The Lady Elizabeth (45 page)

“In London?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes, and in all the shires! There was a proclamation made in Hertford this morning.”

Elizabeth thrilled to hear this. The right line restored, and herself once more next in the succession. She was suffused with a great warmth toward her sister, who had, through her courage and presence of mind, made this possible. And she was boundlessly grateful too to God, who had shown His hand in the cause of truth and justice.

“The whole country has rallied to Queen Mary!” Parry declared. “Northumberland is taken—he was apprehended in Cambridge after his army deserted him—and his sons too. He is now in the Tower, and his fate all but certain.”

“The usurper Jane is there too,” John Astley added. “Although whether she will suffer death for her treason is doubtful.”

“She is very young,” Elizabeth said, recalling the slight, red-haired child she had last seen at Chelsea, and remembering how rashly she herself had behaved when
she
was Jane’s age. She felt pity for Jane, that poor innocent tool, who had been led unwillingly into treason and might now pay the price for it.

“I’ll wager she had no choice in the matter, and that it was all Northumberland’s doing,” Kat put in. “
He’s
the one who should suffer for it, not that poor girl.”

“I know my sister will be merciful,” Elizabeth said. “She has a kind heart, especially where children are concerned, and Jane is not much more than a child.” She paused for a moment. “Queen Mary. It has a ring to it, yet it seems strange that a woman should rule.”

“Strange indeed,” Astley commented with feeling, “and unnatural, a woman holding dominion over men.”

“In my experience, a lot of wives do that,” Parry grumbled drily.

“I am sure she will be guided by her councillors,” Astley said. “A woman’s role is to obey and serve.”

“Not if she can help it,” muttered Elizabeth mischievously. The men frowned.

“The Queen will marry, of course,” Kat said. “She must marry, because she needs a son to succeed her.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” her husband queried. “Her Highness is thirty-seven, rather old for bearing children.”

“Little you know,” retorted his wife. “At least she must try.”

“Her marriage will bring one advantage,” Parry observed. “Her husband can offer her guidance and make decisions for her.”

“That in itself might be fraught with problems,” Elizabeth stated thoughtfully. “If she marries a foreign prince, he might interfere too much in the affairs of the realm. Yet if she marries an Englishman, his rule might raise jealousies and factions. And think: As queen, she will wield dominion over her subjects, yet how is she to reconcile that with the obedience that a wife owes to her husband, who is her lord and master? That is a question unanswerable.”

“It is indeed,” replied Parry, impressed by Elizabeth’s acute logic.

“It will take all her wit to solve it,” she said. “Yet what is of greater concern, to me and to many, is what will happen to the Protestant Church in this realm. The Queen, as we all know, is a staunch Catholic.”

“Is it too much to hope that she might extend tolerance to those of the new religion?” Parry wondered. “After all, she has been under constant threat for practicing her own faith these past years.”

“My sister is stiff in her opinions,” Elizabeth said. “Still, she has come to the throne on a tide of popular approval. She will surely wish to retain the goodwill of her Protestant subjects.”

“Or she might see that approval as a mandate to return England to the old faith,” John Astley pointed out.

“You are shrewd, sir,” Elizabeth commented. “Well, we will soon know, and we must pray for a happy outcome. For my part, I shall play it cautiously, and I urge you all to do the same. It may be possible to hunt with both hare and hounds in this matter. Now, if you will excuse me, I must write to Her Majesty, congratulating her on her happy accession. And then we must go to London to greet her, without delay, so hurry and make ready! All other considerations aside, this is a joyous day!”

The royal cavalcade had just come into sight, and Elizabeth, waiting on the road to Wanstead, spurred her horse. Behind her rode her close attendants and two hundred mounted men, all clad in the Tudor livery of green and white. She knew she looked impressive in the saddle, straight-backed in her pure white raised-damask gown, her red locks loose about her shoulders.

She had not seen Mary for five years now. Her sister had spent the greater part of Edward’s reign immured in the country, fighting her interminable battles with the King and council over religion. Elizabeth had expected her to look older—Mary was, after all, middle-aged now—but she was quite unprepared for the sight of the Queen’s prematurely lined face.

At first, the impression she got was one of magnificence. Mary had always had a penchant for lavish dress, but today she looked truly majestic. Her gown was of purple velvet, her mantle of crimson lined with ermine, and she sparkled with jewels. As a virgin and a queen, she wore her red hair loose too, but closer up you could see that it was finely streaked with gray. And her face, with its heavy brow, piercing, wary eyes, blunt nose, and thin, pursed lips, looked haggard and tired in the cruel August sunlight.

But there was no time to reflect on her sister’s changed appearance. The Queen must be greeted, and with suitable deference. With a graceful arching movement, Elizabeth dismounted from her horse, then knelt in the dusty road, head bent.

“Sister!” Mary’s deep, gruff voice exclaimed as she too dismounted and hastened toward Elizabeth. Grasping her by the hands, she raised her, embraced her, and kissed her, nor would she let go of her hand as she spoke to her.

“It is a great pleasure to see you,” she said, smiling with genuine warmth. “I am delighted that you came to meet me.”

“I rejoice in Your Majesty’s glorious accession and great good fortune,” Elizabeth told her, returning the smile. “None is more overjoyed than I to see you triumph over your enemies.”

Mary was so elated by the universal acclaim that had greeted her victory that she was willing to forgive all but her most deadly enemies. In this expansive and merciful mood, she was also prepared to overlook Elizabeth’s unfortunate religious views and the scandal that had attached itself to her name four years ago—having herself experienced the impact of that rogue’s charm, she was inclined to believe that Elizabeth had been more sinned against than sinning—and to suppress her disturbing suspicions about the younger woman’s paternity. Nothing must be allowed to mar these heady days of rejoicing. All the same, as she moved on to greet and kiss Mrs. Astley and the other ladies in Elizabeth’s train—many of them noblewomen who had joined it en route—she could not but be aware that, next to her radiant, simply garbed, nineteen-year-old sister, she herself looked old, worn, and overdressed. And she did not want her subjects to see her in that light, for she was aware that she must be perceived not only as being equal in health and strength to the great task ahead of her, but also as a great catch in the marriage market, and capable of bearing the heirs that were essential for a Catholic succession.

Side by side—Mary, despite her misgivings, had insisted—the sisters rode into London at the head of the great procession, preceded only by the Earl of Arundel carrying the shining sword of state. At Aldgate, the Lord Mayor came bowing low, offering the mace of the City, with a loyal speech of welcome. Mary returned it to him with grateful thanks for his faithfulness and homage. Then the trumpets sounded and the long cavalcade slowly moved forward, through streets packed with happy, cheering people, waving, clapping, and weeping with joy. Houses had been hung with banners and streamers and bedecked with flowers, and everywhere you could see placards painted with the words, VOX POPULI, VOX DEI—the voice of the people is the voice of God.

“God save the Queen!” the citizens cried. “God save Great Harry’s daughter!” “Jesus save Her Grace!” And sometimes, amid the joyful din, Elizabeth heard her own name shouted aloud. Of course, it was but natural: Until the Queen bore a child, she was next in line to the throne, the people’s hope for the future. She thrilled to their greetings, basking in their approval—a thing so fickle, she was well aware, but something to be assiduously courted and cherished.

In the distance, the guns on the Tower wharf boomed a salute. On her left, Mary was nodding and graciously raising her hand in acknowledgment of the people’s acclaim. Behind rode the Lady Anna of Cleves, grown rather fatter than when Elizabeth had last seen her, waving enthusiastically at the crowds. Then came the great ladies of the realm, the lords and gentlemen, the foreign ambassadors and the officers of the royal household—more than a thousand persons in all.

By and by, they came to the drawbridge that led to the great gate of the Tower, where the Queen was to lodge for the next fortnight. Here, the noise of the guns was quite deafening, drowning out the loyal oration given in the Queen’s honor by a hundred well-scrubbed children. Mary smiled in acknowledgment, then proceeded across the bridge and into the fortress, her sister reluctantly following.

As the vast bulk of the mighty Tower loomed above her, Elizabeth knew a moment of panic. She had never been to this place before and did not want to enter it now. Yes, she knew it was a royal palace before all else, but since two queens had been beheaded here, the Tower had acquired a more sinister reputation. She shuddered, thinking of how her mother must have felt when she arrived on that long-ago May afternoon, accused of treason. Of course, Anne had not come in triumph through the main gateway, but by the watergate, where traitors were brought by barge. Kat had told her that.

She must not dwell on Anne’s fate now, she told herself. This was a happy, joyful occasion, and it must not be overshadowed by morbid thoughts. Yet she could not stop herself from wondering whether sad little Jane Grey could hear all the cheering from the place where she was being held prisoner. The poor girl must be quaking in her shoes at the thought of what might happen to her, although Elizabeth knew, because Mary had told her, that the Queen was resolved to be merciful.

The inner bailey was packed with spectators, but Elizabeth’s eyes were immediately drawn to the four prisoners who knelt on a grass sward near the gateway. She knew them all. Foremost was the Catholic Duke of Norfolk, now eighty, who had been accused of treason by Henry VIII but spared the block because the King had died before he could sign the death warrant; he had spent the whole of Edward’s reign in the Tower. There was Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, whom Mary had once hated for supporting the annulment of her mother’s marriage; but Gardiner, another staunch Catholic, had shown his mettle by resisting the religious reforms of Protector Somerset, and thus ended up in prison. Behind him knelt Somerset’s widow, the once proud Duchess Anne, an old friend of the Queen’s; she had been shut up here after her husband’s execution. And lastly, a young man, Edward Courtenay, in whom flowed the royal blood of the Plantagenet kings of England. He had been a prisoner since childhood, when his family had fallen foul of King Henry.

The four prisoners, still kneeling, lifted their hands and begged for the Queen’s mercy. Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “These are my prisoners,” she declared. “They must be set at liberty.” Then she dismounted and walked over to them, raising and embracing each in turn. When they had been joyously reunited with their relations and friends, the Queen and her entourage proceeded to the palace that adjoined the White Tower, where Mary could take her ease for a space before embarking on the monumental task of ruling her kingdom.

As she followed Mary, reining in her frisky white palfrey, Elizabeth’s eyes strayed unwillingly to the east, and the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. There lay her mother’s mortal remains—hurriedly coffined in an arrow chest, Kat had said, since no other provision had been made for them on that terrible day seventeen years ago. And in front of the chapel, a greensward, innocent looking and peaceful in the brilliant sunshine. It had been there that the scaffold had stood…

Elizabeth jerked her head around quickly, unable to bear the sight of it anymore. She would avoid this place in future, she promised herself. Mercifully, the royal apartments faced the river, so she had no need to come this way again.

For Elizabeth, expecting the Queen to keep a splendid court like their father’s, the ensuing weeks brought some disappointments. The treasury was all but empty, and Mary could not afford to be lavish, but she did insist on ceremony, and she was happy to indulge her love of music, dancing, and drama.

“The people expect it of me,” she told Elizabeth. “They like display and magnificence. That was why our father was so popular. But I have not the means to pay for such spectacles as he put on. And as an unmarried lady, I must be circumspect and have a mind to decorum.”

“I do miss the masques of my father’s day,” Elizabeth complained to Kat after having sat through yet another morality play. “But the Queen says she has no money to lavish on such extravaganzas. At least they are staging
Ralph Roister Doister
next week. I saw it performed at my brother’s court, and it is well worth seeing. I could not stop laughing, because the characters are constantly at cross purposes.”

“The Queen never lacks for money when it comes to dressing sumptuously,” Kat observed, starting to brush Elizabeth’s hair.

“In my opinion, she overdresses,” Elizabeth said. “She changes too often, and she wears too many jewels. Her tastes are Catholic, of course.” She was aware that her own plain attire stood out—an overt statement of her supposed virginity and her Protestant faith—among the peacock finery worn by the ladies of the court.

“Well, she looks like the queen she is,” Kat said. “It is expected of her.”

“The people would love her whatever she looked like,” Elizabeth observed, “if only because she is our father’s daughter and of the true Tudor line. And she will keep their love because she is determined to be merciful. Tonight, she told me that only Northumberland is to suffer death for the late conspiracy. The Lady Jane is to be spared, although she must stay in the Tower. She is lodged in the Gentleman Gaoler’s house with every comfort.”

“She’s a fortunate young lady,” Kat said. “I hope the Queen is not being too merciful for her own good.”

“She could hardly have executed the whole council.” Elizabeth smiled grimly. “All of them were involved in it. But she needs those experienced statesmen—rascals the lot of them—to help her rule. So she has pardoned them all.”

“She is a good lady at heart,” Kat said, “and I am glad she seems well disposed to you.”

Mary had given much evidence of that. Whenever she appeared in public, which was often during these early weeks of her reign, she insisted that Elizabeth be in the place of honor at her side, and invariably held her hand. Sometimes, it was quite obvious that the cheers were as much for Elizabeth as for the Queen, but if Mary noticed, she gave no sign. All was harmonious between the two sisters—until the third Sunday in August.

The previous Sunday had seen Mass celebrated, by the Queen’s decree, in the chapel of St. John the Evangelist in the White Tower for the first time since King Henry’s day. Mary had emerged with tears in her eyes, having given thanks that she was now, at last, free to practice her faith openly again, and she had been gratified to see so many courtiers at the service. Yet she was sad not to see her sister among them.

On the following Saturday, as they sat together on the dais sipping wine after a very amusing evening spent watching
Ralph Roister Doister
in the presence chamber, Mary turned to Elizabeth.

“It would make me so happy if you would come to Mass with me in the morning,” she said.

Elizabeth looked uncomfortable.

“Your Grace, I fear I cannot. I am of the reformed faith.” She fingered the little gold book at her girdle; it contained the fervidly Protestant prayer composed by her brother on his deathbed. Mary had been given a similar gold book, but disdained to wear it. Instead, while permitting Edward to be buried according to the reformed rite, she had ordered a private requiem Mass for his soul, to be celebrated in her own chapel.

Mary frowned. “Sister, I fear you have been brought up in error. I care too much for you to see you given over to heresy. Will you not open your mind a little and join me in worship?”

“I wish I could say yes, madam, truly I do,” Elizabeth said, looking distressed. “It grieves me that I cannot be of one mind with Your Majesty on this issue.”

“It grieves me too,” Mary said. “You are my heir, and it is unthinkable that my heir should be of the reformed faith.”

“Might I, with respect, remind Your Majesty that, during our brother’s time, you were under great pressure to abjure your faith?” Elizabeth asked. “You followed your conscience and stood firm. Having been through that, can you not appreciate my position?”