Just a Queen (12 page)

Fifteen

‘They wear the regalia of the crusaders, Your Majesty.'

‘They claim to be resurrecting the pilgrimage of grace, the rebellion that so divided the country in your father's time. They carry the old banners and cry out to the people to join them in returning England and the crown to the one true religion!'

‘Westmoreland and Northumberland have ridden through Durham, Your Grace, in North Yorkshire. Their destination was the cathedral where they declared their allegiance to the Pope and a Catholic England.'

‘It is the Queen of Scots' doing, Your Majesty.'

‘Do you have proof of this?' I turned sharply towards Francis Knollys; his was a direct accusation against my royal cousin.

He looked away. ‘Not yet, Your Majesty, but our agents will be diligent and they will find the evidence.'

‘When they find such proof, good Sir Francis, bring it to me. Until then let us concentrate on what we actually know to be true rather than what some of us wish to be true.'

‘I have evidence that people in high places are involved.'

Now I turned towards William Cecil, whose low voice and calm authority cut cleanly through the anxious babble of the rest of my council.

‘I am curious to see it, my lord. Bring it hither.' I ushered him into a private inner chamber, leaving the rest of my privy council to cool their heels in the outer one. I did not wish to be pushed by the opinions of others into making a hasty decision.

I shudder even now, all these years later, at the memory of what happened to those foolish rebels. I did not witness any of the summary executions, the hangings, drawings and quarterings that decimated the followers of the two foolish and traitorous northern earls. I authorised the executions and then I tried not to think about them. I have no desire to see the pain and sufferings of others, however justified. There are some in my service who seem to take nothing but pleasure in witnessing such events and the common people love to make a holiday of public executions and consider such gory spectacles great sport. I lived too long under the shadow of the axe to ever take the sufferings of others so lightly.

Despite the terrible price paid by those people who rose up in Yorkshire – six hundred went to their deaths and many others lost all their goods and land to the crown – their ghastly fate did not have the effect that we hoped. The three years from 1569 to 1572 were fraught with rebellion, just as my council, my Archbishop of Canterbury and Cecil himself had warned me. Since Mary had become my prisoner it seemed I really did have the wolf by the ears. The various plots and rebellions that were reported to me all seemed to have been fomented by my troublesome royal prisoner – if not directly instigated, then certainly inspired by her. It wasn't only the foot soldiers of rebellion who paid the ultimate price. Some prominent members of the Catholic nobility also paid for their disloyalty. Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland lost his head. It seemed he had learnt nothing from the fate of his father – also Thomas Percy – who had been executed as one of the rebel leaders of the original pilgrimage of grace. Why is it that so often if the father was a traitor so will be the son? Northumberland's co-conspirator, the Earl of Westmoreland and his wife, Jane Howard, the Duke of Norfolk's sister and so also my relative, were luckier. They fled to the Spanish Netherlands to live out their days in penury and exile.

During this time of anxiety and turbulence I often felt overwhelmed, but as queen it was my duty to hold my feelings in check. Such was my inner turmoil, in contrast to my outer calm, I took up my pen to write out my thoughts and help soothe my fevered mind. Perhaps it was the discipline of rhyme and metre that gave me relief as I wrote this, late one evening by candlelight. I enjoyed putting a shape to the chaos.

The doubt of future foes

Exiles my present joy

And wit me warns to shun such snares

As threatens my annoy

For falsehood now doth flow

And subjects' faith doth ebb

Which should not be if reason rules

Or wisdom ruled the web

The daughter of debate

That discord aye doth sow

Shall reap no gain where former rule

Still peace hath taught to know

No foreign banished wight

Shall anchor in this port

Our realm brooks no seditious sects –

Let them elsewhere resort

My rusty sword through rest

Shall first his edge employ

To poll their tops who seek such change

Or gape for future joy

Vivat Regina

The words rolled off my quill and by the final line, I felt calmer and able to sleep. Would that the muse would come upon me now, sleepless in my barred chamber, but I feel no inspiration. My ‘rusty sword' is bright with blood and now it is my poor, grief-stricken mind that feels dull and tarnished.

The poem may have soothed me, but even after the northern rebellion had been so comprehensively thwarted, there were still rumours of a Spanish fleet lying off the coast of the Netherlands. A fleet, or so the panic merchants declared, that was just waiting for a word from Mary to come to her aid and begin the conquest of England. Now the rebels were either dead or fugitive, I was beginning to doubt the truth of such fear-mongering. Cecil and I had received no such intelligence and we had excellent spies at every port big enough to shelter such an armada.

Moreover, despite the more traditional religious beliefs in the north of my country, most of the nobility remained steadfast and refused to join the rebels. The two treacherous earls raised few men beneath their standard. Even so I felt it prudent to move my cousin south and hold her more securely behind the thick high walls of Coventry.

It was not simply by way of armed rebellions that the presence of Mary as a prisoner sent ripples through England. No sooner did we deal with one crisis than another reared its ugly head. Pius V issued a Papal Bull excommunicating me as a ‘paramount heretic and tyrant'. This declaration by the leader of the Catholic world was much more of a real danger than a few disgruntled lords over-estimating their own popularity and power. After the Papal Bull, any religious fanatic in the land (or in any other land) could assassinate me safe in the knowledge that spilling my blood would speed his way to heaven. As it is impossible to truly know what goes on in the mind of another, this now put all my Catholic subjects under suspicion. Perhaps the northern lords and the Pope felt they were doing what they could to aid Mary, but their belligerence just made her existence more precarious.

With each new development, Cecil reminded me dourly that in the person of the Catholic Queen of Scots I nursed a deadly papist viper at my bosom. I understood the danger and, when the news of the rebellion first broke over my head, I felt real fear, but as time passed I became more sanguine or, perhaps, more resigned. I am not easily frightened. I have survived much and have learnt that most of fear is anticipation. Better to wait until danger really confronts you than imagine it sitting in wait in every darkened corner.

‘Well, Cecil, what is this evidence of treason in high places?'

‘We have uncovered another plot, Your Majesty.'

‘Another?' I sighed and turned to look out of the window. It was a dull day and rain was falling fast. I did not hide my impatience. Rumours of such plots were occurring almost every day. The rising of the north and the Papal Bull had unsettled my ministers and some were jumping at shadows.

‘What is it this time? The pastrycooks have been
bribed to bake venomous snakes into a pie for my delectation? Or is it the under-gardeners who are to
sow gunpowder with the hollyhocks and blow me
to kingdom come?'

‘This seems a little more serious, Your Grace.'

I turned and did him the honour of looking at him directly. ‘Tell me the worst.'

‘An Italian banker named Ridolfi, who now resides here in London, claims to have put together an army
of 45,000 men for the sole purpose of killing you,
Your Majesty, and placing the Queen of Scots upon your
throne. It is said this plot has the blessing of the Pope, the Spanish and all the Catholics in Christendom.'

‘It may have their blessing, Sir Spirit, but does it have something more tangible – like gold to pay their armed forces?'

‘I do not yet know, Your Grace, but such a conspiracy must be taken seriously. Ridolfi names peers and knights of your realm, good madam, who can be relied upon to join the rebellion. But that is not the worst of it.' Cecil paused and looked grimly over the spectacles he had recently begun wearing. There was something about his gaze that made me stand a little straighter (I had been reclining against the window sill) and lean forward. Cecil did not jump at shadows.

‘Well, do not seek to spare my feelings. Tell me all of it – particularly the worst.'

‘The Duke of Norfolk appears to be up to his neck in this plot, Your Grace.'

I slumped back onto the sill and raised my fingers to my forehead. I suddenly felt desperately weary. ‘Tell me Cecil, am I or am I not a merciful sovereign?'

‘Indeed, good madam, you are. Too merciful at times.'

‘Do I or do I not try to give people the benefit of the doubt and encourage them to follow me out of love rather than fear?'

‘Indeed, Your Grace, you do.'

‘Do people tremble when I pass as they did for my father?'

Cecil shook his head.

‘Do I enquire into men's souls? Do I try to force them to believe what they would rather not believe, as did my sister and as would my brother, had he lived?'

‘No, good madam, you do not.'

‘Is my realm not more peaceful and more prosperous than it was when first I came to the throne?'

At this, Cecil broke into one of his rare and therefore precious smiles.

‘Aye, madam, that it is.'

‘I see you smile at this, Sir Spirit, as you should, for you share much of the credit.'

He bowed, but immediately demurred. ‘Nay, Your Grace. I am merely your servant. You alone have ruled so wisely and well these past ten years.'

‘You are mistaken in that, my lord. You have more than fulfilled my early judgment of you that you would give me advice as you truly saw fit with neither fear nor favour, and you will not find me lacking in gratitude.'

Cecil looked up at this, wondering what I meant. Unbeknown to him I had already begun the process to raise him to Lord Burleigh in recognition of his steadfast counsel. To be honest, I still cannot imagine what I would have done without his calm presence beside me. He is the man whose advice I rely on more than any other. Indeed, it is another resentment I hold against my cousin Mary that our different views about her fate drove a wedge between us, a wedge that has seen Lord Burleigh (as Cecil now is) banished from my court. I was so angry with him for taking matters into his own hands and allowing the Queen of Scots' execution that I simply could not bear to see his face, and yet – I miss him too.

He was about to say something, but I raised my hand. ‘If all that is so, my lord, why then is the gratitude I receive from some of my subjects – even those I have shown great mercy to – so lacking that they would countenance treachery?'

Cecil looked up at me with a shrewd, solemn expression. He scratched at his chin with the end of his quill as he often did when concentrating. ‘Foolish men have foolish ambitions, Your Grace, and can be manipulated by others very easily. Norfolk, like many, sees the world as he would like it to be and brushes aside anything that would make him see the world or himself realistically. It is my judgment of you, Your Majesty, if you would allow me to repay your great compliment to me, that you see the world as it is and that is your great strength. It is a rare asset indeed in monarchs.'

I looked at Cecil, more moved by his words than I trusted myself to express. I may have been his queen, with the power to have him arrested and killed at any moment had I been so foolish, but it was I who sought his approval rather than the other way around. He was the greatest in a long line of clever, serious older men who I wanted to please and, yes, impress. I loved Robin Dudley as a woman loves a man. I loved William Cecil as a daughter loves a much-admired father. He gave his approval rarely. Most often I felt like a schoolgirl under his tutelage. I think I enjoyed that feeling – still enjoy it – never mind that I am past my fiftieth year. The schoolroom was always where I felt happiest as a child, with my books, studying under the instruction of learned scholars like Roger Ascham and John Dee.

Such musings have brought me back from the past and into the terrible present. However dangerous the past may have felt while I was living it, I survived. The past is always a safe place to dwell; the present always dangerous. If I claim to see the world as it is and not as I would like it to be, I must accept that I and no one else signed the order for the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. However much I may protest, I have always known that it was so. Secretary Davison was merely my messenger and I have wronged him by sending him to the Tower. Cecil merely did what had to be done and it is wrong that I have sent him from my court.

I have admitted it. The blood of my cousin is on my hands and mine alone. But I get ahead of myself. It is the blood of another cousin that I am considering now.

‘My spies tell me that the duke was contacted by Ridolfi and when the full treachery of the plot against you was revealed to him, he did not gainsay it.'

‘What was his response? Did your spies tell you that?'

‘Aye, Your Majesty, they did.'

‘What was it? Tell me, Cecil, tell me his words exactly.'

‘He is reported to have said, “Well”.'

‘Well?'

‘Well.'

‘Did he mean the plot was well done, the information well relayed?'

Cecil shrugged and shook his head.

‘Foolish man. I suspect that he did not know what to say. No doubt the thought of my demise and the glorious fate that might therefore await him both thrilled and terrified him. He did not know which of his reactions to follow.'