by G Lawrence
Oh! I could have bounded to de Silva and kissed the man! What a marvellous ruse! He had ensured all talks of marriage would go ahead with all the speed of an ancient slug meandering over a tasty lettuce! With de Silva as my ally I could pull back from the talks, or put them on hold with ease.
“This would be pleasing, lord ambassador,” I said. “For too often have men not understood my heart.” I glanced at Robin, his face still afire from my previous insults. I kept my eyes on him. “Too often have suitors tried to push me into doing their will; that is the way of some men when they deal with women… They try to force themselves upon us making us feel only disdain for them. With your care for my comfort and sensibilities, ambassador, I believe these negotiations may run smooth.”
“I admit myself horrified to hear you have been so rudely handed, Your Majesty,” de Silva said, looking genuinely upset. “You will find that neither I, nor my master is made of such mettle. Rest assured, Majesty, we will move at the pace which suits you. Women are to be flattered, after all, rather than forced into the state of matrimony.”
“I wish more men thought as you do, my dear ambassador,” I said, gazing at Robin. If his cheeks grew any redder, I could have set him on a pole in my gardens to illuminate the dark pathways at night.
Good, I thought, let Robin understand all he has done. Let him understand that he has tried to force me just as that knave who hid in my cousin’s bedchamber attempted to force her! One act of force was physical, and one mental. But were they not all part of the same evil?
*
Storms of autumn arrived. Gusting gales of chilled wind from the north blew over England, throwing golden leaves and brown stalks whirling through the air and pelting the heads of field workers with hard and bitter rains. In the forests and woodlands mice and voles scampered between heavy droplets, stoically gathering nuts and berries. And, as the countryside fell from autumn and into winter, Cecil descended into incessant nagging about my cousin, Mary of Scots.
We had agreed we would ask for evidence about Mary’s dynastic rights and would ascertain her claim to the throne. Cecil now demanded this investigation. It would take into account all other heirs, and my father’s will, which had expressly eliminated the heirs of Margaret Tudor in favour of the Greys, as Cecil knew. He wanted to prove Mary had no right to the English throne, but since I was sure his investigation would show the opposite, I allowed it. Mary was displeased to hear of this, so I attempted to soften the insult by sending her a gift. It was a ring; a great diamond, set in gold, and of most pleasing clarity. My cousin received it with great affection, wore it every day, and made a point of kissing it before her court. Some began to jest it was an engagement ring.
If she was pleased with her new ring, however, Mary was apparently much less enamoured about me choosing her husband. She was, for once, clever about hiding her feelings, but Randolph was sure she was never going to acquiesce to my demand. Whenever he tried to broach the subject, she distracted him. I could admire this feint, but it still irritated me. One day, she held out her hands to Randolph displaying the ring I had given her and another which had been a present from François, saying, “two jewels I have now that must die with me and shall never be willingly let out of my sight.” Then, as Randolph tried to press her, she shouted to her court, “Randolph would have me marry into England, my lords!”
The Duke of Argyll called back, “why? Has the Queen of England become a man?” Her courtiers laughed heartily and Mary went on to sport with Randolph. I had not disclosed any potential suitors to Mary as I was not quite ready to reveal Robin as my choice yet. Mary believed Randolph knew who I wanted her to marry, so she tried to tease it from him, and then dodged his constant petition that she accept me as her matchmaker. My ambassador was reduced to great embarrassment as Mary toyed with him. My cousin and her court found it amusing, I less so. My offer had been serious.
Although only twenty-one, my cousin seemed to be in regular ill-health. Randolph wrote that she was given to even more frequent outbursts of weeping, and had a pain in her side. Which side it was that Mary felt pain in, Randolph could not decide, for sometimes he wrote it was her left and at others her right.
“As long as she does not become a pain in my side,” I muttered to myself as I read Randolph’s reports. “For she is clearly not taking the notion I decide on her husband as serious.”
*
Another cousin was bent on vexing me that autumn. And it was not only Katherine Grey I grew angry at, but Robin and Cecil as well.
Robin brought a petition from Katherine. It was accompanied by letters from John Grey and Cecil and was stuffed full of pretty phrases, all begging for mercy. At the same time, I learned of a book written in support of both Katherine’s marriage and her right to be named heir. Written by a man named Hales, the text said that since Katherine and Hertford had been married with joint consent, and had consummated the match, their marriage was legal. It also cited the stipulation of common law in England, which said that only Englishmen could inherit property or title in England, and not foreigners. Although this stipulation did not, in fact, apply directly to the crown, there were many who took it to mean such. It was a direct strike against Mary of Scots ever being named my heir, and that made it potentially dangerous for our delicate friendship.
The book further called upon scholars in Europe to decide on the legality of Katherine’s marriage. I was enraged that anyone would seek to undermine my authority and that of the English Church who had conducted the investigation. I had John Grey and others questioned about the book, and many fingers pointed at Cecil as the true author.
I took the petition silently from Robin when he arrived with it, and sent him away. When I had read it, I called for Cecil. “This petition is your work, is it not?” I asked, waving the parchment at him. “Yours and Robin’s. Katherine Grey has never written like this before, Cecil. I hear your words through her mouth.”
Cecil was not fool enough to deny this. “Your Majesty, Lord Grey contacted me in despair for Lady Katherine’s health. Have they not been punished enough?”
I drew myself up and glared at him. “Have I not been generous, Cecil? Have I taken their lives, or removed their sons to the houses of strangers? Have I thrown them into prisons without comfort, or denied them servants to tend to their needs? There is much more I could have done with Hertford and Katherine. There is much more my father would have done.” I threw the paper on the table. “Tempt me not, Cecil, to become as my father was to his enemies.”
“They do not have to be enemies, Majesty.”
“Those who act against my laws and against my will are my enemies. Those who defy me are my foes. Those who do not show outward obedience to me will be punished.” I looked long and hard into his eyes. “Do not become my enemy, Cecil.”
“Your Majesty… I work ever for your wishes and for England…”
“And the book, Cecil? The book apparently by Hales, but which many say was penned by you? Is that your work also?” Cecil went to protest, but I stopped him.
“My wishes are England’s wishes,” I said, my tone baleful. “My will is England’s will. I am England, Cecil. If you betray me, you betray your country.” I shook my head. “If you choose to work for my cousin, then you are working against me. Think carefully, old friend. Choose your side well. I shall not offer you another chance.”
I knew the petition was Cecil’s work, but I did not believe the book was. I did not believe Cecil would do something as idiotic as that, but I was angry at both Cecil and Robin for working behind my back. I sent word that I would not forgive Katherine or her family. Katherine was plunged into misery, and refused to leave her bed. When the Seymour and Grey families found out about the failed petition, they all blamed each other. The Seymours blamed John Grey for getting involved, and he protested he maintained Katherine, and bought everything for her, so was he not in the position of a father, or husband and therefore honour-bound to protect her? He said he had been given litt
le from the Crown for her upkeep, which was true enough. I had been forced to pay for my imprisonment when my sister held me captive and I had not even been found guilty of treason. I saw no reason to take on the cost of Katherine’s upkeep, when her family could provide for her. Both families viewed my actions as cruel, but why should I pay for a twice-proved traitor to live in comfort?
I had Katherine and her youngest son moved from John Grey’s house, for I believed he was an ill influence. An investigation went on into the book, but so many names emerged who were involved that I knew I could do nothing about it. Cecil, Robin, and Cecil’s brother-in-law, Nicholas Bacon, were all implicated. The author of the book, Hales, was arrested and put in the Tower, Bacon was banished from court and John Grey lived in terror he would be arrested too. I was troubled by how many high-ranking supporters Katherine had. It made me all the more determined to court my cousin of Scots, especially since so many of her supporters had read Hale’s book with horror and were writing responses to it. Katherine’s supporters, too, wrote responses to those responses, and so the circle continued on. I felt as though I would never be rid of this abhorrent girl and all the strife she had caused me.
I removed Hertford from his mother’s house, so he could influence his son no more. Katherine I left at Ingatestone with her baby. I would find other ways to punish Cecil and Robin. It was time to offer Robin to Mary, and to show my displeasure to Cecil, I would promote Mary of Scots as my heir.
Chapter Forty-Six
Windsor Castle
Autumn - Winter 1563
As the plague started to dissipate in London, I took the opportunity to ride out and hunt each day in Windsor’s great park. Arriving back one afternoon, news came of a ship arriving at Dover. The previous year, a captain named John Hawkins had departed for Sierra Leone. He arrived back in London that autumn with a great profit in his pocket. Part of Hawkins’s newfound wealth had come from the sale of slaves from Africa; a trade which was illegal in England, and one I was not enamoured of at all. When Hawkins arrived in English waters, however, his reports explained that the slaves he had taken and sold had defected from their Spanish and Portuguese masters, and gone to Hawkins, asking to be sold on to better owners. Hawkins said they had suffered from poor treatment, and had been grateful for his help. Spain and Portugal held many slave plantations in Africa, and had reduced much of the native population to slavery to support their ambitions. Slaves could not be brought into England, since there were laws in place which prohibited slavery, and the colour of a man’s skin, or the country he originated from did not excuse infraction of the law. The other problem with Hawkins bringing such people to England was that their legal status was in doubt, for although they could not be kept as slaves, they were not Crown subjects either. He had therefore traded them outside of England, apparently according to their wishes, and had returned home a rich man.
“And you maintain they came to you willingly, Captain Hawkins?” I asked. I had read his statement in detail, and found no fault in law with what he had done. If the slaves he had traded had indeed asked to be taken to kinder masters then he had done right by them. But the idea of a man owning the freedom of another was repugnant to me. Should it not be to all people?
“They suffered under abusive masters, Your Majesty,” Hawkins replied, his weather-beaten face ruddy under the candlelight. “And I left them with better ones. I had no legal power to alter their status, and it was not within my authority to bring them into England, but I assure you, they came to me and asked for my aid. This worked to our advantage, as you have no doubt read in my dispatches.”
I tapped my finger on my chair as I pondered on his words. There were plenty of Moors and Africans in England, but they were free men and women. Some ran shops, worked in trades of pin-making or silk-spinning, and others were servants. The English did not keep slaves… Not since the days when William the Conqueror invaded England and dissolved the practice. All Moors, African and Saracens living in England were free, had been baptised and christened, and were accepted into society. There was a commonly held theory that they were, in essence, a more ancient, purer race and often they would find they could gain greater wages than others, for lords and ladies liked to employ them. There were even some depictions I had heard of where the Virgin Mary was represented as a black maiden. Whilst it was true that some regarded those of black complexions as frightening, and even ungodly, to my mind, the varied skills Moors brought to England were valuable to trade and commerce and they played a worthwhile part in England’s society and Church. I had several Moors in my household, all of whom were loyal and useful servants.
So, therefore the thought of trading in people was unsettling. but I had to admit that Hawkins seemed to not only have made a good profit, but had done well, if he had indeed acted in these slaves’ interests. He was right when he said he had no power to change their legal status, and he had sold them where they had asked to be sold… It was a complicated idea, and I must admit I was not wholly comfortable with it, but a queen also has obligations to her treasury, and mine was always running low.
“And if I gave you money to further this trade, would I have your assurance that the people you trade would go willingly with you, be removed from bad owners, and sold on only when they wished to be?” I asked, still struggling with the idea. Partly, you see, I liked the idea of disrupting Spanish interests in Africa, as long as my men were not caught. But I wanted to make sure that none of these slaves were traded in England, and that we were acting to free slaves of bad masters. I had no authority to alter the status of a slave who was not one of my own people, but that did not mean I could not be involved with stealing slaves from the Spanish and taking them elsewhere.
Hawkins assured me he had not thought to trade slaves at first, and had in fact been seeking gold and jewels. He told me stories of how the people had come to him, and where he had sold them. I felt assured he had acted in good faith and gave him leave to continue, as long as he did not bring slaves to England, unless they wished to come and work here as free servants or tradesmen. I also invested money, so he could continue to steal disgruntled slaves from their present masters and sell them on to better ones.
I will admit to you that I remained uneasy, for in allowing Hawkins to act in this way, I was aware that I was giving unofficial leave to others in England to do the same.
No matter what, I understood this could be a practice open to much abuse.
*
An important book was published that year. Called Actes and Monuments, its author was Master John Foxe and his work became widely known as the Book of English Martyrs. The work celebrated those who died for the Protestant faith, and called them the true heirs of the Apostles for their sacrifice. Priests were encouraged to leave the text next to the Bible in churches, and copies were held by almost everyone at court.
“Mary,” I called to Mary Grey as I entered my chambers. The girl came running. Since her sister’s disgrace, Mary had experienced a hard time in my chambers. It had ever been my habit to express my dissatisfaction at one member of a family by treating others badly. I was no saint. But I had been feeling bad that Mary suffered for her sister’s sins, and when this opportunity came to make some amends, I wanted to take it.
“I have a gift for you, Mary,” I said, holding out a new copy of Foxe’s book. “I am sure that you will have heard of it. There are many fine passages on your sister, Jane. I thought you might like to read them.”
The girl blushed and ducked into an awkward curtsey. She was not a graceful woman. Her height and roundness made it hard for her to be so. “Majesty,” she breathed, taking the book. “I am more grateful than I can say.”
“It is a good copy,” I added. “And I hope it brings you some comfort.” I glanced off to one side where my detestable cousin Margaret Lennox was conversing with her son. Darnley was often in my chambers, called to sing for me, and his mother was delighted to see him treated as a prince. I stared at Margaret for a moment, w
atching her heavily-lidded eyes rest with naked adulation on her son. Was this what motherhood did to a woman? Removed all sense and reason? She could not see his flaws, nor did she note his arrogance.
“I have longed to read what was written of my sister. Thank you, Majesty.” Mary said, pulling my wandering eyes back to her. I was surprised to see that the girl looked a little overwhelmed.
“I hope you find all you are seeking in the text,” I said.
At least one Grey understands she should be grateful to me, I thought as Mary left, hugging the book to her chest.
*
That Christmas, as the English court settled into a riotous round of celebration and enjoyment, my cousin of Scots was holding a rather different kind of audience. Mary was resolved to take care of John Knox.
Mary had experienced repeated difficulties with Knox. Quite aside from his attacks on her faith, morals and marriage plans, in the summer, two Calvinist priests had threatened one of her priests and had been arrested. Knox had put together what he called ‘a convocation of the brethren’ to free them. Speeches he gave demonstrated he was quite happy with acts of violence done against Catholics, and Mary’s Privy Council believed him guilty of treason. Mary decided enough was enough. She put Knox on trial for treason and sedition.