by Jane Caro
It was the Tower I dreaded. That was where my mother’s life had ended and the place where poor Queen Katharine Howard had been hauled, kicking and screaming out her terror of death. I was not much more than the age of Katherine when she died. The blood surged as strongly through my veins as it had through hers. With my head against the pillow I felt and heard the pulse of my life beat firm and strong, as hers must have done, and I held it right dear. Tears of fright and pity for myself escaped my closed eyelids. With my sister as queen, I had so much to lose, but, if I could play events wisely, so much to gain.
Lying that night in the restless bed of the next in line, I was more afraid than I am this night – afraid that even my good head might not be enough to see me safely through treacherous waters. I felt alone, unprotected and young. I cried for my own mother, yet did not forget how often women – even queens – died in childbirth and poor Mary had never been robust. Anxious, and, yes, treasonous thoughts circled in my head, hour after wakeful hour. I only slept once I had made the decision to take my retinue and ride out of the city on the morrow, greet my sister as she approached and ride back with her in triumph through the streets of London. It was important to establish right from the beginning of this reign that I was her loyal subject, her sister and her rightful heir.
‘I shall announce you, my lady,’ the soldier said and disappeared behind the flap at the front of the tent. I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to smooth some creases from my dress. I was suddenly nervous. I had not seen my sister for many years and now she was no longer a despised and neglected princess, but my queen. How would she greet me? Would she see me as friend or foe? Our correspondence had been friendly enough and I hoped that my support during the Dudley rebellion would stand me in good stead. However, before I had time to reflect much longer upon the strangeness of this meeting, she stood before me.
I had forgotten how small she was – inches shorter than I – and she looked so much older than I remembered, though she was in years but thirty-two. Despite her rich velvet gown and proliferation of exquisite jewellery, she looked tired, tousled and travel-stained. Lowering my head with a genuine sense of fealty, I curtsied to her. ‘Your Majesty,’ I said, ‘may I congratulate you on your great victory.’
She stepped towards me and put a not ungentle finger under my chin; with it she guided me to my feet. ‘You have grown,’ she said, in a voice that was just as I remembered – low and melodic, with the hint of something exotic, perhaps Spanish in its tones.
‘Aye, Your Majesty.’
‘You must find me greatly changed, old woman that I have become.’
‘Oh no, Your Majesty, you have not changed at all.’
‘More flattery,’ she said, in a weary voice, almost as if she were talking for her own ears only. ‘I daresay I must get used to it.’ Then she seemed to make an effort and smiled at me. ‘It is good of you to come and join me, Elizabeth. You and I are all the family we have left.’
Strangely and against my will, I found my eyes awash with tears. The queen noticed and her manner became even more as I remembered it when we were children. She seemed nothing like a queen to me at that moment; more like a woman, careworn with work and demands beyond her capacity. I felt an answering sympathy and loneliness as I met her gentle, yet exhausted, gaze. Here was a woman who ought to have been a wife and mother of a large brood, a thrifty and efficient housewife. But she was over-burdened by the prospect of monarchy and, as I soon discovered, martyrdom.
‘You will ride directly behind me.’ She turned to a nearby retainer, and her voice was immediately commanding. ‘Arrange for the Princess Elizabeth to join the procession.’ Then as she turned back to me, she became once more vulnerable and motherly. ‘My servant will see that you receive refreshments. We start for the city soon.’
‘Your Majesty is too gracious,’ I said, but she had gone and we were being led away to our horses to await her journey into the city.
Once I had taken my place in the procession, my fears were largely forgotten. The excitement of the moment was intoxicating. As I held my restless horse in check, for the first time in my life I felt like the sister of a queen, a royal princess, my father’s daughter and the heir to the throne. I was to ride, as Queen Mary had promised, directly behind her, enabling the common people to know me at a glance as her sister. We began our triumphal progress and the people who had gathered on the outskirts of the city raised three cheers as we passed. Their joy and support were heady. They roared their approval of the return of the Tudors, they hallooed my sister’s name and they hallooed mine. My sister, as befitting a rightful monarch, acknowledged their cheers with a dignified and gracious wave of her hand, although she kept her eyes fixed on her destination, the now not-so-distant city of London. I, on the other hand, a mere princess, lost my head and promptly forgot my own wise counsel. I bowed and waved to the people who called out my name. I smiled and nodded my pleasure; I tossed my long hair at them and swept it from my eyes, when the wind blew it hither.
‘Look,’ the onlookers told their children, ‘there she is, the queen’s sister, the old king’s second daughter, the Princess Elizabeth. Isn’t she beautiful?’
I have been called many things – bastard, whore’s spawn, heretic, changeling, witch – but never beautiful. Resembling my long-nosed, narrow-faced grandfather as much as I do, how could I be? But in the summer of my sister’s accession to the throne, I was nineteen and wore my long auburn hair flowing over my back, as befit an unmarried virgin. And that day I had arrayed myself in my best gown, a white dress, embroidered in silver and embossed with small pearls. On my shoulders and flowing over the haunches of my white horse was my crimson cloak. It was a little travel stained, if one looked closely, but most people did not. Our party of queen, princess, ladies, noblemen, courtiers and soldiers, resplendent in all its finery, dazzled those who lined our way. The queen wore royal purple and a scarlet cloak, her hair also flowed loose over her shoulders, but it was mere brown and already flecked with grey. She looked what she was: a serious middle-aged woman and the world has always preferred a pretty young girl. Nevertheless, she was enjoying herself and, thanks be to God, did not seem to begrudge the cheers that came my way.
Indeed, as we trotted unobserved through a copse between villages, she turned and bestowed on me a loving sister’s smile. ‘My father would be proud of us, this day, would he not, sweet sister?’
And I bowed my head and smiled back to her my agreement, but did not fail to notice that the father she referred to was hers only.
‘Thank the Lord’s good grace,’ she continued, turning her attention to her confessor who rode beside her, ‘He has blessed the rightness of our cause.’ Her confessor, in his turn, shot me a poisonous look. My sister seemed to have forgiven my popularity with the common folk of England that day, but her followers had not.
When we arrived at the gates of London, however, my sister called a halt to the procession and paused for a moment before signalling that we should proceed. The moment lengthened and, as we stood quietly, the gathering crowds also slowly fell silent, until nought but the sound of a snorting horse or the clink of a ceremonial standard accompanied us and we could hear the tumult and the clamour of the great metropolis beyond the wall. My sister trembled visibly as she kept her hand above her head, calling us to halt, but there was no turning back now. She muttered a prayer under her breath in Latin and crossed herself. Many of her followers and some of those gathered in the streets did the same. Eyes slid sideways to see what I did. So, like a dutiful younger sister, I followed her good example and muttered a quiet ‘Amen’. Prayer finished; still she did not call us to movement, but squared her slight shoulders and took a quick breath.
‘God save England!’ she cried and lowered her hand majestically. Then she kicked her horse forward and rather haphazardly those who followed did the same.
‘God save Queen Mary!’ I shouted, as my horse lurch
ed into a surprised trot, and the men and women around me took up the cry.
We clattered onto the cobblestones inside the gates of London and came almost precipitously to a halt. Once we were inside the walls of that great city, the atmosphere was utterly different from the way it was as I had ridden virtually anonymous through the streets to meet up with my sister in the early morning. Now, in the blazing heat of the midday sun, the atmosphere was fetid and frantic. Every vantage point was occupied by a Londoner, from the most prosperous to the very poor. Beggars rubbed shoulders with blue bloods – and picked their pockets, no doubt. As we entered, a silence fell upon both them and us. Monarch and people surveyed one another and then a great unearthly cry went up from thousands. It seemed all London had left their homes to welcome their Queen. Mary signalled that we should move forward, and so we did, awkwardly finding our place in the procession despite the narrow streets.
Looking up, I saw that the even narrower gaps between the upper storeys of the overhanging houses were festooned with flags and Tudor roses. Women pelted us with more flowers as we passed – some, as I discovered, still bearing their thorns. Fathers hoisted children onto their shoulders and we were forced to ride slowly, to avoid trampling drunken revellers under our horses’ hooves. My sister bobbed her head, left and then right, smiling. The people roared their blessings back to her, and to me. I waved and laughed out loud. Never before had I seen such acclamation and, despite the hot stench of human filth, horse droppings and rotting food, never before had I felt such joy.
Though tomorrow I shall be carried on a litter rather than be seated on a horse, I wonder if my ride to my coronation will feel as exhilarating? I remember that my sister did not seem to have lost her head over the roars of the crowd; she seemed strangely solemn, almost frightened, despite her great triumph. Having now had my own ride through the city of London to claim my throne, I have some idea how she felt. The weight of the crown is heavy.
Mary’s procession passed in a kaleidoscope of colour, sound and sensation, yet still I can picture individual faces that caught my eye in that crowd. I remember the faces of the most unfortunate best: the toothless, filthy, pock-marked, cankered, leprous women and men with wens, boils and goitres. We stopped so often to watch a tableau or morality tale, to receive flowers or hear short speeches from local dignitaries, that we did not reach our destination until evening. At the Tower gates, with bladders strained almost beyond bearing, we were greeted by four kneeling figures: the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been under sentence since my father died, Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester (I had not forgotten that he was the man who had almost brought my stepmother undone), the Duchess of Somerset and the last of the Plantagenets, Edward Courtenay. Although we were desperate to escape inside, my sister called a halt to our procession and dismounted. All four knelt with their heads bowed, arms raised in silent prayer, all four held rosaries, and the crowds who had gathered to watch their new queen enter the old castle held their collective breath as we waited to see what action she would take. Gently she reached out to each supplicant, helped them to their feet and kissed them. Then she turned to all those gathered around and smiled.
‘These are my prisoners,’ she said in such a way that all of us understood they would not be so for much longer. The crowd roared their approval, the old Duchess burst into tears and Courtenay, Norfolk and the bishop fell once more to their knees. But there were other prisoners in that Tower. Poor Jane, her husband Guildford Dudley and his brothers – including my old playmate Robin. The future augured not so well for them, it seemed. Even after the Tower gates closed behind us, we still could not dismount, but had to receive patiently the welcome and the oaths of loyalty from the Tower’s retainers, who had been changing kings and queens more rapidly in those few weeks, perhaps, than they changed their linen. Finally we were able to lower our aching limbs from our horses and relieve ourselves.
We were exhausted, our instructions were to change for dinner, but I had no grander change of clothing than the white and silver dress I already wore. A maidservant brought me a sponge and some warm water and together we attempted to remove the worst of the day’s grime. Perhaps she thought me rather addled in my wits as we attempted to make something presentable out of my dusty finery, but I could not help laughing, I was reminded so forcibly of all the other times I had found myself in royal palaces without suitable clothes to wear.
Now, in this splendid chamber, my own coronation gown hangs from a railing. Even in this pale and flickering candlelight, I can see its cloth of gold glinting and glittering. My fingers itch to feel the weight of the fabric and examine the perfection of its rich and intricate embroidery. Never before have I owned such a fine garment. I fussed and prevaricated over its design for weeks and chose and then rejected fully five different bolts of the finest cloth before finally settling on this one and, even now, if I had more time I might change the gold to white.
My sister stuck with her favourite purple, the colour of royalty and of cardinals. The symbolism may have suited her soul, but unfortunately the colour did not suit her complexion. Her face looked sallow and strained against all that rich heaviness. I will never wear purple; it has the same effect on my pale skin as it did on her swarthier complexion. But a more earnest soul than I, my sister was not interested in fine clothes and fripperies. She had more serious business at heart: the saving of men’s souls.
As I had expected, the first soul she attempted to save was mine.
Within a month of Mary reclaiming her throne, mass was being said in London churches and riots greeted its return. By proclamation, no Englishman could preach, interpret or teach the scriptures unless he was a priest ordained by Rome. My sister banned books, banned thought, banned argument and many cried foul. I said nothing and read conscientiously all the learned popish texts she had her confessor place before me. As I had promised myself, I bowed my head before the man, but no meekness on my part could remove the suspicion from his eye. He read my soul and read expediency; my sister, more fond and foolish, hoped for a miracle. She spent little time with me, because she was busy – as I have been – with the dry and difficult affairs of men, but I remained a refuge. Old habits die hard. As children we had clung together in this place and I was the closest thing she had to an equal. Although she deemed me a bastard and reduced me once more to a mere lady, she still treated me as her sister – at least in the first exciting but strange days of her rule. Yet still she blew hot and cold. The way she treated me often depended on things I had no knowledge of: threats, rumour and the prejudices of those who spoke with her about me. When she was at her most suspicious of my so-called intrigues against her, she gave me a wide berth and, when she did see me, shot barbed and self-pitying remarks in my direction. Sometimes, when she felt warmly towards me and correspondingly cool towards her advisors, she called me to her private chamber and we shared a small supper and talked together, as women and as sisters.
‘What think you of the King of Spain?’ she asked me, late one chill evening, soon after her accession. The autumn had begun early and the winds already held the snap of winter. We were close upon her great fire, toasting our slippered feet on stools.
‘That he is the King of Spain and that I have heard no ill of him as king or man.’
‘He is a fine Catholic prince, indeed,’ she said, bridling a little at the omission.
‘Aye, Your Majesty, I said not otherwise.’ I was tense, by this time, aware that she was sounding me out, but not quite certain which way to jump.
‘What say you of him as a husband?’
‘A husband for whom, Your Majesty?’ My heart was beating a little faster as she spoke. Whether for me or for her, neither was to my liking, and both possibilities were well within her power.
‘So you would like him for yourself, would you, you jade?’ she shot back at me, her small eyes flashing in the firelight.
‘As I said, I know little of him. My view
will be guided by yours. For myself, I desire no husband.’
‘Humph,’ she snorted, but I could see she was soothed. ‘Unnatural woman. You take not after your mother, in that case. She could not keep her hands from husbands.’ I let this pass, as I let all such insults. ‘Nay, it is as my husband that his name has been mentioned.’
What reaction did she want from me – approval, caution, girlish excitement? Was this a test of some kind? ‘What say you of him as husband, then, Your Majesty? It seems to me your opinion in this matter is of greater weight than mine.’
‘Cautious, as always, Elizabeth. Yet I should not complain. Who knows better than I the perils of being in such a position as yours?’ Then she opened her small and ink-stained hand and I saw that she held something. ‘Look – and see if you can gauge my feelings.’ She bent towards me and opened what I could now see was a highly decorated enamel miniature. I leant forward and considered the portrait of the slender, elegantly bearded man within.
‘Is he not pleasing to the eye? Not tall, they tell me, but that is as it should be, for I am also but low. Kind, yet a leader of men and a knight of the true church. Slender, you notice, yet broad of shoulder and long of leg. A fine swordsman and equestrian, by all accounts, and a proud son of Spain.’
‘It seems, madam, that you like him well as a husband.’ And at this she blushed and I felt cold.
