Beware, Princess Elizabeth (14 page)

"But I did notice two things: The queen's chair was more elaborate than King Philip's, and she was served on gold plate while Philip was served on silver. If I noticed the difference, you can be sure the Spanish nobility did as well. They think we are uncouth barbarians as it is."

"Few English think well of the Spaniards," I said. "Now tell me about the dancing."

"Tomorrow," said Bess, and I could not extract another word from her on the subject.

Then a servant arrived with our supper, a fresh fish sent to us by a neighboring farmer. My appetite returned, I savored that fish more than I would have any wedding banquet.

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON,
the first fair day we'd had in weeks, I begged Sir Henry to allow me and my companion to walk together in the garden. He refused, and my mood turned sour.

Lady Bess brushed aside my disappointment. "The smell out there is at least as bad as the smell in here," she said. "Take up your needlework, Lady Elizabeth, and I shall tell you about the wedding dance."

I resigned myself to the piece of linen I'd been working with an elaborate chain-stitch design. "Go on," I said, eager for every detail.

"It was not a great success," said Bess. "The English noblemen and their ladies were not acquainted with the dances of the Spaniards, and the other way around. Dancing together proved even more difficult than conversing together, which was almost impossible. The Spaniards spoke no English, the English spoke no Spanish. The king and queen danced together in the German style, which they both seemed to know, but I can say in all confidence that the queen far outshone her husband in this."

"Here I am, shut up in a stinking gatehouse, while my sister dances!" I cried, and flung my needlework as far as I could. For my companion's sake I collected myself. Bess skillfully changed the subject, and I asked for no more details that day.

"H
AVE YOU NEWS
of the wedding night?" I asked when I felt ready for another installment.

"I was not present, madam," she said with a droll wink. "But just before I left to come to you, I heard this: At about nine o'clock, the last of the guests left the wedding feast, and the king and queen went to their separate apartments to dine alone. Later they met again in the bedchamber that had been prepared for them, the marital bed blessed by the chancellor. The next morning Philip's gentlemen came knocking at the door of the chamber, following the Spanish custom of greeting the king in bed on the morning after the marriage. But Mary's ladies knew nothing of this custom and barred the door. 'Imagine,' one said later to me, 'calling on a bride the morning after her wedding night! It is indecent!'"

"Pity the queen," I snorted, not bothering to suppress an unkind laugh. "It must all have been a shock to her."

Once we'd exhausted the particulars of my sister's wedding, we played games of words that required prodigious feats of memory. Bess was no scholar, and my attempts to interest her in the Latin poets bore no fruit. Likewise, she was a poor musician, whose fingers turned to thumbs on the lute strings. She loved horses and hunting as much as I did, but that was of no use since we were not allowed any outdoor activities. And so we stitched and talked, and—upon occasion—even laughed out loud. It had not taken long for me to learn to trust Bess and to value her companionship.

My twenty-first birthday passed unremarked by any but Lady Bess. We enjoyed a string of golden September days before the nights turned cold and the rains began again. The winds whipped around (and through) the gatehouse, giving a foretaste of how unpleasant our winter was to be.

The roof leaked badly, and many of the windowpanes were broken. I importuned Bedingfield to urge the privy council to repair the building, lest we all freeze in the coming months. The queen, whom I imagined swept away with wedded bliss in the arms of her new husband, can scarcely have given a thought to the poor sister whose life was draining away like water through a sieve.

Bess and I were careful what we said to each other during the day, when there was the danger of being overheard. But at night, once the bed curtains were drawn and we were certain the maidservants, who slept on pallets on the floor, were fast asleep, we confided in each other, sometimes whispering for hours.

"The farmer who sent you the fresh fish has been forbidden to return," Lady Bess murmured softly one night. "He is said to be one of your strongest supporters, and Sir Henry fears that he may be part of a plot to lead a rising in your behalf."

I hushed her. To make sure the maids were truly asleep, I climbed out of bed and relieved myself in the chamber pot. When that failed to awaken them, I crept back under the worn coverlet and we continued the conversation. "You must understand, Bess, that I will take part in no rebellion," I said. "It is far too dangerous. I have made that clear to everyone."

"Perhaps there is no need for a rebellion," said Bess. "Sooner or later, you will inherit the throne from Mary. I pray that it is sooner, rather than later."

"Not if the queen has a child. Then he will become king, and his children will succeed him, and I will die here alone and forgotten," I said, my voice breaking.

Bess propped herself on an elbow. "Mary is thirty-eight, surely too old to bear a child."

"It is not impossible," I said, thinking of Queen Catherine, who was thirty-six when she birthed Tom Seymour's child.

"She has not the health for it," Bess insisted. "You need only be patient. And prudent."

Thus, even though it was perhaps neither prudent nor wise, we had our nightly conversations behind the bed curtains. One or the other of us would use the chamber pot to make sure the servants were sleeping. Then Bess would prompt me, "When you are queen, what shall you do?" Guided by her astute questions, I began to envision my future.

"I will restore the Protestant Church and make it the official church of England, as my father intended, but I will not punish those who are Catholic or force them to give up their faith." Another time I said, "I will have a council made up of the ablest and wisest men in the kingdom. Sir William Cecil, for instance. And," I added, "I shall never marry. I shall never relinquish control of my life to a husband."

I
SHOULD HAVE
known that Lady Bess would be sent away. Sir Henry disliked her, probably simply because I liked her very much. I'm sure it was by his doing that Mary ordered her dismissal, calling my friend "a person of evil opinion, not fit to remain about our sister." But Bess had once been a lady of her court! Had our secret conversations been overheard after all?

"You will be a magnificent queen one day," Bess whispered as we embraced one last time. I watched her ride away as tears streamed unchecked down my face. I was alone again.

Sometimes, late at night, in the weeks after she'd gone, I thought of Lady Bess's parting words and the hope sustained me:
I shall be the next queen of England. I shall be the next to wear the crown.

But on the twenty-seventh of November that hope was shattered. A messenger arrived to tell us the news, proclaimed throughout the kingdom, that the queen was with child. Resentfully, I began at once to stitch a set of tiny garments of the finest white linen with edgings of red silk, fit for the newborn prince or princess.

The winter passed wretchedly. I continued to make a show of worshiping as a Catholic, hearing Mass twice each day. But I was often so cold that my fingers were too stiff to finger the beads of my rosary or to stitch the little gowns and caps for the royal babe who would one day take my place as heir to the throne. Despair was my companion, night and day.

Somehow I endured the bleak and lonely winter. Then, in the spring of 1555, Queen Mary ordered Sir Henry to bring me to Hampton Court. She had retired there on the fourth of April to await the birth of her babe. By tradition my presence was required at the queen's labor and delivery of the heir who would replace me in the line of succession. I didn't relish this duty nor, I am sure, did my sister. Still, I was immensely relieved to leave Woodstock.

As I made the long journey to Hampton Court, I understood that my future was grim. With the birth of Mary's child, my hope of becoming queen would end. And as long as I was alive, I would remain a threat to the heir who was about to take my place. I pondered the choices the queen might make if she continued to distrust me. She could send me back to prison, at Woodstock or some other godforsaken place, and leave me there until her heir might one day decide to free me, when I was old and toothless. She could force me to marry some foreign nobleman and move to the Continent as an alternative to imprisonment. Or she could find a pretext of treason and condemn me to death.

Now, instead of relishing the crowds that would turn out to cheer me, I feared that they'd give the queen the excuse she needed to send me to the Tower and then to the block. I begged Sir Henry to keep my movements secret, which he was pleased to do. There were no crowds, and no visits to the country manors of sympathetic noblemen.

When I arrived at Hampton Court in mid-April, I learned that Queen Mary had ordered me kept in seclusion, with just four ladies and four gentlemen to attend me. I was still a prisoner, forbidden to leave, forbidden to receive visitors. And I was not permitted to speak to the queen.

Hampton Court, with a thousand rooms, was crowded. Many had assembled, for the birth: physicians and midwives to attend the queen, wet nurses and rockers for the babe, noblemen and gentlewomen, who were simply to be present for the great event, and the servants of all. There was an air of excited anticipation as the wait began.

Each morning I arose and made my way to the chapel royal for Mass, making sure that I was observed by the queen's favorites, Lady Susan Clarencieux and Lady Jane Dormer, who would certainly report to her on my piety—or lack of it. Then I returned to my apartments to await the summons to the queen's bedchamber when her labor began.

I was restless, and I asked for and received permission to walk in the gardens with my ladies—and my guards. With so many people about, the guards soon grew lax, and it was on one of these walks that I encountered a stranger who begged leave to speak with me. He was, he claimed, a friend of my cousin, Catherine Knollys. A large hat shielded his face.

Smiling, I turned to my ladies. "The son of my former governess," I lied boldly. "We have not seen each other since we shared a tutor." I took the stranger's arm and we strolled on, feigning an animated conversation about an invented childhood, until my ladies lost interest. "Pray, continue," I said.

Having been locked away at Woodstock, I knew nothing of what this stranger now told me. With growing horror I listened as he described how Queen Mary had decided to rid the kingdom of those who refused to follow the Catholic faith—heretics, she claimed, who committed treason against God. Most Protestants of the nobility, such as my cousin and her husband and child, as well as the most outspoken Protestant leaders, had already fled to the Continent. The queen was determined to make examples of those who elected to stay and had issued the following order:
Give up your evil and corrupt beliefs, or be burned alive.

"The bravest have chosen death, and the burning of the heretics began during the past winter," the stranger said in a low voice. "Many have already died."

"Who are you?" I asked finally.

"Not one of the brave," said the stranger. "When I have finished, you must forget that you have seen me."

My ladies were staring, having detected a change in his demeanor. It would not be long until even the lazy guards noticed something amiss. "Go on," I urged, "but quickly!"

"Among the first of the heretics to die," said my informant, "was John Hooper, bishop of Gloucester. Because of the dampness in the air and the blustery winds, he burned for an hour until death released him."

"You witnessed it all?" I asked.

"I did. The bishop was placed on a high stool so that everyone might see him. He was first secured to the stake that would support him and branches piled around the stool. When the torch was put to the branches, we expected him to be consumed at once by flames. But the branches were of green wood, and a sharp gust of wind blew out the feeble flames before they had done more than singe his robe."

"Perhaps it was a sign," I suggested, "that he was to be spared."

"Perhaps," said the witness, "but the queen's agents were determined to carry out their duty. They added more branches, with no greater success. In a third attempt bags of gunpowder were tied to his legs. The powder was to explode and kill him outright, so that he would not have to suffer the horrible pain. It was thought to be merciful."

I reached for my handkerchief and pressed it to my lips. "Finish this dreadful tale, I beg you," I said.

My informant drew a wavering breath. "The wind blew away the powder. It helped him not at all. We heard him cry out, 'Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me!' His cries continued, even as the flames licked at his throat, until, finally he could no longer utter a sound. At last he bowed his head and died."

"God have mercy on us all!" I exclaimed.

"Take care, take care!" warned the witness, and before I could say more, he melted into the shadows.

What kind of monster is she?
I wondered as I tried to recover my composure. Queen Mary herself would show no mercy to those who did not believe as she did. Although she was, for the moment, ignoring me, the cruelty of the queen to those she called heretics made me very afraid.

A
LL WAS IN READINESS
for the birth, yet nothing happened. At the end of April, a rumor spread that the queen had given birth to a son. Those who kept watch outside her privy chamber knew this was not true, but the rumor flew unchecked, and great celebrations were reported in the streets of London. I can only imagine the disappointment and dismay that followed when the rumor proved false.

Early in May the queen's physicians, in consultation with her astrologers, announced that there had been a miscalculation. Now, instead of the first week of May, the babe was expected to arrive either late in the month or after the full moon on the fourth or fifth of June.