Queen Of This Realm

The Ridolfi Plot

EVENTS IN SCOTLAND NOW BEGAN TO ASTOUND US. IT seemed that Mary could not be anywhere without raising a storm; she must always be at the center of great events. I had been amused to discover that she had quickly realized the nature of the man she had so romantically married. Lord Darnley was dissolute, unfaithful and a heavy drinker, and as soon as she had fondly but foolishly proclaimed him King of Scotland he made no attempt to hide his true nature. His behavior was despicable. He became involved in street brawls, picked quarrels with all those who dared contradict him and took every advantage of Mary's devotion to him. That devotion very naturally soon began to fade and she must have seen him in a very different light—seen what to me had been obvious from the start—the weakness of those sensuous lips, the blankness behind the pretty eyes. What a fool Mary was! She made me realize more than ever that I had been wise “to suffer no commander,” as her Ambassador had put it.

In one thing she had succeeded. She had quickly become pregnant. Cecil brought me the news with something like reproach in his eyes, but I reminded him that Mary had been foolish to marry Darnley when she might have had the Earl of Leicester. To which Cecil replied: “Your Majesty knows that Leicester would never have been allowed to leave your Court. You cannot let him stay in Kenilworth long without recalling him.”

“Robert would never have gone,” I said with a smile, “so we waste time, Master Cecil, in discussing what can never be now. So… she is with child. That will please the people of Scotland, doubtless. But it is another little claimant to our throne.”

“The Queen of Scots appears to be distressed by her husband's drunken frolics and his numerous infidelities. Doubtless the child will console her.”

There were rumors about her Italian secretary, David Rizzio, an excellent musician of whom she was said to be inordinately fond. I could imagine that this Italian was a charming relief from the dissolute Darnley; and Mary was noted for gathering about her poets and musicians. I supposed she was trying to bring something of the French Court into that of Scotland. The contrast must be very depressing for her.

There had already been some scandal about a young French poet, Pierre de Chastelard, who had escorted her when she had first arrived in Scotland and returned to France to be sent back by Catherine de' Medici, probably to spy for her, as that wily woman would not have sent a charming young man merely for the purpose of diverting her daughter-in-law.

We had heard that Chastelard and David le Chante, as she called Rizzio, were constantly in her company. Chastelard was said to be the Queen's lover and had even been discovered hiding in her bedchamber, though I have to say that it was Mary and her ladies who found him there and raised the alarm; but as I said he could not have been hopefully hiding there unless he had had some encouragement.

The sequel of that little escapade was that Chastelard was obliged to place his head on the block in the marketplace of St Andrew's where he died bravely, poor young man, quoting Ronsard's Hymn to Death as he did so.

“Je te salue, heureuse et profitable Mort…”

It was brave to die with such words on one's lips. Poor young songster, his death had not enhanced his mistress's reputation.

But there were even more dramatic events to follow. I often wondered whether Rizzio was in truth Mary's lover. That she had a weakness where men were concerned seemed clear, for she had smothered Darnley with affection before they married. I think she must have been a deeply sensuous woman and as Darnley clearly no longer pleased her, it might have been that she turned to the Italian for more than music.

So he was doomed. I heard many versions of that terrible night's happenings and in my mind I can see it clearly. Saturday night in Holyrood House. Outside the March winds buffeting the castle walls and the Queen in her sixth month of pregnancy. She was not feeling well enough to meet a great many people so she was taking supper quietly in a small room with a few of her intimates, her bastard brother and sister, Robert Stuart and Lady Jane, Countess of Argyle, among them. Her father, James V, although he had only one legitimate daughter had been very energetic outside his marriage bed. The doctor had advised Mary not to overtax her strength but to live quietly and eat red meat which explains why it was being served in Lent. The Laird of Creech, her Master of the Household, was there with her equerry and doctor. I asked for these details as I wanted to set the scene in my mind. And there was of course that other who was rarely absent from the Queen's side—David Rizzio. He was in a rich damask gown trimmed with fur, satin doublet and russet velvet hose, with a fine ruby at his neck. This was mentioned because they were all gifts from the Queen; and those who wished to vilify her noted these matters.

David was playing, singing and entertaining the company with his especial gifts as he had done so many times before. Suddenly this peaceful scene was disturbed by the appearance of Darnley who came in by way of the door to the private staircase. He had clearly been drinking too much, and went straight to the Queen and slumped down beside her. I could imagine the quick change in the atmosphere. Darnley was often noisily quarrelsome, so the company would have waited uneasily for his voice to be raised in a quarrel with the Queen.

But it did not happen like that this time, for almost immediately through the door of the private staircase came a man in armor. He looked like a ghost they said, or some harbinger of evil, which indeed he was. It was Lord Ruthven who, although he was on his sick-bed and near to death, stood there looking as though he had just risen from the grave.

What a vividly macabre scene that must have been. When it was related to me I shivered at the horror of it. In those few seconds the company must have thought they were looking at Ruthven's ghost. Then from behind him came others—men whose names had often passed between Cecil and myself when we discussed what our policy would be with the troublesome Scots— Morton, Kerr, Lindsay.

Ruthven, speaking in a deep voice, told David to come outside, for there were those who wished to speak to him.

The poor little Italian musician knew it was his blood they were after, and like a frightened child he turned shuddering to the Queen, who had grown pale and looked as though she would faint; he clung to her skirts crying: “No! No!”

What could that avail him? How had she felt, I wondered when she saw them drag him from her and plunge their daggers into that poor quivering body?

It would have seemed in that moment that they were not only going to kill Rizzio but herself also. Poor woman, heavily pregnant amongst those barbarous men!

They said she cried out: “Davie, Davie… They are killing you. They are killing us both. Is this the way to treat your Queen?”

But that crude man Kerr took her by the arms and forced her to be quiet or he would as he said inelegantly: “Cut her into collops.”

Apparently she fainted then which I should think was the best thing she could have done in the circumstances.

I loathed the Scots more than ever. Mary was foolish and I had no doubt they resented having a woman as their Queen—the crude ungallant loathsome creatures! How dared they behave so to royalty!

When she came to consciousness she was alone with Darnley and, realizing what had happened, upbraided him, calling him murderer…murderer of Rizzio and possibly of her unborn child. He accused her of familiarity with Rizzio and preferring the musician's company to his own. The last, I should have thought from what I knew, was to be expected.

They took her to her apartments where she was more or less a prisoner and sent for a midwife because it seemed she would give birth prematurely. Darnley was with her during the night and because of this her chamber was left unguarded. What fools they were! They trusted Darnley. He was a very weak man and Mary must have had some sway, for she persuaded him to creep out of the palace and fly with her, and together they rode through the night to Dunbar Castle where one of the nobles, Lord Bothwell, and some of his followers were waiting for her.

That terrible night was over and she was free from Rizzio's murderers. But in what an unhappy state she was! Poor Mary, much as I liked to see her discomfited after her arrogant claims to my throne, still I was sorry for her. And I was all eagerness to hear further news from Scotland.

WE WERE AT Greenwich that June. It was one of my favorite palaces—I suppose because I had been born in it. The fields always seemed greener there than anywhere else, the trees more luxuriant. The Romans had called it Grenovicum and the Saxons Grenawic—so it was the Green Town to them too. There had been a palace there in the reign of my ancestor Edward III but it was not until later in the reign of Henry VI that the castle was embellished and added to. Now it was a most delightful spot.

The Court was in a merry mood and festivities were planned for the evenings—often al fresco as it was June and the weather was fine.

The evening was wearing on. We had partaken of supper; the musicians were playing and the dancing had begun. Robert and I were dancing together when I perceived Sir James Melville making his way toward me.

I knew that he had news of Scotland and I immediately stopped dancing. He came to me and whispered in my ear: “The Queen of Scotland has given birth to a boy.”

My emotions were so strong that I could not restrain them. So … after all those fearful scenes, after witnessing the murder of her favorite, after riding through the night to Dunbar, she had successfully produced a son. I had been certain that she would fail in that.

All I could think of now was that she had succeeded and her success seemed an indication of my failure.

Two of my ladies, Magdalene Dacres and Jane Dormer, hastened to my side. Robert was looking at me in dismay.

“What ails Your Majesty?” asked Robert.

I said: “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son and I am but a barren stock.”

Robert took my hand and pressed it firmly, warning me not to show my chagrin. And of course he was right.

I assumed an air of great pleasure and I declared to the company that we must rejoice in my sister of Scotland's wonderful recovery from the ills which had beset her.

And I was thinking: A son! It would strengthen her claim. That miserable matter of the succession would be raised again and I should be harried either to marry and get a child or name my successor.

Later I saw Cecil who advised me to assume an air of pleasure and to hide any disquiet I might be feeling at the birth of an heir to the Scottish throne which he understood and shared.

I received Melville formally and after expressing great pleasure at the news, I asked, with some concern, after the health of the Queen.

“I have been feeling unwell these last fifteen days,” I told him, “but this news has made me feel well again.”

Perhaps that was too fulsome, and Melville was too shrewd not to understand that my joy was feigned; but in these matters it is what one says which is repeated; one's thoughts remain one's own, and there can only be conjecture as to what they are.

He replied in the same vein of diplomatic falsehood: “My Queen knows that of all her friends you will be the most glad of her news. She told me to tell you that her son was dearly bought with peril of her life and that she has been so sorely handled in the meantime that she wished she had never married.”

I nodded solemnly. “The Queen has suffered cruelly and come through bravely, but so great must be her joy in this fair son that I am sure in her heart she can regret nothing that has brought him to her.”

“The Queen of Scots dearly wishes that she could see you at the christening of this boy.”

“What a joy that would be, and how I wish that my affairs might permit it! I shall send honorable ladies and gentlemen to represent me.”

It was a very amicable meeting and nothing I had said could possibly offend Mary.

Accordingly I sent the Earl of Bedford to represent me at the christening, taking with him a splendid gift from me. It was a font made all of gold and worth one thousand pounds.

“It may well be that by this time the young Prince has overgrown it,” I said jocularly. “If so, the Queen can keep it for the next.”

I appointed the Countess of Argyle, Mary's half-sister, to be my proxy, and ordered my Ambassador up there to make sure that it was known that I did not accept Lord Darnley as King of Scotland.

This so incensed Darnley that in a fit of petulance he declined to attend the baptism of his own son. I doubt anyone mourned that.

The little boy was christened Charles James but for some reason the Charles was dropped and he was always known as James—I suppose this must have been because there was a line of King Jameses in Scotland.

So Mary had her son and my Council was growing more and more restive because I had no child and it seemed likely that I never would have. The birth of little James had certainly stirred them to further action, for when next the Parliament met all parties counseled me either to marry immediately or name my successor.

These were the two subjects which I disliked most. I did not want to marry. I had made that clear enough; I would not be dominated—or put myself in a position to be—by any man. And to name one's successor was always a dangerous step to take, because in one's lifetime people started to look to that successor; there would be comparisons, and what is to come often seems more desirable than what is. Unless it is one's own child, there is certain to be trouble. So I stood out against the Parliament.

“You attend to your duties,” I told them, “and I will attend to mine.”

But they would not be silenced. They said that it was a grave matter and many of them recalled the time when I had suffered from the smallpox and had indeed been near to death and in what confusion the country had been thrown.

“I have no intention of allowing my grave to be dug while I am still alive,” I said, “nor of being bullied by hare-brained politicians who are unfit to decide these matters.”

However they would not give in and declared that if I would not marry, I must name my successor, and that only a weak princess and faint-hearted woman would fail to do so.

I was furious, but I knew this was what the people wanted, and there was one thing which I always understood: a monarch only reigns through the good will of the people. I was in a quandary, but I knew most certainly that to marry would curtail my power and to name my successor could give rise to plots against me.

They continued adamant and as I needed an extra subsidy they declared that this would only be given me if I named my successor.

Cecil understood my reasoning and I think, in his heart, agreed with me. I looked to him for help and, calling together five counselors with him, I told them that my only wish was to serve my subjects and to keep them living in prosperity and peace. As for the subsidy, half of what had been asked would suffice, for I believed that money in my subjects' pockets was as good as that in the exchequer.

I was able to persuade them that I must have this money and that it was a matter apart from the succession; and when they agreed that I should have the money without committing myself I was overjoyed and saw that by choosing my words carefully I had won a victory. But I was put out by the plain speaking of the Parliament. They would never have dared talk to my father in that way. I modeled myself on him for he had ruled with a strong hand, but in spite of his ruthlessness he had retained a hold on his subjects' affections to the end of his life.

I dismissed Parliament with a speech telling them I did not like their dissimulation when I myself was all plainness. Indeed, they might have chosen a more learned prince to rule over them but one more careful of their welfare they could not have; and I bade them beware of trying my patience again as they had recently done.

There were other troubles besides the intransigence of the Parliament.

Robert and Sussex had been enemies for a long time. In fact, almost every head of a great family was Robert's enemy. Of course he was becoming one of the richest men in the country and had made Kenilworth the finest castle. Moreover, he still believed—and so did others—that in due course I would marry him and his power would be complete.

But while I still refused to give him a share of the crown he coveted, there would still be those who would attempt to overthrow him.

The feud between Sussex and Robert became so intense that neither of them could go out without an armed guard escorting him. I threatened them and I lived in terror that something would happen to Robert. He laughed at my fears. It was Sussex I should be worried about, he said. I knew there was nothing I could do except stop their open animosity.

Meanwhile I traveled frequently. I liked to show myself to the people and they liked it too. They wanted to think of the Queen as a warm-hearted human woman, not a remote figurehead as my sister had been. When I traveled they would come from their houses to speak to me and bring me flowers and tokens of their regard and when they brought them to me I always chatted with them to show my pleasure in their gifts, asked after their health and made much of the children whom they brought to me. This was no falseness, for I loved my people; I loved children; and I took as much trouble over studying what they wanted of me as I did over state matters. They were in any case a state affair, and even more vital than those I discussed with my Council.

Recently Robert had been elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford and as I had promised to visit the University, the fact that Robert would arrange my reception and be there to greet me made me doubly anxious to go.

Robert met me at Walvicote with a deputation from the colleges. They looked very splendid in their scarlet gowns and hoods. There was one incident which made Robert smile and that was when Dr Humphreys greeted me. He was a stern puritan and like all such people of extreme views was of the impression that he was right and anyone who did not agree with him entirely was wrong. I hated extremes from both sides and I did not think they made a happy country, so I let him know what I thought, for I was never one to hold back the mild reproach—unless of course it would be detrimental to me. So I said to him: “Mr Doctor, your loose gown becomes you well. I wonder your notions are so narrow.” He was taken aback, but I smiled at him with friendliness, though I hoped he would consider what I had said.

It was particularly delightful to meet the young scholars who knelt and cried: “Vivat Regina!” to which I replied: Gratius ego; and when I addressed them it was in Greek. Knowing my love of plays they performed one for me… half of it on one night, the second half on the other, so long was it.

There was a tragedy on the first night when a wall and part of a staircase on one of the buildings collapsed and three people were killed. However, the play was performed, and it was very pleasant to watch particularly in the second half when some of the cast had to imitate the cry of hounds in full pursuit of a fox and the young spectators became so excited that they jumped up and down and called out that the fox had been caught.

This amused me very much and set us all laughing.

I was equally amused on the next day at St Mary's Church whither I had gone to hear the preaching of a Dr Westphaling. The good man went on speaking for so long and all—including myself—were extremely bored with his discourse, so I sent a message up to him to curtail it without delay. To my fury he ignored my request and went on and on. As I myself was to speak afterward I was getting really angry for I did not want to have a sleepy audience.

So long did the man continue that there was no time for me to speak that evening and I sent for Dr Westphaling. The man came to me somewhat shamefaced and I demanded to know why he had continued to tire us all when I had sent him a command to stop.

He replied with much humility, I must admit, that having learned his speech off by heart, he could not stop for fear of losing the place and he thought that if he cut out the middle he would never be able to find the end.

This so amused me that I couldn't help laughing, so even the tedious Dr Westphaling added something to our enjoyment.

The next day I addressed the company in Latin and when I saw Cecil standing there, for they all must stand when I addressed them, I stopped my discourse and commanded a stool be brought for him. “I know your leg gives you pain, Master Cecil,” I said, “and I will not have you stand in discomfort.”

Cecil was grateful and the whole company was impressed by my thoughtfulness; and I hoped that Dr Westphaling saw that I was quite able to stop my discourse and still not lose the thread.

It was a very successful visit to Oxford as everything arranged by Robert would be. He loved devising and planning and caring for me; and I was more anxious than ever that someone might do him an injury.

I said he was good at arranging matters, but there was one thing he tried to arrange with a certain Dr Dee and failed. We laughed at it together—but that was later. There was always laughter when Robert was near; even his arrogance and impertinence amused me, as he did when he tried to wriggle out of his difficulties and he could charm me even when he displeased me.

I had always been intrigued by magic, and the wizard Dr Dee interested me. Many people said that he was a quack and I knew his predictions were not always correct, but they were sometimes, and I believed that the future was arranged for us although we were free to avert disaster and gain advantages. When I look back over my life and see the many dangers through which I have passed, to only a few of them could I attribute good fortune. I saw that cautious planning had saved me on many occasions.

But it was exciting to try to see into the future and Dr Dee was a good friend of mine. If I hinted to him that I wished someone to act in a certain way he would often be able to bring it about. He could suggest to them that some danger was looming, some good coming to them if they did this and that. Yes, he was a good friend and a handy man to have around; and if one did not entirely believe in him, it was advisable to make a show of doing so for how could I be sure when I would want him to delude someone into thinking that he or she should take the doctor's advice.

When I was traveling in the area of Mortlake I called on him for he had a residence in that part. He had buried his wife only that morning and I thought my visit might cheer him. I would not let him entertain me as he must be mourning his wife, but I took a look into his interesting library where he had many volumes, globes and strange-looking objects. Among these was the magic mirror into which one could look and sometimes, if the time was right, see something of the future.

Robert looked over my shoulder as I gazed into the mirror so that his face was reflected there. I laughed aloud and then I saw Robert exchange looks with Dr Dee and I guessed he had tried to arrange with the doctor to show me his picture when I looked in the mirror.

Dr Dee said I should have eternal youth and boundless wealth as soon as he had discovered the elixir of life which he was on the point of doing.

It was all very interesting and though I did not believe half of it, it amused me in a way and comforted me too. Perhaps like most people I believed what I wanted to believe—which can be a wonderful antidote to the sorrows of life. On the other hand if one would be wise, one must know when one is doing it and perhaps allow oneself the indulgence as long as one recognizes it for what it is. The great secret of success in life, I was coming to believe, was self-awareness; and I was fortunate in having those two selves—the wise and the frivolous—and to know when one must give way to the other.

I fancied this was something which my sister of Scotland was lacking.

That was very soon to be proved true.

IT WAS HARD to believe that we were hearing the truth. Surely even Mary could not be so stupid.

Rumor was rife, and wild rumor at that. Bothwell was Mary's lover. There was even a tale of his having raped her in the Exchequer House in Edinburgh. I thought about that a great deal imagining her horror—or was it delight?—to be so subdued by the man who, according to all accounts, was something of a brigand and in complete contrast, I should imagine, to young ineffectual Darnley.

There followed the story of that mysterious night in Kirk o' Field when Darnley had been murdered. I could scarcely wait for the news. My messengers from Scotland were ordered to bring me any news immediately. I wanted to piece together the evidence. I desperately desired to know everything that was happening. I could not help being reminded of the death of Amy Robsart. She had been an unwanted wife; Darnley was an unwanted husband; and a bold lover was seeking to take possession of a wife and a crown.

Oh Mary, I thought, you are in acute danger. Do you realize that? I did, when something similar happened to me.

There was a difference. This was proved murder. Nobody could say that of Amy's death.

There had been an explosion which had clearly been intended to kill Darnley but when the premises had been searched the bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in the garden in their nightgowns. They were untouched by the explosion yet… mysteriously dead.

There could only be one explanation. The two men had been murdered and the explosion arranged to hide the crime.

This it had failed to do. Villainy was exposed.

And who wanted to be rid of Darnley? Who but the Queen and her lover Bothwell?

More news came.

Bothwell riding through the streets of Edinburgh, brandishing his sword, calling on any who accused him to come out and he would tackle them single-handed. He must have been a magnificent man for all his crudity and villainy.

He was tried for murder, but of course it had been arranged that he should not be found guilty, and the verdict should be: “James, Earl of Bothwell, is acquitted of any art or part in the slaughter of the King.”

And there he was riding through the streets of Edinburgh once more shouting to the people of Edinburgh to come out and tackle him if any thought it was not a true and just verdict.

Who could have doubted that it was unjust, but who would have the courage to come out and say so?

You are in mortal danger now, Mary, I thought. Did she ever think of me and wonder what my feelings had been when Robert's wife was found dead at the bottom of a staircase? If she did not, she was a fool. She should remember how I had acted and see that her only chance was to be as aloof, calm and wise as I, now very forcibly, realized I had been. But when had Mary ever been calm or wise or strong?

She threw away her hopes, her life, her crown most likely when she married James Bothwell.

It was not even as though he had been free. He was married to a virtuous lady and it was necessary for him to obtain a divorce before he could marry Mary.

How could Mary have been so foolish! But then her life had been so comfortable during her youth she had never faced death as I had… many times. She had never had to learn how to dissimulate, to act with the utmost caution, to cajole, to pretend, to survive. She had had none of those lessons for which I now thanked God, much as I had suffered when I was learning them.

But Bothwell naturally had his divorce and she married him; and the whole world—the world of adulterers, poisoners and ruthless schemers— held up its hands in horror at the actions of this poor, simple and too loving woman.

Her family, the Guises, were horrified and scarcely owned her; Catherine de' Medici declared in public that she was too shocked to give expression to her thoughts although, of course, had she done so truthfully she would have told of her delight in the fall of the girl whom she had hated and driven from France; Philip of Spain was contemptuously silent. I alone felt pity, perhaps because something not dissimilar could have happened to me.

And this was the woman, this poor weak foolish woman, who would be Queen of England!

Little James was taken from her and given into the care of the Earl and Countess of Marr; and the Queen must ride beside Bothwell to stand against those who came to depose her.

There was the disaster of Carberry Hill, and I wondered how much she grieved to fight against her own subjects.

I could picture her, though nothing so humiliating had ever happened to me. Whatever I had suffered, I had always had the sympathy of the people. I do believe that if I had lost that I should have lost heart. But Mary deserved their scorn. Had she regretted her submission to Bothwell, her abandoning of her self-respect: her placing herself under the domination of such a man, as she rode into Edinburgh with the mob screaming abuse at her? “Burn the whore!” they had shouted. “Death to the murderess!”

I could imagine her dirty and disheveled. Was that beauty, of which the poets had sung, apparent then?

So they had kept her in the Provost's House while through the night the mob screamed outside. I could see their cruel faces in the red glow of the torches and Mary there cringing, mourning the glory she had lost.

And so she became their prisoner. Lochleven first, where she charmed the suceptible young Douglas sufficiently for him to help her escape.

She had some loyal subjects—enough to enable her to go into battle at Langside against her enemies, to be followed by what seemed inevitable defeat. Mary was put to flight once more and knowing that at that time Scotland was no place for her unless she wanted to go back into captivity, she made her decision which, characteristically, was an unwise one … though I had no reason to complain of this!

I wondered how she reasoned as she waited there with the few friends left to her, to gaze no doubt across the Solway Firth to England and out to France.

Her family were now displeased with her; she knew that the Queen Mother of France was her enemy. Should she go to France? There was another choice. England! Foolish woman, did she think I would forget that she had emblazoned the arms of England on her shield? Did she think I would ever forget that she had called herself Queen of England?

She knew nothing of the world, nothing of people. Certainly she did not understand such as I was. She had listened too long to the poets, and she believed that her beauty had given her a right to act in a manner which would not be acceptable from others. She had never learned the art of survival as I had.

I was in a state of great excitement when I received word from the Earl of Northumberland that Mary had arrived in England. She had landed at the little village of Workington where Sir Henry Curwen had given her shelter at Workington Hall until the Earl decided that she would be more comfortable at Cockermouth in the home of a certain Henry Fletcher, a rich merchant of the district. Northumberland was not in residence in his own castle. He thought Mary could stay with the Fletchers until he received instructions from me as to what should be done with her.

There was a letter from Mary for me in which she referred to me as her dear sister and begged for my help.

“I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible,” she wrote, “for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a queen but for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but what I had on my person when I escaped…”

That must have been very distressing for the fastidious lady who had enchanted everyone with her exquisite gowns.

“…I hope to be able to declare my misfortunes to you if it pleases you to have compassion and permit me to come to you…”

Oh, I thought, it is compassion you want now! Very different from a crown.

“…I will pray to God to give you a long and happy life and to myself patience and that consolation I await from you.

“Your faithful and affectionate good sister and cousin and escaped prisoner, Mary.”

I showed the letter to Cecil. He was noncommittal but as excited as I was.

I said: “The Ladies Grey are under restraint; the Countess of Lennox is in the Tower; and now Mary of Scotland is in England.”

“God has delivered her into Your Majesty's hands,” said Cecil slowly.

“Nay,” I replied, “not God, but Mary herself. What now?”

“She is no longer the prisoner of the Scots.”

“No,” I said slowly. “She is mine.”

He nodded slowly. Then he said: “She begs to see you.”

I shook my head. “I shall not see her… yet. I will let it be known that while she is treated with the honor due to a queen, I cannot receive her until she is cleared of murder. Her actions, if we heard truthfully—and we know of her marriage to Bothwell when Darnley was scarcely cold—have been such that no virtuous lady can receive her, least of all a queen…and a virgin. I have my reputation to consider.”

He smiled at me sardonically. Was he thinking, as I was, and as so many people would be thinking, of the mysterious death of Amy Robsart in which some rumors had it I had been involved? She must be comparing the similarity of the cases.

I did not want to see her, to listen to her pleas. I did not want a beautiful and fascinating rival at my Court.

Cecil agreed with me that a message should be sent to the North and for the time being she should be lodged in Carlisle Castle where she must be treated with the dignity due her rank.

This was a miracle. The greatest of my enemies had been delivered into my hands.

THERE ARE PEOPLE who must always be at the center of dramatic events. Mary of Scotland was one of them. It was unfortunate for her that a casket containing letters had been left behind in Edinburgh by Bothwell when he escaped to Borthwick. These were said to be the correspondence between Mary and Bothwell. I believed that some of them were forgeries, but like most good forgeries they could not be entirely false. It seemed certain that some of the letters had been written by Mary and if they were all true she was condemned, not only as being Bothwell's mistress before her marriage to him, but an accomplice in the murder of Darnley.

Her reputation was in shreds; but she still managed to charm her jailers. It was becoming more and more clear to me that I must not bring her to my Court. There she would no doubt practice her wiles and there were quite a number of Catholics only waiting for opportunities. She would always be a danger and must remain under supervision so that I knew at any given moment where she was.

She had been moved from several castles and there had been one or two attempts to free her. She seemed to have a way of bemusing her jailers; I did not forget how she had worked on George Douglas when she was sent to Lochleven until he was successful in maneuvering her out of the fortress.

The Catholic peers came up with a solution. Why should she not marry an Englishman with my consent, and then as I would not consider giving the country an heir, I could name her as my successor which would ensure peace with Scotland.

The Duke of Norfolk was suggested. I had never liked Norfolk. I remembered his feud with Robert and I knew that they were bitter enemies. Moreover, although he professed to be a Protestant, I believed he leaned toward the Catholic Faith, and it would not have surprised me if he had been one in private.

If I would marry and provide the heir all this plotting would stop, I knew; but it was too big a price to pay. Besides, Mary of Scotland was a good example of what men could do to a ruler. Robert had been the only one who had tempted me—but no, not even for Robert.

He seemed to be changing his tactics toward Norfolk, and I gathered, although he said little on this matter to me, that he was inclined to agree with those peers who would like to see Norfolk married to Mary. I knew my Robert well. Was he looking ahead to his future? Was he asking himself what his position would be if I were to die? All human beings were at the mercy of God, and people in high places were often at men's mercy too! Was his sudden friendship with Norfolk a sign that he was thinking of him as a future ruler of England? Favorites of past rulers were often not very popular with the reigning ones. Robert would have a good example of that in his own family for his grandfather had been one of the most highly prized of my grandfather's ministers, but when my father came to the throne he lost his head—more or less for that reason. Yes, Robert in some ways was a very cautious man. I was getting older. Soon it would not be possible for me to bear a child—and I was unmarried in any case. Perhaps Robert in his heart knew that I never would be wed and he was making certain provisions for the future.

I sent for Norfolk. I looked him straight in the eyes and said: “My lord, you have become a gallant. I see that you are in love. There is no more romantic sight than a man in love, be it with a woman or with a crown.”

Norfolk looked shaken.

“Your Majesty,” he began, “I know not what…”

“You know not what?” I interrupted. “My lord Norfolk, for such a lover as yourself there must be one thought uppermost in your mind and that is your inamorata—the Queen of Scotland. I know, Norfolk, that you plan to change your title of Duke for that of King.”

I was amused to see the terror in his face. I believe he thought that I had guards waiting to arrest him.

“Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, “I would not seek to marry such a woman… one who is known to be an adulteress… and some say murderess. I want to sleep on a safe pillow.”

“A crown might be worth taking a risk for, Sir Norfolk, eh?”

Norfolk had always prided himself on his rank as the leading peer. I had heard that the family had hinted that they were more royal than the Tudors. He said rather haughtily: “Your Majesty, I count myself as much a prince in my bowling alley in Norfolk as she is in the heart of Scotland. Moreover how could I marry one who pretends a title to the present possession of Your Majesty's crown? If I were to do so, Your Majesty might charge me with seeking the crown of England.”

“Remember it, Norfolk,” I said grimly. “I might well do that.”

When he left me I was sure he was well aware of my sentiments regarding the plan to marry him to Mary. She was a menace. Although I had been exultant when fate had delivered her into my hands I was realizing that she was more disturbing to my peace of mind in England than she had been when she was on her throne in Scotland.

What infuriated me was that she seemed to have the power to win peo- ple to her side. Bereft as she was, her throne lost, relying on my bounty, her reputation become very shady, still she attracted men to her cause. It must have been some essential femininity in her which aroused their protective instincts. I was sure I lacked that quality. I gave the impression that I was able to look after myself—which I was—but why it should be an asset not to possess this gift, I could not see. And yet I could. Men wanted to dominate. It was the very essence of their sex; and there were some women who sought to be dominated and this quality was that which attracted men so strongly. Mary had it to excess. As for myself, I did not possess it at all. My object was to prevent domination. Men professed to love me; they talked of my beauty, my many excellencies; but in my secret heart I knew that it was the crown which dazzled them, not the charms of Elizabeth. They loved me through fear of what might become of them if they didn't; they loved what good I could bring them in power, honors and wealth. But they loved Mary for herself. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why the thought of her so infuriated me, and not because of her pathetic claims to my throne.

Even men like Sir Francis Knollys were not immune to her charms. Sir Francis—my own kinsman and father of the saucy Lettice—had been uneasy with her and in time sorry for her. I trusted Knollys and it seemed to me that he was one of the best men I could have chosen as her jailer, yet I knew she pleaded with him to take her to me and that he pitied her when he gave her the answer he had been ordered to which was that I could not receive her for the sake of my own reputation until she was clear of the charge of murder. Knollys had begged to be released from the duty. But not yet, I thought, not yet.

He was a strict Protestant and when he took her to Bolton he tried to convert her to his views, and although I continued to trust him I began to feel that it might be unwise to leave one man too long in her company, and I had her transferred to Tutbury where the Earl of Shrewsbury could look after her. Not that I felt Shrewsbury would be aloof from her charms but he did have a very forceful wife who had already been much married and I guessed that she would know how to deal with Mary and be quite unmoved by that excessive femininity. I had the excuse for recalling Knollys when his wife died.

This was a great blow to me. Katharine Knollys had been born Carey and her mother had been Mary Boleyn, sister to my mother, so there was a strong blood connection. Katharine was a charming, gentle woman. I had often wondered how she came to have a girl like Lettice.

The whole Court knew how grieved I was by the death of my cousin, and I had her buried in St Edmund's Chapel at my expense. So I took the chance to recall Sir Francis and leave the troublesome Mary in the hands of Shrewsbury.

Robert was constantly in my company, as devoted and adoring as ever. He was persistent in his efforts to make me agree to a marriage, and I liked persistence in men. One would have thought that as the time passed and we were growing older, he would give up hope, but he did not appear to do so. I think his eyes strayed often to other women. I did not mind that as long as I did not know about them. I was prepared for him to have his light love affairs, providing they remained light, and that any engagements he might have with others could be dropped at a moment's notice when I beckoned.

I did notice that the two Howard girls were pursuing him. It amused me—two sisters fighting over one man—and my man at that. I thought Douglass Howard was the more likely to attract him. She was Lady Sheffield now but her marriage could not be very satisfactory as she cast such longing eyes on Robert—though I supposed no warm-natured woman of Lady Sheffield's type could fail to be affected by Robert's superb masculinity.

Douglass must have been rather like Mary Boleyn, the type who found it hard to say no to an attractive man, because they were not only of a giving nature but had fleshly desires of their own. I knew these women. One of my stepmothers had been like that. Katharine Howard. Another Howard. Was it something in the Howard breed? I must ask my Lord Norfolk!

Robert gave no sign in my presence that he even noticed Douglass Sheffield but he was a little piqued because I had given Christopher Hatton part of Bishop Ely's garden—a piece of fertile land between Holborn Hill and Ely Place. I reminded him that I had given him so much more and that all I asked in return was his love and devotion.

“You have that,” he told me soberly, “and it does not need gifts or favors of any sort to maintain it.”

There was a great tenderness between us at this time. I noticed a little white in his dark hair and that endeared him to me. Oh, it was true love I felt for Robert.

In spite of Norfolk's protestations to me I knew that his scheme to marry Mary was still being considered and that there were certain people whom I had thought to be my friends, who supported it. I was afraid of trouble in the North and I did not trust the Catholic peers, therefore I thought I had better put an end to the plotting.

One day when at table I told Norfolk that I wished him to sit beside me. He was a little nervous and I guessed this was because the idea of that marriage was still very strongly on his mind and he was wondering how much I knew.

I could not resist taking his ear between my fingers and nipping it so hard that he winced and referring back to his previous remark I said: “Methinks you should take heed of your pillow, Norfolk.”

Everyone who heard that knew I was aware of the plotting and that I did not like it. Norfolk was very subdued, and a few days later I heard that he had left Court.

He wrote to me from Kenninghall assuring me that he had no intention of doing anything which should not have my favor.

It struck me that this plot had gone further than I had thought and I suspected that Norfolk might be a guilty man, so I ordered him to return to Court without delay. He pleaded illness and I could not prevent myself smiling as I thought of the days of my own danger when illness had been a frequent plea on my lips. I sent word to him that he must consider himself a prisoner, and within a short time he was in the Tower while inquiries were being made concerning the proposed marriage.

Then I had disquieting news which drove all thought of everything else out of my mind. Robert was ill… gravely ill… and begging me to come to him.

As if I would refuse! He was at Tichfield and there I must go with all speed. This I prepared to do, chiding my attendants for their tardiness. I was filled with a terrible foreboding as we set out on the road. I thought of him constantly … Robert over the years … Robert a young boy—arrogant even then—taking my hand in the dance. I was not the Queen then, only a princess, branded a bastard by some, and we had been on equal terms… almost. And then … that awareness of him in the Tower … and his of me… and his coming to me before my accession throwing his gold at my feet. Robert must not die. I could not imagine my life without him.

I went at once to his bedchamber. He was lying in his bed, pale and wan.

“Robert, my love,” I cried.

“Dear one,” he whispered, and his eyes lit up with joy. “So you came to me…”

“As if I would not, you foolish man! Certainly I would be with you and my first command to you now is to come forth from that sick-bed and get back the good health you have always had.”

“I shall die happy now,” he said, “because you are with me. I feared so much to go without seeing you.”

“Be silent, Robert. I will not have such talk.”

He appeared to be finding breathing difficult. “Dearest Majesty, I must talk to you… before…it is… too late.”

“Save your breath,” I commanded, for in truth it frightened me to hear his harsh breathing.

“I… must talk,” he insisted. “There is a plot afoot. I…I am not guiltless. I believed it would be good for England… and that is for you, my loved one…if Norfolk married Mary. I lived in perpetual fear that your life was in danger while the succession is unsettled and that woman lives.”

“Have done with the succession!” I cried. “And stop talking. Save your breath. You need it.”

“Nay…I cannot. I am in great fear that Your Majesty may be in danger. Norfolk plots…in secret with the Queen of Scots. Many of your lords are concerned in this. I have been myself. They meant no treason. They plan to restore Mary to Scotland where, with an English husband, she could be a good friend to England… and to satisfy France and Spain… you name her your successor…”

“I understand,” I said.

“Dearest Majesty, before I go … I must have your forgiveness. Your safety is my only concern. Your forgiveness…I beg you… for the part I played in this. It was no treason against Your Majesty, I swear… though some may try to make it seem so.”

He lay back gasping on his pillow and my whole being shuddered with my anguish. I had never before fully realized how much he meant to me and how empty and dark my life would be without him. Hatton, Heneage, all the pretty men who danced round me… what were they compared with Robert?

“My dearest,” I said. “It is forgiven. I understand.”

“Then I can die in peace.”

“You know I shall not allow that.”

He smiled at me wanly. “One does not speak of death to you. You like it not. You are impatient of death. You are immortal.”

“You are right and I will not have this talk. I shall stay and command you to recover.”

“Already Your Majesty's presence has worked like the elixir of life.”

“My lord Leicester, I shall have you out of that bed and dancing a high measure with me ere long. I insist on that.”

“And surely even the angels will not dare disobey you,” he said.

I kept my word and stayed there with him. His recovery was miraculous and he declared it was my presence which always had the effect of making him feel more alive than he ever could in my absence.

I did wonder how seriously ill he had been. He had certainly not been in his usual blooming health, but I pondered during those days whether his affliction was like one of those which had affected me so frequently before I came to the throne. Was it one of the illnesses of self-preservation? How deeply had Robert been involved with Norfolk? I did not believe for one moment that he would seek to set Mary on the throne. No! I knew my Robert. He had worked with Norfolk for the marriage with his eyes on the future. He believed, as so many did, that when I died Mary would come to the throne, and in that event he would not want to be completely out of favor.

In any case, whatever his motive, for a short time I had lived through the terrible prospect of losing him. Now he was rapidly improving; we played games together and I took the utmost joy in scoring against him, for I knew that my success was due to superior skill and not to royal privilege.

After that time of terrible anxiety the days of Robert's convalescence were sweet indeed. He had no doubt now of my love for him. I could see new hope springing up in his mind. Dear Robert, he would go on thinking of our marriage however old he became.

Well, that was how I liked it to be.

Meanwhile Norfolk stayed in the Tower.

THERE WAS ONE MAN at Court who had served me well and to whom I owed a great deal. He was not one of my favorite men for he was not in the least handsome and lacked the dancing talent of men like Hatton and the courtly grace of Heneage—but he was a man to be reckoned with, clever, subtle and faithful. I refer to Sir Francis Walsingham. He was not an old man being about three years older than I. He was very dark—not with the bold and handsome darkness of Robert, but with a Moorish swarthiness. I grew to appreciate his good works and became quite affectionate toward him and gave him the nickname of The Moor. I had a habit of bestowing such sobriquets on those around me and it was looked on as a mark of my favor to receive one.

He was a stern Protestant and I had always felt that my enemies would most likely be found among the Catholic hierarchy. He was rich and a diplomat, a student of law, which I think was a great asset to him for he had studied for five years in various foreign countries. He was alert and quick to scent treachery. Indeed as I had often proved, a good man to serve me, and when I look back over my life I often think that one of my greatest gifts was an ability to choose the right men. The butterflies of my Court were in a separate category; they delighted and charmed me; but I never forgot for one moment that my strength lay in men like Cecil. Walsingham was such another.

I was deeply shaken when there was an attempted rising in the North by the Earls of Northumberland and Westmorland, the aim of which was to release Mary Stuart and bring back Catholicism to England.

I knew that Northumberland—a rather foolish man—had been annoyed because I had not entrusted Mary to him. How could he think I would be so foolish! He was a well-known Catholic and thought of himself—as all the Percys did—as lord of the North. What was disquieting was that Walsingham had discovered that the Spanish had promised aid to Northumberland and Westmorland if they could bring sufficient numbers to rise against me. The Pope too was behind the rising.

And when I thought that even Robert had joined in the scheme to marry Norfolk to Mary without my knowing, I felt very uneasy.

The plot was well advanced. The Duke of Alva had promised to send over an army of Spaniards. The Marquis of Catena had arrived in England ostensibly to conduct an embassy but in fact to lead the army when it arrived. Pius V had given his blessing to the enterprise.

Fortunately the Earl of Sussex, when paying a friendly call on Northumberland, became suspicious. He came immediately to Cecil and me and told us that he feared a revolt against the crown was being planned.

Cecil advised me to summon Northumberland to London and when I had a letter from him pleading illness, all my suspicions were aroused and I sent guards to him with orders to arrest him if he offered any excuse for not accompanying them. However, Northumberland was just a little too quick for them; he managed to escape and join Westmorland and the two Earls put up their standards, declaring their intentions to bring Mary out of captivity and restore the Catholic Faith to England. It was alarming to discover that a force of seventeen hundred horse and four thousand foot were ready to join them. They were able to march to Durham where they set up the Mass in the Minster. Then they passed through the North celebrating the Mass wherever they went.

Sussex advanced on the North and soon put the rebels to flight and when defeat became obvious those who had enthusiastically marched to set up the Mass decided that they would be safer in their homes.

Westmorland escaped to the Low Countries and after evading his captors for some time, the Earl of Northumberland ended up on the scaffold at York declaring to the end his belief in the Catholic Faith. His head was stuck on Micklegate—a warning to all traitors.

I had to show the people that although I loved dearly those who were true to me and I wished to please them and do their will, I would not tolerate traitors and when I found them I could be as ruthless as my father had been.

Six hundred men had been caught and were soon lifeless corpses hanging on gibbets—a grisly warning to any who thought they could lightly challenge the rights of the Queen.

The North was plunged into mourning.

“This is Mary Stuart's doing,” I said. “When she came into our realm, that was the end of the peaceful days.”

“And so it will be while she remains in it,” retorted Cecil.

I nodded. But how could I be rid of her? There was no evidence that she had been involved in this plot. Plotters used the names of those who were close to the throne, as I knew to my cost. How often had mine been used as the reason for rebellion!

No! Mary was not personally to blame for this—although but for her it would never have taken place.

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM came to me on a matter of great urgency. He had uncovered a conspiracy, and it was his belief that immediate action should be taken.

“It is a plot against Your Majesty's own person,” he declared.

“You had better explain,” I told him.

“I have been watchful of a certain Roberto Ridolfi—a banker from Florence who has, on more than one occasion, been acting suspiciously,” replied Walsingham. “I had reason to believe that he had been supplying money to the Northern rebels at the time of the rising. I took him into my house for questioning. However, nothing was revealed and I no longer had an excuse for detaining him. I let him believe that he was free from suspicion, for then I thought he would go about his business without taking any special care. At the same time I had him watched.”

I nodded. I felt a great affection for men such as my swarthy Moor.

“It came to my knowledge that this man was in touch with Leslie, Bishop of Ross, whom I knew was an agent for Mary of Scotland. Norfolk is involved.”

“Norfolk! That knave!”

“I have intercepted letters, Your Majesty, and I can tell you precisely what was planned. Mary was to marry Norfolk who will become a Catholic and together they were to set up the Catholic Church in England.”

“In England!” I cried. “And what of the Queen of England? Is she supposed to stand aside and say, Do as you will, Your Majesties?”

Walsingham hesitated. Then he said: “Your Majesty, it has been suggested that you will be… assassinated and Mary will take your place. The Pope agrees to help as does Philip of Spain. The plan is that as soon as they have killed Your Majesty, Alva arrives with an army to subdue any rising against them. The letters were entrusted to a certain Charles Baillie whom I have arrested, and I trust I have Your Majesty's approval for doing so. I have put him on the rack and have had a full confession from him.”

“You did not tell us what was happening, Walsingham.”

“Your Majesty, I knew I was on a trail. I trusted no one and wanted to keep the matter to myself until I had something to show you, for I did not want to come to you until I had the evidence to lay before you. I have letters written in Norfolk's hand. He has signed two documents. One that he is a Catholic and the other pledging himself to stand at the head of an army which Philip promises to send when the moment is ripe.”

“The perfidy of the rogue!” I said. “Why did I spare him before?”

“He was not implicated then, Your Majesty, as he is now.”

“He is indeed now.”

“As are Ridolfi and the Queen of Scots.”

I nodded. “I thank you for your good services. They shall not be forgotten.”

“It is my joy to serve Your Majesty.”

“I will send for Cecil,” I said. “I shall acquaint him with what you have said. And stay with us. I would like him to hear all from you and see your evidence.”

It was damning.

There was nothing which could save Norfolk now.

SCENTING DANGER, RIDOLFI had returned to Italy where I heard later that the Pope had received him warmly and given him honors. He was out of our reach, but Norfolk was not… nor was Mary.

Mary had been proved an enemy once more. There were letters in her handwriting. She clearly accepted Norfolk as her husband-to-be and she knew on what terms help was coming from Philip of Spain and the Duke of Alva. She was as guilty as Norfolk.

There were some who said: “Here is your chance. Destroy this woman now and she will be out of your way forever.”

I thought of it—indeed I had sleepless nights thinking of it. She was guilty. She had schemed to overthrow me and if necessary take my life to do so. She had plotted to murder me, or at least she had connived at it … just as she had in the case of Lord Darnley.

I had every reason to send her to the block, to condemn her to the death she had agreed should be imposed on me.

Oddly enough, I could not do it. I hated her. I wanted her out of the way. She was a menace and yet I could not give orders to kill her. She was a queen for one thing. One queen cannot kill another. There must be some respect for royalty.

Strangely enough, I was not sure that I wanted her out of the way. She maddened me but I liked to hear about her. I suppose I was more interested in her than in any other woman. I was foolish. How should I ever know when she was planning to kill me? Yet I could not bring myself to sign that death warrant.

The guard should be tightened about her. There should be no more smuggling in of traitors' letters.

She was my prisoner and she could never be anything else while I lived. Sometimes I marvel at my leniency toward that woman. Sometimes I thought she fascinated me as certainly as she had all those fine gentlemen who fell victim to her charms.

I had no such qualms about Norfolk.

On a hot June day he went out to Tower Hill where the executioner was waiting for him with his axe.