by R G Roberts
"We both know how our people view foreigners, Mary. They won't put up with what they see as a foreign monarch, not happily," she argued. "At least if you elevate an Englishman as your consort, he'll always remember that you can tear him down once again."
Even Mary cringed at that, moving to wrap an arm around her younger sister. "Oh, Bess," she breathed. "It doesn't have to be like that. It won't be like that. Not for me, and not for you."
"You still should be prepared. I'm not saying he was right, but we are our father's daughters."
Her own detached attitude surprised Elizabeth, because the same memory weight on both their minds. Elizabeth was too young to remember and Mary had been banished from court at the time, but both knew what words Henry VIII had been rumored to say to Anne Boleyn. "I raised you to where you are, and I can tear you down again just as quickly!" The thought of her poor mother hearing that had always made Elizabeth shudder.
"I think that is one area in which I will not seek to emulate him. Among others," Mary replied tartly, but then she cracked a smile. "Besides, can you imagine having had five husbands?"
Despite herself, Elizabeth giggled. "It might be good for variety!"
Laughing together made them feel like young girls again, not like queen and princess. Mary would go on to marry Philip, of course, despite the privy council's objections, but the lesson Elizabeth took away from the experience was far different than it might have been. Instead of growing determined to live her life alone, Elizabeth realized how very important it was to have someone she trusted by her side.
Never was that lesson so clear as it became a year into Mary's marriage.
***
"He's threatening to leave if I won't give him men and money for his damned war!" Mary shouted at the Earl of Hertford, Sir William Cecil, and the new Duke of Norfolk, grandson of Elizabeth's recently deceased great uncle. Tears were shining in Mary's eyes, but she clearly refused to let them fall.
"Your Majesty, there is neither money nor men to give," Hertford replied for the trio of advisors. With the loss of the old Duke, Hertford had slipped easily into the role of the Privy Council's leader. Much though Elizabeth was inclined to dislike him based on her mother's history with the Seymour clan, she had to admit that he was capable. More importantly, she agreed with him in this case.
"And your marriage treaty specifically does not require England to become involved in Spain's wars, Your Grace," Cecil added, his eyes sliding towards Elizabeth as she stepped further into the room. She nodded a greeting to Mary's councilors before moving to her sister's side.
Poor Mary. She looks so torn, and I'm only going to make her day worse.
She sank into a curtsey at Mary's feet. These days, Elizabeth was always careful to show Mary proper respect; the sisters had plenty of enemies at court who would love to pit the heir apparent against the still childless queen, and she refused to give them ammunition. Mary's gaze shifted to her, relief filling her pale face.
"You may leave us, My Lords," she commanded, much to their annoyance. But they did not argue, instead bowing and leaving the sisters alone.
As soon as the door closed, Mary threw herself into a chair, looking heartbroken. "They don't understand," she whispered. "Philip says he will never come back if I do not help him fight in France. And he says that I am too soft on heretics here in England, even though I have returned the country to the true faith! I told him that it is not the peoples' fault that they were misled by our father's intransigence, but he only calls me an undutiful wife!"
Elizabeth tried not to wince. Aside from demanding her assistance in his foreign adventures, Philip had also commanded that Mary burn all those who he felt were heretics. The Spanish prince completely ignored the fact that England's Protestant movement was small and still mostly underground; denying dissenters publically-executed martyrs robbed them of the opportunity to galvanize public opinion, and Mary's policies had so far been tolerant. She wanted to bring England back to the Church gently, a desire made more possible by the fact that Henry VIII had never really moved away from the traditions and trappings of the true religion, and Edward had not had the chance to make changes to the Church in England. Healing the rift with the Pope had been simple, and Mary was inclined to show mercy while she waited for the reformers to come around.
So far, turning a blind eye had brought England more peace and quiet than the country had experienced in years…but Philip wanted to ruin that. And poor Mary loved the man, and wanted to please him.
"He's not a dutiful husband if he's pressuring you that way," Elizabeth said harshly, sitting down at Mary's side.
"Elizabeth!"
"I'm serious, Mary. He has no right to demand that of you, and he knows it."
Mary shook her head, tears glistening again. "But I'm his wife. Philip has a right to expect—"
"You're a queen first," Elizabeth cut her off.
"Can I not be both?" But the look on Mary's face said that she had known the answer before she asked the question. She didn't lack strength, Mary Tudor, but sometimes she just needed someone to talk to. Having been lonely and abandoned for most of her life, Mary craved closeness, and more than that, she ached for approval. Worse yet, Elizabeth suspected, Mary craved the approval of a king, and Philip was the closest England had to one.
Not for the first time, Elizabeth cursed their father for what he had done to both of them. Her issues were different from her sister's, but no less potent because of that. Yet Mary's seesaw of a childhood had left her emotionally handicapped, and now England could suffer for Henry VIII's inconsistencies.
"You know you can't," she said more gently, taking her sister's hands in her own.
"But he loves me," Mary whispered, clearly trying to convince herself. "He only acts as he does out of love for me and a desire to bring our countries closer together."
"He doesn't love you, Mary." Elizabeth hated herself for saying it, and had to swallow before continuing. Her voice shook: "He came to me this morning, claiming that you were barren and soon to die, and promising to be kind to me if we were to marry after our death."
"What?"
"He tried to kiss me, and if Kat hadn't come in—"
"Did you lead him on?" Mary demanded, suddenly angry. She was very conscious of her own advancing age, particularly where Philip was concerned.
"No!"
"But a Christian prince would not—"
"Mary, he is your husband and my brother-in-law," Elizabeth cut her off, feeling herself redden in shame. "You are the only family I have! I could not do that to you, even if I wanted him. Besides, I do not find him so attractive as—"
She stopped herself, flushing harder, but the inadvertent slip broke through Mary's fury.
"Oh, Elizabeth, of course you don't. I'm sorry. I just…"
Heartbreak won out over self-control, and the resulting wail could be heard out in the palace's corridors. Philip's attempt to secure his hold on the English throne forever shattered Mary's trust in her husband, and she sobbed her soul out in Elizabeth's arms.
Predictably, Philip tried to blame Elizabeth when Mary confronted him that evening, but the damage was already done. He called the younger girl a temptress and accused her of attempting to seduce him, but Mary would not hear a word against her younger sister. More importantly, when Philip called Elizabeth a figurehead for the reformer sect at Court and accused her of conspiring against the Queen, Mary refused to banish her from court and instead threatened to do the same to Philip.
The Spanish Prince left in a huff, infuriated by the reverent way the English people cheered Mary for standing up to him. He attempted to remonstrate with her Council, but to a man they backed Mary's refusal to send English troops into a foreign war, claiming disastrous harvests, treacherous downpours, and lack of money in the royal treasury. On the day of Philip's departure, Mary spoke to a huge crowd in London, stressing England's independence and her own love for her English people. Bringing Elizabeth forward, she swore that no Spa
niard would rule England while she lived, and that Great Harry's daughters would always stand between England and foreign domination.
Philip would have been incensed to see the outpouring of patriotism and sheer love for Mary, but he was already gone.
***
He came back, of course, now the King of Spain and desperate for an heir to permanently unite England and Spain. Mary greeted him more coolly than before, getting on more amicably with her husband now that she no longer trusted him implicitly. Philip, for his part, was only foolish enough to bring up the subject of "heretics" once more. Elizabeth was far more in tune with (and tolerant of) England's growing reform movement than Mary, but so long as the English were loyal and outwardly Catholic, Mary refused to let Philip bully her into treating them like criminals. Radicals who insisted on shouting their beliefs out in public were rewarded with a lengthy stay in Fleet Prison, but Mary still declined to make martyrs of them. Crown-sponsored education programs continued apace, perhaps converting some Protestants, and certainly making no enemies for the Catholic Church. Elizabeth did not have many hopes for mass conversions, but she had always been more open minded than her sister.
After all, Mary had no idea that Kat Ashley remained a closet reformer, and that was the one thing that Elizabeth never planned to share with her. But even Philip's religious fervor was finally quieted when Mary announced that she was pregnant.
Her own closest held ambition was to be Queen, but Elizabeth celebrated as heartily as anyone else. She knew how long her sister had prayed for a child of her own, knew how Mary burned to be a mother. As much as she, Elizabeth, wanted to inherit the crown, she could not begrudge Mary her own happiness. She loved her sister too much.
Philip clearly did not, however, and yet again he tried to charm his way into Elizabeth's affections, hinting that the Pope had already given his promise of a dispensation to be granted upon Mary's death, entitling Philip to marry his younger sister-in-law without delay. She replied pertly that they Tudors had never had much luck with Papal-issued dispensations, and that Philip should remember that Elizabeth was her mother's daughter. The reference to Anne Boleyn seemed to both infuriate Philip and to inflame his desire, but Elizabeth went to Mary once more.
Her sister, now better acquainted with Philip's amorous nature and content in the early stages of her pregnancy, took the news rather philosophically. She had decided to emulate her mother where her wayward husband was concerned, and now only sighed.
"He needs distraction," Mary decided. "And you need to be married. Quickly, too, lest he try to wrangle a precontract out of you."
Elizabeth's eyes went wide. This she had not expected. "Sister!"
"No arguments, Bess." Mary squeezed her hands. "Married well, you are both safe from Philip and a viable regent for my child if I do not live to see him or her reach their majority. Philip already has Don Carlos for Spain," she pointed out, her right hand moving to rest on her stomach. "This child is for England."
"Mary, I am honored, but surely you will live to see your many children grow to adulthood," Elizabeth objected, meaning every word. The thought of losing her sister was terrifying, threatened to tear a hole in her heart just from contemplating a world without Mary.
"We must be ready for all possibilities." The queen's voice broke on the next sentence. "And if I fail—"
"You will not!" But both of their mothers had.
"If I fail, you must have children," Mary overrode her. "For me, if not for yourself. For England."
Swallowing hard, Elizabeth could only stare at her sister. This was the first time they had really talked about what happened if Mary could not have a child, and Elizabeth found the idea of filling her sister's shoes unbelievably daunting. It wasn't that the idea of becoming queen frightened her, just that the thought of Mary failing at anything was so alien. Mary was always capable. She had stolen the throne before Warwick's bid for power could get off the ground. She had prevented a civil war by embracing Protestants and offering them places on her council. She had even made peace with Scotland, and although no one trusted the Scots to keep their promises, Mary had thus far managed to hold the line. Her only unpopular move had been to marry Philip, and she had learned from that—and had still gained Spain's protection from France, because no matter how much her neutrality irked her husband, France would never think to attack England when the country had such powerful allies.
"And I think you were right," Mary interrupted her thoughts. "It must be someone that you can rule, and that means you cannot marry foreign prince. In fact, it probably means that he should be an Englishman."
Elizabeth's heart hammered against her ribcage. She had been so afraid that Mary would choose one of Philip's suggestions—
"Is there anyone you prefer?" her sister asked coyly.
She went red, feeling like her face was on fire. "I…"
"Perhaps a certain Lord Robert, Marquis of Northampton?"
"Oh, Mary."
She could not say more, but did not need to. Mary wrapped her arms around Elizabeth, whispering maternally in her ear.
"If I cannot be happy, maybe you can. Besides, I think he loves you enough to be subordinate to you, even if you are but a woman."
***
The distraction part of the puzzle they dealt with by inviting the Dowager Queen Katherine back to court. Widowed two years previously when Lord Culpepper died unexpectedly in a hunting accident, she had retreated from court with her three young children to mourn a husband she loved deeply. But now, on Elizabeth's advice, Mary reached out to the woman she had once despised above all and asked for her help—as was surprised how readily the invitation was accepted. For her part, Elizabeth was delighted to see the Culpepper children, two of whom she had stood as godmother to (the eldest girl had Anne of Cleves for a godmother, but their father's fourth wife was far from court and ill these days), but her happiness on that front was not terribly important. What was important was the way Philip's head turned upon the Dowager Queen's arrival at court.
He really was a very shallow man where women were concerned, Elizabeth reflected. Kitty Culpepper, nee Howard, was thirty-three years of age, but she had matured from a pretty child into a true beauty. More importantly, Kitty understood exactly what kind of effect she had on men. She had little desire to actually invite the King of Spain into her bed, but Kitty did love flirting, and flirt she did. Philip was immediately drawn to her.
As Elizabeth pointed out to Mary, if you wanted to hold a man's attention, there was no one better than Howard woman to do it.
Mary even managed to laugh at the remark, and agree that Kitty certainly knew how that game was played. The genuine smile on the Queen's face spoke volumes about how far the Tudors had come from the days when Katherine of Aragon had faced off against Anne Boleyn, and the sisters were content.
***
The furious roaring out Philip subjected Mary to when Elizabeth's engagement was announced did nothing to dissuade the Queen. Due to enter confinement in April of 1555, Mary arranged for Elizabeth and Robert to marry before that, not trusting Philip to stay away from her sister once she was out of sight. Kitty Howard was holding his attention well enough, but he didn't want to marry her, which made Mary wary. In the end, it turned out that her concern was unwarranted, because Philip retreated to Spain weeks before the wedding, still in a temper over having his ambitions thwarted.
Mary sat with Cardinal Pole at the wedding, and Elizabeth experienced a moment's bittersweet regret for her sister. Reginald Pole would have been a much better match for Mary, and he would have made her happy—but then her own new husband squeezed her hand and returned her attention back to the present.
"Are you quite satisfied, Madam the Marquise?" Robert asked her, grinning.
"Madam the Marquess," she corrected him with a laugh, although neither title was technically wrong. Now that she was married to Robert, Elizabeth was Marquise of Northampton and Countess of Leister, but Mary had also restored her mother's old t
itle of Marquess of Pembroke to Elizabeth, making Robert the Marquis of Pembroke in addition to his other titles. She would always be a Princess of England, of course, but Elizabeth greatly appreciated the gesture from her sister.
"Am I not the husband?" he teased her gently, knowing of Mary's troubles with Philip and having promised Elizabeth that he would support her without trying to rule her.
"Am I not the Princess?" she countered lightly.
Robert kissed her, ending the playful disagreement. Elizabeth did not fear that Robert would break his promise—she had known him since childhood, and she trusted him. In return for his willingness to take second place politically, Elizabeth had promised to always respect his opinion and share her burdens with him. They had Philip and Mary's example of how badly power-sharing could work, and both were determined not to follow that path.
But for now they were young and they were married, and Elizabeth joyfully let Robert lead her out to the dance floor, where she could finally show the world how much she loved the man who had become her husband.
***
Three months later, she was with Mary when the doctors told the Queen that there was no child in her belly, and a tumor had formed instead. Elizabeth held her sister as she sobbed, and helped her weather the storm of emotion when Philip's heartless letter of "condolences" arrived. From that moment forward, Mary knew that she would never see her husband again.
"I had hoped to have a son and spite our father in doing so," Mary whispered from her bed. Five weeks had passed, and she had still not risen, while the Council ruled England on her behalf, with Elizabeth attending meetings as Mary's proxy.