Queen of This Realm (24 page)

The safe subject with Mary was the child she believed she carried and I was making some garments with the most delicate embroidery—at which I was quite good—and Mary was delighted with them.

I shall never forget the sight of her as she sat holding the tiny shift in her hands and that look of bliss on her face as she contemplated the joy of having the child she hoped to bear. It was particularly poignant as I was sure— as was everyone else—that she would never have a child.

But she softened toward me, and I toward her, because I saw her then as she was, a lonely woman reaching for affection. She spoke of Philip tenderly—and it was not the Philip he was but the one she had gulled herself to believe he was. “A great man,” she said, “and a great King. I am the luckiest woman on Earth to be his wife.”

I could not bear it. I was not given to tears but I wanted to weep then.

She twisted the ring on her finger. It was black enamel and gold. She called it her betrothal ring.

“I look at it often,” she said. “It reminds me of Philip when he is absent. Of course, it is inevitable that he must be absent. He has a great country to rule. I would that he could be beside me all the time. One day, sister, you will know the blessings of a good husband.”

I could scarcely prevent myself from protesting. I wanted no husband, least of all a power-seeking cynic like Philip.

“This ring is so precious to me,” she said. “I have vowed it shall never leave my finger while I live.”

I took her hand and kissed it.

“I hope, sister, that it will remain there for a very long time,” I said, which was not exactly true. Yet I pitied her.

Was it wrong to hope for Mary's death? Perhaps. But what had life to offer her but lost hopes, a heartless husband and a childless fate? Even more important, what had England to hope for under her rule? In any case one
cannot help one's thoughts and I knew that I was the one chosen to lead my country from disaster.

So friendly did she become toward me that she proposed to visit me at Hatfield. Sir Thomas Pope was thrown into a fever of anticipation and he and I discussed with great excitement how we would entertain the Queen. The cost would be enormous, but Sir Thomas was a very wealthy man and I was not poor so we determined to entertain the Queen in a royal manner. Sir Thomas had in his possession a set of superb tapestries representing the siege of Antioch and I proposed that we decorate the state chamber with these. He was very ready to do anything to please me and agreed immediately.

When they were hung we reviewed them with great pride and Sir Thomas said to me: “It may well be that when Her Majesty comes, she will urge you to marry.”

“Sir Thomas,” I replied firmly, “since I have become mature I have made up my mind that I do not wish to marry.”

He smiled indulgently, for we were the best of friends. “Your Grace will change her mind when some suitable person comes to you with the Queen's consent.”

“My dear Sir Thomas,” I replied, “what I shall do hereafter I know not, but I assure you upon my truth and fidelity and as God be merciful unto me, I am not at this time otherwise minded than I have declared unto you. No, though I were offered the greatest prince in Europe.”

He merely smiled at me. I was sure he thought my remarks were not to be taken too seriously.

“Come,” I said, “let us talk of other matters. We should have a play to entertain Her Majesty.”

So we went on with our arrangements. There was a play after supper which was performed by the choirboys of St Paul's which pleased the Queen. We had been careful not to arrange a boisterous entertainment but to concentrate entirely on the tastes of the Queen, which meant presenting music and singing. I accompanied one of the boys on the virginals. He had a pure and lovely voice which enchanted the Queen.

It was a very successful visit and I was glad that Mary and I were on better terms and she seemed no longer to suspect me of plotting to depose her. One only had to look at her poor yellow face and her swollen body—not with child as she so fondly hoped, but with disease—to realize that she could not live for many more months.

It was a disastrous year for her. The time had come when she had to accept that she was not pregnant and never had been. The protuberance which she had fondly hoped was a child was some growth within her. It
seemed now that my accession was inevitable. She accepted it and so did Philip; and so did the people. With the coming of the new year, so disastrous for Mary, so thrilling for me, events were moving fast.

Appeals were coming from the town of Calais, the only town left to England of all the conquests of Edward III and Henry V. The French, enraged by England's alliance with Spain, had marched on Calais and on a bitterly cold January day we heard that the town had surrendered to the Duke of Guise.

Mary was frantic. Calais was not so very important; it was difficult to defend it; but it was the last possession on the coast of France and it had been held for generations as a symbol that the English still had one foot in France. And she had lost it because she had allowed Philip to persuade her to join him in war against the French.

I often wondered then if that poor unhappy woman ever thought what disaster the Spanish marriage had brought to her and her country. Oh, what a lesson! The people had been against it and one must always have the people on one's side. Yes, the people had hated the Spanish marriage; it had brought a religious intolerance to England, not known since the persecution of the Templars. Men and women were being burned at the stake. Who was ever going to forget Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer and Hooper? The marriage had failed to produce the only thing which would have made it worthwhile from Mary's point of view—and now the last disaster. The English had lost Calais.

Unreasonable in her grief, the Queen begged the Council to spare no effort to regain the town which she called the chief jewel of our realm. The Council pointed out to her the cost of such an operation and if the town were regained it would have to be held at even more expense, for it was obvious that, having captured it, the French would be determined to retain it— and in short, the town was not worth the effort of recapturing it.

Mary mourned deeply. She said that when she died they would find “Calais” written across her heart.

Meanwhile life at Hatfield was changing. There was a less rigorous guard on me. Sir Thomas Pope had always been my good friend so there was little change in his attitude toward me. It was different with others. Visitors came to Hatfield from Court and there was a clear indication in their manner toward me that they already regarded me as their Queen.

One of my best friends was Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, an ardent Protestant. In fact I detected a certain fanaticism in him which I did not share, for I did not like that stern unrelenting attitude from whichever side it came. It was dangerous, bred cruelty and intolerance and prevented one from changing one's mind when it would be wise to do so.

All the same I knew that Sir Nicholas would be a good friend to me
because in spite of recent deviation for form's sake, I represented the Protestants. He had been suspect at the time of Wyatt's rebellion and had only narrowly escaped death then. He was well versed in political affairs and had a wide knowledge of what was happening at Court; and his visits to Hatfield were becoming more frequent. I knew from Sir Nicholas how rapidly the Queen's health was declining.

“There are rumors of her death,” he said, “even while she lives.”

“One must be careful not to be misled by rumor,” I replied.

“Indeed that is so, Your Grace. The Queen is so sick and clearly on her death-bed. People are being put in the pillory because they are saying she is already dead.”

“I shall need proof before I believe it. And the burnings?” I continued.

“They go on apace. It would seem as though the Queen believes that the more people who die in torment, the greater her glory in Heaven. As I left London a poor woman named Alice Driver was preparing for her death and the people had come out to watch her last minutes. She had already had her ears cut off and was calling Her Majesty Jezebel as they tied her to the stake.”

I shivered. “The Queen knows of this… and death is close to her!”

“The Queen believes she does God's work, Your Grace.”

“It is beyond my understanding, Master Throckmorton,” I said.

“The people are looking to you, Your Grace. They say when your turn comes there will be an end to this misery.”

“There shall be, Nicholas, my friend. There shall be. It would appear to be near now but we must step with caution. I have faced death too many times to want to challenge it. I have my enemies. It is not too late for them to turn against me… while the Queen lives.”

“Which cannot be long, my lady.”

“You speak carelessly. I will not claim the throne until I am certain that my sister is dead. There is a ring she wears day and night. She calls it her betrothal ring because it was given to her by Philip. I will not believe that she is dead, until I hold that ring in my hand.”

“It shall be my duty, Your Grace, to bring it to you.”

And so I waited at Hatfield and each day when I rose, I wondered: Is this the one?

THERE WERE SO
many visitors to Hatfield, so many who wished me well. I often said to Kat: “How many of these men would be coming to me now if they thought I had little chance of mounting the throne? How many come for love of me? How many for hopes of what good will come to them?”

“It is hard for queens to tell the difference, my love,” said Kat, wise for once.

“Perhaps one can never be sure and since one cannot it is well to make certain that one never has a chance of finding out… unless one wants to.”

“Oh, you are a shrewd one,” said Kat.

At least I was sure of her love. It had remained steadfast through all my adversities and so would it be to the end of our days.

We had one visitor at Hatfield who threw Kat into a flutter of excitement. In fact it had the same effect on me, though I was more discreet about it.

So many visitors to Hatfield—so what could be so special about one more? He was exceptionally tall—not too broad but broad enough to give an impression of masculine strength to his elegance. He had dark hair and eyes, with a fresh complexion and the most perfectly shaped features I had ever seen… not too finely chiseled, as Kat said afterward, but with that little touch of rough hew which was so becoming in a man. His clothes were rich, the colors not overbright but tastefully blended. He was the most handsome, the most graceful and the most attractive man I had ever seen—even including Thomas Seymour.

I never forgot that meeting; all through the years I have carried with me the memory of Robert Dudley as he was when he presented himself to me on that autumn morning.

I was told he begged an audience of me though I could never imagine Robert begging anything. He would ask it in a manner which suggested he was sure of success. Confidence was ever his way.

When they told me that Lord Robert Dudley was asking to see me, I was excited even before I saw him. I remembered the boy I had known at my father's Court; even then there must have been some quality in him which impressed me; then there had been the time when we had been in the Tower together and the fact of his nearby presence had given me courage and lightened the dark days. Now here he was at Hatfield asking an audience.

I went down and received him in the great hall.

When he saw me he fell onto his knees. He took my hand and kissed it and lifted his eyes to my face.

“Welcome to Hatfield, Lord Robert,” I said.

“My gracious lady,” he replied. “It is indeed good of you to see me.”

“There is no need to remain on your knees,” I told him.

He rose and then I saw how tall he was, while he looked at me as though in wonder and I felt a glow of pleasure, for his gaze was not only of respect for my rank but deep admiration for my person.

“Why have you come, Lord Robert?” I said to hide a certain confusion. “Is it for the same reason that many come to Hatfield now?”

“I have just returned from battle.”

“Yes. I believe you did good service for your country. And now you are here…as many others are.”

“I came to bring you gold,” he said. “I have sold some of my estates so that I might have the money. I trust you will not need it, but if there should be trouble it would be well for you to be prepared.”

“You bring me money, Lord Robert!”

“I have it here. My man will bring it to you. Your Grace, if it should be necessary to fight for what is yours by right, here is one who will stand beside you and cares so much for your cause that he has sold certain of his estates to raise money for any need or emergency which may arise.”

“You are indeed a friend,” I said, “and I thank you.”

“There was a time when you and I were both prisoners in the Tower,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face. “There was a young boy…”

“Little Martin,” I replied. “He brought me your messages of cheer until they stopped him.”

“Your Grace remembers! It is more than I dared hope. I never forgot, and I shall be with you should you need my help.”

“Thank you, Lord Robert. I accept your offer and your friendship.”

“I shall be watchful of Your Grace. There is much coming and going on the road to Hatfield. The Queen is very sick. If anything should go wrong, Hatfield could become a prison.”

“If aught goes wrong? What mean you by that?”

“None knows more than Your Grace what a dangerous world we live in.”

“Lord Robert, are you telling me there are plots against me?”

“I know of none. None would confide in me. I have always been Your Grace's most ardent supporter.”

“Except,” I said, a little sharply, “when you were among those who tried to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne.”

“That was my father, and as he was my father I was forced to stand with him. It was no disloyalty to Your Grace. I am yours to command. My lands and goods are at your disposal. This I have brought with me is but a token. Whatever need you should have of me, I am yours … these arms, this heart… this man.”