"It is all right, Elizabeth," she said kindly, and wiped my tears with her own handkerchief. "I understand. Truly I do. Now go." And she pushed me gently away.
Catherine and I exchanged letters throughout the summer. For the most part my life became a scholarly one, which suited me well, for it occupied my mind. Most of the day was spent with Mr. Ascham, reading the New Testament in Greek and translating the works of Cicero and Livy from Latin to English and then back into Latin again.
I did miss Jane Grey, who was at Sudeley Castle with Catherine and Tom. But I had Kat, and her sister Lady Joan was a jolly sort who never let on that she knew the cause of my exile, although she had certainly heard of it from Kat.
AT THE BEGINNING of September, we received joyous news at Cheshunt from Tom Seymour of the birth of a healthy infant daughter, to be named Mary. But only days later my joy turned to sorrow when a messenger brought news of Catherine's death. My grief at her loss was compounded by the guilt I felt. Had I somehow contributed to her death by my actions? Then I heard that Jane Grey had taken the role of chief mourner at her funeral. I knew that I had forfeited that privilege with my heedless behavior. Lady Jane was far more virtuous than I and deserved the role.
GRIEF CONSUMED ME. I wept, slept little, ate next to nothing. Queen Catherine had been my champion, my supporter. What would happen to me now that she was gone? Perhaps, I dared to hope, Tom would come to my rescue. How naive I was still! Soon after my fifteenth birthday, I returned with my household to Hatfield Palace and waited.
"You watch," Kat whispered one night behind our bed curtains. "Tom Seymour will come courting you as soon as he decently can." It was as though Kat could read my most secret thoughts and desires. "He intends to have you as his wife after all. He has even kept on all of the queen's servants. Lady Jane has returned to her parents' home. Why else would he need a household of two hundred, save for a princess bride?"
"I cannot imagine," I murmured, unwilling to confess even to Kat that I had entertained this notion.
"You do not want to be like your sister, Mary, now, do you, growing old alone?" Kat persisted.
I did not. But I didn't know then how much my world had changed.
I received no Yuletide invitation to court from my brother, and that troubled me. Had he heard about the reason for my stay at Cheshunt? Had Tom admitted something? I feared that Edward was punishing me by banishing me from court, and several times I tried to write to him. But I could not think what to say, and each effort ended in pieces of parchment torn up and flung away.
One morning in January of 1549, as I prepared to go to chapel, I heard Kat scream. I ran down the staircase and saw Kat and Mr. Parry, my cofferer, surrounded by guards in the king's livery. The guards had dragged them out of the palace.
I rushed toward Kat, but Sir Robert Tyrwhitt, a member of the privy council, blocked my way. "Lady Elizabeth," he said, bowing respectfully.
"Where are you taking them?" I cried.
"To the Tower of London."
"But why? By whose order?"
"For questioning, by order of His Majesty, King Edward," said Sir Robert.
I ran after the guards and tried to fling myself upon Kat. One of the guards seized and held me roughly. I was forced to watch helplessly as the prisoners were taken away. Kat was wailing, Mr. Parry repeating, "I am innocent, I am innocent."
When they had gone Sir Robert turned his attention to me, as I stood alone and trembling. Eyebrows wild as brambles gave him a fearsome look. "The lord admiral, baron of Sudeley, has been arrested," he said gravely. "And the members of the privy council have a number of questions for you, madam."
"Arrested! But why?" I collapsed onto a nearby bench, my mind racing: What has he done? Why am I to be questioned? Then, as calmly as I could manage, I asked, "I beg you, Sir Robert, tell me what has happened."
In somber tones Sir Robert described the events leading up to Tom Seymour's arrest. "The lord admiral went late one night to the king's bedchamber, planning to kidnap him. When the king's little dog began to bark, the lord admiral shot and killed the dog. The guards discovered the lord admiral and seized him."
"My God!" I cried. "What are the charges against him?"
"There are many, all treasonous," Sir Robert informed me. "The gravest charge is his attempt to kidnap the king. But it seems that the baron was scheming to marry you, Lady Elizabeth, without seeking the permission of the king, the privy council, or the lord protector."
"To marry me?" I felt faint. "But there is no truth to this allegation!"
Sir Robert continued as though I had not spoken. "To marry an heir to the throne without the king's permission is an act of treason, punishable by death. It was believed that Mistress Ashley and Mr. Parry knew of Baron Sudeley's plan and agreed to help him."
I was stunned. Sir Robert escorted me to my chambers, but before I could gather my wits, his interrogation began. Did Mr. Parry and Mistress Ashley plot to marry you to the lord admiral? No? Are you quite certain? Think carefully. There was a plot, was there not? Please do not lie, madam. The truth will be found out.
Over and over Sir Robert, eyes fierce as a hawk's, insisted that I knew more than I was admitting. And I did! I could not forget all those midnight conversations with Kat: He intends to have you as his wife after all. But those were not a plot—only speculation, without any substance! I knew that I must show no weakness, confess nothing, not even the most innocent conversation. If necessary, I must lie, and lie well.
Everything depended upon my convincing replies. Over and over I denied the accusations, all the while beside myself with worry about what might be happening to Kat and Mr. Parry in the Tower and what confessions might be wrung from them by torture or threats of it.
Then Sir Robert moved himself into my palace. Day after day, week upon week, the questioning went on. There was no escape from it. He was pitiless, waiting for me to emerge from my bedchamber, pounding on my door if I did not appear early enough to suit him. And there was no respite at night, either, no loving Kat to soothe my frayed nerves. I was fifteen, and I had absolutely no one to help me.
At first I wept my protest. My tears had no effect; Sir Robert simply repeated the questions. Then I kept silent, refusing to answer. At times I offered reasonable replies, but this didn't appease him. Tyrwhitt did not believe me, that was plain, but he could prove nothing.
I had questions of my own: Had Tom planned to marry me? What was he doing outside Edward's bedchamber? Had he really intended to kidnap the king? For what purpose? I dared not ask any of them, but slowly, as I continued to think, it became clear to me that Tom's interest in me had been solely for his own advancement. This angered me. For this man I had betrayed my stepmother's generous kindness, and he had in turn only wanted to use me.
After I had endured several weeks of relentless interrogation, Sir Robert's wife arrived and announced that she would take Kat's place as my governess. I was acquainted with Lady Tyrwhitt, one of Queen Catherine's stepdaughters by a previous marriage, and I knew her to be small-minded and peevish. I wept endless tears at this change. I could neither eat nor sleep. I wanted Kat! I would have Kat or no one! To be truthful it was far harder on me to lose Kat Ashley, my faithful companion of the past dozen years, than it had been to lose others, who were my kin. Kat was like both mother and father to me.
Sir Robert and his stony-faced wife were not moved by my tears. Desperate, I wrote to the lord protector, Edward Seymour, pleading my innocence in all things as well as the innocence of my friends, and begging that Kat be sent back to me. But the lord protector only replied that I must confess to a plot! I refused, swearing again that there was no plot.
Lady Tyrwhitt stayed on, her face permanently creased in a disapproving frown. My new governess and I found little ways to torment each other. I insisted that I must have the bed curtains open and all the candles burning throughout the night, saying that I couldn't sleep without them. This wasn't the case, but I had discovered that the light di
sturbed her.
She, for her part, refused to let me ride my horse or walk with my ladies-in-waiting unless either she or Sir Robert accompanied us. She was an imperious nag with a whining voice. I didn't know how Sir Robert could abide her.
It was Lady Tyrwhitt who brought me the news while I sat at my needlework: "The lord admiral has been sentenced to die for treason," she announced, relishing her duty, for she plainly despised him. "And if your friends are not mindful, they will share his fate."
I knew that she said this to frighten me. I took care not to show my fear—which was very real—and scarcely missed a stitch. My fear was not for Tom Seymour. I had stopped loving Tom when I understood how little I meant to him. Lately there were even rumors, that he had caused Queen Catherine's death by poison, although I didn't believe he had. And what of my poor brother? How betrayed and frightened he must have felt by this uncle he had loved.
But it was for Mr. Parry and Kat that I truly feared. They had done nothing. At times I paused to wonder what had become of Catherine's baby daughter, who'd gone to the care of Tom's mother. Was the little girl still alive? Would she grow up to hear tales of her father's execution, as I had of my mother's?
Before being led to his beheading on Tower Hill, on the twentieth of March, 1549, Tom Seymour once again assured the privy council of my innocence. Apparently they believed him—or else had given up the attempt to wring a confession from me. Without explanation or apology, the Tyrwhitts departed from Hatfield, and soon thereafter Mr. Parry and Kat Ashley returned to my household.
I had servants posted along the road to alert me of their approach, and I rode out to meet them. As I embraced them both I said, "Tonight we shall celebrate with a fine feast. Tomorrow you shall tell me your stories."
THE STRUGGLE for power continued. The next man to be arrested and imprisoned in the Tower was Edward Seymour himself, defeated as lord protector by his rival, John Dudley, father of my old friend Robin. Fond as I had always been of Robin, I did not like his father, who could not be trusted to keep his word. In my opinion John Dudley was no better than Edward Seymour, and perhaps even worse, and now Dudley was the lord protector of King Edward.
I was far more cautious than I had been two years earlier, when my head was filled with the attentions of Tom Seymour. I had learned early that I must be very careful of what I say, what I do, with whom I associate. Next I had learned to lie cleverly to protect myself, if I must. My father's court had been a dangerous place filled with intrigue. But my father, the king, had kept the reins of power firmly in his grasp. Young King Edward was a different story. His power was a sham: Forcing his subjects to kneel five times in his presence was no power at all.
Now I learned to wait. I knew that I had the strength to do so.
CHAPTER 5
King Edward's Court
My banishment ended at Yuletide in the year 1549, when Edward once again invited me to court. I had been absent for eighteen months, and in that time I had grown up. At sixteen I was no longer a silly young girl who could be taken in by the wiles of a handsome older man. By the use of my wits, I had managed to survive Sir Robert Tyrwhitt's grueling interrogation, although rumors of my involvement with Tom Seymour had been court gossip for many weeks. Part of my inheritance from my father had finally come into my hands, and I could afford to live as I pleased.
I was well aware of my looks. I had reached my full height, taller than my sister by nearly a hand span, and I was slender and fashionably small breasted. My hair was a striking golden red, long and thick, curling and spiraling around my face and loose upon my shoulders. My eyes were dark, my skin pale as alabaster. Studying myself in the mirror, I knew that no man would look at me with disinterest.
I intended to make my return to court a triumph. Mary had long been a great favorite, while in the past I had been generally ignored, and I was determined to be the almost forgotten princess no longer. Mary would come decked in jewels; therefore, I would wear only a jeweled ring or two, to show off my hands, which I thought my best feature. Mary would dress in the bright colors and rich fabrics she favored; I would appear in simple black or white gowns, ordered from France. I was young; Mary was not, and all her silks and jewels could not disguise that. I was not just her sister, Elizabeth—I was the proud daughter of King Henry VIII, and I wanted everyone to be aware of it.
A royal escort of a hundred liveried horsemen accompanied me to London on the week before Christmas. If people had thought ill of me because of gossip surrounding Tom Seymour, it now seemed forgotten. I could feel all eyes upon me when I arrived at St. James's Palace and made my way to the king's presence chamber. Ladies and gentlemen of the court outdid themselves with bows and curtsies, smiles and greetings.
"Sweet Sister Temperance!" King Edward called out after I had gone through the courtesies he demanded— one, two, three, four, five. That much had not changed! Then he rose and held out his ring, and I kissed it.
But there was no sign of Mary.
"I invited her," my brother said. "I wrote to her in my own hand and asked her to join us. She replied that her health is poor, but that she will come to visit for a few days in the new year."
I thought her absence odd. "Mary has excused herself from the Yuletide celebrations," I told Kat as my maids dressed me for the evening's banquet.
"Mary fears she would not be allowed to hear the Roman Mass at Christmas if she came to court," Kat said, assuring me that she had this knowledge on good authority.
Acts of Parliament during my father's reign had outlawed the Roman Catholic Church in England. Edward and I had been raised as Protestants, and Edward was now head of the Church of England, the one true church. Despite all, Mary persisted in her practice of Catholicism, the faith of her mother and of her childhood.
For the next three weeks, my brother and I spent many hours in each other's company, walking, talking, playing quiet games of chess. During this time we were nearly as close and comfortable with each other as we had been as children. But each night a royal banquet was held in the Great Hall for at least a hundred guests, and then Edward was transformed again into a strutting, posturing monarch. I found such behavior revolting, but it was forbidden to criticize the king. As always I was seated at some distance from Edward.
Although he appeared to eat very little at the nightly feasts, my brother ordered two courses to be served, each course consisting of at least two dozen dishes—roast pig, frumenty with venison, all kinds of fish and fowl, pasties and puddings—each presented, tasted, and then carried off.
For the Christmas feast itself, trumpet fanfares announced the arrival of the boar's head, carried in on a golden charger, its tusks gilded and set aflame. The entire company sang an old carol while the servants knelt and presented the boar's head to the king.
Yuletide climaxed with Twelfth Night, more festive and riotous than all the feasts that had preceded it. The main event was the choosing of the Lord of Misrule. In my father's time the singing and dancing that followed had continued until dawn. Since my brother had come to the throne, the dancing was much more restrained and ended at an earlier hour. Still, I enjoyed what dancing was permitted and had no lack of partners.
Suddenly Robin Dudley appeared before me. I had not seen him since I was last at court. Now, at sixteen, he had grown much taller and was exceedingly well made. My brother had appointed him Master of the Buckhounds. Edward loved to hunt deer in the company of Robin and his hounds, and Robin, I had heard, was now much at court. I was overjoyed to see him again.
"I must speak to you in private, Elizabeth," he whispered as the music began and we briefly joined hands to execute certain steps.
This provoked my curiosity, but I could only smile as we whirled apart. I thought quickly. Where can we meet without being interrupted? On this night I knew of one place almost certain to be deserted. "The chapel royal," I murmured as again our hands joined. "When the next dance begins."
It was easy enough to slip away, and I waited impatie
ntly in the empty chapel royal. What would Robin have to say? Was it something about King Edward? Something about me?
Moments later Robin appeared in the shadows. Then he stepped into the flickering light of the few candles that had been left burning.
"Elizabeth," he said, and I noted that his voice was husky. Without waiting for my response, he hurried on. "I am betrothed."
"Oh? To what fortunate lady?" I asked. I confess that the news took me unawares.
"Amy Robsart. We are to be married in June."
"Married in June!" I exclaimed.
That the wealthy Robsarts and the ambitious Dudleys saw a betrothal as a mutual advantage was no surprise. Betrothals are pledges that bind two people for a year, but often the betrothals are broken, or the year allowed to pass with neither a marriage nor a renewal of the pledge. That a wedding date had actually been set did indeed astonish me. I suppose I somehow hoped that my old friend would remain free. My feelings made no sense, and I kept silent, not trusting my voice to conceal them.
"Would that it were you, Elizabeth!" he cried, and for one wild moment I wanted to throw myself into his arms.
But I did nothing of the sort. "I shall never marry, Robin," I said. "Not you, nor anyone."
I turned away and hurried out of the chapel. What had I said? I shall never marry. Did I truly mean it? Never? I felt confused, almost giddy. But in minutes I was following the complicated steps of a gigue with Guildford Dudley, Robin's younger, clumsier, and far less comely brother.
For the next four days, I had no further conversations with Robin. I felt that he was avoiding me, and I did not go out of my way to seek his company. But my own words continued to echo in my head: I shall never marry. I felt as though I had somehow crossed a vast ocean, never to return.
DAYS LATER I bade my brother farewell. My visit to court had been a success, but still it was with relief that I headed north for Hatfield with my retinue. My only regular visitor during the dark, cold days of winter was Sir William Cecil, a member of my brother's privy council and the only one of the sixteen men whom I believed to be above reproach. To this sober and honest gentleman, I had entrusted the management of my financial affairs.
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