by G Lawrence
De Silva leaned down to my ear. “As we have ample and daily proof, Majesty, in Lord Darnley,” he whispered. I giggled.
“True… that is how the boy gains his followers. See them now?” I pointed to Darnley’s gang hanging on his every word. “He speaks with brash boldness, and they feed on his confidence. Just as well, for there is no other sustenance in his company.” As I looked their way, I caught Robin’s eye. He started to wend his way through the chattering crowds, his eyes alight with expectation.
Ah, there he is again, I thought, feeling the good humour de Silva had restored to me being torn away. That stranger who steals my friend’s face…
“What thought you of the play, Majesty?” Robin asked as he joined us.
“What I always seem to think of your plays, my lord Earl,” I said, rising and taking de Silva’s arm. I gazed coldly at Robin and he started at my expression. I had become winter. “I think the comedy, if that is what it was supposed to be, was not amusing enough to bear such a name. I think the play was ill-chosen, and ruined this day which had been so delightful for me.” I sniffed, holding de Silva tight to me. “I think, as ever, that you ought to ponder more on the contentment of your Queen, if pleasing her is what you aim to do. And if you do not aim to do this, I shall have you replaced.”
Robin stared at me, his face growing red. I put my hand on his arm. “I warned you once before, my lord Earl, about your plays. I will not sit through another like this, I assure you. Present one more entertainment that fails to amuse me, and I shall employ another to take your place,” I nodded at Thomas Heneage who was laughing with a group of ladies not far away. “Heneage has a lively spirit,” I said airily. “Perhaps he can find ways to please his Queen, rather than seeking many and various ways to ruin her happiness.”
Not waiting for an answer, I led de Silva off. We joined Heneage and his admirers. It did not take long for us to be enveloped in the conversation, roaring with laughter as my good Spaniard traded quips with Heneage.
I glanced only once more at Robin for the rest of the night, and when I did, I saw a sour expression on his face. Once again, his play had not worked the magic he hoped it would on me. Once again, I had lost my friend.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Greenwich Palace
Winter 1565
“The Council are here to talk about the suit of the Archduke, Majesty,” said Kat, walking into the Bedchamber the next day. “They are gathering in the Privy Chamber.”
“Ugh.” The noise I made was more expressive than a grunt, less so than a word. “I have no wish to talk about marriage at all, after being bombarded by Robin’s players on the subject last night.”
Kat smiled. “It was a poor concealment of his intentions,” she agreed. “The Earl has many good qualities. Subtlety is not one of them.”
“Nor the presence of mind to think before he acts,” I muttered and huffed out a breath. “We had just got to a stage where I believed he was my friend again, Kat… Why could he not leave well alone? I told him that the restoration of our friendship would take time… Does he think a few weeks makes up for these past years of treasonous behaviour?”
“I have often thought, Majesty, that Lord Robert’s impression of time is not like that of other people,” she said. “After his wife died, he believed a few weeks would be enough to erase the memory of that ill event. When you told him to wait, he seemed to think you meant a few hours.”
“Remind me to get him a clock for New Year’s,” I said. “Methinks the Earl of Leicester needs to learn to tell the time again.”
Kat giggled. “The Council are waiting for you, Majesty,” she reminded me. I frowned, and entered the chamber.
If Robin’s play had worked no magic on me, it was apparent it had fired everyone else into thinking of nothing else. Curse you, Robin! I thought, seeing him on his chair, Even if you failed to entice me into matrimony, you have kindled the thought anew in my Privy Council. Had that been another of his aims? He was not above using my men against me.
Cecil, along with Sussex and Norfolk were all keen on the match with Archduke Charles. Robin, looking a touch sheepish, advocated for France. As he spoke in favour of France, I noticed he did not dare to look at me, obviously sensing the wrath radiating from my skin. He was still going ahead with our plan, perhaps by way of an apology, or perhaps just to prevent me marrying anyone else.
“France is dejected, brought low and has far less resources than Spain!” Norfolk cried eventually, banging his fist on the table. Cecil, who had clearly been thinking of other matters as the stale old arguments went on, jumped in his seat. “And there is still the matter of the religious divide and all the dangers it presents,” Norfolk went on. “The Hapsburgs can be the only choice!”
“My choice is the only choice, Your Grace,” I reminded Norfolk. He sat down abruptly, seeing my face of stone. Norfolk was not a member of the Council, but had asked to present his opinion. I was starting to regret I had allowed him to attend.
“Of course, Majesty… I meant… it is the better choice.”
“In your opinion, Your Grace, and yet members of my Council are opposed. I shall consider all options, and hear all voices.” I glanced at Robin. “Could you ask Ambassador de Foix to attend on me in the Presence Chamber after this meeting, my lord Earl? You have made some good points about France and her King. I would like to discuss them with our ambassador.” I put a finger to my lips and tapped it upon them. “I wonder if I have not given due consideration to King Charles as a suitor,” I said. “It is true there is a disparity in our ages, but then the same is true in many marriages, is it not? And the King has shown himself to be wise beyond his years… patient enough to woo a woman. Perhaps the French-style manner of courting would suit me better; for every woman wishes to be wooed, rather than battered into the wedded state.” Without looking at Robin, I dismissed the Council and made for the Presence Chamber.
“A French Charles, a Hapsburg Charles…” I muttered to Kat as I sat listening to de Foix ramble on. “… Is there anyone in this world they wish to marry, aside from a Charles? Are there no other men left?”
“What about a Robin, my lady?” Kat murmured.
“A Robin…” I shook my head. “Do you ever note that they are possessive, territorial birds, Kat? I have had enough of robins and their warbling.”
“Poor chick,” Kat murmured without a shred of compassion in her voice.
“We are delighted by the wondrous virtues of your master, lord ambassador,” I said, turning my attention back to de Foix. “But, to my endless sorrow, I have other matters to attend to. Will you ask your master to send a portrait of himself to me? So I might look upon the face belonging to the hand which writes such beautiful poetry?”
“I will send the request this very day, Majesty,” said de Foix, looking pleased. The poor man! He believed I was seriously considering his gangly-legged, ill-proportioned, spotty youth of a King. Anxious to relay my request to his master, de Foix left.
“Lord Darnley?” I called, seeing him waiting. “You have come to take your leave?” Darnley was to go to Scotland. I had finally made up my mind to send him and see what happened. Mary was becoming interested in Don Carlos again and it was too troubling to ignore. I had given permission for Darnley to visit his father in Scotland for three months; long enough to distract Mary, and short enough so that she could form no serious ideas about making him her husband. Reports from Scotland suggested that Mary’s Protestant lords would not look favourably on a match with a secret, albeit known, Catholic, and Cecil had further reassured me that Darnley would not risk his English inheritance by marrying Mary without permission. I had hopes that Mary would pass my test, and see his true nature.
I watched Darnley approach and bow with fluid grace. Some of my maids of honour stared at him with eyes of desire. I could not understand the attraction. Darnley made me feel as though I needed to wash whenever I was near him. “You are to join your father in Scotland, my lord?” I said.
“Indeed, Your Majesty, I ride on the morn.” Even his voice was displeasing when he was not singing: high, fragile, whiney, and grating. There was the tone of his mother in there, that shrieking harpy who even in her letters wailed like a banshee.
“I give you leave to go, Lord Darnley, and ask that you offer my best wishes to my royal cousin, along with my hopes for us to meet soon in the future. You carry with you the pride of England, cousin. Do not forget that as you visit the Court of Scotland.”
I dismissed the other petitioners. I had had quite enough of petitions after watching the performance of last night. I was left worrying about Mary and Darnley. Speaking that evening with Cecil, I made him swear that if anything happened to me he would see to it Darnley was rendered powerless. “I fear such a man to come to my throne upon my death,” I mourned, even though the lad had not even left England yet.
“I would never allow that to happen, Majesty,” Cecil promised. “And you know there are other options to your cousin of Scots as heir… Katherine Grey is not suitable, I agree, but her sons are young. If they were raised by trusted lords they could be brought up to be suitable successors.”
“I will not hear you, Cecil.” I wanted to grind my teeth until they shattered. “I will not release her from house arrest, and I have no wish to consider those boys to be anything other than products of a treasonous affair between two intriguers. Speak not of them; they are not, and never will be, my heirs.”
“If your Majesty never produces children of her own then she must acquiesce to choosing a successor!” Cecil’s normally composed manner fell away. “And the people of England will never accept your cousin of Scots, Majesty.”
“You mean you will not, Cecil,” I snapped. “And who knows, Cecil? Should Lannoy’s plans to make an elixir of life come to pass, you may have a Queen forever on the throne of England… me. Then you will be forced to deal with me, old friend, until the end of your days. Wouldn’t that be a relief?”
We glowered at each other for a moment and then Cecil bowed shortly and strode off, not wishing to say more that would only incur my wrath, or further reveal his. I sat by the window that evening, listening to Lady Cobham play on the virginals with Lady Strange accompanying her with a song, but barely hearing the music as I thought. I was disappointed; in Robin, in Cecil… and wondered if I was about to be disappointed in Mary, too. Lost in my thoughts, staring with unseeing eyes at my hands, it took a moment for me to realise there was a figure standing behind me. I looked up and saw a white, gaunt face behind me in the dark window. The sight froze my heart. For a moment, I thought there was a ghost looming behind me. I made a strangled noise of alarm and my heart leapt with fright, but then I realised it was not a ghost, but Kat. I started to chuckle, pressing a hand to my swift-beating heart, but the mirth froze in my throat as I saw her expression. She held piece of parchment in her hands; her face a mask of sorrow and dumb disbelief.
I twisted about sharply to face her. “What is wrong, Kat?”
She held out the missive and I read much I wished I had not. The letter was from Bess St Loe. Her husband, William, my good and able captain of the Yeomen Guard was sick unto death at his house in London. He had taken a leave of absence recently, one of very few he had ever asked for, to see his family. Bess’s servants had written that she was to come with all haste from Chatsworth, for he was perilously ill. I could see Bess’s terror plain in her scribbled words. And there was more. Her husband had fallen gravely ill just at the time when his brother, Edward, was paying a visit. Knowing her suspicions about Edward St Loe, I had no illusions that Bess believed her brother-in-law had made an attempt on her husband’s life. She was asking for my help.
“I read here that my good William St Loe is dangerously sick,” I said. “Mistress Radcliffe!” I called. “Go to my physicians and send them to St Loe.” I thought for a moment and then added, “and have some of my Yeomen guards go with them. Take this note and they will understand why.” I hastily scrawled some words onto a piece of parchment, and thrust it into Mary’s hands. Seeing the urgency in my face, she ran for my doctors’ apartments. I knew from the letter that Bess was already riding hard for London. My doctors would get there before her, and I hoped they could aid William. I hoped also that my guards would separate Edward St Loe from his brother, if he was indeed up to something wicked. I wanted to go, but Cecil would not permit it.
“If he is suffering from anything contagious, madam, then you could catch it too!” he said when he arrived, looking rather dishevelled. I suspected he had already been abed with his Mildred.
“Then I hope Bess gets there in my place,” I said.
But Bess did not reach her husband in time. She was too late.
William St Loe died even as Bess galloped into London. It transpired that Edward St Loe had been at his brother’s side all through this short and most unexpected illness. As Bess arrived, wanting to throw Edward St Loe from the house, her smirking brother-in-law produced an indenture, apparently signed by William before his death, claiming legal right to Sutton Court, one of their properties. Edward had claimed he had a right to Sutton Court before and William had fought this with great passion, so to find that this document existed was a nasty surprise for Bess. She immediately suspected foul play. The matter was investigated, but no trace of poison was found. The indenture went later to the legal courts, but the signature was thought to be genuine. How Edward St Loe got his brother to sign, if indeed he did sign, I knew not. Had Edward poisoned his brother and then, in William’s weakened state, thrust the parchment under his nose claiming it was something else entirely?
There was nothing anyone could do. Sutton Court was lost to Bess, but her own properties of Chatsworth and Hardwick Hall, inherited from her previous husbands, remained hers. Edward St Loe could not touch them, but he was not done with Bess and the St Loe wealth as yet. William had left only small, personal bequests to his children. The bulk of his wealth was left to Bess and Edward St Loe and one of Bess’s stepdaughters contested William’s will. When Bess briefly visited court after William’s funeral, she came with a dark cloud of gossip about her. People believed it was unnatural for a father to leave no provision for his children and some accused her of having stolen the inheritance of the St Loe children. It was a cloud that was to follow Bess for the rest of her life, giving her an unfair reputation for being grasping and self-serving. None of this was true. I was sure William had left Bess his wealth for he knew his children were well cared for, and comfortable in their situations. When Bess’s previous husband, Lord Cavendish, had died, he had left her a great deal of debt. William, ever a vigilant guard, would never have wanted to place his beloved Bess in the same situation.
The affair and all the legalities of it went on for years and I helped Bess as much as I could. My finest moment came, I believe, in securing a distant post for the repulsive Edward St Loe in Ireland, which brought a smile to Bess’s face. Eventually there was a settlement, and Bess kept much of what William left to her, but the courts ordered her to make payments to compensate the losses of St Loe’s children and Edward St Loe. I told her I would have her back in my household. I knew it would not compensate for her loss, but it was all I could do. Then, I went about the sad task of replacing William St Loe.
There were many times, in the years that passed, especially when I walked through my gardens in the morning, when I would think on the quiet, loyal, good-natured man who had watched over me for so many years. There was never another who guarded me who had the quietness of St Loe. Never another who had the ability to make me feel as though I was alone, as I needed to be, whilst being yet protected. There was never another who could take his place… that watchful, gentle presence. That good, sweet heart.
Another of my friends was gone. Another life ended too soon.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Whitehall Palace
Winter-Spring 1565
“There are rumours that the Queen of Scots is in love with Lord Darnley,” Cecil
exalted. “She seems taken with the lad, Majesty.”
“You will write to Lord Darnley and his father immediately and remind them Henry Darnley is unable to marry anyone without my permission!” I said, then let out a sigh and sat down. “Not that it will do any good… Is she really in love with him, Cecil? I find the notion so repellent. He is such an oily little tick.”
“Many women find a girlish look on a man attractive, Majesty,” Cecil said. “Although I must admit I fail to see the attraction... Perhaps he simply appears less fearsome than her brash Highland lords.”
I felt so let down. I could hardly express my disenchantment in Mary. It was as though my own child had done something vile. She had failed me. Darnley! What a husband to choose! “She will regret it if she puts a crown on that dullard’s head,” I said. “He will try to rule her… He is too proud and stupid to take the place of a humble consort. He will bring misery to her and trouble to her country.”
“Internal disorder in Scotland can only be an advantage to England, Majesty, since then no one there will be thinking about England,” Cecil went on with distasteful relish. “And you must admit this is a better outcome than your cousin uniting Scotland with Spain.”