by G Lawrence
The weather was clement and I took to the park with my ladies. Robin and Thomas Heneage joined us, and we made merry in the falling light of the season. But as we gloried in the beauty of the autumn, all talk in Council was of war. I had agreed to send troops to support the Huguenots but it did not sit easily with me. “Support is all it will be, my lords,” I said grimly, tapping my fingers on the piled parchments my men had gathered. “Support to give the Huguenots a chance against the Guise. This is not our war, and I think it important to remember that.”
“The Mother of the King has ceased to talk to her Huguenot subjects, Majesty,” Cecil said. “Which does not allow talks of peace to resume. There is no chance to reconcile the two sides now. War has come and must be fought.”
“I don’t believe for a moment Catherine de Medici is any fonder of the Guise and their Catholic supporters than I, Cecil, even if she shares a faith with them… and will you stop calling her that? The Mother of the King… what a ridiculous title! The only reason that Medici woman uses it is because it takes longer to say and so she thinks it gives her more authority! Call her what you need to on diplomatic papers, Spirit, but in here she is either Catherine de Medici or the Dowager. Those titles will do her well enough!”
Pembroke and many of the others chuckled, but Robin had been rather quiet. “You say little today, my lord,” I noted, turning to him. “Do you have no opinion? You asked again to attend Council… was it for no reason, then?”
“I am delighted we are at last to send support to our Protestant brothers and sisters, Majesty, and that you have put your trust in my good brother, Ambrose, to lead your troops,” Robin replied, making me groan inwardly.
This play-acting of Robin’s, trying to reform himself into a guardian angel of Protestants, was wearisome. He thought he could restore his reputation by doing so, and perhaps he was right, but I would have welcomed a real opinion, not one fabricated to win supporters. In truth, Robin wore his faith light about his shoulders. Mistake me not, Robin loved God and honoured Him, but he would have been happy enough to worship as a Catholic or Protestant. But since the affair with de Quadra had come out, Robin had made a public change from a measured way of seeing religion, and was edging towards becoming a zealot. I despised fanatics and hardly wanted one at my side every day.
“Well the six thousand troops we are sending with your brother in command, along with hundred and forty thousand crowns should support them well.” My mouth twisted as I considered the sum. That money would have had more use for my own people.
“The Huguenot leaders have sent word that they will grant you La Havre as a pledge, Majesty, until they can return Calais.” Cecil looked up from his notes. “But they promise they will return Calais, as soon as they have taken it from the Catholics.”
“Then there will be something to cheer my heart, Spirit,” I said unhappily. “Let us hope that with our intervention the Crown will open talks again, and promote peace.”
“The King and… his mother…” Cecil grinned as I flashed him a look, reminding him not to use the title Catherine de Medici had made up. “… Seem resolute to remain impartial in the war, Majesty, a most unusual situation when the Crown will not support either side in a civil war.”
“You mean the Medici snake is waiting to see which side looks set to win before she picks a bed to slither into,” I interjected, making Pembroke guffaw. “I don’t believe she is impartial for a moment, Cecil. She pauses to gain advantage, and I don’t believe Conde, Coligny or the Guise believe her either. They know well of what she is made.”
“Of course, Majesty… I but pass on what is in the papers from France.”
“Is Throckmorton home yet?” We had called him back. With England planning to intervene in France, and even with the royal family adopting a position of neutrality in the war, it would be inadvisable to have him at the French Court much longer.
“He will come soon, Majesty,” Pembroke said. “He wrote and said he had a few loose ends to secure before making for England.”
“Good enough,” I said, putting my hands to the table and rising. “Muster the troops and make ready to sail. I will give the final order for our forces to leave England when we are ready.”
“Your Majesty is also aware of the outbreak of smallpox at court?” Cecil asked as the others rose. “I have commanded that none who have been near the sickness will be allowed to attend upon you, and none who have suffered and recovered are to come to court for at least a month. Some are not pleased with my sanctions, but…”
“They are important sanctions, Cecil, and will be upheld. We can have no one spreading the sickness.”
My men left, carrying various orders with them. I heaved a sigh, once more thinking I did not want to be involved in this war. But still, the amounts of men and coin, although large, were hardly enough to win a war. They would give the Huguenots a chance against the vastly better armed and prepared Catholics. And who knew? If they won, France might become a Protestant ally. I was still thinking uncomfortable thoughts later that week, however. The men were gathered, the arms prepared, the ships were ready… all was prepared for the English to cross the Channel and enter France. And then, I almost destroyed the hopes and dreams of my men. I almost denied the Huguenots their support. I almost brought chaos upon my country.
Death was at my door. Not knowing He was there, I opened it and let Him in.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hampton Court
Autumn 1562
It started with a pain in my head and another in my belly. At first, I thought little of these pains. Recently, I had found I was subject to many aches. I put these new ones down as another sign of my youth deserting me.
We do not believe, when we are young, there will come a day when our bodies will turn against us. We believe every day will follow much as the day before; that we will awake with full and bright health, zest and vim always in our bones and blood. But recently, I had become aware this was a fiction born of inexperience. As I grew older, parts of my body I had little thought on before wanted to make me suffer. Restless nights brought on headaches and lack of appetite sapped my energy. My teeth pained me often and my back and shoulders were at times determined to rebel against me.
I was hardly old, being twenty-nine, but I was coming to understand there was more to growing older than simply gaining wisdom or grey hairs. I seemed to gain aches at the same rate as experience. And it was not the case anymore that there needed to be a reason for a pain to develop. When I was young, there was always a reason for pain… Now, I could simply wake up to find a part of my body wished to hurt me. I could do something as slight as bending to tie a shoe ribbon, and find I had pulled my back, or wrenched my shoulder. No one tells you this as you grow older. It had come as an unpleasant surprise, although when I complained to Kat, I had received an annoying, knowing grin in response.
So when a pain in my head arrived and would not leave, and an accompanying ache began in my belly, I did not send for my doctors right away. I sipped plain broth, and watered ale. I tried to rest, thinking this would ease the pain in my head, but after several days, and as the pains increased, I gave in and sent for my physicians. At first, they did not think much of it either. They bled me, gave me pills and bitter herbs and I wrote a letter to my cousin in Scotland, but had to cut it short as I started to feel increasingly unwell. I took a bath, and followed it with a bracing walk through Hampton’s park, thinking I had lingered too long in the dull confines of the palace and this was affecting my heath. When I returned, Kat stared in horror at my bright, flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, and sent me straight to bed.
“There is nothing wrong with me, Kat,” I protested as she all but tore my clothes from me and ushered me into the glorious bed, calling for warming pans and for the fire to be stoked. But as I got under the sheets, a violent chill shuddered through me, and I was suddenly glad of the warm covers. “Well, perhaps just for today,” I said, shivering under my blankets as I pulled them up to my neck.
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br /> But the next day I did not rise at all.
The chill settled into my bones. I ran hot and then cold, sweating profusely, then shivering so hard my teeth rattled in my head. Grievous pains of the belly assailed me so I could not rest. I lay doubled up in misery and pain. My hands shook when I tried to lift a cup to my mouth. My fingers were numb, but my face was flushed scarlet with prickly, uncomfortable heat. I could not sleep, and yet could not stay awake. I drifted in a state between sleep and waking, muttering as I saw shadows race before me. When I awoke properly, hours later, Kat and Blanche were at my bedside, their faces wan.
My doctors were at a loss. They believed they saw symptoms of the dreaded smallpox, and yet there were no physical signs; no blemishes or spots. A German physician, much respected at court, was sent for, and he too said it was the pox.
“But I have no spots!” I cried out, and then fell to coughing which hurt my head. “See?” I held out my white, unmarked arms to Doctor Burcot who looked at me with steady eyes.
“Sometimes the affliction does not immediately present on the skin, Majesty,” he said in a patronising manner that made me angry.
“Then why call it the pox?” I shouted. “Remove this knave from my chambers! Clearly he knows nothing! Bring me proper doctors!” Burcot was removed. Muttering darkly about the rudeness of the Queen of England, he left the chambers in high dudgeon. My remaining doctors started treating me for a simple fever, perhaps caught when I walked in the park after taking a bath, they said.
“The warm bath opened the pores of your skin, Majesty,” one explained. “And then your walk in the cold air allowed a wandering fever to enter your body. You should not take such dire risks. Bathing during the autumn or winter can be perilous.”
“I have bathed, winter or summer, all my life,” I rasped. My throat was on fire.
“But you are older now, Majesty. The years take their toll.”
That was not likely to please me. No matter if I admitted the years creeping up on me to myself, I did not want others observing this. I think he realised by my livid expression it might be ill-advised to continue to talk of my age in relation to my illness. Although my face was pallid and drawn, it did not damage the impact of the dark anger in my black eyes as I glowered at him.
After another day, I was glowering no longer. I had not the energy to speak or open my eyes. My ladies could not rouse me fully. I could hear them, but I could not respond. My skin was alive with prickles and itching, as though it were infested with thousands of tiny, crawling, scratching spiders. My flesh roasted upon my bones. I called out in pain and cried out as shadows crept upon me, hunting me in my half-dreams. My tongue was dry and my head a hideous riot of noise and screaming.
When I was able to open my eyes, I stared out at the world with glassy, unclear vision. I saw shapes around me, but knew not who they were. I recoiled from hands that tried to touch me, shrinking from them. I could hear muttering, and yet knew not from where it came. I slipped from consciousness, and fell into a world of nightmares. My fevered dreams brought forth monsters to hunt me through the dark tunnels of my imagination. Scaly hands touched me. They sought to lift my nightshift, to abuse me, to rape me. I screamed, flailing about, my covers wrapped around me in knots like a thousand hands trying to hold me down. I know not how long I battled through that horrible world of demons. After a while, I lost the ability to fight them. I lost my courage and what strength I had left and collapsed into a sleep so deep, that when I awoke, gazing blearily about me, my ladies almost fell at my side, relieved I had not died.
“What is going on?” I croaked as Kat pressed a cup of boiled herb-water to my cracked lips. I sipped and then coughed the mixture up again, soiling the bedcovers. I felt faint. Even lying in bed, prostrate, I was dizzy. The world would not fall into focus. I knew then I was truly sick unto death.
“You are sick, my sweet,” Kat murmured, her voice thick with tears. “But we are going to make you well again.”
At the edge of my vision, I could just about see Cecil’s pallid face. Everything that was not right before my eyes was shadow and shade. I seemed to see people moving in the darkness… People who were not, could not, be there. I could catch the black snap of my mother’s eyes floating behind Cecil. I saw a glimpse of my father’s red hair. I saw Parry, standing with that steady expression he always wore on his face. Little Jane Seymour laughed at his side… There was Amy Dudley, stood with her hands about her throat, staring at me with goggled eyes bulging from her head. The ghosts of my past had come to flock about me. For a while I blinked and stared at them, not knowing whether to be afraid of them or not. As I gaped, my sister stepped forward, her arm entwined with my brother’s. Mary lifted her hand, and beckoned to me. I screamed, looking over Cecil’s shoulder and pointing at the beckoning form of my ghostly sister. Cecil and my women ran to me, blocking out the sight of those phantoms, but even so, it was a while before I was calm enough to lie flat and still.
“Spirit,” I wheezed as hands forced me back on the bed. “Do not let these ghosts take me. They want me, Cecil… They want me to go to them.” I do not think he knew what I was speaking of, for only I could see these shades of my past.
“Your Majesty has been very ill,” Cecil said. I blinked at him, seeing his face flicker and distort. “We must make preparation, Majesty… in case you do not recover.”
“Am I dying, Cecil?” My voice was faint. I did not sound like me.
Cecil nodded, and I was amazed to see his eyes overflow with tears. “Majesty… we must make preparation for England, for the succession.”
“I am dying.” I lay back on my covers and Kat flapped forwards.
“You are not dying, Elizabeth!” she exclaimed, throwing a blazing look at Cecil. “I will not let you die!”
“Peace, Kat… peace,” I pleaded. Her cries hammered in my aching head. “I must think of England… of my people.” Members of my Privy Council appeared from nowhere, and gathered beside Cecil. They were dressed in black, as though I were already dead.
“I do not want to die.” The words came from me as though a child spoke. The voice was tiny, helpless. Several of my men broke down, turning their faces from me as grief and fear overcame them. I felt tears on my own cheeks, but I could not feel them falling from my eyes. I stared up at them, my unfocused eyes begging them to help me. My men looked at each other, and then began to talk over each other.
“None of the doctors even know what this illness is!” Pembroke exploded in frustration.
“None will commit to any remedies!” called another.
“We must bring them all here and have them all work on the Queen until they find what this is! By God’s Holy Spirit! It must be something!” Robin’s voice; breaking with sorrow, harsh with impotent rage. I held out a hand.
“Robin?” I asked, my eyes closed. Their shouting was hurting my head. If I opened my eyes, I believed they would bleed. His warm hand clasped about my own, and his weight came down upon the bed beside me. Soft lips kissed my hand.
“Do not…” I whispered. “Do not… You will put yourself in danger, Robin… I could never live knowing I had done you harm.” There was a noise from my side, a choking sound, as Robin sank into helpless tears. I managed to open my heavy eyes, and saw him bent over, holding my hand. Cecil had his hand on Robin’s back, trying to comfort him. “Robin…” I croaked. “You must marry… with another… you must go on to have children. When I am gone....”
I did not get to finish my speech of noble sentiment.
“Do not speak so, Elizabeth!” Robin roared, rising from the bed, his eyes flashing about, filled with wildness and desperation. “Do none of the doctors here know what is wrong with the Queen? Do none have any skill?”
“Doctor Burcot said he believed the illness to be smallpox,” Mary Sidney answered. “But there are no spots or pustules…”
“Get him back here now!” Robin demanded, turning on Lord Hunsdon who stood nearby. “Bring him here!”
Robin faced Hunsdon. “Drag the man here if you must!” he ordered. With a grim face, Hunsdon left the chamber, shouting for his men to follow him.
“You will recover, my love,” Robin whispered, sitting on the bed and taking my hand. “You will.”
Doctor Burcot arrived perhaps an hour later, looking utterly terrified. I heard later he had refused to come, and Hunsdon had drawn a dagger on him, threatening the doctor with a painful, lingering and bloody death if he did not attend upon me. Burcot set to work. Laying a blissfully cool hand to my face, he ordered everyone out but Kat and Mary Sidney, who refused to leave. Burcot had taken Hunsdon’s threats to heart, for the pace he set was confounding to watch. I admit, I was hardly in a lucid state, but all the same, the doctor seemed to move as though the Devil Himself were at his elbow. Burcot wrapped me in red flannel, lifted me from the bed as I weakly protested, and set me before a roaring fire in the chambers. The hot fire burned against my fevered skin. I feebly tried to remove myself from its heat, but Burnet held me firm in the chair.