6 May, 1546
Master Grindal’s mother is already dead, and he has no father and his other relatives live too far away. I tell him he must think of something. How can a man who is so clever be so unimaginative? If nothing else, he must get sick himself. Start limping, I tell him. I shall bash him in the knee if I have to.
12 May, 1546
Oh, I am so happy. Master Grindal really is sick. He looks positively ghastly. He returns to Cambridge immediately. I think he should be safe there.
16 May, 1546
The Queen is red-eyed, as if she has been crying. She excused herself early from a banquet and did not go hunting today. I have never known her to miss a hunt.
17 May, 1546
For the first time in two years, I heard the terrible shrieking of Catherine Howard in the Long Gallery last night. When I rose this morning, I knew at first glance that others had heard it, too. She is back! And with good reason.
Later
Robin came to me this morning. He heard it, too. “Should we do it?” he asked. I looked at him and sighed. “Robin, we cannot play ninepins anymore.” “Why not?” he asks. I take him by the sleeve and pull him towards the mirror. “See, Robin,” I say, looking at our images. He is six feet tall and I am more than five feet tall now. He has a pale beard and I have this winter begun my monthly courses. “We are no longer children. We cannot play games to quiet her spirit. She would not recognize us anymore.”
19 May, 1546
This is the tenth anniversary of the death of my mother. Had she lived, I wonder what she would think of me? I went to the Chapel to pray for her. That is easy – to pray for the dead. What is hard is to pray for the living. To pray for Queen Catherine.
24 May, 1546
We have heard more grievous news today. Anne Askew, who has many connections here in Court, especially with the Seymours and with the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting, was arrested this very morning and taken to the Tower. She is known for her strong Protestant views. The Lizard ordered her arrest. It is said that the Lizard himself will cross-examine her. Poor woman!
25 May, 1546
There are no ordinary times. It is as if we go through the motions of living. Now that Master Grindal has gone, I impose a course of study for myself and try to follow it, but my mind wanders. I play with Edward and the monkeys. But I move through the day as if in a dream. I feel indeed like one of the mechanical creatures that Ponsby builds for the mummeries; that somewhere hidden levers and cranks are turned to give me a pretence of life and motion. I have not seen the Queen in days. It is said that they interrogate Anne Askew in the Tower for information concerning the Ladies-in-Waiting that can give them leads ultimately to the Queen herself.
30 May, 1546
Whitsunday. We celebrate today the descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles. There is no Holy Spirit in this land. I have just heard that they put Anne Askew on the rack and that the Lord Chancellor himself turns the screws as he did for the poet and the minstrel taken last month. They draw the noose tighter. Soon I am sure it will encircle Catherine’s neck.
4 June, 1546
We move to Whitehall Palace tomorrow. I try to study Cicero. I wonder how my dear Master Grindal is doing. I told him not to write. Anything he says might be held against him. I, perhaps, am writing my own death warrant, for if this diary is discovered I shall be finished.
6 June, 1546
Whitehall Palace
I hear my father does not fare well. His legs are festering and twice within one week had to be cauterized. He growls at everyone. And now it is said that he growls loudest at Queen Catherine, for she dared to “lecture” him on some point. This was most reckless of her indeed. I can only think that she did this because she is so distracted and filled with anxiety. I know not on what point it was she lectured him. I would guess it was something to do with her religious beliefs, which tend to be somewhat Protestant. She likes not many of the more elaborate parts of the Mass that my father has kept in his church. This word came to me by way of Mary Ward. I think Kat knows that Mary and I now speak, but she does nothing about it. She, too, senses perhaps that we must all be alert to the danger that lurks within Court.
11 June, 1546
I was called to the royal apartments today. So was Edward. This is the first time we have seen our father or the Queen in weeks. They were sitting in the garden. My father reading something. He barely raised his head to acknowledge our presence. His new doctor, Thomas Wendy, was there, and both Dr. Wendy and the Queen made a great show of greeting us. Then we sat in the most uncomfortable silence. It seemed as though my father’s raspy wheeze drowned out even the bird chatter. There was some talk, and then my father said in a low voice. “You lecture me, Kate!” A chill went through me. The Queen got up and came over. “No, no, Your Majesty, I only spoke of the roses, that is all.” To tell the truth I do not know of what they were speaking. I was so relieved when we were finally dismissed.
25 June, 1546
I move through my life like a ghost – a ghost haunting herself perhaps or one looking for another body to live within. Robin tells me to be hopeful. He reminds me of our blood oath. But things seem to move in this inexorable, predestined path. What can I do – I, the invisible Princess, daughter of a witch?
4 July, 1546
Very bad news. John Ashley who keeps some of the books for the households and the Queen’s estates has been ordered by the Privy Council to deliver them. All the auditors of the Queen’s estates have been told to do likewise. This means, says John, that charges of heresy are to be brought against her. This could be the first step towards her arrest.
10 July, 1546
Robin and I were in the rose garden this afternoon when suddenly we heard a hiss from behind the hedge. It was Thomas Wendy the doctor signalling us. He has just visited Father to change the bandages on his legs. Father told Wendy that the Queen is to be arrested tomorrow!
Robin immediately spoke. “We must warn the Queen. Do the Councillors have copies of the charges?” he asked.
“They must,” Wendy replied.
“We can try to get them and give them to the Queen,” Robin said.
“It is too risky,” I replied. Suddenly I felt a searing stab of pain in my stomach. I bent over and held myself. The stabs of pain were real enough, but I knew that like Master Grindal I had made myself sick with fear, and now I should take advantage of it. Both the doctor and Robin caught me as I began to crumble slowly to the ground. “Call the Queen to my apartment. Tell her I am ill. They will not refuse you, Doctor Wendy.”
Later
The Queen has been warned! She came almost immediately to my apartments. Robin was still there. We told her what we had heard. I had fully expected her to faint, but she did not. She pulled herself up to her full height and set her jaw. She looked fierce.
11 July, 1546
The Queen has triumphed! Oh, how I wish I had been there. But I was sick, if you recall. Remember, dear Diary, how in my last entry I said how fierce the Queen looked. Well, that is not how she went to the King. He was in the walled garden, and Robin had climbed a tree along the wall outside. Perfectly hidden by foliage, he could see all and hear all. This is what he reported: the Queen rushed to the King’s side and fell to her knees. She then began to quote the Letters of Saint Paul about how women must learn to be obedient to their husbands and that women, furthermore, since first creation were made subject to men. But the following were the words that saved her most: “Men being made after the image of God ought to instruct their wives, who would do all their learning from them.” And she went on that she of all people wished “to be taught by His Majesty, who was a Prince of such excellent learning and wisdom.”
The King, said Robin, then looked her in the face and said quite simply: “Then, Kate, we are friends again.” And he embraced her.
Then just as Robin was about to climb down from the tree, he heard the sound of many feet approaching. It was the Lizard with forty guards to arrest the Queen. They burst into the garden and found Father and the Queen embracing. Father then looked up and roared like a bear being baited. “Knave! Fool! Beast! Out of my garden!”
I am so thankful. For the first time in weeks I shall rest and sleep the night through. My Queen is saved. I must now write Master Grindal and ask that he return. We children are all to go to Ashridge for the rest of the summer.
20 July, 1546
Ashridge
One sunny day succeeds the next. We hunt. We hawk. We go boating and fishing. Barnaby Fitzpatrick has come. But I do study very hard. Master Grindal is amazed. I do this not just for myself but as a tribute to Queen Catherine. When she was saved, I vowed I would honour her life with the application of my intellect and a renewed zeal in my studies. Even Robin does not criticize me. He seems to understand.
25 July, 1546
Summer is a quiet time. When the leaves begin to turn, in another month or so, that is when the pace quickens. Father and the Queen go to their hunting lodges. I hope again to visit them at Woodstock. If I do not write often now, know that it is because everything in my life is placid yet not boring. I am satisfied and do not need to confide so desperately now as I once did. There are so few pages left in this diary. I must ask Kat for a new one, soon. I shall use the remaining pages sparingly.
23 December, 1546
Enfield
Dear Diary, I have done once more what I vowed never to do. Lied to you. I think it is a lie, although some might say that it is a silent lie rather than a written or spoken one. That is why I have written so little until now. A lie nonetheless. It was true as I last wrote that one sunny day succeeded the next. Perhaps the good weather made it all the crueller, but we began to receive reports of my father’s failing health. I chose not to write about this. Along with the reports was all the accompanying gossip regarding succession. There were rumours that Mary would be chosen over Edward. For in recent months Father had begun to shower her with jewels. It seemed as if every week throughout the summer I would hear of a new gift being bestowed on Mary. A dread began to build within me. I was in some ways nearly paralysed with fear. So I chose not to think about it. That is why I have not written.
In early September, we were all most happy when we heard that Father was better and planned his autumn hunting trip. We were to join him at the end of it at Woodstock in time for Michaelmas, but then came the news. He was ill again.
Our Michaelmas visit was cancelled. Like leaves from a tree, the holidays began to drop away uncelebrated. Michaelmas came and went, Edward’s birthday, All Hallows’ Eve, and All Souls’ Day. Edward, Mary, and I were left to languish in our separate country estates. Again I felt myself becoming the forgotten, invisible Princess. Then more rumours about Mary succeeding the King.
Now it is Christmas. What a strange Christmas it is. There is no Lord of Misrule appointed. I am still here at Enfield without Robin or Barnaby or even Lady Jane. Edward is at Ashridge and Mary at Beaulieu. But most alarming of all even the Queen has been sent away to Greenwich for the Twelve Days of Christmas. My father has never been separated from his wife, any wife, on Christmas. They say he is gravely ill and is kept in utter seclusion in Whitehall Palace in London. They say that he cannot and has not signed his own name for months and that his Privy Councillors use the dry stamp to imprint his signature.
We wait here now. It is a cheerless Christmas. We wait for the death of a King, and I wait for the rest of my life and wonder what will happen. For my life will change, and could change in most unfortunate, nay truly horrid ways.
24 December, 1546
We go to Midnight Mass for Christmas Eve. I pray for my father. And yes, I pray for myself.
25 December, 1546
What a dreary Christmas day, made drearier by Kat and John Ashley’s immense efforts to be jolly. I had a horrible dream last night. I dreamed of my father. He appeared grotesquely fat and he had a baffled look in his eyes. He was absently handing jewel after jewel over to Princess Mary, then he looked up at me. His eyes cleared and in this high, yet snarling little voice he began to sing:
Robin clad in green did come to see the Queen.
And sitting by the throne
Two Princesses were shone.
Hey, nonny nonny. Hey, nonny nonny.
One in shadows glowed despite her lack of gems.
The other in the Sun looked verily so glum…
It was the ditty for which I was banished from court nearly three summers ago at Greenwich. I fear this dream is an omen.
18 January, 1547
The year turned. We hear no new news of Father. No letters from the Queen nor from Edward. I would not expect any from Robin as he never writes. Perhaps from Lady Jane, but now I have reasoned that she is scared to write me. That she knows something about the succession that I do not. She knows Princess Mary for her true self and rumours of Mary’s succession would be enough to frighten Jane into silence. It could even be dangerous for her to write. I am no fool. We must all look after ourselves at certain times.
19 January, 1547
I must stop wallowing in fear and self-pity. I have decided to train my mind on other things, for even my studies do not distract me from my worries. Here is what I have made myself focus on. A barn swallow. Or at least that is what John Ashley says the little drab-coloured bird that begins to make a nest outside my window is. I say, why is it called a barn swallow if it nests here on my window ledge? He says it must be drawn to something at this window, this corner of Enfield. “Maybe to you, Princess.” Today in the course of the morning she has a nest half-built.
21 January, 1547
The barn swallow’s nest is all built. I watched yesterday as she dug her tiny beak into the downy fluff under her outer feathers and plucked some to tuck into her nest. Imagine such poverty that one must pluck from one’s own body to build one’s home and shelter. I look around my own apartments, at the tapestries woven with tales from Greek mythology, the inlaid ivory desk, and the tasselled embroidery table covers.
28 January, 1547
Joy! Three speckled eggs lay so cosily in the swallow’s nest! To me they seem to sparkle as splendidly as gems on this dull January day.
29 January, 1547
I hear wonderful news today. Edward is to arrive tomorrow from Ashridge. I am so excited.
31 January, 1547
Dear Diary, I can hardly believe these words that I am about to inscribe. My father, King Henry VIII, is dead. He died in the small hours of the morning of January 28, the very same morning when I discovered the swallow’s eggs. They kept his death a secret from the whole world for three days. I know not why. Edward Seymour, who had brought Edward here, told us this morning. He came to my apartments and asked that Edward be brought and that John and Kat Ashley be there. Edward and I both burst into tears as he told us. I pressed my hands to my eyes for I do not know how long, perhaps many seconds, or two or three minutes. I could hear Edward sniffling and gulping and then there seemed to be silence. Next I heard a voice say, “Long live the King,” and when I took my hands down from my face, I noticed that Edward Seymour and Kat and John Ashley were all kneeling in front of Edward. My brother is King! My brother and not Princess Mary. I sank to my knees as much in relief as homage.
1 February, 1547
I am still in a state of disbelief. Father is dead and my nine-year-old brother is King. Today Edward was taken to London, where his uncle Edward Seymour is to be recognized officially as my brother’s protector.
PS I guess now Barnaby Fitzpatrick’s wish will come true. He shall be the whipping boy!
5 February, 1547
I am often the last to hear what is to happen. I now am told to make rea
dy to be conveyed to London immediately. My father’s body lies in state in Whitehall. We children shall go there to mourn him. It remains to be seen if Princess Mary and I shall attend the funeral. It is the custom that the new King never attend the funeral of the old one. The funeral is to be at Windsor. Father is to be buried in a magnificent tomb next to Jane Seymour in Saint George’s Chapel. I wonder how Queen Catherine feels about this.
10 February, 1547
Whitehall Palace
Tonight Princess Mary, Edward, and I go to the Chapel Royal, which will be cleared of mourners so we may pay our last love and honour to our father. I am afraid.
Later
A thousand or more tapers burned. Will Somers came with us. For this I am most glad. I like Will because he answers all of our questions so straightforwardly, unlike many adults. When Edward said, “The coffin is so large even for one my father’s size,” Will explained that Father rested in a smaller coffin that was contained within this larger one. This outer coffin was draped in black and had precious stones set in its top. There were many banners as well that draped it. The coffin rested beneath a canopy of sheer gold fabric through which the light of the tapers was filtered, like the light of many very distant suns. On an empty coffin next to my father’s they have made a wax replica of him gowned in velvet robes just like the ones he wore, and covered with jewels. I said the prayers for the dead but I barely felt the words on my lips. All I could think about was Father’s body in the huge box. I could not concentrate on my prayers at all.
Elizabeth Page 12