Then, a week after the search, two dozen of the queen's guardsmen thundered up to the gates of Hatfield Palace. As I rushed to the entryway, they called loudly for Mistress Catherine Ashley.
"For what reason?" I demanded.
"Charges of sedition, madam!" shouted the captain of the guard.
Kat, inciting rebellion? "On what evidence?" I shouted in response.
Hearing the raised voices, Kat appeared at my side, her face gray with fright. The captain glanced at Kat and then back to me. "A cabinet filled with printed material insulting and dishonoring Her Majesty, the queen, and the Holy Catholic Church. It is said to belong to that woman," he said, pointing rudely at Kat, who uttered a shrill cry and collapsed at my feet.
The guardsman paid her no attention. He unrolled a parchment and read from it. "Also ordered to be taken, one Battista Castiglione, listed here as professor of Italian, and one Francis Verney, steward."
"And the charges against them?" I asked, struggling for control.
"Sedition, madam."
I was stunned. How many times, I thought as the weeping prisoners were dragged away, must I watch as my most trusted servants are subjected to abuse, insult, and imprisonment?
My helplessness angered me and reduced me to tears. But I could do nothing but await the consequence of this latest outrage.
My friends denied all the accusations, and naturally they were not believed. Kat swore that she knew nothing of the anti-Catholic pamphlets, broadsides, and mocking ballads discovered in the cabinet. But once again she found herself a prisoner on my account, held this time in Fleet Prison. Castiglione was eventually re-leased—he confessed only that he had traveled to London on my behalf to purchase lute strings. But poor Verney was tried and sentenced to death. (He was later pardoned, but at the time neither he nor I knew if he would survive this ordeal.)
Then, unbelievably, Queen Mary sent her emissaries to me with the gift of a diamond ring and an apology for any disruption that might have been caused me by the arrest of my people! Disruption! I wanted so badly to fling both ring and apology in their faces, but of course I did neither.
Next the emissaries bid me come to court, at Mary's invitation. I knew it wasn't Mary's desire to see her dear sister that had prompted this invitation. Mary wanted more than anything to lock me in the Tower and have me questioned until I broke. But she was too shrewd to risk angering my supporters, who, she knew, grew daily in numbers and were now in the thousands—without my having raised a finger or said a word. I guessed her plan: She would wait for me to set my own trap and fall into it. She would have to wait a long time. I knew better than to take that bait.
Immediately I wrote a note to the queen, thanking her for the gift of the ring and for her kind invitation, and begging to be excused, due to ill health. "I suffer from a catarrh," I explained, and dismissed the emissaries with the letter.
Mary may have believed my thin excuse, or she may not have. In any case she next wrote to me that, as an unmarried woman, I needed the protection of a governor. I understood this to mean another jailer, and I half expected Sir Henry Bedingfield to appear at the gates of Hatfield. Instead, the queen appointed a wealthy and sober gentleman named Sir Thomas Pope to this duty.
Although I awaited his arrival with some uneasiness, Sir Thomas turned out to be well educated, worldly, and generous. I found him a sympathetic companion who went out of his way to arrange for all sorts of masques and recitals of music for my entertainment.
Thus occupied at Hatfield, I was far from the intrigues of London when ten men accused in the most recent conspiracy were executed and their heads mounted on pikes along London Bridge. Edward Courtenay, who seemed to show up in every plot but unaccountably retained the queen's sympathy, was allowed to leave the country. In September he became ill and died in Italy; poison was suspected. Although I had not wished for his death, my mind was put at ease knowing that I would never again be associated with one of Courtenay's ill-conceived plots.
For four tension-filled months, I prayed daily that I would be left alone by the queen. Then abruptly Sir Thomas Pope was dismissed from my household. At the same time Kat was released from Fleet Prison. None of the charges against her could be proved, and I eagerly awaited her return to Hatfield. Once she was safely back, I resumed my studies of Italian with Castiglione, continued my needlework with Kat, played upon my lute with Lady Marian, rode my gelding out upon the heath with Lady Cynthia, went hawking with Lady Letitia, and discussed the classics with Roger Ascham.
And once again I dared dream of the day that I would be queen.
IN NOVEMBER Queen Mary summoned me to Whitehall Palace. This was not an invitation that could be politely declined; it was an order that had to be obeyed. With much agitation I set out along the dusty road for London, accompanied by two hundred horsemen outfitted in the new livery I had devised: crimson satin trimmed with black velvet.
The summer past had been so hot and dry that the tender young plants withered and perished in the crusted earth. A year earlier endless rains had destroyed the harvest, but this year there would be no harvest at all. "Two bad years in a row," observed the knight who rode beside me. "Famine will surely take its toll."
But I was too distracted by worries about my coming interview with the queen to realize then just how serious the problem was.
When I'd left Queen Mary's court to go home to Hatfield, my sister appeared ill and tired. Now she looked even worse: Her face was haggard, her brow knit in a permanent frown. After the rituals of bowing and kneeling had been accomplished, the queen motioned for me to come near. She took my face between her two hands and held it while she stared at me. I had no idea if she intended to kiss me or spit at me. Her breath was foul, and I had to force myself not to draw back.
"Comely thing, are you not?" she growled in her deep voice.
"If it please Your Majesty to say so," I replied.
She released me and pushed me away. I sank to my knees and waited, the blood pounding in my ears. "It is said that men admire your beauty, Elizabeth. Although," she added, "we think that beauty is too strong a word. Your nose is too long and too thin to be called beautiful."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"But comely enough, we should think, to attract a husband. And that is what we shall do, dear sister. Get you a husband."
So that's what this was about! She had brought me from Hatfield to tell me that she planned to force me to marry!
"Has Your Majesty a candidate in mind who would not object to a wife with a long, thin nose?" I asked.
"And a sharp tongue," she added. "It is your tongue that most men would object to."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
For a time the queen was silent. Mary had developed a troubling habit of staring. I didn't know if she had fallen into a reverie or forgotten I was there. I remained on my knees and waited.
"We wish devoutly that you accept the suit of Emmanuel Philibert, duke of Savoy, to be your husband. King Philip is in agreement with our wishes."
This was the same duke who had come to England to "pluck the fruit" two years earlier, while I was a prisoner at Woodstock. Apparently he had not given up. "I am pleased that the duke thinks well of me," I said carefully, my thoughts racing. I calculated each reply I might make, weighing the possible consequences.
Mary hesitated and pulled at her lower lip. This was another irritating habit. "Savoy has much to recommend him," she said. "He is the most highly regarded of the Emperor Charles's generals."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty," I began, "I cannot marry the duke."
"And why not? He would make you an admirable husband, Elizabeth. You would do well to choose him."
I paused a moment to summon my courage. Then I plunged ahead. "I have made up my mind not to marry," I stated in a clear, firm voice. "It is not a choice of this man or that one but of no husband at all."
Mary smiled sourly. "Perhaps you wish to take a vow of celibacy, then?" she said. "Withdraw to a nunnery?"
"No, madam," I said. "I simply wish not to marry."
"You refuse the order of your queen?" she snarled, her bitterness breaking through. "You refuse the order of your sovereign, who holds over you the power of life and death? Perhaps you would change your mind after a few months in the Tower."
The Tower! The queen guessed my deepest fear and played upon it. But I resisted her tactic. Deciding that tears were now called for, I began to weep. "I remain obedient in all things to Your Majesty," I cried, reaching for her sympathy. "But, I beg you, do not force me to marry!"
Mary gave me another of her long, hard stares. Then abruptly she waved me away. "Go back to Hatfield," she snapped. "This interview has been of no use."
The next day I returned to the country, having negotiated once more a difficult stretch of road but never sure that the queen might not change her mind, as she had before.
I also vowed that Queen Mary had seen the last of my tears, real or feigned. I would not weep in her presence again.
CHAPTER 17
King Philip's Return
Christmas of 1556 found me once again at court, invited, no doubt, because Philip had sent instructions to the queen to do so. I took with me a number of new gowns and petticoats, made to my order in France. I felt that it was now time to show whatever friends I had at court a new Elizabeth, strong and able, no longer in the shadows. Therefore I chose the loveliest shades of blue and green, russet and yellow, to set off the elegant jewels my father had left me.
My finery was wasted on this court. Never have I witnessed such lackluster Yuletide observances—I cannot use the word festivities—as Mary moved woodenly through the rites and customs. She seemed barely able to mutter "wassail" when the traditional toasts were drunk.
Fortunately for me, among the guests was Anne of Cleves, with whom I passed a number of pleasant hours. Her gowns were somewhat out-of-date, as they had always been, but her jewels were magnificent. As usual, she was an astute observer of court life. We sat near a fire in the drafty chamber that had been assigned to Anne, our hands busy with needlework and our tongues seeking those subjects that interested us both.
"Hers is not an easy lot," Anne murmured, indicating the queen, "being married to such a man."
I smiled; if anyone would recognize the difficulties of marriage to an impossible husband, it was my father's fourth wife.
"King Philip has been gone for a year and a half," Anne observed. "He puts off the queen with promises and excuses. The gossips tell me that he has been behaving rather badly with the ladies of Flanders."
"Does the queen know of this?" I asked.
"She does," Anne replied.
"Perhaps she even expects it. But she fears that one of his flirtations will turn to love. Indeed, she fears that it already has."
"And has it?"
"Christina of Denmark, duchess of Lorraine, is said to be quite beautiful."
"Is Philip in love with the duchess?" I whispered.
"So I am told."
For a while we plied our stitches in companionable silence, and I pondered this bit of gossip.
"Nonetheless," Anne continued, "King Philip will soon return to England. He has made up his mind to go to war against France. He needs English money to finance it."
"And the queen has agreed to provide it?"
Anne of Cleves raised her eyebrows. "He has made it a condition of his return. She wants him to come back."
"Badly, it would seem."
"Very badly." Anne sighed. "At all costs. And while he is here"—she glanced at me from the corner of her eye—"he means to see you married off. Probably to the duke of Savoy. You are aware of this?"
I nodded. "But I do not intend to marry," I said.
Anne of Cleves laid aside her needlework and looked at me directly. "It was once rumored that, had Mary died in childbirth, King Philip would have married you. You are important to him for political reasons. It is at his insistence that Mary has not found some reason to have you executed for treason. You owe Philip your life. But he will attempt to persuade you, by honeyed tones or by threats, to change your mind about marriage. Can you hold to your decision in the face of his will?"
"My power to refuse is greater than his power to insist," I said passionately.
"Then I wish you strength and courage, my dear Elizabeth."
Our conversation ended when our maids entered the chamber to remind us that the time had come to change into our gowns for the New Year's banquet. I would wear yellow silk embroidered with pearls, opening upon a petticoat of palest green.
The queen, although appearing low-spirited, was, as always, generous with her gifts. I received from her a golden goblet set with pearls, identical to the goblet she presented to Anne of Cleves.
SOON AFTER Twelfth Night I made my farewells and returned to Hatfield. There I remained until March, when I received the news that King Philip was returning to England. I was invited to the celebration, and I accepted. It was another opportunity to show myself to England's nobility as the queen's sister and next in line for the throne.
A royal barge waited for Philip when his ship landed at Dover and conveyed him to Greenwich. There a thirty-two gun salute greeted him, as did a large contingent of the queen's cheering courtiers. The queen herself appeared to be in a state of rapture at the sight of her husband.
The next day, as the royal procession approached London, church bells pealed and the guns in the Tower boomed. The queen had ordered the choirs of every church to sing Te Deums in thanksgiving for the king's return. We then proceeded to Richmond Palace. For once I was not shipped like a bale of wool on a leaking punt but on a newly painted barge decked with flowers. It was an occasion to dress splendidly, and I wore a gown of russet silk with a black velvet stomacher richly embroidered in gold. Crowds lined the banks of the Thames, cheering the royal procession.
On the day of the great festival in Philip's honor, I made a good show of enjoying myself, although my heart was far from easy. I warily awaited the moment the king might press me to agree to a betrothal.
When the festival was ended, Philip, Mary, and I rode in state to Whitehall Palace. I stayed in London for a few days, as required. During that time no word was said of a betrothal. Again I sought out Anne of Cleves, who seemed to have diverse sources of gossip. But she had no news for me, and I returned to Hatfield somewhat relieved.
ONE AFTERNOON a troupe of minstrels appeared at my gates. A young fellow carrying a gittern informed the guards that he had been sent to perform for me. He was turned away, but he continued to insist. I agreed to see him, but remembering the "priest" sent by Thomas Wyatt, I was on my guard.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
"A friend who offers this token," said the boy, presenting a velvet sack. In it was a golden goblet set with pearls, identical to the one Mary had given me at New Year's. It had been sent by Anne of Cleves.
"Come," I told the boy, "and sing me your song." The others of his troupe made to follow, but I turned them back.
When we were alone, the minstrel strummed an awkward chord and stammered a few off-key lines. "This is painful to my ears!" I exclaimed. Suddenly the lad pulled off his cap to reveal long golden curls. It was Lady Cecily, lady-in-waiting to Anne of Cleves.
Much amused by her errand, Lady Cecily assured me that for her safety she had traveled with several knights, who were disguised as musicians in the troupe. "My errand is to bring to you messages that Madame Anne could send safely by no other means."
"Then tell me."
"Two visitors have arrived in London," she said as we sat in my bedchamber, eating sweetmeats. "One is Margaret, duchess of Parma, a cousin of King Philip. The other is Christina of Denmark, duchess of Lorraine."
"The king's mistress? Surely not!"
"Their arrival much surprised and angered the queen. She assigned them to chambers as far from the royal apartments as possible."
"But why have they come?"
"To take you back to the C
ontinent, my lady," said Cecily, "to hand you over for wife to the duke of Savoy."
I was nearly speechless.
"You know of the duke?" Lady Cecily inquired.
"I have not had the pleasure of meeting him."
"He has scarcely a farthing to his name," Cecily said. "And that is why he wants to marry you. He is in love with your wealth."
"I would rather spend the rest of my life in the Tower than submit," I said with some heat.
"You may not need to resort to anything so drastic," said the lady, nibbling a confit. "The queen has no wish for you to marry Savoy."
I was astonished. "She has not? Then she has changed her mind."
"So it would seem. Now that Queen Mary has failed to produce an heir, she knows that when she enters into a negotiation for your betrothal, she will have no choice but to declare you the legitimate and trueborn daughter of King Henry the Eighth."
"As indeed I am."
"Begging your pardon, my lady, but your sister does not acknowledge that. She still insists that Mark Smeaton was your natural father. And she holds your mother in"—here Cecily hesitated—"less than high regard. The queen holds that you are illegitimate, but as a bastard you have no value in a marriage negotiation. Even an impoverished duke might flinch from marrying a bastard, who cannot become queen and make him the king. The queen cannot bring herself to declare you legitimate," said Cecily, "but the king will try to influence her, in order to have you married."
I was silent for a moment. "If Mary declares me legitimate, she will then try to force me to marry against my will. If she does not declare me legitimate, I cannot inherit the throne."
"What shall you do, Lady Elizabeth?" Cecily asked.
"No matter what Mary does, I shall not marry," I said. "And someday I shall become queen."
WHEN I RETURNED to court at Easter, I could sense the unease all around me. The banquets and balls that Mary had arranged to commence at Easter and to continue through the Feast of Saint Mark were marred by bad feelings. Mary seemed sunk into melancholy. Philip chose this time to inform me that I would marry the duke of Savoy. So the king had convinced Mary after all! What would she not do for him?
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