by Susan Kay
She knew about the death warrant, he was suddenly certain of that as he bent clumsily over her hand. And as he went out of her room he found himself hoping with curious intensity that she was mistaken over Bedingfield’s instructions.
* * *
Sir Henry Bedingfield, that grey-bearded incorruptible, escorted his prisoner to the waiting barge in unencouraging silence. He had an unbending air which sent her heart plummeting; a cold, correct formality which offered her little hope of winning him for a friend.
As the barge pulled away from the landing steps, she looked back at the Tower with a sudden pang of real regret. She was leaving Robin Dudley alone in his prison cell and the odds were high that she would never see him again. In the short time that remained before her departure, there had been no way of sending a message; the sense of loss was unexpectedly strong and she felt strangely depressed. There would be very little to look forward to at Woodstock, she saw the promise of that in Bedingfield’s stony face.
As the barge glided steadily towards Richmond Palace, all the city bells began to peal madly and the merchants of the Hanseatic League fired a royal salute for her from the riverside factories of the Steelyard. From the corner of her eye she saw Bedingfield half rise from his seat in anger. His grim fury would be but a pale reflection of the Queen’s when news of this outrage was carried to her.
What need have I for enemies, she thought bitterly, my friends will hang me yet…
When they landed at Richmond, where they were to spend the first night, she had no thought of being received by her sister, whom she understood to be at Whitehall, and did not even trouble to ask it. So she was taken by surprise later that evening when Bedingfield arrived to conduct her to the Queen’s private chamber.
Mary was alone, hunched in a high-backed chair beside a blazing fire, and Bedingfield withdrew at her gesture. Elizabeth glanced after him with regret. She did not feel safe with Mary and she would have preferred the security of a witness, however hostile.
“Come here.”
She came, like an errant child, and as she sank into a deep curtsey before the chair she had time to be shocked at her sister’s face, so shrivelled and sallow in the yellow candlelight. She reached out to take the hand which lay on the tapestried arm, but Mary snatched it away, as though her touch might be leprous.
Elizabeth moistened her dry lips.
“No—don’t speak,” said the Queen curtly. “I have not brought you here to listen to your lying protestations of innocence. No words of yours will move me again.” She made an irritable gesture. “Stand up, I will not be mocked by your feigned humility.”
Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet. Her throat was parched and she was trembling like a bird in the clutch of a cat. She could not believe this bitter woman, half-demented with hatred, was truly her sister. All through her turbulent childhood she had received nothing but unstinting kindness from this selfless, dutiful lady. A dozen memories of Mary’s generosity distracted her mind when it should be struggling to think of words safe to utter to her most deadly enemy. Yards of yellow satin to make a gown—the curious pomander ball set with its own clock—she wore it now on a chain about her narrow waist in the hope that the sight of it might please her sister. She had always taken Mary’s generosity for granted, the kindness of a dull, unbending old maid, reliable as a rock. How could Mary, who had always been so unfailingly good to her…? Her question stopped abruptly. Mary had been good to Jane too, had certainly liked her better; and Jane was dead.
Mary was staring hard at the pomander ball, knowing full well why her sister had worn it and not liking her any better for the calculating instinct it revealed. She had come to the point where she could no longer bear Elizabeth in the same room without being stricken with a sickening desire to inflict some physical assault upon that smooth elegance, so terribly reminiscent of Anne’s.
“I hear you were royally entertained on your journey from the Tower,” she remarked.
“I beseech Your Majesty to remember that I was in no way responsible for the merchants’ gesture.”
“Ah, no—you are never responsible for anything, are you, sister? A helpless victim of malign fate!”
Elizabeth ignored the direct invitation to a quarrel.
“Your Majesty sent for me,” she prompted nervously.
“I did,” snapped Mary. “Merely to remind you that you have exchanged one prison for another. And to promise you that you will find the guardianship of Sir Henry Bedingfield more irksome than the closest Tower surveillance. You will discover he has little time for women—do you understand me, madam? There is no way that even you will find to undermine his guard.”
Elizabeth was silent.
“You are to be shut away from all you hold dear,” continued the Queen coldly, “shut away indefinitely from laughter and music—and men. Ah, yes—that last touches you, does it not, sister? You need men as a flower needs the sun. Without their attentions you wilt and wither. Your mother was just the same—the Concubine they called her.”
Elizabeth stirred uneasily. “Madam—”
“You never speak of your mother, do you?” mused Mary with narrowed eyes. “Even as a child, you never asked awkward questions. I always thought it odd—unnatural even—it was as though you already knew all the answers.”
“Madam, please—”
“Do I make you uncomfortable? It is in my power to make you more than that, Elizabeth. It is also in my power to set you free if I choose. Shall I so choose, sister? Shall I give you the one key that will unlock your prison door?”
Elizabeth’s head jerked upwards and Mary smiled faintly and sat back in her chair.
“Hope springs eternal, is that not so, sister? There are terms, of course, to that freedom.”
“Name them, madam.” Elizabeth was cautious.
“The Duke of Savoy has renewed his suit for your hand in marriage. Take him, Elizabeth. Swear to leave my kingdom in exile and you shall have your full liberty.”
Elizabeth stared down into her sister’s eyes and said with soft vehemence, “Madam, I would rather die first.”
“That too can be arranged,” the Queen shouted suddenly. “Never be in doubt of it.”
“I have never doubted it,” said Elizabeth wearily. “I only wonder why Your Grace does not give the word and free me from this cruel suspense.”
That touched on a very sore point and Mary’s face contorted with rage. She started out of her chair and Elizabeth instinctively shrank back.
“You think I’m afraid to do it, don’t you?—Afraid of the people who chant your name in the streets. You think to rule here one day—but I swear before God that you will never succeed me. How could you—heretic, hypocrite, traitor, and bastard that you are? Bastard—but not my father’s. Oh, no! Your mother was an infamous whore and you are the living image of her lute player, Mark Smeaton, who died for his adultery with her.” Hysteria was welling up in Mary. She clutched her crucifix as though it alone stood between her and the Devil. “So, who are you—Smeaton’s brat—to question my command? You’ll marry Savoy and count yourself fortunate that the man is still willing to take you. God knows why he should be, after all he must have heard—perhaps his taste runs to whores.”
“Or corpses,” suggested Elizabeth, and stood aghast at her insane remark.
Without warning, the Queen stepped forward and struck Elizabeth full in the face with a violence that rocked her to the floor. There was ecstasy in Mary’s panting frenzy as she stood over her sister—the sudden achievement of a long-delayed satisfaction.
“Do you dare to mock me to my face, you—you low-born strumpet? Oh, yes—bring tears to your pretty eyes, you were always very good at that as a child. Do you think I don’t remember all the times you deceived me? But it’s too late now to try that trick on me again, too late, do you hear? I shall bear a son to the Prince of Spain and the moment
my child is born I will see that you are shut away for the rest of your miserable life! You tell me you would rather die than marry—go now and lie in your chosen grave.”
Somehow she got out of the Queen’s room and back to her own where her terrified servants flocked round her, aghast at her colour.
“Madam, are you ill?”
Her gentleman usher, Cornwallis, was clinging to her hand and trying to help her to a chair. She started to answer him, then stopped as the door flew open and Bedingfield marched into the room.
“Out! Out all of you. It is Her Majesty’s command that Her Grace should be left quite alone this night.”
Alone!
They stared at him, their eyes wide with fear, for this could mean only one thing and Elizabeth, too, now appeared to think it.
“Pray for me,” she sobbed suddenly, as Cornwallis bent over her, “for tonight I think I am to die.”
Cornwallis blazed round upon Bedingfield.
“If the Princess Elizabeth is in danger of death, sir, I and my companions wish to die with her.”
“God forbid,” said Bedingfield with cool irony, “that any such wickedness should be intended.”
He indicated the door once more and one by one, weeping and kissing her hand, they bowed and curtsied and trailed from the room until she was alone, facing her gaoler.
“Goodnight, madam.” He bowed curtly and went out, locking the door behind him.
Silence weighed in upon her and she lay on the bed, too exhausted to undress. She was to be shut up for the rest of her life because she refused to be shipped away from all hope of the Succession, because she refused to give up her dream. But that dream was all that gave meaning to her life and without it she might as well be dead. Suddenly she no longer cared whether a dagger came to her in the still darkness behind the curtains; for why should she fear the end of this wretched existence?
Neither hope nor terror remained to disturb her mind. She curled her arms around the lumpy pillow and fell dead asleep.
* * *
Next morning, strange women were sent to attend her, Catholic ladies from the Queen’s household who performed their duties in taciturn silence. Breakfast was set before her, but she pushed it away without a second glance and then looked up in surprise to find the girl who had served her still hovering at her side uncertainly.
“It will be a long journey—will Your Grace not take just a little of the meat?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly and glanced around the room; the matrons had withdrawn and for the moment they were alone.
“What is your name?” she asked guardedly.
“Sands, madam.” The girl dropped a pert curtsey and returned her smile cheerfully. “Elizabeth Sands.”
“Elizabeth?” The Princess laughed. “Not a very fortunate name. I’m afraid it will bring you little favour at this court.”
“I have been appointed to serve Your Grace,” said the girl steadily. “The only favour I shall seek now is from your hands alone. If there is anything—anything at all—that I can do to ease Your Grace’s lot, you have only to ask—”
Behind them the door opened to admit Sir Henry; Elizabeth Sands curtsied formally and withdrew, leaving her new mistress curiously elated. Bedingfield watched suspiciously as she left the room. He did not care for Mistress Sands—she had a stubborn look and a frivolous manner which irritated him. When he looked at her side by side with his prisoner, he had the shrewd suspicion that it was more than a name they shared. Well—he would watch the girl. And at the first sign of active partisanship he would send her packing.
Aloud he said gruffly, “The litter is waiting in the courtyard, madam. We leave at once.”
Elizabeth was vaguely amused by the litter that awaited her. It was a shabby, broken-down vehicle which had plainly seen better days, eminently suitable for the worst of travel-sick children; she wondered idly whether the Queen’s litter had been refurbished yet. As the entourage rolled out of the courtyard, she realised she was in for a very uncomfortable ride. There was a broken mechanism on the litter which caused a constant jolting. Pure coincidence? Somehow she did not think so as the miles stretched behind her and her head began to reel.
But the journey had compensations. Word of her coming had spread in spite of all Bedingfield’s efforts at secrecy, and the people along their way flocked out of their houses treasonably to cheer their imprisoned princess and shower her with flowers and cakes, until the floor of the old litter overflowed with them and she cried out, laughing, for them to stop.
But they did not stop. An almost magical transformation was turning a journey of disgrace into a royal progress of triumph and there was nothing Sir Henry could do to stop it. In vain he ordered them back in the Queen’s name and heard their fearless hoots of derision. The boys of Eton College flocked around her, cheering and waving their caps in the air. At Aston they rang the church bells for her and Bedingfield had the two culprits gaoled for it; but he could not imprison the inhabitants of every village and hamlet through which they passed and his futility mocked him.
“God save the Princess Elizabeth!” The cry reverberated through Oxfordshire.
Inconstant, faithless and treasonable…given so much to change and infidelity, the people left their hovels and their poverty to join the girl who already reigned in their hearts, to tell her that in this dark moment of her life she was not alone and friendless. She looked out on the cheering, loving crowd and saw her life before her, the life that their love alone had preserved. England was like a storm-tossed ship, rolling helplessly on the tides of fear and unrest, a ship in desperate need of an anchor. She would be that anchor, strong enough to hold this perilously bobbing vessel from the rocks.
She owed her life to England’s love and she saw that in return she must give that life. It was the only way to repay the debt she owed, perhaps had always owed from the moment of her birth. She would justify her birth and her existence that had cost so many lives, her own mother’s among them. Bloodshed and waste, bitter controversy and religious war had attended her entry to this world. But she could atone for it by becoming the greatest monarch in the history of her country. She could atone for it all when she was Queen—and she would be Queen. Suddenly, for the first time, she was sure of it. She had been right to hold her ground, to refuse Savoy, to spurn hope of sanctuary and safety.
The people pressed about her litter in hope and she swore in that moment never to betray their trust. Now when she was only twenty, when her coronation might be ten, even twenty, years ahead, when the world had narrowed to the short distance between one prison and another, she could swear to do it. Now, surrounded by guards, without benefit of an abbey and choirs and candles, without the holy oil of the annointing and the high solemn voices—now in the midst of a hot, loving crowd she took the final vow of service.
* * *
All semblance of a royal progress ended at their destination.
The old stone palace of Woodstock stood on a small slope, surrounded on all sides by enormous trees. Even from a distance Elizabeth could see the broken windows and the crumbling stonework. The privy gardens were choked and overgrown with weeds and the countryside littered with uprooted trees. Winter was evidently unkind in this area.
Bruised and weary from the constant jolting of the broken litter, Elizabeth stood on the uncut grass and stared with horrified disbelief at the dilapidated building. It had not been in use as a royal residence for many years and it was not difficult to see why.
Bedingfield escorted her to the primitive little gatehouse, where he told her four rooms had been prepared for her use.
“Prepared?” Elizabeth blew on the chimney-piece and a thick cloud of dust flew up into his heavy face.
“I can’t stay here—the damp is running down the walls.”
He glanced in a cursory fashion at the mildewed tapestries and the paltry furniture.
A fierce draught blew in through a broken window and the ancient rushes were alive with cockroaches.
“I shall see what can be done about the window, madam, but I have no orders to lodge Your Grace elsewhere in the meantime.”
She bit her lip and turned away. Mary had been right—she had been a great deal better off in the Tower! She sat down wearily on the rickety window-seat and stared out at the bleak countryside through the hole in the dirty green glass. Dimly she became aware of Bedingfield’s angry voice in the next chamber.
“How can I be expected to keep her close confined if only three doors out of the four can be locked? You—fetch me a locksmith from the village—and you, arrange the rota for her guard. I want sixty soldiers around the house by day and forty at night. I want—” He broke off abruptly as he suddenly saw her standing in the doorway. “Your Grace desires something? I shall send your ladies to attend you.”
He treated her as though she were a high-born leper, avoiding her company and the touch of her hand on his. Her eyes narrowed as he bowed curtly and withdrew from the room; she had heard the tales about him—taciturn, intractable, immune to all female charm.
So he thought he could safely keep his distance, did he?
We’ll see about that, gaoler! she thought. A month from now will see you eating out of my hand like a tame wolfhound. You’ll go the way of all the rest, my friend. I swear it!
Chapter 2
Phiilip of Spain sat with stiff dignity beneath the canopy of estate and his bride sat beside him. She was smiling and holding his cold hand and chattering nervously like a young girl, though she was by no means a girl, and he could see, with a flicker of mild distaste, that it was some considerable time since she had been one—rather longer than he had been led to believe by Renard and his father.
Grey spectacles of distaste had coloured Philip’s view of England since the moment he landed in a summer downpour. Had he been a man to show his feelings, he would be kicking his personal attendants in his private apartments, strangling Renard, or maybe losing his frustration in the soft curves of a whore’s body, on this, his last night of freedom. Instead he sat here dutifully performing in this public peep-show, following the Emperor’s orders to the letter, as always. No one could say he hadn’t done his best—he always did his best. He had been impeccably charming to these crude barbarians; he had drunk their foul beer, kissed the Queen on her dry lips and tried not to notice that none of her simpering women were on the right side of thirty. But all the time he was bored and wretched and a little voice at the back of his mind whined persistently: What have I done to deserve this?