Queen Of This Realm

Vivat Regina

ALTHOUGH THIS WAS A TIME OF GREAT TRIUMPH FOR ME, I must not forget that it had come about through my sister's death and I thought it would be proper to show a little sorrow for her. I did not have to feign this entirely. I had often thought of Mary and the tragic failure of her life. I had looked on it as an outstanding example of how not to act. The people did not mourn her. How could they when they could smell the smoke from Smithfield? But that was in the past. This was the time for rejoicing. Young Elizabeth had taken the place of aging Mary, and the ties with Spain, that hated enemy, were broken. They looked forward to golden days and they must not be disappointed.

I had decided that I should remain a few days at Hatfield House out of respect for my sister. It was two days after her death before I was formally proclaimed Queen at the gates.

The next day I held my first Privy Council. Hatfield House had become a Court. People were gathering there all hoping for some place in my service. But I already knew whom I should employ. The trials through which I had passed had given me a good idea of whom I could trust and who had the ability to serve me as would be necessary. Therefore I was delighted to welcome William Cecil to Hatfield for I had never forgotten his help and was well aware of his astuteness. I had made up my mind that when I formed a government, he should be part of it.

At that first Council meeting I got some inkling of the state of the country, and it was decidedly depressing. We were sadly weakened; our exchequer pitiably lacking; food was dear; we were at war with France and Scotland, and the French had recaptured Calais so that we no longer had a foothold in France. But there was one thing I had always known and that was that wars brought no good to either side. Perhaps because I was a woman I had no desire to indulge in them. I had no glorious dreams of riding into battle; my victories should be those of diplomacy. I remember William Cecil's once saying that a country gains more in a year of peace than by ten years of war. I agreed with that sentiment, and I made up my mind that my country should not go to war unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.

The more I thought of it the more I knew that Cecil was the man for the most influential post in the government, and at the first meeting of the Council I announced that I had chosen him for my chief Secretary of State. I did keep certain members of Mary's Council in office. The Earl of Arundel and Lord William Howard were two of them, and another was William Paulet, Marquess of Winchester, whom I made Lord Treasurer. Nicholas Bacon was Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, and Sir Francis Knollys, who was a second cousin by marriage, became Vice Chamberlain. He was a firm Protestant and had found it necessary to leave the country during Mary's reign, but I knew he was a good honest man, and I liked to favor my mother's relations, provided they had the ability.

I was satisfied that I had built up a strong government, and it suddenly occurred to me that none of the members I had chosen was young. Cecil, oddly enough, was the youngest, and he was thirty-eight. I was glad of this for I was a great believer in experience—a valuable asset which few people have the wit to appreciate. But being aware for so long that sooner or later I could become Queen, I had many times planned which men I would choose to serve me. It was exhilarating to be in the position to make those plans reality.

We were no longer going to be ruled by priests. I had a company of able and trustworthy men and I intended to turn my country from debt and bankruptcy into a great state when every man and woman in it should be proud to be English.

I had to give Kat a post to keep her close to me so I made her my first Lady of the Bedchamber and her delight in her new dignity greatly amused me.

“It will make no difference to me, queen or not,” she told me. “You'll still be my Elizabeth and I shall say what I please.”

“You will have to be careful, Kat,” I warned her. “Only fools anger princes.”

“Well, you have always said I was a fool, mistress.”

I boxed her ears playfully. I made her husband Keeper of the Jewels and my dear Parry was Treasurer of the Household. I was not one to forget my old friends.

Even aged Blanche Parry, whose learning I had always valued and who had taught me to speak the Welsh language, was not forgotten. Indeed why should she be? She was very clever and erudite and quite worthy to hold the post of Keeper of the Royal Books at Windsor Castle, an honor which delighted her.

There was another side to my glorious position and that was one—such was my nature—which I awaited with eager anticipation: my ride through my capital city, my acclamation by the people, and my coronation which must take place as soon as possible for there is a belief among the people that a monarch is not a true one until she—or he—has been crowned.

An added delight to these preparations was that they would be supervised by my Master of Horse, and that gave me an excuse to have many consultations with the man in whose company I took such delight.

Robert Dudley was for me the ideal companion. He showed me in a hundred ways that he adored me… and not just as a queen. He had graceful manners so that while he was bold he always remembered who I was. For me it was the perfect relationship. I had always been susceptible to admiration; I greatly enjoyed compliments even when the wiser side of my nature told me they were not true; and in spite of the fact that the thought of marriage was repulsive to me, courtship I found exhilarating. And this was the relationship which was springing up between Robert Dudley and me. He admired me; his looks, his gestures, his words, implied that he was in love with me. He was particularly eligible because he was already married and for that reason I could dally with him to my heart's content.

A week after Mary's death I came to London. What a glorious day it was when I rode through my capital city, and how the people rejoiced! I was deeply moved by their trust in me. They looked to me to bring happiness and prosperity back to the country and I vowed I would do so. This was the end of the Smithfield fires. This was the beginning of the great era which I vowed would be known forever as Elizabethan. I swore to myself that I would never betray them. I loved these people with their honest faces and their shining belief in me. I would show them my love for them. I felt as Joan of Arc must have felt riding into Orleans. She had been sure she had God's blessing—and so was I.

How they cheered me! They came to me with nosegays—some very humble. I took them all and kissed them and that made them cheer more wildly. I gave them to one of my women to hold for me while I tenderly thanked the givers. My people must never think me too proud to speak to them whenever they wished to speak to me. I knew that the approval of these people was necessary to keep me in my place, and that was something I should never forget.

And riding beside me was that incomparable man. How he sat his horse! There was no man in England who could manage a horse as he could. He was rightly Master of Horse. Moreover his office meant that he was often beside me, which was what I wanted as much as he did.

As we came into Highgate we were met by a procession of Bishops; they dismounted and knelt in the road to kiss my hand and offer me allegiance. Bishop Bonner was among them—but when he would have taken my hand and kissed it, I turned away and stared over his head. The watchers noticed and a cheer went up, for he was one of the most hated men in the country, who had been responsible for sending many Protestants to the stake. I wanted the people to know that I spurned the friendship of such a man.

I knew that I looked splendid as I rode through the City. I was wearing a riding dress of rich purple velvet which was very becoming and I, being especially upright, looked well on a horse. Robert Dudley rode beside me and every now and then our eyes would meet and I was sure mine reflected the exultation in his.

London Wall had been hung with tapestry. The guns of the Tower boomed out and the real ceremonies began. Schoolchildren stopped our progress to recite verses praising me; choirs of children sang in similar vein. I stopped and spoke to them thanking them for their welcome. I wanted to impress on these people that although I was their Queen I was also their friend, and I did not hold myself so high that any should feel they could not approach me. I knew by the cheers and the murmurs of approval that I was taking the right course. It was one I intended to cling to as long as I was Queen.

It was a dramatic moment when I entered the Tower. We paused and there was a deep silence all about us. Many must be thinking, as I was, of that dismal Palm Sunday when I had been brought to this place through the Traitor's Gate. Then I came in great dejection; now I came in triumph.

I lifted my hand and my voice rang out over that silence. “Some,” I said, “have fallen from being princes of this land to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being prisoner in this place to be prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God's justice; this advancement is a work of His mercy; as they were to yield patience for the one, so must I bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful, for the other.”

After I had spoken there was a silence of a few seconds and then the cheers rang out.

Deeply moved I went into the Tower.

I asked to be taken to the Bell Tower and to that room which I had once occupied when I was a prisoner in this place.

Robert was beside me as I stood in that room and the past came back to me, and I felt again that despair, when I had listened with apprehension to the sound of a key in the lock and wondered if I was to be led out to the axe.

I was so overcome that I sank to my knees and once more thanked God for His deliverance.

“I was as Daniel in the lions' den,” I cried. “And the Lord delivered me.” Robert knelt with me, and when he helped me to my feet he took my hand and kissed it.

“Come,” I said, “I would walk on the lead as I used to.”

He came with me. In places we had to walk in single file from the Bell to the door into the Beauchamp Tower.

“There were you, Lord Robert,” I cried, “and I used to think of you when I walked along this narrow path and wonder what you were doing in your prison.”

“I thought of you,” he answered. “God knows, I thought of little else.”

I believed him… because I wanted to.

We made our way back and stood for a few moments in my old prison in the Bell Tower and we looked steadily at each other.

“Everything that has happened has led to this,” said Robert.

His eyes were wild with dreams and I thought: If he were a free man I might be tempted to marry him.

But he was not a free man and if he had been at the time of his brother Guildford's marriage, he would not be here now. He was older than Guildford. He would have been the one to marry Jane Grey. But fortune had smiled on him. He had to be thankful for his marriage, and in my more thoughtful moments, so was I.

During the seven days I resided at the Tower, there were many meetings of the Council. I had already shown my disapproval of the religious persecutions in my sister's reign by refusing my hand to Bonner. I longed to reassure my people. What I wanted was to be proclaimed Head of the Church as my father had been and thus diminish the power of the Church of Rome. But I saw at once that I must tread warily in this matter. There could not be a complete turnabout—particularly as when I had been in fear of my life I had outwardly followed the rules of the Catholic Church.

But this brought home to me the need for a quick coronation, because only when I had been appointed and acclaimed Queen could I feel I had a firm grip on the crown.

The day must be right. There must be no evil omens.

I had naturally talked over the matter with Kat and she said we should consult Dr Dee.

Dr John Dee was a mathematician and astrologer whose powers of seeing into the future were highly respected. Kat had often talked of him and she had been in correspondence with him when we had been at Woodstock. He was a Protestant and I believed one of my supporters, which meant, Kat pointed out, that I was going to have a long and prosperous reign for Dr Dee, who could see into the future, would not have been so eager to support me if this were not the case.

I told Kat she was too gullible but I did feel that luck played a great part in survival. At least it had in mine, and I wanted to be sure that I did not choose an unlucky day for the Coronation.

Kat, as a firm believer in fate, was an enthusiastic admirer of Dr Dee, and I did not need much persuasion to share her enthusiasm. It is all very well for those who have nothing to lose to laugh at soothsayers, but for a young woman in my position no possibility must be rejected. Therefore I agreed to see Dr Dee.

He was in his early thirties, a startling-looking man with rather wild eyes which seemed to be looking at something which others could not see, and this inspired belief in him. He had passed through dangerous times, having come within hours of losing his life. He had been suspected of uttering words which could be said to be against Queen Mary, and accused of conspiring to kill her either through magic or poison.

All the man had said was that her health was failing, and any who saw her must have known that. He had been in the Tower about the same time as I had and had shared a cell with a certain Barthlet Green who was one of those who had been burned at the stake for his religious opinions. The ever zealous Bonner therefore suspected Dr Dee of heresy, but the doctor was too clever for his questioners, and he came out of his ordeal a free man.

The fact that he had been imprisoned on suspicion of attempting to murder Mary meant that he was certain to be one of my supporters. I was all eagerness to consult him and, when the Earl of Pembroke presented him to me and Lord Robert recommended him, I was won over completely. He should have a place in my household, I said. It would be an excellent idea to have an astrologer on hand to advise on important occasions.

My Master of Horse would naturally be in charge of all ceremonies and that meant the Coronation; so Robert consulted with Dr Dee who, after spending some time in meditation, came up with the date of Sunday the fifteenth of January as the day best suited to this auspicious occasion.

“January the fifteenth let it be,” I said; and preparations were set in motion.

ALL WAS GOING WELL, but I had a reminder that I must continue to act with caution. To do what I wanted to do, to make drastic changes, could bring me to trouble. The Catholic priesthood was strong and they had wielded great power over Mary, with Philip of Spain behind them assuring them of success in foisting their religion on the people. They had been about to set up the Inquisition in the country and had indeed returned England in many ways to Rome.

I was going to change that. No foreign power would rule my country; but caution was needed. They were too strong, these priests. They were sure of themselves and I had to show them who was their mistress—but calmly, gradually.

This was brought home to me at my sister's funeral when the sermon was preached by Dr White, Bishop of Winchester. It was fortunate that he spoke in Latin, which so few people could understand. But I understood perfectly, and I did not like what I heard.

He broke into eulogies of the late Queen. He reminded the people that she had had the pious humility to renounce the Crown's supremacy over the Church and bring it back to the domination of Rome where it belonged. St Paul, he said, had forbidden women to speak in church, and it was not fitting for the Church to have a dumb head.

I was growing more and more incensed every moment. How dared he talk thus, particularly when I was urging the Council to proclaim me Head of the Church! How dared he speak disparagingly of my sex when I intended to show the people that they would prosper under a woman as never before!

He then enlarged upon Mary's sufferings; how patiently she had borne her afflictions; how blessed was England to have been given even briefly the devotion of such a good religious woman.

I was watching the congregation. Were they too thinking of great men who had burned at the stake—as I was? Cranmer, Ridley and the rest. Surely they must.

My fury reached its height when he began to speak of me.

Queen Mary's sister was now on the throne. She was a lady of great worth also and they must needs obey her. Then he committed the final insult by referring to me as a “live dog” and Mary “a dead lion”; and implying that they must needs do with what they had, as I was alive and Mary dead.

This was too much. If the people understood what he was saying, harm could be done to me. Fortunately there were few as well versed in the Latin tongue as I, and although the congregation knew he was praising Mary they did not realize that he was denigrating me.

I must curb my anger, but such a man must not be free to speak again as he did. He had flung down the gauntlet. Very well.

As he left the pulpit, I rose and cried to my guards: “Arrest that man.”

They hastened to do my bidding and the Bishop of Winchester and I faced each other. I thought he looked pleased and I guessed he was one of those men who court martyrdom. They were the dangerous ones—religious fanatics, sure of their place in Heaven and certain that those who did not agree entirely with them were destined for Hell—they were the men to be wary of.

“Your Majesty,” he said as the guards seized him, “I must warn you that if you attempt to turn from Rome you will be excommunicated.”

I retorted: “Take him to the Tower.”

And they did so.

When I returned to the privacy of my apartments, I sent for Cecil. He had heard of the arrest of Dr White and knew that it was this matter which I wanted to discuss with him.

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.