Queen of This Realm, стр. 75

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.

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 tete-e-tetes 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 Cleves; 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.”