Elizabeth

by Kathryn Lasky

  22 September, 1544

  Sometimes I simply cannot fathom Mary. She invited me and Lady Jane Grey to play cards with her and Lucretia the Tumbler and Jane the Bald in her apartments this afternoon. She plays not just ruthlessly but with such snide remarks, especially to me. Lady Jane Grey had begun to explain about our Michaelmas costumes. I must give her credit – she praises me mightily, saying how clever I am. Saying Princess Elizabeth did this and Princess Elizabeth planned that.

  Now you must understand that Mary has never called me Princess to my face, and I can tell that all this is grating on her a bit. (I have no qualms about addressing her as Princess.) Suddenly she turns to me and says in that low voice of hers, which seems quite startling coming out of her heart-shaped face, “Let me see, Sister, so Robin is going as Orion and Prince Edward as an eagle and Lady Jane as Pegasus. Why do you not go as a hare?” There is dead silence at the card table.

  Everyone knows that hares are the symbols of witches. This is a direct assault on my mother, whom she still does hate with a passion, for it was for my mother that Father left her mother, Catherine of Aragon. I appear to concentrate very hard on my cards, but I look up slowly and directly into her bitter grey eyes and say in an even voice, “We are going as constellations, Princess Mary. To the best of my knowledge there is no starry configuration that resembles a hare.”

  “But what,” persisted Mary, “is the animal that Orion slays and holds in his hand?” I cannot believe the words I am hearing, but at this very moment Jane the Bald recovers her wits, thank God, and she begins juggling with the apples from a bowl while reciting a bawdy limerick. Jane must have been desperate to recite such a limerick in front of Lady Jane Grey and me. Oh, well, it very much saved the day. Why does Mary dislike me so? Though, I must admit, there are times she is pleasant to me.

  Later that evening

  Did I say “save the day”? Or so I thought. Lady Jane Grey came to my apartments an hour ago to offer me her support. Indeed, she was livid. I was overwhelmed by her emotion and suddenly I found myself rather drawn to Jane Grey. She told me that Princess Mary said something extremely horrible. I sensed immediately it must be about my mother’s beheading. So to set her at ease I said, “If it is about my mother’s beheading, do not worry.” I wanted to know what Mary had been saying.

  “Well,” Jane Grey said in a low trembly voice, “Mary said that at the moment Anne Boleyn’s head fell from her neck, the tapers around her own mother’s tomb at Peterborough House spontaneously lit themselves.”

  I howled at that one, simply howled with laughter. And when Lady Jane saw how hard I laughed, she seemed relieved.

  Still later

  Quite a parade in here tonight. My next visitor who just left minutes ago was Jane the Bald. Here, in summary, is what she spilled out in her breathless way: “Lucretia said I must come to you, dear child. You know she (meaning Princess Mary) is simply not right in the head.”

  What did I tell you, Diary? Jane leans forwards and the light from my tapers reflects off her shiny bald head. “You see, dear, when you were born, Princess Mary was first stripped of her title of Princess. Your father decided there should only be one Princess and it was to be you. She would be simply Lady Mary. Your father wanted his marriage to her mother to be considered invalid. And then, besides all that, your mother, Anne Boleyn, insisted that Mary go live with you at Hatfield as a sort of menial servant in your nursery. The King and Queen were not there often, but when they were, Anne was very nasty to Mary. She even encouraged her Ladies-in-Waiting to slap her and abuse her with words.”

  “But did not my father interfere?”

  “I do not think he saw it, dear. She was careful not to do it around him.” At this point Jane took my hand in hers and squeezed it with great sympathy. “But your father was simply blind to Anne Boleyn’s faults in the beginning. He was transfixed by her.”

  “Do you believe my mother was a witch?” Dread swirled in my stomach.

  “No, dear. I believe that it was the same as with Princess Mary – something was very wrong in your mother’s head.”

  Jane the Bald left twenty minutes ago. I shall not sleep well tonight. If my mother was not a witch, she was insane. And so is Princess Mary. Does that mean I, too, shall be insane? This is not a very good heritage, nor much of a choice: to be crazy or a witch.

  23 September, 1544

  I am so irritated with Kat. She insists that we bathe today. Bathing wrecks a perfectly good day. It takes so long – all morning the servitors bring up steaming vats of water to pour into the tubs. It takes forever to fill them. I cannot understand why we have to do this. We just had baths barely three weeks ago! And, of course, before we bathe and do the hair washing, we must comb through our hair for nits. I say, why not just drown the stupid bugs? Why spend all this time before we wash our hair chasing them down? I mean, it is not fun like hunting. Hardly a blood sport, picking a nit. No real skill involved as with the crossbow.

  24 September, 1544

  Woke up with a terrible headache and stomach cramps. It is probably from having to take a bath. Kat wants to give me a glyster. A glyster is an awful treatment where water is pumped into one’s bowels. It is supposed to relieve them of pain. It causes pain! And one spends the entire day or night sitting on the pot. If I were Queen, I would outlaw glysters.

  25 September, 1544

  Still sick. Dr Butts came to visit me, but he is so old himself and short of wind I thought he might keel over before he got to my bedside. I do hope I recover in time for Michaelmas. Lady Jane and Robin came to visit me today. It is forbidden that Edward visit me, as he is not allowed near anyone who is sick. I should be thankful for this rule because, if Edward dies, Mary becomes Queen, and I might as well die if that is the case.

  26 September, 1544

  I have three days to get well. I am determined to. They gave me pennyroyal mixed with watered wine for my sore throat, but it did not sit well in my stomach. In fact, it danced. Queen Catherine has sent an herbal mixture sewn into a bag that is supposed to be steeped in tea and put on my forehead for my headaches. She has also sent many fresh flowers. There is nothing nicer than fresh flowers in the sick chamber. Catherine herself always has her apartments brimming daily with fresh flowers. She keeps lovely apartments, and her greyhounds are so well trained she permits them in her drawing rooms. I wish I had dogs to fill up my apartments here. My chamber is too large. I feel like a pea rattling around in it.

  27 September, 1544

  Had cheese and bread and watered ale for dinner last night and porridge for breakfast and kept it all down. I shall be well for Michaelmas! I just know it.

  28 September, 1544

  I am well but Kat will let me do nothing. I am so bored. She insists that I stay in bed. She says it is very easy to relapse. I say I shall collapse if I do not practise getting up. She says that perhaps this afternoon she will allow me to go with the children to Ponsby’s workshop to try on our costumes. I forgot to mention that during my illness, word came that Father’s assault on Boulogne has been successful. The city surrendered and we hear that on 18 September Father rode triumphantly through the gates of Boulogne. But with all this glory there is one very dark cloud. Kat now tells me that they feared mightily that during my sickness it was not some simple complaint but indeed plague! So that is why not even Robin and Lady Jane came to visit but once. For indeed plague now rages in all the channel ports and in London. And it was not just a plague but the sweating sickness, and is the most dreadful of all diseases imaginable. It strikes suddenly and it is said that people’s blood boils with the high fever. Great swellings the size of oranges grow in their armpits, and one’s head aches as if cleft with an axe! Death is usually within a few short hours.

  Right now it is said that nearly one out of every four houses in every port city has the sweating sickness. The Queen has been beset with
worry, for how might the King return to his realm if every entry to England is barricaded by the festering plague? She and the Privy Council have been meeting for long hours to map out a route that will be the safest for Father to return to England.

  30 September, 1544

  There was never such a Michaelmas celebration, as everyone was nearly drunk with joy over the fall of Boulogne. There were thirty-three courses. Naturally there was goose, which is traditional. Over five hundred were roasted, along with two dozen swans, one of whose wings I wore. There was also rabbit, lamb, quail, and lamprey eel (one of Father’s favourites even though he was not here). For the sweets what I like best, snow pudding. But most spectacular was a sugar replica of Great Harry, Father’s flagship, with dozens of tiny sailors moulded from almond paste.

  There was a performance, a mummery, in which an immense construction in the form of Mount Olympus was wheeled to the centre of the Great Hall. It had real trees growing from it and was spilling with ivy and all sorts of flowers. On top was a figure of Zeus and his Queen, Hera, and Court ladies and gentlemen dressed as the gods. There were several wild and vulgar centaurs – men naked to the waist and wearing pointed ears and breeches made from animal skins with tails attached. They galloped round the hall and tried to kiss the ladies. The ladies pretended not to like it and screamed, but I think they did like it. I could tell. It made me wonder what a kiss might be like. Like sweets? Like treacle on porridge? Sweet but not too sweet. I do wonder.

  Soon it was time for us to appear. Ponsby had made a rolling platform draped in midnight blue velvet that rose behind us. He had with much skill suspended swing seats on which we were perched and could swing against the drapery of the “sky”. A hush fell upon everyone as we were rolled in. Robin wore a glittering jerkin over a white tunic. The skin of the rabbit he carried had been drenched in silver dust. Lady Jane Grey, as Pegasus the winged horse, was completely clad in a suit of sparkling silver. On her head she wore a silky mane of silver tassels. Ponsby had fashioned Edward’s eagle wings from turkey feathers. Then he had made for Edward a helmet with a gilt beak. And as Cygnus I wore the third pair of wings. I had perfected the wafting movements. Not a bit of my red hair showed under the headdress, and around my eyes was painted a design of silver and gold.

  I shall never forget this Michaelmas.

  1 October, 1544

  Father returned today. He is much renewed by the campaign in France. He is much thinner. His colour good. His step lively. He was most anxious to see the royal children and we were called for immediately. We all had so much to tell him that we had to take turns speaking. Well, Princess Mary did not say so much. She, I could tell, was hoping that Father might have some news for her about a husband.

  The daughters of Kings are indeed like pawns on a chessboard and stand ready to be offered in marriage to secure new allies against an enemy. Father has been searching most diligently for a husband for Mary for many years. For a time there was talk of Mary and the Duke of Orleans. Then there was talk of a relative of Anne of Cleves as a possible husband.

  When I was not even a year old, Father proposed a marriage between me and the third son of the King of France. The actual betrothal would not have taken place until I was seven. Then we would live apart until I was fourteen. That, however, fell through some years ago. But as I have said, I shall never marry. And certainly never if I were Queen. Why, if one were Queen, would one ever want to marry? If one is ruler, is it not better to be both King and Queen? That is exactly what a woman can do if she remains without a mate.

  3 October, 1544

  Edward and I gave a demonstration of our monkeys’ talents on the tennis courts. Father roared with laughter. He proposed that we play what he called Varied Triples. He and I and Memo against Catherine, Edward, and Hotspur. It was so much fun. I think Memo is an exceptionally bright little monkey. I am forever grateful to Edward for giving him to me. In less than two weeks it will be Edward’s birthday, and I am at a loss as to what to give him. In addition, I must also think of a fitting Christmas gift for the Queen, for truly she was the one who brought me back from exile, I am sure, with her words to Father. The autumn months fly by so quickly. I wonder where we shall celebrate Christmas this year.

  5 October, 1544

  The Palace is really beginning to stink. Hampton Court is the worst for this. Everyone goes about with their noses buried in pomander balls to hide the stench. Part of the problem is that the population of the Court has nearly doubled since Father’s return. More food is being served; therefore, there is more rubbish and more spills on the rushes that cover the floors. There is a stink of sour wine everywhere because some of these courtiers bring large retinues of servants who swill away great quantities, and in their drunkenness spill some or sometimes vomit. Even though the stools on which we sit in our privies are covered with velvet and satin, the air is terrible. Kat orders fresh flowers strewn everywhere, and I wear a nosegay pinned to my kirtle.

  Most likely when we leave we shall go either to Westminster or to Whitehall Palace.

  6 October, 1544

  It is Whitehall for Christmas. We leave in two days. And that is none to soon. When Kat and I returned to our apartments this evening, we found a huge fat rat sitting on Kat’s embroidery hoop!

  The chamberlains of the wardrobes have already left with many of the clothing trunks and personal items. Furniture of course need not be moved. Our apartments are fitted with our favourite things. Master Holbein knew that we children adored his pencil-and-charcoal sketches of animals. So we all have lovely drawings of animals in our chambers in all the palaces.

  7 October, 1544

  I have settled upon a present for Edward. And none too soon, for there is precious little time to prepare it. I must translate as quickly as possible a few of Aesop’s Fables from the Greek into the English. Master Cox is about to start Edward on the fables. I think I, too, started the translations when I was about seven.

  10 October, 1544

  Whitehall Palace

  We are installed in Whitehall now. Kat took forever settling us in. Her fear of poison! She mutters that the Palace is so old it would be hard to tell the poison from the dust. In spite of Whitehall’s being rather shabby, I do prefer it to Greenwich or Hampton Court. The bedchambers are smaller here and the windows bigger. In fact, the windows in my chamber have window seats, which I stack with cushions and pillows. It makes a cosy place to read, and I can see the river and all the barges progressing up and down it. In my bed at night, I never let the servitors draw the curtains around it. I leave them wide open so I can see out the windows. At night, from my bed, the river can be lovely. The torches that light the barges reflect on the water, and on damp, cool mornings the mist hovers over the river like a cloud, and the riverboats and barges seem to float in the air.

  Father is in a very foul mood so we are careful not to go anywhere near him. He is furious because Charles V, King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor of the German states, has made a separate peace with France. Charles was our ally, and he never even consulted with Father’s envoys. Charles had once been thought of a possible match for Princess Mary. No more!

  11 October, 1544

  We were required in the King’s audience chambers yesterday. I was generally invisible, as Father was most focused on Edward and Mary. He did not look well. When he entered the room, we children were all shocked at the change in him. He required a stave under each arm to walk. His bulk has increased noticeably since his return. Two attendants were needed to help him into his chair. I noticed that his legs were bandaged under his hose, and by the end of the audience a stain had appeared on his calf, which means the leg sores are festering again. They come and they go, these leg sores. Mostly come of late. Dr Butts says they are caused by poor and sluggish movement of the blood. The Queen appeared pale and tense, and even Will Somers, Father’s fool, looked strained. But he did say something
towards the end to make Father grin. Will depends on language alone for fool’s work. There are no somersaults or tricks. He wears no bells or curled toe shoes. He is all wit.

  12 October, 1544

  Edward’s birthday. There was a grand feast. Father seemed much merrier. Jane the Bald and Lucretia the Tumbler did a very funny play based on Aesop’s Fables in which they wore various animal heads and cavorted around the Great Hall. Master Cox must have told everyone that Edward is studying Aesop’s Fables, for the royal baker wheeled out a table of custards and puddings all sculpted into the shapes of animals from the tales. But for me, the best part of the evening was when Father called me to his place and said, “Dear child, I saw your gift to the Prince. It is an eloquent and witty translation.” Then he gave my cheek a squeeze. I looked down and blushed a bit. Then I saw his leg. It was leaking again. Poor Father. Aaah, but I can almost still feel the pinch he gave my cheek. It is lovely. I wish it had turned red and left a mark.

  14 October, 1544

  Whitehall Palace is a strange place. They say that it was one of the most splendid palaces ever built. There were blooming gardens and magnificent tapestries. The woodwork was the finest. But now the tapestries hang dusty and moth-eaten. The gilt on all the mouldings is tarnished and chipped. The gardens and the tiltyard, where they once had tournaments, are choked with weeds. Lady Jane Grey, however, had the best idea. She feels that a corner of the rose garden might be saved. It has a very sunny exposure, and we might be able to coax it to bloom some Saint Martin’s roses. That is what late-blooming roses are called. Saint Martin’s Day is 11 November.