Strands of My Winding Cloth

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by G Lawrence


  Mary called Randolph to her. “Princes at all times do not have their wills, but my heart being my own, is immutable,” she said. Mary wanted me to reveal my choice for her husband. Randolph wrote that Mary spoke of her love for me, and longed for friendship, but could not continue with this uncertainty. If I wanted to choose her husband, she wanted to know his name. Only then, she would decide. “The word of a prince,” Randolph wrote, “is of far greater worth than the mutable mind of inconsistent people.”

  The time had come. When Maitland returned to court that spring, I ensured the Presence Chamber was stuffed with courtiers, Robin amongst them. “I would be prepared to offer your Queen a husband from amongst my own men, one whom all know to be dear to my heart. I am sure, if your mistress considered him as a husband, she would prefer him to all the princes in the world.”

  I extended my hand, and pointed to Robin.

  There was silence. The horrified look on Robin’s face was truly delightful. Taken by surprise, dear Robin? I thought. Amazed I would be willing to part with you? I could not think ill of my actions. Robin had interfered in politics too many times. I needed to know where his loyalties truly were.

  “This is proof of how much I love your Queen, my cousin,” I went on. “That I am willing to give up a creature I so dearly prize, and give him instead to your mistress.”

  “My Queen will need time to consider your offer, Majesty,” Maitland said, glancing at Robin who had gone white as the Virgin’s undergarments. “Of course there is the issue that Lord Robert Dudley is not high enough in title to match my Queen...”

  “Such matters can be altered, ambassador,” I purred. “It is a shame, however that the Earl of Warwick, Ambrose Dudley, is not quite as handsome as Lord Robin, his brother, otherwise I would have offered the elder brother over the younger. And it is true also that this is a great sacrifice for me…” I gazed lovingly at Robin who was staring at me in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a freshly caught fish. “… For Lord Robin is, as all know, well-beloved of my heart.”

  Got you, Robin, I thought, enjoying his horror.

  If Robin was dismayed, Cecil was keen. He was the only one besides me to think well of the idea. Even Norfolk was opposed to it, and he had more reason to wish Robin gone from court than anyone. But Norfolk despised the idea of Robin becoming a king, for then, Robin would outrank Norfolk. What an idea! Cecil’s enthusiasm had less to do with recognising Robin’s possible virtues as a king, and more to do with wanting to pluck Robin out of the English Court for good, but all the same, I valued Cecil’s help, especially when he decided to seek Maitland out and praised Robin. It only added to the notion that I fully supported this plan, and that was what I wanted Robin to believe.

  Robin arrived at my door the next day, in an unusually humble frame of mind. He stood restlessly, waiting for my ladies to move to another part of the chamber. When he looked at me, his eyes were haunted with sorrow and incredulity. “You would rid yourself of me?” he asked. I could hear sadness in his voice, and anger too. I took great satisfaction in his fear and worry. Let him, for once, understand the pain he had caused me.

  “Is there a reason I should have you stay, Robin?” I asked, my tone careless. “Have you not given every reason for me to distrust you? Have you not worked with my enemies? Have you not worked against me, with my own lords and Parliament, trying to force me to wed? Have you not conspired to make that loathsome Grey girl my heir?” My tone was flippant, light as the summer breeze. My feelings were anything but.

  “Have you given up on the idea of us marrying at all?”

  “At this present time, Robin… yes,” I said. My tone altered as my hurt and anger, stored up for so long, broke over my control. “You have done nothing to make me believe it is me you love, and not the throne. Nothing to make me think I am your true desire, rather than power. At every step you have tried to flout me, to dupe me and to play me as a fool. You should know by now, my lord, this is no way to win a woman’s heart.”

  “But I only did thus to get you to see reason!” he exclaimed, running his hands through his hair and gazing at me with feral eyes.

  “It is my reason which will prevail in my realm, Lord Dudley, and no other. Keep that in mind. Do not toy with my patience. Take not the path forged by your father and grandsire, the path of treason and betrayal. It leads only to death, and believe me, I have considered offering you that fate many times.”

  He had no answer. To deny my accusations would be a lie, and to admit to them would be dangerous. Robin often acted recklessly, but he was no dullard. He was not about to put himself in clear danger.

  I sniffed loudly, resuming my facetious tone. “I do not see why you are so aghast, my lord. You wish to be a king, do you not? I offer you a queen. You can become a king, Robin. You can rule at Mary’s side, and your sons would be heirs not only to Scotland, but mayhap to England as well some day. Think you not that your Queen has offered you a fine gift? If ambition and power are all that matter to you, you can have all you want of them. I am handing you your desires. I might expect you to be grateful.”

  “I do not want to marry another,” he almost whispered. His eyes fell. I almost felt sorry for him, but I steeled my heart. “I love you, Elizabeth,” he murmured. “I want to marry you.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem, my lord,” I said. “You already think of me as a wife, do you not? And to you, as to so many others, a wife is a possession to be controlled and managed by her husband, by her master. When I revealed my love, you believed I had already given you such power over me. You would be my master, Robin. You seek to command me, to control me.”

  His eyes darted to my face. About to deny my words, he opened his mouth to speak, but I held up an imperious hand and he closed his mouth. “You do not see that I am not as other women, my lord,” I continued. “I will not suffer a master. Even if you were chosen to be my husband, Robin, you would not be the chosen of God as I am. I was set on this throne to rule England by God. You were not. And despite this, you think yourself above me, and that is why you treat my position, my wishes, and my affection with such disdain. How can you be surprised, then, that I turn my face from you and offer you to another? This plan will give you a wife, a pretty wife, and it will make you a king. You will have your ambition to keep you warm at night, my lord, along with my beautiful cousin.”

  “You are more important to me than any ambition,” he said. His voice was harsh. It scraped from his throat as though he had swallowed gravel.

  “I do not believe you, Robin,” I said coldly. “And should you ever wish me to believe in you again, I would urge you to act for my welfare, for my interests, and be my friend, rather than working with my enemies, and against me time and time again.”

  I made for the gardens. I did not want my fine speech ruined by Robin seeing the tears in my eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Greenwich Palace

  Winter - Spring 1564

  I sent Randolph a letter in which I formally offered Robin to Mary. My cousin was startled and suspicious. Seeing that Robin was not a prince, or even an earl or duke, Mary was affronted. Although Randolph did much to convince her that Robin was important to me, and therefore what I was offering was a true sacrifice, she was still unsure whether to view the offer of his hand as a slight. But Mary could not reject my offer immediately. She needed me. I was not only the one who could grant her the throne she wanted, but my support was important against men such as Knox and other Protestants who would flaunt her will. Mary was confused. She suspected I was playing games with her, which I was in part, but my true opponent was Robin.

  Robin was doing all he could to make sure the match never went ahead. Working with all those who supported him, and anyone he could bribe, my favourite was a busy man as the winds of winter softened and took on the shallow warmth of spring. He went to Cecil, to convince him he was an unsuitable husband for Mary. He went to Norfolk, who was already opposed to the idea, and won his
support. Robin positively flew about court trying to keep his nest in England. I heard of his scheming through Kat, who I had instructed to watch him. From all outward signs, Robin was desperate. He told anyone who would listen that he loved me and did not wish to leave England. I had run my bird into a trap, and now he struggled to be released.

  I was pleased by Robin’s misery, comforted by it even. The pallor of his face, the frantic efforts he went to, the people he would align himself to as an ally… Yes, all this was sweet to my fractured love and weary soul. Perhaps he did love me. I would certainly have loved to believe it. But there was not enough evidence yet for this belief to thrive in my heart. Robin was so busy racing about trying to stop the match he did not think to work on his relationship with me. That displeased me.

  The news soon spread to the courts of Europe and was greeted with derision. Phillip of Spain thought I was attempting to slight Mary by handing her my cast-off. No one believed I was serious but I insisted that Robin cooperate with the marriage negotiations to make it appear as though I was. Maitland was at a loss to know how to react, much like his mistress. A further proposition I added, that Mary and Robin could live at the English Court with me so I would not be separated from Robin entirely, did not go over well either. I was only half-serious on this in any case. It was security in case Mary should actually agree to my plan.

  “I think we should talk again about a meeting between my cousin and me,” I said to Maitland. “The circumstances which prevented it before no longer restrict us. I am sure if my good sister and I could meet, we would come to an easy and quick settlement on this and other issues. She could meet Lord Dudley at the same time, and assess his worthiness.”

  “I will certainly put the idea to my Queen, Majesty,” he agreed.

  When word came from Scotland it was not positive. English spies in Mary’s court told us my cousin was quietly still seeking a match with Spain, and was playing us for time. Mary declined to meet that summer, saying there was not time to adequately prepare. I knew she was stalling and that roused my temper. Her refusal to meet me led to a time of coolness between us. Mary was not willing for me to act as a father to her, and I was not willing to name her my heir without that relationship. We were at an impasse, and each of us was too stubborn and proud to allow the other to take the lead.

  When ill weather drove us inside the warm confines of the palace, I spent time with my ladies. Where once Robin would have been a perpetual presence there, he was now far too busy attempting to thwart my plans to spend time with me. Robin had missed the point; it was my affection and love which would prove key to his staying in England.

  Too many tricks… Too many games… Robin had become lost in them. Sometimes I wondered if I had, too.

  In the absence of Robin, I had another man in constant attendance in my chambers. Ordinarily I would have had as little to do with him as possible, but he had a sweet voice, and I was vulnerable to the appeal of music. Lord Darnley was a regular visitor. Accompanied by musicians on the virginals or lute, he would entertain me. I had no love for Darnley; he was arrogant, foolish and selfish, but he had the voice of an angel. It was just a shame that this one virtue did not extend to aid the rest of him. The voice of an angel he had, yes… but he had the soul of a demon.

  Some of my ladies, especially the younger, more impressionable maids of honour, were impressed by Darnley. He was handsome and had good legs, which he was inordinately fond of displaying in tight, white hose. He was rich, and noble, to be sure… All things which may recommend a man to a woman’s affections, but to me, his handsome face was vaguely unsettling. He looked almost like a woman, so delicate was his beauty, and yet, in the cruel curl of his lips, and in the glance of his eyes, there was such lasciviousness that I found him uncomfortable to be around. He possessed an air of wanton, lewd experience, which made me shudder. He reminded me too much of Thomas Seymour. He did not look like Seymour, but there was something similar about their characters which made me uncomfortable. Something predatory. He was also conceited, callous, stupid and vain. He had little conversation, and what little there was, was about himself. Darnley was a strutting coxcomb, a narcissistic, brash borachio. Hearing him sing though… Ah, then you might have believed there was indeed an angelic spirit hidden deep in the folds of sexuality and licentious hunger. When he lifted his head and sang, it was easier to see what women saw in him. When I heard of his exploits in Southwark, however, I was further repulsed.

  “The boy will be riddled with pox, if he continues this way,” I said to Cecil. Cecil’s face was dark with disapproval. He liked the boy no better than I.

  “From what I hear, Majesty, he already is.” Cecil shook his head. “It is in the nature of young men, with money enough in their purse, to be wild in youth… but Darnley takes such ambition to new heights.”

  “Or lows, Cecil, as may be.” I had no illusions that many men at court had mistresses, and visited the stews at Southwark, but most were discreet. Darnley hid little of his reckless adventures with staggering numbers of prostitutes of both sexes. It amazed me that women could hear of this, and still want to bed him, since they must have known there was a risk of pox. But I had to admit he did radiate a kind of brazen invitation in his manner of talking, walking and conversing. Some people find such blatant sexuality appealing, and even more fall into the trap of projecting the fantasy of a fallen man, who can be saved only by the one he loves. Darnley’s admirers may have thought they could redeem him, make him a good man. How many times have people of either sex fallen for such a myth? More times than can be counted.

  Sometimes when Darnley turned up in my chambers it was clear he was still drunk from the previous night; the scent of sour wine on his breath and leeching from his skin not quite covered by the rose perfume he liberally doused himself with. There was no law against men being drunk at court, but I hardly expected my servants to arrive to entertain me with bleary eyes or unsteady stomachs. At such times, I kept his visits short, and sent him away so he could stick his head in the privy and void his festering belly. Ordinarily I would have detained him as punishment, but I could not stand his stench.

  You might think this would be enough for me to banish him from court, and believe me, I considered it. But having him here, under my careful eye, meant I had my cousin Margaret’s precious son just where he was most of use to me. I could strike fear into her whenever I wished, since I had her son under my power. It was enough, I hoped, to stop her conspiring against me. Darnley was my prisoner to ensure his mother’s good behaviour. Soon enough, however, Cecil thought of another use for this repellent boy.

  Chapter Fifty

  Greenwich Palace

  Spring - Summer 1564

  English engagement in the wars in France was brought to an official end that spring with the Treaty of Troyes. We did not do well from the treaty, but there was little we could do about it. We had lost men, money and status in this failed venture and Calais was not included as part of England’s settlement. With that treaty I lost the final scrap of belief that England would ever regain Calais along with any enthusiasm to join a foreign war again. In the days following the treaty talks I was downcast, thinking how disappointed my father would have been in me. I had longed to recover Calais ever since coming to the throne. Now it looked as though that would never be. The wound we took when Calais was stolen from us would remain, open, bleeding, festering in English pride for generations to come.

  That same month, my dear Bess Parr, Marchioness of Northampton, requested to leave and travel to Antwerp with Doctor John Dee. The lump in her breast was growing and she was often in pain. Her appetite was feeble, and her husband told me he often found her vomiting, although she took pains to hide much of her suffering from him, knowing how he worried for her. Parr suspected that Bess was sicker than she allowed anyone to see, and he was frightened. The physicians of Antwerp were world-renowned and they were her last hope. My doctors could do nothing more for her.

  “Be sure
that you take good care of my friend,” I said to the handsome, grave-faced man as they came to take their leave of me. Dee had only just returned to England on a short visit home, but was eager to return to Antwerp. “I shall expect her brought home in bonny health.”

  “I have assured the Marchioness that the physicians of Antwerp are the very best she will find, Majesty,” Dee said. “And with their help and the grace of God, we will find a cure for her malady.”

  “Bess,” I put my hands into hers, squeezing her fingers. “You are commanded to return home a well woman. I will hold your posts in my household until you come once more to claim them.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. “I hope I will return soon.”

  As Bess and Dee walked from the chamber, so Cecil entered. “Your royal cousin of Scots has agreed to allow the Earl of Lennox to return to his estates in Scotland, Majesty.”

  “Good,” I said. “Perhaps it will get the troublesome man and his odious wife out of my hair.”

  I had written to Mary some time ago about allowing Lennox to return. He was a handsome, well-proportioned man; tall, fair of skin, and with a rather long nose. His years in France as a youth had left him with a heavily accented voice, and he carried his pride with him like the scent of overpowering perfume; cloying and nauseous. My father had no doubt granted Margaret to him as a wife as he saw Lennox’s potential for the Scot’s throne, but none in Scotland wanted a traitor who so easily switched sides as their King. Lennox was officially a Protestant, but his faith was as easily changed as his loyalty. He had converted to Catholicism under my father, changed again under my brother and then again under my sister. Margaret’s Mathieu, as she called him, was a man who would do anything for advancement, and who would give up anything for power. He wanted his Scottish titles and estates back. Granting him this excursion to Scotland was a mark of favour, but it had occurred to me this would be a way to rid myself of Margaret Lennox for good. A pleasing notion, although not one likely to happen for some time since we had had reports of late that Margaret had been conspiring once again to offer Darnley as a husband for Mary. Releasing Margaret into Scotland would only bring trouble. I may have hinted to my Lennox cousin about the idea of allowing the match, but had no intention of actually allowing it to happen.

 

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