“And fat,” I added helpfully.
“Aye, Princess.” He nodded. “And fat.”
“Nonsense!” I leapt up. “Brisk exercise is marvelous for slimming the physique! Come, Sir Huff and Puff, let us run!” And seizing his hand, I began to run again, just for the sheer joy of it, along the road to London, leaving the guards and litter to follow in our wake.
“Princess, please!” Sir Huff and Puff cried, “have mercy on me!”
The London I returned to was a very different place from the one I had left. The burnings had begun; to give the condemned heretics a foretaste of Hell in the hopes that they might repent and be saved even as they breathed their last, and to frighten those who bore witness back onto the right path—the Catholic road to salvation. I could smell the singed hair and roasted flesh in the air, and see the ashes wafting down like gray snowflakes. It made me gag and my eyes smart, and I clutched my pomander ball to my nose, inhaling deeply the commingled scents of oranges and cloves.
When the people saw my litter they fell to their knees and reached out to me, and I saw hope leap like flames inside their eyes.
“English to the core that one is,” I heard many a man or woman say as I rode past. “A true English rose, not half a Spaniard in body and all Spaniard in heart like her sister is!”
It both gladdened my heart and saddened it, knowing they wanted me, but that I was powerless to stop the burnings that made every English man and woman live in terror, fearing that an overzealous priest or heretic hunter or even a vengeful neighbor might denounce them and send them to a fiery death.
Time and again, the ignorant were punished for their lack of knowledge or simple misunderstandings; people who did not even understand what a sacrament was were sent to the stake because they couldn’t name the proper number. Some of them died with their eyes turned to Heaven calling out my name, imploring God to keep me safe and send me soon to reign; they were looking to me as to a light at the end of a tunnel, they were looking to me to save them, to deliver them from this evil. Out of the three children my father had sired, I was the most like him, and they knew that this would never have happened in Great Harry’s time. I, the princess who he always said should have been a prince, was the only one to inherit his power to reach out and touch people’s hearts. With just a look I could inspire loyalty, I could give them courage and hope.
As for my sister, the woman who had once been their beloved “Princess Marigold,” whose rights they had always championed, and who had begun her reign being hailed as “Merciful Mary,” she had forfeited her popularity and thrown away her subjects’ love to have a Spanish prince’s ring on her finger and his body in her bed. Some claimed now that they had been mistaken when she began her reign in believing that she was God’s divine instrument sent to sit upon England’s throne, but in truth the virgin queen named Mary was actually the Antichrist in disguise. How it must have hurt Mary to hear such things said of her, to know that people prayed for her and the child she carried within her to die, but she was queen and as such must take responsibility for the acts and laws of her realm, and it was her signature on the death warrants that sent those people to die in agony amongst the flames.
When we reached Hampton Court, Sir Henry Bedingfield walked me to the door of my apartments. Hat in hands, he humbly took his leave of me, apologizing for any offense he had given me, and reminding me yet again that he had only been following orders.
Impulsively, I took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and with a smile I said to him, “If ever a day comes when I am in a position of power and require a prisoner to be most strictly and straitly kept, rest assured, my good Sir Gaoler, I shall send for you.”
“Oh My Lady!” He blushed like a bashful boy and, lowering his eyes, bowed to me and bade me a hasty farewell.
Alone in my apartments with Kat and Blanche Parry to attend me, I donned my finest virgin white gown and brushed out my hair until it rippled and gleamed in bold and brazen scarlet waves down my back. Then Kat crowned me with a white French hood edged with pearls, and Blanche hung ropes of pearls about my neck, and I took a deep breath and steeled myself to face my sister.
There was a sharp imperious tap upon my door and it opened instantly to reveal a short but nonetheless handsome golden-haired man with a little pointy-as-a-dagger beard and cold, dead eyes that sharply contrasted with their warm, oceanic blue color. He had a distinctly regal bearing and was dressed grandly in the fashion of Spain, all bloodred crimson and gold embroidery and lace, all asparkle with bloody rubies and icy diamonds. Here was a man both hot and cold.
Prince Philip of Spain. I had no need to wait for an introduction, I recognized him at once. I knew him for a foe but I would feign to be his friend. I felt as if the Devil himself had walked into my bedchamber, but I knew better than to let him see or sense my fear; he would glut and gloat and feed on it and turn it into a weapon to be used against me.
I dropped at once to my knees, the virgin supplicant begging mercy of the mighty monarch; I knew instinctively that these were the roles and that was the game we would be playing tonight.
“Your Highness,” I said, letting conviction sear every syllable, “no matter what you may have heard said of me, I am entirely loyal to my sister, the rightful queen of this realm, long may she reign.” I saw the scarlet rosettes on the toes of his golden shoes as he came to stand before me, and I could feel the burn of his eyes upon the exposed white flesh of my bosom as he stared down my low, square-cut bodice.
I did not flinch as his hand reached down and caught my arm and pulled me up, his fingers biting hard through the rich stuff of my gown. He stood and stared for a long time, his eyes boring hard into mine. Suddenly, he pulled me close, tight against his chest, and his lips came down over mine, in a bruising and crushing conqueror’s kiss.
Though I wanted to push him away, to spit in his face, kick and slap him, and rake my nails down his face, I forced myself to close my eyes and go limp in a swoon of surrender, letting my head flop and loll back, making my breasts appear all the more prominent above my low pearl-bordered bodice. He shifted me, as limp in his arms as if I were a poor child’s rag-poppet, and I felt the strength of his arms beneath my back and knees as he lifted me and carried me to my bed.
Flushing and fluttering, wringing her hands, Mrs. Ashley hovered indecisively nearby, not daring to intervene yet afraid to go, as he lowered me against the pillows.
He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss onto each of the exposed half moons of my breasts, then turned on his heel and strode purposefully out with all the confidence and supreme arrogance of a man who has come to conquer and succeeded . . . or thinks he has.
When he was gone, I sat up, threw my pillow at the door through which he had gone, and laughed until tears rolled down my face at the overweening vanity and arrogance of the man. He actually thought he had staked his claim to me as Spain had to the New World! Did he really think he could conquer me and treat me like a puddle at his feet? Oh yes, he did!
“Oh, Philip, Philip,” I sighed through my convulsive glee, “you don’t know me very well, and you never will, you will never see the real me until it is too late! You are not my master, or England’s master, and you never will be either!”
At ten o’clock that night, “Faithful Susan,” Mary’s favorite and most trusted lady-in-waiting, came with a lighted torch in hand to lead me across the dark garden and up the backstairs to Mary’s private apartments.
The reunion with my sister was a tense and frosty one. She stood straight-backed and harsh-faced before me, with her hand constantly caressing her swollen belly as if it were a talisman or good luck charm. She wore a blinding silver and gold gown with a dizzyingly dense and intense design of silver and gold embroidered pomegranates, the symbol for fertility, which had also been her mother’s personal emblem and thus was doubly dear to Mary, trimmed with copious amounts of gold and silver parchment lace, and accented with a whole treasure chest of diamonds and pearls,
with an enormous diamond-encrusted crucifix at her breast and her treasured ivory rosary and a gilded and bejeweled Book of Hours dangling where her waist should have been. She was so weighed down with jewels, upon her headdress, about her neck, wrists, and gown, rings on every finger, and tugging cruelly at her ears, I marveled that she could even walk or stand upright beneath the weight. She looked like a woman who had drenched herself with glue and then jumped and rolled in a jewel merchant’s chest. And yet . . . all the finery could not hide the fact that her face looked gaunt and haggard, with dark shadows around her eyes, almost like a ghastly yellowed skull in the candlelight. And beneath the richly decorated headdress I could clearly see the curve of her skull through her hair.
And there beside her, in his scarlet and gold conqueror’s clothes, was Prince Philip, with thinly veiled irritation lurking just below the surface as he suffered the touch of her hand, with the talonlike nails, possessively grasping his arm. I could see it was all he could do not to slap it away. I watched him watching us, taking careful note of the coldness between us, and I knew I must play this scene for his benefit. I needed him. I could see it in her eyes that Mary wanted me dead, and now I must look to the combined forces of the lust of a Spanish prince and my own wits to save my life.
I could see at a glance that things were not well between Mary and her Spanish bridegroom, and the servants’ gossip that Blanche and Kat had collected confirmed it, though my willfully blind sister was so besotted with Philip that she could not see his genuine contempt and callous indifference. He had not a shred of love for her, or even liking; any scraps of affection he gave her were feigned and false. I could see him grimace every time she spoke to him, fighting not to flinch and pull away each time she touched him, which she did often, forever clinging, begging for his attention and affection like a dog for table scraps. It sickened me! I knew he was here only for one reason—to give Spain a foothold in England, to make our proud little nation another jewel in the Hapsburg crown. You fool—I had to bite my tongue not to laugh in his face and tell him—we English will lay down our lives before we suffer you to rule here; you may be Mary’s consort but you will never be king, but the vain and pompous flash of your diamond-brilliant pride will not let you see that. You are as blind in your own way as my sister Mary is in hers!
In my best white gown, I knelt at Mary’s feet, feeling Philip’s lingering and admiring gaze scorch and burn my bosom, as I humbly hung my head and waited for her to address me.
“Well?” she asked, her voice impatient and gruff. “What have you to say for yourself? My Councilors tell me that even after a stay in the Tower and a dreary exile in the country with nothing much to do but think, you still refuse to confess your guilt.”
“I cannot confess a crime I have not committed. Mary, you are my sister, and my queen.” I met her eyes boldly as I continued to kneel at her feet. “And I will not lie to you. I have had no part in any rebellion or plot against you. Those who have used my name have done so entirely without my sanction or support. I am your true and loyal subject, as well as your loving sister.”
“Oh you are clever!” Mary hissed. “You excel in the art of dissembling! You have covered your tracks well and left no evidence against you, knowing that my Council will not allow me to condemn you without it!”
“There is no evidence to conceal, Mary,” I told her, my voice calm and level. “I have always walked the path of a loyal and loving subject, thus I have no need to cover my tracks. In searching for proof of my dishonesty and betrayal, you are looking for something that cannot be found because it does not exist.”
“Liar! Heretic!” Mary screamed, clasping her hands about her head, digging her fingernails hard into her temples. “You have always been a gifted student of languages, and are as fluent in the language of lies as you are in English!”
“Mary”—calmly I reached for her hand even though she snatched it away as if my touch burned her—“you have let our differences in faith sour and cloud the love that was once between us. I can worship God in my own way without being party to plots, rebellions, and conspiracies. Just because I, like you, follow my conscience and remain true to the faith I was raised in, even though it is a different faith than your own, does not make me disloyal, dishonest, or in any way a threat to your person or your crown. I am not a traitor. If any sought me out with such in mind I would turn them away. Why must religion always come between us? Why can we not agree to disagree? There is but one Jesus Christ and Ten Commandments, the rest is but a dispute about trifles!”
“Blasphemer!” Mary screamed and swung out her hand, striking me so hard that the metal and jewels of her rings stung my face and I fell backward, flat on my back at her feet. “And do not lie and say that you are my sister, for that is the most foul lie of all! You are the bastard brat of that whore Anne Boleyn and her pet lute-player, that creature Smeaton, and you will never be queen, for you are not my father’s daughter. You are not a Tudor even by half, and you do not deserve it—you are a bastard. God Himself is against you; He has shown me His favor by blessing me with a son!” She hugged her belly triumphantly. “And when he is born you will be nothing. You will be forgotten, and, proof or no proof, the Council will not be able to stop me from . . .”
“Madame!” Philip’s voice crashed down like an executioner’s ax onto her words, cutting them off. “Control yourself! This is not queenly behavior, and I will not have my wife behaving like a brawlsome tavern strumpet who leaves a corset off her emotions as she does her loose body!”
With a cry like a wounded animal, Mary, despite her burdensome belly, dropped to her knees and took Philip’s hands in hers, covering them with kisses and tears, begging for his forgiveness.
“She always brings out the worst in me!” she sobbed, glaring at me with accusing, reproachful eyes.
“No one should ever be able to make a queen and a true lady with even a drop of Spanish blood in her forget her dignity!” Philip reproved her coldly, and I saw his leg twitch as if he longed to kick her like he would a dog that vexed him.
“Husband, please, forgive me!” Mary sobbed, clutching frantically at his fingers and rubbing her wet cheeks against them, bathing them with her tears.
Coolly, Philip pulled his hands away. “I think you should retire now, Madame. In your condition it is not meet that you should let emotions so overwhelm you. Mistress Clarencieux!” he barked. “The Queen is distressed and will retire now; you will assist her!”
And weeping, Mary leaned against “Faithful Susan” and let herself be led away.
I lay still upon the floor, leaning back upon my elbows, and watched it all.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Philip came to me, and raised me to my feet. “She will apologize,” he promised. The steely cold anger in his eyes guaranteed it. “She will kneel at your feet and humbly beg your pardon; I shall see to it. Henceforth, she will treat you with kindness and respect. I as her husband shall command it and she will obey; that is what wives do.”
He caressed my smarting red cheek as if his very touch could heal me, and then pulled me close, crushing my breasts against his chest, as he buried his lips in the curve of my neck.
“Mi Elizabetha!” he murmured hotly against my skin.
“Algún día, Philip, algún día! Someday, Philip, someday!” I sighed with wistful, fervent ardor in Spanish, although what I actually meant and what he thought I meant were two very different things entirely. I clutched him close, pressing my body into his as though I meant us to fuse together into one person, digging my nails into his back through his splendid clothes, while over his shoulder I smiled and bit my lip to keep from bursting out laughing.
An hour later, Mary sent for me, and under Philip’s watchful and commanding gaze, cumbersomely lowered herself to her knees and knelt before me in her silver and gold embroidered nightgown and cap and humbly begged my pardon for striking and insulting me.
“Sister, of course I forgive you!” I said with a reassur
ing smile. “We all forget ourselves at times when the heat of the moment takes our tempers from a simmer to a boil. Here, let me help you up. In your condition you should not kneel.” And I bent to help her.
But there was a quiet, cold anger blazing in Mary’s gray eyes. I knew she resented what she had just been made to do, which I could well understand. I felt sorry for her; I knew what it was like to be under a man’s spell, willfully blind to the truth and his faults, and to behave in ways that flew in the face of reason. I wished I could sit down, take her hands in mine, and confide in her, and make her see, and set her free. But Mary had always been shortsighted. It taxed her eyes just to read a book or write a letter, she could not recognize faces across a room, and lived always in a blur with no clear or true sight of who or what lay in wait for her. And her mind was equally shortsighted; time and again she consistently failed to see beyond her own nose. She chose to see only what she wanted to see and believe only what she wanted to believe. And just as she chose to believe that England longed for a return to what she considered the true religion, she now chose to believe that Philip loved her, that his strictness was proper husbandly conduct, meted out for her own good, moral enrichment, and improvement, and that God had sent her a fairy-tale prince and together they would live happily ever after while the Pope, happy to have his power restored, not to mention his tithes, smiled down upon them like the sun, as the good shepherd and shepherdess who had brought his flock back to him.
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