Beware, Princess Elizabeth

by Carolyn Meyer

  "Or for mine, thank goodness," I put in. "Who is your next guess, then?"

  "Philip of Spain."

  "Surely not!" I exclaimed. "I care not a whit whom my sister marries, but I cannot imagine that she would take a Spaniard as her consort. He will be despised by every person with English blood in his veins!"

  But Sir William's last guess proved correct: Queen Mary's choice fell upon the Spanish prince, the son of her mother's cousin, Emperor Charles V.

  Mary had once been betrothed by our father to Charles, when she was but six years old and Charles was twenty-two. The betrothal had been broken, and Charles married someone else, by whom he had a son, Philip. Prince Philip was now twenty-seven, ten years younger than Mary.

  Said Cecil, "It is only a matter of time until Mary will be shoved into the background and Philip will rule. Her advisers are warning her of this, but she pays no attention."

  "And what is her reply?"

  "That this marriage is God's will. Her mother was Spanish, her ties with the emperor are strong, and she feels called to marry Philip."

  My stubborn sister! No one could tell her anything. As I expected, the announcement of Mary's betrothal upset nearly everyone.

  "I detest the Spaniards," Kat grumbled. "Imagine Philip coming here and taking over our country! Having sovereignty over us! The queen is making a dreadful mistake."

  A few weeks after Mary announced her intention, a large portrait of Philip arrived at Whitehall. Queen Mary invited me and a number of her ladies to view the likeness. The painting was set upon an easel in the queen's presence chamber, covered with a cloth of purple silk. Lady Marian and Lady Cynthia accompanied me, and as we waited for the queen to appear, we kept our eyes on the purple cloth. There was a stir, and we dropped to our knees as the door opened.

  As usual the queen was gowned in rich velvet trimmed in brocade and decked with more jewels than I could count. She sparkled from head to toe, and her eyes seemed to sparkle as well. She swept aside the purple silk and stepped back, and we all gaped at the portrait. "Our future husband," she said, for once sounding shy.

  The young prince, dressed in a blue coat trimmed with white wolf skin, was a man well made in face and figure. I could understand her attraction to him, based on that likeness.

  Has anyone sent Philip a portrait of Mary? I wondered. What will he think when he sees this aging queen? Might he change his mind? I remembered my father's response to Anne of Cleves.

  No matter what our private thoughts, we ladies all applauded enthusiastically and murmured approvingly. "The prince is now three years older since he posed for the artist Titian," she explained. "We are told he has developed an even more manly body. And a fuller beard," she added, blushing.

  "I give not a fig what he looks like," Lady Cynthia muttered gloomily as we rode back to Somerset House. "He is still a Spaniard."

  "Perhaps she has no choice," said Lady Marian with a sigh. "She must marry someone, and it might as well be he."

  She can remain unwed, I thought. That is what I intend to do. But these were not thoughts I wished to speak aloud.

  MY HOPE THAT my sister's coming marriage might distract her attention from me proved groundless.

  First she sent a note that I was to have no more visitors without her approval. Once again Kat caught the full force of my fury.

  "How dare she!" I shouted. "She treats me like a common criminal!"

  Kat had no answer but the obvious one: "She dares because she is queen."

  Then Mary sent me books of instruction in the Catholic faith. I flung them against the wall but retrieved them quickly, aware—belatedly—that spies were rewarded for passing on just such bits of information. I reminded myself that I must keep my temper and hold my tongue, no matter how sorely I was tested.

  On a day when a sharp wind warned of coming winter, the queen summoned me once more to her presence chamber. I dreaded this interview; perhaps she had heard of my outburst and intended to chastise me. I dropped to one knee, advanced a step, dropped again, advanced, dropped a third time.

  "Dear sister," said Queen Mary in a chilly voice.

  "Your Majesty," I replied.

  "You have been attending Mass daily, have you not?"

  "I have, Your Majesty. Twice daily. Surely you have heard reports of this?" I knew that she had. It seemed to me that half of my servants and even a number of my ladies and gentlemen were spies who eagerly poured what they'd seen or heard, or thought they had, into Mary's ear.

  "We know well that your person has been present at the Mass. But what of your mind? Your heart, Elizabeth? Your soul?" She smiled sourly. "That is where we have our doubts."

  "But, Your Majesty, I am most sincere in my faith," I protested.

  "Do you firmly believe what Catholics believe—have always believed?" she demanded, leaning forward intently.

  To be honest was to risk what freedom I did have, and possibly even my life. And so I choked back what I wanted to say: One cannot be forced to believe what one does not believe! I swore that I did believe, that I attended Mass of my own free will and with genuine faith. I knelt with my hands clasped upon my heart as I spoke, to add feeling to my statement. To my lies.

  "We hear no truth in your words," Mary said coldly. She leaned back abruptly. "You are far too much like your mother. You become more like her every day—a woman who caused much trouble in the kingdom."

  At the insult to my mother, my intense dislike of Mary exploded into hatred. I felt my cheeks flame, but I was careful to betray none of my anger in my voice or manner. "I beg you to remember, Your Majesty, that you and I have the same father. The same Tudor blood runs thick in our veins."

  Mary laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. "There is some question about that," she said, tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair.

  I held myself rigid and simply stared at her, scarcely daring to breathe.

  "It is evident that you bear far more resemblance to the lowborn Mark Smeaton than ever you have to the man you call father," she said.

  I was so angry I feared I might faint, and I reached out a hand to steady myself. But I was also, suddenly, greatly frightened. Mark Smeaton was one of the five men with whom my mother had been wrongfully accused of committing adultery against my father. The other four were gentlemen—one, my mother's own brother!—and all were ordered beheaded by my father. My mother was forced to watch them die before she, too, went to the block.

  Mary knew that the charges against Anne Boleyn were lies, fabrications my father used to rid himself of the wife he no longer wanted. But now it was as though not I but my mother knelt before Mary, facing her judgment. Would her actions be as cruel as her words? Trembling, I waited.

  For a long moment the queen stared at me. Then abruptly she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. I backed away, kneeling three times as I did, my legs so weak I thought I might not be able to rise again. It was all I could do to walk steadily past Jane the Fool with her shaved head, past the queen's ladies-in-waiting, who sat placidly with their embroidery on their laps. Past the guards standing stiffly at each door, past the gentlemen who idled about in the long gallery, past the guards posted at Whitehall's entrance.

  Expecting the queen's guards to seize me, I waited, breathing in ragged gasps while my horse was brought to the courtyard. Although I wanted desperately to give my horse full rein, I maintained a measured gait all the way back to my own palace. Each step carried me away from the hateful queen but not, I feared, away from danger.

  WHEN I ARRIVED at Somerset House, I first had to acknowledge the salutes of the guards, the gentlemen who attended me, the servants, my own ladies-in-waiting. My legs were still weak, but I held myself erect and walked to my bedchamber, pretending nothing was wrong. As soon as the door shut behind me, I flung myself upon my bed and wept until I was wrung dry of tears.

  Then anger overcame fear. I leaped up and called for Kat.

  After I had described the scene with the queen, Kat said, "You must go away
from here. The sooner the better. You are in danger of your very life, Elizabeth. This is not simply some inconvenience of where and how you worship."

  I considered Kat's advice. "You are right," I agreed, and the next day I sent a letter to my sister. "I beg Your Majesty's leave to remove my household to Ashridge in Hertfordshire," I wrote.

  For days I waited for a reply. When it came, the answer was no.

  I wrote again, imploring her to grant me an audience. Anxious days passed. Finally the queen agreed to see me.

  As I knelt before her in an attitude of supplication, Mary gazed at me for a long time. In my heart I was furious, but I could not reveal any of that anger.

  "You wish to leave court?" she asked finally.

  "If Your Grace will grant me leave," I whispered, "I wish to move to Ashridge."

  "You may go," she said at last.

  I thanked her—at least I meant that! When I rose and prepared to depart, kneeling, backing, kneeling, the queen stopped me. "Elizabeth!"

  I waited nervously for what might come.

  "Before you leave London," she said, "we should like to meet with you once more."

  "As Your Majesty desires," I replied, and knelt a third time.

  WHAT MORE does she want? I worried as my servants completed preparations for the move. I sent word to the queen that I would wait upon her when she wished. The next day she sent for me. I tried to prepare myself for what I hoped would be a last visit.

  This time Mary seemed more at ease, almost friendly. I didn't trust her friendliness. Jane the Fool and Lucretia the Tumbler were both present, distracting the queen with their antics. Jane, I observed, looked different; a luxurious hood made of sable covered her usually naked head.

  "We have a gift for you," said Queen Mary. Immediately Jane the Fool stepped forward, capering in her foolish clown shoes, and flung off the hood. Mary took the hood from her and draped it about my head and shoulders. "To ward off the frosts of winter at Ashridge," said the queen.

  An instant later Lucretia the Tumbler performed a somersault and some sleight of hand in front of me, and I found myself holding two strings of costly pearls. I looked up in wonder. Mary smiled, but her eyes remained cold. "These gifts are so that you do not forget us," she said.

  "You will never be far from my thoughts, dear sister," I said. True enough—I would always be fearful of her, and I would never cease to hate her.

  Queen Mary rose and embraced me. I forced myself to return the embrace. She gave me her blessing, and I was dismissed. I was free to go.

  But my relief was short-lived. Outside the queen's privy chamber door, two of her councillors, Sir William Paget and the earl of Arundel, lay in wait.

  "Lady Elizabeth," said Paget, his words and tone pointedly reminding me that in the eyes of many I was not a princess but the bastard daughter of a disgraced woman.

  One on either side of me, they escorted me down the long gallery and pulled me into an empty chamber. The heavy door slammed shut. Both looked grim. What did these two want of me?

  "You leave shortly for Ashridge?" Paget asked.

  "On the morrow."

  "Who accompanies you?"

  Kat, I told them. Mr. Parry, my cofferer, and his sister Blanche, who chaperoned the maids. I named off others of my suite, growing increasingly fearful.

  "And who awaits you there?" asked Arundel.

  I looked at him, frankly puzzled. "And who should be awaiting me there?" I asked, turning the question back on him.

  The councillors exchanged glances. "We shall be more honest with you than you have perhaps been with us," Paget said. "This is a warning, my lady Elizabeth: You will be watched closely for any sign that you might be planning a rising, a rebellion designed to overthrow the queen."

  "I assure you that I have no such intent, my lords," I said, quite honestly, for I did not. "My loyalty is entirely with my sister, the queen, whom I love and honor."

  "Mind, then, that you do not become involved in someone else's intentions. You may be innocent, but there are others who are not. Responsibility for any treasonous act will fall upon your shoulders."

  The two old windbags stepped back, bowed, and allowed me to leave the chamber. I fled with as much appearance of calm as I could muster, far more than I felt.

  THICK FLAKES of an early snow began to fall as I left London late in November. Peasants and yeomen stepped off the muddy road to make way for the royal entourage and touched their caps respectfully. When I arrived at Ashridge, my first duty was to write to the queen, thanking her for her many kindnesses. But I also asked that she send the priestly vestments needed for the celebration of Mass. Mary had seen to it that several Catholic priests were included in my retinue, and I wanted to have them properly attired for their role as I continued to play my role as a make-believe Catholic.

  Then I settled down to spend what I hoped would be a peaceful winter, with my usual quiet pursuits of study, embroidery, music, and conversation with my ladies.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rebellion and Treachery

  Soon after my arrival at Ashridge, a strange thing happened. I was in the chapel, kneeling behind the screen to make my confession, when a messenger disguised as a priest delivered me a letter. To Elizabeth, the true and only princess fit to rule England, the letter began. Your day will come soon. Preparations have begun. Pray for our success. Your obedient servant, Thomas Wyatt.

  My heart raced. I had only slight knowledge of this Wyatt. But though I was in the chapel, I silently cursed him. What he had done was terribly dangerous—to himself, certainly, and no less to me.

  "I can have no part in this," I whispered to the priest-messenger in the confessional and quickly fled from the chapel. I destroyed the letter immediately and spoke of it to no one—not even Kat. And, only half believing the good intentions of this Wyatt, son of a great poet in my father's court, I tried to put it from my mind and prayed that the plot would go no further. When I heard nothing more, I began to breathe more easily.

  As winter deepened I fell ill with fevers and took to my bed. Kat, alarmed by my weakness and pallor, summoned my physician, who diagnosed an excess of choler.

  When various unpleasant purgatives brought no improvement, the physician consulted my astrologer, Dr. John Dee, who determined that bleeding in the hour after midnight would cure me. A surgeon was summoned to open the vein in my left arm. After the basin of blood had been carried away and my wound bound up, Kat fed me teas made with herbs and kept close watch over me. At last the fever left me, but I still did not have the strength to stand unaided.

  As I began to recover, Kat sat by my bedside and described all that had happened during the days that I drifted in and out of my feverish dreams.

  "Diplomats arrived from Spain to conclude the marriage negotiations between Prince Philip and the queen," she told me. "Their welcome was cold. Mr. Parry heard that they were greeted with snowballs hurled, along with unkind words, by Englishmen who want no part of a Spanish king."

  I smiled at that—the haughty Spanish pelted with snowballs! "When do they intend to marry?" I asked.

  "In summer, I believe. But there is another story, far more serious," Kat continued. "On the twenty-fifth of January, Sir Thomas Wyatt of Kent raised up an army of several thousand men and marched toward London, intent upon seizing the queen."

  "What happened?" I asked, instantly alert. The letter! I thought.

  "When word spread of Wyatt's rebellion, many urged the queen to take shelter within the walls of the Tower. Some even tried to persuade her to flee the country. But she refused to do any of this. Instead, she stood steadfast. The queen made a brave speech that Mr. Parry says brought tears to all who heard, and they pledged to support her."

  "But surely the rising failed?"

  "It did. Wyatt was captured on the seventh of February and is being held in the Tower." Kat hesitated, but I pressed her to continue, ordering her to tell me everything.

  "Wyatt claims he did it for you, that you
knew all along about the plans, and that you had given your consent to his cause—even your support."

  "Lies!" I exclaimed, although they were not exactly. "All lies!" I struggled to sit up, but the effort exhausted me, and I fell back upon my pillows. "Did he act alone?" I asked. "Were there others?"

  "Edward Courtenay has also been arrested."

  "Courtenay, too? That idiot! What was his role in this pitiable mummery?"

  "The plot was to marry you to Courtenay and to place you both on the throne in Mary's stead."

  My mind reeled. It was almost too much to take in. "Is there more?" I asked, hoping there was not.

  "I fear so, madam."

  "Then tell me!"

  "It is Lady Jane Dudley and her husband, Guildford," Kat said sadly. "The queen has signed the order for their execution."

  "But surely they had no part in this conspiracy!"

  "No, madam, they did not," Kat said. "But Jane's father did. They found him hiding in a hollow tree. It is all done for them, I fear."

  I turned my head away. My sister would actually have this young woman beheaded? Surely not! It was not Jane's doing! But even in my enfeebled state, I was certain of one thing: Mary would lay the blame at my feet, and I would pay dearly for all that had happened. If she would send Lady Jane to the scaffold, Mary would not hesitate to send me. Clearly the queen was afraid, and fear had made her ruthless. I was tired, so very tired, but I realized that I would soon have to gather every ounce of strength I possessed to defend myself—or lose my life.

  THE TIME CAME before I was ready. The fever had returned and was worse than ever, and I had not left my bedchamber in weeks. One morning as I lay in bed in great discomfort, I heard a commotion below and was told that a messenger had arrived from London. He insisted upon delivering a letter to me in person. As he entered my chamber, I saw that he was garbed in the queen's livery. My heart pounded as I broke the wax seal impressed with the queen's device.