Rival to the Queen

by Carolly Erickson

  The execution proceeded. The presiding elder bowed his head and said a prayer, then gave the order for the woman’s arms and legs to be bound. I did not see what happened to the bundle she carried, so swiftly were the orders given and so suddenly was the woman thrown to the ground. A long gleaming knife was lifted, and with two sure strokes her feet were severed at the ankle. Blood gushed out, spewing not flowing, staining the grey rocks at the river’s edge. Then two men seized the woman’s upper arms and lifted her, and threw her into the water. I saw her open mouth but could not hear her scream. The current was swift. It carried her toward the center of the river where her body turned and bobbed, lifted and sucked under by the force of the waters, and then was lost.

  As darkness gathered the men who had taken part in the execution pulled their cloaks around them and hurried away. In a moment the site was empty, though the rocks were still stained red and I thought I could see a small scrap of dark cloth lying at the water’s edge.

  And then, for some reason, I thought I heard a faint cry.

  At first I wasn’t certain I was hearing it, so weak was the sound, so hard to distinguish from the customary sounds of the street. But it persisted, or I thought it did.

  I continued to hear the sound as I went down to the riverside. It seemed to be coming from under the bridge, where thick tall grasses covered the rocks and there was a stench of rotting food and slops from the butchers’ stalls.

  Making my way with difficulty, parting the undergrowth, I heard the cry more and more distinctly. It was a baby’s cry.

  “Do you hear that?”

  Light shone on the grasses and suddenly Nicklaus was beside me, holding a lantern aloft.

  “Yes. A baby. It must be the baby the condemned woman was holding when they brought her here. Someone tried to save it.”

  “Or just tossed it aside.”

  As if in response to our voices the crying grew louder and more sustained.

  We continued to search, side by side, until we came upon the tiny child, naked and shivering, lying in a patch of weeds.

  “He needs a blanket,” Nicklaus said. “Here.” He handed me the lantern, then pulled off his thick shirt and wrapped it around the infant, lifting it up and starting to make his way out from under the bridge, toward the roadway that ran in front of his father’s house. The sound of the child’s crying grew more muffled.

  “My father would never allow this baby in his house, if he knew where it came from.”

  “The foundling home,” I said. “We’ll take it there. Surely the nuns will accept it.”

  “They will turn it into a little Catholic,” Nicklaus said with a wry smile. “But at least it will live. That is the important thing.”

  We smiled at each other, then walked together the short distance to the convent. An empty basket sat beneath an eave of the religious house day and night, ready to receive any infant brought to the nuns for care. We placed the baby in the basket and rang the bell that hung from the wall nearby. Almost at once the flat metal wheel on which the basket sat began to turn, bringing the small contribution within the walls of the convent.

  “Good night, little one,” I whispered. “May the Lord protect you.”

  I heard Nicklaus whisper an amen as invisible hands reached for the whimpering infant. We stood beside the wall until we could no longer hear any sound. Then we went back to the Morff house, and though we did not speak, we were both aware that we shared a secret. That night, when Jacob Morff led the household in prayer, I did not join in thanking the Lord for the deaths of the wicked Anabaptists. Rather I said a prayer for the motherless baby, and for the nuns, in thanks that they were willing to take in all the lost and unwanted little ones from the great city of Frankfurt, knowing nothing of them save that they were in need.

  FIVE

  “You were seen.”

  Elder Roeder glared at me accusingly.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You were seen. You and Nicklaus Morff. Putting your baby into the basket of the foundling home.”

  “Yes—and why not? Is there a reason why a charitable act such as saving a child’s life should be kept hidden?”

  “You make your sin worse by adding effrontery to it!”

  His voice had risen, he was shrill. Others in the congregation were listening.

  It was the hour when believers gathered for the public chastising of sinners, when the elders denounced transgressions and the worst of those who broke church law were excluded permanently from the community.

  My father stepped forward from among the group. “If my daughter is at fault in any way, I will correct her.”

  The elder now glared at father. “It is the Consistory that corrects!” He turned once again to me, and looked me up and down.

  “Young girls hide evil beneath their skirts,” he said with contempt. “Do you deny that you and Nicklaus Morff placed an infant in the basket of the foundling home?”

  “I deny nothing. We saved a baby and gave it to the nuns to prevent it from dying. We acted charitably.”

  “Charitably! You acted wickedly! You committed fornication, and produced a bastard, then made your sin worse by hiding the proof of your wickedness among the sisters to raise according to their abominable rites!”

  “But that is not true!” I cried out. “Nicklaus!” I looked around me, at the faces of the congregants, hoping to see Nicklaus. But he was not there, nor was his father, or anyone else I recognized from the Morff household.

  “Where is Nicklaus?” I asked. “He will join me in saying what really happened.”

  “Nicklaus Morff is a brawler and a liar who sins nightly in the public gardens.” I saw, to my dismay, that a number of people were nodding in agreement at the elder’s words. A murmuring had begun. A hostile murmuring. My heart sank.

  Elder Roeder was unfolding a piece of writing.

  “The congregation is informed,” he read, “that the sinner Letitia Knollys was seen holding trysts with Nicklaus Morff and other young men at night, near the Old Bridge. That she has often left her bed at midnight to join her lover. And that on the night of the full moon she was seen going under the bridge, and her lover with her, and some time later they came out from under the bridge with a newborn child.” At these words a gasp went up from those standing nearest me, and I felt my cheeks grow hot. There had been a full moon on the night the Anabaptist woman was killed, I remembered.

  “But there was no sin!” I burst out. “It was an act of mercy!”

  “How the wicked deceive themselves,” I heard someone in the congregation mutter.

  “The baby was the son of Anabaptists,” I went on, but as soon as I said the word “Anabaptists,” there were cries of horror.

  Elder Roeder glared at me once again.

  “You admit, then, that in addition to fornication you are guilty of consorting with the worst of sinners, those who preach error and turn the faithful from the true path!”

  I saw then that it was hopeless. I stood condemned unheard, no one believed or trusted me except Nicklaus, who knew the truth, and he was nowhere to be seen.

  Summoning all my courage, and remembering, as I did in times of distress, that I had royal blood in my veins, I stood as tall as I could (Elder Roeder being much taller) and shouted in my loudest voice, “Who is the informer that accuses me?”

  The room fell silent. The elder folded the paper he held, and put it back into a pocket of his robe. Then, looking out across the sea of faces, he said, “Stand forth!”

  There was a rustling of skirts and a shuffling of feet. From the back of the room a young woman came through the crowd. At first I could see only her cap, but as she came closer I was able to see her face and realized who it was.

  “Cecelia Knollys, do you swear that the words you have written and delivered to this congregation are truthful?”

  “I do.”

  She did not look at me, or at our father, or indeed at anyone but the stern-faced elder. Before I could accuse her of l
ying, or spit out the vengeful words that rose to my throat, the Consistory pronounced its judgment.

  I was banned from the congregation, and not only I, but our entire family. We were ordered to leave the Morff house, and the town of Frankfurt, by sunset on the following day, or face the wrath of the congregation and its implacable God.

  SIX

  As fate would have it, Queen Mary died very near the time our family was expelled from Frankfurt. Her Protestant half-sister, our relative Elizabeth, became queen. The persecutions were at an end. It was safe for our family to return to England once again.

  I was still very angry with Cecelia for denouncing me to the Frankfurt congregation, and accusing me of a sin I did not commit. I did my best to explain to my family what really happened on the night Nicklaus Morff and I took the baby to the foundling home, and to point out, among other flaws in Cecelia’s story, that I had certainly not been carrying Nicklaus’s child for nine months, concealing the very large round ball of a growing child beneath my gown. I hoped that I was believed, and redeemed in their eyes.

  In any case our joy at returning home served to soften my anger somewhat, and when we received an official summons to court from the queen herself—the greatest of honors, as my father was quick to point out—our petty family squabbles were temporarily laid aside as we prepared to take our places in the royal household.

  “The new queen is eager to raise up all her Boleyn relations,” my father said, having brought mother and me and Cecelia together in his private closet, where he kept his important papers and wrote at his untidy wide oaken desk. “She is sensitive about her birth, and about her late mother’s reputation. Say nothing about it! Do not mention the name of Anne Boleyn! If she mentions her mother by name, just smile and nod and look agreeable.”

  He looked at me, taking me in, head to toe, with a critical glance.

  “Lettie, the queen is very sensitive about her beauty,” he began, only to be interrupted by mother, who laughed.

  “But she has none,” mother said. “Her face is pinched and narrow, her skin has no glow, and is such an odd color—too sallow—and her eyes! Small, with no lashes (not like our Lettie here, whose eyelashes are so long and thick they need no darkening or lengthening), and such sparse light eyebrows! No man would look at her twice, if she were not the queen.”

  “Catherine, such sentiments are best kept to yourself,” father upbraided her, then turned back to me. “Lettie, as I was saying, you will need to be shamefaced and modest, and not flaunt your charms. Perhaps if you make an effort to compliment Her Majesty on her looks, that would help.”

  “Indeed!” mother said. “She is so vain! She requires constant praise. Have you ever wondered,” she said to father, “why she keeps so many looking-glasses and hand mirrors in her rooms? Why she cannot stop looking at herself?”

  “No,” my father said curtly. “And neither should you, Catherine. The ways of majesty are not our ways, and we ought not to seek to understand them.”

  Mother scoffed at this, but fell silent. I thought I saw, in listening to my father talk about the queen, why it was that he had been a valued royal servant and official for so long, first to the boy-king Edward and then to Queen Mary, before we left for Frankfurt. He was genuinely, unflinchingly loyal, respectful, reverent toward the anointed monarch, whoever he or she was.

  It was no wonder that, when we presented ourselves at the palace, we discovered that the queen had appointed father Vice-Chamberlain of the royal household, Captain of the Halberdiers and, before long, a member of her privy council.

  Mother was appointed Mother of the Maids and Cecelia and I were given posts as maids of honor, along with a dozen or so other girls, of various shapes and sizes and dispositions. Over the first few days of our time at court I observed the other maids. Some were haughty, some sweetly submissive. All were eager to make the most of their good fortune in being appointed to such an exalted position. And all were very eager to be married to wealthy men, with grand titles and wide lands. Their marriage prospects—along with those of the queen—were their favorite topic of conversation.

  We maids of honor were quartered in rooms adjacent to the queen’s bedchamber, so that we would be available at all hours if needed. We were crowded together, sharing beds as nearly all those in the royal household did and with very little space for our clothes and other possessions. Everything we did and said was public, every cross look or unguarded expression was noted and reported to our mother in her role as Mother of the Maids.

  When Cecelia and I were first brought into the queen’s presence, and formally presented to her, we curtseyed low and bent our heads as we had been taught to do. At length she raised us up with a gesture of one white hand.

  She stood before us, tall and slim, her rather sharp gaze resting on me with particular interest. I remembered my father’s warning and made an effort to look shamefaced and modest (though it was against my nature), and not to call attention to myself or give myself airs.

  There was a long silence.

  “Is that a wen on your forehead?” she asked me at length.

  “I know of none, Your Majesty,” I said. “Though my skin has not Your Majesty’s perfection, nor its glow—”

  “Are you flattering me, girl? Have you been told to flatter me, because you are so comely yourself? It is a common enough tactic, I fear, and a foolishly obvious one. Still, I do believe I glimpse a wen.”

  She reached for the small hand mirror that hung from her girdle, detached it and handed it to me.

  “Look for yourself.”

  I obeyed, but saw no mole or spot or flaw on my forehead.

  “I shall have to call my father’s surgeon,” I suggested, handing back the mirror.

  “Do so,” was her sharp retort. “A wen is the mark of a whore.”

  “I do hate women with whiny voices,” the queen went on after a moment. “Yours is annoying. Come here, closer to the window, into the light.”

  I did as she asked, and went to stand where the sunlight fell directly on me. She looked at me again, then nodded to herself.

  “Yes. You have the Boleyn beauty—and I sense something of the Boleyn fire as well. Not so your lumpy sister,” she added rudely. “It never ceases to amaze me, how sisters can be so unalike! My sister Mary and I—” she began, then broke off.

  I wanted to say, but Queen Mary was only your half-sister, but bit my tongue.

  Meanwhile Cecelia, always ill at ease when my looks and attractions were being discussed, shook out her kirtle and petticoat noisily. She had put on weight, she was the plumpest of the maids and at the sound of her rustling skirts the queen looked at her scathingly.

  “Have that gown let out,” she said. “It fits you too tightly. Or throw it away, and order another.”

  I held my breath, hoping that Cecelia would have the good sense not to make a tart reply. We had both been cautioned, by the other maids, that the queen was subject to sudden fits of anger, and that her anger could be terrible.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” was all my sister said, and I sighed with relief. I felt the queen’s eyes on me again. “Now, come and dress me. I’ve changed my mind about the sleeves. Not the ivory silk, I’ll wear the prune velvet with the gilt embroidery.”

  And she made her way into her dressing closet and sat before the wide pier glass, looking at her reflection, taking no further notice of me or of Cecelia. But during the next hour, as her hair was arranged and her eyebrows darkened, as the layers of undergarments and petticoats, stomacher and sleeves and ruff were put on and fastened in place, I saw that she was glancing at us in the pier glass as well as scrutinizing her own image. When she looked at me she was thoughtful, when she looked at Cecelia, she was scornful.

  You are of little worth, that look conveyed. Something to be thrown away, like your gown.

  SEVEN

  My father was ardently eager to find me a husband.

  In his mind I was a “forward virgin” who would continue to bring
dishonor to the family until I was wedded to a husband who would control me and stifle my waywardness.

  Mother agreed that it would be very desirable to find husbands for both me and Cecelia, though in this as in all things she was good-humoredly relaxed, apparently nonchalant.

  “There is plenty of time,” she told father in languid tones when he brought up the subject of our marriages, which he constantly did. “They are still quite young.”

  “But Lettie’s reputation is bad, and likely to become worse. We must find husbands for them both before—before—”

  “Before one of them finds herself with child—and we know which one that is likely to be—and the problem worsens. We can only trust that, should the worst happen, the man will act as a gentleman must, and marry her. And if he does not, I will bring the matter to the queen’s attention, and she will force him to.”

  Mother was not overly concerned about our futures, and I envied her her calm, though being more my father’s daughter I understood his worries and felt a good deal of empathy for him, hounded as he was by too much responsibility.

  Father went to Ireland about this time, sent there by the queen to curb the expenses of her Lord Deputy who was overspending his budget in his futile attempt to control the wild Irish. While there he wrote to us, to say that he was negotiating a match for me, with a lord who had extensive lands in Ireland and who lived there most of the year.

  I held my breath; I did not want to marry in Ireland, or live there. Fortunately we received word not long afterwards that the bargaining over my hand had fallen through. And not only that, but father had become ill, and was returning home.