Danger to Elizabeth E-Book

Alison Plowden

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Elizabeth I is perhaps England's most famous monarch. Born in 1533, the product of the doomed marriage of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth was heir to her father's title, then disinherited and finally imprisoned by her half sister Mary. But in 1558, on Mary's death, she ascended the throne and reigned for forty-five years. Respected by her subjects and idolised by future generations, Gloriana's fierce devotion to her country and its people truly made her England's fairest queen and icon. In the wake of the Reformation Europe lay deeply divided by religion. This, the second volume of Alison Plowden's acclaimed Elizabethan quartet, charts the dramatic and multi-faceted struggle between Elizabeth and the Catholics of England and the rest of Europe who, denouncing the queen as a heretic, a bastard and a usurper, threatened to overthrow her and re-establish the supremacy of Rome in all Christendom.

Leseprobe

About the Author

ALISON PLOWDEN was born in India and was formerly a script writer and editor for the BBC. Her television credits include Mistress of Hardwick, for which she won a Writers Guild Award. She is the author of many successful historical books including The House of Tudor, acclaimed by the great historian A.L. Rowse as ‘Simply excellent on every count … impossible to fault in scholarship or writing’. This has recently been re-published by Sutton, where it joins others of her works, including Two Queens in One Isle: The Deadly Relationship of Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots, Tudor Women, The Stuart Princesses and Women all on Fire: The Women of the English Civil War. Alison Plowden lives near Wantage in Oxfordshire.

Praise for Alison Plowden’s Elizabethan Quartet

‘The expert and scholar … ought to give Miss Plowden the fullest marks for remarkable accuracy’

Jasper Ridley

Glasgow Herald

‘a vastly interesting account’

The Times

‘Miss Plowden brings to the whole period perceptive judgment and wide sympathy’

Irish Times

‘it would be difficult to praise too highly Alison Plowden s Danger to Elizabeth … her extraordinarily fine book’

Church Times

‘Enchanting, scholarly and superbly written, warmly recommended’

Charity Blackstock

Books and Bookmen

‘the sustained concentration on the subject and the balanced intellectual control of the elements involved make it the work of a scholar’

Stephen Wade

Catholic Herald

‘Professors have something to learn from perceptive women in penetrating the very feminine psychology of Elizabeth I’

A.L. Rowse

Sunday Telegraph

‘She writes with verve, brevity and often wit … a most entertaining book which, at the same time, is accurate and judicious’

Paul Johnson

Evening News

‘an absorbing portrait of possibly the greatest tease in history’

Publishers’ Weekly, USA

‘a model of clarity’

G.M.Wilson

Times Literary Supplement

For My Mother

With My Love

Contents

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue. This lady and princess

1. A wise and religious Queen

2. There is nothing to be done

3. A beginning has been made

4. All the north is ready

5. God is daily glorified

6. If these fellows stand thus immovable

7. The enterprise is begun

8. And Christ their capitaine

9. All my joints to tremble for fear

10. So long as that devilish woman lives

Epilogue. There is only one Christ Jesus

Notes on Sources

Copyright

PROLOGUE

This lady and princess

‘This lady and princess is a notable woman,’

Francis Knollys, Carlisle, 11 June 1568

AT seven o’clock in the evening of Sunday, 16 May 1568 house-wives in the ‘lytle prety fyssher town’ of Workington, which lay near the mouth of the River Derwent on the coast of Cumberland, were indoors preparing supper; but those people still out and about enjoying the Sabbath air had been able to watch the progress of a small vessel edging into the harbour and tying up at the quayside. The unexpected visitor turned out to be a rough little craft of the type used for inshore fishing and carrying coals and lime across the Solway Firth, but the idlers on the waterfront could see at a glance that her passengers – sixteen of them in all – were neither colliers nor Galloway fishermen. Although tired and travel-stained, these were clearly people of consequence – among them an unusually tall young woman, muffled in cloak and hood, who stumbled and fell as she came ashore.

The strangers sought shelter for the night at Workington Hall, their spokesman (he was John Maxwell, Lord Herries) giving out that he had carried off an heiress whom he was hoping to marry to the son of his old friend Sir Henry Curwen; but by the time darkness had fallen the whole neighbourhood was buzzing with the news that the tall young woman was none other than the already legendary Mary Queen of Scots, deposed and imprisoned by her ungrateful subjects and now fleeing for her life. Henry Curwen happened to be away from home but one of his servants, a Frenchman, had recognised the Queen as soon as she crossed the threshold and told a member of her entourage that he had formerly seen Her Majesty in better plight than now.

The reasoning which lay behind Mary’s rash decision to throw herself on the protection of her cousin, Elizabeth of England, remains obscure. It was a decision taken, as she herself later admitted, against the advice of her best friends. In the six and a half years which had passed since her return to her northern kingdom it was by no means the first time that the Queen of Scots had refused to listen to advice. Certainly the stubborn determination to go her own way was characteristic enough, as was her gambler’s instinct to stake all on a single throw.

During her brief period of freedom – it was just over a fortnight since she had escaped from Lochleven Castle with the assistance of Willy Douglas – Mary had sent Elizabeth a full account of her predicament. Now she wrote again from Workington Hall on Monday, 17 May, ending with a moving plea for help: ‘I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible, for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a Queen but even for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but the clothes in which I escaped, riding sixty miles the first day and not daring to travel afterwards except by night, as I hope to be able to show you, if it please you to have compassion on my great misfortunes and permit me to come and bewail them to you.’

Mary can scarcely have finished this letter before she was ceremoniously waited on by a deputation of local gentry, who conducted her a few miles inland to the town of Cockermouth. There Sir Richard Lowther, deputy governor of Carlisle, ‘made his attendance’ upon her and it was agreed that she should spend that night in the house of a well-to-do merchant, one Master Henry Fletcher. When Mary told the Queen of England that she had nothing but the clothes she stood up in, she had, it seems, been speaking the literal truth. Richard Lowther noted that ‘her grace’s attire is very mean, and as I can learn, hath not any better, neither other wherewith to change’. Henry Fletcher is said to have presented his guest with thirteen ells of crimson velvet, and a black cloth gown was hastily made up for her on credit.

Anxious not to be outdone in matters of hospitality, Richard Lowther ‘ordered her charges at Cockermouth to be defrayed’, and himself provided horses to carry her and her train on the remainder of the journey to Carlisle. Lowther was not at all certain about the protocol governing the reception of refugee queens who had made their own realms too hot to hold them – especially a queen who represented the sort of political dynamite that Mary Stuart did – and he begged Sir William Cecil for instructions. Meanwhile, he intended to keep the fugitive safe at Carlisle Castle with such entertainment as he could provide ‘on such sudden’.

Mary had been considerably cheered by the kindness of her welcome. The warm-hearted (and predominantly Catholic) North Country folk were touched by her plight, besides being naturally curious to catch a glimpse of so romantic a figure as the Queen of Scots, and they came flocking in to Carlisle to pay their respects. Mary’s naturally buoyant spirits rose and, in a letter dated 20 May, she told the Earl of Cassilis that she expected to be back in Scotland at the head of an army, French if not English, by the middle of August.

By 20 May the news of her arrival had reached London. It cannot have been entirely unexpected. Queen Elizabeth had known for at least a week about her cousin’s escape from captivity and the possibility that Mary might be driven to cross the border must certainly have occurred to her. Elizabeth Tudor had in the past been given small reason to feel any personal affection for Mary Stuart but, as she had already made abundantly clear to the Scots, she held strong views on subjects who, whatever the provocation, forced their sovereign to abdicate, held her prisoner and threatened her very life. According to the French and Spanish ambassadors, Elizabeth’s first impulse had been to take Mary’s part and receive her at Court, but a majority on the Council quickly over-ruled their mistress’s instinctive desire to show solidarity with the afflicted Queen of Scotland. ‘Although these people are glad enough to have her in their hands,’ wrote the Spanish ambassador, ‘they have many things to consider. If they keep her as in prison, it will probably scandalise all neighbouring princes, and if she remain free and able to communicate with her friends, great suspicions will be aroused. In any case,’ added Guzman de Silva with studied understatement, ‘it is certain that two women will not agree very long.’

The English Council, only too conscious of the many things they had to consider, at once ‘entered into serious deliberation’ as to what should be done with the Queen of Scots – Elizabeth’s Catholic, de facto if unacknowledged heir, who had ‘heretofore openly challenged the crown of England, not as a second person after the Queen’s majesty, but afore her’.

At the age of twenty-five Mary had already succeeded in leaving a quite considerable trail of havoc behind her. Widely suspected of complicity in the assassination of her second husband at Kirk o’Field the year before, she had not improved matters by marrying again, three months later, ‘the principal murderer’ James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. It was this unconventional course of action which had led to her downfall and Scotland was now controlled by her bastard half-brother, the Earl of Moray, ruling in the name of her infant son and the Protestant Kirk. Moray, strongminded and capable, showed every sign of being able to provide his countrymen with some much needed stability and, if he was left undisturbed, of pursuing a policy of peaceful co-existence with England. He had, after all, been accepting an English pension for some years.

In the circumstances, therefore, Mary’s sudden eruption into their midst presented the English government with an embarrassing problem. ‘If she were detained in England,’ says William Camden, ‘they reasoned lest she (who was as it were the very pith and marrow of sweet eloquence) might draw many daily to her part which favoured her title to the crown of England, who would kindle the coals of her ambition, and leave nothing unassayed whereby they might set the crown upon her head. Foreign ambassadors would further her counsels and designs; and the Scots then would not fail her, when they should see so rich a booty offered them.’ Besides this, Camden observed, ‘the trust of keepers was doubtful’.

If Mary were to die in England, even though from natural causes, it would be made a ‘matter of calumniation’ and Elizabeth would be ‘daily molested with new troubles’. If she were allowed to go over to France, her powerful kinsmen there would stir up a hornets’ nest on her behalf in both Scotland and England. On the other hand, for Elizabeth to attempt to restore her to her Scottish throne by force of arms would be to invite civil war in Scotland, disruption of the precious, none too secure ‘amity’ with that country, and a possible revival of the old Franco-Scottish alliance which had been the cause of so much ill-feeling and bloodshed in the past. In any case, it was unthinkable that a Catholic monarch should be re-imposed on a Protestant kingdom with the help of other Protestants. At the same time, it had to be remembered that Mary had sought refuge in England of her own volition, trusting in Elizabeth’s many previous – and public – promises of help. She could not now with any appearance of decency be handed back to her enemies. It was a situation calling for the most careful handling in the long term, but some action had to be taken quickly. On 22 May, therefore, Elizabeth sent her Vice-Chamberlain, Sir Francis Knollys, an old and trusted friend, to take charge at Carlisle. He found Mary recovering rapidly from the rigours of her escape and flight, and full of an articulate sense of grievance over the wrongs she had suffered in Scotland. Knollys, an ardent left-wing Protestant, was immediately impressed both by her charismatic personality and her other formidable qualities. She had ‘an eloquent tongue and a discreet head’, he reported, ‘and it seemeth by her doings she hath stout courage and liberal heart adjoined thereto.’

After an uneasy fortnight in her company, Knollys saw no reason to change his opinion. ‘This lady and princess is a notable woman,’ he wrote on 11 June. ‘She seemeth to regard no ceremonious honour beside the acknowledging of her estate regal. She showeth a disposition to speak much, to be bold, to be pleasant, and to be very familiar. She showeth a great desire to be avenged of her enemies. She showeth a readiness to expose herself to all perils in hope of victory. She delighteth much to hear of hardiness and valiancy, commending by name all approved hardy men of her country, although they be her enemies, and she concealeth no cowardice even in her friends. The thing that most she thirsteth after is victory, and it seemeth to be indifferent to her to have her enemies diminished either by the sword of her friends, or by the liberal promises and rewards of her purse, or by division and quarrels raised among themselves: so that for victory’s sake pain and peril seemeth pleasant to her: and in respect of victory, wealth and all things seemeth to her contemptible and vile. Now what is to be done with such a lady and princess?’ enquired Francis Knollys, with a certain rhetorical flourish, of his friend William Cecil.

No one, least of all either of the rival queens, could have foretold that it would be eighteen years before history provided its inexorable answer to that question.

CHAPTER ONE

A wise and religious Queen

‘We have a wise and religious Queen’

John Jewel, London, 22 May 1559

WHEN Elizabeth Tudor succeeded to her sister’s throne in November 1558 she was the same age as Mary Stuart at the time of her flight into England, but Elizabeth at twenty-five was still very much of an unknown quantity. This was partly due to the fact that she had spent most of the previous five years either in prison or living in rural retirement under some form of surveillance, and partly to the habits of discretion and dissimulation acquired during her precarious adolescence, However, as it became obvious that the ailing, unhappy Mary Tudor would leave no other heir, international curiosity about the young Elizabeth had intensified, and in 1557 the Venetian ambassador included a detailed description of the Princess in his report on his tour of duty in England. Her face, wrote Giovanni Michiel, was comely rather than handsome, but she was tall, well-formed and with a good skin, although sallow. She had fine eyes and very beautiful hands which she took care to display.

Even in her early twenties, the pale, sharp-featured, red-haired Elizabeth had never been able to compete with her Scottish cousin’s fabled beauty, but she possessed other attributes which were to prove of greater value in the long-drawn-out battle between them. As early as 1557, Michiel could comment respectfully on the excellence of her mind and on the wonderful intellect and understanding she had shown when facing danger and suspicion. She was proud, too, and haughty, he declared, in spite of the fact that her birth was regarded as illegitimate by most of Christian Europe and that her mother, the great-granddaughter of a London mercer, had once been commonly referred to as that goggle-eyed whore Nan Bullen. Nevertheless, Elizabeth it seemed did not regard herself as being of inferior degree to her half-sister the Queen, whose mother had been a Spanish princess of irreproachable lineage and virtue. ‘She prides herself on her father and glories in him’, wrote Michiel, adding that her resemblance to Henry VIII was remarked by everybody.

Elizabeth’s greatest source of strength in the dismal days of her sister’s reign had always been her immense popularity, especially with the Londoners, and her accession was greeted with a spontaneous outburst of public rejoicing which has seldom been equalled. The uninhibited warmth of her welcome cannot be explained away by mere desire for a change, or relief that the transition had been accomplished peacefully. In the decade which had passed since King Henry’s death, the nation had suffered from the rule of greedy, factious juntas during the minority of Edward VI and the unpopular, inefficient government of a Queen accused of loving Spaniards and hating Englishmen. Mary Tudor had indeed leaned heavily on Spanish advisers and on her Spanish husband, who had ended by dragging the country into a ruinous war with France, culminating in the loss of Calais, last outpost of England’s once great Continental empire.

Some people doubted whether another woman ruler would be much of an improvement, but there seems to have been a widespread, intuitive feeling that Henry VIII’s younger daughter was a genuine chip off the old block. Elizabeth was at least a full-blooded Englishwoman, unencumbered by foreign ties. Most important of all, she was young and healthy and with any luck would bear healthy sons. That apart, in the winter of 1558, she looked like being England’s last hope of peace and good government for a long time to come, and one senses an undercurrent of rather desperate optimism in the cheers, the pealing bells and salutes of guns which greeted the new Queen as she rode in procession through the City to the Tower on 28 November.

Among the legacy of problems Elizabeth had inherited from her sister were a restive, divided kingdom, an empty Treasury and a mountain of debt. The international situation, too, looked grim, with ‘steadfast enmity but no steadfast friendship abroad’. Technically England was still at war with France – ‘the French King’, in Armagil Waad’s picturesque phrase, ‘bestriding the realm, having one foot in Calais and the other in Scotland’. The first task facing the new administration, therefore, was to make peace on the best terms it could get, and it did not seem as if they would be very good. As well as possessing all the military and strategic trumps, the French held a strong political card in their control of young Mary Stuart, granddaughter of Henry VIII’s elder sister Margaret who had married James IV of Scotland.

In the eyes of the Catholic world which, of course, had never recognised the King of England’s famous divorce, Mary had a far better legal claim to the English throne than Henry’s daughter, born during the lifetime of his first wife. Elizabeth had, after all, been bastardised and disinherited by her own father in a still unrepealed Act of Parliament, and her present title was based on another Act of 1544 restoring her to the succession. The English Catholics, led by the Lord Chancellor, Nicholas Heath, had accepted her on the strength of her parliamentary title. The French, however, were less convinced of either Henry’s or Parliament’s competence to manipulate the natural laws of inheritance, and in December 1558 Lord Cobham reported from Brussels that they ‘did not let to say and talk openly that Her Highness is not lawful Queen of England and that they have already sent to Rome to disprove her right’. A few weeks later, Sir Edward Carne was writing from Rome that ‘the ambassador of the French laboreth the Pope to declare the Queen illegitimate and the Scottish Queen successor to Queen Mary’.

The King of France had every reason to take a close interest in this matter, since Mary Stuart, who had been brought up in France, was now married to the Dauphin while her mother, Mary of Guise, ruled Scotland with French support. If the Queen of Scots’ right to the English throne could be established, it opened up a tempting prospect of French hegemony. So at least it seemed to several experienced English politicians, among them Nicholas Wotton, one of the Commissioners at the preliminary peace talks being held at Cercamp.

Wotton was pessimistic about their prospects of coming away with anything more than ‘a piece of paper only containing the words of a treaty of peace’, and he wrote to William Cecil gloomily outlining the various causes which moved him to doubt the sincerity of the French. These included ‘the ancient and immortal hatred they bear unto us … the pretence they make now by the Scottish Queen’s feigned title to the crown of England; the occasion and commodity they have now to invade us by land on Scotland side … the most dangerous divisions in religion among ourselves … the poor state the crown of England is in for lack of money, which I fear they understand too well; the lack of good soldiers, captains and of all kind of munition that we have; the nakedness of all our country, having almost never a place well fortified to sustain a siege; the great commodity which they look to have thereby, if they may subdue England to them; for, bringing once that to pass, (which God forbid) and having England, Scotland and Ireland, no doubt they would look shortly after to be monarchs of almost all Europe; and so were they like to be indeed.’ Wotton also regarded Mary Stuart’s ambitious Guise relations with the gravest misgivings, ‘considering that the House of Guise’s greatness and authority dependeth chiefly upon the great commodity that France hath and looketh to have by this marriage of Scotland. And therefore, whatsoever they shall say, sing or pipe, their meaning and intent can be none other but to seek all the means possible to increase the power and honour of their niece the Queen of Scots and of her posterity.’

The fact that the sixteen-year-old Mary was now quartering the royal arms of England with her own and was styled Queen of England in official documents, appeared to reinforce Wotton’s forebodings. As it turned out, however, the King of France was not so much interested in embarking on military adventures on behalf of his daughter-in-law as in using her potential status as a lever to extort concessions from the English Commissioners. For example, when the question of the restitution of Calais was raised at the conference table, the French were able to enquire blandly: to whom should Calais be restored? Was not the Queen of Scotland true Queen of England?

This sort of talk naturally infuriated Queen Elizabeth, but she and her advisers knew that without Spanish assistance there was not the slightest chance of recovering Calais. They also knew – as did the King of France – that Philip II, King of Spain, Naples and Sicily, Lord of the Netherlands and widower of Mary Tudor, while showing no disposition to help England in the matter of Calais, would go to considerable lengths to prevent France from interfering in the matter of the succession. Philip might be a zealous Catholic, but he was also a practical statesman who infinitely preferred to see an English queen of doubtful orthodoxy on the English throne, than one half-French by birth and wholly French in sympathy.

Nevertheless, although for the time being, Mary Stuart’s very Frenchness was paradoxically a safeguard, the question of her claim remained a source of anxiety and possible danger. The ‘auld alliance’ between France and Scotland had been a running sore in England’s side for generations. It was unfortunate that just now, when the body politic seemed least able to deal with it, this complaint should be present in an acute form.

The other immediate task facing the new Queen of England and her government was the particularly delicate one of making a religious settlement at home. Ironically enough, it had been to ensure her own birth in wedlock that Elizabeth’s father, a quarter of a century earlier, had separated England from the body of the Roman Church and had thus helped to destroy the unity of Christendom – that seamless garment of common discipline and belief which had covered the whole of mediaeval Western Europe. Henry’s Reformation had been a deliberate political act and, although explicitly denying the authority of the Pope, his Church retained many of the basic tenets of Roman Catholicism.

As long as he lived, the old King had ridden both conservative spirits and more radical reformers with a tight rein, but after his death the radicals quickly took the bit between their teeth. Doctrinal and liturgical innovations followed one another thick and fast. Old rites and ceremonies were abolished, the clergy were permitted to marry, heresy laws were swept away, it was ordained that the laity should henceforward communicate in both kinds, and on Whitsunday 1549 Cranmer’s first English Book of Common Prayer became the official and obligatory order of service in every parish church. Based on the old Sarum use, Cranmer’s prayer book was still something of a compromise between old and new and worded loosely enough to be acceptable, it was hoped, to both old and new. The new liturgy was, however, rejected by certain ungrateful and reactionary West Countrymen as ‘a Christmas game’, while others of a more progressive turn of mind did not scruple to refer to it as ‘a Popish dunghill’. Three years later a second, more radical version was introduced. The Prayer Book of 1552 completed the process of transforming the sacrifice of the ancient Latin Mass into a communion or commemorative service. The words of the administration: ‘Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving’ could no longer be interpreted, even by the most elastic conscience, as anything but a denial of the Real Presence.

Then, in 1553, Edward VI, enthusiastically hailed by the reformers as ‘a young Josiah’, died in his sixteenth year and Mary Tudor, after unexpectedly defeating the coup d’état in favour of Lady Jane Grey, succeeded to the throne. Henry VIII’s elder daughter had never made any secret of her devout Catholicism. Indeed she had suffered for it repeatedly, both at her father’s hands and the hands of her brother’s ministers. She made no secret either of the fact that she believed herself to have been specially called by God to save her unhappy and deluded subjects from the forces of darkness.

There can be no question about Mary’s sincerity, but her gallant rearguard action was foredoomed to failure. Had she been content merely to restore the Anglo-Catholic settlement of her father’s day, she might well have succeeded. The Protestant left-wingers, although noisy and well-organised, represented as yet only a small minority of the nation, the great bulk of which would have been glad enough to return to the more seemly ritual of the Henrician Church – as in fact was demonstrated by the Parliament of October 1553. Unfortunately this could not satisfy one of Mary’s uncompromising spirit. The following year it seemed as if she had won her victory when, on 30 November, England was officially absolved from the sin of schism and received back into the bosom of Mother Church. The Edwardian ecclesiastical legislation had already gone, the married clergy had been ordered to put away their wives and Mass was again being celebrated in all its old panoply; now the mediaeval heresy laws were revived once more and all the Henrician statutes denying papal authority repealed.

But Mary’s victory proved a hollow one. The contemporary habit of obedience to the sovereign’s will was strong. It was not strong enough to persuade any of those who had profited from the plunder of the Reformation to part with an inch or a pennyworth of their loot. Watertight safeguards for the holders of Church property had had to be devised before Parliament was prepared to accept the Pope’s forgiveness. Worse than this, it soon became depressingly clear that the Queen was losing the battle for hearts and minds. Many prominent Protestants found it prudent to go abroad to wait for better times but many others, in less fortunate circumstances, were showing a disconcerting readiness to suffer for their faith. Serious heresy hunting began in February 1555 and continued spasmodically until Mary’s death; by which time nearly three hundred men and women, nearly all of them humble people and nearly all of them from London and the south-eastern counties, had been burnt alive.

It is often predicated that the persecution of a minority for the sake of an ideology is invariably a self-defeating exercise; this is a fallacy. There have been instances in history when persecution has been extremely successful. In order to succeed, however, such persecution must be carried out with utter conviction and single-minded ruthlessness. It must also have at least passive support from the bulk of the population in the country concerned. The Marian persecution fulfilled neither of these conditions and therefore had the inevitable effect of strengthening the persecuted. The Edwardian reformers, hitherto quite widely regarded as a loud-mouthed gang of troublemakers, grew immeasurably in dignity and stature and, in Bishop Latimer’s immortal words to Ridley as they stood bound to the stake in the dry ditch outside the walls of Oxford, they did indeed light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England as never was put out.

In the sixteenth century violent and painful death was too much of a commonplace to be regarded with the same revulsion as it is today, but on those people who witnessed the fortitude of their neighbours – poor widows, journeymen and apprentices, agricultural labourers, weavers, clothworkers, artisans and tradesmen – dying in agony for what they believed to be God’s truth, the burnings made an impression disproportionate to the numbers who actually suffered. From the ashes of the Marian martyrs rose the phoenix of that bitter, ineradicable fear and hatred of Rome which had begun to spread its wings even before John Foxe published his famous best-seller, and which was to brood over the national consciousness for centuries to come.

Although public sympathy for Mary’s victims was immediate, it has also to be remembered that for every Protestant who took his conscience to the more congenial climate of Germany or Switzerland, or who lit a candle of martyrdom in the local marketplace, there were many thousands more who stayed at home, going about their business, obeying the law and keeping their opinions to themselves. The most notable of these conformers was the heir to the throne. During Edward’s reign Elizabeth had come in for a good deal of praise from Protestant divines who commented approvingly on her ‘maiden shamefastness’ and devotion to godly learning; and, as the Holy Roman Emperor’s ambassador reported rather sourly on the occasion of one of her visits to Court, ‘she was most honourably received by the Council who acted thus in order to show the people how much glory belongs to her who has embraced the new religion and is become a very great lady.’ Elizabeth, however, was not the stuff of which religious martyrs are made. After little more than a token show of resistance she had asked for instruction in the Catholic faith and was soon accompanying the Queen to Mass. She unblinkingly assured her anxious sister that ‘she went to Mass and did as she did because her conscience prompted and moved her to it; that she went of her own free will and without fear, hypocrisy or dissimulation’. While she was living under restraint at Woodstock, her custodian reported that she had received ‘the most comfortable sacrament’, and after her release she had joined the rest of the Court in a three-day fast to qualify for indulgence from Rome.

To the outward eye Elizabeth’s Catholicism was difficult to fault, and yet somehow nobody had ever believed for a moment in her conversion. Count de Feria, the King of Spain’s ambassador who arrived in England in the autumn of 1558, had an interview with her a few days before Mary’s death and reported to Philip that he was afraid the new Queen would be unreliable over religion. She appeared to favour those councillors who were suspected of heresy and he was told that all her ladies were similarly inclined. In fact, it seemed to the ambassador that there was not a traitor or heretic in the country who had not risen, as if from the tomb, to welcome her accession.

This jubilation was not confined to England. In such centres of advanced Protestant thought as Strasbourg, Frankfurt, Zurich, Basle and Geneva, the English exiles were already packing their bags preparatory to returning home to assist in rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem. To these enthusiasts the removal of Mary Tudor came as a sign from heaven comparable to the deliverance of the children of Israel from Egyptian bondage, and Sir Anthony Cooke, William Cecil’s father-in-law and once tutor to Edward VI, wrote hopefully from Strasbourg on 8 December to the Swiss reformer Heinrich Bullinger: ‘If the Queen, mindful of the great mercy she has received, will but place her confidence in God; if she will daily say unto the Lord, Thou art my fortress, my rock, and my refuge, there will neither be wanting to herself the spirit of a Judith or a Deborah, nor wisdom to her councillors, nor strength to her army.’

De Feria in London continued to take a gloomy view of the situation, and on 14 December he told Philip that the Queen was every day standing up against religion more openly. The kingdom, he wrote, was entirely in the hands of young folks, heretics and traitors. The old people and Catholics were dissatisfied but dared not open their lips. Elizabeth seemed incomparably more feared than her sister and gave her orders and had her way as absolutely as her father had done. Certainly, remembering some of King Henry’s ways, this hardly looked a good augury for Rome.

Nevertheless, in spite of de Feria’s pessimism, Elizabeth was in no hurry to show her hand and refused to be drawn about her intentions by either side. Shortly after the accession an amnesty was granted to some classes of offenders and a bold courtier reminded the Queen that there were four or five more innocent men in prison, ‘the four evangelists and the apostle Paul, who have long been shut up in the prison of an unknown tongue’. The prisoners would have to be asked first if they wanted to be let out, retorted Elizabeth. When de Feria took the first available opportunity to beg her to be very careful about religious affairs, she answered demurely ‘that it would indeed be bad for her to forget God who had been so good to her’, and with this ‘equivocal’ reply the ambassador had to be content.

A number of Protestants had been included in the newly constituted Privy Council and Protestant influence was growing in Court and government circles, but the weeks passed and England remained officially a Catholic country, in full communion with Rome, with the doctrines and rites of the Church still being carefully observed. There were certain obvious advantages to be derived from keeping it that way. The Pope would be only too pleased to rectify the little matter of the Queen’s illegitimacy in return for assurances of her continued orthodoxy. The menace of Mary Stuart would be effectually neutralised and England assured of the friendship and protection of Spain. Yet it seemed unthinkable that Elizabeth, idol of the Protestant Londoners, who owed her very existence to the English Reformation, could be contemplating such a course. There is, in fact, no evidence that she ever did contemplate it. The grass within the Roman fold might look temptingly green, but Elizabeth was far too astute a politician not to sense the quagmire which lay beneath it: even if it had been in her nature to be content to acquiesce in the undoing of her father’s work, to accept her throne at the Pope’s hands, and to allow her country to sink to becoming a client state of the Hapsburg empire.

She gave the world its first definite clue as to the course she meant to follow on Christmas Day 1558 by sending a message to Owen Oglethorpe, Bishop of Carlisle, ordering him not to elevate the Host at High Mass. The bishop, reported de Feria, answered stoutly ‘that Her Majesty was mistress of his body and life, but not of his conscience, and accordingly she heard the Mass until after the gospel, when she rose and left, so as not to be present at the canon and adoration of the Host which the bishop elevated as usual’. The Queen’s next move was to issue a proclamation forbidding all preaching and teaching, thus silencing hotheads on both sides and putting an end to ‘unfruitful dispute in matters of religion’. The proclamation laid down that the gospel, epistle and ten commandments were to be recited in the vernacular ‘without exposition or addition’. There was to be no other ‘public prayer, rite, or ceremony in the church, but that which is already used and by law received; or the common litany used at this present in Her Majesty’s own Chapel, and the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed in English; until consultation may be had by parliament, by Her Majesty, and her three estates of this realm, for the better conciliation and accord of such causes as at this present are moved in matters and ceremonies of religion.’ After this it was obvious that the forthcoming session of Parliament would be a crucial one.

But even before Parliament met, the Queen had given further and unmistakable signs of what her policy was likely to be. During her triumphant procession through the City on the day before the Coronation she was presented with an English Bible which she ostentatiously kissed and clasped to her breast. The Coronation ceremony itself was performed by Owen Oglethorpe – the only bishop who could be persuaded to officiate – and again Elizabeth withdrew before the elevation of the Host. Neither did she receive communion, which was administered in one kind only according to the Catholic rite.

On 25 January, after an early dinner, the Queen went in state to Westminster for the opening of Parliament wearing a robe of crimson velvet, with an ermine cape ‘like the one worn by the Doge of Venice’, and on her head ‘a cap of beaten gold covered with very fine oriental pearls’. ‘On arriving at Westminster Abbey,’ wrote an Italian observer, ‘the Abbot, robed pontifically, with all his monks in procession, each of them having a lighted torch in his hand, received her as usual, giving her first of all incense and holy water; and when Her Majesty saw the monks who accompanied her with the torches, she said, “Away with those torches, for we see very well”; and her choristers singing the litany in English, she was accompanied to the high altar under her canopy. Thereupon, Dr Cox, a married priest who has hitherto been beyond the sea, ascended the pulpit and preached the sermon, in which, after saying many things freely against the monks, proving by his arguments that they ought to be persecuted and punished by Her Majesty, as they were impious for having caused the burning of so many poor innocents under pretext of heresy, on which he expatiated greatly; he then commenced praising Her Majesty, saying among other things that God had given her this dignity to the end that she might no longer allow or tolerate the past iniquities; exhorting her to destroy the images of the saints, the churches, the monasteries, and all other things dedicated to divine worship; proving by his own arguments that it is very great impiety and idolatry to endure them; and saying many other things against the Christian religion.’ Dr Cox thundered on for an hour and a half and it is scarcely surprising that the Spanish ambassador should have reported on 31 January that the Catholics were ‘very fearful of the measures to be taken in this Parliament’.

With the benefit of four hundred years of hindsight, Elizabeth’s actions during the first few months of 1559 have an air of inevitability about them. But in the political climate of the time it seemed an astonishingly bold, even foolhardy proceeding for a young, inexperienced Queen whose title to her throne would not stand up to too close an examination, deliberately to cut off her small, ramshackle kingdom once again from the community of Christendom. The Continental Catholic Church was now beginning to shake off its late mediaeval torpor and was gathering its still formidable resources to combat the creeping plague of heresy. Once those two colossi France and Spain had settled their differences, England might well find herself alone in a ring of hostile powers.

Elizabeth was playing a dangerous game, but national unity and national independence were prizes worth gambling for and this was just the kind of diplomatic poker she excelled at. Besides, she could feel reasonably confident that political considerations would continue to outweigh Philip’s crusading fervour. It had always been a cardinal principle of Hapsburg foreign policy to maintain an alliance with England. Philip’s father had, after all, swallowed a quite remarkable number of insults from Elizabeth’s father to safeguard his maritime communications with the Netherlands. Even when peace was concluded between France and Spain the old mutual distrust would remain – it might even be possible to foster it – and both countries had enough problems of their own to keep them occupied at home with any luck for some little time to come.

All the same, Elizabeth knew she was trying Philip pretty high. Since his marriage with Mary Tudor he had felt a special responsibility for the English Catholics, and de Feria reminded him at frequent intervals that they were looking to him for protection. It would also be embarrassing at the least for one who liked to regard himself as the eldest son of the Church to be seen to be openly condoning heresy, however compelling his worldly reasons. Elizabeth quite saw the King of Spain’s difficulty and did her best to make things easier for him by leaving, or at any rate appearing to leave, the door of reconciliation if not open, at least ajar. She had refused his half-hearted offer of marriage, no doubt greatly to his relief, but she allowed him to suggest his equally orthodox cousins, the Austrian Archdukes Ferdinand and Charles, as possible alternatives, and she continued to move with circumspection over the religious settlement.

She told de Feria on one occasion that she wanted to restore religion as her father had left it and became ‘so disturbed and excited’ that the ambassador at last said soothingly that he did not consider she was heretical. Another time she declared that she did not mean to call herself Head of the Church. On yet another occasion she said she wanted the Lutheran Augustanean or Augsburg confession to be maintained in her realm, and when de Feria marshalled arguments to dissuade her, she shifted her ground again, telling him that it would not be the Augsburg confession but something else like it. According to de Feria, she then went on to say that she herself differed very little from the Catholics, ‘as she believed that God was in the sacrament of the Eucharist, and only dissented from three or four things in the Mass’.

One way and another the Queen was contriving to create enough uncertainty about her intentions, both religious and matrimonial, to give Spain an excuse for staying friendly, although de Feria was personally convinced that she was going to perdition and complained mournfully about the difficulties he was experiencing in negotiating with a woman so naturally changeable. Philip, however, continued to be nervous of possible French machinations and while de Feria lost no opportunity of trying unsuccessfully to impress Elizabeth with a proper sense of her dependence on his master, his instructions remained doggedly conciliatory. The King was for some time to cling pathetically to the belief that his unpredictable sister-in-law could be controlled if she could only be persuaded into marriage with one of his archducal cousins.

Meanwhile Parliament had embarked on the work of a stormy and momentous session. The first measure introduced by the government was a bill confirming the Queen’s title. Unlike her sister in similar circumstances, Elizabeth did not take the trouble to have her birth re-legitimised. Advised by Nicholas Bacon, she took her stand firmly on the 1544 Act of Succession and on the principle ‘that the Crown once worn quite taketh away all defects whatsoever’. Another government measure was a bill restoring clerical first fruits and tenths to the Crown. These had first been annexed from the Pope by Henry VIII and subsequently renounced by Mary. The bill made rapid progress in the Lords, although the spiritual peers all voted against it – an unwelcome portent of the unco-operative attitude to be adopted by the Marian bishops. On 9 February the Commons began the first reading of a bill ‘to restore the supremacy of the Church of England to the Crown of the realm’, and it was at this point that the government began to encounter serious opposition to its plans.

During the two months which had passed since her accession, Elizabeth had been presented with several detailed memoranda of advice on religious matters. All except one – the anonymous ‘Device for the Alteration of Religion’ which urged the immediate setting-up of a national Protestant Church and the avoidance of ‘a cloaked papistry or a mingle-mangle’ – were in favour of caution. The lawyer Richard Goodrich, much as he hated Rome, was even prepared to accept the retention of papal supremacy for a time. It is now generally believed that the Queen had made up her mind to proceed by stages – thus following the precedents set by her father and sister – and that to begin with she had intended to go no further than an Act of Supremacy, in which a clause permitting communion in both kinds for the laity was to be inserted as a sop to Protestant opinion. A Catholic order of service would thus have been maintained, at any rate until the next Parliament, by which time those bishops who refused to take the Oath of Supremacy could have been removed and foreign reaction assessed more accurately.

If this was, in fact, the Queen’s intention, she and her advisers had seriously misjudged the mood of the House of Commons in general, and the determination and tactical skill of the returned Marian exiles in particular. There was a caucus of at least a dozen of these earnest individuals sitting in the Commons led by Anthony Cooke, Nicholas Bacon and Francis Knollys – all men of ability and influence and all impatient of playing politics with the Word of God.

‘We are now busy in parliament about expelling the tyranny of the Pope and restoring the royal authority and re-establishing true religion,’ wrote Anthony Cooke to Peter Martyr on 12 February. Busy they certainly were. When the Supremacy bill emerged from its committee stage it had been virtually redrafted. Although the actual text has not survived, it would appear from other evidence that the second Edwardian Act of Uniformity, the 1552 Prayer Book and the Act allowing the clergy to marry – a matter of close personal interest to the émigré Protestant divines, most of whom had wives – were all resuscitated and provision made to stiffen the penalties for refusing the Oath of Supremacy. The bill in its amended form was sent up to the Lords on 25 February and there followed a fortnight’s pause, during which time presumably the Queen and Council considered what action to take.

Elizabeth was not yet prepared to climb down. Like all her family she strongly resented being hustled, and at this stage she was still apparently hoping to move gradually towards a far more conservative settlement than that envisaged by her obstreperous House of Commons. At all events, the bill was given a second reading by the Lords on 13 March and then went into committee, where it was stripped of its amendments and restored more or less to its original form. Although this was undoubtedly done on instructions from above, it was the House of Lords and especially the bishops who got the blame. ‘The Queen,’ wrote John Jewel, another returned exile, ‘though she openly favours our cause, yet is wonderfully afraid of allowing innovations. … She is, however, prudently and firmly and piously following up her purpose, though somewhat more slowly than we could wish.’