Queen of This Realm (15 page)

“I find it hard, Your Majesty, to make myself believe. I can only believe what my mind allows me to.”

“Belief will come. You must open your mind.”

I almost said she was asking me to shut my mind as tightly as hers was shut, but of course I did not. It would naturally have angered her, when what I desperately needed was to placate her, to gain her forgiveness, her leniency, and yet deny what she was trying to press on me.

Could I go to Mass? Would it be easier? I thought of those shouting crowds. “Long Live the Princess Elizabeth!” There was an affinity between those people and myself. They saw me as their Queen-to-be just as I saw myself; it was what they wanted and what I wanted.

I must tread very carefully.

“As you love me …” I began.

“You are my sister,” Mary interrupted me, “and as such I have regard for you, but I cannot love a heretic. That would go against God's Will.”

Since when, I wondered, had God taught man to hate his fellow man? I covered my face with my hands as though in great grief. “My sister,” I said, “I shall never forget your kindness to me when I was small and alone. We were both outcasts then. We were together…”

“The mistake was in your upbringing. You had teachers who cared more for scholarship than for religious teaching.”

I begged her to be patient with me.

“I have shown patience,” she said. “But if you would please me, you must go to Mass. There you will in time understand the truth. You may go now. But remember this. You shall go to Mass. It is my command.”

I was trembling when I left her. So I should have to go to Mass. The people would hear of it. They would say, “So she is not our Protestant Princess after all.”

I knew I dared not disobey the Queen's command. Gardiner was only waiting for a chance to put me in the Tower. After all, what had been Edward Courtenay's fault? Only that he had been a Plantagenet. For that accident of birth he had spent fifteen years of his short life in prison.

So I went to Mass. As usual I took refuge in illness, but still I had to go. My ladies almost carried me into the chapel. I made it seem as though I were half fainting, and as we came into the chapel I caused them to stop and rub my stomach. “I am afflicted by grievous pains,” I said.

That would be reported. It might tell the people that I had been most reluctant to go to Mass.

MARY SHELVED HER ANNOYANCE
with me during the Coronation. Perhaps she knew that because of my popularity with the people I must be seen to play a prominent part in it.

It was the usual grand ceremony which the people loved and expected
on such occasions and whatever king or queen was on the throne everyone was determined to have a good day's outing and enjoy the pageantry.

Three days before the event Mary left St James's for Whitehall and from there took a barge to the Tower accompanied by her ladies—and with me beside her.

It was thrilling to arrive at the Tower and hear the guns roar out their welcome and to see all the craft on the river with their streamers and musical instruments.

The next day we made our procession through the streets of London surrounded by a splendid array of Court officials and noblemen. I noticed my two archenemies among the party—Renaud and de Noailles. Mary was borne in a splendid litter drawn by six white horses and covered in cloth of silver. She wore a gown of blue velvet trimmed with ermine and on her head was a gold net caul covered in pearls and precious stones. She looked pale and I guessed that caul must be a great weight; and she did suffer from headaches. It was different with me; I too suffered from headaches but mine had the pleasant nature of never appearing on occasions which I could enjoy as I did this one.

I followed just behind my sister in a chariot covered with crimson velvet and with me rode my father's fourth wife—the only one now alive, Anne of Cleves, a very pleasant lady of whom I had always been fond. We were dressed in robes of cloth of silver with long hanging sleeves which fell back most becomingly when I waved to the crowds. The cheers for me were deafening, and I felt gleeful because they were greater than those for the Queen herself—although I knew this could be dangerous, for I would not be the only one who noticed this.

I loved the pageantry and all the time I was thinking: One day this will be for me.

I laughed heartily over the four giants who greeted us in Fenchurch Street and the angel perched on the arch in Gracechurch Street, who looked like a statue until she suddenly came to life and blew her trumpet. The people were already getting merry on the wine which ran in the Cornhill and Cheapside conduits as the Mayor escorted the Queen through Temple Bar to Whitehall.

On the morning of the Coronation itself we took to the barges and landed at Westminster stairs when we went to the Palace and prepared ourselves for the great occasion.

The procession from the Palace to the Abbey began at eleven o'clock. The Barons of the Cinque Ports held the canopy over the Queen and I walked immediately behind her, which was the place for the heir. She is thirty-seven years old, I kept telling myself. She will marry soon. She must.
But will she get an heir? She looked so pale and tired, but she would certainly do her best to get a Catholic heir. How much did she resent me in the place I now occupied?

I might be called a bastard, but my father's will had named me as the next in succession after her and they could not go against my father's will. They had seen what had happened to Northumberland when he had tried to do that.

Gardiner was performing the ceremony. She had chosen him although it was usually the duty of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Gardiner was going to be her chief adviser. And he was my bitter enemy. I did believe that if he could have removed me without causing too much bother he would have done so by now.

I listened to the words.

“Here present is Mary, rightful and undoubted inheritrix by the laws of God and man to the Crown and royal dignity of the realm of England, France and Ireland…”

It was true that she was the rightful and undoubted heir and one day— God willing—I should stand in her place.

When the ceremony was over, we returned with the whole train to Westminster Hall for the banquet, and I was happy to notice that all due respect was paid to me. The Queen had me seated beside her on the left hand and next to me sat Anne of Cleves. I was aware of all eyes on me and I forgot the warnings and the dangers as I dreamed of the future.

Edward Dymoke made the challenge, throwing down his gauntlet, which no one picked up, proclaiming to all that Mary was the true Queen and accepted as such by all the company.

I felt elated until, the ceremony over, we took to our barges for the short journey to Whitehall Stairs, and as the cold river breezes touched my face, I knew there were untold perils all about me.

KAT ASHLEY BROUGHT
me rumors of what was being said at Court, and one such was that the Queen might marry Edward Courtenay.

“She is very fond of him,” said Kat, “and she would be able to command him absolutely.”

“Well,” I replied. “Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing. He is after all a Plantagenet and so has royal blood.”

But that proved to be merely a rumor, for soon after that it was announced that the Queen proposed to marry Philip of Spain.

How foolish it was of Mary to agree to this, but I supposed that Gardiner and Renaud, the Spanish Ambassador, persuaded her. One thing I was sure of: the French Ambassador would be most put out. The last thing he
wanted was to see a strong alliance between Spain and England. What Mary had not considered was the reaction of the people. It very soon became apparent that there was growing uneasiness among those who followed the Reformed Faith, and even those English people who were not so concerned with religion did not care for foreigners or foreign rule. They had heard of the possibility of a marriage with Edward Courtenay and this was what they favored.

Mary was making herself unpopular, something no sovereign should do. Then I became really alarmed because there was a suggestion that
I
should marry Edward Courtenay. That terrified me. I wanted no hurried marriage, for the future was uncertain. I wanted to be free to do whatever was necessary when the time came.

I felt nothing would come of these suggestions because Gardiner would surely be against such a marriage. He could not want me to marry a man who could be said to have a faint claim to the throne through his Plantagenet ancestors.

Now that I had been proclaimed a bastard, which I must be if the marriage between my father and Mary's mother was valid, others took precedence over me, even though I was heiress presumptive to the throne. The Countess of Lennox, the daughter of Margaret Queen of Scotland, was one, and even the Duchess of Suffolk, whose daughter Jane Grey was still in the Tower, was another.

I found this hard to endure. I had more headaches. I began to look delicate and one day the Queen noticed this.

I told her I was feeling unwell and longed for the country air. She said nothing at the time but she must have consulted Gardiner on the advisability of sending me away from Court. I believe he was rather concerned that in spite of his efforts to denigrate me, I still had the favor of the people in the streets and whenever I appeared they made this apparent. Perhaps because of this he agreed that it might be a good idea to let me go, and the Queen sent for me to tell me of her decision.

I was greatly relieved. I fell on my knees and thanked her for her kindness.

“Dear Majesty,” I said, “I beg of you do not believe any ill you may hear of me. If such a thing should happen, will you please do me the honor of receiving me so that you may hear the truth from my lips? For I am not only your sister but your servant.”

She said she believed me and gave me a pearl necklace and a hood of rich sable fur as a token of her regard for me.

And feeling more easy in my mind than I had for some time, I rode down to Ashridge.

IN SPITE OF MY
determination to live quietly in the country, out of harm's way, I was now passing into what some might say was the most dangerous period of my life. I knew there were strong feelings against Mary's proposed Spanish match; Sir William Cecil had made me aware of the antagonism of the powerful Spanish and French Ambassadors; what I did not know was that those who wished me well could prove my undoing.

Jane Grey was still in the Tower but I felt sure that in due course my sister intended to release her. I had heard that the Spanish Ambassador had urged her to sign the order for Jane's execution and that Mary refused, saying that the girl was in her present position through no fault of her own, for she was just turned sixteen years old and it was certain that she had never sought the greatness which had been thrust upon her. I was glad that Mary could still stand firm against Renaud, but I wondered how firm she would be when she married Philip, if it came to that.

I was sorry for Mary in a way. She suffered such ill health and from what I had seen she was ready to idolize Philip. Since her mother had died there could have been little love in her life, and Mary, like so many of those stern and forbidding people, craved love more than most of us. I had had to make do with the devotion of my servants, people like Kat Ashley; but I had had that, and I had always been sure of my ability to attract people to me. The cheers of the people in the streets filled me with wild exulting happiness; but that was different. I wanted no lover who would, as lovers do in time, seek to control me. I did not want love as Mary did. She had not yet seen Philip yet her eyes softened at the mention of him, her voice grew gentle and she glowed with a rare softness. Oh, if ever Philip came to England he would have an easy victory. He would so subjugate the Queen that he would become the country's unquestioned ruler—unquestioned by her, but not by the people. I had a feeling that they would never tolerate the yoke of Spain. They would look to others to release them from it. I shivered yet exulted at the thought.

Never, never again, must I go to Mass, however unwillingly.

It seemed that Mary was satisfied with shedding the blood of Northumberland—with which everyone would agree. He had been the instigator of the plot; he was the villain who had tried to change the succession. She blamed him and few others. The Dudley men were still in the Tower under sentence of death; even Guildford still lived. It was certainly wrong to brand Mary a cruel Queen.

She wanted peace, and she wanted Philip and an heir to the throne; but what she wanted more than anything was to bring England back to Rome. As I saw it that would be her tragedy and that of the nation, for she did not
understand the English people well enough to realize that although they will appear acquiescing up to a point, although they will give the impression that they are too lazy to care much about serious matters, there will come a point when they take a stand, and then they will be formidable.

I
knew this, but then I had made the people of England my special concern, and I always would, for I knew that finally they are the ones who make the decisions.