The Ringed Castle

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘The baker’s daughter is better in her gown than Queen Mary without her crown,’ ran the limp couplet Don Alfonso quoted to her at the Lady Day joust, when Ruy Gomez and Sir George Howard, trimmed in white, were the challengers and ran twenty courses with the King and his company, in yellow and blue. ‘Did you hear of the new plot at Cambridge? To make Courtenay King and marry him to Elizabeth? They say the Queen isn’t pregnant, but means to pass off some child as her own. I wish she would,’ said Don Alfonso cheerfully. ‘It would be better than waiting.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Philippa crossly. ‘Of course she is pregnant. If Philip runs off, what’s more, she’ll probably have a miscarriage.’ The King was wearing ridiculous feathers in yellow and blue on his helmet, and they had resurrected her red Turkish robes for his attendants.

  ‘Not runs off,’ Don Alfonso chided her with extreme affability. He was wearing a new pair of earrings and a black braided coat, expensively furred to midcalf. ‘We must all choose our words, including King Philip. If he goes, it must seem a necessary and seemly journey. On the other hand,’ Don Alfonso said thoughtfully, ‘the King may linger longer than we think. He is not perhaps the world’s greatest administrator and the Duke of Alva is going to Brussels next month. I imagine King Philip would prefer to leave all the knottiest problems until after Alva has gone. If he does well, he will then get the credit. If he fails, then at least it won’t be Alva who enlightens the Emperor.… So there is to be a child. Tell me, why does she endanger its future by allowing these burnings?’

  More than a hundred staves had been broken. On the field, a messenger from the Queen hurried down for the second time to beg King Philip to have a care for his health. Philippa thought of the long hours of prayer and toil: how the exiled friars had been recalled, the Crown stripped of its church lands, poor though it was: the Queen’s own laborious translation of Erasmus burned at her confessor’s suggestion. ‘I had rather lose ten crowns,’ Mary Tudor had answered all remonstrances, ‘than place my soul in peril.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Philippa said. ‘The burnings are her bargain with God. The recanted souls will save her child and her marriage.’

  Don Alfonso, his eyes on the joust, gave an impatient click of the tongue. ‘She is to be pitied.’

  ‘No,’ said Philippa with sudden extreme grimness. ‘She is to be loved.’

  The blue and yellow feathers twisted. King Philip was riding off early. ‘By him?’ asked Don Alfonso.

  The week before Easter, the King and Queen moved to Hampton Court Palace, there to await the birth of the Queen’s child. Before she moved with them, Philippa had a long talk with Robert Best, of the staff of the new Muscovy Company, who had been a fellow-pupil in Russian with Chancellor, until the demands of the forthcoming voyage forced Diccon to cancel the lessons. Immediately after that, she wrote the long-delayed letter to Lymond, and entrusted it to Bartholomew Lychpole, to be sent with his letters to Russia.

  She wrote it this time without the aid of a dictionary, and without the nervousness which six months ago had made her so prolix. She had few points to make, and those were forthright.

  She was well, Philippa wrote, and so were his family and son with the exception of Sybilla who, as she had already written, was stoical but much in need of his return. She herself was in London at court, where she was in need of nothing, but had been made aware that if their marriage was to be annulled, she must have a statement regarding both the reasons for the annulment and his consent, delivered either in writing or in person by himself. There was no haste for this, except in so far as he might wish to find himself free. Lastly, Philippa set out, without comment, the circumstances of her visit to Sybilla’s sister the Abbess, and what she had learned there. After the birth of Richard, Sybilla had no more children. You and your sister were born to your father in France, of mother or mothers unknown.…

  She ended: This is an affair of yours on which I embarked perhaps childishly, since it seemed to me that, by ignoring it, you were doing yourself and your family a disservice. The results either way make no difference to me and should make no difference to you. Whatever your relationship with them, the people among whom you grew up are and should be the dearest to you. I am sure you know this without being told by a schoolgirl. It is only the love Kate and I have for Sybilla which makes me repeat it. Kate would join me in sending you our greeting and regard for your wellbeing. I remain, your friend, PHILIPPA.

  Then she retired with their Majesties to Hampton Court, Wolsey’s red-brick kingdom down the river, which he had presented to his master King Henry, but too late to save his own head. And there, among its courts and galleries and gardens and offices, Easter came and April wore on, although the child which had moved in the womb five months ago on Pole’s arrival still delayed coming. The Emperor Charles, frail and twisted with gout, had entered on what seemed his last illness. Peace talks between Charles and France, promised for April, had yet again been delayed. On the Emperor’s side the reason, said Don Alfonso, was exhaustion: the Low Countries had no money, and the soldiers were close to rebellion. Also they were waiting, as the whole world was waiting, for the Queen of England at last to give birth.

  The French, on the other hand, were gay, fresh and well equipped with men and with money. The longer the talks were deferred, said Don Alfonso, the more opportunity France would have of discovering the enemy’s plans. And there was the matter of the new Papal election. Marcellus II, so favoured by France, had died in the twenty-second day of his pontificate, killed by the rigours of celebration. Cardinal Pole contracted a fever, diplomatic or other; and the Cardinal of Lorraine hurried posthaste to Rome. The Queen took to her rooms.

  By all the warring elements in her realm and outside it, the fact was immediately noted. Forty days before a confinement and forty days after, by royal and ancient custom, the Queens of England withdrew to their chambers and were attended only by women. By another inalienable and sensible custom, the enemies of the kingdom and its heirs—who were, it must be said, very often one and the same flesh—were either sent abroad, or kept under closest surveillance at the Palace.

  So, towards the end of April, Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, was summoned to Court, and given royal leave to visit the Emperor and his sister the Queen Regent in Flanders, there to thank them in person for his final release from his recent restraint.

  The day after Courtenay’s departure from Court the Queen’s sister Elizabeth arrived there, brought from her prison at Woodstock; as twenty-one years before Mary Tudor had been summoned to Greenwich for Elizabeth’s birth, too shamingly soon after the wedding, to the Great Whore, Anne Boleyn, Henry’s second, usurping Queen.

  Madam Elizabeth entered Hampton Court by a little-used door, escorted by a handful of her own servants, and a detachment of soldiers led by Sir Henry Bedingfield. Philippa knew she was coming: one of the Dormer houses at Wing had entertained her overnight on the four-day journey from Woodstock, and Lady Lennox had mentioned, with brittle amusement, that Master Ascham would have two pupils now.

  From Roger Ascham, Philippa already knew a good deal about this shrewd, scholarly, quick-witted girl whom he had taught five years before in that merry household at Chelsea, and later at Cheshunt and Hatfield. The girl who at fifteen was already fluent in Italian, French, Latin and Greek; who was arrogantly proud of her likeness to her father, King Henry; and who had lost her mother to the block when she was three, and sworn Princess of Wales.

  But lively though her curiosity might be, Philippa was too considerate to join the ladies who melted from the antechamber when the rattle of horse-hooves was heard, and hers was not one of the peering faces behind the mullioned windows. Pressed by her household officers, the Queen had at last decided upon the room for a nursery, and, once involved, had extended herself to see to each detail. Mistress Clarenceux had brought to her the gifts already arriving of clothes and of toys: she selected those to be kept, and gave orders for their storage, and made decisions about the inf
ant clothes which her ladies, Jane and Philippa among them, had long since begun embroidering.

  When her sister Elizabeth arrived, the Queen was in the nursery, with its dais holding the draped wooden cradle and its broken-backed legend, admirable only in piety: The child whom thou to Mary, O Lord of Might has send, To England’s joy, in health preserve, keep and defend. The Queen stayed there all afternoon, with Jane and Philippa attending her, and Mistress Clarenceux massaged her fingers, when she complained of cold hands. Unwelcomed, Madam Elizabeth was received into the palace, and placed in the Duke of Alba’s former apartments, close to those of King Philip, while in the Queen’s rooms, the long evening passed.

  It was an evening Philippa never quite forgot. The Queen left the nursery: her ladies returned. The Bishop of Winchester and Sir William Petre called and were given a long weighty audience. The King came for half an hour before supper, and was entertained by the Queen, while Philippa played on the virginals and listened, unashamed, to the conversation in Spanish.

  ‘Sir Robert Rochester tells me Milady Elizabeth is safely installed,’ the Queen’s husband said. ‘When will it be your pleasure to receive her?’

  There was a little silence, which Philippa discreetly bridged with an unexpected coda to Jannequin. The Queen said, in her deep, uneven voice, ‘My lord, I have no plans to receive her. She is here so that if I die in childbirth, she and her adherents will prove no threat to your Majesty’s life.’

  He was in a cajoling mood, Philippa saw. Instead of the sober, elegant dress he preferred, he had put on one of the puffed and slashed and gem-studded doublets which his wife and aunt publicly favoured. Stretching now from his chair, he took her square, powerful hand in his white one. ‘God is good: you will not die. Instead you will give me and England a strong and beautiful prince, and it is fitting that all should rejoice. When the babe is born, show her your favour. It will please your people to show yourself magnanimous.’

  ‘When the babe is born, I shall show her what kindness she has deserved in the meantime,’ said the grim, broken voice. ‘Meanwhile, she is to see no one and communicate with no one outside these walls.’

  After supper he left. The Queen prayed late that night, and it was Jane, waiting to attend her undressing, who first heard the cry from the prie-dieu. When they reached her, she had fallen forward, clutching her stomach, and it was with some trouble, considering her smallness, that they carried her somehow to her bed. Before they got her there, Mistress Clarenceux had already sent pages flying to rouse the King and the Councillors, and to fetch her physicians.

  There was no sleep for Philippa that night, and little rest next morning, attending to the needs of the anxious circle about the Queen, and the unceasing inquiries from the jostling anteroom. She was there herself when Sir Henry Sidney arrived, still wearing his cloak splashed with mud, and ignoring her smile and the voices upraised in greeting about him, picked out Arundel, the Master of the Household, and thrust forward to speak to him. ‘The Queen?’

  The Earl of Arundel looked at him sharply. ‘Is well, thank God. What have you heard?’

  ‘Is there a child?’ Sidney said. ‘I am told there is not.’

  Arundel said, ‘There is no child, as yet. Her Majesty was taken ill through the night, but it has been shown to be a mere defect in the environment of the body, caused by a colic. Why, is there a rumour in London?’

  ‘No rumour,’ said Henry Sidney. He looked tired, Philippa thought. A page, summoned by her nod, reached up and drew the wet cloak from Sidney’s shoulders: as he took it away, Sir Henry turned to her and bowed, and gave his reply still staring into her face. ‘Not a rumour. Word reached London at daybreak that, half an hour after midnight, the Queen had given birth to a male child with little pain and no danger. London is in festival, Lord Arundel: bells are ringing; shops are shut, and there are bonfires in the streets, with public tables spread with wine and meat for everyone. Word has travelled already abroad. I came here to do my office as courier.’

  He finished speaking into silence, and in silence a harsh voice spoke behind him. ‘They are premature,’ said the Queen.

  Turning, a pain in her chest, Philippa saw her standing with Jane in her doorway, the doctors behind her. ‘They are premature, but perhaps it is fitting that an infant twice blessed should twice be celebrated. I am well, as you see, and England prospers within me. Give me your prayers, and you shall see a prince before the ash from these rejoicings is cold.’

  A few days later, they heard that the Great Bell had been rung in Antwerp and English ships in the harbour had celebrated the news of a birth with volleys of shot, while the Queen Regent had sent a hundred crowns’ drink money to the seamen. About the same time, a small crowd arrived at the court with three screaming children, successfully borne a few days before to a woman, as they explained, of low stature and great age like the Queen, who was now strong, and out of all danger. Philippa, her nerves beaten raw, was all for sending them packing, but Jane prevailed, and had them all brought to the Queen, who spoke to them, Philippa saw, with real tears in her eyes. She had been wrong. Jane still understood her mistress far better than Philippa did.

  About that time, King Philip made his first official call on his wife’s sister Elizabeth, but what transpired no one was able to discover. There followed two weeks of seclusion, after which her great-uncle William Howard was permitted to see Madam Elizabeth, and after him, several senior members of the Queen’s Privy Council. It was believed that she was appealing to the Queen through her statesmen to release her from custody. It was certain that she was writing the Queen a great many letters. Philippa sometimes saw them lying open on Queen Mary’s desk, unmistakable in Ascham’s beautiful Italian writing, but she refrained with an effort from reading them. It was a surprise therefore to be called to the Countess of Lennox one day, and told that the lady Elizabeth had asked and been granted leave to resume her studies with Master Ascham, and that there were some books from the Cardinal’s library which Philippa was to take to her.

  ‘They are, as you might expect, exceedingly precious,’ Lady Lennox said, smiling. ‘I do not care to entrust them to ignorant hands. Also, you have sufficient knowledge of Master Ascham’s methods to be able to discuss the books with Madam Elizabeth, and to note any others she may require. I am sure, as well, that you will be pleased one day to recall that you met the lady. If she marries abroad, she may well end her life a stranger to England.’

  Unless, of course, the Queen’s infant dies, Philippa thought. In which case the Lady Elizabeth, apparently so assiduous in her devotions, may well be the next Queen?

  There was a guard outside Elizabeth’s door, and more were waiting below in the gardens. Bedingfield escorted Philippa there himself, and on the threshold handed her over to William Howard, who took her into the small, wainscoted room hung with pictures, where a tall, thin-boned girl sat erect by the fire, dealing playing-cards with manicured, tapering fingers.

  Howard fingers. What else of Anne Boleyn could be seen in her daughter? An olive complexion, adroitly lightened, as Philippa saw with the interest of an expert. Long hair, falling shoulder-length beneath the pearled arch of her headdress, which also looked coarser than its light colour would merit. Pale, shallow eyes, light and clear, which certainly did not come from black-haired Anne, and a small mouth the image of the pink, pursed lips in every portrait of King Henry her father. Except that the Queen would not admit that King Henry was Elizabeth’s father, or that she could be her legitimate sister. Her voice was light, and chillingly clear; the expression on the small mouth perfectly affable.

  ‘Mistress Philippa. Place the books there. It was most courteous of you to call. I have so few visitors. Can you afford a moment to sit and take wine with Sir William and me?’

  Philippa curtseyed and thanked her, sinking with ineffable grace into a rather hard brocade chair. Madam Elizabeth’s eyes opened slightly. Wine was brought. ‘So,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You also are learning the pleasures of Priscian�
��s grammar, and savouring the style of Xenophon’s Hippike, so vivid, so pure …’

  ‘And whose views on education,’ Philippa said, her lashes downcast, ‘are strongly founded and quite without equal. Master Ascham is well,’ Philippa said, ‘and sends you his duty.’

  ‘As well as some dutiful books. Or are those from the Cardinal? I am pleased,’ said Elizabeth, ‘to see Master Ascham safely returned from Brussels and comfortably installed with the Queen. I must demand a report on his travels.’

  ‘He was disappointed,’ said Philippa, ‘to discover, when praising the sincere emotion of Cicero’s lament for Hortensius, that Master Fugger was unable to lend him a copy as his library was always kept padlocked. Not a philologos, a lover of learning, but a bibliotaphos, a sepulchre for books. His disputations with Master Sturm have barely restored his confidence.’

  The thin eyebrows lifted, and Elizabeth smiled, her long hands calmly crossed in her lap. Her servant had gone, and but for Howard, sipping his wine discreetly in the flickering firelight, they had the room to themselves. Elizabeth said, ‘He would find more sincere emotion, perhaps, in the pro Marcello, but he is too wise, I am sure, to make witticisms about it.’

  The delicacy of the hint was nothing short of enchanting. Philippa, limp with the backwash of liturgical emotion, saw opening before her the prospect of a practical conversation at last. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Pope Marcellus is dead, and they have appointed another?’

  The pale blue eyes opposite moved to Sir William and back. ‘Not Ferrara,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Quis demonium habet? I heard twenty for the hundred were being laid in the banks on the Cardinal of Naples. Or has the huckstering spoiled him? I cannot believe the Sacred College has been prevented from carrying out the election as the Holy Ghost inspires.’

  ‘I have heard it quoted,’ said Philippa blandly, ‘that the Emperor’s Ambassador in Rome thinks that a little canvassing might be better than waiting until the Cardinals, out of pure exhaustion, agree on some devil who will be no good to anybody. At any rate Caraffa, the Cardinal of Naples, has been elected.’