My stepmother knew of her husband’s antics. She laughed at them, as she laughed at all his japes, but she began to accompany him in the mornings and in her presence they became funny again. I no longer wanted to be alone with Thomas Seymour.
One day the three of us were walking together in the gardens at Chelsea—or rather, Catherine and I were walking, while Tom strode some way ahead, unable to check his pace. Every so often he would turn about and come back to us with some bold remark. At length, he said, “Good Lord! What sort of pace do you call this, my ladies? It is the fault of your gowns—I have never liked the look of them. A woman need not be so heavily robed. It weighs her footsteps. It makes her looks too solemn.”
“If you do not like it, my love, I will have different gowns made,” Catherine promised.
Tom was not listening. He seized a handful of my skirt and I cried out in surprise, then tried to laugh, but when I stepped back he would not let go and I must stop or fall.
“As my helpmeet, Catherine, you must help me free her!” he declared. “If we do not act at once, she shall become a bloody Roman nun!” As he spoke, he drew his dagger, and cut a sliver of fabric from my skirt. Louder than my exclamations, he called to Catherine again, and she took my arms with an uncertain laugh.
“Oh, Tom! What silly play this is!”
Tom laughed, long and merry, and cut a slice between my knees. Catherine stood behind me; she did not see him lift his head, did not see his look as he met my eyes.
“God in heaven, what has happened?” Kat demanded when I burst into my bedchamber, my dress cut all to tatters, my face wet with humiliated tears. With as much dignity as I could muster, I told her the story, and for a moment was soothed by her outrage. The comfort did not last.
“Whatever can you have been thinking?” she hissed. “Your reputation—when people hear—you should have left at once!”
“How could I?” I shouted. “Catherine held me down!”
The tale of Thomas Seymour’s rude courtship came out, of course, as dirty truths always do. By the time it did, I was far from Chelsea. Coming into my rooms one day to find her husband attempting to take me in his arms, my stepmother’s credulity was strained beyond endurance. With no delay, I was sent away, the excuse being that Catherine was pregnant and needed much rest. As if I was ever the one to disturb her! I suppose it is harder to banish a husband.
A week after giving birth, Catherine died and the baby with her. Kat knew not what to do with me—one moment I was tolerably composed, the next throwing shoes at the maids and shouting. When she said I should send condolences to the grieving widower, I refused to pick up my pen. “He needs it not,” I told her, bitterness barbing the words. Later, my treasurer Thomas Parry came to convey word from Seymour himself, offering me use of a house in London. Parry made the same presumption as Kat, that it was only a matter of time before Seymour proposed.
I will never marry him, I thought. I will never marry at all.
I was not well myself. Assailed by violent headaches, I took to bed for days at a time. One of the royal physicians was sent to examine me, but I wanted no cures, only to hide behind the bastion of sleep until I could bear the world again.
But Thomas Seymour was too bold for his own good. His ambitions for a royal wife were part of a more daring game: to topple his own brother, the Lord Protector, and seize power through my gullible young brother. As if Edward had not known such schemers all his life! Inevitably, the conspiracy was uncovered and Seymour was sent to the Tower. Parry was taken with him, and my Kat.
An interrogator was sent to ascertain my knowledge of the plot. I was in a fearful state of mind; I wonder that I managed to speak at all. Sir Tyrwhit did not want me to be guilty, that much was plain—he wanted my testimony to convict Kat and Parry, for only I could do it. I wept a good deal, and answered every question I was asked in so vague a way that Tyrwhit could do nothing with me.
Hardest of all was when he placed depositions before me, signed each by Kat and Parry, relating things said and done at Chelsea in humiliating detail. Because Tom had not been stopped, he must have been invited. Even Kat, it seemed, believed that.
She spoke in fear of her life, I know. It was betrayal just the same.
News of the scandal spread swiftly. When I learned that my illness was rumoured to be the sickness of pregnancy and Seymour the father, I wrote in wrath to the Lord Protector, charging him to disavow all slander of my name. I offered to come to court, so all might see me as I was: the virgin princess, Edward’s sweet sister. Let them speak such rumours to my brother’s face!
Though no confession could be wrung out of me and no wrongdoing could be proven, I was punished nonetheless. My interrogator’s wife replaced Kat as my governess, planting a tattling tongue at the heart of my household. I extracted every small vengeance I dared and wrote letters until my fingers were stained with ink. Kat and Parry might never hold my trust again, but they were my people. I would not abandon them.
After pleading that made my pride ache, they were at length released. Thomas Seymour was not so fortunate. Condemned as a traitor, he was beheaded on Tower Hill.
There died a man with much wit, and very little judgement.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Oh God preserve me, God save me, they’ve come.
The Constable and Lieutenant of the Tower have both been put aside. In their place stands Sir Henry Bedingfield, who has come with his own men and orders to take me away. A hundred soldiers in blue livery have claimed the Tower in bloodless triumph.
My ladies cling together, crying or praying; the only word I can discern from Kat’s sobbing babble is ‘please’. I stand alone, facing this stolid servant of my sister, who calls me ‘your Grace’ with such courtesy. I would rather a villain who wore his hatred on his sleeve. Him I could scathe with my scorn, but Bedingfield makes me feel defenceless as a child. When I demand, as coolly as my trembling lips can manage, whether the old scaffold still stands or if there’s need to erect another, he speaks gently.
“Your Grace, you have no need for fear. I come not with an order of execution. Her Majesty has placed you in my charge—I am to take you to the royal manor at Woodstock until current matters are resolved.”
I look at him. What cleaner resolution than an axe? But I do not say so.
I have thought overmuch of Death in recent days. He haunts this place so faithfully. In my dreams, brave souls walk to the block and offer their necks with a look of scorn or words of valour, and sometimes I have seen myself amongst them. Now I realise my mistake. I am not ready to die, I will never be ready to die. I will go to my death as Anne Boleyn went to hers, hoping for a miracle to the bitter end.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
When the disgrace of the Seymour affair finally ebbed, I paid a visit to my brother in London with as grand a retinue as I could manage. To some at court my name might always be besmirched, but I wished to appear exactly as a sister of the king ought. I discarded my more fanciful gowns, dressing with strict modesty.
I had seen very little of Edward or Mary since our father’s death. My brother had grown into a cool-eyed cynic, a true man of politics at the ripe age of fourteen and a passionate Protestant besides. Despite his casual affection towards me, I was careful to observe all royal protocol.
“Court is ugly, Elizabeth,” he said, watching the acrobats cavort for his entertainment. He looked too pale, his cheekbones distinct beneath the skin. “You would not thrive here. No good woman could.”
I left court not long after that, and never saw my brother again.
Edward was ever surrounded by advisors. With the fall of the Seymour brothers, the loudest of the flock was now the Duke of Northumberland. A fierce Protestant, he disliked Mary on principle, a feeling that was entirely mutual. His cause against me was less clear. Perhaps he was simply frightened that when I spoke, Edward heard me.
Regardless of his reasoning, I felt the effects of Northumberland’s i
nterference soon enough. The severity of Edward’s latest illness was kept from me; when I tried to visit, I was turned back. I hope he read my letters before he died, that he knew I was thinking of him.
This is what I know: striking both Mary and myself from the succession, Edward named our cousin the Lady Jane Grey as his heir, a fact only revealed after his death. Northumberland proclaimed Lady Jane as Queen of England with all haste, and Mary reacted exactly as I imagined she would: with the righteous outrage of a true heir. She gathered Catholic supporters and marched on London.
I stayed quietly at Hatfield and did nothing at all. I am no one’s pawn, not even my sister’s.
Mary, a true Tudor, won the day. The duke and his failed queen were sent to the Tower and I set off at once to join the new monarch. It seemed that all of London was rejoicing the pretender’s defeat—as we rode through the streets, the crowds cheered and the bells rang out. What a day that was! If only King Henry could have seen his daughters, would he have believed his eyes?
It would be untrue to say I had no fears about Mary’s ascension—it had been years since we had been intimate, but still I knew her. Just as she would fight for her throne, she would fight for her faith. Those who sought her favour must go to Mass, and my claims of illness could only excuse me for so long. I sought delays of a different nature, requesting books to tutor myself in the Catholic religion. Mary understood me too well to be convinced, but my pretence earned her tolerance a while longer. When at last I could dissemble no more, I commenced my attendance.
Mary arranged a Mass to be said for our brother. That, I would not attend. Edward lived and died a Protestant; not even the queen could make me pretend otherwise.
My show of submission earned its reward at Mary’s coronation, at which I was the first to take the oath of allegiance and the first to follow the queen from Westminster Abbey. By the terms of succession, I was heir to the throne, and I had every intention of remaining there. Mary gave me pretty things, fine clothes and jewellery, much the way she had once bought me baubles as a child. And there was one other thing she wished to give me: a husband.
It was inevitable there should be talk of a marriage. My hand, once that of a traitor’s bastard, was suddenly very valuable indeed, and should I be married to a foreigner there was the added advantage of my enforced absence from England. This thought pleased Mary’s advisors very much. The favourite of the candidates was, however, an Englishman—Edward Courtenay, a young man long incarcerated in the Tower for the wrong political sympathies, now restored to wealth and liberty and to all appearances enjoying them very much indeed. Best of all, in Mary’s eyes, he was a devout Catholic.
He was pleasant enough to dance with; inconceivable as a husband. Truthfully, I could imagine no man who would tempt me to willingly cast my freedom at his feet, though I took great care not to say so aloud. I saw a good deal of Courtenay, smiled often, and agreed to nothing. Mary soon lost interest in my nuptials in favour of her own. If her attempts to restore the Roman faith had been met with resistance from the English people, her choice of husband—a Catholic! A Spaniard!—appalled them, but nothing daunted her. I think she truly loved Philip. She needed to love someone.
The intrigues of court took their toll. Whether I meant ill by her or not, I was Mary’s rival, and plots swirled about me wherever I went. With my red Tudor hair and black Boleyn eyes, I was the embodiment of old miseries, wearing down what real fondness she had once had.
When Mary’s favour waned, I requested permission to return to the country, retreating to my house at Ashridge with Catholic priests to say my daily Mass and save my wicked Protestant soul. I was there in Hertfordshire when the long-simmering resentment against the queen boiled over. Leading the revolt was Thomas Wyatt. His plan was to depose Mary and place me upon the throne, Courtenay at my side.
I believe it’s plain how Mary felt about that.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
What will God make of my soul? Born in the dying throes of Catholic England, raised amidst the persecution of Protestants, I have acted not from conscience but the desire to live. It must be wrong, to think so much of my own life, but who else is there to guard it?
I am not taken to the scaffold. Bedingfield brings me to a boat and we travel downriver. Cannons fire off a salute as we pass the gunners’ wharf—for me? I was two months in the Tower. How much has changed?
We spend the night at Richmond, and ride on the next day for Windsor. I am in a state of the most fearsome confusion. Bedingfield is somber; I am surrounded by guards and sit upon a broken-down litter—this is not the journey of a validated princess. And yet, lining the roads are crowds who gather as close as they can, tossing flowers and sweetmeats into my litter, calling ‘God Save Your Grace!’ When I answer with a smile and gracious nod, hats are thrown in the air, so I wave until my arms ache. At Windsor, the schoolboys of Eton College come gravely forth to greet me. On the road the next day, so many cakes are tossed into my litter that I must ask the people to stop. Bedingfield does nothing to prevent them.
I do not feel like a woman going to her death.
Mary has not ordered my execution. She has not banished me abroad, or removed me from the succession. Truly, who is there to replace me? How many uprisings can she withstand? In all ways we might be at odds, yet there is this common ground: our mothers were wives who died. We were the daughters who lived.
I am still her heir, and all the people of England know it.
The love of a kingdom is a fairweather gift. Crowds gather this way for Mary, with cries as raucous in their affection. They gathered for Edward, and our father before him. I was there for each hour of triumph, long enough to see it pass and fade. This intoxication is not to be trusted, but how can I resist it?
Today, if only today, I truly believe that I will live.
That one day, I will be queen.
And that hour will be glorious.
“Glorious” by Faith Mudge
CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES
Liz Barr (@_lizbarr) is the co-editor of Companion Piece: Women Celebrate the Humans, Aliens and Tin Dogs of Doctor Who (Mad Norwegian Press, 2015). She blogs about politics, pop culture, media and social justice with Stephanie Lai at no-award.net, and can be relied upon to have strong feelings about historical and fictional women. She lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she works as a legal secretary and occasionally moonlights as a chew toy for a cat with an anxiety disorder.
Deborah Biancotti has published two short story collections, Bad Power and A Book of Endings. She has been nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award and the William L. Crawford Award for Best First Fantasy Book, as well as the Aurealis and Ditmar Awards. Her work has appeared in Years Best anthologies locally and internationally. The Review of Australian Fiction published her most recent stories and in 2015 her new novella, “Waking in Winter”, will be available from PS Publishing. These days, Twitter is her online drug of choice. You can find her there as @deborah_b.
Born in Singapore but a global citizen, Joyce Chng writes mainly science fiction (SFF) and YA fiction. She likes steampunk and tales of transformation/transfiguration. Her fiction has appeared in Crossed Genres, the Apex Book of World SF Vol II and We See A Different Frontier. Her YA science fiction trilogy is published by a Singapore publisher, Math Paper Press. She can be found at A Wolf’s Tale (http://awolfstale.wordpress.com). She tweets too: @jolantru.
Thoraiya Dyer is an award-winning Australian writer. Her short science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in Clarkesworld, Apex, Analog, Nature and Cosmos, among others (for a full list, see http://www.thoraiyadyer.com). Her collection of four original stories, Asymmetry, available from Twelfth Planet Press, was called “unsettling, poignant, marvellous” by Nancy Kress. A lapsed veterinarian, her other interests include bushwalking, archery and travel. Find her on Twitter @ThoraiyaDyer.
Dirk Flinthart resides in Tasmania, where he raises children, teaches martial arts, writes (not enough!) and studie
s. He’s been responsible for a range of short stories and at least one novel, and is currently in the process of creating more. You can find scattered musings from him at https://dflinthart.wordpress.com/, but the internet access in his part of Tasmania is too primitive to support Twitter…
Lisa L. Hannett has had over fifty-five short stories appear in venues including Clarkesworld, Fantasy, Weird Tales, ChiZine, Year’s Best Australian Fantasy and Horror (2010, 2011 & 2012), and Imaginarium: Best Canadian Speculative Writing (2012 & 2013). She has won three Aurealis Awards, including Best Collection for her first book, Bluegrass Symphony, which was also nominated for a World Fantasy Award. Her first novel, Lament for the Afterlife, is being published by CZP in 2015.You can find her online at http://lisahannett.comand on Twitter @LisaLHannett.
Kathleen Jennings is an illustrator based in Brisbane, Australia. Her work has won several Ditmars and twice been shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award. She blogs at http://tanaudel.wordpress.comand frequently posts sketches at Twitter and Tumblr (@tanaudel). Her portfolio is at http://kathleenjennings.com.
Sylvia Kelso lives in North Queensland, Australia. She mostly writes fantasy and SF set in analogue or alternate Australian settings, and likes to tinker with moral swords-and-sorcery and elements of mythology. She has published eight fantasy novels, including Amberlight and The Moving Water, which were finalists for best fantasy novel in the Australian Aurealis genre fiction awards. Her short stories appear in Australia and the US, including anthologies from DAW and Twelfth Planet Press. Her novella “Spring in Geneva”, a riff on Frankenstein, appeared in October 2013 with Aqueduct Press. http://www.sylviakelso.com
Cranky Ladies of History Page 38