by G Lawrence
The people of England liked to see me. It made me happy, made me feel less alone. They had hated, feared and despised my mother but it seemed that did not alter their affection for me.
“You are a Tudor to the core,” said Lady Bryan, smiling down at me with pride. “Your red hair, your beautiful clear skin, the way you smile even… you remind them of your father and of all he has done to make this country great. That is why they cheer.”
I pouted a little. “Do they not like me at all then?” I asked and she laughed.
“Of course, they love you,” she said. “You are their little Elizabeth, your father’s natural daughter. But your family and your house are what they show loyalty to; do not forget that you stand where you do because of the honour of the house of Tudor, because of their reverence of your great father. You are of royal blood; they honour you because of all that, but also yes, because you are yourself, quite charming”
I nodded. My family was great, and my father was the greatest of all the Tudors. My tutors were proud to impress this on me in each history lesson we had.
I waved again and the crowd screamed out to me with delight.
“They love you Elizabeth,” said Lady Bryan. “Always remember that the love of the common people is something every good ruler and lord needs; either that or fear.”
“Which do they have for my father?”
She looked sharply at me, her eyes wary, “love… of course. But for a king… it is also good that men should know to fear him. Kings must rule absolutely, like your father does. It is his God-given right and only God may decide who shall become King and wield that power.”
“My brother will be King,” I said.
“Not for a long time yet, God willing,” said Lady Bryan crossing herself. “The Prince will need his father to teach him how to rule well, and King Henry is hale and hearty. He is married happily and they say he has a new lease on life. God willing, more children may come and the King will rule over us for many years yet.”
I watched her look around a little as she said this. She was watching to see if any others had noted her words. I felt a little shiver run over me. Lady Bryan was afraid that her words would be carried to the King, and she wanted him to know that she spoke only good of him. She was afraid to speak openly.
“Yes.” I said, perhaps a trifle too loudly, “my father will rule over this land for a long time, God willing, and we will all know the bounty of his good reign.”
She looked at me and smiled. With a slight nod, she approved of my first foray into the world of diplomacy as we neared the palace.
My new brother, the little Edward, was a small, pink face that stared out at me with pale blue eyes. He looked tiny, surrounded by the magnificence of the great cradle he was in, covered in soft linens, cottons, silks and satins and topped with heavy cloth of gold that shimmered in the dappled sunlight of the enclosed chamber.
I curtseyed to my new brother and as I did, there was a little gurgle from him. His maids laughed and said he was already fond of his big sister. It took me a minute to realize they meant me and not the tall figure of my older sister who stood near me.
Mary used to live with me; when I had been the Princess, she had been made a part of my household, one of my servants and she had not been happy about it. My mother’s marriage to our father had usurped her own mother’s position and she had been made a bastard. She had been placed in my household perhaps as a punishment, but my sister Mary had shown affection to me all my life, never harbouring the grudge that some may have expected. She chose not to blame me for her fate, at least not when I was a babe.
When my own mother went to the block and I was made a bastard too, we shared something more in common than we ever had before. Two motherless bastards, girls of little importance, set aside by our father as he went on to try for a son… and to find a wife who was capable of giving him what he wanted. Our mothers had been found wanting, and they had been cast aside for it; we had been found wanting, and had been disregarded for it. We two sisters were united through this strange and painful bond.
Mary was auburn-haired, tall and willowy. Her face was pretty and flushed with the excitement of being brought back to court again. Our father had banished her when she had disobeyed his will. She had refused to admit her mother was no true Queen. Once she submitted to our father, agreed that her mother had never been Queen and she was not a princess, our father welcomed her back. Her new obedience pleased him and Mary was happy to have a family again. Years of fighting, of banishment, of being alone and unloved had brought disquiet to her soul early in life. She had known illness and infirmity, felt the wrath of our powerful father, lost a mother she loved passionately, and a title that she had once carried with pride.
Mary had lost a great deal too early in life, as I had.
But our father’s presence was a powerful elixir, and Mary blossomed under the light that radiated from him like a field poppy in summer.
Whatever else the birth of our brother meant to us, at least we were brought back to our family, to our father, and together once again.
The Queen Jane lay in her bed when my sister and I were taken to see her. I had met her only once before, but even I could see that something was wrong now.
She was always pale, always plain, but her face now was darkened with shadows, her cheekbones pushed at the gossamer covering of her skin. Her pallid skin had a light sheen of sweat over it and her lips, that once were soft pink, were drained of colour. Her eyes did not focus on mine when she nodded to my greeting and blessing. She was dressed in a stunning bed-gown of black velvet with gold thread and her servants paid her all honours, but she tired quickly and our audience was brief.
I looked up with concern at Mary as we left and she reached out and squeezed my hand.
“You are so quick child that I forget how young you really are,” she said shaking her head at me. “The Queen is very tired. The ordeal of childbirth is hard for women and in this case it was long and difficult. The Queen toiled for many days and nights to bring our beloved brother into the world and she faced the agony with courage and fortitude. She is weak and tired now, but she will be fine.” Mary smiled and squeezed my hand again. “You must not be worried.”
I nodded, but I was still unsure.
Our father greeted us with a shout and a great booming laugh as he strode towards us across the audience-chamber. Courtiers lined the room, all beaming and yet all looking as though their faces were stuck to their smiles. It was easy to see that they forced out more happiness than they actually felt to please our father in his effusive joy.
We fell to a curtsey before our King and father, and he reached out his hands to us. Kissing Mary heartily on the cheek and mouth, he greeted her with such warmth and friendship that I felt a little jealousy steal into my heart. Our father was well pleased that this daughter who had given him such worry had acquiesced to obey him, and when he was pleased with someone he would show it. He liked her submission to his authority; defiance was not something he took to kindly.
Then he turned to me and I found myself suddenly gathered up and brought up high into the air, right next to his big grin.
His face was large and round, with a red-gold beard and twinkling blue eyes. I laughed and screamed with surprise and pleasure as he lifted me up. I remembered how he used to parade me around, throwing me about in his huge arms. I giggled and hugged him, throwing my little arms about his shoulders. When I released my arms from my father I saw there were tears in his eyes. He was a deeply sentimental man at times.
He put me down and kissed me again.
“Many congratulations, your majesty,” I said beaming, truly happy to have been shown such love in public. “On the birth of our beloved brother Prince Edward.”
He looked at me, most merry and amused, but also surprised. There were touches of both pride and concern in his face as he thanked me, and a ghost of something else…something he sought to hide from me.
I understood what
it was.
No one would have told me, but I remembered her eyes. When I looked in a mirror to see my heart-shaped face, pale skin and red hair… all Tudor…all my father… the eyes that I saw all this with were large and dark and glittering.
I had my mother’s eyes.
My father had done all he could to forget. But here, in me, was a little uncomfortable reminder of her, staring back out at him through the eyes of his daughter.
I dropped my eyes to the floor and curtseyed again.
He was so happy on this day that he quickly blinked unhappy memories away and brought us both into the great hall to be paraded before the court; to share in the happiness of a nation who finally understood what it was to have a satisfied king.
Chapter Four
Hampton Court
Autumn 1537
The chrysom was heavy; weighed down and encrusted with jewels, thickly embroidered with gold and silver; it was a weighty christening robe for a four year old to try to carry. Before we entered the ceremony I held it nervously in my hands. They shook under its weight.
The thought that I might drop it was one of sheer terror to me. I flushed even to imagine the shame.
Luckily, my father had realized that I was perhaps rather young to be expected to carry it alone and had appointed Edward Seymour, now Viscount Beauchamp, the Queen’s brother, to carry me in his wide, big arms as I bore the christening robe for my brother.
I breathed in a relief-ridden breath when I realized I was less likely to disgrace myself by dropping this most important cloth on this most important day.
We gathered in the chambers of the pallid Queen who received us from her bed where still she lay. Although there was great pride shining in her face as she watched the gathering of every notable and noble in the land around her, I saw a shadow of something else. It was as though she wore a mask of glowing satisfaction over her true, exhausted face. She would not show anything other than pride and joy to our father, but even I, a tiny child, could see that she was weakened and strained by the glorious day before it had even begun. I don’t think our father was aware of anything amiss in his overwhelming pleasure.
Our convoy formed around the Queen’s bed, and then we, the greatest of the nobles of England lined two by two, and processed to the chapel. Edward Seymour smiled at me as he lifted me into his arms. My hands wrapped as firmly as possible around the chrysom. I was determined not to disgrace myself on this most eminent of occasions.
The silver font was guarded by Sir John Russell, Sir Nicholas Carew, Sir Francis Bryan with his one eye glinting like the devil, and Sir Anthony Browne. All with ceremonial towels over their shoulders, ready to perform their parts. My sister too took her place at the altar.
To one side, holding a taper of virgin wax stood a tall man with dark eyes.
I looked at him curiously and for a moment our eyes met. My mind started slightly as I saw the eyes of my mother’s ghost in the face of a living man. A chill ran down my spine, for where the memory of my mother’s eyes was warm and sweet, this man’s eyes were hollow, haunted.
This man was my only living grandfather, the father of my mother, Thomas Boleyn.
He saw me looking at him, bowed his head gently to me and then looked back at the procession. At the time I did not think a great deal of this. I did not know who he was. But later, through the whispers of the servants at Hatfield House, I learned much. I heard of how he was despised for having betrayed his children, my mother, and her brother, leaving them to their bloody fates as he sought to save his own life. They said his wife was sick unto death after the executions of two of her three children, but he left her alone as he sought to regain his reputation at court. They said he had even been a part of the Council who had helped condemn my mother to her death; his own child. Whatever hushed and troubled tones were used when people described my mother and her fate, these were nothing to the grim manner people used to speak of Thomas Boleyn.
I did not speak to this man in my lifetime. I had no wish to know him, this strange man with empty, eerie eyes. My mother was dead but it was he who looked like a phantom. He died two years later. I do not think there were any who grieved for him.
A man is measured by the tears spilt for the end of his life, by the hearts and minds that miss his presence. I will wager that none cared to cry for my grandfather Boleyn, and that the world found itself a happier place without him in it.
The Marchioness of Exeter carried our little brother under a canopy borne by the Duke of Suffolk, the marquis of Exeter, the Earl of Arundel and Lord William Howard. It seemed our father had gone out of his way to ensure a part on this stage for every noble and person of note connected with the court. This was the first time a prince had been honoured into the Royal Household for more than a quarter of a century. Our father was not going to let it pass without every triumphant excess possible.
After I had carried the heavy robe, my own body in turn carried by the brother of the Queen, I stood beside Mary as we watched our little brother welcomed into the lands and law of Christ. Our brother screamed loudly as the priest dropped oil and water on his brow, his deep voice intoning prayers to God. Our father smiled with pleasure, looking around at all of those present with a huge grin on his face to hear the strong lungs of his son as their sound filled the air.
Edward was gifted with three godfathers; the Duke of Norfolk; Charles Brandon Duke of Suffolk; and the Archbishop Cranmer. Mary was made Edward’s sole godmother, part-responsible for his religious learning in life, a role that I thought she was most suited for, as she took her faith most seriously.
It was a long ceremony and I was very young. Less than half the way through I could feel great pressure on my shoulders as though some huge unseen hand was pushing me down. The small of my back, the curve of my spine and my heavy head protested their tiredness to me, but I remained standing and watching. Towards the end of the ceremony I thought that I might whimper in pain as my bones screamed and my flesh quivered with fatigue; but I remained standing as I was, smiling a little to hide my grimaces of pain. I was not going to allow my body to let me down.
As the ceremony ended, long past midnight, tapers carried by the gentlemen of the court were ignited and suddenly my hazy, glassy eyes widened with tired shock as the world around me burst into dancing light. I stared with glazed amazement at the burning luminosity that surrounded us and Edward, blocking the darkness of the night. It was as though the light of God was upon us, protecting us, shielding us. I am sure my mouth hung open as I stared at the incandescence around me. A loud voice made me jump startling me from my over-tired half-thoughts.
“God, in his Almighty and infinite grace, grant good life and long to the right excellent and noble Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son of our dread and gracious Lord Henry VIII.”
As I stared at the shining tapers and then at the tiny form of my brother I could not help but feel a wandering sadness enter my heart. I had been the focus, as Edward was now, of such a ceremony when I was this small. Had the same words been spoken over me? Had I once been the most dear and entirely beloved daughter of my father? Had I once been the centre of everyone’s thoughts and dreams, the core of my father’s world, as my brother was now?
I blinked away the thought and the lump that came to my throat. This was not a time to linger on the past. On what I had been or might have been. I was here, with my father and family, and a new time of peace and unity was upon us.
The night was deep as we went to leave the chapel; my sister took my hand in hers and looked down at me with a short smile. She was aware of the gravity of the ceremony but she was also willing to give me a little unspoken praise for my conduct. My eyes felt owlish as I looked up at her, blinking heavily in my tiredness. Our hands remained entwined as the Ladies Kingston and Herbert bore our trains and we walked from the chapel. My legs quivered and my hands felt cold although my cheeks were flushed. But I did not tremble as I walked out in hon
our. I did not falter, I did not fall.
I had made it through the ceremony.
As we were divested of our robes of state, Mary pulled me to her and embraced me. My tired feet and legs stumbled at the pull of her arms and I fell against her. She raised me to my feet, still within her arms and smiled at me.
“Well done child,” she whispered to me, turning me back to my maids as their hands undressed me of my fine robes and put me into my nightclothes. I did little but stand yawning, my body and head lolling, as the women around me stripped me, changed me, and brought me to my bed.
In the court, the noise of celebration was still ringing through the very stones of the palace. The sound of music and celebration lingered and burst through the night’s air.
My sheets were cool and soft, my chamber warmed by the cheery fire at its heart. My tired body sunk into my bed as my lovely Lady Bryan tucked the sheets and covers around me. My back and my legs clucked with approval at their soft resting place. I felt as though my bed was swallowing me; being eaten whole had never felt as welcome or as agreeable. My sleepy mind started to drift but I found enough sense in my thoughts to congratulate myself on maintaining both my own dignity and that of my family.
