Beware, Princess Elizabeth (7 page)

Just after my seventeenth birthday, in September, a messenger arrived at Hatfield with a letter from Robin's father, John Dudley, the lord protector. I broke the seal and read the brief message:
It is the king's opinion that the time has come for you to wed,
he wrote, adding that in his position as head of the privy council, he was considering several possible suitors.
It shall be my duty to inform you as negotiations proceed.
The letter ended with all sorts of wishes for my good health and was decorated with ornamental flourishes.

I was furious. "Kat!" I called out so loudly that my voice echoed through the palace. "Kat, where are you? I need you at once!"

Moments later Kat rushed in, her cap askew. "My lady Elizabeth! What is it?"

I was so angry I could hardly speak. I thrust the offensive letter into Kat's hands. "Read this!" I commanded.

Kat did so and then glanced up at me with her mild blue eyes. "Why does this upset you so, Elizabeth?" she asked. "You are of an age. It is not unexpected, surely?"

"Kat, is it possible that you do not understand? Have you not heard me speak of this in the past?" I demanded hotly. "I
do not wish, to marry!
"

Kat studied me carefully. "Come," she said at last, "let us have some ale, and we can discuss the matter."

"There is nothing to discuss," I declared when two silver tankards of ale had been brought to us. "I have thought it over quite carefully for some time, and my mind is made up. I shall not change it.
I shall not marry.
"

"But you must, Elizabeth!" Kat insisted. "It is not possible for you
not
to marry! Firstly, it is expected of you, as it is of every woman. Secondly, to remain unmarried would be unwise for your health, both in body and in mind. Just look at your poor sister!"

"That is my sister's matter, and this is mine," I snapped. "I intend to remain a virgin."

I thought I detected a slight smile on Kat's lips. "Is it not imaginable," she asked, "that you might change your mind in the future? If the right man should happen along?"

"Never!" I said, setting down my tankard of ale so hard that the amber liquid splashed upon my gown. "Never!"

Wisely, Kat said no more, and I scribbled a brief note to the lord protector. "I do not wish to marry," I wrote. Having nothing more to add, I dated it and signed my name. Then I summoned the messenger to carry my letter back to London.

In the months that followed, I learned that John Dudley had ignored my letter and my wishes. He had entered into negotiations with four foreign noblemen—one was a Frenchman, one a German, and two were Italians, all with fathers or brothers who were powerful dukes.

As soon as I heard of it, I swore that I would accept none of them, nor any other. For the time being at least, God's grace shone upon me. In all four instances the negotiations came to nothing. I did understand, though, that the demand that I marry sooner rather than later would be unrelenting.

A
S SEASON
followed season I divided my life between quiet times in the country with my former tutor, Professor Ascham, as my intellectual companion, and lively visits to court, where I was much in my brother's favor. I enjoyed the attention I received as the king's sister. Although Edward still insisted upon his rituals, I did love my brother dearly and cherished my time with him. But I also pitied him.

"You have no idea how terrible it is, dear sister," Edward once confided when we had again managed to elude the advisers who seemed always to surround him.

"Terrible how?" I asked.

"My uncle Edward Seymour has been let out of the Tower and once again serves on the council. He and Dudley argue and shout at each other, and no one listens to me! I want so much to be a good king, and I know that I can do it, if they will only let me. But they will allow me to do nothing at all." And he fell weeping into my arms.

I
N THE SUMMER
of 1551, the sweating sickness scourged England as it had not done for many years. Visitors to Hatfield Palace told me that in London the church bells tolled ceaselessly for the dead. Away from the ill humors of the city, I prayed that we might be spared. I was especially worried about Edward.

Thanks be to God he escaped the sweat, as did I and others close to me. But many were not so fortunate; in all, fifty thousand people died that summer.

Although Edward did not fall victim to the sweat, I could see that my brother's health was in alarming decline. When I attended court at Christmas 1551, my fourteen-year-old brother looked more frail than ever.

Another year passed, during which Dudley succeeded in permanently removing his chief rival, Edward Seymour, by ordering his execution. It must have been a terrible time for my brother, who once again had to sign the order for an uncle's death.

I attended court when King Edward summoned me, always dreading that first sight of him and the obvious signs of declining strength. I saw Mary not at all during this time. In the winter of 1553, I translated from Italian a sermon by a religious reformer whose work had impressed me deeply. I copied this translation onto parchment in my most elegant handwriting and sent it to Edward.
No one can match the extent of my love and good feeling toward you,
I wrote to him with great sincerity.

In his letter of thanks, I saw in both his words and his wavering script that my brother was very ill. I sent a message at once that I was coming to visit him.

The early spring weather did not favor my journey from Hatfield to London, and my retinue and I found ourselves pelted with stinging sleet. As we neared our destination, we were met by a group of sodden and mud-splattered men who signaled us to halt. One of the men, whom I recognized as a member of the privy council, presented me with a letter ordering me to turn back.

At first I thought to ignore the letter, signed not by King Edward but by John Dudley, duke of Northumberland.

"The king is my brother," I said, addressing the councillor, "and I shall see him unless he himself turns me away."

"My lady Elizabeth," he replied, "I assure you that you will be refused admission to the king's bedchamber."

For a long moment the councillor and I stared at each other. But my will was no match for John Dudley's. I had no doubt that if I continued on, Dudley would find a pretext to have me seized and imprisoned—or worse. Angrily I turned my horse back toward Hatfield.

My anger was quickly replaced by sadness; my brother was dying. But in the midst of my sorrow came the growing realization that, according to the order of succession established by our father's will, Mary would become queen at Edward's death. And that day was not far away. My mind leaped to the future: Edward had not lived long enough to produce an heir. Mary, at thirty-three, was still unmarried. Instead of standing far from the throne, I would soon be next in line. That realization thrilled me, but it also frightened me. I was beginning to understand that many people, beginning with John Dudley and the privy councillors, would stop at nothing—including murder—to block Mary's way, and then mine.

And so, in the days that followed, I prayed fervently for my brother and, in a state of high anxiety, awaited further word. My own physician kept me informed: Edward was coughing blood, his body wasting away, his mind fevered and disturbed. The end was near.

B
ECAUSE
I
SPENT
most of my time at Hatfield, the gossip of the court was always stale and often somewhat altered by the time it reached me. Thus I was unprepared for the announcement, in May, of the betrothal of Jane Grey to John Dudley's youngest son, Robin's brother Guildford.

Several of my ladies-in-waiting devoured gossip as a thirsty horse drinks water; they were also well connected, with brothers and cousins at court. These ladies—Cynthia, Marian, and Letitia—enjoyed bringing me morsels of rumor and scandal, which they presented as we sat at our needlework. Petty gossip to them was to me a matter of life and death, but I pretended to delight in their revelations.

"Lady Jane does not want this marriage, not at all," reported Lady Cynthia, an auburn-haired young woman with emerald green eyes.

"Why not?"

"She claims that she is already promised to Edward Seymour's son, Lord Hertford."

"Lord Hertford!" I exclaimed. "She prefers marriage to a spindleshanks like Hertford to Guildford Dudley?"

"Guildford is not ill favored," Lady Letitia granted, "although not nearly so handsome as his brother Robin." She shot me a mischievous glance, which I blandly ignored. "But Jane cannot abide John Dudley or his wife. The duchess has Guildford completely under her thumb, I hear."

"Perhaps Lady Jane will find a way out," I suggested. I regretted now that Jane and I were not as close as we once had been, and I wished that she had confided in me.

"The wedding is to take place in a fortnight," said Lady Marian, a plain and practical sort. "There is so little time that she is not even to have a new gown. John Dudley has given them access to the royal wardrobe and told them to help themselves to whatever finery they choose."

"But," said Cynthia, knotting her silken thread with a flourish, "Lady Jane was assured by her parents that her life will go on as before, and she shall continue to live at home, as she has since the death of the dowager queen. They have promised that her studies will proceed uninterrupted."

"Dear Jane!" I exclaimed. "Being able to pursue her studies will be of utmost importance to her."
So it's to be a marriage in name only, until an heir is wanted,
I thought.
What will be the next twist in this plot?

Jane and her family were always in evidence at court events—they were our cousins. Jane's mother, Frances, was my father's niece. Jane was the eldest of three daughters; there were no sons. According to my father's will, Frances Grey stood in the line of succession after Mary and me; she was then followed in turn by Jane and Jane's two younger sisters.

It was an unusual state of affairs that there were no males in line for the crown. But this could be remedied by the right marriage. A husband would naturally rule in his wife's stead until a male heir was born. And so it became clear to me that John Dudley's plan was to marry his son to Jane, who was now fourth in line for the throne. Would his next step be to eliminate those in line ahead of Jane—Mary and me? I saw that John Dudley was even more dangerous than I'd imagined.

Within hours of receiving this information, I sent for William Cecil, on the pretext of needing his opinion on the purchase of a property bordering my estate. The messenger returned with the information that Cecil was suffering from a fever but would call upon me when he recovered.

I would have to survive in the meantime on crumbs of gossip. Poor Kat bore the brunt of my impatience. Once I even snatched a bit of needlework from her hands and ripped out some of the stitches. "Do them over!" I cried, thrusting the piece back at her and storming out of the chamber.

I
WAS NOT
invited to the wedding. It was an insult, of course, but John Dudley was plainly so certain of his power that he didn't care
whom
he insulted. I counted for nothing. This slight served only to feed my suspicions, fuel my anger, and strengthen my resolve that one day all of England would recognize my importance.

Lady Marian's sister-in-law sent us word of it all. "Jane was gowned in cloth of gold with a cloak of silver tissue," Marian said. "And her hair was combed and plaited and hung down her back in a way that many thought quite odd. Her headdress was green velvet covered all over with precious stones."

Jane was not the only bride at the wedding, I learned; she was but one of three that day. All in one fell swoop, John Dudley married his daughter, Catherine, to another councillor, and Jane's sister, who was also named Catherine, was married to the son of a third councillor. What a knot of conspirators John Dudley had contrived! I thought I would go mad if I did not soon have Cecil's explanation of it all.

Marian continued her tale. "When the feasting was done, the three bridegrooms departed for the royal tiltyard at Whitehall for a friendly joust."

"The brides no doubt stayed behind and silently rejoiced at being left to themselves for a while longer," I suggested. But perhaps I was simply speaking for myself.

C
ECIL FINALLY
arrived at Hatfield in June, apparently fully recovered and dressed, as always, in somber black with the smallest of neck ruffs. I called for my gelding, and we set off to inspect the neighboring property. I wasted no time in bringing up my worries.

"As you must know, I am most interested in the marriage of my cousin Jane to Guildford Dudley."

"As well you might be, for some of it concerns you, madam."

"Then tell me."

"After the wedding Jane returned to her parents' home, as she had been promised. But that promise was broken ten days later when she was taken to live with Guildford at the Dudleys' home. John Dudley informed the Greys of his plan for his new daughter-in law: King Edward, aware that he was dying, wished to make changes in the succession. He had written out a document called
The Device for the Succession.
Your sister, Mary, was struck from the line of succession. And I am sorry to say that your name has also been stricken. Jane's mother has relinquished her claim, in favor of her daughter. At Edward's death Lady Jane Dudley, as she is now called, will be crowned queen."

"But he cannot do that!" I shouted, reining in my horse sharply. "This violates my father's will!"

Cecil also stopped his horse, and we sat facing each other. "But he
has
done it, my lady. Your brother, the king, is very weak. John Dudley has total power over him."

"When did you learn of this?" I demanded.

"After the fact, madam. Just days ago Dudley gathered the privy council together in the king's presence chamber. These were his words, as nearly as I can recall: