“But… for what reasons?”
I disliked the man Tyrwhit. He looked at me slyly. “You might know the answer to that question better than I do, my lady.”
The man was insolent. How dared he be! And then I understood that he had reason for being so. I was, as I had feared I might be, under suspicion. His very presence meant that I was, in effect, under his guard even in my own house.
He turned to his wife. “Pray help the Princess to her chamber. This has been a shock to her.”
Lady Tyrwhit came to me and laid a hand on my arm. I shook her off angrily.
“I will know more of this.” I remembered that I was still the late King's daughter. “I shall demand an explanation.”
“You will get it very soon, I have no doubt, my lady.” There was a threat in his words and I felt limp with horror, and although I had had my misgivings I was taken by surprise.
One thought kept hammering through my aching head: Be calm. Be careful. You are in acute danger.
* * *
HOW WRETCHED I WAS without Kat! I dearly loved the frivolous creature and I was very anxious for her. And Parry … foolish Parry who couldn't even keep his household accounts in order, how would he fare under questioning, under torture even?
I hated Lady Tyrwhit, mostly because she wasn't Kat. I glared at her and refused to talk to her except when it was necessary. She was a patient woman and she showed no resentment. In fact she behaved rather like a jailer and even at such a time I recognized that hint of hesitation which all displayed when dealing with someone who had a claim to the throne. It suggests that they do not really believe one will ever reach that exalted position—but caution bids them play safe in case one should.
I do not remember how many days passed before Sir Robert Tyrwhit came to my bedchamber. He had sheaves of paper in his hand. These were, he explained, the confessions of Parry and Katharine Ashley.
I took them and read them. It was all there… the rompings, the tickling in bed, the cutting of the dress, the morning visits to my bedchamber in his nightgown with bare legs. They had told everything. Parry had said that wild horses could tear him asunder and he would not tell. How different was the true case.
I did not blame them. I just thought of them—and particularly of Kat— in some dark dungeon waiting with trepidation the hour of questioning, no doubt dreading in terror the terrible means that could be used to prize information from them. The thought of Kat on the rack was more than I could bear. I forgave them… readily… for telling all they knew.
I was ill and rather glad of it. I could shut myself away in my bedchamber and with good excuse, and only answer Lady Tyrwhit when absolutely necessary. I remembered that she had been lady-in-waiting to my stepmother and had been present at her death-bed when Katharine had accused the Admiral of wishing her ill and to be with others. And that meant me. I could understand then that vague attitude of triumph that I, who had caused her beloved mistress so much anguish, was now suffering myself.
Then I began to realize that there was some good in Lady Tyrwhit. She was better than her odious husband in any case.
The whole country was talking about Thomas Seymour. He had always caught people's attention because of his presence and good looks; and I had noticed that people like little better than to see those who were mighty brought low.
They talked more of his matrimonial ventures than his treason to the Crown. The affair of the Bristol Mint was not so interesting as what his life had been like with the Dowager Queen. It was proved that he had tried for me first—and to my horror and astonishment that he had also had his eyes on the Princess Mary and Lady Jane Grey, all not without some claim to the throne. Had he poisoned his wife? it was being asked. She had accused him on her death-bed of wanting to be rid of her. Had he not had his eyes on the Princess Elizabeth?
How do these matters become public knowledge? There are spies everywhere, as every royal daughter knows. The distressing nature of malicious gossip is that it is embellished as it passes along. It grows like a living evil, like a malevolent disease.
They were destroying my reputation. Seymour and I had been lovers, they said. I had had a child by him. One account had it that a midwife had testified that one dark night she had been taken to a house blindfold so that she would not know where she was going. She saw nothing in the house but candlelight, but she did know that she had delivered a fair young lady of a child. There was an even more horrible version. It claimed that the child had been taken away and destroyed.
I accepted the fact now that I had been entirely foolish in allowing the Admiral to pay court to me when he was married to my stepmother; I had been duped. But the monstrous nature of these accusations infuriated me.
After much reflection, I rallied my courage. Though fearful, I wrote a carefully worded letter to the Lord Protector in which I told him that I trusted and believed in his good will toward me. I asked him directly to make a declaration that people should refrain from circulating falsehoods about me, for they must know that they were falsehoods, and I was sure they would wish to protect the King's sister from such calumny.
As a result of that letter, the Council replied that if I could point out these people who were spreading lies about me, they should be suitably punished.
It was at least some slight consolation.
I fretted for Kat. I wanted her with me. I missed her love and her gossip. I decided to plead with the Protector for her return. I could not bear to think of her a prisoner in the Tower.
“My Lord,” I wrote,
“I have a request to make… peradventure you and the Council will think I favor her evil doing, for whom I shall speak, which is Katharine Ashley, that it would please Your Grace and the rest of the Council to be good unto her. Which thing I do, not favor her in any evil (for which I would be sorry to do), but for these considerations that follow, the which hope doth teach me in saying that I ought not to doubt but that Your Grace and the rest of the Council will think that I do it for other considerations. First, because that she hath been with me a long time, and many years, and hath taken great labor and pain in bringing me up in learning and honesty; and therefore I ought of very duty speak for her; for Saint Gregorie sayeth, ‘that we are more bound to them that bringeth us up well than to our parents, for our parents do that which is natural for them that bringeth us into the world, but our bringers-up are a cause to make us live well in it.' The second is because I think that whatsoever she hath done in my Lord Admiral's matter, as concerning the marrying of me, she did it because, knowing him to be one of the Council, she thought he would not go about any such thing without he had the Council's consent thereunto; for I have heard her say many times that she would never have me marry in any place without Your Grace's and the Council's consent. The third cause is, because that it shall, and doth, make men think that I am not clear of the deed myself but that it is pardoned to me because of my youth, because that she I loved so well is in such a place…
“Also, if I may be so bold and not offending, I beseech Your Grace—and the rest of the Council to be good to Master Ashley, her husband, which because he is my kinsman I would be glad should do well.
“Your assured friend to my little power, Elizabeth.”
I hoped my appeal would not fall on deaf ears. I did have some faith in Somerset. He lacked all the charm and good looks of his brother, but I believed him to be a just man and honest as far as men can be when the acquisition of power is the main object of their lives.
I felt numbed when a friend whispered to me that the Admiral was condemned to death. That spy Tyrwhit would be watching me closely. I must prepare myself to show no emotion when the news was brought to me of his execution.
It arrived on a blustery March day. I had steeled myself. When Tyrwhit came to me, he was not alone. He wanted evidence of the manner in which I received the news so that he could report with corroboration to his masters.
“My lady,” he said, “this day Thomas Seymour laid hi
s head upon the block.”
They were watching me, all of them. I clasped my hands. They did not tremble.
I said clearly, for I had rehearsed the words: “This day died a man of much wit and very little judgment.”
Calmly I took my leave of them and went into my chamber.
The Dangerous days
IT WAS ON THE TWENTIETH OF MAY—TWO MONTHS AFTER my arrival at the Tower through the Traitor's Gate—that I left that formidable fortress.
I should have been delighted, but I could not rid myself of the terrible fear that I was leaving one prison for another which might be even more dangerous.
I felt a sudden wave of hope, though, when I heard that I was going to Richmond, for the Queen was there and I believed that if I could see her I could convince her of my loyalty to her and appeal to her sisterly feelings for me.
As we moved along the river I could not but exult in my freedom, brief though it might be. How beautifully green were the trees, and the fragrance of the wild flowers was particularly poignant to me because it seemed so long since I had smelt them. Rose-colored apple trees and white cherry were in bloom in the orchards close to the river and the hawthorn was weighed down with buds. I wanted to capture the colors and smells, for they meant freedom. And there was Richmond Palace which had been built by my grandfather on the site of old Shene. I alighted at the stairs and went through the gates into the palace.
As soon as I was in the apartment allotted to me, Sir Henry Bedingfeld came to inform me that the Queen had graciously agreed to see me. Haughtily I inclined my head. I hated the man and I wanted to demand how he dare address me as though I were some wayward schoolgirl. I supposed to men of his age I did seem young, but I was now twenty-one years old… old enough to be a queen.
I was ushered into my sister's presence and saw to my relief that we were to be alone. I should have been dismayed if that old villain Gardiner had been there.
The first thought which struck me was how old and ill she looked. The crown seemed to be a heavy burden for her to carry.
I knelt and she gave me a hand to kiss but there was no real warmth in her greeting.
“I trust your health is improved, sister,” she said.
I thanked her for her concern and said that I was as well as I could hope to be after my sojourn in the Tower.
“Let us hope that you do not return there,” she said enigmatically.
“I share Your Majesty's hope,” I replied quietly.
“You come to me as a prisoner of the state,” she went on. “It grieves me that it should be thus with my own sister. You are my father's daughter and that I do not forget. My ministers and I have discussed your future. There have been suspicions regarding your conduct and although the traitor Wyatt exonerated you from complicity in his plot when he was on the scaffold, there are certain matters which remain unclear.”
“Your Majesty, I know full well that people have poisoned your mind against me, but I assure you, with all my heart, that I am your most loyal and faithful subject.”
“I understand that you will not go to Mass.”
“I was not brought up to go to Mass, Your Majesty. As our brother was not either.”
“That was sad for England and has done untold harm,” said my sister. “However we shall right that as best we can. You will not willingly accept the true faith and I tremble for you when the time comes to face your Maker.”
I was silent.
She went on: “But you are young and unwise, so I have a husband for you. There are some about me who tell me that while you are in England you will cast envious eyes on my throne.”
“Your Majesty has been misinformed.”
“That is as may be. But you are, I sense, impatient for the throne. It will never be yours, sister. I shall shortly marry a great ruler and our son will be the next King of England. There is no place for you here. That is why I am offering you Philibert of Savoy, the Prince of Piedmont. He is agreeable to the match and you can have a happy life with him.”
I was cold with horror. Go to Piedmont! Leave England! That would be to say goodbye to the throne forever. No! I would never do that. I would rather stay here where I was in perpetual danger. In that moment I realized how desperately I wanted the crown. There was something within me which told me it was my right, that it was my destiny. I was meant to be Queen of England and I must never agree to anything that would divert me from that purpose. I struggled for composure…
My sister was regarding me coldly.
“You do not seem overcome with joy, sister,” she said. “You have not yet understood your good fortune. Philibert is a great Prince. Oh, I know you are a Princess, but a bastard Princess and known to be such now that it is acclaimed that our father was not truly married to your mother since his marriage to mine was valid.”
I wanted to shout at her, to tell her that it was not long ago that we were both declared bastards. I did not care if I was. I only knew that I was the King's daughter and that I was meant to be a queen.
“Your Majesty,” I said, choosing my words very carefully, “I have no desire for the married state.”
“You are being foolish,” she said testily.
“It is true, Your Majesty, that the thought of marriage sickens me. It is something in me which is not as others of my sex. I was born in the Chamber of Virgins under the sign of Virgo. Your Majesty, I beg you to understand that I cannot marry… that I would rather face anything than that.”
“You are stubborn. I have no wish to force you into marriage, but I tell you this: It is a matter of marriage or captivity. You may choose which.”
I was silent for a few moments, grappling with myself. But I knew what I had to say. It was my destiny. If I left England now, I should never attain the crown.
Then I said slowly: “I must then continue to be a prisoner who faces captivity without knowledge of the fault which has placed me in restraint.”
She was impatient with me. She had been hoping to get me married and out of the country and out of her conscience.
But I was too wise for that.
* * *
I HEARD THAT I was to go to Woodstock, where I should be in the care of that same Sir Henry Bedingfeld. The servants who had so far accompanied me were to be dismissed. I said my farewells to them and wept bitterly.
“Pray for me,” I said, “for I think I am to die soon.”
They knew that I meant that when royal persons were sent away to remote country castles they were either left to be forgotten or removed; and since in my case I was an undoubted threat to the Queen, it seemed obvious what fate was intended for me.
I was so certain that I was being taken to my death that I had come to a point where I accepted my fate. I was overcome by melancholy because somewhere in the recesses of my mind had been the certain feeling that one day I should be Queen. Now it seemed I had deluded myself. Death seemed inevitable.
My attendants must have felt the same for many of them wept openly and some were so blinded by their tears that they could not serve me. I admonished them gently but their love for me was a great comfort.
One of my ushers went to Lord Tame, a gentleman of the Court, and demanded to know whether I was in danger that night and if there was a plot to kill me before I left Richmond or if it had been decided to do the deed elsewhere, at which Lord Tame cried out in anger: “Marry, God forbid that any should consider such vileness. If it were intended, I and my men would die defending her.”
The good man came to tell me what Lord Tame had said. “I am sure he spoke in earnest, Your Grace,” he said. “Whatever evil there is abroad, there is good too, and you will have many to protect you besides the members of your household.”
Such incidents are great balm when one is in dire need of comfort.
The next day we started on our journey to Woodstock, and once again my spirits were lifted for as we rode into the country people came out to see me pass. The manner in which they ran to me was very touching. I saw the
ir good wishes and affection in their eyes. “God bless the Princess!” they cried with such emotion that Bedingfeld was most displeased. He believed, and rightly I was sure, that a “God bless” for me meant a curse on the Queen.
In one village we passed through, the bells started to ring and when Bedingfeld asked what was the occasion for it, he was told: “It is for rejoicing that our Princess is no longer in the Tower.”
He raged against them. They talked like traitors, he said. They had no right to sing the praises of one who so recently had been suspected of treachery and was not yet wholly proved innocent.
The bell-ringing was stopped. I think they were all terrified that they might be accused of treason.
In due course we came to Ricote in Oxfordshire and stayed at the mansion of Lord Williams of Tame, who came out to greet me with an air of great deference and said that his lady was giving orders in the kitchens and the best apartment had been prepared for me. He added that he was deeply honored because I, the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of great Harry, was to stay under his roof.
He made me feel that I was not a prisoner and I blessed him for that. He sat me in the place of honor in his great hall and I was royally served; he had even arranged an entertainment to divert me which grew very merry until the miserable Bedingfeld complained. It was not meet and fitting, he said, that such treatment should be shown to the Queen's prisoner.
Lord Williams looked stunned. He said he was merely entertaining the Princess Elizabeth in a manner such as his purse and humble house would allow him. He believed it must seem very poor in the eyes of royalty, but he trusted I would understand that it was the best he could do.
“My dear lord,” I said gently, flashing a look of hatred at Bedingfeld, “there are some whose pleasure it is to humiliate me. You have cheered me mightily by giving me this wonderful welcome.”
Lord Williams was pleased but I could see that Bedingfeld was angry. I hoped he would not report Lord Williams to the Council. But perhaps he would not. I grudgingly admitted to myself that he was a just man and only acted in accordance with what he believed to be right.
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