In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

Elizabeth had ended her prayer and was referring to a parchment with what looked to be a lengthy list of items. Finally she looked up; she briefly regarded each one of the men sitting at the council table before she began to speak. It was an effective ploy; each man gave her his undivided attention, and it seemed as if she were speaking not to a large group, but to each man individually.

  Elizabeth steepled her long, elegant fingers and rested her hands upon the table. “My lords, it must be understood at the outset that the people of England are my first care. Any business we conduct, any decisions we make, shall be with their welfare in mind.” She stopped and once again briefly regarded each man. Some looked away; some met her gaze full on. She found it very easy to read them all. She wondered if they somehow knew it; she thought not.

  “The people,” she continued, “long for, crave, indeed, must have, stable government, economic recovery, an end to foreign influence in English affairs, and an end to religious strife. It will be our task, sirs, as daunting as it may seem, to manage the affairs of England so as to ensure all of this. Only then can we once again be a powerful and prosperous nation.” The words were left unspoken; but it was writ as if upon the air that since the death of her father, eleven years of first her brother’s reign and then Mary’s had left England practically insolvent, and with her prestige in the eyes of the other countries of Europe at its very lowest ebb. The nightmare years of religious persecution, the horror of the burnings in her sister’s reign, and the confusion that years of contradictory rules concerning religious doctrine had engendered, had left the English people muddled and brutalized.

  Henry FitzAlan, the earl of Arundel, leaned forward. Bother the people, he thought; his first concern was that Sir William Cecil was sitting at the queen’s right hand. Why was a mere factor being given such pride of place? What did it mean, he wondered?

  “Lofty aims, Your Grace,” he said. “All know that the treasury is nearly empty, the loss of Calais has left the people demoralized, and the Continental powers regard England as of no importance whatsoever.” Did the chit think they did not know the dire condition in which England now found herself?

  Elizabeth had never liked Arundel; she thought him arrogant, haughty and far too self-important. And he would not have dared to speak to her father in such a manner! She once again scanned the faces at the table, one by one, before replying; by doing so she seemed to ignore the earl.

  “This is not the first time, my lords, that England has faced difficulties, nor, I trow, shall it be the last. But rest assured that there are remedies for all of England’s ills. An empty treasury is not a problem to be taken lightly; therefore we must refrain from bemoaning the fact and laying blame, and press forward with solutions. We must re-establish England’s credit with the bankers in Antwerp and Florence; the coinage, so sadly debased in the last three reigns, must be restored. Through our alliance with Spain we have our trade with the Low Countries; indeed, the Netherlands depends upon English wool to weave their cloth. But mark my words, my lords, there will be no interference from Philip of Spain in the affairs of England whilst I am on the throne! Spanish and Imperial interests concern me only in so far as English trade, the peace we so desperately require, and the recovery of Calais are concerned.”

  Several of the men knocked their fists on the table in agreement.

  Arundel grunted but said nothing; it was far easier to say that this and that must be done, than to accomplish it!

  Of all the difficulties facing them, she thought, the religious issue was going to be the most challenging, and its consequences the most profound and far-reaching. They must craft a religious settlement that satisfied as many people as possible, but there was no getting around the fact that the fate of England was bound up in the Protestant Reformation; there could be no other way. Anything less would lead to once again tying England to Rome and the pope, and that she would never allow.

  Thanks be to God, she reflected, her cousin Reginald had expired before he could become a hindrance. His death had swiftly followed her sister’s, indeed, he had died on the same day a mere twelve hours later. A speedy answer to prayer if ever there was one! There was no doubt in her mind that her sister’s Archbishop of Canterbury would have been a daunting adversary. He might even have refused to crown her, and then where would she be?

  Elizabeth once again scanned the faces of the men of her sister’s Council. She believed that she had won over some of them with her decisive stance, but she could still see doubt in the eyes of others. A woman had landed them into the mess in which England now found herself; they had little confidence that another woman should rescue them from it. She believed in herself; she must make them believe in her as well.

  In answer to the unspoken question she said, “I have been instructed well by adversity and experience, my lords, two very excellent teachers.” She rested her eyes on each man, assessing their confidence in her ability to accomplish what she was telling them must be done. More of them were meeting her gaze now than at the beginning of the meeting; that was good. The compelling charisma that her mother had possessed in such measure allied with the power of her father’s personality to make of her a most formidable force. They could sense this; they could feel it. At that moment there was not a man at the table who already did not dread falling afoul of her.

  “I have a question,” said Elizabeth. “Are there any outstanding death warrants?”

  The men seemed startled by the abrupt change of topic; all eyes went to Sir Richard Oxenbridge, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower.

  “If it please Your Grace,” he replied, “there are two heretics awaiting the stake. Queen Mary signed the warrants just before…”

  Elizabeth’s fist came down onto the council table with a bang. “It does not please me! There will be no such doings whilst I am queen! They are pardoned. Release them at once.”

  Sir Richard’s face was the color of chalk. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he stuttered in reply.

  Elizabeth arose and silently eyed them all one last time. “That is enough for today,” she said. “We shall meet again tomorrow.”

  No one had the temerity to ask the question that was foremost in all of their minds; what of the queen’s marriage? For surely Her Grace did not intend to rule alone? The role of a queen, regnant or not, was to assure the succession by producing an heir. And by the looks of things, the sooner this queen married and turned the reins of government over to a husband, the better! As far as the men of the present Council were concerned, that moment could not come too soon.

  London, November 1558

  On a brilliant blue and gold day, a magnificent cavalcade wended its way south on the Great North Road towards London. The sun shone brightly, puffy white clouds dazzled the eye, and the wind was cool but calm. The trumpets blew a fanfare as the glittering procession made its way through the villages and hamlets. At their clarion call, the people came out in excited droves to behold their new queen, to cheer for her, and to wish her well.

  Robin had already worked a miracle in just six short days; just like the Almighty! Elizabeth chuckled to herself at the unintentional blasphemy. In less than a week, Robert had arranged a splendid show for her first public outing as Queen of England. All agreed that there must be no delay; the new queen must claim her capital city and the arsenal at the Tower, and be publicly acclaimed by the populace, as soon as possible in order to reinforce her queenly authority.

  The Privy Council had been whittled down to twenty men; those ousted had grumbled but wishing to make no enemies, Elizabeth had found other posts and positions for most of them, and those too old to meet the challenges of a new regime had been pensioned off, despite their protestations of both vitality and loyalty. Dismissals had been done privately and without rancor, but firmly and leaving no doubt as to the finality of the queen’s decision.

  The dismissals, in fact, had been far less difficult than the additions made to the Council. There had been much muttering and head-shaking at Cecil’s appoin
tment as Secretary of State, even though he had shown himself to be an able and proven statesman in the previous reigns. He was known to be incorruptible, as Elizabeth herself had pointed out when she announced his new position in the government. Perversely, to many that did not bode well; officials who could not be bribed were most troublesome when it came to asking for boons and seeking favors.

  But if there had been some mild grousing at Cecil’s elevation, there was overt protest at Lord Robert Dudley’s assignment as Master of the Queen’s Horse. Officially, horse master was a household post, not a government appointment, but there were many who felt that a man whose father and grandfather had both been executed for treason had no business being employed in any royal capacity. And there was genuine concern that it could mean the rise once again of the Dudley ambition. But Elizabeth made it clear that she was not to be gainsaid in matters either great or small; the Tudor temper had been very much in evidence during the days just after her accession.

  And so on this most auspicious day, a grand concourse of lords, ladies and gentlemen bedecked in their finest jewels and wearing their sumptuous velvets and brocades, their colorful silks and satins, their dazzling cloth of gold and silver, made their way to town in the company of their new queen. Elizabeth had cause then to be glad that so many had come prematurely to Hatfield to pay court to her; the courtiers who accompanied her out of Hatfield on that sparkling fall day numbered in their hundreds and made for an impressive show. And by the time the cavalcade reached the outskirts of the city, the throng numbered almost a thousand as the common folk joined the merry procession and ran alongside their betters.

  Awestruck children and young maids approached Elizabeth offering nosegays and sprigs of holly and of rosemary; every gift was acknowledged gratefully and with a smile, and then handed over to Kat Ashley, now her First Lady of the Bedchamber and Mistress of the Robes, to be placed in the litter in which Mistress Ashley was following.

  Elizabeth was mounted on a magnificent dapple-grey mare. Lord Robert had proved his worth and her great trust in his abilities when he had argued down the men of the Council and the ladies of the Queen’s Household, who had insisted that Her Grace must make her grand entry into London in a sumptuous litter. No, he had exclaimed adamantly; more of the eager populace would be better able to behold their new queen if she were mounted on horseback. Elizabeth was an excellent horsewoman and had readily agreed with Lord Robert’s strategy. There should be plenty of time for sitting in a sedate litter on Coronation Day, when she would be weighed down with the heavy robes that she must wear on that day. For today she was content to dazzle the crowds in her purple velvet riding gown with cloth of gold pulled through her sleeves. Her horse was trapped in the same purple velvet and cloth of gold to match. She wore her red hair flowing down her back and on her head was the slim golden circlet of a princess, studded with precious gems and diamonds that glittered in the sunlight, especially when she threw her head back laughing for sheer joy. This circlet would be the only royal head-gear she would wear until her Coronation Day, when the crowns of England and Ireland would be placed upon her head.

  When they reached the Highgate the royal cavalcade was met by a procession of bishops. Fully thirteen Catholic bishops had perished in the past year of the new ague; there was an opportunity if ever there was one, she reflected. She dismounted briefly to accept their greetings and offered each man her hand to be kissed. But when she recognized the bowed head of Edmund Bonner, the Bishop of London, she withdrew her hand and would not allow him to touch her. He had been responsible for many of the burnings that had taken place in London.

  She remounted and after being greeted by the Lord Mayor and the aldermen bedecked in their scarlet gowns for the meeting with their new queen, she and her great retinue followed them into the City of London to the fanfare of the royal trumpets and the deafening cheers of the people. The streets were choked with well-wishers, and those not on the streets leaned from their windows, which had been festooned with carpets, banners, and any other colorful thing that could be found to show their support for their new queen.

  Through the streets of London Elizabeth rode, greeting even the dirtiest beggar who addressed her directly, calling out to those she knew in the crowd, smiling and waving. Never since her father’s time had a sovereign been more approachable and more in tune with the mood of the people.

  The Lord Mayor preceded her carrying her scepter and by his side rode Garter King-at-Arms. Lord Pembroke bore the sword of state, its golden scabbard studded with hundreds of pearls. The sergeants-at-arms guarded them all front and back, but most wonderful of all was that Lord Robert, as her Master-of-Horse, rode right by her side on a great black stallion.

  As they approached the Tower they rode along the London Wall, which the excited citizens had hung with tapestries and colorful streamers and pennants. All was constant cheering, but every time the royal trumpets ceased one could hear the sweet music of shawms, rebecs and regals, flutes and cornets; and as they came closer to the Tower, the City Waites played and sang to welcome their new queen to her capital city.

  Finally, all was drowned out by the ear-splitting sound of the firing of the Tower guns, to herald her approach. She could feel the impact of each salvo in the pit of her stomach, in the very core of her being. Down Market Lane and Tower Street she progressed with her royal escort, all the while expertly managing her mare, who had become restive at the booming of the guns. The mighty cannon continued to discharge until she drew rein on Tower Hill. The music stopped, the cheering ceased, and all was quiet as Elizabeth raised her eyes to the very pinnacles of the mighty fortress, which seemed to float on the chilly air; these she regarded for some moments.

  Silently she approached the great gates. Then she solemnly turned her horse around to face the multitudes gathered about her, and lifting her eyes and her arms up to heaven, she began to speak.

  “Some,” she said solemnly, “have fallen from being princes of this land to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being a prisoner in this place to be prince of this land. Mine dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of his mercy. I acknowledge that Thou hast dealt as wonderfully and as mercifully with me, as Thou didst with Thy true and faithful servant Daniel, Thy prophet, whom Thou deliveredst out of the den, from the cruelty of the greedy and raging lions. Even so was I overwhelmed, and only by Thee delivered. To Thee therefore only be thanks, honor and praise, forever, Amen.”

  With that declaration, and to the deafening cheers of the crowds, Elizabeth once again walked into the Tower of London. She paused for a moment at the place where her mother had been beheaded, and then she disappeared into the Bell Tower to visit the rooms where she had been held prisoner during her sister’s reign.

  Only Robert, who had been a prisoner in the tower adjoining Elizabeth’s, knew what she was feeling at that moment, for his own thoughts were the same.

  Chapter 2

  “O Almighty and Everlasting God! I give Thee most hearty thanks that Thou hast been so merciful unto me, as to spare me to behold this joyful day.”

  – Elizabeth, from her coronation prayer

  The Tower of London, January 1559

  E lizabeth stood with clenched fists facing the hearth in the royal apartments of the Tower, careful to keep her back to the delegation of Catholic bishops. She was uncertain if she should endeavor to hold her temper and reason calmly with these recalcitrant men, or unleash the volcano of her rage. Perhaps one would serve if the other did not! She composed her face, unclenched her fists, and turned to face them. Her voice was calm and even but her eyes smoldered.

  “I fail to understand, my lords, how your consciences could have allowed you to proclaim me Queen of England before my sister’s body was even cold, knowing that you would refuse to crown me.”

  Nicholas Heath heaved a heavy sigh. The queen’s flashing eyes, the jut of chin, and the regal tilt of her head were not lost on him. He should explain, but he would not
relent, and then the flood gates would break open and he would be visited by a taste of the queen’s formidable temper. It was not the first time that a monarch, a colleague, or even a friend had failed to understand how his two offices, the secular one of Lord Chancellor and the religious one of Archbishop of York, might come into conflict with one another. He knew a brief moment of mirth, which he quickly suppressed, as he recalled that it was this very issue that had ended in the bloody murder of another archbishop who had the misfortune also to be Lord Chancellor…Thomas Becket. And Good Becket had ended up a saint! Well, no such honor awaited himself, he was certain of that. He would be fortunate to keep the positions he now held; indeed, he should be fortunate to keep his head firmly planted upon his shoulders! He stifled an ironic smile and addressed the angry queen.

  “Your Grace,” he said, “As Lord Chancellor, it was my obligation to do what was best for England at the moment of Queen Mary’s death.”

  Elizabeth pounced immediately upon the implications of that statement. “So you are saying that what is best for England supersedes the issue of religion?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Nicholas replied. “As Archbishop of York, I do not agree that the salvation of the soul is secondary to any consideration.” He felt beads of cold sweat break out on his brow. He was making a very slow recovery from the New Ague. At first he had seemed to be recuperating; and then just when he thought he was at last on the mend, he had relapsed.

  He regarded the bishops who had come with him to face the queen’s wrath. Like himself, they were all old men. Some of them had also been stricken by the ague and were in various stages of recovery. And yet the queen had not bade them sit. Nor would she until she had her way, he was certain of that. He leaned heavily upon his stick.

  Elizabeth had been relieved when she heard that her cousin, Reginald Pole, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had died on the same day as her sister, because she greatly feared that he would have refused to crown her. Like Mary, he did not believe that her conversion to the Catholic faith was genuine; and to a true Catholic, the idea that one might be pretending to believe whilst engaging in the rituals of the Mass was nothing less than heresy. So surely, she reasoned, Reginald’s timely death must have been due to the direct intervention of God. That, combined with the hasty proclamation by Parliament of her succession, had gone a long way to ease her fears that her accession would be fraught with difficulty. For such a swift proclamation she knew that she had the Lord Chancellor to thank. But her Lord Chancellor was also the Archbishop of York, he who was responsible for officiating at the coronation ceremony in the absence of an Archbishop of Canterbury. And despite Nicholas Heath’s precipitate action in having her proclaimed Queen of England within a few short hours of her sister’s death, he was refusing to crown her. So to what end, then, had she been so relieved when Reginald had died within hours of her sister? Was all for naught after all?