Elizabeth's Women

by Tracy Borman

  However, in January 1567, she seemed to contemplate a reconciliation with Darnley. Upon receiving news that he was gravely ill at his father’s house in Glasgow, she went to be with him.128 Once there, she managed to persuade him to come home to Edinburgh, where he could convalesce in greater comfort, adding the promise that she would resume marital relations with him if he acceded. Her husband agreed to accompany her back to Edinburgh, and took up residence at the house of Kirk o’Field. It would prove a fateful move.

  In the early hours of February 10, 1567, the citizens of Edinburgh were awoken by an almighty explosion. In the confusion that followed, it was discovered that Kirk o’Field had been blown up by a huge quantity of gunpowder. Although there were remarkably few casualties, two bodies were subsequently found on the grounds of the house. They were those of Lord Darnley and his servant. Neither, however, had been killed by the blast; they had been strangled or suffocated. This shocking news spread like wildfire across Scotland and throughout the courts of Europe. It was widely expected that Mary would hunt down her husband’s killers and bring them to swift and brutal justice. But the Scottish lords had no such expectations. For them, Darnley’s death was justice enough for all the wrongs he had committed.

  As Mary procrastinated, suspicions about her involvement in the plot began to be voiced. For once, her English cousin showed unequivocal support and declared that she “saw no cause to conceive an ill opinion of her good sister of Scotland.”129 She then wrote an impassioned letter to her cousin, expressing her horror at the news and assuring her of her support. “My ears have been so deafened and my understanding so grieved and my heart so affrightened to hear the dreadful news of the abominable murder of your husband and my killed cousin that I can scarcely yet have the wits to write about it,” she began. “I cannot dissemble that I am more sorrowful for you than for him.”

  Elizabeth went on to give such sound advice that there can be little doubt her concern was genuine. Assuring Mary that “you have no wiser counselors than myself,” she entreated her: “O madame, I would not do the office of faithful cousin or affectionate friend if I studied rather to please your ears than employed myself in preserving your honour. However, I will not at all dissemble what most people are talking about: which is that you will look through your fingers at the revenging of this deed, and that you do not take measures that touch those who have done as you wished, as if the thing had been entrusted in a way that the murderers felt assurance in doing it.” Elizabeth had evidently also heard the rumors about Mary’s friendship with Bothwell, for she continued: “I exhort you, I counsel you, and I beseech you to take this thing so much to heart that you will not fear to touch even him whom you have nearest to you if the thing touches him … Praying the Creator to give you the grace to recognise this traitor and protect yourself from him as from the ministers of Satan.” Fearing lest her cousin might suspect her motives, she assured her: “I wish as much good [to you] as my heart is able to imagine or as you were able a short while ago to wish,” and ended by expressing “heartfelt recommendations to you, very dear sister.”130 This extraordinary letter was the first demonstration of genuine support by Elizabeth for her great rival. It had apparently taken this extreme crisis in Mary’s life to inspire a true sense of solidarity with a fellow female sovereign. But it would prove all too short lived. The shocking events that unfolded soon afterward would be enough to make Elizabeth resort to her former hostility.

  Kept under strict surveillance in the Tower and deprived of letters and messages, it was some time before the Countess of Lennox learned of the horrific news from Scotland. Just a few months earlier, she had been greatly cheered by the announcement of her grandson’s birth. Margaret’s ambitions for the crown of England now seemed closer than ever. Then came the news that brought her world crashing down around her. Her beloved son Henry had been murdered. Taking pity on her cousin, Elizabeth had asked William Cecil’s wife and Margaret’s old friend Lady Mary Howard to break the news to her. No matter how gently they might have done so, the full horror of it threw Margaret into a fit of grief so extreme that a physician had to be summoned. Even then she “could not by any means be kept from such passion of mind as the horribleness of the fact did require.”131

  The Queen ordered that the beleaguered countess be released from the Tower and conveyed to Sackville House, the site of her former imprisonment, to be looked after by Lord Dacre and Lady Sackville. Before long, grief had turned to fury, and Margaret railed against her daughter-in-law, accusing her of Darnley’s murder. To have her main rival so discredited played right into Elizabeth’s hands. She now showed great favor to the Lennoxes, restoring to them the income from their estates and granting them the (somewhat dilapidated) royal palace of Coldharbour in London as a residence. More important, she promised to help them to avenge Darnley’s death. “She seems very sorry for their troubles,” observed the Spanish envoy.132

  There would be no such clemency for the Queen’s other cousin, Lady Mary Grey. She had languished for two years at Chequers, sending frequent pleas that the Queen might forgive her. At the beginning of 1566, she wrote to William Cecil in her neat, childlike handwriting, apologizing “for trublynge you so oftenn withe my rude letters,” but went on to bemoan “what a greffe the quenes maiestes desplessur is to me, which makes me to wyshe deathe rather thenn to be in thes greatte messery.” She therefore begged him “to be a conteneweall meane for me to her maieste, to gett me her maiestes favor agayen; trustynge if I myghte ons obtayne it never to forgo it, whill I lyve.”133

  In August 1567, Mary was sent to live in the custody of her step-grandmother, Katherine Willoughby, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk. Although she had been kind to Mary in the past, this formidable matriarch was hardly pleased to see her now, especially as she had not been told of her arrival in advance. She was also incensed at the girl for bringing the Grey family into disrepute again. But the longer Mary was with her, the more the duchess pitied this poor creature, who cried for most of the day and began to refuse food. “All she hath eaten now these two days is not so much as a chicken’s leg,” the Duchess told Cecil, adding: “I fear me she will die of her grief.”134

  But Elizabeth had more pressing matters to attend to, for events in Scotland were unfolding at a bewildering pace. In late April 1567, Mary went to visit her infant son at Stirling Castle. On her return a few days later, she and her entourage were intercepted by the Earl of Bothwell and a large troop of horsemen. Bothwell, who had already determined to have Mary as his wife, duly abducted her and took her captive to Dunbar. Quite what took place there has been the subject of intense debate ever since. Although some believe that Mary was already in love with Bothwell by this time, the evidence suggests that he raped her and that, as Melville observed: “the Queen could not but marry him, seeing he had ravished her and lain with her against her will.”135 Bothwell swiftly divorced his existing wife, and on May 6 he brought Mary back to Edinburgh, where she declared her intention to marry him. The ceremony took place on May 15 at the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

  Mary’s marriage to Bothwell was a telling indication of her deeply conventional views of queenship. She believed that the only way for a woman to rule effectively was by submitting to the direction of male advisers. Sir Nicholas Throckmorton once remarked that Mary had no confidence in her own intellectual ability but was content “to be ruled by good counsel and wise men.”136 While Elizabeth used her skill in polemic to face down opposition from her councillors, Mary would sit in council meetings quietly sewing as her advisers debated the issues at hand. Emotions aside, one of her main motivations in seeking a husband was to have someone to share the burden of rule. She justified her latest marriage on the basis that the unrest within her country “cannot be contained in order unless our authority be assisted and set forth by the fortification of a man.”137 The man she had chosen was far from being an equal partner: domineering, aggressive, and deeply scornful of women, he had forced her to submit meekly to his will.
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  The fact that Mary had married Bothwell, one of the prime suspects in the murder of Lord Darnley, spelled disaster for her rule in Scotland. The earl soon alienated those members of the political establishment who had promised to support the marriage, and they now joined a large confederacy of opponents to Mary’s regime, which succeeded in occupying Edinburgh and taking over the Privy Council. Mary was forced to flee with her new husband to Borthwick Castle and then Dunbar, where they were able to amass an army of supporters. On June 15, they confronted the army of the confederate lords at Carberry Hill. As the battle wore on, the ranks of Mary’s supporters steadily dwindled, and she was eventually forced to surrender and face imprisonment again. Bothwell, meanwhile, fled into exile.

  Holed up in the island fortress of Lochleven, Mary faced the worst crisis of her young life. Ousted from her capital—and, she feared, her throne—she waited anxiously to hear what her fate would be. There was talk of enforced abdication, exile, life imprisonment, trial for murder, even execution. Meanwhile, she was denounced as “the most notorious whore in all the world.”138

  Learning of the dramatic events that were taking place almost daily in Scotland, Elizabeth felt a mixture of shock, bewilderment, and satisfaction. Suddenly, the fortunes of the two women had been reversed. Not so long ago, she herself had been the heretical whore, daughter of the concubine and lover of Robert Dudley—and no doubt many more besides. By contrast, Mary had been the flawless, model princess, chaste in her young widowhood and devout in her religion. Now Elizabeth had the moral high ground, and she was determined to enjoy it. Adopting the style of a sternly virtuous matriarch, she expressed her horror at her cousin’s actions, telling her ambassador in Scotland that she had a “great misliking of that Queen’s doing, which now she doth so much detest that she is ashamed of her.”139 She also wrote again to Mary, admonishing her for not following her advice. “Madame, to be plain with you, our grief hath not been small that in this your marriage so slender consideration hath been had … for how could a worse choice be made for your honour than in such haste to marry such a subject, who besides other and notorious lacks, public fame hath charged with the murder of your late husband, beside the touching of yourself also in some part, though we trust that in that behalf falsely. And with what peril have you married him that hath another lawful wife alive.”140

  Elizabeth realized, however, that she could not simply berate her cousin and sit back to enjoy the smug satisfaction of being proved right. Mary’s predicament had thrown her own position into jeopardy, for if the anointed queen of the neighboring kingdom could be so easily overthrown by her subjects, what message would this send to her own people—especially those recalcitrant Catholics who had opposed her rule? She was therefore obliged to offer Mary support as a fellow sovereign. That she did so out of self-interest rather than concern for her cousin’s welfare, there can be little doubt. Nevertheless, her promise to Mary seemed genuine enough: “We assure you that whatsoever we can imagine meet for your honour and safety that shall lie in our power, we will perform the same that it shall well appear you have a good neighbour, a dear sister, and a faithful friend, and so shall you undoubtedly always find and prove us to be indeed towards you.”141

  The English queen was as good as her word. She alone stood out in her support for Mary among all the potentates of Europe. Even Mary’s natural ally, France, proved unwilling to lend assistance, and her former mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, was coldly disapproving. Elizabeth, on the other hand, defied opposition from among her own council in order to advocate Mary’s rights as an anointed queen. She expressed her outrage that her cousin’s subjects should dare to treat her with so little respect, and called for her immediate release. She also dispatched Sir Nicholas Throckmorton to Scotland with orders to demand Mary’s restoration. But at the same time as championing her cousin’s cause, Elizabeth also purchased some of her jewels, which were being sold off by the recalcitrant lords. These included a beautiful rope of pearls, which the English queen proudly showed off to her courtiers.

  Apparently abandoned by all her former allies, Mary remained in captivity. On July 24, she was presented with the deeds of abdication and told that she must sign or face death. Desperately sick, having recently miscarried Bothwell’s twins, she miserably accepted that she had little choice but to give up her throne. It was agreed that her son would be made king and that a regency council would rule during his minority. Meanwhile, Mary remained a prisoner at Lochleven. It was said by some that she owed her life to Elizabeth, whose lobbying had done just enough to warn off the rebellious lords from committing murder. If this was so, the events that followed some twenty years later would make it deeply ironic.

  For once, it seemed that things were moving in Elizabeth’s favor as far as her troublesome cousins were concerned. In January 1568, she received news that Lady Katherine Grey was seriously ill. Katherine had been moved to several different houses after leaving the Tower in 1563 and was now at Cockfield Hall in Yoxford, a bleak and remote estate in the Suffolk countryside with few amenities or comforts. Pining for her husband and despairing of ever being allowed her freedom, her health had begun to decline. From the very beginning of her separation from Seymour, she had lapsed into a deep melancholy, refusing to eat. Her first custodian, Lord John Grey, had been shocked by her wan appearance and had entreated her to take some food, but she had refused, saying: “Alas, Uncle, what a life is this to me, thus to live in the Queen’s displeasure. But for my Lord and children I would I were buried.”142

  As the years of her imprisonment dragged on, Katherine continued to eat little, and in her weakened state she fell dangerously ill. Elizabeth was persuaded to send her physician, Dr. Symondes, to attend her, and when he arrived at Cockfield Hall, he realized at once that she was dying. Among the various household members who gathered around Katherine’s bed early in the morning of January 27, 1568, was a gentleman who recorded her final hours. According to his account, she seemed to welcome death, glad to be free at last from the pain and sorrow of her existence. When one attendant tried to comfort her by saying that she would live for many years, she replied: “No, no. No lyfe in this worlde; but in the worlde to come I hope to lyve for ever. For here ys nothinge but care and myserye.” She then turned to her keeper, Sir Owen Hopton, and joyfully exclaimed: “Even now [I am] goynge towards God as faste as I canne.” Eager though she was for death, Katherine was still anxious to protect her children from the Queen’s wrath and therefore begged her forgiveness for any wrongs done, professing herself to be a loyal subject. She urged Hopton to present her plea to Elizabeth “even from the mowthe of a dead woman” and ask that she “will be good unto my children and not impute my fawte unto them whom I wholy give unto her Maiestie. For in my lyfe they had fewe frends, and fewer they shall have when I am dede except her Maiestie.” She went on to plead the same clemency for her husband, “for I knowe this my deathe wilbe heavy newe[s] unto him, that her Highnes wolde be so gracyous as to send him libertie to glad his sorroweful hart withal.”

  After delivering this touching speech, Katherine asked for the box containing her wedding ring, and entreated Sir Owen to deliver it to Seymour as a mark of her affection and to urge him to be “a lovinge and a naturall father unto my children.” Then, looking down at her hands and seeing her nails were already turning purple, she cried: “Look you, here he ys come.” A few moments later, “with a cherefull countenance,” she said: “Welcome, Death,” and, offering her soul up to Jesus, breathed her last.143 She was just twenty-eight years old.

  If this account was written with the intention of exciting Elizabeth’s compassion, it did not succeed. While she made a show of regret upon hearing of Katherine’s death, her overriding emotion was one of relief. “The Queen expressed sorrow to me at her death,” remarked de Silva, “but it is not believed that she feels it, as she was afraid of her.”144

  Katherine had maintained the validity of her marriage right up until her death, and in her will
she left the “necessary declarations” to prove it. Elizabeth would never countenance the idea of overturning her commission’s verdict, thereby placing Katherine’s sons in the order of succession. Even so, the boys remained a focus of attention for those who had favored her mother’s claim, and their names would continue to plague the Queen during the years to come. Hounded as she had been by Elizabeth in life, Katherine may have derived some satisfaction from knowing that after her death, her sons would be a constant source of anxiety to the Queen. She would have been more satisfied still if she had known that her marriage to Seymour would eventually be found to be valid and her sons legitimate.145 Raised by their father, who was released after Katherine’s death, both boys were taught to honor her memory, and the elder evidently passed this on to his own son. Almost a century after his grandmother’s death, he ordered that her bones be removed from the humble churchyard of Yoxford and reinterred with those of her husband in a magnificent baroque monument in Salisbury Cathedral.