No doubt her panic gave rise to further gossip. Why, unless she was guilty of plotting, had the cry of treason frightened her so badly? Or was her overreaction a ruse, intended to make her look weak and vulnerable when in fact she and her co-conspirators were about to strike?
No one among the queen's advisers knew quite what to do with Elizabeth. Some thought she should be sent away from court, for even though this might give her greater scope for treachery she could be kept under surveillance and might even serve as bait to lure other traitors into the open. Others thought it safer to keep her nearby, just in case something happened to Mary. Still others believed it would be safest to marry her to the man who, since the start of the reign, had been urged as the most suitable potential consort in the kingdom: Edward Courtenay.
Great-grandson of Edward IV, Courtenay's pedigree could be matched only by that of his relatives Reginald and Geoffrey Pole, grandsons of Edward IV's brother George, duke of Clarence—and neither the former, a cleric, nor the latter, who was of weak character and more than a little deranged, could be considered as a husband for the princess. Courtenay certainly thought himself worthy of Elizabeth's hand—and of Mary's too, for that matter—though his aristocratic handsomeness was combined with an unfortunate personality. Renard found him "proud, poor, obstinate, inexperienced and vindictive in the extreme," and his peculiar upbringing (he had spent his life since childhood in confinement in the Tower, where his father Henry Courtenay, marquess of Exeter, had been executed by Henry VIII) had not fitted him for public life. Still, he was popular with the people, and perhaps with Elizabeth as well. 3 He was also staunchly-Catholic; as Elizabeth's husband he might be expected to lend his weight to her recent conversion—a conversion many suspected of being shallow and expedient, if not completely cynical.
The problem was the mass. Elizabeth dutifully attended, but was less than convincing in her devotion. During a painful audience with Mary she had sworn tearfully that she had in all good conscience adopted the Catholic usages from conviction and not out of "fear, hypocrisy or dissimulation." Mary was inclined to be convinced of her sincerity—after all, she spoke very timidly, and trembled fearfully at every word. Yet somehow she instinctively distrusted Elizabeth, and "begged her to speak freely and declare what was in her mind." Mary was confused. The pure, unlined face Elizabeth turned up to her was surely too innocent to be capable of guile. Yet
it was Anne Boleyn's face—and Mark Smeaton's—and it had attracted scandal and suspicion for years. Mary could not conceive of lying about her faith, yet she had learned well what it was to scheme, to plot deception when forced to it by circumstances. On balance, it was wiser to reserve judgment about Elizabeth's sincerity, meanwhile keeping close watch on her activities. 4
Mary's distrust corroded what goodwill there had been between the sisters, and early in December, 1553, Elizabeth was allowed to leave the court. She set off for her house at Ashridge, accompanied by an imposing escort of five hundred mounted gentlemen. To preserve at least the appearance of affection Mary gave her parting gifts—a costly sable hood and two pearl necklaces—and Elizabeth, in turn, urged Mary not to listen to what others said about her, but to trust in her loyalty and sincerity, at least until she had a chance to defend herself against any accusations in person.
So they parted—with deep misgivings on both sides. Mary was becoming convinced that she ought to marry her sister to Courtenay. She was about to announce her own betrothal to Prince Philip of Spain, son of Charles V, and though she could not have been more joyful about the coming marriage she knew that her subjects would be incensed at the thought of a Spanish king. Marrying Elizabeth to Courtenay would mollify them, and she knew he would be willing. Yet she had to know the emperor's opinion of the match before she did anything further. Meanwhile she was letting her sister out of her grasp.
Elizabeth too was anxious. The vague plottings were crystallizing, taking firm shape. She knew at least something—it is uncertain how much—of an ambitious plot to take up arms against the queen on Palm Sunday, March 18 (when Prince Philip was expected to arrive). Most likely she refused to play any active role in the rising, yet by its very existence the conspiracy put her life in danger and gave Mary the excuse she needed to order Elizabeth's execution.
As she rode out of London Elizabeth's worries ate at her, making her head ache and bringing on the first symptoms of illness. How could she preserve at least an image of innocence and trustworthiness in the queen's mind? Ten miles out of the capital she signaled for her party to halt. She had become too unwell to ride, and sent a messenger back to the palace to borrow a litter from Mary. And at the same time she instructed the messenger to ask Mary for chapel ornaments—copes for the priests celebrating mass, crosses to be borne before them in procession, chalices for the altar she would set up at Ashridge—everything needful for observance of the Catholic faith. It was a dramatic gesture and it left its imprint. Mary
sent on all that was asked for—as usual, somewhat puzzled and doubtful yet not quite ready to give up hope for her enigmatic sister.
During January of 1554 popular opposition grew to the queen's announced betrothal to Philip of Spain. Slanderous tales were spread about the prince, and about Spaniards in general, and many of the English swore they would die rather than allow Philip and his wedding party to set foot on English soil.
The impending Spanish marriage congealed conspiracy, but the conspirators were in no clear agreement about their aims. Mary was to be removed from the throne, and her shadowy fiance along with her. But how 7 Not by assassination: several of the plotters "detested the horribleness of the crime." Simply by supplanting Mary with Elizabeth and Courtenay, then: but Courtenay had lost his nerve, and was telling all he knew to the chancellor even before the rising began. By sheer force 7 But that would mean massed fighting men, armed and led from the country districts. Very well then, there was no alternative. Peter Carew would raise the west, where Courtenay's followers were. James Crofts would command in Herefordshire, Thomas Wyatt in Kent, the duke of Suffolk in Leicestershire. Help could be expected from Xoailles and the French. Hinting strongly that Elizabeth would cooperate if she saw that the coup was succeeding, Crofts assured Xoailles that the planned revolt had "a foundation."
But in reality Elizabeth, whatever her assessment of the undertaking, was in no condition to further it. She had begun to suffer seriously from a painful swelling of her face, arms, and eventually her whole body. The affliction weakened her and made her "very evil at ease"; that it may have been at least partly psychosomatic only increased its trauma. She lay at Ashridge, fearful of the expected rebellion, perhaps even more fearful of her dropsical body, for her brother's fatal illness had also been marked by swelling of the arms and legs and head. Victims of poisoning often swelled to bursting before they died.
Then word came from the capital, where late in January every city gate was guarded by armed men prepared to turn back rebels should they try to enter the City. Elizabeth was summoned to court. She sent a reply saying she was too ill to make the journey, and backing up her assertion by inviting Mary to send a physician to examine her.
Elizabeth might be ill, but she could hardly be innocent. Mary found out that one of the conspirators had written to the princess, advising her to "get herself as far from the City as she could, the rather for her safety from strangers." It was an ambiguous message, and her verbal reply—throughout the rebellion she committed nothing incriminating to writing—was even
more ambiguous. She sent word by way of Sir William Saintlow "that she did thank him much for his goodwill, and she would do as she should see cause." 5 But there was more. A diplomatic pouch bound for France was seized and its contents examined. Inside was a copy of Elizabeth's last letter to Mary. How could it have got there without Elizabeth's cooperation? More important, what would it mean to the French unless they were relying on Elizabeth to take an active part in the revolt 7
Renard elaborated on the gravity of the discov
ery. The French, he said, were sending arms, artillery and provisions into Scotland, intending to invade England from the north. At the same time French ships were being readied to carry an invasionary force across the Channel, and in Normandy, twenty-three infantry companies were being massed along the coast. The letter proved to Renard's satisfaction that Elizabeth had an understanding with the French, and that the purpose of the military preparations was to put her on her sister's throne. 6
Mary barely had time to send her physicians to Ashridge before the capital was engulfed in rebellion. Of the four regions expected to ignite into revolt only Kent, Thomas Wyatt's county, generated a real rising, but Wyatt's followers formed a dangerous core of rebels and by early February they were marching on London. There was real fear that Mary's government might not be able to resist them. The queen's councilors bogged down in self-absorbed squabbling; she had no standing army, only men mustered for this emergency, led by that sour relic of her father's reign, the eighty-year-old duke of Norfolk; she had reason to suspect treason among even her closest advisers.
With London in an uproar her councilors begged Mary to escape upriver to Windsor in her barge, or at the very least to take refuge in the Tower. Instead she made her way through the City, along streets full of "much noise and tumult" and congested with horses and men-at-arms and freshly mustered soldiers wearing the white coats of the queen's guard. At the Guildhall she paused to address a crowd of citizens, calming their fears about her marriage and appealing to them to stand with her now, as they had stood with her against Northumberland.
"I cannot tell how naturally the mother loveth the child," Mary told them, "for I was never the mother of any, but certainly if a prince and governor may as naturally and earnestly love her subjects, as the mother doth love the child, then assure yourselves that I, being your lady and mistress, do as earnestly and tenderly love and favor you."
Standing before them with her head held proudly, her low voice ringing out through the lofty hall, Mary touched her subjects' hearts.
Pluck up your courage, she told them. "Stand fast against these rebels, both our enemies and yours, and fear them not, for I assure you I fear them nothing at all!"" 7
Queen Mary's rousing speech rallied the Londoners for the coming invasion of the Kentishmen, and when Wyatt and his men finally made their assault on February 3 they found they lacked the numbers to overcome the royal forces. For most of that day there was skirmishing throughout the City and suburbs, though, and at Whitehall, where Mary and her courtiers waited for news, rumors of ruin and treason sent the court into panic. The palace was filled with "such a screeching and noise as it was wonderful to hear," an observer wrote, yet through it all the queen was calm and steadfast. God would not desert them, she told her fearful servants and crying gentlewomen. "Fall to prayer!" she urged. "And I warrant you, we shall hear better news anon."
Then at last toward evening Wyatt surrendered, having found that he and his men were trapped within the encircling girdle of the queen's bands. He was led to the Tower. His confederates were taken, his followers herded off to await trial and to pray that the queen would be merciful. And with the immediate danger past, the grim process of retribution could begin, a process that in time would touch everyone implicated in the plot, especially the queen's sister.
Mary's doctors had probably reached Ashridge late in January. They found Elizabeth to be in poor health, but believed that, provided every consideration was shown to her, she could make the journey to court. Yet though they "travailed very earnestly" with her for some days—no doubt exacerbating her condition—they could not persuade her to leave Ashridge, and it was not until Mary summoned her formally on February 10 that Elizabeth reluctantly agreed to go.
The three councilors who delivered the summons conferred first with the physicians, then with the patient herself. They saw at once how ill she was, "so sick in her bed, and very feeble and weak of body," yet they hardened themselves to her whispered remonstrances that a journey would endanger her life, and next morning they "had her forth as she was, very faint and feeble." Although she was "ready to swoon three or four times," they saw her carried to the litter Mary had provided for her to ride in, and bundled in furs against the cold.
The easiest possible itinerary had been scheduled, with only seven or eight miles to be covered in a day. But even the most moderate exposure to the damp, chill February air was hazardous in Elizabeth's condition (the physicians had specifically requested that she be housed in dry and warm quarters once she reached the palace), and before she had gone more than
a few miles she was "all sick in the litter," and could not hold her head up from dizziness and pain. When the party reached St. Albans it was evident that the strain was weakening her still further; at Highgate, only five miles from Westminster, she collapsed completely and had to remain bedridden for an entire week before she could go on.
Illness and dread commingled to prostrate Elizabeth. What awaited her in the capital she could easily imagine, given the course of recent events. The queen, having won new respect from her councilors and advisers for her stony courage, had abandoned pity for stern punishment. "She is absolutely determined to execute severe and exemplary justice," Renard reported, "and thus secure herself by force." She had made up her mind, or so it seemed, to annihilate all claimants to her crown, even those who, like sixteen-year-old Jane Grey, were personally innocent of intrigue. New signs of her wrath were visible daily. "There is no other news than that every day someone is condemned to death," Noailles wrote. "This one has been executed; yet another has been taken prisoner," and so on. There was general agreement that, when Elizabeth finally reached the city, she would become the next victim.
At last, on February 22, she roused herself for the last stage of her anguished journey. She had her swollen body draped in purest white on this last day, and ordered that the curtains of her litter be drawn back so that the crowds in the City might see her as she passed. There had been rumors of her illness for weeks, and the usual speculations to go with them: she was pregnant; she was near death, and nothing could revive her; she had been poisoned. In any case, whatever her condition, Mary would never let her live.
Renard was among those who watched the royal litter pass on its way to Westminster. Elizabeth's body sagged weakly against the soft cushions but her pale face, grotesquely bloated and hollow-eyed, was defiant. She was "proud, lofty, superbly disdainful," the ambassador said, supposing, as usual, that she was trying to disguise her guilt and humiliation. Others felt only compassion for her. "She is so distended and exhausted that she is a sad sight to see," wrote one; another said simply that "those who have seen her do not promise her long to live." 8
The people, dazed first by the tumultuous excitement of the rebellion and now by the lurid spectacle of dozens of public executions, stared at Elizabeth in blank wonder. She was unreal, wraithlike, as white as the new corpses that hung conspicuously from the gibbets by the roadside. In silence they let her pass.
At Westminster the palace gates swung open to admit the princess and a bare dozen of her attendants, then swung shut again. The rest of her suite,
she was told, would have to find lodging in the City. Her reception was ominously cold. There were no ceremonial guards, no footmen, no fanfare to signal the arrival of the heir apparent. And the queen, her unloving sister, was nowhere in sight.
Life is a Poets fable
and al her daies are lies
stolne from deaths reckoning table.
F
or three weeks Elizabeth lay in the palace, ill and in isolation, waiting for word from Mary. None came, nor did anyone enter her rooms save the chamberlain John Gage and the vice-chamberlain Henry Jerningham, who stood at the doors, less in attendance than as silent warders watchful against escape.
She had been purposely lodged in a remote quarter of the palace, which neither she nor the few servants allowed to stay with her could leave without passing a cordon of guards. Though no one sp
oke it, there could be no doubt that her liberty was being restricted; that Mary had forgotten, or ignored, her request for quarters far from the river for the sake of her health made her ill at ease, and fed her worst expectations.
Shut off as she was from the activity of the court Elizabeth could learn nothing of her sister's present mood, but she could imagine it without much difficulty. Mary, she knew, would be agitated, pulled in many directions at once by the force of her own newfound authority, her treasured hope of marriage to Prince Philip, her quarrelsome, insistent advisers, who were themselves of several minds about what course the queen should pursue. Left to make her own judgment, Mary might, after much inner deliberation, come down on the side of clemency toward Elizabeth. Surrounded as she was by clamorous councilors, many of them calling loudly and emphati-
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cally for the princess's execution, she might give way and satisfy both their demands and her own long-buried urge to revenge.
In fact Elizabeth had little reason to expect clemency. She had been in communication with the conspirators; they had written to her and had received verbal messages in reply; two of them, James Crofts and Nicholas Throckmorton, had come and gone freely in her household. Little further pretext for her execution was needed, yet there remained, of course, the ultimate justification: the rising had been plotted, designed and carried out in Elizabeth's name, its avowed purpose to put her on the throne.
The forceful, opinionated chancellor Gardiner had been demanding since early February that the princess be tried for treason. Simon Renard, whose views weighed heavily with Mary and whose cool diplomatic judgment was largely unalloyed by compassion, concurred. To allow her to live, he calculated, could lead to further rebellions, and would certainly make the imminent landing of Prince Philip and his Spanish retinue even more hazardous than it was already likely to be. There was no realistic alternative. Elizabeth would have to be ruthlessly sacrificed to protect Spanish interests in England.
The first Elizabeth Page 14
