Текст книги "Queen of This Realm"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
Соавторы: Jean Plaidy
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A man named Basset came to Woodstock with the story that he was from the Council and that he had an urgent message for the Princess Elizabeth which he had been instructed to deliver into her hands only.
Fortunately for me, Bedingfeld had left me in the charge of a man who proved worthy of his trust, so he and several of the guards accompanied Basset to my chamber. Basset said he came from the Queen and had a party of men waiting to escort me to her. The waiting party was interrogated while its leader was absent and a bigger parcel of ruffians it would be hard to find.
Basset was told that a messenger was being sent to Sir Henry Bedingfeld to tell him of their coming and as he was with the Queen they must wait at Woodstock until permission came from Sir Henry.
Basset said he would explain to his men and they would find quarters for the night. What they actually did was make off with all speed, knowing that they would be betrayed as soon as Bedingfeld heard of their arrival.
I often wondered what Basset and his men intended to do to me. It did not require much imagination!
My jailers became even more careful than they had been before. It was fortunate that they were. Otherwise I might have been burned in my bed, for my enemies had even managed to get their spies into the household.
This must have been the case because a fire broke out in the chamber immediately below mine, and I could easily have been burned in my bed with no means of escape, if it had not been discovered in time. It was clearly a fire which had been deliberately started.
To be the victim of those who wished to murder me put me in a state of continual tension.
Meanwhile events were moving fast, for Philip of Spain had arrived in England. I could well imagine all the pomp and ceremonies; and I did hear accounts of what was going on for there were messengers going constantly between the Court and Woodstock and the servants gossiped. I had always made a habit of talking to them and establishing an easy relationship with them so I was able to piece together scraps of news and fit them into a complete picture.
Philip had arrived at Southampton on the twentieth of July. The Queen was at Winchester for she had decided that the marriage should take place there; the ceremony would be conducted by the odious Gardiner, of course; she would not have Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, because she did not accept his religious views, which were of the Reformed Faith. Men like Cranmer must be feeling very uneasy now that Philip was actually here. The alliance could not bode well for him, nor for any who were not of the Catholic Faith.
Philip had been given a great welcome and to row him ashore the Queen had sent a barge lined with tapestry of the richest colors and seats of gold brocade. When he mounted the steps at Southampton he was met by a deputation sent by the Queen which included all the great noblemen in the land. Arundel immediately presented him with the Garter and a magnificent horse was provided for him. Philip himself was dressed very simply in black velvet making, so I heard, an austere contrast to all the glitter, and which gave him a special dignity. There were the usual eulogies which fall to royal brides and grooms, regarding his personal appearance, but secretly I heard that he was far from prepossessing with scanty sandy hair, a lack of eyebrows and lashes and watery little blue eyes—all this not helped by an expression of intense gloom.
My thoughts were with my sister. She had fallen in love before she saw him and, knowing Mary, I guessed that nothing would deter her from continuing in that blissful state once she had decided on it. He had sent her magnificent jewels worth fifty thousand ducats, I heard, and his Grand Chamberlain, Don Ruy Gomez da Silva, who carried them to the Queen, was as dignified as his master.
The weather was appalling—driving rain and wind, which was not to be expected as it was July, and, said those who were against the match, it was a bad omen. Philip however braved the elements and came in slow dignified Spanish fashion from Southampton to Winchester.
Apparently the meeting between the pair was entirely amicable. I imagine Mary did not see Philip so much as a man as an important part of her plan to bring England to Rome. As for him, how did he see Mary? He saw a crown, I was sure, and the domination of our country. I felt angry and frustrated. If there should be a child of this union my hopes were dashed forever. And apart from that I could not bear to see my dear people forced under a rule which they did not want. There would be no tolerance. I knew that people were persecuted with more violence in Spain than had ever been known in England. Would Philip and his Inquisition, with a pliant Mary, be able to subdue a proud people?
On the twenty-fifth of July, which was the festival of St James and therefore very appropriate, he being the patron saint of Spain, Mary was married to Philip.
I listened to the gossip. Both Mary and Philip were pleased with the marriage. Their first duty would be to get an heir and the prospect of that filled me with so much melancholy that only then did I realize the greatness of my hopes. Ever since my father's death I had lived with the idea that one day I could come to the throne, although at that time it had seemed most unlikely, with Edward and Mary to come before me, both of whom might have offspring.
When Edward had died and there had been merely Mary, my hopes had risen, for Mary had been aging then and had no husband. As the time passed my hopes grew to a dedication. Every observation I made taught me something. I followed events as far as I could. I weighed up what had happened and considered what might have happened. I loved my country passionately. I loved the people as neither Edward nor Mary ever had. I was fitted to rule as neither of them had been.
And now Mary was married; she loved her bridegroom and she was not too old to bear a child, and that child would stand between me and the throne.
Meanwhile I remained a prisoner. If they could prove something against me I should be led to the block as my mother had been, as Katharine Howard and poor innocent Jane Grey had been.
But so far they could prove nothing against me, and I was determined that they should never have a chance of doing that, so the impulse came to me to write down my determination somewhere where it could be read by people for years to come. I took the diamond ring from my finger and scratched on the windowpane:
“Much suspected—of me.
Nothing proved can be
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.”
I WAS SUMMONED to Court for the Christmas festivities. Did this mean that I was no longer a prisoner? My excitement was intense. It might well be that my sister in her happy condition—for she said she was pregnant—no longer considered me a threat. I was sure her bridegroom was an astute man and he would quickly sense his lack of popularity in England. Perhaps he wished to please the people by recalling me. There must have been a reason—perhaps many. But the fact remained I was summoned to Hampton Court.
When one is a prisoner and life, though fraught with danger, is tedious, any little diversion is welcome even if it holds an element of even greater danger, which a trip to Court must surely hold for me.
So with growing excitement I prepared to leave for Hampton Court in the company of Sir Henry Bedingfeld. We spent the first night at Ricote where I renewed my pleasant friendship with Lord Williams and was so right royally treated that I felt I had left my prison behind me already. After two more days of travel we came to Hampton, and as my guards stayed with me I supposed that my status had not changed as I had hoped.
I had not been an hour in the apartments allotted to me when I had a call from the Council headed by Gardiner. Before they could speak I cried out that I was glad to see them and I hoped they would plead with the Queen and King to release me from my imprisonment.
“My advice to you,” said Gardiner, “is to confess your faults and throw yourself on the Queen's mercy.”
“As I have never offended against the Queen,” I retorted, “either in thought, word or deed, rather than confess to a fault I have not committed I would lie in prison all my life.”
“The Queen marvels at your boldness,” said Gardiner. “Your refusal to confess suggests that Her Majesty has wrongfully imprisoned you. You must do other than plead your innocence if you are to be set at liberty.”
“Then I will stay in prison with honesty,” I cried. “I stand by everything I have said, and may God forgive you for what you have done to me.”
I saw no use in trying to placate this man. Whatever I did or said he would be my enemy. I was not so much a person to him as an obstacle to his ambitions.
They left me. I knew that I had not behaved as they expected me to. They judged me wrongly. Having endured so much I was not prepared to barter my hopes of the crown—forlorn though they might seem now—for a brief concession. I was playing for high stakes, and if my death was the result, that was more acceptable to me than ignoble capitulation.
For a week I was left alone and I wondered what the motive could have been to take me from my prison in Woodstock merely to put me in another at Hampton Court.
But at last the summons came. The Queen wished to see me.
I faced her with some trepidation as I fell to my knees and she gave me her hand to kiss. She looked at me steadily and said: “I hear that you will confess to no fault.”
“It is hard to confess to what is not, Your Majesty.”
“You swear that you speak the truth?”
“I swear,” I said.
“I pray God this may become manifest.”
“If aught can be proved against me,” I said stoutly, “I shall be prepared to accept with meekness any punishment Your Majesty may think fit to bestow upon me.”
“So you say you have been wrongfully treated?”
“To say so is not possible in your presence.”
“Because it would imply my injustice, you mean? So you do not tell me I am unjust, but I doubt not you report so to others.”
“Your Majesty, I have never said that you were unjust,” I replied coolly. “I have borne and must bear Your Majesty's displeasure, but I swear I have never been aught else than Your Majesty's loyal and true subject.”
She looked at me somberly and murmured as though to herself: “God knoweth.”
I suspected that she was inclined to believe me and that she was not happy with this rift between us. I had always been vaguely sorry for Mary. I had sensed in her that desire for affection. She had had it from her mother– the only person it turned out to be from whom she ever did have it; and she had seen that mother suffer humiliation, repudiation and imprisonment at our father's hand. No wonder she was warped, no wonder she was starved for affection. I had heard that she lavished it on Philip. And, dear God, I thought, she is with child by him!
She made me sit beside her and my spirits were lifted a little because I felt she was showing friendship toward me. She would while we were together thus but when in conclave with her advisers, my archenemies Gardiner and Renaud, she would allow the suspicions to creep back.
There was a certain unwieldiness about her body. So the child was already making its presence known.
While we were talking together I was aware of a certain movement at the curtains. I fancied that when I turned my head sharply someone had moved back. Could it be that we had a witness to this scene, someone listening to every word that was uttered, noting them to discuss afterward with the Queen? I must be doubly careful.
During that interview, which was growing more and more cordial, I kept an alert eye on the curtains behind which was the retiring chamber. Someone was there who could not resist taking a peep through the curtains. I could not believe it! I had caught a glimpse of black velvet. Philip! Who else could be in the retiring room? So Philip of Spain was eager for a few covert glances at his sister-in-law while he listened to what she said to his Queen.
ALTHOUGH I WAS still guarded I was not treated like a prisoner and as the Christmas festivities began I took my place at Court and was usually seated in a place of honor at the table. I had now been presented to Philip who showed excessive courtesy toward me. It was true that he was far from prepossessing; he had those sandy lashes like my own but mine were thick and my hair was abundant and shining while his was scanty. Moreover my skin was white while his complexion was mud color. He had a very high forehead which coupled with an alert expression gave him a look of cleverness and I was sure he was an extremely brilliant man. Anything he lacked in appearance he made up for in dignity and exquisite manners.
I caught his eyes on me calculatingly and I remembered that he had spied on me when I was with my sister. Meeting him exhilarated me, as clever people always did, and when I realized I had to be very wary of him, I was doubly stimulated.
It was wonderful to be back at Court and arouse the interest of important people. There were feasting and tournaments for we were not only celebrating the season but the wedding as well. I had been provided with some beautiful clothes and it was very pleasant to appear as a princess again instead of a prisoner.
I wished I could see Kat and I wondered what was happening to her. I did hear that Robert Dudley had been released from the Tower and I wondered whether I should see him at Court. But that could hardly be expected; he might be free from imprisonment but he would hardly be received with honor since his father had succeeded in putting Jane Grey on the throne even if it was only for nine days. Robert Dudley, it seemed, was now in the army or in Norfolk, where some years before, he had been married. If he had not been, he would have been chosen as the husband for Jane Grey. When Northumberland saw the opportunity of putting Jane on the throne, Guildford had been the only remaining unmarried son at that time.
I was recovering from my melancholy and when I was dressed in my magnificent gown of white satin decorated with myriads of tiny pearls, I could not believe that I had ever been reconciled to death. This sojourn at Hampton Court had made me realize how much I loved life, how I loved my country and the English people, and that I would never give up hope, however distant, of ruling them one day.
In spite of all this euphoria I did not lose sight of the fact that I was in danger. The Queen looked very sickly. Could she reach a successful confinement? I asked myself, and I knew that others were asking it. Chief of them perhaps Philip himself. Why did he look at me with such speculation? Surely he did not think that if Mary died he could marry me… Elizabeth, the heretic! How could he? But heretics are acceptable when a throne goes with them, and I was sure Philip would have no doubts as to his ability to rule a woman as well as a country.
Not this one, my lord! I thought. But I liked him to regard me in that light for he must be comparing my physical aspect with that of Mary. She was getting so old; she was really pathetic; she followed him with her eyes; she loved him completely. It was folly to allow one's feelings to become involved and even greater folly to show them.
Yes, he was comparing my youth with her age, my liveliness with her languor, my challenge with her cloying devotion. I had made it my business to study people and I knew a great deal about Philip of Spain.
There were moments when he cast off his dignity. He might appear to be cold and restrained but I believed there were times when he could be less so. Ever a collector of what the people were saying, I discovered that he was not averse to a little dalliance. Some of the women were giggling about the repulse he had received from Magdalen Dacre, one of Mary's ladies of honor, when Philip had peeped through her window while she was dressing and tried to open the window and get to her. The window could only be opened a little way and she, seeing his arm protruding into her chamber, gave it a sharp rap which made him withdraw it hastily, showing him clearly that she had no intention of engaging in frivolous behavior with anyone, even the Prince of Spain.
Magdalen Dacre was certainly an exceptionally beautiful girl. Philip must have noticed her and perhaps he hoped to seduce her which he probably thought would be easy, he being who he was. One thing I did like about him was that after the rap and his humiliation, he did not attempt to take revenge and always treated her with extra special courtesy as though while desiring her he could yet respect her virtue.
Mary had hardly been seductive before her body had swollen, and it is not the custom of princes to deny themselves. It was reported—but it may well have been malicious gossip—that he liked to visit some of the more questionable haunts of London and that he had a fancy for little girls of the lower classes.
There was a rhyme about him which people sang constantly. It went something like this:
“The baker's daughter in her russet gown
Better than Queen Mary without her crown.”
At the tournaments I was seated beside my sister and Philip was on the other side of her. I noticed how his eyes were often on me, assessing my physical attractions, I guessed; he already knew my political views. Mary did not notice. I supposed she had not heard the rhyme about the baker's daughter, and I was sure Magdalen Dacre would not mention the Prince's pursuit of her. Mary was innocent of guile. Perhaps that was why she could not please the people.
I guessed that the Spanish Ambassador was of less importance now than he had been. His main mission was accomplished with the marriage, but of course he would still be making sure that events went as Charles the Fifth and Philip ordered that they should. Then there was the French Ambassador, de Noailles, who must not be forgotten. His mission was to bring the English crown to Mary Queen of Scots. He was more my enemy now than Renaud.
Wherever I looked there was intrigue but I thrived on it. After the tedium of prison this was a stimulating life.
As the winter passed, the Queen grew larger and we all awaited her confinement with great expectancy. If it were a healthy boy or girl, that was the end of my hopes. It was the health of the child, not the sex, which would be decisive this time. A living child would mean that England was doomed to return to Rome with all the intolerance and persecution which were pursued in those countries under the domination of the dreaded Inquisition.
I felt I was justified in hoping that the child would not live, though naturally I never said a word of this to anyone.
Mary's skin seemed yellow in daylight; her body was becoming more and more clumsy. One of my ladies whispered to me: “There is a rumor that what the Queen is carrying is not a child.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“That her swollen body has another cause.”
“This must be nonsense.”
“I can only tell you what is being said, Your Grace.”
HOW SAD THOSE DAYS were for my poor sister! Much as they heralded good news for me I could not but be sorry for her. She had so set her heart on a child. She was so certain that she was pregnant; there had been all the signs. What a terrible blow! What almost unbearable humiliation! It was no child she carried. She was suffering from some hideous form of dropsy.
I think she nearly died of sorrow. She had so longed for that child and she had been so proud to be able to produce it. She needed a child so much and now all her hopes had gone.
She was desperately ill for a long time. People were very careful how they treated me and I enjoyed the deference. I think they were daily expecting news of her death. When I woke up in the morning my first thought was: Will it be today?
Philip was genial with me. I was sure he was a little in love with me, and I was always gratified when men fell in love with me, particularly those who could not ask me to marry them. I still regarded marriage as a state which must be avoided, for when I became Queen I wanted to be Queen in my own right with no one at my side. But it was pleasant to think that Philip admired me. Of course it was a different feeling from that which he had for the bakers' daughters—but there was a part of that too. Philip was not the cold, sexless man he might have been believed to be because of his black velvet, rather somber clothes and the exaggerated ceremony of his manner.
Philibert of Savoy had appeared at Court during the Christmas festivities and another attempt had been made to bring about a match between us. The Queen had been eager for it; she still wanted me safely out of the way; but Philip had not insisted that I marry Philibert, which he might so easily have done, and the reason was, I guessed, that he was looking ahead. If Mary died he would secure the crown of England for Spain by marrying me… heretic or not. I'll swear he thought he could soon subdue me on that point. No, no, Master Philip, I thought. Admire me, make your plans, imagine yourself my doting husband, if you will, but it is not to be, for I want no husband. When I am the Queen of England I shall be the Queen … absolute Queen with no husband beside me attempting to usurp my power.
After that illness, Mary had changed. She had given up hope of bearing a child, so Philip had discovered that he had duties in Spain and when he left Mary was heartbroken.
I think I owed something to Philip of Spain. I have said his attitude to me had been one of friendship, even something warmer, but at the same time he would have been ready to agree to my elimination if I had threatened his political schemes. However, instead of setting him against me, the fact that Mary was not going to bear a child had made him eager to preserve my life. I was sure he thought of marrying me. Mary Queen of Scots presented a problem. She had already staked her claim to the English throne. I suppose Philip thought it was better to have a heretic Queen for England– whom he might marry and convert—than that the French should become too powerful in England through Mary of Scotland.
So I had not only moved nearer to the throne but stepped out of imminent danger. Of course men like Gardiner and certainly the French Ambassador would seek to destroy me, but the Spanish Ambassador would not wish me to die if my continuing to live was important to Philip of Spain. So my danger was slightly less than it had been, since my powerful and influential enemies had decreased.
I was told that I might retire to Hatfield. I should not be entirely a prisoner but my movements would be under surveillance. Sir Henry Bedingfeld was to be relieved of his duties and Sir Thomas Pope was to be put in charge of my household. He would watch over me and prevent my entering into conspiracies with undesirable people. I had already met Sir Thomas Pope and found him a charming and honorable gentleman, and although I had become somewhat reconciled to Sir Henry I was not displeased at the change. When I arrived at Hatfield great joy awaited me for I found Kat Ashley there. “Come to serve Your Grace,” she cried, and we flew into each other's arms.
IT WAS NOT only Kat who was awaiting me at Hatfield. Her husband was with her, Parry too; and to my great joy, my dear and respected tutor Roger Ascham also. Even if I were not entirely free, I could not be unhappy surrounded by such people.
Moreover Sir Thomas Pope was a very different person from Sir Henry Bedingfeld. He was a merry man as well as a kindly one and in order to show me how pleasant life was going to be at Hatfield he decided to give an entertainment in the great hall to amuse me. It was to be a masque and a pageant such as my father had loved. Even the minstrels wore disguises and every lady and gentleman was warned that they must make themselves so different from their usual selves that even their most intimate friends would find it difficult to recognize them. There was dancing and at the banquet we all unmasked and showed ourselves and there was much laughter and exclamations of amazement to the delight of all.
I could see that life was going to be very different here from what I had endured at Woodstock.
Unfortunately news of those particular revels reached the Queen and no doubt Gardiner or someone like that pointed out to her the danger that could arise from such entertainments. If people came in disguises why should not spies make their way into the company? Sir Thomas told me regretfully that he had had orders from the Queen that such revelries must cease.
I was still suspect and not to be trusted.
“There are other ways of amusing ourselves,” he said. “However, disguises are forbidden.”
It did not matter. I had my friends about me. It would be a great pleasure to talk in various languages with someone as interesting and erudite as Roger Ascham.
At this time there broke out in the country the very worst wave of persecution that was ever known and which I believe will never be forgotten as long as men live. With her marriage to Philip of Spain, Mary had in fact passed over the government of her realm to him; she had brought the country back to Rome, and although the Inquisition had not yet been set up in the country, its rules were being introduced.
I was glad to be shut away in the country. I was filled with shame for my sister. Her folly was beyond my understanding and she earned the hatred of many of her subjects and that adjective which was to be used often when her name was mentioned: Bloody Mary.
So this was what religious fanaticism did to a woman who was by nature humane. I swore I would have no part in it. Perhaps the Spaniards had endured it and would go on doing so. I did not think the English would.
I was sickened as were so many. How could she allow this to be done in her name?
There were two men who urged her to this cruel folly. Gardiner was naturally one and Edward Bonner, Bishop of London, was the other. I despised them both and I could not believe it when I first heard it. I discussed it with Kat in a highly emotional way and with Roger Ascham more calmly, but with none the less revulsion.
To burn men and women at the stake for their religious opinions was not only hideously cruel, it was quite stupid. How could she say: I worship in this way and therefore it is right, and because you do not agree you will be burned to death! I had heard their miserable arguments: The victims were destined to hell fire, so what did it matter if they began their life of torment a few years earlier? How I loathed those persecutors! How I despised them! Not only for their cruelty but for their folly. It was an affront to all reason.
So passed that dreadful year when the fires of Smithfield sobered all London and palls of smoke and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air even in the smallest towns. It was as though my father had never broken with Rome. But it was not quite as it had been. He had been ruthless, true; he had condemned men to death, but it was because they stood in the way of his personal wishes. That was wrong, of course; but this death and torture for a divergence of belief was something I could not understand.
There were few of us who did not go in fear of our lives. I myself dreamed of standing in a square while they bound my body to a stake. I had been alarmed at the thought of the axe. But that was merciful compared with the terrible slow death by fire.
Yet many were suffering it.
We went to Mass. I did, yes. I admit it. I accepted the Catholic Faith. At least I forced out the words they wished me to say, but I could never believe that the differences between one sect and another were of any importance. Was I a hypocrite? I do not know. If I was, I was a sensible hypocrite. I was certain now that I was going to rule my people and when I did I would put an end to this senseless persecution. I could be of greater use to my people alive than dead and when the time came they would surely forgive me for a few words mumbled in a chapel.
Mary was a sick woman. Her husband had left her and was very happy to do so. He had made a marriage and brought the countries together; they had brought England back to Rome and were now merrily burning her people who refused to accept the faith they would impose on them. Spain had done its work. Our country was as unhappy as theirs. And Mary was aging, ill, and still yearning to bear the child which she never could.
And beside her, those archvillains, tools of Spain and Rome—Gardiner and Bonner—catching their prey, questioning, torturing and condemning to the flames.
Great men died at the stake, men such as Nicholas Ridley who had been a Bishop of London, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Winchester, and John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. These men died with great bravery; they were the martyrs. The people watched them sullenly. How long can this last? I wondered.
There was much talk of the manner in which these men had died. Hugh Latimer's last words were repeated over and over again. He had been tied to a stake next to that to which Ridley was bound and he cried out in ringing tones: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Fine words from a man about to suffer a cruel death. They were truly martyrs.
Not long after the death of these two it was the turn of Thomas Cranmer to burn at the stake. He had recanted earlier to save himself. I did not blame him for that. In my opinion it was the sensible thing to do; but he had repented the act in the end and as the flames were lighted he held out his right hand. “This hand has written lies,” he cried. “It has written them to save my life and therefore it should be the first part of my body to burn.”
And later they heard him cry out: “This hand has offended!” and those watching saw him hold it in the flames unflinchingly.
