by Jean Plaidy
As we came into Highgate we were met by a procession of Bishops; they dismounted and knelt in the road to kiss my hand and offer me allegiance. Bishop Bonner was among them—but when he would have taken my hand and kissed it, I turned away and stared over his head. The watchers noticed and a cheer went up, for he was one of the most hated men in the country, who had been responsible for sending many Protestants to the stake. I wanted the people to know that I spurned the friendship of such a man.
I knew that I looked splendid as I rode through the City. I was wearing a riding dress of rich purple velvet which was very becoming and I, being especially upright, looked well on a horse. Robert Dudley rode beside me and every now and then our eyes would meet and I was sure mine reflected the exultation in his.
London Wall had been hung with tapestry. The guns of the Tower boomed out and the real ceremonies began. Schoolchildren stopped our progress to recite verses praising me; choirs of children sang in similar vein. I stopped and spoke to them thanking them for their welcome. I wanted to impress on these people that although I was their Queen I was also their friend, and I did not hold myself so high that any should feel they could not approach me. I knew by the cheers and the murmurs of approval that I was taking the right course. It was one I intended to cling to as long as I was Queen.
It was a dramatic moment when I entered the Tower. We paused and there was a deep silence all about us. Many must be thinking, as I was, of that dismal Palm Sunday when I had been brought to this place through the Traitor's Gate. Then I came in great dejection; now I came in triumph.
I lifted my hand and my voice rang out over that silence. “Some,” I said, “have fallen from being princes of this land to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being prisoner in this place to be prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God's justice; this advancement is a work of His mercy; as they were to yield patience for the one, so must I bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful, for the other.”
After I had spoken there was a silence of a few seconds and then the cheers rang out.
Deeply moved I went into the Tower.
I asked to be taken to the Bell Tower and to that room which I had once occupied when I was a prisoner in this place.
Robert was beside me as I stood in that room and the past came back to me, and I felt again that despair, when I had listened with apprehension to the sound of a key in the lock and wondered if I was to be led out to the axe.
I was so overcome that I sank to my knees and once more thanked God for His deliverance.
“I was as Daniel in the lions' den,” I cried. “And the Lord delivered me.” Robert knelt with me, and when he helped me to my feet he took my hand and kissed it.
“Come,” I said, “I would walk on the lead as I used to.”
He came with me. In places we had to walk in single file from the Bell to the door into the Beauchamp Tower.
“There were you, Lord Robert,” I cried, “and I used to think of you when I walked along this narrow path and wonder what you were doing in your prison.”
“I thought of you,” he answered. “God knows, I thought of little else.”
I believed him… because I wanted to.
We made our way back and stood for a few moments in my old prison in the Bell Tower and we looked steadily at each other.
“Everything that has happened has led to this,” said Robert.
His eyes were wild with dreams and I thought: If he were a free man I might be tempted to marry him.
But he was not a free man and if he had been at the time of his brother Guildford's marriage, he would not be here now. He was older than Guildford. He would have been the one to marry Jane Grey. But fortune had smiled on him. He had to be thankful for his marriage, and in my more thoughtful moments, so was I.
During the seven days I resided at the Tower, there were many meetings of the Council. I had already shown my disapproval of the religious persecutions in my sister's reign by refusing my hand to Bonner. I longed to reassure my people. What I wanted was to be proclaimed Head of the Church as my father had been and thus diminish the power of the Church of Rome. But I saw at once that I must tread warily in this matter. There could not be a complete turnabout—particularly as when I had been in fear of my life I had outwardly followed the rules of the Catholic Church.
But this brought home to me the need for a quick coronation, because only when I had been appointed and acclaimed Queen could I feel I had a firm grip on the crown.
The day must be right. There must be no evil omens.
I had naturally talked over the matter with Kat and she said we should consult Dr Dee.
Dr John Dee was a mathematician and astrologer whose powers of seeing into the future were highly respected. Kat had often talked of him and she had been in correspondence with him when we had been at Woodstock. He was a Protestant and I believed one of my supporters, which meant, Kat pointed out, that I was going to have a long and prosperous reign for Dr Dee, who could see into the future, would not have been so eager to support me if this were not the case.
I told Kat she was too gullible but I did feel that luck played a great part in survival. At least it had in mine, and I wanted to be sure that I did not choose an unlucky day for the Coronation.
Kat, as a firm believer in fate, was an enthusiastic admirer of Dr Dee, and I did not need much persuasion to share her enthusiasm. It is all very well for those who have nothing to lose to laugh at soothsayers, but for a young woman in my position no possibility must be rejected. Therefore I agreed to see Dr Dee.
He was in his early thirties, a startling-looking man with rather wild eyes which seemed to be looking at something which others could not see, and this inspired belief in him. He had passed through dangerous times, having come within hours of losing his life. He had been suspected of uttering words which could be said to be against Queen Mary, and accused of conspiring to kill her either through magic or poison.
All the man had said was that her health was failing, and any who saw her must have known that. He had been in the Tower about the same time as I had and had shared a cell with a certain Barthlet Green who was one of those who had been burned at the stake for his religious opinions. The ever zealous Bonner therefore suspected Dr Dee of heresy, but the doctor was too clever for his questioners, and he came out of his ordeal a free man.
The fact that he had been imprisoned on suspicion of attempting to murder Mary meant that he was certain to be one of my supporters. I was all eagerness to consult him and, when the Earl of Pembroke presented him to me and Lord Robert recommended him, I was won over completely. He should have a place in my household, I said. It would be an excellent idea to have an astrologer on hand to advise on important occasions.
My Master of Horse would naturally be in charge of all ceremonies and that meant the Coronation; so Robert consulted with Dr Dee who, after spending some time in meditation, came up with the date of Sunday the fifteenth of January as the day best suited to this auspicious occasion.
“January the fifteenth let it be,” I said; and preparations were set in motion.
ALL WAS GOING WELL, but I had a reminder that I must continue to act with caution. To do what I wanted to do, to make drastic changes, could bring me to trouble. The Catholic priesthood was strong and they had wielded great power over Mary, with Philip of Spain behind them assuring them of success in foisting their religion on the people. They had been about to set up the Inquisition in the country and had indeed returned England in many ways to Rome.
I was going to change that. No foreign power would rule my country; but caution was needed. They were too strong, these priests. They were sure of themselves and I had to show them who was their mistress—but calmly, gradually.
This was brought home to me at my sister's funeral when the sermon was preached by Dr White, Bishop of Winchester. It was fortunate that he spoke in Latin, which so few people could understand. But I understood perfectly, and I did not like
what I heard.
He broke into eulogies of the late Queen. He reminded the people that she had had the pious humility to renounce the Crown's supremacy over the Church and bring it back to the domination of Rome where it belonged. St Paul, he said, had forbidden women to speak in church, and it was not fitting for the Church to have a dumb head.
I was growing more and more incensed every moment. How dared he talk thus, particularly when I was urging the Council to proclaim me Head of the Church! How dared he speak disparagingly of my sex when I intended to show the people that they would prosper under a woman as never before!
He then enlarged upon Mary's sufferings; how patiently she had borne her afflictions; how blessed was England to have been given even briefly the devotion of such a good religious woman.
I was watching the congregation. Were they too thinking of great men who had burned at the stake—as I was? Cranmer, Ridley and the rest. Surely they must.
My fury reached its height when he began to speak of me.
Queen Mary's sister was now on the throne. She was a lady of great worth also and they must needs obey her. Then he committed the final insult by referring to me as a “live dog” and Mary “a dead lion”; and implying that they must needs do with what they had, as I was alive and Mary dead.
This was too much. If the people understood what he was saying, harm could be done to me. Fortunately there were few as well versed in the Latin tongue as I, and although the congregation knew he was praising Mary they did not realize that he was denigrating me.
I must curb my anger, but such a man must not be free to speak again as he did. He had flung down the gauntlet. Very well.
As he left the pulpit, I rose and cried to my guards: “Arrest that man.”
They hastened to do my bidding and the Bishop of Winchester and I faced each other. I thought he looked pleased and I guessed he was one of those men who court martyrdom. They were the dangerous ones—religious fanatics, sure of their place in Heaven and certain that those who did not agree entirely with them were destined for Hell—they were the men to be wary of.
“Your Majesty,” he said as the guards seized him, “I must warn you that if you attempt to turn from Rome you will be excommunicated.”
I retorted: “Take him to the Tower.”
And they did so.
When I returned to the privacy of my apartments, I sent for Cecil. He had heard of the arrest of Dr White and knew that it was this matter which I wanted to discuss with him.
I told him everything the man had said. “By great good fortune in Latin,” I told him. “But he cannot be allowed to preach against me in such a manner.”
Cecil agreed but said: “We must go cautiously with regard to Winchester. Let him cool in prison. Your father would have had his head. I am sure you will see the virtue in greater caution.”
I saw at once. Indeed Cecil was voicing my opinion and, as usual, we were in agreement.
But it was a lesson learned. I must act cautiously and especially in this matter of religion.
I TOOK A tentative step forward on the morning of Christmas Day. I was in the chapel where the service was being conducted in the way it had been during Mary's reign and the Bishop of Carlisle was at the altar about to officiate at High Mass when I rose and, with my ladies, left the chapel.
It was a carefully calculated action. What I had done would soon be known throughout the capital and the country no doubt, and I would wait to see what the people thought of it. If they were displeased, I could easily make excuses; I had felt unwell—or something such. Illness had stood me in good stead in the past, so why not now? If there was approval I should know how to act.
I was left in no doubt of the people's feelings. They were joyful. I then decided to take another step. Services in my chapel and all over the country should be conducted in English.
I was concerned with my coronation and I was determined to make it a day which all my subjects would remember with joy.
On the twelfth of January I went from the Palace of Westminster to the Tower, for an English monarch must set out from that fortress for the Coronation, and the previous day's journey is almost as ceremonious as the day of coronation itself.
I sailed in my state barge and all along the river were craft of every description with flowing banners of welcome and sweet music. The Lord Mayor's barge was fitted with artillery, which was fired off at intervals. There was wild cheering everywhere and nothing could have gratified me more. I landed at the Tower and, as always, I must think of that other landing at the Traitor's Gate.
On the afternoon of the next day I left the Tower in a chariot covered with crimson velvet, and when I entered the city the cheers were deafening. Everywhere people shouted: “God save Your Grace.”
I called back to them: “God save you all. I thank you, dear people, with all my heart.”
How they loved me! I don't think any other monarch had shown such regard for them. They came to me with their flowers and I took them all and thanked them with emotion, and I laid them tenderly in my chariot that they might see how I prized them.
One of the things which pleased me most during that ride was the tableau in Gracechurch Street which represented the royal line from which I had sprung. There was my grandmother, Elizabeth of York, stepping out of a gigantic white rose to take the hand of my grandfather, Henry VII, who was emerging from a red one; but my greatest pleasure was in the effigy of my mother, who was set up beside my father. It was the first time since her execution that any homage—or common decency—had been paid to her. From these two sprang another branch, and there was an effigy of myself seated on a golden throne surrounded by entwined red and white roses.
I clapped my hands, which might seem undignified in a queen, but I was not so much anxious to uphold royal dignity as to win the love of my people. I had the power, I discovered, and I developed this later, to be able to speak to them and be with them as one of themselves, which I think was the chief reason I kept their good will.
All along the route there were pageants and children to sing my praises. I remember still the glory of Cheapside on that day with the tapestries hanging down from the windows and my dear subjects assuring me of their loyalty. I hope I made them aware of my love for them and my determination to serve them well.
On the morning of my coronation, I left Whitehall whither I had come from the Tower and came to Westminster. I looked very regal in my erminetrimmed crimson velvet. I was a little anxious because the bishops had refused to crown me. They knew that I was determined to make myself Head of the Church, like my father before me, which, as I saw it, was the only way of restoring tolerance and reason in religious matters to my realm. Because the See of Canterbury was vacant, it was the duty of Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York, to perform the ceremony, but as Heath was aware of the changes I proposed to make, he refused to crown me. Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, pleaded that he was too old and ill for such an exacting occasion, and the task therefore fell on Owen Oglethorpe, Bishop of Carlisle.
Oglethorpe would have liked to refuse, I believed. First he pleaded that he did not possess the necessary robes for such a function, but someone found robes and that excuse was not good enough; and oddly enough it was Bonner who lent his. It was very disturbing to have this conflict within the clergy, but I knew it was what I had to expect. If it meant displeasing the Church to please the people, then I knew what I had to do.
And so I came to the altar and there was anointed—an operation which I did not greatly enjoy as the oil was greasy and smelt vilely—but its significance was great and therefore to be endured.
But how pleased I was to be dressed in my golden mantle while the Bishop put the crown on my head and when I sat in the chair of state and my subjects came and knelt to me to swear allegiance, I was very happy.
Then to the ceremonial banquet in Westminster Hall where I sat in state while Sir Edward Dymoke rode into the hall and made the traditional challenge under the eyes of the eight hundre
d guests at the long tables and the assembled serving men. I was sure no one present would ever forget that occasion; as for myself it was the one I had dreamed of all through the dangerous years. Now here I sat in my velvet and ermine robes with my crown on my head while two of the greatest noblemen in the land, Lord William Howard and the Earl of Sussex, stood beside me and served me with food and wine. I ate sparingly. I was not a great eater and I had rarely felt less like food. I was in a state of great exultation; I was filled with emotion and determination in equal part. I was making my vows as earnestly as any nun ever did, but instead of dedicating my life to the service of the Church, I was giving mine to my country.
It was not until the early hours of the morning that the feasting was over and I could retire to my bed.
Kat was waiting for me.
“You are exhausted, my love,” she said. “Kat will put you to bed.”
“Kat,” I reminded her, “you will have to remember that I am your Queen.”
“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Tonight you are my tired little one.”
I was very glad to be divested of my robes, too tired to talk, even to Kat.
I lay in my bed and thought about this significant day, and my hopes were all for the future.
THERE WERE LONG TALKS with Cecil and constantly he impressed on me the need to marry.
He said: “The King of France has proclaimed Mary Stuart Queen of England and the Dauphin, King.”
“Let him proclaim,” I retorted. “Words will hurt no one. I have been anointed and crowned Queen. Do you think the people of England would accept Mary Stuart—half Scot, half French, the hated enemies of the country!”
“The people would have to accept what was forced on them. Let us make your position secure, and the best way you can achieve that is by marriage and the bearing of an heir.”
