Elizabeth

by Kathryn Lasky

  21 December, 1544

  The world has turned white and I am sick, bright red, Kat tells me, with fever. With fever or fury. Barnaby got his bone and all the other children go sledging. I am so angry. Why does this always happen? Kat says I am a terrible patient. She says I should not complain, as I am hardly ever sick, not nearly so often as Edward. Why can’t he be sick and I well? I know that is a treasonous thought, but I really don’t mean it that way. It is just that he is first of all used to being sick a great deal and handles it so well. He is an excellent patient. Second, more importantly, he does not even really care about sledging. He came in after ten minutes.

  22 December, 1544

  I am being a very good patient because I have no intention of missing Christmas. We leave in two days for Hampton Court. My fever is gone. Kat says I look much improved.

  26 December, 1544

  Hampton Court

  Saint Stephen’s Day. This is the best time to arrive for the Twelve Days of Christmas. The few days before everyone is so busy they have no time to pay attention to the children. But by this day the festivities are under way and people are more at their ease, no little thanks to the continuous consumption of ale. The ale barrels which are placed everywhere throughout the Palace are refilled steadily. Between the time of our arrival at the Great Gatehouse until we entered our apartments, we saw at least half a dozen troops of strolling musicians.

  Once in our apartments, Kat began her usual assault, muttering the entire time such merry phrases (I jest here) as “Christmas is a deadly time at Hampton Court… Too many people, too many Court leeches … that group Lady Dinsmore brings in here, oh, what a lot they are!” She continued muttering about all the Lords and Ladies who come to Court to impress, and how they take advantage of the King by bringing with them as many servants as possible. She is right. They bring their hounds, their horse grooms, cartloads of baggage, cages for pet ferrets, monkeys, and their hawks! It is the King who must maintain them, feed the Lords, their servitors, and even their animals.

  “Riffraff!” Kat spat as she directed a servitor to go over once more a mantlepiece with a dusting cloth and told another that the pots in the closet, where we relieve ourselves, must all be taken out and scalded. She then turned to me, her face tinged pink. “To die in the stool chamber!” She squeezed her eyes shut tight with the horrific and embarrassing vision that must have seared her imagination.

  She practically forbids me to breathe until every surface has been wiped clean, every oil lamp sniffed for poison powders. Kat says that poisoning through charcoal braziers and lamps is one of the most subtle ways in which a poisoner can work his evil, for the heat and rising fumes easily disperse the deadly powders. One need simply to sprinkle the poison onto the coals or stir it into the oil. “You never wake up,” Kat says in a low, hard voice.

  Will Somers appeared with my fiddle and a costume so I can join the musicians. My costume is that of Robin Hood – green breeches and a peaked cap! “Don’t touch that fiddle!” Kat squawked and raced over with a cloth.

  We are due this evening to meet with Father and Queen Catherine. I want to have time to practise a song I was learning. It was one my father had written, called “Pastime with Good Company.” It has a simple melody and is the perfect song for the Twelve Days of Christmas.

  27 December, 1544

  Before Saint Stephen’s Feast, we saw Father for the first time since we arrived. The Queen looked shimmering in a cloth of gold dress with a silver kirtle. She usually favours dark rich colours, but never anything with gilt and shine. Princess Mary has changed her hair colour yet again. Too light now. And I could tell that she carried stones in her pocket in honour of Saint Stephen, who was stoned to death for blasphemy. I wonder if she will take them out of her pocket for the dancing at the revels tonight? Edward wore his new velvet suit and I my Robin Hood costume. Father was delighted. He was in very fine humour. “Come, children, come, come to this decrepit old mountain of suet and lard,” he shouted, and opened his arms. One could tell he was jesting and thought himself quite handsome. So I whispered in his ear as he embraced me, “You look quite handsome, Father!” and that seemed to please him well. He stood back and pinched my cheek and winked. That wink alone was like a small gem that I tucked away. I shall remember it always. It shall glitter on the dimmest day.

  He was as fat as ever quite frankly but resplendent, encrusted in gold from his doublet to his hose. Around his neck a chain of Oriental pearls hung with five great blazing rubies. Covering his nearly bald head was a flat velvet bonnet studded with emeralds, pearls, more rubies, and the snowy white plume of an egret. On his fingers he wore his customary five jewelled rings – including the star sapphire one.

  We children next kneeled and kissed his hand. Kat always urges me to lick the star sapphire, as it is said to offer protection against poisoning. But I don’t. I find the notion somewhat repulsive. I will not use my father and his jewels as charms against fate. If I am destined to be poisoned, I shall be, and no star sapphire shall prevent it.

  Father was, of course, surrounded by members of his Privy Council and some foreign envoys. I was the last of the children to come to him. As I rose, Father smiled, then turned to a fair-haired man I had not seen before. “What thinks the Danish King of princesses in hose and breeches?” Oh, dear, I thought, they must be thinking of a marriage for me. The Danish King, I knew, was married, so I think it was his younger brother of whom they spoke. His name was most likely Christian or Karl. It seems that all Danes are thus named if they be male.

  Father noticed that I had brought the fiddle and asked me to play. I played the song he had composed. By the end of the first verse, he joined in my singing with his thin, reedy voice. His singing voice is quite different from his speaking voice. I think his immense bulk makes it hard for him to push the air out through his own bodily pipes in rounded and melodious tones. Nonetheless he liked my singing and called me forth for another cheek pinch!

  We then went into the Great Hall, where the guests had already gathered. An immense log was burning in the open fireplace. The tapestries showing the Bible story of Abraham seemed to glow in the reflected light of the fire. Thick garlands of greenery were hung in swags around the ceiling, and servitors from the kitchen stood ready in their most elegant serving costumes of Tudor green and white fringed in gold. Father, the Queen, and Edward sat on the dais. Will Somers was there, too, except that he frequently jumped up to tell a tale or a joke. I got to sit with Robin and Anne of Cleves! Robin and I had a joyous reunion, for it had been over a month since we last had seen each other. There was much good to eat. I stopped counting after nine courses that included everything from peacocks and pigeons to larks and stewed sparrows. For pastry the cooks outdid themselves with a marzipan replica of the Clock Court Yard complete with the astronomical clock and gilt sugar numerals!

  All through the feasting, minstrels strolled, and I joined one small group with my fiddle and played, too. When the eating was finished, the tables were removed for the dancing and the masking. I noticed the Danish envoy regarding me. Your Christian or Karl shall not find a wife in me!

  28 December, 1544

  Father has paid for his dancing! His legs have swollen most horribly. The doctor comes to open the sores and let them drain. He lathers them in a salve of fat, ground pearl, and scorched lead, which is thought to draw out the infection.

  There are no lessons during the Twelve Days. We only play.

  31 December, 1544

  Last day of the year and Father, as is his custom, shall receive the men and women who are suffering scrofula, the unsightly swellings and ulcers of the neck. It is believed that an anointed monarch has healing powers, so Father presses the palm of his hand on the swellings. I do not know whether it works or not.

  Tonight more revels and a grand masque for which we practise with Lurcretia the Tumbler and Jane the Bald. It is the
most ambitious of all maskings and was performed only once before, in the time of Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon.

  1 January, 1545

  The Queen did love my gift, and it looked so lovely, for I had embroidered a cover for it with silver thread against blue cloth. She began to read it aloud upon opening it. Our masking went well although I was worried it would not. For this masque Roger Ponsby actually built England! Our emerald isle, our bright realm set in a papier-mâché sea. It was the England of Arthurian legend. Edward was King Arthur. Barnaby was Lancelot. I played Guinevere. She is the only Queen I shall ever be, with a paste crown and a sceptre made from a pig’s leg that was painted gold!

  3 January, 1545

  I am so exhausted from all the revelry and the pageants. I have thought for the first time in days about Master Grindal. He would not like any of these doings. I almost miss our orderly schoolroom. Not almost – really do. I think I shall stop writing now and just translate a few more lines of the Gospel of Saint Luke. Pray that I have not forgotten Greek entirely. Only a few more days of this intense merrymaking. It shall conclude on Twelfth Night, the rowdiest of all the celebrations.

  7 January, 1545

  It is over! I stayed abed until noon. No one went to Matins this morning. The Palace was as silent as a tomb. Last night, as Kat said, the revels in the Great Hall were no place a child should be. But we were, and I saw everything, I mean everything, and a great deal Kat is not aware of.

  Everyone at the banquet wore a disguise. There were not just three Wise Men, but a half dozen, and some who dressed as camels. Kat came as the Star of Bethlehem, her dress made of cloth of silver, and she wore an immense silver star on her head. Princess Mary and I came as Nereids. Water nymphs. Father came as Neptune.

  Lady Dinsmore’s costume was positively scandalous. She came as a barely clad dancing girl from a sultan’s harem. Lady Dinsmore’s friend the Duchess of Lexford, dressed as Cleopatra, was almost as naked. I was shocked. Time and time again Robin tried while dancing to position himself so he would wind up with one of them as a partner. He finally did. I do think he made a fool of himself. I never told him that I later saw Lady Dinsmore disappear in the shadows with Robin’s own father. I next saw Lady Dinsmore dancing with Henry Brandon’s father. Then she disappeared with him! But that is not all. I had forgotten my fiddle, so I wandered off to find it. As I was about to enter a Privy Chamber in the Great Watching Chamber, who should exit but the Duchess of Lexford – and with, not the Duke, but Robin’s father! And she was quite dishevelled! There is something going on here that I almost understand, but not quite. I do have a pretty good idea, however, and I shall not mention it to Kat.

  8 January, 1545

  I long to get back to my studies. I am bored. I shall never teach Memo how to bowl, and what kind of goal is that, even for one who will never marry and never rule? I must cultivate my mind, but I have grown fat and lazy over these last days.

  9 January, 1545

  I overheard Father say something bawdy about Lady Dinsmore, and the Queen gave him a very sharp look. Master Grindal and Master Cheke arrive tomorrow so we can resume our lessons. I do not know whether we shall stay here through Candlemas Day or not. Candlemas Day is the official end to the Lord of Misrule’s reign.

  11 January, 1545

  If men are not angels, then angels are not men – a not-so-silly syllogism. Actually not a syllogism but a contrapositive statement. A logical argument in which the second part of the statement is equivalent to the first part. Aaah! It feels so good to be studying again. The sweet, orderly world of the schoolroom with the creamy sheets of vellum and coarser papers, the ink pot, the pale winter Sun falling in shafts across my desk, the very scent of the Bible open in front of me, the curious geometry of the shapes of the Greek letters. I do love it!

  14 January, 1545

  We are to leave tomorrow for Enfield Palace. We have not been to this Palace for over a year. It is very small. Only seventeen rooms in all. I am so happy and relieved. I shall now confess what my worry was: that we should remain here well into February. We were at Hampton Court right after Catherine Howard was executed. She was beheaded on 13 February, in 1542, and on Saint Valentine’s Day we came here for a Valentine banquet. I hated it. We children were all making paper hearts and forsooth it seemed as if mine bled the blood of Catherine as I cut it. It was on the night of Saint Valentine’s Day that I first heard her ghost shrieking down the Long Gallery. I just hate to be at Hampton Court for Saint Valentine’s Day.

  18 January, 1545

  Enfield Palace

  We are here, and my settling in was a great deal quicker because Kat is not here for now. She has married John Ashley. It was a small, quiet ceremony just before we left Hampton Court. She and Mr Ashley are now off on their wedding trip for some days. Although I miss her, moving was so much simpler. Just my maid of the chamber, Mary Ward, and myself. We had everything unpacked and arranged within an hour! Kat gave extensive instructions to Mary Ward on how to check for poison.

  26 January, 1545

  Life is very quiet here. I enjoy my evenings in my apartments. Mary Ward is a companionable sort as she bustles about. I always thought she was so quiet but with Kat away she chats constantly. I find out all sorts of things. She told me that indeed the Lord Chancellor Thomas Wriothesley, who looks like a preserved lizard, tries to pinch her, and not on the face like Father does to me. That was why she was removed from the King and Queen’s household to the children’s. The Queen is mightily displeased with Wriothesley. I have always found him a most repulsive sort, even before I knew this. He has slitted eyes that bulge slightly in the manner of so many reptiles and amphibians and narrow lips that draw back into a tight grimace. One never knows whether he is about to laugh or hiss. His skin is too tight.

  30 January, 1545

  It is not amazing to me that Mary Ward does not read, but at first it surprised me that she had no interest in learning how. I offered to teach her letters. I am a very good teacher. I taught Edward how to read before he was three. But then Mary said to me quite simply, “Why should I read? What use would I have for it? I am a servitor and I have risen as far as one can. I assist you, Lady Princess.” And then I realized how utterly logical this was. Mary Ward should not learn how to read for the same reasons I should not waste time learning statecraft. I shall never rule. I must learn to accept this. I think I am not so good at accepting things. But ’tis better to spend my energy in other, more fruitful endeavours than learning the craft of ruling. I am not quite sure what these endeavours might be, for in truth being a female third in line of succession is not an occupation. And of course a mood could at any moment descend on my father. He could exile me and make a shambles of the Act of Succession, which establishes the order of who should succeed him as ruler. It could all be over in the flickering of an eyelid. His eyelid for me.

  31 January, 1545

  I read some of Aesop’s Fables aloud to Mary Ward tonight. She enjoyed them very much. I asked her again if she wanted to learn to read. She shook her head and smiled softly and then said the most astounding thing. She looked up at me and said, “I don’t want to read as sure as you are that you will not marry.” I was speechless. How did she know that? I asked. She said it was that night at Hampton Court. “But,” I replied, “I whispered that in Robin’s ear.” “You did indeed, Ma’am, but then as you two little ones walked back to your apartments, I heard you muttering, when you turned a corner, ‘I shall never marry.’ I led you back to your chambers where Mistress Champernowne took you in hand. You clamped your mouth shut tight and spoke no more.”

  “She is no longer Mistress Champernowne. She is Mrs Ashley now.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, and a good soul,” Mary Ward replied.

  12 February, 1545

  She is a good soul, but when Mrs Ashley returned from her wedding trip the next day I could
see that she was sorely troubled by the familiarity that had sprung up between Mary Ward and me. She gave me hard looks every time I used Mary’s Christian name or directed anything but a command towards her. It could be a simple thing, as when on Candlemas Day I spotted a bright cardinal on a snowy branch and turned to Mary Ward and said, “What say the country folk, Mary, about a cardinal lighting on a branch outside one’s window on Candlemas Day?” And Mary, forgetful of her position, instead of simply saying, “I don’t know, Ma’am,” replied, “Oh, Ma’am, in the country the windows of our poor cottages, if there be any, are not big enough to look out, and on Candlemas Day they would surely be closed, for we have no glass.” We both laughed. Kat turned absolutely white.

  My behaviour in that instant was to her as shocking and scandalous as the Lady Dinsmore’s. I had not exposed my bosom, but I had exposed a familiarity that was unseemly in a person of my rank. I knew it immediately. So did Mary Ward. We never spoke unguardedly again. I cannot indulge in the luxury of such familiarity. I missed it for the first few days. That is why I have not written much between my last entry and today. But now my feelings for Mary Ward fade each day a little more. I shall be fine.