by G Lawrence
“Better for us, Cecil, disastrous for her… I feel it in my bones, Spirit, that man will do her no good.”
I had no idea how quickly I would be proved right.
My letter, demanding that Lennox and his son should return to England, was sent in early March but was delayed by a late fall of snow over England. It reached Mary by the 14th. It contained threats. I was appalled she would consider Darnley. I regretted listening to Cecil and sending the boy. He was supposed to be a distraction, not a viable candidate for the throne! Amongst my demands that Lennox and Darnley return to England, I added, as another warning, that nothing would now be decided about the succession until I was married. I also reminded Mary that Darnley required my approval to wed, and I would not give it. It was not one of my most diplomatic missives. Mary received it and was angered.
My cousin called for Randolph and accused me of playing games with her, saying I “answered her with nothing,” in terms of the succession. She would have been “bound to my sister, your mistress,” she said. “But to rely or trust much from her for that matter, I will not.” As the conversation continued, and Randolph tried to calm her, she only became more furious. Mary flounced out and went out hunting, leaving Randolph to wonder what was to be done to mend this situation.
Whilst the court watched Darnley and his friends ride at the rings the next day, Mary approached Randolph, apparently with her humour restored. Mary told him that she loved “her good sister, his Queen,” and owed me her obedience as “if to her own mother,” but these sentiments were just empty words. Mary’s true purpose that day was to get me to approve safe conduct of passage for Maitland through England and into France. The rumour was that Mary was contacting her family in France about Darnley. Unsurprisingly, I did not give permission.
Darnley and Mary were reported as being almost inseparable, but I do not believe she made up her mind until an accident of fate occurred. Darnley fell sick with a cold which developed into a fever accompanied by a rash, and sharp pangs in his head and belly. Many of us in England suspected syphilis, knowing well Darnley’s predilection for cavorting with Southwark jades. But even these unpleasant rumours did not deter Mary. In fact, his illness broke into the core of her heart, turning gentle affection into love. Cecil found this baffling, but I understood her warped reasoning. Wasn’t it only to be expected? Her first husband, whom many swore she had loved deeply, had been a sickly youth, and then a sickly king. Perhaps, seeing Darnley brought low reminded her of François and made Mary only more determined to cling to him. I believe my cousin had a passion for men who looked like boys. François had been a boy. She had never seen him grow to be a man. Was it therefore so unreasonable that Mary would fall for a man who looked like a boy, a boy who was sick and vulnerable, as her beloved had been too? Was it so unlikely she would cherish Darnley all the more when Death seemed bent on stealing him away?
The past has a strange way of creeping back into our lives and deciding our fates, if we let it. I am sure my cousin did not recognise this was the reason she fell for Darnley. I am sure she did not realise, as she gazed on the handsome face of this sick young man, that she was transferring the genuine love she had felt for François, into Darnley. He became to her, I believe, a handsome shell into which she put all the hopes, dreams and aspirations she had shared with François. Mary could not see Darnley for what he was. The glimmer of her fantasies was glowing too bright over his true face. And there was the added benefit he would help her in her pursuit of the English throne. Whatever the reason for her alteration from affectionate monarch to loving woman, it happened. By the end of the spring, Cecil’s spies in Mary’s court told us that they were sure to wed, and she would brook no refusal.
Cecil was privately delighted, although he could hardly reveal his happiness in public. Most other members of the Council were horrified. They, like me, had no wish to see Darnley on any throne, English or Scottish. My Privy Council met to see what was to be done to stop the marriage, and we were not alone. There were many in Scotland, Mary’s bastard brother Moray included, who were violently opposed. Her detractors believed Darnley would be an enemy to the Protestant faith since his family were known Catholic sympathisers. They also did not see the mark of a strong or wise King in this simpering eighteen-year-old lad.
Ordered to leave court in disgrace after opposing the match, Moray left in high anger, furious at his sister. It was the start of a serious rift but Mary did not seem to care. There were others who pledged their support; both for political reasons and personal ones. Maitland, who wished to marry one of Mary’s Maries, supported his Queen, hoping she would allow his marriage. Some of her Council saw that marrying Darnley would put her in a good position for the English throne. A benefit, they saw, that was perhaps worth putting up with a dullard as their Queen’s consort. Mary believed she had enough support to go ahead. She would lose my friendship, but in marrying Darnley, she believed she could only strengthen her position, and besides, she had a great fancy for him, as all who saw them together noted.
Margaret Lennox, who had been in high favour until this point, suddenly found herself surrounded by my wrath. I had never enjoyed pretending to be friends with her, and so it was almost with relief that I snubbed her openly at court. Maitland arrived in London to ask permission for Darnley to wed Mary, and for me to name Mary my heir, both of which were refused. A little later that month I sent word to Margaret that she was to keep to her own chambers at Whitehall. She was not officially under arrest, but the conditions were much the same.
Cursing myself for ever having listened to Cecil, who was almost skipping about the palace for having engineered this ill fate for Scotland and eliminating the threat of Spain entering Mary’s bed, I tried to prevent the marriage. I sent Throckmorton to Scotland. Having been once close to Mary he was, I hoped, the best person to reason with her. I also said I had heard rumours that Mary and Darnley were already lovers, and was concerned for my cousin’s honour, but when Throckmorton arrived at Stirling, he found the gates of the castle closed to him. When finally he did manage to gain an interview, he gave Mary the document asking her to put Darnley aside and wed either Robin or another lord of my choosing. My cousin refused.
Pointing out that I had petitioned her to marry an Englishman, Mary protested she had done only as I had asked. “The Queen of England cannot expect to control all aspects of my heart and my life, lord ambassador,” she said coolly. “And since I have chosen a man who is my good sister’s kinsman, I could only believe your mistress would be delighted with the proposal.”
Leaving Throckmorton at a loss for words, Mary went off and straight away made her new love a knight, then a baron, and ended the day by granting him the title of Earl of Ross. What a busy lady my cousin was! Whilst she also planned to make Darnley the Duke of Albany, a title which only royal Scots had previously held, Mary paused to see what my reaction would be. In the interim, apparently enraged by the delay, Darnley drew his dagger on Lord Ruthven, who had but come to deliver the message that Darnley’s further ennoblement was postponed. Randolph reported that Darnley had shouted at Ruthven, and others in the room, saying they were attempting to thwart his natural rights as the future King of Scotland. Quite an overreaction, I am sure you will agree, and one that was talked about with amazement at Mary’s court, and mine.
If my cousin was at all perturbed by these emerging character defects, she did not remark on it. Mary appeared utterly infatuated with the strutting halfwit, and went out of her way to placate and please him. If she thought gentle treatment would inspire good behaviour, she was much mistaken. Darnley was a spoilt little boy, used to getting his own way without question. He was often drunk at court, even when attending serious meetings. He lurched about entertainments in the evening; bragging, boasting and making swift enemies with her lords with his lewd and outlandish behaviour. There were rumours he had taken up with a parade of whores in Edinburgh, yet still, my cousin did not seem to see any fault in him. I knew not from one
day to the next whether Mary was blinded by love, or by ambition.
Darnley developed an intimate friendship with Mary’s musician and personal favourite, David Rizzio, leading to gossip that they were lovers. It was well-known that Darnley had taken up with as many lads as lasses whilst in England, and many of the whorehouses he frequented were known to provide boys for men who wanted them. Although this was shocking to some, I found it less so. I found men attractive, why should other men not look with the same eyes upon their sex? It was against Church law, of course, but there were many who indulged in adultery and other sins, and were not judged as harshly as those who had a predilection for their own sex. And it was hardly as though Darnley was the first young man to experiment with his sexuality. There were plenty of men at court who had done so before marriage and some I knew of who kept secret male lovers in their households. But what was shocking to me was that Darnley was shedding the fine veneer of his charm with astounding speed. He was revealing his true, most unpleasant, colours, and yet Mary still wanted him.
Love is strange, is it not? Even when it is a false love, as I believed this was. This was an infatuation based on what Mary wanted Darnley to be, not on what he actually was. It could be nothing else, in truth, for what he was, was repellent and odious. Desperate for love, for one to call her own, for a man to support her and share her burden, and for a greater claim to my throne, Mary plastered Darnley with her fantasies.
When the plaster dried, when her illusions crumbled, she was going to find out just what kind of a man she had invited to her bed.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Whitehall Palace
Late Spring - Summer 1565
In May, as my cousin fluttered like a delicate butterfly about her new love, a game of tennis was arranged at court to distract me from my woes. Robin was playing Norfolk, and at a break in the match he came over to talk to me. The sight of Robin sweating and flushed was quite distracting, and therefore I barely noticed when he slipped my handkerchief from my sleeve and dabbed his forehead with it.
“You play well, my lord,” I noted as he wiped his face. I was about to continue, enjoying Robin’s impish eyes and the scent of his body, when Norfolk erupted into furious anger. Storming towards Robin, snatching the cloth from his hands, Norfolk went an unearthly shade of purple as he bellowed at Robin.
“You go too far, sir!” he screamed, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring so wide I believed they would part company with his face. “You are too saucy with the Queen, my lord! You take liberties! I swear upon God’s blood, I will take my racket and break it over your head for your lack of respect!”
I doubt that Norfolk really cared about anyone showing me a lack of respect. He showed precious little himself. Rising from my chair, I rounded on him. “Hush your mouth, Your Grace, or I will shut it for you!” I cried, blazing at him. “How dare you tell me to whom I may or may not offer a handkerchief? Is it not my cloth? Am I not your Queen and master? Remove yourself! The records shall show that the game was won by the Earl of Leicester, for the ill manners of the Duke of Norfolk have disqualified him!”
Gaping at me in horror and surprise, Norfolk could barely bow due to the rigid anger in his bones. He stalked off like an outraged heron. Robin handed my cloth back to me, smirking.
“And don’t think you are without blame, again, Robin!” I whispered harshly, snatching the cloth from his hands. “You know such familiarities incense Norfolk. You did this on purpose, to rattle him!” Robin said naught, but bowed and left to play another opponent.
“The Earl plays well,” de Silva interjected smoothly as the match resumed, even though he had heard all I had said to both men.
“He does,” I grimly agreed. “If only his games about court were as subtle as his playing on this court.”
“Some are more talented at certain games than others,” de Silva agreed. “But I do not think you are as enraged with the Earl as you say, Majesty.”
“Am I not?” I asked coldly.
“How can a heart, so open, be easily closed against the one that brings it such pleasure?” de Silva asked. “For all his faults and imperfections, Majesty, you love the Earl, I am sure of it.”
I allowed a small huff of breath to leave my nose. “Truly, ambassador, is it not the faults of a person which make them real, rather than imaginary? There is no such thing as a perfect person. When one loves another, it is as much for their imperfections as for their perfections. My cousin of Scots will come to understand this when she sees past the handsome fantasy she has thrown over Darnley. In him, there is too great an imbalance of imperfection. She has deluded herself into false love by believing him to be perfect. If she sees not his flaws, then she knows him not enough to love him truly. ”
“Let us hope she sees his flaws soon, Majesty,” de Silva sighed. “And yet you see the Earl’s faults, and love him still. It is a fortunate man who knows himself loved despite his failings. Perhaps Lord Darnley will come to know the same grace, if the Queen of Scotland continues to adore him.”
“Lord Darnley will never know himself fortunate, my lord,” I said, frowning as I watched the match. “He will never be satisfied with what he has… He yearns only for more; more titles, more wealth, and more prestige.” I nodded at Robin, who was bounding about the court like a stag. “And my lord Earl is the same, in some ways. He does not think himself fortunate to merely be loved. All he sees is what he does not have, rather than what he does.”
“Then I pity him,” de Silva said. “For to know oneself to be loved… Is it not what we all wish for, no matter in what circumstances?”
“It would be enough for me, ambassador, but it is not enough for the Earl.” My lips curled. “Nor will it be for Darnley, as I am sure we will see if my cousin has not the sense to put him aside.”
After the incident between Robin and Norfolk, their supporters and servants suddenly took to being well-armed about court, and especially when they came near each other. It disturbed me, but men were permitted to carry swords and daggers, so I could not stop them. But if any used them on each other I swore I would make sure they regretted it.
*
At the pressing of my Privy Council, I sent another order recalling Lennox and Darnley, but I knew it was to no avail even as I penned it. My cousin was lost in her love for this Darnley dullard and enthused with the idea he could win her the English throne. She would not listen. Had I not been so horrified by the idea of Darnley becoming a king, I might have realised that by demanding she return Darnley to England, it would only make her more resolved to keep him. There is nothing like adversity to encourage love, after all. Since Cecil read all my letters before they were sent, he could have warned me off, but he had no reason to do so. Cecil wanted Mary to marry Darnley. He did not try to warn me. He wanted me to react thus, and my enraged response only drove Mary closer to her obnoxious fiancé.
Mary defied me. Commanding Darnley and Lennox to remain in Scotland, she started to make preparations to wed. “Let her not be offended with my marriage, as I will not be with hers,” she said to Randolph when he protested. “You can never persuade me that I have failed your mistress, but she has failed me.” With that, she left my ambassador with tears in her eyes.
As we struggled on with Scotland, Death took His opportunity. Bess Parr died at her country estates. Her end was not easy. It was painful, confusing and messy. Bess lost control of her bowels, her breathing and at the end, her mind. She struggled towards Death, falling into His embrace a wraith of her former self. We all long for an easy death; a smooth transition from this life to the next. Only the fortunate are blessed with such a happy, sweet end. So often death is ugly, bruising and humiliating, not only for the person who dies, but for those who have to face their demise with them. It was so for my Bess; an ungainly, horrific end to a gracious, adventurous life. And my poor uncle, who sat with her until the end, had to watch the woman he loved suffer and die in agony and ignominy.
“My dearest uncle.”
I clasped my hands about those of William Parr when he arrived to give me the news. My eyes were bleary with tears. My heart throbbed with grief. “I don’t know what I can say. I loved Bess as though she was my own sister, and to have to do without her now…” I trailed off, losing my ability to speak.
Parr squeezed my hands and bowed his head over them. His shoulders trembled. He had loved Bess. Parr could not speak. His face was gaunt and hollowed by his loss, mirroring the emptiness of his poor heart. I could barely believe that Bess was gone. She had been so vital, so strong.
“We will see she is given to God with all the grace she deserves, uncle. She was a good woman, and a good wife. We will never forget her.” Parr staggered from the audience, his legs only barely holding him upright.
“Will they all leave me, Kat?” I asked her as we settled into bed that night. “We have lost so many friends… so many of the old flock of Hatfield. Parry, St Loe and now Bess. She was one of the first to spy for me, did you know? I sent her on many a mission when I was a princess in danger. And now she is taken from me, as others have been too.” I sighed. “My life has become about loss, Kat. Those I love rush to leave me and the spaces they leave are never truly filled.”
“Death is a cruel companion,” Kat agreed, putting her arms about me. “He steals where He knows it will cause the most pain, and tricks us into thinking He is gone when in fact He is ever hiding in the shadows behind us.”