In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Lady Katherine eyed her mother’s coffin and reflected that it was most unfortunate that her mother had been so very ill for so long. Despite her best intentions, Frances had never been able to speak to the queen about the possibility of Katherine’s marriage to the Earl of Hertford. She had planned to do so, promised to do so, but she had gotten worse instead of better as time went by, and now she was dead and it was too late. It was all a very great pity. But now something must be done, and soon; Elizabeth was threatening to send her to Scotland; the Spanish ambassador was pressing his suit urgently, expecting her to go to Spain and marry the heir to the Spanish throne. And now she wanted nothing but to stay in England and marry Edward Seymour, and be Countess of Hertford. What a muddle!

  Abruptly the music stopped. Finally, all were assembled. Bishop Jewel beckoned her forth and she arose. As Chief Mourner, she must stand at the head of the casket; why was it so devilishly cold just at the place where she must stand? The rest of the mourners were placed on each side, and at least shared proximity with the dubious warmth of the candles. All were made to kneel.

  Then William Harvey, Clarencieux King of Arms, cried, “Laud and praise be given to Almighty God, that it hath pleased him to call out of this transitory life unto his eternal glory the most noble and excellent princess, the Lady Frances, late Duchess of Suffolk, Marchioness of Dorset, daughter to the right high and mighty prince, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and of the most noble and excellent princess, Mary Tudor, the French Queen, daughter to the most illustrious prince, King Henry VII.”

  Then the dean began the service in English for the communion, reciting the Ten Commandments; why must he drone on with all ten of them, thought Katherine. And each must be answered by the choir in prick-song! And after that, prayers were said, and both the epistle and the gospel were read by the two assistants of the dean. Her feet were cold and she was hungry. Her knees ached, and she was tired of kneeling. Her mother was dead and all this ceremony would not bring her back. Would this service never end?

  After the gospel, the offering began; the mourners who were kneeling were finally permitted to stand. Katherine longed to rub her sore knees, but dared not. Thankfully, a cushion was laid for her to kneel on before the altar; would that they had placed such a cushion for her at the head of the casket! More prayers were said, and then two acolytes came to the altar and each taking an arm, led her back to the pew. Her sister Mary bore her train; how that must rankle, she thought with an inward smile. The offering was made, and then Bishop Jewel began his interminable sermon; it seemed that it would go on forever. She glanced up at the pulpit, where the Bishop of Salisbury was droning on about the Life Everlasting. She wished he would finish what he had to say so that they could all go to supper. After the sermon, the dean proceeded to the communion service.

  Finally it was all over. Lady Katherine, Lady Anne Stanhope, and all the mourners, filed outside into the frigid night air. Lady Katherine, Lady Mary and Lady Anne endured a chilly ride in a draughty litter the three miles to the mansion at the Charterhouse, their mother’s London residence. All through the interminable journey Katherine ached to be able to discuss their dilemma with Lady Anne, but she had no intention of taking her sister into her confidence. She suspected that her sister hated her, and resented her beauty. She could not be trusted.

  At long last, the litter stopped with a jerk. It was very dark; she could barely see her hand in front of her face.

  “Come, child,” said Lady Anne solicitously, taking Katherine by the arm.

  Mary Grey, as usual, was ignored; she scrambled out of the litter without assistance and disappeared into the gloom of the hall.

  Lady Anne cupped her hand behind Katherine’s delicate elbow and led her to her own chambers. A welcoming fire burned in the grate, and a servant was setting out steaming mugs of mulled ale. At a look from Lady Anne, the servant bobbed a curtsey and departed.

  Katherine lifted her mug of ale, blew on it, then sipped it gratefully. “I thought the service would never end,” she said. “I was so cold!”

  Lady Anne reached across and patted Katherine’s knee. “Poor poppet!” she said, her voice oozing sympathy. It was essential to keep Lady Katherine placated and soothed. For this girl was the key to all her schemes, all her hopes and dreams. But what to do now that Frances was dead? If only Elizabeth had come to see her cousin while she was ill; but she never had, and Frances, towards the end, had been too befuddled with the opium drops to send for her, or to make sense if she had.

  Katherine’s mind was moving along the same lines. “How now, Lady Anne,” she said. “Perhaps you might request an audience with Her Grace to seek her royal permission for my marriage to Edward?”

  Lady Anne’s response was immediate, practically jerked from her lips. “Oh, I could not very well do that,” she said. The truth was that, like Frances, she was a coward, and knew it. She dared not face the queen with such a proposal. There was a chance that Frances could have manipulated the queen to grant the necessary leave for the two to marry; but she, Anne, had no chance whatsoever of doing so. And as hard as it was to admit it, even to herself, she was afraid even to ask.

  Katherine’s face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. “Then what are we to do?” she asked. It was getting harder and harder to avoid de la Quadra; at any moment the queen might be packing her off to dreary Scotland. To marry a man twice her age and who, if gossip could be trusted, had few social graces! But then the Scots were all barbarians.

  Anne felt as desperate as Katherine did; she could sense the chance for her son to become King of England slipping away before her very eyes. “I have an idea,” said Lady Anne. “You should marry secretly. Yes, that is the answer! We shall find a priest who will, for a few shillings, if I know anything about them, relax the need for the calling of the banns; and who will perform the ceremony.” A witness should be required as well; but by the Rood, it would not be herself! Her cowardice extended as far as not wanting to be implicated should aught go wrong. Perhaps her daughter, Jane…?

  Katherine’s eyes lit up and her always pale face flushed red. “That is a marvelous idea!” she cried.

  “Ye-es,” said Lady Anne, a fist to her chin. Get them married and Katherine with child, and what else would the queen be able to do? “Yes, once the deed is done, it shall be done, and the queen will have no choice but to accept it as a fait acompli.”

  Katherine frowned. “As a what?”

  “Never mind,” said Lady Anne. “It is the perfect plan. I shall tell Edward, and he will find us a compliant priest. Leave everything to us, my dear.”

  Katherine sank back into her chair and sipped her warm ale. It was so comforting to be able to leave things to other people. When she was queen, that was what she would always do.

  St. James’s Palace, February 1560

  “The situation has become most urgent, Your Grace,” said Cecil. “The time has come to act.” He laid the parchment out in front of her on the council table. The treaty with the Scottish Lords of the Congregation was written on a sheepskin; if one used one’s imagination, one could even make out where the head and legs had been lopped off.

  Elizabeth sat at the head of the council table. Most of the men of the Council seemed to be of one mind, a most unusual occurrence; normally, they argued this way and that, and fought against each other’s ideas, each individual or group seeking to convince her of the efficacy of their own point of view. She preferred it so; that way she was able to get all sides to a story, all the details of the situation. This allowed her to sift every facet of an issue until she arrived at her own considered decision.

  “We have taken action,” she replied. “Have we not sent money and arms to the Scots to aid them in their struggle? We have not another shilling to spare.”

  “We have indeed sent them money and arms,” Cecil replied. “But things have changed. Henri would not have risked the peace of Cateau-Cambresis; but King François is dominated by his wife’s Guise relations. He ha
s no compunction about sending fresh troops to Scotland to aid the Regent, Marie de Guise. The Scots have denied the authority of Her Grace’s regency, and are spoiling for a fight. But the Scots are disorganized and lack resources. The clans fight amongst themselves. This has always been the case; indeed, it is the reason why Scotland has never been successful in overrunning our land. But the French are poised for action. There are rumors of some manner of serious upheaval in France; if such is certain, then surely this is the time for us to press forward in Scotland! Still, there is nothing stopping the Guises from sending men, money and arms to bolster their sister’s hold over the Scots. The Lords of the Congregation are doing their best, but they need help, our help. The situation is now fraught with genuine danger, Your Grace.”

  “It is true, Your Grace,” added the Earl of Pembroke. “If the French are allowed to build up their troops in Scotland with impunity, England faces a dire threat. An invasion of Scots and French from the north could be joined with an invasion of the French from the south; such a pincer movement would almost certainly be successful. England would be vanquished between two ancient enemies.”

  “And consider, Your Grace,” put in Lord Clinton, “this is an unprecedented opportunity to make a permanent peace with Scotland, to put an end to the Auld Alliance at last, and to force the French off of our island, completely and forever.”

  “I fear me, Your Grace, that if we do not assist the Scots, they face almost certain defeat,” said her kinsman, the Duke of Norfolk. “The Guise will at last realize their ambition to make of our near neighbor little more than a French dominion. Such an aim is at odds with the promises the French made to the Scots all those years ago, when their infant queen was married to the Dauphin of France. It was agreed that Scotland and France would always remain on a footing of absolute equality. But such is not the case now; with Henri dead and the Guise in the ascendant, it is just a matter of time before they seek to oust Your Grace and put Mary of Scotland on the throne of England in your place.”

  Nothing anyone said could have moved her more; her hatred of her cousin Mary was quickly reaching monumental proportions. But that did not change the fact that England was ill prepared to fight a war. The cost in money alone would be staggering; but what of the cost war was likely to claim in English lives? But on the other hand, would not a full-scale invasion such as Pembroke described result in even more loss of life? Would it not be better to take her chances fighting a war on Scottish ground, rather than risk the horror and misery of allowing the French to wage a war on English soil? If she were to aid the Scots in ousting the French in Scotland, it should, hopefully, result in no civilian casualties in her own land.

  Elizabeth took a long draught from her wine cup, and set the bejeweled beaker on the table. She folded her hands. “All compelling arguments,” she said. “But if the Scots deny French rule and domination, who shall rule Scotland? Their own queen is also Queen of France. I cannot, I will not, aid any faction that seeks to depose its anointed queen. To do so would set a dangerous precedent, and endanger my hold on my own throne.”

  Cecil was more than prepared for this objection. “Your Grace, the Scots do not seek to oust their rightful queen. That Mary of Scotland is also Queen of France is unfortunate. But it is not the rule of their own queen of which they seek to rid themselves. It is the pernicious regency of her mother, Marie de Guise, and the wicked influence of the queen’s Guise uncles. If England were to be successful in our bid to assist the Scots, the Earl of Arran, as you know, should be our candidate to stand as regent for the rightful Scots queen. He is a Scotsman; the Scots will gladly accept him as regent in place of Marie de Guise, who is bitterly resented for her misgovernment and abuse of her authority. His Grace is the heir to the Scottish throne until the Scots queen produces a child, which so far, despite all her bluster, she has failed to do. Marie de Guise may have a certain right to act for her daughter in her capacity of Queen Mother, but the Scots feel that she has forfeited that right. There is no reason why the heir to the throne should not be a viable, and acceptable, candidate for regent for the Scots queen.”

  “Your Grace,” said Cecil. “We have very reliable intelligence that a French fleet will soon be dispatched. If we do not act, if we delay any further, it shall be too late.”

  Elizabeth considered. Finally she said, “Where is a map?”

  Norfolk’s eyes met Pembroke’s; Clinton nodded to Cecil. Once they explained their strategy, the queen was certain to agree.

  Sir William Paulet, who had been silent up to that point, arose and fetched a map, which he spread out on the map table. The scroll kept curling up; he quickly weighted each corner with whatever was to hand. An inkpot, a blotter, two heavy silver candlesticks. Finally the map settled and the group gathered around the table.

  “Here is the Port of Leith, near Edinburgh,” said the duke. He ran his finger along the north coast to the east. “And here is Dunbar Castle, a stout stronghold. Not as large as Edinburgh Castle, but there will be troops there who can march to the aid of the Regent if needed. And here,” his finger slid south down to Berwick-Upon-Tweed, “is where our navy should muster, with reinforcements to be stationed here, at Newcastle. Captain Winter shall have charge of the ships, and I of the land forces, if it please Your Grace. The ships at Newcastle shall patrol the waters. Once French ships are sighted, a small force will be sent north to Berwick. The ships at Berwick shall sail into the Firth of Forth, establishing a blockade; any French ships that escape the ships at Newcastle shall be driven back from the Firth. Once the French ships are repulsed, the land forces under Lord Grey shall attack Edinburgh from the south, and our ships shall attack and take the port.”

  Elizabeth studied the map. She could see the glint in Norfolk’s eyes; the idea of war to him and all like him was one of the glory to be won in battle. The men of the Council were avid for war. But what of the mothers, the wives of the men who would be lost? For there would be dead men. War always meant dead men.

  “I must have time to think,” she said. Wars always sounded as if they could be won, in theory; but what if her bid to expel the French from Scotland failed? It would give the French the very excuse they needed to cross the border into England, lay it waste, and deprive her of her throne.

  Cecil clenched his fists in exasperation; the other men clenched their jaws.

  Norfolk pounded his fist on the map table, causing the inkpot to jump and one of the candlesticks to topple over.

  “There is no more time, Your Grace! This hesitation is womanish!” he cried. “God’s blood, Madam, it is high time to put thy sword into thy hand and to use that goodly wit and knowledge that God hath bestowed upon thee! God hath given thee England, Cousin, through many travails and against all odds; wilt thou simply hand her back? Or shall we fight for her withal?”

  Elizabeth crashed her own fist down onto the table; the other candlestick fell, and ink from the inkpot splashed onto the map. “Be careful of your words, Sir Duke!” she shouted. “The decision is mine to make, and I shall make it when I deem the time to be right!”

  Elizabeth’s great uncle, Lord William Howard, placed a restraining hand on his great-nephew’s arm, and bid him be seated again. He understood, as perhaps no one else did, that prevarication and sleight of hand were his great-niece’s preferred tools, and why; the dangers that she had faced in her youth were real and frightening, and their lessons had been grim.

  “Your Grace,” he said gently, “Mayhap we ought to let others sit down and fold their hands, and then lament their losses. It is for a wise sovereign to foresee and prevent such calamities.” None but a relative would have dared to say as much to the queen, even as much as it needed to be said.

  Elizabeth regarded the men of her Council for a few moments in silence, and then she said, “My Lords, the chart by which I steer this state is littered with the same quicksand, the same rocks, the same shoals upon which the boats of my predecessors have been many times wrecked. And it is a dangerous th
ing to enter into war. I shall do as I see fit in this matter.”

  Cecil leaned both of his hands on the table, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “Your Grace, it is with a sorrowful heart and watery eyes that I must, if you will not sanction the immediate approval of this plan, and sign the treaty with the Scots, tender my resignation as Secretary. I shall remain in Your Grace’s service in any other capacity that you wish, be it in your kitchen, even in your garden. I shall do Your Grace’s commandment to my life’s end, but I fear me I cannot continue as your advisor if you allow this God-given opportunity to make friends of our Scottish enemies slip through your fingers.”

  Elizabeth regarded them all with a bland face. The room became so silent that only the crackling of the fire could be heard. “Dear me,” she said. “I have come to know that whenever my secretary threatens to resign, that things have reached a pretty pass. Remove that hangdog expression from your visage, my lord,” she said to Cecil with a sardonic smile. “You shall not so easily throw off the cares of state. If I must needs bear them, then so must you! It is indeed shameful that only by threatening to remove yourself from my service can I be moved to wise policy. Very well,” she said. “Send the ships and muster the troops. Get all in readiness. But we must meet again before we establish the dates for further movement. The French have spies in England, I trow, just as we have spies in their country! Let us see what comes of these preparations for war. For if I can avoid open conflict, I surely shall.” Perhaps if the French realized that war was inevitable, they would sue for peace. It was worth a try. Until she gave the order for fighting to commence, all would be only preparation. Scotland, and her Council, must content themselves with that for now.