The Lady Elizabeth (67 page)

“Does anyone know why the Countess of Sussex took it upon herself to go to France?” the Queen asked her councillors. Most of them looked blank.

“Our intelligence is that she has lately returned from that land,” Cardinal Pole supplied. “It seems strange that she went there without first seeking a safe conduct from Her Majesty here. Nor does she have any connections in France, nor any reason to go there, which seems odd.”

“I am credibly informed that she had visited the Lady Elizabeth frequently before her departure,” Mary said. “Which is why I smell a rat.”

“Shall we have her questioned?” Lord Hastings suggested.

“She has been questioned already,” Pole told him. “She insists her trip was made purely for private purposes, but when asked what they were, she seemed unable to say for certain.”

“My advice is to keep an eye on her, madam,” Paget said. “It may be that her journey was innocent. But since the Lady Elizabeth may be concerned, you never know.”

Elizabeth stood before Mary. The privy closet was chilly despite the burning brazier, the weak December light fading.

“I have summoned you here to have your answer as to whether or not you will marry the Duke of Savoy.” The Queen, swathed in furs, opened the conversation.

Elizabeth fell to her knees. Resist, they had said; resist with all your might. That was her only alternative now, after the French ambassador and the King of France had insisted she remain in England.

“Madam, I crave your indulgence, but I cannot marry him,” she declared. “Your Majesty knows why.”

The Queen blushed faintly. “Such matters may be remedied,” she said decidedly. “I will send my physicians to you.”

“Madam, I beg of you, no!” cried Elizabeth, panic mounting.

Mary’s anger flared.

“Why do you thwart me at every turn?” she shrilled. “You are my heir, God help me, yet at times it seems you are more my enemy.”

“I am Your Majesty’s most assured friend,” Elizabeth protested hotly. “My feelings about marriage have no bearing on that.”

“Your marriage is an affair of state, negotiated to the advantage of this kingdom—
my
kingdom!” Mary pointed out. “Do not defy me in this most important regard.”

“But madam—”

“Enough!” Mary snapped. “You know that I have the power to disinherit you? Or put you in the Tower, or even send you to the block?”

Gathering all her courage, Elizabeth outfaced her.

“I think we both know, madam, that neither the King nor Parliament would sanction any of those punishments,” she said softly, quivering at her own daring.

Mary stared at her.

“You grow too insolent!” she cried. “May I remind you that it is the King who desires this marriage? He will not take kindly to being thwarted. I warn you, Sister, there will be repercussions from this, and if it is in my power, I will choose someone else to succeed me!”

“Then, madam, I make no doubt that the Duke will no longer find me as desirable a bride!” Elizabeth retorted.

“You will leave court!” Mary exploded. “Without delay! I cannot bear the sight of you.”

“I will go to Hatfield then, with your permission,” Elizabeth said evenly. She had begun to feel her power.

“You may go to Hell for all I care,” Mary flung at her. “And you may rest assured that I will never name you my successor.”

“Name me or not, that is what I am!” Elizabeth countered, then rose to her feet and curtsied herself out of the room, leaving the Queen speechless with fury.

Philip was coming back to England!

Mary’s heart was bursting with jubilation and thankfulness as she sank to her knees in the chapel before the statue of the Virgin and Child. He was returning to her; his household was on its way ahead of him. Soon, they would be reunited, and once again they would enjoy that blessed union that God had ordained for all married couples. And if He was willing, there might yet be some chance of a child, a Catholic heir to succeed her…

In her joy, she was unable to feel any more rancor toward Elizabeth, had put their quarrel firmly behind her, and was indeed happy to comply with Philip’s request that her sister be summoned to Greenwich for the Christmas festivities, there to await his coming.

Elizabeth looked up with surprise when Mary, having summoned her back from Hatfield, greeted her graciously and presented her with a fine gift of plate.

“I am not worthy,” she murmured, astonished at the Queen’s change of heart.

“You may thank the King’s Majesty,” Mary replied, but there was no real sarcasm in her voice. She was a woman in love, and her beloved was coming, very soon…

CHAPTER
21

1557

R
uy Gomez, Philip’s great friend and close adviser—but lately arrived in England—stood before the Queen.

“Your Majesty will have heard that the French have broken their truce with us and attacked Douai,” he said gravely.

“Indeed I have,” she replied, “and I have demanded of my council that England go to war to support Spain.”

“Yes, madam, but we have received reports that your councillors have refused their consent,” Gomez said accusingly, almost glaring at her in his stiff, Castilian manner.

“That is true.” She sighed. “They say that England cannot afford a war, that this war does not concern us, and that we are not bound by treaty to support the King in his wars. I have, of course, declared to them my pleasure.”

“May I remind Your Majesty that declaring war is the sovereign’s own prerogative?” Gomez asked coldly.

“I fear to do that without my council’s support,” Mary demurred.

“Perhaps Your Majesty will act when I say that the King has commanded me to tell you that his coming to England will be dependent on your promise to declare war on France,” Gomez said smoothly.

Mary’s sharp intake of breath was audible. It was cruel, cruel…but even now, she would not blame Philip. I am on the eve of bankrupting my kingdom or my heart! she thought. But there was no choice.

“Tell the King that I promise to persuade my council to agree to the war,” she said faintly. “And I pray you, beg him not to be afraid to come here!”

The bells were pealing and the court en fête for Philip’s arrival at Greenwich. Elizabeth, alighting from her flower-bedecked barge, saw that her sister’s tired face was radiant with expectation, observed her agitation as they waited for the King to disembark, and watched as Mary clung tightly to him, unable to restrain her tears. He, in turn, maintained his usual correct composure, but when he came to raise Elizabeth from her curtsy, he muttered, “Think not that I am come just to persuade this people to war. I am come to conclude your marriage with Savoy, so think not to defy me.”

Elizabeth bent her head, her cheeks flaming. Did he think to suborn her, with the throne so nearly in her sights? Well, he would find that he had met his match. She was resolved not to marry with Savoy or any other.

She rode with the King and Queen to Whitehall, through streets packed with cheering citizens, but their shouts were not for Mary and Philip. Sensing the royal couple’s displeasure and resentment, Elizabeth dared not acknowledge the people’s acclaim. She stood fuming at a court reception for the King’s kinswomen, the Duchesses of Parma and Lorraine, who had come to England, it was rumored, to escort Elizabeth to Savoy and her wedding to its Duke.

When presented to the Duchess of Lorraine, the former Christina of Denmark, whose famed beauty was still apparent, Elizabeth could not resist reminding her of a youthful indiscretion.

“I am sure Your Grace recalls that you might have been my stepmother,” she said with a smile. “You will remember that my father King Henry asked for your hand.”

The Duchess’s cheeks flushed pink.

“I was very young at the time, Highness,” she said.

“Am I right in saying you told him that if you had two heads, one would be at his disposal?” Elizabeth asked wickedly. The courtiers laughed.

“I may have done,” the Duchess replied, looking embarrassed and put out.

“Instead, he married that lady there,” Elizabeth said, pointing across the room to Anna of Cleves, now grown very fat. Anna was not at all well, she had heard; there was talk of a canker in her breast. Suppressing a shiver of concern, Elizabeth bent forward suddenly so that only the Duchess could hear her.

“I would rather die than submit to this marriage,” she said low.

The Duchess looked confused, but the King came to her rescue, lifting her hand and kissing it.

“I trust you are being made welcome, dear cousin,” he said, his eyes locking with the Duchess’s. In that instant, Elizabeth knew that there was more than a bond of kinship between them.

Mary, watching across the room, had come to the same—for her, sickening—conclusion. Rumors had preceded Philip’s arrival. How could he bring his mistress to England and flaunt her like this? And this marriage they were all clamoring for—could de Noailles be right when he warned that the Duke of Savoy, for all his standing, was poor and effectively stripped of his wealth?

Jealousy got the better of her. She would not pander to Philip’s schemes, not when he was brazenly flaunting his mistress.

The next morning, Mary summoned Elizabeth and suggested she return to Hatfield. It was best, she said, that her sister was away from these political intrigues; privately, she did not want Elizabeth witnessing Philip flirting with that hussy his cousin. That Elizabeth should see her betrayed was not to be borne!

“But this matter of my marriage?” Elizabeth asked. “I had been given to believe that the Duchesses had come to conduct me to Savoy. In truth, madam, I had not realized that matters had progressed so far. I beg Your Majesty—”

“Have no fear,” Mary interrupted. “Remove yourself from court. Do not return until I summon you. You will not be troubled.”

Utterly relieved at finding Mary an unexpected ally, Elizabeth departed, her heart lighter, her mind freed for once from anxiety.

Philip regarded Mary with unconcealed distaste, seeing the wrinkles that had been graven by worry and melancholy, the thin body, the flat chest.

“I tell you, madam, she must come to court!” he commanded, ignoring her protests. “If I have to force her to take Savoy, then so be it.”

Mary looked at him sorrowfully.

“You know my council is against the match,” she reminded him. “And she herself is unwilling.”

“Then offer to acknowledge her as your successor in return for her consent to the marriage,” he suggested.

“Even if she agreed, which I doubt, the council would not approve it, of that I am certain. And she cannot marry without the council’s permission.”

“Am I to understand that you yourself are in agreement with them?” Philip demanded of her, his eyes narrowing.

“I have heard that the Duke is poor and thus not so great a match as we would wish.”

“He is willing to come and live in England,” Philip said quickly.

“What can he offer her, then?” Mary asked.

“He is a good Catholic and loyal to me,” Philip answered.

“It is not enough,” Mary said flatly. “Not enough to make me defy my council and override my sister’s objections.”

“Then you are failing in your duty of obedience to me, your husband,” he accused her.

“And what of your duty to me as your queen?” Mary reminded him. “You are my consort.”

“And you are my wife!” he objected hotly. “And as such, subject to my rule.”

“You forget yourself,” Mary cried, perilously close to weeping. “I am sovereign of this realm, and hold dominion over
all
my subjects. God knows I have tried to please you in all things, but sometimes the interests of my kingdom must come first. I cannot make Elizabeth marry against her will, nor against the will of my people.”

“Bah!” sneered Philip. “You must make her do as she is bid. As you value my love.”

The threat was all too clear. With a breaking heart, Mary summoned Elizabeth from Hatfield.