Anger fuelled me through the gardens and to the woods. I ran so fast that sweethearts parted to let me pass.
I forgot Maggie. I forgot the men of the old faith.
The woods were intoxicating to a princess never allowed out alone at night. The air, scented with may blossom and rambling roses, bluebells and foxgloves, spoke of laughter and love. Evil could not linger here.
Moonlight had worked its magic, lighting up the trees to create a fairyland, making darker hollows where young men and women kissed. All the young women I met were dressed in white, glowing like fairies out to make mischief. Around me, birds, confused by the brightness and noise, sang their hearts out.
What would it be like to go a-Maying with Robert Dudley, to laugh and love alone with him away from prying eyes? We could run barefoot, picking may blossom, unwatched except by other lovers, equally under love’s spell and we would gaze, enchanted, into each other’s eyes until dawn.
But Maggie was right. The sight of a black-cloaked woman alone at night made the young men draw their sweethearts close and call out “witch”, and I envied the girls to be cosseted and caressed.
At the edge of the woods, I turned towards the river path. I remembered it well from my riding. It narrowed and darkened under twining trees. Little moonlight penetrated the trees here and I felt my way as if I had no sight. Brambles caught my cloak, tugging me back and I had to pull hard to free myself, spoiling the soft cloth. I could have been playing blind man’s bluff.
But those childish days were done.
I was alone.
Here and there, a glimmer of moonlight on evening dew showed the way, and so too did the lanterns of barges so heavily garlanded that the woods seemed to have taken to the water. One of the boatmen offered me a ride free of charge for the beauty that he knew must be hidden by my hood, but I ignored his calls. It was not a risk I would take.
I walked under the trailing willows, exhausted not by the walk, but by the fear of what was to come. Branches creaked. Twigs snapped. I remembered the men in the woods.
About a mile further on, the sweet scented air of Chelsea gave way to the stench of London. My cloak was already ripped, my shoes near ruin, my breathing uneven. I stopped to catch my breath. A terrible thought came to me. What if Francis had already taken his mother back to France? Why should she wait for me?
I slowed, almost blinded by tears.
In my heart, I was afraid, although I did not want to admit it. Soon, I would have to pass the water steps of Whitehall Palace, and the Seymour and Dudley houses. I would have to take my chance, darting from shadow to shadow past the guarded water steps or worse, brave the streets of London.
Between the devil and the deep sea.
At Westminster, before I came to Whitehall, I decided to risk the streets rather than the river path. Reluctantly, I turned away from the water with its cooling midnight mists; from the silver thread that would take me to Alys.
I plunged into a narrow street. I had never walked in a street before. In palaces, people move with purpose and good manners. They part as I pass. Not here. I pushed and elbowed my way between beggars, drunkards and cutpurses. This was May Eve – a wild night of no curfew – when anything might happen.
The street brought me to the great hunting park behind my brother’s palace, teeming with May merrymakers and disgruntled deer running away to hide.
It is not possible to be lost in London. Its churches and towers and turrets are its landmarks. Now the steeple of St Paul’s Church beckoned. The streets that took me there were the worst: stinking of rotting vegetables and animal hides; of dung from stables and pigs and horses; of the sick who lived there.
Even the dead stank. The churchyard at St Paul’s gave off a cloying stench of rotting corpses.
I did not expect to find hell outside Bedlam.
So this was the life that lay beneath the silver and gold and glitter of my life. Like the mud that oozed below the sparkling river, I had known that it was there. Had I not glimpsed it on my birthday? But now I saw it in all its awfulness, so putrid that no blossom, no may greenery could disguise it.
I shuddered and thanked God that I had been born to the King and Queen of England.
I feared it all. It would take only one bolder than the rest to pull back my hood, to recognize me and call out my name. What then? Would they eat from my hand or stab me in the back?
With my last strength and courage, I made my way north to Bishops Gate. Beyond the gate, two open drains carried filth away from a building that had the look of a monastery – a sloping roof of cloisters on two sides, a bell tower, an arched doorway. It was situated in the foulest place that God could have created and I wondered if he had not delegated its creation to the devil.
A silver coin gave me entry to Bedlam. Another bought me light – yet no lantern, only a candle slender enough to remind me that I should not linger there. The guard drew back the creaking bolt on the door. A vile stench rose to meet me. I hesitated, glancing beyond the city wall to Moor Field, as if taking my last view of the world. Moonlight caught the sails of a windmill and the steeple of a little church. Cloths stretched out to dry and, whatever their colour, the moonlight had touched them all with silver.
The guard waited. He looked past me, as if he had seen women like me many times.
They say that my mother hesitated only once when she arrived at the Tower. She sank to her knees on the steps and wept. Then she went inside.
The door of Bedlam gaped. I filled my lungs with air and stepped into the mouth of the devil himself. I did not expect to come out alive.
Chapter Thirteen
We each have our own idea of hell. Priests preach of roasting on an everlasting fire. Artists paint the devil shouting from gaping mouths. When I was a child, it had been my father’s fiery kitchen.
I saw no fire in Bedlam. There was no such comfort. But I saw the devil. He was everywhere, in swollen lips that blasphemed and cursed, in twisted bodies naked for all to see, in fingers smearing walls with their own filth.
For them, no warm caresses.
I thought that I had been to Bedlam in my mind when I had been ill during the dark days of winter. But I had not smelled it. Its stench was worse than the river mud, for it stank of human filth. Water – or worse – pooled on the flagstones. I recognized the odour at once. It was the rank smell of Francis.
God had left this place. In the cloisters, where monks had once walked in quiet moonlit contemplation, men and women screeched in torment, stretching their chains to the limits to touch me. Nobody slept. How could they in the deafening roar of their companions’ cries, each lost in their own witless world?
“Alys?” I called. Nobody answered.
I ran through the cloisters, repeating her name. Then I turned into a windowless corridor of dank walls patterned with darting insects, as foul-smelling as the cloisters I had left behind. My ruined shoes squelched on flagstones thick with slime.
Just when I thought that I would have to run back to the door and beg to be let out, a glorious smell came to me: rosemary, mint and may blossom. From a doorway came dim candlelight and the sound of clicking, like the parrots when they snapped insects.
I looked in.
A candle stub lit a small cell, casting its shadow over a woman sitting on the flagstones. They were strewn with the herbs and blossom I had smelled. She was knitting with four wooden needles that formed a circle. I remembered Francis’s strange hat.
For a second, I thought, Is she my mother? Were those who had jeered at Shrovetide right? Had they pretended to chop off her head and kept her alive to bring her back to me?
A silly fancy, and so it was.
As she leaned over the needles, I saw that her scalp was scabby, like Francis’s forehead. Her hair was wispy and white, except for a single strand of black which was as glorious as my mother’s. Her clothes I could scarcely see, except that they held together in their filthy greyness.
I stepped towards her. “Alys?�
� I asked. I pushed back my hood and shook out my hair.
She looked up, wept a little. “You were only two years old when I last saw you, when your mother brought you to Greenwich,” she whispered. “She could not stop kissing you that day.” The chain did not allow her to stand upright, but pulled her into a curtsy by chance. “Francis said you would have the courage to come alone.”
At last I looked at the face of my father’s mistress.
In my mind, I had imagined her to be as old as my mother would have been – almost fifty. But Alys was little more than thirty, in spite of the way she looked. Francis was right. She was no great beauty. Her nose was too big, her chin too small; but her skin looked as soft as silk. She must have only been my age when she had served my father. I stared a full minute, not at her face and hair, but into her eyes. They were not the eyes of a madwoman. They were as clear and as bright as my mother’s emeralds.
My voice was sharper than I had intended, for I fought to control my tears. I could not let my heart soften, not just yet. “Madam, how do I know that you mean me no harm? I have risked my reputation – and perhaps my life – by coming to you alone and at night. Will you swear on your Bible that you will speak the truth?”
She stiffened. “Do you see a Bible in this godforsaken place? No, it has long since been stolen. And how do I know that you’ve not come to harm me? Why isn’t Francis with you? How do I know that he hasn’t already been taken to the Tower, accused of treason?” Alys resumed her knitting, cursing as she dropped a stitch. “Oh, yes, you’re certainly your mother’s daughter,” she mumbled. “Outspoken and haughty and sure of her place in the world. As you can see, I know my place, chained to a wall.”
I begged her forgiveness. At last, she relented and put down her knitting. “Your mother used to bring apples and pears and bread for the lost souls of Bedlam. But that was long before I knew her.”
I blushed. I had forgotten to bring the rose petals. I had only salt in my pocket.
“She came here?”
“Yes. Her brother George was Governor of Bedlam, before she was Queen.”
Now I understood my feverish winter dream – my mother laughing and holding the hand of a young man with eyes as dark as hers, handing out food to bony fingers poking through bars.
I knelt before Alys so that she could sit in comfort. “Alys, I’m sorry that you’re here because of me.”
“No, it’s because of my father,” she replied. “It’s the fate of most of the women here. It bothers me less than I expected now that I’ve given up the freedom of my life in France. In fact, I’ve grown used to my little chamber away from the cruel world.”
I took her hand. “Why did my mother sign a marriage annulment?” I asked. “Why did she take away my royal name? Did she fear the flames? Did she hate the thought of men seeing her body when her clothes had melted away?”
Alys sighed. “She did it for her brother. He was to be hung, drawn and quartered and then burned. He would have watched his own entrails burn outside his body and she couldn’t bear the thought. By agreeing to annul her marriage, his sentence was changed to beheading. She loved her brother as…I hope you might love yours.”
“Is that what you really want from me?” I asked. “Your son’s birthright?”
“No, and neither does he.”
The questions tumbled from me like the water that had gushed from the drowned girl’s mouth. “Alys, was my mother guilty of adultery?”
“No. Never. The charges were made up to be rid of her. Catherine of Aragon was the thorn in your father’s flesh for many years. He did not want the same to happen when he married Jane Seymour. This time, he wanted your mother dead, not divorced. Everybody knew the charges were false. At her trial they read out the dates of her adultery. I was with your mother every day and night, child. On every supposed date, she was with child, or recovering from childbed or the birth of a dead son.”
As I listened, my mother rose from her dust and darkness. The lies, the accusations, the slander all dispersed.
“Was she a…” I did not want to say the word. “Was she ever…a witch? Did my mother ever curse Catherine of Aragon and cause her death?”
“Never. It was all cruel tittle-tattle. She cursed only herself for not bearing a live son.” She looked at me with pride. “You are so like her…she had a temper as sharp as a snake’s tongue, as I believe is yours, so Francis tells me…but she needed it. She had so many enemies at court. Thomas Cromwell was the worst…but she was a good match for him.”
It was like being bathed in my mother’s perfume. I closed my eyes and let it seep into my hair and skin. I let it soak every speck of mud from me.
At last I was truly cleansed.
I laughed. All my life I had laughed to please, to flatter, to hide my fear. Now I laughed for joy.
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for my mother’s perfume,” I said. “Now I have seen her as I did when I was a child. Tell me something I never saw. What was she like with my father? What was she like at court?”
Alys understood my rapture. Her voice danced. “Oh, where shall I begin? She was such fun. She danced and sang and talked of everything, and she enchanted men and women. It’s true that she used all her female charms and wiles on your father. But they loved each other with such passion.” As Alys brought my mother to life, her face softened with her memories. Her back straightened. Her voice steadied. She showed the pride she had felt to have been the Gentlewoman of the Queen of England. “But when she miscarried the child…your brother…she felt her power wane and…”
“She became shrill and demanding,” I said. “That’s what I’m like when I’m afraid.”
Sometimes, screams pierced our conversation. They froze my blood, but Alys did not turn a hair. “She was as tempestuous as an end-of-summer storm. The storms would have given way to blue sky if his sons had lived. She almost died by miscarrying her last son. There was hardly any blood left to spill.”
My head swam, threatening to send me sprawling onto the straw. I swayed, felt my own blood drain away. The walls pressed against my chest, taking away my breath. I began to pant.
“Gently, child. Let out your breath slowly and you’ll fight your fear. Your mother would have been a great Queen if she had lived, and so will you if…you do nothing that can give cause for tittle-tattle,” she finished.
She picked up her knitting, lost in her own thoughts and I knew that it was time to leave. I did not want to go back into the hell outside. I wanted to stay with Alys. It was like being with my mother in my memories. I felt safe with her.
I forced myself up, kissed her hand and went to the door. But as I reached the door, she said, “Elizabeth, Your Grace, your parents’ life together was like a play, acted for all to see, and like the best plays it was full of tears and laughter, revenge and love…and death always waiting in the wings. Don’t forget, sweet child, that you will never be the only player on the stage. And don’t pity me. I’ve grown quite fond of my little cell. I feel safe.” She held up her candle and laughed. “I have shadows for company. I can talk about your mother as much as I want and nobody believes me.”
I ran back to her, sank beside her and embraced her.
Beyond Bedlam, I breathed deeply before I plunged back into the stinking streets. But breathe deeply I did, for I was full of joy. It was not just the truth that had released me. It was the pleasure of talking about my mother that made my feet light.
I did not realize they had come for me, the young girls who fluttered from the side streets, white and scarlet and frilled, like butterflies. They held me firmly by the arm. I could not shake them off. “Who are you? Where are you taking me?” I cried.
But my new ladies-in-waiting escorted me in silence. “I command you to answer me.” I kicked out at the nearest girl, but she sidestepped me, as if she had been kicked too many times in her life.
We came to London Bridge, where the water churns between its arches. Then I was more afraid than I ha
d been, even in Bedlam. I dared not scream. I did not want to give myself away.
There the river roared in my ears. I thought of the young girl in Francis’s boat, the arch of her swollen body, torrents of muddy water gushing from her mouth.
I closed my eyes to take away the horror.
If I died now, I would die knowing the truth about my mother. I would face death as bravely as she had. And another thought came: I would die without ever being kissed by a man, and that was the saddest thought of all.
“So you’ve caught in a live one at last,” one of the girls said, and she giggled; but there was no malice in her voice.
A man thanked them and sent them on their way – a man who smelled of decay and death, a man who was used to speaking French. I opened my eyes.
Francis stood in his rotten boat. “Don’t despise them,” he called. “We all sell bodies.”
“You’re everywhere, like the plague,” I called back. “Did you send them for me?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know I was there?”
“I saw you as I was leaving,” he replied. “I visit my mother every day.”
“But how did you know it was me?”
He smiled. “You walk like a Queen.”
“That’s because my mother was one.” I glared at him. “Have you come to kill me? Then I’ll be one person less between you and the throne. How? Ah – yes. It will be the river. That’s what you know best. Then you’ll pick up my body and earn four pence. Rich pickings for a princess, didn’t you say?” I laughed, half from terror, half despair. “Perhaps you’re plotting with Mary. Are you of the old faith? Most people in France are.”
He sighed. “Faith is of little importance to me.” He jumped from his boat and I fingered my little dagger in my pocket.
Francis must have seen the fear on my face because he used my name for the first time. “Your Grace, Princess Elizabeth…you’ve had the courage to enter hell tonight. You’ve faced the devil. Now you’ll have the courage to face the rest of your life, for nothing will ever be as bad. I speak as one who knows.”
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