Just a Girl

Jane Caro is an author, writer, public speaker, university lecturer, broadcaster and social commentator. She spent 30 years as an advertising writer and her creative work has won many national and international awards.

She lives with her husband and two daughters and divides her time between her home in suburban Sydney and her cattle and treegrowing property in the Upper Allyn.
Just a Girl
is her third book and first novel.

I am alive. My heart beats, my skin is warm, I breathe, my limbs move, I see, I hear, my head remains attached to my neck, my skin unpierced by any blade, my stomach untainted by any poison.

I am alive and I am awake. I do not know the o'clock, but it is many hours since I retired to my chamber and many hours till cock's crow – for which I thank God and curse Him in equal measure.

I am awake and tomorrow I shall be crowned.

It is cold tonight; a wind blows outside, wuthering and moaning around the corners of this great fortress. The same wind blows around the corners of houses and hovels. It seeks out the sleeping place of every Londoner: rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief, queen, washerwoman, those who enter the world this night, and those who leave it. Its icy, uncaring breath is no respecter of rank, age, wealth or situation. Outside
this room, my ladies sleep. Closest to my door snores Kat Ashley. The door between us may be fashioned from English oak the thickness of a man's fist, but I know she snores. I do not have to hear it to know. I know it because of all the other nights we shared a bed.

I shall never share a bed again, God willing.

And tonight I do not share even my chamber. The truckle bed that one or other of my ladies usually sleeps upon lies empty. I knew I would not sleep this night and did not wish to share these hours with any but my own thoughts and the shades from the past with whom I now seek to make my peace.

I am alive, but I am also afraid. I confess it freely and I did not expect to be afraid. In the past, when I thought of this moment, let myself imagine a time when I was safe and held my father's sceptre, I imagined I would feel exultant – triumphant. Yet I do not. I feel about as capable of running a government and guiding England's destiny as any serving maid. I feel as imprisoned in this Tower tonight as ever I did when I was its actual prisoner. More so, because it is no mere lock that holds me here now: it is God. There is no escape from the morrow, no possibility of escaping the destiny I have sought so long.

None of my family now lives; such a lonely and melancholy thought threatens to undo me. I feel my tears begin and I must pause a while and close my eyes.

The fear and loneliness come in waves, as the grippe does. When they subside a little, I can think and apply my wits to my situation. After all, if I am to be master of this country, I must first be master of myself. It is because I am the last of my line that I find myself here, in the king's bedchamber, in the Tower, on this night in January, in the year of Our Lord 1559, waiting – albeit with dread – to be crowned queen in Westminster Abbey. (Sweet Jesu, my heart speeds up as I think; my gorge rises in my gullet. Why does the mere thought of coronation fill me with such horror? It is a ceremony only; no actual harm can befall me.) My sister Mary faced just this ordeal a few years ago. Did she shudder and turn sick alone in her apartment, as I do now? If she did, I beg her forgiveness. I lay fevered with envy that night in a nearby chamber. Poor queen. It cheers me not to think that all she dreaded came to pass and worse, I doubt not. Dear God in heaven, spare me that fate.

Mary was of no great age when she died: scarce thirty-eight, God rest her soul. In any other family her passing would have been cause for grief. But, while many may mourn the passing of a queen, who was there to mourn the passing of Mary Tudor? Not her husband, I'll be bound. Perhaps it is the nature of kingship that the holder becomes the office. So does a crowning also become an execution? Perhaps that is why I fear the morrow so much. Elizabeth the lady
or princess will cease to exist tomorrow and her place will be taken by this stranger, this – queen. I feel as if my very soul will disappear, as the crown (like the axe) descends upon my head and I know not who or what will take its place.

I remember my sister most fondly from the time when we were both but young and mere ladies, our title of Princess stripped from each of us by mercurial fate and, of course, the whims of our all-powerful father.
Then
Mary played with me often and tried to teach me fine needlework. I remember how she liked to admonish me for my lack of talent as a needlewoman.

‘My Lady Elizabeth,' she'd say, with mock severity, ‘I suppose I should not be surprised that if you think like a boy, you sew like one too.' Perhaps I could have been a better needlewoman, but I knew how important it was for her to outshine me in something and, truth be told, plying a needle held few charms for me.

She taught me to play the lute and the harpsichord and we often sang together – country songs, folk songs, sometimes songs taught to us by those who had recently been to the courts of France, Spain and the Low Countries – but never hymns. We kept away from religion when we were together.

That was my favourite when I was little; I used to feel such a yearning when I sang it. Sometimes, when I lay in my bed, I sang it to lull myself to sleep. I still remember the words.

Then I would burrow further under my quilt and feel as warm and as safe as ever I could.

I sing that song and I am immediately a child back in my bedchamber at Ashridge, or in Whitehall, or at Hatfield, or our apartments at Hampton Court. Not the grand or the large ones, those apartments we each gave up in our turn – Mary to make way for me, and me to make way for Edward. But the casement windows of our more humble schoolroom that looked out over the gardens, where we could watch the household coming and going, discreet behind the dusty window coverings that hung on either side. And we were safe there, forgotten in our out-of-the-way part of the great house. Yet it was only at the royal palaces like Hampton
Court and Whitehall that we stood any chance of seeing the king, our father, and all three of us lived for the moments when he cast his eyes in our direction. After the death of my mother, as I think about it now, I believe my father could not bear to set eyes on me. For a long time, it was as if I had been forgotten.

Mary and the ladies of my household with their skilful fingers patched and repaired my clothes as often as they could, but I grew quickly and soon my skirts were too short, my kirtles too tight, and my sleeves not meeting under the arms.

‘She must have new garments, Mistress Champernowne,' said Mary. ‘She is a king's daughter, not a beggarman's.'

‘I know, my lady.' Kat curtsied low. ‘I have asked and am told that garments will be ordered, but they never come.'

‘Let me write.' And Mary took up pen and paper, wrote a word or two, then crossed it out. ‘No,' she continued, as if talking to herself, ‘not to the king; there is no point writing to the king.' She stared out of the window for a moment, then sighed and put the quill back into its inkpot. ‘We need a queen.' It was not long after the death of Queen Jane that my wardrobe fell into such disrepair.

Mary turned to my governess, Lady Bryan. ‘You must write to the governor of the Lady Elizabeth's
household, listing the items she needs. Bring it to me when it is done and I shall sign the letter.'

‘Yes, my lady.' Lady Bryan dropped low into a curtsy, lower than many saw fit to do for either my sister or me, now we were out of favour, and left the room to do as she was bid.

‘Do not fret,
mi poquito chica,
' my sister said, scooping me up in her arms, ‘We'll make a fine lady of you yet.' I loved it when she spoke to me in Spanish. I knew it meant I was in high favour and I felt safe. I wrapped my threadbare arms around her waist and we sat like that for a long time, her embroidery forgotten, as she sang Spanish lullabies to me and we pretended we were well loved.

My father mourned the loss of only one of his wives: the mother of his son, Queen Jane. I have no memory of her, but she must have been kind, because Mary spoke of her fondly. My father must have truly loved her, for in his whole adult life, the three years that followed her death were the longest he was ever a single man.

I remember one of the few times I saw him in those years, we were at court – a rare enough event in those days – and someone had reminded him of our existence. We were summoned to his presence. He looked at me in my faded and ill-fitting garments and exploded with rage.

‘Who dresses my daughter so?' he stormed, firing thunderous looks at my ladies, Mistresses Parry and Champernowne. Wisely, they dropped their heads even deeper into their curtsies to avoid his gaze. ‘Why was I not told of her requirements? You,' he bellowed, pointing at poor Kat. ‘And you!' Poor Blanche. ‘And you!' Now he had turned on poor Mary, who had done, like the others, all she could. When I was in favour with my father, my sister was out of it, and vice versa. ‘I make an allowance for the child, the least you can do is see she is dressed decently.'

‘We have written, Your Majesty,' ventured my sister, her head almost as low in her curtsy as those of my ladies. ‘I have even written myself.'

‘Why have these letters been kept from me? On whose authority?' And king glared at councillor and councillor glared at courtier and courtier glared at lady and the ladies glared down at their feet. The letters were not kept from my father; no doubt he simply read and forgot them. After a scant few weeks as queen, I have more sympathy for him than I had before. Rulers of kingdoms drown in paper. His real fault lay in keeping us out of sight. Always, for him, what he did not see did not exist.

‘Dress her as befits a king's daughter,' he commanded. ‘And get you from my sight,' he said, turning on me, ‘until you be properly clothed.' It was terrifying to be shouted at by my father, particularly in company, and I
curtsied and scuttled backwards, tripping over my legs in my haste to escape.

‘Look at her,' I heard him say as I fled the room. ‘She's as long limbed and clumsy as a young colt.' I heard them laugh, and I felt ashamed.

But the interview brought results. I received some of the new garments I so desperately needed. I well recall the pleasure I took in their bright colours and crisp folds. It was novel to wear skirts that covered my ankles, and sleeves that reached to my wrists. I no longer felt added shame at revealing my awkward limbs before so many fine ladies and gentlemen. I knew that, even as they went through the motions of respect – curtsying and bowing to me – they saw by my attire exactly the level of esteem in which I was held and my lack of importance in my own house. And Mary and I had learnt our lesson well. We knew our strategy: when these new garments needed replacing, we would put on the worst of them and get ourselves before our father, the king.

We monarchs attain our thrones by divine right, it is said, and it may be so. But I have known and loved three rulers and I saw the fear in their eyes. Despite all their glory, their wit, their power, their wealth and their bluster, they knew themselves to be naked and afraid. My father's eyes were blue and, as he grew larger with age, so they grew smaller. He was, by all accounts, a perfect and a pretty prince when young, loved so heartily by all
who saw him that he held their regard throughout his long reign. But my father had something none of his own children ever knew: a childhood free from fear. He was the second son, destined, as he liked to tell us, for the priesthood. A picture that even tonight causes me a moment of amusement, though lusty priests are neither new nor rare. His youth was untroubled by thoughts of statecraft or kingship. Admired for his great height, his grace as a dancer, his skill as a musician, his intellect as a theologian, his agility in the joust and his courage on horseback, he was at liberty to indulge his whims and display his talent. I never saw him so. To me he was always swollen with food, wine and suspicion. I loved him; he was my father. I revered him; he was my king. I worshipped him; he was the head of my church. I feared him; he killed my mother. It was he who took me from princess to lady and back again, and it was he who enshrined my eventual succession in his will. I yearned for him – he terrified me.

Nevertheless, while he was alive, the worst I risked was disapproval, not death. His smile was as if the clouds parted, the sun shone and God and all the holy angels scattered sweet petals on me. His frown was like the coming of winter, his rage like the hot fires of hell. I experienced the full fury of his displeasure but once, and it seared itself not only on my memory, but on my soul.