Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  “My master’s greetings and love to Your Majesty.” De Quadra bowed shortly, so short it was almost an insult. The stinking pole-cat!

  “And my love and best wishes to my beloved brother, Phillip of Spain,” I replied, dipping my head ever so slightly, to return the slight. De Quadra’s face was displeased, which amused me. “I have heard you have requested to see me, Your Eminence. What brings the Hapsburg ambassador to delight dull hours in my Presence Chamber?”

  “My master wishes to inform Your Majesty that you have all his support for your marriage,” de Quadra said. “As I hear the matter is now, at last, under the fullest discussion. Ever be assured, Majesty, whatever choice you make, your loving brother of Spain will stand at your side in support.”

  “Even if I marry with a Protestant prince, say… of Sweden, Your Eminence?”

  De Quadra looked taken aback. “I had understood there was another suitor Your Majesty was considering,” he replied, his eyes searching mine. “I had believed, Majesty, perhaps in error, that you were thinking of wedding Lord Robin Dudley.” De Quadra’s eyes snapped to Sidney who stood in the crowds of the Presence Chamber. I saw Sidney nod to the ambassador to encourage him. Malicious anticipation leapt into my heart. I would raise Robin’s expectations, and when the time came to trip him, my foot would be in just the right place…

  I sighed with dramatic effect. “I would confess to you, as a man of the cloth, Eminence, that I am no angel. It is true that I have affection for Lord Dudley, for his many noble qualities, as well as the years of good service he has shown to me,” I said, running a fingernail down my gown, tracing the pattern of fern fronds embroidered in gold. “But I have not made up my mind to marry Lord Robin or anyone else, even though I daily see the necessity of marrying for my country, and my people. I come to believe my people will accept no foreign husband at my side, and will only be satisfied with a man born of English stock.” I smiled at de Quadra. “After all, my lord ambassador, who loves England more than the English? Who would relish her stormy skies and enjoy talking about her ever-present rain more than a true Englishman?”

  An affectionate chuckle rose from the Presence Chamber. Again, de Quadra’s eyes slipped to Sidney. I could read triumph there. De Quadra did not want me to marry Robin for my own happiness, and he was not, either, giving his support because of Robin’s promises. De Quadra knew, as I did, that marrying Robin would bring neither riches nor power to England, and may well incur the wrath of my people. The Spanish ambassador liked the idea of de-stabilising England. De Quadra had his own games to play; he thought this was a hand he could not lose.

  “What would the Emperor think,” I continued, running a ribbon through my fingers as if lost in thought. “If I married with one of my servitors, as the Duchess of Suffolk and the Duchess of Somerset have done in the past? Would my brother of Spain not look down on me, for marrying one of my own men?”

  “My master is a loving brother to you, Majesty. He would be happy if you were happy.” De Quadra smoothed the front of his habitual black tunic, offering up his serpent smile. “But, I believe my master would be only more content to hear of the advancement of Lord Dudley, for all know of the deep affection between you. My master remembers him from his time in England and always speaks highly of him, as you do, too, Majesty.”

  I allowed a soggy smile to briefly flit over my lips, to make de Quadra believe this was what I wanted to hear. “I will think about what you have said, my lord ambassador,” I promised. “Please tell your master I am overcome by his support. Please thank my good brother, for the sweet hope he offers me.”

  I knew de Quadra would go to Robin and tell him what had occurred. Robin would be pleased, thinking I was giving public indication that I might, at last, marry him. But it would not happen. I would not be hoodwinked into a church or shackled to an altar.

  The games are begun, Lord Dudley, I thought as I watched de Quadra exit the chambers and a new petitioner was brought forth. Let us see how well you play, boy, against a partner who has been winning such games her whole life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitehall Palace

  Spring 1561

  As the songbirds returned to warble in the skies, I relented and allowed John Ashley to return to court. Kat had gone to Robin, asking him to intercede for John with me, but really, and with all that had gone on of late, there was no need. Perhaps John had even been right to attack Robin for his arrogance, even though he should not have done so before the court. The more this situation went on with de Quadra and the Council of Trent, the more I looked on Robin with an eye of disfavour. Soon enough though, there was something which came to steal my thoughts from Robin.

  Death came for a visit.

  On the 29th of March, aged but nineteen, little Jane Seymour died. She had grown ill with a cough, which led to her bringing up blood. She weakened by the day and died, falling from life with such ease it was as though she welcomed Death. She had never been a physically strong creature, but her death, at such a young age, was still a shock. As a descendant of Edward III, and blood-kin of my long-dead brother, I had Jane buried in Westminster Abbey. Her coffin was borne on a chariot, in a procession where the whole of my royal choir followed, their voices lifted in mournful song. Katherine Grey was the chief mourner, for I could not attend funerals in case it caused my people to think of my death, and in doing so, commit treason. I was told that Katherine stood sobbing, rendered voiceless, as she watched Jane laid to rest in St Edmund’s Chapel, beside Frances Grey, Katherine’s mother. Jane’s brother, Hertford, ordered a wall monument made for her in alabaster, with gilded letters proclaiming her name and lineage.

  I missed Jane. It was not a loss as Parry’s death had been, the pain of which I still carried, but it was still a loss. Jane’s death compounded my feelings of lowness and depression. In the aftermath of Robin’s betrayal, I flickered between wrath and spite, and then melancholy and dejection. Jane had been a bright spark in my chambers, and all my women missed her, none more than her friend Katherine Grey.

  *

  That spring, catkins danced in the wind. Their yellow pollen flew on the breeze as chestnut buds broke open, releasing sticky brown scales to join the dance of the skies. The fickle beginning of spring washed in with days both bold and cold and surprising days of sunshine and warmth followed in their wake. One never knew what to expect in spring. Skies as clear as pond-ice one day and the next would arrive with winds chasing driving rain across the storm-stirred heavens. Birds began to return from journeys to other lands and the green of England returned from under the dissipating thaw of snow and ice. The fields awoke and were filled with people tending crops. Thrushes began to build nests and jays and magpies watched for tasty eggs to steal. In the woodland the ground grew thick and brilliant green with tangy wood sorrel, as daisies and primroses shone yellow and white against the dark, damp earth. Cowslips and violets sprang up alongside celandine and on the skyline, their silhouettes dancing and boxing, long-legged hares raced, jumping, twisting, and fencing as females held off amorous suitors with claw and paw.

  It was not only doe hares who sought to ward off suitors. That spring I sought to separate two would-be lovers. I told Hertford I was to send him to France, firstly to travel with Cecil’s son, Thomas, and then to train under Throckmorton and eventually take over from him. I could not stand any more dispatches from Throckmorton on the many marvellous qualities of my cousin. And, with Mary set to leave for Scotland, I believed it was time to have a fresh face at the French Court, and one not so associated with my cousin. The Dowager, Catherine de Medici, who was now using the unusual title of ‘Mother of the King’, obviously disliked my cousin. To have an ambassador, who was stained by his noticeable infatuation for Mary Stewart, was not to England’s advantage. Hertford was charming and attractive. I had no doubt he would charm the Italian snake who slithered at the side of Charles IX, but I had other reasons for sending him. Well, one other reason; Katherine Grey.

  Fo
r too long had those two been making eyes at each other, and there were even rumours about court that Katherine was Hertford’s mistress. Although I did not believe the girl would be so dim-witted as to forget her station, honour and standing and become Hertford’s jade, I wanted to head off such an event before it occurred. I made the announcement, and it created mixed reactions.

  Katherine went about court with red eyes for a week, ready to burst into tears at every word spoken to her. Hertford, however, made preparations for his trip to France in obvious high spirits, elated by the position he had been offered and my trust in his abilities. It was, indeed, an advantageous appointment for a young man. France and the city of Paris in particular were, and are, exciting places for men with a heavy purse, a witty tongue and a handsome face. I had no doubt that, along with his diplomatic endeavours, there would be a great deal young Seymour would find to amuse himself with as he represented his country.

  I did feel sorry for Katherine; having so lately lost her friend she was already low, but I could not allow Hertford to stay. There was too much peril in such a plan. I little needed her to make a match with Hertford, a lord with his own royal connections, which would increase Katherine’s potential for the throne, and that of any children she might bear in the future.

  Think me unkind if you will, or believe I had transformed into my sister, who spent much of her reign trying to control me, but I could not risk Katherine with Hertford. I would let her marry, of course, just not to someone who would make her more of a threat. If Katherine had been a sensible woman, which she was not, she might have chosen to make a match which would allow her to increase her standing, without becoming a constant thorn in my skull.

  Another potential heir, Mary Stewart, was having a few problems of her own, quite aside from her recent widowhood. Protestant Scottish lords did not want their Catholic queen back if she was going to cause them problems with religion. Due to past English intervention in Scotland, on behalf of the Protestant rebels, I was seen by some there as the champion of the Protestant faith. It was not a role I had ever looked for, nor wanted. I had never been at ease with inciting rebels against their sovereign. I believed my cousin of Scots was the rightful ruler of that kingdom, and understood when one encourages sedition in one area, it spreads only too quickly. I wanted none of that kind of trouble in my own lands. I had sent troops against Marie of Guise, yes, but responding to Protestant lords against their rightful sovereign would be another matter entirely. They had not asked for aid, but Cecil and others were sure it would come with Mary’s return. If she was foolish enough to try to alter the religion of her realm there were many on my Council willing to sanction an invasion.

  I was further ill at ease because Mary would not ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh. The treaty replaced the ‘Auld-Alliance’ with France in favour of England. Mary refused to give her consent to the treaty, leaving it hanging like a ragged length of wool caught on a fence in the breeze. She believed that the wording was prejudicial to her future claim on the throne of England and would exclude her from the succession if I died. Mary wanted the treaty to be revised with her claim in mind, but I would not allow it. Since her widowhood had left her in a precarious position, she had agreed to stop styling herself the Queen of England, but it was not official, and when promises are not written down, people have a habit of forgetting them.

  I could understand her exasperation that others had made decisions for her realm. But the treaty was agreed, and I was not willing to alter its terms, not when they were so beneficial to England. Had I not been generous? I had not taken Mary’s country. I had not left a military presence in her realm. However much I disliked my Scottish cousin, she was the rightful Queen of Scotland and I was not about to usurp her throne. God had chosen me to rule England, not Scotland, and I would not go against His plans. Considering all this, I found her hesitation annoying. If Mary had not been present to talk about the treaty at the time it was agreed, that was her fault. Many times I had been forced to set aside my own grief and strife and concentrate on what was best for England. Let the Queen of Scotland do the same for her country!

  Since her widowhood, and change in station, however, Mary had become more placating. Her letters, which once had been high-handed and arrogant, had become conciliatory. She was aware of the rift she had made by daring to claim my throne, and she was also aware I was a much greater threat to her now, since we were about to become neighbours.

  Not so easy to act the part of the defiant heroine now, cousin? I thought when Throckmorton sent glowing reports, protesting that Mary had simply been unaware she was insulting me by using England’s arms, and now wished to make amends. I was not fooled. Mary was unsure of herself, perhaps for the first time in her life. Raised in France, coddled, spoilt and pampered, she had never had to face the dangers I had both before and after coming to my throne. Now, she was starting to understand what it was to be a single, unwed Queen of a small and potentially hostile country. She was beginning to understand it would be of great benefit to have me as a friend. Mary must have hoped my memory was failing, and I would forget her previous insults. Not a thing likely to happen. I was willing to forgive, if she would sign the treaty, but Mary held out. Saying she needed to take advice on the matter from the nobles of Scotland, Mary sent word to me, in a more humble tone than she had ever used before, asking me to understand her delay, and informing me she only “wanted to live in peace and harmony with her good sister and tender cousin.”

  “Good sister!” I snorted contemptuously as I read her missive. “Hah! A different tone, indeed, to previous dispatches! Good sister indeed! Was she not my good enemy only a month before the death of her husband? Not so bold now, cousin… without a husband to hide behind?”

  “Majesty?” Kat’s voice emerged from the next chamber. I had been caught talking to myself.

  “It is nothing, Kat,” I called. I scowled at my cousin’s unruly handwriting. Mary was playing for time. She wanted time to wriggle out of this treaty, time to hoodwink me into an agreement more pleasing to her. Another one trying to dupe me! Was I surrounded by people who thought me a cretin? With that in mind, I turned my attention to two others who thought me dim-witted…

  In April, I granted new apartments at Greenwich to de Quadra as a show of friendship between England and the Hapsburgs, and to make him believe I desired Phillip’s support to marry Robin. De Quadra was delighted; as well he might be, for those chambers cost enough to fit out in furniture and cloth. At the same time, I expanded Robin’s chambers. I wanted to lull him into the belief I was intending to accept him. When I moved against him, it would make his failure more satisfying. Robin was ever so pleased. Thinking me entirely unaware of his plotting, Robin went about court like a handsome cockerel, his chest puffed out with pride. But there is that trouble with pride, isn’t there? What does it always come before?

  Perhaps it is always this complicated, when those who love each other and yet cannot be together enter a stage of limbo, as we had. About each other, we two spiders spun our webs, and all the while, the court and country were gossiping about us, noting my favour increasing towards him, and asking what would happen next.

  De Quadra was eager to push for the papal nuncio to come to England. I, obviously, was not. I had asked Cecil to find a way to stop this from happening, and had trusted him to find some method of delay. Cecil’s choice of distraction, however, was not to my liking when it unfolded.

  Father John Coxe, a Catholic priest and chaplain to Sir Edward Waldegrave, a noble who had been popular at my sister’s court, was arrested and interrogated by my port officials. He had been travelling to Flanders, and was detained for carrying a now-banned rosary. The rosary was enough to allow a search of his bags, and he was discovered with money and letters for Catholics living abroad. Even though I had been lenient with those of the Catholic faith, there had been some who had chosen to go abroad to follow their faith publicly. Whilst it irritated me that they could not simply attend the public Pr
otestant ceremony and keep their own faith in their hearts, I had not attempted to stop them, nor captured their estates as my sister would have done. I was attempting to demonstrate that the faith of England was one of moderation and peace. Yet the events of that April were to test my patience and resolve, with both sides of the religious divide.

  When this priest was seized, it was found that amongst his papers were messages written in cipher, messages that were alarming and dangerous. The cipher, when broken by Cecil’s men, talked of ensuring a Catholic succession through sorcery worked by Catholic priests. It also stated Catholics had conjured how long I would live, which, according to them, was not going to be long. This, in itself, was treason. Speculating about the death of the monarch had been outlawed for many generations, for obvious reasons. Coxe confessed he had performed the Catholic Mass for Waldegrave’s household many times, which was also against the law, although this discovery worried me less than the other accusations.