Queen Of This Realm

Massacre

SHOCKED BY THE LENGTHS TO WHICH SPAIN, WITH THE help of Pope Pius, was ready to go for my destruction, I knew that I must seek some alliance with France…at least the pretense of one, and when Catherine de' Medici suggested a marriage between her son the Duc d'Anjou and myself I pretended to consider it.

Catherine was the most powerful figure in France at that time. Her son Charles IX was at best unbalanced, many said he was mad, and he was entirely in her hands. It was believed in some quarters that she had hastened his elder brother Franois—Mary's first husband—to his death so that she could rule through her weak-minded son. I do not know what happened in the case of Franois, but she certainly was the power behind the throne in France. And she longed to see one of her sons King of England.

I discussed the proposal at great length with Cecil, who was now Lord Burghley. I thought it was time I showed my appreciation and had made him a baron. It was no more than he deserved.

Anjou was nineteen. I was at this time thirty-seven, so I could reasonably demur about the differences in our ages. He was a Catholic, of course, and the English did not care much for Catholic consorts. One only had to refer back to the last reign and remember the abhorrence in which the country had held Philip of Spain.

But there was little I enjoyed more than these marriage projects, although I knew in my heart that I was going to refuse them all. I had not said no to the only man for whom I might have forsaken my freedom to turn to some arrogant sprig even if he did come from a royal house. I had no need of royalty. I had that from my father and my glorious ancestors; but I did like the world to know that although I continued in the virgin state it was from my own choice and I had had, and was still having, ample chances of changing it.

Those téte-é-tétes with La Mothe Fenelon, who was the French Ambassador at that time, always stimulated me and I loved to hear about the perfections of the Duc d'Anjou and his burning desire to become my husband.

I had plenty of spies at the French Court—Walsingham saw to that— and they brought back the true state of affairs there, so I knew that Anjou was at this time carrying on a passionate love affair with the Princesse de Cléves; and his only desire for marriage with me was to gain possession of my throne.

I remember well those conversations I had with La Mothe Fenelon. He would look at me with assumed admiration and tell me how worthy the Duc d'Anjou was to be my husband.

“The only person who is worthy of the alliance,” he said.

“Oh,” I replied lightly, “I know he is highly esteemed at the Court of France for his excellent qualities. He is worthy of the highest destiny the world can bestow on him. But is it not true, my dear friend, that his thoughts are lodged on a fairer object? I am an old woman, who but for the need to get an heir should not speak of a husband. Often I have been sought, but by those who would wish to wed a kingdom rather than a woman. The great are married without seeing each other, so the choice cannot lie with their persons.”

Poor La Mothe Fenelon! He was faintly embarrassed but could not show it, of course. He knew that I was prevaricating and probably found it humiliating to have to work so hard to try to make me accept his Prince.

“And there is the King himself,” I went on. “He is now a married man. I trust he knows great joy in his marriage.”

La Mothe assured me that he did.

“Then let us hope that he does not indulge in the gallantries of his forebears. If he takes after his father and grandfather perhaps he will not be such a faithful husband.”

He was taken aback and I was sure he did not know whether I was favorable to the match or not. That was how I wished it to be.

One day I gave my leg an unpleasant knock against the bedpost and cut it open. The wound would not heal and I was quite lame for a while. I had to sit with my leg on a stool for it was quite painful to move about freely. Every little thing that happens to a royal personage is reported, often embellished, and to such an extent that it is magnified sometimes for good but mostly evil; and as in his last years my father had suffered from a festering in his leg, it was immediately assumed that I was afflicted with the same ailment.

The news, naturally, was taken to the French Court and I heard reports of Anjou's reactions to it. It was clear to me that he had no wish for marriage and it was only his mother's persistence which made him agree to negotiations.

Although I did not want him, I did not care that he should be against the match and only agreed to it because of his mother's persistence, and I was very disconcerted when Walsingham's spies reported to me a rather alarming conversation which had been overheard between Anjou and one other.

“Monsieur,” said the other, “you would do well to marry the old creature who has had for the last years an evil in her leg which will not heal. Let them send her a potion from France destined to cure all ills, and let it be of such nature that you will be a widower in the course of a few months, after which might you not marry the Queen of Scotland and become the undisputed ruler of the two kingdoms?”

That threw me into a rage. How dared they talk of me so—and plot my death!

Never, Monsieur d'Anjou! I thought. You will never get the better of me.

But I was even more enraged when I discovered that the wily Queen Mother was putting out feelers for a marriage between Anjou and the Queen of Scots.

Burghley soothed me, and so did Robert. He looked at me reproachfully, dumbly asking why I would not take the only man whom I could trust and who had loved me over the years.

I wanted to shout at him: “You fool, Robert, do you think I am going to marry any of those French fops! While we are negotiating we are keeping the friendship of France. Spain is against me. The Pope is against me. Scotland is as troublesome as ever, and I have the Queen of that country in my hands. I need friends, Robert; and while I am negotiating to marry a Prince of France, the French at least must be my allies.”

Then the Emperor Maximilian, no doubt disturbed at the thought of a French marriage, offered his son Rodolph as a prospective husband. He was even younger than Anjou.

Catherine de' Medici was greatly disturbed by the thought of a marriage with Maximilian's son and she cajoled and threatened Anjou, and even asked Walsingham to talk to him and make him see the advantages of a match with England.

I was amused. The more suitors the better. Then another appeared. This was Henri of Navarre—a rather crude but adventurous young man; and it was diverting to consider them all striving to win the prize—which was the crown of England.

It was a moment of great triumph when, at one of our banquets, I called for dancing and taking Christopher Hatton as my partner, I performed with him for the amusement of the Court. I leaped as high as I ever had and pirouetted many times. The applause rang out as I sat down and beckoned La Mothe to sit beside me.

“You can tell Monsieur d'Anjou that I danced higher than any in my Court and the reports of my sore leg are greatly exaggerated. It is as clean and white now as it ever was, and there are years of life in the old creature yet. Pray tell those chemists who thought to prepare a dose for me that they will have to produce something very clever if they will have a French prince marry Mary Queen of Scots and take my kingdom and hers into French keeping.”

Poor La Mothe! He was quite taken aback. He ought to have known what an excellent spy service I had through the good work of my swarthy Moor.

I thought the farce with Anjou had gone on long enough. It had served its purpose in keeping the attitude of the French open, so I sent word that if Anjou came to England he must change his religion. This gave him a graceful way out, and his reply was that he feared he could not do that.

I was amused when his indefatigable mother, refusing to accept defeat, offered Anjou's brother, the Duc d'Alenon.

This seemed a good joke and I could not help laughing when the proposition was put before me; and Burghley, with Leicester, joined in my amusement.

In the first place Alenon was even younger than his brother. Twentytwo years separated us; he was very small and no one could call him handsome. He had indulged overmuch in fleshly pleasures which had aged him prematurely; his skin was pitted with smallpox; and his ill-shaped nose was so large that it hung down over his mouth. He must have been a most repulsive object. The amusing side to this was that he had been christened Hercule; and anyone less like the great hero there could not have been.

Yet I did not give even him a definite refusal. I planned to have a little diversion with the hideous Prince.

All this coming and going of ambassadors suing for my hand did not prevent my round of engagements. At Greenwich I performed the Maundy ceremony, washing the feet of thirty-nine poor women. I have to admit that one of my yeomen of the laundry washed the women's feet first and, when they were clean, I came with my maids of honor who carried basins filled with herb-scented water, so I was presented with feet that had already been cleaned. Dirt and evil smells sickened me, and all knew of my passion for cleanliness so this seemed an acceptable way of performing the ceremony. Each of the chosen women received a gown, shoes and a wooden platter on which was half a salmon, ling and six herrings, in addition to a purse containing twenty shillings with which they seemed highly satisfied.

In August of that year I went on one of my pilgrimages through the countryside to show myself to the people, which was what they wanted. I always made sure that they had a good view of me and I paused on the way to chat with them, and thank them personally for the little presents they brought me, and however humble these were I always made them feel they were just what I needed. These journeys gave me as much pleasure as they gave the people, for always I was aware of that which was more important to me than anything else—the approbation of my subjects.

I was particularly happy on this occasion because Robert was beside me and we spent a short time at Warwick Castle, the home of his brother Ambrose, a charming man who had served his country well. He had been in the Tower with Robert when I had been there for he was arrested with his brothers for complicity in the plot to set Lady Jane Grey on the throne. I liked him well. He was something of an invalid due to a poisoned bullet which had struck him when he was defending Le Havre. I was especially fond of all Robert's family and I had never forgotten what I owed to his sister who had so valiantly nursed me during my attack of smallpox which she had caught, to be left disfigured.

I was received magnificently at Warwick Castle. There were the usual pageants and songs of praise for my beauty and wisdom. I could almost guess what the next line would be when they quoted their verses, but I liked them none the less for that; and it was delightful to see the pleasure these simple country people took in pleasing me and how conscious they were of the honor of coming face to face with their sovereign.

I would never slight any of them, though I must admit there were occasions when I found it hard not to give way to a yawn. One of these occurred in Warwick where they had arranged a civic ceremony for me, and the speech made by the Recorder went on and on, repeated in parrot fashion, at the end of which he begged me to take a small present from the town. The bailiff then came to my coach and gave me a purse in which was twenty pounds. I took it graciously and told them that I was loath to take anything from them, because I knew that many of them had given what they could ill afford; but I accepted it with hearty thanks and that I should never forget the honor done to me by my good people of Warwick. I then gave him my hand to kiss, which he did in some confusion.

Ambrose whispered to me that the Recorder, a certain Mr Aglionby, had been overcome with terror at the thought of having to address me, and had learned his speech by heart, so perhaps that was the reason why it had been rather more than usually dull.

Fearing that the good Mr Aglionby might have noticed my boredom, I sent for him at once, for it was always my aim that no one should be allowed to think anything but the best of me, which after all was the purpose of these tiring and often uncomfortable pilgrimages I took among my subjects.

He came and I held out my hand.

“Come hither, little Recorder,” I said. “I hear that you thought you would be afraid to look at me and to speak boldly. I now tell you that you were not so afraid of me as I was of you; and I now thank you for putting me in mind of my duty.”

The little man was almost in tears—tears of gratitude and admiration. I knew that he would be my ardent supporter for the rest of his life.

And so into the castle.

That would have been a very pleasant trip for me but for a somewhat unsavory piece of gossip which came to my ears during it.

I had noticed Douglass Sheffield at once, for that instinct I had for picking out women who would appeal to Robert had singled her out to me. I remembered I had heard something about Douglass's and her sister's being enamored of Robert. I had not taken much notice at the time because I imagined many women at Court were enamored of Robert—and I liked to think of their being so.

The gossip came through some of my women whom I heard discussing it. They would never have dared tell me outright but when I heard one say to another: “Do you think the Earl of Leicester really did it?” I pricked up my ears and burst in on them, demanding to know what Leicester had been accused of doing.

It was only my anger which prized the story from them. They were loath to tell me, saying every few minutes that it was only gossip, and I knew how slanderous that could be toward the best of people.

Yes, I did know, and I understood that a man in Robert's position had many enemies. But could this story be true? I knew that Douglass Sheffield and her sister had been enamored of him. Had others seen that—and when Douglass's husband died rather mysteriously, had they fabricated the story to discountenance Robert?

It might well be—but on the other hand it might not.

The gossips said that Robert had had a love affair with Douglass Sheffield. This was possible. He was a man and certainly he had no sexual satisfaction from me. I had often thought that he must seek that elsewhere, and if he did so all well and good…as long as I did not know about it, and it was done discreetly and out of sight. That was one condition which I was sure Robert understood.

Apparently this affair with Douglass Sheffield had gone farther. He had, it was said, written a letter to her which he had asked her to destroy as soon as she had read it, but, foolish woman that she was, she had failed to do this. In this letter he had stated that he would marry her when her husband died, and he had added that damning sentence “and that may not be very long.”

It was like the casket letters all over again. What fools people were to put these dangerous thoughts on paper! What greater fools not to destroy them when they had been read!

She had kept the letter under her pillow to read it many times during the days and nights; and then the little idiot had dropped it; she hunted everywhere and could not find it. Of course she could not, for it had already been found by her sister-in-law who promptly took it to Douglass's husband.

And what did Lord Sheffield do on reading that letter? He decided to go to London to arrange for a divorce from the wife who, with her lover he believed, was seeking to murder him. Then came the damning part. Lord Sheffield died before he could show the letter to his lawyers and his death was due to dysentery—often the result of poison.

Why should Lord Sheffield have died so suddenly when he was about to disclose the relationship between Robert and his wife?

Well, it made a good subject for gossip. The alarming part was that Sheffield was dead. I could not believe though that Robert had planned to marry Douglass. He would know how furious I should be to receive such news, and he would never risk my anger for the sake of that silly little woman. On the other hand, could he have written such a letter? Yes, possibly in the hope of seducing the woman if she were holding out against him; and then when he was about to be exposed could he have arranged Sheffield's death?

I did not know. There was so much I did not know about Robert. Was that why he was so fascinating?

How often I had asked myself: How did Amy Robsart die? Was it an accident? Did she commit suicide? Or was she hastened to her death—and if so who would want that more than Robert? He would wish Lord Sheffield dead if he were going to create a scandal which would come to my ears.

I could never be sure.

It was a disturbing end to the otherwise pleasant visit to Warwick.

THAT AUGUST WE had news of one of the greatest catastrophes the world has ever known. It set Christian men and women all over the world shivering and turning in disgust from the King and Queen Mother of France, at whose instigation it must have taken place.

I refer to the massacre on St Bartholomew's Eve when many of the leading Huguenots of France were gathered together in Paris for the marriage of Marguerite, daughter of Catherine de' Medici, and my one-time suitor Henri of Navarre. He miraculously escaped, but few of his faith did.

The horror of it, the cruelty of it, the folly of it, were hard to believe.

I could not stop thinking of that terrible night when the tocsins rang out announcing the massacre was about to begin and when the Catholics went into the streets bent on murdering those of their fellow countrymen who did not wish to worship God in the same way that they did.

Charles the King, we knew, was mad; but surely that wily serpent, his mother, knew better than this! Why had she roused the city of Paris to this frenzy? Could she not see that generations to come would revile her?

People at Court spoke of nothing else and they spoke in whispers—not with the usual excitement which one sees on people's faces when ill news is told of others. No! There was no one who was not bitterly shocked and dismayed by what had happened.

The French were regarded as monsters; I could not bring myself to receive La Mothe Fenelon, though that cultivated and fastidious gentleman was in no way to blame and I was sure fully realized the folly of this wanton cruelty and the odium in which it would place his country.

I saw him eventually and decided the meeting should take place at Woodstock, but to stress my horror at what had taken place I ordered that all my courtiers should be dressed in black.

There was a deep silence when La Mothe entered the chamber and, taking a few steps toward him, I said: “I regret that I have kept you waiting for an audience, my lord. Pray tell me is it possible that this terrible news we have had is true?”

“Your Majesty, I come to lament with you over this sad accident. My King deeply regrets that for the sake of his life and that of his family it was necessary to put down traitorous plots of men who had conspired against him. What has happened has been as painful to the King of France as though one of his arms had to be cut off to save the rest of his body.”

“I do not understand, my lord. You must explain to me why it was necessary to murder thousands of Huguenots in cold blood.”

I was sorry for La Mothe. It is always a difficult task for ambassadors to try to find excuses for their masters. He flustered through his explanations, stressing the perfidy of the great Admiral de Coligny, who, we all knew, was one of the most saintly men living.

“If the Admiral was indeed guilty of treason could he not have been tried and brought to justice?” I asked. “Was it necessary to kill so many?”

“It was a grim accident. Orders were misinterpreted…”

I took pity on him. One should not blame ambassadors for their kings' misdemeanors.

The Council came to hear his explanations.

“Accidents! Mistakes!” they cried. “St Bartholomew's Eve will be remembered in the centuries to come as one of the greatest blots on the history of France.”

Burghley said: “It is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.”

AFTER THE MASSACRE there was a strong determination among those about me to be rid of Mary Stuart.

The chief instigator of this was, oddly enough, Burghley. He was by no means a bloodthirsty man, but he was an ardent Protestant and it was such as he who had been particularly horrified by what had happened. I think in his heart he was terrified that if anything happened to me, Mary Stuart would take the throne and he dreaded to think to what terror the country could be brought under a rule of the Catholics. I could understand that. It was not so long ago that we had smelt the burning flesh in Smithfield.

I was the one who hesitated. I could not forget that she was my kinswoman—and, of course, she was royal. I was very like my grandfather who did not want to shed blood wantonly. He would kill though if he thought his throne was threatened. I had believed I would do the same; but somehow I could not condemn Mary Stuart to the scaffold.

Burghley pointed out that I had ample reason for doing so. Had she not written to Norfolk? Did she not join in the plan to kill me and set herself up in my place?

I knew this, but somehow I could not believe that Mary had really agreed willingly to my assassination. Why not? Had she not agreed to Darnley's?

It was Robert who came up with the idea that we should let others remove Mary for us. It was a devious plot and perhaps characteristic of Robert. It occurred to me that he was good at such plotting. Had he plotted thus for the removal of Amy Robsart and Lord Sheffield? I reproached myself for these thoughts. Now he was only thinking of my good as he assured me he did night and day. My welfare was his chief concern.

Burghley was so sure that as long as Mary Stuart lived, there would be a threat of conflict in the country that he supported Robert's rather bizarre scheme. The plan was that I should free Mary ostensibly on condition that she return to Scotland. There she would be in the hands of those two rogues, James Douglas, Earl of Morton, who had been one of Rizzio's murderers, and John Erskine, Earl of Marr, who had become Regent after the murders of Moray and Lennox—both of whom were as eager to see the end of her as I was. These two were to bring her to trial and find her guilty and her execution was to be immediate and to take place not more than four hours after she had been passed into their hands.

A secret mission then ensued and a certain Henry Killigrew, an ambassador who had already proved his worth, was sent to Scotland to try to come to some agreement with these two villainous gentlemen who, it seemed, were quite ready to betray their Queen, provided they could see enough advantage to themselves in doing do.

Burghley had said that it was Killigrew's task to make them see those advantages and to find out what their terms for carrying out this task would be.

The bargaining was sordid and I hated the whole business; and it was only the earnest warnings of both Burghley and Robert that made me go on with it.

It may have been that Marr had no great fear of Mary, seeing himself safe in a Protestant Scotland. John Knox the preacher—the type of man I loathed, a religious fanatic, cruel and intolerant—who hated Mary with a fierce fanaticism, was delighted to join in the plot to kill her.

Eventually Marr had been ready to make an agreement but he died before it could be put into action. It was rather strange—almost as though the saints to whom Mary prayed so frequently really were coming to her aid, for Morton was much harder to deal with and he would not give way. First he demanded a pension which should be as much as it had cost me to keep Mary as my prisoner in the castles of England. I was shocked. I hated to see money wasted for I believed that prosperity came through frugality. I spent money on my dresses—and I will admit I had a goodly array of them—but I always assured myself that they were necessary to the dignity of royalty. I kept good state at my Court; there was rich food and wine served at my table. Not that I ate with any gusto. I had the smallest of appetites, and I always drank my wine diluted with water. I respected money without hoarding it. I think I must have inherited that from my grandfather. People called him a miser but his ways had made a prosperous country, whereas my father's extravagance had left the exchequer sadly depleted. I had taken it upon myself to pay all the latter's debts, and they were heavy, but I did not want anyone to go without the money which was rightly his or hers. I also paid those debts left by my brother Edward. The people knew what I had done—particularly the people of London—and they honored me for it. My father had thought that the privilege of serving the Court was enough for them. I thought they should be paid as well.

I had achieved prosperity—as my grandfather had—by care and a lack of extravagance, except in those particulars which I considered necessary to preserve my image in my people's eyes. They knew this and one of the French emissaries had said that the people of London treated me with something like idolatry.

So now I balked at the thought of paying out so much money to that villain Morton across the Border. And his demands grew greater. He must have guessed how earnestly Burghley wanted the conclusion of this affair and for it to be carried out without leaving a stain on my character. Let Mary be brought to the block by her ungallant knights, he said. Then no one in England could be blamed and we could leave the matter to the barbarity of the Scots.

Then Morton came up with a condition which made the entire plot useless. He insisted that the execution could only take place if three thousand English soldiers under the command of the Earls of Bedford, Essex and Huntingdon were present.

When this ultimatum was delivered to us we knew that it was the end of the venture. The whole idea had been to execute her leaving me free from blame. Morton knew this. Was that why he suggested the presence of my soldiers?

“We are wasting our time,” I said. “Morton knows he has asked the impossible.”

Burghley nodded grimly. “God sent Your Majesty strength to preserve God's cause, your own life and the lives of millions of your subjects, all of which are manifestly in danger.” He added: “God be merciful to us all.”

I had to comfort Burghley. I shrugged danger aside and in my secret heart I was glad we had not been able to find those who would be ready to murder Mary Stuart.

IN SPITE OF the loathing the French Catholics aroused at this time not only in England but throughout the world, and the sure knowledge that my marriage with Alenon would be against the wishes of the people, I did keep up negotiations with Catherine de' Medici in secret.

She was an extremely clever and most devious woman and I never underestimated her for one moment. It surprised me that she should be so eager to see one of her sons take the crown of England that she still persevered in her efforts with the utmost zeal. Surely such a woman could see through my schemes. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she thought that I was as cynical as she was and cared nothing for the murdered Huguenots, not only in Paris but throughout the whole of France, for once started it seemed that the Catholics would not forgo their blood-letting.

However, La Mothe Fenelon presented himself with messages from the Queen Mother.

“Her Majesty wishes Your Majesty to know that the cure is succeeding with Monsieur le Duc and his skin is improving every day.”

He was referring to Dr Penna who had claimed he had an elixir which could in time eradicate from the skin all traces of smallpox. His services had immediately been acquired by Catherine de' Medici who must have believed that her son's appearance was one of the impediments to the marriage.

“That is indeed good news,” I said. “If it is really effective I must have the man here to see what he can do for Lady Sidney.”

La Mothe was pleased. He believed that in spite of everything I was really considering the marriage. It was amazing that he could believe that when I had hesitated before the massacre, I would now agree.

We discussed the disaster of the smallpox which seemed more prevalent than it had a short while ago.

“I suppose our little Prince must count himself lucky to have come through with his life,” I said.

“Indeed, Your Majesty, and in the case of such a charming Prince, that small disability is forgotten when one is in his presence.”

“I suppose there are other parts of his visage to take the mind off the skin,” I said tartly. I was really all eagerness to see that little Prince with his debauched eyes and a nose which some said was split in two giving him a most grotesque appearance.

Perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic for to be attacked by the smallpox is a terrible experience; and then when, a few days later, I began to feel unwell I remembered my words to La Mothe Fenelon, especially when in a short while the spots began to appear on my face and I knew that once again I had fallen a victim to the dreaded disease.

Robert came and insisted on entering my chamber. He threw himself onto his knees and declared his undying devotion. I smiled at him and said: “Robert, go from here. I would not have your handsome face wrecked by the smallpox.”

“I am here to serve you,” he said masterfully, “and here I remain.” And for once I did not remind him that I was the Queen who must be obeyed.

The Council was in a state of panic and I guessed they were all worried about the succession—the Protestants declaring that they would never have Mary; and while all the world was watchful, Spain and France were ready to pounce.

Strangely enough I did not feel ill this time. They say that if one has had a disease once one becomes immune. One catches the disease, but it passes over lightly; and this was what it did in my case.

Before long I was well enough to rise and when I studied my face I could not find a single blemish.

Another fortunate escape!

La Mothe Fenelon came to me and I joked: “It may well be that when Monsieur le Duc comes he will be a little disappointed. Perhaps he would like to see me with just a few blemishes so that he could find me in a state not entirely dissimilar to his own.”

“Nay, Your Majesty,” he replied. “Monsieur will rejoice in the preservation of your unsurpassed beauty. Moreover Penna's medicines are having such an effect on the Duc that when you see him you will find the rumors of his disfigurement greatly exaggerated.”

“That will give me the utmost pleasure,” I replied, and I added that perhaps the Duc would like to pay a visit to the English Court. I was amused to see that La Mothe was evasive about this and I guessed it was due to the fact that he feared that if I saw the ugly little creature before a proxy marriage there would never be one in actual fact.

Shortly after he came to announce the birth of a daughter to the King of France. La Mothe was having a very uncomfortable time in England for he could not defend the action of his masters, try as he might, loyal creature that he was; and there was shock throughout the country when the news broke that two supporters of Admiral de Coligny had been executed in the Place de Gréve, and that the King, Catherine de' Medici and other members of the royal family had witnessed the execution which had taken place precisely as the Queen was giving birth to a child.

I was determined to let La Mothe know that I disapproved heartily of the callous behavior of his King and the Queen Mother. It would help me with my bargaining and dealing with the wily Catherine de' Medici, and I must not miss one advantage.

“His Majesty could not have wished more for the safe delivery of his child than I do,” I said with diplomatic exaggeration. I went on to say with even more hypocrisy that I could have wished the Queen might have given birth to a dauphin, but I was sure he was very happy with the Princess. I regretted, of course, I added, that her royal father had polluted the day by so sad a spectacle and that he had gone to see it in the Place de Gréve.

La Mothe Fenelon, struggling to retain his loyalty to a cause which he must have found abhorrent, agreed that it was a day in which happiness was mingled with evil. “My master was forced to witness the executions to follow the example of his great ancestors on such occasions,” he replied.

I nodded gravely and added that the state of affairs in France did cause me some concern; and I was very distressed to see action taken against people who practiced my religion.

La Mothe bowed his head and said that out of his great friendship for me, his King would be happy if I would act as godmother to the newly born infant.

I accepted graciously as there could be no possibility of my going myself and I should have to send someone in my place which was usual in such circumstances.

I then discussed with Cecil who could be sent. The obvious choice was Lady Lennox, but I was certainly not going to send her. Who knew what plots she would become embroiled in with the serpentine Queen Mother of France? She was the grandmother of the little Prince James of Scotland and schemes were undoubtedly going round and round in that head of hers, concerning the little Prince and his mother.

We decided that our best emissary on this occasion was William Somerset, the Earl of Worcester. He was a Catholic but a man whom we could trust. So off he went with the font of gold which was my gift as the godmother of the child.

I was seeing Robert almost every day. He was sure that, after the massacre, I could not marry into the House of France. One day his hopes would be high, and he would see himself beside me on the throne; on another he would seem to understand that there could never be a marriage… either with him or with any other. I was past my fortieth birthday. What would be the point in marrying now? I could have Robert at my side whenever I wished. I was in complete command. Why should I want to change that? Of course I never would. But I did like the process of wooing; I loved to see hopes rise, and sometimes I even deceived myself into thinking that I might give way. Courtship was to me one of the most exciting games to play. It kept alive the myth that I was beautiful and desirable beyond any living woman. It was a pleasant dream to live in and while those about me played the parts with such zeal they gave reality to the dream.

I was amused by Robert's jealousy; and I did have a tendency to favor young and handsome men because I liked good-looking people. I could not bear deformity; consequently a young man who was personable, could dance well and converse with grace always attracted my attention, and as I liked to have such people about me, I gave them posts which would keep them there.

Naturally, there was no one like my Master of Horse, but I liked to keep even him guessing whether or not he might be ousted from my favor by some newcomer.

Christopher Hatton remained in favor; so did Heneage. There was one young man who was really very attractive; he danced beautifully and his conversation was witty. He was not a clever man like Cecil or Walsingham, my Moor, who was now in Paris getting restive there, wanting to come home to his family. But for the moment I could not allow that. Too much was going on in France and I needed my master diplomat to make sure my affairs were well looked after. But those two and others were my Clever Men. Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was in the charming favorites category.

I had noticed Edward de Vere since he was twelve years old. That was when his father died and young Edward had become the Earl of Oxford. Because of his youth, a guardian had been found for him, and he had been put under the wardship of William Cecil; and as now and then I visited my chief minister, I saw the boy from time to time. Exceptionally handsome with a somewhat forceful personality, he caught my attention, and I expressed an interest in him from the first. He was a lively boy, wayward and reckless, and there was certain to be trouble where he was. When he was about seventeen he was involved in the death of one of the servants of the Cecil household—an undercook, I think. The man had offended him in some way and Oxford had hot-headedly run him through with his sword. The man had died and a great deal of manipulation was needed to extricate Oxford from serious trouble. Even noble earls were not permitted to murder the humblest servants. However, the jury was induced to bring in a verdict that the undercook had “run into the point of the Earl's sword”—thus making the verdict accidental death.

I daresay this was not good for my lord's character for he believed that he could act in whatsoever manner he wished and escape punishment.

A few days later he appeared at a special joust and so distinguished himself that I forgave him. He looked so handsome, so noble, as he faced his opponent; and he was romantically charming when he came to bow to me. He will think twice before he attacks his servants again, I tried to delude myself into believing.

The next event was his marriage to Cecil's daughter Anne. I suppose it was natural. They had been brought up in the same household and had grown very familiar with each other. I remarked to Cecil that it was the best basis for a happy marriage. I think Cecil was a little dubious, knowing the nature of the Earl, but I had no doubt that he was pleased to see his daughter marry into such a noble household.

Oxford was one of those young men who would always call attention to himself wherever he was and it was usually in the most outrageous manner. If only he had been content with his excellence at the joust and being a graceful addition to any social gathering! But he wanted to swagger on the stage at all times. He wanted all attention focused on him.

When Norfolk had been in the Tower, he had devised some harebrained scheme for rescuing him, Norfolk being distantly connected with him through a Lady Anne Howard who had married into the de Vere family. Naturally it had come to nothing and Oxford quarreled violently with his father-in-law, Cecil, because of this.

There was one thing which worried me. When he had been foiled and the attempted rescue of Norfolk shown as the immature plot it was, Oxford was so incensed that he swore revenge on Cecil.

Cecil told me this and shrugged his shoulders.

“He is a willful boy,” he said. “I know not what will become of him.”

“I like not those threats of vengeance on you,” I said.

“He is nothing but a foolish boy,” Cecil assured me.

And I was inclined to agree.

“He now wants to be taken into the Navy,” said Cecil.

“That shall not be,” I replied firmly. I had two reasons. One, he was too reckless and I was becoming more and more proud of my growing Navy; and the other was that I enjoyed his company at Court.

“I persuaded him that as he enjoys Your Majesty's favor he would probably do better to remain at Court.”

I nodded my approval.

But it was asking too much of a nature like Oxford's to live in peace with those around him. Very soon after that he was in conflict with another young man whom I admired.

This was Philip Sidney who had many talents to recommend him apart from the fact that he was the son of my dear Mary Sidney, whose nursing during my smallpox attack had cost her her good looks. I visited her frequently in her secluded apartments at Hampton Court, and I constantly let her know that I did not forget what she had done for my sake. So the fact that she was Philip's mother would alone have made me take a special interest in the boy. Moreover, he was Robert's nephew. Robert was very good to him in many ways, and Philip I believe looked on Robert as a kind of god. That pleased me. He was a very good-looking young man, somewhat serious, highly cultivated, and he wrote verse with a flow which I found most remarkable. Mary had shown me some of his writings with great pride—so he was a young man in whom I took a particular interest.

Oxford knew of my regard for him and was jealous of it; but his real enmity, I imagined, was directed against Robert, so he struck at him through young Sidney. Even such a rash young man as Oxford would scarcely dare challenge Robert himself.

The incident took place on one of the tennis courts where Sidney was enjoying a game with a friend. Oxford came along and, deciding he wished to play, ordered Sidney and his friend to leave the court free for him.

Sidney naturally retorted: “Why should I? You must wait until the game is finished.”

“Don't be insolent, you puppy,” cried Oxford; at which Philip Sidney was incensed and there on the spot challenged Oxford to a duel.

Fortunately I was informed of this proposition and I was furiously angry. Dueling was against the law, and in any case I did not want any of my people killed in senseless quarrels—particularly two young men who graced my Court and pleased me with their presence.

I sent for Philip Sidney and demanded to know what he meant by chal- lenging the Earl of Oxford to a duel. He replied that Oxford had insulted him and his father by calling him a puppy and so implying that his father was a dog.

“Such folly!” I cried. “And over the use of a tennis court, I understand. That there should be such fools in my kingdom, I can scarcely believe. So you, my young coxcomb, would shed blood, would you, because of the rash words of another?”

“I would bear no insult, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, would you not?” I said. “Would you rather bear your Sovereign's wrath? You should know, little boy, that if you are to stay at my Court, you must show proper respect to noblemen. You have dared challenge a noble earl!”

“Your Majesty, may I respectfully point out that the rights of men come before the rights of noblemen. Your noble father supported the rights of the common man against the aristocracy when he believed it was just to do so.”

“You give a good account of yourself,” I said. “Remember this: I could send you to the Tower for challenging a noble earl, but there are members of your family who are very dear to me. Do not take advantage of this. There shall be no duel. Understand that. Now you may go. I shall be lenient with you this time—but remember.”

When he left me I was smiling. He really was a very charming fellow. He was not quite twenty years of age. Oxford was about four years older and I was certain Oxford had picked the quarrel with him because he was Robert's favorite nephew. These jealous men! I thought indulgently. But I was a little alarmed, for Philip Sidney had aroused Oxford's enmity and I believed the latter might be very irresponsible. I should hate anything to happen to increase Mary Sidney's anxieties for I knew how she doted on her son.

I suggested to Robert that such a cultivated young man should have the opportunity of foreign travel, and he agreed that he should go to Venice, where he could study Italian literature, astronomy and music.

I felt happier when young Sidney was safely out of the country.

Catherine de' Medici was working indefatigably to bring about my marriage to Alenon, and her special envoys were urging me persistently. They told me that the young Duc was madly in love with me. I pretended to be gratified. I was sure they thought me a vain and simpering woman, which was what I wanted them to believe, for the longer these negotiations went on, the better. How little they knew me!

I was fully aware that Catherine was eager for the marriage to take place before I saw her son, which confirmed all the stories I had heard of his unprepossessing appearance. Finally, however, she seemed to give way, and word was sent to me that King Charles would come to the coast of France with his brother whom he would send over to Dover that I might meet him.

This alarmed me a little. Perhaps the Duc was not so unprepossessing after all. What would the people say if they thought I was seriously considering marrying a prince whose brother was responsible for that terrible massacre on St Bartholomew's Eve?

Since I had sought the meeting, it was not easy to evade it, but I did so by adopting one of my coy maidenly attitudes. I replied that it was too decisive a step to be undertaken at this stage and not in keeping with my virgin state.

I could imagine Catherine's fury against me, but that lady should have realized by now that she was dealing with one as devious as herself!

I was saved from having to make a clear decision by events in France. Charles was a dying man; he had never really recovered from that awful night of slaughter and had been ailing ever since. He had always been a weakling physically as well as mentally, and it was obvious that he had not long to live.

His brother, the Duc d'Anjou, next in line to the succession, had become King of Poland, so he was far away. That must have given my little Alenon ideas. He was an ambitious gentleman, I will say that for him. He was always ready to take advantage of a situation. Of course, there was now great bitterness throughout France between Huguenots and Catholics, and Alenon decided that with his eldest brother in sight of death and his brother Anjou away in Poland, he had a good chance of coming to the throne himself.

He schemed with two noblemen, Mole and Coconnas, to seize the throne on the death of the King and consolidate himself there before the return of Anjou from Poland.

It was hardly likely that he would be able to succeed, for Catherine de' Medici was watchful on behalf of Anjou, who, it was said, was the only person she had ever loved; and very soon my little Prince's schemes were discovered by his mother. I heard that some sources in France suggested that I was involved in the plot. That was entirely untrue.

However, Alenon did not hesitate to betray his allies when the plot was discovered and they went to the scaffold.

In the midst of this Charles died. Anjou was proclaimed Henri III while Alenon took the title of Anjou as the new King's younger brother.

Denied the crown of France, Alenon—now Anjou—again turned his eyes back to England. I was amused for the situation was becoming really intriguing. I remembered that the new King had at one time been a suitor of mine and I wondered if he might renew the courtship now that he was King of France.

There was a certain irritation at home. I had suffered so much from the pretensions of Mary Stuart that I was especially sensitive about the actions of those claiming to have royal blood. Therefore I was much disconcerted when I heard of the marriage between Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles Lennox. These two young people had the most scheming mothers in the country. Charles was the son of the Countess of Lennox, Darnley's mother; she had already shown her ambition through her eldest son. And now she had married the younger, Charles, to the daughter of the Countess of Shrewsbury. I knew that lady very well. She was called Bess of Hardwick, being the daughter of John Hardwick in Derbyshire. She had only been married to Shrewsbury for a short time, but she had quickly shown that foolish man who was the master of the household. She had had three husbands—all wealthy—and had seen each of them out of this life after they had left her with their worldly goods. Bess had made sure of that.

Perhaps it had been wrong to put Mary Stuart into the charge of the Shrewsburys, but I had felt that Bess of Hardwick would make sure that a firm hand was kept on Mary and prevent her from trying her wiles on Shrewsbury, which was what I imagine she did with some of her jailers. None of them seemed entirely immune.

However what had resulted instead was a match—aided and abetted by Mary Stuart I gathered—and now Charles Stuart was married to Bess of Hardwick's daughter, and these ambitious ladies were already looking forward to offspring who would have a claim to the throne.

I flew into a rage when I heard this and Cecil had a hard task restraining me. “They have been intriguing at Sheffield Castle,” I cried. “Imagine them! The three witches! Getting their heads together… Mary Stuart urging them on, reminding them of the Stuart pretensions to the throne. I shall throw the three witches and the happy married pair into the Tower.”

“Your Majesty could hardly imprison Mary Stuart for approving of the match.”

For a few minutes I would not listen to Cecil and, knowing me, he let me rage on.

“To bring the Queen of Scots to the Tower would be dangerous,” he continued eventually. “There might be an attempt to rescue her on the way there; and the cause would scarcely be considered just. She would become a martyr and you well know the people's feelings for such.”

Of course he was right.

But those women had arranged this marriage without my permission.

“Ah, there we have a point,” said Cecil. “Charles, being of royal Stuart blood, should have asked permission before marrying, and failing to do this has broken the law.”

That was good enough. Very soon I had those two energetic countesses in the Tower.

But all this was very disturbing, bringing home to me again the uneasiness of royalty, particularly that of a House which many must still believe had come to the throne not through the straight line of succession. There had been three generations of sovereign Tudors by now, but can one ever be completely safe? Even my father had had to make sure that those who might lay claim by blood to the throne were put out of the way.

That set me brooding on Mary Stuart. There would never be real peace in my life while she lived.

A further cause for annoyance was that, on his way home from Poland to France, Henri III had met and fallen in love with Louise of Lorraine whom he insisted on marrying. What was particularly galling was that La Mothe, I discovered later, had been instructed to keep the news from me as long as possible. I always felt piqued when a one-time suitor married. I wanted them to be like Robert and go on sighing for the impossible forever.

I pretended that my anger was because Henri had married a member of the House of Guise, which had always been my enemy and with whom Mary Stuart had close connections, her mother being one of them.

Then I heard that Catherine de' Medici and her Court had been amused by the action of dwarfs who had been dressed up to look like my father and myself and the Earl of Leicester. I could imagine what ribaldry had been intended; and I saw no reason for not giving expression to my indignation. I let La Mothe know of it, pointing out to him that if the courtiers of France wished to make fun of any they might first start in their own Court.

However, Catherine was still anxious to preserve good relations. She must still have hopes for the newly created Duc d'Anjou, for she sent placating letters. I was assured that the dwarfs who had taken part in the masquerade were all very pretty and the scene had much charm and had been carried out with the impeccable taste due to persons of distinction. If any offense had been taken, it must have been because of my Ambassador's imperfect knowledge of the French language.

I did not believe it, and I continued to show my displeasure.

All the same, negotiations for a marriage with my little French Prince were not broken off.