In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “But with all due respect, Your Grace,” said Sir John, who spoke for the majority, “many believe war with Spain to be inevitable. Would it not be better to fight such a war on Dutch soil instead of English?”

  It was a clever argument, and one she had heard before. “Sirs,” she said, “I sincerely hope that the day never comes when Spain sees fit to attack England. But if she does, we shall fight her with all our might. But provoking such an occurrence is something that I shall never do.” The inevitable shouts arose and reached a crescendo; she waited until the wave of sound crested and then raised her hand for silence.

  “I shall hear no more,” she said. “I pray you, turn your time and attention to the Bond of Association. I have heard that tens of thousands of loyal Englishmen clamor to put their names to such a bond.”

  It was true, and the implication was clear; Her Grace’s thrifty and unwarlike ways accounted for much of her popularity. She nodded, and departed the Great Hall to the clarion call of the trumpets announcing the departure of the queen from the Parliament. As she walked away, the crystal notes dying on the air, she reflected that while her tears and grief for Alençon were real enough, she had feared that with his death would come increased pressure to intervene in the war against Spain in the Netherlands. The Netherlanders must be helped in order to keep Philip too preoccupied across the water to invade England. But at what cost, she wondered?

  Wingfield Manor, Derbyshire, December 1584

  Mary shaded her eyes against the watery winter sun; she had lost sight of her falcon in its pale yellow glow. And what joy to have a horse between her knees once again!

  As much as she had feared the treatment she might receive at Sir Ralph’s hands, and the grief she had suffered at losing Lord George, time had proved Sir Ralph a gentle gaoler. This time, her strange charm had worked on him; he had actually apologized to her for his harsh treatment of her all those years ago at Sheffield. As much as it was possible for a captive queen to be happy and content, she was so at Wingfield Manor with Sir Ralph.

  Thankfully, the daily tension that had manifested itself wherever Bess of Hardwick abided was gone, evaporated like a marsh mist. In little more than a few weeks, her health had improved remarkably; so much so that the joint evil she suffered was in abeyance, and she was able to ride once more.

  Suddenly a swift movement caught her eye; her falcon had reappeared and was in his deadly dive. As he dove, he let loose an ear-splitting screech. With lightning speed, the kill was made; upon impact little tufts of fur exploded into the air.

  Sir Ralph waited patiently for the hawkmaster to inspect and bag the kill, and then reward Mary’s falcon with a gobbet of deer meat. Once the procedure was complete, he pulled the cord that loosed the hood from his own hawk’s eyes, and deftly untied with one hand the short leather strap that fastened the jesses around each leg of the mighty bird. Thus freed of its encumbrances, he gave his arm the slight lift that told the bird he was to fly. The goshawk was much larger and weighed heavier than Mary’s falcon, but for all that, he was a graceful creature; he arose from Sir Ralph’s gauntleted arm with flowing agility and soared into the azure December sky with a piercing shriek.

  Sir Ralph looked fondly over at Mary. He had a great deal of respect for a woman, for anyone, in fact, who could sit a horse and handle birds of prey so well. He remembered the Queen of Scotland as a young lass, just a baby, really, at the court of Marie de Guise. He had served Henry VIII as Privy Councilor, Secretary of State and ambassador to Scotland; in the latter role, he had gone to Edinburgh to see the little queen, and to judge Her Grace’s suitability as a bride for His Grace of England’s son and heir, Edward.

  He had been more than impressed, with both mother and daughter. Marie de Guise had proved to be a wise, judicious ruler. She was intelligent, perceptive and shrewd; her statecraft was astute and her judgment sound.

  In the blasé manner of the Frenchwoman, she had stripped the princess of her garments and held her up naked for Sir Ralph to inspect. The little Queen of Scots was incredibly beautiful and perfect in every way. Marie had laughed in her tinkling, pleasant manner, her eyes sparkling with humor, saying that her daughter was thriving and would soon be as big as her mother. It was a delightful play on both words and physical truth, for the Queen Regent was a handsome woman, buxom and bonny, very tall, with a fine form and rude good health.

  But the Scots misliked the idea of a marriage between their queen and the future king of England; not only would it mean an end to the Auld Alliance with France, but since Mary was female and Edward male, it was assumed that the government of Scotland would effectively pass to England. Henry VIII had bribed many Scottish nobles to support his plan to absorb Scotland and neutralize the constant threat of Scotland’s alliance with France, but in the end, it was not enough. The offer of Edward’s hand for the little Scottish queen was refused. And so had begun years of war between England and Scotland. Mary had been moved constantly from castle to convent, manor to monastery, trying to escape the English king’s attempts to abduct her and bring her to England. Marie was forced to send her little daughter, already Scotland’s queen practically from birth, to her relatives in France, for her own safety, and Scotland’s.

  Mary turned to Sir Ralph and smiled; at that moment she reminded him so much of her mother that his heart smote him. It was amongst his most closely guarded secrets that he had been a vast deal more than smitten by the lovely French Queen Regent. Marie de Guise had possessed an enigmatic, indefinable and irresistible charm that her beautiful daughter had inherited in full measure. He was far too old now to entertain romantic thoughts of any woman, and Mary was a queen; there was nothing for it but to sigh and be grateful that Elizabeth had seen fit to place Mary Stuart in his charge. He could not recall when he had enjoyed the company of another person so very much.

  Sir Ralph was not the only person who was curious about the enigma who was the Queen of Scotland; his neighbors had all evinced a lively interest in her, and in meeting her. And since her return to health, Mary seemed to bloom once again. Her skin was creamy now instead of deathly pale, the dark circles had disappeared from under her eyes, and the time they spent out of doors had resulted in a delicate blush to her cheeks. With her beauty restored, Her Grace was more than happy to make the acquaintance of anyone Sir Ralph deemed worthy.

  “We shall have a guest at dinner, Your Grace,” he said. “My neighbor of Dethick Manor, Sir Anthony Babington.”

  I remember him,” she replied. “He was once a page in Lord George’s household.”

  “Indeed, that is so,” said Sir Ralph. “He remembers you quite fondly.”

  “As I do him,” said Mary with a smile. “I shall look forward to seeing him again.” It was not so long ago that the boy had entertained a charming calf-love for her; she knew all the signs. And for a brief time after leaving Lord George’s service, he had carried letters on her behalf to the Continent. Yes, she remembered Anthony Babington. With her newfound freedom under Sir Ralph’s aegis, she wondered if renewing her acquaintance with Anthony might somehow be made to work to her advantage.

  Whitehall Palace, December 1584

  The gardens at Whitehall were covered with a rime of white frost that glittered in the sun and made the whole scene sparkle as if in a dream. The court shivered in its furs, but none dared protest the queen’s insistence upon a morning walk. Seemingly impervious to the cold, Elizabeth strode the gravel paths in her man-like gait, swinging her arms, her breath coming out in white puffs that lingered on the air for a moment before disappearing.

  The river flowed by turgid and gray; but as with the queen, the cold did not seem to bother the swans. They sailed past as placidly as if it were spring.

  Walsingham stood at the window of his apartments, surveying the scene below. It seemed odd to see so much color amidst so much whiteness. Four-and-thirty white marble stone columns graced the elaborate royal gardens at the palace; atop each sat a statue of a heraldic beast. The majesti
c statues were painted in bright, gaudy colors. Adding to the palette was the elegant and, in some cases extravagant, dress of the entourage of courtiers that followed in the queen’s wake. Ruffs were becoming larger and more elaborate; Elizabeth’s was so large that it framed her head and shoulders. It was made of golden wire and studded with tiny diamonds; its gems winked and sparkled in the sunlight.

  The sound of Elizabeth’s hearty laughter reached him. He was relieved that Her Grace’s anguish over the death of Alençon was beginning to recede. Many believed the queen’s excessive grief to be for political show, and that was partly true, but he knew that such was not all of it. Elizabeth had been genuinely fond of the Duc.

  And now Her Grace had two new favorites; the cynical and urbane Walter Raleigh, and the charming and handsome youth who was the young Earl of Essex.

  Much to the chagrin of many established courtiers, Raleigh’s star was rising at court. He was fiercely Protestant; he had fought with the Huguenots; lately he had fought against the Spanish in war-torn Ireland. Both feats recommended him highly to Her Grace. Walsingham, like many at court, disliked the cocksure, outspoken Raleigh. He emanated a confident self-assurance that smacked of arrogance; but in Sir Francis’s estimation, it was more likely simple foolhardiness. But Raleigh had charmed the queen well and good; he had even convinced Her Grace to grant him a royal patent to explore, colonize and rule…rule!...the New World on her behalf. That Her Grace was besotted with Raleigh was more than evident.

  The Earl of Leicester, in his jealousy at Raleigh’s meteoric rise, had brought to court his charming young step-son, Robert Devereux. That the boy was Lettice’s son did not seem to bother Elizabeth in the least; indeed, Walsingham suspected that far from resenting Essex on Lettice’s account, she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in believing that she had charmed her cousin’s son. He never failed to marvel at the unpredictable caprice of women!

  As Leicester had known she would, the coquettish queen began playing one fool off against the other until both Raleigh and Essex were in a fever of envious competition for Elizabeth’s favor. The compliments and gifts that each bestowed upon Her Grace became more and more elaborate with each passing day. It all seemed in good fun now, but royal rivalries often quickly got out of hand. And Essex was proving himself a formidable rival for the queen’s affection, often ruffling the indignant feathers of the pompous Raleigh. He would have to keep an eye on the situation.

  Elizabeth’s preference had always tended towards handsome young men; when she was young herself, that had seemed only natural. But now the aging queen, painted and wrinkled, looked…it could be thought, if not said!...slightly ridiculous being courted by two men so much younger than herself. Down the garden path she sauntered between the two handsome young cocks, simpering and looking coy because both so obviously fawned upon her.

  But he had more pressing business this day than the queen’s awkward taste in men. The issue of the Scottish queen was at crisis point. All that stood between a Catholic succession and civil war was an aging, ailing, fragile woman, and the Bond of Association. Something must be done.

  He was aware that people often wondered…he himself wondered at times…what drove him. But in his heart of hearts, he knew that it was the terrible massacre of Protestant innocents that he had witnessed so many years ago in Paris. The bloody carnage that he had seen on the feast day of St. Bartholomew in 1572 was an experience that had left an indelible scar on his very soul.

  One could not have been other than deeply affected by being forced to hide from a hysterical mob, in fear for one’s very life, whilst thousands were slaughtered just a few feet away. The sounds alone…and it was disembodied sound that had at first defined the horrific butchery that was taking place just outside the English embassy in Paris on that fateful day…would haunt his dreams forever. That was until one finally ventured forth to have one’s senses assaulted by the reality of seeing with one’s own eyes the hacked, bloody bodies of men, women and even children, lying strewn all over the streets of Paris.

  And if only it had been that simple! But reality was that his nights would be forever disturbed with awful nightmares of the disembodied fingers and hands, arms and legs, heads…for in their frenzy, the people of the mob had been so wild in their bloodlust that they cared not how or where they struck their victims, hacking in their fury with sword, knife and axe. The coppery smell of blood was everywhere, and could not be escaped, at first assaulting the senses and then cloying them. Bodies were stacked like cordwood in the streets; there were so many that they began throwing them into the river, until it too, like every wynd and boulevard in the city, ran red with the blood of Protestants, mercilessly murdered at the hands of their Catholic brethren. He had been a committed Protestant long before that event, but afterwards…

  He was no zealot; he had never been extremist in any aspect of his views. He himself was Puritan, but he abhorred radical, fanatical Puritans. But he was determined to see the end of Mary Stuart, and the danger a Catholic succession posed, both to England and to the Protestant faith.

  He turned from the window with the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter still ringing in his ears. He was glad that there was something, even if it was only the attention of puerile young men, that gladdened her heart. But the time had come; he must broach the subject with the Queen of England of what to do about the Queen of Scotland. Serious action could wait no longer.

  Walsingham eyed the flagon on the sideboard, but he needed no Dutch courage when it came to the subject of Mary Stuart and her pernicious presence in England. He would see the queen this very day, as soon as she returned to the palace.

  ###

  Elizabeth sat with a tankard of mulled ale between her palms, watching as the steam arose from the surface in tiny swirls. A morning visit from her spymaster never boded well. She sighed and took a sip of the steaming liquid.

  Walsingham eyed the queen speculatively. He was determined; this time, he must have his way, to ensure the safety of the queen and the good of the realm.

  “The Queen of Scotland must be moved,” he said.

  Elizabeth looked up. “Again?”

  “Sir Ralph has proven to be most unsuitable as…her guardian.” He must not say gaoler, which lie went against the grain; he was a straightforward man and preferred not to mince his words. But on this day, there were larger issues at stake.

  She frowned, and her eyebrows, thin and…unless he missed his guess…drawn on, were raised in an impossible arch above her glittering eyes. “In what manner, unsuitable?”

  His scathing thought of just moments before about mincing words flitted through Sir Francis’s mind. “Sir Ralph has become besotted with the Queen of Scotland. I have ample evidence of it. She rides once again, and they hunt and hawk together. Indeed, they host the countryside as if they were…”

  Elizabeth slapped the flat of her hand down upon the arm of her chair. “Enough!” she cried. “By my faith, I will hear no more!” She arose and, an elbow grasped in each hand, paced like a lioness across the room and back several times. Suddenly she stopped and said, “This is disgraceful. Have we not just weathered one storm in the Shrewsbury scandal? Her Grace’s antics reflect badly upon all female rulers. Whom, and where, did you have in mind?”

  Sir Francis met Elizabeth’s steady gaze and said, “Just as before, Your Grace. Sir Amyas Paulet.”

  This time there was no protest. Elizabeth dropped her eyes to her tankard, swirled its contents, and took a sip.

  “Where?”

  “Tutbury, Your Grace,” he said smoothly. So far his strategy was working marvelously well; first anger the queen with tales of Mary’s conquest of Sir Ralph, and then propose a suitable punishment. And that Mary Stuart’s life under Sir Amyas Paulet was to be well-nigh unbearable was not just a fine assumption; it was his plan. Her Grace would be close confined and utterly isolated. There would be no outdoor excursions, no letters, no suppers with local gentry. The Queen of Scotland, who was, after all,
a widow, should be devoting her time to prayers for her husband. And if the stories were true, and she had known of and sanctioned her husband’s murder, then all the more reason to devote oneself to prayer. That Mary Stuart’s brand of prayer was superstitious nonsense, God would understand.

  Such treatment should breed frustration and a redoubled desire in the Queen of Scots for both her freedom and revenge upon her cousin. When it did, and Her Grace became desperate, a means of communication would make itself known. That the queen would avail herself of it he had no doubt.

  Elizabeth’s eyes shone with malice. Tutbury! Mary was known to abhor Tutbury.

  And what of Sir Ralph? Was the man daft? But then it was not his fault! Her cousin’s uncanny ability to charm had always irritated her; now it angered her.

  Sir Francis spoke his next words slowly, carefully, for upon their impact lay the future of England. “We shall weave a web, Your Grace, as fine as gossamer. All that we need do then is wait to see who wanders into it. For wander they shall. But there is no need to wait. With even a little encouragement, such a thing could easily be set in motion.”

  Elizabeth stood in front of a silver wall sconce; it had been polished to a shiny brilliance in order to better reflect the candlelight. On this bright, sunny morning, the sun was streaming in through the window; it hit her face full on, and the brilliant light reflected in the silver of the sconce. Every wrinkle, every crease, every piece of loose flesh, was magnified by the white paint that was meant to conceal them.

  She glared back at her reflection. What magic did Mary possess that allowed her, old, broken and sick, to charm as she did? How did a powerless queen command such homage? A thought crept forth from the very darkest recesses of her mind and looked her full in the eye. In that moment, she knew that if she were not queen, there were few who would want her. No handsome young men would be paying her court!