Beware, Princess Elizabeth (6 page)

"Sweet Sister Temperance!" King Edward called out after I had gone through the courtesies he demanded— one, two, three, four, five. That much had not changed! Then he rose and held out his ring, and I kissed it.

But there was no sign of Mary.

"I invited her," my brother said. "I wrote to her in my own hand and asked her to join us. She replied that her health is poor, but that she will come to visit for a few days in the new year."

I thought her absence odd. "Mary has excused herself from the Yuletide celebrations," I told Kat as my maids dressed me for the evening's banquet.

"Mary fears she would not be allowed to hear the Roman Mass at Christmas if she came to court," Kat said, assuring me that she had this knowledge on good authority.

Acts of Parliament during my father's reign had outlawed the Roman Catholic Church in England. Edward and I had been raised as Protestants, and Edward was now head of the Church of England, the one true church. Despite all, Mary persisted in her practice of Catholicism, the faith of her mother and of her childhood.

For the next three weeks, my brother and I spent many hours in each other's company, walking, talking, playing quiet games of chess. During this time we were nearly as close and comfortable with each other as we had been as children. But each night a royal banquet was held in the Great Hall for at least a hundred guests, and then Edward was transformed again into a strutting, posturing monarch. I found such behavior revolting, but it was forbidden to criticize the king. As always I was seated at some distance from Edward.

Although he appeared to eat very little at the nightly feasts, my brother ordered two courses to be served, each course consisting of at least two dozen dishes—roast pig, frumenty with venison, all kinds of fish and fowl, pasties and puddings—each presented, tasted, and then carried off.

For the Christmas feast itself, trumpet fanfares announced the arrival of the boar's head, carried in on a golden charger, its tusks gilded and set aflame. The entire company sang an old carol while the servants knelt and presented the boar's head to the king.

Yuletide climaxed with Twelfth Night, more festive and riotous than all the feasts that had preceded it. The main event was the choosing of the Lord of Misrule. In my father's time the singing and dancing that followed had continued until dawn. Since my brother had come to the throne, the dancing was much more restrained and ended at an earlier hour. Still, I enjoyed what dancing was permitted and had no lack of partners.

Suddenly Robin Dudley appeared before me. I had not seen him since I was last at court. Now, at sixteen, he had grown much taller and was exceedingly well made. My brother had appointed him Master of the Buckhounds. Edward loved to hunt deer in the company of Robin and his hounds, and Robin, I had heard, was now much at court. I was overjoyed to see him again.

"I must speak to you in private, Elizabeth," he whispered as the music began and we briefly joined hands to execute certain steps.

This provoked my curiosity, but I could only smile as we whirled apart. I thought quickly.
Where can we meet without being interrupted?
On this night I knew of one place almost certain to be deserted. "The chapel royal," I murmured as again our hands joined. "When the next dance begins."

It was easy enough to slip away, and I waited impatiently in the empty chapel royal. What would Robin have to say? Was it something about King Edward? Something about me?

Moments later Robin appeared in the shadows. Then he stepped into the flickering light of the few candles that had been left burning.

"Elizabeth," he said, and I noted that his voice was husky. Without waiting for my response, he hurried on. "I am betrothed."

"Oh? To what fortunate lady?" I asked. I confess that the news took me unawares.

"Amy Robsart. We are to be married in June."

"Married in June!" I exclaimed.

That the wealthy Robsarts and the ambitious Dudleys saw a betrothal as a mutual advantage was no surprise. Betrothals are pledges that bind two people for a year, but often the betrothals are broken, or the year allowed to pass with neither a marriage nor a renewal of the pledge. That a wedding date had actually been set did indeed astonish me. I suppose I somehow hoped that my old friend would remain free. My feelings made no sense, and I kept silent, not trusting my voice to conceal them.

"Would that it were you, Elizabeth!" he cried, and for one wild moment I wanted to throw myself into his arms.

But I did nothing of the sort. "I shall never marry, Robin," I said. "Not you, nor anyone."

I turned away and hurried out of the chapel. What had I said?
I shall never marry.
Did I truly mean it?
Never?
I felt confused, almost giddy. But in minutes I was following the complicated steps of a gigue with Guildford Dudley, Robin's younger, clumsier, and far less comely brother.

For the next four days, I had no further conversations with Robin. I felt that he was avoiding me, and I did not go out of my way to seek his company. But my own words continued to echo in my head:
I shall never marry.
I felt as though I had somehow crossed a vast ocean, never to return.

D
AYS LATER
I bade my brother farewell. My visit to court had been a success, but still it was with relief that I headed north for Hatfield with my retinue. My only regular visitor during the dark, cold days of winter was Sir William Cecil, a member of my brother's privy council and the only one of the sixteen men whom I believed to be above reproach. To this sober and honest gentleman, I had entrusted the management of my financial affairs.

I was not unhappy during this quiet time, although I do confess to bouts of restlessness. To cure them I often called for one of my geldings to be saddled and brought to me. "I fear that you will break your neck!" Kat invariably fretted, wringing her hands. But I always returned muddy, wet, and bedraggled from the hard, fast ride over the heath, unharmed and thoroughly exhilarated. I loved the danger, and on the back of a horse I felt as though I was in charge of my life.

I did occasionally think of Robin, but I had made up my mind that no man should be my undoing, as Tom Seymour nearly had been.

W
INTER WAS
reluctantly yielding to spring when I was again summoned to visit my brother, during Passiontide in 1550. The court had moved to Hampton Court, a sumptuous palace on the Thames several miles upriver from London. There were no festive banquets in that penitential season, only plain Lenten fare during the two weeks before the Great Feast of Easter.

At twelve Edward was thin and frail-looking, one shoulder held higher than the other. He was shortsighted, and he squinted in order to see objects at a distance. In an attempt to mimic our strong, athletic father, he swaggered about with his small fists planted on his narrow hips and his delicate features twisted in a scowl. And even when we dined in private, his carvers and cupbearers were ordered to doff their caps and drop to their knees to serve him. He tried to utter thunderous oaths, but his voice wobbled and squeaked between boy's and man's.

It had become a kind of game with Edward to elude the prying eyes of John Dudley, who now bore the title of duke of Northumberland. Dudley and the other privy councillors watched the king like falcons about to swoop down on a hapless rabbit. To escape their vigilant gaze, my brother and I hurried off to the maze of hedges that our father had ordered built in the gardens at Hampton Court. Edward had memorized every twist and turn among the tall privets, and once we'd found the heart of the maze, we believed we had a little time in which to speak privately before anyone discovered us.

Wrapped in furs against the damp, chill wind that swept off the river, Edward settled himself on a stone bench to rest and gestured for me to kneel upon the cold ground. Even under these circumstances he would not share the bench with me. I wanted to shout at him, "Edward, I am your sister! There is no cloth of estate here!" But I did not. No matter how foolish the boy's behavior, I was the king's subject and dared not correct him or point out his follies. And so I dutifully bit my tongue to silence and shivered on my knees.

"Sweet Sister Temperance," Edward began, as he usually did when he addressed me, "I worry myself about our sister."

"Mary? What is wrong, my lord? Is she not coming here to join us for Easter?"

"She is not. Again she has refused, making some excuse. She hints that she suspects a plot against her."

"Surely she is mistaken, my lord," I said, but I was thinking,
Doubtless she is
not
mistaken.
I did not trust the king's advisers, especially Dudley, and probably, quite rightly, Mary didn't either.

Edward sighed. "She refuses to give up her devotion to the Catholic Church. But she must! Word has reached the councillors that not only does she continue to hear Mass daily but that her entire household joins her. And this has been strictly forbidden! Why do you suppose she clings to these practices so stubbornly? It would be so much easier to agree to what the law demands."

"I care deeply for our sister," I answered carefully, as custom required, "but I neither understand nor approve of her religious ideas. Could she not learn to praise God as a Protestant?"

Edward suffered a fit of coughing. When it had passed he said, "I have been told that Mary may try to flee the country. She has been in contact with the Emperor Charles. She asked him to send a ship to take her away to Flanders."

Emperor Charles was Mary's cousin on her mother's side. And he was the most powerful man in Europe. But for him to do as Mary asked was risky. Suppose Mary were to marry a Catholic king who might attempt to overthrow Edward and restore Catholicism? The emperor would feel obliged to fight for Mary, and he'd find himself at war against England.

"But why would she want to run away?" I asked.

Edward was silent for a time, and we both listened for the footsteps of those who'd surely have been sent to find us. "Because she believes I would have her put to death. Dear Elizabeth, I should so hate to do that! She is like a mother to me, and I do love her so!"

I was shocked. This was the first I had heard him speak of such a thing. Put Mary to death? Would he really do that—execute his own sister? He looked so upset that I was also fairly certain it was not his idea. "But why? What has she done to deserve death? And on whose advice would you have our sister executed?" I asked.

"The councillors have spoken of it," Edward said, weeping now. "Because she will not obey the laws and give up her foolish religion! They discuss it among themselves, and it upsets me terribly that they do so. But I must do as they say, especially Dudley, for he knows what is best for England and I do not!"

I could say nothing. To contradict him, even in private, was very dangerous. My brother was highly intelligent, but he was still only a boy. With the exception of Cecil, the privy councillors hovered over him and dictated his every move, always for their own benefit. "The king lacks the strength of his own will," Kat had often said. "Dudley has made him a doll-puppet."

Now, before we could say more, we heard voices. They were coming closer. I squeezed Edward's hand, and like naughty children we waited to be found.

H
ATFIELD,
which now belonged to me, had been cleansed in my absence. The soiled rush mats on the floors had been removed and sweet-smelling ones laid in their place. Wall hangings and tapestries blackened with soot from the winter fires had been taken down and exposed to fresh air, the walls scrubbed and whitened. Bed hangings and coverlets and mattresses stuffed with wool were refreshed, mended, replaced. Silver and gold plate was polished, linens bleached in the sunshine. I found everything in good order.

I had the responsibility of overseeing a great estate that produced quantities of mutton and beef, wool and leather, as well as fat for making candles and soap. Much of the production of Hatfield went to supply King Edward's court. It was my pleasure to ride out to watch the peasants at their labors. As long as I lived a quiet country life, away from the intrigue of court, I felt that I was in no danger.

Then came an invitation to attend the wedding of Robin Dudley to Amy Robsart. I had grown accustomed to the idea that my old friend would soon be a married man.

On a fine, sunny day in June, I traveled from Hatfield with a large retinue to Windsor Castle. My brother, who had come from London with a much larger retinue, was given the place of honor at the wedding, and I a place lower down. Among the guests was Lady Jane Grey, now so delicately beautiful and so elegantly gowned that she risked drawing undue attention away from the bride.

I was happy to see Jane, and we contrived to have a few moments to talk together. "My life is a misery," she confided at once. "I do believe that God intends for me to suffer."

"I do not believe that God intends for any of His creatures to suffer," I said, but before I could determine the cause of her misery, we were separated by a band of musicians. I suspected that she was getting on with her cruel parents no better than she ever had.

Amy Robsart was a plump little thing, nearly swallowed up in an overwrought gown of silver tissue. Two young boys led her to the church, carrying branches of rosemary, gilded and swagged with silk ribbons. They were accompanied by a dozen maidens, each bearing a bride cake. Musicians piped a merry tune. But my eye was drawn to Robin, who, looking as fine as I have ever seen him, arrived at the church doors with his gentlemen.

Robin and his bride exchanged their vows, and once the wedding ring had been placed upon fair Amy's thumb, the priest covered them with the nuptial veil and blessed the marriage. That done, we all made our way to the castle along a path strewn with rose petals and rosemary.

We feasted and danced quite decorously, and so the day passed. I have always enjoyed weddings, but I confess that about this one I felt differently. Did Robin Dudley truly love Amy? I doubted it. Love has nothing to do with marriage, but money does. Amy had indeed made her husband quite rich. There was no reason I should have suffered such pangs of the heart. Yet it was as though a door I'd not noticed before had been suddenly and forever shut.