Beware, Princess Elizabeth

by Carolyn Meyer

  I was not unhappy during this quiet time, although I do confess to bouts of restlessness. To cure them I often called for one of my geldings to be saddled and brought to me. "I fear that you will break your neck!" Kat invariably fretted, wringing her hands. But I always returned muddy, wet, and bedraggled from the hard, fast ride over the heath, unharmed and thoroughly exhilarated. I loved the danger, and on the back of a horse I felt as though I was in charge of my life.

  I did occasionally think of Robin, but I had made up my mind that no man should be my undoing, as Tom Seymour nearly had been.

  WINTER WAS reluctantly yielding to spring when I was again summoned to visit my brother, during Passiontide in 1550. The court had moved to Hampton Court, a sumptuous palace on the Thames several miles upriver from London. There were no festive banquets in that penitential season, only plain Lenten fare during the two weeks before the Great Feast of Easter.

  At twelve Edward was thin and frail-looking, one shoulder held higher than the other. He was shortsighted, and he squinted in order to see objects at a distance. In an attempt to mimic our strong, athletic father, he swaggered about with his small fists planted on his narrow hips and his delicate features twisted in a scowl. And even when we dined in private, his carvers and cupbearers were ordered to doff their caps and drop to their knees to serve him. He tried to utter thunderous oaths, but his voice wobbled and squeaked between boy's and man's.

  It had become a kind of game with Edward to elude the prying eyes of John Dudley, who now bore the title of duke of Northumberland. Dudley and the other privy councillors watched the king like falcons about to swoop down on a hapless rabbit. To escape their vigilant gaze, my brother and I hurried off to the maze of hedges that our father had ordered built in the gardens at Hampton Court. Edward had memorized every twist and turn among the tall privets, and once we'd found the heart of the maze, we believed we had a little time in which to speak privately before anyone discovered us.

  Wrapped in furs against the damp, chill wind that swept off the river, Edward settled himself on a stone bench to rest and gestured for me to kneel upon the cold ground. Even under these circumstances he would not share the bench with me. I wanted to shout at him, "Edward, I am your sister! There is no cloth of estate here!" But I did not. No matter how foolish the boy's behavior, I was the king's subject and dared not correct him or point out his follies. And so I dutifully bit my tongue to silence and shivered on my knees.

  "Sweet Sister Temperance," Edward began, as he usually did when he addressed me, "I worry myself about our sister."

  "Mary? What is wrong, my lord? Is she not coming here to join us for Easter?"

  "She is not. Again she has refused, making some excuse. She hints that she suspects a plot against her."

  "Surely she is mistaken, my lord," I said, but I was thinking, Doubtless she is not mistaken. I did not trust the king's advisers, especially Dudley, and probably, quite rightly, Mary didn't either.

  Edward sighed. "She refuses to give up her devotion to the Catholic Church. But she must! Word has reached the councillors that not only does she continue to hear Mass daily but that her entire household joins her. And this has been strictly forbidden! Why do you suppose she clings to these practices so stubbornly? It would be so much easier to agree to what the law demands."

  "I care deeply for our sister," I answered carefully, as custom required, "but I neither understand nor approve of her religious ideas. Could she not learn to praise God as a Protestant?"

  Edward suffered a fit of coughing. When it had passed he said, "I have been told that Mary may try to flee the country. She has been in contact with the Emperor Charles. She asked him to send a ship to take her away to Flanders."

  Emperor Charles was Mary's cousin on her mother's side. And he was the most powerful man in Europe. But for him to do as Mary asked was risky. Suppose Mary were to marry a Catholic king who might attempt to overthrow Edward and restore Catholicism? The emperor would feel obliged to fight for Mary, and he'd find himself at war against England.

  "But why would she want to run away?" I asked.

  Edward was silent for a time, and we both listened for the footsteps of those who'd surely have been sent to find us. "Because she believes I would have her put to death. Dear Elizabeth, I should so hate to do that! She is like a mother to me, and I do love her so!"

  I was shocked. This was the first I had heard him speak of such a thing. Put Mary to death? Would he really do that—execute his own sister? He looked so upset that I was also fairly certain it was not his idea. "But why? What has she done to deserve death? And on whose advice would you have our sister executed?" I asked.

  "The councillors have spoken of it," Edward said, weeping now. "Because she will not obey the laws and give up her foolish religion! They discuss it among themselves, and it upsets me terribly that they do so. But I must do as they say, especially Dudley, for he knows what is best for England and I do not!"

  I could say nothing. To contradict him, even in private, was very dangerous. My brother was highly intelligent, but he was still only a boy. With the exception of Cecil, the privy councillors hovered over him and dictated his every move, always for their own benefit. "The king lacks the strength of his own will," Kat had often said. "Dudley has made him a doll-puppet."

  Now, before we could say more, we heard voices. They were coming closer. I squeezed Edward's hand, and like naughty children we waited to be found.

  HATFIELD, which now belonged to me, had been cleansed in my absence. The soiled rush mats on the floors had been removed and sweet-smelling ones laid in their place. Wall hangings and tapestries blackened with soot from the winter fires had been taken down and exposed to fresh air, the walls scrubbed and whitened. Bed hangings and coverlets and mattresses stuffed with wool were refreshed, mended, replaced. Silver and gold plate was polished, linens bleached in the sunshine. I found everything in good order.

  I had the responsibility of overseeing a great estate that produced quantities of mutton and beef, wool and leather, as well as fat for making candles and soap. Much of the production of Hatfield went to supply King Edward's court. It was my pleasure to ride out to watch the peasants at their labors. As long as I lived a quiet country life, away from the intrigue of court, I felt that I was in no danger.

  Then came an invitation to attend the wedding of Robin Dudley to Amy Robsart. I had grown accustomed to the idea that my old friend would soon be a married man.

  On a fine, sunny day in June, I traveled from Hatfield with a large retinue to Windsor Castle. My brother, who had come from London with a much larger retinue, was given the place of honor at the wedding, and I a place lower down. Among the guests was Lady Jane Grey, now so delicately beautiful and so elegantly gowned that she risked drawing undue attention away from the bride.

  I was happy to see Jane, and we contrived to have a few moments to talk together. "My life is a misery," she confided at once. "I do believe that God intends for me to suffer."

  "I do not believe that God intends for any of His creatures to suffer," I said, but before I could determine the cause of her misery, we were separated by a band of musicians. I suspected that she was getting on with her cruel parents no better than she ever had.

  Amy Robsart was a plump little thing, nearly swallowed up in an overwrought gown of silver tissue. Two young boys led her to the church, carrying branches of rosemary, gilded and swagged with silk ribbons. They were accompanied by a dozen maidens, each bearing a bride cake. Musicians piped a merry tune. But my eye was drawn to Robin, who, looking as fine as I have ever seen him, arrived at the church doors with his gentlemen.

  Robin and his bride exchanged their vows, and once the wedding ring had been placed upon fair Amy's thumb, the priest covered them with the nuptial veil and blessed the marriage. That done, we all made our way to the castle along a path strewn with rose petals and rosemary.

  We feasted and danced quite decorously, and so the day passed. I have always enjoyed weddin
gs, but I confess that about this one I felt differently. Did Robin Dudley truly love Amy? I doubted it. Love has nothing to do with marriage, but money does. Amy had indeed made her husband quite rich. There was no reason I should have suffered such pangs of the heart. Yet it was as though a door I'd not noticed before had been suddenly and forever shut.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Dying King

  Just after my seventeenth birthday, in September, a messenger arrived at Hatfield with a letter from Robin's father, John Dudley, the lord protector. I broke the seal and read the brief message: It is the king's opinion that the time has come for you to wed, he wrote, adding that in his position as head of the privy council, he was considering several possible suitors. It shall be my duty to inform you as negotiations proceed. The letter ended with all sorts of wishes for my good health and was decorated with ornamental flourishes.

  I was furious. "Kat!" I called out so loudly that my voice echoed through the palace. "Kat, where are you? I need you at once!"

  Moments later Kat rushed in, her cap askew. "My lady Elizabeth! What is it?"

  I was so angry I could hardly speak. I thrust the offensive letter into Kat's hands. "Read this!" I commanded.

  Kat did so and then glanced up at me with her mild blue eyes. "Why does this upset you so, Elizabeth?" she asked. "You are of an age. It is not unexpected, surely?"

  "Kat, is it possible that you do not understand? Have you not heard me speak of this in the past?" I demanded hotly. "I do not wish, to marry!"

  Kat studied me carefully. "Come," she said at last, "let us have some ale, and we can discuss the matter."

  "There is nothing to discuss," I declared when two silver tankards of ale had been brought to us. "I have thought it over quite carefully for some time, and my mind is made up. I shall not change it. I shall not marry."

  "But you must, Elizabeth!" Kat insisted. "It is not possible for you not to marry! Firstly, it is expected of you, as it is of every woman. Secondly, to remain unmarried would be unwise for your health, both in body and in mind. Just look at your poor sister!"

  "That is my sister's matter, and this is mine," I snapped. "I intend to remain a virgin."

  I thought I detected a slight smile on Kat's lips. "Is it not imaginable," she asked, "that you might change your mind in the future? If the right man should happen along?"

  "Never!" I said, setting down my tankard of ale so hard that the amber liquid splashed upon my gown. "Never!"

  Wisely, Kat said no more, and I scribbled a brief note to the lord protector. "I do not wish to marry," I wrote. Having nothing more to add, I dated it and signed my name. Then I summoned the messenger to carry my letter back to London.

  In the months that followed, I learned that John Dudley had ignored my letter and my wishes. He had entered into negotiations with four foreign noblemen—one was a Frenchman, one a German, and two were Italians, all with fathers or brothers who were powerful dukes.

  As soon as I heard of it, I swore that I would accept none of them, nor any other. For the time being at least, God's grace shone upon me. In all four instances the negotiations came to nothing. I did understand, though, that the demand that I marry sooner rather than later would be unrelenting.

  AS SEASON followed season I divided my life between quiet times in the country with my former tutor, Professor Ascham, as my intellectual companion, and lively visits to court, where I was much in my brother's favor. I enjoyed the attention I received as the king's sister. Although Edward still insisted upon his rituals, I did love my brother dearly and cherished my time with him. But I also pitied him.

  "You have no idea how terrible it is, dear sister," Edward once confided when we had again managed to elude the advisers who seemed always to surround him.

  "Terrible how?" I asked.

  "My uncle Edward Seymour has been let out of the Tower and once again serves on the council. He and Dudley argue and shout at each other, and no one listens to me! I want so much to be a good king, and I know that I can do it, if they will only let me. But they will allow me to do nothing at all." And he fell weeping into my arms.

  IN THE SUMMER of 1551, the sweating sickness scourged England as it had not done for many years. Visitors to Hatfield Palace told me that in London the church bells tolled ceaselessly for the dead. Away from the ill humors of the city, I prayed that we might be spared. I was especially worried about Edward.

  Thanks be to God he escaped the sweat, as did I and others close to me. But many were not so fortunate; in all, fifty thousand people died that summer.

  Although Edward did not fall victim to the sweat, I could see that my brother's health was in alarming decline. When I attended court at Christmas 1551, my fourteen-year-old brother looked more frail than ever.

  Another year passed, during which Dudley succeeded in permanently removing his chief rival, Edward Seymour, by ordering his execution. It must have been a terrible time for my brother, who once again had to sign the order for an uncle's death.

  I attended court when King Edward summoned me, always dreading that first sight of him and the obvious signs of declining strength. I saw Mary not at all during this time. In the winter of 1553, I translated from Italian a sermon by a religious reformer whose work had impressed me deeply. I copied this translation onto parchment in my most elegant handwriting and sent it to Edward. No one can match the extent of my love and good feeling toward you, I wrote to him with great sincerity.

  In his letter of thanks, I saw in both his words and his wavering script that my brother was very ill. I sent a message at once that I was coming to visit him.

  The early spring weather did not favor my journey from Hatfield to London, and my retinue and I found ourselves pelted with stinging sleet. As we neared our destination, we were met by a group of sodden and mud-splattered men who signaled us to halt. One of the men, whom I recognized as a member of the privy council, presented me with a letter ordering me to turn back.

  At first I thought to ignore the letter, signed not by King Edward but by John Dudley, duke of Northumberland.

  "The king is my brother," I said, addressing the councillor, "and I shall see him unless he himself turns me away."

  "My lady Elizabeth," he replied, "I assure you that you will be refused admission to the king's bedchamber."

  For a long moment the councillor and I stared at each other. But my will was no match for John Dudley's. I had no doubt that if I continued on, Dudley would find a pretext to have me seized and imprisoned—or worse. Angrily I turned my horse back toward Hatfield.

  My anger was quickly replaced by sadness; my brother was dying. But in the midst of my sorrow came the growing realization that, according to the order of succession established by our father's will, Mary would become queen at Edward's death. And that day was not far away. My mind leaped to the future: Edward had not lived long enough to produce an heir. Mary, at thirty-three, was still unmarried. Instead of standing far from the throne, I would soon be next in line. That realization thrilled me, but it also frightened me. I was beginning to understand that many people, beginning with John Dudley and the privy councillors, would stop at nothing—including murder—to block Mary's way, and then mine.

  And so, in the days that followed, I prayed fervently for my brother and, in a state of high anxiety, awaited further word. My own physician kept me informed: Edward was coughing blood, his body wasting away, his mind fevered and disturbed. The end was near.

  BECAUSE I SPENT most of my time at Hatfield, the gossip of the court was always stale and often somewhat altered by the time it reached me. Thus I was unprepared for the announcement, in May, of the betrothal of Jane Grey to John Dudley's youngest son, Robin's brother Guildford.

  Several of my ladies-in-waiting devoured gossip as a thirsty horse drinks water; they were also well connected, with brothers and cousins at court. These ladies—Cynthia, Marian, and Letitia—enjoyed bringing me morsels of rumor and scandal, which they presented as we sat at our needlework. Petty
gossip to them was to me a matter of life and death, but I pretended to delight in their revelations.

  "Lady Jane does not want this marriage, not at all," reported Lady Cynthia, an auburn-haired young woman with emerald green eyes.

  "Why not?"

  "She claims that she is already promised to Edward Seymour's son, Lord Hertford."

  "Lord Hertford!" I exclaimed. "She prefers marriage to a spindleshanks like Hertford to Guildford Dudley?"

  "Guildford is not ill favored," Lady Letitia granted, "although not nearly so handsome as his brother Robin." She shot me a mischievous glance, which I blandly ignored. "But Jane cannot abide John Dudley or his wife. The duchess has Guildford completely under her thumb, I hear."

  "Perhaps Lady Jane will find a way out," I suggested. I regretted now that Jane and I were not as close as we once had been, and I wished that she had confided in me.

  "The wedding is to take place in a fortnight," said Lady Marian, a plain and practical sort. "There is so little time that she is not even to have a new gown. John Dudley has given them access to the royal wardrobe and told them to help themselves to whatever finery they choose."

  "But," said Cynthia, knotting her silken thread with a flourish, "Lady Jane was assured by her parents that her life will go on as before, and she shall continue to live at home, as she has since the death of the dowager queen. They have promised that her studies will proceed uninterrupted."

  "Dear Jane!" I exclaimed. "Being able to pursue her studies will be of utmost importance to her." So it's to be a marriage in name only, until an heir is wanted, I thought. What will be the next twist in this plot?