Beware, Princess Elizabeth

by Carolyn Meyer

  On the first of October in 1553, wearing a crimson robe trimmed with ermine over my gown of white and silver, I carried my sister's train at her coronation. The pomp and ceremony exceeded even that of Edward's coronation, for the new queen had a flair for pageantry. After a ceremony lasting seven hours, I was the first to take the oath of allegiance to Queen Mary. At the banquet that followed at Westminster Hall, I was seated next to my sister. Thousands of dishes had been prepared for the feast, but the queen ate only the wild boar. These exhilarating days were a time of joy and celebration for everyone—everyone save those shut up in the Tower.

  I, too, rejoiced: I shall be the next queen of England! I shall be the next to wear the crown!

  CHAPTER 8

  Queen Mary

  After her coronation Mary moved from her country manor into Whitehall Palace. Soon thereafter she invited me to join her at court. After all those months in the country, I was happy to take up residence in London. I settled into Somerset House, the city mansion I had acquired after the execution of its former owner, Edward Seymour, duke of Somerset. I had traded another property for this great mansion, which was much to my taste—a combination of classic simplicity and elegance. It was also close to Whitehall.

  One afternoon the queen's messenger delivered a note. I broke the royal seal. Dearest Sister, the note began. We beg you to sup with us this day. We have much to discuss with you. It was signed Maria Regina—Mary the Queen.

  I understood that she was using the royal we. And I wondered what it was we wanted to discuss. While the messenger waited, I penned a quick reply, assuring Her Majesty of my great pleasure, and so on and so forth.

  I was in a fine mood as I prepared to take supper with the queen. Kat Ashley watched as my maids dressed me in a black velvet gown with French sleeves over a white damask petticoat. Kat was no longer with me as a governess—I was now twenty—but I relied on her as I always had for her companionship.

  "No jewels, madam?" asked Kat, who was always urging me to wear one of the finely wrought pieces left me by my father. "The diamond-and-ruby necklace would be splendid with that gown."

  "No jewels," I said firmly, still feeling that a plain form of dress suited me best. Instead, around my waist I clasped a simple gold chain from which hung a girdle book, a miniature prayer book bound in gold. It had been a gift from my brother, and I treasured it. Then I called for Lady Marian and Lady Cynthia to accompany me and two gentlemen to ride with us to Whitehall Palace.

  Ushered into the queen's privy chamber, I dropped three times to one knee (Mary didn't require this be done five times, as Edward had) as I approached her chair. After we had exchanged the usual greetings, Queen Mary invited me to be seated on a low stool, my ladies on silken cushions with her ladies. Then she called for wine to be brought.

  I had scarcely taken the first sip from the golden goblet when Mary looked at me steadily and said in her deep, resonant voice, "And are you hearing Mass regularly, Elizabeth?"

  "I attend those services that it so pleases God for me to attend," I replied with care, "and I am down on my knees in our Lord's presence at every opportunity."

  She knew the answer to her question before she asked it, and I knew that my evasive words didn't please her.

  "We are sure you know, my lady Elizabeth, that we intend to restore the old religion as quickly as possible."

  King Henry had banned the Catholic Church, and now Queen Mary made it plain that she intended to bring back the Roman Catholic faith to England. I didn't see how Mary had the right to undo everything our father and brother had done.

  "But, Your Majesty," I replied, perhaps too hastily, "your first official announcement granted your subjects the freedom to worship as they choose."

  The queen peered at me, head cocked to one side. "To show our good intentions, did we not order two funerals to be held for our dear brother, a Protestant service at Westminster Abbey, and a requiem Mass at the White Tower?"

  "Yes, madam," I said. I did not add that I had naively assumed she meant to permit the two faiths to exist side by side for a much longer time.

  Mary gazed at me with glittering eyes. "Now, who better to assist in making the change—the necessary change—than the queen's own sister?"

  "Yes, madam," I repeated meekly. I saw that it was useless—even dangerous—to argue.

  "Good," said the queen. "Half a dozen Masses are said daily in our chapel royal. Every one of our privy councillors attends. We expect that you will attend as well, Elizabeth."

  "Yes, madam."

  "And stop wearing that foolish prayer book you have hanging at your waist," she said irritably.

  "As Your Majesty wishes," I said. What else is there to say to the queen? One may disagree, but one obeys. Or gives the impression of obedience. Oh, to be queen and have such power! I thought.

  Then Mary presented me with a gift, a rosary with beads of red and white coral, and proceeded with our supper—stew made of wild boar, of which I am not overfond but that was apparently my sister's favorite dish.

  Throughout the meal we were entertained by the antics of Jane the Fool. She was dressed as a lady of the court in silks and satins, but for her shoes and stockings, which were those of a clown. With her shaved head and odd costume, Jane looked absurd.

  To my great relief the evening ended early. I could hardly wait to get away from my sister.

  "We shall be attending Mass," I told my ladies as we rode back to Somerset House. "Every morning, every evening, and sometimes in between."

  "Yes, madam," they murmured.

  "If you do not know how to say a rosary," I said, "then you had better learn."

  KAT WAS ANXIOUSLY pacing my bedchamber. I removed my girdle book, kissed it in memory of Edward, and handed it to her. "I am forbidden to wear this," I told her.

  As my maids undressed me, I described the conversation with the queen.

  "It is no small thing that she requires of you," Kat said, "but you can in your heart make it seem but a small thing. For your own safety and good."

  And so, with a great show of piety, I presented myself twice each day at Mass at one of the chapels royal, where I would be publicly observed and my presence quickly reported to Mary, if she happened not to be there. I carried the rosary she had given me and murmured my prayers over the beads as I counted them one by one. I fixed my eyes upon the jeweled crosses that had been placed once more upon the altars, along with the gold candlesticks and chalices set with precious gems, now brought out of those secret places where they had been hidden during Edward's reign.

  I went to Mass only because I was forced to. When I found an excuse—a headache, a stomach pain, a touch of choler—I did not attend. My ladies-in-waiting were instructed to make known to Mary's ladies-in-waiting that I suffered from an indisposition of some sort.

  I tried to give the appearance of conforming to the queen's doctrines, but I still believed as I had always believed. Mary was not deceived. It was the loyal Sir William Cecil who warned me: "The queen knows well enough that your behavior is a pretense, and the sham infuriates her. She makes no secret of her dislike of you and speaks of it openly, as do the visitors to her court. You are referred to as 'the heretic sister.'"

  "And what of you, Sir William?" I retorted. "Are you not a heretic as well?"

  "I am not a Catholic, that is true. And I am no longer a member of the privy council, although I have placed myself at the queen's service. But I do not challenge her rule. You do, madam." As we parted Cecil bowed low. "Spies are all around you," he murmured. "Take care."

  The queen and I continued to treat each other with icy civility. We were both good actors, but I was better—I had to be.

  When the queen called her first Parliament, she demanded that her mother's marriage to our father be declared lawful. This officially removed the stain of bastardy from Mary. But she had no intention of doing the same favor for my mother and me. If she had her way, I would remain a bastard all my life.

  ***
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  I HAD JUST returned from Mass early one morning when one of my young pages announced a visitor. "Edward Courtenay, earl of Devon," piped the boy. Lady Cynthia and Lady Letitia glanced up, surprised at a caller's coming at such an hour.

  The words were scarcely out of the page's mouth than the earl pranced into my chambers, without waiting for permission or invitation. He was foppishly dressed in brown velvet trunk hose slashed to reveal yellow satin. A great many pearls were stitched to his velvet doublet, and a yellow feather drooped from his cap. "Good morrow, Lady Elizabeth," he said, as though we had known each other all our lives and were on familiar terms. He did not doff his cap, nor did he bow as deeply as he should have.

  Startled, I dropped the book I was reading. He picked it up and handed it to me, grinning broadly.

  I snatched the book out of his hand. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mister Courtenay?" I asked coldly.

  He opened his arms expansively. "Queen Mary has set me free! She sent me these clothes, and many more like them, and she gave me a title, earl of Devon. And plenty of jewels, too. Look"—he waved a ring beneath my nose—"she gave me this as well." The ring that glittered on his finger had once belonged to my father. I scarcely knew whether to laugh in his face or have him removed from my sight.

  I had never met Edward Courtenay before, although I had heard of him. Many years earlier my father had ordered the execution of Courtenay's father and had young Edward shut up in the Tower of London, where he'd remained a prisoner for fifteen years. He was now twenty-seven.

  In the years he'd spent behind prison walls, Courtenay had become an accomplished scholar and musician. During his visit he quoted intelligently and at length from works of Cicero. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he picked up my lute and entertained us with a few songs. Apparently no one had taught him manners. I could not understand the purpose of his visit and found his presence exceedingly annoying. It was all I could do to get rid of him.

  The door was hardly shut behind him than Lady Letitia jumped up and began to mimic his preening walk and extravagant gestures. "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" cried Lady Marian, and we all laughed until we wept at the unfortunate Courtenay.

  "Watch out, madam," sniffed Lady Cynthia, dabbing tears from her eyes. "Next he will be coming to court you!"

  "I should hope not!" I exclaimed. But I did wonder if the queen had sent him to visit with a plan in mind.

  ONE DAY IN October I received a letter from my cousin Catherine Knollys. Catherine was the daughter of my mother's sister, Mary Carey. Catherine had married Sir Francis Knollys, a pompous man with a reputation as a fanatical Protestant. Sir Francis was much older than Catherine, and I thought the match a very dull one. Catherine doted on her young daughter, a child I had not seen since her christening.

  "My dear cousin," wrote Catherine from her estate in Essex, "too long a time has passed since last we enjoyed one another's company. I beg your leave to allow me a visit."

  I replied at once, bidding her to come without delay and to bring her darling little Lettice.

  Catherine arrived in mid-October with only a governess for the little girl and three servants, almost as though the visit were secret.

  My cousin had become rounder in face and figure since the birth of her daughter, but she also looked tired and drawn. Lettice was an exquisite child, barely five years old, with reddish curls and great blue eyes. My servants offered comfits to the daughter and hippocras to the mother, who drank it off greedily. Then Catherine set down the goblet with a nervous clank.

  "May we speak freely?" she asked in a low voice.

  I didn't answer directly. "If you are not too weary from your journey," I said, rising, "you and Lettice might enjoy a walk in the garden."

  I knew that Mary had placed a number of spies in my household, adding to my discomfort, but I hadn't yet discovered which servants were loyal to me and which would betray me and my friends. In the garden at least, Catherine and I would be alone—observed, no doubt, but not overheard.

  Soon we were strolling arm in arm, and Lettice gamboled like a spring lamb along the paths. The air was soft and unusually warm. "Now, dear cousin," I said, "tell me."

  Catherine stared straight ahead. "We are leaving."

  "Leaving?" For a moment I thought she meant that she and Lettice were cutting short their visit. "But you have only just arrived. Leaving for where?"

  "France. My husband says we have no choice. The queen has made it impossible for us to stay here."

  I understood; Sir Francis was outspoken in his religious views. I said nothing but patted her arm as comfortingly as I knew how.

  "We expect the persecution to begin sooner rather than later," Catherine continued. "We are fleeing for our lives, Elizabeth, and so should you!" she added passionately.

  "Have no fear for me," I assured her, although I felt far from assured myself. "I attend Mass regularly. The queen knows this."

  "That is not enough to protect you," Catherine declared. "Many other Protestants are leaving for the Continent, and we are prepared to stay abroad for as long as Mary is queen. But many more will remain here, and they are as unhappy as we that our freedom to worship is being taken away."

  I nodded. "Perhaps the queen will relent when she sees how many oppose her." I didn't believe that, but I did not want to reveal my own deep fears.

  Catherine stopped and gripped both of my hands in hers. "Why are you being so blind, Elizabeth? The Protestants who stay here will surely plot a rebellion against Queen Mary—Francis has told me that. They will just as surely rally around you, and you will be blamed!"

  "I will have nothing to do with such a plot," I said.

  "You will have nothing to say about it, and Queen Mary will not take your word. Your house is infested with spies!" Catherine was weeping now. "Oh, dear Elizabeth, I fear that I shall never see you again!"

  The sound of her mother's sobs attracted the notice of little Lettice, who scampered back to clutch at Catherine's petticoats. I pressed my fingers to my cousin's lips, begging her to say no more. We finished our walk and returned to the palace, holding tightly to each other's hands to still the trembling.

  Catherine and Lettice stayed with me for three days. Naturally I wanted to question Catherine at length: Did she know of any such plots? Did she know the names of the plotters? Had my name been mentioned, or was this simply a guess? But I decided that it was safer if I did not know. Then, if questioned, I could truthfully plead complete innocence.

  At the end of the three days, my cousin prepared to leave, all of us weeping many tears, not knowing when—or if!—we would see one another again. Catherine tried once more to persuade me to flee to the safety of the Continent.

  "I cannot leave England," I told her. "I am England, and someday I shall be her queen."

  "But you must live if you are to become queen!" she cried.

  "I shall live and I shall rule," I said. But at that moment I needed every bit of courage to believe my own words.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Queen in Love

  My heart still ached from the departure of my cousin Catherine when Queen Mary startled us all with the announcement that she had decided the time had come for her to marry. She informed the privy council of her intent, and now the talk was of little else.

  "Marry!" I exclaimed to Sir William Cecil when he brought me this latest piece of news. "Marry whom?"

  It was believed that no woman had the wit or the strength to rule on her own—even Sir William was in agreement with that notion. The choice of a husband for the queen, then, was of the greatest importance, not merely for her own happiness but for the good of the country. Almost from the moment the crown had settled upon Mary's head, a number of suitors had appeared. But Mary had shown no interest in any of them and no inclination to proceed quickly, and so the new announcement came as a surprise.

  Over supper Sir William and I considered the possibilities.

  "Reginald Pole," suggested Si
r William.

  "Pole is a cardinal!" I protested. "A prince of the Catholic Church! He has been in Rome since my father banished him twenty years ago. And was he not within a vote or two of being elected pope?"

  Sir William fingered his tidy mustache. "All that you say is true. But Pole was never ordained a priest. He is only a deacon, and he might, if he wishes—if the queen wishes—be released from his deacon's vows."

  "I have heard that Mary once loved him," I said, considering the idea. "But that was years ago."

  "There is another candidate," Cecil continued. "And he has the backing of many on the privy council."

  "And who may that be?"

  "Edward Courtenay."

  I burst out laughing. Since his visit to me, I'd had no private meetings with the earl, but he had certainly been visible at court.

  "He struts about like a peacock, well pleased with himself," I reminded Cecil, "and he has not the least idea of proper behavior. I suppose it is difficult to learn courtly manners when one has been shut away from society throughout one's youth, but I suspect that Edward Courtenay might have been just as insufferable if he had been brought up at the king's elbow."

  Cecil agreed, but he pointed out that even with all his faults, there were councillors who thought Courtenay the best match for the queen. "He is English, and his bloodlines are good—that is enough to convince the council, who would do anything to avoid having a foreigner as king. But," continued Cecil, "the queen will learn soon enough that Courtenay has been seen in the company of loose women and has a talent for debauchery. The earl of Devon will no longer be a contender for the queen's hand."