Low Countries (1)
St. James Palace. A woman sat in a fine solid-wood chair atop a crimson carpet, listening to reports.
“Phew… my head’s throbbing. Fetch something sweet.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
The attendant standing by bowed his head and hurried out.
What kept her head pounding was none other than the parchment bearing a marriage proposal from her sister’s husband—her brother-in-law. Flowery phrases abounded. Reading it, she even imagined the smallpox scars from her childhood aching anew.
He had never once visited her sister after their wedding. True, she had shoved her sister aside to claim the throne, but that did little to quell her lingering rage toward him.
Queen Elizabeth tossed the scrolled parchment aside and waited for the attendant, staring blankly at the sky.
“This will have to wait too.”
It had been mere days since her coronation. With winter’s chill winds yet to fully fade, such icy tidings only churned her gut. From fending off ministers urging her to kill her sister, Mary I, to the mountain of debts left by her father Henry VIII’s follies, and the blatant signs of rebellion staring her in the face—her insides withered day by day.
“Why is that attendant taking so long!”
Her temper, inherited from Henry VIII, blazed hot. Her servants already exchanged nervous glances, shifting on their feet at her shout.
Just then, the door swung open. A man strode in on a gust of cold air.
“How did you know I was here?”
The irritated queen softened into a smile at the man who had sought her without word or warning.
Countless protocols governed an audience with the queen—protocols he ignored entirely. Yet she neither scolded nor reproved him.
“God told me my one and only queen would be here.”
“I heard nothing of the sort.”
“Looks like you need to pray more.”
His playful banter drew a laugh. Queen Elizabeth rose from her chair—a towering woman over 175 cm tall, her golden hair tinged red. Sovereign of the United Kingdom of England and Ireland, she opened her arms to embrace her old friend.
“Lord Robert.”
“Are you well?”
He dropped to one knee in salute: Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Childhood companion of Elizabeth I and inaugural holder of the title, he made no effort to hide his handsome features.
“The stable master looks healthier than I do.”
“Haha. That way, I can lead the way proclaiming who rules England. A fine thing, no?”
“Still so silver-tongued. Norfolk must be quite balmy.”
“Your Majesty might prefer Norfolk to this chill.”
Robert’s cheeky jest—Westminster lay south of Norfolk, after all, and milder for it. He teased all the same. Her foul mood from Philip’s sloppy proposal lifted somewhat. Seeing her color improve, the Earl eyed her cautiously.
“Troubled, are we?”
“Indeed. Dangers lurk everywhere; wisdom is required.”
“Your Majesty’s acumen, blessed by God, will see it resolved—and wisely weighing your subjects’ counsel besides. I’m at a loss.”
“Enough flattery. What of the Low Countries?”
“Merchants are up in arms over Philip II’s governor.”
“No surprise. That land’s always been nobles’ and merchants’ domain…”
A hub of relay trade linking north and center, the Low Countries teemed with entrenched noble and merchant powers.
Charles V—Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain—had been born in Ghent, a Flemish city, and cherished it as home; opposition was scarce. But his son Philip II was another matter. He dwelled in Toledo, heart of the Castile-Aragon realm on the Iberian Peninsula, and was even shifting the capital to curb noble influence.
Philip II had no patience for Low Countries merchants and nobles resisting centralization. He installed his handpicked governor, sidelining traditions. A devout Catholic bent on purging Protestants, he turned the Protestant-swarmed Low Countries into a raging beehive.
Amid this, anti-Philip nobles kept sending letters to gauge Elizabeth’s stance.
“Care to read it?”
“An honor.”
Formal courtesy. He took the parchment from her and read slowly. Written in French. Even before the queen, the Earl’s fury boiled over.
“Arrogant Protestant scum…!”
The queen regarded him steadily. Sensing her gaze, he composed himself.
“Forgive my outburst before Your Majesty.”
She knew his disdain for Low Countries folk. No need to chide him.
“You’re forgiven.”
A ritual phrase. He knelt once more.
“My thanks for your mercy.”
Formality done, he pondered, then ventured carefully: “A fine offer to reclaim Calais. But…”
Calais: French fief now, but English for two centuries—England’s last foothold in France, source of thirty-five percent of its wool. Lost to Henry II’s assault amid chaos; England could only order self-defense, but regret lingered.
“Can’t trust Low Countries rabble.”
His ingrained bias. Elizabeth saw no point changing it; she tallied her own ledger. War with France anew would be grueling—but if Low Countries proxies bore the brunt? Not unappealing. Yet they needed a leader for their noble confederacy. England reeled from Mary I’s shadow; her most trusted, Robert Dudley, handled Low Countries merchants with a rough hand. They vowed to crown Elizabeth upon independence from Spain… but the gains seemed meager. Hands-off windfall, in a word. She yearned for a surrogate, but no solution emerged.
Thus deepened Queen Elizabeth’s torment. As it did, Low Countries hearts swelled like powder kegs primed to burst.
“Merchants’ discontent swells by the day.”
“Regent Margarita scorns our culture and traditions entirely.”
“Brother Christians groan in agony.”
Voices rose around the table. The man at its head—William of Orange, who had earned Charles V’s favor as commander-in-chief against France—frowned as he heard the nobles out.
Philip II’s tyranny intensified. Fluent in neither Flemish nor Dutch, he issued hardline edicts solely in Castilian.
“Calm yourselves. I know your rage well. But…”
William trailed off. Having commanded against France under Charles V’s backing, he knew the Spanish army’s might all too well.
The empire where the sun never set: colossal fleets on the seas, legions loyal to the Spanish Habsburgs on land. Such experience stayed his hand from rash action. Bankrupt them and stem colonial gold, and rebellion might prevail—but heaven turning thrice wouldn’t suffice. Philip II now wielded power to fell birds with a glance. As his Golden Fleece knight and councilor, William focused on soothing the nobles.
“A petition will move the wise king to our cause.”
Some nodded agreement. Hardliners shook their heads.
“This way, we’ll watch our ancient rights stripped bare. Prince of Orange—we must act.”
“So you sent to England sans noble council approval?”
Silence fell under his rebuke. Glaring fire-eyed at them, he pressed on.
“We are loyal vassals. Forget it not.”
“Doubt we’ll play loyal with arms hacked off.”
A man tsked, cutting in to stare William down defiantly.
“Count Egmont…”
“Isn’t it so? See Regent Margarita and her governors. Trampling our rights, crushing merchants, erasing our ways—even our tongue. The rest writes itself.”
“I concur.”
Another raised his hand backing Count Egmont—Lamoral van Egmont. Philippe de Montmorency, Count of Hoorn, voiced no reserve. Golden Fleece knights alongside Orange. Yet Philip II’s mounting despotism silenced them no longer.