Just a Queen (9 page)

I remember coming into the council chamber soon after we had received the news that Mary – blind to all wise counsel – had married that man. I found the great lords of my kingdom in a tight cluster. They were handing a paper from one to the other and laughing.

‘What causes such amusement, my lords?' I said. My presence made them uncomfortable and Francis Knollys tried to hide the paper behind his back.

‘It is nothing, Your Grace.'

‘I have often said that you laugh easily over very little, Francis, but even I have never accused you of laughing over nothing. It is something, and you hold it in your hand, good my lord.' I held my own out and gestured for him to give the paper to me. Like a schoolboy caught with a lewd drawing, he complied.

The cover included a crude sketch of a mermaid wearing a crown. And, although I am not supposed to know the meaning of such symbols, I know very well that the mermaid is a metaphor for a prostitute. ‘What crown wears this sea maiden?'

‘The crown of Scotland!' Knollys reassured me hastily.

‘She's no maiden,' murmured Robin.

‘Indeed, my lord, so it is a married mermaid, is it?'

‘A widow, Your Grace.' Knollys sniggered.

‘No longer, my lord. Now she is a bride.' It was Norfolk this time.

I ignored these supposed witticisms and opened the pamphlet. Inside was a couplet. I read it aloud.

‘“As the common people say, only harlots marry in May.”' Then I looked at the men around me. ‘I presume this charming verse is aimed at my cousin, the Queen of Scots?'

‘Aye, Your Grace. They say it was nailed to the gates of Holyrood the day she wed her paramour.'

The men could not help themselves: as one, they laughed aloud.

‘I do not see this as a laughing matter, my lords. My cousin has made such decisions that she no longer deserves to be called a queen, yet it gives me no pleasure to hear her called a harlot.'

‘She is not fit to lick your boots, Your Majesty.' Robin threw himself to his knees.

‘Amen to that!' And all knelt at my feet.

Their chivalrous gesture made me cry, but I also knew full well, that if ever I had behaved so foolishly – when Amy Dudley died, perhaps – they would have derided me just the same.

Eleven

‘How dare subjects rise up against their sovereign? Whatever mistakes she has made, Cecil, and I grant you they have been many, she is their queen, anointed by God, and should be treated as such.'

Traitors, the Scots were, every one. By deposing their rightful queen, it was they who put the axe in my hands: the common people, the burghers and the noblemen of Scotland. (Aye, the very same who burn my likeness in effigy now that I have executed the queen they so reviled.) I would rather have severed every one of their heads than be forced to do what I have now done. I have spent the last twenty years desperately twisting this way and that to avoid landing the blow, but, God forgive me, I could not avoid it, no matter how hard I tried. They say monarchs have power. They lie. So often we end up having to do evil because of events that are not of our making.

I remember I had no idea how to react as the crisis around the Queen of Scots intensified. Messengers arrived almost hourly with tales of the latest outrage, either by queen or by subjects. After Mary had defiantly and fatally married the murderer of her husband – that devil the Earl of Bothwell – the noblemen of Scotland rose as one against their queen. They had been discontented for a long time. They disliked her sex and her French ways and they loathed her stubborn Catholicism. Now they had the excuse they needed to be rid of their troublesome monarch and take power back for themselves. They also had that greatest prize of all, a male heir, and they had made sure that the infant prince was in their possession and not his mother's.

It all seems much clearer, as I think back on the events that rushed upon me, one hurrying on the heels of another. Now I can see that the actions of the Queen of Scots began the chain of events that led me to do what I have done. My gorge rises again in renewed fury at my foolhardy cousin's impetuous and unchaste behaviour. Perhaps she has been justly punished after all. Yet still tears fall unbidden from my sore and exhausted eyes. Where do they come from, so many unshed tears? I have not cried for as long as I can remember and now they come and will not cease.

Cecil and I listened to each new revelation differently. For him, there was mostly pleasure in the demise of a woman he had feared and distrusted. His concern about events was all about statecraft: how what happened in Scotland might affect our policy and security in England.

I suspect that with the arrival of every dusty messenger from the north, Cecil hoped that one would bring the tidings that my cousin had not just been deposed, but dispatched. I cannot blame him for that bloodthirsty desire. Had events played out that way so much misery would have been avoided. But, and here is a new thought, if the Scots had murdered their queen, would I have been forced to go to war with them to avenge her fate? Certainly my French allies would have brought considerable pressure to bear and control of the infant prince would have been a prize indeed. Ach! It does me no good to puzzle over what might have
been. I must think my way through what actually
occurred.

For myself the news of my cousin's travails gave rise to feelings that were more complicated. I hated hearing any queen spoken of with such disrespect. It is hard enough to be a woman and a ruler of men without having to witness the pleasure and, yes, salaciousness, with which some men greeted her downfall. ‘She was wearing male dress, Your Majesty, with a musket tucked into her waistband, and, begging your pardon,
Your Grace, but she was riding astride her horse – bold as brass! She is a woman that modesty and decorum have forgotten.' This particular messenger
took unseemly pleasure in regaling us with all the gory details of Mary's humiliating defeat at the battle of Carberry Hill.

‘She is a captive now?' Cecil had little interest in gossip and he could tell by my face that I did not enjoy what I was hearing, and did not approve of the disrespect with which this man spoke about a queen.

‘Aye, my lord. First in Edinburgh, but now she is marooned in the island prison on Loch Leven. When they moved her and she rode out of Edinburgh Castle past the soldiers, some of whom had once been in her own army-well, my lord, the men called out, “Burn the Whore”. I watched her go white at their insults, but worse was to come. Even though they thought it wise to move her at night, a crowd of citizens bearing torches had waited outside the castle gates. When they saw her, they also flung insults and worse. “Burn her, burn her,” they shouted. “She is not worthy to live. Kill her, drown her!” I saw the queen weep at their words, with my own eyes, but none showed her any pity. If anything, it seemed to drive them on to further excess. I watched a woman stoop and pick up a fistful of fresh stinking horse dung and fling it at the queen, and when she ducked to avoid it her cloak parted and—' Drunk on the drama of his story, the messenger lowered his voice theatrically, so both Cecil and I had to lean forward to catch his words. ‘By the look of her belly swelling beneath her bodice, she was pregnant, Your Grace, with, no doubt, the spawn of that mur—'

‘Speak no more! I will hear no more!' I leapt up from my chair and began to pace the room, wringing my hands at the shame of what I was being told.

Cecil stood and ushered the now startled messenger from the room. ‘You may leave us, sir.'

‘I meant no harm, your honour. I am only telling you what I saw.'

Cecil closed the door firmly behind him.

‘How dare he speak of a queen so? How dare he?'

‘Calm yourself, Your Grace. He is but a foolish man, caught up in his own importance at being a witness to history.'

‘I would have him arrested. I would have him thrown into my darkest dungeon. Send him to Master Topcliffe. Let him do his worst!'

‘On what charge, Your Grace? He is only saying what everyone is saying from Scotland to the Russian steppes.'

‘It is treason to speak so. Whatever she has done, she is a queen. She is their sovereign, placed on her throne by God himself.'

‘But people will talk, good madam. It was ever thus. Unlike you, your foolish and headstrong cousin has given them much to speak of and there is little we can do to stop it.'

At Cecil's wise and unanswerable words, I wept. Tears always made my good and faithful councillor uneasy. I think he could mostly forget I was a woman when we went about our daily business together, but when I cried or expressed my emotions freely, he could not help but realise that I was not as other rulers. He patted my arm awkwardly to offer comfort, but the expression on his face was one of such bewilderment that I was forced to smile through my tears. He answered with a small but relieved smile of his own. ‘Ah, that is more like it, Your Grace. You should not waste tears over your cousin. In many ways, her fall can be of great advantage to us. Not least because of how wise and temperate you appear by comparison. As her stakes go down, Your Grace, your reputation gains the advantage. The Queen of Scots is behaving as people fear a queen will behave. The Queen of England, on the other hand, is behaving the way all great monarchs do. With caution, dignity and wisdom. The contrast is all to your favour, Your Majesty.'

‘Nevertheless, good my lord, I must do all I can to save my cousin from her own folly. I will write to her again and offer her my help.'

‘Help, Your Grace?'

‘I will do all that lies within my power to see that she is not harmed in body, soul or dignity. If my prestige is such as you tell me, Master Spirit, then the least I can do is to use it to insist that a fellow queen be treated with courtesy and respect.'

‘Let us hope we have heard the last of her and that she remains incarcerated on her island.'

‘But what of the child she is expecting, my lord? What will come of that?'

‘If it is Bothwell's bastard then it will affect nothing. James Stuart, Darnley's son, if he lives will claim his crown when he comes of age.'

‘Even if his mother still lives?'

‘I do not know, Your Grace, and I have learnt it is better to let matters unfold as they will. Sometimes it is wiser not to anticipate events. Childbirth is a dangerous time, who knows what may yet occur.'

‘And yet she has proved herself well able to deliver children with little ill-effect.'

‘Aye, madam, that she has. Scotland is fortunate that it has an obvious successor to the woman who is clearly unfit to rule.'

‘Scotland may be fortunate, but I wonder if the birth of her son has given rise to at least some of these events.'

He opened his mouth to protest, but I held up my hand. ‘I do not minimise what she has done. Her behaviour shocks me to the core as a woman, as a virgin and as a queen, but if she had not given birth to a male heir, would she now find herself in quite this plight?'

For all his wisdom and forbearance, he could not grasp my meaning. ‘A male heir is an asset devoutly to be wished for and it is the duty of all kings and queens to do what they can to produce such a child. It is also the natural fulfilment of a woman's life, to bear and raise a new generation. Which leads me, Your Grace, to the next matter of business.'

Cecil produced yet another letter from the large pile that lay upon his writing desk. ‘It is from Archduke Charles in which he renews his suit for your hand.'

‘Not now, Cecil, not now. I am not in the mood to hear courtly expressions of love.'

‘I understand, Your Grace, but he will expect a reply and soon. Given the chaos on our northern border, the Hapsburgs would make good allies, especially considering – heaven protect Your Majesty – that if any misadventure should befall you, Mary would no longer be acceptable to your subjects as their queen.'

‘Must we talk of this now, my lord? My head aches with all this scandal.'

‘I think we must, Your Grace. What if Mary nominates her French relatives to adopt the infant Prince of Scotland? Then the two powers of France and Scotland could combine to threaten us. An alliance with the Hapsburgs through Charles would keep such threats at bay.'

‘I doubt the Scottish Protestant lords would let the prince out of their sight for a moment, no matter what his mother might negotiate with her French relatives, but send Sussex to Spain to negotiate the betrothal, if you must. However, do not forget, my lord, that Archduke Charles is a devout Catholic and that will not make him any more attractive to my people than he is to me.'

Sussex went to Spain and as the diplomatic niceties
and delicate matter of religious sensibilities were
argued in the Spanish court, Mary, in her island prison, miscarried Bothwell's twins. That at least, was a blessing. It is hard to imagine the complication two more children of her blood could have added to a world already riven by so many competing claims.

There are many who believe that the business of women in this life is love, while the business of men is war and its twin brother power. Women create life and men take it, I suppose. Yet no one admired Mary for the love she bore the man she now called husband. Instead they
condemned her for it – more than condemned her,
they despised her. As Mary lay in her weakened state after the death of her twins, the lords of Scotland forced her to sign a deed of abdication. It was rumoured that those brutal men threatened the poor, friendless woman with death if she did not sign. Such was the fear of Mary's legendary charm – indeed many now claimed she was a witch, able to befuddle men with her powers – she was kept in isolation in her island prison, allowed few attendants and almost no visitors. I wonder if they even told her that they had crowned her infant son James VI of Scotland.

I was enjoying the gardens at Hampton Court when the full catastrophe of Mary's dubious status, a queen who was not a queen, was made clear to me. It was a glorious spring afternoon, the bulbs were blooming in the lawn and my ladies and I were drawn away from our duties by the fragrance and warmth of the garden. If memory serves me correctly, Mary Sidney was playing upon her lute as the rest of us lounged on cushions and carpets, enjoying the sun. Suddenly a man loomed above me, silhouetted against the sky. I covered my eyes to see who had interrupted my pleasure, but before I could make out his face, his familiar voice told me all I needed to know, and my pleasant mood departed on the instant.

‘Cecil, what brings you from your desk? I do not suppose it is the glorious weather.'

My earnest Master Spirit glanced around him, as if he had only just registered that the day was fine. He frowned and made a small gesture with his ink-stained hands as if to say that he could not be expected to notice such trivialities. ‘Your Majesty, I bring urgent news from the Scottish court.'

‘Help me up, sirrah,' I said, ignoring Cecil, and signalling to my page. ‘And stop playing, Mary, if you would be so kind. Our leisure is at an end.' As I stood, I could see Cecil's worried face properly, and behind him, a knot of other concerned privy councillors. Something of great importance indeed had occurred. ‘Well, what is it? What emergency causes you to interrupt our pleasures so abruptly?'

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

‘It is always the Queen of Scots, my lord, even though she is queen no longer.'

‘She has escaped, Your Grace, and is gathering an army to fight for her throne.'

The shock sat me back down on my cushion. ‘How, my lord? In God's name, how?'

The need to hear the answer to that question got me back up from the cushion, unaided this time. As I rose I saw that all in the garden were as eager to know as I was. However, I did not want all and sundry to hear our conversation. I needed time to think how to respond.

‘Perhaps it would be wiser if we discussed this great matter in private.'

Her famous charm had woven its spell yet again. She had befriended a young page and persuaded him to steal the keys to her chambers. No doubt he saw himself as a great romantic hero and fancied marrying a queen and ruling Scotland by her side. The very same fantasy, ironically, that led first Darnley and eventually Bothwell to their doom. It is remarkable to me how many people lose all sense at the mere whiff of royal status. If they actually achieved it, they might not find the reality of its gifts quite as satisfying as they expect. Maybe she made him bold promises, who knows? Poor deluded youngster, his life was forfeit.