Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2

by Philippa Gregory

  Robert snatched his cap from his head and flung it across the room. ‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘This is state policy! I’m trying to plan a pageant and you keep asking me questions about policy! I don’t know what she will decide. The Privy Council will advise her, the bishops will advise her. Parliament will advise her, they will argue over it for months and then make it law. Pray God people will obey it and not rise up against her. It is not for me to decide it here and now!’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘But in the meantime?’ the clerk asked tentatively. ‘The cover of the Bible for the pageant? Should it be English or Latin? We could put a Latin copy inside an English cover if she preferred it. Or an English copy. Or one of both.’

  ‘On the cover write BIBLE in English,’ Robert decided. ‘Then everyone knows what it is. Write it in big letters so it is clear it is part of the pageant: a prop, not the real thing. It is a symbol.’

  The clerk made a note. The man-at-arms at the door walked delicately over to the corner, picked up the expensive cap, and handed it to his master. Robert took it without acknowledgement. Other people had been picking up for him since he was a child of two.

  ‘When we’ve finished this, I’ll see the other procession,’ he said irritably. ‘Whitehall to Westminster Abbey. And I want a list of horses, and check that the mules are sound.’ He snapped his fingers for another clerk to step forward.

  ‘And I want some people,’ he said suddenly.

  The second clerk was ready with a writing tablet and a quill in a little pot of ink.

  ‘People, sir?’

  ‘A little girl with a posy of flowers, an old lady, some sort of peasant up from the Midlands or somewhere. Make a note and send Gerard out to find me half a dozen people. Note this: one old lady, frail-looking but strong enough to stand, and with a strong voice, loud enough to be heard. One pretty girl, about six or seven, must be bold enough to cry out and take a posy of flowers to the queen. One bright apprentice boy to scatter some rose petals under her horse’s feet. One old peasant from somewhere in the country to cry out, “God bless Your Grace”. I’ll have a couple of pretty merchants’ wives as well and an unemployed soldier, no, rather, a wounded soldier. I’ll have two wounded soldiers. And I’ll have a couple of sailors from Plymouth or Portsmouth or Bristol, somewhere like that. Not London. And they are to say that this is a queen to take the country’s fortunes overseas, that there is great wealth for the taking, for a country strong enough to take it, that this country can be a great one in the world, and this queen will venture for it.’

  The clerk was scribbling furiously.

  ‘And I’ll have a couple of old men, scattered about,’ Robert went on, warming to the plan. ‘One to cry for joy, he’s to be near the front so they all see him, and the other one to call out from the back that she’s her father’s daughter, a true heir. Get them all spaced out: here …’ Robert marked the map. ‘Here, and here. I don’t mind what order. They are to be told to call out different things. They are to tell no-one they were hired. They are to tell anyone who asks that they came to see the queen out of love for her. The soldiers in particular must say that she will bring peace and prosperity. And tell the women to behave with propriety. No bawds. The children had better come with their mothers and their mothers should be told to make sure that they behave. I want people to see that the queen is beloved by all sorts of people. They are to call out to her. Blessings, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t hear them, sir?’ the clerk asked. ‘Over the noise of the crowd?’

  ‘I’ll tell her where she is to stop,’ Robert said firmly. ‘She’ll hear them, because I’ll tell her to.’

  The door opened behind him and the clerk stepped swiftly back and bowed. William Cecil came into the room and took a sweeping glance at the two tables covered with plans and the sheets of paper in the clerks’ hands.

  ‘You seem to be going to much trouble, Sir Robert,’ he remarked mildly.

  ‘I would hope so. Her processions are entrusted to me. I would hope that no-one found me wanting.’

  The older man hesitated. ‘I only meant that you seem to be going into much detail. As I remember, Queen Mary had no need of great lists and plans. I think she just went to the Abbey with her court following.’

  ‘They had carriages and horses,’ Robert observed. ‘And an order of procession. Lady Mary’s Master of Horse made a list. I have his notes, actually. The great skill of these things is to make them appear that they have simply happened.’

  ‘Triumphal arches and tableaux?’ William Cecil inquired, reading the words upside down from the plan.

  ‘Spontaneous demonstrations of loyalty,’ Robert said firmly. ‘The City Fathers insisted on it.’

  He stepped between Cecil and the table, obscuring his view. ‘My Lord Secretary, this is a very young woman whose right to the throne has been contested almost since the day of her birth. The last young woman whose right to the throne of England was contested had a crown crammed on her head in secret and lost it in hiding. I think it important that this young woman is seen as the true heir, is seen as the people’s delight, and is seen to take her crown as publicly and as gloriously as possible.’

  ‘Lady Jane was not the true heir,’ Cecil pointed out to Lady Jane’s brother-in-law, not mincing his words. ‘And the crown was crammed on her head by a traitor, also beheaded for treason. Your father, actually.’

  Dudley’s gaze did not waver. ‘He paid the price for that treason,’ he said simply. ‘And I paid for my part in it. I paid in full. There’s not a man in her court that has not had to loosen his collar and turn his coat once or twice in recent years. Even you, sir, I imagine, though you kept yourself clear of our disgrace.’

  Cecil, whose hands were cleaner than most, let it go. ‘Perhaps. But there is one thing I should tell you.’

  Dudley waited. Cecil leaned towards him and kept his voice low. ‘There is no money for this,’ he said heavily. ‘The treasury is all but empty. Queen Mary and her Spanish husband have drained England dry. We cannot pay for tableaux and fountains running with wine, and cloth of gold to drape around arches. There is no gold in the treasury, there is barely enough plate for a banquet.’

  ‘It’s as bad as that?’

  Cecil nodded. ‘Worse.’

  ‘Then we will have to borrow it,’ Robert declared grandly. ‘For I will have her crowned in state. Not for my vanity, which I know is not of the smallest, not for hers, and you will find she is no shy violet either; but because this puts her more firmly on the throne than a standing army. You will see. She will make them hers. But she has to come out from the Tower on a great white horse and with her hair spread over her shoulders and she has to look every inch a queen.’

  Cecil would have argued but Robert went on. ‘She has to have people crying out for her, she has to have tableaux declaring her as the true and only heir: pictures for the people who cannot read your proclamations, who have no knowledge of the law. She has to be surrounded by a beautiful court and a cheering, prosperous crowd. This is how we make her a queen indeed: now, and for the rest of her life.’

  Cecil was struck by the vividness of the younger man’s vision. ‘You really believe it makes her safer?’

  ‘She can make herself safe,’ Robert said earnestly. ‘Give her a stage and she will be the only sight anyone can see. This coronation gives her a platform that will put her head and shoulders above anyone else in England, her cousins, rival heirs, anyone. This gives her men’s hearts and souls. You have to get the money so that I can build her the stage, and she will do the rest. She will enact the part of queen.’

  Cecil took a turn to the window and looked out over the wintry gardens of Whitehall Palace. Robert drew closer, scanning the older man’s profile. Cecil was nearing forty, a family man, a quiet Protestant through the Catholic years of Mary Tudor, a man with an affection for his wife and for accruing land. He had served the young Protestant king, he had refused to be a part of the Jan
e Grey plot, and then he had been steadily and discreetly loyal to Princess Elizabeth, taking the inferior job of surveyor so that he might keep her small estates in good heart, and have an excuse for seeing her often. It was Cecil’s advice that had kept her out of trouble during the years of plotting and the uprisings against her sister Mary. It would be Cecil’s advice that would keep her steady on this new throne. Robert Dudley might not like him, in truth, he would never like any rival; but he knew that this man would be making the decisions for the young queen.

  ‘And so?’ he said finally.

  Cecil nodded. ‘We’ll raise the money from somewhere,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to borrow. But for God’s sake, for her sake, keep it as cheap as possible.’

  Robert Dudley shook his head in instinctive rejection. ‘This cannot be cheap!’ he declared.

  ‘It cannot look cheap,’ Cecil corrected him. ‘But it can be affordable. Do you know her fortune?’

  He knew that Robert did not know. Nobody had known, until the clerk of the Privy Council, Armagil Waad, had emerged from the royal treasury which he had last seen filled with gold with the most rudimentary of inventories shaking in his hand, and whispered aghast: ‘Nothing. There is nothing left. Queen Mary has spent all King Henry’s gold.’

  Robert shook his head.

  ‘She is sixty thousand pounds in debt,’ Cecil said quietly. ‘Sixty thousand pounds in debt, nothing to sell, nothing to offer against a loan, and no way to raise taxes. We shall find the money for her coronation but we will serve her best if we keep it cheap.’

  Elizabeth’s triumphal procession from the Tower of London to Westminster Palace went just as Dudley had planned. She paused and smiled before the pageant representing her mother, the Lady Anne, she took the Bible offered her by a little girl and kissed it and held it to her breast. She drew rein at the points he had marked for her.

  From the crowd came a small child with a posy of flowers. Elizabeth bent low in the saddle and took the posy, kissed the flowers and smiled at the cheers. Further on she happened to hear two wounded soldiers call out her name, and she paused to thank them for their wishes and the crowd near them heard them predict that peace and prosperity would come to England now that Harry’s daughter was on the throne. A little later an old lady called out a blessing for her and Elizabeth miraculously heard the thin old voice above the cheers of the crowd, and pulled up her horse to acknowledge the good wishes.

  They thought more of her for responding to the sailors, to the apprentice boys, to the old peasant from the Midlands, than for all the glory of her harness and the pace of her horse. When she stopped for the pregnant merchant’s wife and asked her to call the baby Henry if it was a boy, they cheered her till she pretended to be deafened by applause. She kissed her hand to the wounded soldiers, noticed an old man turn his face aside to hide his tears and she called out that she knew they were tears of joy.

  She never asked Robert, neither then nor later, if these people had been paid to cry out her name or if they were doing it for love. For all that she had spent her life in the wings, Elizabeth belonged to the centre of the stage. She did not really care whether the rest of them were players or groundlings. All she desired was their acclaim.

  And she was enough of a Tudor to put on a good show. She had the knack of smiling at a crowd as if each and every one had her attention, and the individuals who cried out to her – placed so that all corners of the route would have their own special experience of her – made a succession of apparently natural stopping places for Elizabeth’s procession, so that everyone could see her and everyone would have their own private memory of the princess’s radiant smile on her most glorious day.

  The next day, Sunday, was the day of her coronation, and Dudley had ruled that she would go to the Abbey high on a litter drawn by four white mules, so that she appeared to the crowd as if she were floating at shoulder height. Either side of the litter marched her gentlemen pensioners in crimson damask, before her went her trumpeters in scarlet, behind her walked Dudley himself, the first man in the procession, leading her white palfrey, and the crowd that cheered her gasped when they saw him: the richness of the jewels in his hat, his dark, saturnine, handsome face, and the high-bred, high-stepping horse that curvetted so prettily with his hand steady on the bridle.

  He smiled, turning his head this way and that, his heavy-lidded eyes running over the crowd, continually alert. This was a man who had ridden before a cheering crowd and known that they adored him; and had later marched to the Tower amid a storm of booing, knowing himself to be the second worst-hated man in England, and the son of the worst. He knew that this crowd could be courted as sweetly as a willing girl one day, and yet turn as spiteful as a neglected woman the next.

  Today, they adored him; he was Elizabeth’s favourite, he was the most handsome man in England. He had been their bonny darling when a boy, he had gone into the Tower as a traitor and come out again as a hero. He was a survivor like her, he was a survivor like them.

  It was a perfect procession and a perfect service. Elizabeth took the crown on her head, the oil on her forehead, and the orb and sceptre of England into her hand. The Bishop of Carlisle officiated in the pleasing conviction that within a few months he would be celebrating her marriage to the most devout Catholic king in the whole of Christendom. And after the coronation service the queen’s own chaplain celebrated Mass without uplifting the Host.

  Elizabeth came out of the dark Abbey into a blaze of light and heard the roar of the crowd welcome her. She walked through the people so that they could all see her – this was a queen who would pander to anyone, their love for her was a balm for the years of neglect.

  At her coronation dinner her voice was lost in her tightening throat, the blush in her cheeks was from a rising fever, but nothing would have made her leave early. The queen’s champion rode into the hall and challenged all comers and the new queen smiled on him, smiled on Robert Dudley, the most loyal ex-traitor of them all, smiled on her new council – half of them constitutionally unfaithful – and smiled on her family who were suddenly recollecting the bonds and obligations of kinship now that their niece was no longer a suspect criminal, but the very lawmaker herself.

  She stayed up till three in the morning until the trusted Kat Ashley, presuming on the intimacy of having been governess when Elizabeth was a girl and not a great queen, whispered in her ear that she must go to bed now or be dead on her feet in the morning.

  — God strike her dead on her feet in the morning — thought Amy Dudley, sleepless, waiting through the long, dark winter night for the cold dawn, in far-away Norfolk.

  Robert Dudley, rising like a young Adonis from the bed of one of the court ladies, giving her a nonchalant parting kiss while he unclasped her hands from about his neck, and coming into the Queen’s presence chamber at Whitehall smartly enough next day, was still too late to catch Elizabeth alone. He found her already in close-headed conference with William Cecil, seated over a little table with papers before them. She glanced up and smiled at him but she did not wave him to approach, and he was forced to stand against the wood-panelled walls with the dozen or so other men who had risen early to pay their compliments and found that Cecil had got in first.

  Dudley scowled and tried to overhear the low-voiced conversation. Cecil was dressed in dark clothes: — like a clerk — Dudley sniffed; but his wealth showed in the quality of the rich velvet and in the expense of the cut. His ruff was of the finest lace, lying in soft folds around his neck, his hair long and lustrous, spread on his collar. His eyes, warm and compassionate, never wavered from Elizabeth’s animated face, answering her remarks about the great kingdom with the same steady quietness that he had used when he was advising her how best to run her country estates. Then it had been Cecil alone who had kept the princess from folly, and now it was Cecil alone who had the reward for those years of service.

  She trusted him as she trusted no other, he could advise her against her own desires and she would listen.
Indeed, when she appointed him to be her Secretary of State she had made him swear that he would tell her the truth without fear or favour, and sworn to him a pledge in return: that she would always listen to his words and never blame him if his advice was not to her liking. No other member of the Privy Council had exchanged such an oath with the new queen; there was no-one else who mattered.

  Elizabeth had seen her father dismiss advisors whose counsel was against his wishes, she had seen him arraign members of his own council for treason because they brought him bad news. She did not care that her father had become a tyrant, hated by his closest advisors, she believed that was the very nature of kingship; but she was warned by the fact that he lost the best minds of the kingdom because he could not bear to take advice.

  And she was not yet old enough to want to rule alone. The crown was unsteady on her head, the country was filled with her enemies. She was a young woman, only twenty-five years old, with neither mother nor father nor a beloved family to advise her. She needed to be surrounded by friends that she could trust: Cecil, her teacher Roger Ascham, her former governess Kat Ashley, and her plump, gossipy cofferer Thomas Parry with his wife Blanche, who had been Elizabeth’s nanny. Now that Elizabeth was queen she did not forget those who had been faithful to her when she had been princess, and there was not one old friend who was not now enjoying a small fortune in rich repayment for the years of waiting.

  — Why, she actually prefers the company of inferiors — Dudley thought, looking from Cecil at the table to Kat Ashley at the window. — She was brought up by servants and people of the middling sort and she prefers their values. She understands trade and good housekeeping and the value of a well-run estate because that is what they care about. While I was walking around the royal palaces and spending my time with my father commanding the court, she was fussing over the price of bacon and staying out of debt.