Just a Girl (5 page)

‘Madam! Madam!' I burst into her presence, breathless both from fear and from the restrained and secretive haste I had been forced to make to get to the queen before her enemies could prevail upon my father to sign a warrant for yet another wife's arrest.

‘What is it, child?' she asked, starting up from her stool by the fire and dropping the book she had been reading in her surprise.

‘They have questioned the Lady Suffolk and arrested the Fair Gospeler and taken her to the Tower.' I saw the blood drain from her face a little, but she rallied quickly.

‘Who has done this, and why?'

‘Bishop Winchester, Your Majesty. And Master Wriothesley, the Lord Chancellor, among others. They have accused Mistress Askew of heresy, and witchcraft.' Queen Catherine sat back abruptly on her stool. Her ladies gasped. We all knew the dread punishment for such crimes.

‘But what is this to me?'

‘They have searched your book closet, madam, and found what they were looking for.' At this, one of her ladies burst into tears and others fell to their knees,
praying for God to help them in their terror. But Queen Catherine was made of sterner stuff. She got to her feet again and in two steps was by my side, her hand on my shoulder. It felt firm and warm.

‘Send word to my husband, your father, that I am taken ill and that my life is feared for. Tell him that I am calling out for him in my extremity.' I stood and gaped at her, not quite understanding the meaning of her words.

She gave me a sharp push. ‘Go now, make haste. Send word exactly as I say. Speed is everything.' I turned to run to the door, when she bade me pause. ‘Elizabeth?'

‘Yes, madam?'

‘Thank you, my child, thank you from the bottom of my heart.' Then I ran with the memory of an earlier unsuccessful run hard upon my heels. I ran to find a messenger and to save her life.

And saved it was. The king forgot his peevishness when he heard that the queen's life hung by a thread and he hastened to her side, just as she had wanted him to. Once there, he saw a woman in deep distress and, as always, when confronted directly with the sufferings of others, he was moved to compassion.

‘What ails you, my pigeon?' he asked her.

‘I am sick, my gracious lord, with grief and fear.'

‘What grieves you, my darling? Who has frightened you?'

‘It is I myself, my lord, who has committed both crimes.'

‘Yourself? You speak in riddles. Are you feverish?'

‘No, my lord, just hot with shame, for fear that I have offended you with my womanly foolishness and I would not displease my gracious lord and master for all the gold and jewels in Christendom.'

‘How now, madam? I have not said so.'

‘No, you are too kind to admonish me. It is God, my saviour, who has revealed to me the error in my ways and the risk that I have taken in appearing to dispute with you – who is my superior in all things.'

‘It is true that of late I have felt you have taken it upon yourself to speak of things above your power of reasoning, and this has displeased me momentarily. But I have held my tongue, madam–'

‘As I should have done, my lord. And would have, if only my feeble powers of reasoning had been better able to show me the profound error of my ways. But, good my lord, I did not mean to appear to put my own beliefs and reason above your own. It was only my lack of skill in disputation and my feminine clumsiness that led me so to do. I merely thought that by occupying your mind in debate with me I might distract you from the pain in your poor leg. I felt it preferable that you be irritated by my inferior logic than by the discomfort of your ailments.'

‘Was it so, sweeting?' The king's face had softened and his small suspicious eyes had filled with sentimental tears. ‘If you speak true, it is a noble, wifely sacrifice that you have made.'

‘Not a sacrifice, my lord, because in the wisdom of your responses I learnt much about the true glory of God and the best way to worship and interpret His intentions here on earth. Perhaps it was through my delight in hearing the brilliance of your arguments and the true mettle of your mind that I fell into error. I could not bring myself to cease our conversations because of the pleasure your superiority of mind and heart brought to me. Can you ever forgive me, my lord?'

‘Right heartily, my darling.' And he kissed her, just as heartily. ‘But you will not dispute so with me again, will you?'

‘No, my lord. I have learnt my lesson. Your Majesty doth know right well I am not ignorant of the great imperfection and weakness allotted to us women by our first creation, to be ordained and appointed as inferior and subject unto man as our head, from which head all our direction ought to proceed.'

With that, and with much else beside, good clever Queen Catherine Parr saved her own life and that of her friends. The Fair Gospeler was not to be so fortunate. She was fed to the flames to appease the plotters.

Now, when I close my eyes and think of my
stepmother, it is not as much her face I see, as her calm presence. I can sense her in the room with me now, silent in a corner, her head with its smooth, dark hair bent over a scholarly tome or her embroidery. After her great fright, when my father was near, she spoke little, but when she did, all stopped to listen. The king's suspicions were lulled by her continuing meekness and as he grew more querulous with increasing age and illness, he began once again to ask her advice in ways he would never have asked any other woman. Much as I loved Queen Catherine, and grateful as I was that she had used the good sense God had given her to save herself (whatever men may think of female brains), I could not help wondering if she was as my mother might have become, if she had been allowed to live and mature beside her husband. But it does no good to wish. The world is as it is, not as I may like it – not even now, when I am queen.

The world was not as Queen Catherine wanted it, either, yet she made the best of the circumstances she found herself in and, when my father died, she hoped her patience would be rewarded. As is so often the way with those who must manoeuvre for power rather than deal in it directly, she was to be both rewarded and punished. Although she never said as much to me, no doubt she harboured hopes that her skill as regent would be remembered and that she would return to that
role while my brother remained in his minority. But it was not to be. Powerful men stepped quickly between the king and his family and made sure that the regency fell to them. Her compensation was that, at last, she was able to marry the man she loved.

Most of the people I have seen die in their beds – and there have not been many lucky enough to make their exit in such a way – shrank their way out of the world, getting smaller and smaller until they almost disappeared. My father did the opposite. He swelled and swelled, growing so big that his legs could carry him no longer and he had to be wheeled from room to room. The ulcer on his leg stank so of decay that, despite all the expensive perfumes they bathed him in, it was hard to be in his presence for any length of time and courtiers spent much more time playing with their pomades than hitherto. Any exertion, simply getting him from bed to chair, from chair to privy stool, from chair to bed again, made him sweat and groan and his skin burn fiery red. His breathing was laboured and his tiny eyes darted from face to face with terror. He wept and prayed a great deal, and claimed ghosts sat on
the end of his bed at night, taunting him. He clung to Catherine and she reassured him, prayed with him and soothed his fears. He became so dependent on her that he could not bear her to leave his side.

In the winter of 1546, Edward and I were sent once more to the country. By this time, Mary and her household came rarely to court. As she had been since the days of my mother, she was in almost permanent disgrace for still refusing to acknowledge our father as the head of the church, and the primacy of the Church of England, so we saw but little of her. Life was easier for Mary in the country, away from the intrigue and tension that surrounded my father and stepmother, particularly now, as he was ailing. Men began to think of power and position, conscious that, as the next king would be my brother, a mere boy of nine, the man who had his ear would rule the kingdom.

The tension at court increased daily as it became clear that my father would not live much longer, no matter how tenaciously he clung to life. He sat at the great table one last time at Christmas and then he took to his bed. The court fell into a kind of anxious torpor. No real government could take place while all England waited for one king to die and another, a mere stripling, to take his place. Great men plotted and schemed – none more avidly than my brother's maternal uncles, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford and Thomas
Seymour, Admiral of the Fleet (the very same Thomas my stepmother would far rather have married). Despite their usual differences, as my father lay slowly dying, the Seymour brothers were united in their aim to secure the throne for their nephew and keep him firmly under their stewardship. And they had another ally in their plans for power. My stepmother, the queen, remained much influenced by her past love. The admiral took full advantage of her fond feelings towards him and, when it became clear my father could fight on no longer, persuaded her not to send for my sister, brother or me.

Later, I asked my stepmother if the king had said any last words to her before he sank into his final stupor. I dared not hope that he would have any in particular for me, but perhaps he might have whispered his old pet name for me, Madame Ysabeau. She told me his old friend and servant Sir Anthony Denny had been the last living soul my father spoke to. Good Sir Anthony, she said, had been the only man brave enough to warn my father that his time was nearing an end. Denny asked his old friend and prince if he would like to speak to anyone in particular to make his peace with God, and my father answered thus – but in such a whisper that poor Sir Anthony had to draw closer to make out the words – ‘If I had any, it should be Dr Cranmer, but I will first take a little sleep. And then, as I feel myself, I will advise upon the matter.' After that, my father
closed his eyes and his voice was heard no more. I cried when my stepmother told me what he had said, for it seemed to me he had not made his peace with God and still had not accepted that – as for all other men – his fate was to die. That he still felt a ‘little sleep' would be enough to restore him to himself seemed unbearably poignant to me.

Once he had breathed his last, the queen took her place by his side and prayed devoutly for his soul, but the new king's uncles wasted no time. As soon as the doctor pronounced the king dead, Edward Seymour gave instructions that the door to the death chamber be barred and that no one but the queen and his brother be allowed to enter until his return. Then he mounted his horse and rode posthaste to Hatfield, to his nephew, the new King Edward VI, and, as it happened, to me.

Edward and I were together when his uncle, Edward Seymour, arrived. It was January, as bitterly cold as it is tonight. Snow had been falling intermittently all day and we were trapped indoors. We knew our father was sick, but there is a world of difference between ill and dead, particularly for children, so we were unprepared. Edward Seymour, himself a father of nine, was not, by nature, an unkind man, but he was caught up with the importance of the occasion and the excitement of his opportunity. We were royal, one of us was about to inherit the throne, but he forgot we were also
children. He made no attempt to break the news to us gently. Before we knew what was upon us, we heard a commotion in the drive, a clatter of horses that set all the dogs a-barking, the sound of men's boots on the flagstones and assorted shouts and hoorahs. Then, before we had time to make sense of this unexpected hullabaloo, Edward's uncle Hertford was on his knees before us.

‘The King is dead. Long live King Edward VI,' he said and clasped my brother's hand and kissed it. I stood behind my brother and gasped as the words and their awful meaning slowly penetrated my mind. The king was dead. Which king? My king? The king my father? It did not seem possible.

Edward was struck just as dumb as I. He stood, still as a statue, then he spoke. ‘You mean my father is dead?'

‘Yes, Your Majesty.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I left him myself a few hours ago. I wasted no time in riding to acquaint you with the news.' Then he seemed at last to become aware of my presence. ‘And the princess, of course.'

‘Madame Ysabeau,' I muttered to myself and burst into noisy tears. My tears unleashed my brother's and he began to cry bitterly also. King or no king, I swept the small sobbing boy into my arms and we wept together.

It is a solemn moment for a country when a king
dies, and a sad thing for a child to experience the death of a father. In his life, I had rarely seen my father alone but, then, kings or queens are never alone, as I have discovered. So the memory of the few occasions when he smiled on me and praised me for my wit and scholarship made me glow with particular pleasure. Those rare moments will always be with me; I can dip into my memory any time and bring them back as sweet and as precious as they once were. I well remember the day when he chucked me under the chin and called me his owl. I lowered my gaze in a fluster of exquisite pleasure and curtsied, to cover my discomfiture, but when I left his presence I danced a little jig all the way to my own apartments. I did not care about the quizzical looks, or the smothered laughter from those I passed. I remember how pleased he was when others commented on my resemblance to his father, and how dark his looks when he saw in me the shadow of my mother. Yet I neither deserved praise for one, nor condemnation for the other. I was as I was, and could not be otherwise. I remember his rages, also, and grow hot anew with the shame and fear of them. I loved and feared him equally and could not imagine a world without him. Did I weep for sadness over the loss of my father, or fear over my own future? I know not. All I do know is I was filled with a feeling of dread that chilled my bones and froze my blood.

‘We must make haste to London, Your Majesty,' said the Earl of Hertford, still on his knees. ‘You must waste no time in claiming your throne. I have taken the liberty of ordering your horse to be saddled.'

‘I will not go without Elizabeth.'

I looked at little Edward as he clutched at my hand. He was the king and Edward Seymour was to be regent; I was now a king's sister. I turned my thoughts to Mary and wondered what my father's death would mean for her. Despite his rage over her stubborn refusal to give up her faith and forswear her mother, he could never forget she was his daughter, and while he might blow icy displeasure her way, her life was safe. Now she had many enemies. As frail Edward's heir and a Catholic among Protestants, she threatened many with her continued existence – not least the ambitious man before us – and threat begets threat, in my experience. The regent would show her no kindness, and my brother, though he loved his sister, had been trained to regard her as misguided. And, even then, at that relatively tender age, I knew he had no real power; he was but a little boy, about to be given over to the tender mercies of men who lusted for it.

We rode that night for London, the thunder of hooves from our retinue shattering the peace of many a sleeping village. There was something frantic about Edward Seymour's determination to get my brother to
the capital. I knew the time between the death of one king and the coronation of another was dangerous, but I still did not quite understand the desperation of this journey. Frightened and disoriented, Edward and I longed for some solitude to absorb this new world we now lived in and our very different places within it, but such an opportunity was not to be. I consoled myself that we would have moments alone together once we arrived, but I was sadly mistaken. When we clattered through a yet sleeping London in the early hours after our helter-skelter ride, as tradition demanded of the heir apparent, Edward was taken straight to the Tower. I wept afresh when I realised he was to be taken away from me.

This ancient tower has a strange effect on all who pass through its gates, home as it often is to both those who are at the pinnacle of good fortune and those who have run out of luck altogether. It was hard not to feel my fragile and well-beloved brother was a prisoner, luxurious though his quarters no doubt were and deferential as the Lord Hertford and his attendants were to him. I could see by his distress when they separated us that his feelings were not dissimilar to mine.

‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth!' he cried out, as he noticed that attendants were ushering me away. ‘I want to stay with my sister,' he cried, turning as if he would dismount and run towards me. I turned also and found firm hands restraining me.

‘No!' said Hertford and he grasped the reins of my brother's horse and held them. ‘No, Majesty,' he said again, remembering to whom it was that he spoke and softening his tone. ‘You must attend to your duties. You can rejoin the Lady Elizabeth ere long.'

‘Everything is as it should be, Ed – Your Majesty,' I added, yearning to soothe my poor brother's fear. ‘You are the king now and must do your duty. I will be nearby and will come whenever you want me.'

To my great relief, I was taken to my stepmother. I allowed myself to be comforted. What else could I do? Within hours my sister Mary joined us at Whitehall, solemn faced and dressed elegantly in sombre black. She greeted my stepmother fulsomely and sympathetically, dropping into a deep curtsy. When she turned to survey her little sister, only twelve years old to her twenty-five, she saw my eyes were red and raw from weeping and – as always, susceptible to the sorrows of children – she let go her formal and courtly manner, took two steps towards me and held me in her arms. It pains me now to remember that this was to be the last time ever my sister held me so. If I close my eyes I can still feel her breath on my hair and the soft, fine velvet of her gown.

‘Ah, poor little Ysabeau, motherless and fatherless now are we both.' She whispered her melancholy words so that I alone could hear. Then she let me loose and I burst into a fresh storm of weeping. Together the
three of us wept over my father and his passing and then we waited for whatever it was that would happen next. We waited for a long time. The strange inertia that had fallen over the royal household in my father's dying days remained: it seemed that no one was sure what to do. My father had reigned for so long, no one quite remembered the protocol between the death of one king and the accession of another – though there are many far more practised in the procedure now.

The dead king still lay in his chamber, while the door remained barred. No one was permitted to go in and see his body. One day passed and then another. My anxiety grew. Where was my brother? Why had he not sent for me? What were they doing to him? I knew how frightened he would be, surrounded by men who were virtual strangers. King or no, he was but a little boy.

Finally, three days after the death of my father, on the 31st day of January, Hertford brought my brother in state from the Tower. My brother had agreed Hertford should be lord protector until he reached his majority. Once the all-important document was signed, as lord protector Edward Seymour finally issued a proclamation declaring King Henry to be dead and his son, Edward, king in his place, and the strange limbo that had surrounded us began to lift. My father's body in its huge coffin was moved at last into the chapel, where masses could be said for his soul and the people could come
and pay their respects. Unlike his bewildered children, most of the great and the good were more interested in the future than consumed with grief for the past, and so they came in their droves, eager to swear their allegiance to their new liege lord, according to custom.