by G Lawrence
At first I had Margaret and Lennox kept under house arrest, but I soon allowed them permission to visit court. Margaret and Lennox swore a solemn oath never to attempt to marry their son to Mary of Scots, and although this was not nearly enough for Cecil, I decided it would do well enough for me… for now. Given the seriousness of the many charges against them, their release was remarkably tolerant, but the accusations of witchcraft had not been proved, nor had Margaret’s dealings with de Quadra. And technically, since Darnley was my cousin, there was no crime in his mother attempting to marry him to Mary of Scots. The charges of imagining my death and calling me a bastard I chose to overlook, much to Margaret’s relief.
The Lennoxes were eventually allowed back to their own estates, and given permission to visit court. Margaret continued to protest her innocence, and was not in the least humbled by her experience. I think she believed I could not, or would not dare, do anything against her, but she was wrong. I had no compunction about executing Margaret if I had to, if she posed a genuine threat to England or to me, and in many ways it would have removed a most irksome boil from my royal bottom to do so… But I was not about to do it without good reason. The executions of close family, friends and loved ones had eroded my father’s soul, and haunted my sister’s spirits. Besides, there were other ways to ensure Margaret’s loyalty. I had her sons, Henry and Charles, brought to court permanently. They would be politely held hostages to secure their mother’s good behaviour. Cecil also put her household under further observation. Forgive, I could. Forget, I would not.
As I struggled with one of my possible heirs, my cousin in Scotland was encountering fresh conflict all her own. Randolph wrote to inform me that Mary had foiled a plot to kidnap her. She had been having troubles with the Earl of Huntley. Huntley was a leading Catholic noble of the Gordon clan, an influential family who had managed the estates of Mar and Moray on behalf of the Crown for many years. Mary had grown annoyed with the Earl when he spoke out in opposition to our summit meeting, and her anger had only grown as Mary found more to dislike about Huntley.
Huntley felt cheated. He believed the estates his family had managed should have been granted to him, but upon her arrival back in Scotland, Mary had given them instead to her bastard half-brother, Lord James. Whilst on progress, Mary arrived at Aberdeen only to find Huntley had brought fifteen hundred retainers when all lords present were supposed to only bring one hundred. When she went on to Inverness, she found the captain, one of Huntley’s men, had been instructed to bar her from the city.
You would have thought that a leading Catholic, who had been a great supporter of Mary of Guise, would have instinctively supported her daughter, but Huntley was a brash fool. Resentful that his Queen would not alter the religion of her country, troubled by her overtures of friendship to me and enraged she would not elevate him, Huntley decided to rebel. Mary responded with defiance. She elevated her bastard brother, now her best advisor, to the title of Earl of Moray that Huntley had coveted, rode to Inverness with a huge force of men, and took the city. She hung Huntley’s captain from the city walls, but graciously spared those under his command. Mary set her eyes then on Huntley; she would find him and make him pay for his treachery.
As Mary rode back to Aberdeen, her party came under attack from Huntley’s men. One of his young sons, Sir James Gordon, led the attack at the River Spey, thinking to overcome the young Queen’s small forces, and take her prisoner so his father could command her actions and choices. But they were deceived. I laughed aloud when I read Randolph’s report. Mary had realised Huntley was up to something, and whilst she rode with only two hundred men at her side, she had three thousand hidden in the forest. Gordon attacked with one thousand men, but as they charged the river, Mary’s secret forces surged forth from their hiding places. Gordon’s men faltered, turned, and then ran for their lives. The plot was foiled, my cousin was jubilant, and Huntley and his men went into hiding.
“That is how a true Queen acts, Cecil!” I crowed as I thrust the report under his nose. “Tell me now that Katherine Grey, that traitorous jade, is more suited to becoming my heir than my cousin of Scots! Read the missive, Spirit! My good sister of Scotland is proved a wily vixen amongst her Scottish foxes!” Even Cecil had to admit, grudgingly, that Mary had done well.
“Better than well, Cecil.” I cackled like a merry witch. “To think, she had all those men hidden, and led her enemies into a trap!” I shook my head, marvelling at my cousin’s adventure. How satisfying it must have been to see the expression of horror on her foes’ faces!
Randolph had been with Mary when the attack came, and even though he was supposed to be a neutral party, being an ambassador, he had been so caught up in the excitement that he had taken to arms and rushed in with the rest to defend Mary. Cecil was not pleased to hear this, and although it was worrying, indicating that yet another ambassador had fallen for my cousin’s charms, I was not displeased. Were I there, I believe I would have done the same. Mary had acted with wisdom, courage and fire. I had sometimes dismissed her in the past as hesitant and immature, but with this clever ruse Mary had shown herself to be a worthy queen.
My Council did not agree. They believed that her actions, and her victory, were due, in large part, to the intervention and advice of her brother, the new Earl of Moray. But men are often wont to allow a woman to be lucky if she succeeds, and ever cast about for the man who must have been responsible if she was clever. I did not think the same way.
Huntley retaliated by trying to attack Aberdeen. He wanted to murder Randolph and Maitland, who, as ambassadors, he saw as directly responsible for trying to bring Mary and me together as friends. He failed in both ambitions. With Mary’s forces on their way to engage him, Huntley went on the run. My cousin hunted him through Scotland until his forces met hers at Corrichie. Outgunned and outnumbered, Huntley tried to flee, but he and two of his sons were captured. Sir James Gordon was executed with his brother at Aberdeen but Huntley decided to spare Mary the trouble of executing him herself, and suffered a fit upon his horse, losing the power of speech and dying a day later. His corpse was embalmed, and put on trial. With the coffin stood upright in court, he was tried and found guilty of treason. The corpse was condemned and his family estates were declared forfeit to the Crown.
Letters I had sent to Mary just before I fell ill arrived in Scotland as she celebrated her victory. Explaining my intervention in the war in France, I had laid out my position for my cousin, and also asked her to excuse the shortness of the letter as I was by that time already burning with fever. When Mary heard this, having suffered from the same illness when she was a child, she became distressed. She assured Randolph that after careful consideration, she had decided to be neutral in the affairs of France, and would no more offer her support to the Guise. She also said I had intervened for a ‘godly cause’, adding that the King of France would surely one day thank me for my actions on behalf of the Huguenots. Mary sent a letter, commiserating on my illness and enclosed, too, a bottle of a potion she had found beneficial. “This potion helps to reduce the scarring of the smallpox,” she wrote. “I hope that my good sister will have the same success I did, and her beautiful face will remain un-marred by the echoes of this terrible sickness.”
Cecil would not let me have the bottle until it had been examined for poison. “Why would it aid her to kill me now, Cecil?” I asked as I furiously demanded the present. “And in such an obvious way? Do you really think the Queen of Scots would be so foolish as to openly send a bottle of poisoned potion to me?”
“Even if she would not, others may seek to use her gift against both you and her, Majesty,” Cecil protested, refusing to give up the bottle. “It could have been intercepted. It could have been tampered with. You must be more careful, Majesty. We have already nearly lost you once!”
Cecil was furious at me for my lack of care, as he saw it, and perhaps he was right, but I was touched by Mary’s gesture. It took a woman to truly understand what such a g
ift could mean. It took a woman to understand how valuable our looks can be in this hard world, where we are so often judged by what lies on our faces, rather than by our courage, strength, or spirit.
Unfortunately, after this happy gesture, Mary was taken to bed with a cold. She was ill, and it had not helped that her spirits had been brought low by learning that, when I was ill, only a single voice of my Privy Council had supported her as my successor. All others had refused to consider her. It seemed, no matter her virtues and obvious courage, my men did not warm to the Queen of Scots. There had been support for Katherine Grey and her son, which not only irked me, but disappointed me too. They would rather pick an infant, just because he was a male, than view Mary as my successor.
Chapter Forty
Richmond Palace
February 1603
Hope, trust, belief… We find them in unlikely places, we hold on to them in times of trial.
As I recovered from the smallpox, I found my position on the throne had altered. Brushing so close to Death, coming so close to losing my life, I wanted to set aside thoughts of my demise and concentrate on the future, but my Council, my nobles, my men… they all thought otherwise. They saw my death as something which was ever present; a shadow hanging over them. They feared what would come for England, should I die suddenly, unexpectedly, as so many did. They looked back to my father, to the man whose marital history had changed England, and they forgot the upheavals he had caused. They remembered only his dedication to producing an heir.
It had been the desire which had defined him. My father had searched in love, in hate, in lust and in diplomacy to find a mate who would give him what he needed; an heir, and a spare… He got the heir. He never found the spare. My father never intended for my sister or me to reign. He believed only a man could unite the country, could bring the warring factions of court in line… He did not see that a woman could do such a thing.
He had been wrong.
And yet, my men gazed back through time, and sighed for a monarch who would give such dedication to the quest for an heir. They were baffled by my desire to never marry. They were worried by my refusal to name a successor. They wanted to know that England would be safe, when I was gone. But I was a creature of the present. That is how survivors are. We learn to live in the present, for we know not how long we have to enjoy it. I did not want to think of my own death, who does? Who would want to be presented every day with lists of those who will take your throne, shoulder the care of your people, take up the work you have started… once you are dead and cold in the grave?
They thrust my own demise under my nose. They stalked me with images of my death. They ran after me, showing me what would come when I was gone. How could anyone live, when they exist under their own death shroud?
I loved my people, I loved England. I would rule for as long as God permitted, and then allow Him to choose who was to succeed me. In my mind, then, was my cousin, Mary. She had the blood, the spirit and the courage to do what was best, for both our nations. I put my trust in her. I placed my hope in her. I was not ready to die just yet… and even now, as Death watches on as I tell my tale, I tarry still. But when I did die, I believed Mary was the one destined to replace me.
Still, I did not love to hear of my own death. I did not revel in this discussion. But I was about to find that even if I did not wish to hear, there were many others willing to speak…
And Death… Did He feel cheated to have failed to take my life? Perhaps so, for He came back… And in the place of one life He failed to take, He would steal many, so many more.
Chapter Forty-One
Windsor Castle
Winter 1563
That January, plague crept into England.
And this was not the sweat, nor smallpox. This was the plague that once, a few hundred years ago, had wiped out one third of Europe. They called it the Black Death and never was a name more feared.
The plague began with a fever, headache, chills, swelling, and lumps which formed under the arms, at the neck and at the groin. As the sickness ate into the body, the lumps turned black, and extremities would rot and fall away. There was no treatment. People were ordered to stay inside, rest and pray they would be one of the few and fortunate to survive. All we could do when the plague came was to lock those affected inside their houses, and hope to contain the number who died. People carried garlands of flowers, wrapped their faces in cloths soaked in wormwood and vinegar, and petitioned God and Saint Roch to spare them. The holy cross was carved on the doors of those who fell to the illness, in the hope that God would see them, and cure them… It was done, too, to make others aware the plague was within that house, so they would not to go near.
Within weeks thousands had died.
The city stunk as Death walked free and easy in her streets. Churches, markets, shops and parks were closed. Mass graves were made outside of London, and those who had survived the plague drove carts about the city in the gloom of night, removing corpses from infected houses and throwing them into pits. Priests stood, mumbling nervous, harried prayers over the ravaged bodies of the dead. Everyone carried talismans, relics and prayer books, trying to keep themselves safe. Each night the creaking wheels of the wagons sounded through London. Each day, more died.
Death was busy, that winter.
Did He feel cheated, in failing to take my life? Did He come to exact His revenge on my people? Spiteful Death. He struck out like a child. He came for petty vengeance.
The risks presented by the plague were enormous, and therefore the precautions against it had to respond in kind. No one was allowed to transport goods in or out of London by boat or road and anyone who broke this sanction would be turned from their house. Any found concealing the pestilence inside their house was fined. Anyone found trying to escape London and therefore possibly spread the plague to other towns, villages or cities, was hanged.
The court was rushed to Windsor, for as much as that castle was a palace, it was also a fortress that could be secured. Provisions were hoarded, so we did not have to risk the plague entering upon wagons of wheat, or in stocks of meat, grain, vegetables or cloth. No one was allowed to enter Windsor if they had visited London in the past month. Foreign ambassadors, newly arriving in England, were sent to safe houses outside of the city, and were told they would not be received at court until they had spent forty days in England without coming near the sickness, or presenting any symptoms. Ambassadors and dignitaries already at court were hustled to Windsor with us.
I was moved into the closest thing to seclusion I would ever experience as Queen. I was served only by my ladies, and only by those ladies who had been with me before the outbreak, had showed no signs of sickness, and had not been into London itself before the court moved. My servants were reduced in number, and kept apart from the servants of other lords. My kitchens were guarded, the servants there also reduced, and no produce was allowed to be used for my meals unless it had been inspected and passed Cecil’s rigorous tests. I was permitted my apothecary, and my doctors, but they were not allowed to treat others. I was not allowed outside. Every day, all my servants were checked over for signs of the plague, as was I. In light of my recent brush with death, and the mounting piles of dead in London, Cecil and my Privy Council were taking no chances. Fortunately, it was winter. The plague was always more virulent if it came when the summer’s heat allowed it to fester and spread. We hoped winter’s cold would force it to retreat.
*
By January, the numbers of dead and newly infected were falling rapidly. The plague had taken a horrific toll, but it had begun to dissipate. Feeling safe enough, I called Parliament to reconvene. I regretted it almost immediately. At the opening ceremony I was upbraided by Alexander Nowell, Dean of St Paul’s, for failing to marry. With Death still cackling merrily in some parts of London, and considering my close brush with death by smallpox, Parliament had become obsessed with my demise. I sat listening to Nowell, as he criticized me. I did not listen with good
grace.
“Just as Queen Mary’s marriage was a terrible plague to all England,” the man began, setting my spine into brisk bristles. “So now the want of Queen Elizabeth’s marriage and issue is like to prove as great a plague! If your parents, madam, had been of such a mind, where would you be now? Alack! What is to become of us?”
I felt the use of ‘Alack’ was rather over the top… Did Nowell believe he was in a play? I spent the rest of his address fuming in silence as men all around me thumped their fists against wood in agreement with the Dean and added their complaints to his. Both Houses agreed they would issue petitions for me to marry; an event they believed would “strike terror” into my enemies and replenish my subjects “with immortal joy!”
My subjects may well have had immortal joy at the prospect of my marriage, but I did not. What business was it of theirs whom and when I might marry? I understood my sister’s feelings perfectly whenever I was admonished to marry. Mary had once said she must marry according to her own private inclination, as was the right of all men and women. At the time, I had censured her for this. Now, I believed there was something in what she had said. My inclination was never to marry. Why could my people not look on me now, in the present day, for once, rather than harping constantly on the time I would die? I was insulted. Was there was nothing I could do, myself, for the good of England, then? Was there nothing more worthy I could ever achieve than marrying a man, and birthing a babe? Was that really all they thought me good for? Had I not proved my intelligence, my wit, and my political skills? Was it only my womb they wanted me for, rather than my mind?