Simier was silent for so long that Alencon began to think he had dozed off. And then suddenly he spoke, although he did not move.
“Just this,” said Simier. “It seems to me that an entire cult has taken root and grown up around this queen. It makes perfect sense. Do you not see? There are many in England who still remember the old days. They miss the old ways. Their queen has become a substitute for the Virgin Mary, the mother who looks out for them and keeps them safe. And all at the price of a little subtle supplication and flattery.”
Alençon tossed back the last of the contents of his wine cup and poured another. “You blaspheme,” he said, casting a wary eye up at the sky. Rays of golden sunlight came down in buttery shafts through the puffy white clouds.
Simier had cocked open an eye, caught Alençon’s gesture, and laughed heartily. “That is a debatable point,” he replied. “But be that as it may, it does not change the fact that the Queen of England has become a focus of personal worship for many, even if they do not themselves realize it. All they need do is venerate the queen as they used to venerate the mother of Christ, and she shall deliver them from the evils of foreign intervention. The English are an insular race. It is because they live on an island.”
“Humph,” snorted Alençon. “Then how does one explain their subjugation of the Welsh and their constant bickering with the Scots?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Strange bedfellows, the Scots and the French; one race so primitive and boorish, the other so elegant and refined.”
“That is not such an enigma,” replied Simier with a shrug. “Many French find the Scots attractive for those very reasons.”
A shiver went up Alençon’s spine at the thought of what the Scots wore beneath their strange dress. A more virile race of men he had never seen. He may deride his brother for spending his nights up the arses of his favorite minions, but he himself was little different. He enjoyed a man as well as a woman. It simply made no difference to him; it was a matter of mood. Skin was skin. “But you were talking about Elizabeth.”
“Yes,” said Simier. “Her Grace has become, over the years, a sort of talisman; a good luck charm, if you will. She has gone from being an unwanted girl, a despised bastard, to a competent, powerful queen. Her frailty and her refusal to name a successor make her even more precious to her people. Without her, England would sink into chaos.”
Alençon grimaced. “Personally, I find the religious situation in England to be completely absurd. How can a woman be Defender of the Faith and Supreme Head of any Christian church? Does not the Bible say that women shall be silent in the Church? And Her Grace’s reputation is hardly spotless.”
Simier shrugged. “The answer lies in her crowning, François,” said Jean. “Her Grace was touched by a priest with holy oil. She is venerated as a sacred being for the simple reason that she is anointed of God.”
Alençon drained his wine cup once again. What would it be like, being married to such a one as she? A virgin queen, if such could be believed after so much gossip, and one who was revered as a demigod in her own country. But it seemed that there was no other way. He had briefly considered the Queen of Scotland as an alternative; Mary Stuart was younger than Elizabeth, charming and beautiful. But no…freeing her would require an army that he did not have and an effort that he was unwilling to make.
So the Queen of England it must be.
Norwich, August 1578
Elizabeth was standing at the open window when the delegation of Councilors arrived, bearing the parchment for her signature and seal. Although they suspected that she knew of their presence; the metallic swish of the halberdier’s battle axes should surely have given them away. She did not turn to face them, but stayed by the window, as still as a statue. Silently they waited.
The Bishop’s Palace at Norwich Cathedral was as sumptuous as any in the realm; the bishop had astutely given up his privy chamber and its associated rooms for the duration of the queen’s stay. The view of the gardens was magnificent; great swaths of clipped lawn separated banks of colorful flowers. Order and beauty reigned in Bishop Freke’s garden. The yews were clipped so finely that they might have been painted. The banks of flowers seemingly sported not a single dead bloom. Rose trees in every color were surrounded by ornamental lavender, which in turn was ringed about the base with vivid yellow primroses. Elizabeth’s gaze wandered farther afield to alight upon wild red poppies swaying in the warm breeze. The contrast with purple scabious and blue cornflowers was startling.
To her right she could just see the creamy stone of the soaring spires of Norwich Cathedral. Norwich was a lively town, supported by a prosperous populace. The pageants the townspeople had staged to celebrate the queen’s visit were both touching and sophisticated. But now all was quiet; the only sound was that of the wind sighing through the trees. It carried on it the sound, faint and haunting, of the cathedral’s magnificent pipe organ, along with the mysterious scent of frankincense.
Still the men waited in silence. She sighed. It was useless to delay.
Elizabeth turned from the window to face them. Her cousin, Sir Henry Radclyffe, 4th Earl of Sussex, stood in the center of the group of men. He was flanked by Heneage and Hatton on one side, and Cecil and Sir Nicholas Bacon, Keeper of the Great Seal, on the other. Sir Nicholas clutched the black velvet bag with the thick woven golden cord that she knew contained the Great Seal of the Realm. Dusk was imminent and just as she turned, the late afternoon sun stabbed shafts of golden light through the clouds. The light shone on Elizabeth’s red hair and lit it up as if with a halo. A million dust motes danced in the beams. Wordlessly, she held out her hand; Sir Henry proffered the parchment with a bow. The only sound in the room was the rustling of the sheepskin as she unfolded the stiff document.
As the queen’s eyes scanned the words, Sir Nicholas drew the cords of the pouch, withdrew the seal, and placed it on the table that bore the stout stick of red wax, the burner, the spoon, and other implements necessary to the task of sealing an official royal document. As the queen read, he began his preparations. The acrid scent of sealing wax filled the air, competing with the frankincense, as the burner melted the wax.
The only sound in the room was the rapid scratching of the quill as she wrote her elaborate signature upon the document. Elizabeth studied the document for a long moment, and then finally laid the quill aside. But just as Sir Nicholas made to pour the wax into the metal spoon for spilling onto the folded document, Elizabeth held up her hand. “I shall do it myself,” she cried. She seized the spoon and poured a generous portion of the melted wax onto the fold. Without preamble, she lifted the heavy golden seal and pounded it down with a crash onto the blob of hot red wax. She regarded her work with a bland expression. That was that, then. After years of secret, informal negotiations, she was officially seeking the hand in marriage of Hercule François de France; he who was Duc de Alençon; Duc de Évreux, Duc de Château-Thierry; Count of Perche; Count of Meulan; Count of Mantes; Duc de Berry; Duc deTouraine; and lately, Duc de Anjou.
Her bitterness over the marriage of Robert and Lettice had not abated one iota, but she had learnt patience in her twenty years as queen. It was true, she reflected, that the windmills of God ground slowly, but that they ground exceedingly fine. She knew through her spies in Robert’s household that Lettice had been suffering since she had come to truly realize what perpetual banishment from court really meant to her. There was no one now who mattered to fawn upon her, to regale her with compliments on her beauty, or on the fineness of her gowns and jewels. There was seldom anyone except the local gentry in whichever outlying castle or manor house she happened to be living in, to grace her table and her Great Hall.
And Robert! Called back to court to plan her Summer Progress through East Anglia, he believed that all was forgiven and that he was back in favor. He had come to think, because so much time had passed, that she had forgotten his treachery. But this was far from true. For since the spring, she had woven a plan for her revenge as care
fully, as meticulously, as a spider weaves her web. And now it was time to play the siren song that would attract him to his doom. Oh, she did not really wish him dead; far from it, and therein lay the paradox. She wished to crush him as utterly as he had crushed her by his defection to the arms…and to the bed! …of her cousin. She wished to witness, each and every day, his utter devastation, that after all these years, after all his hopes and cherished dreams, another would wear the crown that he had lusted after; that another would share her bed and enjoy her body. The result might even be an heir to the throne. Such was not impossible, as much as the gossips liked to speculate that it was.
And forsooth, but what madness had seized her in the past when she had first received Alençon’s letters? She could see it clearly now, what a pathetic fool she had been. A lovesick queen, clinging to the avowals of love of a man over twenty years her junior! It was high time she faced stark reality. Alençon was the son of Madame Serpent, that sly Italian, the Queen Mother of France, Catherine de’ Medici. When had that woman…or any astute female ruler for that matter…not been in complete control of the weak fools around her? It was almost certain that Catherine had either engineered the situation in which Alençon found himself, or that she had had a hand in seeing to it that someone else did so. There was no room for empathy, for any fellow feeling, between two female rulers who reigned over enemies as bitter as France and England had always been. Catherine was certainly no friend, fellow queen or no. She must never forget that Alençon was the French Queen Mother’s tool…and Henri’s.
Elizabeth scowled as she recalled an incident at the French court at the Christmastide just past. Queen Catherine had dressed her dwarves in sumptuous costumes resembling herself, Robert, and certain of her courtiers, and had put on a masque ridiculing her use of nicknames for those closest to her. Her ambassador had been shocked at such impolitic behavior, and had protested vigorously the insult to the crown of England and its queen. She herself had been livid, but she knew that the only manner in which to manage the situation, to save face, was to laugh and agree with Queen Catherine that it was all in fun, and that the Queen Mother had not known of the plans her dwarves had devised for the entertainment of the French court. But it still rankled and she had every intention of making Alençon’s life a misery to make up for his mother’s imprudent actions. Revenge on all, and all to the good of the realm. Machiavelli could not have done better.
Yes, wreaking her sly vengeance upon Robert and Lettice would indeed be sweet. And if she could arrange it so that this delicious retribution should coincide with what was best for England, why, all the better. She studied the seal on the parchment as if she had never seen it before; as she did so, she suddenly let out a bark of laughter. The men in the room, Cecil and Sussex, who were in favor of the match, and Heneage and Hatton, who were not, regarded her quizzically, but said nothing. The irony of the reversal of her attitude towards marriage often made her laugh at odd moments. It was now she who wanted marriage, and ironically, the men of her Council and Parliament who did not. They felt that she was too old, and that a first child at her age was a risk that should not be taken. They feared for her, yes, but also for themselves. Should she die without an heir while married to the heir to the throne of France, the consequences could be dire. And God’s eyeballs, they would be even more so should she die leaving Alençon’s son behind her on the throne of England! So after all the many years of Parliamentary nagging, she had had to command the Speaker to command Parliament to petition her once again to marry. After all, pride dictated that it must not appear that it was she who wanted the marriage with Alençon; any marriage for her must be at the instigation of Parliament.
She guffawed inelegantly once again and handed the document wordlessly to Sussex, who would deliver it into the hands of the French ambassador. The news of it would be a rude shock to Robert, whom she had not yet informed of her intentions; all the more so for the lack! And serve him right!
Sussex bowed and said, “Your Grace, I, for one applaud your decision.”
“Good Cousin,” she replied. “I fear me that not all have your clear sight on the matter.” She regarded the others levelly. “My lords, England cannot afford a strong French influence in the Netherlands,” she said. “Know you not what it would mean for France to command another coastline opposite to our very shores?”
“But Your Grace, is not the danger posed by Spain in possession of the very same coastline equally as dangerous?” asked Heneage.
She appeared to consider this carefully, but she had her answer ready. “Spain’s hold in the Netherlands is in chaos,” she said with a shrug. “And the Spanish locus of control is far away in Madrid.” She gestured towards the parchment that Sussex still held in his hand. “This way is better.” Yes, she thought, much better; for in marriage with Alençon she should achieve all her goals. France neutralized and Spain foiled. Her English pirates ruled the Channel and would soon rule the waters of the world. At this very moment Francis Drake sailed the high seas, his goal to circumnavigate the globe. Robert would be checkmated; and most delicious of all, Mary of Scotland should be shown that she, too, could snare a husband. The perfect husband, forsooth! For Alençon had demonstrated how ineffectual he was; that, combined with his youth, ought to render him easy to manipulate and control. The perpetual fear of a strong husband usurping her throne was mitigated with such as he.
The men shifted on uneasy feet as the queen ruminated. They all knew the futility of argument; and the interesting thing was, the queen was so often correct in her reasoning that they were unsure to a man that argument was even appropriate. Perhaps it was best to leave it alone.
“My lords,” she said soothingly. “England needs this marriage, or at least the parley for it, to keep France in check. As long as we are in negotiations, Spain shall also be kept in check; Philip’s woes in the Netherlands prevent him from shifting his focus here to our shores in any case. Is that not so?”
They all had to admit the soundness of that argument. Don Juan had his hands full in the Low Countries and was making little headway in his effort to restore order there.
“All right then,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let us celebrate this momentous occasion.” She walked to the elaborately carved wooden sideboard where the bishop ensured that a flagon of wine, a cask of ale ready for tapping, and a bowl of fresh fruit in such variety that they resembled jewels, was always available. She poured the pale, cool wine into Venetian glass goblets chased with gold so fine that the men were loath to touch them, lest they shatter into pieces. As they all drank the queen’s health, each thought his own thoughts, but all wondered what fate awaited the prince of France. For all believed that this time, the queen was in deadly earnest about marriage. And she could not have chosen a more hapless figure than François de Alençon.
Tutbury Castle, October 1578
“Your Grace,” said Seton firmly. “I am sorry, but you must eat.” She regarded Mary’s back with more desperation than she hoped was evident in her voice; the queen lay curled up on the bed facing the wall.
“Oh, leave her be,” said Bess. If the Queen of Scotland did not wish to sup, then let her hunger. All the more for everyone else! And forsooth, she was nothing loath to save a penny wherever possible.
Seton, admitting defeat once again, signed to Britton to take the tray away. She regarded Bess’s retreating figure with no little displeasure. It was not her place to feel one way or the other about the queen’s gaolers, but she simply could not help disliking the Countess of Shrewsbury. Such a disagreeable woman! She had come to feel heartily sorry for the earl, and could not cease wondering what on earth had inspired Lord George to seek Bess’s hand in marriage. Whatever it was, she failed to see it. A known shrew! What man in possession of his senses would willingly have put his head into such a yoke?
She turned her attention back to Mary.
“Your Grace,” she said softly. “I understand, truly I do. None better. But you simply must rouse
yourself. All is not lost.”
Mary was silent for so long that Seton was about to turn away when the sound of Mary’s voice arrested her. Without moving or even turning her head she said, “I might as well be dead. There is no hope anymore.”
“Not so!” Seton replied firmly. “All who are amongst the living have hope. Does not the Bible say that a living dog is better than a dead lion? The living know that they will die, but the dead know not anything. Nor can the dead do anything to help their plight.”
Mary sat up so swiftly that Seton was taken aback. Her eyes flashed as she used an impatient hand to throw back the locks of hair that had escaped her headpiece. Finally she simply tore the headpiece off and flung it from her.
“What hope is left, I ask you?” she cried.
Seton regarded Mary with sad eyes. The death of Don Juan had thrown the Queen of Scotland into such a profound melancholy that Seton feared for her sanity. Never had she seen Mary so bereft, so despondent, so downhearted. “Such despair,” she said, “shows a lamentable lack of faith, Your Grace.”
Mary appeared to consider this; after a few moments she shook her head. “I do not lack faith,” said Mary. “What I lack is the conviction that things are ever going to go right for me. Have I not ample evidence that Fortune has turned her back on me?”
“Fortune may have done so, but God has not.”
“Humph,” said Mary. “I have begun to suspect, Seton, that such is simply not true. And can you wonder? When has anything gone right for me?” It was a paradox, really; she had been Queen of Scotland practically from birth, a circumstance that some marveled at and envied. But that very circumstance meant that she had lost her father before she had ever even known him. And her ascension to the throne at the age of six days had eventually resulted in the loss of her mother. Had she not been sent to France for her own safety, at the expense of leaving her mother behind as regent? At the age of six years she had been forced to flee her kingdom; she had seen her mother only once more in this life. To lose one’s mother to death was a natural occurrence that one expected to happen someday. But to lose one’s mother, to be separated from a mother’s loving care by circumstance, not to death but to exile, was a cruel fate.
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