in
the country…
dead
. I supposed the Emperor thought this was
the lesser of two evils and that was the sole reason why he agreed to it.
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Van der Delft told me that he would write to the Emperor telling him of
Rochester's suggestion, and when he had his master's approval, the plan would be put into
action.
Shortly afterward I received a further communication from van der Delft. He was
being recalled and in his place would be Jehan Scheyfve. I was horrified. To exchange
ambassadors in the middle of such a project seemed extraordinary to me. I began to
suspect that van der Delft had asked for the exchange.
He told me that Scheyfve would shortly be calling on me, which I presumed
meant that he himself was saying goodbye.
Robert Rochester came to me with an alarming piece of news. Summer was
coming on, and it was in summer that tempers ran high and people's grievances were
uppermost in their minds. The Council did not want a repeat of rebellions, so they were
making a careful watch of the roads this summer, and people who might not be about
their ordinary business would be stopped and questioned. It was the duty of every
householder to take part in this watch; any who did not do so might find himself in
trouble with the Council. It was for the protection of all, and they must do their duty.
“It means,” said Rochester, “that the roads will be watched and, if you are seen
riding to Malden, which you almost certainly would be, the alarm would be given.
Moreover, this friend of mine has taken alarm and will not be involved in this.”
I was in a quandary. Van der Delft, who had been working on the plan, was now
going, and this new man was in his place. What did he know of it? I wondered.
I sent an urgent message to van der Delft. He must come and say goodbye to
me…in person, I insisted.
I hoped he would understand by the wording of my message that it was
imperative that I see him.
When he arrived, I was appalled by his appearance. The man looked really ill, and
he was decidedly worried. I told him Rochester's news without delay.
“Then,” he said, “we have to plan again.”
“But you are going away.”
He was silent and I went on, “What of this new man?”
“It has been decided that Scheyfve should know nothing of the plan.”
“But you will not be here… and if this man knows nothing of it… what can we
do?”
“Scheyfve cannot know of this. Imagine what would happen. Suppose the plot
failed and he were involved… and if it succeeds and it were known that he was aware of
it…he would be discredited.”
“Is that why you are being withdrawn?”
“It is that… and for reasons of health.”
I felt bewildered and very much alone. I could see that no one wished to be
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involved in my dangerous existence.
I was wrong. Van der Delft was a good man; he was genuinely sorry for me, and
he was going to do everything he could to help.
He said to me, “If this plan is undertaken, it must succeed.”
“How can we be sure that it will?”
“We must not attempt it until we are sure.”
“I will trust in God,” I said.
He lifted his shoulders. He looked so terribly ill, poor man. I knew his gout was
very painful. But still he wanted to help. He had a good secretary whom he could trust, a
certain Jean Dubois; and his idea was that, disguised as a merchant, Dubois should come
in a ship bringing grain for the household.
That would not be considered unusual, for grain was now and then brought to the
household. When the grain was delivered, I should be smuggled out. We should be away
before I was missed, and I should very soon be in Flushing.
I said, “Will you come too, Ambassador?”
He looked helpless.
“You must come,” I said. “I shall need you.”
“Dubois is a trusty servant.”
“But you must come. I must have your promise.”
He smiled at me almost tenderly. “I give it,” he said. “I shall come as a grain
merchant, and we shall have you out of harm's way … in no time at all.”
I BEGAN TO WONDER if everything must go wrong for me.
When I heard the news I was astounded and stricken with grief, for, though I had
compared van der Delft with Chapuys to his disadvantage, I had grown fond of him and I
had relied upon him. He had been with me through a dangerous time and he had been my
only link with the Emperor, whom, in spite of everything, I still regarded as my savior.
On arriving in the Netherlands, van der Delft wrote to the Emperor an account of
what had happened, and as soon as he had finished he took to his bed. He had fallen into
a fever and was delirious.
It was apparent that he was on his deathbed. He was suffering from gout, but it
seemed that the plots for my escape had so preyed on his mind that he had become
further enfeebled.
The poor man went into raving delirium and talked of the boat which was to take
me away from England; he had rambled about the watch on the roads, and the dangers of
getting me to the boat. There must have been many who heard it.
I received a note from the Emperor. It came sealed by way of the ambassador
who, of course, knew nothing of its contents. It was very disconcerting to have an
ambassador in whom I could not confide. Chapuys had been my great comfort, and after
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him van der Delft…and now, when I most needed help, there was no one to give it to me.
The Emperor did not want to drop the plan in spite of all the difficulties which
had arisen, but he thought it must be put aside for a few weeks while his spies informed
him what effect the ravings of van der Delft had had. He would send men into the
markets to drink with the merchants and there discover if anything had leaked out.
In due course I heard from him again. Apparently there had been no mention of
the plot, and it seemed that all was safe.
Now we were free to go ahead.
I was overcome with melancholy and great trepidation. Van der Delft was
replaced by a man I did not know. A stranger was coming, disguised as a grain merchant,
and I was to escape with him…to the unknown. It was a frightening proposition.
There would be ships lying off the coast, and a small grain ship would sail up the
river. Grain would be delivered, and then I should be taken out to safety. It was a
dangerous operation but it had the sanction of the Emperor, and Dubois was eager to
carry it out with distinction.
We received a message that the merchants had arrived and would bring a sample
of corn for the comptroller to see. The next step would be for Dubois to bring the corn
into the house.
I had decided which ladies were going with me. I had packed my jewels. I was
ready.
We heard that people were watching on the roads. They would be there on the
route along which I had to pass to reach the river. It would be a great feat for any of those
people to capture me; and, moreover, they would be in trouble if it were discovered that
they had allowed me to slip through.
Sir Robert Rochester came to me and said that he had something on his mind and
wished to speak to me. I bade him continue.
“My lady Princess,” he said. “There is a rumor that the King is in a very delicate
state of health. He cannot marry. He will never produce an heir. It could be that, in a very
short time, you will be the rightful queen of this country.”
“I know it,” I said. “The thought is constantly with me.”
“You are the hope of the country, Princess. Many people are waiting for you to
return them to God's Church.”
I nodded and was silent.
“If you were not here,” went on Sir Robert, “it would be the Lady Elizabeth.”
“I should have to come back to claim my right.”
“It is never easy to come back, my lady.”
“Sir Robert, what are you suggesting?”
He was silent for a few seconds, and then he said slowly, “This is a desperate
operation. If you are discovered, what will happen?”
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“I shall be taken to the Tower. I shall be judged a traitor. I have been in
communication with a foreign power. You know what that means, Sir Robert.”
“They would seize upon it. It would give them the opportunity for which they
have been waiting.”
“You are telling me that it is unwise for me to go.”
“I believe, Princess, that if you go…even if the escape is successful and you reach
Flanders, you will have lost a kingdom.”
I saw the reasoning behind this.
I said, “I am in fear of losing my life here.”
“That is true, but we will be watchful, and you have many friends. I believe your
enemies are aware of this, and they would not dare to harm you.”
“They might by subtle means.”
“There is a possibility. But your servants love you and guard you well. They pray,
Princess, for the time when you mount the throne and sweep away this evil which has
taken possession of the land.”
“You are telling me I must stay.”
“It is your decision, Princess.”
“Dubois will be here soon,” I reminded him.
“You could tell him you were not prepared to go…just yet.”
“After all the preparations!”
“The Emperor will try again if he is really in favor of your escape.”
“You think he is not entirely so?”
It was then I learned that the Emperor had hesitated because he feared he would
have to provide me with a household and that I should be a drain on his exchequer.
I said, “The Emperor was ever a careful man. It is the reason why he is the richest
and most powerful man in the world.”
“That may be so, Princess. But would you wish to be a burden…one he might
shoulder reluctantly?”
“What then, Sir Robert? Are we to tell Dubois when he comes with his grain that
I will not go?”
“That is for you to say, my lady Princess. The decision is entirely yours. If you
decide to go, rest assured that I will do all I can to assure your safety. It is for you to say
whether you will risk staying here in order to gain your kingdom, or whether you will
take an equal risk and give it away to those who would destroy it in the eyes of God.”
I wanted to be alone to think. He had reduced me to a terrible state of indecision.
I spent a restless night. I did not sleep at all. Rochester was right, I told myself. I
would be throwing away my heritage if I left. I had soothed my conscience by telling
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myself I would return and win my kingdom when it was mine by right. But how could I
do that? With the Emperor's help? Had the Emperor come to save my mother when she
was in dire distress? Would not his continuing commitments demand all his attention, all
his forces? That was how it had been in the past. Would it change? The Emperor would
certainly wish to see the true faith returned to England, but how far would he be prepared
to risk his forces to bring it about?
I had to be realistic. I had to rely entirely on my own judgement. I was in danger
here. I was in constant fear that one day or night some assassin would make an end of me.
I would continue to live in fear. But should I be safe in Flanders? Had not my father sent
assassins abroad to try to kill Reginald Pole? They had not succeeded but they might
have done so.
Let me look truth in the face. God had put me in this position. I could perform a
great mission if I lived. My life was in God's hands. If He wished me to succeed in this
great task, I needed His help. I needed His guidance. To go or to stay? Rochester had
made me see clearly that if I went I might save my own life but in doing so lose my
kingdom.
I prayed, passionately asking for guidance.
I felt the presence of God beside me, and in the morning I knew what I should do.
SIR ROBERT HAD RECEIVED a letter from Dubois.
He had arrived with the corn, and he and his men had made it known in the town
that they were there. That night the water would be high in the river, and that would
enable the boat to come right in. It would not be so easy after this night. Because of the
tide, it would be reasonable for the boat to be in the most convenient spot at two o'clock.
I should not bring too many women with me, for that would arouse suspicion.
Rochester sent a note to Dubois asking him to meet him in the churchyard. If they
were seen together, there would be no cause for suspicion as it would be thought they
were discussing the consignment of corn.
I saw Rochester before he went.
I said to him, “I have been questioning myself all the night.”
“I know it, Princess, and you have come to the right conclusion. You are too good
a Catholic to have come to any other.”
“I have a duty,” I said. “I can do nothing else.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “It cannot be long,” he said, “before I shall fall on
my knees and call you Her Majesty the Queen.”
“There is much danger to be lived through first.”
“But with God's help, my lady…”
“Yes,” I answered, “with God's help.”
We were silent for a moment. I was thinking of what we had said. If overheard, it
could cost us our lives. I was certain of Sir Robert's loyalty to me, and I was exultant in
the midst of my fear, for I knew I had chosen rightly.
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I said, “You will go to the churchyard and tell Dubois.”
“I must break it gently,” he replied. “If I say bluntly that you are not going after
all this preparation, I cannot answer for his reaction. I think it better to hint at a
postponement.”
“But he says it is tonight or never.”
“Well, my lady, it is not going to be tonight.”
He went to his tryst with Dubois, and when he returned he came straight to me
and said that he had told Dubois that there was no chance of my going this night. The
watch on the roads had been doubled and I should certainly be stopped. “The Emperor
must understand how dangerous it is,” he had said, “and when he does he will realize the
necessity for postponement. The escape could have a better chance of success in the
winter.”
Dubois had been deflated. He had said brusquely that he was only acting on
orders and it was not for him to make decisions. He could not believe that the Princess,
after all her entreaties for help, had, now the moment had come to put the plan into
action, decided not to carry it out.
“He is very disappointed in us,” I said.
“He said he had had his instructions from the Emperor, my lady, and he would
need letters from you discharging him from his duties.”
“He shall have them,” I promised. “It shall be known that no blame is attached to
him.”
“I told him,” said Rochester, “that I would give a great deal to see you safely out
of the country, and indeed I had been the first to suggest it. I impressed on him that it was
not that you did not wish to go but that you felt this was not the moment, for it is very
unsafe to do so and the chances of being caught, due to this watch on the roads, have
been multiplied. In the winter it could be considered again. He said that to him it was just
a question of to go or to stay. He merely wanted a Yes or No.”
Later Dubois came to see me. By this time I was completely convinced that I must
not go.
The man was irritated. He had been sent out to perform a mission, and he would
return with it unfulfillled. He needed my written word that it had failed through no fault
of his and that it was entirely my decision that at the last moment I would stay.
He left us and was soon on his way to Flanders.
I do not know how the rumors got about. It is always difficult to say. A careless
word here and there is taken up and exaggerated. However, rumors were circulating that I
had escaped. There was talk of visits to the house at Woodham Water and of grain ships
sent by the Emperor to convey me out of the country. People were intrigued by the
thought of men disguising themselves as grain merchants and coming to the aid of a
princess.
The Council was aware of what had happened and had all ports manned with
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soldiers; all ships coming in were subjected to special examination.
I was not surprised when messengers came from Court. I was asked in such a way
which made it a command either to move inland or to go to Court.
My reply was my usual one. My health was not good enough to allow me to
move.
I knew that I was in more acute danger than ever.
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SOMERSET HAD FALLEN INTO TROUBLE AGAIN. I WAS SORRY to hear
this, for he had, in his way, been good to me. I think it was due to him that I had been
allowed to hear Mass unmolested all this time.
He seemed to be gaining support in the country, and Warwick losing popularity.
Somerset planned to replace him but Warwick was a wily man, and he wanted more and
more power. He had ennobled himself and was now the Duke of Northumberland.
Before long he declared he had uncovered a plot hatched by Somerset to murder
him, Northumberland, and seize power. Somerset was commanded to come to the
Council and was arrested and put into the Tower, accused of plotting to secure the crown
for his heirs.
There was proof that he had planned to replace Northumberland, but that in itself
was no crime. However, Northumberland was determined on his destruction and, as he
was the most powerful man in the country, Somerset was found guilty and condemned to
lose his head.
He met his death with dignity and was buried in St. Peter's Chapel, between Anne
Boleyn and Catharine Howard.
With unscrupulous Northumberland in command and my brother turning more
and more to the Reformed Religion, I was becoming very uneasy indeed.
To my dismay, a letter arrived from the Council and another from the King. I was
very distressed when I read them, although I was prepared for some drastic action after it
became known that I had contemplated escape.
So far, I had been allowed to worship as I pleased, but that was to be so no longer,
it seemed.
My brother demanded that I conform to the new religion, which was that of the
country. I had misunderstood if I thought I might do that which was forbidden to others.
Was it not scandalous, he wrote, that so high a personage as myself should deny his
sovereignty? I saw what he meant. In disobeying the laws laid down by the present
regime, I was disobeying
him
. It was unnatural, he went on, that his own sister should
behave so. I must be reminded that further disobedience was unacceptable to him and
could incur penalties which were applied to heretics.
What did he mean? Burned at the stake? Hanged, drawn and quartered? Perhaps
as I was royal he would be satisfied with my head.
He finished by adding that he would say no more, for if he did, he might be even
harsher. But he would tell me this: He would not see his laws disobeyed, and those who
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broke them must beware.
If ever I heard a threat, I did then, and I was saddened to realize that my once
gentle brother was the tool of those men who ruled us, for Northumberland was to all
intents King of this realm, and Edward was just a figurehead.
I could not believe that, if I were face to face with my brother, he would speak to
me as he had written, for I had no doubt that that letter had been dictated by
Northumberland.
Of one thing I was certain: I would not deny the Mass. I was not like my sister
Elizabeth, adopting whatever guise she thought would be to her advantage. I must stand
firm now. It could be that at any moment the day would come when my mission would be
clear before me. I believed that all over the country people were waiting for me…
looking to me…I must not betray them.
I decided I would visit my brother and see for myself whether he would be so
harsh to my face.
On a cool March day I rode into London. It was a bold thing to do but I thought
the occasion warranted it. I took with me a certain number of my household so that I
could come in style. My reception along the road amazed me. It was wonderful to see the
people coming out of their homes to cry: “Long live the Princess Mary.”
Many of them joined my party, and to my intense joy I saw that a number of them
were wearing rosaries. This proclaimed them true Catholics. Clearly they wished me to
know that their beliefs were the same as mine.
It was heartwarming. I had been dreading the meeting with my brother but those
good people gave me courage. That journey taught me that there were more with me than
I had dared hope. I believed then that in truth a large number of people all over the
country were waiting for me, praying for the time when I should come and wipe out
heresy. I had been right not to escape. My place was here among the people who relied
on me.
When I arrived at the gates of the city, though I had set out with a company of
fifty, my ranks were swollen to 400, and it was difficult to make our way through the
streets, so crowded were they. I wondered what my brother would think of my reception
by the people; but he would think what Northumberland told him to.
I felt bold by this time. I had to face the Council but I was deeply shocked by the
sight of my brother. He was much more feeble than when I had last seen him, and he was
plagued by an irritating cough. I felt great pity for him and with it a return of the love I
had felt for him when he was a little boy. He looked so frail—fragile almost—too young
to have such a burden thrust upon him. It was pathetic the way he tried to take a kingly
stance and cast stern looks in my direction.
He told me that in defying the Council I was disobeying the will of our father.
“Your Majesty,” I said, “a promise was given to the Emperor's ambassador,
François van der Delft, that I should not be forced to deny the Mass.”
My brother replied that he had made no promise to van der Delft and added rather
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naàvely that he had been sharing in affairs for only a year.
I said quickly that he had not then drawn up the ordinances for the new religion
and therefore, in not obeying them, I was not disobeying him.
He looked bewildered, and I went on to ask him how he could expect me to
forsake what I had been taught from my earliest days?
“Your father's will stated that you must obey the Council. Northumberland told
me.”
“Only where my possible marriage was concerned,” I retorted. “I believe the
King, our father, ordered Masses for his soul each day, and this has not been done, so it
would appear that it is Your Majesty and others who are not obeying the King's wishes.”
So the talk went back and forth for two hours, and we arrived nowhere, for I was
determined not to give way; and my reception as I had ridden to London and that of the
citizens of the capital had shown these men quite clearly that if they harmed me there
would be an outcry from the people.
I turned to my brother and said that all that mattered to me was that my soul was
God's. As to my body, they might use it as they pleased. They could take my life if they
must… but my soul was God's, and it should remain so.
I could see the exasperation in the men who had hoped to break my spirit. But in
truth I seemed now not afraid of death. Others had died for their faith. I thought of brave
Anne Askew who had been tortured and burned at the stake. I thought of those noble
monks who had suffered the most barbarous and humiliating of all deaths. They had
undergone that dire penalty but they would be in Heaven now … glorified… saints who
had died for their religion.
No, I can say that I was not afraid any more, and a lack of fear frustrates an
enemy who are at heart cowards.
I went on, looking at Edward, “Do not believe those who speak evil of me. I
always have been and always will be Your Majesty's obedient and loving sister.”
I remained at Court, wondering what effect this meeting would have. I believed
that it had disconcerted Northumberland and bothered my brother.
Scheyfve came to see me a few days later. He told me he had sent a report of the
meeting to his master and was waiting to hear the result. He had told the Emperor of my
reception by the people and the manner in which I had stood for my religion.
“They must have come to the conclusion that I will not be moved,” I said. “I will
remain true to my faith no matter what the consequences.”
Scheyfve nodded approvingly.
“I believe that it would be disastrous for you to change now,” he said.
“The effect on the people would be great. There were so many wearing rosaries,
and it is my belief that they are waiting … waiting for the day. They are all true Catholics
at heart, and they want to be led back to the true faith. It would not do for the one they
look to as leader to show weakness now.”
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“I will show no weakness,” I said.
“I know what I have to do.”
It was as when I was on the verge of the flight that I suddenly knew that I must
stay. And now I knew what I had to do.
It was a week or so later when Scheyfve called again. He had heard from the
Emperor, who had sent a letter to the Council. In it he had threatened war with England if
the right to worship as I pleased was denied to me.
I was exultant. I was sure that I was going in the right direction.
IT WAS CHRISTMAS of that year 1552. I was not at Court but a few days after
the festival I decided to call on my brother to wish him well. I had felt sorry for him when
we had met in the Council for I knew that he was acting as Northumberland bade him and
that his harsh words had given him as much pain as they had me.
In any case, the object of the meeting had been to stop my worshipping in the way
I always had; and that had failed. Scheyfve said it was due to the Emperor's threat, and
this was in some measure true; but I did believe that my reception by the people had
some part in it; Northumberland must remember that, in accordance with my father's will,
I was next in the line of succession.
I felt sure he would do all in his power to prevent my coming to the throne. I
could see nothing short of death, for he knew that as soon as I had the power my first act
would be to bring the country back to Rome.
I prayed for guidance. I must be careful now. Northumberland, the most powerful
man in the country, dared not let me come to the throne.
When I arrived at Court, it was to learn that my brother was too ill to see anyone.
This was not an excuse to avoid me. He had caught a chill and, in addition to his other
ailments, this could be dangerous.
I was greeted with some respect by the Court. I saw speculation in the eyes of
many. The King was ill. Moreover, he was suffering from several diseases. How could he
possibly recover, and then…?
My sister Elizabeth was being very subdued. I guessed she was thinking that
certain powerful men would never accept me as Queen. How could they were, all those
men who had done everything they could to turn me from my religion, to browbeat me, to
force me to deny the Mass. They would take her, she was thinking. They
must
take her.
She was wily; she was clever; but she could not hide the ambition in her eyes.
The King's health did not improve. All through that winter he was hardly ever out
of his bed. I heard horrifying reports of his illnesses, and I feared some of them were true.
He coughed blood; his body was a mass of ulcers similar to those which had plagued the
late King. He was on the point of death. No one was able to see him except his ministers.
Parliament came to Whitehall because the King could not go to Westminster. It cannot be
long, was being said all over the country, and then… what?
Lady Jane Grey came to see me at Newhall. She must have been about fifteen or
sixteen years old at that time. She had a certain quiet charm but she was a clever girl of
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firm opinions. She was very sad at this time because of Edward's illness.
She talked about him a great deal. They had always been such good friends, and
the happiest times of her life, she said, had been when they were together.
“Can it really be that he is dying?” she asked.
I replied that I could not say. Sometimes delicate people surprised everyone. They
were often stronger than people thought and everyone was so intent on keeping them
alive that they sometimes succeeded.
“We were so much together…”
“I know. He loved you as a sister.”
She nodded sadly.
I thought she was rather pathetic. She had had a sad childhood. Her parents had
treated her with the utmost severity, I had heard. I remembered Mrs. Penn's indignantly
saying that there were marks of physical punishment on her body. She had an air of
frailty, but I guessed she would have a will of her own.
During that brief stay, she told me that her parents were proposing to marry her to
Lord Guilford Dudley.
“Northumberland's son!”
She nodded. “He is the Duke's fourth son. It had to be he. The others are already
married.”
I was aghast. It was clear that Northumberland wanted Jane in his family because
she had royal blood through her mother, who was the daughter of Mary Tudor and
Charles Brandon.
Jane was frightened at the idea. She did not want marriage yet, and she was in
great awe of her prospective father-in-law. I wondered whether she would speak to my
brother and ask him to intervene on her behalf. Of course, he was very much under
Northumberland's influence, but on the other hand he was very fond of Jane.
I tried to soothe her by telling her of all the marriages which had been arranged
for me, none of which had come to fruition.
She smiled wanly. “I think the Duke of Northumberland is very determined,” she
said.
I was full of sympathy for the poor child but felt less so later when Lady Wharton,
one of my ladies, told me what had happened in the chapel.
“I was passing through with Lady Jane,” she said. “There was no service in
progress. As I passed the Host, I curtsied, as we always do.”
“Yes?” I asked, as she had paused. “And the lady Jane…? What was it she did?”
“She said to me, ‘Is the lady Mary here, that you curtsy? I did not see her.' I was
amazed. I said, ‘But I curtsy to Him that made me.' Oh, my lady, I hesitate to say…”
“Please go on,” I said.
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“She replied as though in all innocence, ‘But did not the baker make Him?' My
lady, she was referring to the bread and wine…”
“I know to what she was referring. It is what she has been brought up to, Lady
Wharton. Perhaps we should not blame her.”
“But such sacrilege, my lady… and in a holy place…”
“She was brought up with my brother,” I said. “It is the way they would have
things throughout the country now.”
Lady Wharton looked at me earnestly, “Mayhap it will not always be so.”
“Hush,” I warned her. “You should not say such things…even here… even to
me.”
We were silent but I could see she was asking herself the same question that I was
asking myself.
What will happen next? We could not know. But we knew something must
happen soon.
I HEARD NEWS of Lady Jane. I was sorry for her. She was little more than a
child. She had no wish for marriage, and she seemed to be as much in fear of her future
father-in-law as she was of her own parents. The girl had some spirit. Perhaps she drew
that from her religion, for after that outburst in the chapel I tried to discover more about
her convictions and learned they were very strong. She and my brother were alike in that;
and misguided though she was in her faith, it might have helped her endure her hard life.
Susan told me she had heard how the girl resisted, declaring she would not marry,
and how she had been beaten, starved and locked away until they feared for her health,
for she would be no use to their schemes if she were dead.
All the same, the marriage took place in May, and at the same time Jane's sister
Catharine—who was younger than she—was married to Lord Herbert, the Earl of
Pembroke's son; and Northumberland's daughter, another Catharine, was married to Lord
Hastings, son of the Earl of Huntingdon.
There was, of course, a method in these marriages. They were bringing together
the most powerful families whose thoughts must be running in one direction. Edward's
death was imminent, and they planned some drastic action. I could guess that action
meant disaster for me, and I could think of only one solution which would bring them
what they wanted; and that was my death.
I must be careful. If ever I was going to achieve my mission, everything would
depend on how I acted now.
I wished that I could have seen my brother. I knew that the reports of his illness
were not exaggerated; he must have been very sick indeed at that time. I had been so fond
of him when he was younger and before religion had become such an impassable barrier
to our friendship. I wanted to explain to him that I could not give up my faith any more
than he could give up his. I thought I might have made him understand. He had a logical
brain; he was extremely learned; but people were obdurate concerning religion. Perhaps I
was myself. It was just that one
knew
one was right. It was a fusion of something
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divine… difficult to explain. No doubt he believed he had that divine guidance as I did.
But at least we could have talked.
He wanted to be a good king. He cared deeply about the poor and those in
distress. He had decided that his palace at Bridewell should be given as a resort for those
poor people who had no means of making a living for themselves. He had thought of
poor children who, though they might be clever enough, received no education because
their parents were too poor to give it to them. The monasteries had been suppressed, and
that of Grey Friars was empty. Why should it not be used as a school for poor scholars? It
was called Christ's Hospital. I heard it gave my brother great pleasure that he had done
these things. Then there were the sick. He would set up a hospital at St. Thomas's where
the poor could be treated free. He was sure the people of London would willingly help
him to keep these charitable institutions in existence.
He cared for the people. He was good at heart—but oh so sick and weary of life, I
knew. And he was in the hands of ambitious men.
I was frustrated. I was sure the rumors of his failing health were true; and that was
of vital importance to me.
If only Chapuys had been here to advise me, or even the worthy François van der
Delft; Scheyfve tried hard but his English was poor, and consequently he did not always
understand what was going on.
Antoine de Noailles, the French ambassador, was a shrewd man, more of a spy, I
fancied, than an ambassador; and as I was never sure on whose side the French would be,
I felt alone and afraid.
Northumberland was expressing friendship toward me now. He sent me details of
the King's illness—not that I always believed them; but his motive was to let me know
that he was my friend. Did he mean he thought I should soon be his sovereign? When and
if I were, he must have known I should never trust him. When he wrote to me, he
addressed me with the full title which had not been accorded to me since my father put
my mother from him: Princess of England. But how sincere was he?
Susan had heard a disquietening rumor that the Attorney General, Lord Chief
Justice Montague, was at odds with Northumberland concerning a delicate issue.
“It is monstrous,” said Susan, “and I cannot believe it is true.”
She was hesitating, trying to put off telling me because she feared it would be a
great shock to me. But at length it came.
“The King has decided to leave the crown not to his sisters, because they are
children of marriages whose validity is in question… but to the heirs of the Lady Mary
Tudor, sister to his father.”
I stared at Susan in disbelief. “That's impossible!” I cried.
She looked at me steadily. “The crown is to go to Lady Jane Dudley.”
“I… see. This is Northumberland's doing. He will make Jane Queen and Guilford
Dudley King. And that means Northumberland will rule over us.”
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“Montague says he will alter the succession… and that is treason. But then
Northumberland replied that the late King did it.”
“That is not true,” I cried. “The crown passed to Edward after him, and Edward is
his son and rightful heir. I am next and after me Elizabeth. That is what my father
ordered.”
“So says Montague.”
“Then…”
She looked at me solemnly. “Montague has been browbeaten. He is a poor sick
old man, and such do not wish to be embroiled in these matters.
They do not want to spend their last days in the Tower. They want peace, which
can come only with acquiescence.”
“It can never be.”
“So think I. The people will not have it.”
“What then?”
“My lady, it will not be for you to choose… but for the people to do that when the
time comes.”
“They will seek to destroy me before that.”
“I think we should make plans to get as far from London as possible “But they
will proclaim Jane!”
“The people will not have her.”
“She stands for the Protestants.”
“There are many who want to return to the old way of worshipping. Everything
will depend on that.”
“Northumberland is determined. He has gone so far he cannot now turn back. It
may be that his ambitions will destroy him.”
“We must see that they do before he destroys you.”
I was very sad that my brother could be led so far from his duty as to proclaim
Jane heiress to the throne. She was little more than a child but he knew she would uphold
the faith which he so fanatically supported. And he was completely under the influence of
Northumberland.
My poor little brother! I must not blame him. He was like a poor feeble old man
who has never been young. I sometimes thought it would be a happier state to be born
poor and humble than under the shadow of the crown.
I WAS AT HUNSDON awaiting news. I heard that rumors persisted in the streets
of London and that people were put in the pillory for saying the King was dead.
If he were not dead, he was close to death.
I waited in fearful trepidation.
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I was relieved when I heard that the Emperor was sending a new ambassador to
England. This was Simon Renard, a man of high diplomatic reputation in whom he had
great confidence. I was sure that the good and honest Scheyfve would not be competent
to deal with events which seemed imminent. The Emperor would want a man to be a
match for Antoine de Noailles, the French ambassador, who had recently arrived on the
scene.
At last there came a communication from Northumberland. He thought it would
be wise for me to come to Court; a similar summons was sent to my sister Elizabeth. I
wondered what she would do. She was not in the acute danger which I was in, but
nevertheless her position could be precarious.
I left Hunsdon with a small company and moved south, but at Hoddesdon I
waited, uncertain how to act.
If my brother died, I should be on the spot. Yet, on the other hand,
Northumberland would be there, and I could be in danger.
While I was wondering which way to turn, Susan came to me to tell me that a
man had arrived; he had obviously ridden some way and was exhausted, but he made it
clear that he must see me without delay.
I had him brought to me, and I recognized him as a London goldsmith who had
done some work for me on one or two occasions.
He knelt to me.
“My lady,” he said, “the King is dead, although it is not yet known. I came with
all speed to tell you this.”
“Someone sent you?” I asked.
“Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, my lady. He bade me tell you that, although the
King is dead, the news will be kept secret for some days…and it would be inadvisable for
you to come to Court.”
Sir Nicholas Throckmorton! I knew of him. He was a firm upholder of the
Reformed Faith. He had been a close friend of my brother; and I remembered that at the
time of Anne Askew's execution he had been one of those who were present when she
died; he had gone to give her his support.
Why had he sent this man to warn me? He would not want me to be proclaimed
Queen, for he would know that when I came to power my first act would be to return the
Church to Rome.
If only it had been one of my old friends, a Catholic like Gardiner, I could have
believed him. But Gardiner was a prisoner in the Tower. It would have been to
his
advantage to see me crowned Queen. But Throckmorton… Why did he warn me? It
might be that he knew Northumberland was planning to kill me. There were some who
would never connive at murder, even of those of a different faith.
I saw that the goldsmith was given refreshment, and I thanked him.
Whatever Throckmorton's motives, I knew I must not walk into Northumberland's
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trap. I sent a message to Scheyfve and to Simon Renard, to tell them that I was going to
Kenninghall in Norfolk because sickness had broken out in my household. They would
know that was a diplomatic excuse.
It might well be that the King was not yet dead and that this was some trap laid
for me; but if it had been so, would they have sent the message from one who was known
to me to be of the Reformed Faith? It was all very mysterious, but something within me
told me that my brother was indeed dead.
I set out with a small party, choosing unfrequented roads for fear we should meet
horsemen from London, as I could guess what orders they would have been given if
Northumberland really intended to take my life. I would be close to the coast and then, if
need be, I could take a ship to the Netherlands.
I very soon learned that I had done the right thing. Soon after I left Hunsdon, one
of Northumberland's sons had arrived with 300 horses to escort me back to London. I
should have been a prisoner, and that would have meant that my end was imminent.
From Kenninghall I wrote to the Council. I reminded them that my father had
made me successor to my now deceased brother Edward and so I was the Queen of this
realm. I knew they had worked against me, but by proclaiming me Queen without delay
there should be an amnesty and I should bear no grudge against them for the malice I had
in the past received at their hands.
They had no respect for me. To them I was a woman merely, and one who did not
enjoy good health at that. I had no one to help me, they thought, except a cousin in
another country who was too immersed in his own affairs to come to my aid.
They proclaimed Jane Queen, and they wrote to me telling me that I was a bastard
and had been named as such by my father in his will I was now citing; and if I were wise
I would accept the new regime and my position in it.
“Never!” I cried to Susan. “Now I see the way ahead. I will fight for what is mine
and if necessary die in the attempt to seize it.”
“But we must not stay here.”
“No,” I agreed. “Indeed we shall not. I intend to ride on to Framlingham.”
Framlingham Castle is a strong fortress. It belonged to the Howards, and when the
Duke of Norfolk had been sent to the Tower—where he still was, because my father had
died before signing his death warrant—his goods had been seized and with them this
castle, which my brother had given to me.
It was in an ideal position, being close to the coast, which was another point in its
favor, for it might be necessary for me to take flight. It had an inner and outer moat
running close to the walls except on the west side where a great expanse of lake gave
enough protection. The walls were thick and looked impregnable. It would be a
formidable fortress, and I was fortunate to have it in my possession.
All along the road people followed me. They had heard the news that the King
was dead, and they could not believe that Jane Grey had been proclaimed Queen. They
had never heard of her, yet they had all known the Princess Mary since she was a child,
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and many of them had been indignant at the manner in which her mother had been
treated, on account of her being disowned by her husband. I was indeed well known
throughout the country and I had always had the sympathy of the people wherever I went.
And I was never more welcome than now. They clustered round me, calling my
name: “Long live Queen Mary!”
By the time I reached the castle, several thousands were following me. It was
comforting to see them camped outside the castle walls.
My standard was flown over the castle, and I felt my spirits lifting, especially
when I was told there were some 13,000 encamped round the castle, swearing to protect
me from the false Queen and the man who had set her up. Although my hopes were high,
I felt I must not be too optimistic. Those people had only their loyalty and, although that
was wonderful, it could not stand up against trained men of an army.
Northumberland had the control of the best in the land, and now he was calling
me rebel and uttering threats against me. If he captured me, he could call me traitor; he
could have me sent to the Tower and out to Tower Green, where my blood would mingle
with that of those who had suffered before me.
In all my euphoria I never lost sight of that possibility.
We were moving fast toward a climax. I thought: The next few days will decide.
Northumberland was setting out on the march. He was coming to take me himself. When
I looked at my good and faithful followers, I wondered if I had done right. I had not run
away when I had been tempted to; and if I failed now, it would be the will of God. I had
done all in my power to succeed.
I was resigned. I could not see how my forces could triumph over
Northumberland's trained men. I thought of David and Goliath and of Daniel in the lions'
den. Men had overcome great odds before, and because God had been with them they had
prevailed.
I prayed that God would stand beside me. I
must
succeed. If I did not, I should
have lived and suffered in vain. It would all be so pointless. But if I could do this
wonderful thing, if I could succeed in what all Catholics were willing me to, then
everything that had gone before would have been worthwhile.
Then it was like a miracle, and after this I believed that God was with me and in
my heart I was going to fulfill my destiny.
I was blessed with some loyal followers, and one of the most trusted of these was
Sir Henry Jerningham, who had been the first to come to me at Kenninghall, bringing
with him his tenants who, he assured me, were ready to fight to the death for me.
He had followed me to Framlingham, but he did not stay there. He went on to
Yarmouth to guard the coast and to raise men as he went.
Northumberland had just taken action to prevent my leaving the country and had
sent to Yarmouth a squadron of six ships to intercept me if I should attempt to leave.
There had been some fierce gales along the coast, and the ships lay at anchor in the
harbor. When Sir Henry arrived at Yarmouth, the captains were ashore; and Sir Henry
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had an idea that, though they might be Northumberland's men, the crew members might
not necessarily be so. He decided to find out in which direction the crews' sympathies lay,
so he rowed out to the ships with some of his men and talked to the sailors.
He told me later what he had said. It was, “The King is dead. The rightful heiress
to the throne is the Princess Mary but Northumberland is setting Lady Jane Grey on the
throne.”
They had never heard of Jane Grey but they all knew who I was. I was the King's
daughter, next in succession to the throne after my brother Edward was dead. Then I was
the rightful Queen. Did they agree? They did, to a man.
“Then,” said Sir Henry, “will you fight for Queen Mary?”
“Aye, that we will,” they replied.
“But your captains, who are the tools of Northumberland, will command you to
stand for Jane Grey.”
“Never,” they cried. “We are for Mary, our rightful Queen.”
“Then come ashore and join the Queen's men,” said Sir Henry.
So they did, and Sir Henry was able to confront the captains with their decision.
They could join us or be his prisoners, he told them. They chose to join us.
Not only had the astute Sir Henry brought the seamen to my aid, but with them all
the ordnance which was on the ships. It was a great victory.
Sir Henry returned to Framlingham filled with enthusiasm.
“This is a sign,” he said. “God is with us.”
“We shall have to fight,” I said. “Can we do it?”
“We will, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Northumberland has his army with him.”
“There will be many loth to turn a hand against the Queen.”
“But they will do so because he has the might.”
“We shall have the might, Your Grace. We will have stout hearts, and it is God's
will that will prevail. The men will feel more loyal if they see you. You must come out
and review your troops. I think you will be pleased with them.”
So I rode out and, as Sir Henry had said, I was amazed at the numbers who had
mustered to my aid.
As I rode along the lines, they called, “Long live good Queen Mary!” My heart
was lightened and I thanked God that I had been strong so far, and I prayed for His help
and guidance that I might work His will and succeed in the task which I was sure now He
had laid down for me.
There was comforting news. I had always known Sir Henry Bedingfield was loyal
to me, so I was not greatly surprised when he arrived with his followers. But I was
delighted to see that Lord Thomas Howard, whose grandfather, Norfolk, was still in the
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Tower, and all the chivalry of Suffolk, were flocking to my banner.
Northumberland was universally disliked. He had removed Somerset, who,
although not liked by the people, was preferred to himself; he had forced Lady Jane Grey
to marry his son Guilford and had had the temerity to set her up as Queen. He had gone
too far.
His mistake was not to realize the power of the people; and those who had worked
with him were now weary of his despotism; people were envious of his power. He
himself was confident of victory and rode at the head of his army. But no sooner had he
left London than the citizens noisily stated their true feelings.
They wanted no Queen Jane. A granddaughter of King Henry's sister she might
be, but there were King Henry's own daughters to come before her. They had always
shown affection for me, for I had been the ill-treated one, and they remembered my
mother's sufferings.
“Long live Queen Mary, our rightful Queen!” they shouted.
I am not sure when Northumberland realized that he had gone too far and that
defeat stared him in the face. He had risked a good deal for he had scored such successes
in the past that he believed he could not fail. Now his friends were turning against him,
and he had made his fatal miscalculation in reckoning without the people.
I was being proclaimed Queen all over the country.
There came a messenger from London. On the morning of the 16th a placard had
been placed on Queenhithe Church stating that I was Queen of England, France and
Ireland.
The Earls of Sussex and Bath were among those on their way with their forces to
Framlingham… not to oppose me but to pay homage to me as their Queen.
I could not believe this. It was a miracle. The Council was declaring for me.
Pembroke, so recently allied with Northumberland through marriage, had taken over
command of the Tower and the Army—and he was for me. All over the land men were
turning to me; even those who had been against me were now proclaiming me Queen.
They might have stood with Northumberland so far, but when he had set up Jane Grey as
Queen he had tampered with the line of succession, and they were with him no longer.
I wished that I could have been present when they brought the news to
Northumberland. He was at Cambridge and could not then have realized how utterly he
was defeated. He had known that the battle had not been the easy conquest he had
anticipated, for he had dispatched a messenger to France to plead for troops to be sent to
his aid. How did he feel—the powerful man, the greatest statesman of the day, some said,
son of that Dudley who had gone to the block to placate the people because of the taxes
my grandfather had levied in his reign—how did the great Northumberland feel to be
brought so low?
He had staked everything to gain the greatest power a man could have— to rule
the country. Jane and Guilford were to have been his puppets. But, like so many of his
kind who failed, he had reckoned without the people, the ordinary people, living their
obscure lives, who en masse were the most formidable force in the world. What a mistake
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to discount them! And he had tried to foist on them a young and innocent girl as their
queen. I doubted Jane had had any say in the matter. Northumberland had intended to
rule through her, and he had failed miserably.
He must have come to a quick decision when he saw his ambitions crumbling
about him and his dream evaporating. He went into the market square. He mounted the
steps to the high spot where he could be seen by all, and he lifted his hat in the air and
shouted, “Long live Queen Mary!”
It was his admission of defeat, and he took it bravely. And as he mounted those
steps calling my name, he must have seen himself mounting the block and laying his head
upon it, as he had seen so many do—mainly his enemies and due to his command.
And now they were with me! Henry Grey, Jane's father, had himself torn down
her banner at the Tower; he was shouting for Queen Mary.
How I despised these men. I remembered Anne Boleyn's father, assisting at the
christening of young Edward. They turned their coats to meet the prevailing wind with no
sense of shame.
And young Jane… what of her? She would be my prisoner now. How could I
blame her and her young husband? They were the innocent victims of other people's
ambitions. Northumberland had forced them to do what they did, and now he was calling
for Queen Mary!
News was brought to me that Northumberland had been arrested. My greatest
enemy was now my prisoner.
MY CAPITAL WAS WAITING to receive me. I would never have believed that
victory could come so easily, and I chided myself for my lack of faith. This was what I
had been born and preserved for, and the will of God was worked through the will of the
people.
My first duty was to have the crucifix set up in Framlingham Church. It would
show the people I would lead them back to God through the true religion.
We must make our way to London.
I set out with a mighty company. How different from when I had left Hunsdon
such a short time ago in such stealth.
I rested at Wanstead, and while I was there I was visited by a distraught Duchess
of Suffolk. I was amazed to see this proud and imperious lady so frightened and beside
herself with grief. I thought it must be on account of her daughter, Jane, that poor
innocent child who had been used by her ambitious family.
She prostrated herself at my feet, which in itself was amusing, for she had been
one of those who had proclaimed my birth not to be legitimate, King's daughter though
she had had to accept me to be.
But I was sorry for her. She was a mother and she must be suffering deep remorse
now that her daughter was in the Tower.
I said, “Rise, Lady Suffolk. I know what you must be suffering. Your daughter is
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so young, and I know that she was forced to do this wicked thing by others.”
“Oh, my daughter,” she cried. “She has sinned beyond redemption. I could not
ask Your Majesty to forgive her. Her sin is too great. I plead for the Duke, my husband.
He is ill, Your Majesty. I fear for his life if he remains in that cold cell. They have kept
him there for three days… and I fear that he can endure little more.”
I felt anger rising within me. I could understand a mother's love for her child, but
I remembered what Jane had said about the harsh treatment of her parents, and Mrs.
Penn's indignation at the violent marks on her body.
I said, “Your husband is a traitor. He was partly responsible for setting your
daughter on the throne. It is not Lady Jane who is to blame. She merely did what she was
forced to. And you complain because your husband has spent three days in the Tower!”
“He has acted wrongly, Your Majesty, but he was led into doing evil acts. Your
Majesty, I beg of you…he will die. Let him be sent to me. Let him remain your prisoner
but let me nurse him. I beg of you. It is a matter of life or death.”
Life or death! That was how it was for most of us. She was weeping bitterly, this
proud woman, and there was no doubt that her grief was genuine.
How could I refuse her? I did not admire her as a mother, but there was no doubt
that the woman loved her husband.
I thought: What harm can it do? She is crying for mercy, and I must be merciful.
He will die in the Tower. He will die in any case. He is a traitor, but I do not want his
death on my hands.
I said, “He shall be taken from the Tower to be nursed by you.”
She fell on her knees once more; she kissed my hand and blessed me.
WHEN IT WAS KNOWN what I had done, there was consternation.
Sir Henry Jerningham pointed out to me that the man I had freed was the father of
Jane, and he had helped to set her up in my place. He had worked close to
Northumberland, and they had planned to rule the country together through those two
young people. Had I forgotten that?
“I have sent him out of the Tower to be nursed by his wife,” I said. “He is a very
sick man.”
“Sick with fear, Your Majesty, to see his wicked plans frustrated.”
“I wish to be a merciful Queen,” I told him. “Grey shall not escape. Justice will be
done.”
They shook their heads, and they trembled for me.
It was the same with Simon Renard. I heard later that he had reported to the
Emperor that I should never be able to hold the crown for I was too governed by feminine
sentiments.
I did not care. I knew Suffolk was ill, and I had been moved by his wife's
pleading.
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I prayed to God that night. “You taught me to be merciful, O Lord, and I believe
that is how You would wish me to act.”
I SET OUT ON my ride into London. I was thirty-seven years old—no longer
young, but not too old for a Queen. I had some experience of life behind me. I was no
beauty, but I was not ill favored either. I was thinnish and of low stature. I wished that I
had been taller—but I looked well enough on a horse; I had my father's reddish hair, and
my complexion was as fresh as his had been in his youth, but mine had not coarsened as
his had—I presumed because I had lived more abstemiously. Dressed in purple velvet, I
looked quite regal, I believed, seated on my horse and surrounded by my ladies.
My sister had come to Wanstead to meet me. She was to ride into London beside
me. I was sorry for this in a way, and yet I could not forbid it. She was so much younger
and in such blooming health. She was much taller and about twenty years old—in her
prime, one might say. The people cheered her and she did everything she could to win
their approval, waving her hands and holding them up in acknowledgment of their
greeting. She had very beautiful hands, and I had often noticed how she used every
opportunity to bring them into prominence.
These people had shown their affection for me; they had proclaimed me as their
Queen, and I believed that meant that they wanted the old faith restored. Had they
forgotten that Elizabeth had refused to attend Mass? Were these Protestants who were
cheering her? Or was she so popular because she was young and attractive to look at and
showed such pleasure in their applause? Of one thing I was certain: wherever she was,
she would bring a certain lack of ease to me, a certain puzzlement, for I should never
understand the workings of her mind.
I kissed all her ladies to give an impression that I was pleased to see her but, as
we rode along, I was thinking that I should have been happier if she had stayed away.
As we approached Aldgate, I saw streamers hanging from the houses; children
had been assembled to sing songs of welcome. It was a heartwarming sight. The streets
had been freshly swept, and members of the city crafts had gathered there, clad in their
traditional dress. They looked very smart, and they were smiling and waving their
banners with enthusiasm.
We were met by the Mayor. Lord Arundel was present, holding the sword of
state. They joined the procession with a thousand men—and so they led me to the Tower.
This was London's welcome and meant that the city regarded me as the rightful
Queen.
And there was the Tower, so often a symbol of fear, and now offering me
hospitality and welcome.
I was greeted by Sir Thomas Cheyney, who was in charge at that time. The
custom was that I should rest here until after my brother's funeral.
The King was dead: Long live the Queen! That was what this meant.
I shall never forget coming to the Tower that day. All the state prisoners had been
brought from their cells and were assembled on the green before the church of St. Peter
ad Vincula.
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There was the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been arrested shortly before my
father's death and would certainly have lost his head as his son Surrey had done, had the
King not died before he could sign the death warrant. He had aged since I had last seen
him, which was not surprising, after six years' incarceration in that grim place. Stephen
Gardiner was also there; but the one who stood out among all the others was Edward
Courtenay, son of the Marquis of Exeter and Earl of Devonshire, who had been in the
Tower since 1538, when he was about twelve years old, and had known no other
dwelling for fifteen years. He looked bright and healthy in spite of this. I was deeply
touched, not only by him but by all those people kneeling there, particularly when it was
pointed out to me who they were.
I dismounted and, going to them, spoke to each one in turn. I kissed them and
bade them no longer kneel.
I said to them emotionally, “You are my prisoners now.”
The Duke of Norfolk was in tears, and so was I, as I embraced him. Gardiner took
my hands, and we were too moved to speak for a few moments. I told him he should be
sworn into the Privy Council at once. “And you, my lord Norfolk, you go from here a
free man and your estates shall be restored to you.”
I turned to the young man whose handsome face had attracted me from the
moment I saw him. “Lord Courtenay, is it not?” I said. “Your estates will also be returned
to you. You leave the Tower when you are ready to go, my lord Earl of Devonshire.”
I do not believe that any present could have been unmoved by the sight of so
much joy. It was a happy augury for my reign, I thought. I was delighted to be able to
show my people right from the beginning that, although I was a woman and they might
think a man would be more suitable to rule them, I had a heart full of sympathy for my
subjects and I would be a gentle and loving sovereign.
A cheer went up as I made my way into the Tower.
There I remained quietly until my brother was buried, when I ordered that there
should be a requiem for his soul in the Tower chapel.
DURING THE DAYS in the Tower, while I was awaiting the burial of my
brother, I gave myself up to meditation.
Now that that for which I had yearned and vaguely feared was upon me, I felt a
little lost and bewildered. I was fully aware of the task ahead of me and that I must have
good counselors.
I must marry now. It was my duty. A sovereign should give the country heirs.
That was what my father had always maintained, and the need to do so had governed his
life and was responsible for so many of the actions he had taken. Thirty-seven was not an
ideal age for childbearing, but it was not quite too old.
I would concern myself with marriage without delay.
Ever since I had known him, I had nourished tender feelings toward Reginald
Pole. Why not? He was royal. My mother had thought fondly of a match between us. I
remembered how she and my dear Countess of Salisbury had plotted together about it.
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Reginald was a good deal older than I, of course, but he had never married. One would
not have expected a man of the Church to marry, but he had never stepped into that
position which would have made it impossible for him to do so.
I wondered what public reaction would be if the suggestion were made known. He
had been very popular at one time, but he had been abroad for so long. Perhaps now that I
was Queen he would return to England; he would have nothing to fear from me; he would
have encouragement and affection. I could do nothing yet, but I often thought of
Reginald.
Jane Grey and her young husband were constantly on my mind. I knew that
pressure would be brought on me to send them to the block, and I felt very reluctant to do
this. Northumberland should have his just deserts, and I felt no qualms about this; but I
should feel very uneasy if I were asked to sign the death warrants of those two young
people.
But there was so much to occupy my thoughts during those days; there would be
my coronation, which would need so much preparation that it could not take place before
October.
On the 18th of August, Northumberland and his fellow conspirators were brought
to trial.
There could be only one result for Northumberland, but when it came to the point
I was reluctant to sign his death warrant. He was an extremely clever man—I think one of
the cleverest of his day. He could have been a good servant to me; and I wished that it
could have been different. There were eleven people convicted with him but only three
went to the scaffold on the 22nd of August.
Jane's father, Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, had proclaimed me Queen at the gates
of the Tower. I could not bear to think that my coming to the throne had resulted in
numerous deaths, and I persuaded the Council that, on payment of a fine, Suffolk should
go free. He was a weak man who had been the tool of Northumberland. I was not sure
about his religious views, but I fancied he was a Protestant; but at this stage we were not
prosecuting people for their religion. I recalled Frances Grey's pleas for her husband, and
I could not bring myself to agree to his execution, so at length it was agreed that he
should pay his fine and go free.
Although Northumberland had been the chief conspirator, the Council believed
that Lady Jane and her husband should be dispatched without delay. I pointed out to them
that she was merely the figurehead. Figureheads had to be eliminated with all speed, they
reiterated. Lady Jane should be brought to trial at once.
I could not bear that and I sought refuge in delay.
“Later,” I said. “Later.”
Simon Renard came to me. He was an impressive man. He was no van der Delft
or Scheyfve. He was another Chapuys, only, it occurred to me, more wily. I could
understand why the Emperor had sent him, for now that I was Queen, I was of greater
importance to him.
Renard was very respectful but nevertheless he had come to advise me, and I felt
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the great Emperor spoke through him.
“It is an odd thing, Your Majesty,” he said, “that the chief conspirator in the plot
against you still lives.”
“Northumberland has lost his head,” I replied.
“The impostor Queen still lives.”
“The girl was merely used, Ambassador.”
“She allowed herself to be used.”
“She had no choice.”
He lifted his shoulders. “She has dared proclaim herself Queen.”
“She was acclaimed by others.”
“She wore the crown.”
“My lord Ambassador, I know this girl. She is my kinswoman. She is young and
innocent… scarcely out of the schoolroom. I could not have her innocent blood on my
hands.”
“Your Majesty prefers to have yours on hers?”
“There is no question…”
“While she lives, you are unsafe.”
“I believe the people have chosen me.”
“The people? The people will go which way they are made to.”
“This is a matter for my conscience.”
He was clearly dismayed. I saw the contempt in his eyes, and I could imagine the
letter he would write to the Emperor. I should never make him understand. But I knew
Jane, and I understood how she had been forced into this… and as long as I could, I
would refuse to have her blood on my hands.
I must not free her, of course. That would be folly. She would be an immediate
rallying point. I would have to be careful; and there was my sister; Elizabeth, another
who would stand as a symbol for the Reformed Faith. Oh yes, I should be very careful.
But as long as Jane was in the Tower, no decisions need be made.
I said, “I intend to keep her prisoner for the time being. Then we shall see.”
Simon Renard left me. He gave me the impression that I was being a soft and
sentimental woman and had no idea how to rule a country.
Shortly after that interview with Renard, I received a letter from Jane, and on
reading it I felt more sorry for her and in a greater dilemma than ever.
She wanted me to know that the terrible sin she had committed in allowing herself
to be forced to pose as Queen was no fault of hers.
“I did not want it,” she wrote, “and when my parents and my parentsin-law, the
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Duke and Duchess of Northumberland, came to me and told me that the King was dead, I
was wretchedly unhappy, for you know how I loved him. When they added that I was
heiress to the crown, I could not believe them, and when I understood that they were
serious, I fainted. It was as though a sense of doom overcame me. I knew it was wrong. I
knew it was wicked, even though Edward had named me. They did homage to me, and at
the same time they were angry with me because I would not rejoice with them and was
filled with this terrible foreboding.
“They took me to the Tower as Queen, and the Marquis of Winchester brought
the crown for me to try on. I did not ask him to do this. It was the last thing I wanted. I
wanted more than anything to go back to my studies. I knew that I should have resisted,
but I dared not.”
No, I thought, she dared not. I remembered how they had beaten her in her
childhood. I felt a grim amusement to think of those harsh parents doing homage to their
daughter whom they had so ill-treated.
“I did not want to put it on,” she continued. “I was afraid of it. They said they
would have another made for my husband, for it was the Duke's wish that he should be
crowned with me. I could not allow this. I did not want the crown myself, but at least I
had some claim to it through my birth. But that they should crown Guilford because they
had made me marry him…I would not have it. I said that if they made me Queen I must
have some authority. They were so angry with me. They forgot for a time that they had
made me Queen. They maltreated me…
“Your Majesty, you should know that I am ready to die for what I did, for that
deserves death. But, dear Majesty, it was not of my doing.”
I read this with tears in my eyes. It was true. I thought of her unhappy life. The
happiest hours she had known must have been with Edward when they pored over their
books and enjoyed a friendly rivalry as to who could learn their lessons the more quickly.
And now, here she was, a prisoner in the Tower, awaiting death.
How could I ever bring myself to harm her?
MY THOUGHTS WERE PREOCCUPIED with marriage; and Reginald Pole was
in the forefront of them. I wondered what he looked like after all these years. He was
sixteen years older than I, and that would make him fifty-three years of age. Hardly an
age for marrying.
I was excited to receive a letter from him. I opened it with eagerness, wondering
if it would contain a reference to a marriage between us. I was not sure how I should feel
about that; but I reminded myself that, if it did come to pass, it would have the blessing of
my mother and the Countess if they were watching in Heaven, for it would be the
fulfillment of their dearest wish.
He congratulated me on my accession to the throne. But his greatest pleasure was
in the fact that he hoped to be receiving from me directions as to how we should set about
restoring papal authority to England. There was one sentence in his letter which indicated
clearly that marriage had been far from his mind, for he advised me not to marry. There
would be plans for me but I was no longer young, and it would be better to remain single
so that I should have full authority to bring about the necessary religious reforms.
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It was hardly the letter of a lover.
There was also a letter from Friar Peto who, when he had escaped from England
after he had so offended my father, had lived with Reginald ever since. I remember how
Peto had angered my father from the pulpit when he had openly criticized him for
deserting my mother. He it was who had said that, as had happened with Ahab, the dogs
would lick his blood after his death. The prophecy had come true. There was no doubt
that Peto was a brave and holy man.
“Do not marry,” he wrote to me. “If you do you will be the slave of a young
husband. Besides, at your age, the chances of bringing heirs to the throne are doubtful
and, moreover, would be dangerous.”
I felt depressed after reading these letters. The truth was stressed, by the blunt
Peto, and I had to face the facts. I was too old for childbearing. But it had been one of the
dearest wishes of my life to have a child, and in my heart I would never really give up the
hope. It was doubly necessary for me to have a child now. I should give birth to an heir.
If not…Elizabeth would follow me, and who could tell what Elizabeth would do?
She was being very cautious now. She was in a difficult and highly dangerous
position and none would recognize that more clearly than Elizabeth. I who knew her well
could read the alertness in her eyes. She was taking each step with the utmost care.
I
must
have a child.
I would not listen to Peto or Reginald. They had been too long out of England.
They had probably heard of my bouts of ill health. No doubt they had been exaggerated. I
did believe they had been in some measure due to my insecure position. When I think of
all the years I had lived close to the axe…surely that could have accounted for my
delicate state of health?
But I had come through. God had shown clearly that He had chosen me to fulfill
this mission.
I had to succeed… and I would. I would have an heir. And for that reason I must
marry quickly.
Ever since his release from the Tower, I had seen a great deal of Edward
Courtenay. I had made his mother, Gertrude, who was the Marchioness of Exeter, a lady
of my bedchamber; and it seemed that Edward was constantly at my side. I did not
complain of this. He was a most attractive young man.
I was amazed that he, who had lived the greater part of his life in the Tower,
could be so knowledgeable about the world, and so charming.
He owed a great deal to his good looks, which were outstanding. I noticed my
sister Elizabeth's eyes on him. She had always had a liking for handsome men, as she had
shown in the case of Thomas Seymour. She was flirtatious by nature, and when I saw
Edward Courtenay paying attention to her, I told myself he could hardly do anything else.
She so blatantly asked for admiration.
So I considered Edward Courtenay. He had so much to recommend him. Charm,
good looks, vitality, but perhaps most important of all, his father's mother had been
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Princess Catharine, the youngest daughter of Edward IV, so he was of the blood royal.
He was about ten years younger than I. Was that important? My thoughts had
turned to marriage, as they must do before it was too late. There might just be time if I
married quickly; and I was more likely to become pregnant if my husband was a young
man rather than an old one.
I had had such ill luck with my proposed marriages, but that was because of what
they called my dubious birth. The constant question had been, was I or was I not
illegitimate? Now that was all over. I was the acknowledged Queen of England, and there
would be many eager to marry me.
The more I saw of Edward Courtenay, the more I liked the idea.
He was very merry and kept us amused. He talked of his years in the Tower, but
there was nothing morbid in his conversation; he was one of those people who find life
amusing; he made a joke of the smallest things which were truly no joke, but while one
was with him one accepted them as such. One laughed with the laughter of happiness
rather than amusement. I felt younger in his presence than I ever had in my life.
I began to ask myself if I were in love.
I wondered what the people would think of such a marriage. They would be
delighted, I was sure. In the first place they would approve of my sharing my throne with
an Englishman. Foreigners were always suspect. A young man who had been imprisoned
by my father and set free by me…a young man with whom I had fallen in love and he
with me…it was so romantic. The people loved romance.
They would approve, but what of the Council? There would be opposition from
them; they never liked to see one of their own set above them. But what of that? Was I
not the Queen? Was it not for me to decide the question of my marriage? I should
certainly have my own way.
Simon Renard came to see me again. I was sure his all-seeing eyes had already
detected the growing friendship between myself and Edward Courtenay.
As soon as he talked to me, I began to see that I had been living in a foolish,
romantic dream.
There should be as little delay as possible in your marriage,” he said. “The
Emperor has always had a fondness for you. He would marry you, but he is much too
old.”
I felt emotional at the thought of marrying the Emperor. Ever since that day when
my mother had presented me to him at Greenwich, and he had made much of me, he had
been a leading figure in my imagination. He was the greatest and most powerful figure in
Europe, and I had always convinced myself that he was my savior. In fact, it had been his
diplomatic presence that had done that rather than any act of his. In any case I had kept
my awe of him.
“But,” Renard was saying, “he has a son, Philip. He is as devout a Catholic as
ever was. He is the Emperor's beloved son, and the Emperor is of the opinion that there
should be a match between you. It is a suggestion. I bring it to you before I take it to the
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Council.”
When he left me, I was in deep thought. Philip, son of the Emperor. He was my
second cousin, I supposed, since the Emperor was my cousin. A devout Catholic—one
who would help me bring England back to Rome. He would be younger than I by eleven
years. But it seemed I was destined to have a husband either my senior or my junior by a
good many years.
Renard had said, “Think of it. I am sure such a great marriage would bring you
great joy.”
I was not sure. I had been thinking too much of Edward Courtenay. But queens
have other matters with which to occupy themselves than romantic dreams.
THE CORONATION WAS FIXED for the 1st of October.
On the previous day I left the Tower in a litter drawn by six white horses. I was
dressed in blue velvet decorated with ermine, and over my head was a caul netted in gold
and decorated with precious stones. I found it rather heavy and looked forward to having
it replaced with the crown. As I passed along, followed by my ladies, all in crimson
velvet, I was immensely gratified by the cheers of the crowd.
There were also cheers for Elizabeth, who followed me in an open carriage shared
with Anne of Cleves. They were identically dressed in blue velvet gowns with the long
hanging sleeves made fashionable by Elizabeth's mother. All members of the household
were there in the green and white Tudor colors; and my dear Sir Henry Jerningham, who
was now the Captain of the Royal Guard, brought up the rear.
The citizens of London had shown themselves to be wholehearted in the matter of
welcoming me. There was music everywhere, and I was met by giants and angels; and
what delighted the people was that the conduits ran with wine. And, passing these
splendid displays, we came at length to Whitehall.
I was so tired that I slept well that night in spite of the ordeal which lay before me
the following day.
I felt a great exultation, a belief in myself. I felt the presence of God within me.
He had chosen me for this mission, and I was convinced now that He had brought me to
it in His way. The sufferings of my youth had been necessary to strengthen my character.
I had a great task before me, and I must perform it well; and so should I, with God's help.
So, after praying on my knees, I went to bed and knew no more until they awakened me
in the morning.
October of the year 1553. It is a day I shall never forget—the day when I truly
became the Queen of England, for no monarch is truly King or Queen until he or she has
been anointed.
With my party I went by barge to the private stairs of Westminster Palace. It was
a shell now after the great fire which had happened during my father's time. The
Parliament Chamber was, however, still standing, and there I was taken to put on my
robes and be made ready for the procession to the Abbey.
It was eleven o'clock when we set out. In my crimson robes, I walked under the
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canopy, which was, according to custom, carried by the wardens of the Cinque Ports. I
was aware of Elizabeth immediately behind me. Her presence there seemed symbolic. I
was glad Anne of Cleves was still beside her.
The ceremony should have been performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, but
this was Thomas Cranmer, who was, at this time, in the Tower. He had been involved in
the plot to set Jane Grey on the throne, although he had tried to persuade Edward against
changing the succession; but Edward himself had asked him to sign his will and, with a
hint of a threat, my brother had said that he hoped he was not going to be more refractory
than the rest of the household. I could see the dilemma Cranmer was in. He did not agree
that the King should change the succession, but at the same time he was a strong
supporter of the Reformed Faith and he knew that when I came to the throne I would
regard it as my duty to turn the country back to Rome. He was committed to the
Protestant cause; and therefore, when the people had shown so clearly that I was the
Queen they wanted, he was sent to the Tower and was there awaiting judgement.
So it was out of the question for him to perform the ceremony; and in his place
was my good friend Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, accompanied by ten
others—an impressive sight, with their copes of gold cloth and their mitres and crosses.
I was led to St. Edward's Chair, and as I sat there Gardiner declared, “Here
present is Mary, rightful and undoubted inheritrix by the laws of God and man to the
crown and royal dignity of the realms of England, France and Ireland. Will you serve at
this time and give your wills and assent to the same consecration, unction and
coronation?”
How thrilling it was to hear their response. “Yes! Yes! Yes! God save Queen
Mary!”
Then I was led to the high chair by the altar, where I took my coronation oath.
The ceremony of the anointing was carried out, and afterward I was robed in
purple velvet trimmed with ermine; the sword was placed in my hands, and the Duke of
Norfolk brought the three crowns—St. Edward's, the imperial crown and the one made
for me. Each in turn was set on my head while the trumpets sounded.
It was a wonderful moment when I sat with the imperial crown on my head, the
sceptre in my right hand and the orb in my left, and received the homage of the nobles of
the realm, in which each promised to be my liege man for life…to live and to die with me
against all others.
Through the chamber the cry rang out: “God save Queen Mary!”
I was indeed their Queen.
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IT WAS FOUR DAYS AFTER MY CORONATION WHEN I OPENED my first
Parliament. It was a splendid occasion. People lined the streets to see me ride by, and
everyone who could be there was present.
I realize now that I was guileless. I did not know how to dissimulate. How unlike
Elizabeth I was! Innocently, I expected everyone to be as I was. It took me a little time to
learn that they were not.
The people had chosen me for their Queen. I thought that meant that they were
ready to turn back to the Catholic Church and that it would be just as it was before my
father broke with Rome.
When it was learned that I intended to return to papal authority, there was dismay
in all quarters…even where I had least expected it.
I can see now that few people cared as strongly about religion as I did. There were
many who were ready enough to go back to the way it had been during the last years of
my father's reign. The religion itself had not changed then. All that had happened was
that the monarch was the head of the Church instead of the Pope.
There was another point. Almost every nobleman in the land had profited from
the dissolution of the monasteries and acquired Church land, and they would be in no
mood to give that up.
All the ambassadors were a little shocked—even Renard, who, I had thought,
would be entirely with me.
“You are moving too fast,” he said.
I could not believe that I had heard aright.
“But this is what I have always intended,” I protested.
“The people know it. It is why they have made me their Queen.”
“There will be trouble throughout the country, and Your Majesty is not secure
enough to withstand trouble.”
“What do you mean? Did they not proclaim me? Have you not heard how they
shout for me in the streets?”
“They shouted for you because they see you as the true heir to the throne, and the
people did not like the succession to be meddled with. But have a care. There are many
Protestants in this country. They might accept a return to the Catholic Faith, but to take
the Church back to Rome at one stroke…it would be too much… too soon.”
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“But it is my mission…my purpose.”
“I know … and a worthy one. But go slowly… feel your way. Leave things as
they are at the moment.”
“But I will have Mass heard in the churches.”
“That…yes. But do not press for a return to Rome… not yet.”
He was not the only one to warn me. De Noailles, the French ambassador, called.
I did not trust him. He was a very wily man. I had known for some time that he was more
of a spy than an ambassador. Most of them were, of course, but de Noailles more than
any. I knew he hated the thought of my closeness to Spain. Simon Renard, as my cousin's
emissary, was a confidant as well as an ambassador. De Noailles knew this, and I believe
he wanted to drive a wedge between us, for France and Spain were perennial enemies. If
the French had heard of a possible match between myself and Philip of Spain, they would
do everything they could to prevent it.
But this time he was in agreement with Simon Renard. France, like Spain, wished
to see England back under the papal authority; but they could foresee revolt in England if
it came too suddenly. They had just seen Jane Grey made Queen—albeit for only nine
days—and they realized how dangerous the situation was and how uncertain my grip on
the crown. There was my half-sister Elizabeth waiting to seize her chance.
I was warned not to be too fervent a papist.
Gardiner was one of the few who supported me, but I remembered that he had
made no protest when my father had declared himself Head of the Church; and now that
there was a new sovereign who believed that the country should return to Rome, he was
in agreement with that. Protestants, who must be deploring his release from the Tower,
called him Turncoat and Doctor Doubleface.
At the opening of Parliament Gardiner was the one who announced that it was my
intention to return to Rome. That was all, but the views of so many which I received
afterward influenced me, and I understood that I must not act too quickly; and nothing
more was done about the matter at that time.
In the same Parliament I wanted it known that the harsh laws which my father had
set up were to be relaxed. A great many people had suffered under my father's rule; I
wanted mine to be more merciful.
I found a certain relief in writing to Reginald because I was sure that, from the
Continent, he would be watching events in England with great concern.
“I had thought it would be simple,” I wrote to him. “I thought it could be changed
at once. But I have been warned. The Emperor's ambassador has warned me. I must not
be too hasty. The people are not yet prepared. But I trust you do not think me dilatory.
Please do not think for a moment I am failing in my purpose. But I dare not yet show the
people my intent.”
He would understand, I felt sure.
How I wished he were younger—and with me. I felt uneasy about the proposed
match with Philip. I wondered a great deal about him. I had heard that he lacked the
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astuteness of his father. Well, that was to be expected as the Emperor Charles was known
as the wisest ruler of the age.
Philip, I was told, was deeply religious. On the other hand, he had led rather a
wild life, some said. I had heard that he was sensuous and fond of women. That was what
alarmed me. He had been married before, to Isabella of Portugal, who had died three
years later giving birth to a son, Don Carlos, who must be about six years old. If Philip
was looking for passionate excitement in a marriage, I was not the wife for him to
choose. But he was the son of the Emperor and I was the Queen of England, so the match
was highly suitable on that score. But was it? The people would not wish me to marry a
foreigner. They would have liked me to take Edward Courtenay. Moreover, I could not
leave my country to go to Spain, and Philip could not leave his and come here. We
should see each other rarely, it seemed to me. I began to think that this marriage with
Spain would go the way of all the others.
But Reginald I had known and loved in my childhood. Did it matter that he was
older than I? Did it matter that we should be unlikely to have children?
What I looked for was loving companionship, someone to be beside me, to care
for me, to cherish me.
Simon Renard was the nearest I had to that, but in my heart I knew that his
loyalties lay not with me but with his master, as a good ambassador's should. I tried to
assure myself that the Emperor's interests were mine and that we stood together…as we
always had.
Now that the Mass was being said in churches, there were bound to be protests.
There were rumors of restlessness in several of the counties. From Kent, Leicestershire
and Norfolk there were complaints.
My sister Elizabeth was a source of anxiety. She would not attend Mass, and
Renard believed that those who wished to keep the Protestant way of worship were
looking to her as a figurehead.
“She is very dangerous,” he said.
The Council sent a message to her telling her that she must conform. She did not
appear at the ceremony at which the title of Earl was bestowed on Edward Courtenay,
using the often employed excuse of sickness.
Renard came to me in some consternation.
“What is this sister of yours planning? She is trying to please the Protestants.
While she behaves as she does she is fomenting danger. People will look to her—and
believe me, there are many. She should be sent to the Tower.”
“How could I send my own sister to the Tower?”
“Merely by giving the order. I doubt not that, if there was an investigation,
something could be proved against her.”
“De Noailles is showing friendship toward her.”
“She will get no good from him. His one aim is to get Mary of Scotland on the
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throne.”
“Mary of Scotland! How could he believe that possible?”
Renard looked at me with a hint of pity for my shortsightedness.
“Mary of Scotland is the daughter-in-law of the King of France. De Noailles is his
servant. The King sees England coming to France with Mary Queen and young François
King. But depend upon it, de Noailles will use Elizabeth to try to bring this about.”
“Is there no one to be trusted?”
Renard shook his head. “No one but my master, who is your friend and always
will be. When you are married to Philip, you will have an even stronger hold on his
affections, and you will have a man beside you. But in the meantime we have to deal with
Elizabeth. We have to stop these Protestants looking to her as their new Queen.”
“It is treason.”
“Your Majesty speaks truth. So … let us begin to flout these treasonable schemes
by turning our attention to your sister.”
“I cannot imprison her.”
“Not until she is implicated. But let us be watchful and begin by preventing her
setting up this image to staunch Protestants. She must attend the Mass.”
“I will have her told that she must obey.”
“That will be the first step,” agreed Renard.
Before I could send the order to her, a messenger came from her with a letter
begging me to grant her an interview.
I did this.
As soon as she approached me, she fell on her knees.
I said, “You may rise and tell me what it is you have to say to me. I see that you
have recovered from the sickness which prevented your attending Courtenay's ceremony.
You appear to be in rude health.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have recovered. May I say I hope Your Majesty is in
good health.”
There was a look of concern on her face which told me I looked ill. She did not
say I did, for she knew that would annoy me, but she implied it with a glance of
compassion which made me immediately aware of the contrast between us—she so
young, so vital, so full of good health, and myself ageing, pale, several inches shorter
than she was, so that when we stood, she looked down on me.
I told her I was well. I repeated, “What is it you wish to say to me?”
“Your Majesty, I am deeply grieved.”
“Why is that?”
“I fear Your Majesty has lost her love for me. This makes me sad indeed. You
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have ever been a good sister to me, and I am desolate to think I may have done something
to offend you. I know of nothing…except this matter of religion.”
I said, “You have been told many times to attend Mass, and you stubbornly refuse
to do so.”
“Your Majesty, I have not had your advantage. I was brought up in the Reformed
Faith, and I have heard no other.”
“There is no excuse. There are many who would instruct you.”
“Then Your Majesty has relieved me greatly. I must have instruction. Perhaps
some learned man could be appointed for me. I will willingly learn. Your Majesty will
understand that, having been instructed in one form of religion, it stays with one, and it is
hard to change.”
I never knew whether to believe her or not. But for Renard's warning, I would
have embraced her and told her that she should have tuition at once and we should be
good sisters again. But I did hesitate. I knew Renard was right when he said she was wily
and she must be watched. But seeing her before me, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, the
look of humility in her face, the obvious eagerness to be taken back into my affections, I
almost believed her.
I said, “You will attend Mass on the 8th of September. It is the day the Church of
Rome celebrates the nativity of the Virgin.”
She looked a little taken aback. I tried to read her thoughts. She could not refuse.
She knew that there were spies about her, all waiting for her to make some slip. Renard
would be happy to see her in the Tower, considering her safer there. De Noailles would
want her out of the way too. He wanted us both out of the way, to make the road clear for
Mary of Scotland. On the other hand, Elizabeth was next in succession, and she only had
to wait for my death.
The thought made me shiver. But I could not believe this fresh-faced young girl
would be foolish enough to become involved in a plot which, if it did not succeed, could
cost her the crown and possibly her head.
I kissed her. “We are sisters,” I said. “Let us be friends.”
She smiled radiantly, and I warmed to her. I knew she had been deeply hurt
because, when I had been acclaimed legitimate, that could only mean that she was not.
When we had both been called bastards, there had been a bond between us. As Queen I
had to be proclaimed legitimate, and deeply I had desired this… not only for myself but
for the sake of my mother. But I did feel for Elizabeth. It was bad enough to be the
daughter of Anne Boleyn who, many believed, had been a witch.
It pleased me to be lenient with her. I would help her. It might well be that all she
needed was instruction.
But I was adamant that she must attend Mass on the occasion I had mentioned.
She did appear. She came, looking pale and wan.
How did she manage it? I asked myself. I only half-believed in her illnesses. She
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recovered a little too quickly for them to be genuine.
She was surrounded by her ladies. They almost carried her into the chapel. When
they arrived, she asked them to rub her stomach in the hope of bringing her some relief.
It was a good piece of acting—if acting it was. People would say, “Poor Princess!
She was forced to attend Mass, but it was easy to see how reluctant she was. It made her
quite ill.”
And it seemed to me that she had scored again.
RENARD WAS INCENSED by the manner in which Elizabeth had behaved. Far
from upsetting the Protestants with her little bit of playacting, she had strengthened her
position.
“I shall never be happy while she remains free,” he grumbled.
He thought I was a fool. I had been taken in by my sister's wiles. I kept Jane Grey
alive in the Tower. Again and again he tried to impress on me that these two women
represented rallying-points. The country could break into revolt at any time. Did I not see
that Elizabeth and Jane, as Protestants, could be at the very center of plots against me?
I replied that the people were with me. They had chosen me.
“They could choose Elizabeth,” he said.
I shook my head and he lifted his shoulders and turned away. He said, “She must
be watched. If there is the least indication that she is plotting against you, it must be the
Tower for her… and most likely her head.”
He came to me a few days later with the news that de Noailles was visiting
Elizabeth secretly. It could only be that they were plotting to destroy me.
“Why should de Noailles be working for Elizabeth?”
“He is not,” replied Renard. “Depend upon it, once he had dispatched Your
Majesty, Elizabeth would go the same way. She is too naàve … too eager for power to
see that. His only interest is to put Mary Stuart on the throne.”
“Must there always be these plots against me?”
“Until we are sure that you are safe on the throne, there will be.”
“And when will that be?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Your Majesty must see that we take every precaution and
that while Madam Elizabeth is here, charming the people and being, as she thinks, so
clever, we must be watchful. She should be sent to the Tower at once.”
“But nothing has been proved against her.”
“Then we must find out if there is anything to prove.”
I summoned two of my ministers—Arundel and Paget—and told them that the
Princess had been behaving in a suspicious manner with the French ambassador.
“Go to her,” I said. “Discover if there is any truth in these rumors.” They clearly
did not like the task. I noticed that people were becoming more and more careful how
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they treated Elizabeth. If she could survive, if she did not commit some treasonable act
and if nothing could be proved against her, she had a very good chance of coming to the
throne. I knew that was what she wanted more than anything. She always implied when I
was in her presence that my health was poor and I looked sickly. Though perhaps I
imagined that, and it was only myself who compared her healthy looks with my delicate
ones. The people had shown that they did not like the succession interfered with. So …
Paget and Arundel would remember that the young woman they were questioning for
treason could be their Queen tomorrow. Naturally they were loth to go to her.
But they did and they came back and reassured me. They had proved without a
doubt that de Noailles had made no indiscreet calls on her. She had given ample proof of
her loyalty.
I was relieved. It would have worried me considerably to have to send my sister to
the Tower.
She asked for an audience again, which I granted, and when she came to me she
fell onto her knees.
“Your Majesty, dearest sister,” she said, “how grateful I am that you have justly
given me the opportunity to disprove charges of which I am innocent. I might have been
condemned unheard, but Your Majesty is bountiful and loving to your poor subjects, of
whom I am the most loyal. I beg of you that you will never give credit to the calumnies
that might hereafter be circulated about me, without giving me the chance to defend
myself.”
“I will promise you that,” I told her.
“Then I am happy, for I am your loving and devoted servant, and as I would never
act against you, nothing can ever be proved against me.”
“You are looking pale,” I said, turning the tables, for it was indeed true. She must
have been very worried, and it had had its effect on her.
“I have been grievously ill, Your Majesty. I yearn for the country air. I wonder if
you would grant me permission to retire from Court for a little while.”
I looked at her steadily. Her eyes were downcast; she looked very innocent.
I hesitated. I wondered what Renard would say. As for myself, I should be glad to
be rid of her. Her good looks and youth aroused such envy in me, and whenever I saw
her, I became more conscious of my own appearance and that my marriage was
imminent.
She was so sure of herself, so vain, so confident of her power to charm.
“Where would you go?” I asked.
“I thought to Ashridge, Your Majesty. The air there does me good.”
“Very well. You shall go.”
She fell to her knees once more and kissed my hand.
“Your Majesty is so good to me.”
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So good? When I had recently sent Paget and Arundel to test her loyalty? She was
appealing in her way, and I was as unsure of her now as I ever was.
I called to one of my women to bring me a box of jewels, and from it I selected a
pearl necklace. I put it round my sister's neck.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she went so far as to forget the respect she owed to
the Queen and put her arms round me and kissed me. Or did she really forget, and was
this another of her gestures?
Then she drew back, as though alarmed by her temerity. “Forgive me, Your
Majesty… sister…”
My reply was to draw her to me and kiss her cheek.
“You will recover quickly in the healthy atmosphere of Ashridge,” I said; and
then I dismissed her.
Renard shook his head over my decision to let her go.
“I would prefer,” he said, “always to have that young woman where I can see
what she is doing.”
ELIZABETH CONTINUED TO OCCUPY Renard's thoughts. He would not be
happy until she was out of the way—either in another country or in her grave. I
sometimes wondered whether some charge would be trumped up against her. I must be
watchful of that. I did not want to have my own sister's blood on my hands. Marriage was
a better idea.
The Emperor evidently thought so too. He suggested that Elizabeth be betrothed
to the Prince of Piedmont.
She stubbornly refused to consider this. Of course she did. She wanted the
English throne above all things.
Renard was annoyed with her, but I could see that he had a grudging admiration
for her, too. I think sometimes he wished
she
were the Queen with whom he had to work.
They would have understood each other better than he and I did.
However, there was no way of getting rid of Elizabeth through marriage. She was
clearly determined on that.
Christmas had come, and it was in January of the following year, 1554, when
Gardiner uncovered the plot.
The news of my proposed marriage to Philip of Spain was leaking out, and the
reaction was as I had feared it might be.
The French ambassador called on me. He was clearly deeply disturbed. Did I
realize the dangers? he wondered. Philip would dominate me.
I replied haughtily that
I
was the Queen of this realm and intended to remain so.
“Husbands,” replied de Noailles, “can be persuasive.” He added that his master,
King Henri Deux, did not like the match at all.
That was no news to me; I was fully aware that he would dislike it and do all he
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could to prevent it.
Every day seemed to bring home to me more and more the danger of my position.
Though I had been crowned Queen of England, there were others who had envious eyes
on that crown. Oddly enough, they were all women. There was Lady Jane Grey in the
Tower at the moment, my prisoner; but perhaps she did not want it for herself, it was
others who coveted it for her. There was Elizabeth, patiently waiting to step into my
shoes; and in France was the young Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by becoming the wife of
the Dauphin of France, had made Henri Deux cast speculative eyes in its direction.
This was no news to me. I knew very well that the French would dislike the
Spanish match.
My position was as dangerous as it had ever been. There had been no peace for
me since that day when my father had decided that he wished to be rid of my mother.
I needed a strong man—someone to care for me, to stand beside me and help fight
off my enemies.
Philip of Spain would help me to do that. I should have the might of Spain behind
me. It would be a good match.
But the news of my intended marriage was already causing trouble.
I knew that Edward Courtenay was bitterly disappointed. He had pretended to
care for me, but I often asked myself if he really did. I had been attracted by him. Who
would not have been? He was so good-looking and charming, and his history was so
touching. The idea of such a man being prisoner all those years for committing no sin but
having royal blood in his veins. It was admirable that, during those years in the Tower, he
had educated himself so that he was as polished as any courtier; all he lacked was
horsemanship and outdoor skills, for how could he have practiced those, confined as he
was? Yet I doubted not that in a year or so he would vie with any.
I was fond of Gertrude, his mother, whom I had made a lady of my bedchamber.
She was constantly extolling the virtues of her son. So there was another who was
disappointed.
I did not realize how deeply this disappointment had gone. I had been hearing
rumors about him. He was extravagant; he mingled with a fast set; it was said that this
included relationships with loose women. I excused him.
He was a lusty young man and he had been shut away for a long time; in any case
I had ceased to regard him as a possible husband. I could see that to marry such a man,
just because he was young and handsome, was not the way a queen should act. I had, I
confess, been a little overwhelmed by his grace and good manners and his show of
affection for me. But I was not so easily deluded. I knew that I was not good-looking, that
I showed signs of age, and I should have been a fool if I had not understood that it was
my glittering crown which dazzled, not my person.
I was sure I had done the right thing in agreeing to marriage with Philip of Spain.
He was not expecting a beauty; what he wanted was a queen, and he would not be
disappointed in that respect.
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The members of the Council were constantly on the alert, and they knew the
Spanish marriage was not going to be popular. Gardiner discovered that a certain Peter
Carew of Devon was going through the towns of that county, telling people that they
must not allow the marriage to take place. It would be letting the Spaniards into the
country. They were a harsh and cruel race, he warned them, and they would be bringing
Spanish laws into England. There were sailors in Devon who had come into the clutches
of the evil Inquisition and had, by great good luck, escaped. Let the people listen to their
stories of hideous torture. The Spaniards would rule England, and the Queen would be
merely the wife of a foreign king. There must be no Spanish marriage.
There was only one thing for the Council to do, and they did it. They ordered
Peter Carew to come to London for questioning. But Carew realized what was happening
and, when he did not come and they sent guards to arrest him, he had already
disappeared.
It was disturbing, for there was no doubt that there would soon be revolt in
Devon.
Stephen Gardiner came to me and begged an audience. When I received him, I
saw at once how grave he was.
“I have news which will shock you,” he said.
“This revolt …” I began.
“Carew has escaped, as Your Majesty knows. He is a bold fellow with a colorful
past. He has led a life of adventure, and he is the sort men choose for a leader.”
“It is a pity he was not forced to come before the Council. He should have been
arrested and brought here.”
Gardiner nodded slowly. Then he said, “I have discovered what was afoot.”
“Then pray tell me.”
“As the rising was in the Earl of Devonshire's territory, I thought of questioning
him.”
“Yes,” I said uneasily.
“He has confessed that he knows of the plot to oppose the Spanish marriage. He
says he took no part in it, but when I questioned him he was very ready to tell me about
it.”
“He is a weak young man, easily led, and he has become ambitious,” I said.
Gardiner agreed. “It is good that we have this warning,” he said. “It enables us to
put down the revolt with less trouble than we should have if it were allowed to develop.
There are certain people of whom we must be watchful and… Courtenay is one.”
I nodded.
“And more dangerous still… the Princess Elizabeth.”
“Do you think…?”
“I am of the opinion, Your Majesty, that she is a very dangerous lady.”
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It all seemed to come back to Elizabeth.
While I was growing more and more anxious about these rumblings of revolt, the
marriage treaty was signed. It had been very carefully drawn up. Our two dominions,
England and Spain—which Philip would inherit on the death or abdication of his father—
were to be governed separately. Only the English were to hold office in the English Court
and government. If I had a child, it was to inherit my dominions with the addition of
Holland and Flanders. I was not to be taken out of the country, nor should any children I
might have, without my consent and that of the government. England was not to be
involved in any wars in which Spain might be engaged, nor was Spain to appropriate
English ships, ammunition or the crown jewels; and if I died without children, all
connection between England and my husband would cease.
All this seemed fair enough, but there was one final clause, and I think that was
what aroused the indignation of the people: Philip was to aid me in governing the
country.
It was soon after the contents of the treaty were made public that trouble started in
earnest.
The disappearance of Sir Peter Carew had to a certain extent quelled that which
was about to take place in Devon. Courtenay had left London. He had not been arrested
because he had alerted us to the dangers of the plot; but at the same time he had been
guilty of traitorous intent. The plan had been to dethrone me, marry Courtenay to
Elizabeth and set her on the throne, at the same time establishing the Protestant religion
throughout the land.
There was a rising in the Midlands by the vassals of the Duke of Suffolk. Their
aim was to set up Lady Jane Grey and also the Protestant religion.
Courtenay's confession had helped a great deal, and these were suppressed. But
there was yet another to contend with, and this proved to be a very serious matter.
It was headed by Sir Thomas Wyatt. He was a headstrong young man from
Allington Castle in Kent, and he continued to rouse the men of that county to action.
Wyatt was not unknown to me. He was the son of the poet who had been a close
friend of Anne Boleyn—possibly her lover. I was greatly suspicious of his motives, and I
wondered whether his father's love and admiration for the mother had been transferred by
him to the daughter.
Every time I heard of these disloyal insurrections, my thoughts went to Elizabeth.
This Wyatt was a man to watch. He was an adventurer such as Peter Carew. They
stepped naturally into the role of leader. They were fearless in the first place; they were
reckless, too. I supposed it was those qualities which endeared them to others.
As a very young man Wyatt had been in trouble along with Henry Howard, Earl
of Surrey, who himself had lost his head just before my father died. They had been wild
young men, roaming the streets of London together, taking part in mischievous tricks
which had resulted in their being arrested and spending a few weeks in the Tower. As
such young men often do, Wyatt had later distinguished himself. This was in military
service in Boulogne, and later he had been among those who had helped to defeat the
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Duke of Northumberland when the latter had tried to set Jane Grey on the throne. It
seemed that he had been a loyal subject until the intended Spanish marriage was
proposed.
Later I heard more of what had happened. Edward Courtenay was more deeply
involved than we had at first realized. He it was who, knowing of Wyatt's dislike of the
Spaniards, had invited him to raise men in Kent to join the insurrections. Wyatt was
enthusiastic. Long ago, he had traveled to Spain with his father, the poet, who had been
arrested and taken before the Inquisition. It was something he had never forgotten, and an
intense hatred of Spaniards had been born in him then. He was determined to do
everything possible to stop the Spanish marriage, and he, like many others, believed that,
with a Spanish consort, Spanish manners and customs would be introduced into the
country.
When a number of the conspirators were arrested, Wyatt found himself the head
of the revolt. He might have fled the country, which would have been his wisest course of
action, but men like Wyatt are never wise. Caution and self-preservation are traits quite
unknown to their nature.
Finding himself forced into the position of leader, he rode to Maidstone and there
proclaimed his cause. His neighbors and friends from other counties were urged to fight
for the liberty of the people which would be suppressed if the Queen married a foreigner.
Renard came to see me in great consternation.
He had his spies placed everywhere, and the most accomplished were in the
household of the French ambassador, who, he said, was our most dangerous enemy. The
news he had to impart was indeed disquietening.
“King Henri is planning to open a front along the Scottish border,” he told me.
“And he is hinting at giving help to the rebels.”
“He cannot do that!” I cried.
“Why not? The Scots are always ready to come against us. They will welcome
him. He has twenty-four warships on the Normandy coast, just waiting until the moment
is ripe.”
“Why should he help the rebels?”
“He will help them to defeat your supporters, and then he will step in to perfect
his plan.”
“To put Mary of Scotland on the throne. But the rebels want Elizabeth.”
“They are simpletons, he thinks. He will get them to do the worst of the work for
him, and that will be the end of them.”
“How dangerous is this? We have suppressed the risings… all except this one of
Wyatt's.”
“It is this one of Wyatt's that we have to watch. The sooner you are married, the
better it will be.”
“Wyatt cannot do much against trained men.”
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“Wyatt has been a soldier. He is not merely some hothead with a grievance. It is
disturbing that the French should be ready to involve themselves in this.”
“I should like to dismiss de Noailles.”
“It would do no good. There would be another, and it is better to have one of
whose methods we know something.”
“I shall send Norfolk against them.”
I was confident at this time that the trouble would soon be over.
This was not the case. As Renard had pointed out, Wyatt was a soldier; and, to my
horror, it was not Wyatt who was defeated but Norfolk. I was greatly distressed when our
soldiers returned to London; they were tired, dirty and hungry; they looked like the
defeated army they were. There was great consternation among the citizens. It was clear
to them that this was a serious revolt.
Then came the news that Wyatt was preparing to march on London.
It began dawning on me that I was in a desperate situation. I had no army to
defend me. I asked myself how far I could trust my Council. I knew them for a group of
ambitious men jostling for power. There was a small faction against Gardiner. He—with
my support, it is true—was too fervent a Catholic; he was accused of causing trouble by
trying to force people to join in religious observances against their will and for which
they were not yet ready. Gardiner turned to them and declared that the sole trouble was
the Spanish marriage and he had often questioned the wisdom of that.
So there I was, in my capital city, without an army, with a Council who were
quarrelling among themselves, and rebels preparing to come against me.
Wyatt's headquarters were at Rochester, where he had gathered men and
ammunition and was preparing to march on London. I sent messages throughout the
country, offering a pardon to all his followers who left him within the next twenty-four
hours and returned peacefully to their homes, reminding them that, if they did not, they
would be judged traitors.
Then we heard that he was on his way with 4,000 men.
Gardiner came to see me. He was in a state of some agitation. Clearly he felt
Wyatt to be a formidable foe. He said he had sent messages to him, asking him to state
his demands.
I was astounded. “This is amounting to a truce,” I said.
“Your Majesty, the situation is dangerous. We have to halt this march on
London.”
“I will not parley with him. Let him come. We will face him.”
“Your Majesty does not fully grasp the danger. He is marching on us with his
army. The Council has considered the matter. Your Majesty must go to the Tower
immediately… no, better still, Windsor. You should not be here when Wyatt's men come
into the town.”
“They shall not come into the town,” I said firmly, “and I shall not go to Windsor.
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I will stay here and face these rebels.”
“It was suggested that you should dress as one of the people … and mingle with
them so that it would not be known who you are.”
“I shall certainly not do that. I am the Queen, and everyone must know that I am
the Queen.”
Renard came to tell me that the Imperial Commissioners were preparing to leave
the country. I thought that was wise, as they had been negotiating the marriage contract
and the people might turn on them in their fury.
“They wish to come and take their leave.”
“Then bring them,” I said.
When they arrived, I told them to give my best wishes to the Emperor and to tell
him that I would write to him and tell him the outcome of this little matter.
They were astounded by my calmness. They believed I was in acute danger. I
might have been, but at that time I was so confident of my destiny that I had no fear.
When they left, I went to the Guildhall. The people, aware of my coming,
assembled there.
They cheered me as I approached, and it was heartwarming to hear the cry of
“God save Queen Mary!”
I spoke to them, and I was glad of my deep voice—which some had said was
more like a man's than a woman's—as I heard it ringing out with confidence which
seemed to inspire them and disperse some of their anxieties.
“My loving subjects,” I cried, “who I am, you well know. I am your Queen, to
whom at my coronation you promised allegiance and obedience. I am the rightful
inheritor of this crown. My father's regal state has descended on me. It would seem that
some do not like my proposed marriage. My beloved subjects, I do not enter into this out
of self-will or lust, but it is my bounden duty to leave you an heir to follow me. It is
untrue that harm will come to our country through my marriage. If I thought I should
harm that and you, I should remain a virgin all my life. I do not know how a mother loves
her child because I have never been a mother, but I assure you that I, being your Queen,
see myself as your mother, and as such do I love you. Good subjects, lift up your hearts.
Remember that you are true men and brave. Stand fast against these rebels. They are not
only my enemies but yours also. Fear them not, for I assure you I fear them not at all.”
As I stopped speaking, the cheers rang out. “God save Queen Mary!”
“People of London,” I went on, “will you defend me against these rebels? If you
will, I am minded to live and die with you and strain every nerve in your cause, for at this
time your fortunes, goods and honor, your personal safety and that of your wives and
children are in the balance.”
As I stopped speaking, once more the cheers rang out.
It was clear that they were all deeply moved. Gardiner, who had been beside me,
looked at me with a dazed expression. Then he said, “I am happy that we have such a
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wise Queen.”
The people of London were rallying to my side. The streets were full of men
prepared to fight. I was gratified. I knew I had taken the right course. I felt that I had been
inspired and that God was showing me the way.
IT WAS THREE O'CLOCK in the morning. I was startled out of a dreamless
sleep to find Susan at my bedside.
“Your Majesty, the Council are here. They must see you at once.”
I hastily rose. Susan wrapped a robe about me, and I went into the anteroom
where the Council were waiting for me.
Gardiner said to me, “Your Majesty must leave London without delay. Wyatt is at
Deptford. He will be at the city gates ere long.”
I replied, “I have promised the people of London that I will stay with them.”
“It is unsafe for Your Majesty to stay here.”
I was thoughtful for a moment. It was all against my instincts to fly, and yet, on
the other hand, if I stayed and was murdered, what good would I be to my faith? It was
my duty to restore this country to God's grace, and how could I do that… dead?
I was very undecided. My inclination was to stay, because I had given my word to
the people of London. But was it foolish?
Only the previous day Renard had congratulated me on my speech to the people at
the Guildhall. He said that if I had left London then, Wyatt could have succeeded, and
that would have meant putting Elizabeth on the throne and strengthening the Protestant
influence in the country. How wise I had been to act as I did, he said. The Emperor would
approve.
And now here was my Council suggesting flight.
I said, “I will decide in the morning.”
Gardiner replied that the time was short. In the morning it might be too late.
“Nevertheless,” I replied, “I will decide then.”
As soon as they had gone, I sent one of my servants to bring Renard to me. He
came with all speed.
“They are suggesting I leave for Windsor,” I told him. “They say that Wyatt is all
but at the gates of the city, and if I stay here and he is victorious, it will be the end of my
reign, and me most likely.”
“Your presence here has brought out the loyalty of these citizens,” said Renard.
“If you go, Wyatt will be allowed to walk in. Elizabeth will be proclaimed Queen,
and that will be the end of your reign.”
“You are saying that I should stay.”
He nodded slowly. “I am saying just that.”
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So my mind was made up. I should stay.
LONDON WAS A CITY at war. The shops had been boarded up, and all the
goods were removed from the stalls. Armed men were everywhere; the drawbridges were
cut loose, and the gates of the city were barred and guarded.
We waited in trepidation.
The guns of the Tower were trained on Southwark, but I could not allow them to
be fired, even though Wyatt and his men were sheltering there. I had to consider the little
houses and the people living in them. How could I fire on my own people? It was no fault
of theirs that they were in the line of fire.
Wyatt must have been getting uneasy. One day passed … and then another. The
bridge was too well guarded for him to cross; if he attempted to storm it, there would be
bitter fighting and the village of Southwark would be destroyed. I imagined that at this
stage he was wishing he had never been caught up in this rebellion. He had only meant to
raise men against the Spanish marriage, and when the others had deserted, he had found
himself the leader and it was too late to turn back. He was an honorable man; there was
no pillage and looting in his army.
He must have realized that he could not fight his way across the bridge and
therefore must leave Southwark. It was with relief that we saw his army on the march,
although we knew that would not be the end; he would attempt to cross at another point.
We heard that he was at Kingston. He was in a quandary, for the rain was teeming
down, the river was swollen and the bridge had broken down. Nothing daunted, Wyatt set
his men to repair the bridge, which, in the heavy rain, took hours; but at length, after
much toil and skill, it was sufficiently repaired to allow the men with their ammunition to
cross the river.
All these delays and difficulties had had their effect on the men. It is a tribute to
Wyatt's leadership that he kept them together. But at least he must congratulate himself.
He had arrived with his army—albeit not in the condition it had been in when it left
Southwark. But he was now on the Middlesex side of the river; he had successfully
crossed, and London lay before him.
I was awakened once more in the night to hear that he had reached Brentford.
Several of the guards were in the streets beating drums—the signal for citizens to be out
of their beds and to prepare.
Then he reached Knightsbridge.
The Council told me I should go to the Tower, but I refused. I would stay at
Whitehall. I knew the people must see me. If I went to the Tower, it would seem as
though I were afraid and should have to protect myself. I did not want that. I must show
the people that I was prepared to face danger, as they must.
Instinct told me that Wyatt was a desperate man. He must have believed that there
were enough Protestants among the population of London to come to his aid, and that
someone would open the gates when he had been at Southwark. I believed it was my
action in staying with the people of London, and showing them my confidence, which
had made them rally to me.
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It seemed to me that I had acted on inspiration from Heaven, and I thanked God
for those men who were loyal to me on that day. I had come near to a disaster which
would have changed the face of history. Wyatt was a strong man with deep convictions;
he was a leader, but the odds were against him. Perhaps he had ill luck. Perhaps it was
that God intended me to live and fulfill my mission. I believed that, at the time, and I
have gone on believing it.
Pembroke was magnificent. He was a skilled general. As Wyatt made his way
toward St. James's, Pembroke kept his forces in hiding; and when Wyatt's forces had
passed along unmolested, Pembroke and his men sprang out and attacked them in the
rear. Winchester, another of my good commanders, was waiting ahead for him, so that he
was between Wyatt and Ludgate.
The fighting was fierce. I was in the gatehouse, waiting, watching, desperately
anxious for news.
A messenger came hurrying in. “All is lost!” he cried. “Pembroke has gone over
to Wyatt.”
“I don't believe it!” I cried. “Pembroke is no traitor.”
“Wyatt is close. Your Majesty must take a barge at once. You could get to
Windsor.”
“I will not go,” I said. “I shall stay here. Let us pray, and the Lord will save the
day for us. I know in my heart that this will be so. I put my trust in God.”
I felt then that He was the only one in whom I could put my trust.
That was my darkest hour.
It was not long before the news reached me. The rumor was false. Pembroke was
no traitor, as I had known he could not be. Wyatt's men, dispirited, cold, dirty and hungry
after their experiences at Kingston, were no match for my men. They knew it, and when
such knowledge comes to a soldier, he is a defeated man.
I wondered what Wyatt's thoughts were as he battled there at Ludgate; he must
have realized with every passing second that his cause was a lost one.
Sir Maurice Berkeley called to him to surrender.
“If you do not,” he said, “all these men whom you have brought with you will
doubtless be killed— yourself, too. Give in now. It may be that the Queen will show you
mercy.”
Wyatt hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew that he had lost and he gave up
gracefully.
Sir Maurice took Wyatt on the back of his horse and rode to the keep where I was
watching, so that I might see that the leader of the rebellion was his prisoner.
My first thought was, “We must give thanks to God.” And, taking my women
with me, I went to the chapel, where, on our knees, we gave thanks for this victory.
I was exultant. To me it meant confirmation of my dreams. God's purpose was
clear to me. I prayed that I should be worthy to complete my mission.
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NOW WAS THE TIME for retribution.
Wyatt was in the Tower. Although there was no question of his guilt, he was not
executed immediately, because it was hoped that he would incriminate others—mainly
my sister Elizabeth and Edward Courtenay.
At the Old Bailey, as many as eighty-two persons were judged and condemned in
one day. In every street in London hung the bodies of traitors— a grim warning. This
continued for ten days, and there were so many executions that men had to be cut down
from the gibbets to make way for others. As Wyatt came from Kent, it was thought
necessary to let the Kentish people see for themselves what happened to traitors. Men
were taken there, and in the towns and villages their bodies were set up on gibbets or in
chains.
Renard had told me frequently that the leniency I was inclined to show was
dangerous. There would always be such insurrections while Lady Jane lived—and I could
see that that was true. I knew I must agree that she be brought to the block.
I was wretched. I should have rejoiced. Our victory over Wyatt was complete, and
yet, because it must result in so many deaths, I was unhappy. God had shown me how to
act, and I had followed His instructions but I wished there need not be this carnage.
I told myself that these men were traitors, and they all knew the risk they ran
when they took up arms against the anointed sovereign. It was the thought of Jane which
haunted me, but I knew my advisers were right. While she lived, this sort of thing could
happen again. It was better for her to die than that thousands should lose their lives
because of her.
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
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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
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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
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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
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were placed for display about the town.
This was a grim warning to all traitors.
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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.”
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“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
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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.”
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“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
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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
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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
303
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
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