Elizabeth

by Kathryn Lasky

  After Mass this morning, we follow Father to where he will wash the feet of beggars as our Lord Christ did at the Last Supper. It is the custom of Kings to wash as many beggars as the King is old. So my father must wash fifty-three pairs of feet. He cannot lower himself to his knees this year, so they bring a chair and he lifts the feet onto his lap. This is my favourite part of Holy Week. I love to see how the beggars watch their King with such wonder and absolutely no fear and I love to look at the beggars’ feet. They could almost not be feet they are so different from mine. Many are blackened and calloused, some cracked. I see gnarled toenails and some with no toenails. Some run with pus and others bleed. But for each beggar my father takes great care. He pours on the water to first rinse the caked dirt and then from another bowl he takes soapy water mixed with lavender and gently scrubs the feet. A final rinse with the oil-scented water and then a fresh cloth to dry them.

  10 April, 1545

  Good Friday. We fast all day and then go to Chapel, where we read the Passion of our Lord Jesus and all about his suffering on the cross. Every time Pontius Pilate’s name is read in the service, Princess Mary makes this painful little grimace. She has changed her hair again. It is a dusty red colour now. Most unbecoming.

  12 April, 1545,

  Easter Sunday

  I often wonder how Edward feels when we are in the Chapel here at Windsor. For this is where his mother, Jane Seymour, is buried. Right in the floor of Saint George’s Chapel. I think I am glad my mother is buried far away. I mean, can Edward think about God in this Chapel? We come to celebrate the Resurrection, but I cannot help but think of the most loathsome aspects of death and of the funerary sciences. Robin has told me much, for when his grandmother died he learned all about it. When a person of high rank dies, it is the practice to do everything to preserve the body as long as possible. First, they make a brew of spices and soak the body for several days. Next, they wrap the dead person tightly in bandages of special cloth that have been tarred and covered with molten lead. Finally, they put the body into a box and that box into another, the coffin. I think of Edward’s mother all wrapped up and spiced and, well, it is very hard to pay attention to the Archbishop.

  19 April, 1545

  I simply cannot understand why we have to be here so long. It has something to do with the French. For Father perhaps it is not so bad, for he has several hunting lodges around here, and although he no longer hunts he goes there to escape the Court at times. We are never invited! We have to stay here in this stinking old bleak castle. I hate it. And I hate going to Chapel. All I think of is poor Queen Jane all spiced up and wrapped in lead. I think my humours are out of balance. But I am afraid to tell anybody because they always come and bleed you!

  20 April, 1545

  Hooray! We may leave. We now go to Greenwich for Saint George’s Day. This is my father’s royal birthday, for he was crowned on that day, April 23, thirty-six years ago.

  And then soon it shall be May Day. Oh, dear God, I hope the French don’t invade before May Day and ruin it.

  25 April, 1545

  Greenwich Palace

  I do notice one thing. Since Kat has married John Ashley, she does not go into such fits over poisoners. Our settling in is accomplished without all the frenzy and hubbub, as the Scots say. I do love that expression, “hubbub”. One of the better things we got from the Scots. Although Edward says he thinks golf, also from the Scots, sounds most amusing. I am doubtful of sports that attract Edward, though. He lacks the temper for a pastime requiring true vigour.

  27 April, 1545

  Lady Dinsmore has had the smallpox! She contracted it shortly after Valentine’s Day. A pocked Venus! She is ruined. Absolutely ruined. What else did Lady Dinsmore have aside from her beauty? I doubt if she is a great lyric poet. It is not a question really of what she will do, for what do any of us females do? It is really a question of what will give her satisfaction. Nothing, I think. There is very little satisfaction to be gotten for a scarred beauty in the Court of my father.

  Lady Jane Grey arrived today, just in time for the May Day celebrations. She has grown so much taller. She is still rather short, however.

  28 April, 1545

  We children are hatching a plan. We want to be able to go into the countryside before daybreak on the first of May, just as the village children do, and into the woodlands to gather leafy branches and make nosegays and crowns of flowers. It would be so much fun. We are composing a letter to Father for permission. Kat says he is so distracted now with the French, he might not have time to read it.

  29 April, 1545

  Word came back through Father’s councillor Sir Anthony Denny. Everyone might go Maying at the dawn except for Prince Edward. Edward threw a fit! I honestly think he was prepared to give up his crown for this. The foggy vapours at dawn are considered too dangerous for his fragile health. I am caught between a terrible conflict of emotions: being terribly sad for Edward but overjoyed at my own good fortune.

  Robin says I am being a goose. He says Edward would never enjoy it as much as the rest of us anyhow. So I should stop worrying and think of my own pleasure. I shall bring Edward something special back from the expedition.

  30 April, 1545

  I am so excited tonight that I shall never be able to sleep. Mary Ward has been given instructions to wake me at three hours after midnight. I have never in my entire life risen so early. She has laid out my clothes. I am to wear a heavier cloak than usual, as it will be cold at that early hour. I must try to go to sleep now. I wonder if Robin and Lady Jane Grey and Barnaby are having trouble sleeping?

  1 May, 1545

  It was pitch black when I rose. Mary Ward had brought me a steaming mug of cider. John Ashley and I met the others at the south gate and then, to our utter surprise, who appears but Jane the Bald, her head painted once more with flowers. She quickly put on a bonnet, however, for a terrible chill hung in the air. We proceeded through the gate. We had not walked two hundred yards from the palace when we encountered our first group of village folk. The darkness began to lighten. And then the first streaks of the Sun’s light spilled low over the horizon tingeing the Earth a soft pink. It was beautiful watching the mists of night disappear and the morning fill with colour. Every blade of grass stood out sharply.

  A village girl fell into line beside me. Her name was Mandy and she was about my age and had been Maying ever since she could remember. I know she took me for just a normal girl; perhaps well-born but certainly not a Princess, which was perfect. She showed me where great rafts of myrtle grew, which she said was the best for making flower crowns.

  By ten the Sun was fully risen and it was very warm. We turned to go back to the village. As we passed one gate, Mandy went through. “Where are you going?” I asked. “Home,” she laughed. “You live here?” It was a mean little cottage. A pig routed in a muddy yard, and some very young kittens tumbled in the one patch of grass.

  I pushed back my cap for it was frightfully hot now and I saw her face freeze. Indeed it was as if she were looking at something terrible. A witch perhaps. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. And then a breeze blew a strand of my red hair across my face, and I knew what it was. She had recognized me. Everyone knows I have red hair like my father. So even if my likeness has not been painted as often as Edward’s, Mandy somehow knew. She curtsied deeply. “You are the Princess Elizabeth, My Lady.” But I knew from the way she had looked in my face that her first thought had been that I was the daughter of the witch Anne Boleyn. The countryfolk in particular hated my mother. I nodded.

  Then I noticed a man come into the yard. He was scooping up the kittens and putting them in the gunnysack. “What does he with those kittens?” I asked. “He takes them to be drowned, My Lady.” She curtsied again. “Drowns them?” I was bewildered. “Why?” “Too many.” The man overheard and came up and tousled
Mandy’s hair affectionately. “You can drown the kitties, but not the kids,” he laughed. “Might I have one, sir, to take to my brother?” Suddenly the same shocked look streaked through his eyes. “Yes … yes… My Lady,” he stammered and reached in the sack and drew out a little marmalade-coloured kitten. “Thank you,” I said.

  Edward was most pleased with the kitten. He names it Aesop. Must stop writing for the May games and tournaments begin soon.

  2 May, 1545

  After the games, we went to the newly constructed “banquet house” all made from leafy boughs, and it was here that we took our meal. When we finished, we heard toots on horns then giddy laughter. Before our eyes a maypole rose and a score of ruddy village girls stormed in and began dancing around the pole. Mandy was one of them. I wanted to call out and wave, but I knew I could not. I wanted so badly to tell somebody, anybody, that I knew one of the May dancers, that I had been Maying with that one there, with the flaxen hair. Will Somers danced in and out of the May girls and carried a long silver ribbon that he twined around their waists until by the end they indeed were all laced together. I wanted to be part of that; to be laced with silver ribbon to these village girls. If I can’t be Queen I think, quite honestly, I would rather be a village maid with a yard tumbling with cats. Is that not a queer thought?

  I had many queer thoughts as I watched the dancers. I think it is indeed the condition of a Princess to always be set apart from such things, to feel separate and alone. I thought of Mary Ward and the few words and thoughts we had shared during the brief time when Kat was away. I thought, too, of Lady Dinsmore, now shuttered in some dark chamber of the palace, running her long fingers over the pits and bumps of her once flawless skin. They say she never comes out in daylight, and in the evening she always wears the heaviest of veils. She allows no lamps or torches burning near her, but only the slenderest of tapers. How can she even read?

  8 May, 1545

  The talk and the tension increases daily concerning the French invasion. We children are to be moved shortly, and Father and the Queen will go to Portsmouth.

  10 May, 1545

  Father has sent more men to the south coast. There are now nearly one hundred thousand armed men there and over one hundred ships of the royal fleet at anchor near The Solent off Portsmouth.

  Meanwhile our astronomical studies continue on the roof of the palace, as these spring nights are clear and we can spy Jupiter rising and Mars burning hot and red. The giant and the warrior command the heavens, and my father here on Earth makes ready for war.

  1 September, 1545

  Dear Diary, at last we are reunited! I cannot believe what a fool I am. We had to leave Greenwich of a sudden. Father decided that, with the threat of the French invasion, he wanted us children tucked away in the country. So we were sent to Hatfield. In the flurry of the packing up, I completely forgot you tucked beneath the loose stone under my bed! I could not fetch you myself and I could hardly send someone to look for you. So I had to wait nearly four long months until we cycled back to Greenwich. I am pleased to say I found you exactly where I left you and seemingly undisturbed.

  It has been now over a year since I began writing on your pages. Within that year, I have been returned to Court from exile, then exiled again, then brought back once more. I am a year older. Some things come easier – Greek, Latin. Some things are just as hard – loneliness and the nearly constant want, or is it need, for my father’s attention – his cheek pinches and kisses.

  I suppose what I did spare you by leaving you at Greenwich was a lot of complaining. You see Hatfield is simply too small for both Princess Mary’s household and mine together. I had to give up my friends. Barnaby, Robin, Lady Jane all sent away. Princess Mary, of course, got to keep Jane the Bald and Lucretia the Tumbler. They certainly earned their keep, as Mary was in a most foul mood all summer. Any wedding plans with Charles V’s, the Holy Roman Emperor’s, nephew Dom Luis are off.

  2 September, 1545

  How self-centred I am! My entry yesterday was filled with complaints and petty grievances about Princess Mary. I daresay I neglected the most important event of the summer: The French and the sinking of the Mary Rose! Next to Great Harry, the Mary Rose is the grandest ship in the English fleet. My father and the Queen went to Portsmouth in July. Shortly after their arrival, the French fleet was spied and the warning beacons were lit. From a promontory Father watched what was expected to be a minor naval engagement as the Mary Rose sailed out to meet the French. She had just fired all her cannon on her starboard side, making her light on that side, when a freak gust of wind caught her sails aback. She rolled over immediately and sank!

  “It was but a moment!” That is what Father keeps saying about the Mary Rose. And then there was the second great tragedy. Just on the heels of the sinking of the Mary Rose came the news that my father’s lifelong and closest companion, Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, had died of heart seizure.

  My father is not well. He is in deepest melancholy. And this is strange – I now love him most. He is enormously fat. He growls constantly. His legs stink, but he has lost his best friend and he is like a lost boy himself. How can I help but love him? He is no longer simply King, or Father, or the husband of six wives. He is friendless. And so I should be if Edward or Robin or now even Barnaby were taken from me.

  6 September, 1545

  Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn twelve. I know not if there shall be a celebration or gifts of any sort, as everyone is most concerned with Father. But this does not disturb me. For I know how lucky I am. You realize, dear Diary, Princesses have been married off at twelve. Not me thank heavens. So I think I shall celebrate tomorrow the fact that I am not betrothed or married. That is gift enough. Odd that Mary would celebrate if she were betrothed. But there lies the difference between us.

  7 September, 1545

  My birthday was not entirely forgotten. The Queen gave me a lovely bound copy of the writings of Aristotle, which I begin to study now with my tutor. Father gave me a gift from the Jewel House. It is a bracelet enamalled with his motto, Dieu et mon droit, or God and my right. It is much too large for my wrists. I do not mean to sound ungrateful but you know me well enough, dear Diary, that I can say to you that I would have much preferred a wink or a pinch from my father to this bracelet, which simply jiggles around on my rather thin wrist.

  16 September, 1545

  A surprising turn of household events. Father apparently is feeling much better and goes to his hunting lodge at Woodstock, and we children are to accompany him! I wonder how many Gentlemen of the Privy Council will go with him. Many do not like Woodstock, as it is old and the river marshes often smell. But I do not mind it.

  25 September, 1545

  Woodstock

  It is always a guessing game here as to which rooms we shall occupy. Many are uninhabitable due to water damage from leaking roofs or crumbling plaster. It was here at Woodstock that I first held a crossbow and shot it. Father is so much better, and he promises that every day shall be devoted to what he calls the two h’s – hunting and hawking. Our tutors are not even here. We must, says the Queen, study on our own for now and learn the most challenging discipline of all – to become our own masters in regard to our studies. Prince Edward and I are required to submit a plan of independent study each morning for our time here at Woodstock.

  Here is mine for the first day:

  Morning Lessons

  8:00–8:30: Review Aristotle’s system of animal classification.

  8:30–9:00: Devise four statements of logic that reflect the truths of the classification system.

  9:00–9:30: Read and translate at least two pages of Cicero.

  9:30–10:00: Read Epistles of Saint Paul.

  10:00: HAWKING WITH FATHER!

  Afternoon Lessons

  3:00–4:00: Read Virgil and try to compose some lines in the Virgil
ian metre – dactylic hexameter.

  4:00–4:30: Read Scripture.

  I think it is a good plan.

  27 September, 1545

  He winked! He winked! Father winked at me! Mary had dyed her hair again and I made some comment. As soon as it was out I was regretting it, for I thought Father would be angry, but no, quite the opposite. He winked at me and then said something about how a dye would never subdue my ruddy hair. And then, you shall never believe it, he reached across the table and pinched my cheek, and I can still feel the pinch. Oh, I am in heaven!

  28 September, 1545

  Ours days here fall into an easy rhythm. I like it well this place despite the dampness and the crumbling plaster. Kat complains endlessly, but I do believe Woodstock is much to the liking of John Ashley. We hawk or hunt each day and the Lizard is not here! Tomorrow is Michaelmas Day. A banquet is planned. Last year’s celebration when we celebrated the fall of Boulogne seems so far away.

  1 October, 1545

  Today we went hunting with Father, and the Queen brought down a deer with a crossbow. Father says there is not a woman in the realm who can match the Queen with a crossbow, and many men who would be pleased to do as well. The crossbow is so hard. It is much heavier than the regular bow and arrow. It is so stiff that it must be bent by using both hands or the special winding screw. I am tall enough, apparently, but I need more weight and more muscle. Sometimes Father helps me shoot. He puts his hand over mine and helps me draw the bow. He stands behind me. When he does this, I hear an odd rasping sound in his chest. I don’t think he is breathing properly. It sounds as if within this huge man there is a tiny violent one rattling at the bones. However, he can still shoot a crossbow, and he brought down four stags and three deer and a wild boar in the past week!