by Jane Caro
Furious with my refusal to follow her command, the queen threatened to recall parliament to have me declared illegitimate. Much as my friends assured me this was but an empty threat, my reason seemed to have left me. I trembled in my bolthole at Hatfield. I could not keep from weeping, and my distress bewildered me. My spirits had fared better when I was imprisoned in the Tower and thought I would die at any moment. My commonsense and knowledge of politics told me that the queen could neither force me to marry nor bar my succession, yet my womanish soul would not allow itself to be convinced. I began to yearn for nothing as much as escape. I wanted – I knew not what I wanted – except to be far from here and free from this agony of mind.
To my great shame, I listened to several traitorous voices. There were many who had chafed under a female sovereign and, no doubt, dreaded that one woman should be followed by another. There were those who believed, aye, still believe, that government by a woman could lead to nothing but instability and chaos. Some even whom I counted as friends, took advantage of my fright and began to sing me a siren song, encouraging me to escape my problems by escaping my country. No doubt they saw an opportunity to rid the stage of me, and foolish, snivelling coward that I was, I found myself tempted by the future they painted. I would be independent and live a quiet, secure life in a foreign land, where I would be responsible for no one but myself and a few faithful servants. I would be untroubled by the cares of thrones and inheritances. It was a foolish fancy – I see that now. The strange circumstances of my birth meant that I had no choice over the kind of life I led. I see it clearly now, as the sun rises higher in the morning sky outside my window. For me, it had to be Queen of England or nothing.
That mischief-maker, the Duc de Noailles, had been recalled to Paris and the new French ambassador, Bishop Acqs, proved to be a much better friend. It was he who helped me to see sense – motivated, no doubt more by a hatred of Spain than by any love of my person, but I remain grateful. He warned me that Philip’s sister, the Duchess of Palma, and Philip’s cousin, the Duchess of Lorraine, who had accompanied the King of Spain on what was to be his last visit to my poor sister, wanted to bear me off to the continent on their return – straight into the arms of the Duke of Savoy. I lay low at Hatfield and avoided any contact with the Spanish ladies. Although I was frightened of inheriting a throne, I remained more frightened still of gaining a husband. The ladies returned to Spain empty-handed.
But a few weeks later, my poor, foolish, unlucky sister lost Calais. Calais: the last great continental outpost of our ancient empire, where my father met the King of France beneath the famed cloth of gold to make parly. Reminder of the great days of English glory – Crecy, Agincourt and the Black Prince – Calais, England’s proudest possession, lost and gone, frittered away for the political ambitions of Spain. It destroyed the last of whatever goodwill remained towards Mary. All England was horrified and humiliated. Some blamed the Spanish, some blamed the Catholics and some, to my unease, blamed petticoat governments. This catastrophic loss brought me back to my senses. Suddenly I felt a sense of mission. Despite all my study and preparation, much of my fear of ruling had been based on a deep feeling of my own inadequacy. I did not know what to do as a queen. Mary had a purpose – much good that it had done her – to return England to what she saw as the true faith. But what was mine? As I watched the disaster of Calais, I slowly began to see, not, perhaps what I would do as queen, but what I would not do. And as I began to feel a sense of direction, my fears began to abate – somewhat.
I watched and said nothing, but silently swore that as queen I would never allow my policy to be manipulated for some other nation’s benefit. My guiding principle would ever and always be the greater good of England.
Dear God, I hope that I may remain true to my vow as I take on this great task. It is easy to swear such solemn and silent oaths in anticipation, but I am yet to see how hard they are to keep in reality.
‘The loss of Calais is a great disaster for the kingdom, no doubt, Your Grace,’ said William Cecil one sunny afternoon as we strolled about the gardens of Hatfield. ‘But do not lose sight of the fact that it is also a great opportunity for you.’
‘How so, Cecil?’
‘With the loss of Calais, your friends at court will multiply. With Calais went the last of Mary’s prestige and even the men who are counted among her loyal supporters will begin to turn away from her. Mark my words, my lady, the dusty road between London and Hatfield will grow heavy with traffic, as the great and the good bring you news and seek favour. Even the queen’s own husband will understand that this marks her as a monarch of the past, not the future.’
And my wise counsellor was, as he always seemed to be, absolutely correct. The new French ambassador, the good bishop who had so wisely advised me to remain in England, emboldened by the rise in anti-Spanish feeling across the country, became my greatest source of information. It was the bishop who told Cecil and me about the final struggle between my fatally weakened sister and her vigorous, imperious husband.
‘The King of Spain has suggested another suitor for your hand, Your Grace. But he demands of the queen that a condition be met before such a betrothal can be announced.’ The bishop lowered himself gingerly onto the chair he was offered. Unused to riding any distance, he was a little saddle-sore. Such was my rising prestige, it seemed, that even a fair, fat prince of the church could be enticed onto his horse.
‘Does he indeed? How generous of my brother-in-law to negotiate so freely on my behalf. And what is this mysterious condition?’
‘The queen must recognise you as the rightful heir to her throne.’
This gave me pause. Despite her kindness to me as a child, despite our wary alliance when she was the despised heir to Edward’s throne and I her most loyal supporter, and despite her erstwhile kindness to me during her reign, she had never – even once – acknowledged me as her heir. Although she called me sister in private, I was always the Lady Elizabeth in public. When displeased with me, she had taken pleasure in remarking on my resemblance to Mark Smeaton, thereby denying not simply the legitimacy of my succession, but even my parentage. Now the man she loved more than life itself was demanding she do the very thing she had always refused to do, admit my legitimate right to take her throne. Once again, I realised with grim satisfaction, the bitter rivalry and suspicion between the two great Catholic nations – Spain and France – had come to the aid of a Protestant princess.
‘No doubt he fears the Queen of Scots, daughter-in-law of the King of France, more than he fears me.’
‘No doubt, my lady.’
‘And what response did the queen make to this?’
‘She refused so to do, my lady.’
‘Aye, in terms that brooked no misinterpretation, I’ll warrant.’
The pressure from all quarters, but especially from her distant but imperious husband, to bring certainty to the succession, took its toll on my ailing sister. She reacted hysterically against the sense that her power and her reign were slipping through her fingers. Piteously, she once more persuaded herself that she was with child. This time, however, no one believed her. It seemed to all little more than an attempt to bring her husband once more to her side, and to delay accepting the inevitable. We were all marking time, but my growing political importance saw me pursued by a stream of suitors. The Protestant Prince Eric of Sweden made a serious approach, to the consternation of Mary and her court. Where I had refused a Catholic, they believed, I may well accept a Protestant. How little they, any of them, knew me. Poor Thomas Pope was charged with the task of interrogating me about my intentions. Patiently, I made my position clear once more. ‘What I shall do hereafter I know not,’ I said to him, to close off as much as I could any useless protestations. ‘But I assure you, upon my truth and my fidelity, and as God is merciful unto me, I am not at this time otherwise minded than I have declared unto you. No, though I were offered the greatest princ
e in all Europe.’ I felt impatient with the constant pressure to accept a husband, but, at the same time, it dawned on me that keeping expectations always slightly off balance could be useful. I could even tease Master Cecil by appearing to consider seriously the claims of one suitor, and then abruptly change my mind. Those around me wanted to have my marital situation settled so they could know just which powerful prince they would have to reckon with. None of them – not even wise Cecil – realised that the only powerful personality I wanted them to work with and understand was my own.
As the summer heat intensified, Mary’s health declined still further. She ran a high fever and all of England waited, breathless. The road from London to Hatfield rang with the sound of hooves bearing those who carried messages and those who merely carried their hopes and dreams. I stayed where I was, strangely calm now, as the inevitability of my fate grew ever closer. By my 25th birthday in September the queen was clearly dying. In October Philip sent his ambassador, de Feria, to the queen, and my friends at court informed me there had been many tense negotiations about the succession. Poor Philip, his choices were not what he would have wished, but because he was always more pragmatic than Mary, he knew he must take the best alternative on offer, rather than yearn hopelessly for the right one. And I was the best alternative. God’s breath, at that time, the devil himself would have seemed a better candidate to Philip than the prospect of Mary, Queen of Scots and Dauphine of France on England’s throne – my young cousin remained utterly unacceptable to a Hapsburg monarch.
Moreover, I imagine Philip felt he knew me, and that as I was relatively young and female I would seek his counsel eagerly in all things, exactly as my sister had done. No doubt, he was minded to marry me himself, after a suitable period. I do not know what pressure he exercised over his deathly ill wife, but she eventually succumbed. As a young woman, she had bravely and stubbornly refused to forswear her mother and accept my father’s new wife – my mother. Men of court, such as Sir Thomas More, lost their heads for doing the same. Lonely and friendless, the young Mary had been kept isolated and surrounded by staff who were under direct instructions to insult her. She was required to take second place in my household, but she would not yield. Yet, rebellion against a father’s authority is a different kettle of fish, it seems, than resistance to a husband’s. Poor Mary was no match for Phillip; she never had been.
‘The queen has declared you her successor, Your Highness.’ The emissary from de Feria wasted no ceremony giving me this message, as he rose, still somewhat breathless, to his feet.
‘Publicly, my lord?’
‘Aye, my lady, publicly and officially. The King of Spain sends his respects and congratulations, and desires to be remembered to you most cordially.’
‘Please return my respects and cordial remembrances to your master with my sincere gratitude.’ He bowed. ‘And the queen, my sister, how is her health?’ I knew then that she was about to die. Nothing else would have induced her to make such a declaration. It had been the work of her life to keep me from the throne.
‘The doctors are doing all they can, Your Highness.’
‘God save her for many years to come.’
‘Amen, my lady.’
‘Thank your master for bringing me such solemn tidings so expeditiously.’
‘Any other message? My master was most desirous that I make certain you feel free to seek his advice on any matter.’
‘Again, thank your master for his kind offer but, as yet, no, there is no other message.’
Now that the fate I had both dreamt of and dreaded was so near, both my fear and my impatience left me. I held my counsel and sat quietly with my household, no longer anxious, no longer fighting against the fate God had ordained for me, but waiting quietly for the great news we now knew would surely come.
My poor sister died at 6am on the 17th of November and few mourned her passing. She had come to her throne with such high hopes and stern ambitions. She had most heartily believed that, since the one true God was on her side, her reign would be blessed by miracles and holiness. She continued to believe this even when all lay in ashes about her – including, it must be said, the ashes of many of our most respected Protestant thinkers and clergy. With what despair she must then have faced the certainty of her own demise. Not only with the human fear of oblivion that all men must feel at such a time, but also with such a sense of failure and inadequacy. None of her goals had been achieved and the daughter of the Great Whore, her most hated enemy, would surely follow her to the throne. She must have died in fear and trembling, certain that she had failed her nation, her faith, her God and the legacy of her mother.
I shiver at the thought of her passing. Dear God, when my time comes, let me not also face such a death of my hopes. Perhaps, therefore, ’tis wise to trim my expectations to meet my capacity. I do not wish to convert a nation. I have no desire to make a window into men’s souls. Let them believe what they wish to believe, as long as they are both loyal subjects and loving Englishmen. Nevertheless, as I ascend the throne that both my sister and brother found such a burden and a disappointment, I cannot help fearing a similar fate. No doubt it is fear of failing that keeps me from my bed, from sleep, and the risk of dreams. Yet I must remind myself that it is God who has placed me here and whatever His reasons and whatever fate He has ordained for me, I must accept it, no matter how hard or dangerous it may become. So I have been taught and so I believe.
And I also must not forget that, thanks to an unlikely benefactor, King Philip of Spain, my accession has been peaceful and joyful, like my father’s. Alone among my siblings, I had to fight no one and nothing to claim my rightful throne. I was not forced to sever any heads to establish my rule. Perhaps anxious to forestall a repeat of the tragic if short-lived rebellion that accompanied the transition of power from my brother to my sister, the lord chancellor of parliament, Nicholas Heath, announced my sister’s death and in the very next breath declared me to be the rightful queen. A good and wise Englishman, he is a follower of Mary’s faith, but did not allow this to stand in the way of what he believed to be best for England. It is with men such as these that I wish to make my government. I care not what their private beliefs may be.
In response to his fine example, the good citizens of London, regardless of their religious allegiances, set up a hullabaloo to celebrate my accession to the throne, and the earls of Pembroke and Arundel were able to set out promptly and peacefully on the now well-worn road to Hatfield to tell me the momentous news. I hope the sensible and calm manner in which my own accession has taken place is a good omen for the whole of my reign. I hope it signals that my rule will be blessed by God. It cannot be mere coincidence, surely, that the good people of England – weary, perhaps, of drama and intrigue – made sure there were no usurpers, no armies raised, no deception or kidnappings. There has been only good humour and good sense from all involved. Dare I say it, even, perhaps, a sense of relief that I yet lived and – whatever their usual view of women rulers or Protestant monarchs – could move unchallenged onto the throne.
The wintry sun is higher in the sky, struggling to emerge from the clouds. My maidservant has entered and pulled back the curtains. The snow is still falling and the wind still casts it about in flurries. No matter – this is my coronation day. As I keep telling myself, I know not what the future will hold. I know not if I will be a great queen or a foolish one. I have worked hard for this day and many a wise man has helped me to prepare for my destiny. If I fail, it will be on my own head. No other will be to blame. I must take my fate in my own hands, in a way few other women have ever done. I have asked good Dr Dee to foretell my future. As always, he speaks in riddles, but once again he tells me that the portents are favourable. His responses comfort me. When last he assured me in a similar vein, all indeed turned out to my liking. My one desire and guiding principle, as I have already sworn to uphold, is the greater good and glory of England. Her fate and m
ine are now the same. God’s will be done.
I can still see myself hunting with my falcons when Pembroke and Arundel arrived to tell me that my sister had died and that I was to be queen. As I watched them ride helter skelter across the meadow towards me, I leant against an oak tree and looked up through its green leaves to the blue skies above and held my breath. From the moment they opened their mouths, I knew everything in my life would utterly and irrevocably change. Who I was at that moment, I would never be again and I had to bid farewell to the anxious girl who had lived with uncertainty for so long.
As the two earls made their announcement, the moment overwhelmed me and I fell to my knees and spoke in Latin. ‘A Domino factum est illud et est mirabile in oculis nostris.’ This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.
Now, as Kat Ashley bears the tray with my breakfast and hesitates before opening my door, as my ladies cluster about me and my mistress of the robes handles my coronation dress of gold reverently, my fate remains marvellous in my eyes. No matter my terror, no matter the overwhelming responsibility or what the future may hold, I am the queen.
HOUSEHOLD OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH
KATHERINE (KAT) ASHLEY nee CHAMPERNOWNE (1502–1565)
Governess to Princess Elizabeth from 1537. Married Sir John Ashley, Elizabeth’s senior gentleman attendant and cousin to Anne Boleyn, in 1545. On Queen Elizabeth’s accession became Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber until her death.
BLANCHE PARRY (1507–1590)
Attendant to Princess Elizabeth from 1533, cousin to William Cecil and (possibly) to Dr John Dee. On Kat Ashley’s death she became Queen Elizabeth’s Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber. Like her mistress, she never married.
ELIZABETH SANDS (1532–1585)
