Just a Queen (2 page)

Three

‘The King of France is dead, Your Majesty.' Cecil stood before me brandishing a letter from Ambassador Nicholas Throckmorton. It was July, the excitement over my coronation had faded and I was embarking upon what I now realised was the stark reality of
ruling a kingdom. Nevertheless, after only eight months on the throne, I was still new enough at
my job to hope that if I applied myself diligently to my
papers, I could escape into the sunshine to ride and stretch my limbs. As I look back on it now, I see that I was approaching my task as if I were still a resident of my schoolroom, working hard to please my tutor. The sheer relentlessness of my role had not yet become apparent. Before Cecil entered the room, I had been within sight of the end of my labours, and had allowed myself glances at the still bright sunshine outside. As I heard his startling news, all hope of escape was immediately dashed.

‘How so, my lord? The last we heard he was hale and hearty.'

‘A jousting accident. A lance splintered in his face, piercing his eye and brain. The doctors hoped to save him, but to no avail. It was Montgomery's lance, Your Grace – the captain of his Scots guard. Fortunately for him, the king pardoned the Scotsman as he lay dying.'

‘God have mercy on his soul.'

‘Amen, Your Grace.'

The news was disturbing, but it also gave us reason for cautious optimism. King Henry had been a wise and wily ruler, a man who perforce had to be taken seriously. His son was fifteen and, according to all reports, physically frail and deficient in both character and wit. A weaker France is always to be greeted with pleasure in England. But, as I have said, our optimism was cautious. As I knew from my own recent experience, a change of ruler changes everything, and fear is sharpened by change and danger follows the sharpening. I poured myself a glass of wine from the pitcher by my table. If I could not access one form of relaxation then I would allow myself another.

‘Will you share a glass with me, Cecil?'

He nodded and, waving away the servant who had leapt forward to do the task, I poured another for my friend and secretary. I rose from my table and walked towards the window. I could at least look at the gorgeous afternoon.

‘So, if Francois is king, the Queen of Scots is now Queen of France.'

‘Aye, madam.' Cecil drank deeply from the glass. ‘It is a fine vintage, Your Grace.'

‘Aye, French burgundy, fittingly enough.' And we enjoyed it together, silently contemplating what this changing of the guard in France might mean for us.

As I have said, I had thought little about my cousin Mary since gaining my throne. I had much else to occupy myself with, not least, despite all my efforts, the delicate game of placating the most zealous of my Protestant subjects. A jest and a smile might have worked well with Bishop Oglethorpe, but they were not proving as effective with the sterner members of my court.

The ranks of fanatical Protestants in my kingdom were swelling, as those who had fled from my sister's Catholic tyranny returned from Flanders and Geneva and other parts of Protestant Europe where they had taken refuge. They came back to England with their prejudices hardened and their demands for religious conformity ever more vociferous. Of course it was not just my Protestant subjects I could not satisfy; my Catholic ones were just as discontented. I had already begun to realise that it is beyond the powers of even monarchs to please both sides at once, or, as I grumbled increasingly to Cecil, any of them
ever
. Now – thanks to the fatal lance of one of her countrymen – the Queen of Scots had become the focus of my attention for perhaps the first time.

‘A Scotsman, was it?' I broke the silence, a suspicious thought about the splinter that had entered King Henry's brain now entering my own. There was rebellion in Scotland, an uprising against Mary Stuart's formidable mother, Mary of Guise, who ruled Scotland as regent in her daughter's stead.

‘There has been some speculation about that, Your Majesty, but according to Throckmorton it is baseless gossip. Montgomery did not wish to joust with the king and tried to cry off. It was Henry himself who insisted on one final bout.'

‘Bah! How foolish to tempt fate when your own is not the only one at stake. At least that is one fear you need not have for me, Cecil. I will never be foolhardy on the jousting field.'

‘Nay, Your Majesty, but I have seen you fearless on a horse.'

‘You do my fearing for me, good master secretary, so I have no need of it.' I jested with my councillor, but I was already aware of just how many men's necks relied on my continued good health. At least Henry had an heir of his own blood and his own religion. Mary of Scotland was the natural heir to me, and a follower of the old faith. A fact not lost on those who most feared it, nor on those to whom it offered great comfort and hope. ‘She has styled herself Queen of England from birth, has she not?'

‘Aye, madam. That she has.'

‘I remember. I was only nine when she was born, but even then I thought her a greedy little infant, hungry for crowns.'

‘Now she has the crown of France, perhaps she can be persuaded to give up her claim on that of England.'

‘Perhaps, my lord – though if I were the new Queen of France, I would not do so. It remains a chip to be bargained with and I would never give one of those away without receiving something of value in return.'

‘Not all women are as wise as Minerva, Your Grace. Indeed, I have only ever met one.' He smiled at me shyly. Cecil has always been a ponderous flirt, but unlike others with more honeyed tongues, he meant what he said.

Damn that Scotsman and his deadly lance! I have always loathed his brutish race: they have caused me to lose more sleep than even those savages the Irish. A jousting Scot may have inadvertently brought me to the state that I find myself in almost thirty years later – with my head aching and my eyes red and sore from the tears I have shed. Had Henry retired from the field that day, as he was advised, Mary may yet have kept her head and I my unblemished conscience. But these are foolish longings. Fate is as fate does. There is no avoiding it.

How little I worried about the young Queen of France in that golden summer of 1559, the first year of my reign. She was safely across the Channel, married to the young king of another country. Her likeliest fate was to be the mother of kings of France and of Scotland. Cecil, my privy council and I discussed the possibility that a son of hers could perhaps one day unite the kingdoms of Scotland, England and France. Indeed, it caused my privy council and me some amusement, as I recall, to think of the consternation such an outcome would cause our common enemy, the King of Spain. But such a future seemed remote. I was young and newly on my throne. The men around me were still certain that I would marry and have sons of my own. Little did we then realise that the problem of the Queen of Scots would one day be England's and England's alone. In other words, the problem would be mine.

Ah! Another storm of tears threatens to undo me. I double over, clutching at my belly; the pain of my guilt and shame grips me in my innards and clutches at the softest parts of me. I must have howled aloud, because the door has opened and I can see the face of my cousin and lady-in-waiting Philadelphia Carey peering timidly around it. She reaches towards me as if to enter and offer comfort, but I have had my fill of cousins. I grab blindly at the first object that comes to hand – a large and valuable wineglass half full with a fine bordeaux that I cannot bear to taste. Even in my extremity, I notice a fly floating on its surface.

‘Get out!' I shriek at the poor woman and hurl the glass in her direction. It smashes into a thousand blood-red pieces on the door she has hastily closed.

‘Please return my compliments to His Majesty King Francois, Monsieur l'ambassadeur, and my congratulations on his accession to the throne.'

The new French king's ambassador, Michel de Castelnau, was presenting his credentials.

‘And may I compliment you, Your Grace, on your mastery of the French tongue. It is rare to hear my language spoken with such elegance and refinement by an Englishman, let alone an Englishwoman.'

I had begun to feel slightly irritated by the constant surprise at my ability to string two words together, or wield my authority with a lightness of touch and some wit. Many of the ambassadors, envoys and plenipotentiaries who came to present their credentials as representatives of their masters (and they were, at that time, all masters) reacted to meeting me as if I was an amusing small dog able to perform all manner of tricks. I disliked the assumption of inferiority that was behind their praise, but I held my tongue.

‘My kinswoman, the queen. What can you tell me of her?'

‘She is in fine health, Your Majesty, and will be gratified to hear of your kind enquiry.'

‘She is my closest living relative, as you know: the granddaughter of my father's oldest sister, Margaret, who was also Queen of Scotland. But, alas, we have never met, so I am curious, Monsieur l'ambassadeur, to know what the young Queen of France is like.'

It was not precisely true that she was my closest living relative: my Carey cousins, the children of my mother's older sister, had that honour. But while I could (and did) prefer them and shower them with favours, royal they could never be. Nor could our closeness of blood ever be referred to out loud. They reminded people of my mother and that did me no good at all.

‘She is a great lady.'

‘But what does she look like? Is she dark or fair? Is she tall or short? What colour are her eyes, what colour is her skin, her hair? Is she considered beautiful or not so well-favoured?' I knew I was unlikely to receive plain answers from de Castelnau, but my desire to know more about my royal cousin burned fiercely. I had written to Throckmorton with similar enquiries, but he was clearly besotted with the woman and sent me a description that bordered on that of a lover. My interest was not simply because she was my closest relative; it was also that she was a fellow queen. With the deaths of my brother and my sister, of Queen Catherine Parr and Queen Anne of Cleves, I had gained a throne, but lost all my peers.

‘She is considered fair of face, Your Grace, and has brown eyes and dark hair leavened with flecks of gold. She is tall for a woman. Many men must stretch their necks to meet her eye. She is young and charming and kind. King Francois is lucky indeed to have such a consort.' His answer depressed me. He confirmed what Throckmorton had written. Here was a woman who was indeed formidable. She could bind men to her with charm and beauty. She was nearly ten years my junior and in the flower of her youth. No doubt she would bear the King of France many children. It was as well she was safely across the Channel, where I heartily hoped she would stay.

‘And is she accomplished, my lord? Can she play musical instruments and dance gracefully, read, write and sew a fine seam? Is she a good horsewoman; does she enjoy the hunt?'

‘Indeed, majesty, she is generally considered an accomplished young woman. Not in your league, of course, Your Grace. The superiority of your rare talents is acclaimed throughout Europe.'

‘And is the French queen curious about me?'

‘Ambassador Throckmorton has told me that she asks detailed questions about your appearance, clothing, jewellery and accomplishments at every opportunity.'

This news gratified me more than any flattery. Just as she was my only peer, I was hers. I began to hope we might be of value to one another, as fellow queens. France and England were allies. Our mutual enemy was my erstwhile brother-in-law, King Philip of Spain. But my hopes were dashed almost as soon as they were formed.

‘The King of France is dead, Your Majesty.'

‘Another one?' It was not the news I had expected to hear.

‘Francois.'

‘They are rather careless with their kings in France, it seems.'

‘Aye, madam, it is as well that Henry's widow, Catherine de Medici, has had so many children.'

It was December, just over a year after the young king first sat upon his throne, and not much longer since I occupied mine. I was again at my desk when Cecil came to tell me the news, but I was not yearning to leave it as I had been on that similar occasion a few months before. Not simply because it was now cold and snow fell in flurries outside the window, but also because I had become more realistic about the demands of my office.

Much had happened in the year of 1560. As my ministers and I had long expected, my late sister Mary's widower, Philip of Spain, offered me his hand in marriage. He did it perfunctorily and I was only too happy to reject him – an action that was greeted warmly by my advisors and my countrymen. There were too many bad memories of his Catholic influence upon my sister. No one then thought that my refusal to marry this one man might indicate my intention to refuse any other.

I told everyone I did not wish to marry, but my sister did not believe me, Philip did not, Cecil did not, no one at court believed me, least of all Robin Dudley. My ladies: Kat, even Blanche – who also never married – thought my protestations mere maidenly modesty. Indeed, in those early days, most approved of my reticence. It was seen as becoming and protective of my virginal reputation. But it was not taken seriously.

‘A wise decision, indeed.' Robin Dudley brushed a stray hair from his fine scarlet doublet.

‘There are many more suitable applicants for Your Majesty's hand than the King of Spain. Archduke Charles of Austria remains ardent in his declarations.'

I think Cecil was trying to comfort me in case I felt disappointed that no other man would ever want me. He need not have worried. I knew that I was referred to as the best match in my parish – by which was meant the world.

I was standing beside my chair at the head of the table; I took my seat and motioned my privy councillors to do the same. ‘I am only too happy to refuse my brother-in-law, despite the fact that he is, as yet, the only one of my suitors that I have actually met. You will remember, my lords, that we spent time together during my sister's confinement.'