Tudor Queens of England (40 page)

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pressure of circumstances and used noblemen abroad, they regularly failed. The Earl of Leicester made a complete mess of his tour of duty in the Low Countries in 1585–6, and so did the Earl of Essex in Normandy in 1591. Essex in Ireland in 1599 was even more of a disaster and if he had not been so comprehensively inept might have posed a threat to the Crown. Only the same Earl’s role in the successful raid on Cadiz in 1596 provides a partial exception, and then the fl eet was under the command of Lord Charles Howard.

Elizabeth contrived to fi ght a long and reasonably successful war without ever yielding entirely to military priorities. Military men like Essex and Howard became important in the council, but management remained in the hands of civilians – fi rst Lord Burghley and then his son Sir Robert Cecil. This was a balancing act of considerable skill, considering the fi nancial demands that the war was making and the constant need to resort to Parliament for subsidies. By 1601 Elizabeth’s combination of ‘Virgin mother’ rhetoric and gendered posturing was wearing a little thin but it continued to serve her and she did not have to meet another parliament in the last two years of her life. The supreme test of the Queen’s mettle had come in 1588, when an invasion by the Duke of Parma from the Netherlands was generally expected. The fi eld army raised to oppose him amounted to no more than 12,000 or 14,000 men, either because the great majority of able men were held back for local defence, or because, even in an emergency, Elizabeth was reluctant to have a larger army present on home soil. Their effectiveness may well be doubted, but not their loyalty, and when she acted the part of commander in chief, they cheered her to the echo. She is alleged to have said:

My loving people, I have been persuaded by some that are careful of my safety to take heed how I committed myself to armed multitudes for fear of treachery, but I tell you that I would not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear!

… I am come among you at this time … being resolved in the midst and heat and heat of battle to lay down for my God and for my kingdom and for my people mine honour and my blood even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England to

o …14

It was all stirring stuff and given point by the fact that she was dressed in armour, like a latter day Joan of Arc. The words are reported and may not be strictly authentic but the sentiment is and it is consistent with her whole approach to her monarchy. By the time that she spoke at Tilbury the battle of Gravelines was over and the main danger had been averted but she may not have known that and her audience certainly did not.

15
Elizabeth’s military strategy, like this speech, was broadly defensive. Tactically she might be the aggressor, as against Cadiz, 218

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but her purpose was always to protect the integrity and interests of England. The only exception to this generalization had come early in the reign, when she had allied with the Huguenots in France in an attempt to recover Calais. That uncharacteristic adventure in 1562–3, has been largely ascribed to the infl uence of Lord Robert Dudley, who was still much about the Queen at the time, and that may be so, because both William Cecil and the Marquis of Winchester are known to have advised against it. It ended in disaster and the lesson (if it was needed) was not lost upon Elizabeth. Thereafter she followed the double policy of allowing (and even encouraging) her seamen in their acts of piracy, while blandly denying any complicity and professing her continued desire for friendship with her ‘good brother’ of Spain. It is not surprising that he privately railed against such duplicity, which he attributed to her sex, ignoring the fact that his own great grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, had been even more adept at such tactics. Elizabeth improvised her methodology of government because the only available model, her sister Mary, was so unsatisfactory, and central to that improvisation was her religious faith. Nothing could be further from the truth than the traditional assumption that Elizabeth was a mere opportunist when it came to her relations w

ith God.16 She had c
onformed during Mary’s reign because there was no sensible alternative. Her sister had subjected her to relentless pressure, which she resented bitterly, for the same reason that Mary herself had been pressed by Edward’s council. Her profi le as the heir to the throne was very high, and she might well have served as a focus for overt resistance. Moreover after the summer of 1555 it appeared to be a question of when, rather than if, her time would come. Her friend and confi dant William Cecil did the same, with slightly less excuse because neither of them could see the point of making martyrs of themselves when the long-term prospects looked so promising. Both were therefore what John Knox disparagingly dismissed as ‘Nicodemites’. It was all very well for him; he was safely in Geneva! No one really believed in Elizabeth’s conversion. Her sister certainly did not and was unremitting in her hostility. However, conformity was conformity, and that had to suffi ce. The Protestants, meanwhile, continued to look to her as their white hope. When a monarch was unpopular, for whatever reason, the expectations of all the disgruntled focused upon the heir and Elizabeth became the recipient of all sorts of hopes, not only of orthodox Protestants but also of radicals, of gentlemen out of service and of disaffected London merchants who felt cheated of their legitimate ambitions in Africa and the New World. She was, as one dissident observed, thought to be ‘a liberal dame, and nothing so unthankful as her sister’
.17
When her time came, therefore, in November 1558, a great weight of expectation hung upon her. So great indeed that the religious persecution, which had still been blasting ahead

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in the summer, came to an end without a word spoken. Although she made no policy statement and insisted upon the status quo being observed, no one had any doubt that Elizabeth’s settlement would be very different from her sister’s. The Protestant exiles began to return, and the incumbent catholic bishops rightly expected to have a fi ght on their hands.

The real nature of the Queen’s intentions have been extensively, and rather unnecessarily, debated. She was not committed to her father’s settlement, as Mary had claimed to be. She was a Protestant, brought up in the same schoolroom as her brother Edward, and as convinced as he was of the truth of reformed doctrine. On the other hand, she was quite well aware that the majority of her subjects did not share her views and the safest thing to have done would have been to restore ‘religion as king Henry left it’. This she did not do, because her sense of duty to God was stronger than her political caution. A campaign of advice was carefully orchestrated by Sir William Cecil to reinforce her resolution in this respect, because Cecil was in wholehearted agreement with his mistress on this issue. A Protestant church was a

sine qua non
at the beginning of 1559. The real questions were, exactly what kind of Protestant Church, and how was it to be achieved? In a sense the answers were clear. The church of Edward VI had operated under the Royal Supremacy and that agreed well with Elizabeth’s sense of personal responsibility. Not all Protestants had been happy with that in the past and some would not be so now, but in the circumstances a bill of Supremacy was inevitable. Resort to Parliament was equally certain. Not only had both Henry and Edward carried out their reforms by statute but even Mary, who would have had every excuse for ignoring such Acts, had carefully repealed them before instituting her own settlement. Elizabeth, however, was a woman, and the Supremacy as Henry had exercised it was not only personal but quasiepiscopal. Under Edward the Council had exercised it, but both they and the king in whose name they acted, had been male. Mary had borne the title for a few months but without conviction and had got rid of it as soon as was practicable. There was simply no precedent for a woman to bear such a responsibility and much anguished debate ensued. Eventually Elizabeth decided to take the title of

‘Supreme Governor’, implying an administrative rather than a spiritual function. In a sense this was a distinction without meaning, because the powers of the Queen to govern the Church were unaffected but it was a conciliatory gesture to those (Protestants as well as conservatives) who did not believe that any woman could exercise any sacerdotal function, even by deputy. Elizabeth did not allow herself to be inhibited by this limitation. She governed the Church through High Commission (which was, of course, entirely made up of men) but implicitly reserved to herself the fi nal decision on all matters, whether administrative or 220

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doctrinal. Woe betide any misguided clergyman or pamphleteer who tried to teach her her business in that respect! Elizabeth soon demonstrated that just as it had been her duty to God to make such a settlement, it was a similar duty to defend it against any attempt at ‘further reformation’.

The bill of supremacy passed the House of Commons almost without argument, which is an interesting comment on the supposed strength of Catholic sentiment in the country at the time and passed the House of Lords with only a handful of lay peers supporting the bishops in their dissent. The bill of uniformity, however, was a different matter, because in truth it satisfi ed nobody except the Queen and a handful of her councillors. By reintroducing the 1552

Prayer Book it offended all those who looked to Henry’s Church for their model, while by making some small conservative concessions and leaving the way open for the retention of minimal vestments it contrived to offend the ‘hotter sort’ of Protestants just as much. This time there was argument in the Lower House but not suffi cient to cause the measure to be withdrawn or redrafted. In the Upper House, however, the opposition was resolute, and some 20 lay peers backed the bishops. Sir Nicholas Bacon, who presided as Lord Keeper, did not put the Bill to a vote so close was the division and the Queen took advantage of the approach of Easter to prorogue the sitting. What was she to do? Could the Supremacy be accepted without the Protestant Uniformity? It is clear that Elizabeth decided that it could not and that the issue must be tried again. During the recess a disputation was set up between the ‘old sort’ and the ‘new’ and some sharp practice was resorted to in order to remove two of the Catholic bishops for contempt. This was managed by William Cecil, and it is not certain that the Queen was privy to the device; but when the parliament reconvened, Bacon put the controversial Bill to a vote and got it through with a majority of one!

Thus were the Queen’s wishes fulfi lled. By the summer of 1559 she had her own Church, and a royal visitation set out on the task of implementation. One by one the conservative bishops refused to subscribe and were deprived, much, it would appear, to the Queen’s disappointment, although why she should have expected anything else is not clear. Nearly a dozen sees were vacant by earlier deaths and Elizabeth therefore had a golden opportunity to shape her Church in accordance with her own wishes. She had deliberately chosen an Episcopal form of government because that corresponded to her own notions of propriety and always thereafter treated the bishops as her servants and agents. She had no concept of

iure divino
episcopacy, and made it clear – to archbishop Grindal in particular – that she expected obedience, even where the liturgy and teaching of the Church were concerned. There was nothing simulated about this sense of unique responsibility. Elizabeth knew perfectly well that you did not pose in front

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of God, even if you were the Queen of England. For a woman who is accused of constant dithering, her defence of her ecclesiastical settlement was determined and consistent. William Cecil, who for many years tried to nudge her in the direction of further reform, eventually came to understand this, and even to respect its wisdom. For ten years the Queen concentrated on getting as many of her conservative subjects ‘on board’ as possible and this worked remarkably well as the Catholic leadership debated how best to confront this remarkable woman. Then in 1570 the Pope made up their minds for them by excommunicating her and absolving her subjects of their allegianc

e.18 This had the v
ery useful effect of making allegiance and Protestantism co-terminous and thus uniting the majority of her subjects behind the Church settlement. Whatever the English may have felt about women exercising spiritual jurisdiction, it had become the national way of doing things and was doubly useful in distinguishing the English Church from that which was run from Rome. God no doubt moved in mysterious ways, but England was – after all – the New Israel.

It was precisely because the bishops were her servants that she took such pains in selecting them. It was not easy because so many of the best candidates had dubious backgrounds in terms of dissent and serious doubts about the royal supremacy. At fi rst William Cecil drew up endless lists of likely candidates, only to fi nd that some were unacceptable to the Queen and others declined the preferment. Both Cecil and the Queen were anxious – for different reasons – to

‘unlord’ the bishops. Elizabeth wanted their revenues and Cecil wanted to persuade them to concentrate on pastoral priorities but it soon transpired that the best candidates were not willing to serve on those terms and the policy was rapidly modifi ed to include attractive fi nancial packages for those approached. Cecil did his level best to secure the reduction or remission of fi rst fruits and usually succeeded, a method that must at least have had Elizabeth’s tacit approval. Once Mathew Parker had been selected for Canterbury – and had accepted the offer – then his opinion also had to be taken into account and the whole process became still more complicated. Cecil was also not the only patron with the Queen’s ear and although his advice usually prevailed he knew better than to presume upon that infl uence. There were often long vacancies. Oxford was famously without an incumbent (save for one year) from 1557 to 1589. That was an extreme case, and the average vacancy was about a year but it underlines the diffi culty that the Queen and Council had in fi nding suitable candidates. There is no evidence that Elizabeth’s gender had any infl uence at all on this process, although it is possible that some of the early candidates may have balked at the idea of serving a female Supreme Governor. Nor is it true that the Queen was particularly averse to married bishops. She is alleged to have snubbed Mathew 222