Just a Queen (16 page)

It is odd to recall that the only person who appeared to be of my mind when it came to using the St Bartholomew's Day massacre as an excuse to dispatch Mary was the ambassador for the disgraced French court, de Salignac.

‘My master, his gracious majesty, King Charles IX, wishes me to explain to you that the execution of the Parisian Huguenots was a necessary precaution against the rebellion that they were plotting to avenge the death of their leader, the traitor Admiral Coligny. We had uncovered a plot against the king's life, Your Grace.'

‘We uncover plots against my life, Monsieur
l'ambassadeur, almost daily, but you do not see us spilling blood in this way. Your fellow Catholics will not rest, it sometimes seems to me, until I am dead and Mary, Queen of Scots – your former queen, if you will forgive me for reminding you, my lord – sits upon it in my stead.'

‘My master also begs Your Majesty not to exact any revenge or punishment on the Queen of Scots in response to this unfortunate incident. He wants me to assure you that she is wholly innocent of this matter and knew nothing of it.'

‘Tell your master he can rest assured of that at least. The Queen of Scots has enough sins of her own to account for without ascribing to her those of other people.'

‘Your Majesty as usual shows great wisdom and mercy, two qualities for which you are rightly celebrated throughout Christendom.'

‘That's as may be, my lord, but I am not of a mind to forgive your master for his crimes against innocents so quickly.'

‘Your Grace, as the king has asked me to explain on his behalf, Admiral Coligny and his murderous followers were threatening rebellion, treachery and assassination. The man had gathered an army and it was a case of strike them before they struck at the king. Furthermore, Your Majesty—'

I could stand no more of this and I cut de Salignac off in mid-sentence. ‘Even if everything has happened as the king has said, and the conspirators have been rightly punished, what blame was attributable to the women and children – aye, even the suckling babes – who were murdered?'

To his credit, de Salignac (not himself a vicious man) could think of no response to this and wisely he remained silent.

Nineteen

Even as I look at my ravaged face in the mirror, it is hard for me to believe that so much time has passed. Without the flatterers to tell me otherwise, I can see that I look every day of my years, with my blackened teeth and the wrinkles on my skin and the loose flesh at my jaw. If I pull up my aging skin with my fingers and squint my eyes a little, I look as I did ten years ago, but when I let go and my flesh falls, my spirits fall too. Maybe my cousin is fortunate to have departed this life before time has done its worst damage. She will be remembered as a younger woman for as long as she is remembered. History will pay homage to her as a young and beautiful queen who bewitched men with her charms. I will be remembered as a dried-up old spinster who made the business of men her own.

My cousin was scarce forty-five when she died, but while her span of years was much shorter than my own she lived more during her time on earth than I have ever done. She travelled over the seas, and was brought up in the French court as was my mother. I have never left my own kingdom. I have not been to Scotland or Wales. God's tooth, I've never even been to Yorkshire, Cornwall or Cumbria!

Mary was married, not once, not twice, but three times. Her last husband, the villain Bothwell, died a terrible death some ten years ago. They say he ended his days chained to a pillar in a dungeon in Denmark. They say his captivity turned him raving mad and he expired, calling down curses on the heads of everyone he had ever known and gibbering that demons and the devil were beckoning him hence. Did his wife mourn him, I wonder? Or did she curse him? I hope it was the latter, for it was his desire for her and, no doubt, her answering desire for him that destroyed
her reputation, stole her throne and caused her to end her
days as my prisoner.

Nevertheless, she has known the love of men, known what it feels like to be held and caressed by someone who loved and hungered for her. I have not known such feelings and now know for certain I never will. She has borne a child, and I never will. These are common things, the stuff that even the meanest peasant girl's life is made of, but they are not for me. My womb is barren, my breasts dry and empty, my body has never known a man. I have lived and I will die a virgin.

It is as I have wished it. I once told parliament that even if I were a milkmaid with a pail on my arm, whereby my private person might be of little importance, I would not forsake that poor and single state to match with a monarch. And when I told them so, I meant every word of it as a simple truth, and yet … and yet … I cannot help but sometimes yearn for what I have not had. It makes me shiver, as I lie in my great bed, after Blanche has closed the curtains and I am quite alone. Sometimes I weep for … I know not quite what, but perhaps, for the things I have not had. A mother to hold and comfort me, a father who I was not afraid of, a sister who was not my enemy, and a brother whom I would not lose at the tender age of nine. Truth be told, I mostly weep for the loss of a man. I have loved Robin, my eyes, all my life, since we were children. And he has loved me, I think, as best he could, given that I needs must hold him always at arm's length. I have seen the love and admiration in his eyes, I have felt the hot urgency of his body's need for me and it has taken every ounce of my will not to give in to his desire and my own. We still love one another, I think. But it is a calmer love and this is one of the few graces of passing time. Maybe our love is like that of an older couple who have been wed many years and whose fondness remains steady but whose passion has burned itself out.

I was about Mary's age when I finally and completely
realised that what some see as woman's whole
occupation – love – would not occupy me for a moment.

It was a beautiful spring day and I was taking the air in the garden. Mary Sidney was playing the lute, I think, and Bess Throckmorton and I were playing idly at skittles. Blanche, Philadelphia and others of my ladies sat about on cushions on the lawn, some making daisy chains, some playing cards and others simply gossiping quietly under a blue sky. In their brightly coloured dresses, they looked like so many exotic flowers scattered upon the grass, as if some rude boy had come along and beheaded all the roses. I was not having much good fortune with the game. Bess was much younger than me and had a sharper eye and a firmer throw. I did not much care; it was fine to feel the sun on my back and to bend and stretch my limbs after my accustomed hours behind my desk, no matter how incompetent my aim. I rather enjoyed laughing at my own foolishness. It gave me the illusion, even if only for a few short hours, that I was just a woman, among other women, an equal among friends.

Bess had knocked all the skittles down with her previous bowl, but three of mine remained. The last time I released the ball, I had not put enough force behind it and it stopped before it reached the pins. This time, determined not to make such a pathetic attempt again, I put too much force into my pitch. The ball still failed to hit any of the skittles, merely hurtling past them and on down the hill, gaining momentum as it went.

‘I will fetch it, Your Majesty.' Philadelphia Carey was already leaping from her cushion. I gestured for her to retain her seat. I wanted to hold onto the illusion of equality for just a little longer.

‘It is my mistake. I must bear the consequences of it.' I picked up my skirts and ran after the rogue ball, pleased to have an excuse to stretch my legs and use my muscles freely. The grass was soft under my slippers and freshly mown. I liked the sharp, vegetable scent of it. The ball hit a low stone wall around a garden bed and ricocheted sharply, changing direction. It rolled around the corner of the terrace and out of sight. I followed it and saw that it had come to rest against a step leading to a door. As I bent to pick it up, I noticed something else on the step: it was an envelope propped up against the door jamb. It was addressed to me.

As I pondered this unexpected discovery, a guard came around the corner on his regular watch.

‘Did you see who left this here, when last you came by?'

‘No, Your Grace.'

‘It must be someone very familiar with my habits, to know that I would likely return inside through this particular entrance.'

‘Indeed so, Your Grace. But I have seen many out and about in the gardens who reside at court. Many of the great lords and ladies, and lower folk too – but all faces I recognised who were about legitimate business. I saw no one suspicious, Your Grace, and be assured I look out for strangers especially.'

‘No doubt you do, my good man. Never mind. It is only an envelope. Some petition, no doubt, some gripe about an injustice.'

And suddenly I felt weary where a moment ago I had felt so carefree. Could I never escape the importunings of others? Not even for a few minutes? I turned away from the bemused guard and began to walk wearily back to my ladies. I almost crumpled the letter and tossed it aside, but curiosity and a sense of my duty made me open it.

‘Send for my carriage!' I barked at my factotum as I strode indoors.

‘What is it, Your Majesty? Are you quite well?' Blanche had followed me inside, her face a picture of anxiety.

‘Did you know about Robin … the Earl of Leicester?' I could see by her face that she did. I spun on my heel and confronted each of my ladies in turn. They had all clattered inside by now, clutching their cushions, skittles and instruments.

‘Did you?' (I pointed at Bess Throckmorton.) ‘And you?' (At Philadelphia.) ‘And you, Mary Sidney, you too? Well, of course, you must have known. (She was, after all, Robin's sister.) ‘But why, why did you not tell me?'

All eyes were downcast. All lips were silent.

‘How you must have been laughing at me, behind your hands.' As I said this, I almost lost my composure. I could not bear the image of my own naivety. I could not bear to think that, far from fellow feeling, my ladies had known a secret that I did not, and not one had thought to tell me.

‘Oh, no, Your Grace. Never say so, never think so. We were … we didn't know.'

Mary Sidney, always gentle and compassionate was close to tears too.

‘You pitied me! How dare you, any of you? It is not your place to pity me!'

‘No, indeed not, Your Grace. We neither laughed, nor pitied. We were astonished.' Blanche spoke gently. I ignored her and kept my focus on the sister of the man who had betrayed me.

‘He's your brother, Mary. How can I forgive you for keeping his betrayal from me?' And I heard the catch in my voice and waved them away. ‘Get you gone, all of you, out of my sight. I will have the story from the bridegroom himself; either that or clap him in the Tower.'

Alone in my carriage, as we clattered through the London streets towards Leicester House, I covered my face with my hands. It was not just the hurt of discovering that the man whose love and admiration I relied upon had secretly married another, but the humiliation. All around me knew that I had been tossed aside – like any wench. I who had always prided myself on my good sense and masculine judgment, even I could be made to look a fool by a handsome man.

I did not wait to be announced when I arrived at Robin's home, but stormed into his presence clutching the letter in my hand. He was seated by the fire. A manservant was engaged in pulling off his boots. When Robin saw me, he leapt up with one boot still on, the other off. His manservant fell back and almost toppled into the hearth.

‘Your Majes—'

‘Leave us!'

The manservant scurried from the room, one muddy boot in hand. Robin took an uneven step towards me, an arm outstretched. ‘You must let me explain.'

‘Lettice Knollys? You have married Lettice Knollys?'

‘I—'

‘She is young and beautiful, I grant you that. You have done well for yourself, my lord!'

‘No, but—'

‘To do it in secret, behind my back. Everyone knew. Everyone! Except me. You have humiliated me – tossed me aside like some low-born wench!'

Robin fell to his knees and I could see the fear in his eyes. My heart sank, I did not want to have this discussion as queen to subject, but as woman to man.

‘Your Majesty, I love you as I have always loved you and will always love you.'

‘That means little. Since I am your queen, you are bound by oath of fealty to love me.'

‘As my queen, of course I do, but as Elizabeth, the woman too – you know that.'

‘Yet you have married the Countess of Essex, Francis Knollys' daughter. I assume you love her. You have enough money, land and titles. I have seen to that.'

‘You have been very generous, Your Grace, more generous than I deserve.'

‘So it would seem, my lord, so it would seem. And you are both beyond the age for children.'

‘She has a fine son and I would have an heir, even if not by blood.'

The wistfulness that accompanied his words made me pause and tears began to flow. ‘Do you not think I yearn for children too, aye, and for a husband? For you, Robin?'

‘Yet you tell all who will listen that by choice you would live and die a virgin. When a suitor is suggested to you, you toy with the idea, but I have never believed that you would actually marry. Not me, not anyone.'

‘If I could marry it would only ever have been you.'

‘But why could you not? You are the queen; you can do as you wish.'

‘You are a fool if you believe that.'

‘We could have married once.'

‘No, my lord, we could not. Had I married you when your first wife died in such mysterious circumstances, I would be the one mouldering behind bars, not the Queen of Scotland.'

‘I had nothing to do with Amy's death! I was exonerated!'

‘I know that. Nonetheless, her death was the worst thing that could have happened to us. If she had died of her illness, maybe we could have wed, but when she died as she did that possibility disappeared forever.'

Robin looked at me, tears coursing down his cheeks. The sight softened my heart. I was sure of his love and I could see that we were both caught on the horns
of the same dilemma. But he could have the comfort of
another woman's love, aye, and another man's child to raise, while I could have neither. The thought made me sob aloud. With two steps, Robin was beside me, his arms around me. His lips kissing my eyes, my cheeks, my lips, mine answering and kissing his.

‘My love, my life, it was the last thing I ever wanted to do, to hurt you. It was not my intention, but I have been so unbearably lonely' He mumbled his soothing words against my skin, between kisses and they made me sob – great heaving sobs as I gave in to the reality of my abandonment, my loneliness, my isolation. He held me until I had cried myself out, stroking the back of my hair and making clucking noises as you would to a child. I knew it would probably be the last time he could hold me so and when I had exhausted my tears, I gently disengaged myself and sniffed.

‘Why did you not tell me, even as a friend?'

‘You would have forbidden it.'

‘Yes, I would. You love her that much?'

‘I love her and I love you, but I can have her and I cannot have you.'

I nodded and he passed me his handkerchief and I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. ‘I could have you committed to the Tower.'

‘I know.'

‘I have not decided yet what I will do. Everyone will be talking.'

‘They will.'

‘Already have been.'

‘I am sorry for that.'

‘Don't imagine that I will meet your wife. She must not come to court. That I could not bear. Too hard.'

‘We expected as much.'

‘You must go too. I cannot have you about or bear to see you and hear the whispers that will follow you. I cannot have people's pity. I must have their respect.'

‘Your Majesty.' He bowed.

‘I will tell you when you can return to my presence. It will not take forever, but I do not know how long it will be.'