The Lady Elizabeth (59 page)

There were even crowds at the gates of Woodstock, Sir Henry noted with irritation. Thank God they were nearly at their destination.

Elizabeth peered out of the litter as the gates closed behind them and craned her neck to see ahead. She had never been to Woodstock, for it had fallen into disuse early in her father’s reign. Looking ahead, she could see why, for the old medieval palace, which lay north of the remains of the moat, was grim and decayed. As they drew closer, she could see crumbling and cracked masonry, broken windows, weeds, and encroaching creepers. It looked the ideal setting for a murder.

“Am I to lodge
here
?” she cried in dismay.

Sir Henry slowed his horse until her litter drew level with him.

“No, madam, the palace is uninhabitable. Lodgings have been prepared for you in the gatehouse.”

So horribly fascinated had Elizabeth been with the palace that she had failed to notice the gatehouse. It looked as old as the house, but was clearly in better repair.

“It seems far too small,” she observed petulantly, and indeed it was.

There were just four rooms, two up, two down. She had never lived in so cramped a place.

“Where are my servants to lodge?” she demanded to know.

“They must shift to find accommodation in the village,” Bedingfield told her, himself dismayed at the prospect of living in such close proximity to his difficult and unpredictable prisoner.

“That is not at all convenient,” she informed him.

“Those are my orders,” he said heavily. “Mistress Parry may lodge with you to look after your personal needs.”

“What of Mrs. Astley?” Elizabeth cried, the dismay on her face mirroring that on Kat’s.

“She is forbidden to stay here,” he told her. Both women gasped in dismay.

“I cannot be parted from her,” Elizabeth insisted.

“I have my orders,” Bedingfield replied. “Mistress Parry alone is to attend you. Mrs. Astley must find lodgings elsewhere.”

“May she visit me?” Elizabeth asked sharply.

“I fear not, madam. I have my—”

“I shall write to the Queen!” Elizabeth interrupted him.

“I regret that will not be possible,” Bedingfield revealed. “My orders are that you are not to write or receive any letters. However, I myself will inform the council of your complaint. Now, Mrs. Astley, I must ask you to leave.”

Kat threw her arms around Elizabeth and bade her a tearful farewell.

“Words fail me,” she wept. “We have gone through so much together…We have survived the Tower…And now we are to be cruelly parted!”

Elizabeth disengaged Kat, grasped her hands, and held her gaze.

“Hold fast!” she counseled, blinking back her own tears. “Find somewhere to stay in the village, and then I shall have the comfort of knowing that you are nearby. With God’s help, I shall soon be cleared of these false charges, and then we will be reunited. Be brave!”

Kat nodded, sniffed, and dried her eyes. Elizabeth watched her go, weeping silently, then allowed Sir Henry to lead her to the upper floor, where she was to be kept in captivity. Her critical eye roved over her new surroundings. An obvious effort had been made to provide some of the comforts due to one of her rank. In her bedchamber, there was a tapestry, so ancient that it could have been salvaged from the old palace, but fine; an oak buffet on which a few items of plate were displayed; and a great tester bed. At least the furniture was good: She recognized pieces from Hatfield, and even some stuff that must have been provided by the Queen.

“Look at that ceiling, my lady,” exclaimed Blanche Parry, trailing behind. “Lord knows when that was done.”

The vaulted ceiling of the outer chamber was painted blue and adorned with gold stars, much in the fashion of the previous century. The walls had been hung with painted cloths to hide the bare plaster, but for all the fire burning in the grate and May sunshine, the room was chill, for the windows were narrow and set deep into the thick stone walls. The only advantage of this dismal place, as far as Elizabeth was concerned, was that there was virtually nowhere an assassin could hide.

As Blanche began their unpacking, Sir Henry was fussing around, rattling keys in doors and becoming very agitated.

“Three of these locks don’t work,” he complained to the two guards who were accompanying him. “See if
you
can get the keys to turn.”

“It’s useless,” they told him after much jangling and cursing.

“Have a locksmith summoned,” he ordered testily. “And get two more men to keep watch.”

“I am not going to run away, Sir Henry,” Elizabeth told him sharply, having watched the exchange.

“I have my orders,” he told her. “And perhaps I ought to make everything quite clear now, madam, if you would be so good as to sit down for a moment.” Indicating that she should take the only chair in the room, he elected to stand before her, feeling that it gave him greater authority. He was annoyed to find himself slightly in awe of this slender, naughty—nay, dangerous—girl.

“The Queen has stipulated that you are to be treated in such good and honorable sort as may be agreeable to her honor and her royal estate,” he announced, a trifle pompously. “Mistress Parry apart, you are to converse with no one out of my hearing. You may walk in the gardens or the orchard, but only with myself in attendance. Thomas Parry will continue to look after your finances; I am informed that he arrived earlier but has gone off to seek a lodging in the Bull Inn, although I fear that might prove a marvelous place to make mischief in, tut tut.”

“Mischief?” echoed Elizabeth.

“Gossip!” fretted Sir Henry. “And the possibility that traitors might seek him out. You never know who might be lurking around the corner. I shall have to keep an eye on him.”

“Parry is trustworthy,” she said.

“So trustworthy that he and the woman Astley ended up in the Tower not many years back, I recall,” Bedingfield reminded her. “No, I see the need to be vigilant. And your other servants will be watched and searched, in case they attempt to carry messages, so do not think, madam, to attempt any contact with your
friends.
” His tone was disparaging.

“Now, as to domestic arrangements. You are forbidden to have any canopy of estate above you when you dine.”

That is the least of my concerns in this godforsaken place, Elizabeth thought.

“Your laundry will be searched for hidden messages,” Sir Henry continued. “Any book that you read will first be subject to my approval. And if you have any requests, they must be forwarded to the council.”

“May I breathe?” Elizabeth asked defiantly.

Bedingfield ignored her.

“Supper will be ready soon,” he said. “I hope you will honor me with your company.”

“I am rather weary,” she said, “and not very hungry. I think I will have an early night.” After all, what else was there to do?

“I want some of my books,” she said. “Cicero, my English Bible, and my Latin Psalms.”

Sir Henry looked alarmed, wondering what pernicious influences such books might contain. He supposed that the Psalms were all right, but he knew nothing of Cicero, whoever he was, and as for an
English
Bible…

“I doubt Her Majesty would approve of an English Bible,” he told her. “You may have the Psalms.”

Elizabeth flounced off, fuming.

“I need more maids about me,” she demanded.

“That is not permitted. One should be sufficient. I have my orders.”

“I want a tutor, so that I can practice conversing in foreign tongues,” was her next request. “I fear my skill at languages has grown rusty of late.”

“The council will never agree,” Sir Henry said.

“Could you not engage one yourself?” she asked mischievously.

“That would be out of the question,” he told her. “All persons coming into contact with you must be vetted. I have my orders.”

“I should like a pen and some ink,” she said. “I wish to write to the council.”

“I will pass on your request,” Bedingfield answered.

“No need to wait for that,” she told him. “You can read what I write before it is sent.”

“Madam, I am marvelously perplexed by your constant demands,” he confessed, looking distressed. “I fear I cannot agree to this.”

“Don’t tell me—you have your orders!” she said, making a face.

“That is unfair. Would you have me gainsay them?” he challenged.

“I would have you use your own good sense!” she retorted. “At least let me send a message to the Queen my sister. Just a short message. Please.”

“I have my orders,” he repeated.

“You are like a parrot!” she cried, irritated beyond courtesy.

“Madam, bear with me, I beg of you. I am myself unable to grant your desire or say nay. Everything must be referred to the council. Believe me, I shall do for Your Grace what I am able to do.”

After the first few weeks, her sense of being in danger dissipated. There were no terrors for her here, just endless boredom and monotony. Nor was there any news from court; Bedingfield would not discuss what was going on in the outside world, so she had no means of knowing if a date had been set for the Queen’s wedding, or even if it had already taken place. Nor were there any letters, for she was not permitted to send or receive any; she particularly missed Cecil’s witty missives, and his wise insights into affairs.

Her worst enemy was frustration, and her sole pleasure lay in baiting Bedingfield. As her fears for her life faded, she grew indignant that she was being kept in confinement when nothing had been proved against her. And as she could not remonstrate about this with the Queen or the council, she took out her vexation on their instrument, the luckless Sir Henry. He, for his part, was determined to obey his orders to the letter, and remained impervious to her whims and her tantrums.

Even her customary fondness for walks in the garden had palled, although they at least provided some respite from the tedium of her days, but the security measures upon which Sir Henry insisted drove her to desperation. One day, after watching him patiently unlock and lock six pairs of gates in turn, she lost her temper and screamed at him.

“You jailer! You do this only to taunt me!” Of course, it was an unfair accusation, but she was too angry to care. Sir Henry, stung by her outburst, fell to his knees before her.

“Madam, I am your officer, appointed by the Queen to take care of you and protect you from any injury. I hope you will agree that I have been a kindly guardian, and that I have accorded you the proper courtesies.”

Elizabeth’s anger cooled in the face of his earnestness.

“Be at peace, good man,” she said wearily. “I grow tired of being a prisoner. I am young, I want to be out in the world, enjoying its pleasures, not shut up here with so many rules and restrictions. Can you not understand that? Or have you forgotten what it is like to be bursting with energy and zeal for life?”

Sir Henry had never felt the way she described, so he was at a loss for what to say to her.

“I counsel you to have patience,” he begged.

Patience? How could one be patient when one was unjustly incarcerated?

Idly, she gazed out of her window, willing the hours to pass, willing her captivity to end. The worst thing about it was that its continuance proclaimed her guilty in some way, as plainly as if it had been cried in every market square. She realized, of course, why Mary distrusted her so, but there were laws in England, and they were there to protect the innocent. Or so she would have thought. If only she could have five minutes—just five minutes—with Mary, to plead her case.

Struck for the hundredth time by the unjustness of her confinement, she took from her finger a ring and, using the sharp edge of the diamond, began carving words in a spidery hand on the thick glass of the window.

“Much suspected of me, nothing proved can be,” she wrote, and then added, “Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.” Sir Henry frowned when he saw it, but said nothing.

With the summer came a return of her old sickness. Her face and body swelled up, and she felt feverish. Worst of all was the black depression that lay like a pall over her normal feisty spirit.

Sir Henry, summoned, looked down on her with some sympathy as she lay in her bed.

“I wish to be bled,” she said weakly. “The evil humors must be released from my body. I pray you, send for the Queen’s physicians, Dr. Owen and Dr. Wendy. They have treated me in the past, and I trust them.”

“I will pass on your request to the council,” Sir Henry said, embarrassed to be in her presence when she was in bed clad in nothing but a shift, and anxious to leave the room.

“While I lie here suffering?” she whimpered, enraged that he was putting his infernal orders before her health, but she had not the strength to protest further. Besides, Sir Henry had fled.

A week later, back came the council’s unfavorable reply, and following soon upon it, a local doctor whom Sir Henry had summoned.

“I would rather die than see him!” she declared, her fury belying her obvious weakness. “I am not minded to make a stranger privy to my body. I see I shall just have to commit it to God!” And so saying, she folded her hands on her breast, as if in prayer, and lay there in the attitude of a tomb effigy.

Driven near to despair, Bedingfield hastened away to write yet another of his seemingly endless succession of letters to the council. By the time Dr. Wendy and Dr. Owen arrived, Elizabeth was very poorly indeed.

“She must be bled immediately,” they pronounced, alarm in their faces. Sir Henry stood by while it was done, averting his eyes when Elizabeth pulled up the bedclothes and exposed a slim foot and ankle to the barber surgeon; yet he had not missed the look of triumph on her face when the royal doctors appeared, a look that proclaimed her the winner of this round in their endless sparring match.

This was not her only victory.

“The council has approved your many requests to write to Her Majesty,” Bedingfield announced tightly, coming to pay his daily respects one morning toward the end of the month. “Writing materials will be brought to you.”