The Marriage Game (5 page)

Now, with a thousand people attending on her, and herself magnificent in royal purple, she was riding toward the looming walls of the Tower, where she was—reluctantly—to lodge until Whitehall Palace was ready to receive her. Ahead of her rode the Lord Mayor, the Garter King of Arms, and the Earl of Pembroke carrying aloft the sword of
state; and right behind her, much to her content, the splendidly attired Robert Dudley on an equally splendid black horse. Progress was slow, as Elizabeth would pause to smile and wave at her people or stoop to exchange a word or jest, receive a humble gift lovingly offered, or hear a grievance. All might come forward, she commanded. Soon everyone was extolling her for her condescension, her common touch, and her care for her people. Let foreign princes threaten me, she thought exultantly: I have my people’s love, and that is worth more than a thousand armies.

At the Tower she reined in her mount, steeling herself to enter the fortress where she had suffered three terrible months of incarceration, not five years ago. She forced herself to smile; she would not think of the past.

“When last I was here, good people,” she addressed the crowds, “it was as a prisoner, unjustly suspected of treason, and in fear of death. Now I give most hearty thanks to Almighty God who has spared me to behold this day!”

She said no word about her mother, whose blood
had
been shed here these twenty-two years past, but Anne Boleyn was much in her thoughts, and later that day she insisted on entering the Queen’s lodgings, which were the very rooms that Anne had occupied before her coronation and then, three short years later, in the days leading up to her execution. Here, in this same lodging, Elizabeth herself had languished during those desperate weeks when she expected daily to be summoned to the scaffold. She had always believed that her sister, knowing where Anne was held, deliberately intended that she should suffer this added refinement to her own punishment. And Elizabeth had been permitted—nay, encouraged—to take the air along the wall walk that overlooked the scaffold before the House of Ordnance, a scaffold built for Lady Jane Gray on the exact place where Anne Boleyn had perished; Elizabeth vividly remembered praying each day for it to be taken down.

The apartments had been cleaned, sweetened, and made luxurious with rich hangings and furnishings, but an air of misery pervaded them, and Elizabeth was glad to close the door on their faded antique
grandeur, gratified to be staying in the former King’s chambers in the old royal apartments. These had been hung with silk tapestries threaded with gold and silver, and furnished with a magnificent canopy of estate edged with seed pearls and a great bed made up with rich stuffs. Beneath the canopy was a throne made for her father, Henry VIII—she recognized the pattern of the green damask—and there too was his footstool, on which he had once rested his poor diseased legs. God rest him, she thought, momentarily overcome by the poignant sight.

Lying wakeful at night in the vast bed, Elizabeth’s thoughts inevitably strayed to her mother and the grim pageant of traitors who had perished within these walls. It was only a short walk from the palace to the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, where Anne lay ignominiously buried in an unmarked grave. Elizabeth wished she could have the poor remains translated to Westminster Abbey and given honorable burial in a fine marble tomb. But she remembered what Bacon had said. It would not be politic. It would be raking up matters best left forgotten.

She tossed, turned, curled up, then stretched, time after time. She could not sleep, her mind would not stop racing, and she could not abide the stink and noises that drifted through the drafty casement from the Tower menagerie. In the end, she rose from her bed, pulled on a heavy robe over her nightgown, pushed her feet into velvet slippers, and wrapped herself in a dark cloak. The maid on the pallet bed stirred, but Elizabeth bade her go back to sleep. She descended a small spiral stair and found herself in the freezing night air in the courtyard below the White Tower, which loomed massively above her. To her right was the Jewel House, and to her left the great bulk of the King’s Hall, where Anne had been tried and condemned to death. This night Elizabeth would honor her mother, as she had never had the chance to do before.

The yeomen of the guard keeping watch in the courtyard were astonished to see their queen abroad, unattended, in the dark hours before dawn, but they jumped to obey her determined command to open the great Coldharbour Gate, the only way out of the inmost ward that housed the palace complex. She bade them await her return, then set
off with purposeful strides across Tower Green to St. Peter ad Vincula, which stood solid and lonely next to the great House of Ordnance. The door creaked as she pushed it open.

Inside, all was still. The only light came from the moonlit windows and the solitary flame in the sanctuary signifying the constant, reassuring presence of God. Elizabeth walked across the flagstones down the empty nave, a colonnade of pillars to her left. Ahead lay the altar steps. Reaching them, she knelt. She had been told that her mother and Katherine Howard had been buried before the altar, with the beheaded dukes of Somerset and Northumberland between them. She wished she knew which side Anne Boleyn lay. Never mind. Somewhere, just inches below her, was the arrow chest of elm in which her mother’s mangled remains had been interred on that tragic spring day in 1536.

As a good Protestant, Elizabeth was not supposed to pray for the dead. The practice had been condemned under her brother, the short-lived, zealous Edward VI, Jane Seymour’s son. But Elizabeth still preferred Archbishop Cranmer’s earlier version of the Book of Common Prayer, which did provide for such prayers, just as she was determined to keep the jeweled crucifixes in her chapels, which some hard-line reformers and Puritans had denounced as graven idols. She had resolved to do as her conscience dictated. Was it wrong to derive some comfort from praying for the dead? Who knew, it might do the dead some good. And so she folded her hands, composed her mind to tranquillity, and recited over and over again Cranmer’s beautiful prose: “I commend into Thy mercy Thy servant Anne, who is departed hence from us with the sign of faith and now doth rest in the sleep of peace: grant unto her, I beseech Thee, Thy mercy and everlasting peace.”

It felt strangely comforting to be here, near the mother she could barely remember. Kat had often told her how Anne had loved her and taken pride in her. How terrible it must have been for Anne—nay, beyond terrible—to leave behind her little child, not knowing what that child would come to believe of her; and knowing that she would not be there to shield and protect Elizabeth from the troubles that would arise from being declared a bastard and left motherless. Anne’s marriage to the King had been declared invalid just two days before her
execution, so she had gone to the scaffold knowing of the terrible legacy she had bequeathed to her daughter. Kat reckoned that, having been condemned to be burned or beheaded at the King’s pleasure, she had been offered the kinder death in return for her consent that her marriage be dissolved. And who could have blamed her for accepting?

A wondrous sense of peace stole over Elizabeth as she knelt on the altar steps, as unexpected as it was comforting. It was as if someone unseen knelt beside her, emanating love and acceptance and joy. It had been her willing imagination, she told herself as she walked back to the palace, yet there remained a strong conviction in her heart that God had answered her prayers, that her mother had come to her, bringing healing and peace to her troubled soul.

1559
 

In January, Elizabeth went to her crowning in Westminster Abbey. The day before, she had gone in procession through the teeming streets of London to the rejoicing of the citizens who had thronged to see her. Every house had been hung with tapestries, painted cloths, or garlands of evergreens; all the church bells rang out, music echoed from every street corner, and the crowds were dense. Lord Robert had organized the procession, the ceremonies, and the lavish pageants set up along the way for the Queen’s entertainment. Bless him, he had even arranged for the lifelike figures of her parents, King Henry and Queen Anne, to be displayed in a tableau exalting her royal descent. She blinked away tears from her eyes at that—and when a man pointed at her and cried, “Remember old Harry the Eighth? Here he is, come back to us!” Again and again she thanked the citizens for their warm welcome. “I shall be as good to you as ever queen was to her people,” she promised, and they loved her for it.

It was snowing when she walked to the Abbey wearing a heavy mantle of embroidered silk lined with ermine over her coronation robes, those same robes her sister had worn five years before. Hundreds of candles illuminated the distinguished throng and flashed fire on the jewels of the regalia and the gold threads in her father’s priceless tapestries, commissioned from the great painter Raphael, which hung in the church. When the bishops presented Elizabeth to her subjects,
there were such shouts of acclaim and such a crescendo of sound from the organ and trumpets that the ancient building almost shook to its foundations. Symbolically chosen, sworn and anointed, Elizabeth was lifted up into the ancient coronation chair and the crown was raised above her. As it was placed upon her head, she thought of both her father and her mother, and knew a moment of indescribable exultation. She was truly a queen now, invested by God to rule. This crown had been hard-won, and none should ever take it from her.

Ten days later, again wearing her coronation robes, Elizabeth opened her first Parliament, seated majestically in a chair padded with cloth-of-gold cushions beneath the royal canopy of estate. But it seemed that barely had she taken off those robes afterward, having left both houses to their debating, than the Speaker and a deputation from the House of Commons were begging an audience at Whitehall.

Reluctantly she came to her presence chamber. Its walls and pillars were carved and gilded with gold leaf, its black-and-white marble floor spread with the costliest of Turkey carpets. Against this magnificent backdrop Elizabeth made a striking contrast in her carefully chosen dress of virginal white. As she ascended her throne, looking like a goddess, the members of Parliament fell to their knees in awe before her.

“Sir Thomas Gargrave,” she said, indicating to the Speaker that she was ready to listen to him. As ready, that was, as she would ever be. Love her commons she did, but her Commons might prove another matter!

“Your Majesty, we come to present a petition from the House of Commons,” he replied, looking nervous. He swallowed audibly. “We believe it would be best for you and your kingdom if you were to marry a consort who could relieve you of those duties that are fit only for men.”

Elizabeth bridled, but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Robert Dudley standing among the watching courtiers, gazing at her intently, and Cecil, frowning and nodding. Her irritation increased.

Sir Thomas advanced into the fray, unheeding of his sovereign’s
mutinous look. “Princes are mortal, but kingdoms are immortal. If your Majesty remains unmarried and, ah, a Vestal Virgin, so to speak, it would be contrary to the public interest.”

Elizabeth forced herself to be civil, although the Speaker’s assertion that her royal duties were fit only for men had made her see red, and she was fighting down the urge to box the man’s ears.

“This is a matter most unpleasing to me,” she said, “but what does please me is the good will of you, my faithful Commons, and all my people.” She glanced again at Dudley and Cecil, noting that both were listening avidly. “I have chosen to stay unwed, even though great princes have sought my hand. I consider myself already bound to a husband, which is the kingdom of England.” As she extended her finger with her coronation ring elegantly displayed, her fiery gaze encompassed all in the room. “Every one of you, and indeed all Englishmen, are children and kinsmen to me. Sirs, I will do as God directs me. I have never been inclined toward marriage, but I do not rule it out completely. I promise you, this realm shall not remain destitute of an heir. But in the end, this may be sufficient for me, that a marble stone shall declare that a queen, having reigned such and such a time, lived and died a virgin.”

So saying, she nodded to the kneeling deputation and left the presence chamber without giving the Speaker the chance to answer her. Cecil watched her retreating back, detecting in every sweeping movement her barely contained fury. He knew that he must go after her and, whether she liked it or not, remind her of the desperate jeopardy in which she would find herself if she did not marry soon. This course she had chosen was madness!

He caught up with her in the gallery that led to her private lodgings.

“Madam, madam,” he sighed in some agitation, “a word if I may.”

Elizabeth led the way into the deserted council chamber.

“Yes, William?” Her eyes were wary. She knew what was coming.

“Madam, if you do not marry, there will be no heirs of your body to carry on the succession.”