“And how do you propose to proceed with this plan?” Raul laid back in the grass, pulled a thick green stalk, and began chewing it. The sun was up and already the day was growing hot; the heat brought the insects and he swatted at the gnats and midges.
“I have written to Her Grace and told her that she must convince the princess to agree to the Savoy match. I do not intend to return to England unless my wife can so convince her, and gains her consent.”
Philip stole a look at Raul. His friend’s eyes were closed and he worked the stalk of grass with his lips. There were some things so secret that he could not tell even Raul. For he was playing a double game with the queen and the princess. He had made his return to Mary contingent upon her ability to convince her sister to agree to the Savoy match; but he had written secretly to Elizabeth to tell her that under no circumstances should she agree to it.
He had other plans for the future queen of England.
Hatfield Palace, July 1556
The heat was so intense that there was nothing to be done except to ignore it as best one could. Every window in the palace was wide open, but not a breath of air stirred. The noise of the cicadas had reached such a pitch that it either drove one to distraction or one simply ceased to hear it.
No rain had fallen all through the spring and into the summer. As much as she missed being at the center of affairs, Elizabeth could not help but be glad that she was exiled to the country. The city would be stinking and the threat of plague was rife. She had heard that people processed through the streets of London praying for rain. So far, their supplications did not appear to be working.
“It is your move, Your Grace,” said Sir Thomas.
Elizabeth sat and stared at the chessboard without really seeing it. She was lost in her thoughts. She was always at least three moves ahead in her mind as she played. And as erudite as Sir Thomas was, he was but a mediocre chess player. Still, it was something to do, something to distract one from the heat…and anything else that might be plaguing one’s thoughts. She pretended to consider her next move carefully. Sir Thomas’s move she had predicted with startling accuracy. Oh dear, she thought, checkmate again! She lifted her chess piece, toppled her opponent’s and smiled apologetically.
Sir Thomas regarded the chessboard in dismay, his mouth a round “o” of astonishment. He looked up forlornly, then he smiled his engaging smile. “It would seem that Your Grace has bested me…again.”
Elizabeth smiled indulgently, and without asking, began setting up the board for another game. Sir Thomas was such a dear man; he had been with her at Hatfield for two months and in that time she had grown to feel a genuine affection for him. That was ironic, considering how he came to be there.
Her sister had been convinced of her complicity in the Dudley Conspiracy, but despite arresting her servants and submitting them to rigorous questioning, and in at least one case that she knew of, torture, not one of them had told the queen that which she longed to hear; that Elizabeth had known of the plot to dethrone her sister, encouraged it, and participated in it. The only problem with Mary’s theory was that her sister was innocent.
Once again the hapless Kat Ashley found herself in the Tower, but the most they had been able to charge her with was the possession of materials libelous to the king and queen; and these had been found not at Hatfield but at Elizabeth’s deserted London residence of Somerset House. And Mary’s minions had been able to connect none of it with Elizabeth herself. Poor Kat! Mary had been so frustrated with her testimony that instead of admitting defeat and releasing her back into Elizabeth’s custody, she had released her from the Tower only to throw her into the Fleet prison. That noisome place! Elizabeth did her best for the servant who was the closest thing she had ever known to a mother besides Mary herself and Anne of Cleves; she sent food, money for bribes. She hoped that Mary would soon relent and release Kat, but until then…
Mary had been so angry with her sister that she had sent, along with a stern letter, a new guardian to spy on her at Hatfield; this, despite Philip’s express order that Elizabeth was to be treated with the respect due to her rank. But if Mary thought to disconcert or discomfit her sister, her spiteful plan backfired. Sir Thomas Pope was a dear man, and not only that, a learned one. Mary had dismissed as completely unimportant the fact that Sir Thomas had just founded Trinity College at Oxford and was needed there. She ordered him to Hatfield to be Elizabeth’s new governor, and so to Hatfield he must go.
Inside of a week, Elizabeth and her other tutors had become fast friends with the likable and intelligent Sir Thomas, and since his arrival, many were the hours that they had all spent together in lively discussion and debate.
Wracking her brain to think of a way to placate her sister, Elizabeth had hit upon the perfect plan. She removed Philip’s diamond ring from her thumb and sent it to Mary. Good riddance! But if the gesture had any positive effect on her sister, there was as yet no evidence of it. Or perhaps it had been of some help when, just a week earlier, another conspiracy had come to light.
A young schoolmaster at Cleobury, perhaps affected by the excessive heat, had proclaimed himself to be Edmund Courtenay, and had claimed himself to be married to the Lady Elizabeth; he told his fascinated audience that Queen Mary was dead and that he and Elizabeth were now king and queen of England. Fortunately for Elizabeth, Mary only laughed and said that the young man must be demented; he could not even get her cousin Edward Courtenay’s name right. Elizabeth had sighed with relief; the whole ridiculous episode simply underlined the absurdity of the situation. She would never, Elizabeth reminded Mary in an eloquent letter, plot against the anointed sovereign of their country, nor would she ever be disloyal to her sister. Others may say as much, but that did not make it so.
Mary had remained true to her vow to retire from life; Elizabeth heard that her sister was also in the country, doing good works, helping the poor and their children. Many of the people whom the queen visited had no idea who she was; she simply appeared at the cottage door in a plain gown bringing food to those affected by the scarcity caused by the paucity of the last two harvests, and giving pennies for the education of likely children she had heard about.
All that was well and good, but Elizabeth knew that the day would come when Mary tired of her charity and then she would return to take up the cudgels of rule. And when that day came, all of the old rivalry and jealousy between them would revive. Mary held the whip hand in the situation…she was queen. But Elizabeth still had the very things that made Mary hate her so; the love of the English people, the support of the Council and the Parliament as heir to throne, and Philip’s interest, esteem and affection.
One day a few weeks before, Elizabeth had opened the lid of her virginals to find a sealed note. It was an eminently safe place for someone to leave such a secret missive; no one was allowed to open the instrument except Elizabeth herself. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. There was no signature. Indeed, there was very little else that was remarkable about the note, except for one thing; it was written in Spanish. Even had anyone else found it, they could not have read it. It contained only two terse sentences:
No aceptarlo. Te quiero.
Do not accept him. I want you.
There was no doubt in her mind as to who had sent the note to her. She was unsure of its meaning, but Elizabeth was certain of one thing; before long, all would become clear.
# # #
Somerset House, November 1556
It had continued unusually hot all summer long; so hot that by August, both Elizabeth and Mary had become very ill. Mary’s malady was somewhat nebulous, a general malaise brought on, it was thought, by exhaustion from her good works. Elizabeth’s ailment was more serious; she had once again suffered a severe attack of the jaundice that plagued her from time to time, and she had experienced frightening episodes of breathlessness.
Into this sweltering atmosphere of dread and uncertainty for both sisters came the shocking news that their hapless cousi
n, Edward Courtenay, had died in Venice. Some said he had perished of a fever brought on by being caught out of doors in the teeth of a violent storm; others claimed that he was poisoned. In the end it mattered not; both sisters were relieved that their cousin would no longer be there to cause trouble, which since his release from the Tower at Mary’s accession, had seemed never to end.
In September, when the harvest should have been in full swing, there was again, for the third year in a row, little to gather and even less to celebrate. Mary had been at Croydon, one of her mother’s old manor houses, when one day, arriving wearily at her apartments after a day of distributing alms to the poor with her almoner, she found her privy chamber plastered with rude lampoons. She was shocked to see herself depicted with her head wearing a crown but with the body of a sow suckling a dozen piglets. The piglets were all dressed as Spaniards, each one tugging at her sagging dugs. There were others, each more horrible and disgusting than the last. Mary became hysterical and had had to be subdued with repeated doses of the sticky, black poppy syrup to which she was becoming dangerously attached.
Desperate to get away from the scene of such upset and misery, Mary had departed Croydon for London as soon as she was fit to travel. Waiting for her upon her arrival at St. James’s Palace was a letter from Philip demanding, as the price of his return to England, that Mary convince her sister to marry the Duke of Savoy. And he reminded her once again of her obligation as an obedient wife to heed his order to treat Elizabeth well. Still chafing from the incident at Croydon, Mary had had no choice but to release those of Elizabeth’s servants still being held in prison on suspicion of guilt in the Dudley affair, and to invite her sister to court with every show of enthusiasm and sisterly love and devotion.
Elizabeth took her time to carefully prepare for her first visit to court in so long. And so it was November before she set out for London on a bright blue fall day. Through Smithfield, to the Old Bailey and on to Fleet Street her cavalcade processed, to the deafening cheers of the people. Mary had long ago forbidden her sister to use the Tudor livery of green and white, saying that regardless of who her father was (all the while implying that they may or may not actually share a father), her mother had been an infamous person, executed as a traitor and a strumpet. So on this beautiful fall day, Elizabeth’s retainers, over two hundred strong, rode into the city bedecked in scarlet slashed with black, with thick gold chains hanging about every neck. Every horse was black or bay, with little silver bells winking in the sunlight and tinkling from every harness.
Elizabeth stood out, in the center of the procession, wearing a green velvet gown and riding a horse so white that it hurt the eyes to look upon it. Mary might be able to prevent her from using the colors she was entitled to display as a Tudor, but even the Queen of England could not prevent one from wearing a green dress and riding on a dazzling white horse. The gesture, as subtle as it was, was lost on no one.
All the way through the streets of London to Somerset House the enthusiastic crowds cheered themselves hoarse for their beloved princess. The throng was even larger at the very gates of her London home; there the cries of the people reached a crescendo as she rode past them into the courtyard, smiling and waving. There were tears of happiness streaming down the faces of the women, and the men threw their caps into the air for joy at the sight of her, so beautiful, so charming in her green gown and with her red-gold hair glinting in the sun.
Yes, Elizabeth understood the English people, her people; she was their only hope, the only thing standing between them and the dreaded Spaniard. Their great enthusiasm for her had its roots not only in love but in fear. Her sister’s cruel burnings were just one step away from the Spanish Inquisition. The only hope for the English people was for Mary to die childless and for Elizabeth to succeed.
Her sister had spent most of her life trying to vindicate Katharine of Aragon; Elizabeth had no less an ambition for her own mother. And that day would come when Anne Boleyn’s daughter finally sat on the throne of England.
St. James’s Palace, December 1556
What struck Elizabeth so strongly about the situation in which she now found herself was how much Mary had aged since she last saw her. Her sister was thin to the point of fragility; she looked as if she might collapse into the pile of dust that all were destined to become someday if one so much as touched her. Her eyes were sunken and hollow, with dark rings under them. But it was more than that; Mary had a hunted look, a look of fear, of dread. Perhaps it was true that her sister walked in constant terror of the assassin’s knife. If so, it was hardly surprising; between the attempts on her throne, the vocal discontent of the people because of the burnings, and the incident at Croydon, where someone had obviously had no trouble gaining access to the queen’s own rooms, it must be impossible for her sister to feel truly safe. These troubles were all stamped plainly upon her sister’s ravaged face for all to see. Mary might have been fifty instead of forty.
But Elizabeth had scant sympathy for her sister. As far as she was concerned, Mary had brought all of these troubles upon herself. In Elizabeth’s estimation, her sister had made some very bad choices, and was now living with the consequences of them. Worse, she was trying, for her own benefit, to push Elizabeth into the same bad decisons. But Elizabeth was her own woman and she had no intention of doing anyone else’s bidding, including the queen’s, despite the dire threats that Mary often resorted to on the occasions when they confronted each other.
This was the fifth time that Elizabeth had met with her sister since her arrival at court; the four previous meetings had ended badly. She had no reason to believe this one would be any different. She should have been warned when, once again, although she had arrived in London in state and with great fanfare, she had been vouchsafed no official greeting by the queen. And once again, she had been kept waiting an inordinate amount of time for her first audience with her sister. All this Elizabeth had shrugged off; it was true to form and no surprise. But this time something extraordinary happened. Instead of being shunned by most of the nobility for fear of offending the queen, the people had been pouring into Somerset House with gifts and requests to see her. This was a welcome change! But it was one that Cecil had predicted with startling accuracy. People were beginning to hedge their bets; many now truly believed that she would be queen. It was only a matter of time.
St. James’s Palace, like Somerset House, was a new palace and very stylish. Both had been built long past the time when royal dwellings were constructed with an eye to defense, and so both were bright, airy and comfortable.
The Queen’s Presence Chamber was one such room; it had impossibly high ceilings and windows so long that when the sun shone through them it looked as if the second coming was about to occur. Elizabeth stood before her sister not looking at her, but rather, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams.
Mary began the interview in the same manner that she had begun them all; she was seated on her throne, under the royal canopy, with Elizabeth standing before as if she were a supplicant or a sycophant.
“Well, Sister,” said Mary. Her tone was bland; they always started this way. “Have you reconsidered my request, and the request of your king?”
Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the fascination of the sunbeams and the dust motes and regarded her sister. She had to suppress a large sigh before answering.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Mary shifted uncomfortably on her throne. “And?”
“My answer is the same, Your Grace. I will not marry the Duke of Savoy.”
Mary slapped the arm of the throne with the flat of her hand. “Why the devil not, might one ask? He is a fine man! Born to command! The king’s first cousin! What more could the bastard daughter of a king ask for? Why will you not agree to this simple request?”
Elizabeth knew the value of silence, and she was well aware of the importance of keeping her temper when the situation called for it. But she was, after all, a Tudor; she had inherited in full mea
sure the Tudor temper, and allied to it was her mother’s quick wit. Either the value of silence or the advisability of keeping her temper might have stilled her tongue; but with the knowledge that she had seen with her owns eyes those words, No aceptarlo. Te quiero…
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin and said in a very quiet voice, “I am the heir to throne of England both by the terms of our father’s will and by Act of Parliament. Whether or not you choose to acknowledge publicly that which all know to be true has no relevance whatsoever. But that aside, I have your example to demonstrate to me that marrying a foreigner, any foreigner, is the worst possible decision I could make. I certainly will not even consider marrying Emmanuel Philibert! Duke of Savoy he may be, first cousin of the king he may be, but he is landless and dispossessed and no fit match for the heir to the throne of England. A simple request, you say? Must I remind Your Grace of all people that marriage is a binding sacrament of the Church? I will not marry Savoy or anyone else, simply to suit Your Grace and Philip of Spain! I would rather die first!”
Mary was at first so stunned that she was speechless. But secretly, she was glad that Elizabeth was so set against the match. The very worst thing would be if Elizabeth married and produced a child. How humiliating that would be, when she herself had been unable to do so! And with a child of her own, her sister’s position would be consolidated, unassailable. And she had not yet given up hope of having a child of her own; Philip could not stay away forever. And he must understand that she had tried to get Elizabeth to do his bidding to marry the duke. She should not be blamed for her sister’s recalcitrance. And it was a golden opportunity to rid herself of her troublesome sibling before the revels began. Elizabeth, with her insolence, had played right into her hands.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 65
