The Lady Elizabeth (9 page)

The matter was shelved, though, for Henry was too preoccupied with his marriage negotiations and the discovery of another nest of traitors. After the Easter celebrations were over, Elizabeth went back to Hunsdon with Mary, and there she was once more constrained by her half sister to behave decorously and attend to her devotions. She chafed at the strict regime imposed on her, for she seemed to be constantly on her knees or plying her needle. How she hated sewing! The tedium of it!

Kat reined in her rebellious spirit, but also spoiled her, smuggling sugary comfits into the schoolroom, reading her the most fascinating stories, giggling with her at silly jests and pompous officials, yet all the while imposing her own gentle forms of discipline.

Kat’s lessons fascinated her. Elizabeth soon discovered that she loved learning, and proved an eager pupil. Each day she would be up bright and early, racing through her prayers and her breakfast so that she could hasten to the schoolroom and learn more about the enticing wide world that was opening up before her.

Kat taught her numbers using an abacus, and set her little problems to solve.

“If I have five cherries and eat two, how many have I left?”

Elizabeth counted on her fingers.

“Three!” she said quickly.

“Good,” smiled Kat, impressed at the child’s ability.

Kat taught her to form letters, having her trace rows and rows of them in a copy book. Soon, Elizabeth was able to write her name, and after that it was only a matter of time before she was scribing simple sentences.

Kat told her stories of the kings and queens who had been her forebears; she particularly loved to hear about William the Conqueror winning the Battle of Hastings, and Queen Philippa successfully pleading for the Burghers of Calais, but best of all was the tale of how Elizabeth’s grandfather, Henry the Seventh, had vanquished the wicked Richard Crookback at the Battle of Bosworth and thus become the first Tudor King. Elizabeth shuddered to hear how Richard had murdered his little nephews, the Princes in the Tower, and was of the opinion that he had met the fate he richly deserved. How she admired her victorious grandfather!

One day, Kat unrolled a map.

“This shows the British Isles,” she said. “This part here is England, this is Wales, and this is Ireland. Your father the King rules all three.”

“And what is this part?” asked Elizabeth, pointing to the top of the map. She was always anticipating the next part of the lesson.

“That is Scotland, and it is ruled by your cousin, King James the Fifth. Now, across the sea—see here, the English Channel—is France, and your father is King of France too, by right of blood.”

“My father is a mighty prince!” enthused Elizabeth.

The next chart Kat produced showed the heavens, with the planets revolving around the earth. There was another too, with gaily colored signs of the Zodiac.

“See, here is yours, my Lady Elizabeth,” Kat said. “You are a Virgo. Clever but modest, and virtuous of course.”

“Virgo,” repeated Elizabeth. “Does that mean I’m a virgin, like Saint Ursula?”

“Bless you, child, it does for now, until you marry,” Kat replied, smiling.

“You mean I can’t be a Virgo after I marry?” The child was puzzled.

“You will always be a Virgo, because you were born under that sign. But a girl ceases to be a virgin when she marries.”

“Why?” Elizabeth persisted.

“Because her virginity is something she must surrender to her husband,” answered Kat, not wishing to be too specific.

Elizabeth, recalling that dreadful tale of Patient Grizelda, didn’t like the idea of surrendering anything to a husband. She had already decided that, when she grew up, she was going to do whatever she pleased and not let anyone order her about.

Elizabeth was at her happiest in her dancing lessons. She had learned with ease the courtly steps of the
ronde,
the
salterello,
the
allemagne,
and the
basse
dance, could move slowly and with dignity in the stately
pavane,
and threw all her energy into rumbustious brawls and jigs, executing competent kick steps, leaps, and whirling turns.

“Bravo!” the dancing master would cry, and Kat would clap, admiring Elizabeth’s gracefulness while reminding herself to curb the child’s vanity, for Elizabeth loved nothing more than to show off her skills. But Kat never quite succeeded, because already she was in thrall to the little girl’s vibrant charm, and anyway—she told herself as Elizabeth ignored yet another weak admonition to stop admiring herself in the mirror—a king’s daughter should have a certain air of confidence about her, especially one who bore the disadvantage of having been declared a bastard.

Riding was another skill at which Elizabeth excelled. She quickly mastered her first pony and progressed to a docile palfrey. With grooms following and Kat at her side, she rode out every day, around the parks at Hunsdon, Hatfield, Hertford, Enfield, Elsynge, and Ashridge, the nursery palaces in which she spent her spacious childhood, lodging at each in turn, and vacating a house when it needed cleansing. She also liked to accompany Kat on long early-morning walks in the fresh air, whatever the weather, trying to match her stride to the governess’s when it was cold and they had to maintain a brisk pace to keep warm.

The afternoons were usually given up to the learning of tongues.

“It is important for a king’s daughter to know different languages so that she can converse with foreign princes and ambassadors,” Kat said. She blessed her own progressively minded father for having tutored her in French, Italian, Spanish, and Dutch, so that she was able to impart the rudiments of these to her very able pupil. Elizabeth learned fast—she had the gift—and soon they were able to hold simple conversations in those tongues.

One day, Elizabeth came upon one of her nursery attendants singing a song in a strange and lilting speech as she tidied the schoolroom.

“What’s that you’re singing?” she asked the singer, a woman with fair, straw-like hair and cornflower-blue eyes, who was hastily dipping a curtsy.

“It is an old Welsh ballad, my lady,” she answered in a beguiling, musical voice. “It is called ‘Carol Llygoden yn y Felin’—the mouse in the mill.”

“It’s a merry song,” Elizabeth said. “Will you teach it to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, my lady,” the woman faltered. “I have my work to do.”

“You must obey me,” said Elizabeth imperiously. “I am the King’s daughter.”

“Yes, my lady, of course, my lady,” mumbled the other. “I’m sure it’s all right.”

“Of course it is!” said Elizabeth. “It’s Blanche, isn’t it?”

“Blanche Parry, if you please, my lady.”

“Let us sit here.” Elizabeth drew Blanche to a window seat, and, hesitantly at first, then with mounting confidence, Blanche taught Elizabeth her song, line by line, until the child had it word-perfect.

“I shall go and sing it to Kat!” Elizabeth cried, and hastened to show off her perfect rendering of the Welsh tongue to Kat.

“I have learned a new song,” she announced. “I will sing it for you.”

Kat seated herself on the settle, laying aside her hemming.

“Now listen,” instructed the child. And she sang the Welsh carol, without faltering once, in a clear, true voice. Kat clapped in admiration when it ended.

“Where did you learn that?” she asked, astonished.

“From Blanche Parry,” said Elizabeth. “I want her to teach me more Welsh.”

“That would be most fitting,” Kat pronounced. “Your grandfather, King Henry the Seventh, was half Welsh and descended from the ancient princes of Wales. He was born in Wales, at Pembroke, and the name Tudor, the name of your House, is Welsh. I will see that Blanche is granted an hour or two each week to teach you the Welsh language.”

And that was what happened. Blanche was not the greatest of educators, but she was able to teach Elizabeth songs and poems, and their meanings. And during those hours spent together, Blanche conceived a great devotion for her vivacious young mistress, who was so interested in the history and traditions of a conquered people, and who was so friendly and kind.

On the day Elizabeth gave her a red ribbon, which she thought would look pretty in Blanche’s hair, the woman was overcome and barely able to speak, and when she recovered her tongue, she fell to her knees.

“I would serve you forever, my lady, so God spare me,” she declared fervently. Elizabeth smiled; Blanche’s response was so gratifying.

“I will see to it!” she said. “You must stay with me.”

“I will, I promise!” cried the Welshwoman.

CHAPTER
4

1539

W
hitehall Palace was thronged with people when the six-year-old Elizabeth and her small train arrived for the Christmas season. An air of happy anticipation filled the air, and it was not inspired solely by the coming festivities.

“I cannot wait to meet my new stepmother,” Elizabeth declared as they followed the Lord Chamberlain to the apartment that had been made ready for her, one that overlooked the broad Thames meandering downstream to London.

“Well, my lady, you will have to be patient because, from what I’ve heard, she is still in Calais waiting for a fair wind,” said Kat, opening a traveling chest.

“There are so many ladies at court!” Elizabeth had marveled at their rich gowns, their bejeweled hoods, their air of sophistication.

“The King your father will have invited them in honor of the new Queen,” Kat explained, unpacking chemises and nightgowns. “I’ll warrant he has already appointed some of them to her household.”

“They say she is very beautiful,” Elizabeth said. “And I hope she is kind too.”

“I’m sure she will be.” Kat smiled.

The King, when he received his younger daughter in the presence chamber, was in high spirits.

“Greetings, my Lady Bessy! Your sister Mary is already here, and your brother the Prince arrives tomorrow.”

“I am very glad of that, sir,” Elizabeth said, delighted to be with her father again. “I cannot wait for him to come. I do not see him often, but I think of him a lot. And I have made him another shirt.” She pulled a wry face.

King Henry smiled. “I am sure he will look well in it, however begrudging the effort to make it!”

“Oh, but sir—” Elizabeth protested.

“No matter. I recall that, when I was a boy, I chafed at being made to sit indoors scribing when I could have been practicing in the tiltyard or shooting at the butts. It was the same when I became King and found myself burdened with state business; all I wanted to do was go hunting—”

He broke off, remembering those heady early days when he had been a young god in the saddle and in the bedchamber, when the world had seemed full of promise, and Kate and he had loved each other. That was before the Great Matter had blighted his life. Now Kate had been dead these four years, Anne too, God damn her, then Jane…and he was a fat, aging man who was contemplating marrying a fourth wife to provide more heirs for his kingdom, and hoping to find love just one more time before eternity claimed him.

“We are two of a kind, Bessy,” he said ruefully. “We do our duty against our greater desires.” Elizabeth thrilled to hear him say that.

“I try to be like you, sir,” she said eagerly.

Henry considered her, this fiery little flame-haired child, who had been born of his desperate lust for her mother, and conceived before their marriage.

“You
are
like me,” he said. Indeed, she was so like him there could be no disputing that she was his daughter, although there were those who had cast doubts on that, in view of what had been proved against Anne later. But Elizabeth had much of him in her—and much of her mother too, he conceded, or rather, the best of her mother: It was becoming more apparent every time he saw her. She had Anne’s wit, her sense of humor, her strength of character, her inviting eyes…How they had bewitched him! Had she really betrayed him with all those men? He had to believe it. Yet doubts tortured him still. Would he never be free of Anne Boleyn?

But Anne was no more. It was her daughter who stood before him, a daughter whom he had deprived of a mother. With justification, of course; he had been right to act as he had, entirely right. And now that lack would be rectified.

“Will you be pleased to welcome your stepmother?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. I hear she is very beautiful.”

“That is so, they tell me. Master Cromwell says she excels both the sun and the moon. And Master Holbein has painted her likeness for me.” He took from his bosom a tiny circular box of white ivory, carved like a rose just coming into bloom, and lifted the lid to show the child what lay therein. It was the picture of a lady with delicately lidded eyes, a faint blush on her creamy cheeks, and the hint of a smile on her red lips.

“She
is
beautiful!” Elizabeth cried, thinking how gentle and kind the Princess looked.

Henry gazed at the miniature.

“Anna,” he breathed. “Anna of Cleves. God speed her coming!”