In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Queen Catherine de’ Medici liked handsome men, but only to look at; she knew herself to be unattractive. But what did that matter, when she had power such as few women ever achieved? Power was her great love, besides her children. She had suffered ten long years of miserable royal childlessness, all the time having to watch as her husband, Henri II of France, fawned upon his mistress, Diane de Poiters. Ah well, both were dead now and could not hurt her; and she had her children, five of the ten still alive. Her sons were kings and royal ducs, and her daughter a queen. Not so bad for one they used to jeer at for her seeming barrenness, and had called merchant’s daughter!

  “Nor do I,” she said with a smile. “Come,” she said, beckoning him to help her to rise. “Let us walk. And let us speak Italian, no? I confess that even after all these years, I stll find the French language difficult.”

  The king had his eyes trained on the bear that was being baited. The dogs, snarling and yelping, were leaping at the poor animal, snapping at his throat; the bear, in his anger and fright, roared and swung his great claws at them. He caught one of the lunging mastiffs by the scalp, and dashed it so hard against the wooden fence of the bear-pit that its brains spilled out in a bloody heap. The coppery smell of blood pervaded the air, and between the indignant bellowing of the bear, the barking and yelping of the dogs and the roar of the crowd, the noise was deafening. Charles did not even notice that his mother and Ridolfi had deserted the royal dais.

  As they made their slow way back to the palace, Queen Catherine leant upon her stick with one hand, and weighed heavily upon Ridolfi’s arm with the other. Her mottled skin felt hot through the stuff of his sleeve. It was odd, but within the confines of their native city of Florence, he and Catherine de’ Medici would have been the bitterest of enemies. But here in Paris, two fellow Florentines would naturally present an unshakable, united front to the world. They were as two strangers who, encountering each other by chance hundreds of miles from home, greet each other as though they were long lost friends simply because they shared a birthplace. And the Queen Mother might be old and ugly, but she was still a queen, and her son, the King of France; two more royal personages whom he could add to the growing list of potentates whose ear he could claim. And it was the Queen Mother who really ruled France; King Charles was merely a hot-headed cipher whom Her Grace had the Devil’s own task to keep in check. He glowed with pride as he and Catherine walked along, arm in arm, through the exquisite gardens of the Palace of the Louvre.

  Two queens, he reflected, could hardly have been more different; and yet Elizabeth of England and Catherine de’ Medici did share some similarities. The most glaringly important of these was the stamp of illegitimacy upon their rule; Catherine had usurped her high position from behind the throne of her son, and Elizabeth’s legitimacy had been in question from the day of her birth. Both queens faced potentially explosive religious situations in their respective countries, and both queens secretly sought to undermine the other; Elizabeth by aiding the Huguenots and sponsoring the activities of English pirates in the Channel, and Catherine by abetting the Catholic rebels in Ireland. But he suspected that Catherine’s primary interest was not Ireland, but Scotland…and England; and Elizabeth’s foremost concern was not France, but the Netherlands, trade with which was vital to England.

  “My cousin, Cosimo,” said Catherine, apropos of nothing, “fears an invasion of Italy. Both the Emperor Maximillian and the King of Spain took great exception to the pope raising my cousin to the dignity of Grand Duke of Tuscany. But I have assured him that France will support Florence against all enemies. And my son, the king, wishes to make war upon Spain.” She laughed. “He is a bloodthirsty imp, is he not? But wars cost money, Signore Ridolfi.”

  Roberto was diplomat enough to understand the Queen Mother’s implication; between the explosive religious situation in France, her promise to her cousin of Tuscany, and Charles’ penchant to make war on Philip of Spain, there was little left in the French coffers to support an invasion of England, even if it meant placing her daughter-in-law upon both thrones and a resumption not only of the Auld Alliance with Scotland, but with England as well.

  “Still,” said Catherine. “The means might be found. What of your plans, Good Roberto? Have you heard from your man?”

  Ridolfi pursed his lips. He still had received no word from Charles Bailley. It made him wonder if aught were wrong across the water.

  “Ah well,” she said, when he did not answer, “we Florentines must stick together, eh? And at the very least, it means that I would get my pearls back!” Catherine was very stout and the walk had winded her. She cackled her breathy little laugh.

  The implication, again, was not lost on Ridolfi; one of the consequences of the conquest of England must needs be the death of Elizabeth. They were both Italians, and disciples of their famous countryman, Niccolò Machiavelli. Neither viewed death for political reasons as anything more than an unfortunate necessity.

  “Indeed,” said Roberto, patting her arm. Women were alike all the world over; wars and calamities were all very well and good, but what could be more important than getting back the pearls that Elizabeth had all but stolen from Mary of Scotland, when Moray had sold them to her for a pittance to support his alliance with England? “I promise, Your Grace, that when England is ours, you shall have your pearls.”

  Catherine wheezed. “That is as well then. Their value is such that their recovery would all but pay for the war, I trow!” She shook with mirth. “I am old woman,” she said. “I must rest now.”

  They had reached the doors of her rooms in the palace, which of necessity, were on the ground floor. He handed her off to a waiting woman, but she turned back to him before walking away.

  “You will come again, Roberto?” she asked.

  Ridolfi bowed elegantly. “Of course, Your Grace. As soon as I have news.”

  She nodded, and tottered away on the arm of her woman.

  ###

  Roberto’s rooms in the palace were sumptuous, and much to his relief, were in a quiet part of the maze that was the Palace of the Louvre. They overlooked a private garden with a splashing fountain. He sat upon a chair he had taken from his rooms, his feet propped upon a stone garden bench. Every now and then he heard a great cheer from the direction of the bear-pit; the entertainment was still going on, but the sound was muffled by the distance. The sun was low in the sky and a pleasant breeze blew from the south. From home!

  Suddenly a footstep sounded on the pathway leading from his rooms. He turned to see Simon Dawkins walking towards him. Bailley’s man! At last!

  “How now, Dawkins!” he cried. “What a time you have been! Where is your master?”

  “In the Tower,” replied Dawkins. He removed his felt cap and ran his hands through his lank hair. “And I have been lying low, lest I share his fate. It took me all this while to find passage on a vessel with a captain who cared more for gold to line his pockets than for proper papers.” He threw his cap onto the ground and plopped down unceremoniously onto the finely clipped grass.

  “My Lord, I am sorry to tell you that we are undone. The Bishop of Ross, threatened with the rack, has told all; the rest is a sad tale of a confluence of unfortunate events. The letters you entrusted to him for the queen, and also for the Spanish ambassador, the Duke of Norfolk, the Bishop of Ross, and Lord Lumley, all fell into the hands of the castellan at Dover. My master was arrested there and taken to the Marshalsea. At first they spoke him fair, but when he would not talk, he was conveyed to the Tower. Still he refused to break the cypher of the letters; finally he was racked. I bribed a guard who told me that Walsingham claims that he broke the cypher, so it may be true that Bailley did not break. I could do no further good in London, and my funds ran dangerously low, so I haunted the docks until I found passage to Calais.”

  “And the Bishop?” asked Roberto.

  “Under house arrest at High Holborn under the aegis of the Bishop of Ely.”

  Roberto nibbled a cuti
cle. The southern breeze was warm and inviting, and made him think once again of golden Florence. “What of the duke? And the queen?”

  Dawkins shifted his weight, drawing his knees up and clasping them with his hands. “The duke is in the Tower; they found all of his letters. As of the date of my departure, he had implicated no others that I know of. But the queen also was caught dead to rights with her letters.”

  Roberto sighed. Mayhap he should not have sent so many letters. But why keep such things? He had imagined the letters being burnt after reading, the vellum turning into gray ash and being sucked up the chimney, the wax seals melting on some distant hearth.

  But truth to tell, the anticipation of the great adventure he had envisioned was turning out to be far more amusing than its realization. Mayhap it was all for the best. His conversations in Italian with the Queen Mother had caused to swell in his breast a great longing for his native city. Perhaps it was time he gave up his peregrinations and his schemes and went home to Florence. After all, there was always work for him to do there; or leisure, if he preferred it. He was a wealthy man. Perhaps he should follow his father’s footsteps and go into politics; maybe even become a senator. He certainly had the experience! Yes, that was it. He would go home to Florence.

  Because he was a banker by birth and a moneylender by trade, he recognized at all times the value and importance of money. He never failed to have about his person a full purse for his known expenditures, as well as a pouch for unexpected expenses. He pulled a velvet purse from his breeches pocket. It was stuffed with gold coins.

  “For your trouble,” he said, handing Dawkins the incongruous thing; like everything that Roberto kept about his person, the pouch was very fine.

  Dawkins pulled the golden cords and upended the pouch. He hefted the handful of coins in his palm. It was far more than he had expected. He poured the hoard of coins into his own worn leather pouch and stuffed it into his doublet. He handed the elegantly embroidered velvet pouch back to Ridolfi.

  “I thank you, Your Grace,” said Dawkins. He got to his feet, replaced his cap, bowed to Roberto and walked away. There was nothing more to be said…or done.

  A livered servant arrived with a cool glass of wine, sweating delightfully on a silver tray; Roberto always drank his wine chilled. His servant knew the exact amount of time that the bottle must be kept down the well. He raised the glass, studied the color of the liquid, swirled it, sniffed it, then took a sip. Delicious! The morrow would see him on his way home, where the wine was even better than in France, in his opinion.

  Richmond Palace, October 1571

  Elms whose leaves had just been edged with bronze a few days before now blazed a golden yellow. The avenue of giant trees along which Elizabeth’s cavalcade traveled now glowed golden-hued as the sun dappled through the trees; the breeze caressed each mighty limb. The day was very fine for October; the sky was as blue as a harebell, without a single cloud. She had changed from her horse-drawn litter on the outskirts of the city; but because the queen could not be mounted on account of her sore leg, neither were her courtiers. The men took turns shouldering the elaborate litter, with its intricately embroidered canopy, and considered it an honor to be chosen to do so. The rest all walked dutifully along, in front of, alongside, and behind the magnificent conveyance. She was flanked by all her court, who had turned out in their finest clothing and jewels to greet their queen, and to see her on her way to Richmond Palace. Crowds of people lined the roads, cheering themselves hoarse; Elizabeth smiled and waved, but her thoughts were far away.

  It had been a glorious Progress, but she was glad to be back. She had enjoyed her first visit to Cecil’s magnificent new manor house of Theobalds, of which he was so justly proud. But now it was back to business, the first item of which was a long overdue audience with the French and Spanish ambassadors. And just what would she not have to say to the both of them!

  Bertrand de Salignac Fenelon had come to court as French ambassador in 1568, and had so far given no more than normal cause for irritation. But today was to be his day of reckoning. The French had offended in that it was known that they had been treating with Roberto Ridofli. And Fenelon had also been heard to say that he deplored the harsh treatment meted out to the Queen of Scots by the Queen of England. She had not indulged in a true fit of pique, at least not one worthy of a Tudor, on this entire Progress, and she was quite looking forward to indulging in a bit of righteous indignation.

  The cavalcade arrived at the palace and Robert handed her down from the litter. She knew how much he missed riding his great black stallion; her leg was almost better, and as soon as it was fully healed, the first thing they would do would be to go for a good gallop. But now, to business!

  “Cecil!” she bellowed. “Inform the foreign ambassadors that they are to present themselves in the Presence Chamber in one hour.”

  “As Your Grace commands,” Cecil replied. His litter had followed hers up the line of elm trees to the palace, and he stumped over to the queen’s litter as soon as he descended from his own. Ah well, she thought, he was right that she had every hope of recovery from her annoying leg sore, whereas his gout could only be expected to worsen. Why, she thought for the hundredth time, must we grow old and decrepit? Why could not one simply live out one’s years whole, beautiful, and then simply die in one’s sleep at some distant end? It was a mystery, and one that left her thinking that perhaps God did not always know what he was about.

  Exactly one hour later, the Queen of England sat upon her canopied throne in the Presence Chamber of Richmond Palace. She gazed out in silence at the sea of faces; the people of the court cheered. This ceremonial reopening of court was usually a happy occasion; the foreign ambassadors presented gifts of welcome; troublesome issues were handled later, and in private. But not today, and not for Bertrand de Salignac Fenelon, seigneur de la Mothe, the French ambassador, nor for Guerau de Espés del Valle, that of Philip of Spain. The pair of them were long overdue for a taste of Tudor temper!

  The French ambassador was first on the list of dignitaries to welcome the queen; Fenelon approached the dais with a flourish and a deep bow.

  It was for the queen to speak first; it was her habit to greet each ambassador in his own tongue. If it were a language in which she was fluent, the entire conversation might be conducted in the man’s native tongue. But today she wanted all to hear and understand that which she had to say. “Mon Sieur,” she said, inclining her head. Fenelon bowed low once again. She could almost feel sorry for him.

  “We are all so happy to have Your Gracious Majesty safely returned from your travels,” said Fenelon.

  It was the perfect opening.

  “Safe?” she cried. “No thanks to the French, sir! Have not your king and queen mother been indulging all this time in plots and intrigues with the perfidious Signore Ridolfi, to my great peril?” Fenelon held up his hand, but Elizabeth forestalled him. “Nay, do not try to deny it, sir! I know this to be true.”

  “But Your Grace,” replied Fenelon, nonplussed to be attacked so soon and with such venom, “even a monarch cannot control who will seek an audience!”

  “Mayhap not,” said Elizabeth. “But a monarch may very well choose whom to entertain and whom to refuse!”

  There was not much Fenelon could say to that. It was true that Queen Catherine and King Charles had entertained Ridolfi; he had been feted at the French court for all to see.

  “But Your Grace,” said Fenelon, “the Queen Mother has not abetted Signore Ridolfi’s schemes; far from it. I understand that the gentleman has indeed returned to his own native city of Florence, for lack of patronage at the French court.”

  “Do you think me simple, sir?” cried Elizabeth. “Had we here in England not foiled Ridolfi’s plot, I trow that the Queen Mother would have been nothing loath to aid him in his plans to seize my person and my throne. And to what purpose? To place there my cousins of Norfolk and Scotland!”

  Such a thrust must be parried; Fenelon had fe
w arrows in his quiver, but the unfair treatment of Mary of Scotland was one of them. “The Queen of Scots is sorely handled here in England,” he said. “By what right do the English keep Her Grace unlawfully imprisoned?” It was part of a litany that he often repeated, indeed, he did so at every audience; the treatment of the Queen Dowager of France was part of a list of grievances that the French presented to the English queen with regularity.

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and glared at Fenelon. “How dare you say such, when the said queen has been found in possession of evidence that she plots against me, to my harm? My cousin’s plots and schemes have brought much evil to my realm of England, yea, even unto her own realm of Scotland! Her imprisonment, or worse! …is quite justified, I say! And am I not every bit as much a prisoner, sir, as the Queen of Scots ever was? In my mind, sir, in my mind!” At this she tapped her bewigged head with her finger. “How am I to go abroad without great fear, sir, knowing that your Dowager Queen wishes me dead and in my tomb, that she may steal my very throne? I dread constantly the assassin’s bullet, the poisoned cup!”

  Having just returned from a protracted Progress during which she had been greeted with enthusiasm and feted wherever she went, the charge was slightly ludicrous; but still, it had a ring of truth. However, the angry queen’s indignation might have been easier to believe if Her Grace had not been ostentatiously fondling the Queen of Scotland’s priceless pearls as she spoke her bitter words.

  “I assure you that the king and queen of France desire nothing but great joy, long life and prosperity for Your Grace,” said Fenelon. All could see his discomfiture, but he was bearing up well under the unexpected tongue lashing. He must not lose his temper; he must do his best to placate. “Far from wishing Your Grace ill, the king and the queen mother have sent me with an offer of marriage, that Their Graces may call Your Gracious Majesty both sister and daughter.”