In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  A seasoned diplomat, Fénelon knew the value of small talk; one never knew what information could be elicited by a seemingly innocent remark or question. “I understand you are at Cambridge,” he said.

  “Aye,” Robert replied. Anticipating the corollary question, he added, “But I do not intend to take a degree.” Degrees were for those with their way to make in the world; his way was not only already made, it had always been expected that he would follow in his father’s footsteps as advisor to the queen. He must be educated, he must learn, but there was no need to take it any further than that.

  When they reached their destination, a beautiful room overlooking the river, they were heartily glad of the blazing fire in the hearth. April had been a cool month; there was nothing for it but to look forward to May.

  Suddenly, there she was. Both men were accustomed to seeing Elizabeth of England in formal settings; in the throne room of a palace; in the Great Hall of a castle; upon her dais and as remote as the moon. Fénelon had, upon occasion, been granted a private audience; but he had not seen Her Grace of England close up in many years. The change in her was shocking. A wisp of gray hair had escaped the carefully sculpted and bejeweled wig; her teeth were black with rot; her skin was wrinkled and the white paint she wore upon it only served to emphasize the fact. But her dress was as sumptuous as ever, and her jewels were a wonder. Never had either man ever seen such riches, not even at the court of France. Yes, the match with Alençon was necessary. England, and her wealth, must be brought into the sphere of French influence.

  But opulence in dress was only part of the equation; both men recalled at that moment the recent formal reception of their embassy three days before at the new pavilion at Whitehall Palace. They had truly never seen anything quite like it. The pavilion was actually a large canvas tent, painted to look like stone. The illusion was remarkable; both men recalled the legends of the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1520, when this queen’s father had built a similar structure to impress a French king. The pavilion boasted hundreds of glass windows. On the center of every table there had been placed a basket of gilded fruit; exotic fruits such as pomegranate, oranges and grapes shimmered in the sunlight. Delicate tendrils of holly, ivy and feathery yellow rue cascaded artfully from the rafters. The ceiling was blue, having been painted to resemble the sky. From the outer edges to the middle, it was light blue, with puffy white clouds; from the middle to the very apex of the structure, it was a night sky, complete with dazzling golden stars made of tinsel and foil, which shimmered in the breeze that always rose up just at dusk. Rays of the sun emanated from the very center of the ceiling out to the far reaches of the canvas, but even the gleaming gold paint could not rival the brilliant light of the real sun, which was setting in the west as the French delegation entered the pavilion. Vivid rays of afternoon light shone onto the east side of the structure, bathing the glittering queen in its golden beams. Elizabeth of England was a sight to take one’s breath away in her gown of gossamer gold tissue and intricate matching lace ruff.

  The queen’s jewels were many and shone like stars in the filament; but no one could take their eyes off of the crown she wore. Already known as the Drake Crown, it consisted of five enormous emeralds and countless diamonds. Three of the shimmering green gems were oblong and as large as a man’s little finger. The emeralds were as green as England in springtime, and were booty from a Spanish galleon that Drake had taken off the Canary Islands. The Virgin save us, thought Fénelon; it was Sir Francis Drake now! For this queen had had the temerity to knight the blackguard, the self-professed pirate, who was so famous for plundering King Philip’s ships. And then to have a crown fashioned from the loot! Could Her Grace have done anything more to insult the proud Spaniard?

  As they approached the dais where the queen sat upon her impressive throne, they spied a table just beside her; on it was perched a small object. As they neared, they were able to make it out; it shimmered in the strong sunlight. It was the likeness of a frog, fashioned from solid gold and studded with diamonds. It sparkled and gleamed, seemingly with a life of its own. That boded well for the marriage of queen and duc; was not ‘frog’ Queen Elizabeth’s pet name for the duc d’ Alençon?

  A feeling of relief swept over Fénelon; all seemed fair fit to succeed for the marriage negotiations. He would finally get it all settled, his mission would be seen to be a success, and at last, he would go home.

  ###

  The Queen waved a beringed hand at Fénelon and Castelnau, indicating the settles on either side of the hearth. Ah, thought Fénelon, this does bode well! No formality at all! And the queen herself pouring wine for them from a flagon on the sideboard! So this was to be a cozy chat between friends. It was only to be expected; Queen Elizabeth had made quite a fuss over France’s little duc when he was in England. It was unheard of for a prospective royal spouse to present himself for approval; and yet Alençon had done so. The visit had gone very well; both the queen and the duc had seemed mightily pleased with each other. And where else was the aging queen to look for a husband, than to powerful France?

  Cecil was sitting on one of the settles and with some difficulty, made to rise.

  “Monsieur, Monsieur,” said Fénelon solicitously. “If you please, no ceremony. I pray you, stay seated.”

  Cecil nodded and eased himself back into his seat.

  Elizabeth approached bearing two goblets; she handed one each to the two Frenchmen and then returned to the sideboard for two more. She handed Cecil’s to him, and then placed her own goblet, without tasting the wine, onto a side table. Fénelon noticed an elaborate silver casket sitting on the table; it was the casket, he knew, which held the bejeweled frog. Another good sign; evidently, the golden frog went wherever the queen went.

  “My lords,” said Elizabeth. “How good of you to come.”

  “We are delighted, Your Grace,” said Castelnau, “to have been summoned. I am certain that we shall reach an accord quickly regarding the proposed match between your royal self and the duc d’Alençon.”

  Elizabeth said nothing; her golden eyes reflected the fire and seemed almost red for a moment. She lifted the goblet, sipped, and replaced it. “I fear me,” she said, “that there can be no match between myself and the duc.”

  Both men were equally astonished; but it was for Fénelon to speak first, as it was his special embassy. Nonplussed, he stammered, “N-no match, Your Grace? Did Your Grace say no match?”

  Elizabeth nodded beningly. “I did indeed,” she replied. “Surely you have heard of the threat to our English church, to our Reformed faith. A marriage with the duc should only serve to heighten the discontent of the English Catholics. We are aware of the fact that there are many loyal Englishmen who are Catholic, sir. The number of Recusants grows daily, it would seem, regardless of the heavy fines assessed them for refusing to attend Anglican services. Oh, yes, we are quite aware of the number of Catholics who are otherwise loyal subjects.” Clearly, she had stunned them; might as well fire another salvo, then!

  “Catholic aggression is becoming more blatant, sirs,” she said, as if they themselves were personally responsible for the abomination. “The bishop of Rome has sent scores of priests into this country, my lords, fomenting trouble and inciting treason. Nay!” she cried, holding up a bejeweled hand when Fénelon drew breath to speak. Never had they seen such white skin, nor such elegantly long, slim fingers. “Do not dare to deny it! And…” She paused for effect. “I know for a fact that he has subsidized Spanish aggression in Ireland.” She had been a political creature since she was conceived in her famous mother’s womb; she caught just the slightest flicker of an eyelash as she glanced at Fénelon to see the effect of her words. So the French were involved!

  She seemed lost in thought for a moment; and then she said, as if to herself, “What does Philip care if the English and the Dutch go to the Devil our own way?”

  “But Your Grace,” said Fénelon, “has not England mightily offended the Spaniard by your actions?
Does Your Grace not fear the consequences of such? Methinks that Your Grace needs this marriage alliance with France to calm fears of Spanish retribution.”

  Elizabeth set her mouth into a grim line. “England does not need France, my lord,” she replied haughtily. “Had I seen fit to marry with your prince, it would have been out of affection only.”

  Suddenly inspiration visited Castelnau; he leant forward and said, “France, Your Grace, cannot be held responsible for the doings of the pope.”

  Elizabeth cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “She can when the Queen Mother of France is a de’Medici.” The implication was clear; between their astonishing wealth and the fact that the family Medici of Florence boasted no fewer than three previous pontiffs, the French, through Queen Catherine, had the Vatican in its pocket, and Elizabeth knew it.

  “But there is more,” said Elizabeth, her eyes owlish and wide. “The duc d’ Alençon has entered into a pact with the Flemings to be their king, with neither my knowledge nor consent.”

  A retort that he was unaware that such an obligation existed at this time rose to Castelnau’s lips, but he fought back the urge to speak it. Fénelon, ever the diplomatist, said smoothly, “But Your Grace, the duc is no king. Merely Prince and Lord of the Netherlands.”

  Elizabeth rose so suddenly that both men shrunk instinctively down into their seats on the settle. “Do not bandy words with me, my lords!” she cried. “I wrote to him expressing my displeasure, and I am still awaiting His Grace’s reply. Until I have it, no marriage negotiations can take place.”

  Castelnau saw flash before his eyes his short political career; Fénelon conceived at that moment a vision that was to haunt him mercilessly over the next difficult days. Whereas before, thoughts of home had always been expressed in his mind as the image of a ship approaching the harbor at Honfleur, now when he conjured up the same image, the ship was always sailing farther away.

  Elizabeth gave both men time for the full import of her words to sink in; she could tell by the myriad expressions flying over their features just where in the process each was. “But…” she whispered.

  Two hopeful pairs of eyes flew up and met her steely gaze.

  “There is another way.”

  Sheffield Castle, September 1581

  Lord George stole a glance at Mary, who sat in a chair in the garden enjoying the sunshine. It was a relief to see her with her embroidery hoop in her hands once again; he knew that she was now often unable to afford the fine silks and seed pearls with which she loved to sew. Would that he could ensure that she always had what she wanted…and needed. For she was often now unable to afford necessities as well. What, he wondered, was to become of her?

  He recalled another time when she had sat in a garden in just such a chair, a silky Turkey carpet under her slippered feet. Where had they been then? Sheffield? Tutbury? Chatsworth, perhaps? They had been so many places in the years they had been together.

  She was still as beautiful in his eyes as she had always been, but even as was she, he was very much aware of the passage of time. When others looked at her they likely saw only the silver hair at her temples that now nestled amongst the rich auburn; the fine lines around her eyes; the deep grooves carved about her mouth; the perpetual frown that had replaced the easy, eager smile. But always he saw the striking, hopeful, lively woman she had once been, long ago, when he had first made her acquaintance.

  The joint evil that used to plague her only sporadically had now taken permanent hold in her and she was no longer able to ride or hunt. Without the exercise she craved, the weight of her body had shifted in such a manner that she no longer evinced the lean look she had always had. And her skin was pasty…hence his effort to cajole her out of doors into the sun. That it had been necessary to cajole her was a worry in itself; Mary had always craved fresh air and sunshine. Now she was apathetic and seemed not to care where she was.

  That she was suspected of plotting for her freedom he was well aware, and the reality of it was a constant fear. For if any of the Scots queen’s plans and schemes ever succeeded, it would go ill with him, her gaoler. And so he was torn between hoping that something would happen to breathe life back into her, and worrying that should she be liberated against Elizabeth’s will, his head would be forfeit. It might have surprised him to know that a very similar thought was being mulled in Mary’s head at that moment.

  Nothing I plan, she thought, ever comes to fruition. So what danger is there to the man who has done his sovereign’s bidding all these years, by keeping her hapless cousin and fellow queen close confined? There was little danger of Lord George coming to grief on her account!

  She was well aware that bold things were happening out in the world; but she was not part of them. She experienced once again that lost, desperate feeling of being forgotten, of being abandoned, of being left behind. It was maddening, saddening, and frustrating in the extreme.

  And what was at the root of all her troubles? She had searched her life, her past, her memories; at the bottom of it all lay her religion. Why must people be so obstinate? Why could they not see that the fault did not lie with the Catholic faith, but with those fallible men who ran the great machine that was God’s holy church on earth? The Holy Father was supposed to be infallible, of course; but it was difficult to hold that mirror up to men like Alexander VI. The Borgia pope had done more than any in memory to undermine the true faith, and to damage the reputation of the Church. When his licentiousness and vice went unpunished, others simply followed his example. She sympathized more than people knew with men like Martin Luther. But the solution, in her mind, was not a new religion; it was to address and correct the failings of God’s one true church on earth.

  “Ah, me,” she sighed, as she sought to stifle an unregal yawn. She tired so easily these days! Even sitting in the sun became a trial before long; she suffered from the same sciatica that she heard had plagued her grandmother, the formidable Queen Margaret Tudor. That, along with the joint evil, had her looking forward to her brief respite at Buxton Spa. God send that she would be able to travel when the time came! It had been a disappointing summer; the visit to Buxton was all that was left that might bring even a modicum of cheer to her heart.

  She had feared for her life many times, but never had she felt death so near than when news reached them in June that despite Elizabeth’s warnings, the erstwhile Regent Morton had been executed for his supposed complicity in Darnley’s murder. She suppressed a snort. Was there anyone in Scotland who had not wished Darnley ill and participated in his demise? Darnley had been a thoroughly despicable person, but worse, he was a bad ruler. He had deserved death, and it was impossible to mourn him, even as the father of her child. Elizabeth had blustered and threatened to have her executed if even a hair on Morton’s head was harmed; the earl was Anglophile, and deep in the Queen of England’s pocket. He was the head of the English party in Scotland. But it had proven an empty threat; Morton was beheaded without even a whimper of protest from England. She suspected that Elizabeth had too healthy a respect for her own royalty to presume to end the life of a fellow monarch. Even if there was no love lost between them, she believed in her heart that her cousin would never kill her…it would set a bad example.

  In July, an erstwhile favorite of Elizabeth’s, a backsliding priest named Edmund Campion, had been arrested for sedition and treason for promoting Catholic interests on English soil and in defiance of the laws of the realm. If the rumors were to be believed, he had been tortured. Jesuit priests were pouring into England…further proof that the people…many of them! …still craved the consolation of the Catholic faith. But even more important were the rumors that Campion’s cohorts ranged far and wide, as far as Rome and Madrid if the reports were true, seeking assistance to depose Elizabeth and place herself on the thrones of both England and Scotland.

  If only it should come to pass! But then, what of James? At the thought of her son, a dark shadow passed over her heart. For he had kept his promise to the pernici
ous Esme, and created his enchanting cousin Duke of Lennox. As long as Esme Stuart held sway over king and council in Scotland, there would be no place for her. Her only hope lay in help from the powers on the Continent. She was now in her thirteenth year of captivity; if help were forthcoming from her Guise relations, it would have come by now. She must accept that if rescue were coming, it would only come now from Rome and Spain.

  But for the first time, she was beginning to wonder if she would live to see it.

  Richmond Palace, October 1581

  As the ship swayed on the flooding tide, sunlight reflecting off the water played upon the walls of the tiny cabin. Alençon lay on his bunk, stretched out to his full height. He was a short man; his toes barely touched the opposite wall. Jehan had long legs; he sat in a chair with his limbs crossed at the ankles.

  Apropos of nothing, Alençon remarked, “Women are a fickle lot, Jehan.”

  Jehan de Simier smirked. “Indeed, they are, Your Grace,” he replied. “And there is none worse than a queen, who may do as she lists!”

  Alençon sat up cross-legged on the bunk. “Why is she so angry with me, Jehan? Have I not given my heart and soul to the Netherlands, fighting off the very Spaniard who even now threatens England’s shores? Prince and Lord of the Netherlands! Empty titles.”

  Simier guffawed. “That is perhaps so. But Your Grace also had yourself proclaimed Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders.”

  “Hah!” exclaimed Alençon. “Those titles are even more meaningless! Besides which, the prize I seek is King of England.”

  “Well, Your Grace,” laughed Simier, “you are unlikely to win such a prize. The queen has told King Henri in no uncertain terms that the marriage is off. And you have compounded the difficulty by running hotfoot back to England to tug at Her Majesty’s skirts.”