As soon as she enters the room, I feel old and stout, and wish I’d chosen a different gown. She is neat and plainly dressed, presenting herself as a demure and obedient subject. When she falls prostrate before me, I look down at the top of her bowed head and bid her rise. She raises her face and I look at her clear brow, her wide innocent eyes and flawless skin, and push back the resentment of my own wasted youth. Trying not to see her mother reflected in her eyes, I open my arms.
“Elizabeth.”
As she comes into my embrace, her skin sweet on my lips, her fragrant hair tickles my face. I kiss her on either cheek. “My dear sister, you look so well. I heard you have been ailing.”
“It was just a passing thing, Your Majesty. I hope you are in good health and haven’t found the last few weeks too taxing.”
She will have heard of my desperate flight into Norfolk, the near loss of my throne. Were it not for the men who flocked to support me … she will have heard of that too. My confidence increases.
Although she tries to conceal it, I can see that she is not really pleased at my victory. As far as she is concerned, I have stolen her future. I am the queen now, and soon I will marry and bear a son to rule after me; she knows she will never wear the crown. I expect she would prefer our Protestant cousin, Jane, to be sitting here in my place.
But she keeps her resentment concealed behind a ready smile, and as we discuss the downturn in the weather, and the arrangements for the coronation, Renard’s warning rings like an alarm bell in the back of my mind. Elizabeth will always be a thorn in my flesh. She is, and always will be, a Protestant alternative to my rule. Those who are keen for reform will flock to her at the slightest provocation.
I must find a way to be rid of her; she must marry overseas. I will arrange a marriage with some elderly prince who can give her no children; a Catholic who will demand her conversion to the true faith.
As she speaks, my eyes fasten on her long fingers that she uses to embellish her words. She is quiet, self-assured, and righteous. She will not be easily persuaded. I would not put it past her to pretend to embrace the faith, but I will not tolerate anything less than a whole-hearted conversion.
It must not be a sham.
But, first things first. Once my coronation is out of the way, I will turn to the matter of finding a suitable husband for myself. My future consort must be of royal blood and he must be a Catholic; I need a man in his prime who can give me children. Above all things, I need a son, and I need one quickly, for I am past the first flush of youth.
Elizabeth promises faithfully to study, and contemplate whether or not her conscience will allow her to return to the true church. When I invite her to join me for Mass at the chapel royal, she tries to wriggle out of it, claiming a headache and a sickness of the stomach. But I insist and, reluctantly, she accompanies me. Throughout the service she makes loud complaint of griping pains and swears she is in imminent danger of vomiting.
Although I am fuming at her tricks, I ignore her, shut out her irreligious voice and give my full attention to God. She might complain, she might protest, but she is here, praying in the true manner whether she wants to or not.
Of course, I am not without empathy for her situation. It is akin to mine when Edward tried to force me to his will, but mine is the true faith. Elizabeth is not as devoted to heresy as I am to my God. She is not prepared to suffer for her beliefs as I was. Outwardly, as the weeks pass, she plays the part of a good Catholic, but I am not convinced by her compliance. I know her of old for a hypocrite.
Fabrics and trimming for my coronation gown start to arrive. By the middle of September, the cities are being decorated to mark the day. Scaffolding has been erected, scenery for the pageants is built and painted, and a great walkway installed along the coronation route. At Westminster Abbey, a stage has been constructed so everyone can see the glorious moment of my crowning. A moment I have only ever dared to dream of.
Of course, England has never had a female monarch before and there are arguments as to how the ceremony should be conducted. Some call for a rite similar to the crowning of a queen consort, but I veto that idea. I am queen in just the same way my father was king. I see no reason why the two should not be treated equal. The wrangling of my ministers floats over my head as the sense of unreality increases.
In the end, I will get my way.
Fearing an outbreak of violence, both against my gender and the reestablishment of my faith, some of my council suggest the ceremony should be postponed until parliament has restated my legitimacy. I grow restless as their droning voices go on and on. We have sat here for hours while the same problems circle the table, resulting in the same dead ends, the same barriers.
“Enough!” I spring to my feet and thump the board as my father would have done. All heads turn to me, eyes wide, faces paling as they are reminded whose daughter I am.
I am Mary, and I am the queen.
“The date, gentlemen, has been set for the first day of October, and the first day of October it shall be. If there are problems then they must be overcome so I suggest, if you value your heads, you will stop your quibbling and get on with the job!”
Leaving them to wrangle on without me, I join my women in the privy chamber and turn my attention to the cut of my gowns, the selection of my jewels. Then, just as I am beginning to relax, someone mentions the arrangements for the procession through London on the day before the ceremony.
Who is to accompany me in the litter, and who shall follow on behind? I bury my head in my hands. The minutiae of policy and the etiquette of my women is as tedious and tiring as the statesmanship of my council, but when the day comes and the arguing is over, I conclude that it has all been worthwhile.
In the end, Elizabeth, as second person of the realm, accompanies me on the royal barge to the Tower. The river is full of boats, pennants wave and people cry my good health from the banks and bridges. It is a bright day of cheer, the river is green and deep and slow, the sky a brittle blue canopy. I sit upright on cushions with the curtains drawn back so that everyone can see and glory in my presence. The next morning, on my way from the Tower to Temple Bar, I ride in an open litter drawn by six white horses apparelled in mantles of cloth of gold.
It is another bright day; the gold tinsel cloth that covers my hair casts a myriad of tiny lights all around the litter. My heart is light, but the coronet is so heavy and ponderous I can scarce hold up my head. My neck is aching before we’ve travelled a mile.
Ahead, I see the Duke of Norfolk, all reservation of my legitimacy forgotten as he leads the way, carrying the royal sword. Behind Norfolk comes the mayor of London who bears the golden sceptre. Beside my litter, clad head to toe in scarlet, rides Norfolk’s wife, Elizabeth Stafford, and beside her, the marchionesses of Winchester and Exeter. Elizabeth Stafford, long estranged from her husband, takes delight in flaunting her prominent place in the royal party. Every so often, their eyes clash, the air between them seeming to hiss with hatred. I wonder what happened between them. They are certainly no great advocate for marriage. I will make sure that when I select my own spouse, I will choose with greater care.
Following behind me, Elizabeth and Anne of Cleves share a carriage. Once or twice, the crowd catch sight of my sister and call out her name, but they shout mine the loudest for I am their queen.
Lines of peeresses, and ladies and gentlewomen complete the parade, the younger girls laughing and waving to the crowd. The royal henchmen all clad in Tudor green and white follow in their wake.
The skies of London resound with joy as the procession, which is more than a mile long, winds its way through the streets. We pass through a massed crowd, the city aldermen to the fore, the multitude behind, and I wave and smile upon them all. These people have put aside their everyday lives and travelled from far and wide to welcome me to my throne. Such an array of civic pageantry has not been seen in many a year. The dark days are done, forgotten, and England’s capital sparkles like a new minted shilling.<
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I spy a boy dressed as a girl carried on a throne by men and giants. At Cornhill, Florentines pay tribute to my triumphant ascent to the throne with an image of Judith saving her people from Holofernes. I am touched by their recognition of the struggles I have suffered. I twist in my seat, turning back and forth so often that my neck grows tired, but I don’t want to miss a single display laid on for my delectation.
“Oh look, an angel!” I cry, and Elizabeth Stafford turns and smiles, snatching at her veil as it is blown across her face by a playful gust of wind. She laughs as she struggles to free herself, and points to a city conduit that is issuing wine in honour of the day.
The celebrations will last long into the night and into the next day. England well deserves this happy time. We pass a group of children, singing sweetly. I smile and blink away tears as their voices fill my heart with sentiment. The people love me; the citizens of my capital and far, far beyond, love and welcome me as their queen.
This day, the day the crown of England is lowered on to my head, is the greatest of my life. It has all been worthwhile; the loneliness, the shame, the suffering. Misery has only made me stronger, and that strength has brought me to this moment.
My first action following my coronation is to declare that the marriage between my father and mother was valid. I am legitimate again, in the eyes of the law and of the people, and there is no one living who dares deny it.
At last, I have achieved the thing I have fought for since I was a young girl. I have redeemed my mother who, from now on, will be referred to as the late queen, not the late Princess of Wales. If I could erase the whole affair of the king’s great matter from history I would do so, but the product of my father’s liaison with the Boleyn woman is living testament to it. She resides at my court; a slim, elegant reminder of my past unhappiness.
I have not yet determined what I shall do with Elizabeth. It is as well to keep her under my watchful eye but her presence irks me and serves as a constant reminder that I am growing old. As the queen in waiting, Elizabeth is in her prime and a constant reminder of my mortality.
Her existence taunts me.
Of course, my council has already begun to discuss the idea of marriage, but now that the time has come to choose a husband I find myself reluctant. I do crave a child of my own, someone who will love me for who I am, and whom I can love in return. I need an heir, but a husband is a different matter.
I have seen too clearly the discomforts of the marriage bed. My father’s multiple wives brought him little peace, and my stepmother Katherine Parr, when finally able to wed the man she loved, soon came to regret it. If I am to marry, the man I choose must be devoted, but loyalty is a fluid thing and apt to change as quickly as the tide.
I would never tolerate infidelity and it seems to me that marital faith does not really exist. I would always be watching, waiting for his eye to fall on someone younger, someone fairer. My jealousy would be untenable and I think I would rather be childless and live in peace than bear the shame of a faithless husband. But when I broach this idea with the council, they throw up their hands in horror. It seems chastity is not a permitted state for a queen because a queen must bear an heir.
I wonder if it is usual for the royal council to be unable to agree on anything. It seems each step of the way I am faced with opposition – not an open fight, of course, none of them would dare to blatantly disagree with me. They are too wary of my temper. But I am constantly tripped by subtle argument.
I push for a return to Rome but, although they agree to be rid of Edward’s prayer book and priests are once more forbidden to take wives, I cannot persuade them to accept the authority of the Pope. It has nothing to do with their faith, of course. They are not afraid of God’s wrath but of losing their lands, the fine houses they’ve built on church property. There is no way around it. I am forced to concede and let them keep their land but, although I agree to remain Head of the Church in England as my father was, at least I can make sure that England now prays in the old way – whether they like it or not.
Although I feel the restoration is incomplete and I like the situation little better than my cousin, Reginald Pole, I accept that we must move slowly. Slow but sure as my old nurse used to say. England has changed since my father’s day, and will not easily be persuaded to revert. As soon as can be managed, the gentle old ways are reinstated. The work is done by degrees, the crosses are restored to the rood lofts, the gilded wall paintings repaired, and Latin prayers are murmured once more in the dead of night.
“Your Majesty, you must choose a husband. If the old religion is to continue after … ahem … Your Majesty cannot be here forever. You must have a son to rule after…”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
Rochester is like a dog with a rat, he will not let the matter drop. I wonder which member of the council has prompted him to accost me.
“I am not a young woman, Rochester … you are aware that there are certain dangers attached to marriage and the childbed?”
“But … Your Majesty will concede it to be her royal duty.”
I sigh, and stare unsmiling into his dark eyes. He does not flinch away. I cannot argue. He is right. My father moved heaven and earth to get England an heir. I should put my personal fear aside and do the same. I sigh heavily and throw my book onto the table.
“I will wed nobody until I have met and spoken with them at length. I refuse to take a stranger into my bed. Have the council make up a list of suitors, and I will scratch through any I am not prepared to consider.”
I recall my father suggesting a similar thing and someone quipped that selecting a bride was not dissimilar to choosing a new horse. I glare at Rochester, daring him to remember that also.
“Very well, Your Majesty.” He bows low, backs from the room and, as the door closes, Susan comes forward.
“Is there anything you require, Your Majesty?”
I lean back in my chair and scowl into the fire.
“My father was right. I should have been a boy. If I were a king, marriage would be a simpler thing. Wives are dispensable but a queen is not. If I die in childbirth, all England will be affected. There will be chaos. But supposing when – if – I marry, my husband seeks to rule in my stead or tries to use my power to his own ends? He might argue that as the male he is my superior. Even if I wed one of my subjects, a man far beneath me in status, he might still seek to raise himself or fill his coffers at my expense. Oh, Susan, how can I trust any of them? Men greatly dislike being ruled by a woman and I long for peace. I fear marriage will bring me little of that.”
“I fear it brings few of us comfort, Your Majesty.”
“What would you do if you were me, Susan?”
“Me? Well … if I might speak frankly, Your Majesty, I think it unlikely you will find personal satisfaction with any man. Perhaps it would be best to choose a husband who will be beneficial to the church. Select a Catholic gentleman, someone with authority who has the strength to stand against Protestantism not just in our realm but overseas too.”
There are Catholics aplenty to choose from in England, but an English gentleman would have little influence abroad.
“What you mean is that I should take Philip of Spain, isn’t it?”
She crosses her hands on her bosom.
“Yes, Your Majesty. You are half Spanish yourself so it would not be like marrying a foreigner, and he is kin too. A perfect match, I’d say. Think how it would have pleased your mother.”
My mother always favoured a match with Spain. She was furious when my betrothal to Charles came to nothing.
“Philip is younger than I, yet not too young. Some of the names put forward by the Imperial Ambassador have been young enough to be my sons.”
“They say he is handsome.”
“I was betrothed to his father once, when I was an infant. There may be an impediment.”
“Surely not, Your Majesty. Who else has been suggested? Dom Louis? Are you considering him?”
/> “I’m considering them all, as the council suggests. Many of them are suitors of old. It seems I am more desirable now I am queen than when I was a princess of nebulous status.”
“You can hardly blame them, Your Majesty. Your position was always so uncertain before.”
“How gallant of them…”
“Perhaps you’d prefer an Englishman?”
“Hmm, the list is most unprepossessing. They’ve even suggested Reginald Pole.”
“The Cardinal?” Her brows shoot upward. “Is that … permissible?”
“In theory. He has never been ordained into the priesthood but he is far too … forthright, a little too earnest for me. I fear we would clash most horribly.”
“Edward Courtenay then?” She gets up and brings a tray of victuals closer, and then taking her seat again, she picks up her sewing.
“He is the favourite of those who prefer an English match.”
“But not those who mistrust his Plantagenet blood.”
“Well, there is that but … he is peculiar. The years in the Tower have taught him no manners.”
Courtenay, another cousin of mine, has spent most of his life in the Tower, since his family were attainted after the Exeter conspiracy in my father’s day. When I ascended the throne, I was glad to offer him liberty and restore his title and honours at court. But, while I deeply pity the life he has led thus far, I cannot reconcile myself to the idea of marrying him. His royal blood makes him a good match, as does his faith and age, but his sudden liberty has gone to his head and I’ve heard he favours a dissolute life. I pull a face.
“If he behaves so badly at court, imagine what he might descend to in his private life. Imagine what he might subject a wife to…”
I catch Susan’s eye, our imaginations romp along a similar path and we both dissolve into laughter. Ruefully, I shake my head and let the list fall to the floor.
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 22
