In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “True, true,” said Cecil. “King Philip has treated the Scots queen’s overtures for marriage with his son, Don Carlos, most cavalierly. He is in no position at the moment to make war on England, and neither is the Emperor Ferdinand. And marriage to the thirteen-year-old king of France seems ludicrous, if her blood is hot for a husband.”

  “Which indeed, it is,” scoffed Elizabeth. “Good Cecil, have no fears. I have no intention of naming Mary of Scotland as my heir, regardless of whom she marries. I have a much better idea. Listen…”

  Palace of Holyrood House, December 1563

  Mary lay back on the great bed, staring at the intricate designs on the inside of the elaborate canopy. She was not ill, but she was very downhearted; she did not feel at all like leaving her bed. The bed curtains were made of cherry red brocade, but the interior backing was pale blue, like the sky. The blue silk of the underside of the canopy was shirred; it reminded her of clouds scudding by on a summer’s day. But it was winter now, and so cold. Another reason to stay in bed! The fire was piled high with logs but the warmth of it barely reached her. Once again her heart ached for France, lost to her now. It was cold there, too, in December, but not the damp, dreary, bone-chilling cold of a Scottish winter. She sighed.

  “May I get you something, Your Grace?” asked Seton, whose turn it was to sit vigil by the queen’s bedside.

  Mary observed that Seton was wrapped in several shawls; it seemed that she was not the only one who felt the cold! “No,” sighed Mary. “I fear me that there is nothing that can assuage this deep melancholy.”

  Seton looked longingly at the heavy velvet curtains that blocked the light from coming into the room; if only Mary would consent to let her open them! But so far, her mistress had only shrugged and argued that the room would be even colder with the curtains drawn open. It was the hour of Sext; the sun would be high in the sky, even if it was a watery affair at this dismal time of year. Perhaps an appeal to the queen’s religion would serve to vouchsafe them an hour outside of this gloomy room?

  “Would Your Grace care to visit the chapel?” asked Seton hopefully. “Mayhap a few prayers would set things to rights in your mind.”

  For a moment or so, Mary considered it; she had prayed daily for her murdered uncle since the day of his death ten months earlier. It was so unfair! Was she to lose everyone who loved her, whom she loved? How could it be true that her mighty uncle, the powerful Duc de Guise, was dead, shot to death by an assassin’s bullet in the siege of Orleans? She had cried for weeks, and was still very sad every time she thought about it. She could not imagine a world that did not contain her august uncle.

  “Oh, Seton,” cried Mary, “my heart aches so! Only a husband can cure my ills! And it must be a grand match, Seton, one that compares to my marriage with dear François! How could I possibly consider anything less? I am a reigning queen.”

  “Indeed, that is so,” agreed Seton. The subject of marriage was one that was often, one might say continually, on her mistress’s mind. It was best to simply agree and allow Mary to repeat all her arguments. Only when she had talked herself out would the queen exhaust herself and sleep for a while.

  “How can my cousin of England insult me so, Seton?” asked Mary. She was sitting up in the bed; she pounded a pillow with her fists.

  Seton smiled. Perhaps as Mary unconsciously beat the pillow, she was thinking that it was the Queen of England whom she was pummeling!

  “I still cannot believe that Elizabeth had the temerity to suggest that I marry Robert Dudley! Dudley! It is unconscionable!” Mary threw the pillow to the floor contemptuously, and Seton arose from her place by the fire to retrieve it. But Mary had simply pulled another cushion from the pile behind her, and began beating that one with her fists. “To offer me in marriage to her horse master, Seton! The very one I taunted her about when his wife died! And this, after my haughty cousin had the gall to advise me not to do anything that would diminish my royalty and my honor! She offers me her cast-off lover, a commoner, Seton, a mere vassal, and a man who may very well have murdered his wife! No wonder my head aches so.” Mary threw herself back onto the pillows and cushions that rested against the headboard and crossed her arms in front of her. Tears of vexation sprang into her eyes.

  Seton snorted her derision. “Her Grace cannot have been serious,” said Seton indignantly. “Marriage to a subject is out of the question, for either of Your Graces.” She gave the velvet-covered pillow a good smack of her own in her outrage, then placed it back on the bed.

  “Oh, no,” said Mary. “Elizabeth did not make that suggestion in jest. Indeed, she was quite serious, I do assure you! She thinks to demean me, as she has demeaned herself with her appalling behavior. I must not make a grand marriage, because if I do so, my cousin shall take it as a declaration of war! I must marry where Elizabeth says or I shall be denied the succession! By my troth, Seton, her very crown is mine even as I sit here! And then she has the audacity to suggest that I marry that…that…varlet, and that unless I marry where she says I must, that even the succession shall be withheld from me. Well, I can tell you, I shall not stand for it! I shall marry whom I please, Seton, and when I do, I shall invade England with my husband’s army at my back and take what is mine!”

  At this Seton looked about worriedly. “Your Grace, Your Grace, you are vehement,” she said quietly. “Please, I beg of you, someone might hear your words, and hearing them, repeat them where they might do Your Grace harm.”

  Mary clasped her hands together and rocked back and forth in the bed. “You are right,” she said. “But is it wrong of me to be angry about the insolence with which I have been treated by the Queen of England? The presumption of her, Seton, that she thinks to dictate to me whom I shall marry! It is inconceivable, unacceptable! I shall marry whom I please, and it shall certainly not be Lord Robert Dudley!” Mary was thoughtful for a moment and then she said, “Besides, I do not believe that she would ever part with him.”

  There was little Seton could say to that, except that Lord Robert himself was rumored to oppose the match; but to say so would only incite Mary further. Apparently, the issue of a match with Lord Robert was an uncomfortable one for all. When the English ambassador to the Scottish court, Sir Thomas Randolph, had, on behalf of his sovereign, informed Mary that it was her cousin’s wish that she marry Dudley, Mary had been too astonished to reply. She could see that he was himself astounded to have been placed by the Queen of England into such an awkward situation; but he was a servant of his queen and had no choice but to relay her message. Sir Thomas had taken advantage of Mary’s amazed silence to try to explain; only if the Queen of Scots were espoused to someone completely trustworthy could Elizabeth ever feel safe. A Catholic prince for Mary was out of the question, for obvious reasons; but even marriage with a high-ranking English nobleman was not proof against treachery. If Mary were to marry anyone but Lord Robert, there was a chance that even one of Elizabeth’s own men would not be able to resist the temptation to depose her and place Mary onto both thrones. Then what power would be his! Lord Robert, she was certain, was the only one who could be trusted as Mary’s king consort in Scotland. Elizabeth’s reasoning was sound enough, but surely she must know that the suggestion that Mary should mingle her royal blood with an English commoner was absurd, even if it was the best thing for Elizabeth’s peace of mind.

  “I do not understand it, Seton,” she said, shaking her head. The movement caused the tears of frustration that had welled up in her eyes to spill over. “When my cousin was sick unto death, I received very little support from the English, despite my royal blood and direct descent from my Tudor great-grandfather! Oh, I know that my great uncle, King Henry, debarred the Stewart line from the throne of England, but that was years ago, and who was he, after all, to say so? My grandmother was the eldest and it is her descendants who have the best claim to the throne. How can they possibly want the Lady Katherine Grey to succeed? Her irresponsible behavior alone is telling enough, but my Grey co
usins are common on their grandfather’s side! A jumped up commoner-made-duke! Charles Brandon was no more than an impoverished knight, who perchance caught the eye of a royal princess. And almost paid for his folly with his head, I might add! I have no common blood in my veins, Seton. I am the rightful heir, whether the English want me or not.”

  “Aye, tis so,” agreed Seton. “It is Your Grace’s Catholic faith that is the issue, I fear me.”

  Mary jumped up from the bed, walked to the fire, and began to pace up and down in front of it, swinging her arms to stay warm. “The English Catholics support my claim,” she said. “And right now all must bow to the Protestants, but that shall change, Seton! Mayhap it shall be I who changes it!”

  Once again she thought about Don Carlos. He was the son and heir of King Philip of Spain. With the might of Spain behind her, what might she not be able to accomplish? She should be queen of a united Britain! Why did Philip demur so to her overtures? Could it be that he did not want to see the Catholic faith restored to Scotland and England, and her people redeemed? No, it could not be…there must be some other reason. If only she knew what it was! For if she thought to make as grand a marriage as she had had with France, there were really only three viable candidates; Don Carlos, his cousin the Archduke Charles, or François’s brother Charles, now King of France. And yet none of them clamored for her hand. Don Carlos and the archduke were of an age with her; Charles was her brother-in-law, so a dispensation would be required, and he was only thirteen years old. All were obstacles that could be overcome; but there was also the implacable opposition of the Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici. Mary knew now that Catherine hated her, and would never consent to her return to France, or to her marriage with Charles. But that still left both Don Carlos and the archduke!

  “Why, Seton, why?” she cried. “Why do none of them want me?”

  “Wars cost money, Your Grace,” Seton replied. She had seated herself by the fire again, and taken up her embroidery, but her fingers were too cold to stitch. She set her sewing aside and watched as Mary paced up and down. She recognized the signs; soon the queen would tire herself and then she would sleep for a while.

  Soon Mary did indeed stop her frantic pacing and climbed wearily back into the big, tousled bed. Her last conscious thought before she fell into an exhausted slumber was that she wanted, she needed, a goodly prince to share her burden of rule and to help her seize her cousin’s throne, by fair means or foul…she no longer cared how it was done as long as it was done! She was surrounded at the Scottish court by lovesick youths and virile men who were all nothing loath to acquire a throne and to take possession of her regal person…but she needed a man, someone royal, to share her kingdom and her ambitions, someone worthy of the high station which he would occupy if he were to marry a queen. Was there no one?

  Cambridge, September 1564

  The afternoon sun was shining brilliantly through the countless tiny panes of stained glass in the windows of the chapel at King’s College. The colors were so deep, so rich, that one could almost taste them. Primrose yellow, ruby red, sapphire blue, glittering green, sumptuous amethyst purple; all shone with an unearthly luminosity that reflected on the floor, on the dark mellow wood of the intricately carved pews, on the very air itself. Elizabeth took a deep breath. Normally, she did not care for the scent of incense; but somehow, in this place, it seemed only to add to the mysterious peace that being here within its walls engendered within her breast.

  She was alone in the chapel, which was a rare occurrence. Usually she was surrounded by people from morning until night, without ever a moment’s peace. She had come to Cambridge as part of her Summer Progress, and had enjoyed her time here immensely. By day there had been presentations in Latin by the students and deans, debates and disputations, in which she had joined lustily, and superb music, especially the singing of the excellent choir. There had been balls and banquets, and masques and dancing. But now all was over, all was quiet, and she had stayed behind in the peace of the chapel after the last of the Latin discourses by the students.

  She gazed upwards to the dizzying heights at the fine complexity of the fan vaulting. It was difficult to believe that it had all been created by human hands. Indeed, her father had founded and endowed King’s College, and its extraordinary chapel, while he was married to her mother, Anne Boleyn. Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of her mother. Certainly they must have had some happy times, some days of love, before things had gone so very wrong with them? And what were those things that had gone so wrong? So terribly, irretrievably wrong that her father had seen fit to murder her mother, and besmirch her good name so foully before the entire world? Elizabeth held her hands out before her and studied them carefully, as if she had never seen them before. Although she had not killed her mother with her own hands, she might just as well have done. For she knew that it was her very self, her female sex, that had spelled her mother’s doom. The tears spilled over and fell down her cheeks unheeded.

  She placed her hands back into her lap and let her gaze wander around the beautiful church. And then her eyes, still glistening with tears, alighted upon the entwined initials, H and A, in the carvings alongside the aisle. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Her father had ordered that all signs of her mother’s very existence be removed even before her execution. For weeks, the royal seamstresses, stonemasons and artisans of every discipline had worked to eradicate, to obliterate every “A” and replace it with a “J” for Jane Seymour, the woman who had replaced her mother in her father’s affections. Now here was a remnant of her mother that had been missed, and being missed, had not been destroyed along with all the rest. She stared at the letters. Seeing them was strangely upsetting and comforting all at the same time.

  A soft voice startled her out of her reverie.

  “Your Grace,” said Cecil. “You asked to be informed as soon as word arrived regarding your request to the Queen of Scots to allow the Earl of Lennox to return to his estates in Scotland.”

  Elizabeth tried to wipe away her tears as unobtrusively as possible. She extended her hand to Cecil and he helped her to her feet. “Come,” she said. “Let us walk outside.”

  ###

  The chapel garden rivalled the church’s stained glass windows for color. The pathways were lined with dark green, low-growing boxwoods, clipped with such precision that it seemed as if they had been drawn onto the landscape, instead of grown. The intersection of each parterre was punctuated by a rose tree in a different color, and inside each parterre was planted a variety of garden bush; rosemary, southernwood, lavender, and barberry, both the rich orange-red of autumn and bright, luminous green. At the end of the garden, the blue ribbon of the River Cam wound its way out of sight in either direction. Across the river, in the uncultivated fields, the wildflowers were also a riot of color; red poppies, bright blue cornflowers, purple cranesbill, golden marigolds, and on the wood’s edge, delicate hazel catkins swayed in the breeze. The sun was setting and its golden light added yet another layer of rich color to the scene.

  “What says the Queen of Scots to my request, then?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Humph,” snorted Cecil. “Wishing to please as much as she is able, or willing to, the request has been granted.”

  “Brilliant!” cried Elizabeth, and she augmented her enthusiastic response by raising both fists and striking the air with them. “Oh, perfect, Cecil, perfect!”

  Cecil regarded the queen in puzzlement. In the time years ago, when they had been secretly preparing for the day when Elizabeth would inherit the throne from her sister, they had often been of one mind, and their ideas and plans in lock-step. In the years since then, their thinking had grown somewhat divergent.

  “I must confess that I do not see at all why this should be good news,” he said. “Indeed, I am baffled as to why Your Grace would wish to see the Lennoxes restored to their estates in Scotland. Are you not fearful of allowing such powerful, committed Catholics to cross the border into that lan
d? And what of Darnley?” He had wondered why Elizabeth had called the Earl and Countess of Lennox back to court after their sojourn in the Tower. For over a year, they had been in high favor, and made much of. This was most unlike Elizabeth, whom he knew disliked her cousin Margaret; he ought to have known that she was hatching some plot! The new Spanish Ambassador, Don Diego Guzman da Silva, believed that Darnley was being used as a stalking horse to threaten the Scots queen; Elizabeth could very well name him as her heir instead of Mary. But both were equal in their unsuitability as far as he was concerned; England wanted no more Catholics after the debacle of Mary Tudor’s bloody reign.

  Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled in the slanting light of the golden sunset, which shone full on her face. Her golden eyes seemed almost as if they possessed a light of their own that emanated from within. She was dazzling, and every inch a queen, in her black velvet gown lined with rich red satin. The golden net that caught her red hair glistened and gleamed with pearls and flashed with gemstones. “Ah, Cecil,” she said. “I am sorry to have kept my own counsel so closely, but I wanted to see which way the cat would jump. And now the cat has not only jumped to my tune, one could say that she has leapt to it! Recall you last summer when I told you of my plan to offer My Lord Robert to the Queen of Scots as her consort, in return for the succession?”

  “Indeed, yes,” replied Cecil. “And was Her Grace’s reaction to such an offer not every bit as unreceptive as I predicted it would be? From what I hear, Madam screeched like a scalded cat at the suggestion that she should be content to marry an English commoner, she who was once Queen of France, and was even at that moment the Queen Regnant of Scotland.”

  “Yes, yes,” laughed Elizabeth. “And do not forget, ‘hand-me-down, cast-off lover of the Queen of England’, and many other equally unpleasant words and epithets!” She rocked with laughter. “Poor Robert!”