Текст книги "Queen of This Realm"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
Соавторы: Jean Plaidy
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I had always rejoiced that he lived like a king even though I had denied him the satisfaction of being one.
Some of those houses had been passed on to Lettice Knollys. Well, she should pay his debts. I let it be known that I insisted that Lord Leicester's debts should be paid in full and the burden of those debts rested on the shoulders of that careful, loving and obedient wife.
She immediately declared that she had not the means to pay her late husband's debts to which I replied that she had valuable articles in those grand houses which were now hers and they could be sold… all those art treasures, all those fine carpets and hangings and four-poster beds. Their sale would meet the cost of Leicester's indebtedness.
How she must have raged! I imagined her at Wanstead among her newly acquired possessions. She had thought herself so clever to have married rich Leicester. Well, now she should discover that he owed his greatness to me, and if I said she should give up the articles she valued to pay what her husband owed, then she would do so.
I had scored a victory over the she-wolf, which brought me some satisfaction, though it did not ease the ache in my heart.
IF ONLY HE HAD been beside me how I would have reveled in those celebrations which were taking place all over the country in honor of the great victory over the Spanish armada.
The most important of them all was the thanksgiving at St Paul's when I rode in state through the city of London attended by members of my Privy Council, the bishops, judges and nobles of the land. I sat in a triumphal chariot shaped like a throne with a canopy over it in the form of a crown. Two white horses drew this and next to me rode my newly appointed Master of Horse, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.
It gave me some comfort to look at him. He was not Robert, of course, but there was an indefinable charm about him, and I had a special fondness for him. He lacked Robert's suave manners; very few of my men were as outspoken as Essex; he was the sort of man who would make no concessions in his conversation … even to his Queen. But he admired me. I knew that because I read it in his eyes, in his gestures; and being the young man he was his feelings must be sincere. With most of the others I should have known they were looking for advancement, but with Essex, he must admire me for he would not pretend to do so if he did not. In a way Essex was in love with me. It may seem absurd for a young man of his age to feel love for an old woman, but it was a special sort of love. It was not a physical emotion. That would have been abhorrent to me… but a kind of adoration. It might have been for my royalty or my strength of character; but there were times when he appeared to be dazzled by my person. I was always bejeweled with emeralds, rubies and diamonds and my gowns were decorated with scintillating aglets; my ruffs often sparkled with tiny diamonds; so I was a figure of splendid royalty. But Essex had a special kind of devotion to give me which was different from that I received elsewhere. All my beautiful men—Raleigh, Hatton, Heneage, Oxford, behaved as though they were in love with me. Some were—Hatton, I think. He had remained a bachelor all his life; not that he—unlike Robert—had hoped for marriage, but simply out of love for me. That was touching. Dear Hatton! Burghley, Walsingham… well, to them I was their beloved Queen and they served me devotedly. But with Essex it was different. There was an element of romance in his feelings for me—and that did more to soothe my pain at the loss of Robert than anything else could, and I must be grateful to him for that.
So it pleased me to see him riding beside me, looking extremely distinguished and handsome with that thick auburn hair and those big expressive dark eyes—that look of Lettice which irritated me a little. I was not sorry that the man I had taken such a fancy to was her son.
We passed through the gates of Temple Bar where I was received by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, and after the ceremony of the keys the scepter was placed in my hands.
From the Temple to St Paul's the streets were hung with rich cloth and the people crowded out to cheer me. I entered the church under my canopy while the clergy sang the litany; and afterward I listened to the sermon which was given by the Bishop of Salisbury.
His text was: “Thou didst blow with the winds and they were scattered.”
It was more than that, I thought. My gallant seamen did a great deal toward gaining that victory; and the winds which finally scattered the armada—after it was beaten—were responsible for our losing the prizes; the booty from those ships would have covered the cost of the enterprise.
After the service I returned through those decorated streets to the palace of the Bishop of London. The cheers thundered out and I knew that whatever tragedy had come to me, I still held the hearts of my people.
It was a time for rejoicing, and would have been the happiest time of my life if Robert had been beside me.
I was trying to stop thinking of him and I told myself that this victory was my great compensation. We had dispersed the menace of years. The Spaniards had been too crippled, too ignobly defeated, to come again to us. My people revered me. They loved me. There could not have been a reigning monarch who was more beloved by the people.
I had another example of this a few days later when I was returning from the Council. It was December and dark and I came back to my palace lighted by torches.
A rumor had gone around telling the people that if they waited they would catch a glimpse of me. Thus, when I returned I found a crowd gathered at the gates.
A cheer went up as the people saw me and many of them cried: “God save Your Majesty.”
I stopped my coach and called to them: “God bless you all, my good people.”
Then the cry went up again from all assembled there. It was deafening. “God save Your Majesty.”
I was deeply moved. I held up my hand and there was an immediate silence.
“Dear people,” I said, “ye may have a greater prince, but ye shall never have a more loving one.”
They were all about me. I smiled and waved my hand and they saw that I was as affected as they were. Some were in tears and I knew that they would have died for me.
My spirits were uplifted. My life had lost that which had made it joyous, but I had to go on. It was a fortunate ruler who after thirty years of rule could arouse such emotions.
I was amused that the Spaniards should attempt to tell their people that they had had a great victory. Philip must indeed be governing a country of fools. Did not the Spaniards know that they had lost their armada which they had been told was invincible?
A pamphlet which was being circulated throughout Europe came into my hands. It made us laugh. It was so ridiculous. It was supposed to have been written by an eyewitness of the great battle and was called Relations and Advise come to His Majestie from the Happie Fleete whereoff is Generall the Duke of Medina in the Conquest of England.
It explained how the English had been hopelessly defeated, fled or been captured, and the Duke of Medina Sidonia had El Draque as his prisoner.
We ceased to laugh because we feared that some people who were away might believe these lies.
Drake was furious; so was Raleigh; and one of them produced a counterattack in the shape of a pamphlet entitled A Packe of Spanish Lyes, sent abroad to the world Now Ripped Up, Unfolded and by Just Examination, condemned as conteyning false, corrupt and detestable wares worthy to be damned and burned.
How I despised them! They had been overboastful before the conflict. Surely it was tempting fate to call an armada invincible? They had come with their instruments of torture to set up their vile Inquisition in our land with their organization of pious persecution. They had been soundly beaten; and now they sought to cover up their ignoble defeat by telling blatant lies which they hoped the world would believe.
Where was the armada? Where were those braggarts who had set out to conquer England? Many were at the bottom of the ocean, some faring not too comfortably I imagined along the inhospitable coasts.
It is a pitiable nation which is boastful in planning and despicable in defeat.
I ordered that this great victory should not be forgotten. I had two medals struck. One showed the Spanish armada in flight and it was inscribed Venit, Vidit, Fugit. Julius Caesar had said that he came and saw and conquered, so my medal said they came and saw and fled.
The other medal was inscribed Dux Foemina Facti. Well, there were many men who doubted the ability of a woman to rule. In France they had their foolish Salic law which prevented a woman's mounting the throne. It was a mercy there was no such law in England. I wanted the whole world to know that a woman was able to rule as well as a man—in some cases with greater skill.
I did not mean to imply that I alone had driven off the Spaniards. I knew our success had been due to our brilliant seamen and the planning of my ministers. But I had been at the head of affairs. I was the figurehead. I was the Queen for whom men fought; and I knew full well that a share of the triumph was mine.
So the celebrations continued and all the time there was a dark shadow over my life. He was gone. I should never see my sweet Robin again.
LOOKING BACK, I WONDER WHY I LOVED ESSEX SO MUCH. IT must have been because I was looking for a substitute for Robert. It was a hopeless quest, because there could never be one to take his place, and in any case I was not the same young woman as that one of twenty-five who had fallen so deeply in love that I had almost been ready to share my throne with him.
Essex was handsome; his name was Robert; he was different from the other young men of my Court. His manner, which could be sullen, singled him out. Although why I should have been attracted by that, I cannot imagine. Perhaps somewhere in my mind was the niggling thought that he was her son and in winning him to my side I was taking him away from her.
Whatever it was I was more drawn to him than to any other—even dashing and often impudent Raleigh, who ran him rather close.
Essex never made concessions. I remembered him as a boy, not long after our first meeting at Chartley when he had been brought to Court and I offered to kiss him, for he had very handsome looks even then; he had quietly rejected the offer, which I had found amusing then, but which seemed to me now an indication of what was to come. I remember, too, that he wore his hat in my presence and it had to be snatched off his head for he would not remove it.
So perhaps I should have been prepared.
He was openly defiant. He presumed on my favors and there were many incidents when I almost felt I would send the young man from Court to teach him a lesson. If Robert had been there I should have done so. I should have had no need of him then; but talking with him, accepting his indifference to my crown, in some way helped me to forget that other Robert—and I needed to forget all the time.
Essex wanted his own way, but he was impulsive and there was nothing calculating about him; that was where he was so different from my other men. There had never been anyone quite like him. I knew it was unwise to indulge him too much, but whenever I saw that slightly stooping figure coming toward me, and when I looked up into the blazing admiration– which must be genuine for he would never pretend—my heart warmed toward him and I felt happier than I had believed I could possibly feel without Leicester.
A typical example of his behavior was when we were paying a visit to Warwick's place at North Hall. Essex's sister, Penelope Rich, was staying there, and I did not care to receive her. For one thing she was Lettice's daughter, and if that were not enough to damn her in my eyes, she was conducting an adulterous intrigue with Charles Blount, who had become Lord Mountjoy on the death of his elder brother. Mountjoy was one of my favorite young men, being accomplished and handsome, and I deeply resented his indulging in this affair with Penelope Rich. If they had kept it secret, it would have been a different matter, but Penelope had openly left her husband and set up house with Mountjoy.
“Her mother's daughter” was my wry comment, when I heard of it.
And so I came to North Hall with my courtiers. We were met by Essex himself, who had come out to welcome us.
I soon learned the reason for his coming. He wanted to warn me that his sister was at North Hall and to beg me to receive her.
I should have welcomed him more warmly if I had thought he had come to greet me rather than to plead for his sister, so I coldly said that I would not receive his sister and that it would be better for her to remain in her apartments during my visit.
The color flamed into his face. He demanded to know why I received Mountjoy and banished his sister.
I replied that I had no intention of bandying words with him and turned away; but he remained beside me. I was unfair to his family, he said. I would not receive his mother at Court yet she had done nothing…officially… to displease me.
I could not say: She married Robert and she was not even faithful to him. So I signed to one of the others to take Essex's place beside me and he had no help for it but to fall back. He was really angry when, arriving at the house, I gave orders that Penelope Rich should stay in her apartments as long as I was at North Hall, as I had no wish to see her.
He was a hot-headed fool. He could never realize when it was wise to stop. Indeed that was his downfall. At supper he again tried to talk to me. Why should I not receive his sister? Was it not unfair to blame her? Had I not received Mountjoy? Surely I could not be prejudiced against my own sex?
“Your Majesty, I beg you to receive my sister…to please me.”
I knew that many present were waiting on my words. They were beginning to say: She is as fond of Essex as she was of Leicester. But Robert would never have been so foolish as to pursue a matter such as this when I had clearly made my feelings known!
I said: “You are mistaken, my lord Essex, if you think you can persuade me to do something which I have determined not to. I shall not have it said that I received your sister to please you.”
“No,” he cried hotly. “You will not receive her because you wish to please that knave Raleigh.” He was shouting. “You will always pleasure that pirate. You would disgrace both me and my sister because that country churl asks it.”
“Be quiet, you young fool,” I said. “I order you to say no more on this subject.”
But he would not be quiet. He began to shout abuse of Raleigh, for the two of them were more jealous of each other than any two men I have ever known—and I had seen some jealousies at Court! I was alarmed for him– angry as he made me—for Raleigh was actually a member of this party. Quite clearly he was out of earshot at this moment, but I could picture those two fighting each other to the death of one of them.
I lost my temper too—which I did even more easily than I had in my youth. I said: “How dare you shout at me! How dare you criticize others in this way! Be silent! Or you will find there is no place for you at my Court. As for your sister, she is another such as your mother. It seems to me you are birds of a feather, and I should make sure that none of your breed enter my Court. I should send you away.”
“Then do so,” he cried. “I have no wish to serve a mistress who allows adventurers to fawn upon her. Raleigh wants me gone. Very well. I leave you to your favorites. I shall go away from here and take my sister with me.”
No one had ever seen such a display of insolence before. If anyone else had attempted it, I should have ordered an immediate arrest.
But he looked so young, with the anger in his eyes, so I merely said: “I am weary of this foolish boy,” and turned away.
He strode out of the hall.
The next morning I learned that he had left North Hall. He had sent his sister home with an escort and made his way to Sandwich, intending to embark for the Low Countries.
I immediately sent a party of guards to bring him back.
He was already on a ship which was about to sail so I caught him in time. When told that my orders were that he should return at once, he defiantly refused to do so; but the guards informed him that if he did not accompany them willingly, they would take him by force.
So he returned and in due course I sent for him.
He came to me—quite unabashed.
“You are a foolish boy,” I said. “Never do that again or I shall send you to the Tower. I have been lenient with you and your tantrums, but you should take care that you do not try me too far.”
He was sulky, but after a few days I forgave him, and he was back in favor again—as much as he had ever been.
He was one of those young men who created storms wherever he went. Sometime earlier he had quarreled bitterly with Mountjoy—who had been Charles Blount at that time. I had taken a fancy to Blount as soon as he appeared. Handsome, and with a great deal of charm, he was also clever, so he had all the qualifications needed to bring him into the group which I kept around me. I showed my pleasure in his company by presenting him with a golden chessman which he attached to the sleeve of his coat, so that the sign of my favor might be prominently displayed.
Essex had regarded himself as my very favorite young man at that time and he had been furiously jealous of the attention I bestowed on Blount, and being Essex he made no attempt to disguise his feelings.
In the hearing of several courtiers he commented: “Now, I perceive, every fool must wear a favor.” This remark was reported to Blount without delay and that young man lost no time in challenging Essex to a duel.
I knew nothing of this or I should have stopped it, but it went ahead with the result that Blount disarmed Essex and wounded him—though only slightly.
I was furious. Although I liked to see my young men jealous, I was horrified at the prospect of some harm coming to them—so I reprimanded them both and sent them from the Court for a while.
“By God's death,” I said, “it is fitting that someone should take Essex down and teach him better manners.” The fact was that I was so relieved that no great harm had come to either; and with typical perversity, Essex expressed an admiration for Blount and from then on they became good friends. It was through this incident that Blount came to know Essex's family better, and in due course set up house with Penelope.
After the death of Robert I had found myself looking anxiously at my dear ministers and wondering morbidly who would be the next to leave me. I sometimes wondered whether I should ever find any to replace them. No one could take Robert's place, of course, but that was different. Robert was unique. But Burghley, Walsingham, Heneage, Hatton … men like that, who had served me well, were exceptional men. Each had his very special qualities and none appreciated more than I their rarity.
I was really worried about Walsingham. He must be sixty or near it and he had never been robust; he had worked every hour of the day and had never spared himself. The spy system he had created was the finest in Europe. We might never have beaten the Spanish armada if we had not been kept so well informed of its movements and of what was going on in the secret conclaves of diplomatic Spain. He had had his men in every conceivable place and they had been of inestimable value to us.
And now poor Walsingham was failing. All through the year he had been unwell, although he had continued to keep in close touch with his spies in every country in Europe.
So it was a very great blow to me when he died that April at his home in Seething Lane.
Another dear friend and able minister gone! This was the tragedy of growing old when one's friends went one by one like leaves falling from trees at the approach of winter.
One was left wondering: Who next?
He left a note in his will that he was to be buried without cost or ceremony because he was deeply in debt and had little to leave. He had spent his fortune lavishly on his spy organization, for he had wished to extend it beyond what the state was prepared to give. And thus he had little to leave to his own family.
They buried him late at night in Paul's church and, as he had wished, without ceremony.
I shut myself away to mourn. I wished that I had done more for him when he was alive. I should have questioned him about his financial position. It seemed churlish to have allowed him to spend his fortune on the welfare of the state. But that was how he would have it. There could never be a greater patriot.
I would keep an eye on his daughter Frances.
She was a good quiet girl and I was fond of her for her own sake as well as her father's. I had thought her an excellent wife for Philip Sidney, for she was a beautiful, gentle girl, and I was pleased that he should marry her and put that odious Penelope Rich out of his mind.
Frances Walsingham had a daughter by Sidney—she must have been about seven years old at this time—a pleasant child to whom I had acted as godmother. And when Philip had been wounded in battle, Frances, again pregnant, had gone out to nurse him. Unfortunately he had died and she, poor soul, had lost the child she was carrying and come near to death herself.
Since then she had lived quietly with her mother and I thought I should bring her to Court and perhaps find a husband for her. I owed that to Walsingham since his widow and daughter had very little money.
Not long after Frances had come to Court I noticed something about her which aroused my interest. At first I could not believe it. She was such a virtuous girl, and nothing had been said of any suitor for her hand. I should have been the first to know if any had honorable intentions toward her. Surely Frances was not the sort to indulge in immoral relations outside marriage. It was unthinkable. What would my poor Moor have had to say to that!
I decided I would watch her. It might be that she suffered from some minor ailment. Poor girl, she had gone through a good deal after the birth of that stillborn baby, and had been very ill. Perhaps it was the result of all the tragedy that I was seeing now.
But there came a time when I believed my suspicions to be correct.
I called her to me and said: “Frances, does anything ail you?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she answered promptly.
I said: “Come here.”
She came wonderingly and I prodded her in the stomach.
“I have for some time wondered,” I said, “if you were carrying something which a virtuous widow would not be expected to.”
Frances was so taken aback that she flushed scarlet.
“So,” I cried, “I was right. You had better explain yourself, my lady.”
Frances held her head high and looked defiant.
I slapped her face. I was so angry with her. I had misjudged her. I had thought her a good, quiet, virtuous widow and when any of those about me indulged in furtive love affairs I always felt enraged. Perhaps it was because of my own virgin state. I was not sure. I certainly did not wish it to be otherwise… and yet there was this anger at the indulgence of others.
I said impatiently: “Come, come. Who is the man?”
Frances astonished me then, for she held her head even higher and said: “My husband.”
“Your husband!” Another of those secret marriages which I deplored! How dared they go behind my back and marry without my consent? If they wished to marry was I not the first to be told?
“Why was my permission not asked for this marriage?” I demanded.
Frances held her head still higher, her beautiful face showing a rare defiance as she replied: “I could not think that I was of sufficient importance to warrant informing Your Majesty.”
“Not of sufficient importance! Did I not love your father! Did he not enjoy my highest regard? Have I not always looked to you for his sake? Not of sufficient importance indeed!”
I slapped her again. She took a few paces back and as I saw the red mark on her cheek where I had struck her, my anger increased.
I took her by the arm and shook her.
“Your father married you in secret to Philip Sidney. I berated him strongly for such an act and he made like excuse. Not important enough to warrant my attention! Did you know that I scolded him and told him he showed scant gratitude to me to tell me I thought him of no importance. Have I not looked to you since he died? I would have found a suitable marriage for you. Tell me now who is this man who has got you with child? I will not have this philandering at my Court.”
She would not answer and I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I cried: “I grow impatient. His name! Come girl, do you want me to force you to talk?”
She fell to her knees and buried her face in my skirts. I was becoming quite sorry for her. She was really distressed, and the girl had had such a bad time with Sidney writing all those love poems to Penelope Rich while he was married to her, and then dying at Zutphen after her going out to nurse him and losing the child she was carrying. Yes, I was sorry for her. Perhaps she had been lonely. Well, I would make this knave marry her—if he were not already married—and the marriage should take place before the child was born.
“Are you going to tell me, Frances?” I said more gently.
She raised her agonized eyes to my face and nodded.
“Well?” I prompted.
She began to talk incoherently. “We met in the Netherlands…He was with the army…He was there with Philip…We have known each other well…We loved…We… married…”
“Who?” I demanded.
There was a pause of a second or two; then she said in a voice I could scarcely hear: “My lord Essex.”
“Essex!” I thundered.
She rose to her feet and took a few paces away from me, and without asking permission she turned and ran as fast as she could from my presence.
Essex! I thought. My Essex! And he had philandered with this girl, Walsingham's daughter! No, he had married her. He had dared to do that without telling me … without asking my permission. Oh, the traitor! The deceiver! All the time he had been showing me how much he adored me, he had been making love with this girl… even marrying her!
I shouted: “Send for Essex.”
He came sauntering in with that nonchalance which delighted me while it angered me.
He would have taken my hand and kissed it but I stood glowering at him.
“So, Master Husband,” I said, “you are here.”
Understanding dawned on him and what infuriated me was that he did not care. He knew that I had learned of his marriage and he was shrugging his shoulders. How different it had been with Leicester when I heard that he had married Lettice Knollys. He had made an excuse. I had refused him so many times, and he had been contrite and eager to make me understand that whoever came into his life, I was the first and always would be. With Essex there had been no suggestion of marriage with me. On the other hand he was my favorite young man and I had made it clear that I wanted to be aware of all the proposed marriages of my important courtiers.
He said rather carelessly: “So the news is out?”
“Your pregnant wife has told me.”
“Well it could not remain a secret forever, could it?”
“And why must it be a secret?” I asked.
“Because I feared Your Majesty's disapproval.”
“You were right to fear that.”
“I thought you were fond of Frances. You are a godmother to Sidney's child. Her father was one of your most able statesmen and you always showed great appreciation of his services.”
“To marry… without my consent…you!”
He replied coolly: “I adore Your Majesty. You are a divine being, apart from all others. I have loved you from my boyhood when I first saw you at Chartley. My great joy in life is to serve you…”
“And take steps behind my back?”
“I am a man who must live his own life and marry where he will.”
“If there is one thing I hate most in my subjects it is deceit.”
“No deceit was intended. Frances's father approved of the match.”
“I've no doubt he did. He wanted his daughter well provided for.”
“It seemed to us that his consent was enough.”
“You are insolent,” I cried. “You have enjoyed great favor at Court. I gave you that. I brought you to the position you now enjoy. You must not forget that I can cast you down as quickly as I brought you up.”
“That is true,” he said lightly, “and I must accept Your Majesty's decision as to my future.”
“Why do this in secret?”
“I know Your Majesty's uncertain temper and I had naturally no desire to arouse it.”
“You insolent dog!” I cried.
“That is not insolence, Your Majesty,” he replied with a slight smile, “just honest frankness for which you have so often commended me. If I had come to you and asked permission, you would have refused it. Then I should have had to disobey you. Now I have merely displeased you.”
I was so hurt, and angry with myself, for caring so much about this brash young man.
I said: “It is not the secrecy only which I find insupportable. I had plans for a grand marriage for you. I had been considering that… and now you go and tie yourself up with this girl…”
“Walsingham's daughter.”
“Penniless!”
“I do not set great store by riches.”
“Nor on royal favor either, it would seem. I believe you will be wanting to spend time with your wife… particularly in view of her condition. So, we shall not be seeing you at Court for some time, I gather.”
It was dismissal. Banishment.
He bowed low and with great dignity retreated.
I WAS IN A mood of dejection for days. Essex's absence from Court reminded me of the old days when Leicester had not been there. What was it about them? Was it a certain magic in their personalities which made life seem flat without them?
Raleigh was much in evidence, and he was a charming young man, very interesting to talk to, as well as gallant in manner, behaving toward me as though he were a lover. That was soothing and helped to shut out from my mind the thought of Essex and Frances together. Perhaps I should cultivate Raleigh, let the beautiful young men squeeze Essex out. He had gone too far—not only by making this marriage but in his entire attitude toward me.
