Beware, Princess Elizabeth (18 page)

"As indeed I am."

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but your sister does not acknowledge that. She still insists that Mark Smeaton was your natural father. And she holds your mother in"—here Cecily hesitated—"less than high regard. The queen holds that you are illegitimate, but as a bastard you have no value in a marriage negotiation. Even an impoverished duke might flinch from marrying a bastard, who cannot become queen and make him the king. The queen cannot bring herself to declare you legitimate," said Cecily, "but the king will try to influence her, in order to have you married."

I was silent for a moment. "If Mary declares me legitimate, she will then try to force me to marry against my will. If she does not declare me legitimate, I cannot inherit the throne."

"What shall you do, Lady Elizabeth?" Cecily asked.

"No matter what Mary does, I shall not marry," I said. "
And someday I shall become queen.
"

W
HEN I RETURNED
to court at Easter, I could sense the unease all around me. The banquets and balls that Mary had arranged to commence at Easter and to continue through the Feast of Saint Mark were marred by bad feelings. Mary seemed sunk into melancholy. Philip chose this time to inform me that I would marry the duke of Savoy. So the king had convinced Mary after all! What would she not do for him?

"My lord," I declared firmly, "with all due respect to your wishes and the wishes of my sister, I cannot marry the duke."

"Cannot? Pray, why can you not, my lady?"

"Because I will not marry. Therefore I cannot marry Philibert or anyone else."

"I beg you to reconsider, Elizabeth. The duke holds you in highest regard. Your life will be pleasant, and you will find the Continent an agreeable place to live."

"No matter how agreeable the gentleman or his home, I will not marry the duke of Savoy," I said evenly. "Let us end this conversation."

Philip glared at me threateningly. "By God, woman, if you refuse to marry him, I will see that you are returned to the Tower!"

I knew that he might very well do that. But he might be trying to frighten me. I took a deep breath and defied him: "Imprison me then, sir. I have endured prison before. It can be no worse than marriage." Then I bowed and dared to walk away, leaving him open-mouthed and staring.

I had to find out what was happening. Anne of Cleves was ill and had not come to court. Desperate for news, I sent a message to Sir William Cecil, begging him to meet me in secret. Several anxious days passed until I received a reply. Lady Letitia dressed me in a servant's rough brown kirtle and threw a shawl over my hair. Sir William waited in the scullery, rather poorly disguised as an egg peddler.

"Tell me what is happening!" I pleaded.

"The queen is ecstatic to have her husband back with her," Sir William said, adding dryly, "but I understand that the privy council is somewhat less delighted. And not at all eager to enter a war against France. Philip and the queen have labored for weeks to persuade the privy council to support him. Eventually they will give in."

"And on the matter of the duke of Savoy?"

Cecil stroked his beard, too well barbered for any peddler. "Philip ordered the queen to compel you to marry the duke. She refused his order. He then accused her of failing in her marital duty to obey him. The council will not force you to marry a man who is half Spanish and half French by blood. Neither half is loved by the English. For now, at least, you are safe."

"Thank you, my friend," I said, weak with relief. "Now, tell me—what is the price of your eggs?"

"Of that I have not any idea, madam," he said, bowing. He strode away, leaving the basket at my feet.

I
WAS WAITING
to be dismissed from court when the queen summoned me to her chambers.

"You wish to return to Hatfield, dear sister?" she asked.

"When Your Majesty permits," I replied, uneasy, as I always felt with her, although her tone was kind.

"We have not visited Hatfield in years," said Queen Mary somewhat wistfully. "Is it still such a lovely place?"

"The loveliest on earth," I replied. Then I added impulsively, "Your Majesty would do me a great honor to come to Hatfield to see for herself." It did not occur to me that she would accept my invitation.

But Mary smiled. "And so we shall. Expect our arrival within the fortnight."

"With pleasure, madam," I lied.

God help me!
My enemy was coming to visit.

F
OR DAYS MY
household worked ceaselessly to prepare for the queen's arrival and to devise ways to entertain her. It was a time of little sleep and much worry.

The boys of Saint Paul's School would perform a play in Latin. I would present a recital on the virginals that once belonged to my father. Several banquets would be served, although I doubted that I could procure Mary's favorite, wild boar meat, in time.

Everything was in readiness on a brilliant spring day when the royal entourage wound its way to the palace gates with trumpets blaring and pennants snapping in the strong breeze. I went out to welcome the queen, still wondering,
Why does she want to come here?

It turned out that what Mary really wanted was to play cards. The queen was especially fond of primero, and she gambled recklessly on each hand. Over the next several days, we each lost and won back a small fortune.

We talked of little of consequence. I discovered quickly that Mary loved to hear me speak of King Philip. Her spirits lifted at any mention of him. She laced her conversation with constant references to "our husband, the king." But there was no mention of the duke of Savoy, the duchess of Lorraine, the coming war against France, or of Mary's own poor health.

At the end of five days, the queen gathered up her retinue and departed. It was, I thought, a successful visit. During the hours we spent together, I nearly forgot that the queen hated me and that I thought no more kindly of her.

Soon after the queen returned to London, I heard that the duchesses were gone. According to one report the queen had ordered Christina of Denmark to pack her bags and leave. According to another the duchesses, forbidden to drag me off as Savoy's bride, had gotten bored and sailed away.

There was more news: England had declared war against France. Sir William Cecil told me about it when he came to Hatfield early in June.

"So the privy council has approved Philip's plan?" I asked.

"The queen was relentless. She took each councillor aside separately from the others and threatened death if he did not agree to the plan. She reminded me of her father in her method," he said with a faint smile.

"Apparently her method succeeded."

"It did, but I do not think that the war will succeed. King Philip leaves within the month. Then we shall see."

I heard from Lady Marian the story of King Philip's departure. When she returned from Greenwich, she agreed to ride out with me. On this occasion I handled my mount sedately, for I was more interested in Marian's tales of court than I was in an exciting ride.

"In the last weeks Queen Mary and King Philip were constantly in each other's company," she told me. "They took their meals together, they attended Mass together several times a day, and they worked tirelessly in preparation for the coming battles with the French.

"The queen could not bear to be out of his sight," Marian continued. "She adores him beyond all reason! Early in July the queen accompanied her husband to Dover. She slept by his side each night of the journey. Some say that she still hopes for a child. When Philip sailed with the tide at three o'clock on the morning of the sixth of July, Mary clung to him until the last possible moment. She made no effort to hide her tears."

"And the king?" I asked. "Was he distraught as well?"

"He treated the queen with great tenderness," said Marian. "But it was clear he could scarcely wait to be gone."

***

F
OR A TIME
the news from the war was encouraging, but our jubilation was short-lived. With the chill rains of November came the first cases of an illness marked by catarrh and feverish delirium. The illness spread quickly and was to claim thousands of lives before it had run its course. The rising number of deaths caused my Protestant neighbors to remark that this was surely a curse sent by God to punish the queen for her sins.

Among those whose lives were taken that winter was my old friend, Anne of Cleves. Lady Cecily, dressed in mourning, brought me the news.

"Before her death she asked me to deliver to you these remembrances," Lady Cecily said. A servant set a finely wrought wooden case upon a table, and Cecily herself opened it. Laid against a background of black velvet was a splendid collection of jewels—ropes of pearls, brooches set with diamonds and emeralds, rings of gold set with rubies, headpieces decked with sapphires. I owned many jewels, but these were truly magnificent.

"The dowager queen cared deeply for you, my lady Elizabeth," Cecily told me.

I made Cecily a gift of a gold bracelet from Anne's collection. "Strength and courage," I said, clasping it upon her wrist, and after many tears, she rode away. Days later I learned that, on her way to London, Lady Cecily, too, was stricken. She died within a fortnight.

A
LTHOUGH I DID NOT
myself fall victim to the fever that raged all around us, I decided not to risk a journey to Greenwich for Yuletide and instead observed the season quietly with my own household.

Sir William Cecil arrived a few days after Twelfth Night in the midst of a howling blizzard. Although I was pleased, as always, to see him, I could not imagine that he would have ventured out in such foul weather without a serious purpose. His eyes were sad, and his shoulders slumped as though under a heavy weight.

When everything possible had been done to warm and cheer him, I dismissed the servants. "What has happened?" I asked.

"Calais," he said bitterly. "It has fallen to the French."

"Calais!" I cried. "It cannot be!"

Calais had belonged to England for more than two hundred years. It was the point on the Continent that lay closest to England. This fortified city was also the center of the English wool trade and therefore of great economic importance. It was thought to be invincible. And now we had lost it!

Then, having delivered this first shocking piece of news, Cecil had another: "Her Majesty, the queen, has announced that she is with child."

"Queen Mary is pregnant?" I asked incredulously. "But surely—"

"Surely she believes that she is," Cecil said wearily. "She told the privy council that she has suspected her condition for some time, but she waited until she was absolutely certain."

"When is the child expected?" I asked, utterly shaken.

"In March."

I
DID NOT
believe that my sister was pregnant, and I think few others believed it either. Naturally no one could discuss this openly. For the last pregnancy I had spent the months before the anticipated birth embroidering a wardrobe of tiny garments for the infant. This time I decided to stitch a christening gown, although I had no faith whatsoever that it would ever be worn by a child of Mary's.

At the end of February, as custom decreed, I made my way to Greenwich Palace in a large company of my gentlemen and ladies-in-waiting. I dreaded this lying-in, if that's what it was. The queen received me formally, with neither outward malice nor affection. I saw that her belly was indeed swollen, yet I doubted that she carried a child. She looked very ill. Once again the long wait began.

I foresaw no good end to it. There would be the fruitless wait. There would be no child. I could scarcely imagine what my sister's state of mind would be when she was forced to acknowledge her delusion. Would the madness of the burnings intensify even further?

But what if I was wrong? If my sister did give birth to a living child, my future was ruined.

Numb with worry, I waited. The entire court did.

Philip did not return. Instead, he sent the count of Feria to attend to his wife's needs. Whatever else the count accomplished, he caused Queen Mary's favorite lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, to fall in love with him. Jane was a handsome woman of wealth and position but as yet unmarried. Mary would not allow her favorite to wed, always claiming that none of Jane's suitors was good enough. With Philip far away, Jane often slept in the royal bedchamber with Mary.

This time Mary did not interfere. That romance was the one happy outcome of the whole cheerless affair.

By Easter the queen had once again to admit that she was not with child. Her condition was diagnosed as dropsy, her belly swollen with fluid. She must have realized that she was dying, and she sank into deep despondency. I returned quietly to Hatfield to await the next development and to fend off the marriage proposals with which I was still being tormented. The latest was from the king of Sweden, who sent an envoy to offer the king's son Eric, duke of Finland. I refused it as I had refused all others.

Yet even as I waited, I knew that as long as my sister remained alive, it was within her power to prevent my becoming queen. The Tower still loomed as a threatening possibility.

I
N SEPTEMBER
I observed my twenty-fifth birthday. As the months passed, Mary's condition worsened. Unless I made a serious mistake to trigger her anger or Mary succumbed to total madness, I now believed that I would soon become queen. I thought of little else.

I spent many hours considering who would assist me in the enormous task that lay ahead. Yet, even as death approached, my sister refused to name me as her successor. I was still her enemy, as I had been for twenty-five years.

The queen yielded, touchingly, on one issue: She finally granted her dear Jane Dormer permission to marry her sweetheart, the count of Feria. Mary's only regret, she said, was that she would not live to see the wedding.

And, as though to hold death at bay, Queen Mary continued her struggle to rid the kingdom of heretics. The last five would burn at the stake early in November.