Beware, Princess Elizabeth (15 page)

Although I repeatedly requested an interview with my sister, she refused to see me. Everyone was as restless as I. There was no court life—no feasting, no dancing, no masques or music—only the endless waiting.

I wondered how King Philip was passing this fretful time. I had glimpsed him only briefly, as he made his way through the queen's presence chamber to visit her. It occurred to me that if I could somehow make his acquaintance, I might persuade him to intervene on my behalf with my sister. I would watch for an opportunity.

To break the tedium, one afternoon late in May, I went walking in the royal park with two of my hardier ladies, ignoring the rain that fell endlessly. The guards who were supposed to escort me on these walks found an excuse to seek shelter. Approaching from the opposite direction, I observed, was a grandly attired nobleman, accompanied by several disgruntled-looking gentlemen. I recognized my brother-in-law. As he drew near I made a hurried decision and dropped to my knees in the mud.

"Your Grace," I began, addressing him in Spanish. He halted and looked at me closely. Continuing in Latin, for I was not fluent in Spanish, I said, "I am Elizabeth, sister to Her Majesty, the queen."

Immediately he raised me up and replied, "It is with the greatest of pleasure that I make your acquaintance." Philip bowed over my hand and kissed it.

We conversed for some little time, and I asked after the health of his wife. "The queen is well, madam," he answered, although I doubted that. "And you, my lady Elizabeth? Your accommodations are quite comfortable?"

"Entirely satisfactory, Your Majesty," I lied, and then told another lie: "My greatest pleasure is in being here to serve my dear sister at this most happy event. But you would do me a great kindness," I added with a winsome smile, "if you would assure Her Majesty, the queen, of my love and loyalty and arrange for me to meet with her. She trusts me not."

The king gave me a long and searching look before he replied. "I will do this for you, dear lady Elizabeth," he said with another bow.

I knew that my gown was muddied and my hair was damp and unruly, but I also saw from his pleased expression that the king thought well of me. I was aware of the risk: I desired his admiration, but I must take great care not to arouse the queen's jealousy.

I began to watch for other opportunities for such accidental meetings, and I believe Philip was also contriving such encounters. "My lady Elizabeth," he would say as we happened to meet in the gardens, "do you not find the English weather oppressive?" And I would say something like, "I trust that God continues to bless our queen with good health," and then, in my most engaging manner, I would remind him once again to arrange for me to speak with the queen. I felt quite sure that I could eventually persuade Philip to do what I wished.

At long last, late one evening toward the end of May, Lady Susan Clarencieux appeared at my chambers. "Her Majesty, the queen, requests your company," she said, her dislike of me evident in her voice and demeanor.

Philip must have finally intervened with the queen on my behalf. At last I would have an opportunity to meet with my sister and to swear again my loyalty. While Lady Susan scowled, my maids laced me into a white petticoat and a black velvet gown and clasped a gold cross about my neck. Then, with a half dozen attendants carrying smoking torches, I was led through the garden and into another part of the palace through a side door.

"Why are we going to visit Her Majesty by this way?" I asked uneasily as we mounted a dark and narrow stairway. There was no reply. Immediately I suspected a trap. But we kept walking through the gloomy back halls of the palace.

At last we passed through the queen's presence chamber and into her privy chamber. My mouth was dry with apprehension. As I knelt three times, I observed with a shock how much Mary had aged in sixteen months, how weary she looked. And how thin! Instead of having the roundness of pregnancy, her body appeared gaunt. My mind raced.
Is she truly expecting a child?
It had not occurred to me before that perhaps she was not. Behind Mary the doors to the bedchamber stood open. Through them I could see the great carved cradle of estate, ready and waiting for the royal babe.
What if there is to be no royal babe?
There was no time to think of this now as the queen sat glaring at me.

Clasping my hands to keep them from trembling, I dropped to my knees and cried passionately, "God preserve Your Majesty! I am as true a subject as any, no matter what has been said of me!"

But the very sight of me seemed to anger the queen. "You!" she stormed. "You lie to us! You are no more a believer in the one true faith than ever you were, and yet you persist in this pretense!"

"But, Your Majesty," I said through honest tears, "I have done all that you asked of me. All I ask is that you have a good opinion of me."

"We have no opinion whatsoever of you, Elizabeth," she said sharply.

With a wave of her hand, I was dismissed, and I was escorted back to my chambers. The long-awaited audience had been a failure. There may have been no trap that night, but neither was there reconciliation. I felt sick at heart.

Thereafter I kept my distance from King Philip; he had done nothing to improve the queen's opinion of me, and it was dangerous to continue what might be seen as a flirtation. May gave way to June, and still there was no child. By now I was sure that the queen was not pregnant.
Did she miscarry in the early months? Or has she perhaps imagined it all?
Of course, there was no one to whom I could speak aloud—or even whisper—of this.

T
HE RAIN
was relentless, which made the wait for a birth—or the denial of one—almost insupportable. The air seemed heavy with frustration and misplaced hope. The throngs crowded into even so vast a palace as Hampton Court turned it into a place as foul-smelling as Woodstock. And I chafed at the knowledge that Mary despised me but nevertheless insisted upon keeping me there. I could do nothing.

Gossip was rampant. I heard whispers in the halls and courtyards that if Mary did not survive childbirth, King Philip would have me as his wife. The thought made me shudder.

I heard it whispered that the queen's child could not be born until every heretic had been burned, and that Mary herself had said it. It seemed that she must believe such a thing, for the burnings continued at a frightening rate. I tried to shut my ears to the horrifying reports and despaired that the nightmare would ever end.

Late in July the physicians, midwives, astrologers, ladies-in-waiting, and Mary herself finally admitted that the queen was not pregnant. No official announcement was made. We were simply told that the queen and her court were moving to Oatlands, a great country house in Surrey, so that Hampton Court could be cleansed.

I was ordered to move along with the rest of the queen's attendants. I was still not free. Without the birth of an heir to take my place in the succession, I was once again next in line for the throne. But I was still very uneasy about my future. What would the queen do with me now? Send me back to Woodstock? Or worse?

After we were settled at Oatlands and the queen had begun to resume her royal duties, I received a visit from one of her chaplains, Father Francis. The old priest took such a long route to arrive at the heart of his mission that for some time I had no idea why he was sitting in my apartments. I offered him drink, which he accepted. Then I offered him bread and meat, and he accepted those. When he had finished eating and drinking, he sighed contentedly and went on to talk about gardening, in which he had a deep interest. Thinking that perhaps the chaplain had been sent to trap me in a heresy, I was on my guard.

"The continuing rain is taking its toll," he said.

"It is indeed," I agreed.
But why are you here?

"My garden is in ruins."

"I am sorry to hear that."
Get to the point!

"In King Henry's time," he went on, "I was in charge of the herbarium at a monastery. Before it was closed."

"A rewarding vocation, I should think."
What a waste of my time!

As the conversation rambled on about the priest's failed attempts to cultivate a particular kind of hyssop, my impatience at last overcame me, and I begged him to reveal the purpose of his visit.

Father Francis looked surprised. "Why, to discuss with you the prospect of a husband, Lady Elizabeth. This is a matter of great concern to Her Majesty, the queen."

So it was matrimony he had come to discuss, not heresy! "Then let us proceed," I said. It seemed prudent to hear him out.

"It has been proposed that you marry Don Carlos, the son of King Philip by his first wife, Maria of Portugal, who died in childbirth."

I stared at Father Francis in disbelief. "Don Carlos is but a child," I said.

"He is nine years old," said the priest, nodding. "You would become betrothed as soon as it can be arranged, but you would not marry until the prince has reached the age of sixteen." Father Francis must have seen the look of dismay on my face, for he added hastily, "Or perhaps earlier, if madam wishes."

"The boy is said to suffer from certain difficulties," I said, choosing my words carefully. In fact, it was common knowledge that the king's son showed signs of madness and had to be kept shut away.

"Many things can happen in six years," Father Francis said soothingly. "The lad may outgrow the difficulties."

"Please deliver this message to the queen, and to the king as well," I said flatly. "I will not marry Don Carlos."

"Ah, dear, dear, dear," sighed the priest, peering into his empty tankard.

I knew, even as I uttered the words, that defiance of the queen was a highly dangerous move. But I was prepared to risk another imprisonment rather than enter into such a vile marriage. Would I risk death as well?
If I must,
I thought. Greatly agitated, I rose, but the chaplain seemed not to have noticed my gesture of dismissal. I calmed myself and called for more ale to be brought. Perhaps I could learn more from this thirsty priest.

"Are there other candidates?" I asked as he contentedly laced his fingers across his ample belly.

"There has been a mention of a German prince, Margrave of Baden, but that match was dismissed. The prince is Protestant, and naturally Her Majesty, the queen, insists that you marry a Catholic."

"Naturally." I was tempted to add,
And I insist that I marry no one at all!
But I held my tongue.

My marriage to the prince, or to any foreign Catholic nobleman, would have made Queen Mary's life much easier. In one stroke she would send me out of the country and away from the Protestant supporters, who, I believed, wanted me as their queen. I prayed that those friends were still supporting me, still willing to bide their time.

"And another gentleman once came to claim you—you know of that?" Father Francis continued.

"I do not."

"Emmanuel Philibert, duke of Savoy. The duke is a cousin of the king's. When he heard that King Philip was kindly disposed toward him as your future husband, he was so pleased that he traveled all the way to London to 'pluck the fruit'—his very words, I am told. No one had advised the king and queen that he was coming, and no one had informed the duke that you were indisposed to see visitors at Woodstock."

"I was not indisposed. I was imprisoned there," I retorted.

"Yes ... well. Whatever the situation. At any rate, he passed a month at Somerset House—"

"The duke stayed at my house?" I asked, incredulous. "Without my leave?"

"At the invitation of Their Majesties," the priest said smoothly. "But after a month of waiting, with no reward, the duke returned to Savoy. I understand that he went away quite disappointed."

"No doubt," I replied.

The priest's tankard stood empty once more, and when I made no move to fill it a third time, he leaned forward and patted my hand. "Be of good cheer, madam," he said. "I am certain that we shall be able to find you a fine husband."

I had nearly bitten through my tongue by the time he left me with his blessing!

W
EEKS LATER
the court prepared to move again, this time to Greenwich Palace. Philip had recently been made king of the Netherlands by his aging father, Emperor Charles V, and he was soon to depart for Flanders, to acquaint himself with his new kingdom.

The royal couple traveled through London in an open litter, so that Mary's subjects could see for themselves that their queen and her consort were alive and well. I was sent by water, with only four ladies and three gentlemen to attend me, in a battered old barge, as though they were shipping a hogshead of salted meat. I disliked it, but I understood the reason: Mary could not risk having any of my supporters take notice of me. She needed the assurance of the cheers for herself. I also understood that my supporters would have been reluctant to show their enthusiasm for me, afraid of endangering themselves as well as me. What a dismal state of affairs!

Soon after our arrival at Greenwich, I watched from the window of my apartments as leather-bound trunks and wooden chests were carried aboard another of the royal barges that would take Philip to Gravesend, where a Spanish ship lay at anchor. Suddenly one of my maids, a silly young girl named Alice, rushed into my chamber. "The king is here!" she gasped, forgetting to curtsy.

"King Philip? To see me?"

"Yes, madam."

Since visitors to my apartments were so rare, I was wearing a simple kirtle, scarcely dressed to receive anyone, much less the king. But I decided not to take time to change into a gown, for I felt this visit must be both brief and clandestine, lest the queen learn of his whereabouts.

"Tell His Majesty that I am pleased to receive him," I instructed the girl.

Of late, my glimpses of Philip had revealed to me a man suffering from dyspepsia. He often seemed dispirited and languorous, possibly from the strain of his wife's long and fruitless pregnancy. But this day he strode in full of vigor, his color high, his gait exuding vitality. He clasped my hand in his and bowed deeply.