I think I ate too much eel at dinner. By the time they served the swan I could hardly eat a bite. And there was pudding made from the swan’s neck. This is Edward’s favourite. He ate an enormous amount. There was a sugar replica of Whitehall Palace. Jane the Bald said the funniest thing. She said she wished she could live in the sugar confection as it was in better condition than the Palace. My favourite sweet, however, were the apple fritters. I did manage to eat one. Edward ate twelve!
Princess Mary is still being exceedingly nice to me. I do not know when to trust her. I never shall. But I am enjoying her present fear immensely.
3 November, 1544
Whitehall Palace
Cook sent up leftover apple fritters for my breakfast this morning. She knows how I love them. They were still good. I put a slice of hard cheese on top. When Kat wasn’t looking, I tucked one into my sleeve for a snack later in the schoolroom.
5 November, 1544
Master Cox is demanding much of us, as shortly after Saint Martin’s Day Edward and I are to be sent to Ashridge House. It is a favourite country mansion for all of us children. We shall be there at least until the Christmas season begins. At Ashridge the new tutors shall join us. So he wants them to be impressed with our progress. Edward is galloping through Aesop’s Fables. His translations are accurate but lack style to my mind. However, he is just seven. I am not sure if Robin and Lady Jane will accompany us. Princess Mary is to go to Beaulieu, her own palace in Essex.
7 November, 1544
Our first rose bloomed today and there are others about to burst. It is a true Saint Martin’s summer these past few days – warm, sunny, and dry. Everything is bathed in a tawny glow light.
8 November, 1544
Memo tried to eat the second rose! He almost succeeded, but I raced over and gave him a swat and swore a hot and vile oath. He stopped all right, but my timing was most unfortunate, for Father was just coming round the hedge with some of his grooms of the Privy Chamber and the Archbishop of Canterbury. I was simply mortified.
“Was that you, Elizabeth?” I dropped to my knees immediately. I was trembling with fear. Everything had gone so well. What if I were to be exiled again? I could not bear it. I began to speak, still kneeling. “I humbly beseech, Your Majesty. I humbly crave that you will forgive my vile tongue.” I heard him turn to someone and say, “She admits her vile tongue.” There was the hint of a bemusement in his voice. That could signify either good or bad. One never knows with my father.
Then I heard the fool Will Somers speak: “’Tis not the serpent’s forked tongue that speaks with such honesty, Sire.”
“Nay,” said my father slowly. He was resting his immense weight on the two staves that supported him on his festering legs. I could see the stains on his hose. I could see the ends of the staves sink into the ground on which I knelt. I was too frightened to look up. Will spoke, “Her tongue doth swear, Hal, but her heart in its honesty is true.” My father merely grunted at this. Will continued, “Beware the candied tongue, Hal, that laps on royal boots and through its sugary slime conceals the black heart.”
A great shadow began to slide across me. It was as if a solar eclipse were occurring. I saw the staves wobble. His great hand came down and cupped my chin and lifted me. “Elizabeth” – he spoke my name coldly – “look at me, girl.” When I did, he seemed to gaze upon me with that studied regard as if he were thinking me half witch. He dropped his hand and began to move off with his gentlemen. I did not know the meaning of this. I still don’t. I might be banished yet again. I must wait patiently.
10 November, 1544
I have been living with this constant fear of exile now for two days. So far I have heard nothing. Plans seem to proceed as normal for our move to Ashridge. This palace, too, is becoming quite filthy, what with all the banqueting and people and gaming between Michaelmas Feast and the feast of All Saints’ Day. The roses bloom in our garden with such vigour, but the stench from the courtyard over the wall outside the kitchens is unbearable.
Kat is mumbling something about baths again. The woman is becoming a fanatic. I think we have had half a dozen baths since summer, and that does not include when we went wading in the river at Hatfield. I say why bother to bathe here at Whitehall when everything and everyone stinks? No one will know the difference. Kat’s argument is that we should arrive clean at Ashridge House. Aside from that, I do not wear a wig. That helps me keep my head a lot cleaner because there has been quite a bit of wig bugs. One of Queen Catherine’s Ladies-in-Waiting, Lady Dinsmore, who is considered quite beautiful by some (not me), had one crawl out of her wig at dinner. It fell right into that little crack between the breasts that large-breasted ladies love to show. My father said something very bawdy, and everyone screamed with laughter, but I didn’t understand the joke. Lady Dinsmore was in such a state that she practically fell into her plate in trying to pick out the bug. So I’m glad I do not wear a wig and I am glad I do not have such large bosoms. And if I did, I would not display them thusly for bugs or anyone else.
11 November, 1544
This is Saint Martin’s Day. No lessons. The day celebrates Saint Martin of Tours, who over one thousand years ago saw a beggar freezing and hungry in the streets. He took off his coat and tore it in half, wrapping the beggar in the other half. That night as he slept, in a dream he saw our Lord Jesus wrapped in the very same coat he had torn in half. “Martin,” said Jesus, “you have torn your own cloak and wrapped me in it, covering me from the cold.”
I like this holiday because for once a saint is not put on a spit or, like Saint Clement, thrown into the sea tied to an anchor, or Saint Catherine, whose body was torn apart on a spiked wheel. The grotesque methods used to kill saints are too many to number.
We went to Matins and, as one might imagine, there was Princess Mary, wrapped in a shredded cloak, kneeling and rocking back and forth, her eyes streaming tears. They say that her mother, Catherine of Aragon, wore a coarse habit under her dresses with nettles woven into the fabric. Supposedly this kind of painful discipline raises ones spirits to another world while the body bleeds in this one. I do not believe it. I think it is all twaddle.
16 November, 1544
Ashridge House
…As I was saying, twaddle. Dear Diary, do you know what else is twaddle? Saffron and sulphur. Kat has her face covered with a paste of saffron and sulphur. It is supposed to lighten the complexion. It stinks. This is a beauty treatment she heard of from Lady Dinsmore.
We have settled in here at Ashridge, which is the smallest of all the houses and palaces where I live, but this indeed is one that is a favourite for us children. Although it is only Edward and myself, as Lady Jane Grey and Robin were sent home to their families at least until after Christmas. Barnaby Fitzpatrick, a great friend of Edward’s, is due to arrive in two days, as will John Cheke, our new tutor.
Edward, by the way, has been given a fool, or I should say a trial fool. His name is Florio and he is the son of one of the head Italian horse trainers. He is not that witty. It is my personal opinion that Father is trying to sneak a horseman in as a fool and thus deceive Edward into learning to ride a horse better. Edward is frightfully lacking in sporting skills and I know this pains Father.
I am now the only royal child in our family without a fool, but Father did send two minstrels, “For you, Elizabeth, for you!” He said this twice – the “for you” part. So you see I was not exiled, thank goodness. And although Ashridge is tiny by comparison, we are a jolly little household with our dull-witted fool and cosy apartments. The house indeed was once a monastery, but Father expelled all the monks five years ago. There are low ceilings and niches where relics once were placed. Again, I found in my chamber the perfect hiding place for you, dear Diary. Kat’s and my apartments are just off what had been the main Chapel, and there is a small slot in which the incense sticks and burners were kept. It smells so sweet and
is the perfect size for a small book.
17 November, 1544
Never in my life have I heard such a shriek, and just as I was about to put pen to paper on my translation for the Queen’s Christmas present – I am translating a book of French philosophical poetry for her. It is all about heaven and hell and marriage. Anyhow when I heard the shrieks I threw down my pen and I raced into Kat’s chamber. “We are being poisoned! Poison! Poison!” she kept shrieking. “It’s the Spaniards. I knew they always hated us. It is Princess Mary.” Kat was hysterical. I took her by the shoulders, for I am nearly as tall as she, and shook her. “What are you talking about?”
“Look! Look right there!” she pointed at a plate of dainty pastries that had been sent up. I peered down at the plate and indeed saw some bright orange powder. I would have expected poison to be more subtle, at least in its physical appearance. “Don’t touch it!” Kat screamed. “Oh, I don’t want to die now!” she sighed. I thought it an odd remark. I suddenly spotted an overturned vial on a shelf above where the plate set. “How stupid!” I exclaimed. “How utterly stupid of you, Kat!”
Her beauty powders had overturned. Obviously, when the servitor brought in the tray, the vial tipped.
“You are not going to die, Kat, and if you keep screaming, your complexion shall turn permanently ruddy and these powders shall do you no good at all.”
“Oh, Elizabeth!” she said, and raised her hand to cover her mouth in complete embarrassment.
“You are such a goose, Kat!” I walked over and embraced her.
“And you are such a good clear-brained child.” We hugged. And then I had to ask her, “Kat, why did you say, ‘Oh, I don’t want to die now’? It is terrible to die any time when one is as young as you.” She stood back from me and, still holding my shoulders, looked so sweetly into my eyes. “I am to be married to my dear friend John Ashley in the new year.”
I felt a flood of such strong emotions. I was at once happy and sad. I could not hold back the thought that came first to my lips, but before it was even out Kat replied, “Fear not, Elizabeth. I shall not leave you. John will join us at Court.”
And then I was truly happy and we danced around the room and I even let Kat put the awful paste of sulphur and saffron on my face, too.
19 November, 1544
John Cheke arrived yesterday. Lessons began this morning. He is most impressed with my translations. He plans to begin Edward on some Cato, some of the shorter lyric poems. Another tutor, William Grindal, arrives shortly. I shall be working mostly with Master Grindal, and Edward with Master Cheke. This is the Queen’s plan. Barnaby Fitzpatrick has also arrived. He is a terrible student and shall be working with neither tutor. Poor Kat gets stuck with him. He cannot conjugate a single Latin verb. Is that not shameful? And he is already eight! He is quite good with hawks, however, and we are planning a great hawking expedition when John Ashley comes to visit his “lady love”. That is what I sometimes call Kat now. I am so excited by her betrothal. Although I know marriage is not nor ever will be for me, I think it will be good for Kat. And as long as nothing in my life is disturbed by it, I do not mind.
21 November, 1544
John Ashley, who arrived yesterday, took us all out hawking after our lessons. He is a superb falconer. He teaches us how to hold our gloved arm in the proper position to launch the bird and how to give the commands.
We each take a turn in launching our birds. I love that first moment after the command is given. One can feel the change in the hawk’s body. The bird seems to grow larger as its feathers plump up, and then you hear the soft rustle as it begins to spread its wings. Its heart quickens and mine, too. As if by magic the bird lifts off from your arm, and there is a part of me that always wishes to go with it. To fly!
23 November, 1544
My translation for the Queen is nearly complete. Master Grindal arrived today.
25 November, 1544
Oh, I love having a tutor all to myself. As much as I enjoyed Master Cheke, I feel that Master Grindal and I are in closer harmony in terms of the interpretation of Greek and Latin texts. I am positively racing ahead now with my New Testament translations. And this is just the first day.
28 November, 1544
After three days we – Master Grindal and I – have a fine schedule worked out for my studies. In the morning we concentrate on Greek and the New Testament translation, still accompanied by lessons in grammar. Master Grindal says that a young student might think that he has mastered grammar, but one never masters grammar. Grammar is to language as bone is to body. Without bone there is no framework for the human body and all of its marvellous organs – such is grammar to language.
29 November, 1544
I was shocked to find out that Master Grindal is not yet thirty or even close. He is but twenty-seven. He seems much older. He is completely dedicated to the purity of life. He spends much time in private meditation and does not card play or dance. I must confess that I, not knowing this, felt profound shame at first when I asked if he might make up a fourth player for a game of Gleek that Kat and John Ashley and I were intent on having. But I need not have felt this way at all, for Master Grindal is so gracious in manner. He said, “Do not worry, Elizabeth. It is my choice not to card play, but I censure no one, least of all you, in such pastimes, as I have never met a more diligent student.” I was left feeling better but slightly confused. There is a part of me that thinks that perhaps I am not quite fine enough or worthy enough of such praise from such a masterful intellect.
5 December, 1544
A letter from the Queen to me today, praising my diligence, which has been reported to her by Master Grindal. Catherine Parr really is a most excellent woman and Queen. I think of all the women my father has wed, Catherine is the most intelligent. Anne of Cleves is very smart, but I think of her more as wily than as intelligent. I think about Anne of Cleves often, and how she survived her brief marriage to my father. He did not like her at all, yet she kept her head and was given, as part of the settlement when he un-wifed her, Richmond Palace, where she now lives in lovely splendour. Now that is a clever lady. And yet she cannot hold a candle, as they say, to Catherine Parr in terms of book learning. She hardly knows Latin, no Greek, her French is abominable, her English thick as the pudding in a kid’s belly. (Father once compared her accent to that.) I do hope Anne comes for Christmas to Hampton Court. She is so gay and lively. She dances a very good pavanne.
9 December, 1544
I realize, dear Diary, that I have been not so faithful in my writing. Last summer I was writing daily but now it seems impossible. Master Grindal expects so much of me. There is always the New Testament translation. And then he keeps finding more and more Italian poetry for me to read. We have now begun our logic studies in earnest. So every evening I am required to prepare for the next day’s lesson examples of the basic forms of logical arguments: syllogisms, tautologies, converse, inverse, and contrapositive statements. It is pleasing, however. Master Grindal allows me to make them as silly as I want. Here is my silly syllogism for tomorrow: If all men are goats, and all goats are happy, then all men are happy. I am learning the mathematical notation for expressing such arguments as well. All this needless to say keeps me extremely busy.
12 December, 1544
Weather has turned bone-crackingly cold. In the schoolroom the ink freezes, and we keep two braziers filled with hot coals. Kat and John Ashley and I took hot cider today while wrapped in furs.
13 December, 1544
Still so cold. Every few minutes I must blow on my fingers or hold them to the brazier if I am to write. Master Grindal never lets an opportunity for learning slip by. We do scientific experiments to see which freezes faster: plain water, water with salt, or wine. Plain water freezes the fastest. We still wait for the salt water and the wine.
15 December, 1544
Barn
aby Fitzpatrick despite being slow in his studies is quick in other things. He begged some old venison bones from the cook and has now fashioned them into blades with his knife. With an awl he drilled small holes, through which he passed supple leather so we can fasten them to our shoes and thus we glide across the pond’s ice. Edward and Henry and I must use sticks, rather like crutches for balance and support. But Barnaby whizzes round the ice as fast as anything. Edward did not stay long. He got cold and went in. He has very little spirit for sports such as these. Barnaby says that if it snows and he can beg a broad bone from the cook, like that of a cow’s pelvis or shoulder, we can sledge down the hills on it. There are no knight’s shields here at Ashridge House. They are the best for sledging.
20 December, 1544
It begins to snow tonight. Barnaby promises he will go to the cook first thing in the morning for sledging bones. I wrap myself up in two furs and a blanket and sit by the narrow window of my chamber. It is a beautiful night. Through the falling snow we can still see the rising winter constellations. Indeed as I sit and sip the hot cider I watch through the narrow window Orion climbing in the winter sky. Orion the mighty hunter, the king, they say, of all the constellations, with more bright stars than any other heavenly grouping. If I follow the stars of his belt down and to the left, I can see Sirius, the very brightest star in the night sky, and then if I go on a diagonal upwards, there is Aldebaran. Father has mapped all these stars.
Elizabeth Page 6