The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  He stood there, his feet wide apart, his face firm and set, remembering that he was Lord Robert’s friend.

  “Now, my boy, you took flowers to the Princess, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you get these flowers?”

  “From our garden.” That was true; the flowers had come from the garden.

  “Now listen, my boy. Did any of the prisoners give you anything to put among the flowers?”

  “No, sir.” That was true too. Lord Robert himself had put the notes among the flowers.

  “Think very hard. You are sure no one gave you a letter to take to the Princess?”

  “I am thinking hard,” said the boy. “Nobody gave me a letter, sir.”

  The men looked at each other.

  “Has he ever visited Courtenay’s apartments?” asked the Lieutenant.

  “We will have his father in and ask him.”

  Will’s father entered.

  “Has the boy ever accompanied you to the apartments of the Duke of Devonshire?”

  “No, sir. I have never been there myself.”

  “Have you ever visited any of the prisoners who have recently been brought to the Tower…those concerned in the Wyatt rebellion?”

  “No, sir.”

  The men again looked at each other and at the small boy who presented such a picture of bewildered innocence. It was said that the Princess was fond of children and they of her; it was probable that there was nothing in this matter but pure friendship between the Princess and the child. So far no harm had been done. Elizabeth was still their prisoner.

  “I will double the Princess’s guards,” said the Lieutenant. “We will curtail her freedom. She shall walk only for a short time in the gardens and not where she willed as heretofore. And, warder, your son is to take no more flowers to prisoners. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, my boy, you understand? You must take no more flowers to the Princess.”

  The boy nodded miserably.

  When he next saw the Princess she was walking in her little garden, and the gates were locked so that he could not reach her. But he called to her through the railings.

  She did not come near because her guards surrounded her; but she waved and smiled at him.

  “I can bring you no more flowers, Mistress,” he called sadly.

  The Queen fell ill and there was consternation among those who had persecuted Elizabeth. The chief of these was Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester—he who was the most formidable of the Princess’s enemies. He had a clear picture of what would happen to him if Mary died and Elizabeth became Queen.

  He was the Queen’s favorite Bishop and statesman; he could take liberties; and it seemed to him that unless he took a very great one now, he could not expect to outlive Queen Mary by more than a week or two. So he decided to act with extreme boldness.

  He wrote a death warrant and had a special messenger take it to Bridges in the Tower. The sentence was to be carried out on the Princess Elizabeth without delay.

  When Bridges received the warrant he was bewildered.

  Nothing had been proved against Elizabeth, although she was under constant suspicion. Was she to be executed without trial? That did not appeal to the fair-minded Bridges. He was proud of his office; he wanted justice to prevail in his domain. Moreover he was not insensible to the charm of the Princess. She was so young and her good spirits and bravery in captivity had made a marked impression on him; he was also not unmindful of what the future might bring.

  A death warrant! Instructions to hurry on with the execution, to keep it secret and hustle the Princess from her prison to the scaffold in the early morning, to behead her while the country was ignorant of what was happening!

  “I like that not!” murmured Bridges.

  The Queen was not by nature a cruel woman, and the Princess had implied that she was very willing to accept the Catholic Faith. Bridges did not believe that the Queen would wish to take the life of her sister except on religious grounds, or of course, if treason were proved against her—which was not the case.

  He examined the death warrant once more. That was not the Queen’s signature. He looked closely. Yes, Gardiner had signed for the Queen during her indisposition.

  Bridges made up his mind. He would rather risk Gardiner’s displeasure than send a young girl to her death.

  He took up his pen and wrote to Gardiner:

  “I see that this warrant does not bear Her Majesty’s signature, and I should consider I was not acting within the bounds of my duty if I allowed to take place an execution of so important a state prisoner without special instructions from Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Gardiner was furious when he received the letter and realized that his plan had miscarried. He pondered the matter for a few days, wondering whether to command Bridges to carry out his wishes. But in the meantime the Queen had recovered, and when she heard what had happened she was horrified.

  All her sentimental feelings came to the surface. She remembered the baby Elizabeth who had won her affection. Elizabeth was misguided; she had been brought up in the wrong religion; and it was true that she must be looking with ambition toward the throne; but nothing had been proved against her—and she was Mary’s own sister.

  She did not reprimand Gardiner; she had too high an opinion of him. She knew that he was a staunch Catholic and that in itself endeared him to her. It was Elizabeth, the heretic, whom he wished to persecute; and she was not sure that he was not right in that.

  As for herself she saw Elizabeth as her sister—heretic though she might be. Elizabeth was young; she had not been proved a traitor; therefore it was the Queen’s duty to save her from heresy.

  Mary called to her a man whom she trusted completely; this was her old friend Sir Henry Bedingfeld.

  “I have a task for you,” she told him, “which I would entrust to no other.”

  “I shall execute it with all the strength at my disposal, Your Majesty.”

  “I know it, dear Bedingfeld. That is why I give it to you. I know you will watch over her and that you will be just, both to her and to me. I speak of my sister.”

  Bedingfeld was dismayed.

  “Yes, my dear friend,” went on the Queen, “I have decided to put the Princess in your charge. You will watch over her night and day. Every action of hers will be noted and, if need be, reported to me. This is a difficult task I have set you, but, my lord, I do so because I know you to be one of the few about me whom I can trust.”

  “I am your Majesty’s obedient and humble servant.”

  But he showed himself to be perplexed, and Mary marveled that a man as courageous as Bedingfeld should be so disturbed at the prospect of guarding a young girl.

  Elizabeth heard the approach of Sir Henry Bedingfeld with a hundred men-at-arms. From a window she saw them and when she knew that they were all about her apartments she feared this could mean only one thing, and her terrors returned. She clung to her favorite attendant, Isabella Markham, and cried: “Isabella, this is the end. I did not think I should greatly mind, but I do. My sister has sent Bedingfeld to see her orders carried out. Tell me…is the Lady Jane’s scaffold still in its place?”

  “Hush, dearest Princess. I beg of you be calm as you always have been. Wait and learn what this means before you believe the worst.”

  “Bedingfeld is my sister’s trusted knight. She has sent him to destroy me. I feared as soon as I entered this place of gloom that I should never leave it.” She cried out hysterically: “It shall not be an axe for me! I shall have a sword from Calais!”

  Her ladies, knowing that she thought of her tragic mother, bent their heads and wept.

  But it was not Elizabeth’s way to mourn for long. Very soon she became the imperious Princess. She cried: “Send for Bridges. Command him to come to me at once.”

  When he came she demanded haughtily: “What means this? Have you not guards enough that you must send to my sister
for more?”

  “Your Grace refers to Sir Henry Bedingfeld and his company?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Your Grace, this is not a matter for alarm, but for rejoicing. Sir Henry will soon present himself to you and tell you of his instructions. You are to leave the Tower.”

  “To be freed?”

  “You will be in the charge of Sir Henry, but no longer a prisoner in the Tower.”

  Elizabeth was relieved. She was to change one captivity for another, but the Tower was a place of ill omen. But after a while she was conscious of some regret, for the Tower still held Robert Dudley.

  The barge carried her from Tower Wharf to the Palace of Richmond, a strong company of guards accompanying her.

  Her sister sent for her when she arrived at the Palace.

  Mary, so recently recovered from what many believed would be a fatal illness, looked exhausted. She was nervously awaiting the coming of her bridegroom, with feelings which alternated between eagerness for him and apprehension as to what he would think of her.

  The sight of her young sister—so healthful in spite of her recent imprisonment—filled her with melancholy and envy. What would Philip think when he saw this sister? Would he wish that she were the Queen of England and his bride?

  But it was absurd to envy Elizabeth, whose life was in the utmost danger; and if Mary were wise, according to Gardiner and Renard, she would not hesitate to send that young lady to the block.

  “So you are recently come from the Tower?” said Mary coldly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. By your great clemency, I come hither.”

  “Many have spoken against you,” said the Queen.

  “They lied who spoke against me,” said Elizabeth. “But Your Majesty is wise and recognizes the lies of a liar—as she does the poor babblings of those under torture—for what they are worth.”

  “I am not convinced of your loyalty.”

  Elizabeth opened her blue eyes very wide. “Your Majesty cannot mean that!”

  “I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean. Now, sister, I know you well. Remember we have spent many years together. When there was trouble in your nursery, as I well remember, you had little difficulty in proving your innocence.”

  “Your Majesty, it should be an easy matter for the innocent to prove their innocence. It is only the guilty who face an impossible task.”

  The Queen waved a hand impatiently. “I have a husband for you.”

  Elizabeth grew pale. She was tense, waiting.

  “It is Philibert Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy.”

  “The Duke of Savoy!” echoed Elizabeth blankly.

  She had expected death and had been offered a duke. To die would be the end of life, but to marry a foreign duke and leave England would mean abandoning all that she had hoped for. Only now did she fully realize how she had always longed to be the Queen of England. To resign her hopes would be as bad as death.

  She said firmly: “Your Majesty, I could never agree to the match.”

  “You could not agree!”

  “I could not agree, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen bent forward and said coldly: “What right have you to object to the husband I have chosen for you?”

  Elizabeth was thinking of Robert Dudley as she had seen him through the bars of his cell—tall, dark, handsome…and those passionate daring eyes. If it were Robert…she thought. No, not for him would she abandon her dream. But she was not being offered Robert. She was offered a foreign prince whom the Queen favored because he was a vassal of Spain; and all things connected with Spain were good in the Queen’s eyes since she had taken a look at the picture of a short, trim young man who was destined to be her husband.

  “There is only one reason why I could object to your choice, Your Majesty, and that is because I feel within myself that the married state is not for me.”

  Mary looked cynically at her sister. “You…to be a spinster! When did you make up your mind to this?”

  “I think, Your Majesty, that it is something I have always known.”

  “I have not noticed that you have shown much maidenliness toward the opposite sex.”

  “Your Majesty, it is because I have always felt thus that I have perhaps at times appeared to be unguarded.”

  “Do you feel then that there is no need to guard that which you have determined at all costs to preserve?”

  “Your Majesty, it is only necessary to put a guard on that which one is in danger of losing. My inclination for virginity being what it is, I had no need to restrain myself as have some maidens.”

  “I would not have you come to me in frivolous mood.”

  “Your Majesty, I was never more serious.”

  “Then we shall contract you to the Duke of Savoy.”

  Elizabeth folded her hands on her breast. “Your Majesty, I am of such mind that I prefer death to marriage.”

  “I should not talk too readily of death. It could be reckless talk.”

  “Your Majesty, I am reckless. I prefer death to betrothal to the Duke of Savoy.”

  “We shall see,” said Mary.

  She summoned the guard, and Elizabeth was taken back to her apartments, believing that her end was at hand.

  She lay on her bed staring up at the tester. Her ladies were weeping quietly. She had come back from her interview with the Queen and had told them: “I think I am to die.”

  Did she really prefer death to marriage with the Duke of Savoy?

  For so many years she had dreamed that she would wear the crown. How many times had Kat Ashley read it in the cards? She could not give up that dream. But would she in truth rather die?

  Once during the night she half rose. She thought: Tomorrow I will go to the Queen. I will accept Savoy. I am a fool to go meekly to death.

  Wait, said her common sense. Has there not always been safety in waiting?

  The next day she left the Palace, but not for the Tower. The Queen was undecided what to do with her sister, and finally she resorted to the old method. Elizabeth should go back to Woodstock, where she would remain a captive, although living in the state her rank demanded. The people would be appeased if the Princess was in one of her country houses; they had been restive while she was in the Tower. Elizabeth, sly and cunning, appeared to them young and pathetic; and she had the people on her side as always.

  Even when she sailed up the river the people lined the banks to watch her pass. They called cheering words to her; they had gifts for her. At Wycombe cakes were brought to her, and so numerous were these that she could not accept them all. She thanked the people prettily, and all along the river their cries resounded: “God bless the Princess. God save Her Grace.”

  She felt happy now. She had done the right thing in refusing Savoy. Time would always be her ally, for she was young and the Queen was old.

  She arrived at Woodstock, yet even there she was not given the royal apartments but taken to the gatehouse. This was surrounded by guards, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld told her that his instructions were that she was to be kept under strict surveillance.

  She wept a little. “Like a sheep to the slaughter I am led,” she said, as her ladies helped her to retire.

  As she lay in her bed unable to sleep, the door of her room was quietly opened; the curtains of her bed were suddenly divided, and she found herself held tightly in a pair of loving arms.

  “Kat!” she sobbed in relief. “How did you get here?”

  “Hush, my love! Hush, my little lady! I am free once more. This prisoner is released, so what did she do? When she heard her lady was on the way she arrived before her. I reached the house before Master Bedingfeld and his merry men. And what do we care, sweetheart, since we are together!”

  “What do we care!” said Elizabeth and began to laugh.

  Kat lay beside her on the bed; and through the night they talked of what had happened.

  Elizabeth said suddenly: “And, Kat, what do you think? I had an adventure when I was in the Tower. You r
emember Robert Dudley?”

  “Remember him! Who could forget him! The loveliest man I ever saw…except one.”

  “Except none!” said Elizabeth.

  And they pulled the bed coverings over their heads that they might gossip and laugh together without being overheard.

  Elizabeth’s captivity at Woodstock passed merrily enough. Kat was with her, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld did not think it necessary to report this matter to the Queen. Perhaps he knew that if he did so Kat would be removed and that removal would mortally offend the Princess Elizabeth. He could see no harm in Kat’s being with her.

  So they were together as they had been in the old days. There was laughter and gossip and talk which if overheard might have been called treason.

  When they were alone Kat whispered: “Your Majesty!” and that was sweet music to Elizabeth. Kat read the cards with that flattering skill which provoked much laughter.

  “Here is that dark, handsome man again! See how close he is to your little Majesty. We shall hear more of him, I doubt not.”

  It was like the old days when Kat had seen another handsome man in the cards. They had recognized him as Thomas Seymour. Kat reminded Elizabeth that she had been wont to say there would never be one like him, never one so charming.

  “But then,” said Elizabeth, “I did not really know Robert Dudley.”

  FOUR

  When the Princess Elizabeth was taken from the Tower, Robert fell into deep melancholy. There were times when he felt he would go mad if he were left much longer in his dismal cell. He would look through the bars at the grass on which she used to walk, and he would remember others who had spent a lifetime in the Tower. Shall I be here until I am old and gray? he would wonder. But he did not really believe that could happen to Robert Dudley.