by Susan Kay
Dr. Bill shrugged slightly, hunching his stooped shoulders together.
“Logic is not necessary to love and loyalty, my lord. I believe their return to be imperative to her survival.”
“Oh, very well—very well—whatever you think will help.” The Duke waved his hand impatiently. He seemed suddenly preoccupied, staring inwards, seeing the memory of his royal nephew calmly and cold-bloodedly handing him the Admiral’s death warrant. Whatever crimes Tom had committed, he had always been unfailingly good to the boy and yet the King had never questioned that last act, had never shown so much as a qualm of conscience. It was unnerving and it caused the Duke to know what little loyalty he himself could expect from Edward. All his service—less self-seeking than it often appeared to observers—had been wasted on that small waxen doll, who had shown himself to be without heart or compassion.
“I am a friend not won with trifles nor lost with the like.” That single line stood out from all Elizabeth’s correspondence to his brother and filled him with a moment of poignant regret for the love and loyalty that he would never know.
All his schemes, his hopes and fears seemed suddenly diminished, almost insignificant; he knew at last, without reservation or even self-interest, he desired above all things that she should live.
He rose and grasped the doctor’s hand, wringing it hard, with all the moody petulance suddenly gone from his face and his voice.
“My friend,” he said hoarsely, “for love of me go back to Hatfield and do all you can.”
* * *
Outside the window of Elizabeth’s bedroom the branches of a tree, heavy with new leaf, tapped monotonously against the little leaded panes as though nodding in permanent agreement with all the pearls of philosophy which tripped in incessant procession from Mrs. Ashley’s thin lips. Day after day that falsely cheerful monologue buzzed hopefully, like a persistent bee, from one subject to the next, seeking a response, while through it all Elizabeth lay still on the day-bed, like a marionette with no strings, watching the branches dancing madly in the wind beyond her window.
She said yes and no at appropriate intervals and occasionally smiled lest Kat’s feelings should be hurt, but in all she said or did there was a tired indifference, a hopeless, resigned lethargy which filled the governess with an increasing chill of fear and made her talk more and more wildly, until at last, in desperation, she found she was talking treason.
“…don’t you want to be Queen of England?” she cried.
Elizabeth turned her head sharply on the cushions and stared at the older woman. Her hands had clenched abruptly and her dull eyes ignited like balefire.
“What are you talking about? You know I can never be Queen.”
“Why not?” said Kat artfully, fanning this spark. “Your father restored you to the succession—no one now remembers—”
“That I was once the ‘Little Bastard’? I’m sure Mary does, and if anything should happen to Edward, she will be Queen first and make sure I never succeed her.”
Hope danced in Kat’s heart like a crazy imp. “She couldn’t exclude you—the people would never stand for it.”
Elizabeth sighed wearily. “The people call me a whore,” she muttered.
“Then show them it’s a lie! Oh, my love, don’t you see it? All you have to do is wait and the crown will fall on your pretty head as surely as day follows night. Not yet—not for many years perhaps, but it will come, I swear it.” She paused. “But once it’s yours of course they will try to take it from you—all your enemies, France, even Spain—and that’s why you must get well—to be ready. Ready to fight for your inheritance.”
Elizabeth sat still in stunned silence with Kat’s voice like a thunderclap in her mind. It seemed as though all her life she had been waiting for this moment, this sudden conception of her true purpose on this earth, born to rule and so vindicate the mother whose only real crime had been to bear a girl. To be Queen of England—it was all that could ever matter to her now.
She got slowly off the couch and went to open the casement window, pushing it wide with one painfully thin arm so that the wind slapped her deathly pallor. She stood staring at the empty rose bushes beneath, which would bloom red and white for the Tudor emblem, remembering the one Rose which would never open its eager petals to the sun again. “A Rose without Thorns” Henry had called the child wife of his doting old age, pretty laughing Katherine Howard for whom he had wept bitterly, even as he had done her to death—and one before her. But he had never been seen to weep for that one, not after he had split England in two in pursuit of her. What fools women were to put themselves willingly into the power of men!
The Admiral was dead and she must forget him. He was dead and he had deserved to die; now at last she could admit it to herself. Whatever the fierce link of passion that had sprung between them that day at Chelsea, she believed now that ambition and not love had driven him to the grave she might so easily have shared with him. Only the instinct to hesitate and to hold back had saved her from complete disaster. And now no memory of his bold face and gay bantering voice, however bitter, could alter the knowledge that he had meant to use her like a pawn in his treasonous designs.
No man, be he friend or foe, would ever have opportunity to use her for his own ends again.
She turned from the window to look at Kat, still thin and wasted from the rigours of the prison cell she had endured for the sake of her young mistress.
She said quietly, “When I am dressed you may ask Mr. Ascham to attend me in the solar.”
It was all she said, but Kat knew instinctively that it marked the end of her mourning. Elizabeth began her lessons again, dressed with dark severity in the plainest gowns her wardrobe had to offer, knowing she must win back her reputation in the only manner now available to her, in the role of the austere, high-born, Protestant maiden. The jewels and gay gowns so dear to her repressed childhood vanity were shut away and her image looked bleakly back from her steel mirror, a pale sombre outline, bright hair hidden beneath a plain cap. Every natural instinct within her she curbed—the levity, the coquetry, the vanity—all the wanton clamourings of her wild Tudor inheritance were ruthlessly stifled until, outwardly, she was a perfect model of learning and virginal propriety. Even Lady Tyrwhitt was impressed. Slowly the scandalous rumours of her conduct began to die away for want of fuel and the people murmured her name with ever-increasing affection.
There were no more mistakes. She stepped with faultless caution around every issue that might draw her into dangerous controversy. Archbishop Cranmer’s New Book of Common Prayer she accepted without protest, where her sister Mary refused it outright.
She built an impenetrable wall around her heart, and the only outlet of affection she allowed herself was for her childhood attendants. Though Tyrwhitt had discovered Parry’s account books “were so indiscreetly made it appears he had little understanding to execute his office,” she demanded his place should not be filled. Parry retained his chain of office and his fatuous sense of importance, while she audited the household accounts herself, behind his back, and made strict economies.
In the quiet backwater existence at Hatfield she shrugged off frequent bouts of illness like an angry cat shaking water from its coat. The only thing she steadfastly nursed was her implacable hatred of the Protector, and she listened with quiet satisfaction to all the rumours which suggested his world was about to collapse around him at any moment. John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, waited in the wings like an actor waiting for his cue. When discontent at the Protector’s rule broke out into open rebellion in two serious revolts among the populace, it was Dudley who rode into Norfolk to subdue the uprisings. He did so with a panache that won over to him most of the Council, ambitious lords who now resented the priggish, ineffectual rule of a man who had spilt his own brother’s blood. If the Lord Admiral had been a rogue at least he had never been the hypocrite the Lord Protector was now
seen to be, cowering behind the little King like an arrant coward. When Dudley returned to London with his triumphant army, Somerset, sensing his real danger, seized his young nephew and fled to Windsor Castle. There for a few desperate, futile days he held siege against Dudley’s forces, while Edward regarded him balefully, with an increasingly jaundiced eye, and thought how much better life might be in a world which no longer contained any ambitious uncles.
Somerset was borne off to the Tower, with the memory of his young nephew’s icy stare imprinted on his mind, half expecting that his end was in sight. But Dudley was too clever for that. He had seen the effect that Tom Seymour’s death had had on the public imagination and he intended to bide his time a little longer. So “the Good Duke” was released in disgrace, his rule virtually ended, his death postponed until it should prove either convenient or desperately necessary. He was a broken stalk of a man now. Dudley played with him like a cruel cat, reducing him to the status of a hunted mouse who found every hole stopped against him.
Elizabeth, waiting in the shadows to hear news of Somerset’s execution, was thrown into a transport of silent fury by this delay. Why didn’t Warwick strike the death blow? Surely he would never allow the sneaking white rat to escape! That possibility tormented her day and night and drove her at last to step outside her self-imposed retirement for the first time since her recent disgrace. In December of 1549 she accepted the King’s invitation and returned to court for the Christmas celebrations. Whatever it cost she must discover what Warwick intended for the fallen Protector.
She looked at the tall gangling boy who sat on the throne in the Presence Chamber and failed to identify the child she had always thought of as her little brother. He was a stranger to her. Under Warwick’s influence, he was striding towards manhood with desperate haste, throwing off the stranglehold of learning and driving his frail strength to the utmost at sports. He was thin, and flushed and racked with a persistent cough that had an ominous sound. She sank to her knees before him, ashamed and a little shocked that her first thought should have measured him squarely for his coffin. She had once loved him very dearly, but he had not lifted a finger to help her when she had been a friendless prisoner in fear of her life; love was an unwelcome invader in the heart of princes.
It was to be a formal interview; she was not sufficiently restored to favour to be allowed the privilege of seeing him alone. It had required half a dozen deep curtsies to bring her to the foot of the throne and as she rose from the sixth, she caught the pale, grave eyes of Protector Somerset’s young secretary, Mr. William Cecil, upon her. He inclined his head slowly in her direction and she surprised an odd look in his guarded expression. Was it sympathy? It occurred to her suddenly that Cecil must have dealt with all her correspondence to the Council during her imprisonment at Hatfield, had no doubt seen the confessions of Kat and Parry, had likely handled the details of the draft proclamation which officially sanctioned her innocence. He was looking at her now with almost furtive respect. How curious! Could it be then that Cecil did not believe she was a whore after all? It would be invaluable to have a friend at court, and from the cold, sly glances around her she knew there were few indeed prepared to take that risk, and even fewer that she would ever dare to trust. With a sudden irrational instinct she felt drawn towards the man.
“You are welcome to court, my sweet sister Temperance.”
The King held out his hand and indicated that she might sit beside him; he had used his old childish nickname for her. Temperance had been chosen with teasing irony and shortened in private to its more apt version of Temper ever since young Robert Dudley had annotated it, to Edward’s huge satisfaction.
Temper, temper! A shrill childish pipe echoed back from a sunny afternoon in her childhood. Robin Dudley, that horrid little boy!
She looked up, and saw him at last standing among the Dudley faction. And all the time she sat listening patiently to her brother’s precocious monologue, it was Robin she watched from beneath demurely lowered lashes.
* * *
Whilehall Palace sprawled around three sides of the Privy Garden, bounded to the north by the Privy Gallery, a timber structure which they had brought from a house of Wolsey’s at Esher at the time of the cardinal’s disgrace. At the end of the gravel path Robin Dudley pulled his purple velvet cloak around his broad shoulders, gathered a handful of snow and flung it at a low-hanging tree. He grinned as the minor avalanche which ensued showered an elderly spaniel circling beneath, searching, with maddening procrastination, for the right spot.
The old dog paused in his dawdling and eyed his master with rheumy-eyed reproach.
“Don’t look at me like that, you ancient villain, just get on with it! God’s death, it’s cold enough out here to freeze my—”
A twig snapped behind him. He broke off abruptly and swung round to look down into the cynical face of the Princess Elizabeth.
“Yes?” she said with a cool smile. “Do continue your conversation—I should imagine Caesar sympathises with you, being considerably nearer the ground than you are.”
She watched with amusement as the young man turned red to the tips of his ears, thoroughly embarrassed to be caught talking to his dog by this superior girl and the smug governess who was her permanent shadow now. But as he knelt gracefully in the snow to kiss her formally outstretched hand, he forgot his quick annoyance beneath a flicker of vulgar curiosity. There were so many questions burning within him about the Lord Admiral, questions which he knew he must never dare to ask. And what could he say to her now that would not sound prying, that would take the cold wary expression from her pale face? Shocked to see how strained and frail she looked, he said, unable to think of anything better, “Will you walk with me, madam?”
“Madam?”
He smiled suddenly, took her hand with all his old familiarity and laid it on his arm. She turned and nodded to Kat, who knew what was required of her and reluctantly fell back several paces behind them.
“Show me the gardens,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a long time since I’ve been at court.”
“Too long,” he parried swiftly. “Much too long. I would have ridden over to Hatfield to see you but—” He hesitated.
“But your father wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Well—” He was uncomfortable. “You know what Father is—”
“You don’t have to apologise, Robin, I’m not offended.”
A look of real relief crossed his face and they began to talk of other things.
Thirty-four columns, each surmounted by a fantastically carved animal, lined their way as they strolled towards the huge fountain in the centre of the garden. A sturdy vein of self-confidence marked Robin’s conversation, based on a belief, as yet unchallenged, that the world was a pleasant place and life was his own particular oyster. He was cheerful company and Elizabeth found herself studying him from the corner of her eye with a warmth of interest that amazed her. She was astonished to see just how handsome he had grown and very careful not to let him see that she had noticed. She was accordingly astringent, and as he strutted beside her, boisterous, bumptious, and buoyant as a half-grown hound, she put him down several times with verbal cuffs that began to penetrate his healthy depth of thick skin. So he tried a little of the flattery that had paid him handsome dividends in other circumstances.
“They say you never wear your hair loose any more.”
“Well?” She gave him a frigid glance.
“Don’t you think it’s a waste to hide it like that—no one else at court has hair to match yours?”
Against her will she was faintly mollified.
“Courtier!” she said suspiciously. “Where have you been polishing your tongue?”
“In Norfolk, on a softer stone,” he admitted with a shrug.
“Norfolk?”
“Syderstone—we were quartered there for a few nights after the rebellion. You mind old
Robsart’s daughter? We marry in June.”
She stared ahead, unable to look at him, hiding an emotion that seemed as irrational as it was unexpected. For what was it to her, after all, if he married?
At last she turned with a crooked little smile and slapped his arm playfully.
“Wild oats,” she said softly. “Pleasant enough to sow, but very tedious to reap. Poor Robin!”
“Men pay for whores,” he snapped angrily, needled by the sly insinuation. “They don’t take them to wife.”
He watched her go white as a bleached bone and was suddenly on fire with guilt, ashamed of pricking holes in that hard, careless front of composure which was her sole defence against the knowing leers and sniggering talk. At seventeen, with nothing ahead that he could see for himself but success and happiness, her taut misery hurt him, made him feel small and mean-minded. How tactless and insensitive to have spoken of his marriage, with the Admiral rotting at this moment in a dishonoured grave. He stole an uneasy glance at her. She shivered in the frosty air and he flung his cloak around her shoulders with a curiously heavy heart. So it was true then, all the rumours—she had loved a man old enough to have been her father—And why should she give the time of day now to a callow, shallow youth who had as good as called her a slut…?
“I didn’t mean to imply—” he began awkwardly.
She smiled faintly and put her finger to his lips to close them. The clumsy lie had touched her. Certainly he believed the rumours, but unlike the rest, believed them unwillingly. In spite of evil gossip and wealthy heiresses, he was still her friend and would always be; it was as though he simply couldn’t help it.
“Tell me about your bride,” she said gently.
Suddenly bashful as a schoolboy, he told her a little, packing the snow to ice beneath his boot and not looking at her as he spoke. When he had finished there was silence between them, a silence it was incumbent upon her to break with the greatest care.