And we surely cannot set her free—she is too dangerous for that!
If we brought her to court, we could watch her closely—but having her at court is an offense to the queen!
So, what shall we do with Elizabeth?
Every night as I lay down in my barren chamber, I thanked God for granting me one more day. Every morning I awoke thinking that this day might be my last.
ON THE NINETEENTH of May in 1554, the anniversary of my mother's execution and three long months after I had been taken to London from Ashridge, a detachment of guards arrived at the Tower and ordered me to prepare to leave. I stood stock-still, as if made of wood.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked.
"It is not permitted to inform the prisoner."
So, I was still a prisoner. But I was not to be executed—at least not yet. A condemned prisoner is sent a priest to hear a last confession, and there was no priest.
Down to the Water Gate we went, my footsteps dragging. I was grateful to be alive, but still very frightened. I had no idea what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 12
Elizabeth, Prisoner
I refused to look back at the Tower as the oarsmen bent to their task and the unpainted wooden boat moved upstream with the tide, passing under the arches of London Bridge. No one on the banks paused for a second look. Eventually we made for the landing at Richmond Palace.
"Why are we stopping here?" I asked one of the guards, who bore a livid scar from ear to chin.
"Orders of Her Majesty, the queen" was the gruff reply, a reply that told me nothing.
Once inside the palace I was led to a bare chamber. The door was quickly shut and locked from the outside, and I was entirely alone.
"Where are my ladies?" I cried, pounding on the wooden door. "My servants?"
"You are permitted to speak to no one," said the guard through a small opening in the door covered by an iron grille.
I paced fretfully, first the length of the small chamber and then the breadth. The single window was too high for me to see anything but a patch of blue sky. Gradually the sky grew dark.
Sometime later the guard returned with a bowl of rank-smelling mutton stew and a pewter tankard of ale, which he set just inside the door. I could not bear to touch either one. The sky faded to inky blackness.
All night I lay awake on a pallet on the floor, with only a thin coverlet. Terrified, I was certain I had been brought here so that my death could be accomplished in secrecy, to prevent an outcry from my friends and whatever supporters I might have. Wyatt was dead, along with others involved in the rebellion. But were there some still alive who wished me to be their queen? Would they have the courage to risk everything to show their support?
The hours passed, but no soldiers arrived to drag me off to one of the dungeons in the depths of the palace. When the patch of sky at my window grew light again, the captain of the guards, the one with the scar, informed me that we were ready "to continue the journey."
I decided I would not give him the satisfaction of my asking any more questions. There was no sign of my ladies-in-waiting. They had all been dismissed. Surrounded by the blank faces and foul breath of the men sent to guard me, I would have welcomed even Lady Maud for companionship.
Fear cloaked me like a worn-out garment as I stepped once more onto the barge. We proceeded upriver, attracting no notice, until we reached Windsor Castle. The guards took me not to the great castle itself but to a small house near St. George's Chapel, where my father's bones lay buried. There I was again locked away and passed another tormented night, listening for the tramp of feet, the click of a key in the lock, a stealthy executioner come to take my life. But another dawn broke, and miraculously I was still alive.
Not long after sunrise I was led out to the courtyard, where a rude litter waited. Also waiting was Sir Henry Bedingfield, a member of the queen's privy council. Bewhiskered and bejowled, Sir Henry presented himself to me upon his knees. "The queen has made me responsible for your safety and comfort," he said, hands clasped and jowls aquiver. "I beg you, madam, regard me not as jailer but as an officer in your service."
"Good Lord, deliver me from such officers," I snapped. I climbed into the litter, and the journey continued, with Bedingfield riding by my side. We had turned away from the river and made our way through the green and flowering countryside. We seemed to be headed north and west, possibly toward Oxfordshire.
Although every effort had been made to conceal the fact that I was a person of any importance, word had somehow spread that King Henry's younger daughter was traveling through the villages and hamlets. Signaled by the ringing of church bells, people all along our route turned out to welcome me. Little boys rode their fathers' shoulders and cheered, "God save you, Princess!" Mothers pushed their daughters forward to present me with sweetmeats and nosegays. So many gifts were heaped upon my litter that scarcely any room was left for me.
This spontaneous outpouring of goodwill and affection lifted my spirits. For the first time in months, I felt hopeful. I did have supporters, then—the simple folk of the countryside. All this wild enthusiasm made Bedingfield impatient and uneasy. He glowered at the cheering farmers and yeomen and goodwives but made no move to stop them.
Waving and laughing, I called out, "Good people, I beg you, keep these wondrous cakes for your own enjoyment!" But that didn't stop them. I was their own Princess Elizabeth, daughter of their beloved King Henry, and they seemed determined to show their love for me. It is a great thing to be loved, I thought; far better than to be feared.
We halted for the night at the village of Rycote, where the lord of the manor entertained me lavishly under Bedingfield's disapproving eye. It had been a long time since I'd enjoyed such a feast. As we prepared to leave the next morning, I thanked the baron for his hospitality.
"Bear in mind, madam," said the baron quietly as he bowed over my hand, "that you have many supporters who will gladly serve you as queen."
I smiled and nodded and hurried away. Fortunately, Henry Bedingfield was then occupied with our horses and heard nothing. But my host's generous comment stayed with me as we rode on. I had the love of the common people, and I had the loyalty of some of the nobility who would one day serve me. But I could not rule if I did not survive. I saw plainly that henceforward my principal task was to stay alive—to wait and to watch.
AT LAST the journey ended at Woodstock Palace. Long ago a favorite hunting lodge of Norman kings, it was now reduced to a dilapidated pile of crumbling stone and shattered casement windows in the midst of a marsh reeking of decay.
"I am to stay here?" I cried. "Surely not!"
One look was sufficient to convince even Sir Henry that the old palace to which I'd been banished was not fit even for a jail. He decided that I must make my residence in the gatehouse. It took less time to inspect my quarters than it does now to describe them: for my use, a single chamber with mildewed walls and a rather curiously carved roof, to be shared with my maidservants; a chapel; a second chamber for Sir Henry and our menservants; and a third for my guards. This was where I would pass my days and nights, for I knew not how long.
Bedingfield's first act was to read me the rules, as set forth by Queen Mary: "The lady Elizabeth is forbidden to walk in the garden without an officer present. She is forbidden to receive any kind of message, letter, or gift from anyone at all."
"Books?" I interrupted. "Surely I am permitted any books I choose."
Bedingfield thumbed through the queen's rules. "Only such books as specified," he said. "Any special requests are to be made to me, and I will forward them to the privy council, who will consider the matter."
"This is outrageous, sir!" I exclaimed.
Sir Henry dropped to his knees. "Begging your pardon, madam, but I can make no exceptions, nor can I make any decisions on my own." He seemed genuinely sorry.
"Very well. Might I then also have a Bible in English?"
"I shall write to the council, madam."
Aft
er a long delay, back came the reply: The queen forbids all of her subjects (no exceptions) to read the Bible in any language but Latin. I could of course read Latin as easily as English, but it was the principle of the thing, and her refusal put me in a foul temper.
Worse even than the rude quarters was the confinement. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to talk to but the tongue-tied maidservants.
When I saw how life would be at Woodstock, I determined to write a letter to the queen. My request for writing supplies had first to be sent to the privy council, since Bedingfield was forbidden to allow me the use of his parchment, quill, and ink. The councillors dithered and fretted, suspicious that I might be plotting to incite a rebellion. Assured that I wished only to write to my sister, they relented. The materials were sent—but only in small quantity—and I composed a message, repeating to Queen Mary my declarations of loyalty and begging with all my heart for her leniency.
This turned out to be a poor idea, or perhaps it was poorly executed. Whatever the cause, my message was poorly received. In reply I got a sharp rebuke from the queen: Our pleasure is not to be anymore molested with, such letters.
I read the queen's message and wept. I shouted at Sir Henry and flung the inkhorn with what was left of the ink against the wall. Then I collapsed in sobs, realizing that, added to my misery, I had just wasted one of my precious resources.
Never has time crept so slowly! An elderly priest came from the village each day to say Mass in the musty chapel. My dinner was brought in midmorning, most often a meat pasty or a stew made of wild game, and a tankard of ale. The women who served me were dull. After dinner I had nothing but stitch after stitch after stitch of needlework to mark the passage of the long afternoon hours. Supper arrived, the priest returned for vespers, followed by an evening of reading and more stitchery, until my eyes ached and my head throbbed, and I longed for sleep.
I thought often of Kat and wondered how she fared. I missed the visits from Sir William Cecil, who had once kept me informed of events in the court's inner circle. Bedingfield offered no companionship—I avoided him and, I'm certain, he avoided me.
Even getting out of bed each morning took effort. To cheer myself I sometimes recalled the goodwill and affection of the common people who had turned out to cheer me, and the words of my host at Rycote. I knew that I had supporters out there, although I could not guess their strength. There must have been sufficient numbers to convince my sister that they—and I—were a danger to her, or she would not have kept me prisoner. I also knew that unless these supporters somehow did manage to organize a successful rebellion without my participation, my life might well continue this way until my sister died.
And if a rebel leader did succeed in asking for my help, what then? I could not agree. The risk of failure was too great—and it was my head that would be lost.
One day, when I felt sure that I would waste away my entire life within the moldering walls of this wretched place, I scratched my despair upon the pane of a window, using the diamond in my ring:
Much suspected, by me
Nothing proved can be
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner
CHAPTER 13
Lady Bess
I'm certain that I was the unhappiest woman in all of England. Day after day throughout the summer, the rain fell ceaselessly, the marshes reeked, and my quarters stank to high heaven. Under other circumstances I would have packed up and moved to another residence so that this one could be thoroughly cleansed. At the very least I wished the filthy rushes on the floor could be swept out and the mattresses aired. Even with a pomander handy to my nose, the stench was unbearable.
Then, in August, Bedingfield informed me that the privy council was sending me a lady to be my companion. "Her name is Elizabeth Sands," said Sir Henry. "She has been a member of the queen's court for some years, and Her Majesty thinks highly of her."
"I assume that she is another spy for the queen," I replied sullenly, "although I cannot imagine what she will find to spy upon in this woeful place."
Within a fortnight my new companion arrived, a short, plump woman with a heart-shaped faced. "Was your journey a pleasant one?" I asked, not caring whether it was or not.
"A pleasant journey to a place wretched in every way but my lady's company," she said, regarding the quarters we would share.
"Why have you come here?" I asked.
"Because the queen fears that you are lonely."
I laughed bitterly.
But Lady Bess, as I called her, quickly eased my suspicions and won me over. I found her both merry at heart and serious of mind. She also proved to be a marvelous gossip, as good as Kat ever was.
"You know of the queen's marriage?" Bess asked on her second day, as we each bent over a new piece of needlework.
"I knew only that she planned to marry. Has the wedding taken place, then?"
"It has. On the twenty-fifth of July, on the Feast of Saint James, patron saint of Spain, Queen Mary married King Philip."
"And now it is King Philip? When last I heard he was only a prince."
"On the night before the wedding, word came that Philip's father had made him king of Naples. The announcement was read out, and all the nobles rushed to kiss his hands. Mary never stopped grinning."
"You were there? You saw?"
Bess nodded, smiling wickedly. "I was there. I saw."
"Then tell me!" I half ordered, half pleaded, starved as I was for conversation of any sort.
For the next hour Bess described in considerable detail the scene at Winchester Cathedral—the cloth of gold hung on the walls of the church, the five bishops all in purple, Philip wearing a white doublet and breeches and draped with the mantle Mary had sent him as a gift.
Bess missed no particular: "There were two dozen large buttons on each of his sleeves, each button made of four large pearls."
"And my sister?"
"Black velvet covered all over with jewels. Her mantle matched the king's, cloth of gold trimmed with crimson velvet. She was followed by fifty gentlewomen, all in cloth of silver. The solemnities went on for hours, and the queen never took her eyes off the blessed sacrament."
"A saintly woman," I murmured, although in fact I thought her anything but saintly. No saint treated a sister as hatefully as Mary treated me.
Bess looked at me sharply. "So it is said."
"And the banquet?" I pressed. "You were present for that as well?"
"I was, madam."
"And? Tell me of it!"
Bess squinted at her needle and slipped a silken thread through the narrow eye. "If I tell you everything today, dear lady Elizabeth, there will be nothing left to tell tomorrow."
That night I invited Bess to sleep in my bed, rather than on the pallet provided for her on the damp floor. I slept soundly for the first time in many months. The next afternoon, faithful to her word, she continued her description of the wedding feast.
"I thought it would never end. The royal bride and groom were seated, but the guests ate standing up. There were four courses, each with thirty dishes. As each dish was presented, trumpets blew a fanfare and everyone bowed low. It lasted for hours. And it was very impressive—more gold and silver plate than I have ever seen in one place.
"But I did notice two things: The queen's chair was more elaborate than King Philip's, and she was served on gold plate while Philip was served on silver. If I noticed the difference, you can be sure the Spanish nobility did as well. They think we are uncouth barbarians as it is."
"Few English think well of the Spaniards," I said. "Now tell me about the dancing."
"Tomorrow," said Bess, and I could not extract another word from her on the subject.
Then a servant arrived with our supper, a fresh fish sent to us by a neighboring farmer. My appetite returned, I savored that fish more than I would have any wedding banquet.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, the first fair day we'd had in weeks, I begged Sir Henry to allow me and my companion to walk togethe
r in the garden. He refused, and my mood turned sour.
Lady Bess brushed aside my disappointment. "The smell out there is at least as bad as the smell in here," she said. "Take up your needlework, Lady Elizabeth, and I shall tell you about the wedding dance."
I resigned myself to the piece of linen I'd been working with an elaborate chain-stitch design. "Go on," I said, eager for every detail.
"It was not a great success," said Bess. "The English noblemen and their ladies were not acquainted with the dances of the Spaniards, and the other way around. Dancing together proved even more difficult than conversing together, which was almost impossible. The Spaniards spoke no English, the English spoke no Spanish. The king and queen danced together in the German style, which they both seemed to know, but I can say in all confidence that the queen far outshone her husband in this."
"Here I am, shut up in a stinking gatehouse, while my sister dances!" I cried, and flung my needlework as far as I could. For my companion's sake I collected myself. Bess skillfully changed the subject, and I asked for no more details that day.
"HAVE YOU NEWS of the wedding night?" I asked when I felt ready for another installment.
"I was not present, madam," she said with a droll wink. "But just before I left to come to you, I heard this: At about nine o'clock, the last of the guests left the wedding feast, and the king and queen went to their separate apartments to dine alone. Later they met again in the bedchamber that had been prepared for them, the marital bed blessed by the chancellor. The next morning Philip's gentlemen came knocking at the door of the chamber, following the Spanish custom of greeting the king in bed on the morning after the marriage. But Mary's ladies knew nothing of this custom and barred the door. 'Imagine,' one said later to me, 'calling on a bride the morning after her wedding night! It is indecent!'"
"Pity the queen," I snorted, not bothering to suppress an unkind laugh. "It must all have been a shock to her."
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