Beware, Princess Elizabeth (12 page)

Lady Maud ceased her recital of horrors and squinted at me. "And there rests the nine-day queen, buried between Catherine Howard and your own mother, Anne Boleyn."

I began to weep. I wept for my former companion, at the reminder of the mother I scarcely remembered, and in fear for my own life. I now understood clearly that my sister would show no mercy to anyone she believed to be a threat to her throne, whether there was truth to such a threat or not.

Despite having summoned me to London, and despite my entreaties once I arrived, Queen Mary now refused to see me. Instead, members of the privy council came one by one to my frugal chambers at St. James's Palace. The questioning began. Everything depended upon my ability to summon my strength and to lie convincingly when I must.

What do you know of Thomas Wyatt?

"I know him to be the son of the poet of the same name. Thomas Wyatt the Elder was a favorite in the court of my father, King Henry the Eighth."

Did you conspire with Thomas Wyatt the Younger to overthrow Her Majesty, the queen?

"I would permit no conspiracy against Her Majesty, the queen, my beloved sister, to whom I have pledged my loyalty unto death."

Did Sir Thomas Wyatt inform you of his plans?

"I have had no contact whatsoever with Sir Thomas Wyatt, I swear it."

It is known that he wrote to you. Did you not receive his letters?

"I know of no letters." This was true; I knew of only one letter, not of
letters.

Did you not reply to these letters?

"I can reply to no letters of which I have no knowledge."

Was it not your intent to become the wife of Edward Courtenay and then declare yourself queen?

"I have no wish to speak to the earl of Devon, let alone become his wife. As for declaring myself queen, I recognize but one queen, my beloved sister, Mary."

Thomas Wyatt was still alive, the examiners informed me, still held prisoner in the Tower. I knew that he would be tortured until he told the privy councillors the falsehood they wanted to hear: that I knew of and encouraged the plot against Mary. Wyatt had already implicated me. Now, his body stretched upon the rack, he would supply the details the councillors needed.

The questioning went on hour after hour, day after day. I was now twenty, five years older than I was when Sir Robert Tyrwhitt had questioned me at the time of Tom Seymour's arrest. Once again everything depended upon my wits, my skill at answering the questions in a way that would convince the interrogators of my innocence. Oddly enough, as my mind grew sharper, my body grew stronger. I was almost well again.

O
N PALM SUNDAY,
as I returned to my chambers from hearing Mass in the chapel royal, I found a half dozen guards waiting for me. I caught my breath.

"Why are you here?" I demanded.

"Ready yourself to leave, madam," said the captain.

The fierce expressions on the faces of the guards told me I was not being set free.

"Where, then?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"To the Tower, madam," replied the captain with a sneer.

"The Tower!" Had Thomas Wyatt persuaded them of my guilt? I was ready to swoon with fear. But I knew that I must not allow my terror to be seen. "No!" I cried. "By whose order?" I already knew the answer.

"By order of Her Majesty, the queen."

"Show me the order!"

The guard thrust the parchment before my face. I saw the signature,
Maria Regina.

Thomas Wyatt had already been condemned to die. Was I to be next?
Please, God, no!

The guards waited impatiently as Lady Cynthia and Lady Marian, looking stricken, packed my belongings. I signaled them, secretly, to be slow, to take as much time as possible, and I prayed silently for God's help. When my ladies could prolong their tasks no longer, I addressed the guards.

"Please bring me pen and paper, that I may send a message to my
sister,
the queen."

The guards exchanged glances. The lieutenant, a gawky youth, urged the captain to grant me my wish. "What can it hurt?" the boy whispered, and finally the other agreed.

"Make haste," grumbled the captain when the writing materials had been brought, "lest we miss the tide."

I knew well what he meant: We would travel by barge from the landing at St. James's, downriver, to the Tower. The Thames is subject to strong tides, which at certain times make passage through any of the twenty arches of London Bridge dangerous, if not impossible. Many boatmen and their passengers have gone to their watery graves by mistiming the passage of their craft. I gambled that these guards would not take such a risk, especially during the spring tide, when the water rose highest. In writing this letter, I might buy a little time—time for my sister to soften her heart and change her mind.

"I beg your indulgence, sirs," I said, sitting down at the writing table with parchment, inkhorn, and quill.

If only I could persuade Mary to allow me to meet with her! I knew that I could gaze, unblinking, into her eyes and lie without flinching. I would swear my unswerving loyalty to her and convince her of my innocence in any plot. Surely she could not bring herself to order my execution once she had looked into my face and been reminded that we two were daughters of the same mighty king!

Everything depended upon this letter. I chose each word with great care, while my guards muttered and shifted from foot to foot. Meanwhile, the ladies who were to be allowed to accompany me fell to weeping loudly, to the dismay of the young guard and the irritation of the elder.

When I had made every argument possible in my own favor, I added one more line to my letter:
I humbly crave but only one word of answer from yourself.
I signed it,
Your Highness's most faithful subject, that has been from the beginning and will be to my end, Elizabeth.
Then I drew a series of diagonal lines across the page below my signature so that no one else could fill in a postscript of his own devising.

I sealed the letter and rose from the table. "I am ready," I said. "Be so kind as to deliver this to Her Majesty, the queen."

The captain was plainly furious. "Too late, madam," he growled, red-faced. "The tide has already changed. We must wait six hours for it to change again."

"Then so it shall be," I said calmly.
Six hours—not much time, but enough.
"Perhaps, while we wait, the queen will see fit to answer, and we will have saved ourselves an unpleasant journey."

The hours dragged by, hours filled with foreboding. The Tower! My blood ran cold at the thought of it.

Then Lady Maud increased my dread with her report that the killings had begun. "The men who took part in the uprising against Queen Mary are being hanged in all parts of the city," she reported with evident relish. "Their bodies hang on gibbets, and their heads are impaled on posts above the city gates."

"How many?" asked my own Lady Marian.

"Forty-five at last count, and more to come, including Wyatt himself," replied Lady Maud. "They say the stench is quite dreadful." She held a pomander to her nose to make her point.

What of the "priest" who had brought me the message?
I wondered. Was there still at large a man who knew that I had indeed received a letter from Thomas Wyatt, and that I had lied about it? May God forgive me, but I prayed that he was among those hanged and therefore unable to testify against me.

The six hours passed, but no messenger came. There was no reply from my sister, no letter granting me my request to speak with her.

"The time is at hand, madam," said the captain of the guard. "We leave within the hour. There can be no further delay."

I dressed in my most elegant gown and, shivering with fright, begged to be allowed to pray once more in the chapel royal before we left on this doleful journey. The captain consented, and I prayed fervently to the God of Protestants and Catholics alike to deliver me from this terrible ordeal.

The sky was dark and lowering, and a light rain fell. Bystanders crowded the riverbanks, craning to gape as the barge passed. I wondered if any in that silent crowd were sympathetic to me, or if they, like Mary, saw me as an enemy. The drizzle became a downpour as the barge approached the Water Gate. This gate was the one to which my mother had been brought, in this same manner, eighteen years earlier. I wept, thinking of how she had never left. I was following in the footsteps of many who had been accused of treason and whose last steps from freedom toward death had begun at this exact spot.

"Take me to another gate, any gate but this!" I cried. But the guards stared straight ahead, refusing to hear.

As I stepped from the barge, all strength drained from my legs, which gave way under me. Overcome by terror, I collapsed onto the stone steps, which were wet from the lapping river. I lay crumpled in the rain, unable to go another step. The warders of the Tower sent to meet me stared down at me. I gazed up at them, searching for a sympathetic face. I felt utterly without hope.

Then one, followed by another, abruptly stepped out of the formation, cried, "God preserve Your Grace!" and knelt before me. Immediately others of the warders seized me roughly, set me upon my feet, and ordered me to enter the Tower.

We—my ladies and I—found ourselves shut up in a dank stone chamber on the first floor of the Bell Tower. In the corner lay a rude pallet for sleeping. Under the arched windows were stone seats. The room held nothing else.

As I stood shivering in my sodden, mud-splattered gown and surveyed my rude quarters, I realized that I must summon my will and immediately command the respect of my warders. I must not show any hint of fear or weakness. "What arrangements have been made for me?" I demanded imperiously of the warder with the great ring of keys clanking at his side.

"Ye'll stay here, madam," said the warder.

"Am I to have no place to take bodily exercise?" I insisted. "Am I to eat the food of common prisoners? I am sister to the queen!"

The warder left, mumbling his intent to do everything possible to please me. As soon as he was gone, I slumped down on one of the stone benches and burst into tears.

My orders were actually obeyed. That same day a tester bed with a mattress of fair quality was moved into the chamber. A day later ten servants were assigned to prepare and serve my meals. And within the week I was granted permission to walk twice each day along the lead, the narrow walkway on top of the wall from the Bell Tower to Beauchamp Tower. From this vantage point I could look out over the parapet toward the spire of St. Paul's. I purposely kept my back to the view in another direction: the Tower Green, where my mother had been executed, where Lady Jane Grey had died, and where, I prayed, my life would not also end.

The days succeeded one another in a dull, orderly manner. I prayed, read, took my walks on the lead, and passed the time with needlework. Meals were brought to my chamber, and every dish was searched before it was served, lest some message be smuggled to me in a meat pie or a manchet! My temper was worn thin, and I often spoke sharply to my ladies and then regretted it. They were with me of their own free will and could have left me if they wished.

In April I learned that Sir Thomas Wyatt had been executed in the horrible manner reserved for traitors: After his beheading on Tower Hill, his head was taken to be displayed near Hyde Park. Then his corpse was parboiled, cut into four parts, and each part displayed in a different quarter of the city as a warning.

There were other prisoners whose fate I sometimes wondered about—most especially Robin Dudley, who had been arrested after his father's failed attempt to capture Mary. Where was he now? Alive or dead? Was he also a prisoner in this Tower? No one told me, and I did not want to put myself in more danger by asking.

W
EEKS PASSED.
Mary could not have forgotten me, although I did feel she had utterly abandoned me. I knew that the members of the privy council did not believe in my innocence. If it had been up to them—Sir William Paget and the earl of Arundel—I would have been put to death immediately. I was sure they would try to convince the queen that I was not to be trusted, that her crown was not secure as long as I was alive. I could imagine my sister's endless debates with her councillors:

What shall we do with Elizabeth?

We cannot execute her—that would cause an enormous outcry, a rebellion.

We cannot keep her locked up in the Tower forever—that, too, would likely cause an uprising.

And we surely cannot set her free—she is too dangerous for that!

If we brought her to court, we could watch her closely—but having her at court is an offense to the queen!

So, what shall we do with Elizabeth?

Every night as I lay down in my barren chamber, I thanked God for granting me one more day. Every morning I awoke thinking that this day might be my last.

O
N THE NINETEENTH
of May in 1554, the anniversary of my mother's execution and three long months after I had been taken to London from Ashridge, a detachment of guards arrived at the Tower and ordered me to prepare to leave. I stood stock-still, as if made of wood.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked.

"It is not permitted to inform the prisoner."

So, I was still a prisoner. But I was not to be executed—at least not yet. A condemned prisoner is sent a priest to hear a last confession, and there was no priest.

Down to the Water Gate we went, my footsteps dragging. I was grateful to be alive, but still very frightened. I had no idea what lay ahead.

I refused to look back at the Tower as the oarsmen bent to their task and the unpainted wooden boat moved upstream with the tide, passing under the arches of London Bridge. No one on the banks paused for a second look. Eventually we made for the landing at Richmond Palace.

"Why are we stopping here?" I asked one of the guards, who bore a livid scar from ear to chin.