form of heathenism?’
‘Well, yes, there are, but that’s only to be—’
‘The
Queen
… the Queen, as you know, she seeks, if not a middle road, then at least a calmer situation, where each man may worship in his own way so long as he keeps the details of it betwixt himself and God. And within reason.’
Grey cloud was turning the Thames into the Styx, and I felt my patience ebb.
‘Mistress Blanche, you’re evidently not just here to sample my mother’s famous pastries. What is it you wish to say to me that Cecil hasn’t already said?’
‘I…’ My cousin looking, for the first time, uncertain. ‘… I’m here to ask that when you report from the West Country to Sir William Cecil, you’ll bear in mind the Queen’s situation – and our kinship – and report also to me.’
This I had not expected. I was wondering how to proceed without the use of the word
why?
when she came quickly back at me, all the Welshness in her pouring through now apace, words tumbling like mountain water over bedrocks.
‘…because Sir William, as you well know, is a pragmatist who will not permit whatever faith he has to interfere with his political judgement. You’re aware of that, we all are, but the Queen, she is ever troubled over what may be right or wrong in the eyes of God and feels a weight of responsibility, not only to her father’s legacy and what he would wish ofher, but to her subjects, all of them, whom she loves, every man and woman, like her children.’
‘Yes.’
There was indeed a complexity of responsibilities here, to which no previous monarch would have felt the need to respond. Yes, we
were
moving, if more slowly than I would have wished, towards a new enlightenment, and yes the Queen was determined to be an essential part of that process, and yet…
‘Mistress Blanche.’ It was time to meet this good woman halfway. ‘Let me try to identify your dilemma. The question of the Arthurian succession is potentially a more complicated issue now than it was in the days of the Queen’s grandfather—’
‘When there was but one Church,’ she said.
‘The roots of the Arthurian history or legends go beyond all that. May well be pre-Christian. Is this what you’re approaching?’
‘Your family and mine,’ she said, ‘have deep roots in Wales, where the old bards sang of Arthur and his deeds in versions of the story which would indeed shock readers of Malory. Furthermore, in the days of the first Henry Tudor, the entrails of religious belief were not laid out and pulled apart for all to interpret, in the way that they are today.’
None of which would matter much to Cecil, unless it should threaten to cause a collapse in the exchequer. This, evidently, was something private. Something unspoken of outside the Queen’s immediate chambers. I waited. We were, it seemed, getting there.
‘Rumours reach us from abroad,’ Blanche said.
‘As ever.’
‘The Queen has been spending much time with Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, the envoy to Paris.’
‘In relation to what?’
Blanche made no reply. I had the suspicion she didn’t know. And there wasn’t much happening around the Queen that Blanche didn’t know.
‘In France and Spain,’ she said at last, ‘the Queen is regarded with suspicion. And also with
superstition
.’
‘I know.’
When you spend time in Europe, you have to listen to it. All thesupport in Catholic-heavy France is for the Queen of Scots, newly wed to the boy king François.
‘Relating, principally,’ Blanche said, ‘to her mother.’
Who’d gone smiling, it was widely said, to her own execution, in anticipation of being soon united with her infernal master. The lips of Anne Boleyn still forming satanic prayers as her head was held up by the swordsman.
The talk of London and a gift to the pamphleteers of Europe, who wondered how long before the result of the unhallowed union ’twixt the Great Furnace and the witch would be called into the service of that same
‘Well, yes, there are, but that’s only to be—’
‘The
Queen
… the Queen, as you know, she seeks, if not a middle road, then at least a calmer situation, where each man may worship in his own way so long as he keeps the details of it betwixt himself and God. And within reason.’
Grey cloud was turning the Thames into the Styx, and I felt my patience ebb.
‘Mistress Blanche, you’re evidently not just here to sample my mother’s famous pastries. What is it you wish to say to me that Cecil hasn’t already said?’
‘I…’ My cousin looking, for the first time, uncertain. ‘… I’m here to ask that when you report from the West Country to Sir William Cecil, you’ll bear in mind the Queen’s situation – and our kinship – and report also to me.’
This I had not expected. I was wondering how to proceed without the use of the word
why?
when she came quickly back at me, all the Welshness in her pouring through now apace, words tumbling like mountain water over bedrocks.
‘…because Sir William, as you well know, is a pragmatist who will not permit whatever faith he has to interfere with his political judgement. You’re aware of that, we all are, but the Queen, she is ever troubled over what may be right or wrong in the eyes of God and feels a weight of responsibility, not only to her father’s legacy and what he would wish ofher, but to her subjects, all of them, whom she loves, every man and woman, like her children.’
‘Yes.’
There was indeed a complexity of responsibilities here, to which no previous monarch would have felt the need to respond. Yes, we
were
moving, if more slowly than I would have wished, towards a new enlightenment, and yes the Queen was determined to be an essential part of that process, and yet…
‘Mistress Blanche.’ It was time to meet this good woman halfway. ‘Let me try to identify your dilemma. The question of the Arthurian succession is potentially a more complicated issue now than it was in the days of the Queen’s grandfather—’
‘When there was but one Church,’ she said.
‘The roots of the Arthurian history or legends go beyond all that. May well be pre-Christian. Is this what you’re approaching?’
‘Your family and mine,’ she said, ‘have deep roots in Wales, where the old bards sang of Arthur and his deeds in versions of the story which would indeed shock readers of Malory. Furthermore, in the days of the first Henry Tudor, the entrails of religious belief were not laid out and pulled apart for all to interpret, in the way that they are today.’
None of which would matter much to Cecil, unless it should threaten to cause a collapse in the exchequer. This, evidently, was something private. Something unspoken of outside the Queen’s immediate chambers. I waited. We were, it seemed, getting there.
‘Rumours reach us from abroad,’ Blanche said.
‘As ever.’
‘The Queen has been spending much time with Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, the envoy to Paris.’
‘In relation to what?’
Blanche made no reply. I had the suspicion she didn’t know. And there wasn’t much happening around the Queen that Blanche didn’t know.
‘In France and Spain,’ she said at last, ‘the Queen is regarded with suspicion. And also with
superstition
.’
‘I know.’
When you spend time in Europe, you have to listen to it. All thesupport in Catholic-heavy France is for the Queen of Scots, newly wed to the boy king François.
‘Relating, principally,’ Blanche said, ‘to her mother.’
Who’d gone smiling, it was widely said, to her own execution, in anticipation of being soon united with her infernal master. The lips of Anne Boleyn still forming satanic prayers as her head was held up by the swordsman.
The talk of London and a gift to the pamphleteers of Europe, who wondered how long before the result of the unhallowed union ’twixt the Great Furnace and the witch would be called into the service of that same
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