It was at Whitehall where I made my entry into the court and laid my eyes upon the Princess Elizabeth for the very first time and it would be at Whitehall where that princess would begin her reign as Queen Elizabeth. It was hard not to think of Anne as I waited for her daughter to come out to greet us. She would be thrilled beyond words that Elizabeth had rightfully inherited the throne. After the pain of birthing twelve children of my own, I thought of Anne giving birth to the baby girl who would grow up to be a queen. It was terrifying enough to go through childbirth for the first time without the pressure of a king’s desire for a prince. I could not begin to imagine her distress when it was revealed that her child was a girl. She must have been disappointed but, according to my mother, she had never let it show. Anne hid any terror, disappointment or fear she ever felt to the death.
The door opened and immediately we all dropped to show reverence to our new queen. I waited patiently with my head bowed for Elizabeth to raise us. When I finally lifted my eyes, I was amazed to see the young woman before me. Her hair was piled on top of her head and studded with a vast array of emeralds and rubies that sparkled in the firelight. She wore an elaborately embroidered brocade gown that matched the green of Robert’s doublet over a wide farthingale. Her gold necklaces glimmered down the front of her bodice and, just as I suspected, it was topped off with an enormous ruff trimmed in gold lace and diamonds. In her long pale fingers, she carried an ornate white ostrich feathered fan.
“Lady Catherine! Mine own sweet cousin,” she called out, pointing at me with the fan. “Please come tell us about your time abroad. We are overjoyed to have you back and in our service.”
It was a strange feeling hearing her use the royal pronoun. I was certain I saw the same sparkle in her eyes that I often saw in our father’s eyes. “I am pleased to be back, Your Grace. I have missed the rolling green hills of England and I am so grateful for my appointment to your Privy Chamber. Thank you.”
Her amber eyes flashed and she lowered her eye lids as in remembrance, “That day at Westminster, before I left to go back to Hatfield...I have thought about that day several times since then. I feel as if I owe you my thanks. Not one person before or since has taken the time to speak to me of my mother. It meant the world to me and for that I would love to have you by my side.”
I was speechless. It surprised me that she had thought of that incident so often. As if reading my mind, she fumbled at her girdle pulling a small frame out of a fold in her gown. It was the miniature I had given her all those years ago.
“I keep it with me always,” she whispered. She brought the miniature to her lips and placed a delicate kiss before she tucked it back into the fold.
I wanted to reach out and hug her, but I knew that would be inappropriate. Now that she was queen, her body was holy and untouchable unless bidden by her to do so. I gave her a warm smile instead and curtsied again.
“Doctor Dee has chosen a most auspicious day for my coronation, but before we get there I have some knights to make. I am sure you are pleased that your brother Henry will be made a knight of the bath the day after tomorrow. I will also be promoting him to the peerage. He will now be known as Baron Hunsdon. Unlike my dear cousin, Lady Lennox, Henry Carey did not abandon me in my time of need, nor did he see fit to torture me with the sound of clanging pots and pans during my time at my sister’s court so he will be justly rewarded. I hope you will be there for the ceremony.”
“I would not miss it if my life depended upon it,” I laughed and sneaked a glance over at Lady Lennox. Her face was red with fury. She yanked on her poor young son Lord Darnley’s arm and dragged him out of the room. I assumed there would be no knighthood for him.
Elizabeth held out her arm and Robert hustled over to take it. She gestured to us. “Come, a feast awaits us.”
That night we ate until our stomachs could hold no more and danced until our feet gave out. The next morning we processed by barge to the Tower where Elizabeth, like all the monarchs before her, would lay claim to the mighty fortress before being crowned. There Henry’s ceremony was celebrated with much pomp. His wife, Anne Morgan, was dressed in her best and wore a giddy smile, no doubt thinking of the new lands that Henry would be given.
The next morning we bustled around Elizabeth, preparing her for the procession to Westminster. She looked regal in a gown of cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver with Tudor roses woven into the fabric, trimmed in ermine. Rubies and drop pearls were draped across her bust and emphasised the point at the bottom of her bodice. The long train trailed behind her. Her hair cascaded down her back, worn loose in the way that only virgins can wear it and worn like that of her mother at her coronation. I had giggled at this because it had been quite obvious that Anne was no longer a virgin at her coronation. She was visibly pregnant with Elizabeth at the time, but that was of no consequence to her. She was determined to be crowned like a virgin just as her predecessor, Catherine of Aragon, had been.
We stepped outside into the dazzling sunlight. A light snow had begun to fall dusting the streets, covering up the filth and grime. Robert Dudley lifted Elizabeth into her litter. He was dressed like a nobleman in a crimson velvet doublet with cloth-of-gold sleeves that contrasted well with the pure white of the queen’s palfrey. It was his duty as master of the horse to lead out her personal horse. They painted a pretty picture together riding out into the street, reminiscent of Guinevere and her knight. As we left the Tower the lions in the menagerie gave a great roar. Everyone else was startled at the thunderous growl, but it made me giddy with pleasure. I knew the roar was a message from our father, the lion-like king, a message of pride that his cub was continuing his legacy.
We were greeted by a quivering mass of people. They pushed and shoved trying to get closer to their queen. Proclamations of ‘Long live the queen’ and ‘Long live good King Harry’ were shouted from shopkeepers and street urchins alike. Children perched on the shoulders of their parents to get a better view and more than one rooftop was occupied. Through it all Elizabeth smiled benevolently, waving graciously to her admirers.
Along the way, we were treated to pageants and plays honouring Elizabeth and her family. At Fenchurch the children recited poems and songs, and at Gracechurch the past was resurrected in a series of tableaux. Three stages were erected with the figures of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, our father Henry VIII and Anne, and the queen herself on the third. All hailed the unity of the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York. The roses themselves were strewn as far as the eye could see.
Festive banners and streamers were hanging from every window and the conduits ran with red and white wine. From Cheapside to Ludgate and beyond, Elizabeth was met with enthusiasm and reverence. When she stopped to make one of her many gracious speeches, she knew how to play to the crowd. She impressed them with her humility and charmed them with her wit. The frigid air set my teeth chattering, but I knew that it was not only the cold air that sent shivers down my spine. It was as though a younger feminine version of our father were walking among his people. At the mention of old King Harry, an elderly man in the crowd turned from the queen weeping. In that moment, I felt the old king’s presence acutely.
We finally arrived at Whitehall where we would spend the night before the ceremony. I waited for Elizabeth to climb out of her litter so I could escort her back to her rooms. When she finally reached me, her face was flushed and she took big gulps of air as if she could not catch her breath.
Concerned I asked, “Are you all right, Your Grace?”
She nodded slowly, her hand raised to her chest.
“Yes, just a little flushed. I am really quite all right, no need for panic. We shall go to my chambers as planned so I can dress for the banquet.”
She offered her cool clammy hand and I took it, leading her to the bedchamber.
It was apparent to me that Elizabeth felt quite ill, but she never let on to others that she felt anything other than wonderful. She sat on the dais under a gold-trimmed clo
th of estate with a pleased look on her face while her courtiers celebrated and feasted. She sent all of the best dishes out to her favourites, but she did not partake in much of her own food. A nibble here and a sip there just so her ladies would not get suspicious, but I knew better. After the tables were cleared, Elizabeth took to the dance-floor with her prized courtier, Robert Dudley. Whatever illness she was feeling earlier seemed to be swept away while she spun around the floor with Robert. Seeing her so happy finally put me at ease and I sought out my own love, Francis, to dance the night away.
The next morning we paraded through the newly gravelled streets of Westminster on a carpet of fine azure cloth. The crowds stampeded the carpet after Elizabeth passed and began tearing off bits of the cloth for souvenirs. The Countess of Lennox, Margaret Douglas, carried Elizabeth’s train and was nearly knocked over in the melee. At Westminster Hall, Elizabeth was vested with her robes of state and joined by Owen Oglethorpe, the Bishop of Carlisle. The honour of the queen’s coronation should have gone to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but the current archbishop, Nicholas Heath, refused on the grounds that Elizabeth would not agree to return England to the Catholic Church. I was certain that his predecessor, Thomas Cranmer, would have been more than thrilled to crown Elizabeth, just as he had crowned her mother nearly twenty-seven years ago. But Cranmer had gone up in flames on the stake. He would not crown anyone ever again. With all of the bishops sulking over Elizabeth’s refusal to pacify them, the duty of the day fell to the first bishop who accepted and that was Oglethorpe.
Our burgeoning group traipsed into the abbey heralded by trumpets. Elizabeth was enthroned on the chair of estate and the pageantry began. She made an offering of gold and accepted the oaths delivered to her by the bishop, and just as her sister, mother and father before her, she was consecrated and anointed in holy oil. She received the sword, sceptre and orb, and kissed the Pax. Elizabeth then returned to her seat to hear Oglethorpe’s Mass, but the moment he raised the Host she withdrew from the service.
A murmur went through the crowd. She had done this to Oglethorpe before. During Christmas Mass he had raised the Host even though she had explicitly told him not to. She had stormed out of the chapel in protest. I pitied him. Bishops such as he had been raising the Host, depicting the corporeal change from bread into Christ’s body, for centuries without incident. Now, men like my husband and William Cecil proclaimed that the bread was just bread, merely symbolic, but it would take more than just a decade of inconsistent change to convince the devout Catholics that their traditions were wrong.
Thankfully Elizabeth returned with little commotion, having changed into a mantle and surcoat of plush violet velvet trimmed in ermine fur. At the conclusion of the mass, we filed out of the abbey and returned to Whitehall.
The celebration banquet lasted well into the early morning hours and all of the excitement took its toll on Elizabeth. The next morning, the jousting tournaments had to be postponed while she was kept to her bedchamber with excruciating stomach pains. Mary Sidney and I fussed around her like worried mother hens, but by the next day she was in better spirits and able to partake in the festivities in the tiltyard. My cousin, Thomas Howard, 4th Duke of Norfolk, led the four challengers. We went to great lengths to make sure that Elizabeth was layered in her warmest clothes to keep out the chill, but I still fretted. She was still young and unmarried with no heir on the way. Her death would throw the country into the turmoil that our father had imagined before Edward was born. That whey-faced son of Lady Lennox, Darnley, was the heir presumptive until Elizabeth could give birth to her own, and I could not stand the idea of him sitting on her throne.
Francis caught my eye and I left Elizabeth’s side for a moment to speak with him.
“What is she doing out here?” he whispered, alarmed.
I threw my hands up. “She is the queen now, Francis, not the little princess we knew. Look at all she went through to get here. Do you honestly believe that she would miss her own tournament?”
Francis groaned. “Make sure you keep her as warm as possible and tonight when you put her to bed, lay warming bricks under her covers and get a night cap on her head.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Francis, how many children have I raised?”
“I know, I know. But I am sure I do not need to remind you of what might happen if she dies before she has an heir.”
I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. “No, you do not. I remember my brother Edward quite well, thank you.”
He softened and held his hand out to me. “Catherine ...”
I crossed my arms, “I have a job to do if you would please excuse me.”
“Go on then.”
The nerve! While he was off on the king’s business and then learning the new religion across the channel, I was at Greys raising our children and tending to their sicknesses. He would not know the first thing about treating a fever, let along preventing one. I growled under my breath and then tried to shake off my irritation. I had Elizabeth to worry about, not Francis. He could spend his time concerned about the Privy Council and his duties as vice-chamberlain, I would worry about the warmth of the queen’s bed and nightgown.
In the end, Elizabeth did not fall ill that evening. After my duties were done I, still buzzing from all the wine and music, headed back to our rooms to celebrate with Francis, our previous argument forgotten.
A few months after the tournament, during a beautiful sunny spring day on the bowling lawns, I vomited in front of the queen.
“My lady cousin,” she laughed, leaping aside. “Was it something you ate or do you harbour yet another occupant in that fruitful womb of yours?”
I moaned in disgust and tried to straighten myself up. “I am so embarrassed, Your Grace. Please excuse me.”
She wrapped her arm around Robert Dudley’s and they shuffled aside. “The horrid things women must do to bring children into this world. Come, Robin, let’s walk in the gardens. The lilies are beginning to bloom and I would like to gather some for my bedchamber.”
Robert ushered her away from me without giving me a second look.
As Elizabeth and her favourite wandered off, Mary Sidney ran across the lawn to my rescue. She handed me her handkerchief and reached behind me to loosen my stomacher.
“No doubt my brother would love to put an occupant in her womb,” she scoffed. “Ever since he became her precious master of the horse, he has been insufferable. And she as well. Not even a kind word for her cousin on this happy occasion.”
She paused for a moment making sure I had wiped all the traces of my sick away.
“Anyway – Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“Yes, I am fine. Thank you, Lady Sidney. It was very kind of you to help me. I am just a knight’s wife, I would hardly expect Her Majesty to jump at my call,” I laughed nervously.
Mary frowned, “You are right, but you could expect some compassion, especially for her kin. It is not as if she has an abundance of friends and family by her side.” She glanced furtively around and then lowered her voice. “They all come running to her side now, but the moment there is an uprising that any of the nobles could stand to gain from will they still be there?”
“Mary, you don’t think ...”
“I don’t know what to think, Catherine. But I have seen enough around here to know that since old King Henry died, no one has been safe on the throne and I pray to God that my brother does not cause Elizabeth to lose it. Tongues are wagging in every dark corner of this castle. ‘The queen and her horse master!’ they laugh.”
Calmly, I put my hand on her arm. “Mary, I serve the queen in her bedchamber, I can assure you that they are not lovers.”
“Catherine, I believe you and I know … well, at least I hope … that my brother would never take it that far, but the rest of the court does not know that. The rest of the world does not know that.”
I sighed. “I will mention it to Francis and maybe he can bring it up during a Privy Council meeti
ng.”
“No!” Mary exclaimed. “Please don’t. I do not want the queen or my brother to know I have spoken out of turn. I think, at this point, all we can do is stand back and pray that our queen comes to her good senses before it is too late.”
I nodded in agreement. “Your words are safe with me.”
Mary had good cause to worry. When Elizabeth refused a wedding proposal from her former brother-in-law, King Philip of Spain, it sent out a message to the continent. England would not return to the Catholic Church. I was witness to the dreadful scene. King Philip’s ambassador, de Feria, could not escape from her presence chamber fast enough. He skittered out of the room with her shouts nipping at his heels like rabid dogs.
The pope recalled the Vatican’s ambassador to England in haste and issued a papal bull calling on all the faithful Catholics to depose their new ruler. Their ascent to heaven would be celebrated by the angels for their work against that heretic bastard Elizabeth. The day she received it, we were excused from her bedchamber so she could meet with Secretary William Cecil in private. Her infuriated screams could be heard down the corridor.
Through all of the dramatics, and even though her councillors quaked with fear, Elizabeth refused to change her habits or give in to the pope’s threats. She continued to ride out every day with her master of the horse by her side, hunting and hawking until nightfall. Then, when the moon was high and the quarry had settled into their beds, Elizabeth would entertain her faithful servant with cards or conversation in front of the fire in her richly appointed, candle-lit bedchamber.
Elizabeth did not fear the pope and, to show her detractors, at the end of the Lenten season, she made Robert Dudley a Knight of the Garter. To emphasise his promotion, we celebrated his election in grand style.
Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey Page 18
