The men of the Council exchanged satisfied glances. Troops to be mustered and ships sent north! It was more than they had hoped for. Beginning was half done; the Scots would see that England meant to support their bid to rid themselves of their French oppressors, and once the preparations for war were in place, the thing was almost as good as done. They would fight; they would win. All glory would be to England and not only would the French threat be quelled, but the Scottish one as well. They could not fail.
“There is something else,” said Elizabeth.
Cecil raised his eyes to the queen’s; they had what they wanted, for now. What further condition was Her Grace going to make that might ruin it all?
Elizabeth’s stare was steady and sure. “A clause must be added to the treaty that states that Mary of Scotland will cease her use of the arms of England, and must renounce her claim to the English throne.” She had been informed of the chagrin of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, her ambassador in France, who had been compelled to eat off of plate that showed the combined arms of France, Scotland and England. No more!
The men exchanged glances, surprised that they had not thought of such a thing themselves.
“Done,” said Cecil. The Lords of the Congregation would not demur at such a nicety if it meant that the help of the English was assured.
“All right, then,” said Elizabeth. “Proceed with your preparations.” She lifted the inkpot, which had come perilously close to the edge of the map table with all the fist-banging of earlier, and walked with it to her writing desk. She lifted the quill, inked it, and placed her elaborate signature on the bottom of the treaty. England would send men and ships to the aid of the Scots. The treaty stated clearly that this was not aid to rebels, but an effort to assist their neighbor in defending themselves against a hostile foreign power. Mary Stuart was still recognized as their rightful queen. But for her cousin’s lords to enter into a treaty with England without so much as consulting their sovereign spoke for itself.
So much for Mary of Scotland!
Amboise, France, March 1560
Mary turned her head. “I will not watch,” she whispered, her eyes blinded by tears.
“Oh, yes, you will, Marie,” said her uncle Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine. “Watch and see what fate would have been yours, had your good uncles not protected you!”
Mary pretended to turn her head back in the direction of the spectacle taking place below, but she still could not bring herself to look down at the horrors that were taking place on the grounds in the front of the castle. Instead, she focused her vision onto the delicate green of the woods beyond, which were just coming into leaf. But not looking did not prevent her from hearing the dreadful screams of the men who were being tortured.
She held François’s cold, clammy hand in her own. But he, who had never failed her before, had failed her this time. She found it hard to believe that good, gentle François could be so cold and hard-hearted. It was a side of him that she had not known existed until this moment.
In a way, she understood; her husband had been badly frightened by the threats to their very lives. But whereas she had, once before, long ago, been made to flee for her life, or at least for her freedom, François had never before known a moment of fear in his life. When she was a little girl, her mother had constantly moved her from place to place in Scotland, from one fortified castle to another, with the men threatening to kidnap her always a step behind. Finally, her mother had hidden her on an island, in the middle of a magical, misty loch, with the monks at Inchmahome Priory. But even God’s house had been deemed not quite safe enough, and in the end she had been sent across the water to France, to her Guise uncles. So she was used to the excitement and adventure of being chased and menaced; it had thrilled her blood rather than making her fearful.
But François’s reaction to their recent danger had taken her completely by surprise. In the panic that had infected the court, he had become as vicious and malicious in his desire for revenge as her bloodthirsty uncles. She was shocked by it all, and saddened that her husband, now king, could have become such a stranger to her.
It had all started one night in Paris, barely a month since, when they had been awakened from sleep in their beds in the middle of the night. Her uncle François, the Duc de Guise, had hastily told them of a plot to kidnap them both and murder them. It seemed that the French people, or at least the heretics, did not like their rule and wished to kill them. They were hurriedly dressed and bundled unceremoniously onto their horses. She would never forget the wild ride south to Amboise. She, who was used to beautiful dresses, perfumed baths, delicate food, was once again fleeing for her life in the dark of night.
Strangely, she was not frightened. She could not really bring herself to believe that anyone could hate her; she, who had always been loved, cherished, adored by all. And who would want her dead? It simply did not make sense; there must be some mistake. Neither she nor François had done anything that she could think of to make anyone want to end their lives and their rule of France.
It was her mother-in-law, the Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, who had enlightened her. The queen had not meant to do so; Mary had overheard her speaking with her henchmen in one of the many religious houses in which they had taken refuge during their flight from Paris to the stronghold at Amboise. It seemed that the French people, far from hating their little king and queen and wanting them dead, actually hated her Guise uncles. Her uncles had, through the king, her husband, passed a law that the heretics, called Huguenots, were under sentence of death if they persisted in shunning the Mass. Even people who were not Huguenots could be sentenced to death for not reporting them, if they knew about them. Many were incensed that good Frenchmen were being called upon to betray other Frenchmen; it was not the king and queen that they wanted to do away with, but her Guise uncles. The rebels had affirmed their loyalty to her and to François; they simply wished to be allowed to practice their religion unmolested. The Queen Mother had tried to support the Huguenot cause, for the sake of peace in France, but her uncles overrode Catherine’s authority and the result was their headlong flight in the night.
The knowledge had shattered her little world; she had always looked up to her uncles and thought them good and wise. Well, perhaps they still were; after all, if it were the heretics who wished them ill, then perhaps her uncles were doing the right thing by hunting them down and killing them.
But there was a vast difference, even in her limited experience, between men slain in battle and helpless men being tortured to death as after dinner entertainment for the court of France. For that was what was happening at that moment, right before her very eyes, and which her uncle insisted that she witness.
Her uncles had deemed it a stroke of very good fortune that the plot to kidnap the king and queen had come to their attention in time to forestall it. But the rebels had known that her uncles would take them to impregnable Amboise, and had been there waiting for them. But her uncles had also known that they would be there, and the rebels and heretics had been set upon by the royal forces in the woods. So while the royal court made themselves comfortable in the chateau, the forces loyal to the crown had routed the rebels and had been systematically executing them for days. Some were drowned in the river in sacks; some were placed in gibbets to slowly starve to death. But there were not nearly enough gibbets, and sacks for drowning, so her uncles had taken to hanging the men from hooks on the castle walls.
So much for the common soldiers; when the nobles who had rebelled against her uncles had been rounded up, the real carnage began. It was they who were being hung, taken down while they still lived, and were having their bowels drawn from their living bodies. When their bowels had been completely drawn out, the wriggling, bloody mass was placed on a fire and the men dragged to the block, where they were then beheaded and their bodies cut into four pieces. The coppery stench of blood reminded her of the day that poor King Henri had fallen in the joust. Only this was not the blood of
just one man; it was the blood of dozens. Their screams, she knew, would haunt her sleep forever.
No principle, she decided, deserved to be the cause of such a horrible death. It surprised her to realize that for the very first time in her life, she felt that her uncles were wrong. But she knew better than to say so, or to object. She stole a glance at her mother-in-law. Queen Catherine sat, her back straight, her face impassive. But she knew that the Queen Mother also disagreed with the Guise desire for such bloody revenge. It boded ill for the Valois Dynasty, for many, from this day forward, would remember the bloody vengeance that had been wrought by the Guises on their own people.
Mary stole a glance at the others sitting around her. Was it possible? It seemed that there were many faces that were as pale with disgust as her own, and that there were others who were looking not down at the courtyard, but out at the same forest of trees on which her own gaze rested.
Gravesend, August 1560
The sun sparkled a million diamonds on the water as the cutter entered the Thames estuary from the more rugged waters of the North Sea. Sea gulls wheeled and cried, and a fresh breeze blew in his face. Cecil had chosen the swift cutter, a messenger’s craft, for his return from Scotland. The sooner he arrived back in England, the better.
The havoc that had been wrought at court during his two months’ absence would take twice that long to repair. Indeed, had it been up to Robert Dudley, the war would never have been fought at all. Because Cecil advocated assisting the Scots against France, then Dudley must rail against it to the queen; from the very beginning, at every turn, he could see that Dudley was against him, and was his enemy.
The only result that England’s overt preparation for war in Scotland had evoked was a conciliatory response from the French, and a request to parley. King François’s envoy had duly arrived, and in the interim, the English had been ordered by the queen to stand down. The Council was in despair; Norfolk, already on the Scots border, raged against his royal cousin and her naïve acceptance that the sending of an envoy by King François to discuss peace terms was anything more than a ruse to delay the inevitable.
The French envoy, Monluc, arrived, and it quickly became apparent that he had no authority to enter into a treaty or even to engage in meaningful discussion about the issues. Finally, at long last, the queen gave the order to lay siege to Leith.
At last, Lord Grey and the Howards had been allowed to release the dogs of war; they had marched boldly alongside their Scottish allies, certain of victory. But the result had been disaster. The scaling ladders were too short; the wrong cannon had been sent, their caliber too small to breach the thick walls, and even had that not been so, a dearth of shot had curtailed the widening of even the few breaches that had been made in the stout walls. The English and the Scots were driven back, and ignominiously forced to retreat. The loss of life, though minimal by the standards of such an action, had appalled Elizabeth; she was incandescent with rage. This was just what she had feared in the first place! Robert had nodded knowingly; had he not advised her not to make war in Scotland?
But Elizabeth had studied the strategies and tactics of many great wars, and she knew that once one was in for a penny, one must be in for the proverbial pound. She immediately sent reinforcements, along with the proper weapons and supplies. This steadfastness paid off, and that, along with the blockade of the harbor preventing French supply ships from getting through to the port, resulted in victory. But it seemed to Elizabeth that the English had won the day in spite of themselves, and only because the recent tumult in Amboise had completely distracted French attention from insignificant Scotland.
Cecil had been stunned when he was informed by the queen that he was to lead the peace negotiations; such an important parley could not be conducted from a distance. It would mean leaving the court. The malice that shone from Dudley’s eyes when Elizabeth informed him of her decision left no room for doubt; whilst he was gone, Dudley meant to supplant him as the queen’s closest advisor. God help England!
Elizabeth had not forgiven him for his bellicose stand on the Scottish situation, and for the debacle that had almost resulted from his insistence that England involve herself in what was, in the final analysis, a foreign quarrel between two other nations. So it was with a heavy heart that Cecil had departed on that sultry summer day without so much as a farewell from the angry queen. But as the miles slid by, the air freshened, and he became somewhat relieved to be leaving the backbiting and intrigue of the court behind him for a while. And all might yet be well; after all, the English and the Scots had, in the end, been victorious.
The peace talks had gotten off to a rocky start, but soon proceeded with cautious optimism on both sides. And then an unbelievable stroke of good fortune occurred; the regent, Marie de Guise, who had been ailing for some time, finally died. After the removal of her pernicious influence, the talks proceeded in earnest.
The outcome of Cecil’s hard work was a treaty that was considered by all to be a triumph for both the Scots and the English, but more than that, was being hailed as brilliant, as an achievement of the highest order for him personally. The French agreed to observe and uphold the sovereignty of Scotland, to withdraw completely from the country, and for their queen to renounce her claim to the English throne.
And so now Cecil was returning to England in triumph to accept the accolades of his queen and the praise of his peers for a job well done. He would accept it all gracefully and settle back down to repair the damage that two months from court was sure to have wrought with Lord Robert whispering his poison into the queen’s ear.
At last the cutter put in at the docks at Tilbury, and after a good night’s rest, Cecil boarded a ship bound up the Thames for London. The court was on Progress and by this time had reached Windsor; he boarded a barge and sailed again, anxious to see the queen and to hear her praise.
Windsor Castle, August 1560
Cecil waited while Elizabeth read a fair copy of the Treaty of Edinburgh, frowning as she squinted at the unaccustomed handwriting. Whoever had made this scribble was no penman! Every now and then she grunted, but otherwise she gave no indication of her frame of mind. She had demanded a private audience, which surprised him; surely if she meant to commend him, it should be in front of the entire court? Finally she laid the document aside, folded her hands and addressed him.
“Your treaty has some serious flaws, sir! And the Queen of Scots has not ratified it, nor will she.”
Taken aback, Cecil said calmly, “It matters not, Your Grace. Affairs in Scotland are what they are, and it is no good ruler who allows events such as wars and treaties to occur without her participation. Your Grace would never have stood for such!”
Elizabeth’s fine, red brows drew together into two sword-like points at the bridge of her aquiline nose. “Flattery, sir!”
Cecil bristled. “Nay, it is but truth, Madam! Because of this treaty, France henceforth shall not own Scotland, and she will never now be able to make of England her footstool!” Elizabeth scowled and was silent. She had not even bade him sit! It might as well have been Dudley sitting there berating him, despite his brilliant success!
“Why are you so angry, Your Grace?” asked Cecil. “I do not understand it. We have achieved all that we set out to accomplish, have we not? Has not England confronted France and come away the victor? Has Your Grace not triumphed over your enemy, and humiliated the Scots queen into the bargain? And has not England’s prestige soared with this victory? See how her credit has so lately been restored! I understand that banks in both Antwerp and Florence are clamoring to lend us money, now that we have shown our mettle.” Cecil met Elizabeth’s golden stare with his own candid blue one.
Elizabeth tilted her chin slightly and pursed her lips. All of Cecil’s arguments were surely good ones, and she knew it. But what of the things that Robert had pointed out to her that had not been accomplished?
“Aye,” she said coldly, “but did you not fail to convince the French to cede
Calais back to us as part of the terms of the treaty? And did you not fail to gain a French indemnity to provide reparations to England for the expense to us of the war?”
Cecil’s face remained impassive, but it was just as he suspected; whilst he had been negotiating an agreement that everyone else lauded as nothing short of miraculous, Robert Dudley had been poisoning the queen’s ear against him.
Cecil sighed. He knew that he must remain calm, logical, in the face of the queen’s anger. He knew also that he must devise some means by which to rid the realm of Lord Robert’s evil influence. His brain was more than capable of wrestling with both problems at the same time.
“Your Grace,” he said, “the French, by the Treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, have already agreed to either cede Calais back to England, or to pay an indemnity for her, four years hence. After the manner of our recent interference in Scottish affairs, we are indeed fortunate that King François, in his anger, has not claimed that France’s promise to do so was invalidated and rendered void. They could easily have done so. It is not reasonable…”
Elizabeth’s fist came crashing down onto the arm of her chair. “Bother reason! Lord Robert says…” She stopped and their eyes met.
Cecil knew better than to clamor openly against the queen’s favorite. His methods must be subtle if he were to succeed in his goals.
After an appreciable pause he said softly, “Your Grace, I am feeling my years and my lady wife has been ill of late. I fear me that the time has come…”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “Do not dare to say it! Is this to become a common occurrence, that whenever you cannot stomach my policy that you are set to flee your responsibilities? Well, I shall not have it, sir! You shall remain as you are.”
In High Places Page 14