If she was not his wife Mary would have applauded Phillip’s ingenuity. But she was his wife and while his actions stung, she did manage, eventually, to assess his actions with a pragmatic eye.
Better, she supposed, the Spanish than the French.
During her false confinement, Mary watched and observed, seeing all yet saying nothing, while day after day the evidence of her husband’s betrayal mounted.
She listened and contemplated, plotting the course of her coming path.
She also spent hours sweating and writhing in her bed, her body wracked by the pains of her illness.
As she tossed and turned, she would beg for mercy from the endless torment. She would moan and groan but she was also careful to keep her sufferings quiet. Alone in her bed, she would kick and suffer, attended by her closest and most trusted servants, and in those brief respites she had from her agonies she would sleep, recovering her strength as best she could.
Many times, she would wake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. Seeing her trusted Susan or Jane, she would sink back into the bed and allow them to tend her, happy that her husband was far, far away from her. For the scepter of Philip’s nightly visits lingered still.
He had stayed clear of her chambers for the duration of her pregnancy, as was proper. He had been eager for the preservation and health of their child, and Mary had been thankful for the reprieve.
Hitherto, she had endured his attentions for the sake of an heir. Her phantom babe had, at least, brought her this one respite from his attentions. Leastways, she was able to fight her illness in peace without fear of his intrusion.
And now the reprieve would persist. Philip was leaving. He was ready to bid her adieu.
Philip of Spain would be sailing away from England’s shores before the month was out.
He couldn’t stomach England anymore. For, day after day, the king’s anger grew.
She had failed him.
She had humiliated him, made a mockery of his manhood and trampled upon his pride. All of Christendom was pointing and laughing at him. His shame knew no bounds.
They spoke very little these days, if at all.
When he opened his mouth it was always for the sake of his war. During their last discourse, he pressed her again and again to lend him her troops. He needed her forces in the Low Countries against the French. But Mary refused, denying him thrice over.
In an attempt to wound her, he doubled his attentions toward Elizabeth and asked Mary to treat her sister well. Mary was unmoved. He was through hiding his intentions from her. Mary accepted his words and advised him that she would treat her sister as she had always done: with loving care.
The thinnest veneer of courtesy now existed between them. The niceties they continued to observe were bare and empty. They would part angry and perhaps as enemies, but she knew Philip would return.
In time, he would return to England and he would take her to bed again too. He would not relinquish England and her Queen, not yet, but for now, he needed to leave these shores and lick his wounds.
In deference to his sensibilities, Mary had been obliging him by playing the part of the distraught and loving wife, loathed to part with her husband.
He is acting the wounded bull. He blames me. I have spat and bullied his virility. But no matter, we shall do what we can to salvage his pride. As such, the court was rife with rumors of the queen’s heartache over the king’s coming departure.
Susan and Jane were diligent, placing into the right avenues an appropriate word here and a sad and dejected nod there. Mary was resolved to do what she could to preserve Philip’s pride. She needed to play the game. If they wanted to continue on as man and wife, she needed salvage his pride. And nothing, Mary had learned, soothed a man like a defeated woman in his power. If she played the role of the dutiful wife, pining for him, languishing in his loss, Philip would at least derive some satisfaction from her outward show of deference to his kingly powers and allure.
She sighed.
The shame was all hers and yet she had to do her best to soothe Philip’s ruffled feathers.
But a king’s pride could not be overlooked and she needed to do what she could to keep her realm stable. Soon, Mary would once again take to the field and fight for her people, her realm, as well as God, alone.
With Elizabeth once again her one and only heir, Mary needed to recover the ground she lost over her phantom pregnancy quickly and with care. The Protestants were not yet defeated and with the only heir once again firmly of their faith, the battle remained far from over.
Knotting her brow, Mary turned her mind over the state of her England and the torrid refrain was the same. The Royal Treasury was empty. The threat of war with France was growing. The weather continued to be harsh and the harvests continued to fail. There had been starvation and there had been a plague too, striking England down, killing and laying siege to her people.
Everywhere she turned there was strife. There was no relief to be had. Her kingdom was being besieged from all fronts. She needed to act. But while England’s trials were many, Mary was determined to lead her people out of the quagmire.
The Good Lord sends the harshest tests to His most deserving servants, the ancient words of her Lady Salisbury, Margaret de la Pole, rang in her ears. And for as long as I draw breath I will work to one end and one end only: we shall triumph, she pledged. One day soon, my people will triumph.
1556
ELIZABETH AGED TWENTY-THREE
Her sister had survived another plot.
Northumberland’s minions had hatched the scheme, congregating under the banner of their dead leader. Desperate to regain all that they had lost, the men plotted, connived then acted.
Elizabeth arched her brow. With nothing to their name, the men of the Dudley plot, like others before them, had asked for the monies, the men and the galleys of His most Catholic Majesty, Henri II of France, to aid them in their efforts.
The men had planned to launch a dual attack, one from France and the other from inside England against Mary Tudor. But the plot ran aground, turning foul. Foiled and defeated, the French Ambassador fled and those guilty had either gone into hiding or to the block.
Antoine de Noailles, that was the name of Henri’s serpent. Elizabeth remembered his face well. He was all smiles and flattery. And while he had smiled and bowed, paying the English sovereign every compliment, Noailles, the French Ambassador had been in league with the exiled Dudleys.
The French.
It was no great secret that they wished to un-queen Mary Tudor. Elizabeth wondered how long her sister would hold. How long will she last, she speculated, before she finally moves to declare war on France and the meddlesome Henri? It will not be long, Elizabeth calculated, it will not be long. And until then, she thought, until then.
Elizabeth’s eyes danced, touching upon the gardens of her beloved home. She inhaled, breathing in the welcome scent.
Hatfield.
She had been allowed to return to her Hatfield.
Her sister was keeping her under heavy guard but Elizabeth welcomed the arrangement.
Under watch and in total seclusion, she was free from all taint and accusations of treason. No one could approach her here and therein lay safety and security. She smiled. And there was no place like her Hatfield.
As for her sister, the king had sailed for Flanders and his war there. The queen had kept Elizabeth with her until then. The two of them had bid the Spanish king farewell before Mary ordered Elizabeth’s removal to Hertfordshire.
And now the real task begins.
There were a great number of pressing tasks Mary needed to attend to. So while Elizabeth settled into a quiet life at Hatfield, her sister struck forward, unwavering and resolute. And while Mary Tudor made safe her realm, the burning of heretics went on, deadly and without cease.
Sister, you are much mistaken if you think to win your people to the catholic cause with such displays of papal barbarity, the words rang in Elizabe
th’s mind, never to be voiced. With all speed, her sister sent the traitors to her crown to the block and the traitors to God to the stake.
Many were fed to the flames, good men, women and even children. The queen’s fires were relentless, burning and raging with spitting fury. The queen was eager to see her England complete its return to the old faith and she wanted the matter to be achieved without ado.
You seek to turn the people to your catholic faith with such pain and torture? Elizabeth shook her head in dismay.
The course her sister was steering would lead England to destruction.
In her quest to rectify the wrongs their father had committed against the one religion, Mary battled with vigor, eager to complete her task of reforming England. But she was losing her friends and her people fast.
The people understood that traitors had to die but no one could witness a burning and not be tormented with horror. No English person could in good faith extol and believe in the goodness of his or her sovereign after being subjected to the terrors of the stake. And Mary’s fires were laying siege to England, raging in every county and in every holy diocese.
Her sister was giving rise to Protestant martyrs faster than she could refute them. They haunted her, more powerful dead than they were alive.
The people were starting to seethe, but the flames of Mary’s burnings blazed on, bright and glaring. The absence of her husband seemed to be spurring her on, making Mary throw herself whole-heartedly into her task.
Already, in the month of October, the skies had been lit with the burning of Bishop Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer outside Balliol College in Oxford. Thousands turned out for the execution. Some, it was said, wept bitterly while the two priests burned, slowly and with great pain.
Dead. Dead. Dead. They were all of them dying fast, flying to Christ on the charred winds of my sister’s holy fires.
With Latimer and Ridley executed, Elizabeth surmised that Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, would be next.
Cranmer had been the one to annul Katherine of Aragon’s marriage to Henry the King. He was their father’s one great instrument and he was central to the banishment of Mary’s faith from these shores. For him, there will be no mercy. They said Cranmer was sent to watch the burnings of Ridley and Latimer. He was forced to witness the horrors that awaited him…
Cranmer would die. It was only a matter of time.
But before Cranmer could be made to dance in the flames, her sister’s reformation suffered its greatest loss. Mary’s Bishop, advisor and Chancellor, Stephen Gardiner died on the thirteenth of November.
Spurred on by the pain of her loss, Mary announced the deprivation of Cranmer the following day, stripping him of all his former titles, appointing Cardinal de la Pole in his place.
Then, Cranmer, knowing the end was nigh, surprised one and all by recanting his faith and renewing his fealty to the Pope. He declared the Church of Rome to be the one true church.
What folly is this? Elizabeth thought when she learned of Cranmer’s defection. The Great Thomas Cranmer. Was he not the most steadfast of men, the most Holy, the most pious? Yet recant his faith he did, hoping to save his mortal flesh from the terrors of Smithfield.
He pined and pined for the Royal Pardon, but it never came. His sins were too great. In my sister’s eyes, this man alone deserves no mercy. His affront to God was too great, Elizabeth saw as she laid out Cranmer’s case in her mind. This man has wronged not only God but my sister’s mother too.
To her sister, no one had been at the helm of greater sins than Thomas Cranmer. Cranmer had been crucial to their father’s reforms and to the dissolution of Katherine of Aragon’s marriage. To Mary, Cranmer was implicit in every Protestant evil that had befallen England. His volte-face had only further affirmed his villainy. Long ago, Cranmer had denounced the one true faith when it suited him, and now he was seeking to recant his new faith when it was at last most politic to do so. For Cranmer alone, the queen found forgiveness impossible.
So it was that Cranmer was sent to the stake. With all mortal recourse denied him, Cranmer proclaimed himself once more for the Protestant cause. When he met the flames, he put out the hand with which he had signed his recantations into the fires, howling the words, this hand will burn first for the affront it has done to God!
He suffered greatly before he expired. So dies the Great Thomas Cranmer.
The people grieved for him, they cried for him. Their hearts were stricken with grief, but the Queen was not deterred. She was merciless.
Elizabeth watched and understood. Her sister was not to be gainsaid on the matter of religion, as such she was careful to conform to her sister’s dictates. Elizabeth observed all the proper rites. She bowed and prayed in the Catholic manner, careful to placate and please her sister.
A lost ship must turn its sails to catch the rising wind whichever way it might blow, Elizabeth mused.
Glancing out of the window, her eyes settled on a fallen oak that several gardeners were fighting to saw in half. Soon they would reduce it to pieces and the mighty tree would become fodder for the grates. Such simple domesticity, she breathed, making the glass in front her face mist. Quietly, Elizabeth contemplated her path.
For as long as her sister reigned the burnings would continue and despite the cruelty of the act, the catholic faith would grow strong. It was true that her sister was not a young woman but she could still live long enough to see her task through. A few more years and she would be able brow beat the people into submission. They would eventually accept the old faith as they had done their father’s new church.
Year by year and with the time that was hers to wield, Mary would pave the way to her ultimate triumph, and she would not stray from her path no matter how arduous and unpopular her task.
In due course, the king would return to England and when he did, her sister might still prove herself young and well enough to give England a catholic heir. Everything was uncertain. Despite the year Mary had had and the pregnancy that had ended in nothing but shame, Mary could still defy one and all by giving Philip of Spain a son. There was, Elizabeth feared, still time.
Should my sister ever birth an heir, the thought ran, turn and turn about in her head, should my sister ever birth an heir…
Uncertainty, it was all around her and it followed her wherever she went.
The king was still trying to befriend her. Elizabeth scoffed. But his words were just as false as his smiles. His intent was clear and Elizabeth was just as shrewd. For as long as she remained England’s only heir, she would have Philip of Spain’s protection. But perhaps most importantly for Elizabeth, for as long as her sister lived, she would have the protection of her sister, and that counts for much, much more.
Her sister would never send her to the block or the stake. Mary did not have the heart to do so. She loves me too well. Elizabeth reflected with satisfaction, and now I have both my sister and the Spaniard to rely on for the preservation of my neck.
Elizabeth would enjoy her solitude here at Hatfield for as long as it endured. Her place, in many ways, was as perilous as it was fortuitous. She was Mary Tudor’s sister, Henry VIII’s last remaining child and England’s last remaining Tudor heir. As long as she was Elizabeth Tudor, danger would shadow her wherever she went.
But I am safe for now, she told herself, I shall wait, I must wait, and soon, God Himself shall direct my path.
1557
JANE DORMER
April
The queen’s court was in disarray. Talk of another plot against the queen had arrived, carried on the winds. There were suspects everywhere, hiding in every corner and all to soon, one of them would strike.
Sedately, Jane walked behind the queen as they perused the royal gardens, enjoying a brief moment of peace amidst the constant turmoil.
From across the way, the Count de Feria bowed low and Jane inclined her head. The king had left De Feria behind, entrusting him with the task of promoting Spain’s interests in his a
bsence.
De Feria was a wily one. Like every Don ever to set foot upon these shores, he was a flatterer.
He had winked at Jane that day at Worchester and ever since, he had been seeking her out. He had asked her to dance, giving her shining gifts as well as sparkling tokens, whispering sweet words of promise into her heat-suffused ears.
And much to her shame, Jane had listened.
She berated herself for being so weak, for giving in to the dark enticement that the Don so effortlessly exuded. But despite the stern words of warning and the reasons she deployed to dissuade herself from continuing in such a course, her eyes still sought his.
De Feria was as dark as Jane was fair. He was everything foreign, everything exotic and every inch forbidden…
Jane bit her lip. But De Feria had the king’s ear as well as his confidence. It would be politic, she reasoned, for her to be on good terms with such a man. She could use him to aid her queen but she would never divulge the queen’s secrets to anyone, no matter the enticement. She would be just as stern and true as Susan.
The queen however was eager to see Jane settled in life. She was loathed to part with her little Jane Dormer but she wanted Jane wed. But while many sought her hand, Jane, in her heart of hearts, held a secret flame for one man.
She lifted her eyes for the briefest of moments to meet his gaze.
This man. She had a secret longing for this man who spoke to her of warm Spanish days, of peace, of quiet joys and the divine beauty of his native land…
Nay, Jane averted her eyes. I will never marry.
She would spend her days by her queen. I do not need a husband to muddy the waters. Her allegiance was to her queen.
And the queen’s days were bitter. The wrongs, faults and failures she inherited were burdens too heavy for the lady’s slim shoulders to bear. Yet bear them she did. She had to. The word ‘reform’ was on everyone’s lips and on every one’s mind. But the work to be done was monumental.
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