Beware, Princess Elizabeth

by Carolyn Meyer

  After we were settled at Oatlands and the queen had begun to resume her royal duties, I received a visit from one of her chaplains, Father Francis. The old priest took such a long route to arrive at the heart of his mission that for some time I had no idea why he was sitting in my apartments. I offered him drink, which he accepted. Then I offered him bread and meat, and he accepted those. When he had finished eating and drinking, he sighed contentedly and went on to talk about gardening, in which he had a deep interest. Thinking that perhaps the chaplain had been sent to trap me in a heresy, I was on my guard.

  "The continuing rain is taking its toll," he said.

  "It is indeed," I agreed. But why are you here?

  "My garden is in ruins."

  "I am sorry to hear that." Get to the point!

  "In King Henry's time," he went on, "I was in charge of the herbarium at a monastery. Before it was closed."

  "A rewarding vocation, I should think." What a waste of my time!

  As the conversation rambled on about the priest's failed attempts to cultivate a particular kind of hyssop, my impatience at last overcame me, and I begged him to reveal the purpose of his visit.

  Father Francis looked surprised. "Why, to discuss with you the prospect of a husband, Lady Elizabeth. This is a matter of great concern to Her Majesty, the queen."

  So it was matrimony he had come to discuss, not heresy! "Then let us proceed," I said. It seemed prudent to hear him out.

  "It has been proposed that you marry Don Carlos, the son of King Philip by his first wife, Maria of Portugal, who died in childbirth."

  I stared at Father Francis in disbelief. "Don Carlos is but a child," I said.

  "He is nine years old," said the priest, nodding. "You would become betrothed as soon as it can be arranged, but you would not marry until the prince has reached the age of sixteen." Father Francis must have seen the look of dismay on my face, for he added hastily, "Or perhaps earlier, if madam wishes."

  "The boy is said to suffer from certain difficulties," I said, choosing my words carefully. In fact, it was common knowledge that the king's son showed signs of madness and had to be kept shut away.

  "Many things can happen in six years," Father Francis said soothingly. "The lad may outgrow the difficulties."

  "Please deliver this message to the queen, and to the king as well," I said flatly. "I will not marry Don Carlos."

  "Ah, dear, dear, dear," sighed the priest, peering into his empty tankard.

  I knew, even as I uttered the words, that defiance of the queen was a highly dangerous move. But I was prepared to risk another imprisonment rather than enter into such a vile marriage. Would I risk death as well? If I must, I thought. Greatly agitated, I rose, but the chaplain seemed not to have noticed my gesture of dismissal. I calmed myself and called for more ale to be brought. Perhaps I could learn more from this thirsty priest.

  "Are there other candidates?" I asked as he contentedly laced his fingers across his ample belly.

  "There has been a mention of a German prince, Margrave of Baden, but that match was dismissed. The prince is Protestant, and naturally Her Majesty, the queen, insists that you marry a Catholic."

  "Naturally." I was tempted to add, And I insist that I marry no one at all! But I held my tongue.

  My marriage to the prince, or to any foreign Catholic nobleman, would have made Queen Mary's life much easier. In one stroke she would send me out of the country and away from the Protestant supporters, who, I believed, wanted me as their queen. I prayed that those friends were still supporting me, still willing to bide their time.

  "And another gentleman once came to claim you—you know of that?" Father Francis continued.

  "I do not."

  "Emmanuel Philibert, duke of Savoy. The duke is a cousin of the king's. When he heard that King Philip was kindly disposed toward him as your future husband, he was so pleased that he traveled all the way to London to 'pluck the fruit'—his very words, I am told. No one had advised the king and queen that he was coming, and no one had informed the duke that you were indisposed to see visitors at Woodstock."

  "I was not indisposed. I was imprisoned there," I retorted.

  "Yes ... well. Whatever the situation. At any rate, he passed a month at Somerset House—"

  "The duke stayed at my house?" I asked, incredulous. "Without my leave?"

  "At the invitation of Their Majesties," the priest said smoothly. "But after a month of waiting, with no reward, the duke returned to Savoy. I understand that he went away quite disappointed."

  "No doubt," I replied.

  The priest's tankard stood empty once more, and when I made no move to fill it a third time, he leaned forward and patted my hand. "Be of good cheer, madam," he said. "I am certain that we shall be able to find you a fine husband."

  I had nearly bitten through my tongue by the time he left me with his blessing!

  WEEKS LATER the court prepared to move again, this time to Greenwich Palace. Philip had recently been made king of the Netherlands by his aging father, Emperor Charles V, and he was soon to depart for Flanders, to acquaint himself with his new kingdom.

  The royal couple traveled through London in an open litter, so that Mary's subjects could see for themselves that their queen and her consort were alive and well. I was sent by water, with only four ladies and three gentlemen to attend me, in a battered old barge, as though they were shipping a hogshead of salted meat. I disliked it, but I understood the reason: Mary could not risk having any of my supporters take notice of me. She needed the assurance of the cheers for herself. I also understood that my supporters would have been reluctant to show their enthusiasm for me, afraid of endangering themselves as well as me. What a dismal state of affairs!

  Soon after our arrival at Greenwich, I watched from the window of my apartments as leather-bound trunks and wooden chests were carried aboard another of the royal barges that would take Philip to Gravesend, where a Spanish ship lay at anchor. Suddenly one of my maids, a silly young girl named Alice, rushed into my chamber. "The king is here!" she gasped, forgetting to curtsy.

  "King Philip? To see me?"

  "Yes, madam."

  Since visitors to my apartments were so rare, I was wearing a simple kirtle, scarcely dressed to receive anyone, much less the king. But I decided not to take time to change into a gown, for I felt this visit must be both brief and clandestine, lest the queen learn of his whereabouts.

  "Tell His Majesty that I am pleased to receive him," I instructed the girl.

  Of late, my glimpses of Philip had revealed to me a man suffering from dyspepsia. He often seemed dispirited and languorous, possibly from the strain of his wife's long and fruitless pregnancy. But this day he strode in full of vigor, his color high, his gait exuding vitality. He clasped my hand in his and bowed deeply.

  "My lady Elizabeth," he said. At least that's what I thought he said, for although he had lived in England for over a year, he had mastered none of our language. Mary had attempted to teach him a few polite phrases, but he generally rendered them incomprehensible.

  I replied in Latin, wishing him Godspeed in his journey. He thanked me, and then he said, "Her Majesty, the queen, has promised me that she will treat you with the honor and respect due you. I trust that your life will become more enjoyable."

  Philip still grasped my hand and kept a slight pressure on it, so that I could not easily pull away. Little Alice was observing this scene with eyes as round as saucers, and instinct told me that although she did not understand the Latin words, every gesture and every change of tone of voice would be reported to someone, who would then report all of it to the queen. I snatched away my hand.

  "And I will do all that I can to please my sister and to make your absence from her less intolerable," I said, employing the engaging smile that seemed to work so well with Philip.

  "Then, farewell, dear madam," he said, and bowing once more, he left me.

  Again at the window I watched as fifty fine English horses
were led aboard the barge. Philip busied himself on deck, directing the final preparations. Hours later, as the barge cast off from the wharf, Philip waved his hat in the direction of the palace.

  FOR WEEKS after Philip's departure, the queen behaved as though a death had occurred. Her entire court seemed to be in mourning. Nothing in my life changed.

  I did everything I could to find my way into the queen's good graces. The week before my twenty-second birthday, I began a three-day fast in order to earn a pardon for my sins. The three days of swallowing only water were meant to impress Lady Susan Clarencieux and Lady Jane Dormer, whose scorn for me equaled the queen's.

  Mary now pretended to be well disposed toward me, but I did not trust her, believing that her dislike of me had even deepened. Still, she did me one kindness—she restored to me three ladies-in-waiting who had been taken away when I was first sent to the Tower. Lady Marian, Lady Cynthia, and Lady Letitia wept joyously as I kissed each one. I thought them brave to return to my service, for any shadow of suspicion that was cast upon me would surely fall upon them as well. I heartily wished that the queen's kindness would have also restored to me Kat Ashley, from whom I had had no word since our parting many months earlier.

  As autumn progressed the crops rotted in the fields, the harvest was the worst in many seasons, and still the rains fell. Floods carried off villagers as well as farm animals. Stores of grain and other provisions were spoiled. People began to go hungry.

  Worse, Philip showed no sign of returning soon. Instead, he wrote from Flanders demanding that Mary make him king of England. She must have known how her privy council and her subjects would react if she gave in to Philip's demands: They would be furious. As much as she may have wished to please her husband, as deeply as she must have yearned for his return, Queen Mary refused.

  Poor Mary! As much as I hated her, I can say that now and mean it sincerely. There were so many plots, so many conspirators who wished for her death, that she could trust no one, not even those closest to her. And nearly everyone had heard the latest rumors: King Philip was immensely enjoying life in the Netherlands and was often seen in the company of a certain Madame d'Aler. Philip seemed in no hurry to return to England and his adoring but stubborn wife.

  MY LIFE SEEMED to hang suspended. I was no longer a prisoner, but I could not leave the palace without the queen's permission. The queen did not invite me to sup privately with her, although I was welcome to dine in the Great Hall of Greenwich Palace. When I did so scarcely anyone spoke to me. No one called upon me. Had it not been for my three ladies and a few empty-headed maids and serving girls, I would have been entirely alone.

  I knew the reason: Everyone was afraid to be seen in my presence.

  Only Sir William Cecil had the courage to call upon me. Sir William, no longer a privy councillor, now served in Parliament, where his reputation for honesty remained untarnished. One afternoon, as we walked in the palace gardens, he murmured, "Be careful, my lady Elizabeth."

  "I am always careful, Sir William."

  "And never more so than now."

  I followed his advice. If I could avoid implication in the plots that swarmed like hornets around us at every hour of the day, I might yet survive to be queen. With his unspoken encouragement, I dared to hope once more.

  CHAPTER 16

  Hatfield

  One afternoon Mary's favorite lady-in-waiting, Jane Dormer, appeared at my apartments. She brought me a letter from Queen Mary and waited impatiently while I read it. It was the word I had longed for, and had finally dared ask for, permission to return to Hatfield.

  "So, my lady Elizabeth," Jane said scornfully, "you have gotten what you want, if not what you deserve."

  I thanked her, ignoring her ill humor, and began at once to prepare to leave.

  Two days later, as Lady Marian and Lady Letitia were overseeing the packing of my gowns and furs, a messenger arrived, summoning me to the queen's presence chamber. Any such summons always made me imagine the worst.

  "Do you suppose she has changed her mind after all?" I asked Lady Marian anxiously.

  "I think not," Marian reassured me. "Queen Mary intends to depart soon for London to open Parliament. I doubt that she wants you to accompany her."

  Nevertheless, my knees shook as I knelt before the queen.

  I was startled anew by my sister's appearance; she was pinched and thin, and her eyesight seemed to have grown worse. "Dear sister Elizabeth," she said, peering at me intently, "take with you not only our good wishes but these tokens of our affection."

  Before the disapproving eyes of Susan Clarencieux and Jane Dormer, the queen placed a ruby ring upon my finger and presented me with a set of golden apostle spoons. What a strange woman you are, I thought, even as I thanked her heartily for the gifts. I never knew when she sent for me if I was to be punished or rewarded, thrown into prison or lavished with gifts.

  Mary called old Father Francis to say a blessing over both of us, and when he'd finished, my sister rose and embraced me, formally and without warmth. I was free to go.

  But I was still not free of anxiety.

  All along the road from Greenwich to Hatfield, bells pealed and hundreds of supporters turned out to cheer for me. Traveling in my company was my former tutor, Roger Ascham. As the joyous welcome grew more boisterous, Ascham pulled up his horse beside mine and said, "If the queen hears of this, she will not be pleased."

  The cheers gladdened my heart but also caused me some misgivings. I acknowledged Ascham's warning and called to several of my gentlemen. "Go among the people," I instructed them, "and try to restrain their celebration."

  But the crowds would not be quieted. Their enthusiasm was music to my ears all the way to Hatfield. It was at that moment that the fragile flicker of hope I had been nurturing for months now burst into flame: I will triumph, and I will rule.

  NEARLY TWO YEARS had passed since I'd first left Hatfield for London. During my first days back in the palace, I walked happily from chamber to chamber, assuring myself that everything was well ordered, the kitchens provisioned, the outbuildings in good repair, the animals cared for.

  Best of all, Kat Ashley was allowed to return. She arrived dusty and disheveled from her journey, and I rushed straight into her arms. For the next few days I could not bear to have her leave my sight. Also back in my service were Thomas Parry and his sister Blanche. I hired an Italian tutor, Battista Castiglione, to improve my fluency in that language. Roger Ascham gratified my need for intellectual discourse, as we read together. Once again Lady Marian and Lady Letitia and I rode out upon the heath. I loved to give my favorite gelding full rein to jump brooks and hedgerows. Letitia always kept up, but Marian was left far behind and grumbling. Surrounded as I was now by my old friends, it was almost as though the events of the past two years had not occurred.

  Nevertheless, I remained mindful of Sir William Cecil's warning. For every friend in my household, there was a spy for the queen.

  I made up my mind to give these spies nothing to report. I heard Mass daily and made my confession weekly, as I had when I was living under the queen's nose. I had no intention of becoming a martyr, and so I continued to live outwardly as a Catholic. This deception was not difficult for me, because God knew what was truly in my heart.

  I WAS NOT invited to court at Christmas, nor did I wish to be. I'd had quite enough of the queen's prying eyes. Instead, I amused myself at Hatfield. Musicians entertained us on every one of the twelve nights of Yuletide, and a troupe of traveling players performed a masque to welcome the new year.

  In the early months of 1556, I was told, Queen Mary remained in seclusion with a few of her women. The only occasions for leaving her private chambers were to attend Mass nine times a day in the chapel royal. She was now forty years old.

  Famine spread, as did the unrest. Mary believed this was a sign from God that she must do even more to rid the kingdom of heresy, and so the burnings continued. I prayed that someone would stop her, but no one dared. Hun
dreds of suspected heretics crowded the prisons, many of them condemned to die at the stake. Unlike a hanging or a beheading, which always drew noisy crowds, the long and agonizing burning deaths attracted few witnesses. Instead of turning people back to Catholicism, as Mary intended, the suffering of these martyrs seemed to deepen the faith of those who shared their Protestant beliefs. Word went out that any who sympathized with the sufferings of the condemned were to be arrested and burned as well.

  "When I am queen, I swear before God, nothing like this will happen," I promised Kat. Although such thoughts were often in my mind, it was the first time I had uttered these words aloud: when I am queen.

  WHENEVER THERE WAS talk of another plot against Mary, I became apprehensive. I heard that my name was always mentioned prominently, even though I had no part in these things. I was determined to stay as far from the plots and intrigue as possible. If I would live to be queen, I could not afford to take that risk! The fate of Thomas Wyatt had taught me that.

  But no matter how much I wished to do so, I could not control Mary's enemies. I'd been back at Hatfield scarcely six months when I again came under suspicion. Yet another member of the Dudley family—Sir Henry, Robin's brother—had gone to France to raise an invasion force against Queen Mary. Once more Edward Courtenay was implicated in the plot. Does that fool never learn? I marveled.

  This latest plot seemed to involve many of my acquaintances and even a number of my servants. I wasn't surprised when I learned that the privy council had ordered a search of Somerset House, my London mansion. As uneasy as I felt, I was certain nothing would be found to incriminate me.