In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Many was the time, when she was young, that she had romped with Robert in this room, sometimes in this very bed. But it had always been in fun, and never had they truly been alone. All their romps had been in the presence of her ladies, and never unless her chief lady of the bedchamber were within call. Sometimes it would be fun-loving, wicked Kat, who had looked on benignly, or stern, disapproving Blanche. But those days were long past.

  She lay back, closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of utter well-being that filled her spirit. It was a feeling she had almost forgotten, the past months had been so fraught with heartache and anxiety.

  Her cousin Margaret, Lady Lennox, had died suddenly early in the spring. Even though Margaret was some years older than herself, her death had come as a nasty shock. Margaret had always been so fiery, so alive; seeing her dead had evoked not grief exactly, but a certain numbing uneasiness. Me too? One day? Never had any death so touched her perception of her own mortality. To compensate for these complicated and unexpected feelings, she had paid for an elaborate funeral for her cousin in Westminster Abbey, where Margaret had been laid to rest in the tomb alongside her beloved son Charles, only so recently claimed by death in the flower of his youth. They would rest together for all eternity.

  No sooner had she put Margaret’s death behind her than another cousin, Lady Mary Grey, had died of the plague that was raging through London that spring. This time she experienced inexplicable waves of guilt washing over her. She had not seen her cousin, or thought about her for that matter, for many years. So she was baffled as to why Mary’s death should disturb her so. What she had done to Mary Grey, and to Mary’s sister, Katherine Grey, had been done for the good of the state. Her actions in separating the two hapless sisters from their unsanctioned spouses had not been done out of spite; it had been done for the good of England. And yet Mary’s death had distressed her so profoundly that she could not eat for two days, and had not slept through the night until her cousin was laid in the elaborate tomb alongside her formidable mother, the Lady Frances Brandon.

  It seemed that death had ruled the world that spring; the Grim Reaper’s cold sickle had touched even the Earl of Bothwell, who had died insane in his dank Danish prison. Recalling this brought inevitable thoughts of the Queen of Scotland to mind. With Bothwell’s demise, Mary…troublesome creature! …was now free to marry again. Elizabeth snorted. Not that Bothwell’s death really made any difference. She knew all about Mary’s petition for annulment of her marriage to Bothwell, that she might marry Don Juan of Austria. The knowledge still annoyed her, even after all this time. For though she had had no intention of actually marrying Philip’s bastard brother, her own discreet enquiries as to a possible match with Don Juan, made in an attempt to ease the political situation in the Netherlands, had been dismissed out of hand by the prospective bridegroom himself. Don Juan had scorned her offer, averring that he could not possibly accept the advances of a woman, queen or no, whose life served to offer so much food for gossip. And yet he lusted after her cousin of Scotland, whose life and example included suspicions of adultery and murder! And Alençon had seemingly turned his coat as well; ever since he failed to meet her at Dover, he had made quite a show of being a devout Catholic. She knew that his situation at the French court required such mummery, but it still rankled.

  Yes, thanks to her Good Moor’s diligence, she was well aware of Mary’s feeble plots, which her cousin hoped would result in her ascension to the throne of a united England and Scotland. Mary was a fervent Catholic, and her burning desire to champion the Catholic faith and bring it back to England and Scotland was a threat that she could not afford to ignore. She knew Mary lived for the day when she might supplant her on the throne of England. Threats, everywhere there were threats.

  She even knew about Robert’s machinations with Bess of Hardwick, to convince her to name the Lady Arabella Stuart, that hapless child, as her heir, once the girl was safely married to Robert’s son. Could they really have believed that she would sanction such a scheme? If so, then none of them knew her very well, even after all this time. And Robert least of all! For never would she allow her heart to rule over her good sense. It seemed that this was a lesson that Robert had never learned, nor ever should.

  Perhaps Robert truly believed that her fondness for him would override all. He had proved this amply by secretly marrying her cousin! The very thought of Robert and Lettice still had the power to move her to blistering anger, even though it was months since she first learned of this ultimate betrayal. Robert’s sham marriage to Douglass she dismissed as the irrelevancy it was. But Lettice was a different matter altogether.

  But the death that had most affected her was, surprisingly, that of Eric of Sweden. Once upon a time he had wanted to marry her; and now he was dead. It made her feel both sad and old.

  Elizabeth threw back the covers and strode to the window. The wind was blowing stiffly now, and brought with it the sweet, almost cloying scent of roses. Hundreds of them were in bloom in the gardens that her magnificent rooms overlooked. She tried to turn away but she could not; her eyes were drawn to a place where the roses climbed an arbor. It reminded her of another rose-bedecked arbor at Hampton Court, where so many years ago, she had espied Robert and Lettice sharing a jest and laughing together. She could still see Lettice stretching out a plump white hand to touch Robert’s sleeve. The feeling of well-being she had experienced just moments before was lost in a red mist of anger.

  In the midst of her fury at this painful memory, her mind recalled the day that Cecil had stumped into her privy closet in a state of reticence that was most unlike him. When he finally blurted out the news that Robert and Lettice had married secretly at Kenilworth and that Lettice was almost certainly with child, she had exploded in a rage that had frightened even that seasoned advisor. She had screamed and cried, she threw her inkpot and her wine flagon; the black and red stains were so pervasive that almost every carpet and curtain in the room had had to be replaced.

  Once her tirade began the room seemed to fill with men. Sussex, Heneage, Hatton and Walsingham all filed in, each seeking in his own way to soothe her. Later she wondered how they had decided that Burleigh should be the one to break the news to her. By drawing straws, no doubt! For who would want the unenviable task of telling such a thing to the queen?

  They had stood in awe of a temper that all believed they had seen the worst of until that day. But when she threatened to throw Robert in the Tower, Sussex, her only kinsman amongst them, had bravely stepped forward to say her nay.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” he said, “but you must not do that.”

  “I am the Queen of England, sir!” she shouted. “I can do as I will!”

  But Sussex had only shaken his head. “That gives you the power to do so, Madam, but not the right. Marriage is a sacrament of the Church. It is not an offence against the state.” He bravely met her searing gaze with calm dignity.

  Suddenly her anger abated just as the mightiest wave breaks when it reaches the shore. Deflated, she dropped down into the nearest chair with an inelegant plop. Sussex was right, and she knew it. Oh, she could have had Robert arrested on suspicion of complicity in the death of the Earl of Essex. Surely a clandestine marriage with the earl’s widow was enough to cast new suspicion upon a death that had been declared natural, but about which a great deal of uncertainty still swirled.

  But no. She cast her mind back to that night at Greenwich when she had raised her eyes to his and seen his innocence reflected there. Robert was guilty of many things, but she was certain that the death of the Earl of Essex was not amongst them. And well she knew that if she were to withdraw her favor from Robert, the wolves would descend and he would be undone. She drew a ragged breath and let it out in a long, defeated sigh. The men in the room exchanged relieved glances that had not been lost on her.

  Suddenly the sun went behind a cloud and the room was momentarily in a state of gloom. It would not last long, she knew; soon the sun would s
how its face again. The day could not fail to be fine, for at last, Robert was on his way to her. She had held out for two miserable months. All that time she had fretted and fumed; she could hold out no longer.

  It was true that they had had a marvelous row when she confronted him about his marriage to Lettice. She had been so angry that she had done the unthinkable and banished them both from court. She had always suspected them; it was cold comfort to know that she had been right!

  Her intense anger sustained her through much of April, but May had been unbearable. Walsingham’s spies reported how happy Robert and Lettice were together; she knew of the idyll that was their life. That knowledge only added to her misery. Yes, the month of May had been wretched indeed. It had rained without ceasing for weeks, curtailing any physical activity. And all during the time that Robert had been doting upon Lettice, she had been tearful and morose amongst the drooping roses, which had bloomed early and seemed particularly sad in the incessant rain. There was nothing to do save see to state matters and brood.

  But that was all over now. The news that Lettice was not with child after all had gone a long way to buoying her flagging spirits. And June was a month for lovers. Robert would be hers once again, and Lettice be damned! All she had to do was to crook her finger in his direction and she knew with a deadly certainty that he would be back by her side in a trice, fawning and begging forgiveness. And it must needs be without…dismal thought! …his wife, who was banished from court forever. And as she had no intention of foregoing her Summer Progress, she must needs recall him so that they…as queen and her Master of Horse…could plan the excursion.

  The thought of Robert’s marriage still galled her, but it was done now and likely could not be undone. But a queen was not powerless against even a sacrament of the Church; especially a queen who was the Supreme Head of that Church! She would think of a way. But for now, it was high time that she exacted revenge upon her faithless lover and her treacherous cousin. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

  Paris, June 1578

  The day was exceptionally fine and Alençon was taking advantage of it by sailing in his barge down the Seine. A warm breeze blew, making the water slightly choppy, but the effect was lulling in the hazy sunlight. A million diamonds sparkled on the water.

  Alençon glanced over at Jean Simier. His friend’s face was tilted up to the sun and his eyes were closed. Jean was such a handsome man; many did not understand his attachment to Simier, since he himself was so ugly. But really, he was not as ugly as people claimed, at least he did not think so. It was true that he had received the worst of the smallpox, but absent that, he was actually quite handsome. He knew this because his mother had commissioned a portrait of him that did not include his scars. The eyes looked out at him serenely from it and reflected what might have been, had he not been so unfortunately afflicted by such a dread disease.

  “She would be a most fortunate lady,” said Simier, apropos of nothing, without opening his eyes.

  This was one of the things that he liked so much about Simier; the two of them were so much in tune that they could carry on a conversation together about a spontaneous train of thought without preamble, as if they had been discussing it for hours.

  “I am not so sure,” said Alençon. “Her Grace has done an impressive job of ruling England on her own these many years, without the help of a husband.”

  Simier opened his eyes, clasped his hands behind his head, and reclined on the cushioned seat. “But not without help or advice at all. Her Gracious Majesty is perpetually surrounded by men, it would seem.”

  It was true; Elizabeth had many astute councilors and courtiers…and spies, no doubt! …looking to her interests and England’s. And court gossip indicated that she did not lack for suitors! But he had a feeling that Elizabeth Tudor’s accomplishments were her own. It had been twenty years since she ascended the throne of England, and against all odds, not only had she not made the muddle of it that her sister had done, but she had become quite a successful ruler. She had the love and respect of her people, but they also feared her; a winning combination in any monarch, let alone a woman. And he was uniquely positioned to understand such a situation; his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, was the Queen Mother of France. Everyone might bend the knee to his brother and call him king, but all knew who really ruled!

  “That is true,” said Alençon. “But it goes beyond mere admiration, I think. La Tudor has achieved much. She has managed to keep England free from foreign conflict. She has avoided the sort of civil and religious wars that plague France and the Netherlands. This has stimulated tremendous prosperity in England. And everyone loves a ducat, do they not?”

  Simier snorted. “Yes,” he replied. “Indeed, they do. But has she not accomplished all this by entering more marriage negotiations than can easily be recalled?”

  From anyone else, such a blunt statement might have been an insult; but Alençon knew that Good Jean had only his best interests at heart. Both were aware of the ridicule going the rounds of the Continental courts at the idea of a marriage between himself and the Queen of England; and from the accounts sent by the French ambassador, the same scorn and derision was evident at the English court. Almost twenty-two years separated him from Elizabeth on the wrong side, making for an absurd situation. Mary had been only eleven years older than Philip, and what a disaster that had been! And beside that, it was impossible for anyone to believe that Alençon’s motive for marrying Elizabeth Tudor could be anything other than a crown. And no one believed in Elizabeth’s sincerity; her marriage negotiations were believed to be insincere and politically motivated. Such beliefs were supported by Her Grace’s own admission on the subject; had she not stated many times that she had no wish to marry?

  “I agree,” said Alençon. “All that you say is true. But it is more than that. I am certain that you will agree that her intellect commands great respect; and she has a reputation for elegance, magnificence and royal grandeur.”

  “One would expect no less in a queen. And she offers a crown.”

  Alencon became thoughtful and did not reply. Yes, there was that…he hungered for a crown. All his brothers had been, or were, kings. He himself was heir to the throne of France, and likely to remain such, due to his brother’s penchant for his minions instead of his wife! And things had not gone as he had hoped in the Netherlands.

  It had been almost three years since he fled the French court under fear of death at the hands of his own brother. There was no loyalty or familial sentiment that could supplant the heady feeling of royal power. He knew full well that his brother would not stop at murder, even of a brother, if he felt his sovereignty threatened. Henri had played at being King of Poland, but had made hotfoot for home the moment their brother Charles had given up the ghost at the young age of three-and-twenty. And Henri did not look to make old bones either! So who knew? Perhaps his ill-fated plans to usurp the throne of France had not even been necessary. St. Michael and all His angels knew, he had certainly failed miserably at it! He was a great believer in Fortune; perhaps it was simply not to be, no matter how hard one tried. But if that were the case, then his plans to achieve a crown through marriage into England seemed doomed to failure as well. Had he not tried, for years, to forge a marriage with Elizabeth? And each time he had been gainsaid, first by circumstances, and then by his mother and his brother. So perhaps that was not to be, either. Still, one must have faith; one must not give up.

  He had tried joining the Huguenot rebels in the Low Countries to gain Elizabeth’s favor, and lo and behold, he had been offered a crown there. The Flemings had perceived his value and offered him their throne; but Spain, France and England were appalled at the suggestion. Henri intervened and he had been unable to accept. Elizabeth had been offered the crown of the Netherlands in his place. What an irony that was!

  Every one of his plans had fallen through, and all he had gotten out of the whole debacle was the dukedom of Anjou. He had brokered a peace treat
y that bore his name, the Peace of Monsieur, even though its proper name was the Edict of Beaulieu. Its terms were a compromise that pleased no one, but it was the best that could be accomplished, because Dutch resistance to Spanish tyranny was so divided. The Catholic states desired their freedom from the Spaniard but not at the expense of an alliance with a Protestant movement.

  He thought back once again on his unsuccessful attempt to overthrow Henri in a palace revolution. Perhaps he should try again, and Elizabeth be damned. But a bloodless coup d’etat was one thing; open, bloody rebellion was quite another. His mother knew him well enough; she had openly accused him of fomenting war against his own brother, against his native France. And who knew? With the might of the crown of the Netherlands behind him, he may very well have succeeded in dethroning his brother and seizing the sovereignty of France. But all had come to naught. And so it was back to Elizabeth, now his only hope of making reality of the prophesy that his mother set such store by; that all her sons were destined to be kings. He must begin sending letters to Elizabeth again. She had evidently enjoyed the love letters, most of which had been written not by him but by Simier, that he had sent the first time he decided to woo her.

  “It might well prove difficult, you know, married to such a paragon,” said Simier. He reached for the wine flagon at his elbow and poured two mugs. He handed one to Alençon.

  “Why, what mean you?”

  Simier sipped from his cup, set it aside, and stretched out full length on the cushioned seat, an arm thrown across his face to block the glare of the sun. Really, thought Alençon indulgently, Jean was such an indolent creature!