by G Lawrence
“Elizabeth,” Robin said softly, “I send game to many nobles. I send them to Lettice because she is your cousin, and Countess of Essex. I would wager, if I stopped, Essex would complain I was slighting him.”
I chuckled. “Essex does always look for reasons to complain, and if you send bucks to all nobles, there is no special treatment.”
I was less pleased when later I found that whilst it was true Robin sent gifts of game to many nobles, in the past year Lettice was the only one who had received three.
*
“I had thought us friends, but it would seem we are not. And if England finds no friends in France, we will look to Spain.”
King Henri was refusing to release Alençon. My entreaties were going unheard. Angered, I had sent for the ambassador.
“Your Majesty knows King Phillip will never be a friend to you.”
“I have always found my good brother of Spain a charming, careful man,” I replied. “And perhaps his predilection for stoic and serious deportment will prove more to my liking than to associate with those who heed not the words of friends. But we shall soon see…” Seeing the ambassador wearing a baffled expression, I smiled. “… When the new Spanish ambassador arrives at court. He is due any day.”
We had taken care not to share this information with anyone, keeping it for a special moment in talks with France. It had the desired effect. The ambassador’s face turned pale. I sipped on his discomfort, satisfied by the rich flavour.
*
“She may go, but is not to approach Chatsworth or Sheffield,” I said.
Margaret Lennox wanted to go to her estate of Settrington in Yorkshire, then on to Scotland so she could see her grandson, King James. Since her husband’s assassination, Margaret had become quiet, but now she wanted to take her son, Charles, to meet his royal nephew.
This had birthed gossip that the ambitious Countess meant to somehow kidnap James and bring him to England. It had sounded a wild plan to me, and Margaret had denied it. I was willing for her to go, but not to tarry near Chatsworth or Sheffield. There had been further rumours that the once wrathful Countess had reconciled with her daughter-in-law, Mary of Scots, the woman she once suspected of murdering her beloved eldest son. I wanted no chance they might meet and truly reconcile.
There was another reason I did not want Margaret near Mary of Scots. Go near my royal cousin, and Margaret would be near Bess. I had heard too many unnerving suggestions that Bess and Margaret were making plots of marriage between their children, Charles Darnley and Elizabeth Cavendish.
“She may cause mischief in Scotland,” Cecil warned.
“I cannot deny her the chance to see her grandson. And James should know the comfort of family. For all her many flaws, Margaret adores him. She will not cause problems, and if she does, Morton will send her home.”
“That is true enough.” There was approval in Cecil’s tone.
Despite our disagreement with the Regent over Mary, it could not be denied Morton was a more able Regent than Lennox, perhaps even Moray. There was, however, an unspoken agreement between Spirit and me that Margaret was a known intriguer. For most of her life she had been deep in plots and ploys, often bringing her into direct conflict with me. But she had been quiet of late. I wanted to believe this could be but an innocent trip, and all she wanted was to form a relationship with James.
There was, naturally, a political reason for her trip as well. Recently, it had been declared by my Council that the sons of Katherine Grey were bastards and therefore excluded from the succession. That made James the lawful, if unnamed, heir to England’s throne and there had been renewed attempts, all unsuccessful thus far, to convince the Scots to send James to England so he might be raised as my heir. If my cousin could persuade the Scots to send James to England, that would be a wondrous event, but Margaret also understood if she could cultivate a good relationship with James, whether the boy was raised in Scotland or England, the Lennoxes might once more rise to a seat of power in the future.
“Send word she may go, but is to come to court before she leaves,” I said. “I will find out what lies in her mind, and impress upon her that if she disobeys me, the consequences will be dire.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Windsor Castle, Theobalds and Berkeley Castle
Summer 1574
In July, Ambassador Mendoza came to England. Despite the constant irritation and peril his predecessor had caused, I received him warmly, and as we headed towards Bristol on progress, we talked of forging peace between our countries.
“My good brother of Spain has always had a genial eye upon me,” I lied to Mendoza as we rode to Cecil’s house of Theobalds. I looked away from him, my eye caught by an old path, a silver spine, stretching up a hill. “I sorrowed when our policies have met friction in the past, for to me, he will always be my brother, and in some ways, my father.”
I thought appealing to Phillip’s lust to master me would bear fruit, and although I doubted Mendoza believed me, Spain was eager to make alliance. There was a simple explanation; England had a not-so-secret weapon. Phillip feared I would set Drake loose if we did not make terms. Other English pirates had also inflicted significant damage upon Phillip’s ships and ports, but as my buccaneer had said, all pirates now carried the name Drake. Towns on the coast of Spain and New Spain were terrified of my English dragon, so it was to Phillip‘s benefit to keep this monster from breathing fire upon his settlements. His last consideration, never to be underestimated, was the chance to scare France.
“My master will be honoured to hear you think of him in such a way, Majesty,” said Mendoza, ducking his head to avoid a low branch.
“How could I otherwise? When I was a princess in danger, he was my good friend. I will always be grateful for that.”
Not so grateful Phillip tried to sell me into unwanted marriage, to be raped upon my wedding night, my mind added.
*
“I see your building work is coming along,” I said to Cecil as we wandered in his gardens a few days later. He had extended the great hall, and was building an Italian-style loggia. Tower staircases would go on either end, he told me, and he had constructed two of the three courts he intended to build between sections of the house.
The groves of citrus trees he had planted were still young, but their fresh, dark green leaves fluttered in the breeze, promising rewards if our erratic English sun would oblige. Cecil was fond of gardens, as I was. He wanted a grotto, with crystals studded into the walls to create a space of light and magic, and his man, John Gerard, was constructing hothouses so Cecil could grow exotic plants and nurture seeds shipped in by merchants from New Spain, Cathay and Africa.
Theobalds was a sanctuary for me. It reflected Cecil’s soul, and since he was my spirit, perhaps held a shard of mine, too.
We rode on from Theobalds, stopping at the houses of gentlemen until we reached Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire, seat of Henry, Lord Berkeley, a foe of Robin’s. I did not care for Berkeley, still less for his wife. Katherine was my cousin, sister to dead Norfolk. For spite, after the execution of her traitorous brother, she had scolded her husband until he pitted himself against me, outbidding me for a mother-of-pearl lute I had desired. I had agreed to stop at their house in an attempt to mend our relationship, but Katherine would not offer an olive twig, let alone a branch.
Katherine made many snide remarks about justice and mercy, all obvious references to her brother. So irritated did I become that when Berkeley took us hunting in his park, rather than kill a token number of his fine deer, I commanded the whole herd be slaughtered and their bodies dispatched ahead, to feed my court on progress.
Berkeley was aghast, for the cost was ruinous. Not able to restock with more deer, he had to turn the land to arable use instead, a far less noble pursuit.
Seeing Katherine seething, unable to say a word about it, was most pleasing. In truth, she had cut me deep. I had sacrificed Norfolk to save Mary of Scots, something which sat uneasily in my soul.
We left the next day, riding past wayfaring trees. Plentiful on old pilgrim routes and popular tracks, these trees showed that the traveller was on a prosperous path. I hoped this was true. I saw a woman with a pair of handsome Welsh Corgwn hounds at her heels, and smiled. Blanche was fond of these dogs and told me they had been brought to Wales by Viking settlers in the days of King Alfred. Corgwn meant ‘dwarf-dog’ in English. Those dogs were supposed, by Welsh legend, to be fairy steeds. If you looked closely at their coats, you could see marks left by the saddles and harnesses of fairy-riders. Whatever use fairy-folk put them to at night, humans used them to herd cattle.
We reached Bristol, greeted by a salute of guns. Crowds of people gawped as hundreds of richly-dressed courtiers rode slowly past, followed by hundreds more wagons bearing my furniture, bedding, clothes, food and state papers. I rode on a beautiful palfrey, sitting on a saddle of emerald green, with golden fringing fluttering in the light summer breeze.
We feasted with city officials, lords and magistrates, and watched as a three-day mock battle was performed for us. It was an allegory representing the benefits of peace over war, and at the end a young girl dressed as me, wearing a bright red wig, was brought out to judge which was more beneficial. It was pleasing to hear her speak loud and bold, as often women did not, saying that peace, such as I had brought to England, was best for a country and its people.
With that in mind the Treaty of Bristol was forged that August, marking the start of a tentative peace between Spain and England. In conjunction with our former agreement not to harbour those who were hostile to our respective governments, and Phillip’s oath to restore traditional liberties to his subjects in the Low Countries, Spain also agreed the Inquisition would not harm English soldiers in Spanish territories. We had agreed to reimburse each other for losses incurred during our mutual trade embargo, and although I was unwilling to lose money, I started to make payments to Spain, and they to England.
What Phillip did not know was that I repaid him using my share of the bounty Drake had pilfered. I was, in effect, simply handing Phillip back his own coin.
But despite new peace with Spain, I had no intention of cutting aid to Orange. I did not trust Phillip, and understood he was not about to restore traditional liberties without some incentive. That incentive would be my continued support for the rebels. I called it neutrality. I told Mendoza my support for Orange would cease when Phillip kept his promises. The Ambassador was not merry, and protested my actions put the treaty in jeopardy. I ignored him.
Phillip had one particular term in the treaty he wanted me to uphold; England’s men would no more attack Spanish vessels at sea. Since this was profitable for me and my people, and kept Phillip’s purse always short of coin, preventing him from winning the war in the Netherlands, I had no true intention of stopping my men from plundering Spanish ships. Publicly I forbade piracy, then turned a blind eye to any reports to the contrary. My men understood I was offering the same partial blindness to piracy as I did to religion, and carried on with their plans. When dispatches were brought to me, or Mendoza complained, I simply assumed a sorrowful air and said I was doing all I could.
It was only fair. Phillip was still harbouring English rebels, such as Thomas Stucley and the Earl of Westmorland, and was continuing to wage war in the Netherlands, so he was not upholding his oaths either.
But to all outward appearances, Spain and England were friends again. We spent two days in Bristol, feasting, dancing and celebrating, and Mendoza was the guest of honour at all events. Our treaty had the desired effect on France, who sailed into a storm of terror that its two nearest neighbours had united. Although it appeared Henri was determined to follow the moderate policies of his mother on religion, our relationship was chilly.
If one international relationship was turning cold, another in my personal life was too. That August Douglas Sheffield give birth to a boy, named Robert for his father.
Robin accepted the boy, and whilst I was pleased to hear this, I could not help but become jealous, and annoyed. I could see he was happy this bastard was a boy and not a girl. Despite all he had said about recognising his mistake, wounds of the past reopened in my heart. I did not explain why I was so vexed, but the thought that, even to him, a girl was less important than a boy, strained on my nerves. Even he, I thought. Even Robin thinks girls worthless.
Robin seemed frankly baffled when I snapped and snarled. After all, he had done as I had asked, had he not? My changeable temper made Robin nervous. Once, he had told Norfolk that he feared one day my temper might turn against him, causing me to “womanlike” undo him. Much as I resented the supposition that all women are creatures of spite, I had to admit there was something in his fear. I had the capacity to unmake Robin and there were times, such as this, when the idea seemed pleasing.
In truth, it was that fear as much as love for me which kept him loyal. In some ways, Robin was the epitome of the subject all kings desire, one who adores and fears his monarch in equal measure.
Since Robin had acknowledged the boy, he became his legal guardian, and Douglas was sent to the house of his cousin, John Dudley, so the boy could be raised amongst Robin’s family. In public, I was silent about Douglas’ child. People swore Robin would be banished, or sent to the Tower for daring to take a mistress. When nothing happened they said I was seething in silent misery. Part of me was miserable, but if any noted that I had taken no action against Robin or Douglas they would have understood I knew of the affair, and might have understood the relationship between Robin and me was more complex, and more honest, than they thought.
I sent congratulations to Douglas, but told her she would have to lie low for at least two years, so the scandal attached to her name would not be associated with me. With all the rumours flying about regarding my moral reputation, I could not afford more to roost in my court. Douglas, being enamoured of her new child, was happy to stay with him in the country, and Robin saw she was provided for.
It made me happier to hear he was planning for the boy’s future. Women could be not only cast off, but cast down through the rungs of society for bearing a bastard. Men, who could easily deny paternity, did not suffer as women, who had trouble hiding their indiscretions, since pregnancy or a resulting child were rather obvious. Women, although seen as weak, were ironically considered strong when it came to the arts and allurements of seduction, and were held accountable for the sins of men. When illegitimate children were born, men of the parish would alert the assize courts, leading to new mothers being tried and punished.
As the mistress of an earl, Douglas was spared this. Robin could also take care of any enquires the Church had, and promise to donate money, in payment for his and Douglas’ sins.
But Douglas was pleased. Although the stain of bearing a bastard child was now hers, Robin had said he would accept the boy, enter him into university with the rank of an earl’s son, and leave him property when he died. Many found this offer unaccountable, as bastards were rarely so well provided for, and some thought they knew why he was making such efforts. Another rumour that Douglas and Robin were secretly married reared its head. This was why Douglas bore her disgrace with such calmness, and why Robin did so much for the child, it was whispered. I dismisse
d the gossip. Robin had sworn never to marry, keeping his heart for me, and if Robin was not to have a legitimate child, Douglas’ son was his only true heir. That was why he upheld the child.
The birth of his son did not do Robin a great deal of good with his Puritan supporters, however. Fornication outside of marriage was a sin, and they thought he should be ashamed of his child, this embodiment of evil, rather than promoting him.
We returned to business as usual, and whilst one lady of my bedchamber was absent, another was too, although this absence was more irritating. “She is refusing to wait upon your Majesty,” said Kate Carey, my First Lady of the Bedchamber.
“For what reason?”
“She will not wait upon Your Majesty until her chambers are restored.”
“Then she will stay away from court for the rest of her life,” I said. “Inform Mary Sidney she may stay at her house until I send word. If she does not wish to serve me, I do not want her near my person!”
Rebellion was rife in my chambers that season, it seemed, for as Mary Sidney left court swathed in a mist of self-pity, Mary Shelton, the niece of my former chamberer of the same name, was brought into high disgrace.