In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  She buried her face in her hands and let out an agonized groan. Kinsey stirred, awoke, and jumped up onto her lap, heedless of her distress. She hugged him to her. For the first time, she felt that her cause was truly lost.

  Westminster Palace, March 1572

  Sir Christopher Wray was accustomed to the queen’s temper; he had been Speaker of the House of Commons in the Parliament of the year before, and had been subjected to Her Grace’s ire on a number of occasions. Never again, he had vowed! But Parliament was not sitting now, and his contemporaries had begged him to seek an audience with the queen, to talk sense into her regarding the Duke of Norfolk’s execution, which was still hanging fire despite more than one death warrant having been signed and then withdrawn. And the Queen of Scots! Was she to be allowed such leniency in the face of her treachery? All agreed…except the queen! …that Mary of Scotland must be charged with treason and prosecuted.

  The great hall at Westminster was cavernous and seemed to absorb almost all sound, even the most stirring speech. But on this day the queen herself had shouted him down so loudly and with such vehemence that his ears were still ringing, and tears stung the backs of his eyes. He and his delegation had only England’s good in mind; but the queen simply refused to listen to reason. His eyes wandered up to the great wooden angels that soared above them, gracing the rafters; in his watery gaze, even they seemed to weep for England’s safety and weal. He lowered his eyes from the angels back down to the queen, and when his eyes met hers once again, he saw that her eyes also swam with tears. But they were tears of anger and frustration. Still, he must try…

  “Your Grace,” he said, striving to keep his voice calm and even. “Care you nothing for this dire threat to England? The duke and the Queen of Scots have conspired together to take your throne, yea, even your life, and to visit war upon these shores with foreign armies. They seek to subject your good people once again to the vile superstition of papist idolatry. The duke stands condemned, and must die. But Your Grace has twice stayed the executioner’s axe. And Your Grace will not even allow the Scottish queen to be charged and tried for her heinous crimes, let alone condemned for her perfidy!”

  Elizabeth gazed down upon the men before her from her throne. She knew that they meant well, and had only England’s good at heart. The fear of the people was palpable, there was no doubt about it; the Channel ports were more diligently watched, even more so than they had been when Ridolfi’s plot was discovered. And Walsingham, newly returned from France to present her with Queen Catherine’s latest proposals, had insisted upon doubling her personal guard.

  Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. Never before had she felt so alone, so bedeviled. Was it not bad enough that soon she must needs have the blood of her own cousin on her hands? Add the Queen of Scotland’s death to her troubled conscience she would not.

  She gazed with narrowed eyes at the men before her.

  “Can I put to death the bird that, to escape the pursuit of the hawk, has fled to my feet for protection? Honor and conscience forbid!” she cried.

  The men shuffled their feet; no one dared to speak. Many of them were related to the queen, either by blood or by marriage; it must be one of them to take on the august responsibility of further haranguing Her Grace on the subject of the execution of the Duke of Norfolk and the prosecution of the Scottish queen. Lord Hunsdon and Lord William of Effingham exchanged significant glances; both were blood relations, but Lord William held sway, as a Howard.

  Lord William raised his eyes to the queen’s. “Someone must pay, Your Grace,” said her great-uncle. “The people demand it, and justice must be seen to be done. And it must be soon. To hesitate further in this matter only serves to demonstrate weakness.” And all knew what happened to the weak!

  Elizabeth eyed her great-uncle closely. “You would desire the death, then, of your own great-nephew?”

  Sir William stood his ground manfully. He had held the canopy over his great-niece at her christening; he had known her all of her life. “Aye,” he said gruffly. “And so should all traitors to Your Grace and England die, even though they be kith and kin! If such shall ensure the safety of Your Grace and the weal of the kingdom.” He secretly thought his great-nephew a fool, and unworthy of his dukedom and the House of Howard.

  Elizabeth frowned and glared, but she knew that her great-uncle was right. And at least one good thing had come of the whole debacle…at last, no one now clamored to name Mary of Scotland as the heir to the throne of England! But to execute an anointed queen…she could not, for her own safety, sanction such an action. So it must be the duke, then. Her own cousin in the blood! Everything in her rose up against such a thing.

  And had not the scaffold rotted from disuse in her time as queen? The structure had fallen to pieces on Tower Hill; no nobleman had been executed thus far in her reign. If she were to agree to Norfolk’s execution, a new one would surely have to be built. But her great-uncle was right, and brave enough to say it to her face. Someone must pay, and it must be soon; the peace and tranquility of the realm demanded it. And for a monarch, especially a female one, to show any sign of weakness…or squeamishness…was both unwise and unsafe. It could not be Mary; it must needs therefore be her cousin Norfolk. She heaved a great sigh.

  “Very well, then,” she said wearily. “You have my leave to draw up a new death warrant for the Duke of Norfolk. As soon as she uttered the words, her stomach gave a mighty heave. She felt as if she were going to be sick.

  Her hands unconsciously grasped the arms of her throne. Cecil observed that her knuckles were white and her face had drained of all color, even under its white leaden paint.

  Suddenly one hand flew to her throat and with the other she grasped the front of her bejeweled gown. A strangling noise issued forth from her throat. And then a horrendous scream pierced the air that was so penetrating that not even the cavernous great hall at Westminster could dissipate it.

  ###

  Five pairs of anxious eyes regarded each other worriedly across the great bed. They were also haunted eyes, hollow and dark-ringed from lack of sleep. For three agonizing days the queen’s life had hung in the balance. For three nights they had sat vigil at Elizabeth’s bedside.

  The queen’s swoon in the Great Hall at Westminster had thankfully not been before a public audience; only her Council were present, along with the men of the Lords and Commons who would soon convene the next Parliament. The older amongst them recalled Elizabeth’s aunt, Mary Tudor, the French Queen, who had died of a mysterious misery in her gut at just Elizabeth’s age. Was such a thing to carry off their own beloved queen, just at the triumphant moment when a dastardly plot against her life had been foiled? The very thought of losing Elizabeth now, just as they had begun to thank Saint Michael and all His Angels for her deliverance from the certain death that had awaited her as part of Ridolfi’s plot, shocked them profoundly, and had given them pause. She was their much-loved queen; she was irreplaceable.

  Robert had carried her from the hall in his arms, tear-blinded with worry as the queen writhed in agony.

  For three days now, the dread thought had hung upon the air; had the queen been poisoned? If so, at whose behest? Poison was a woman’s weapon; the Queen of Scots? The French, perhaps? Was not the Queen Mother of France a Medici, and Italian by birth? All knew that the Italians were notorious poisoners. But then what of the parley for a French treaty, which was going so well that Walsingham had come in person to finalize the details of it?

  On one side of the tumbled bed stood Cecil, leaning heavily upon his stick; he refused absolutely to leave the queen’s side. Beside him stood his wife, Lady Mildred; they both loved Elizabeth like a daughter. On the other side of the bed stood Sir Francis Walsingham, his face a study in anxiety. Next to him was Blanche Parry, the tears making their slow way down the furrows of her face. She had rocked Elizabeth’s cradle, had been with her through all the vicissitudes of her life. Since Kat Ashley’s death, she had been as a mother to the quee
n. Robert sat on the great bed, holding Elizabeth’s wasted frame in his arms.

  In their great fear of poison, they had suffered no servant to attend her; between them, they had held the basin when she was sick, had tried to feed her broth, made by Blanche’s own hands and tasted by herself, and to make her drink well-watered wine in between her bouts of sickness. In despair, they realized that she was simply unable to keep down either sup or crumb. Between bouts of the most wretched purging, she fell into an exhausted sleep, only to awaken to another bout of wrenching dry heaves.

  It was true that Elizabeth had no parents, no siblings, no husband; but she did have all of them, and they loved her. Robert, as wife; Blanche, and the Cecils, as child; Walsingham as friend. But they had all stood by helplessly for three long days, knowing neither what ailed the queen nor how to aid her in her extremity. If only there were ought that they could do…but everything had been tried to no avail. If this went on much longer, the queen was sure to die.

  Robert was holding her as she slept her fitful, uneasy slumber. He looked up and his eyes met Cecil’s. There was no animosity between them now; they shared common cause in their devotion to the Reformed Faith, and in their love for the queen. Robert had presided with a glad heart over the Garter ceremony in which Cecil had been honored.

  The great oak door opened on silent hinges and the ghostly figures of the queen’s apothecaries seemed to glide across the floor in their white robes; the pale, drawn faces of the queen’s physicians seemed all but disembodied above their black garments. One man held a mug from which a misty haze emanated; another held a bleeding bowl, his assistant the knife.

  Robert turned his head to see who had come into the room, and at the sight of the robed men with their noxious brews and grisly implements, he cried, “Begone, all of you! You do more harm than good! Can you not see how weak Her Grace is? Would you take every last drop of blood from her precious body?”

  “My father once said that he suspected they drank the blood, so eager were they to bleed him,” said a weak, tentative voice.

  There was a stunned silence, and then they all gathered around Robert and Elizabeth, laughing and crying, and all talking at once.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” sobbed Blanche. “We feared…”

  “It is all right,” said Elizabeth. “I think me that the worst is over. I feel much better now.” She reached a pale hand out to Cecil, who took it, kissed it, and held it fast in his own, tears of relief streaming down his face.

  Cecil had long since concluded that Elizabeth should not marry. There simply was no viable match for her. This he kept to himself, but it did not stop others from badgering her constantly about marriage, the succession, and the naming of an heir. As he held the cool, skeletal hand in his own beefy one and shed the slow, difficult tears of an old man, he was convinced in himself that such constant harassment by her courtiers, her Council, her Parliament and even her friends, coupled with the more recent dire situation of the need to bring Norfolk’s sad story to its inevitable conclusion on the block, had combined to create such a state in her of nervous tension and intolerable stress that Elizabeth had simply collapsed under the burden of it all. She had ever been susceptible to gastric disorders, so that was where she had been struck down. There were many who believed that there was indeed a connection between the troubles of the mind and the ills of the body. But he kept his own belief of this to himself.

  Word spread quickly throughout the palace of the queen’s recovery; her Boleyn cousin, Sir William Carey, Lord Hunsdon, and her great-uncle, Lord William of Effingham, hovered at the doors to her chamber. Now that the queen was back in herself, decisions about the Duke of Norfolk and the Queen of Scots must be made. Their murmurings became raised voices.

  “For her own safety, Her Grace must proceed with it,” said Lord William of Effingham. Elizabeth had bid them draw up a new death warrant just before she had been taken ill, the previous ones having been torn straight through and thrown onto the fire in her fury. But now that she was better, she must sign. He drew a frustrated, distracted hand through his hair. “All the world knows Her Grace to be wise; and surely there cannot be a greater point of wisdom than for a man to be careful of his own estate! Especially the preservation of his own life! How much more needful, then, for Her Grace to take heed of such, she upon whose life depends the entire realm of England, and our Protestant religion?”

  Cecil stumped to the doorway. “The Queen’s Grace has ever been a merciful lady,” he sighed. “Many a time hath she taken more harm than justice. She thinks herself more beloved for her mercy, but she does herself more harm than good by it, I fear me. But even so, I will not see her bothered at this moment with such.”

  Walsingham had approached, and he placed a reassuring hand upon Cecil’s shoulder. “Leave be,” said Sir Francis. “Mayhap the one shall succeed where the many have failed.” With a subtle movement, he withdrew the scroll that was the Duke of Norfolk’s death warrant from Lord Hunsdon’s hands.

  Lord Hunsdon, Lord Effingham, and Cecil all nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Perhaps there is wisdom in what you say,” agreed Lord Hunsdon.

  Walsingham turned back to the elaboratly curtained bed, and his eyes met Elizabeth’s. Business could not be postponed forever.

  “How now,” said Elizabeth, whose usually loud, carrying voice came out as little more than a hoarse whisper. “I thank you all most earnestly for your loving care of me. But now you must all go at last to your own beds.”

  Lady Blanche pursed determined lips. “I shall not rest until Your Grace has supped,” she said firmly.

  Elizabeth knew from a lifetime of submitting to Lady Blanche’s directives the utter futility of argument. She smiled a wan smile. She could think of food for the first time in days without a wave of nausea sweeping over her; but she still felt weak and fragile.

  “Dear Lady Blanche,” she said. “Some winesops, then, and mind you, only manchet bread will do.”

  Lady Blanche smiled, curtseyed, and was gone with a rustle of silk skirts. The echo of poison still hung upon the air; she trusted no one to make the queen’s winesops save herself, and she would do so with her owns hands. And Her Grace would down a syllabub, too, if she had anything to say about it!

  “Now off with all of you,” said Elizabeth. “Sir Francis, you may stay.”

  ###

  Once the door closed behind the last of them, Sir Francis wasted no time. The queen was back in herself, but she was frail and must not be kept long from healing sleep, now that the crisis was past.

  “Things go well in France, Your Grace,” he said softly. He knew Elizabeth as well as did any of the people who had known her much longer; he knew how to talk her around. It must be done subtly. That was why those who attempted frontal assault usually failed. And persuading the queen to see sense was much easier when it was just the two of them, and acquiescence was less likely to be viewed by the queen as failure. “A defensive treaty is all but agreed. Queen Catherine was most displeased that the Queen of Scotland sought the assistance of Philip of Spain; Her Grace has assured me that she has washed her hands of her daughter-in-law, and that she shall trouble Your Grace no more on her behalf. With this treaty, we shall therefore drive a wedge between the two Continental Powers, to England’s advantage. In effect, the treaty prevents France invading Flanders, but only so that English trade is not disturbed. For which King Philip should thank God fasting! Our trade with the Empire will be safe, and we shall relinquish our old rivalry with an ancient enemy. All to the good of England; no longer shall we be isolated, and stand naked to our enemies.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “You are my Good Moor,” she said, laying a fragile hand on Sir Francis’s arm. His complexion was dark, as was his hair, eyes, and beard; she had taken to calling him her Moor some time back. “And unless I miss my guess, we shall get much and give precious little for it!”

  Sir Francis shrugged. “We shall continue to talk about sealing the agreement with
a marriage pact.”

  Elizabeth said nothing; they both knew that talks of marriage with either of the brothers of the French king would remain only that…talk. There should never be a marriage at all, but certainly not with a Catholic! Her sister had attempted to visit the Catholic faith upon an unwilling England, and the result had been calamity and ruination. Were she to marry a Catholic, there would be trouble with the very first Mass said on English shores, whether it was said privately or not. But she knew, Sir Francis knew, and Queen Catherine de’ Medici knew, that there could be a successful treaty without the need to seal it with a marriage pact. Talk cost nothing; and it often yielded positive results.

  Walsingham fetched a goblet of watered wine from the sideboard and handed it wordlessly to Elizabeth; then he stoked the fire. Finally, he took a chair by the queen’s bed.

  “There is much ill feeling towards the Queen of Scots,” he said softly.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I know it well,” she replied.

  “As long as Her Grace lives, you will never be assured of the quiet possession of your crown. That is a cross that Your Grace has chosen to bear; but what of your faithful servants, who fear for the safety of their own lives?”

  “Parliament will soon convene,” she said. “I fear me that they will not let the matter rest.”

  Sir Francis shifted in his chair and took a sip from his goblet of wine. Nor should they, he thought. But he knew he must go gently. “Some may be persuaded to offer an alternative to the queen’s death for treason if given adequate incentive.”