The Sisters Who Would Be Queen

by Leanda de Lisle

  At several points the procession stopped for the Queen to comment on a series of pageants or “dumb shows” that the new Secretary of State, William Cecil, had helped organize. Commissioned from Richard Grafton, the printer who had published Lady Jane Grey’s proclamation as Queen, each signaled a political message. At the first, on Gracechurch Street, the figure of Anne Boleyn sat at the side of Henry VIII, as if there had been no divorce, accusations of adultery, or execution. That past was to be forgotten and the fact of Elizabeth’s illegitimacy under canon and temporal law overlooked. Highlighted instead in heraldic detail was Elizabeth’s Tudor and Plantagenet genealogy. It laid out the basis of her right to the throne. The second pageant, at Cornhill, advertised, controversially, that under Queen Mary religion had been misdirected and would now proceed on a “better” footing. The third, at Soper Lane, alluded to Elizabeth’s suffering in the Tower under Mary, and ranged the princess alongside the Marian martyrs: the mantle of the Godly Jane Grey was being passed to Elizabeth.

  The fourth pageant, on Cheapside, drew attention to the recent suffering of the country from famine and disease: a boy sat on a stony mount “dressed in black velvet, melancholy, pale and wan, under a dry and arid tree.” Alongside, promising a better future, stood a handsome youth dressed in rich clothes, smiling on a lush, green mount. The great fountain that had for centuries graced Cheapside was supposed to have been painted in a similarly educative way, but the workmen had refused to carry it out. For some, the attacks on Mary grated. Not all the pageants were even to Elizabeth’s liking. The last pageant, on Fleet Street, she would find particularly unsettling.

  This pageant was designed as a riposte to John Knox’s blanket attack on female rule, something Lady Jane Grey’s former tutor, John Aylmer, had been commissioned by Cecil to do in print. Like Aylmer’s later thesis, however, the argument it used infuriated Elizabeth, based, as it was, on the belief that rule by women was not to be embraced, but endured and mitigated as far as possible. Cecil’s loyalty, and that of Elizabeth’s other senior Protestant supporters, was rooted in her status as the divinely ordained ruler. They believed God had chosen Elizabeth to be Queen—but they also believed that government by women was a deviation from the proper order. God’s decision was thus accepted as a punishment for sin, a grave punishment, which the theologian John Calvin equated to slavery in a letter to Cecil that year.

  What Elizabeth saw in the Fleet Street pageant was a figure depicting the biblical prophetess Deborah, who had rescued Israel from the pagan King of Canaan. So far, so expected: it represented the Protestant Elizabeth rescuing her people from the “idolatress” Mary. But “Deborah” was also dressed in parliamentary robes, and at her feet were figures representing the three estates: the nobility, the clergy, and the commons. This suggested that Elizabeth’s monarchical authority was rooted in Parliament rather than superior to it, and that Elizabeth’s rule was subject to counsel.

  John Aylmer later spelt it out: a good Queen accepted the advice of her Godly councillors, and “it is not she that ruleth but the laws,” and “she maketh no statutes or laws, but the honourable court of parliament.” Elizabeth had told Feria she was determined “to be governed by no one,” but she was now being told that her rule was only allowable because, in reality, male government would continue in her name. If the message of the final pageant was lost on its audience, Richard Mulcaster, who was commissioned to describe the procession to the whole country, helpfully explained in his written summary that it was designed so that Elizabeth “might be put in remembrance to consult for the worthy government of her people.” There is a distinct echo here of Edward’s will and his plan that a female governor should rule in conjunction with the Council.

  Elizabeth was left with much to think about that night, on the eve of her crowning at Westminster Abbey. Her father had made himself more powerful than any of his medieval predecessors. At the break with Rome in 1533, he had argued that he was the supreme legislator in England, above the law because he gave the law, wielding his absolute imperium (literally, “command”) over Church and state. But the break had led to what he had called a “diversity of opinion” in religion. Powerful subjects were now driven not just by personal ambition but competing ideologies. And Elizabeth could also see what her father had not. By bringing Parliament into the divine process of the succession, he had introduced the mechanism of consent. Elizabeth owed her position as Queen to two acts of Parliament, and she feared that if she did not prove Protestant enough for the taste of her Protestant supporters, or simply if she failed to produce a son, a further act of Parliament would be used to legitimize her deposition. Katherine, with her impeccable English and Protestant heritage, was Elizabeth’s likely replacement. It was in that knowledge that Elizabeth had demoted Katherine to the Presence Chamber, hoping to deny her political friends. It was fortunate for Elizabeth’s peace of mind that she did not as yet know about Katherine’s romance with the Earl of Hertford, whose titles, lost when his father was executed, she had restored just the previous day.

  The following morning the final day of the coronation began at Westminster Hall, from where Elizabeth was brought in procession to the abbey on a purple carpet a third of a mile long. She was dressed in crimson velvet and flanked by the Earls of Pembroke and Shrewsbury, with the rest of the court ranked in order of precedence. The status of the nobility and gentry was drawn from the same legends as the monarchy, and these myths were constantly retold through royal ceremonies such as this, its symbols associating them with the spiritual qualities of the crown. Carrying Elizabeth’s train was the new Duchess of Norfolk, Katherine’s cousin and friend Margaret Audley. Although like Katherine still in her teens, she was a widow already. Her first husband, Henry Dudley, the youngest of the Dudley brothers, had been killed in the imperial cause in France, and she had married the young and popular Norfolk that Christmas. Katherine followed her cousin with the other ladies of the court, “dragging their trains after them, going two by two, and being exquisitely dressed, with their coronets on their heads, and so handsome and beautiful that it was marvellous to behold.”

  The church bells were ringing, and by the time they arrived at the abbey the noise was deafening. But as Elizabeth mounted the steps of the dais in front of the altar to be presented to the congregation, a cacophony of “organs, fifes, trumpets, and drums” were added, and it seemed to one onlooker “as if the world were coming to an end.”

  The ceremony that followed owed much to the Edwardian inheritance, with the Epistle and Gospel read in English and no elevation of the Host after the Consecration. One of the most striking moments, however, came just before the bishop administered the coronation oath to the Queen: Sir William Cecil came to the octagonal stage where Elizabeth sat enthroned and handed the bishop the written text of the oath—the Secretary of State’s quiet presence a strange and intrusive reminder of the importance of his counsel. When the ceremonies concluded, Elizabeth and her court returned to Westminster Palace for the banquet. The new Queen was carrying the scepter and orb in one hand, the imperial crown in the other, and had “a most smiling countenance for everyone, giving them all a thousand greetings.” The dinner and celebrations at Westminster continued until nine that night, and afterward the exhausted celebrants all returned home by water.

  There would not be another coronation in England for over forty years, but in January 1559 it seemed very possible that it would come much sooner than that. Behind her smiles Elizabeth knew she faced very real dangers and that she could not trust completely even those around her upon whom she relied most.

  The vital issue of the Queen’s marriage was raised on the first day of her first Parliament. Only an heir could ensure political stability and there was shock when Elizabeth responded to Parliament’s request that she marry by hinting she would not do so in the immediate future. Elizabeth understood very well why it was important to her country that she marry, but she was also acutely sensitive to the potential dangers to herself. Th
e husbands of both previous Queens regnant had been widely mistrusted: Guildford Dudley, because of who his father was, and King Philip as a foreigner. Besides, Elizabeth did not yet wish to marry. She was in love with a man who was not free—Guildford’s brother Lord Robert. She had tried to reassure her MPs that if she did not marry she would pick a worthy successor, but this had only triggered rumors that she was unable to have children. And that, inevitably, had focused further attention on Katherine Grey as the next in line under King Henry’s will.

  Elizabeth continued to do her best to dampen interest in Katherine with petty snubs. The Queen was the font of all patronage, and courtiers could not afford easily to irritate her by being friendly to those she had no affection for. Katherine complained bitterly, however, to the Spanish ambassador Feria. The Queen, she said, did “not wish her to succeed,” and she left him in no doubt that she was “dissatisfied and offended at this.” He learned later that Katherine had even lost her temper one day in the Presence Chamber, using “very arrogant and unseemly words in the hearing of the Queen.” These family rows could, he hoped, prove useful to his master, King Philip. Elizabeth had lost little time in ending England’s involvement in the imperial war with France. Philip was concerned that if Elizabeth were to go further and form an alliance with Henri II, England could threaten Spain’s empire in the Netherlands. It was essential to Spain, therefore, that the two nations remain on good terms. The ideal answer was a marriage alliance with the Queen, but Elizabeth had already turned Philip down and although, ostensibly, she was considering a marriage with his cousin, the Hapsburg Charles of Austria, her passion for her Master of the Horse was common knowledge. “Lord Robert has come so much into favour that he does whatever he likes with affairs,” Feria dispatched to King Philip in April 1559. “It is even said,” he continued, “that her Majesty visits him in his chamber day and night. People talk of this so freely that they go so far to say that his wife has a malady in one of her breasts, and that the Queen is only waiting for her to die to marry Lord Robert.”

  Feria was advising King Philip to prepare for this eventuality by coming to an accommodation with Dudley. But he also warned that such a marriage risked triggering a rebellion. The Dudley name remained hated and Lord Robert had the open enmity of the Duke of Norfolk. Although just twenty-one, Norfolk was England’s leading nobleman: a cousin of the Queen, a prince with the common touch and a large following. If there was some form of civil disorder led by such a man, Henri II was likely to seize the opportunity to invade England on behalf of his daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots. Philip needed therefore to have another candidate in mind. From Feria’s perspective, Katherine Grey seemed to fit the bill ideally.

  The Count of Feria disliked Queen Elizabeth intensely. His residence at Durham House on the Thames was filled with those Elizabeth had expelled from convents and monasteries refounded under Queen Mary, and he feared for Catholic families like his wife’s, the Dormers. Katherine seemed to him a sweet girl, in contrast to the “vain and clever” Elizabeth. She had served in Queen Mary’s Privy Chamber with his wife, and he considered her a friend. Importantly, she had also assured him that she was a Catholic. The fact that Katherine’s mother had accepted from Elizabeth the Charterhouse at Sheen, whose prior was now a refugee at Durham House, and her uncle Lord John Grey was pressing for a religious settlement that was far more Protestant than the one that Elizabeth wanted, might have stretched her credibility, but Katherine assured the gullible Spaniard that she was hated by her family.

  Katherine lacked her mother’s common sense and her elder sister’s acute intellect, but she knew how to charm, and if she was curious to discover where Feria’s questions were leading, she soon had the answer. Feria had learned—probably from his wife—that Katherine no longer spoke of remarrying Lord Herbert as she used to, and, assuming she was now free of any romantic entanglements, he asked if he could guide her on a future marriage—perhaps to a Hapsburg? Katherine promised Feria that she would never marry without his consent. Hertford had behaved indifferently to her for months, encouraged by his mother, Anne Somerset: Feria had now provided her with an excellent opportunity to make him jealous.

  While Katherine was enjoying herself at Hertford’s expense, and Feria’s also, in Spain the ambassador’s information was being taken very seriously. Plans began to be laid to smuggle Katherine out of England. They became more problematic when Feria was recalled home in May, but Jane Dormer, the Countess of Feria, remained in England and the Spanish hoped her sister, Lady Hungerford, could be used as a secret go-between with Katherine. It was intended that a small number of ships would be sent to England where they would drop anchor in the Thames. The incoming ambassador, Don Juan de Ayala, could then arrange to have Katherine smuggled on board one of them. Fate, however, brought these schemes to a temporary halt.

  On 30 June 1559, the English ambassador to France, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, saw Philip’s great adversary, Henri II, injured in a jousting accident. The incident was reminiscent of the near-fatal combat between Henry VIII and Katherine Grey’s grandfather Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, in 1524. Henri was riding against his young Scots Captain of the Guard, the Comte de Montgomery, when, at the moment of impact, his opponent’s lance pierced his headgear and shattered into fragments. Henri II was less fortunate than the English King, however: he was struck through the right eye by a piece of wood that penetrated to the temple. He was seen to sway, but managed to stay in his saddle until he dismounted. As the spectators rushed forward to help him, he fell briefly unconscious, but then staggered to his feet and walked to his chamber. There he lay for the next eleven days as physicians fought for his life and Europe’s princes held their breath. Henri’s wife, Catherine de Medici, had prisoners executed and splinters thrust into the eyeballs of their decapitated heads to see what might be done to save him. But in the end there was nothing. The King of France died, and in Spain, King Philip reappraised his options concerning England.

  If Katherine were smuggled to Spain, Philip risked earning the implacable enmity of Queen Elizabeth. With Henri dead, that no longer seemed a risk worth taking. His heir, the weakling Francis II, was unlikely to invade England, and even if he did, the cost to France would be so high that Spain could take advantage of it.

  Katherine, oblivious to the kidnap plans, was, meanwhile, busy looking forward to the Queen’s first summer progress and the hope of a revival of her affair with Hertford. The “grass season”—which ran from July to October—was to become the annual period during which Elizabeth set off on an extended itinerary of visits to palaces and private houses, giving the Queen the opportunity to show herself to the people and enjoy herself on the way. On 17 July the cavalcade left Greenwich Palace for Dartford, Kent. The Queen was in a buoyant mood and flirting outrageously with Lord Robert Dudley, but Katherine was miserable. There was, as yet, no sign of “Ned” Hertford. Nor did he join them the next day at Lord Cobham’s house, where the court was welcomed with “great cheer.”

  Hertford had written to their friend the Duke of Norfolk claiming to be ill. He was very sorry not to be with them, he said, but although he was suffering from “weakness rather than sickness” he felt he must follow the advice of his physician and—more tellingly—of his mother. The duchess clearly remained very concerned about her son’s continued affection for Katherine.

  A few days later the progress circled and reached the ancient royal palace of Eltham, near Greenwich. The Countess of Feria was about to leave England to join her husband and arrived at the palace with a contingent of Spanish diplomats to pay her parting respects to the Queen. Elizabeth felt considerably less warmly toward the countess than her half brother and half sister had done. The countess’s grandfather had sat on the jury that sent Anne Boleyn to the scaffold and her father, Sir William Dormer, had held Elizabeth under house arrest for Mary in 1554. As Katherine and the other ladies in the Presence Chamber watched amazed, the Queen left the countess, who was seven months pregnant, stand
ing in the heat, waiting to be called for her audience. The Spanish, concerned for the countess’s well-being, urged her to sit down. But she refused. It would have been disrespectful to the Queen and, although she was leaving England, many of her family were not. As her physical distress mounted, one of the diplomats demanded that the Queen immediately be told the countess wished to see her, “and if she might not do that speedily [the countess] should go.” Coolly, the Lord Chamberlain, Howard of Effingham, told the diplomat to be patient. At that the ambassador, Ayala, snapped back that the Queen ought to remember “whose wife [the Countess] is, and that the Count de Feria is not her vassal.” A diplomatic incident was only averted when the Queen relented and called for the countess. Cecil reported, however, that the two women behaved as if nothing had happened, engaging in “very much familiar and loving talk.” The Queen even ordered the Lord Chamberlain and the other members of the court to escort the countess on the journey back to her house at Rochester.

  Katherine must have been relieved to bid the countess and her Spanish husband’s schemes farewell. To her delight Hertford had arrived at Eltham and, despite his mother’s warnings, it was soon gossiped among their circle “that there was great love between them.” Some of Katherine’s friends feared that Hertford was exploiting her, “and that no further good would come thereof.” But the young couple remembered the summer as the period during which they both truly fell in love, passionately and deeply.

  Especially happy were the hot August days spent at the turreted royal palace of Nonsuch in Surrey. It was an intimate palace that housed only the inner group of courtiers, and Katherine’s uncle Arundel (widower of her father’s sister Katherine), who was keeper of the palace, had arranged a series of parties. There was a huge banquet on the Sunday night they arrived with a masque and “the warlike sounds of drums and flutes and all kinds of music, till midnight.” The next day they enjoyed coursing in the park and a play given by the children of St. Paul’s. In the evening another banquet was served on gilded platters. The party that night went on until three in the morning. There were quiet times too, however, when Katherine and Hertford could walk through shady groves ornamented with trellises, and pathways cooled by marble fountains spraying pyramids of water.