In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  ###

  Once he and Sir Henry were far enough away from the queen’s doors, Lord George turned to him and said, “What the devil was that about?”

  “Not here,” said Sir Henry. “Let us retire to your apartments.”

  Once the door had closed softly behind them, Sir Henry poured a mug of ale from a cask on the sideboard and threw himself into a chair. He drained the cup and set it aside. “Whilst you were with Her Grace, a messenger arrived. The Earl of Mar is dead.”

  “Dead?” cried Lord George, his voice shrill in the quiet room. “Dead?” he repeated, more softly. “How? Why? And what has that to do with Her Grace being sent back to Scotland?”

  Sir Henry snorted. “It has everything to do with it,” he replied. “It seems His Lordship died under very suspicious circumstances just a fortnight ago; the news reached London a few days later, and Her Grace sent a courier with all speed to countermand her order to send the Queen of Scots back to her brethren in Scotland. All is changed now, I fear me.”

  Still Lord George looked puzzled. “But why?” he asked. He realized now why he had been unable to tell Mary of her fate; he knew now why he had almost swooned when Sir Henry’s unexpected arrival has stayed his tongue from having to speak the words of her doom. Bess was right; she had seen it long before he had. He was in love with the Queen of Scots. The very idea of being the one to send Mary Stuart to her death grieved him mightily; being forced to tell her of such a thing had well-nigh broken his foolish heart. He must never, ever, let on to anyone how he felt; no one must ever know this fearful thing. Bess was jealous of Mary, but he believed that her animosity ended there. She could know nothing with any certainty. No one can ever know what is in another person’s heart.

  Sir Henry heaved a great sigh. No wonder Queen Elizabeth used the need for a gaoler for the Queen of Scots as an excuse to keep Lord Shrewsbury far from court. The man was as thick as a nine-days porridge.

  “Think, man!” he said in exasperation. “It is likely that Regent Mar was poisoned. His Lordhsip had dined at Dalkeith Palace, at a banquet given by the Earl of Morton. He fell ill the next day at Stirling, and was dead before the next cock crew. Whom do you think has been nominated now as the next regent of Scotland?”

  “God’s eyeballs!” expostulated Lord George.

  “Humph,” snorted Sir Henry. “Quite! There is a faction in Scotland that is determined never to see Mary Stuart set foot on Scottish soil ever again. Her Grace is nothing but trouble, as she has proven amply here in England! No, the Scots had no intention of playing Queen Elizabeth’s game and doing her dirty deeds for her. If the regent would not rescind the agreement with Her Grace, then the regent had to go. Morton has assumed power and demands that if Queen Elizabeth wants the Scots to execute their own queen, then Elizabeth must pay handsomely for the favor, and must be seen to be represented at the execution. Her Grace, of course, would agree to no such conditions. God be thanked that you had not yet broken the news to her.”

  Lord George poured himself his own mug of ale and likewise drained it. The Queen of Scotland would never know how close she had come to the executioner’s axe, and he would not be the one to tell her of it.

  Hampton Court Palace, December 1572

  Elizabeth was finding the rise and fall of excited voices and the strains of music distracting as she forced herself to concentrate on what her Council was saying. Her foot tapped time surreptitiously under the table to the merry tune emanating from the Great Hall. It was the Christmas season, and the revels were in full swing; it was the only time of year that the merrymaking had no formal opening or closing each day. It simply went on and on as long as someone was in the hall to celebrate. She longed to be gone from the Council table; for one who took her burden of rule seriously, the break from the routine of government was just as important as the observing of it. In short, she needed a respite, even if it were only a short one. Her summer Progress was much longer than the Twelve Days of Christmas, but even this brief interval was every bit as precious to her. Would they never conclude the day’s business?

  “What other business, then?” she asked as patiently as she was able.

  “The situation in France,” said Cecil, “has demonstrated that King Charles and the Queen Mother cannot be trusted. The Treaty of Blois is holding, but it is on shaky ground. But I believe me that there is a way to mend the rift that the recent doings in France have caused, and to assuage the uneasiness between us.”

  “What way?” she asked. It had better not be a suggestion for any further parley of a French marriage!

  “A letter arrived from King Charles this morning, requesting that Your Grace stand as godmother to the Princess Marie Elisabeth.”

  Elizabeth looked taken aback. “I?” she asked, incredulously. “Has His Grace taken leave of what little sense he has? How can a Protestant Queen stand godparent to a Catholic princess? It is a ridiculous suggestion, when one considers the massacre on St. Bartholmew’s Day.”

  Cecil nodded. “On the face of it, that is true,” he said. “But it is an excellent manner by which to demonstrate the solidarity between our two countries. Not to mention that it will help the French to mend their broken fences with all of Protestant Europe. France is not as powerful as Queen Catherine would wish; relations with Spain are always hanging by a thread and Rome cannot be relied upon to assist her in any crisis.”

  “I do not fault your reasoning,” rejoined Elizabeth. “I quite agree with it. But that does not resolve the dilemma of how a heretic queen shall stand at the baptismal font of a Catholic princess.”

  Sir Thomas Radclyffe, the Earl of Sussex, nibbled a cuticle. “I think me that I have a solution that may perhaps be acceptable to all,” he said.

  Elizabeth turned expectantly to her cousin. “Pray tell,” she said. Anything to get them out of this damnable Council Chamber and into the hall!

  “Your Grace would certainly not be expected to attend the ceremony in person,” said Sir Thomas. “A suitable proxy must needs be sent. I think me we should send the Earl of Worcester.”

  Elizabeth looked stunned for a moment, and then she clapped her hands together. “What an excellent notion!” she cried. All knew that the earl was one of those who conformed outwardly to the Reformed faith, but who was a Catholic at heart. There were many such in the realm; Elizabeth wisely ignored and tolerated these men of conscience. That was only wise policy in her estimation, but how much more sensible to make use of them! “Sir Thomas, you will inform the earl of his commission, and see to the details. There must be a fine gift…a golden baptismal font! Yes, that should do very well indeed. After all, gold knows not the heart of the one who prays over it, is that not so? What else, my lords?” She was aching to bring the meeting to a close.

  Sir Henry FitzAlan, the Earl of Arundel, agreed with the queen on most issues, but he did not approve of Her Grace’s policy of blind tolerance in matters of religion. It threatened their Reformed faith. Just as did this mummery with sending the Earl of Worcester to France! It was clever; the earl would have no qualms about attending the Catholic Mass associated with his diplomatic mission, and the French would be seen to be tolerant of the Huguenots. But having the Protestant Queen of England stand godmother to the little French princess was a bit of playacting that would fool no one, in his opinion. Still, just in case, there must needs be a counterbalancing act, if England were not to be seen as wavering in her religious resolve.

  “If only Your Grace would consider placing yourself at the head of a Protestant League in Europe,” said Sir Henry.

  Elizabeth smiled. How little they all knew her! She would never take such an unequivocal stand. She was much more in sympathy with her fellow monarchs, even if they differed in their religious beliefs, than she was with those rebelling against royal authority. At least, that is what must be seen to be so; she provided money, arms and supplies to the Sea Beggars fighting Spain in the Netherlands, but she certainly did not want that shouted from the rooftops.


  “There is too much risk in doing so,” she replied. “Consider; whilst Philip spends Spain’s dwindling resources on war with his Dutch provinces and France totters on the brink of civil war, we here on our island enjoy safety and stability. Even Scotland is subdued for the time being, and ever shall be until the Scots cease their internecine strife. Since they have been unable to do so for centuries, I am aware of no reason why they should suddenly be able to do so now. No, I like me much better a policy of restraint that enables England to assume the role of arbiter of the warring factions. Whilst the Continent ravages itself, we sit here in our prosperous and pleasant land, free from the scourge of civil and religious strife.” It was not quite true; fundamentalist Protestant sects were quickly becoming a thorn in her side. Puritans and other radical sects were beginning to criticize the reformed faith in England as not reformed enough. They would soon feel the heat of her wrath if they caused any more trouble than they already had!

  Sir Henry leaned back in his chair; he had said his piece, and would save argument for another day.

  Sir Thomas Smith was now Principal Secretary of the Council. He was usually a garrulous fellow, but ever since his return from France, he was a changed man. He would never forget those anxious days in the pantry at the embassy during the massacre in Paris. The screams from the streets, the cries of frightened children, the roar of the frenzied mob, intent on murder in their blind bloodlust, would haunt his dreams forever. He was fortunate; he had been allowed to come home to England with the Earl of Leicester’s nephew, Sir Philip Sidney. But Sir Francis Walsingham still languished at the English embassy in France, awaiting the call home to his wife and the child whom he had not yet seen. At every opportunity, he put in a word for Sir Francis.

  “Sir Francis begs leave to return to England, Your Grace,” he said diffidently. He owed Sir Francis his life, after all. He must do all he could to enable him to return home to his wife, Lady Ursula, and to the child who had been born in his absence. Sir Thomas never received a dispatch from Sir Francis for queen and Council without there was a plea for Elizabeth to allow him to come home.

  Elizabeth sighed. She knew that Sir Francis feared for his life in Paris; how could he not, after what he had been through? But the sad truth was that she needed him there. She was having the devil of a time finding a replacement for him. She was leaning towards Sir Peter Carew; he had conspired, as part of the Wyatt Rebellion, against her sister’s proposed marriage to Philip of Spain. That alone put him in her good offices! But unlike many of his co-conspirators, Sir Peter had managed to escape arrest, and fled into exile on the Continent. But he was arrested there and had been returned to England. Mary had imprisoned him in the Tower, and he was still there when Mary died. When she, Elizabeth, had at last taken the throne, she had shown her contempt for her sister’s policies by freeing Carew and appointing him Constable of the Tower. But if she was to send Sir Peter to France as her ambassador, then a replacement must be found for the Tower. What a muddle! But still, Sir Francis deserved better, and truth to tell, she missed her Moor and wanted him back in England. So to Paris Sir Peter would have to go, and she would find someone to replace him as Constable of the Tower of London.

  “All right then,” she said. “Inform Sir Francis that he may return with the Earl of Worcester after the christening. That should give him enough time to put his affairs in order.” She would break the news to Sir Peter herself.

  Finally, all was silent for a space; she looked down the length of the table to see Robert staring idly out of the window. Strange behavior for one who had harangued her for years for a place at the Council table! But then her Robin had seemed very preoccupied of late. She was used to being the center of his universe, indeed the entire court revolved around her every whim. What on earth had him so distracted? It was an intriguing question, and one that she would pursue that very evening. But now all she wanted was to repair to her rooms and prepare herself for the evening’s revels.

  “If that is all, then…” she said hopefully.

  She stood up and instantly every man present at the Council table did likewise; for a moment or two, all was the sound of chairs legs scraping on stone and the shuffling of papers.

  “It is, Your Grace,” Sir Thomas replied with a bow. “The meeting is adjourned.”

  She let her eyes travel down the table to where Robert was standing, but he still seemed pensive; he had not even looked in her direction. Evidently something had engrossed him to the point of ignoring her; and she meant to find out what it was.

  ###

  December days drew in early, and on a cloudy day, even earlier; it was barely four of the clock and already dusk threatened. Elizabeth stood at the window of her bedchamber, looking out over the gardens and the gray, sluggish river. Her great chamber was in a corner of the palace and had both a southern and western aspect. The sun was obscured by the clouds, sending forth an unearthly glow as it set behind them. The gardens were bleak, but still well-kept; she would tolerate no disorder there even in winter. The evergreen hedges were neatly clipped, and there were no dead weeds or bracken. The only color besides the green of the hedges was the orange and red of the rose hips, which she had bade the gardeners leave in place. They would be collected and sent to the still room only when the first frost threatened. There they would be pulverized and their essence drawn to make rose water for the queen’s rose-scented snowballs. A queen could not engage in battle as could a king; but she did enjoy a good snowball fight!

  With a smile, she shook back her sleeve; she wore upon her wrist a trinket the like of which no one else in England possessed, or indeed had ever seen; the Christmas before, Robert’s New Year’s gift to her had been a unique bit of jewelry. It was a golden armlet, studded with gems, and mounted on the top of it was a timepiece. She smiled as she regarded it. But its hands told her that the Earl of Leicester was late. She had taken her accustomed hour of repose, she had bathed, her hair had been tired, she was begowned and bejeweled, and ready to process to the Great Hall. Where the devil was Robert? He always escorted her into the hall.

  Elizabeth turned from the window. “Parry, has there been no message from Lord Robert, to say why he has not come?”

  Lady Blanche curtsied; her eyes strayed to Elizabeth’s wrist-clock. “I shall send word to him, Your Grace.” She smiled wryly. “Perhaps His Lordship ought to have kept that uncanny trinket for himself!”

  Elizabeth laughed; she shared Welsh blood with her serving woman, and all knew that the Welsh were superstitious. It was likely that which caused her to have such faith in the prognostications of Dr. Dee. She turned back to the window; it was almost full dark.

  In every castle and palace, Robert had rooms that were in close proximity to her own; it did not take long for the serving maid sent to enquire as to his tardiness to return.

  Lady Blanche approached the window. “Lord Robert is not in his rooms, Your Grace.”

  The first stirrings of irritation arose in her breast. She could delay no longer.

  “Fetch me Christopher Hatton, then,” she said. Hatton was a Gentleman Pensioner; he often served as Gentleman Usher when Robert was from court. His rooms were not far away. She was damned if she was going to walk into the Great Hall alone! She would deal with Lord Robert later!

  She strode to the fire and stoked it so hard with the poker that sparks flew in all directions. She loathed being kept waiting; just as she was about to storm out the door by herself, Christopher Hatton appeared.

  “Ah, there you are,” cried Elizabeth. In addition to being a Gentleman Pensioner, Hatton was also a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and Captain of the Yeomen of the Queen’s Guard. He was tall, well-proportioned and an excellent dancer. He was dark, and she preferred dark men. And he had a goodly sense of humor.

  Hatton’s eyes crinkled in a merry smile. “What has happened to Your Grace’s eyes?” he asked.

  For just a moment Elizabeth forgot her pique at Robert’s unexplained absence; she th
rew her head back and roared with laughter. Dear Christopher! He could always make her laugh. Cecil was her Spirit, Walsingham her Moor, and Sweet Robin was her Eyes, most precious of all.

  “Forsooth,” she said, wiping the tears of mirth from her face. “My Eyes have been obscured by my Lids! Henceforth, my dear Hatton, you shall be my Lids.”

  Christopher ran a sheepish hand through his dark hair. “That is a great honor, Your Grace.” A nickname! From the queen! Only those closest and most precious to Her Grace were vouchsafed a royal nickname. He offered his hand, Elizabeth placed her own atop it, and they processed out of the chamber trailed by the queen’s ladies.

  The Great Hall at Hampton Court Palace was magnificent at any time, but when decorated for the Christmas Revels, it took on a magical air. The walls were lined with exquisite tapestries, and between each one, a many-branched floor-standing silver candelabrum had been placed. Swaths of dark green holly with bright red berries hung from the rafters, and from great iron hooks along the walls; the dark, prickly holly was intertwined with ivy of a lighter green, and the combination was most pleasing to the eye. Everyone was dressed in their finest, their jewels and cloth of gold and silver glittering in firelight that was almost as bright as day, there were so many candles burning.

  The floor had been cleared for dancing and the musicians were playing a merry tune. At the sight of the queen upon the arm of Hatton at the entrance to the room, the music stopped and all bowed and curtseyed.

  Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the room; but that nervous tension, that delicious, mysterious pull that she felt whenever she was in Robert’s presence was missing. He was not there. Where the devil was he? Still, Hatton was an even better dancer than Robert. It was on an occasion just such as this one when Hatton had first attracted her attention. That he was handsome guaranteed that she would notice him. But she had found him extraordinarily accomplished at the galliard. No one lifted her as high or in as firm a grip. She had insisted upon Hatton being found a place at court. Many laughed up their sleeves that the dance had been Hatton’s entre into the queen’s inner circle. But Elizabeth soon found him to be intelligent, indeed, he had a quick wit and was quite a gifted intellectual. He had been promoted over the years and was now a fixture at her court. Also, he had remained unmarried, which further recommended him. She preferred to imagine that the men of her court were all in love with her, and that was not so easy to do when a man had a wife hanging on his arm.