Perhaps she is being bullied, she thought. So it is, it remains the same. This matter of taking a husband is still a most dangerous task, even for a queen. Elizabeth surmised. The old adage is firm: a man will always take precedence over a woman, queen or no. Elizabeth scoffed. And when that man is a king he will not be content until he holds all the power in the palm of his hand.
As a wife, a woman had to submit, and the thought, Elizabeth always suspected, was just as repugnant to her as it was to her sister.
Yet my sister is a woman in love, Elizabeth shifted her eyes over the page, her mind turning, and love breeds folly.
Her heart tightened at the word love. Love and lust: the two walk hand in hand to haunt their unsuspecting victims. Elizabeth thought she had known love. She had embraced it and held it in her arms too…
Unbidden, her mind went back to that alcove long ago at Chelsea. She snorted. For certés, she had known lust and it had brought her nothing but trouble. Katherine Parr had known lust too, but the joys it brought had been fleeting, ending in nothing but despair and death. Elizabeth shook her head.
Nay, many a woman and men too, steady and pious, have been brought low by lust. My father and Katherine Parr have both been victims to the same curse, with fatal consequences.
Elizabeth turned her mind back upon her sister, pondering, calculating. She counted on her fingers. The queen had been wed in July. Since then, she had been busy showing her Spanish paramour her kingdom. They said the couple was very happy and that the union was bound to bear fruit and soon.
Should Mary birth an heir, Elizabeth knew her life would be forfeit.
You shall die, she told herself. For the discord that abounds in England will be the death of you.
One way or the other, Elizabeth was certain that the factions in England would soon see her killed. The Protestants with their fervent desire to see her crowned would be the death of her. Their endless plots would see her committed for treason. As for the Papists, their lust to see her consigned to the ground had never waned. Left to their devices, they would soon invent something against her to bury her forever.
One way or the other, the result would remain the same. She would die.
I must save myself. I must survive, she warned herself, firming her mind, her heart and her soul. There were dangerous times ahead. She needed to do everything to outlast the destruction that threatened to engulf her.
The letter in her hand prattled on, telling her of Spanish dress, Spanish Dons and the joys of her sister.
God send us a prince, the prayers had already begun throughout England, so begins that old refrain, resurrected to haunt yet another queen. Elizabeth sighed before her eyes fixed. The letterings on the page was now announcing a death, the death of her great-uncle Howard, the Duke of Norfolk.
The Duke made his passing at Kenninghall. He is to be laid to rest at Framlingham, read the words scrawled across the page, he died in peace.
Elizabeth’s eyes were dry. She had no tears for her great-uncle but her heart did lurch. She had thought the man immortal. He had survived much and at the age of one and eighty he had outlived almost every Howard he had ever brought to court.
Elizabeth stared out the window, letting the meager sun warm her face.
One and eighty, her great-uncle had been at the mighty age of one and eighty when he passed, dying in peace. Old age and peace, they were privileges that even kings could not count on.
But the Duke of Norfolk had died an old man. He had survived and prospered.
During his lifetime he had seen the comings and goings of kings. He had been taken to the Tower and he had been marked to die a traitor’s death only to emerge like a phoenix from the ashes, his name cleared, his lands returned to him, his dukedom restored.
His life had not been an easy one. He had known calamity after calamity. He had been shamed, thrust into danger and he had spilt blood too. Death had hovered over the Howards, claiming many, but he always managed to escape the grim reaper and his vengeful wrath.
Her great-uncle Howard was a master of survival.
He spent his life serving and fighting to keep his place in the world. And he succeeded. He had kept his head and died in peace, in his own bed, in his sleep.
Elizabeth wanted to learn from him. He had survived and lived through every disaster ever thrown in his path. He was a man who had triumphed.
I shall mark your lessons well, Elizabeth noted, for there was much surviving that needed doing here in her sister’s England, and with luck, she would.
For now, Woodstock continued to be her haven and she would cling to here for as long as she could. She would be quiet and live her life in peace for as long as she was permitted to do so. She would not be stirring trouble. She would watch and observe. The world around her was changing and only a fool would deny it.
With one eye on her sister and the other on the people of England, she watched. Watch and study; that was now her most sacred task.
But a new danger lurked.
On Mary’s orders many had been sent to the Tower. For despite the charity in her sister’s soul there would be no compromise here, not on the count of religion. There was to be no illusions on the matter, Mary Tudor would dispense no mercy or forgiveness, not on the matter of faith.
It was just as Elizabeth feared: many would die before the Papists were done.
Already, the Papal Legate was coming. The Bull the Pope had placed England under would soon be lifted. Heresy was stalking England and despite the love Mary held for her people, Elizabeth feared the course that her sister was whipping, herding them toward with such relentless fever. For heresy carried with it one end and one end only: an inquisition.
With or without Spanish influence, if her sister continued pursuing this path good Englishmen and good Englishwomen would burn. And it would all be brought to a head soon. Already, preparations were being made to make grim examples of those charged with heresy.
England was on the verge.
Setting her jaw, Elizabeth firmed her heart. I am no weak, meek, shrinking flower.
Discreetly, she folded the missive and tucked it into her sleeve. It was destined for the fire, just like all the others that came before it.
I, Elizabeth Tudor will not be laying my head down on a traitor’s block nor will I be a martyr. I will not dance in the flames of my sister’s fever. I mean to live, live and thrive, the refrain echoed in her mind, vibrating through every fiber of her being, and I will.
SUSAN CLARENCIEUX
September
The Queen’s reforms were progressing apace.
She had welcomed a husband. Now, she was set to welcome the man who held the key to her soul: Cardinal Reginald de la Pole. The Papal Legate had sailed. He was going to be England’s savior; he was going to lift the Pope’s excommunication from English soil.
The queen had wept when she was advised of the Cardinal’s imminent arrival and many of her people with her too. Together, they had shed tears of joy.
The queen had not wept with joy at the thought nor the sight of her husband, Susan observed. But where Philip came bringing with him the promise of earthly joys, the Cardinal was bringing something far more precious: the Cardinal was bringing salvation.
But the Queen was not done. Eager to further her good work, the queen was now once again pushing Parliament to pass her final act of repeal.
The Queen would have all religious edicts passed during her father’s reign nullified. She would have everything set to rights and the matter of England’s church and faith turned back to those years before her father’s fervent reforms.
The queen had been working tirelessly to advance the cause of salvation in her realm. With everything that she could muster, she sallied forth and she persuaded, commanded and charmed. The daily pains that laid siege to her, ravaging her body made her all the more eager to complete her tasks. For the queen feared for her health and she feared that she would die before her good work was done.
So
with all haste, she strode forward, defying the pain and defying the advice of her physicians.
And no one truly knew how dire the queen’s health was, no one but Susan and Jane Dormer.
The king visited the queen’s chambers nightly, staying long enough to perform his duties, no more, no less. There was no love between Susan’s queen and her husband. Contrary to common knowledge, the queen was not besotted. Susan knew the truth. The king’s visits give the queen more pain than pleasure and the two of them performs the act of copulation with as much passion as two marionettes on strings.
Nay, there is no love here, nary a drop. The queen does her duty and as for the king, his desire to visit the queen’s bed comes only from his eagerness for his seed to take root…For that was his task. He needed to breed an heir and secure England. He had taken the queen to wife and to bed, but he had no power and no credence to speak of in this realm until a prince was had from his loins.
What irony, Susan could not help but smirk. Never has there been a man more set on a child and more bent on proving his virility than this king.
The king asked after his wife’s health daily, his attendants and spies keeping their hawk like eyes upon the queen’s bodily rituals, jostling for news.
They had plied Susan and little Jane Dormer with gifts, coin and treasures, hoping to pry the secrets of the queen’s privy chambers from their mouths. But Susan and Jane were not to be swayed. They smiled and declined every present proffered; their mistress was the queen, and nothing would ever be able to make them change their eternal allegiance.
Susan cast her gaze over the form of her sleeping sovereign.
It was her turn to keep vigil by the queen’s side tonight.
The queen slept on her side, her body curled into a ball. In sleep, Mary’s face was pale, her brow furrowed.
This night, the king didn’t make his customary visit, much to the queen’s relief. Her sovereign had welcomed the reprieve from her husband’s attentions, and Susan, taking the opportunity, quickly ushered Mary into her bed. After setting the queen to rights, she took her customary seat. The candle was burning low and the warm glow revealed Mary Tudor as she was, without artifice and without the armor of jewels and dress. Here, she was just a woman, an aging woman overwhelmed by worry and illness.
The Lady’s health had worsened in the intervening months since her nuptials. No matter what remedies they tried, Mary’s health refused to improve. The pain in her side was crippling. Besieged too by blinding headaches, her health was worsening. Desperately, she fought to hide her worsening state, and with her trusted servants by her side, they worked, doing their utmost to conceal her secret.
But their greatest shock came a month ago. The queen had felt a great churning pain in her stomach. Then she began to her pass blood from her bowels. Hunched over the privy stool, the queen had vomited as well, heaving, as her body spiraled beyond her control.
Since, the pain in the Lady’s sides had intensified, doubling in strength, leaving the queen’s stomach knotted and in perpetual agony. And in the last month, slight swellings were found distending the lady’s belly, not in one place but several.
The queen’s breasts as well as the course of her monthlies had also seen changes. In the preceding months the queen bleed sporadically from her womb, but recently, during the course of the last moon, she bled not at all.
To those who witnessed the queen’s suffering, it was clear that she was afflicted by an unknown sickness that refused to be tamed. The queen’s personal physician, Doctor Owens, was perplexed.
There was something horrid at work in the queen’s body, overtaking her person with deathly silence.
For those taken into the queen’s confidence, they did their best to conceal their sovereign’s condition as per her instructions. They were sworn to secrecy. The queen’s weakness could not be exposed. If her council learned of her illness, if her husband learned of her illness, England would descend into chaos.
Fearing she had not long to live, Mary threw herself into her tasks with great urgency.
Fearing the worst, the Lady wanted no more delays. Her wish to see the old faith restored in England had now grown tenfold. She wanted Papal authority reinstated in her lands and to the fullest measure. She needed everything she envisaged to come to pass and she needed to achieve them with haste. Should she fail, all her good work would be undone as soon as she gasped her last.
But the task would be just as long as it was arduous. The queen needed the old faith to not only return but also take root and triumph.
My queen would not rest until Catholicism is England’s only faith, Susan smoothed the lady’s brow, then and only then, would the queen consider her work complete.
So each and every morning the queen strode forth from her rooms, her hands folded serenely in front of her stomacher, her face set, determined to perform her duties. She bore it all. She showed her ministers, her council and her people a serene face, while she battled on in her quest to see the one true faith take hold in England.
But while they fought the daily battle to keep her condition secret, the court and the country was finding itself hard pressed to keep up with their queen’s headlong strides, taking them with what they thought to be undue haste back to the old Church.
Susan saw it all.
The people didn’t understand Mary Tudor and they never would. They knew nothing of the heartache that plagued this queen, be it night or day. Susan would that she could disabuse them of their notions. She would that she could scream and holler the truth at the top of her lungs.
But she couldn’t. Instead, she swallowed every word and said nothing.
These days, Susan sighed, have been long.
And the queen’s foes were many, chief amongst them: Philip of Spain.
Quietly and with diligence, he was maneuvering and making demands for his voice to be heard in England. Contract or no, he would have his presence felt here and he had made it clear to his wife that he would not be content to remain a mere consort in her realm. Subtle gestures, queries and suggestions made by him had all hinted at the firm hand he wished to take in her realm and its affairs.
The queen was tired, worried and beset. She was being drained from all fronts and now she had to play bug-a-boo with her husband too.
For a man is a man, and my queen is only now coming to understand the full extent of man’s folly. Philip of Spain haunts my queen be it night or day. He prods and asks, deploying all of his kingly powers against my queen. He wants her to bow and cede unto him all her earthly powers.
Such was the way of any man. To give and allow any man dominion over your body was to relinquish your very soul. They expect to command, conquer and possess, taking everything that is yours making it theirs…
The instincts of a man could not be changed, be the man king or pauper.
Thus far, the queen had been able to keep her husband from intervening in the business of her realm; she had managed to stem his requests, but for how much longer?
His most urgent task had been to pressure his wife into throwing the full weight of her forces behind his wars against the French. But despite his insistence, Mary had refused him again and again, doing so with delicate as well as unwavering care. She agreed to nothing and promised him nothing. But she had to be careful too, lest she incite his anger, for to lord it over a king was no easy task.
The queen must please, placate and prevaricate.
She had to honor him, love him yet deny him. She took every care to show him his place and every care too to assure him of her affections.
Verily, ‘tis like hugging a viper to the bosom…
By all appearances, the queen had been making every effort to forge a display of unity between her and Philip. Thus far, she had issued coinage bearing their images.
She had their likeness replicated and proclaimed throughout her realm as a constant reminder to her subjects that England was now irrevocably wedded to Spain as well as Catholicism.
She went everywhere with him. She would not be parted from him. She would have no one ride beside her but her husband. But she always took care too to ensure that his charger should not be as tall in the legs as her own mare; that his horse should not be as lavishly decorated, that the breed and manner of beast given to him be not in any way superior to her own.
Philip must always have the best, the queen could often be heard saying, but the unspoken vow behind that constant refrain remained the same.
He would be honored, respected, loved and accorded every reverence, but only ever as my consort. As the queen to my king, the queen was clear. Every rite and every opportunity to enforce and distinguish the queen from her king was observed. At every appearance and at every outing the king was to be bowed to, but the bow to England’s one true sovereign was always lower and longer.
At every meal, the king was to be offered the choicest cuts of meat and the most delicate dishes, but he had to eat them off his silver plates. Everything that was his to use had to be silver to the queen’s gold. And at every palace and every castle, the queen and the queen alone occupied the king’s apartments, while the king had to content himself with the consort’s quarters.
Mary insisted upon all these daily observances. She was not to be swayed. Philip of Spain was not king here in England. She was. And she used every opportunity to remind him of it.
But while she took every pain to keep Philip in his proper place, she was also careful to project an image of unity between them. It was an illusion that she worked to cultivate with daily vigilance. For the Lady was adamant: she would reap nothing but benefits from this union. Indeed, the two of them were united by this common goal and Mary would use Philip of Spain to her own ends, just as he would her.
For her part, the queen was using the weight of his presence to push for more and more reforms. Not only so, the Lady had also been parading Philip, deploying him as a figurehead.
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