by G Lawrence
“I cannot do without you,” I sobbed into his doublet. “No matter what you do to me, Robin… No matter how much you hurt me. Your absence stings more keenly than any wound you inflict.”
I had never understood the slavery of love until then. I could not stop my heart from loving Robin.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Windsor Castle
Spring - Summer 1566
“Move them to another house, then.” I responded to Cecil’s pleas without any great enthusiasm. He wanted to move Katherine Grey and her sons from house arrest in Essex because her gaoler was sick. There were rumours of plague already abroad in England. I could see that allowing Katherine and her sons to die of pestilence would be ill advised, but I suffered no great alarm for her welfare.
“Gosford Hall is close by, Majesty,” Cecil said. “Sir John Wentworth can act as her new guardian.”
“Guardian? Jailer, you mean?”
Cecil lifted his shoulders. “One word is as good as another.”
“Not when they imply vastly different situations, Cecil.” I glared at him. I had no wish for him to start acting as though Katherine was merely being protected by my men. She was under arrest; that was the truth, no matter how Cecil tried to spin it. “Have them kept as they were before, Cecil. No visitors and I want them isolated. I will not have her lover sneak through the cracks in the plaster to plant yet another bastard in her belly!”
“Hertford is at Wulfhall, and under close watch there.”
“And there he can stay! He is fortunate I did not decide to add him to my family’s collection of dead Seymours in the Tower.”
Our plans did not go ahead with ease. Wentworth wrote to the Council to protest that he and his wife were too old to be adequate jailors, and his house was not secure enough for such an important prisoner. Fearful that failure would bring swift punishment upon his family, Wentworth wrote often to Cecil. The Council did not heed him, neither did I. He was told to make the best of what he had.
But my cousin was a quiet prisoner, much to Wentworth’s relief. She requested to be allowed to send letters to Hertford, which I grudgingly allowed, and he wrote back. Hertford’s mother wrote many missives to Cecil, praising the couple’s young, lively son who was in her charge, and protesting that I kept his parents separated. “How unmeet it is that this young couple should thus wax old in prison,” the Duchess of Somerset wrote, but I was unmoved. Cecil wrote back that he had already incurred my wrath for speaking out for Katherine and her sons in the past, and had no wish to do so again.
Soon there would be another child who could claim the right to be my heir. Mary of Scots was growing larger every day, and when her child was born, be it girl or boy, it would have a claim to my throne; one which I believed was stronger and purer than any Katherine Grey or her children possessed. Others saw Mary’s babe as a threat to me, and to England, but I did not, or at least, I did not see it only as a threat. Mary believed that with the birth of her child, I would have to resolve the succession upon her. Cecil was fearful of the same. I would wait and I would watch, as had ever been my way. Ill as I had been of late, I was not yet willing to give up on life and hand my throne to another. Mary would have to wait, as all heirs must.
*
As I walked into the Bedchamber that night, I unthinkingly called for Kat to attend upon me. As my other ladies stared at me, and Blanche’s eyes swam with quick tears, I realised my mistake. Before they could see my face crumple, I ran to my Privy Gardens. Dusk was falling. A guard hastily trotted after me to ensure I was not left alone. As he hovered at the edge of the gardens, I looked up at the darkening skies. “Kat…” I whispered. “Why are you not here? Why did you leave me?”
There was no answer from the skies. There was no voice carried soft and gentle on the gathering wind. There were no arms to tuck themselves about me, to tell me all would be well, with England, with Mary, with Robin… Those times were the hardest; times when I would forget that she was gone, and then remember. You would think that one would never forget such a loss, and I had not forgotten it, not really. It was simply that Kat had been a part of my life for so long I had grown used to her always being there. My mind forgot, even if my heart did not. I stood there for some time, trying to gather my emotions. Eventually Blanche came out and took my arm. “It is time for bed, Majesty,” she said.
I allowed myself to be taken inside, to be put to bed. That night, I dreamed of Kat. Of the first day I had met her. I dreamed that she told me she would never leave me, that I would never have to do without her. I awoke the next morning to find my dreams had been naught but pretty lies. It was almost a year now, since her death. At times, my sorrow was as fresh as the first moment of loss. At others, it was a dull ache. I missed her so much. I yearned for her advice and company. At the worst of times, I believed a part of me had died with her.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Greenwich Palace
Summer 1566
That summer, Bess St Loe returned to court, finally having handled most of the troubles resulting from William’s death. She was restored to my Bedchamber, serving beside her friends, Frances Cobham, Blanche and Dorothy Stafford. Almost immediately she attracted the attention of Henry Cobham, brother-in-law of Frances, and the two were often in each other’s company. There were rumours they would marry, but Bess said it was too soon for her to think of another husband, if she wanted one at all. “Three husbands have I buried now, Majesty,” she said as we sat in the gardens at Greenwich under a bower of honeysuckle. “I know not that I have the strength to bury another.”
“Consider, Bess, that the next might bury you, and draw comfort from that,” I jested and she laughed.
“It is true, I grow old,” she said. What a lie! She was a mature woman, but by no means old. Then she sighed. “But I miss William. It is not the same as it was when I lost my other husbands, Majesty. I loved them all, in different ways, but I felt as though William and I were intended for one another. When I was with him, no matter where we were, I felt as though I was home.”
“Y man lle rydw i mewn heddwch a mi fy hun,” I said, thinking of Blanche.
“Majesty?”
“It is a Welsh saying. It means the place where I am at peace with myself.” I smiled sadly at her. “I know how you feel, Bess. Kat was my home. She was the place where I found peace. William was yours.” I looked about at the glorious gardens and inhaled the fresh, sweet air. It was warm and sunny, but a hard wind blew, gusting through the garden paths. In this bower, we were protected from the worst of its power. “Perhaps you will find another place,” I said.
“As will you, Majesty.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps we should just be grateful that we found such grace once, even if it never comes to us again. Before Kat died, Bess, she said that she had lived well and full; that she had known love. She said that must be enough for anyone. I think I agree with her. Perhaps we should be content to have known such souls, even if they could not remain with us. Perhaps we should be grateful just to have touched them, touched their lives, even for a moment. There are many who never have the joy of knowing love as we have.”
We spoke little more, but sat thinking of those we had loved. That evening, I held a small party in my chambers to welcome Bess back to court. Cecil arrived just after we had finished eating. The dance had started. My ladies, partnering each other, were lively with giggling and prancing, practising the steps we learnt each night, so that when we performed for the court, we were spectacular. It was unusual to see Cecil at such an hour, and when he came over as I stood, my chest heaving from the effort of the dance, he whispered into my ear that Mary of Scots had been delivered of a healthy baby boy.
My face dropped. “The Queen of Scots is delivered of a fine son,” I said, sinking into a chair. “And I am but barren stock.” Cecil did not answer; there was no need. How many times had he said I needed to marry, only for me to defy him time and time again? My ladies gathered about me, reassuring me I was yet young, an
d could have many babes if I wanted. I listened to their chatter, wondering on my choice to remain unwed and childless. I will confess to you that never in all the time I was alive did I feel more troubled for the course I had taken, then, for England and for myself.
The next morning, I rallied my spirits. It would hardly do for me to be seen sorrowing for my choices. I welcomed Melville, the ambassador who had brought this news, with a show of dancing. I wanted him to see that I was healthy and fit, especially seeing as many would now compare Mary to me.
“It is joyful news you have brought of our royal nephew,” I said to him. “This news has restored me from the sickness I recently suffered. It was as though a tonic had been brought to me last night, lord ambassador. As I heard of the delivery of my good sister’s son, I was brought back to full health and vigour, as you see today.” It was a lie. I felt awful, but I was not about to let that show.
Melville decided to relay to me, in gruesome and lengthy detail, the process of my cousin’s labour. Perhaps thinking that since I was a woman, I would naturally love to hear all about the blood, gore, pain and strife of bringing a child into the world, he told me all he had gleaned from the midwives who had attended my cousin. To own the truth, that did make me feel better, but only because it made me all the more determined never to face such an ordeal.
The boy was christened James Charles Stuart, the second name given to him to honour the French King, his uncle by marriage, and the first for Mary’s father and grandfather. I am not surprised my cousin chose to skirt over the name ‘Henry’, which would have honoured her repulsive husband. I spoke to Melville often and warmly about this new Prince of Scotland. “I am now resolved to satisfy the Queen on the matter of the succession,” I told him. “I esteem the position of my heir to belong most justly to my good sister, and I wish with all my heart that this will be the way it will come to be decided. The Prince’s birth will be a spur to the lawyers to resolve the matter, and I will ask it to be discussed at the next meeting of Parliament.”
I was not alone in my support for Mary. Much to Cecil’s disgust, Norfolk, Pembroke and Sussex all agreed with me, seeing potential for England’s future in this Prince. To my surprise, Robin also added his voice to theirs. “The new Prince of Scotland is not only of Tudor blood,” he said to the Council. “But will be raised in the Protestant faith, since that is the faith of his country. Our Queen is not at present disposed to marry, and therefore it seems only right that we respect her wishes for the succession, as well as seeing this Prince as the natural, and royal, heir.”
“And yet his mother is still dubious and suspect,” Cecil complained.
“Did you not once say to me the same of Katherine Grey, Cecil?” I asked. “And said that were her boys to be raised properly, they could be named heirs to England’s throne, despite whatever ills their mother had done?”
“I did,” Cecil reluctantly admitted.
“Then your own argument has foiled this latest attempt to remove my cousin from consideration,” I replied, pleased to have caught him out. Cecil was unhappy. He had cause to hate my good memory. “And this child has more claim to my throne than any other, because he is of royal, undiluted blood. His mother is no slattern, set on bedding the first handsome man to pass her way. His mother is a Queen. And whilst I disapprove mightily of her fool of a husband, Mary Stuart is my nearest relative.” I looked about me. “You have said, oftentimes, my lords that you wanted an answer on the succession. This is my present resolve.”
Of course this was not the end. Cecil uncovered a plot which Mary was possibly involved in; to contact Catholic nobles in England, and have them support her claim. If this was true it would have been to her advantage. Cecil brought this up as a way of trying to put me off Mary, but even he admitted that he believed Mary was focussed now on the succession rather than interested in taking my throne by force.
“When Sir Henry Killigrew delivers my gift for Mary’s son,” I said. “I will ask him to counsel the Queen on the importance of not soliciting my subjects for support. But I do not believe she is planning an invasion, Cecil. If she is seeking support for her claim, no matter how ill-advised, it does not hold that she is planning to storm England with her troops. Despite the birth of her son, she has troubles of her own to deal with.”
Mary had vanquished the late threat to her life and throne, but her country was not entirely stable as yet, and there were her ongoing problems with Darnley. They were rarely seen together, and when they were, the coldness between them made her courtiers shiver. Darnley had finally remembered his mother was my prisoner and had asked me to release her. I refused. And it was not only in my court where the name of Lennox was dust and dirt. Mary had lately said she would make the Lennoxes as poor as ever they had been in Scotland. Later that summer, the Earl of Bedford sent a report to the Council wherein he apologised for not being able to repeat what the Queen had said about her husband. “It cannot, for modesty, nor for the honour of the Queen, be reported what she said of him,” the man wrote. I could almost sense his blushes resonating from the parchment.
Darnley was also boasting that he would invade England and make himself King here. Obviously, since his wife would not grant him a crown, he thought to take mine. Rumours came to us that he was considering a Spanish-backed invasion of the Scilly Isles off Cornwall, and there were further indications that Margaret Lennox had tried to aid him in escaping to Flanders, from where he could rouse support from Phillip of Spain. Margaret immediately lost all her privileges in the Tower, and everything entering and leaving her apartments were searched. Mary got wind of Darnley’s plotting and questioned him, but he denied everything. His wife did not believe him, and had no wish to see him voyage out to wreak destruction elsewhere, or bring war upon her country. As I tightened security about Margaret, my cousin did the same about Darnley.
But no matter what dilemmas there were to come for my cousin, I was resolved to show her my support. I rejoiced publicly about Prince James and ordered a golden font to be made as a gift for the baptism, but I was right to think that Mary’s delivery would only bring trouble to my gate. Within days a petition arrived, begging me to marry and produce an heir. I was thirty-three now, a mature age for a woman. If once, ten years ago, I had thought and pondered on marriage and children, I believed now it was impossible. I did not believe I had the capacity to bring forth hale children from my body, and to try and fail would only expose me to the same humiliation my sister had suffered.
“My physician, Huick, has told me that childbirth would be fatal, or at the least would bring harm to the present delicate state of my body as to put England in danger,” I informed my lords, grateful for this fresh excuse. They could hardly dispute it for they could all see how wan and thin I was.
Poor Huick was accused of having scared me off marriage, and many of my Council wanted him dismissed, but I refused to send him away. He had only spoken the truth as he had seen it, after all.
The magnificent font I had ordered was sent to Mary with Killigrew for the baptism of her child. The Earl of Bedford was also sent with reassurances for Mary that I would not do anything prejudicial to her right to be named heir of England. As time passed, I no longer felt ill as I thought about this babe, this new contender for my throne. In truth, just as I considered Mary to be my true heir, so this son of hers was too. I felt, in some ways, as though this boy was my child… A son of the Tudor line forged from royal blood. It mattered not who his father was, as long as Darnley was kept from exerting power over the child. James Stuart, Prince of Scotland, became my hope for the future. If a male heir was what was wanted, then there was a legitimate, royal one now living and breathing in the world. I would have always preferred Mary’s child to that of Katherine.
That summer, I left for progress with a heart which felt both lightened and strange. James of Scotland was often on my mind. I could not help but feel as though fate had shown me a strand of the future, and one which could satisfy all the wants of my pe
ople, and me.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Woodstock Palace
Summer 1566
We travelled through England that summer in high spirits. Through Northamptonshire we went, staying at Stamford. We were due to spend a night with Cecil, but were forced to seek shelter elsewhere because his daughter had come down with smallpox. Remembering my brush with the terrible sickness and what it had done to poor Mary Sidney, I sent my doctors to help Cecil, and was relieved to hear that his daughter was swiftly on the mend, and had suffered only slight scarring. From there, we moved on to Oxfordshire. We were to stay at Woodstock.
As I rode up towards that old palace, I stopped my horse on the road. Dust flew up, circling in the air. A thousand memories came flooding back to haunt me. Here, I had been a prisoner. Here my sister had kept me locked away after she released me from the Tower. Here had Parry come, and set himself up in the local inn, making Bedingfield, my gaoler, more nervous every day by sending me messengers and keeping me in contact with the world.
“Do you remember how cold the gatehouse was, Blanche, when we lived in it?” I asked.
She shivered even to recall those days. “And how small it was, Majesty!” she said. “Why, I could scarce turn about without hitting my elbow on a wall!”