by G Lawrence
“And if the Scots demand her return?”
“I very much doubt they will. The powerful men about James would not want to introduce a competitor for the King’s affections. James himself might fear to bring her back. However much a fiction his power is, he may not welcome his mother. She might want his throne, and he has only just taken a seat.”
“What is to be done?”
“I will write to my godson. If I can show him that keeping us as friends is beneficial, that will aid us.”
When Mary heard of Morton’s fall she was delighted. Thinking this the end of her captivity, she wrote to her son asking that he bring her home. Since she put in her letters that she wanted to be his co-ruler, however, my thoughts about James’ reluctance to hand over his power bore fruit.
“He assures her he will work for her, in time,” said Cecil when a missive had been intercepted, “but cannot at present, whilst Morton still has some control.”
“I think the young King shows early promise in the dance of diplomacy,” I said.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Richmond Palace
Late Winter - Early Spring 1578
Death came calling as winter turned to spring. On the 10th of March, the Countess of Lennox, my cousin Margaret, died.
She had been dining with Robin, and after the supper closed, she went to her rooms, spoke gaily to her ladies, then suddenly dropped to the floor.
Taken to bed, and realising her end was nigh, Margaret wrote to her grandson, King James, assuring him he was her hope for the future, and asking him to protect Arbella. She left him her bed, a highly expensive item of furniture, left money for her servants, and what remained she left to Arbella. Robin and Cecil were made the overseers of her will, and she left small gifts to them too.
Margaret was sixty-two, a good age, although most of it had passed in scandal and plotting. Her death, which came about after Robin had dined with her, led to rumours of poison, but in truth she was old and had been aged by sorrow, by numerous trips to the Tower, and her crippling debt.
I cannot tell you I mourned her. That woman had worked against me from my earliest days, attempting to supplant me in the succession, installing a kitchen beneath my chambers when I was held as a prisoner by my sister, allowing her son to marry Mary of Scots, conspiring against me time and time again and finally wedding her last son to a woman without my permission. When I was told of her death, it was all I could do not to heave a sigh of relief.
But, for all that she had done, and all she had brought upon me, Margaret was my kinswoman. I had her buried in Westminster Abbey with our ancestors, and my sister, whom she had loved. She was laid to rest in my father’s chapel, for he had always been fond of his Magret, as he called her. Margaret had left instructions for an intensely elaborate tomb, but she had died in heavy debt, and could not pay for it. I agreed to meet the expense and the tomb went into construction.
“Take the glory you desired in life, in death,” I told her. “I will not grudge you that.”
That same month, Bess came to court, firstly to be chief mourner at Margaret’s funeral and secondly to secure rights for the granddaughter she shared with my dead Lennox cousin.
“There is word from Scotland, Majesty, that the ex-regent and the King will not support my daughter as guardian of Arbella,” Bess said. “My daughter is quite out of her mind with fear. She thinks King James will demand that Arbella, as a part Scottish citizen, should be taken from her and shipped to his court.”
“Arbella was born in England,” I said. “Which makes her English. Fear not, Bess. Whilst I want to keep on good terms with my godson, I will not allow Arbella to be taken from you.”
I swiftly made Arbella a ward of the Crown, which meant James could not touch her. Elizabeth Cavendish was apparently unaware that her mother had come to see me, and when she heard she went into a fit of panic, thinking I meant to steal away her only child. I granted her custody of her daughter, much to her relief. Bess wrote to thank me, and assured me she would keep her daughter informed, from now on, of plans and meetings with me.
But Bess was in for a surprise. She had assumed the Lennox estates would go to Arbella, but I confiscated them for the state. This was not done to be petty. Margaret had died in debt, leaving nothing for her debtors or funeral. I was willing to pay for her tomb, but not for all her other debts. A small inheritance of three hundred pounds a year was left for Arbella, a suitable amount. I awarded a pension to Arbella of a further two hundred pounds and another for her mother of four hundred; more than enough for mother and child to live on and for Elizabeth Cavendish to save a dowry from.
“They are sums more than adequate for the daughter of a courtier,” I said to Cecil when he came with a petition from Bess on the matter.
“But some see Arbella as a princess, Majesty, and for such a person, these sums are not enough.”
“She is not a princess. Was her father a prince or a king? No, he was Lord of Lennox. Arbella carries a drop of royal blood, but she is no princess.”
I did not want this young girl growing up with that perilous idea in mind. I was sure Bess would plant it there, but if Arbella was kept comfortably but not royally, it would show her where her true place was.
Two bits of bad luck came for the young heiress. Two weeks after her grandmother was laid to rest, the title of Earl of Lennox was conferred by King James on the brother of the fourth Earl, the Bishop of Caithness. The Bishop was childless, leaving hope the title might come to Arbella in the future, but it seemed James was not keen on the idea of handing Scottish titles to English nobles, even if he was related to them. The second piece of poor fortune was that Margaret Lennox had left her jewels to Arbella, but the executor told Bess he was instructed to keep them until she was fourteen.
Bess turned to Robin, asking him to aid her in convincing me to secure Arbella’s rights. I told Bess I would do what I could, but I did little. I wanted to make good friends with my godson before making demands.
I thought Death was done with us, but in early April we had word that Bothwell, insane and chained to a pillar in the dungeons of Dragsholm Castle in Denmark, had also died. He had been a prisoner there since 1567 when he had fled, leaving my cousin to fend for herself.
I could think of no better fate for the man who had raped my cousin than to die alone, with only his seething brain for company.
Although I was merry to hear the world was made a better place for housing one fewer rapist, this did open up problems with Mary again.
“She can now marry without issue,” Cecil said.
“Aside from the problem of sneaking a priest into her chambers,” I pointed out.
“She has secret priests in her household.”
“Cecil, I think we would notice if Don John sauntered up to the house.”
“She might marry another.”
“Do you really think she would simply marry anyone, Cecil?” I said. “She will not. Mary is a romantic. She will seek a glorious match, with a loving prince come to rescue her from her life of woe.” I sighed. “Bothwell’s death may bring problems with foreign princes, and threat of invasion, Cecil, of that I have no doubt, but I do not think she will wed a stable boy who promises to steal her from her prison.”
Another issue was that Bothwell had apparently made a confession before he died, which exonerated Mary. He said he had drugged her in order to ‘seduce’ her, although seduction by means of drugs was rape to my mind, and went on to declare she had had no knowledge of the murder of Darnley. Another version stated he had used witchcraft to bamboozle her into wedlock. Those already using Mary as a Catholic banner leapt upon this confession, declaring she had been unjustly deposed and was being unlawfully held.
We gained a copy, and it was highly dubious. Bothwell was said to have received the last rites, which as a Protestant he did not require, and the wording was odd, compared to his letters in the vault in Walsingham’s chambers. The castle named as the place of his death was also wron
g, and the men named as Darnley’s true murderers was simply a list of almost every lord who had opposed Mary. The Douglases, most people’s chief suspects, were not named.
Another curious element was that Bothwell was reportedly out of his mind, and had been for some years, when he died. Some time later it was claimed he had made this confession years ago, when still of sane mind, but if made at the time of his death, when he was gibbering and howling in his chains, the lucidity of the confession was suspect.
But if we were suspicious, others were not, and not only Mary’s Catholic supporters. Perhaps it was only to be expected that when King James read a copy he rejoiced, claiming it proof of his mother’s innocence. I was in a position to understand. Being the child of a woman whom men declare a traitor and adulteress is an onerous cross to bear. What did reassure me was that he made no strides to work for her freedom. It was politically beneficial for him to think her innocent, as it reflected well upon him, but James, young as he was, was no fool. He did not want his troublesome mother in Scotland, stripping away his power.
Then, a week later, there was more bad news. I was playing my virginals when Blanche entered with a face of sorrow.
Mary Grey had died of the plague.
“Why did she not come to court, or go to the country?” I asked, aghast.
“She had a ruby, Majesty. She was told it had mystical powers and would protect her. She was not afraid, until the plague took people in her household at St Botolph’s and then she fell ill too.”
“Why did she not ask for my doctors?”
“She did not want to trouble you, Majesty.”
I almost laughed. The Grey family had caused nothing but trouble, intended or not, and now the last Grey had slipped from life… for not wanting to bother me. A twist of ironic fate.
I sorrowed. We had only just started to restore our relationship. That she should be taken from me just at the moment this was starting to be a comfort was unfair, to both of us. But Death likes His little jests.
But whilst I sorrowed, I understood something. The heirs who had caused me so much trouble were slowing falling by the wayside. As direct heirs died, their children, with weaker claims and more diluted blood, replaced them.
Margaret Clifford, the Countess of Derby, considered herself my direct heir, but no one else did, since she was Catholic and descended of the female line of Princess Mary, Duchess of Suffolk. Henry Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon was of the line of Edward III but he had no Tudor blood, which counted against him, and also had no ambition for the throne. The Darnley boys were dead, and their English heir was a girl. Katherine Grey’s boys were bastards.
The answer to the riddle of the succession was clear. King James remained the most likely heir to my throne, and I wanted him to follow me. All I had to do to ensure this outcome was to outlive my English heirs, and I had shown I was talented at surviving.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Whitehall Palace
Spring 1578
Emitting a chuckle, I glanced up from the letter I was reading and looked into the faces of expectant women.
Inwardly, I grimaced. The letter, both sweet and amusing, was from Anjou. The Prince had set out on a path that his brother, the King, had never taken, and thrown himself headlong into the task of charming me into marriage. Most of my men understood this was but a play, on my part, to keep France talking, and keep Anjou away from the Netherlands, but to my women, or some at least, this had become an exciting opportunity to see me wedded.
I often had cause to wonder, when ample proof existed even in their own marriages that the wedded state is not a cure-all for every fear, trouble and pain, why women continued to lust for it, not only for themselves but for others. The golden arc of happily ever after calls to the hearts of women. Most marriages did not end so; women were fortunate to gain only a dull, inattentive husband, who wanted little of them but babes and a warm bed to come to. Some few were lucky, finding love, but this was unusual. Marriage was a game of chance, with dice often falling the wrong way. But still, women continued to hope. In some ways, I could understand. The truth was too terrible to be faced. It was easier to continue in the world of happy myth, and think marriage a wondrous state.
That being said, I had to admit there was pleasure in the attentions I was getting from Anjou. The Prince might be one of the ugliest men I had ever seen, if his portrait was accurate, but he had charm.
“I find myself enamoured of this Prince,” I said to my ladies, causing a wash of gossip to flow from my chambers. Soon people were swearing I would marry Anjou.
But if I was considering matrimony, or at least pretending to, there were rumours that another woman had been turned down. The lady in question was Douglas Sheffield. There were rumours she had again asked Robin to marry her, using their base son as just reason for him to do so, but he had refused.
“There are rumours her hair has begun to fall out,” Kate Carey told me.
“For grief?” I asked.
“Some say so, Majesty, but there are darker rumours.”
“That Robin is poisoning her.” It was not a question.
Kate nodded, diamonds on her becoming cap twinkling in the amber candlelight. “Some say he wants her out of the way, madam. Of course, the rumours are but slander, but some listen.”
Of course they did. I ignored those rumours and went to attend a real wedding when Elizabeth Knollys, Lettice’s sister, married soon after. Lettice was at court for the ceremony, and I saw her avaricious eyes glinting as they took in my present, a heavy gilt cup worth a great deal of money. Perhaps irritated I offered costly goods to others and had failed to support her claims for increasing her jointure, Lettice was cool with me at the wedding feast.
I had always had a few problems with Lettice. Pride ran in my family as strong as red hair, but usually those who displayed it so boldly were actually of royal blood. There was the chance, of course, that Lettice possessed royal blood, as her mother was most likely my father’s bastard, but that did not make her royalty, it made her a royal bastard, and, to my mind, a royal pain in my regal posterior.
For the sake of her mother I was lenient, but my patience only stretched so far, and her affair with Robin, which I was sure was going on, was talked of far and wide. When not at court, Lettice was often at Kenilworth. Both she and Robin thought I knew nothing of her visits, but I did. And Robin had been acting strange of late. He was secretive, often silent. He had recently purchased a new house, in Wanstead, and I suspected it was for him and Lettice, so they could meet without arousing suspicion.
I did not like that he was keeping my cousin as his mistress, but what I found out that April pleased me even less.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Richmond Palace
February 1603
I am become a speck of dust for you again, so you might see what I did not.
In early April, a visitor came to the doors of Kenilworth at dawn, and was admitted quietly. She was taken to the chapel where a priest and a man of the court were waiting for her.
Seeing Robin at the altar, Lettice smiled as she made her way down the aisle, but if the bride looked pleased, Robin and his chaplain, Humphrey Tyndall, were decidedly nervous.
As she reached him, one hand on her belly where she was sure a child was growing, Lettice beamed at Robin. As he looked back at her, she could see love in his eyes. For years they had admired each other, had kissed, and had known the delight of understanding there is one who admires you in secret, but much had changed. They had become lovers when the Queen had bluntly ignored Robin’s attempts to woo her at Kenilworth, and when Essex had died the affair had only increased in passion and devotion.
Robin had sworn to Lettice he did not love the Queen, not as when they were young. He loved her, Lettice, he said, and she believed him. Who would not love her? Most men of court were wild with lust for her, and many more would have happily murdered their wives to take her. But there was only one man she wanted; a man she saw
as her equal in station, in passion, but not in wit. Lettice was in love with her Robin, but also thought she was stronger of mind than him. She wanted a husband who would work for her goals, not his own. No… not another husband like Walter who had destroyed the fortunes of his own family in a quest for glory. She wanted a man close to the Queen, to power, whom she might command.
As for Robin… he wanted an heir, above all else. Knowing he was growing old, when Lettice had told him she was with child he had known this might be his last chance. He desired her, and loved her, it was true, although his heart was confused by loving two women… but the child, a possible legitimate son, was too much to pass up at this late stage in his life.
That day they were married. They thought none knew of it. They were wrong.
On the 28th of April, whilst taking my morning walk in the gardens, I saw something fluttering in a doorway near the palace. It was a roll of parchment, addressed to me and tied to the door knob.