Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  Must we all die according to their will? How much longer will my sister go on, refusing to see the deceit and the mockery being made of God before her very eyes?

  But Mary’s fervor refused to wane. By her will, her Catholic faith was being forced back upon England with relentless vigor.

  Do you not see Mary? Do you not see? Elizabeth wanted to ask of her sister. You who despised our father’s meddling in the faith of this realm; you follow his path now, the self-same road and the self-same course. Like our father before us, you are using naught but your royal will to brand your desire and faith upon our people!

  Our people, thought Elizabeth, what sorry beings they are. First, during our father’s reign, under the pain of death, they were chased, punished and made to turn their hearts away from the faith that held sway in their souls. By force, they were made to renounce their catholic faith. Our father bled them, fought them and brought them to their knees. But when they finally took to the new religion with conviction, another sovereign comes before then, forcing them to turn and run back again toward the old faith that they have been taught to spit upon and condemn as everything foul!

  Turn and turn about, the souls of England have been running amok. Should I ever be queen, Elizabeth dared to envisage. I will make no windows into men’s souls. A man’s heart is his own and I shall not seek to hold dominion over him.

  As for her sister, her fires burned on and they would not cease for as long as she reigned. For now, Philip of Spain and Mary of England were recreating their world, making it after their own image, fashioning it according to their will and for those that lived and breathed under their rule, their lot was to endure.

  If the torments persist, England will succumb. The people will buckle under the weight of their sovereign’s heavy fists. The people would hold out for as long as they could but one day soon their flesh as well as their souls would succumb. Slowly, their father’s people were being converted back to the old faith by his daughter’s flames at Smithfield; one tortured death at a time.

  Unbidden, Elizabeth cast her eyes over the armed soldiers that shadowed her every step. They were there when she woke, there when she walked, and they were there too when she laid her head down to sleep at night.

  I am a prisoner in my sister’s England. This is at once the most dangerous yet the safest place for me to be.

  Take heart Elizabeth, she would tell herself in her darkest moments, over and over, take heart.

  One of these days, Elizabeth was sure her fate would be decided. Already, talk of marrying her to a Catholic Prince, Philip’s cousin, ran rampant. Both Mary and Philip wanted her yoked to a husband of their faith, to eliminate the sting of her Protestant leanings. But Parliament would never approve such a match. So the days dragged on, long and slow. Nothing was certain and Elizabeth feared that nothing ever would be.

  Fear, it was in the air she breathed. Fear, it surrounded her, holding her captive. Her fate was in the hands of others and for now all that she could do was wait and survive. Her only liberty was to go about her days quietly. There was no avenue left to an unwanted Protestant heir but to wait out the coming days, as fate takes those who lorded over her toward their destinies.

  These were the days of Mary Tudor and until the fortune and the fate of her sister was brought to bear, Elizabeth would remain as she was, suspended in suspense.

  My only task is to be patient, to survive, to wait and to watch. Thankfully, it was a game Elizabeth was apt at. She had been playing this game for as long as she could remember and she would continue to do so for as long as possible.

  Patience Elizabeth, she told herself, for we shall see. We shall see.

  SUSAN CLARENCIEUX

  August

  The king has sailed.

  England is victorious.

  The queen is with child.

  Hope, tentative and hesitant was rekindled in the queen’s breast as well as Susan’s. Relief. It was in sight. Joy. It comes to us, a last.

  The king had sailed for the continent with seven thousand English troops. Since landing on foreign shores they had gained victories in the French territories, burning St. Quentin to the ground.

  The triumph made every English heart soar and with the garrison at Calais equipped and readied for more victory, England rejoiced.

  Not only so, on the heels of such glorious news came one more stroke of God’s favor, and this time the divine hand of the Lord had touched the queen herself. The queen was with child.

  The conjugal visits of Philip of Spain had bore fruit. The physicians had confirmed it, including Doctor Owens.

  The babe would come the following year, in March.

  Already, the queen’s ladies were sewing fast. The queen’s gowns were being loosened, fonts were being embroidered and the new prince’s clothing stitched. The royal carpenters were working hard on a new royal cradle of good solid English oak. Preparations had begun in earnest for a new royal nursery.

  But Susan knew what the court, the people, nay, the world was thinking.

  This queen and her belly were not to be trusted.

  Everyone knew about the queen’s previous sojourn into motherhood. It had made her the butt of many a joke.

  And now here comes another prince, they sniggered. He is just as real as the brother before him. I will not credit this Queen to be with child, not until the day she holds the babe live and hale in her arms for the world to see.

  Susan turned her eyes over the young women of the court, her expression stern. Everyone was watching and waiting. The queen’s ladies might be sewing and sewing hard under Susan’s watchful eye, but they were not without their doubts. They observed the queen constantly, trying to gauge the state of her health and the validity of her coming child. As for the ministers, ambassadors and envoys, they offered their usual congratulations, but Susan knew they were hiding their laughter and winking eyes behind their hands, waiting to see how this new game would play out.

  Susan had heard the whispers, the words and the endless conversations being conducted in every hallway. Everyone was weary. The king himself was all cautious joy. His letter of congratulation to his wife, written in his great flourishing hand had been as rehearsed and as it was hollow.

  No one was willing to believe the queen. Everyone was denying the existence of the child.

  But the truth was to be found on the queen’s face. The queen was glowing. She had never enjoyed such good health in her life, not since her younger years. Indeed, these days the queen spent her days not in pain or in agony but in peace. She had been healed, made whole, and she was with child.

  The queen was stunned, just as stunned as Doctor Owens was by the turn of events. But everything directed them toward the same conclusion. The king had visited. Shortly after, the queen stopped bleeding. The months went by and slowly, there came the gentle swelling of the queen’s abdomen. Her breasts were tender and her color was rosy. Then, there came the miraculous healing of her many pains.

  One after the other, all the symptoms came. There was no pain, no torment and no agony; only the signs that led both Doctor Owens and the queen to the same conclusion.

  Mary Tudor was with child.

  I am with child. Her majesty clutched at her belly, amazed. Can it be so? Can it be truly be so?

  Tentative and fearful, the queen kept the news quiet. But as the months wore on, the doctors remained in concordance. The queen was with child; she simply had to be, for there was simply no other explanation for her condition.

  Bursting with joy, Susan and Jane set about letting the queen’s gowns out to accommodate the prince. And as the months wore on, the joy inside Mary Tudor’s heart grew and grew.

  It is a miracle, she had prayed and thanked God again and again, over and over, joy, it is ours at last.

  But while the queen glowed with delight, the rest of the realm as well as the queen’s husband continued to harbor their doubts.

  Soon, Susan thought with satisfaction, you will all eat your wor
ds and suspicions. For this time, the queen was indeed with child. She had to be. This time, everything was different. There was no pain, no blood and no secret vigils. This time, there was just the queen and her gently swelling belly.

  The promise of a child and an heir now hung in the air. It enlivened the queen and all those in her confidence. The turbulent summer was now giving way to a quiet autumn, and when winter passed and the fecund spring at last cometh, so would England’s long awaited prince.

  But what if it is not a prince? Others had dared to ask, and if there indeed is a child, what shall we all do if it is another Princess, a princess that has weathered neither childhood nor all the attendant diseases that plague the young, must we accept her or will the Lady Elizabeth prevail? To whom will you declare your allegiance then?

  The queen had asked herself all these questions too and contemplated every outcome. In the meantime, parliament was quick to name Philip once more as the regent, if the worst should come to pass.

  Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

  Thoughts pertaining to the queen and her mortality were running amok. Speculation was rife.

  Some though, were rejoicing. Hope against hope, some did believe that the queen had indeed conceived. But many were not so sanguine. Some were already leaping over themselves, scrambling to secure a position in the new reign: Elizabeth’s reign.

  And the queen was not without her fears.

  She was a woman bearing a child for the first time at the grand age of one and forty. All the attendant dangers of such a task was not lost on her. But as the months passed them by and the queen measured the progress of her growing belly, delight sparkled from Mary’s once sorrowful eyes. Her majesty was filled with hope. Our dear Lord has been most benevolent, the queen said, He has blessed us with His greatest gift.

  Nay, Susan believed it, the child in that swelling belly was no ruse. But the doubts and the questions persisted. Nevertheless, the queen was now the picture of health. She shone. And she was fascinated with the changes taking over her person. Often, Susan would find her queen sitting alone at her great table with all the great correspondence of the realm spread before her, her hand on her fluttering belly, a soft, maternal smile upon her lips.

  Mary Tudor is happy and ‘tis a sight wondrous to behold.

  The queen was also becoming fanciful and her appetite was growing by the day. She had an almost constant craving for sweets and Susan took much joy in serving her queen, keeping her content, watching her frail form gain some much needed flesh. The nightly feasts in the great hall were now filled with music and dancing, and the lady upon the dais could be found beaming with incandescent joy.

  These days, Susan’s once weary heart was as light as a feather.

  The troubles of the realm and the dangers that threatened to engulf England as well as her queen were retreating. In the great tide of endless troubles, the realm, under the queen’s guidance was finally emerging from stormy seas, heading for calmer shores and sunny days.

  Great days are ahead, endless sunshine and endless triumph; we are about to emerge. England will rise like Lazarus from the quagmire! The queen shall steer the great ship of England out of troubled waters. The queen will take us to peace. We will have prosperity and joy beyond your ken! We shall have nothing but joy. We shall have Heaven on Earth!

  Such fanciful thoughts made Susan want to laugh at herself, but there was no mistaking the spritely spring in her steps, the constant smile playing about her lips and the vigor in her bone weary body. She was an old woman now but her purpose rang true. She wanted to see the fortunes of the great realm of England soar under this queen. That was Susan’s last and final wish in this life. She wanted to see her queen triumph, to see her shine and to see her made a mother at last. Susan wanted to see it all.

  Days of gold, Susan thought, days of gold are coming.

  Already, the bright rays of the sun had come, returning to them, delivering them from the darkness, giving England new life. The coming year promised to be dry and soon the crops would flourish. Abroad, the triumphs of the troops in France shone like a bright beacon, heralding the queen’s victories. And soon, the birth of the prince and heir would complete the queen’s triumvirate.

  But we have had sorrow too, frowned Susan. We have had a death, a death of a queen.

  Anne of Cleves was dead. One night, she went to bed in her great room at Chelsea Manor complaining of a dull throb in her chest. She never rose again. She passed quietly in her sleep, her soul going to her Divine Maker in the silence of the night, without suffering and without pain.

  The queen mourned Anne of Cleves. She ordered preparations to be made so that her father’s honored sister could be buried in a manner befitting a lady of her stature.

  The royal masons had sweated over her great marble effigy. And now, two months after her death, she would be laid to rest at Westminster. There, she would sleep her eternal sleep. So passed the last of Henry VIII’s queens.

  Anne of Cleves had been Henry’s queen and she had found no joy by it. Then, she became the king’s sister and prospered, gaining every joy by reversing her fortunes in spectacular style. She had died unwed, without issue and alone, but she had died in peace. The people mourned her for she had conducted herself with the utmost care, she was unlike any of the king’s other queens and the people knew and marked her for it.

  Anne of Cleves had done well. She was well liked. She had made herself agreeable to one and all. They will welcome her at Westminster, this queen that is no queen. She has lived a life fulfilled.

  Susan crossed herself, the death of a queen.

  Some said the death of Anne of Cleves was a bad omen. It boded ill, they whispered. They said Anne of Cleves’ death was a prelude to something fouler, some great tragedy, a death of another queen, perhaps? Some dared to speculate. And so they watched the queen, Mary Tudor, with endless vigilance. But omens were nothing but idle thoughts and salacious whispers.

  In his last days, Henry VIII made speculations on his imminent demise an act of treason, punishable by death. Susan remembered it well. As for the queens’ brother, it is said he spent his final days coughing and spluttering blood. By all accounts, he had, when he could, dispensed many hours dictating the succession even while he writhed and muttered in pain…

  Nay. That would not be the fate of this queen.

  For the queen was defying them all, she was the very picture of health and as the days rolled on, golden and resplendent, Susan allowed her heart to soar. Hail to the queen! Hail to the prince! The time for joy was come!

  1558

  JANE DORMER

  The day dawned, cold but bright. No clouds, there were no clouds in the sky. The skies were clear and everything was glistening. Blowing air onto her frigid fingers, Jane smiled. Looking out of the misted windows, barred against the cold, Jane’s thoughts wandered.

  We have had a wondrous yuletide season, filled with joy and everything good. God has turned His divine eyes upon England and smiled His benevolent smile. All was well. Jane grinned as she turned and tiptoed into the queen’s inner chambers.

  A great fire was roaring in the grate and soon the queen would rise.

  She would be robed and coiffed and then she would attend Mass.

  Jane took care, laying out the warmest of gowns to guard her sovereign against the cold. She beamed. The queen’s belly was round and growing rounder by the day. There was no mistaking it. A prince was coming.

  Jane hummed softly as she bustled around the room. The rest of the ladies were waiting outside in the antechamber, awaiting the Queen’s pleasure. Jane went about her tasks, anticipating her sovereign’s every need. The queen did not usually linger in bed, she woke everyday at the same hour, without fail, and today was no exception. As her eyes opened, bright and clear, a smile touched her lips.

  Your Majesty, Jane curtseyed.

  Good morrow, Jane, the queen replied, her hand on her round belly, stroking gently. The babe, he grows by the hour, the queen wa
s all maternal pride.

  He must, your grace, Jane opined, for it shall not be long now. He must take care to grow ere then so that he might come to us strong. Wrapping a thick stole around her majesty, Jane helped the queen sit up and then take to her feet.

  The queen’s eyes shone. The wonder of carrying a child had filled her days with gladness. The babe was Philip’s doing but it would be her child and England’s heir. She needed to take care and ready her realm for her babe. And when it was time for her to relinquish her throne, she would bequeath unto her child the greatest kingdom Christendom had ever seen…

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The great sound made Jane flinch.

  Angry, she left the queen’s side. Taking ten quick strides toward the thick oaken doors of the queen’s privy chambers, she called out. Her majesty is not yet ready to receive!

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Came the thunderous refrain.

  Begging you pardon your grace, but urgent business compels me, the voice of the Cardinal came.

  De la Pole, Jane recognized his tones. Darting over to the queen in quick steps, she threw a thick fur lined cape around the queen’s shoulders.

  Nodding at Jane, the queen signaled for the great doors to be opened. Jane moved to unbar the door, her feet quick and her fingers nimble.

  How now? The queen demanded, her voice urgent. What news?

  The Cardinal stepped into the room but he kept his distance, as was proper.

  Jane knew the queen couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face, but she could, and what she saw made her blanch.

  Without ado, the Cardinal delivered his message, his words simple, succinct. Your majesty, we have lost Calais.