The Tudor Heritage

The Tudor Heritage

Lynda M. Andrews

One

Sir Richard Allgrave drew his cloak firmly around his shoulders for the autumn morning was chilly and a stiff wind blew from the river heralding the colder months to come. He was a tall man who sat erect in the saddle. His dark hair was covered by his fashionable, black velvet hat and whose brocade and velvet garments proclaimed him a gentleman. His dark brown eyes were sombre but the mouth, half hidden in the clipped beard, was the mouth of a compassionate man.

His horse picked its way through the narrow, cobbled streets where the overhanging gables of black-beamed houses practically shut out the daylight. Keeping well clear of the open sewer which ran the length of every street and lane and which during the hot summer months gave off a foul stench, and weaving in and out of the piles of rubbish, which the inhabitants of the houses insisted upon throwing into the streets to be scavenged and scattered by gaunt, starving dogs, he made his way from London Bridge up Ludgate Hill towards St. Paul’s.

He passed the gibbets from which hung the rotting corpses of criminals. Passed too, the miscreants in the stocks and the pillory without a cursory glance, for these were familiar sights in London in the autumn of 1560.

The shops were numerous in this section of the City but he barely glanced at them. These shops were the home, workshop and market-place of their owners whose wares lay spread out upon the wooden shutter which also served as a counter. Above their doors the gaily painted signs, depicting every conceivable craft, swung in the wind. The cries of the ’prentices (bawled at the top of their voices) proclaiming the variety and quality of their masters’ wares fell on deaf ears for Sir Richard was deep in thought.

His reason for being abroad that day was a summons from his friend and associate William Cecil, Principal Secretary to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I.

As it was a respectable distance from his home to that of the Queen’s minister he had plenty of time to contemplate the reason for the summons.

I wonder what Her Gracious Majesty is up to now? he mused to himself, although experience was rapidly convincing him that Elizabeth Tudor was as equally unpredictable as his own wife.

It was just a year since Elizabeth had come to the throne after a neglected childhood and precarious youth and there had been a time when it was feared that she would not live to succeed her sister Mary, of infamous memory. But Elizabeth had managed to survive all the pitfalls to finally ascend the throne. Upon her accession she had had little reason to be overjoyed. He recalled the description one ambassador had given of her legacy.

The Queen poor, the realm exhausted, the nobility poor and decayed. Want of good captains and soldiers. The people out of order. Justice not executed. All things dear. Excess in meat, drink and apparel. The French King bestride the realm, having one foot in Calais and the other in Scotland. Steadfast enmity but no steadfast friendship abroad. It was a fair description. He had also heard England described at that time as a bone set between two dogs—the dogs in question being France and Spain. Elizabeth had managed in that short time to make some headway although it was automatically assumed that she could not reign alone for much longer.

Slowly, feeling her way cautiously at first, she had led her country back to the Protestant faith and had repealed all the laws appertaining to religion that had been passed in her sister’s reign. At the same time she had firmly resisted the radical demands of the wolves coming out of Geneva as the ministers of Calvinism were referred to by their Catholic opponents. She had secretly sent aid to the Protestant Lords in Scotland whilst maintaining an uneasy peace with her brother-in-law of Spain. Peace had also been made with France and the Treaty of Leith concluded with Scotland upon the death of Mary of Guise who until her death had been acting Regent for her daughter Mary Stuart who was also Queen of France.

Mary stubbornly continued to quarter the Arms of England; thereby declaring to the world that she thought she had a better claim to the throne of England than did her cousin Elizabeth and there was little love lost between the two Queens.

Although cousin to Elizabeth, Mary was totally opposite in nature. The anointed Queen of Scotland, she had been taken to the Court of France as a small child and had been spoiled and petted by everyone except her future mother-in-law, whom she had once arrogantly and tactlessly referred to as the daughter of a merchant—a remark which was to earn her the undying enmity of Catherine de Medici.

In contrast Elizabeth had had a precarious youth. Motherless at barely three years old; bastardised and confronted with a succession of step-mothers who either died, were beheaded or divorced. By her sharp wits alone she had managed to extricate herself twice from the threat of execution—once when she was barely fifteen years of age. Elizabeth Tudor was not a person who would easily forgive the claims of another upon her throne.

At length Richard reached the home of William Cecil. He dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to a groom. Upon entering the house he was conducted to a small, oak-panelled study. Cecil sat at a table. A slight, intelligent man nearing his fortieth year. A man shrewd enough to have served the Dukes of Somerset and Northumberland and to have kept his head upon his shoulders. A man cautious enough to have survived the reign of ‘Bloody Mary’. His grandfather had fought with the first Henry Tudor at Bosworth and that far-sighted Welshman’s granddaughter placed great trust in this his grandson.

The preoccupied expression vanished as he caught sight of Richard and he rose smiling.

Ah, Richard, it was good of you to come, he greeted his colleague. Lady Margaret is well?

Yes, indeed, Richard replied, placing his hat and gloves upon a side table.

And the boy?

Richard Allgrave sighed. Edward is well enough but I fear we will never make a Privy Councillor of him, William, for he is too restless of spirit.

He is young, Cecil counselled. Isabelle?

Richard sighed once more. There is much of Margaret in them both but marriage will settle Isabelle. I have settled her dowry with Henry Stangate; she is to be betrothed to his eldest son, James.

Sit down, Cecil said, indicating a chair.

As Richard sat down in the proffered chair the door opened and the steward entered carrying a tray upon which were two goblets and a small flagon of wine.

Good, you will take a little wine? Cecil asked genially, pouring the rich ruby liquid from the flagon and handing one goblet to his friend.

Your good health, Richard toasted him.

To health and prosperity, Cecil replied, seating himself once more at the table.

Both men fell silent.

Well, you have not asked me here to enquire solely about the welfare of my family. What is on your mind? Richard questioned.

Cecil answered slowly. The matter of the Queen’s marriage.

Richard thought he detected a note of weariness in the other’s voice. Ah yes, Her Majesty’s marriage.

It is agreed that she must marry soon, Cecil continued. "The country must have an heir. She cannot continue to reign alone and it would put a stop to this nonsense with Leicester—but she has other views upon the subject.

Richard was incredulous. Surely she cannot mean to hold fast to her statement that she will never marry?

It would appear so. She has quite determinedly refused her brother-in-law, King Philip, and I for one do not blame her. The Archduke Charles has been suggested, so has the King of Sweden, as indeed has every Prince in Christendom.

But surely she realises that she must marry and that for the sake of the realm she must choose one of these princes?

Cecil eyed his friend speculatively. Must is a word that one does not use to Elizabeth Tudor, my friend.

Gloomily Richard nodded his agreement. The outlook for the next meeting of the Privy Council was decidedly stormy. He drained his goblet and pulled himself to his feet. Then we must all stand firmly together this time.

She will put forward all manner of obstacles.

Then we must press her more urgently.

Cecil sighed wearily. I sometimes wonder where it will all end, Richard, she is a very strong willed woman.

But a woman and a woman who must marry. It is her duty and she must be prevailed upon not to shirk that duty.

Cecil nodded. His was the unenviable task of voicing these demands. I have commenced my speech, he said, indicating the parchment upon the table.

Then I shall not detain you, and Richard picked up his hat and gloves and made his way towards the door.

Cecil accompanied him and bade him farewell and Richard Allgrave commenced his journey home.

As he rode he mulled over in his mind his conversation with Cecil. So Elizabeth intends to cling to this folly, he thought. Of course she had repeatedly stated that she had no desire for marriage but no one really believed her. She was wedded to her country, she maintained. Fine and noble though the sentiment was it was inconceivable. The plain fact remained—a woman could not rule alone. Her sister had been eager to wed. True, her choice of husband had been the cause of most of her personal unhappiness and the country’s woes, but the fact remained that she had married but Elizabeth was now quite flatly refusing to do so. She would see reason in time, he concluded, after all Margaret had been most determinedly opposed to marrying herself but had consented in the end and they were happy enough.

In the small still-room which was filled with the sweet odour of herbs which hung drying from the beams and were stored in stone jars upon the shelves, Margaret Allgrave, with the aid of her old nurse Kate Hopwith, was engaged in supervising her daughter Isabelle in the preparation of various scented waters and lotions.

Margaret was a small woman, attractive although plump now whereas a girl she had been slim. Her fair hair was parted in the centre and drawn back beneath a French hood and her claret coloured gown was protected by a white lawn pinafore while her voluminous sleeves were pinned back revealing the fine lawn and lace undersleeves.

She sighed as Kate tutted impatiently.

No, child, no! The rosemary first then the thyme, Kate reprimanded the young girl who was struggling to master the secrets of perfumery.

Isabelle, you really must pay more attention! her mother chided her. Isabelle Allgrave tossed her head.

You will be mistress of your own home one day, her mother continued, and it is necessary that a Lady should have knowledge of these skills.

Why does a Lady need to know how to prepare rosewater, remedies and such like?

Kate was scandalised. Good Queen Katherine was not above preparing rosewater for her husband and she was a daughter of the Royal House of Spain. God rest her soul! she informed the girl and, miss, unless a Lady is capable of supervising her household she has not the respect of those who serve her, she finished tartly. Your mother came to this house not much older than you are now but she laid down proper rules. All servants to be up at six o’clock. The Hall to be swept and fresh rushes laid daily; beds to be made and fireplaces cleaned and set by eight o’clock and the stairs to be dusted and swept once a week.

Seeing that the old woman was bent upon listing the necessary requirements of a good mistress, Margaret sighed and looked affectionately at her daughter. Isabelle was fifteen and plans were being made for her betrothal although this fact had not yet been disclosed to her. She was similar in looks to her mother but slim and decidedly pretty. She also had her mother’s restless spirit which time had yet to quell. She finally managed to master the concoction to Kate’s satisfaction and was relieved to see her mother removing her pinafore.

How I hate these stupid chores. When I am mistress of my own home I shall never mess with these awful herbs, she thought, wrinkling her nose with distaste. I shall take Kate with me and she can do it, she concluded.

Her mother gave her leave to go and watched her sadly as she disappeared knowing that all too soon her first born would leave to become a wife.

How quickly the years pass, she thought as Kate muttered ominously about Isabelle’s prospects of