In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Roberto had used the opportunity of a visit to Rome to make a diversion to his home in Florence, to visit his uncles and cousins. His mother had been dead these ten years, but she had lived long enough to see him established as a Continental financier. And that he had crossed the water to England was a wonder all in itself; she could not imagine facing such danger. She had never seen the water, but she had heard of its dangers and hazards. How brave her Roberto was!

  And now he was crossing the water again. He had embarked at the little port of Livorno for Nice, and would arrive in a day or so if the weather held; so far it had been spectacular. All in all, except for the Duke of Alva’s obvious reluctance to fall in with his scheme, everything had gone remarkably well. He expected no less from God, and did not God make the weather?

  The sea crossing had proved delightful, and Roberto enjoyed the voyage. The days were sunny and warm, with just enough wind to fill the sails; the nights were as soft and warm as velvet, with a million stars providing their mysterious windows into heaven.

  The overland journey from Nice to Madrid had also been most pleasant. He had traveled at a leisurely pace through the beautiful spring countryside. Snow-white spring lambs cavorted in the meadows, amongst the yellow narcissus and purple crocuses. The peasants labored in the fields, plowing, their backs bent over their furrows. Brown-armed women with their skirts tied up cast the seed, followed by youngsters with hoe and rake.

  He had been sending regular dispatches all along to Queen Mary, the Duke of Norfolk, and the Bishop of Ross, regaling them with the news of the excellent progress he was making. The last of these missives should just be arriving in England as he himself arrived in Madrid.

  Never had he felt so commanding, so in control of affairs; of destiny itself. All seemed fair fit to succeed. He was near to bursting with pride. And now he would be meeting with yet another royal personage face to face! If only his dear mother had lived to see her precious Roberto consorting with princes of the church, with nobility, with royalty! How proud she would have been!

  Suddenly the cavalcade from the coast in which Roberto was traveling crested a rise and before them was a stunning sight. To their left lay the town of Henares, the golden stone and whitewash of its buildings and dwellings gleaming warmly in the sun. And there, atop its highest hill, was perched the magnificent castle, the Alcala de Henares, where Philip, King of Spain and Naples, Duke of Brabant, Limburg, Lothier, Luxemburg, Guelders and Milan, Count Palatine of Burgundy, Count of Artois, Flanders, Hainaut, Charolais, Zutphen, Holland and Zeeland, awaited his arrival. His arrival! Robert reveled in Philip’s titles almost as much as the man himself likely did; humble Roberto Ridolfi di Piazza of Florence, to meet with such a personage, and on such a misson!

  A cool breeze woke Roberto from his reverie; to his right, the range of the Sierra de Guadarrama rose majestically above the valley, an imposing range of mountains that looked purple against the brilliant blue of the sky. Even in April, its tallest peak was snow-capped. All gazed in awe for a few moments at the spectacular scene, and then the horses, litters and mules began their precarious descent down into the town, where Roberto was to meet a king.

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  King Philip of Spain sat in the topmost room of the tallest tower of the palace of the Alcala de Henares. Already the heat in the valley was becoming oppressive, and it was only April; he much preferred his territories and provinces in more northerly climes, but he was needed in Spain, and therefore, it was his duty to be in Spain. Duty and responsibility had always come first with him, and always would. And even though the onus of royalty had sometimes visited upon him the most unpleasant circumstances, he had never, not even once, shirked his duty.

  Recalling his royal obligations never failed to evoke in him the memory of the worst experience of his life; the obligation of royalty had dictated his marriage to Queen Mary of England. She was his cousin, eleven years his senior, barren and past childbearing age, even had she ever been fertile, which he very much doubted. The memory of that nightmare time never failed to evince a shudder. Thank God in his mercy that Mary had died and freed him from dreary England, a country too far to the north, whose meagre sun never truly warmed one’s bones, and where it rained all the time.

  It seemed that he was doomed to go from the ridiculous to the sublime all his life. He had loved his first wife, and she had died; he had loathed Mary and she had died; he had loved his third wife and she had died. And he was now on his fourth wife, not a cousin for the first time in his life, but a blood niece; would she be the one to finally give him a son who would live, to secure the succession to his vast lands? Only God knew the answer to that question. He must do all in his power to appease God, that it might be so at last. He would be forty-four in another month; and how long could he live, after all?

  Yes, he was a good king, a good catholic, and a man who always did his duty. But there were limits even to duty, to a man’s endurance. He could not abide Madrid; the city was dirty, crowded, hot and dusty. Instead, he compromised by making his headquarters in Henares, twenty miles from Madrid, and just that little bit closer to the mountains from which the cool air came.

  On this sparkling morning he was expecting the imminent arrival of Roberto di Ridolfi, the Florentine financier who had successfully negotiated a resumption of trade between England and the Netherlands. No sooner had the ink dried on the parchment than the Italian had requested an audience with him, had traveled in person all the way to Spain, to present his quid pro quo. Philip already knew what it was; but what was baffling was that in one hand, he held a dispatch from Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, the third Duke of Alva, his governor in the Netherlands, decrying Ridolfi as a babbler and a witless fool, a veritable buffoon; and in the other hand he held a letter from His Holiness, Pope Pius V, warmly recommending Ridolfi and endorsing his plan to invade England and oust Elizabeth from her throne.

  Elizabeth! Such memories he had of her. He had been a little in love with her when he was married to her dismal sister. He had once thought to marry her, but the thought of remaining in England was so distressing to him that not even to keep the kingdom of England would he have sacrificed himself to another English marriage. And she was a heretic; he had always known it, despite her ability to lie so subtly. Whilst in her presence she had exuded a most unusual fascination that had enthralled him; but out of her presence for so long now, the charisma had faded and he could think of her simply as an occasional thorn in his side, such as when she had seized the Italian loan that was to have paid Alva’s troops in the Low Countries. And that thought brought him back full circle to Ridolfi.

  Ridolfi was Italian; Philip was Spanish and had an inborn distrust of, and dislike for, all Italians. The pope was Italian, too; almost all popes were, which was patently unfair. There had only been two Spanish popes in the history of the Catholic Church, and none since Pope Alexander VI, born Rodrigo de Borja, a Valencian. It was true that Alexander had had a vile reputation, but by the Rood, he had been a good pope!

  Philip ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair. The metallic swish of the halberds outside the door drew his attention, and when he looked up, he saw a very handsome man, impeccably dressed. He wore few jewels; a blood-red ruby winked from his small finger, and there was a diamond aigrette pinned to his black velvet cap. The jewels were of exceptional quality. His hair was the blue-black colour of a raven’s wing; his eyes were so dark that one could not discern their pupils, giving them a large, lustrous look. His skin was pale without being sallow; he had full, sensuous lips, a delicately pointed chin with a well-trimmed beard, and a broad brow. These features were indicative of a romantic, a dreamer, but one who would eventually seek to make realities of his dreams. There was nothing wrong with that, as long as one’s dreams were realistic; let us, thought Philip, see what this man’s dreams were.

  Philip’s secretary, an ancient, brown-robed monk, made the formal introduction and then with a subtle flick of the eye, Philip dismissed him. The great
doors closed on silent hinges behind him.

  “Please, Signore Ridolfi,” said Philip. “Sit here, by the window, that we may enjoy the breeze.” He eyed the two letters he had laid on his writing desk. Which to believe? Ah, well, as was his wont, he would make his own judgment.

  Roberto spoke animatedly about his plot; the man certainly did not lack passion. But Philip’s blood ran cold in his veins when Ridolfi presented to him the letters from both Mary of Scotland and the Duke of Norfolk. Mary he knew to be impetuous, impulsive and lacking in caution; her previous actions bore out this judgment. And by now, she was likely desperate for her freedom. But surely Thomas Howard ought to have known better than to put such things in writing!

  The longer Roberto spoke, the more excited he became. But the mention of his threat to Norfolk that if the duke would not agree to Ridolfi’s plan, the Queen of Scotland would marry Don Juan of Austria in his stead, did cause Philip to raise an eyebrow. Don Juan was his half-brother, a by-blow of his father’s who was in his service as a military commander. His hand in marriage could not be disposed of without the king’s permission. Philip could not recall having been asked by anyone for his half-brother’s hand, and he certainly had not sanctioned such a proposal. He glimpsed in that moment the foolhardiness in Ridolfi that Alva had perceived. As Roberto talked on, gesticulating wildly as all Italians did, he began to wonder if Ridolfi’s plan was not the result more of obsession and mania than careful planning. For if Ridolfi had really taken the time to think things through calmly, dispassionately, he would have realized that Don Juan was not a viable alternative to Norfolk, and if he had been forced to carry through his threat, his venture would have been doomed to failure from the start. In the first place, his brother was illegitimate; and secondly, no Spaniard would ever be accepted on the throne of England. Was he himself not living proof of that?

  As Roberto chattered on, Philip let his gaze wander once again to the desk where the two letters sat. Perhaps of the two, Alva’s judgment was the more sound.

  At last Roberto talked himself out, and he leaned back in his chair to await Philip’s response. One did not rush a king; he could wait. As he did so he took a few moments to do what he had not done upon entering the room; he looked around him. The walls of the castle were of stone, and hung with fine Flemish tapestries. There were maps, dozens of them, spread out on tables, weighted down at the corners with ink pots and candlesticks, scrolled up and placed in cubbyholes made especially for them; others were scattered about the floor. Roberto loved maps, and longed to get up and walk about the room that he might look at them more closely. But the king had bade him sit, and stay seated he must. The most magnificent item in the room was a model of a great ship, fully four feet long, that sat on a stone pedestal. It was complete in every detail; and it was like no other ship that Roberto had ever seen. It was in this sort of ship that men sailed to the other side of the world. So absorbed was he in his imagination about what such voyages must be like that he started when Philip finally spoke.

  “I am, indeed, intrigued by your idea, Signore Ridolfi,” said Philip.

  Roberto’s dark eyes lit up.

  “But I fear me that my current commitments of a military nature are heavy indeed.”

  Roberto was a patient man; he had come to hear what the king had to say about his venture. He stayed silent, and this, as he knew it would, encouraged the king to explain.

  “I am battling the Moors in southeastern Spain,” said Philip. He raised up his hand and held up his thumb. “In addition,” and at this he held up a finger, “I am barely able to keep the Turks at bay in the Mediterranean Sea. And the Netherlands!” At this he spread both hands wide until all ten fingers were held up, “So many provinces to quell! I fear me that the Duke of Alva is too much engaged in conflict there, trying to suppress heresy amongst the Dutch Protestants, to spare so much as a foot soldier, let alone weapons and ordnance.”

  Philip eyed Ridolfi closely; he gave no sign of disappointment or distress at the king’s words. And certainly these were valid reasons to refuse the Italian’s bid for help in pursuing his project. But there was something else. Philip was very Spanish in his outlook; he was caution and reserve to the very backbone. He hated hasty, impulsive enterprises. And as much as he disliked Elizabeth, any destabilization of England was certain to adversely affect trade. In fact, it baffled him that Ridolfi, who had just successfully brokered the resumption of that very trade, did not see the utter contradiction of his proposal in that regard. Perhaps Ridolfi really was nothing more than a rash fool, just as Alva claimed. And as much as he hated to admit it, he needed England as a political counterbalance to France.

  But Roberto Ridolfo was not to be put off. Instead of conceding defeat, a king’s decision must, after all, be deemed final, he had only just begun to persuade. Roberto leaned forward in his chair.

  “I agree with Your Gracious Majesty that these are all valid concerns, most worthy endeavors,” he said smoothly. But Roberto knew his man; he had made it his business to learn all he could about the cold, reserved, enigmatic Spanish king. And indeed, he believed he had found one vulnerability that might possibly be exploited. “But, Sire,” he asked quietly, “what about God?”

  Philip’s head jerked up as if he had heard a pistol shot. What, indeed? His thoughts flew to his wide domains in Europe, to his possessions in the New World, to lands that belonged to him across distant oceans so vast that he could not even imagine them. He needed, he must have, a son to succeed him. Had he not just been thinking, before Ridolfi arrived, that he must do nothing to offend God? Mayhap for the Almighty, lack of offense was not enough. What if he were guilty of the sin of omission? A sin so subtle that he had neither confessed to it nor sought remedy for it?

  A light came on in his head, it flared, it glowed so brightly that the glare almost blinded him. If his suppression of the Dutch reformers was so important, what about heresy in England and Scotland? Were the souls there not equally as significant? Trade was important, yes; but had he been blinded by greed, to the detriment of his own immortal soul, and the damnation of his kingdom? Was this perhaps why, through four marriages, God still denied him a son and heir? His son by his first wife, the gentle Maria Manuela, had died some years before and, as much as he hated to admit it even to himself, had been unfit to rule even had he lived. He needed a son. So he must ask himself, was he guilty of abetting a heretic on the throne of England for the sake of a ducat?

  And not only was Elizabeth a heretic, she was also a woman. God had made man in His own image; women were nothing more than an afterthought. They were meant to be a helpmeet to men, not to rule over them. For both of these reasons, the Tudor’s reign was an abomination in the sight of God.

  Roberto’s timing was impeccable; he could feel that the tide was turning. Just at that moment he said, almost in a whisper, “It is only ten thousand men for which I ask, Sire, I seek only what is needed to quell any resistance. The English are ripe for insurrection. I am certain of it.”

  There was a long moment of silence as the two men each took the measure of the other. Roberto waited patiently; it was for the king to speak first.

  “Very well,” said Philip. “I will support your plan, Signore Ridolfi. I shall send my instructions to the Duke. But there are conditions.”

  Richmond Palace, June 1571

  Elizabeth reclined in a chair made for the express purpose of applying her daily court face. It was more of a cushioned seat with a slanting backboard, but there was nothing plain about it; it was carved with Tudor roses and gilt. It was a most unusual piece of furniture; it placed the queen at exactly the correct angle for Mrs. Frankwell, Elizabeth’s Mistress of the Still Room, to apply the mixture of beaten egg whites, crushed white egg shells, white poppy seeds and white lead with which she painted the queen’s face each morning.

  This cosmetic was Mrs. Frankwell’s own special concoction and was, in Elizabeth’s opinion, far superior to the costly Venetian Ceruse and Spirits o
f Saturn that she had begun ordering from the Continent after she recovered from her deadly attack of Small Pox in 1562. Thanks to the ungracious and difficult Dr. Burkhardt, who had employed the use of red flannel during her illness, she was not as scarred as some; poor Mary Sidney, Robert’s sister, had a face so ravaged that she rarely left Penshurst Place anymore.

  Elizabeth had not escaped the scourge unmarked, but the pits she had were very small, and if the precious white paste was applied just so, hardly showed at all. Mrs. Frankwell had just lifted the brush made of a blend of badger, squirrel and stoat hair, its bristles delicately fanned, when an urgent knocking at the door disturbed Elizabeth’s train of thought; she used the time each morning when her makeup was being applied and her hair dressed to think, and usually lapsed into a trance-like state as she did so until Mrs. Frankwell ended the session with her usual comment of, “Well, then, Your Grace.” They were the only words Mrs. Frankwell ever uttered besides, “Good morrow, Your Grace.” After the morning application of makeup, Mrs. Frankwell, a small bird-like woman, repaired back to her stillroom to see to her concoctions and decoctions, and would not be seen for the remainder of the day. She was paid £40 per annum for her pains.

  Without opening her eyes, Elizabeth said, “Lady Sandes, see what is to do.” With a slight movement of her hand, she indicated that Mrs. Frankwell was to resume her ministrations. The feather light touch of the brush told Elizabeth that the smooth paste was being applied.

  Her ladies knew who was permitted to enter the queen’s presence whilst she was in dishabille, and those who were not. There were two sorts of men at court, those who courted the queen and those who did not. And then there was Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester,who was in a class by himself. Elizabeth was a vain woman. She would not allow the men who courted her to see her otherwise than perfect; her skin painted, her body washed, perfumed, begowned and bejeweled, and her hair coifed.