Queen of This Realm - Plaidy Jean - Страница 47

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Oglethorpe would have liked to refuse, I believed. First he pleaded that he did not possess the necessary robes for such a function, but someone found robes and that excuse was not good enough; and oddly enough it was Bonner who lent his. It was very disturbing to have this conflict within the clergy, but I knew it was what I had to expect. If it meant displeasing the Church to please the people, then I knew what I had to do.

And so I came to the altar and there was anointed—an operation which I did not greatly enjoy as the oil was greasy and smelt vilely—but its significance was great and therefore to be endured.

But how pleased I was to be dressed in my golden mantle while the Bishop put the crown on my head and when I sat in the chair of state and my subjects came and knelt to me to swear allegiance, I was very happy.

Then to the ceremonial banquet in Westminster Hall where I sat in state while Sir Edward Dymoke rode into the hall and made the traditional challenge under the eyes of the eight hundred guests at the long tables and the assembled serving men. I was sure no one present would ever forget that occasion; as for myself it was the one I had dreamed of all through the dangerous years. Now here I sat in my velvet and ermine robes with my crown on my head while two of the greatest noblemen in the land, Lord William Howard and the Earl of Sussex, stood beside me and served me with food and wine. I ate sparingly. I was not a great eater and I had rarely felt less like food. I was in a state of great exultation; I was filled with emotion and determination in equal part. I was making my vows as earnestly as any nun ever did, but instead of dedicating my life to the service of the Church, I was giving mine to my country.

It was not until the early hours of the morning that the feasting was over and I could retire to my bed.

Kat was waiting for me.

“You are exhausted, my love,” she said. “Kat will put you to bed.”

“Kat,” I reminded her, “you will have to remember that I am your Queen.”

“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Tonight you are my tired little one.”

I was very glad to be divested of my robes, too tired to talk, even to Kat.

I lay in my bed and thought about this significant day, and my hopes were all for the future.

THERE WERE LONG TALKS with Cecil and constantly he impressed on me the need to marry.

He said: “The King of France has proclaimed Mary Stuart Queen of England and the Dauphin, King.”

“Let him proclaim,” I retorted. “Words will hurt no one. I have been anointed and crowned Queen. Do you think the people of England would accept Mary Stuart—half Scot, half French, the hated enemies of the country!”

“The people would have to accept what was forced on them. Let us make your position secure, and the best way you can achieve that is by marriage and the bearing of an heir.”

“I have no wish for marriage,” I said.

“It would be wise to take a husband and bear a child,” insisted Cecil.

I did not intend to argue with him further. I would wait until the suitors appeared, which would not be long I was sure. In the meantime I would concern myself with the religious controversy because I knew my people expected me to restore the Reformed Faith and put an end to religious persecution.

I had made up my mind. I would be Head of the Church as my father had been; and there was no need for me to pretend any longer to accept orders from Rome.

Accordingly I wrote to the Princes of Germany, Sweden and Denmark—those lands in which the Protestant Faith had flourished—and I told them that I would like to make bonds of friendship with them since my views coincided with theirs. At the same time I ordered Sir Edward Carne whom my sister had sent to Rome as Ambassador to Pope Paul IV to announce my accession and coronation to His Holiness, asking him also to inform the Pope that I had no intention of using violence against my subjects on account of their religion.

As might have been expected, the Pope was most displeased at this information, but I was not in the least perturbed. If I was to break with Rome my people would not expect me to take orders from him, and his enmity would certainly not harm me in their eyes.

Carne replied that His Holiness was against liberty of conscience and that he could not understand the hereditary rights of one not born in wedlock, and that the nearest relation of Henry VII was, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scotland and Dauphiness of France.

If, however, I chose to place the matter of the right of succession in his hands, he would consider it. I had no doubt that he would—or what his conclusions would be. Thank you very much, I thought. But I decline your generous offer!

What I did do was recall Carne, whereupon the Pope threatened the poor man with excommunication if he left Rome without Papal consent. Poor Carne was in a dilemma. He knew that I was breaking away from Rome and he was a stern Catholic—one of my sister's most trusted adherents. He chose to remain in Rome. I did not blame him. I had said that I did not intend to punish my subjects for worshipping as they pleased, and I meant it.

Even so the Pope was displeased—with me, of course—and he took his revenge on poor Carne and robbed him of his ambassadorial standing and made him governor of an English hospital in Rome.

I told Cecil that we should not insist on his release as at this stage it would be unwise to enter into further conflict with the Pope, and Cecil replied that I was already showing wisdom.

So I dismissed the matter. But I had made my course clear. I knew now the way I had to go.

Religion was only one problem. The overwhelming one in the minds of those about me was marriage. They were all determined that it should take place without delay. Marriage! The subject fascinated me and repelled me. It was not that I did not like men. Indeed I liked them very well. There were two sides to my nature. Oh, I know well that we all have many facets to our character, but to have two so diametrically opposed as those that warred in me made me perhaps unusual. I was shrewd; my wits were quick; I had amazed my teachers with my ability to profit from learning; I possessed those faculties which could make me an able ruler. That was one side. On the other, I was vain, inclined to coquetry; I desired admiration for my person; I craved compliments even though my wiser nature reminded me a thousand times that they were false; I longed for men to pine for love of me even though my wiser self reminded me that they feigned to do so because they were ambitious and lusted after those favors which only a queen could grant. From one side I deluded myself; from the other I saw all—including myself—with the utmost clarity.

Yes, there were two Elizabeths—the one clever and the other foolish; but the foolish one was not so foolish as not to see her folly; and the clever one was not clever enough to stop, or even want to stop, the frivolity of the other.

The foolish one was in love while the shrewd one looked on almost cynically, watching the other closely, knowing that she would never allow her to fall into the trap which could be set for her. The clever one said: “Remember Thomas Seymour.” And the foolish one replied: “It was one of the most exciting times of our life. Seymour was a wonderful man, but no one is quite like Robert Dudley.”

Both acknowledged that there never had been, nor ever could be, a man to compare with Robert Dudley. To ride with him—and his duties demanded that he be constantly at my side—to see the gleam of desire in his eyes when they fell on me, added the greatest pleasure to the thrilling days through which I was living. No matter how often my wise self pointed out that it was in great measure the glittering crown which set Robert's eyes sparkling, still I did not care, and even the cynical one sometimes said: “It might be both, the two of us and the crown.”

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