Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Greenwich Palace

  February 1567

  “Papists are becoming increasingly outspoken in the north of England,” Pembroke noted as reports were read to the Council. “Religious matters are heading backwards there, rather than forwards.”

  “We will continue with our policy of gentle progress in matters of religion,” I said, wondering if there would ever be a time when there were not stirrings of rebellion in matters of religion. “Slow and steady, my lords; that is the way of things in England.”

  “Priests are being harboured in many houses, Majesty, and the Catholic Mass is being said by them for rebellious subjects.” Cecil’s brow furrowed as he spoke. “William Allen is named as responsible for much of this discord.”

  Allen. A name I was hearing more and more these days. Although much good had come from my insistence on leniency towards Catholics in my realm, there were still divisions and troubles. The old faith had been sent to live underground, and as is the way of the creatures that live beneath us, it had found ways to survive. There were zealots who could not reconcile themselves to the idea of a Protestant state, or with the daughter of Anne Boleyn on the English throne, and they caused the most problems. There were, however, many who were willing to accept the public face of the English Church, who attended Mass publicly, and also kept Catholic priests in their houses to hear the Mass said. These moderates did not trouble me, and I was not about to set forth an order to ferret out every Catholic priest hiding in England… but the zealots were another matter.

  Allen was one of them. A scholar and a doctor of Oxford University, Allen hailed from an ancient family of Catholic blood. He had resigned his post at St Mary’s Hall seven years ago, when asked to take the Oath of Supremacy, and then left the country a year later, to head for Flanders where many Catholics had gone, unable to reconcile their faith to the new order in England.

  In Flanders, Allen had continued his studies, but had also taken to writing tracts against my religious settlement. He had returned in secret to England only to apparently find himself reinvented as the saviour of the Catholic faith. Visiting friends, family and neighbours, Allen had done his best to create resistance. Cecil’s spies had noted his activities as he travelled up and down the country, spreading discord. Although such actions were unlawful, I had instructed Cecil not to move on Allen, for I always believed that to make martyrs out of mere mortals was bad policy. I did not arrest him, as many of my forbears would have done. I let him travel, watched closely by Cecil.

  Perhaps three years ago, feeling himself under surveillance, Allen had left for the Low Countries. There he had been ordained a Catholic priest, and taught at a Benedictine college in Malines. From there, Allen wrote many inflammatory papers which were smuggled into England. And now, his name was linked to many of those causing trouble in the north of England.

  “We should have arrested him years ago,” Cecil mourned. “He was only ever going to cause more trouble for us, Majesty.”

  “Send word to the Sheriff of Lancaster that he is to investigate and question any who are openly causing trouble in the north, Cecil,” I said. “Particularly any who have been removed of their offices, and therefore have cause to think ill of us, but there will be no harsh measures taken against them. Let them know that they are seen by us in London, and let them have a chance to think better of their actions before they do more ill.”

  “Shall I put Allen on this list, Majesty?” asked Cecil.

  “If he has not the wit to remain in the Low Countries,” I replied. “But yes, add him to the list of those wanted for questioning. That one has had enough generosity from me.”

  My Council wanted me to be harder on Catholics in England. They wanted me to order arrests, to deal out fines and other punishments, but I resisted. They saw each problem that arose as an insurmountable stumbling block, to be triumphed over by shedding blood and stealing life. I did not think so bluntly. To my mind, the religious settlement was working. Just as we had had resistance at the beginning, it was only natural there would be more as time went on. But gradually we would wear them down. Eventually, people would see that there was much gentleness in the Protestant faith, and think better of it because of my generosity and lenience. If there was one thing I had learnt in my sister’s reign, it was that to murder or hunt people in the name of religion only makes that which you are seeking to destroy all the stronger. People resist, they rise up; they multiply underground. What I wanted was to slowly ease the Catholic faith from my country, and to those who remained in its grip, I still offered a home in their own country, as long as they kept their practices secret, and concealed from public view.

  But it was also true that leniency was getting harder to maintain. Each time there was a plot by fanatics, or an arrest made when someone preached against the Protestant faith, or was obvious in their attempts to hide a priest, my men grew fearful. There is nothing like fear to make men do foolish things.

  “The Queen of Scotland sends word that she is ready to ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh.” Cecil moved on, sensing that I had had enough of the talk of persecuting Catholics.

  My eyebrows shot up. “After all this time… She wishes to go ahead with that treaty rather than the new one I proposed… Why?”

  “She says that since the birth of her son, and your promise to act as his guardian, she has re-read the terms and decided they are acceptable,” Cecil informed me. “The Queen appears to have had a complete change of heart and mind on the subject, Majesty.”

  “Children are indeed a blessing if they can so alter the perceptions of their parents!” I exclaimed, feeling merry. “And you see, Cecil, once more my cousin surprises us all. I would wager that other than me, there has never been a queen so surprising.”

  “She also writes she will accept a trial of the will of your father, King Henry VIII, as you suggest, Majesty,” Cecil went on. “To ascertain her right to be named heir to England.”

  “Another surprise,” I noted and smiled. “You see, Cecil, what friendship can bring between two monarchs?”

  My cousin’s talent for surprise, however, was about to take us all aback…

  Just after two in the morning, on the 10th of February 1567, the Provost’s Lodge in the garden of Kirk O’Field exploded.

  Mary was at Holyrood Palace, far away from the blast, attending the wedding of two of her servants. The body of her husband was discovered as local people searched the grounds. Leaning against a tree, and sitting beside the body of his servant, Darnley was dead, but without a mark on his body to show how he had died. He had obviously escaped the explosion, for there were no burn or ash marks on his nightshirt, but he was still dead.

  Many who searched the grounds that night believed this was an English plot to kill Mary and her husband. Why I would try to assassinate my cousin, at this time when we were so lately reconciled in sisterly affection, was beyond me. As talks of English plots died down, so discussion of others rose. Darnley had been murdered, that much was clear. The explosion, which had taken most of the house with it, seemed to have been put into place to cover this foul deed, and when the dust settled over the broken house the next morning, Scotland was on fire with talk of treason. There were many who had reason to hate Darnley enough to remove him, but none more so than his wife. From almost the first moment, my cousin was in peril from rumours which cast themselves into the skies above her, and crawled on their bellies below.

  When I received word of Darnley’s death, I was shocked, but I did not mourn. He had been a contemptible creature, a man of no worth. But I saw the danger inherent for my cousin. I also could not allow Darnley’s murder to go un-noted by England. However much I had despised the fool, he had been an English subject; one of my people. His murder had to be investigated, and those responsible brought to justice. This was just as important for my cousin and her reputation as it was for the path of justice.

  I could not help but remember the death of Amy Dudley on
the day I received the news of Darnley’s murder. In so many ways, Mary and I had lived lives that echoed one another’s… not in all ways of course… but still, there were shared shadows of experiences. When Amy had died, the finger of suspicion had pointed at Robin and me, just as now it pointed at Mary and Bothwell. There were rumours that Bothwell wanted to marry the Queen. I knew not if this was true, at the time, but it brought memories of the terrible days after Amy’s death back to me. I had chosen, in those dark days, to keep Robin in my favour, but to refuse to marry him, and I knew now I had chosen well. My cousin was faced with a situation only too similar. She had to do as I had. She needed to investigate the matter fully, otherwise she would experience the same horrors I had in feeling my own people turn against me, suspecting I was a party to unlawful murder.

  I wrote to Mary. “Madam,” I wrote, “my ears have been so astounded and my heart so frightened to hear of the horrible and abominable murder of your former husband, our mutual cousin, that I scarcely have spirit to write. Yet I cannot conceal that I grieve more for you than him. I should not do the office of a faithful cousin and friend if I did not urge you to preserve your honour, rather than look through your fingers at revenge on those who have done you that pleasure, as most people say. I exhort you, I counsel you, I beg you, to take this event so to heart that you will not fear to proceed even against your nearest. I write thus vehemently, not that I doubt, but for affection.”

  I sent Lady Cecil to the Tower to tell Margaret Lennox that her son was dead. We had been told, erroneously, as it transpired, that the Count of Lennox had been killed along with his son. Margaret collapsed when she heard that both her son and husband were dead.

  I felt genuine pity for Margaret. True, we had never been friends, but I could not help but feel for her. I, too, knew what it was to lose a person most precious. When we received word that Lennox had not been at Kirk O’Field when Darnley was slain, and had in fact been sent to Glasgow that night, I sent Cecil to the Tower to inform Margaret that we believed Lennox was alive. When he returned to me, it was in a sombre mood.

  “I honestly believe you should release her from the Tower, Majesty,” he said. “She has suffered an almost complete collapse. I do not believe she will be a danger to you.”

  I agreed. I had her removed from the Tower and taken to Sackville Place. She was still under house arrest, but I would not compound her misery by keeping her in the Tower. I permitted her visitors, and brought her son Charles to her to bring her comfort. It was not long before Margaret heard all that had occurred in Scotland, and decided that Mary was guilty of murder. Margaret wrote to me in blazing, grieving fury, demanding justice for her slain son. Lennox, when he was found, was no less hungry for vengeance, and was determined to stay in Scotland until he found the murder, or murders of his son.

  I was not the only one urging Mary to move with all speed to discover the murderers. In France, Catherine de Medici said that Mary was fortunate to be rid of the fool, but also sent word that those responsible would need to be found and swiftly punished, or France would become her enemy. The murder of a consort, no matter how universally despised, was taken most seriously by all ruling houses. Mary ordered an inquiry, but there were immediate reports that statements had been extracted under torture, making all who heard them believe them less. Darnley’s parents started to protest the Queen was not doing enough to investigate and suspected her involvement. A pamphlet, naming Bothwell as the chief conspirator, was published anonymously in Edinburgh, and many believed Lennox was behind it. By the end of March, everyone suspected my cousin of having murdered her husband, with the aid of Bothwell. My cousin was in grave peril, and yet she was moving like a snail to do anything about it.

  Our spies in Scotland were quicker to investigate than the Queen was. Alarming reports arrived in Cecil’s hands, all implicating Bothwell, and by association, Mary. Bothwell had been seen watching the Provost’s Lodge after Mary had left, and one of his men had taken a large consignment of gunpowder the week before. Cecil’s men believed the gunpowder had been hidden in the basement on the night of the murder, which also explained why Mary had cause to note that one of her men was ‘begrimed’.

  “All this only means that Bothwell was involved, Cecil, it does not mean my cousin was.”

  “Majesty… the Earl of Bothwell is Mary’s right hand. He does all for her at court and she leans on him. There are rumours that they are lovers.”

  “Just as there were rumours about me and Robin, if you remember, Cecil. A rumour does not mean something is true.” I paused. “There were many who believed ill of me, Cecil, when Amy Dudley died, and yet I had no hand in her death. Many people had cause to hate Darnley… not only Scottish nobles, but Catholic princes who did not want his lewd behaviour staining their names, and Protestant ones who would have viewed him as a threat. Even if Bothwell is involved, it does not mean my cousin is… And why, Cecil, if she were involved, would she call attention to the begrimed face of her servant that night? Surely, if Mary was party to all this, she would have known the reason for his dirty face, and would not have called attention to it.”

  “I admit, there is a possibility the Queen was not aware of what her men had planned,” he said. “But there are others, Majesty, many others, who will not be so generous in their evaluation.”

  “As I am well aware, having lived the same events myself,” I answered ruefully. “I have heard rumour too, Cecil, that the Douglas clan, Darnley’s own kin, had a hand in this for they had good reason to despise the lad.” I rolled my eyes. “If only Mary would act faster! I know she has been ill, but she needs to order a full investigation, and to act against those involved.”

  “If Bothwell was involved, Majesty, it may be impossible for her to act against him.”

  “Could it not be possible that the explosion was meant to target Mary, but she left and something went awry?” I asked. “Darnley could, himself, have plotted to take her life and make himself regent for their son.”

  “Then how did he end up half-naked and suffocated in the gardens?”

  I breathed out sharply through my nose. “I know not, Cecil, but if all others have decided to abandon my cousin, I will not. I know well the pain of suspicion. I know what it costs. I will show my support for her. I will not allow mere suspicion and rumour to stain her name.”

  “And if she is found to be involved?”

  I stared out of the window. “I pray to God that will never happen.”

  I sent word to Scotland that I supported Mary and believed in her innocence. “We assure you that whatsoever we can imagine meet for your honour and safety that shall lie within our power, we will perform… It shall well appear that you have a good neighbour, a dear sister and a faithful friend, and so you shall undoubtedly always find us to be towards you.”

  I was alone in my support of my cousin. Phillip of Spain, Catherine de Medici, even her brother-in-law King Charles, all expressed cold disapproval. I defied my Council, who wanted me to set aside Mary’s right to be named my heir. I admit I also told Mary that we could not talk of the treaty of perpetual peace until this matter was resolved. But I added if she did right by her slain husband, then I would be in a better position to continue to support her.

  Darnley was not given a state funeral. He was laid to rest quickly, during the night, a bare week after his death in a private ceremony without the trappings of a royal funeral. The strange hour and swiftness of the funeral helped Mary not at all for many decided she must have something to hide. Finally, Mary responded to the rumours and to Lennox’s demands for justice and allowed Bothwell to be tried in a private court for the murder of her husband.

  I rejoiced to hear this, but it was not the end of my cousin’s troubles.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Greenwich Palace

  Spring-Summer 1567

  “She believes he can protect her against the factions that surround her,” Cecil said as we looked over the latest reports from Scotland with amaze
ment. “That is why she will not move against him.”

  In a travesty of a trial, Bothwell had been acquitted of the murder of Darnley. Within days, he and Mary had been seen walking and talking together as intimates. Her brother, Moray, had left court, refusing to become involved in this scandal. Lennox had sent me a letter comparing his son to an innocent lamb, and Mary to Judas. Clearly the Count of Lennox believed his daughter-in-law was guilty.

  Mary was losing friends fast.

  Pamphlets were circulating in Scotland and England, blaming Mary for Darnley’s murder. Seeing her feeble efforts to bring the guilty to justice, her people were turning against her. Lewd images of a mermaid and a hare were distributed. The mermaid, a symbol of sexual abandon, was crowned and was clearly meant to be Mary. The figure also held a sea anemone in her hand, meant to represent female genitalia. The suggestion was that Mary was a marauding whore, bent on capturing men, and bewitching them with sex. The hare was the heraldic symbol of Bothwell’s family, indicating the two were intimately involved.