Текст книги "Queen of This Realm"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
Соавторы: Jean Plaidy
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I told him everything the man had said. “By great good fortune in Latin,” I told him. “But he cannot be allowed to preach against me in such a manner.”
Cecil agreed but said: “We must go cautiously with regard to Winchester. Let him cool in prison. Your father would have had his head. I am sure you will see the virtue in greater caution.”
I saw at once. Indeed Cecil was voicing my opinion and, as usual, we were in agreement.
But it was a lesson learned. I must act cautiously and especially in this matter of religion.
I TOOK A tentative step forward on the morning of Christmas Day. I was in the chapel where the service was being conducted in the way it had been during Mary's reign and the Bishop of Carlisle was at the altar about to officiate at High Mass when I rose and, with my ladies, left the chapel.
It was a carefully calculated action. What I had done would soon be known throughout the capital and the country no doubt, and I would wait to see what the people thought of it. If they were displeased, I could easily make excuses; I had felt unwell—or something such. Illness had stood me in good stead in the past, so why not now? If there was approval I should know how to act.
I was left in no doubt of the people's feelings. They were joyful. I then decided to take another step. Services in my chapel and all over the country should be conducted in English.
I was concerned with my coronation and I was determined to make it a day which all my subjects would remember with joy.
On the twelfth of January I went from the Palace of Westminster to the Tower, for an English monarch must set out from that fortress for the Coronation, and the previous day's journey is almost as ceremonious as the day of coronation itself.
I sailed in my state barge and all along the river were craft of every description with flowing banners of welcome and sweet music. The Lord Mayor's barge was fitted with artillery, which was fired off at intervals. There was wild cheering everywhere and nothing could have gratified me more. I landed at the Tower and, as always, I must think of that other landing at the Traitor's Gate.
On the afternoon of the next day I left the Tower in a chariot covered with crimson velvet, and when I entered the city the cheers were deafening. Everywhere people shouted: “God save Your Grace.”
I called back to them: “God save you all. I thank you, dear people, with all my heart.”
How they loved me! I don't think any other monarch had shown such regard for them. They came to me with their flowers and I took them all and thanked them with emotion, and I laid them tenderly in my chariot that they might see how I prized them.
One of the things which pleased me most during that ride was the tableau in Gracechurch Street which represented the royal line from which I had sprung. There was my grandmother, Elizabeth of York, stepping out of a gigantic white rose to take the hand of my grandfather, Henry VII, who was emerging from a red one; but my greatest pleasure was in the effigy of my mother, who was set up beside my father. It was the first time since her execution that any homage—or common decency—had been paid to her. From these two sprang another branch, and there was an effigy of myself seated on a golden throne surrounded by entwined red and white roses.
I clapped my hands, which might seem undignified in a queen, but I was not so much anxious to uphold royal dignity as to win the love of my people. I had the power, I discovered, and I developed this later, to be able to speak to them and be with them as one of themselves, which I think was the chief reason I kept their good will.
All along the route there were pageants and children to sing my praises. I remember still the glory of Cheapside on that day with the tapestries hanging down from the windows and my dear subjects assuring me of their loyalty. I hope I made them aware of my love for them and my determination to serve them well.
On the morning of my coronation, I left Whitehall whither I had come from the Tower and came to Westminster. I looked very regal in my erminetrimmed crimson velvet. I was a little anxious because the bishops had refused to crown me. They knew that I was determined to make myself Head of the Church, like my father before me, which, as I saw it, was the only way of restoring tolerance and reason in religious matters to my realm. Because the See of Canterbury was vacant, it was the duty of Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York, to perform the ceremony, but as Heath was aware of the changes I proposed to make, he refused to crown me. Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, pleaded that he was too old and ill for such an exacting occasion, and the task therefore fell on Owen Oglethorpe, Bishop of Carlisle.
Oglethorpe would have liked to refuse, I believed. First he pleaded that he did not possess the necessary robes for such a function, but someone found robes and that excuse was not good enough; and oddly enough it was Bonner who lent his. It was very disturbing to have this conflict within the clergy, but I knew it was what I had to expect. If it meant displeasing the Church to please the people, then I knew what I had to do.
And so I came to the altar and there was anointed—an operation which I did not greatly enjoy as the oil was greasy and smelt vilely—but its significance was great and therefore to be endured.
But how pleased I was to be dressed in my golden mantle while the Bishop put the crown on my head and when I sat in the chair of state and my subjects came and knelt to me to swear allegiance, I was very happy.
Then to the ceremonial banquet in Westminster Hall where I sat in state while Sir Edward Dymoke rode into the hall and made the traditional challenge under the eyes of the eight hundred guests at the long tables and the assembled serving men. I was sure no one present would ever forget that occasion; as for myself it was the one I had dreamed of all through the dangerous years. Now here I sat in my velvet and ermine robes with my crown on my head while two of the greatest noblemen in the land, Lord William Howard and the Earl of Sussex, stood beside me and served me with food and wine. I ate sparingly. I was not a great eater and I had rarely felt less like food. I was in a state of great exultation; I was filled with emotion and determination in equal part. I was making my vows as earnestly as any nun ever did, but instead of dedicating my life to the service of the Church, I was giving mine to my country.
It was not until the early hours of the morning that the feasting was over and I could retire to my bed.
Kat was waiting for me.
“You are exhausted, my love,” she said. “Kat will put you to bed.”
“Kat,” I reminded her, “you will have to remember that I am your Queen.”
“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Tonight you are my tired little one.”
I was very glad to be divested of my robes, too tired to talk, even to Kat.
I lay in my bed and thought about this significant day, and my hopes were all for the future.
THERE WERE LONG TALKS with Cecil and constantly he impressed on me the need to marry.
He said: “The King of France has proclaimed Mary Stuart Queen of England and the Dauphin, King.”
“Let him proclaim,” I retorted. “Words will hurt no one. I have been anointed and crowned Queen. Do you think the people of England would accept Mary Stuart—half Scot, half French, the hated enemies of the country!”
“The people would have to accept what was forced on them. Let us make your position secure, and the best way you can achieve that is by marriage and the bearing of an heir.”
“I have no wish for marriage,” I said.
“It would be wise to take a husband and bear a child,” insisted Cecil.
I did not intend to argue with him further. I would wait until the suitors appeared, which would not be long I was sure. In the meantime I would concern myself with the religious controversy because I knew my people expected me to restore the Reformed Faith and put an end to religious persecution.
I had made up my mind. I would be Head of the Church as my father had been; and there was no need for me to pretend any longer to accept orders from Rome.
Accordingly I wrote to the Princes of Germany, Sweden and Denmark—those lands in which the Protestant Faith had flourished—and I told them that I would like to make bonds of friendship with them since my views coincided with theirs. At the same time I ordered Sir Edward Carne whom my sister had sent to Rome as Ambassador to Pope Paul IV to announce my accession and coronation to His Holiness, asking him also to inform the Pope that I had no intention of using violence against my subjects on account of their religion.
As might have been expected, the Pope was most displeased at this information, but I was not in the least perturbed. If I was to break with Rome my people would not expect me to take orders from him, and his enmity would certainly not harm me in their eyes.
Carne replied that His Holiness was against liberty of conscience and that he could not understand the hereditary rights of one not born in wedlock, and that the nearest relation of Henry VII was, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scotland and Dauphiness of France.
If, however, I chose to place the matter of the right of succession in his hands, he would consider it. I had no doubt that he would—or what his conclusions would be. Thank you very much, I thought. But I decline your generous offer!
What I did do was recall Carne, whereupon the Pope threatened the poor man with excommunication if he left Rome without Papal consent. Poor Carne was in a dilemma. He knew that I was breaking away from Rome and he was a stern Catholic—one of my sister's most trusted adherents. He chose to remain in Rome. I did not blame him. I had said that I did not intend to punish my subjects for worshipping as they pleased, and I meant it.
Even so the Pope was displeased—with me, of course—and he took his revenge on poor Carne and robbed him of his ambassadorial standing and made him governor of an English hospital in Rome.
I told Cecil that we should not insist on his release as at this stage it would be unwise to enter into further conflict with the Pope, and Cecil replied that I was already showing wisdom.
So I dismissed the matter. But I had made my course clear. I knew now the way I had to go.
Religion was only one problem. The overwhelming one in the minds of those about me was marriage. They were all determined that it should take place without delay. Marriage! The subject fascinated me and repelled me. It was not that I did not like men. Indeed I liked them very well. There were two sides to my nature. Oh, I know well that we all have many facets to our character, but to have two so diametrically opposed as those that warred in me made me perhaps unusual. I was shrewd; my wits were quick; I had amazed my teachers with my ability to profit from learning; I possessed those faculties which could make me an able ruler. That was one side. On the other, I was vain, inclined to coquetry; I desired admiration for my person; I craved compliments even though my wiser nature reminded me a thousand times that they were false; I longed for men to pine for love of me even though my wiser self reminded me that they feigned to do so because they were ambitious and lusted after those favors which only a queen could grant. From one side I deluded myself; from the other I saw all—including myself—with the utmost clarity.
Yes, there were two Elizabeths—the one clever and the other foolish; but the foolish one was not so foolish as not to see her folly; and the clever one was not clever enough to stop, or even want to stop, the frivolity of the other.
The foolish one was in love while the shrewd one looked on almost cynically, watching the other closely, knowing that she would never allow her to fall into the trap which could be set for her. The clever one said: “Remember Thomas Seymour.” And the foolish one replied: “It was one of the most exciting times of our life. Seymour was a wonderful man, but no one is quite like Robert Dudley.”
Both acknowledged that there never had been, nor ever could be, a man to compare with Robert Dudley. To ride with him—and his duties demanded that he be constantly at my side—to see the gleam of desire in his eyes when they fell on me, added the greatest pleasure to the thrilling days through which I was living. No matter how often my wise self pointed out that it was in great measure the glittering crown which set Robert's eyes sparkling, still I did not care, and even the cynical one sometimes said: “It might be both, the two of us and the crown.”
The circumstances delighted me. Robert Dudley, the only man whom I would have considered marrying, already had a wife. It was a situation which appealed to both sides of my nature. Perpetual courtship.
Philip of Spain was courting me and his Ambassador, the Count de Feria, was constantly calling on me. The last man I would marry would be Philip of Spain, but I saw no reason for telling de Feria so. I was quite enjoying raising my brother-in-law's hopes. It amused me and it was necessary to keep the King of France guessing. The last thing he would want would be yet another alliance between England and Spain. It was also the last thing I wanted, but I must be diplomatic. So I pretended to consider Philip's proposal.
De Feria was most attentive. What fools these men are! Did they think I would forget their treatment of me in the past?
On one occasion he told me that his master was pleased that I had accepted the allegiance of the Catholic peers in spite of my—forgive him but he must say it—misguided attitude in some matters.
I replied breezily that I was of the nature of a lion, and lions did not descend to the destruction of mice.
He smiled uneasily. I really did enjoy my encounters with de Feria. He was having rather a bad time, and I thought that sooner or later Philip would become exasperated with him. Then I heard that through de Feria Philip was offering bribes to some of the Catholic peers, suggesting that they work for him and try to reestablish the Church as it had been in Mary's reign. The first thing Lord William Howard did—for he was one who had been sounded as a possible recipient of Philip's bounty—was to come to me. I advised him to tell de Feria that I gave my consent to his accepting the money.
I could imagine de Feria's face when Lord William Howard told him that. I could not resist teasing the Spaniard further and when he next came into my presence I said: “I hope, Count, that His Most Catholic Majesty will not object if I employ some of his servants he has here among my courtiers.”
It was a clear indication that Philip's clumsy attempt to set spies about me was not going to succeed.
These conversations with de Feria always put me in the best of moods. The poor Spaniard had little humor. He was courtly, impeccable in dress and manners—all that one would expect of a Spanish Ambassador—but he was serious in the extreme, and he did not understand the frivolous side to my nature at all. If he glimpsed it, he would dismiss it as feminine vagary and most unsuitable in a sovereign. I found it most suitable and often it brought me an advantage as it did now, for instead of giving an outright no and breaking off negotiations, which would give great offense to Spain and delight France, I was reveling in my dalliance with Philip through his solemn Ambassador.
“Do you think a marriage between your master and me would be successful, Count?” I asked tentatively.
“I think it would be most felicitous to both Your Majesties and our two countries,” was the answer.
“When my father went through a form of marriage with his brother's widow that gave rise to much controversy. It was said that it was no true marriage.”
“That was because your father wished to repudiate Queen Katharine and marry your mother.”
“Of that I am aware, but you do not deny that the circumstances gave rise to conflict. My father's conscience worried him greatly on that store.”
“Your father had a most convenient conscience,” he said sharply.
Poor de Feria. He was beginning to lose his temper.
“Let us not speak ill of the dead, Count. And a great King at that.”
“I am sure Your Grace will want to face the truth. There need be no obstacle to a marriage. My master is assured the Pope will give a dispensation.”
“The Pope? Oh, he is no friend of mine.”
“That would soon be rectified, Your Majesty, if you were married to the King of Spain. My master would ask for the dispensation and you would have no need to fear the Pope once you were married to the King of Spain.”
“I am sure that the Pope and your master are indeed good friends, but as I have no fear of the Pope, I do not need your master's protection from him.”
He was exasperated but the foolish man did not believe that a woman could rule, and this was one of the attitudes which incensed me and made me determined to show these arrogant men how wrong they were. He went away crestfallen and I was sure anxious not to return to Spain to admit the failure of his mission.
IT WAS ONLY NATURAL that there should be other suitors. Nothing pleased me more. I pretended to consider each in turn. There was the Archduke Charles son of the Emperor Ferdinand, as well as Eric of Sweden.
When I sat with my Councilors, I said: “I do believe that the people would not wish me to take a foreign husband.”
That remark had an immediate effect which amused me very much. In the quiet of my bedchamber, Kat and I would have our little gossip—rather undignified in a queen, but the frivolous side of me enjoyed the indulgence. I always delighted in gossip. In fact, even my sterner side admitted that it was not an entirely wasted pastime. From it I did discover what the common people were thinking. Kat was my intermediary and as she prattled with high and low whenever she had the opportunity, my sources of opinion were very wide indeed.
I knew that the people were elated by my treatment of Philip of Spain. I do believe that had I agreed to marry him, I might have lost a large measure of my popularity. They had had a taste of Spanish intolerance and the subjugation of a queen. They wanted no more of that. Moreover, I do believe that had there been an attempt to force it on them, they would have rejected it strongly.
My remark about not taking a foreign husband had set their tongues wagging. The Earl of Arundel was the first to offer himself. I suppose he thought he had a chance. I did not disillusion him. It was a great pleasure to be asked to marry and I always felt a special fondness for the men who wanted me as a wife. It was ambition that prompted them, of course, but it was reasonable to presume they had some admiration for my person. I was twenty-five years of age and if I was not exactly handsome I did have some good points—my coloring, my lithe figure, my white skin and my beautiful hands. I was attractive without my crown but with it I was irresistible.
I favored Arundel for a while, and Robert was very jealous—an added pleasure.
Once he said: “I curse myself for having made that ridiculous marriage.”
“I have heard your Amy is a very pretty creature,” I said.
He was silent, bemoaning his fate, for he was sure that had he been unmarried, there would have been no hesitation and I would gladly have taken him. There was a modicum of truth in that. It was why the wise side of me rejoiced in Robert's Amy tucked away in the country.
Then there was Sir William Pickering—a very handsome courtier though by no means young. He must have been about forty, but he was well preserved in spite of a life in which gallantry had played a big part. He was rich because his father had been given grants of land by mine. He was extremely charming, and I pretended to consider him. The courtiers then began to make bets as to whether I would marry Arundel or Pickering for they were quite convinced that I would take one of them since I would not have a foreigner. So with all this speculation raising the hopes of first one and then the other, and with Robert glowering jealously on the scene, I found I was enjoying the matrimonial maneuverings.
The Count de Feria was angry and demanded an answer. I did not want to spoil the fun so I hesitated and gave him a little encouragement. People were saying that I would never have taken either Arundel or Pickering. It would have to be a foreign prince. Eric of Sweden was the favorite for a while.
Kat and I used to laugh about it. “I know my Queen. You'll have none of them. At least that's what you say.”
“Most emphatically I say it, but only within these four walls. Just for your ears, Kat. And remember, not a word outside. If you gossip about me, I'll have your head, that I will.”
“Now don't you be too handy with people's heads,” warned Kat. “You always said your sister made the mistake of killing off some of the best.”
“And you would call yourself one of the best?”
“Without a doubt.”
“As you always will be, Kat,” I said seriously.
She was pleased and went on to tell me the latest gossip, which was that the Duchess of Suffolk had married her equerry and everyone was extremely shocked by the misalliance.
“Let her enjoy her equerry,” I said. “Her marriage is not a matter of state.”
“The silk woman was wanting to see you rather specially this afternoon.”
“Oh, what matter of moment has Mistress Montague to lay before me? I will say this for her, she is the best silk woman we have ever had. What say you, Kat?”
“I am in agreement with Your Majesty, and these stockings she has brought look very fine.”
“Stockings! Where are they? Why was I not shown them before?”
“Being so occupied with matters of state …” began Kat.
“Bring them to me at once, insolent creature.”
She did. They had been knitted in silk. The first I had ever seen.
“Try them, Your Majesty,” whispered Kat.
So, of course, I did. They clung to the legs and made them look so much more slender than the cloth ones.
“Tell Mistress Montague that I am delighted with her work.”
“I have anticipated Your Majesty's commands and I have set her knitting others.”
“Good Kat,” I said.
“I knew I was safe,” added Kat, “for if Your Majesty was misguided enough as to disapprove of the stockings, there would be others to take them with the utmost speed.”
Kat returned to the discussion of my marriage and told me what they were saying in the streets. “They are glad you have sent the Spaniards packing and would like an English marriage. Nothing would please them more than to see you married to one of our own. I have heard it said that it is a great pity Lord Robert already has a wife.”
I smiled enigmatically. So they thought Robert would be suitable…if he had not a wife. That was interesting. Lord Robert, yes. He was the only one. But he had a wife—and as I have said I was not altogether displeased about that!
Cecil was very disturbed. Philip of Spain had become affianced to the sister of the King of France.
“Now,” said Cecil, “we have the King of France and the King of Spain united by this marriage; and the King of France has already declared his daughter-in-law, Mary of Scotland, the true heir to the English throne. Our two most powerful enemies will now be allies.”
“But I was right not to enter into a marriage with Spain. It turned the people against my sister.”
Cecil agreed that this was so.
“And the marriage between France and Spain is the outcome of my refusal.”
“True,” agreed Cecil. “We are facing formidable enemies and the best thing for you to do is to marry with as much speed as possible. If you had a child, your position would be more secure.”
“My dear Cecil,” I said, “I have a band of great ministers in whom I trust. I have my people who love me. My subjects will be loyal to me, and if God will be my guide and help me, I have no fear of any enemies who should come against me.”
“Your Grace has shown wisdom rare in one so young. The people are with you as they were with your father, and in a manner which both your sister and your brother failed to win from them. I know that you will have the wisdom and the courage to succeed, but still I tell you it would be well to marry and give the country an heir.”
“My dear Cecil, you know I am giving the matter my consideration.”
“I pray Your Grace will continue to do so and come to a quick decision.”
“Marriage is a matter to which much thought should be given before embarking on it. It can be disastrous. I have been hearing of the misalliance of our own Duchess of Suffolk. I am amused that such a proud lady should marry her horsekeeper.”
“Ladies in love often do not consider consequences. Indeed, Madam, what you say is true. The Duchess has entered into matrimony with her horsekeeper. She might say that Your Majesty wishes she could do the same.”
I looked at him while the color rushed into my face.
I could think of no reply. So my feelings for Robert were as obvious as all that!
Cecil continued to regard me quizzically. I wanted to chide him for listening to gossip and for not showing due respect for his Queen.
But my wise self reminded the other that I wanted honesty from Cecil– and in any case whether I wanted it or not, I would get it, and if I objected, he would leave my service. He was that sort of man.
So I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.
