In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “Your Grace,” said the Earl of Arundel, who as one of the possible suitors had more at stake than the others, “We have only recently endured the dreadful experience of seeing the stability of England totter on the edge of the abyss, only because Your Grace’s life hung by a thread. When all thought Your Gracious Majesty to be dying, already the disintegration of the state could be felt. Whilst Your Grace wandered in that netherworld of delirium, it was we who were left to experience the utter chaos of an England bereft of a sovereign. We, your loyal subjects, were made to look into the chasm and see the dreadful consequences of your death without an heir. There can be no matter that Your Grace must now consider in choosing a husband or naming a successor that can override the fearful void that your untimely death would leave.”

  “Aye,” said Sir Thomas. “Without Your Grace’s guiding hand, England faced the ruination of anarchy, civil war, and foreign invasion, all in the name of claiming the vacant throne of England. We cannot continue in this wise. And think, Your Grace; the naming of a successor or the taking of a husband would strike terror into the hearts of England’s enemies, and give your people such everlasting joy! Without such, Your Grace’s loyal subjects shall be left in fear, in the unsurety of their lives and estates.”

  Elizabeth eyed the men one by one until the silence became uncomfortable. Very softly she said, “And what of my surety, what of my safety? You ask that I name an heir. But if I were to do so, the nature of men is such that some would not want to wait for my life to run its course! And to take a husband would be an even greater danger; for if I should choose an Englishman, all would then be jealousy and faction, but if I should choose a foreign prince, then all those not chosen would be my enemy, and England’s! My throne should be safe from no one!” The queen regarded them all in silence for a moment, and then her voice rang out in the gallery to its very rafters. “Your insolence is both unwelcome and overbold, sirs! Think you to dictate to your sovereign? Hark me well, my lords, when I say unto you, that here there shall be but one mistress and no master!”

  The men had all been standing in the Great Gallery; at these imperious words from their queen, all simultaneously knelt, their heads bowed.

  All was silence; none dared to rise without royal permission.

  Elizabeth regarded the bowed heads. Gently, quietly, she said, “My lords, I know that I am mortal. But how can you suppose that I, who am so careful of other aspects of the common weal, should neglect this one? You shall have my answer anon.”

  None dared to speak, to further cajole, or to contradict. The queen had spoken and for now, that must suffice.

  She stood and nodded her head to the assembly, then turned and walked out through the privy entrance behind the throne. As she did so, her thoughts winged to the Tower, just a stone’s throw away down the river. There her cousin, the Lady Katherine Grey, had recently been brought to bed of yet another son. Her rage had known no bounds when the news had been broken to her; the hapless couple were separately housed and there should have been no opportunity for such an occurrence. And yet there was Katherine, now a mother of sons twice over! It was infuriating, it was strangely humiliating.

  And now the time had come when she must take firm action against her cousin. Neither Katherine nor the Earl of Hertford had been able to produce a clergyman to substantiate their story, a witness to the supposed wedding ceremony, or any written proof of their union. Therefore it could be presumed that no legal marriage had ever taken place. She would fine Hertford heavily for deflowering a royal virgin, and her cousin’s sons, far from being heirs to the throne of England, would be declared bastards.

  So much for her cousin Katherine!

  Now, for Mary of Scotland…

  The Tower of London, February 1563

  “I still do not like it,” said Matthew Stewart, the Earl of Lennox, absently stroking his beard. The logs on the hearth were green; the fire smoked until one’s eyes watered. The warmth such logs exuded was negligible. He drew his cloak about him more firmly and used a linen square to wipe his streaming eyes.

  “Humph!” snorted Lady Margaret. “Nor do I. Elizabeth never does anything without a reason.” All around them sat their trunks and cases. The Lennoxes were, at long last, being released from the Tower. But instead of the expected request to depart London for their home in the north, they had been summoned to court. Word of their release had come via a royal courier, with no other explanation than that they were free to go but that it was the queen’s pleasure that they should present themselves at court. Why? It was all very strange.

  Henry, Lord Darnley, sat in the window seat overlooking the Thames. It was as dreary a winter’s day as he had ever seen in his seventeen years. The sky was leaden, blocking the sun; the river ran turgid, and a delicate mist swirled in between. All was shades of gray. He cared not why the queen had released them from this dreary, frightening place; he was simply glad to be free. He was restless after their sojourn in the Tower and longed to be gone, at liberty again to hunt and hawk, and to wench in the taverns when he could escape his mother’s eagle eye. What mattered the Tower, after all? His whole life was a prison! He let out an unconscious sigh, which caught Lady Margaret’s attention.

  “My poor lamb!” she cooed. Margaret walked to the window and reached out a hand to stroke her beloved son’s hair, but he shrugged her off. He hated being treated like one of his mother’s pet dogs. Rebuffed, Margaret returned to the settle upon which she had been sitting. She tapped her fingers on its wooden arm.

  “To be sure, travel in this weather may well have proven treacherous,” said the earl. “February is not the month to be traveling to the north. Mayhap the queen has extended this invitation to court out of courtesy and concern for our well-being?”

  “Hah,” replied Lady Margaret. “Since when has Elizabeth Tudor ever given a tinker’s damn for the comfort of others?” She arose once again and began to pace the room. “No, there must be some other reason for my cousin’s solicitousness. I am certain of it.”

  Lord Matthew shook his head. “In any wise, it would be prudent to stay at court. It is an opportunity to get back into the queen’s good graces.”

  Lady Margaret disliked the idea of having to toady to her haughty cousin. In her estimation, Elizabeth was both bastard and heretic, and merely someone who had once been obliged, during Mary’s reign, to walk behind herself in procession. Still, her husband was right. Her first instinct upon receiving the news of their release had been to bolt for the safety and security of home…Temple Newsam in Yorkshire. But mayhap it would be best to stay in London, at least until the weather improved. “Well, then,” she said. “I shall beg an audience with Her Grace and get the lay of the land.”

  Nothing was more important to Lady Margaret than establishing her son’s rights. Darnley was descended from both Scottish and English kings, and had a claim to both thrones. It was true that the Protestants were in the ascendant just now, but that could change. Never would the Lennoxes give up their Catholic faith, no matter what ills Elizabeth visited upon them. But their recent incarceration was not due to their religion; it was because Elizabeth was well aware of her cousin’s schemes to marry her precious son Darnley to the Queen of Scots. Mary and Darnley were first cousins; a dispensation would be required. But the Countess of Lennox was certain that such should be easily obtained from the pope.

  Darnley stared sullenly out of the window. He knew well his mother’s desire to match him with his cousin, Mary of Scotland. He had made Mary’s acquaintance several times in France. Born of the same stock, he surpassed her in height. He had a good opinion of his own charms, and so he was one of the few people who was not swayed by Mary’s seemingly magical charisma. He was, in fact, completely unaware of it. His interest in his royal cousin stopped at her crown. Let his mother find a way to get him married to her, and then should he come into his own! He would demand the Crown Matrimonial of Scotland, and then he would use that authority to seize power himself. He was a man an
d men should rule; he should be king of Scotland. Indeed, he had been born on English soil; he considered his own claim to the throne of England to be superior to Elizabeth’s, and there were many, he knew, who agreed with him. Why, then, should he settle for being a puppet king in Scotland? He should be the reigning king of both Scotland and England; all in good time!

  The fog had lifted and in the rarefied air, Darnley could see the banks of Southwark on the opposite side of the river. Just once let him escape his mother’s cloying clutches, and he would be across the Thames like an arrow shot from a bow. In Southwark there were taverns where, as the son of an earl, he should be made much of. He was welcome until his temper turned savage, which it did when he was in his cups. Then he would beat his whore, start a brawl, refuse to pay. He would be thrown out and then he would simply leave and move on to the next one. London was a large city and there was no dearth of brothels and pubs.

  Lady Margaret regarded her son as he sat staring morosely out of the window. She was well aware of what he was thinking. She understood men quite well, and had arranged for her son to have both drink and women whilst they had been confined in the Tower. But he had not been allowed to go out, and chafed sorely at such unwonted restraint. She knew that he longed to be gone, and what he would do the moment he was out of their sight. It was best to let him sow his wild oats; once he was married to Mary of Scotland, a circumstance that she was determined to bring about, he would have to concentrate his not inconsiderable gifts on ruling a country. Scotland first; then England.

  Darnley was accomplished in the kingly pursuits; he rode well, he hunted, hawked and jousted; he was educated and had good manners when he chose to demonstrate them; and he was possessed of a not inconsiderable charm. But there was another side to his character. He had the Tudor temper in full measure; he could be exasperatingly difficult. If only she could have sent him to Syon and to Dame Agnes, to cool his temper and to instill into him a sense of…what? Serenity? Calm? Tolerance, at least? But by the time he could have gone there and benefited from the Dame’s tuition, it was too late. Syon was closed and the nuns gone to the Continent, Catholicism in England replaced by a sham religion.

  Lady Margaret stole a glance at Darnley and smiled dotingly; who was she, after all, to dwell upon the shortcomings of her son? Had she not in her own time been hot-tempered, hot-blooded and passionate? Twice she had become involved with men whom her formidable uncle, King Henry, deemed inappropriate; without his timely intervention, she very well could have gone the way of her hapless cousin Katherine…a permanent resident of the Tower, disgraced, her marriage declared a fantasy, and her sons made bastards by an angry, jealous, vengeful sovereign!

  It was best to let Darnley do his worst now; mayhap he would grow out of his rages, tirades, and tantrums. For now, she simply sent a loyal servant to follow him when he went a-drinking and a-whoring, and to manage the damage and destruction he usually left in his wake. It was incredible what a few coins could do! Ruffled feathers were smoothed, and silence bought, all for a few shillings and pence. It was well worth it. She only hoped that Darnley would settle down when it came time to marry and be a king.

  Like most powerful people at court, Lady Margaret had her spies; but one piece of information that they had failed to procure was that the men sent by her to manage Darnley’s peccadilloes were observed very closely by the queen’s own agents, who reported all to her.

  Windsor Castle, July 1563

  The royal barge glided with the tide through a warm and windy, rosy summer dawn, upriver towards Windsor. The war in France was lost; the treacherous Huguenots had made common cause with their French countrymen and had joined forces to oust the English foreigners from their land. Elizabeth’s dream of restoring Calais to England and reestablishing a foothold on the Continent was shattered, vanished like a marsh mist. The Huguenots, whose Protestant cause she had supported by sending them money, arms and men to fight the French crown, had made a separate peace with the Queen Mother. The only positive thing to come of the whole sorry business was the assassination of the Duc de Guise, who had been shot dead by a sniper whilst besieging Orleans. That, and the fact that she had learnt a very valuable lesson; wars cost money and she had none to spare. She would become involved in no more wars, especially Continental ones. Not only had she failed to restore Calais to the English crown by force of arms, but she had lost it forever by violating the Treaty of Cateau-Cambresis. Helping the Huguenots with the promise of the return of Calais had been a gamble; she had lost. There would be neither the restoral of the land nor the monetary compensation promised by the treaty.

  To add insult to the injury of such an ignominious defeat, the returning soldiers had brought plague back with them from France. Thousands were dying in the streets of London, which was now little better than a disease-ridden charnel house. There had been nothing for it but to flee the city for the safer air of Windsor. Robert had gone ahead to ensure that all was ready, and so it was Cecil who had joined her for the leisurely journey on the Thames.

  Apropos of nothing, Cecil remarked, “I hear that Mary of Scotland is eager for marriage. Her Grace is keen to secure the Scottish succession by having a son.”

  Elizabeth was never at her best very early in the morning; the dawn departure had been necessitated by the tide. She had not the energy to argue, but the implication was clear. If only the English queen would emulate her royal cousin! She had almost dropped off into a doze before Cecil spoke; the sun was up and already warm, and that, combined with the droning buzz of the cicadas, was having a soporific effect upon her.

  “I hear,” she replied languidly, not even opening her eyes, “that Her Grace of Scotland suffers from melancholy and fits of weeping, and that she spends more time ill in her bed than reigning over her country. Is this the behavior of a queen who seeks marriage with a mighty European prince? In any case, there shall be no such marriage.”

  Cecil opened the little curtains at the cabin windows to allow the breeze to cool them, then he sat down and began peeling an apple. “The desire for a match as grand as Her Grace’s first one does narrow the field somewhat.”

  Elizabeth, still reclining on the cabin’s cushioned bench, sipped her ale. “I tell you that there shall be no such match. Have I not told her as much? If she marries without my leave, I shall withhold the English succession from her.”

  Cecil lifted his eyes to hers, halting his work on the apple. “Your Grace would be wise to do so in any case.” The very last thing he and the Protestant faction wanted was for the queen to finally name an heir, only to have it be a Catholic! “The Papists hope and pray for the woeful day of Your Grace’s death, that they may again renew their unspeakable cruelties. Would you leave such an heir, whom you know would visit such vile punishments upon your people?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “My cousin is no fanatic, like my sister Mary,” she replied. “I am told that the doings at Amboise alarmed and disgusted her.”

  Cecil had resumed his peeling; without looking up he said, “The Scottish queen’s alliance with a Catholic prince would make the bestowing of the English succession on her a moot point. With the backing of Spain or the Empire, they would simply take the throne, and would not wait for the nicety of…forgive me…Your Grace’s death.”

  Elizabeth laughed. She sat up, and snatched the now-peeled apple from Cecil’s hand, taking a crunchy bite. Cecil sighed, chose another apple from the basket, and began peeling once again. “Someone,” she said, fixing him with a gimlet eye, “I forget whom, once said that given a choice, any sane prince would choose England over Scotland if they sought a bride.”

  “Hah!” he said. “That very sanity of which you speak is indeed an idea worth exploring. Do not you think it strange that so many have lost their heads over Her Grace of Scotland?”

  Elizabeth snorted contemptuously. “Weak-minded fools, all of them,” she said, with an imperious wave of her hand.

  “I am not so sure,” mused Cecil. “First, a captain
of her guard presents Her Grace with love poems so ribald, accompanied, mind you, by drawings so explicit, that they would make the boldest roué blush; then Huntly rebels after being refused her hand; then Chastelard comes from France, besotted with love for her, and hides in her very bedchamber, not once, but twice! Two of these men have been executed. It seems that everyone who comes into contact with Her Grace becomes bewitched in some manner.”

  He smiled. “I suppose not every man is so entranced with the lady’s unusual charms, but those who are susceptible to such become besotted and confused.” That Mary of Scotland had some indefinable charm could not be denied; one could not dismiss its existence or its effect upon others. The Scottish queen was possessed of youth and beauty, and her power as queen was appealing; but there was something else, some warmth of feeling, an impetuosity, some earthy spirit, that all combined into an extraordinary personal magnetism that inspired some men to the heights of folly. The lady herself, after seeming so virtuous, had developed into an incorrigible flirt, but she seemed not to be able to keep the results of such flirtatiousness at bay.

  Elizabeth tossed the apple core into the river and pressed her lips together. “I have no desire to dwell upon the charms of my cousin.” She knew she was making light of Cecil’s concern; but she understood well the risks of naming a Catholic heir. Mary’s marriage with a Catholic prince was one of her greatest fears; with a Catholic husband and a Continental army at her back, Mary should simply take what Elizabeth would not give her. She had already made it very clear to Mary that any such marriage alliance on her part would be considered an act of war. That should give her hot-blooded, eager-for-marriage cousin pause! Elizabeth firmly believed that it was this very dilemma that was making her cousin ill. “And,” she continued, “It does seem that none of the likely candidates are rising to the bait.”