Not one of the courtiers; the men might know when Philip was expected in England, but were unlikely to know when he might bed the queen. He would need to own one of Mary's women. That was harder. They were all devoted Catholics who believed looking into the future was a sin. So he would not look into the future; surely he could find some other way to bind Mary's woman.
Having reestablished himself in Otstargi's house, Vidal sent notes to those of the Court who had visited him in the past. A surprising number came; Mary's Court was an uneasy, unhappy place. Many complained of his lengthy absence and said he was no good to them if he was so unreliable. Vidal made no defense. Actually the fewer clients he had the better off he would be.
Those clients who wanted advice from him gave him most unpalatable news in return. Philip was having the time of his life in the Netherlands and showed no signs of wishing to return to England. Mary had sent messengers and special ambassadors to plead with him to come back, but she had not been able to obtain from Parliament what Philip demanded, a vote to set the crown of England on his head. He had the name of king; Parliament would not give him the legal right to rule the nation. His influence in England rested on Mary's life. And her failure to give him independent rule was making Mary sick.
Vidal's latest visitor, Sir Francis Engelfield, confirmed that information. Engelfield was close to the queen and had been her servant for many years. He was uneasy—only a year previously he had sat as one of a commission to examine persons who used unlawful arts of conjuring and witchcraft. But Engelfield knew Otstargi's name from Ambassador Renard, a good and pious Catholic, and utterly trusted by the queen. Renard was no longer in England, but Engelfield remembered he had consulted Otstargi.
Moreover Otstargi made no claim to look into the future. There were no arcane tools on Otstargi's table or in his chamber and he made no mysterious gestures beyond closing his eyes when he considered a question. In any case Engelfield was so torn with worry that he decided to try the man Renard had trusted.
He spoke first about the latest failed attempt to induce Philip to return to England and admitted that Mary had been overset anew when Philip sent for the last of his suite still in England, his seventy-year old physician, who was in no condition to travel. The queen was losing hope, Engelfield said, and her attendants feared that her health was breaking up.
That last information was whispered with nervous glances around the room. To discuss the queen's health was treason. The speaker wrung his hands. He was not asking for his own sake. He cared nothing for that. If there were something Otstargi had learned in his travels that might give the queen hope her husband would come back to her . . . He meant no treason; he truly loved the queen and the words were wrung from him out of his genuine concern.
That was the worst news Vidal had yet. If the queen's health should fail, his entire hope for generations of strife and misery in England would come to nothing. Otstargi pursed his lips. But bad as the news of the failure of the queen's health was, it had given him the opening he needed to snare one of the queen's women.
"It is possible that I could be of some help," he said, slipping a ring from his finger and rolling it from one hand to the other.
"Are you a physician also?" Engelfield asked hopefully, his eyes following the bright glitter of the ruby in the ring.
"No, not at all. However, for my own health, I have long taken a tonic designed for me by a wise woman of Seville." He smiled. "It does not promise life eternal or any such foolishness, but it does offer a stronger vitality and a sense of well-being."
With his eyes caught by the intermittent gleam of red under Otstargi's fingers, Engelfield said, "Oh, I would not dare offer the queen any draught. How could I explain from whom I had it?"
"No, nor would I suggest that. The queen is far too precious to take a chance on strange potions. And to speak the truth, I do not know if the draught is suitable for a woman. Perhaps there is a lady of Queen Mary's household who would take the chance and try it? I know there is no harm in the potion. I drink it myself, but if it would make a woman's stomach uneasy . . . No worse effect would come of the trial, I promise."
Three days later Engelfield was back and Vidal gave him a small flask. It contained a slightly sweet/tart liquid that did, indeed, over the next week make Engelfield feel more cheerful. By early September Engelfield was sure the potion was safe. Then, in Croydon in an apartment reserved for her by Cardinal Pole, where Mary should have been perfectly safe, a new calumny struck her in person. Someone with free access to her rooms strewed her apartment with the most disgusting image yet. It showed Mary as a wrinkled hag, mostly naked, suckling at her shriveled bosom a host of Spaniards. Around the drawing were the words "Maria Ruina Angliae."
The effect on Mary was devastating and ended all Englefield's doubts. He told Susan Clarencieux his tale of consulting Renard's favorite advisor and of Otstargi's potion.
Susan was not quite the favorite that she had been before Mary's false pregnancy. She had been one of those who clung longest to the fiction that Mary was pregnant. When Jane Dormer had long been silent on the subject, except to follow Mary's prayers, Susan had offered hope. Now Mary could hardly look at her. If Engelfield had a potion to improve Mary's health and spirits, Susan would gladly try it to make sure it did no ill—and if it did good, offer it to the queen. Perhaps it would redeem the queen's trust.
Engelfield had no more of the draught and made an appointment for Susan to speak to Otstargi herself. She was reluctant at first, but Engelfield assured her that Renard trusted Otstargi, who did not tell fortunes or practice witchcraft. Susan came away from her meeting with him deeply impressed with his candor and sobriety and wearing a handsome ruby ring that she smiled at, remembering that she had it from her grandmother when she was too young to wear it.
She also carried two small flasks of the sweet/tart potion, which Otstargi had sampled before her eyes. If it did her no harm and the queen liked it, he said as he saw her out of the house, he would give her more. Unfortunately it did not keep well, he said, so he could not give her a large amount. She would have to come back to his house, or send a messenger, to obtain more.
* * *
Elizabeth had spent an extraordinarily peaceful summer. She was not really bored. She had her estates to administer—under Sir Thomas Pope's watchful eye. But for all he watched, he did not interfere and in other ways he was a most indulgent governor. He rode hunting with her and he did not at all object to Lord Denno's company either, talking eagerly of merchant ventures.
Nonetheless, Elizabeth was not content. The fact that Pope had been assigned her governor and Kat and others of her household dismissed, marked her as guilty or untrustworthy. As Mary looked less and less healthy, Elizabeth wished to keep herself—young, healthy, and unsullied—in the eyes of the Council and the people. That was difficult, hidden away in Hatfield as she was. In August, Elizabeth wrote to Mary and begged permission to come to London.
She did not ask to join the Court, but even the more general request received no answer. That did not really surprise her. Mary was not eager for her unwelcome heir to be too visible and possibly make herself more popular. Elizabeth thought of writing again, and then thought better of it; her letters seemed to annoy Mary. She spent the next few weeks mulling over various expedients: whether to ask Sir Thomas to make the request for her or write directly to the Council or to dare to come to London on her own.
She was still trying to decide when, on the twenty-fifth of September, Lord Denno rode into Hatfield in haste bearing news that must soon alter the situation. Uncharacteristically, he blurted out the news in front of Sir Thomas, and then apologized for his carelessness.
"I do beg your pardon, Sir Thomas. One of my ships newly in from Italy carried the word. Perhaps I should not have told Lady Elizabeth that Edward Courtenay is dead, but her name has so often been linked to his—"
"Not by my will, I assure you," Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose. "I suppose I should be sorry to
hear of his death, and in a way I am; he was young. It is sad when someone you know dies young. But to speak the truth, I am more relieved than sorry. Edward Courtenay was a weak fool, and it gave me the green grue to hear him called my beloved bedfellow."
"Lady Elizabeth!" Lord Denno exclaimed in a shocked voice, although he was more tempted to laugh than be shocked.
Thomas Pope was the one who laughed. "That does not altogether surprise me."
"I will never marry," Elizabeth said, looking at her clasped hands lest her eyes wander to her Denno. "My experience has not given marriage a good odor."
But Courtenay's death solved Elizabeth's problem about showing herself. Only a few days after the news was confirmed by the Council, in October of 1556, Elizabeth was relieved of Sir Thomas's supervision. She said a fond fare well to him, almost sorry to see him go for he was good company. But less than a month later, in mid-November, Elizabeth received an invitation to join Mary's Court.
She was delighted, but she was not going to arrive like a penitent. She rode through Smithfield and the old Bailey, along Fleet Street, accompanied by two hundred armsmen and gentlemen all in scarlet velvet coats slashed with black. Greeted by the usual tumultuous welcome from the Londoners, Elizabeth rode to Somerset House. She was a little disappointed that none of the courtiers had ridden out to greet her, but over the next three days many came to pay calls at Somerset House. Cautious herself, Elizabeth did not blame them for not wishing to be obvious.
On the third day an invitation came from the queen. Elizabeth was pleased, expecting to be received openly by Mary and thus, in a sense, recognized as sister and heir. To Elizabeth's surprise and disappointment, she was escorted to Cardinal Pole. He was seated and did not rise. Elizabeth curtsied and kissed the ring he held out toward her, exasperatedly running over in her mind how many Masses she had heard recently and how ambiguous she dared make her professions of adherence to the Catholic faith.
Only the cardinal did not question her conversion. He said, "You have often been accused of disloyalty and of ambitions to seize your sister's throne."
"I have been unjustly accused," Elizabeth said firmly. "I have never by word or deed been disloyal to Queen Mary."
"That may well be true," Pole replied, "but you could easily avoid all such suspicions in the future if you had a husband to manage your affairs and shield you from public censure."
Like Mary's husband shields her? Elizabeth did not voice her thought, only shook her head. "I will never marry," she said. "I will never give my body and my soul into some strange man's keeping. Better by far I keep them myself."
"That is not a natural state for a woman." Pole frowned. Elizabeth's voice had become more and more vehement as she spoke.
Elizabeth did not like Cardinal Pole. She knew he was said to be saintly by many, but she thought common sense in a government minister was of more value than saintliness. She also blamed him for the continued persecution of heretics when it was obvious that the burnings were inflaming heresy rather than suppressing it. She had heard Pole expressed fanatical opinions on the need to root out all heretics. On the other hand Elizabeth had much evidence of Mary's kind and forgiving nature. It seemed unlike her sister to cling to so cruel and useless a policy without outside urging.
"Nonsense!" she snapped. "The Bible tells us over and over that chastity is the highest state for any person. Saint Paul only accepts marriage as the lesser evil if a person must satisfy carnal desires. I assure you, Lord Cardinal, that I have no problem at all with carnal desires." Not while Denno satisfies them so well. "I have never found a mortal man—" she said with a tight smile "—who awoke in me the smallest inclination to abandon my chaste state."
Cardinal Pole's pale, ascetic face had flushed. He was offended by Elizabeth's tone and by her free mention of carnal desires. He said it was a woman's duty to bear children, with Latin citations to prove it. He was shocked when Elizabeth, who clearly understood what he had said, gave back chapter and verse from the Bible and citations from Saint Paul and Saint Augustine that held other duties higher than childbearing. Elizabeth's scholarship might be no real match for Pole's, but her Latin was fluent and her knowledge of the Fathers and the Bible itself extensive.
Never before had Cardinal Pole confronted such a woman. Even the queen was overawed and docile to his authority. However he was no fool and saw that Elizabeth was actually enjoying herself. If she were not a woman and not a heretic—he was sure of it; no good Catholic would have so argued with a cardinal of the Church—he would have enjoyed the disputation. As it was, he left her with the last word—that she would not marry—certain he would never be able to seize it, and sent her on to the queen.
Owing to her interview with the cardinal, Elizabeth was not as shocked and frightened as she might have been when Mary said she had tidings of great joy for her. Elizabeth was about to say that it was sufficient joy to be received so affectionately by her sister, that she desired nothing more. But before she could get the words out, Mary announced in her deep harsh voice that it was her pleasure to offer to Elizabeth a noble prince, Emmanuel Philibert, prince of Piedmont and duke of Savoy, as a husband.
"No!" Elizabeth exclaimed, loud enough for every person in the chamber to hear. "I will never marry, and certainly not a foreign prince of nothing but empty titles."
Mary gaped at her, shocked by the crude truth; then without answering it, said, "Is this the obedience you always claim? As my loyal subject you are duty bound to marry as I direct."
"No!" Elizabeth cried, and burst into tears. "I will obey you in anything else, madam, but I do not wish to marry. I cannot bear the thought of committing my body and my soul to any mortal man."
Seeing Elizabeth in tears, Mary became softer and cajoling, relating to Elizabeth all the joys of marriage. She would no longer need to carry the heavy responsibilities of managing her people and her property, all questions of conscience would be made clear and decided by her husband's strong mind. Mary described, in fact, every worst nightmare of helplessness and impotence Elizabeth had ever had and assured her her husband would make it come true.
The more Mary tried to convince her, the more vehement became Elizabeth denials. Never, never, she screamed between sobs. She would never marry. She would! Mary shouted back, exasperated. If she would not marry, Mary would order Parliament to remove Elizabeth from the succession and name a new heir.
"Well?" the queen demanded, surprising Elizabeth by her ferocity. "Now will you accept Emmanuel Philibert?"
"Never," Elizabeth shouted, raising her tear wet face. "I will never marry. I will never, of my own will, leave England."
Mary's face turned nearly black on those words, proving what had been her intention. "Then you will be no one," she screamed. "You will be buried in obscurity. No sister of mine. Parliament will repudiate you."
Although those were the last words Mary spoke to her before an angry dismissal, Elizabeth was not much worried about what Parliament would do. Mary had less and less influence with the Commons and the bills she urgently supported were not passed. To get Parliament to vote the subsidy needed for the government's expenses, Gardiner had had to promise not even to raise the question of Philip being crowned. No, Elizabeth was certain, Mary could never convince Parliament to disinherit her.
Even the Council was unlikely to agree to disinherit her or order her to marry, Elizabeth was sure. Gardiner, who had been able to rally some of them to apply pressure to Elizabeth, was now dead. There was no powerful, single leader. And Mary was ageing fast; she was thinner and had been ill the past autumn. Very few were about to declare themselves enemies of the next queen.
What Elizabeth did fear, what paled her cheeks and made her breath draw in fast, was fear of being abducted, carried overseas, and married by force. As soon as she had returned to Somerset house she summoned Sir Edward and told him what had happened.
"I will send messengers out to gather your men," he said grimly.
They were on the road by
December third and reached Hatfield without hindrance. Elizabeth made no secret of the fact that she had hired more men and that the manor house was defended like a fortress. And Elizabeth finally dismissed the women Mary had forced on her when she was first accused of being embroiled with rebels. She dismissed them kindly with gifts and many thanks for their long service, but she made it plain enough that considering the threat to her freedom, she would no longer tolerate information about her or about the routine of her household being passed to the queen.
If the queen sent informers to judge Elizabeth's defenses, they must have reported that Hatfield would not be taken without great noise and bloodshed. One attempt that a small party could find entry and abduct Lady Elizabeth failed; none of the would-be invaders survived. Two attempts at bribery of her guards were uncovered by Elizabeth's faithful four, who knew armsmen and "smelled" when guards were dishonest.
One who had entry at any time at all without question was Lord Denno. Several of the more dedicatedly Catholic councilors knew that and asked to see him by appointment. Acknowledging that he had known Elizabeth for many years, he answered without hesitation that Lady Elizabeth had always affirmed she would never marry—from the time she was a child. Moreover—he admitted this last in confidence—she had expressed contempt for Emmanuel Philibert the first time he was proposed to her as a husband and her opinion had only grown more fixed as the "so-called," she said, prince of Piedmont became more and more dependent on Spain.
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