Текст книги "In the Shadow of the Crown "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
So at last they prevailed on me to sign the death warrant.
Guilford Dudley was taken out to the block the day before her. It was unnecessary cruelty to make her watch his execution from a window in the Tower. I did not know of this until after it had happened. There were many of my courtiers who regarded me as a soft and sentimental woman who let her heart rule her head. I should not have forced that cruelty on Jane, for, in my view, it served no purpose. Die she must, but I wanted it to be done with the least possible discomfort to her.
There were many to tell me how she went to her death, how she came out to Tower Green, wondrously calm, her prayer book in her hand, looking very young and beautiful. And as she was about to mount the scaffold, she asked permission to speak. When this was given, she spoke of the wrong done to the Queen's Majesty and that she was innocent of it.
“This I swear before God and you good people,” she added.
Her women tied a handkerchief about her eyes, and pathetically she stretched out her hands, as she could not see the block.
“Where is it?” she said. “I cannot see it.”
They said it was the most piteous sight, to observe her thus, a young and beautiful girl, so innocent of blame. I was glad I did not witness it.
They helped her to the block and, before she laid her head on it, she asked the executioner to dispatch her quickly, and he promised he would.
Then she said in a firm, clear voice, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.”
I was deeply moved when they told me, and how fervently I wished that it had not had to be.
Others followed her, including her father, the Duke of Suffolk. I did not feel the same pity for him.
On the day Jane died, Courtenay was taken to the Tower. De Noailles was under suspicion. He had certainly played a part in the rebellion, and papers had been found to prove this. But it is not easy to deal with an ambassador. One cannot clap him into prison. We might have insisted on his recall, but Renard was against this.
I do believe that de Noailles was a very uneasy man at that time.
Elizabeth was the one Renard was most interested in. He had always regarded her as the greatest menace. In a way he respected her. He thought her clever, but that only added to his desire to put her away.
“She must be questioned,” he said to me. “She has had a hand in this. She is at the very heart of the plot. She must have known that Wyatt would have set her up as Queen.”
“He insists that it was merely to stop my marriage that he rebelled.”
“He would have stopped that by seeing that you were not here to marry. Depend upon it, his plan was to set Elizabeth on the throne. I tell you this: the Prince of Spain might refuse to come here unless she is put away…and Courtenay with her.”
“Courtenay is already in the Tower.”
“And Elizabeth should be there, too. You must send for her to come to London. There will be no peace in this realm while she is free.”
Gardiner added his voice to Renard's. I knew they were right. I did not trust my sister; but I did not believe she would be party to my murder. She knew that I was not strong; I had no heirs; she could come to the throne constitutionally. She was young. Would a woman of her astuteness, her farseeing nature, not be prepared to wait until she could achieve her desires peacefully and with the people behind her?
However, Gardiner and Renard thought differently. They were sure that Elizabeth would be safe only in the Tower.
I summoned her to Court. The reply was just what I expected. She was too ill to travel. I did not believe this, although she must have suffered great anxiety when she knew that Wyatt had been captured and that he—with Courtenay, who had been paying her some attention—was in the Tower.
I sent two of my doctors to discover whether she was well enough to travel, and they were fully aware that, if they agreed she was too ill, they would be under suspicion.
Elizabeth came to London.
As was expected, she made sure of a dramatic entrance. She was dressed in white and rode in a litter, insisting, truthfully, that she was too ill to come on horseback. She had ordered that her litter should not be covered. Naturally, she wanted the people to see her so that she might win their sympathy.
The people came out to watch her retinue as it passed along the roads. Many were weeping, knowing for what purpose she was going to London, to her death, they thought.
It was only eleven days since the beautiful Jane Grey had walked to the block. Was Elizabeth's fate to be the same? That was what they must have been asking themselves.
Perhaps some recalled her mother, who had lost her head on Tower Green.
I was relieved, though, that they did not shout for her, even though they gave themselves up to tears. The times were too dangerous to show partisanship; there could hardly have been any of them who had not seen the corpses rotting in chains.
They took her to Westminster, from whence she sent a plea to me, reminding me of my promise never to condemn her unheard.
I did not answer that plea. I wanted others to question her—not I.
I could not get her out of my thoughts. I reproached myself for refusing to see her. I could not forget that she was my sister.
It was proved that Wyatt had written to her on two occasions: once to advise her to move farther from London and secondly to tell her of his arrival at Southwark; but she was too wise to have replied to either of these communications.
De Noailles had mentioned her in his dispatches to France, and these had been intercepted by Renard, so, to a certain extent, she was implicated, if not of her own free will.
Of course, she vowed her innocence. I believed her because I did not think she would be foolish enough to embroil herself in a revolt which could easily fail, when all she had to do was wait. If I had a healthy child, then she might have reasons, but as it was, I could see none. And Elizabeth was one who would always have her reasons.
I wanted others to decide what was done with her. Renard wanted her out of the way; Gardiner wavered. He was not really in favor of the Spanish marriage, and in this he was alone in the Council. He was of the opinion that, if I married, Philip would dominate affairs. He regarded me with that mild contempt which men often bestow on women. He was loyal but he could not believe that women were capable of government.
He it was who declared that there was no actual proof of Elizabeth's participation in Wyatt's plot. There was no correspondence between them except the letters which Wyatt had written and which had apparently been unanswered. I wondered how big a part his objections to the Spanish match played in his judgements. When the Council decided that the best place for Elizabeth was in the Tower while her case was investigated, Gardiner was inclined to stand out against this; yet when he saw he was outnumbered, he gave way.
Her passage to the Tower was as dramatic as she knew how to make it. Even the elements seemed to work in her favor, for I wished her to be taken by night so that the people might not see her and express their sympathy. I was furious with Sussex, who was to conduct her to the Tower, for allowing her to delay so that she missed the tide and had to go the next morning. It was Palm Sunday, which seemed to make it all the more dramatic. I decided she must go while most people were at church.
Many have since heard of Elizabeth's journey to the Tower, how the stern of the boat struck the side of the bridge and almost overturned, how she was at length taken to the Traitor's Gate to step into the water, her words ringing out to all those about her that they might sympathize with her.
“Here lands as true a subject being prisoner as ever landed at these stairs.”
And the response from the lookers-on: “May God preserve Your Grace.” Many of them wept, and she turned to them and told them not to weep for her; and there she was, comforting them who should have been comforting her. “For you know the truth,” she said. “I am innocent of the charges brought against me, so that none of you have cause to weep for me.”
Then they took her to her prison in the Tower.
But the thought of her haunted me. I believed that, as long as we lived, she would be there to disconcert me.
SO WYATT, ELIZABETH and Courtenay were all in the Tower—Wyatt certain of death, Courtenay and Elizabeth uncertain, but living in fear of it. Life must have been very uncomfortable for de Noailles. He knew that he was watched and suspected. I had no doubt that he would have preferred to be recalled, although that could have offered him little joy, for to be recalled in such circumstances would be an indication of failure.
At about the same time as Elizabeth was being lodged in the Tower, Wyatt was brought to trial, condemned and sentenced to death. Even so, the deed was not to be performed immediately, and the 11th of April was fixed for his execution.
I was told that early that day he asked to be allowed to see Courtenay, who was lodged near him. The request was granted, and at the meeting Wyatt fell to his knees and begged Courtenay to admit that he had been the instigator of the rebellion.
This upset me a great deal, for I remembered how at one time I had thought Courtenay cared for me. How foolish I had been to think a young and handsome man would have tender feelings for an old woman. He certainly had coveted my crown. I felt hurt, but my anger was more for myself for having been so easily deluded than for this vain and arrogant young man. He had touched my feelings rather deeply, for I made excuses for him. He was but a boy, younger than his years, so many of which had been spent in unnatural captivity. It was not surprising that, when he found himself released and saw the possibility of a crown, he became reckless and behaved in such a way as to show a complete lack of judgement.
On the scaffold, when he was face to face with death, Wyatt made a statement in which he took the entire blame for the rebellion and declared that Elizabeth and Courtenay were innocent.
He was a brave man, but brave men are often rash and foolish.
His head was hung high on a gallows near Hyde Park, and his quartered limbs were placed for display about the town.
This was a grim warning to all traitors.
THAT WAS A TRYING TIME. MY THOUGHTS WERE OF marriage. At last that blissful state, of which I had so often dreamed in the past, was about to come to pass. When I had been a little girl and betrothed to the Emperor Charles, my maids had told me with such conviction that I was in love that I had believed them. Now I told myself that I was in love with Philip, and I was in that state, with the image I made for myself, much as my women had made for me with the Emperor.
I lived in a dream: love, marriage, children. I had wanted them desperately all my life. Now I believed they were within my grasp. I did not remind myself then: I am eleven years older than he is; his father is my cousin. Did that make me his aunt? If there was a shadow in my thoughts, I dismissed it quickly. No, no. Royal brides and grooms were often related to each other.
It was a period of uneasiness. There were murmurs of discontent all over the country. Wyatt's head was stolen, presumably so that it should be snatched from the eyes of the curious and given decent burial. I should have been glad of that—those ghoulish exhibits always nauseated me—but it was a sign of sympathy with the rebels. It meant that Wyatt's followers were still to be reckoned with and were bold enough to commit an act which could result in their deaths.
This was not only a matter of religion. The main grievance was the Spanish marriage—though I supposed one was wrapped up in the other.
A hatred for Spaniards was making itself known throughout the country. Children played games in which Spaniards figured as the villains. No child wanted to be a Spaniard in the games, and it was usually the youngest who were forced to take those parts, knowing that before long they were going to be trounced by the gallant English.
There was the unpleasant affair of Elizabeth Croft. She caused quite a stir until she was caught. She was a servant in the household of some zealous Protestants who lived in Aldersgate Street. From a wall in the house a high-pitched whistle was heard. Crowds collected to hear the whistle in the wall, and then a voice came forth denouncing the Spanish marriage as well as the Roman Catholic religion. This continued for months, and there was a great deal of talk about “the bird in the wall.”
Susan told me about it. She was frowning. “People are beginning to say it is a warning.”
“How can there be a bird in the wall?” I demanded.
“And what would a bird know about these matters?”
“People say it is a heavenly spirit speaking through the bird to warn you.”
“Then why shouldn't this spirit speak to me?”
“This bird is supposed to be talking to the people, telling them they should never allow the Spanish marriage to take place.”
“That is what Wyatt said, and look what happened to him.”
“I suspect the voice is a human one,” said Susan.
“In whose house is it?”
“Sir Anthony Knyvett's.”
“Has he been questioned?”
“He swears he knows nothing of it.”
“It is silly nonsense.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, but the people gather to listen.”
That voice in the wall continued to be heard for a few more months before the truth was discovered. It was Elizabeth Croft, the servant girl. When she was caught at her tricks, she was sent to prison. Sir Anthony was innocent of any part in it, but the girl did confess that she had been persuaded to do what she did by one of the servants, a man named Drake who was a fierce Protestant and hated the prospect of the Spanish marriage.
Both Renard and Gardiner talked to me about the girl. It was not that she was important in herself but it was dangerous for people to believe, if only temporarily, that a voice from Heaven should denounce my marriage.
What should we do with her? She was a simple girl, I said, no doubt led astray by others—this servant Drake for one. A weaver of Redcross Street was mentioned, and there was a clergyman from St. Botolph's Church in Aldersgate also. I could see how the girl had been tempted, and I did not want her to be severely punished. It was enough that the people should know that she was a fraud.
She was taken to Paul's Cross where she made a public confession. This she was more than willing to do, feeling—and rightly so—that she had escaped lightly. After confessing to the trick she had played on the unsuspecting public, she knelt and asked God's forgiveness, and mine, for her wickedness.
She was sent to prison for a while and afterward released.
But the disquiet continued all through the months that followed. There was even dissension among the Council. Some of them, Gardiner and my good Rochester among them, who wanted a return to the Catholic religion but not to go back to Rome, believed that the interests of the country were best served with the monarch as Head of the Church. Paget, on the other hand, wanted a complete return to religion as it had been before my father had interfered with it. Then there was of course the Protestant element.
In addition to all this was the problem created by my sister. She was still in the Tower, and that worried me. Paget, among others, had often told me that while she lived I was unsafe and that the best gift I could have was her head severed from her shoulders.
Such talk did not please me. I could never forget that she was my sister. I remembered so well the bright little girl with the reddish curls and the shining eyes, so eager to miss nothing. How did she feel…a prisoner in the Tower? I doubted she was treated harshly. She would make friends of the jailers if necessary. She would always make friends of people who could be useful to her, and in view of her closeness to the throne, people would be wary of offending her.
I remembered her protestations of affection when we last met and her plea that I should always listen to her before judging her. I had not done that. I had refused to see her and had been prevailed upon to send her to the Tower.
I discussed her with Susan. I knew that to speak of her to Gardiner or Renard would only arouse their indignation against her, though I could tell them again and again that nothing had actually been proved against her. Wyatt himself had exonerated her, but they would never believe in her innocence.
But I believed in it, and as I felt toward her as a sister, I was sure she felt the same toward me.
I said to Susan, “I cannot be entirely at peace while she is in the Tower. She is a princess, my father's daughter, my own sister. How I wish that we could be friends!”
“Your Majesty should be wary of her,” said Susan.
“I know. I know. But she is my sister. It is for that reason I do not care to think of her as a prisoner in the Tower.”
“Perhaps she will marry.”
“Ah, if only she would marry abroad!”
It was an idea which persisted to haunt my mind.
I discussed it with the Council. Many of them thought she would be safer dead, but marriage did seem a way of disposing of her.
I said, “I will see my sister. Emmanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy and Prince of Piedmont, would be pleased to marry her, I am sure. He would be a good match for her. She would then leave the country; people here would not see her and therefore not consider her as a rallying-point for rebellion.”
The more I thought of the idea, the more plausible it seemed. Emmanuel Philibert was one of those who had been chosen for me long ago, and I had forgotten now the reason why the match was put aside. There had been so many such cases.
So Elizabeth left the Tower and came by barge to Richmond, where the Court was at that time.
I sent for her.
She looked a little pale; her sojourn in the Tower had had its effect on her. It was natural that it should. How could she have known from one day to the next when she might be taken out to share her mother's fate?
She looked at me without reproach, almost tenderly, and I warmed toward her.
I said, “I greatly regret it was necessary to send you to the Tower.”
“Your Majesty is so just that you cannot endure injustice. I am innocent of all my enemies are contriving to prove against me. Your Majesty will know that my sisterly affection would never allow me to do aught to harm you.”
I nodded and said, “It is your future of which I am thinking.”
“Your Majesty, I should like to retire to the country. The air of Ashridge has always been beneficial to my health.”
I waved a hand impatiently and said, “I have a proposition to set before you. You are no longer a child. It is time you married.”
She turned pale and recoiled in some dismay.
“Emmanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy and Prince of Piedmont, would be a worthy match,” I went on.
I saw her lips tighten, and a look of determination came over her face.
“I have no desire to marry, Your Majesty.”
“Nonsense. It is the destiny of every woman.”
“If that is her wish, Your Majesty. For myself … I would prefer to remain a virgin.”
“You speak of matters of which you have no knowledge.”
“I have an instinct that the state is not for me. I will not marry.”
She was looking at me steadily, and I could see the defiance in her eyes. Was it because she did not like the idea of Emmanuel Philibert, or was it marriage itself which was so repulsive to her?
I remembered the scandal about her flirtation with Seymour. I had seen her eyes sparkle with pleasure at the admiration of men. Why this sudden, almost prudish attitude? One should not force people to marry. My thoughts went to poor Jane Grey who had been starved and beaten and forced to marry Guilford Dudley. But how could I compare Elizabeth with Jane Grey?
If Elizabeth refused to marry, I could not force her. I was disappointed. It was an unsatisfactory meeting, and I dismissed her.
Why would she not marry? Because to marry Emmanuel Philibert she would have to leave the country and she did not want to do that. She wanted to be on the spot for any contingency.
But I was going to marry. I was going to enter a state of bliss, and I was sure that anyone who wanted children as much as I did must soon become a mother.
My happiness at the prospect made me lenient. Elizabeth should not be coerced, nor should she be forced; she should not return to the Tower. She was dangerous, of course, and I must take precautions. I knew what I would do. I would send for Sir Henry Bedingfield of Oxborough in Norfolk, who had been a loyal supporter of mine ever since I had been proclaimed Queen. He had been with my mother at Kimbolton during the last years of her life, and one of the first to rally to my side on the death of my brother. It is such things one remembers. When he came to me, the outcome was by no means certain, and I had been considerably heartened by the sight of him and his 140 armed men. He was severe and serious, but one of those men whom one would trust absolutely and whom a woman in my position wants to have about her. I had made him a Privy Councillor, and I knew I could safely put Elizabeth into his hands.
I explained to him that I wished my sister to be released from the Tower but that a strong guard must be kept on her, and he was the man I was going to trust with the task.
“Sir Henry,” I said, “I want you to serve not only me but the Princess Elizabeth. I fear there are some who, perhaps in their zealous care for me, might seek to do away with her. I want her to be guarded from such. It would cause me the utmost grief if aught happened to her and, although I were innocent of this, I should feel myself to be guilty.”
“Your Majesty shall have no fear,” he replied.
“I will guard the Princess with my life.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry. I put my trust in you.”
And I did.
Elizabeth complained bitterly, I know, of the stringent measures employed. She did not seem to realize that they were guarding her not only for my safety but for her own.
I was relieved when she had left for Woodstock under the guard of Sir Henry Bedingfield.
NOW THAT THE WYATT rebellion had been brought to a satisfactory end, Courtenay was removed from the Tower to Fotheringay. I intended that in time he should be released. He was little more than a boy—and a foolish, reckless one. I could not bear to think of that handsome head being severed. Antoine de Noailles had once said he was the most handsome man in England—and he was right. I had seen it in writing when Renard had intercepted some of his letters to Henri Deux. I really wanted to shut him away until he became less significant, and then release him and perhaps send him abroad.
Elizabeth was safe in the care of Bedingfield, and soon Philip would be arriving for our marriage.
But nothing seemed to run smoothly. The dissensions in my Council were growing. Paget and Gardiner were deadly enemies, and Philip appeared to be expressing marked indifference, for he made no move either to write to me or to come to England.
De Noailles… that man again… had now been forced to accept the almost certainty of our marriage, and it did not please him at all. However, realizing that all his attempts to stop it had failed, he shrugged his shoulders and said Philip and I deserved each other, which was meant, I am sure, to be uncomplimentary.
His brother Gilles, who proved to be a handsome and charming young man, had come to England. I could have wished he was in his brother's place.
He came to see me on a matter quite apart from state affairs. He told me that his brother, Antoine, had a newly born son and he would be so honored if I would help in the choice of godparents. Antoine would have asked me himself but he was afraid I did not regard him very favorably at the moment.
I was always delighted to be involved with babies and, in spite of the strained relations between the French ambassador and myself, and forgetting his blatant spying during the Wyatt rebellion, I said I should happily have undertaken the part of godparent myself but for the fact that I should shortly be going to Winchester, for what purpose he would know.
Gilles de Noailles bowed politely and smiled, as though he were delighted to see me so happy. How different from his brother, who had done everything he could to stand in the way of my happiness!
I chose the Countess of Surrey to act as my proxy for the christening, and Gardiner and Arundel were godfathers. My Council was amazed that I could give so much time to this man's affairs when he had proved himself to be no friend to me.
But I was so happy to be involved with a christening, praying all the time that I should soon be more deeply concerned with one nearer to me.
Meanwhile there were more misgivings. I had heard nothing from Philip himself. I had thought that he would write to me, send some token. The uneasy thought came to me that he was having to be persuaded, and I began to fear he might refuse me.
I knew the Emperor wanted the marriage, and that should be good enough. Philip could not disobey him. I did hope that my fears were groundless. I was now deeply in love, although I had never seen Philip. I assured myself that he was all that my romantic heart could desire.
There was whispering among the Council. Where is he? Why does he delay? What does it mean? Is this going to be another of those abortive betrothals? Will the Prince of Spain ever come to England and marry the Queen?
I would not listen to them. There must be some urgent matter which was delaying him. I knew the Emperor was always heavily committed, and naturally he would need the help of his son.
“All will be well,” I said to Susan.
But I could see that she was beginning to look a little worried.
Then, one June day, the Marquis de las Nevas arrived, bringing letters and gifts.
My happiness was complete. He was coming. He would soon be on his way. The weary waiting was over. Soon he would be with me. We should be married, and our happy life together would begin.
There were presents not only for me but for my ladies. There was a necklace of diamonds for me, and with it an enormous diamond with a pearl hanging on a long chain. It was the most exquisite piece of jewelry I had ever seen. I kissed it and told Susan I should love it always because it was a symbol of our love for each other. He also sent me a diamond mounted in gold which had been his mother's, given to her by the Emperor.
“Is it not beautiful?” I cried to Susan. “And doubly dear to me because it belonged to his mother.”
I had his picture. I thought he was wondrously handsome. They told me he was of short stature. Well, so was I, so we should match well together. I had not wanted a giant such as my father had been. Philip had a broad forehead, yellowish hair and beard, and blue eyes which might have been inherited from his Flemish grandfather; that he had the Hapsburg chin was evident.
How happy I was that night as I lay in my bed and thought of the future! There would be no delay now, and soon I should know that happiness for which I had so long yearned.
News followed. He would soon be on his way. Before he left, he spent a little time in Santiago with his son, Don Carlos. How I should have loved to be with them, to meet the boy. Philip would be a good father, I was sure.
It was touching that he had spent those days with his son, for when he was in England he would be separated from him. Perhaps some arrangement could be made. I could not leave the country. That was one of the penalties of queenship. Don Carlos might visit us. I would be a mother to him.
I could scarcely wait. Soon, I kept telling myself. And this time nothing will go wrong. I shall be a happy wife and mother.
At length Philip left his son and set out for Corunna, from whence he would sail for England.
There was trouble. It seemed there always must be. The English thought the Prince should sail in an English ship. This he refused to do and traveled in his own flagship, the Espiritu Santo. It must have looked splendid, upholstered in cloth of gold, displaying his banner. I was apprehensive and prayed that the weather might be calm. My prayers were unanswered, and for a day and night the ship battled against the elements, which must have been a sore trial to Philip, who was wont to be sick at sea. Fortunately in due course the gale abated, and by the time they came into sight of Southampton, the sea was as calm as anyone could wish it to be.
How glad he must have been to be on firm land—and, I hoped, to be brought nearer to me. It was a pity that our Admiral Lord William Howard should have offended him almost immediately. Howard, who prided himself on his bluff frankness, had made some jocular but slighting reference to the Spanish ships. I knew him well. He would have felt impelled to pierce Philip's dignity with what he would call good English humor. Philip would never understand that and would regard Howard's remarks as insulting. Then Sir Anthony Browne presented him with a white horse which I had sent as a gift. It was caparisoned in crimson velvet ornamented with gold. Philip said he would walk, at which Sir Anthony, who was a big man, lifted Philip, who was a small one, onto his horse; and although Sir Anthony kissed the stirrups as a gesture of deference, I cannot think Philip was pleased by the action.
While we were all in a fever of impatience, Philip stayed at Southampton, for the rain fell heavily and incessantly, which made traveling difficult; while there he met members of the Council and the nobility who had been waiting for him.
I feared he was not getting a very good impression of my country; and people were already beginning to say that the rain was sent by God as an omen.
Philip behaved with wonderful charm and astuteness. He must have been aware of the suspicions which were directed against him. I was delighted to hear that he told the Councillors that he had come to England not to enrich himself but because he had been called by divine goodness to be my husband. He wanted to live with me as a right, good and loving prince. He hoped they would accept this; and they had promised to be faithful and loyal to him.
