by Jane Caro
None of the twisting and turning is stranger than was the progress of my sister’s pregnancy.
Quietly, but in an agony of suspense, my attendants and I weathered the winter and the spring in that cold and draughty place. Each week that passed we waited to hear of some mishap or miscarriage, but, for aught we heard, this was an uneventful pregnancy and progressed as such things should. Word came from court that the queen had felt her baby quicken in her womb when the papal legate arrived in London to reconcile her kingdom with Rome. Such news, announced by a gleeful and sharp-eyed Sir Henry as cause for celebration, depressed our spirits further. I knew it was wicked to wish my sister’s baby would die and I prayed for God’s forgiveness for carrying such a dark desire in my heart, but how could I do otherwise?
One fine spring day, late in April, my ladies and I were seated in the garden enjoying the sunshine when Sir Henry made his way officiously towards us. He was a small man, with a fast and noisy way of walking. Everything he did he did with haste and purpose, as if the fate of nations hung on the speed with which he could reach his next destination, be it merely the privy. I had no premonition, therefore, that this audience was likely to be of any more import than the usual complaint about my tardiness over breakfast, or over one of my ladies laughing too loud. I looked back on my fear of Sir
Henry the day I first set eyes on him in the Tower and felt ashamed. It was inconceivable anyone could fear Sir Henry Bedingfield. Now I could laugh out loud at the thought that he might run a knife between my ribs or beneath my shoulder blades. My sister had placed me in the care of an excellent and honest gaoler: pedantic and meticulous to a fault (and it was a fault that drove my nerves to breaking point), he would do nothing for me that was outside the bounds of his brief, nay, nor nothing to me, neither.
‘Good news, Your Grace,’ he cried as he came within hearing distance. My heart stood still. Was it news that a healthy prince had been born?
‘You have been summoned to court.’ I almost laughed with relief and it took much effort to keep my features impassive.
‘Not before time, Sir Henry, not before time.’
‘You show little joy at these tidings.’
‘I am a little too used to disappointment, it seems.
What has brought about this change of fortune?’ I still wondered if there were news of a child.
‘I know not, my lady, though I warrant it has to do with Her Majesty’s lying in, God save Her Grace.’
‘God save her, indeed. When do we leave?’
‘We are to depart on the morrow, so you must make haste to pack your belongings.’
‘I have no wish to prolong my stay here, Sir Henry.’
‘Well, we are agreed in that, if nothing else.’
Three days we journeyed before we reached Hampton Court, staying at public houses along the way. So eager was Sir Henry to be rid of his troublesome charge that he pushed us onwards at a great pace. I was reduced to combing my hair in hedgerows and snatching food and drink in any meagre time he allowed. When we arrived at our destination, breathless and covered in dust, there were no dignitaries to greet us; there was no ceremony of welcome. Instead, we were ushered stealthily into that great and familiar palace by a back door. So closely guarded were we and so quickly and quietly were we herded to my apartments that it was clear I was as much a prisoner in my childhood home as I had been at Woodstock. Back at court or not, I was still under suspicion and I knew my sister and her councillors remained determined to convict me of treason. Indeed, no longer than a day after my arrival I found myself once again subjected to determined interrogation.
‘I would rather lie in prison all the days of my life, my lord Bishop, than confess to something I did not do. I want no mercy from the queen – I wish the law to decide if ever I did offend Her Majesty in thought, word or deed. Moreover, if I were to yield and speak against myself and confess myself to be an offender towards Her Majesty – which I never was – the king and queen might ever after think badly of me. And therefore I say, my lords, it were better for me to lie in prison for the truth, than to be abroad and suspected by my sister.’
Despite repeated protestations, still they tried to bully, wheedle and threaten a confession out of me, day after wearisome day. Bishop Gardiner, the lord chancellor, was my most dogged interrogator. He tried every angle he could think of, including the use of my own plea of innocence, to try and trip me up. When I declared that I had never knowingly offended the queen in thought, word or deed, he countered by accusing me of calling the queen unjust and alleged that my refusal to confess made it look as if I had been wrongfully imprisoned.
‘No,’ I said, ‘the queen must deal with me as she feels is right.’
‘Well,’ said the bishop, ‘Her Majesty charges me with the message that you must tell another tale ere that you be set at liberty.’ Again I told him that I would rather moulder in prison than be free under a cloud.
‘And this I have said I will stand unto, for I will never belie myself.’
At this the bishop fell to his knees. ‘Then Your Grace hath the vantage on me, and on the other lords, for your wrongful and lengthy imprisonment.’
‘But I seek no such vantage over you, God forgive me – and you also.’
And so it went on, until, no doubt, he was as weary of the circular argument as I was. Then there fell a great silence and my attendants and I were left alone once more to cool our heels in isolation. A week passed and then, at 10 o’clock one night, just as I was beginning to think I might retire to my bed, there was a knock on my chamber door.
‘The queen wishes to see you.’ It was Susan Clarencieux, the mistress of the robes. She dropped into a curtsy and I acknowledged her.
‘Now, my lady?’
‘Now, Your Grace.’
I had not seen my sister for well over a year. I had yearned to do so, had begged to, ever since I wrote that letter as I was about to be taken to the Tower. My one thought had been to put my case personally to the queen, but now that my chance had come I was unaccountably terrified. If I could have refused to go I would have done so.
‘Wait, wait, if you please, I am in no fit state to see the queen.’ I dashed about, straightening my rather creased and spotted dress and looking for a comb to run through my dishevelled hair. I have a habit of running my fingers through it when I concentrate, and Kat Ashley and I had been playing chess. She is a shrewd tactician and has a strong desire to win, so I need all my concentration to protect my king from her manoeuvres and playing with my hair helps me stay focused. Kat had won the game this night and I was displeased, but now the sting of losing was forgotten in my shame at my appearance and my fear of what might be to come. Kat found me a comb and dragged it quickly through my locks. ‘Come, come, my lady, we must not keep the queen waiting.’
I pushed Kat aside and shoved my hair behind my ears. Then, taking her with me, began to follow Madame Clarencieux from the room. ‘Pray for me,’ I said to those of my people who were to stay behind. A premonition of doom had suddenly gripped me. ‘I cannot tell whether I shall see you again or no.’
Sir Henry and a collection of my gentlemen met us at the foot of the stairs.
‘Sir Henry.’ I acknowledged him with a nod. ‘It seems we are not yet rid of one another.’
‘I am always happy to be of service to Your Grace.’ This said as he ran a disapproving glance over my tousled appearance. One of my hands flew to my hair and tried in vain to pat it into some sort of shape; the other to my waist, where it tried to smooth out the creases in the material – just as hopelessly. I had been sitting on my chair with my feet tucked under me. I’d had no warning of this great audience – and scratched at the spot of gravy that I only now noticed on my bodice.
We were escorted solemnly the little way across the courtyard to the staircase that led to my sister’s grand apartments. Madame Clarencieux pushed open the door
and she, Kat and I made our way inside.
Mary stood in the shadows, her hand pressed against her back, her pregnancy well advanced. She turned as we entered the room, but without waiting for her to speak, I crossed the space between us in two strides and threw myself on my knees.
‘I am a true subject, Your Majesty, and I beg Your Majesty so to find me. I will not be found to the contrary, whatsoever reports you have of me.’
‘You will not confess your offence,’ said Mary, dropping her shoulders, as if my innocence was yet another cross for her to bear. ‘But stand stoutly to your truth. I pray God it may fall out that way.’
‘If it doth not, I request neither favour nor pardon at Your Majesty’s hands.’
‘Well, you persevere in your truth, nevertheless. It seems all you will confess to is that you have been wrongfully punished.’
‘I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you.’
‘Why then, you probably will to others.’
‘No, if it please Your Majesty. I have borne the burden and must continue to bear it. I humbly beseech Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me, and to think me your true subject, not only from the beginning, but forever – as long as life lasteth.’
And then my sister turned towards the gorgeous tapestry that lined one wall and threw her hands wide in a gesture of exasperation and defeat. With a weary, yet theatrical shrug of her shoulders she muttered something I could not quite catch, I think in Spanish. It was then I became aware of the strange shape beneath the wall hanging, as if, perhaps, someone was hidden there behind it, listening to all that we had to say to one another. The king, I thought, immediately; it is he who is behind this strange midnight interview. They have been speaking of me and he has insisted she bring me here to have it out once and for all.
Mary turned and walked to her chair by the fire, with the flat-footed, wide-legged gait of the heavily pregnant. Despite her great stomach, she had lost weight. Her face was thin and pale. With exhaustion and melancholy etched into the lines of her face, she looked not well. In repose, her mouth, never naturally upturned, settled into a harsh and grim line. When she carefully lowered her bloated form to sit, she collapsed and slumped back against the chair.
She gestured for me to sit also.
‘You look well, Elizabeth. The countryside suits you.’
‘It is kind of you to say so, Your Majesty.’
‘Aye, you think yourself ill-used and in prison at Woodstock, as indeed I did during the reign of our brother. But you know nothing of imprisonment. Sometimes I weep bitter tears for this child I carry and the inexorable fate that awaits him when he claims his throne.’
‘Your Majesty is prey to the natural fears of your condition.’
‘So they tell me, so they say. But I do not think I will live long after the birth of the babe–’
‘Nay, you must not say such things, Your Majesty. It is just what all women fear as they approach their time.’ At this she sighed and ran her hand over her eyes.
‘Perhaps you are right. ’Tis a fearful thing that God asks his daughters to do.’
‘Aye, Your Majesty, all women know it.’
‘But we must not complain. It is God’s judgement on us as tempters of men.’
‘And God will grant you the strength you need to undertake this trial. The whole of England will be praying for you in your time of trouble.’
‘Even you, Elizabeth?’ Her eyes met mine and I looked down.
‘Of course, Your Majesty. A fine healthy son and a happy and content mother is what we all want.’
‘You may leave me now.’ I rose and curtsied to the figure languishing by the fire, but her eyes were already closed.
‘God bless Your Majesty,’ I said, as I left her and, just for that moment, I meant it.
All had been made ready for the birth of the baby even before I arrived at Hampton Court. We had been told to expect the child in the spring. A few days after my late night audience with the queen, a rumour tore through London that she had been delivered of a fine son with little trouble and no pain. Those of us at court knew this was not the case. The queen had retired to her apartments for her lying in, right enough. But morning after morning, when her attendants emerged to fetch her breakfast, they shook their heads and said nothing. All of us began to do our silent calculations. How long would this child cling to its womb? The rumour died away, and the populace waited with the courtiers and councillors on tenterhooks for the birth. We were all of us – king, great lords, shopkeepers, yeomen, householders, peasants and beggars in the street – as frozen in place as my sister’s child. Nothing could occur, no laws could be enacted or proclamations obeyed, no justice could be meted out while we waited to see in what direction our fortunes would lie and who would live, who would die, who would or would not be born and so who would rule. Such was the strangeness of our situation that my guards melted away, Sir Henry returned to his hunting lodge and I seemed to be quietly restored to my pre-eminence as heir to the throne. Given the peril a woman enters when her time arrives, it was not surprising that those at court saw it as suddenly more politic to treat me a little more gently than before.
Despite my new liberty I felt no more free than I had before my long incarceration began. The waiting felt the same. Indeed, my anxiety reached such a peak as each day passed, I could no longer simply sit and wait to see what might occur. To ease my own tension I sought the counsel of one whose reputation had long intrigued me.
His house was decorated with strange objects and many obscure books and manuscripts, but his business was obviously a healthy one, for the house was a substantial dwelling in Mortlake, a pleasant place near to the Thames. Blanche Parry and I had made our way there beneath voluminous cloaks, carrying baskets – we hoped, for all the world, like ladies going to market. It was marvellous to travel the streets anonymous and invisible, to observe but not be observed. Even the stench of the back streets and the tricky business of how to avoid the emptying of the slops as housewives shouted, ‘Gardaloo!’ seemed exciting rather than irksome. For almost two years, I had been locked up, hemmed in, supervised and watched. So even the unremarkable freedom to traverse the streets of London, stinking as they were on that summer’s day, was exhilarating.
It was Blanche who had recommended I visit her cousin, Dr Dee, a scholar from Cambridge, who was much skilled in astrology and the natural sciences. ‘Perhaps he will be able to tell us what the future holds,’ she had said to me quietly, as we wandered the gardens whiling away yet another utterly uneventful day. ‘He is much noted for his ability to read the stars.’
At first I dismissed her suggestion, aware that such an attempt to foretell my future strayed dangerously close to treason. But as time drifted by, I managed to convince myself that having my own horoscope drawn up was neither illegal nor treasonous. The fact that whatever my future held would be dramatically influenced by what it held for my sister was neither here nor there.
The man who answered our knock was not the bent and elderly wizard of my imagination. He was young and vigorous, with a long reddish beard, dressed richly in heavy black – despite the warmth of the weather. He greeted Blanche affectionately and me courteously, and without ceremony, turned and led us through his well-furnished home to a large and sun-filled room. As Blanche acquainted him with the reason for our visit, I examined the handsome globe that stood in a far corner. Created from the maps of the famous cartographer Mercator of Brussels, I knew there were only two such globes in all England: both brought here by the famous mathematician now exchanging pleasantries with his kinswoman a few paces hither. I traced the great and mysterious continents of America and Africa with my finger and wondered how many new lands and strange peoples there might yet be outside Christendom. I also wondered whether Dr Dee would agree to the purpose of our visit, for in all likelihood, casting my nativity held more peril for him than it did for me.
‘A very great destiny awaits you,’ he announced some hours later as he re-entered the chamber, clutching a sheaf of papers. Blanche and I had been served refreshments while we waited for the great doctor to finish calculating the orbits of sun and moon, planets and other heavenly bodies and their precise situations at the moment I had entered the world – a bitter disappointment to both mother and father. I had been unable to avoid contrasting my own anticipation of the birth of my sister’s child and the similar apprehensions and hopes that must have accompanied my own.
How circular the world was. I spun the remarkable globe absentmindedly. How odd that the self-same event could be viewed so differently, depending on where you happened to be standing when you looked at it. How must the world look to those who sat at the bottom end of it? I bent down and peered up at the globe from beneath, trying to imagine what it must be like to live at such an angle. Did it look as it did to us here, or upside down and back to front?
I sat up hastily as the doctor made his dramatic announcement, knocking the globe temporarily off balance, so I had to grasp the stand to stop it falling and perhaps shattering. His face fell as he watched the precious globe wobble on its axis and he made a futile leap across the room after it. Although I saved it right enough, he still took the object firmly in his own hands and put it carefully to one side, out of reach.
‘A great destiny, you say?’
‘Aye – and you will have a great many husbands, aye, and a great many wives too, and countless numbers of children – but no descendants.’
‘You speak in riddles, master magician.’
‘Not I, Your Grace. It is the stars that speak in riddles. They do not tell the future bluntly, like some gypsy in the marketplace. They hint and suggest, weave metaphor with symbol to make their patterns.’
‘And this great destiny, will it come to me sooner or later?’
