by Jane Caro
‘It is in my interests to comprehend such wisdom, Master Ascham,’ I said, lowering my gaze to hide my pleasure as best I could.
‘Aye, my lady.’ As he put the book down, his expression grew serious. ‘But for some in your exalted position, all the wisdom in the world cannot prevent them drowning under the tidal wave of events and of other men’s ambitions.’
‘You speak of my cousin.’ I kept my voice low. Although no attendants were in sight, it remained dangerous to speak of traitors recently executed.
He nodded. His eyes were brimming with tears and when one slid down his cheek, he wiped at it quickly with the back of his hand. I reached across to him. ‘Such talent,’ he said, his voice thick with tears, ‘such understanding, such discipline of spirit and beauty of soul – oh, how my blood froze when I heard of her execution, even as hers flowed. Such a waste, my lady.’ And now many tears followed the first.
‘Hush, shhh,’ I said, looking about me, terrified that someone might hear his heartfelt but unwise words.
‘You must be careful, my lady, ever vigilant. Do nothing – I mean it – nothing to arouse suspicion. You owe it to God to live – and to your lost cousin. You have a native wit and understanding fully equal to hers. Yours, at least, must survive long enough to fulfil its purpose.’
‘And I fully intend it to, Master Ascham, if people like you will only stop saying foolish things that could land me in the very trouble you exhort me so heartily to avoid.’
He stopped his tears at that and recollected where we were and the extreme danger there was in talking freely about such things. He caught his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, my lady, you are right. What folly of mine this is! Sitting here, reading these books with you, transported me to that earlier time and my – my recollections were too vivid and too painful to remain unexpressed. I am so sorry, my lady. Forgive my fond teacher’s heart.’
‘There is nought to forgive, good master. No harm has been done, no one heard our words, but we must not speak so again.’
He nodded and returned, a little chastened and with a great sniff, to Aeschines and Demosthenes.
Despite its melancholy nature, I left our encounter with a lightness of heart and step that I remember with pleasure to this moment. I had always believed he preferred the Lady Jane to me and thought her scholarship more pure and disciplined. I was older, lazier, more wilful and I never forgot the sting of shame I felt when he admonished me for my foolish and near-wanton behaviour with the admiral. Yet now he had said I was her equal and wept over the need to keep me safe and out of reach of the horrible fate that had severed poor Jane’s wise head from her shoulders.
True to his word, Master Ascham and I never spoke of the Lady Jane again, not even when I returned to Hatfield and he took leave to come and visit me from time to time. I knew he had not lost his sense of mission, however, for he was relentless in his expectations, allowing me no respite in mastering the wisdom of those who had ruled, or of those who had analysed rulers. And, for a time, I was happy with my tutor and my intensive program of study, with my people and my household, living quietly in the countryside. The relaxation was wonderful and, though none spoke of it, we all had a sense that our life in the wings was drawing to a close, if not this year, then the next or the one after that. For a time, I was content. I had begun my preparation for the day that is rapidly dawning for me outside my windows, as I pause to dip my quill in the ink.
Some in the palace are rising. I can hear the creaking of floorboards as maids and manservants scurry about their early morning business. The Tower’s famous ravens are in full cry beneath my window and the light pushing insistently past the window coverings has changed from pale grey to gold. But I sit here in bodily form only. My spirit remains in Hatfield, sitting in a corner of the hall, studying with my tutor, or poring over documents with my surveyor, William Cecil. Together we had determined to keep our heads low and allow the winds of crisis and drama to blow by us, barely ruffling a hair.
As time crawled by and still the Catholic queen and – through her – the Spanish king determined England’s destiny, others grew impatient. Events beyond our control once more inevitably rattled our hard-won equilibrium. Early in 1556, Cardinal Pole uncovered a rebellion involving yet another party of Protestant hotheads who were making wild plans to depose my sister, put me on the throne and marry me off to Edward Courtenay the Earl of Devonshire, without so much as a by-your-leave. At Hatfield, we had become weary of such foolishness and Cecil counselled silence. His policy seemed a wise one as, even in the face of the opportunity, the government left me alone, following up the thwarted plot with no arrest warrant for me or summons to explain myself at court. Could it be I was still protected by Philip’s favour? Or was it my own popularity and my sister’s evident ill-health and the impossibility that she would ever bear sons that kept danger from my door? Was it because I was the future and even my enemies knew it? I had entered that strange half-life that sometimes surrounds the second person in the kingdom, when the slow decline of the ruling monarch means wise men must demonstrate double loyalties, if they can.
But resentment of the likely future from some of the more fanatical Catholics in Mary’s government caused them to strike at me in other ways, hounding my friends and my servants. They searched Somerset House and found a cache of anti-Catholic pamphlets. Not all my servants were as wise and circumspect as William Cecil, it seemed. They declared Kat Ashley, my Italian master, Baptista Castiglione, and one of my gentlemen, Francis Verney, to be the source of these seditious documents. Only God knew the truth of such accusations; no doubt many of my friends had become a little overconfident in the face of what they saw as a fast approaching favourable future.
Innocent or guilty, the two men and my foolish Kat were duly arrested. Kat spent three months in Fleet prison, once more – as she tells me now almost daily – in miserable conditions. Baptista they released (perhaps they arrested him merely because he was Italian and so any suspicion of anti-Catholicism from such a quarter was seen as doubly horrifying), and poor Francis was tried and convicted of treason. He is, of course, free now.
My servants swore to me that they were innocent, but it was no doubt convenient for my enemies to have such a golden opportunity to reorganise my household and place their own people at its helm. Kat was banished from my presence, even after her release. I was moved to protest. She was the one constant in my turbulent life.
‘Say nothing, Your Grace,’ counselled my surveyor, the man whose calm advice I was beginning to rely on more than any others. He had previously worked for both my brother and then my sister, but had quietly and discreetly transferred his loyalty and his business to my service. At first, I paid little heed to someone I knew but slightly, although as we spent more time together, I began to appreciate his knowledge and political wisdom more and more.
‘In the greater scheme of things Mistress Ashley will spend but little time away from you, Your Grace. Your task now is to prepare yourself for rule. It cannot be far off and we must bide our time and cause no difficulty: merely wait and trust in God.’
‘But they wish to fill my household with spies, Cecil!’
‘Aye, my lady. So we must make their task a dreary one and give them nothing whatsoever to report. A wise monarch thinks not about her own comfort in the short term, but about her security over a lifetime. Even better, good madam, if you can convince those who begin as hostile to you of your wisdom and rectitude, their praise will be worth that of a thousand who are more partisan.’
Truth be told, I harrumphed a little at this advice. What good was it, I remember complaining to my implacably and infuriatingly reasonable advisor, to be a ruler, if one could not look to one’s own comfort? But, beneath my irritation, I recognised the truth of his words and, with as good a grace as I could muster, I held my peace and accepted Sir Thomas Pope and his entourage. Indeed, despite the ill omen of my new governor’s last name
, Sir Thomas was careful of both my dignity and my person. Perhaps he could see the future clearly, too.
Cecil continued to urge me to stay as circumspect in the country as I could, biding my time patiently for what would no doubt come. It was as well that he could remain such an anchor of calm good sense, because his mistress – despite her best intentions – again found waiting quietly in the wings almost impossible. As the news from court about my sister’s failing health gathered apace, my wayward heart and nerves failed me once more. The realisation that events entirely outside my control still had the power to undo me had chased away my former sense of peace and tranquillity. I was restless and bored, playing at country mouse and made anxious by the changes in my household.
Kat’s imprisonment reminded me how vulnerable I was to others’ suspicions, and how easily all the wise and careful strategy in the world on my part could count for nought. The sense of my great destiny ebbing and flowing unnerved me and I told myself I was experiencing the torments of Tantalus in the underworld. What I desired seemed just within reach and yet so far away. The queen was ailing, but was she dying? And, God forgive me, I sometimes yearned for a quick end. I did not wish her dead, exactly, but I sometimes wished her not there – an overly fine distinction, I grant you. My yearning was for some outside circumstance to rid me of the impediment to my future, so that I could gain that which I wished for without feeling any guilt – a childish desire, I also grant you, but human enough. My unresolved situation ate away at my peace of mind, and I found I could no longer stay still. I left my books and my sessions with good master Cecil and began striding restlessly about my house and lands, riding to hounds as often as the weather allowed, picking up a task and then just as quickly putting it down again.
When I did once more pick up my books, I turned the pages but comprehended nothing. My mind itched and danced, skittering from one anxious thought to another. As I wove various scenarios in my mind, I became less and less sure about what future I actually hoped for. No matter which way I looked – the queen lived, the queen died – the alternatives were equally unpalatable. I woke each day (if I had been lucky enough to catch a few hours sleep) dreading both the receipt of news and of no news. I could not bear to live this way much longer, but wearing the crown was still beyond my comprehension. In vain did Cecil counsel caution and calm: I raged against him, as I raged against my fate.
At last, as the winter drew in, I could stand my isolation no longer. I needed to see for myself the way the tide of events was flowing. I felt if I continued lying low in the country, I might explode. Against the advice of my surveyor, I gathered my entourage and left, uninvited, for court. As I galloped through the bleak and frozen countryside I felt relief. I felt that at last I was taking action, taking events into my own hands, rather than simply waiting, always waiting, for whatever fate was to befall me. My spirits were further buoyed by the acclamations of villagers as we passed. ‘God save Princess Elizabeth!’ they cried and I laughed and waved back at them. My welcome from Londoners was rapturous; my welcome from my sister and the rest of her court, as Cecil had predicted, less so.
For the first day or two, my visit passed pleasantly enough. The audience with my sister was friendly and gracious, if short, but I put this down to her obvious ill-health. Always low in stature, I now towered over her, so bent was she, yet there remained a strength and tenacity about her that did not indicate her imminent demise. Was I pleased about this, or devastated? Such was my poor, confused state, I felt both emotions in equal measure. I was at the court precisely because I was impatient to know my destiny. I left that first meeting little the wiser, but with my head still bursting with plans and fears for my future. Perhaps she saw this hubris in my manner, because I was about to be profoundly surprised by the power that remained to the dying queen – so surprised I almost threw my own future away, with my own hands.
‘I have a proposal for you, my lady,’ said the queen, her voice hoarse, a high colour on both cheeks. She had sent for me a second time only a few days after my first visit. When I received the invitation I took it as a mark of my continuing favour and also as my due, since I was the newly most important personage in her waning kingdom, albeit as yet unacknowledged. I was not so lost in self-importance, however, that I did not hear the ominous note in her opening words. Immediately, I was wary.
‘I will do anything you ask that lies within my power, Your Majesty.’
‘Well, then, you will do this because it certainly lies within your power, and within mine.’ Now I was really alert.
‘What do you require of me?’
‘My husband has made his wishes clear, and he, in his great wisdom and grace, desires to give you the protection and comfort that all women require – namely a husband.’
‘His Majesty the King of Spain is most gracious to think of my future happiness and I am, of course, most grateful to him. However, as I have made plain on many similar occasions, I have no desire for a husband.’
‘The husband proposed is suitable in every particular and is enthusiastic about the match. It would be advantageous for both you and for England if you wed the Duke of Savoy.’
‘No doubt the duke is a fine and worthy prince and my refusal of the great honour his proposal does me is not intended as any slight against him or his position, or indeed, as any disloyalty towards you, dear madam. It is simply that I have no desire at this time or any other to take a husband.’
‘And why should you alone among womankind remain single? A woman in your position cannot become a bride of Christ, so you delude yourself, Elizabeth, if you feel you can avoid becoming the bride of a man; it is a woman’s lot. It is unnatural for a healthy woman of childbearing age to remain unwed. You are already old for a maid. As a woman of high rank,’ I noticed she omitted to call me sister, ‘and as my subject, it is your duty to set your personal preferences aside. That is the responsibility of rank. Think on it sensibly and you will accept the Duke of Savoy.’
‘Your Majesty, despite the example of your happiness, I say again, I have no wish for a husband.’
The queen shook her head as if to brush my remark away from her ears. Her face had closed down: its expression was resolute, implacable. I was suddenly afraid. Marriage would mean the death of me, if not physically then in every other way. I would lose my autonomy and it would signal the end of all my hopes. My terror led me to plead, nay, even to beg.
‘Please, good madam, I have no wish to quarrel, but in good faith I cannot marry.’ And suddenly all my pent-up emotions, all my anxieties and excitements rose up as one and overwhelmed me. Was I really to be tortured like Tantalus? Was I really to get so close to the greatest fate God could bestow, only to have it taken from my grasp at such a moment? Was I to be despatched against my will to Savoy? Because my commonsense had deserted me I could not help myself: I burst into tears. As I look back on it now, my fear seems strange. I knew she could not force me to marry, but I risked her very great displeasure if I defied her, and, no doubt, that of my protector, Philip. And she was right, my unmarried state was seen as unnatural, and my plain statements that I had no wish of a husband were not believed, even by those closest to me. Cecil, for instance, merely smiled and shook his head, when I voiced my antipathy to the married state in his hearing. There was no one who understood my refusal to marry. But my very innards rose up against the idea; waves of nausea swept over me at the thought of a husband, any husband. I had no knowledge of the duke – he could have been as fine and pretty a youth as ever God made, for all I knew – but even were he the best match in Christendom, I had no wish of him.
My distress seemed to make no difference to the queen. ‘That’s as may be, Elizabeth, and many a young maid has wept at a similar fate and then learnt to live with it – as no doubt, will you.’
‘No, madam!’ I cried out, such was my desperation. ‘I have no wish for a husband. Have mercy on me. Take pity on your poor, beleaguered s
ister.’ It was no doubt ironic that I, so young and glowing with health, should have been begging for mercy from her, so old and so disappointed. ‘My afflictions lately, since those who wish me harm began whispering foul slander in your ears, have been so bitter that, far from wishing for marriage, I have wished only to die.’ And with that, my fragile nerves gave way completely and I threw myself prostrate at her feet and wept so heartily that it silenced even the queen. My ladies told me later that her eyes filled with tears at my grief. I was unaware of her sympathy at the time – I dared not look up – so all I heard was her cold, hard, imperious voice.
‘Always so stubborn and so difficult from the moment of your birth. You have caused me more grief than any other save the Great Whore, your mother.’ She took a deep breath and returned to more formal language. ‘We are displeased with you. You will withdraw from court, Lady Elizabeth, and await my further decision.’
So less than a week after I had so impatiently arrived, I was forced to flee the capital with my noisy retinue of horsemen. I rode through the streets with my head bowed, where only a few days prior it had been held so high. I wept bitterly as I rode. I feared that if the queen had roused herself to this point, she would find the energy to do more. Suddenly my inheritance, which had loomed so terrifyingly large in front of me, seemed all that I ever could have desired. Now I shivered in fear like a whipped cur at the thought that far from a great and powerful destiny, my fate was to be that of all women, decided by the whim of her husband. As I rode, I began to spin wild plans in my head as to how I could escape all the unpalatable fates that now awaited me. How bitterly I regretted not taking good Master Cecil’s wise counsel, rather than drawing attention to myself in such an impetuous way.
