her accession to the throne of England conditional upon anything. But the queen’s demands, just like her power, would soon be irrelevant. As her sister herself soon would be! If the state of her illness was so dire as to inspire Mary to finally and formally name her bastard, lying, deceitful, heretical sister as the next Queen of England, she who was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, the Great Whore, then she must indeed be very near to death. Yes, she knew her sister’s opinion of her, and she no longer cared.
Sir Thomas could sense the emotion emanating from Elizabeth, even through her extraordinary restraint; it was every bit as scorching as the flames blazing in the grate. He had once visited Italy with his father when he was a lad, and had been mightily impressed by a volcano that he had seen there, smoldering and just waiting to explode with heaven only knew what deadly force. The princess brought this to mind as she stood there, seemingly calm but with her golden eyes blazing.
But it was quite slowly and deliberately that she turned and walked back to the hearth. The flames there burnt hotly and leapt up with a roar as the wind rose outside. The storm that had been brewing all day was finally upon them; heat lightning illuminated the room momentarily. Casually, almost incidentally, Elizabeth stooped down and laid Mary’s letter onto the flaming logs. She stepped back from the intense heat of the fire and the three of them watched in silence as the creamy vellum glowed first red, then black, then gray, then became only ashes. The ashes curled, as if with a life of their own; they were lighter than air and suddenly the ashes rose of their own accord and ascended up the chimney.
The queen’s letter disappeared as if it had never existed.
# # #
Elizabeth stood at the turret window gazing out over the expanse of garden to the woods beyond. From her vantage point she could just see the curve of the road leading to the palace gates. The trees were stripped bare from the recent storms; all except the beeches, which would hold their copper-colored leaves until the spring. The sun shone brightly and the sky was an intense blue. The white clouds appeared luminous and wispy against its vastness as they scudded by on business of their own.
The road was usually all but deserted and the sound of hooves on gravel normally elicited an excited query as to who had come to visit Hatfield. But in the week since the queen had named her heir to the throne, there had been a steady exodus out of London. The Great North Road that had been built centuries before by the Romans was now thronged with courtiers anxious to ingratiate themselves with the woman who would soon be their new queen. For there was no doubt now that Mary’s time was no longer to be measured in weeks, but in days; perhaps even in hours.
“Just look at them, Cecil,” cried Elizabeth, the disgust evident in her voice. “My sister is not even dead yet, let alone cold in her grave, and yet they come here to grovel at my feet! Vultures! I shall see none of them.” While she was excited by the thought that, God willing, she would soon be queen, the idea that one’s faithful and loving subjects could be so fickle horrified her. In that moment she finally understood her sister’s reluctance to name any person as her successor. Me too, one day? She could not help but think it, and the idea shocked her.
Sir William Cecil sat in one of the comfortable chairs close to the hearth. In front of him on the table lay a dish of damsons, their deep purple color blushed with the look of frost that such fruit always has. Beside the damsons was a dish of red apples and another of walnuts. A loud crack drew the princess’s attention from the window.
“That is perhaps wise, Your Grace,” Sir William replied. “Until the queen…” But he dare not utter the words, even in private.
Elizabeth swooped down and took from his hands the walnut Cecil had just freed from its shell. “Where is Parry putting them all?” she asked, examining the perfect shape of the nutmeat.
Cecil sighed. “The palace is full to bursting. We shall soon have to turn them away to find lodgings in the village. Or pitch tents in the garden. The weather is raw for that!”
Elizabeth’s golden eyes flashed and she threw back her long red hair with an imperious hand. “Serve them right!” she said. “They should have stayed where they were until summoned. The capriciousness of the men and women of the court is enough to addle one’s wits.”
Cecil chose another walnut and considered the best place to crack it. He sighed. “I fear me that they cannot help themselves, Your Grace. Such people are always drawn to power.”
“Humph,” she said. She considered capturing another walnut from Cecil’s hands and then plucked a damson from the dish instead. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she was somewhat gratified by this premature demonstration of loyalty by her courtiers. It showed a confidence in her that she was, admittedly, far from feeling at that moment.
“But will the power be mine, Cecil? Think you that the Catholics will accept me without a fight?” She had lived as a practicing Catholic for the past five years; there had been no choice but to conform outwardly. But Mary had been loud in her suspicions about the veracity of her sister’s conversion. The queen had been openly skeptical and invited others to express their doubts as well. But the Reformers were convinced that she was one of them and were expecting her, as soon as her hand touched the scepter, to reverse all of her sister’s religious policies.
In very truth, the exact nature of her own religion was a mystery to everyone, not least of all to herself. She had been raised in the church of her father’s day, a church that could best be described as Catholic without the pope. The preciseness and the opulent pageantry of the Catholic faith appealed to her innate sense of order, of drama and spectacle. But her own private beliefs were somewhere between the two extremes of popery and the Protestantism that her brother Edward had espoused during his short reign. And there was one thing she knew for certain; to murder people in the name of God for their religious beliefs was a deed that was beyond her, and she, when she finally attained the power of the throne of England, would have none of it. What God would want to witness the painful death of any of His flock, especially as Holy Writ was so clear on the matter of forgiveness? She must not appear to be indecisive; but mayhap it would be wise to wait to see which way the cat jumped once Mary…but even as much as she longed for the crown, she knew that she should not think of her sister’s death, not even to herself.
“It is indeed ironic, Your Grace,” observed Cecil, that those who are even at this moment prepared to uphold your rights to the throne of England are mostly Catholic themselves.”
It was true; for weeks she had been sendin
g her men to solicit promises from the garrisons on the Scots border, men who were seasoned soldiers and battle-ready, to defend her throne if needs be. Apparently the Catholics of the north felt that even a Protestant queen who was English was better than a Catholic queen who was Scottish; especially a Scottish queen whose husband was the dauphin of France! It seemed that most English Catholics shrank from the idea of Mary of Scotland as their sovereign; the ancient rivalries between England, Scotland and France were seemingly stronger even than their desire for a Catholic queen.
Elizabeth went back to the window and stood looking out once more. “That is all well and good, but what of Philip of Spain? My sister’s husband is King of England, crowned or not, until the queen draws her last breath.”
Sir William glanced uneasily about the empty room. “The walls have ears, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth turned from the window. “Yes, you are right. But how much longer can she…” Another stern look from Cecil silenced her. She trusted him completely, and valued his advice; and she knew that the admonishment was well-deserved.
“But then what of Philip?” She began to pace the room, her hands on her hips. Cecil noted that her behavior when restless was an interesting amalgam of her father’s old stance when in a temper and Mary’s habit of rapid movement when agitated. “I spurned His Grace’s oh-so-kind offer of military assistance should I find myself in the position of having to fight for my crown, as did my sister. We want no Spanish armies here! But think you that he would come uninvited? Would he invade?”
Sir William considered. “I think not,” he said slowly. “Although His Grace has gone to great pains to try to keep England within the Hapsburg fold all these many months, methinks that the king will realize that he has enough on his hands with his own domains. Gaining a kingdom through marriage is a vastly different enterprise than taking one by force and trying to hold it therewith. And besides…it is my considered opinion that the people of England love Your Grace and are looking forward to the day when they may call you queen.”
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