by Mary Hoffman
“Theophilus, Lord Howard of Walden.”
“According to Henry, he’s inferior too.”
“Prince Otto of Hessia-Kassel.”
“He speaks only German.”
“The Dauphin of France. Now, this one would surely make your father happy?”
“Hmm… he does fancy me queen of France, true… And Henry says if I marry the dauphin, he will marry the king of France’s daughter so we can be together. But now, the king of France is dead and marriage plans have turned into funeral plans.”
A sigh from Ann. She is becoming exasperated with my excuses.
“Victor Amadeus, son of the Duke of Savoy.”
“Henry has had word from Sir Walter Raleigh in the Tower that the duke has no port, and a prince without a port cannot help us in time of war, nor trade with us in time of peace. So, what is the point in me marrying him?”
“King Philip of Spain.”
“He’s a Catholic, so my mother will be happy. But, he is also recently widowed and old enough to be my father. And anyway, Henry says he is deeply stupid and on NO account must I marry a Catholic!”
“Prince Christian of Anhaly Bernberg.”
“Also too old. He is advisor to my youngest suitor.”
Then Ann makes a trumpeting noise and announces, “And your youngest suitor is – Frederick, Elector Palatine of the Rhine!”
“I speak no German.”
She nudges me. “Look again at his portrait. With a face as handsome as his, there is no need to speak German. And they say he speaks French. He is only four days older than you and the English ambassador reports from his visit that the form of his body is perfect and he is skilful in exercise.”
“The ambassador has made him sound like a horse.”
“Horses don’t speak French!”
I take the tiny portrait from Ann. An interesting face. Soft brown eyes. Dark eyebrows. A direct look. Perhaps this is the one.
A miniature is painted of me and sent to Frederick. I wear my hair loose around my face rather than piled high and stiff. I want him to see me as I am. I face him with a look of eagerness but not too eager – not too demure either, in a carnation silk dress trimmed in black velvet with a little lace and a single necklace.
I receive a letter from Frederick. He writes in French. He addresses me: Ma digne princesse… my worthy princess. He begs me to accept him. Henry approves. After lengthy discussions, so does my father. I pen a reply in French, helped by Ann.
Monsieur.
I am extremely honoured and humbled by the assurance of your friendship. I cherish it with much affection and as it is the command of the king whose law is inviolable but whose wish I willingly obey. I am most obliged. I wait with expectancy to see you soon in these quarters.
Your very affectionate cousing.
Elizabeth
Richmond Palace, 12th September 1612
My quill hovers. “My signature should be more elaborate.”
“Tie it with ribbon, stamp it with your seal and be done.”
“What colour ribbon?”
“Brown – to match his dark eyes and brows.”
So it happens. Four weeks later, Frederick lands at Gravesend from Germany. On a cold windswept evening in October, I hear the eighty-gun salute from the Tower announce his arrival. I stand with white knuckles, clutching Ann in the torchlit Great Chamber of Whitehall. The smell of juniper branches burning in the hearth fills the hall. My youngest brother Charles has been made to meet Frederick at the steps to the river.
I hear my father speak but I do not raise even the corner of my eye to look at Frederick as he enters. The first I see of him is the back of his dark hair as he stoops in front of me to take the hem of my garment to kiss. I sink into a deep curtsy and gather his hand to prevent it. He kisses my hand instead.
At this low level we look straight into each other’s eyes. By the time he raises me, I am in love. And so, I believe, is he.
From then on Henry laughs and teases that no invitation to attend jousts, play tennis, swim the Thames, or hunt will take this man from my side.
A banquet is planned to honour Frederick. On the day, Henry’s chair is empty. One of Henry’s servants delivers a message that he is ill with fever. Ann looks stricken. The next day we visit him at his rooms at St James Palace. He seems cheerful. Welcomes Frederick like a brother.
Three days later, my father, on instructions from the doctor, issues orders that none may visit him.
None? Not even me – his beloved sister?
I summon Thomas and Ann. “I need coachmen who will not be recognised. I need hose, a man’s doublet, a cloak, boots, a rapier and a hat to cover my hair. We will pretend to be doctor’s assistants.”
But no amount of disguise allows us entry to my brother’s rooms. I am without news.
6TH NOVEMBER, 1612
Henry is dead. Typhoid fever.
How can it be? My dearest brother dead? He has been ill one week. It’s impossible. I cannot bear to live. My throat is dry from sobbing. They say he called my name. Where is my sister? Why has she forsaken me?
If only he had known. I tried to visit you, my brother. I truly did!
He dies seven years, almost to the day, since the plot to kill him was uncovered. My father and mother take to their separate beds, away from Whitehall. Ann does too.
7TH DECEMBER, 1612
The longest procession I have ever seen takes Henry’s body to rest in Westminster Abbey. My brother Charles leads the procession. His limp is worse than ever. The full weight of the royal crown will fall on him now. But Charles is frail and sickly. What if he does not survive my father? What if I have to wear the crown? My own black velvet train drags and weighs me down as if made of metal.
And Frederick is under scrutiny. I’ve heard the rumours. He might be a suitable husband for the daughter of the king of England but will he be suitable as the consort of the queen of England? Let the gossips chatter. Having lost my brother I’m not prepared to part with Frederick as well.
My father decrees the wedding must and will go ahead.
How can I mourn and celebrate at the same time? How can a wedding be held in such circumstances? But no royal wedding has taken place in England for nearly seventy years and the country is abuzz.
27TH DECEMBER, 1612
Twenty days later Frederick and I are betrothed. We say our vows in French. My mother makes no appearance. Frederick wears purple velvet, laced with gold. I wear black satin with silver lace and three small white plumes in my hair. Henry’s insignia. The next day the gallants at court take up the fashion in their own mourning attire.
My chambers fill with swathes of fabric, tailors, seamstresses, shoemakers and embroiderers. My favourite fabric is embroidered with birds. A shame they will be slashed to make deep pointed stomachers, tight fitting sleeves and padded shoulder pieces. I would have Mr Inigo Jones swathe it about me in Grecian style so the birds aren’t harmed.
Ann and I play with the fabrics. We lift and drape and run our hands over them.
Rich ash-coloured silk grosgrain brocaded with gold and silver.
Sea-green tissued silk and tawny russet gold.
Rustling taffetas of every tincture.
Petticoats of green satin brocaded with tissued flowers.
Cobweb lawn undergarments and whalebone bodies stiffened with buckram, covered in carnation satin and crimson damask.
Buttons, ribbons, lace, tassels, from Paris and Milan.
The textures please our hands but not our hearts. The lack of Henry’s presence haunts my chambers. We long for his scornful laugh to tease us away from our girlish pursuits.
My portrait is painted in sombre mood. I wear Italian silk encrusted with black pearls, a black band of mourning on my left arm. My head is set with pearls and Henry’s white feathers. A heavy medallion of diamonds appears black in the painting.
ST VALENTINE’S DAY, 1613
Finally the marriage day arrives. Sixteen ladies, to ma
tch my sixteen years, carry my train up the steps of Whitehall wearing silver brocade. Ann is one of them. My hair hangs loose and long down my back, lightly plaited with pearls and diamonds. My crown is encrusted with pinnacles of diamonds and pearls, my gown is silver embroidered with silver. We are stars called down from the celestial sky.
The trumpets sound our arrival. I am strangely calm. My mother appears in public for the first time since Henry’s death. My father, all in black, sits on the dais with Charles and Frederick, my beloved. Only Henry’s place is empty.
Frederick is dressed in a sumptuous silver suit. The diamond I’ve given him as a wedding gift is pinned at his heart. He whispers, “My soul’s star,” as I approach. I love him more than ever.
The wedding banquet is celebrated with a lyric especially written for us by the poet, John Donne. It tells of birds. Frederick and I are two phoenixes who will kindle our love with one single flame, I am the phoenix bride who will frustrate the sun when I rise up and set the sky ablaze.
APRIL, 1613
I stand beside Frederick again and slip my hand into his. We watch the English coast vanish. Ann is at my other side. Under my feet are the familiar boards of the Prince Royal. The ship built by Henry takes her maiden voyage to Europe with me aboard instead of him. On its side are his initials and his three white plumes. We sail with the royal standard of the Stuarts flying high and the figurehead of St George leading us across the ocean.
I fight back tears. Breathe in the smell of the sea. Henry’s death has shrivelled my soul. But now with Frederick at my side and my hand in his, my heart breaks free. The phoenix will rise up again.
Why I Chose Elizabeth Stuart
I grew up in a country without a king or queen, so the life of Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of a king, who was to become a queen herself, seemed like something out of a fairy tale.
I was fascinated by Elizabeth’s lack of pretence – that she refused to dress formally for her portrait for Frederick, and left her hair wild and untamed. For her wedding she adopted the same fresh approach and despite the custom of the time and her mother’s rigid adherence to formal dress, she wore her hair long and dishevelled down her back.
I like her playfulness and boldness – she was prepared to dress as a boy to be allowed access into her brother’s rooms when he was ill. And I like her determination. It was unusual for a young princess to marry someone she truly loved.
Elizabeth almost followed the true fairytale princess format story in that, after her marriage, she went to live in a beautiful castle in Heidelberg, where Frederick built her a monkey house, an aviary, a menagerie and an Italian Renaissance garden. I visited Heidelberg Castle some years ago and wandered around those same gardens without knowing that one day I would write the story of a young girl who lived there nearly four hundred years earlier.
DIANNE HOFMEYR
Elizabeth Stuart Facts
Elizabeth Stuart was born in 1596 at Falkland Palace in Fife, Scotland. Her parents were King James VI of Scotland and Anne of Denmark. After the death of Queen Elizabeth I in 1603, Elizabeth Stuart’s father became King James I of England.
On the 5th of November, 1605, an attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament and capture Elizabeth at Coombe Abbey in Warwickshire was foiled. This date is remembered in Great Britain today as Bonfire Night.
Frederick V, Elector Palatine of the Rhine, arrived in England in October 1612 to seek Elizabeth Stuart’s hand in marriage. But three weeks later, Elizabeth’s beloved brother and heir to the throne, Henry Prince of Wales, died at the age of 18 from typhoid fever. The wedding was delayed and Elizabeth and Frederick finally married on Valentine’s Day, 1613, at the Palace of Whitehall in London They set sail for Europe shortly afterwards, and settled at Heidelberg Castle in Germany.
In 1619, Frederick and Elizabeth were crowned King and Queen of Bohemia. They lost their titles the following year to the Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand II, after the Battle of White Mountain, and were forced to flee to The Hague. The couple became known as the Winter King and Queen, as their reign lasted only a year.
Elizabeth died in 1662. She was survived by five of her thirteen children. Queen Elizabeth II is Elizabeth Stuart’s great, great, great, great, great, great granddaughter.
A Night at
the Theatre
A story about Aphra Behn
(1640–89)
BY MARIE-LOUISE JENSEN
1677
THE HOUSE IS IN CHAOS this morning. My governess has taken to her bed with a fever on the very same morning my stepmother has gone into labour. I’m sitting playing a few lacklustre scales at the pianoforte in the drawing room, trying not to listen to the cries from the room above or the hurried footsteps of the servants on the stairs.
I’m just wishing I could be anywhere but here when the door opens and my father walks in. He looks harassed and out of place in the house at an hour when he would normally be at work.
“Jennifer, dear,” he says distractedly. “Your godmother is here.”
A lady follows him into the room – a tall lady in an elegant dress and with a strong, determined face which softens and breaks into a warm smile when she sees me.
“Aunt Aphra!” I cry delightedly, rushing towards my famous godmother, Mrs Aphra Behn. Her name is known throughout London, for she writes plays. It is also whispered that she was once a spy for King Charles. I adore my godmother, but my stepmother disapproves of her, so I rarely see her any more.
“Jenny,” she greets me, stepping forward and kissing me on both cheeks. “My goodness, how you do resemble your dear mama!”
I blush with pleasure. Mama died three years ago. I loved her dearly and am proud to look like her.
“We thought, my dear,” my father explains, “that you might like to go and stay with your godmother for a day or so. Just until—” He winces as a particularly loud cry comes down through the ceiling.
I practically dance for joy.
“Run up and help the maid pack your bag, Jennifer,” my father instructs me. “Be sure to pack some warm clothes and… er… whatever you need for the night.”
After that, it is all bustle and frantic preparations until I’m standing in the street, being handed in to a hackney carriage. My father presses some money into my hand at the last minute and bids me be a good girl and enjoy myself.
The coach is rattling down the street before I have a chance to turn to my godmother. Her eyes are sparkling with mischief. “I’ve finally got you to myself, my dear Jenny!” she says gleefully. “Your stepmother is so horrified by my involvement in the theatre that I almost despaired of ever seeing you again. She is terrified her friends will discover such a shocking connection.”
My stepmother is very religious.
“She calls the theatre a haunt of vice,” I confide. “And a den of wickedness.”
Aunt Aphra throws her head back and laughs out loud, making me giggle too. “I can just hear her saying it,” she says. “By the way, Jenny, speaking of the theatre… I just happen to have a new play being performed for the very first time today. I didn’t think it was right to mention it to your papa, for he has so much on his mind just now. But should you object very much to accompanying me this afternoon to see it performed?”
I gasp. A fizz of excitement rushes through me. “Truly?” I demand, awed by the prospect.
“Yes, truly, child,” says Aunt Aphra, leaning forward and patting me on the cheek. “Is that a big enough treat?”
“Oh – the very best!” I say. I really mean it. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to the theatre. When my mother was alive, I was too young. Now I’m thirteen and have been old enough for ages.
We stop at my aunt’s lodging to drop off my bag and then we set out for the theatre on foot. On the way, I see playbills posted here and there, announcing THE ROVER: A New Play by Mrs Behn performing today at the Theatre Royal.
“What’s the play about?” I ask eagerly.
“It’s about a young girl like
you,” Aunt Aphra tells me. “But she doesn’t love the old man she is ordered to marry. So she determines to go out into the city in a mask and see something of life before she is wed.”
I stop in the middle of the pavement and clasp my hands together in excitement. My aunt laughs, takes me by the elbow and draws me on beside her.
“Come, Jenny, you will block up the street!”
“Does she have adventures?” I ask. “Does she… fall in love?”
“Of course. With a rover, a handsome traveller, as the title promises. But I’ll tell you no more. You’ll have to wait and see what befalls the fair Helena.”
The Theatre Royal is a big, imposing building in Drury Lane. As we enter, we are immediately jostled by a crowd of people. It is all very grand and fine. Aunt Aphra leads me through a door marked Private and along a corridor. We are ‘backstage’ now, she tells me, and here everything is much plainer.
“I’ll show you around,” she says, opening another door, and we enter the theatre itself. “And this, my dear Jenny, is where it all happens!” I look around me in amazement. The theatre is so much larger than anything I’d imagined. The stage itself is huge and slopes down towards where the audience sit.
“The area in front of the stage where the benches are set out is called the pit,” my godmother explains. At the back of the auditorium are the tiers of galleries. On either side are the boxes. “That one is the royal box.” She points at the largest and grandest of them.
I gaze around. “And why are so many people here already? Surely the play is not about to start already?”
“No, the play begins at four thirty. But many people come before that to see their friends and chat.”
“I see and… oh! Who is that lady in the mask? Is she one of the actresses?” I point to a woman in a low-cut dress and a face mask that reveals only her eyes, who is walking among the men in the pit.
