The Lady Elizabeth (63 page)

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she apologized, standing back.

“I would be a friend to you,” he said.

“Your Majesty does me too great a kindness,” she replied. “Forgive me if I am overwhelmed. I am not used these days to being listened to and heeded.”

“One day, I hope, you may have the chance to repay me with a similar friendship,” Philip said softly. The edge to his voice told her that there was more to his meaning than mere politics.

“If I can ever be of service to Your Highness, I shall not hesitate,” Elizabeth replied and swept another low obeisance, feeling that she had played a good hand by winning Philip over.

The Queen’s child was due any day now. Early May, the doctors had said, but when the middle of May arrived without any sign of a birth, they tugged at their beards and said that, yes, they had miscalculated, and that the babe would surely come later than expected.

Mary remained in strict seclusion, and in another part of the palace, Elizabeth too was confined to her rooms, for she was still under guard. Yet isolated as she was, she could sense the undercurrents of tension that were pervading Hampton Court. Thanks to Blanche, an avid listener to gossip, she was aware of the foreign ambassadors, waiting to send news of the birth to their respective governments; of the courtiers, laying bets as to the sex of the infant and speculating as to why the Queen had been so wrong about her dates; and of the King, anxious to see his son safely born and to be away to war. For him, a single hour’s delay seemed like a thousand years.

But the days turned into weeks, and it was now nearly June. Looking at his wife, Philip was certain that her belly had shrunk a little, and a terrible suspicion came upon him, which he dared not voice, for she was by now so dejected that she spent much of her time sitting on cushions on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chin, staring at the wall. He wondered that a gravid woman at her stage could manage such a position, but again he kept his fears to himself. He was beginning to doubt that this pregnancy would have a happy outcome, and was even starting to speculate that his wife was not pregnant at all but suffering from some female malady. In which case, it was of the utmost importance that her rift with her sister Elizabeth was immediately healed, and that he be recognized as the one who had brought about a reconciliation and the restoration of Elizabeth to her proper place in the succession.

Yet he had to go carefully with Mary. There must be no suggestion that all was not well.

“Why not send for Elizabeth?” he said gently. “I assure you that your fears about her are unfounded, and that she wishes you nothing but well. Receive her back into favor. She could be a support to you at this time, and her company could help to relieve the tedium of waiting.”

Elizabeth’s company was the last thing Mary wanted just now, and she suspected that Elizabeth had used her wiles on Philip to bring him to this glowing opinion of her, but she was anxious to please him, for—much to her grief—he was going away as soon as this tardy infant was born, and she wanted to make sure that he had reason to come back to her.

“If it pleases you, my husband, I will send for her,” she agreed, suppressing her forebodings.

“I will have her summoned,” Philip said with one of his rare smiles.

Elizabeth was astonished and afraid when, at ten o’clock that evening, the door to her lodging opened and there stood Susan Clarencieux, Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting. What could this betoken? she wondered. Had the Queen been delivered, and had Clarencieux, who had never been a friend to her, come to inform her and gloat over her displacement?

“I am here to escort you to Her Majesty’s apartments,” Clarencieux said coolly. “She wishes to see you and hear you make answer for yourself.”

Elizabeth turned pale. So Philip’s assurance had been premature. Mary still suspected her. And if she did not give a good account of herself, all unprepared as she was, it might go ill with her this night.

Trembling, she turned to Blanche Parry.

“Pray for me,” she muttered, “for I have no idea whether I will ever see you again.” Blanche looked at her tragically with tear-filled eyes.

The lady-in-waiting was brisk.

“There is nothing to fear, I am sure. The Queen is disposed to be merciful. I suggest you put on your finest clothes for the audience.”

When Elizabeth was ready—she had laid aside the seductive white gown in favor of a high-necked crimson velvet one—Clarencieux held her torch aloft and led her down the stairs and across the moonlit garden to the Queen’s lodging. There, they ascended to the privy chamber, and when they were admitted, there was Mary, alone in the room, seated in her chair of estate, her graying red hair straggling over the shoulders of the loose robe she was wearing. There was little sign of any high stomach beneath it, and she looked older and very drawn, with deep lines dragging her mouth downward.

Unsmiling, she extended her hand to be kissed, but Elizabeth, overcome with emotion at being in Mary’s presence at last, and seeing her sister so ravaged, threw herself on her knees, weeping uncontrollably. This was the Mary who had been a second mother to her in childhood, her Queen to whom she owed loyalty and fealty, whose mind Elizabeth’s enemies had poisoned. Things
must
be put right between them while there was still time, for Mary looked old and ill, and not only were there ties of kinship and allegiance to be mended, but there was also a pressing need for the older woman to look with kindness upon the girl who might yet be her successor.

“God preserve Your Majesty!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Whatever people have reported of me, you will find me as true a subject of Your Majesty as any!”

Mary turned away, breathing heavily. She waved Clarencieux out of the room, leaving only the two of them in the flickering candlelight. When she did speak, her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“You will not confess your offense, will you? You stand stoutly in your truth. Well, I pray God it may so fall out.”

Elizabeth was stung. “If it does not,” she answered vehemently, “I desire neither favor nor pardon at your hands.”

“Well,” Mary said, disappointed that Elizabeth had not denied her guilt more categorically, “since you so stiffly persevere in your truth, and will not confess any wrongdoing, are you saying that you have been wrongly punished?”

“I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you,” Elizabeth replied meekly.

“But you will to others?” Mary pursued.

“No, if it please Your Majesty!” Elizabeth protested. “I have borne the burden and I must bear it yet. All I humbly beseech is for Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me, and to think me your true subject, not only from the beginning, but forever, as long as life lasts.”

The Queen said nothing. Instead, she rose stiffly and went over to the window. The casement was open to let in the balmy night air, and a soft breeze stirred the tapestry that hung nearby.

“God knows if you are speaking the truth,” she murmured, turning to gaze fixedly at her sister.

“I take Him for my witness,” Elizabeth said firmly. In that moment, her face was lit up in the glow from the candles and Mary could clearly see the outline of their father King Henry’s profile. There was no doubt of it, no doubt at all: It was him to the life. Good, honest woman that she was, she realized that she had deeply wronged Elizabeth with her baseless suspicions. Now, God be praised, it would be easier for her to do as Philip wished.

Elizabeth was wondering why Mary kept staring at her, but suddenly she saw something that disturbed her. The Queen’s robe was gaping slightly, revealing the fine chemise beneath; yet for all that she was at full term, the swelling of her belly was hardly visible. Elizabeth was puzzled, but there was no time to speculate further, for Mary had moved swiftly toward her, holding out her hands and grasping Elizabeth’s in a claw-like grip.

“I want to believe you, Sister,” she said, her eyes moist. “For the sake of the kinship between us.”

“Then believe it, madam, for you have no cause to doubt it!” Elizabeth urged her. “I would never betray you nor wish you harm, I assure you.”

“Then we are perfect friends again,” said Mary, attempting a smile. “And you shall be set at liberty forthwith, and take your place at court.”

Elizabeth fell to her knees again and kissed the Queen’s hand most fervently.

“You shall have no cause to doubt me, I swear it!” she vowed.

When she had gone, her heart singing, away into the night, Philip stepped out from behind the tapestry.

“A touching scene,” he observed. “You have her on your side now. There is no more need to fear her.” He walked to the table and poured himself a goblet of wine.

“Think you not I can dissemble with the best of my race?” Mary retorted. “Yes, I have taken her back into favor. Yes, I may have wronged her. Maybe she was not as culpable as we suspected. But as for fearing her? I shall fear her to my dying day!” And she burst out in copious, noisy tears.

“All the better then that you keep her under your eye,” Philip said coolly, sipping his drink. “But mind that you treat her with respect, if not affection.”

Mary looked at him miserably. She was not a fool: She was in no doubt that Elizabeth was now under Philip’s protection, and that in some ways, she might be more important to him than Mary herself. Small wonder, she thought bitterly, for Elizabeth represented the future.

Dear God, she prayed, when will my son be born?

Elizabeth was not sure what to do next. The guards had been removed and the Chamberlain had told her that she might receive visitors, but few came, and she deemed it wise to keep to her rooms for the present. It was as well, because, due to the Queen’s prolonged confinement, the court had sojourned overlong at Hampton Court, and the palace was now fetid with the stink of overflowing privies and hundreds of sweaty bodies. On her few forays from her lodgings, Elizabeth witnessed scuffles and scraps between courtiers frustrated at being cooped up in such an atmosphere.

Everything was in suspense, waiting on the Queen’s delivery. The business of the kingdom was at a standstill, the mood of the people ugly. The King rarely appeared in public, so embarrassed was he at the interminable delay and the whispers to which it was giving rise.

June came and went; July—and the doctors said again that they had muddled the dates. The expressions worn by the courtiers were deeply skeptical, Elizabeth noticed. Faces turned to her in expectation and hope. Inwardly elated, she ignored them; she dared do no else.

One day, she looked out of her window and glimpsed the Queen in the privy garden. Mary appeared to be her normal slender self; there was obviously no babe inside her. Yet still the pretense was maintained that the birth was imminent.

“It would take a miracle!” Elizabeth observed privately to Blanche, who, in the absence of her beloved Kat, had become her confidante. She knew she could trust Blanche, who was utterly devoted to her.

“It is the judgment of God,” whispered the Welshwoman.

“That’s as may be,” Elizabeth replied, ever practical, “but the continuance of this charade, to my mind, is a ploy to keep the people in hope, and thus in check.”

“It cannot go on forever,” Blanche said.

“No, it cannot,” Elizabeth agreed. “The Queen has been pregnant for eleven and a half months now.”

“Is she ill?” Blanche asked.

“I think not,” Elizabeth considered. “My belief is that she desired a child so much that she believed she was pregnant. Unless it was all a pretense, but that I cannot accept. My sister is too honest a lady.”

“Whatever the case, I hope we can move from here soon,” Blanche said. “The palace is unbearable, what with the heat and the stink.”

“I think there will be an announcement soon,” Elizabeth opined. “This cannot go on for much longer.” She was striving to suppress her inner excitement, for the abandonment of Mary’s hopes would mean the restoration of her own.

There was no announcement, just the Lord Chamberlain telling her that the King and Queen had removed to the royal hunting lodge at Oatlands with their attendants.

“Her Majesty desires me to tell you that you are absolutely free and may go where you will,” he informed her. His manner was far more deferential than hitherto, for it was now almost certain that the Queen would have no child, and the courtiers, who had reacted to this realization with pity or scorn, were according Elizabeth a new respect as the likely successor to the throne.

She could go where she pleased? Her heart leapt in elation, for on hearing those words, she realized that she was, indeed, free at last.

In August, the Queen summoned her to Greenwich to be present when Philip departed for the Low Countries. Elizabeth was gratified that Mary wanted her there, but put out when the Queen insisted that she travel by water rather than by road.

She does not want the people showing their affection for me, she thought. And she wants me under her supervision, for she does not trust me.

She was even more offended when she saw the ramshackle old barge that the Queen had sent to collect her. It had been patched up and painted, but it was still a sorry sight, and there were cries of “Shame!” from the riverbank, where hordes of common folk had gathered, as if in defiance of the Queen’s command, as soon as word of her coming spread.

At Greenwich, she found her sister too busy to see her. In fact, Mary was making the most of her final hours with Philip. All too soon, the time passed, and when the moment came for his departure, she said her agonizing, tearful farewells in private, then stood stony-faced at the top of the great staircase, helplessly watching him descend and walk away from her and through the great doorway, bound for the waiting ship that would take him to Flanders. Until he was out of sight, she held on to herself, then when she could bear it no longer, she withdrew into her apartments and hastened to a window in the gallery, desperate for one last glimpse of her beloved. Following with the other ladies, Elizabeth watched her sister break into anguished sobs as she waved her kerchief at the distant figure on the departing ship.