In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  To see proud Catherine cowed and humbled hurt her…she made a silent vow that never would she ever allow a man to do such a thing to her. But then she had broken her own vow at the very first sign of attention from an attractive male! Lord Thomas Seymour, brother to Jane, the former queen, had married the widow of the king, but had been faithless to her. And it was to her everlasting sorrow and regret that she must live with the knowledge that it was herself with whom he had connived so successfully. Her complicity with Catherine’s husband in a love affair had hurt her stepmother deeply, so intensely that she had sent Elizabeth away. And then poor Catherine had died bearing her faithless husband a daughter.

  Her dalliance with Thomas Seymour had landed her in the Tower and had almost cost her head; it had indisputably cost her good reputation. She had made her first vow to remain unmarried based on vicarious knowledge; she now had first-hand experience to draw upon. The guilt, the shame, were nigh to unbearable, but worse was the very real danger into which she had placed herself. Losing her good name was unpleasant, but losing her head would have been fatal. She spent the intervening years rebuilding the respect for her name and position that between them, she and Thomas Seymour had almost destroyed.

  By appearing to conform completely to King Edward’s radical and severe Protestantism she had succeeded in rehabilitating her shattered reputation. Indeed, she had had little choice; it was either conform or join Mary in her dogged insistence of continuing to practice a faith that was out of favor, and be mercilessly harangued, persecuted, and ostracized for it. It was during these difficult years that she had decided that she could not, in good conscience, subscribe wholeheartedly to either religious extreme.

  That her brother had, in the end, excluded her from the succession after all her displays of faithfulness and loyalty hurt her deeply; and later, had angered her. But nothing could change the fact that she was heir to the throne, after Mary, by the terms of her father’s will and by Act of Parliament…but most important of all, by direct descent in the Tudor line.

  And then to the surprise and chagrin of the Protestants, her pathetic, misguided brother had died well before his time and more importantly, before the production of a Protestant heir to the throne. Despite the feeble attempt of the Duke of Northumberland to seize the throne by marrying his son to her cousin Jane, and proclaiming her queen. Mary had prevailed; and that almost solely due to the will of the English people. The same people upon whom she now pinned all of her own hopes!

  In her sister’s reign, she had once again appeared to conform outwardly. One must, after all, bend with the wind or be broken by it…

  And now here she was, named heir to the crown of England by her sister, the queen, and waiting for Mary to die that she might herself ascend the throne. Under the circumstances, it was a monumental achievement. She could only hope that her Catholic subjects would support her the way the Reformers had supported her sister despite her Catholic faith. The religious question was dire, a very real, very ominous issue. Would the Catholics of England accept her as their queen? And if they did, what would happen when she did the inevitable and supported the Reformers and their Protestant faith? For there was no way around doing so; tolerate interference from any foreign power she would not; not from the pope in Rome, not from King Philip of Spain, nor from any foreign prince who may think to aspire to her hand in marriage. She and she alone must rule England. If only she should be given the chance, this time, she promised herself, she would do everything right.

  The sound of voices brought her out of her reverie. Someone was coming up the hill. She stood up, stretched, and laid her bible down on the cloak upon which she had been sitting. It was well past noon and the sun had warmed the day surprisingly well for November. She walked a few steps down the hill to see who was coming. It was fully half the Council, and looking very grim. She began to breathe shallowly and her heart beat like a drum.

  At the sight of her, they all stopped and knelt.

  All was silence. The wind sighed through the great oak tree behind her. In the distance a hawk keened.

  And then suddenly they all cried in unison, “God save the queen!”

  She was expecting it; she had known it was coming. It was inevitable. And yet she could not answer. Her knees turned to butter and she sank to the ground, but kept her back straight. She could not stop gasping for breath. The sun went behind a cloud just for a moment, and then just as quickly emerged from it. It was an apt metaphor of her life.

  With the golden light of heaven shining down upon her, she finally found her voice.

  “This is the Lord’s doing,” she cried. “And it is marvelous in our sight!”

  # # #

  The ring was not attractive to Elizabeth’s eye, but its significance far outweighed its outward appearance. For this was the ring that her sister had worn upon her finger without once removing it since her marriage to the King of Spain. Like much that was Spanish, it was gold and black. She had instructed Sir Nicholas Throckmorton to bring the ring to her the moment her sister breathed her last. This he had arranged to do, with the assistance of one of Mary’s bedchamber women. It was the only proof she would accept that her sister was truly dead, for she knew that only death would separate Mary from Philip’s ring. Otherwise it was possible that she should have been guilty of treason for celebrating…yes, celebrating…her sister’s death prematurely. Sir Nicholas had arrived with the ring before the men of the Council had found her under the great oak tree. But it was not until she had heard them exclaim “God save the queen!” that she could truly believe that it was so.

  Sir Nicholas had delivered the ring to her with a list of suggestions for Council appointments, and other advice that he felt might be needed. She would consider the advice, but she fully intended to go her own way. There would be many to give her advice now, most of it slanted to their own advantage. Sir Nicholas she trusted more than most because although he always trimmed his sails to the prevailing wind, a practice she had prudently employed many times herself, he knew the value of giving sound counsel. But she knew that any advice he offered was given with an eye to the future…his own! He had almost been executed for treason for suspected complicity in the Wyatt Rebellion. She should not thank him for that, except that he had steadfastly refused to implicate her falsely when doing so might have eased his own lot considerably. For that she did feel grateful, and therefore she was willing to listen to what he had to say. But he was far too radical in his Protestant religion for her taste.

  She continued to examine the ring, turning it this way and that, but she could not bring herself to place it upon one of her fingers. When she looked at it, all she could see was Mary’s hands with their stubby fingers and square nails. She should have a new coronation ring made; she had no intention of wearing Mary’s for the rest of her life!

  And that was another thing! The coronation must take place without delay. For she believed that once she was anointed of God, it would be far more difficult for the French or the Spanish to attempt to unseat her with impunity, and it would give the pope pause before taking the drastic step of excommunicating her. Already Henri of France was pressuring the pope to declare her bastard and heretic and visit anathema upon her. What she must do now was to buy time…in any way possible.

  Elizabeth rose and placed the ring into her jewel case. She walked to the window. The roads were very dry and any rider tended to leave a trail of dust as he wended his way to the palace through the forest. The dust usually rose languidly and dispersed on any errant breeze. But this dust trail was rising very swiftly behind the trees. Presently the sound of hooves could be discerned. There was something different about it…as swift as a messenger or courier, but not as light. This rider was approaching rapidly, and unless she missed her guess, on a very substantial horse.

  The rider finally broke through the forest path and onto the wider road that led down the avenue to the entrance to the palace. It was a great white steed, its tail and mane flying, gallopi
ng as if it were being pursued by the Devil, and ridden by a man as dark as the Devil himself.

  Robin!

  With a strangled cry Elizabeth swept up her skirts and bolted from the room. Along the corridor and down the stairs she ran, a purple blur with her red hair flying behind her.

  Breathless, she arrived at the doors to the palace and the halberdiers flung them open at the sight of her.

  And then suddenly there he was, her childhood friend, Lord Robert Dudley, he to whom she had confided that she would never marry. They had been imprisoned in the Tower at the same time, under suspicion of treason because of the deeds of others…so unfair! Later, with her brother Edward, she had attended his wedding to Amy Robsart. During the years of Mary’s reign, Lord Robert had sold some of his lands in order to lend her money when she was short of funds. She had told him that if ever she was able to repay him, she would do so. And now, it seemed, he was here to collect. And she knew exactly how she planned to reward him.

  # # #

  “Tell it me again,” said Elizabeth. She lifted her face up to the sun and closed her eyes, letting the breeze wash over her.

  Robert laughed. “I have already told you.”

  Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow. “Am I, or am I not, the queen? Would you disobey your sovereign?” They sat under the great oak tree, a blanket spread, a picnic lunch laid out. She seized a grape and threw it at him, but he was too fast for her; his hand shot out and he caught it in mid-flight.

  “And shall I peel this for you, Your Grace?” He smiled; his teeth shone white and even in the dappled sunlight as the bare branches swayed in the breeze.

  “Only if you can peel and talk at the same time.”

  Robert gave her a wicked look and popped the grape into his mouth. “First the bells began to ring,” he said. “At first only at the abbey, but soon, every bell in London was pealing. All the church bells, every single one, I trow! The noise was deafening! Everyone stopped what they were doing; people were thronging the streets. Then someone spotted the Earl Marshal…”

  Elizabeth, who had been lounging on one elbow, sat up and cried excitedly, “My cousin Norfolk!”

  “Yes,” smiled Robert. “The duke proceeded from the palace at Westminster with all of the nobles, heralds and bishops…”

  “All the Catholic bishops?” interrupted Elizabeth again.

  “Yes,” replied Robert patiently.

  “Tell it right!” cried Elizabeth, playfully slapping his face.

  “They all proceeded from the palace and met the Lord Mayor and the city aldermen at the cross at Cheapside, and there the heralds…”

  Elizabeth pounded her fist on the blanket. “You are not telling it right! What about the trumpets? Did the trumpets not blare?”

  “Yes, yes, the trumpets indeed blared, very loudly, more loudly than I have ever heard them do, having been standing right next to them, and then Somerset Herald proclaimed, ‘Her Grace, the Princess Elizabeth, by the grace of God, queen of England’…”

  Elizabeth waved an imperious hand. “I know all that part. Tell about the bonfires!”

  Robert shook his head and ran an exasperated hand through his thick, black hair. “Well, by three of the clock it was beginning to get dark, and the people began lighting bonfires on every street corner. By four of the clock it seemed as if the entire city was ablaze! Then the pubs began to haul out onto the streets hogsheads and barrels of free ale and wine for all; the citizens who could afford to do so set out food for everyone! The ’prentices were let off, and there they all were, man and master, lord and lady, high and low, all drinking together to the health of the new queen and making very merry! It was a goodly sight. The celebrations went on so long into the night that I trow not a lick of work is being done today for the sore heads!”

  “And then you came,” said Elizabeth, putting a gentle hand to the place where she had lately playfully landed a slap. “Sweet Robin! There are tribes in the New World, I hear, that reward their storytellers. I have such a reward for you.” Elizabeth regarded Lord Robert closely; he had been a handsome boy, and now he was a striking man. Her stomach did a pleasant little flip-flop.

  But even in that delightful moment, when she was so happy, to be queen, to be doing as she pleased for once, to be out from under the oppressive weight of her sister’s rule, she saw the avidity in his eyes. Well, her gift was the equal of any greed he might be feeling.

  Elizabeth sat back, lifted an apple from the basket with her long slender fingers and took a bite.

  “Well?” His eyes were still as playful as they had been but she could feel the waves of anticipation and expectation emanating from him.

  She continued to chew thoughtfully. Just when she saw his impatience begin to get the better of him, she sat up, laid the apple aside and said, “I have decided. You are to be my favorite.”

  Confusion reigned for a moment; he blinked and said, “Your Grace’s…?”

  Elizabeth threw her head back and laughed heartily at his bewilderment. A queen’s favorite was an enviable position, but it was not a paid post! “You, my dear, my Sweet Robin, are to be my Master of Horse.”

  His eyes widened. It was the perfect occupation for such as he; he was the son of the man who had been Master of Horse to Anne of Cleves and Queen Mary, and his brother John had served King Edward likewise. He enjoyed a reputation as an excellent horseman, some said the best in England; he excelled at all forms of horsemanship. It was an important post, and should be well-paid. But it was no sinecure; he would be responsible for the health and welfare of every piece of horseflesh in the royal estate, from the mildest palfrey for a timid lady-in-waiting to the mighty destriers needed for the queen’s joust. He would arrange all progresses and processions. He would oversee the stud and purchase every animal that the queen needed to keep her stable the best in the world, which was, no doubt, what she intended him to do.

  He was gratified, but it was not a post usually associated with the Privy Council. Caution prevailed; all in good time. And in addition to Horse master, he was to be her favorite...and that could mean a host of other things!

  “I accept,” he said.

  Elizabeth snorted inelegantly. “Of course you do. And now we have work to do, Horse master! You have a progress to London to plan, and it must be magnificent! And hard on that shall be the processions needed for the coronation, and the coronation itself. I shall expect you to earn your gold, Sir Robert!”

  He smiled; he stood up to his full height and then bowed deeply, with a flourish. He hoped, in time, to earn much more than that.

  ###

  There were so many men in the Great Hall at Hatfield that the noise was deafening. Everyone was talking at once and the result was a discordant cacophony that grated on Elizabeth’s nerves. There were upwards of forty men on her sister’s Council, far too many to be efficient, in her opinion. These men were not going to like it, but she was planning to appoint far fewer advisors than that. If too many cooks might spoil the broth, then too many councilors made for naught but dissension and confusion. But whom to keep, whom to send away? Whom to add? She certainly did not lack for advice on the subject!

  She had immediately sought the support of Mary’s Lord Chancellor, Nicholas Heath; he was also the Archbishop of York, a known Catholic, and yet it was he who had insisted on her immediate proclamation by the Parliament as Queen of England. He had, by his precipitate action, demonstrated his flexible conscience and dedication to the Tudor succession. It was a pity that he was too ill of the new ague to travel to Hatfield; she could have used his support in coping with what seemed to be a most unruly collection of men such as Mary’s Council was proving to be.

  There were radical, inflexible Catholics on the Council who must be dismissed, and any Councilor not willing to dispense with the pensions being paid them by the King of Spain would not be retained. There were several high-ranking aristocrats with extensive land holdings or relationship to her, either by blood or by marriage, who should not eas
ily be dismissed. Lord Clinton was the husband of the Fair Geraldine, and he, along with the earl of Pembroke, the Marquis of Winchester and Lord William Paget, had been serving on the Council since her father’s time; they must be retained. And finally, her great-uncle Lord William Howard must be kept on, regardless of his religion; time after time over the years he had proved himself unfailingly loyal to her, even when doing so was neither popular nor safe. She had formed in her head a vision of what she wanted her Council to be like; all in good time.

  She tried to speak, but the sound of her voice was drowned out. She tried rapping on the table with the heel of her shoe, but the oak was thick and absorbed the sound. Finally, she arose from her chair to her full height and cried, “Enough!”

  Immediately all was startled silence.

  “Let us come to order, gentlemen,” she said authoritatively. When all the men had seated themselves she said, “Let us begin with a prayer. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen. Lord, we thank Thee for vouchsafing us a peaceful accession to the throne. Of Thy mercy give us the grace to govern with clemency and without bloodshed.”

  As Elizabeth prayed on, Cecil remarked to himself that they did not really know for certain if the succession was to be peaceful or not; it was early days yet. But as far as the internal insurrection such as that which had plagued her sister upon her accession, there had been as yet no sign. On that score, at least, all seemed fair fit to succeed; Elizabeth was, after all, the most English woman in England, having no foreign parent, as Queen Mary had had in Katharine of Aragon. It was that Spanish connection that had, in the end, been Mary’s undoing.

  Suddenly Cecil became aware that the hall had gone very quiet.