A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1 (9 page)

“Enough, chatterer!” she cried. “I am right glad we bought new liveries for my servants this year, Master Parry. I do not grudge the forty shillings I paid for those new velvet coats.”

“Your Grace is right, and we will make a brave show. But pray accept my warning: do not outshine the Queen.”

She was demure thinking of it. She would wear white; she would cast down her eyes if the cheers for her were too loud. She would wear few jewels on her hands, for too many rings would hide their slender beauty; she would hold them so that the crowd might see them and marvel at their milky whiteness; and she would smile at the multitude—not haughtily but in that friendly way which had never yet failed to set them cheering.

No, she would not outshine the Queen in rich raiment or jewels, only
in personal charm with youth and beauty and that subtle indication to the people that she was at one with them, that she loved them and one day hoped to be their Queen.

So, accompanied by a thousand followers—some of them lords and ladies of high rank—she came riding into London. Was it a good omen that she must pass through the City on her way to Wanstead, thus entering it before her sister?

The people of London came out to greet her as they always greeted the Princess Elizabeth. They caught their breath at the sight of her. She was so demure in her white gown; she looked so young; the people sensed in her the regality of her father and the vitality of her mother. She smiled and bowed and was clearly so grateful to the dear people for the homage they paid; she was so moved that there were tears in her eyes. About her rode her servants, all in green, some in velvet, some in satin, some in plain cloth, according to their standing in her household.

On through Aldgate she passed to Wanstead, where she awaited the coming of the Queen.

Mary expressed her pleasure in this meeting with her sister.

How old she looks! thought Elizabeth.

Mary was not yet forty, but she looked older. Neither purple velvet nor jewels could alter that. She had suffered much and life had used her so cruelly that it had left its mark upon her.

“And is my dear sister recovered from her recent illness?” asked Mary.

“My humble thanks to your gracious Majesty. I am fully restored, and if I had not been before this moment, I could not fail to be now seeing your Majesty in such good health and knowing your enemies routed and yourself safely upon the throne.”

“We cannot as yet say safely,” said Mary grimly. “But we have good friends, we hope.”

“And none more ready to serve your Majesty than your humble sister.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mary; and she embraced Elizabeth.

They rode side by side toward London, these two daughters of Henry the Eighth, whose mothers had been such bitter enemies, and on that day the Queen was thinking how happy she was to have her sister beside
her. She had been sorry for Elizabeth in those days when the girl had been in disgrace after the death of Anne Boleyn, neglected and unwanted, so that it had been difficult for her guardians to procure enough money to clothe and feed her. Cruel things had been said of this Elizabeth—far worse than anything that had ever been said of Mary. They had both been called bastards, but Elizabeth had suffered greater indignity, for some had declared that the Princess was the fruit of an incestuous union between Anne Boleyn and Anne’s brother, Lord Rochford.

Mary hoped that Elizabeth would now conduct herself in such a manner that would enable them to live in amity.

Elizabeth demurely kept a little behind the Queen, now and then taking covert glances about her, throwing a smile at the crowds, letting her head droop when they cried too loudly for the Princess Elizabeth. She was thinking: What will happen now? She will marry, and if she bears a child, what hope have I of ever wearing the crown? Yet … how ill she looks! She is not strong enough to bear a child. And then … when she is dead?

The City was ready to greet the Queen to whom it had given its support. When Jane Grey had sailed down the river to the Tower that she might receive the crown, the people had been sullen; there had been few to cheer Queen Jane. The City did not want Queen Jane. She was young, beautiful, learned and noble; but right was right, justice was justice, and England accepted no other than Mary as its Queen.

From the windows of the houses strips of brilliantly colored cloth were fluttering. From over the old City Gate the charity boys and girls of the Spital sang the Queen’s praises as she passed under. The streets had been cleaned and strewn with gravel; and the members of the City Guilds had come out in their full dress to welcome Mary to London. On the river was every sort of craft fluttering banners and streamers, some bearing musicians who played sweet music and sang victorious choruses which all had the same theme: the delight of the people of London to welcome their true Queen, the expression of their loyalty to Mary.

Down Leadenhall and the Minories to the Tower of London went the procession. The Lord Mayor greeted the Queen, and the Earl of Arundel was beside him with the sword of state. All about the Queen were her velvet-clad attendants; and next to her rode her sister Elizabeth.

Mary, to show her utmost confidence in the loyalty of her greatest City, had dismissed her guard at Aldgate and had accepted that of the City, and it now followed her and her ladies, each man carrying his bow and javelin.

Sir Thomas Cheney, warden of the Cinque Ports, greeted her as she came to the Tower. Elizabeth could not help but shudder as they passed through the gate and she gazed at the towers. She caught a quick glimpse of the Devlin, the Bell and the Beauchamp Towers, and she remembered that, in the Beauchamp, the handsome young man of whom she thought now and then, was lying a prisoner and that he would doubtless ere long follow his father to the block. It was a sobering thought for a girl who had so recently received the cheers of the crowd. She must think of all the noble men and women who had been shut away from the world in those grim towers, released only that they might take the short walk from their prisons to Tower Green or Tower Hill. She must think chiefly of her mother, who had come to this place by way of the Traitor’s Gate and had left the world by way of Tower Green. She muttered a prayer as they went forward.

They had reached the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and there on the very Green where Elizabeth’s mother had received that blow from the executioner’s sword which had ended her gay and adventurous life, knelt those prisoners of state who under the last two reigns had begged in vain for justice.

Among them were the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been saved by the timely death of Henry the Eighth and had been languishing in prison ever since, Cuthbert Tunstal, Bishop of Durham, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; all were firm supporters of the Catholic Faith and they looked to the new Queen for honors.

The sight of the Bishops brought home afresh to Elizabeth the precarious nature of her position. Staunch Catholics, those men would inevitably view her with disfavor; and since the Queen had by no means the look of a healthy woman and, unless she had a child, Elizabeth was a likely successor, it seemed very probable that those two Catholic gentlemen would use all their formidable power to ensure that Elizabeth should never reach the throne. And what was their best way of doing that?

She imagined that these uneasy thoughts came from her mother’s spirit—surely not far, on this summer’s day, from the spot where it had departed from this Earth.

But there was one among those prisoners of state who turned Elizabeth’s thoughts to pleasanter matters. This was young and handsome Edward Courtenay, a noble of great interest, not only on account of his handsome person, but because of his royal lineage.

His grandmother was Catherine, a daughter of Edward the Fourth, and he was therefore related to the Queen since Mary’s grandmother, Elizabeth of York, had been that Catherine’s sister. Courtenay had been a prisoner in the Tower since he was ten years old, which was fourteen years ago. His father had been executed by Henry the Eighth. Now the young man’s hopes were bright, for Mary would never consent to the prolonged imprisonment of such a staunch Catholic.

He knelt gracefully before her now and lifted his handsome eyes to her face with such admiring devotion that the Queen was touched.

“Rise, cousin,” she said, “you are no longer a prisoner. Your estates shall be restored to you. Your suffering is over.”

There was a faint color in the Queen’s cheeks; and it seemed that even while she received the loyal addresses of men whom she could trust, such as Norfolk and Gardiner, her eyes strayed to the handsome young Courtenay.

Elizabeth, watching and alert, believed that there might be some truth in the rumors which had already begun to circulate as soon as it was known that Mary would take the crown. It was natural that her first duty would be to marry; and if she were wise she would please her people in this. The people of England wanted an English husband for their Queen; well, here was a young man of royal connections, handsome, virile, surely capable of providing the Queen with the heir which all—except Elizabeth and those who followed her—must surely desire.

Mary was aware of this; Courtenay was also aware of it. But now it was the young man’s duty to greet the Princess. Elizabeth extended her hand; he took it; her blue eyes were haughty, yet faintly coquettish; somehow they managed to convey a flirtatious message to the young man. You find my sister old? her eyes seemed to suggest. She is indeed many years
older than you are, my lord. But look at me! I am younger than you are. What if I were the Queen whose hand in marriage you might have a chance to win? Ah, my friend, what a different prospect that would be, what a different and dazzling prospect, eh!

Courtenay rose and stood before her. Did he hesitate a little too long? Was the smile he gave the Princess a little too friendly, a little too overcharged with admiration?

The Queen had turned impatiently.

“Have a care,” the spirit of Anne Boleyn might have warned her daughter.

But Elizabeth, cautious and clever as she habitually was, could never resist inviting admiration. To her it was life itself—as necessary as the sun and air.

Who could understand that better than Anne Boleyn? She would certainly wish to warn her daughter.

Jane Dudley, the
Duchess of Northumberland, was a brokenhearted woman. In a few short weeks she had lost most of what had made life good for her. John, her husband, was dead. He had shared his father’s fate. The cruelty of that stunned her; and yet it was not wholly unexpected.

In the solitude of her house in Chelsea, which was all that was left to her of her grand possessions, she mourned bitterly. It was futile to weep for John, but what of her sons? With the exception of little Henry, who was too young to have been suspected of treason, they were lying in the Tower. John, the eldest, was already sentenced to death. Ambrose, Robert, and Guildford were all awaiting trial.

As she walked from one deserted room to another she cried out: “Oh, John, why were you not content to live in peace and happiness? We had riches; we had comfort. You placed our beloved sons and daughters in danger. It was not only your own life that you risked.”

She must act. She must do something to save her sons.

She had become like a miser, gathering together a little store of her precious possessions which had been overlooked when her goods had been confiscated. She intended to offer them as presents to any who would help her to save her sons. This was the only task which was left to her.

Dared she crave an audience with the Queen? Was it possible to ask Mary to pardon those who had plotted to destroy her? They had sent her to the Tower when they had taken John, but quickly released her, and she feared that if she tried to see the Queen she might be sent back to her prison. Not that she cared if she were. The discomfort of a cell would mean nothing to her. But if she were imprisoned, how could she work for her sons?

In the days of her husband’s greatness many had come to him with petitions for help; they had offered him money and costly goods. John had amassed a fortune in those years when he had ruled England. Now she herself would plead, as others had pleaded with him. She would offer everything she possessed. She would gladly live in poverty for the rest of her life if her sons might be free.

Each day she walked to the palace. Sometimes she saw people who in the old days had flattered her and thought themselves fortunate when she exchanged a few words with them. Now they turned away. It was not due to pride, or scorn, or unkindness. It was fear. Naturally they were afraid. How could they show friendship to a woman whose husband had plotted against the Queen, to a woman whose son was married to the girl they now called the impostor Queen?

“Oh, God, help me!” prayed Jane.

She was almost demented. She went by barge to the Tower; she would stand in great distress contemplating those impregnable walls.

“What will become of you all?” she murmured. “My John … Ambrose … my poor Guildford and my gay and handsome Robin!”