Beware, Princess Elizabeth (10 page)

I nodded. "Perhaps the queen will relent when she sees how many oppose her." I didn't believe that, but I did not want to reveal my own deep fears.

Catherine stopped and gripped both of my hands in hers. "Why are you being so blind, Elizabeth? The Protestants who stay here will surely plot a rebellion against Queen Mary—Francis has told me that. They will just as surely rally around you, and you will be blamed!"

"I will have nothing to do with such a plot," I said.

"You will have nothing to say about it, and Queen Mary will not take your word. Your house is infested with spies!" Catherine was weeping now. "Oh, dear Elizabeth, I fear that I shall never see you again!"

The sound of her mother's sobs attracted the notice of little Lettice, who scampered back to clutch at Catherine's petticoats. I pressed my fingers to my cousin's lips, begging her to say no more. We finished our walk and returned to the palace, holding tightly to each other's hands to still the trembling.

Catherine and Lettice stayed with me for three days. Naturally I wanted to question Catherine at length: Did she know of any such plots? Did she know the names of the plotters? Had my name been mentioned, or was this simply a guess? But I decided that it was safer if I did
not
know. Then, if questioned, I could truthfully plead complete innocence.

At the end of the three days, my cousin prepared to leave, all of us weeping many tears, not knowing when—or if!—we would see one another again. Catherine tried once more to persuade me to flee to the safety of the Continent.

"I cannot leave England," I told her. "I
am
England, and someday I shall be her queen."

"But you must
live
if you are to become queen!" she cried.

"I shall live and I shall rule," I said. But at that moment I needed every bit of courage to believe my own words.

My heart still ached from the departure of my cousin Catherine when Queen Mary startled us all with the announcement that she had decided the time had come for her to marry. She informed the privy council of her intent, and now the talk was of little else.

"Marry!" I exclaimed to Sir William Cecil when he brought me this latest piece of news. "Marry
whom?
"

It was believed that no woman had the wit or the strength to rule on her own—even Sir William was in agreement with that notion. The choice of a husband for the queen, then, was of the greatest importance, not merely for her own happiness but for the good of the country. Almost from the moment the crown had settled upon Mary's head, a number of suitors had appeared. But Mary had shown no interest in any of them and no inclination to proceed quickly, and so the new announcement came as a surprise.

Over supper Sir William and I considered the possibilities.

"Reginald Pole," suggested Sir William.

"Pole is a cardinal!" I protested. "A prince of the Catholic Church! He has been in Rome since my father banished him twenty years ago. And was he not within a vote or two of being elected pope?"

Sir William fingered his tidy mustache. "All that you say is true. But Pole was never ordained a priest. He is only a deacon, and he might, if he wishes—if the queen wishes—be released from his deacon's vows."

"I have heard that Mary once loved him," I said, considering the idea. "But that was years ago."

"There is another candidate," Cecil continued. "And he has the backing of many on the privy council."

"And who may that be?"

"Edward Courtenay."

I burst out laughing. Since his visit to me, I'd had no private meetings with the earl, but he had certainly been visible at court.

"He struts about like a peacock, well pleased with himself," I reminded Cecil, "and he has not the least idea of proper behavior. I suppose it is difficult to learn courtly manners when one has been shut away from society throughout one's youth, but I suspect that Edward Courtenay might have been just as insufferable if he had been brought up at the king's elbow."

Cecil agreed, but he pointed out that even with all his faults, there were councillors who thought Courtenay the best match for the queen. "He is English, and his bloodlines are good—that is enough to convince the council, who would do anything to avoid having a foreigner as king. But," continued Cecil, "the queen will learn soon enough that Courtenay has been seen in the company of loose women and has a talent for debauchery. The earl of Devon will no longer be a contender for the queen's hand."

"Or for mine, thank goodness," I put in. "Who is your next guess, then?"

"Philip of Spain."

"Surely not!" I exclaimed. "I care not a whit whom my sister marries, but I cannot imagine that she would take a Spaniard as her consort. He will be despised by every person with English blood in his veins!"

But Sir William's last guess proved correct: Queen Mary's choice fell upon the Spanish prince, the son of her mother's cousin, Emperor Charles V.

Mary had once been betrothed by our father to Charles, when she was but six years old and Charles was twenty-two. The betrothal had been broken, and Charles married someone else, by whom he had a son, Philip. Prince Philip was now twenty-seven, ten years younger than Mary.

Said Cecil, "It is only a matter of time until Mary will be shoved into the background and Philip will rule. Her advisers are warning her of this, but she pays no attention."

"And what is her reply?"

"That this marriage is God's will. Her mother was Spanish, her ties with the emperor are strong, and she feels called to marry Philip."

My stubborn sister! No one could tell her anything. As I expected, the announcement of Mary's betrothal upset nearly everyone.

"I detest the Spaniards," Kat grumbled. "Imagine Philip coming here and taking over our country! Having sovereignty over us! The queen is making a dreadful mistake."

A few weeks after Mary announced her intention, a large portrait of Philip arrived at Whitehall. Queen Mary invited me and a number of her ladies to view the likeness. The painting was set upon an easel in the queen's presence chamber, covered with a cloth of purple silk. Lady Marian and Lady Cynthia accompanied me, and as we waited for the queen to appear, we kept our eyes on the purple cloth. There was a stir, and we dropped to our knees as the door opened.

As usual the queen was gowned in rich velvet trimmed in brocade and decked with more jewels than I could count. She sparkled from head to toe, and her eyes seemed to sparkle as well. She swept aside the purple silk and stepped back, and we all gaped at the portrait. "Our future husband," she said, for once sounding shy.

The young prince, dressed in a blue coat trimmed with white wolf skin, was a man well made in face and figure. I could understand her attraction to him, based on that likeness.

Has anyone sent Philip a portrait of Mary?
I wondered.
What will he think when he sees this aging queen? Might he change his mind?
I remembered my father's response to Anne of Cleves.

No matter what our private thoughts, we ladies all applauded enthusiastically and murmured approvingly. "The prince is now three years older since he posed for the artist Titian," she explained. "We are told he has developed an even more manly body. And a fuller beard," she added, blushing.

"I give not a fig what he looks like," Lady Cynthia muttered gloomily as we rode back to Somerset House. "He is still a Spaniard."

"Perhaps she has no choice," said Lady Marian with a sigh. "She must marry someone, and it might as well be he."

She can remain unwed,
I thought.
That is what I intend to do.
But these were not thoughts I wished to speak aloud.

M
Y HOPE THAT
my sister's coming marriage might distract her attention from me proved groundless.

First she sent a note that I was to have no more visitors without her approval. Once again Kat caught the full force of my fury.

"How dare she!" I shouted. "She treats me like a common criminal!"

Kat had no answer but the obvious one: "She dares because she is queen."

Then Mary sent me books of instruction in the Catholic faith. I flung them against the wall but retrieved them quickly, aware—belatedly—that spies were rewarded for passing on just such bits of information. I reminded myself that I must keep my temper and hold my tongue, no matter how sorely I was tested.

On a day when a sharp wind warned of coming winter, the queen summoned me once more to her presence chamber. I dreaded this interview; perhaps she had heard of my outburst and intended to chastise me. I dropped to one knee, advanced a step, dropped again, advanced, dropped a third time.

"Dear sister," said Queen Mary in a chilly voice.

"Your Majesty," I replied.

"You have been attending Mass daily, have you not?"

"I have, Your Majesty.
Twice
daily. Surely you have heard reports of this?" I knew that she had. It seemed to me that half of my servants and even a number of my ladies and gentlemen were spies who eagerly poured what they'd seen or heard, or thought they had, into Mary's ear.

"We know well that your
person
has been present at the Mass. But what of your mind? Your heart, Elizabeth? Your
soul?
" She smiled sourly. "That is where we have our doubts."

"But, Your Majesty, I am most sincere in my faith," I protested.

"Do you firmly believe what Catholics believe—have always believed?" she demanded, leaning forward intently.

To be honest was to risk what freedom I did have, and possibly even my life. And so I choked back what I wanted to say:
One cannot be forced to believe what one does not believe!
I swore that I did believe, that I attended Mass of my own free will and with genuine faith. I knelt with my hands clasped upon my heart as I spoke, to add feeling to my statement. To my lies.

"We hear no truth in your words," Mary said coldly. She leaned back abruptly. "You are far too much like your mother. You become more like her every day—a woman who caused much trouble in the kingdom."

At the insult to my mother, my intense dislike of Mary exploded into hatred. I felt my cheeks flame, but I was careful to betray none of my anger in my voice or manner. "I beg you to remember, Your Majesty, that you and I have the same father. The same Tudor blood runs thick in our veins."

Mary laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. "There is some question about that," she said, tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair.

I held myself rigid and simply stared at her, scarcely daring to breathe.

"It is evident that you bear far more resemblance to the lowborn Mark Smeaton than ever you have to the man you call father," she said.

I was so angry I feared I might faint, and I reached out a hand to steady myself. But I was also, suddenly, greatly frightened. Mark Smeaton was one of the five men with whom my mother had been wrongfully accused of committing adultery against my father. The other four were gentlemen—one, my mother's own brother!—and all were ordered beheaded by my father. My mother was forced to watch them die before she, too, went to the block.

Mary knew that the charges against Anne Boleyn were lies, fabrications my father used to rid himself of the wife he no longer wanted. But now it was as though not I but my mother knelt before Mary, facing her judgment. Would her actions be as cruel as her words? Trembling, I waited.

For a long moment the queen stared at me. Then abruptly she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. I backed away, kneeling three times as I did, my legs so weak I thought I might not be able to rise again. It was all I could do to walk steadily past Jane the Fool with her shaved head, past the queen's ladies-in-waiting, who sat placidly with their embroidery on their laps. Past the guards standing stiffly at each door, past the gentlemen who idled about in the long gallery, past the guards posted at Whitehall's entrance.

Expecting the queen's guards to seize me, I waited, breathing in ragged gasps while my horse was brought to the courtyard. Although I wanted desperately to give my horse full rein, I maintained a measured gait all the way back to my own palace. Each step carried me away from the hateful queen but not, I feared, away from danger.

W
HEN
I
ARRIVED
at Somerset House, I first had to acknowledge the salutes of the guards, the gentlemen who attended me, the servants, my own ladies-in-waiting. My legs were still weak, but I held myself erect and walked to my bedchamber, pretending nothing was wrong. As soon as the door shut behind me, I flung myself upon my bed and wept until I was wrung dry of tears.

Then anger overcame fear. I leaped up and called for Kat.

After I had described the scene with the queen, Kat said, "You must go away from here. The sooner the better. You are in danger of your very life, Elizabeth. This is not simply some inconvenience of where and how you worship."

I considered Kat's advice. "You are right," I agreed, and the next day I sent a letter to my sister. "I beg Your Majesty's leave to remove my household to Ashridge in Hertfordshire," I wrote.

For days I waited for a reply. When it came, the answer was no.

I wrote again, imploring her to grant me an audience. Anxious days passed. Finally the queen agreed to see me.

As I knelt before her in an attitude of supplication, Mary gazed at me for a long time. In my heart I was furious, but I could not reveal any of that anger.

"You wish to leave court?" she asked finally.

"If Your Grace will grant me leave," I whispered, "I wish to move to Ashridge."

"You may go," she said at last.

I thanked her—at least I meant
that!
When I rose and prepared to depart, kneeling, backing, kneeling, the queen stopped me. "Elizabeth!"

I waited nervously for what might come.

"Before you leave London," she said, "we should like to meet with you once more."

"As Your Majesty desires," I replied, and knelt a third time.

W
HAT MORE
does she want?
I worried as my servants completed preparations for the move. I sent word to the queen that I would wait upon her when she wished. The next day she sent for me. I tried to prepare myself for what I hoped would be a last visit.