Elizabeth, the Witch’s Daughter
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Selected Bibliography
Copyright
Elizabeth, the Witch’s Daughter
Lynda M. Andrews
Prologue
The girl who lay in the bed watched her women as they carefully folded and removed her discarded clothes. She was tired and the scene before her took on the semblance of a dream. The wooden panelling of the walls glowed amber in the light of the fire that burnt brightly in the hearth, giving off the sweet smell of the herbs that had been sprinkled onto it. The soft glow of the candles illuminated the rich, bright colours of the tapestries that covered the small, mullioned windows and hung from the carved posts of the bed in which she lay.
High up, decorating the base of the heavy, oak beams that supported the roof, she could just see the carved escutcheons bearing the heraldic devices of previous Royal Houses. The only furniture in the room consisted of two high-backed chairs with carved arms, a robe chest, a foot-stool and a tall, intricately-carved chest. It was upon this corner of the room that her gaze rested for here a woman was carefully placing on their velvet bed, the jewels her mistress had worn that day. In the subdued light the rubies, diamonds and pearls glowed with a rich warmth. She carefully closed and locked the leather case and picking it up crossed to the door where she handed it, with the key, to a gentleman waiting on the other side for that express purpose. One by one the ladies, like bright butterflies in their rainbow gowns, curtsied low to the girl and backed from the room.
The woman closed the heavy door and moved closer to the bed. Looking down she thought how frail, how tired her mistress looked, noting the violet shadows beneath the dark eyes. Her own eyes shone with pride and affection.
“It has been a long day,” she said quietly, “but glorious.”
The girl smiled back at her, dark eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness.
“Indeed, truly a glorious day,” she answered.
The woman smiled with her.
“Good Night, Bess. Sleep well.”
The girl reached out and clasped the woman’s hand in her own.
“God Bless you Kat Ashley,” she whispered.
Katherine Ashley sank into a curtsy and left her mistress, closing the door and leaving the girl to her dreams.
Elizabeth sank back on the soft pillows embroidered with the initials E.R. in gold thread. Her head ached as it frequently did in moments of stress, but she had learnt to live with this affliction as she had with many others. The feather mattress was soft and yielding to her tired limbs. The warmth of the bed with its heavy damask curtains shut out the world outside. She could faintly hear the icy wind driving sleet against the windows of the ancient palace and in the distance, borne on that wind, she could hear the voices of the last hardy revellers returning to their homes. To-day had been a great day for them, a holiday from the drudgery of their dismal lives; the wine had flowed freely from the street conduits and there had been great rejoicing and merrymaking. Though there would be many who wished they had not partaken quite so freely of the wine the following morning, she thought.
For her it had been the day of her triumph, for that day the 14th January, 1559, she had entered the City of London accompanied by the nobility of the Land, to be officially and rapturously recognised by her People. Elizabeth Tudor, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland. Defender of the Faith.
*
It was two o’clock in the afternoon before the procession finally set out. For the past two hours she had submitted to the ministrations of her nervous and excited ladies, supervised by an even more nervous and agitated Kat Ashley, until at last she who was never completely at ease in a company consisting entirely of women and who was exasperated beyond all endurance, lost her temper.
“God’s Death, I am surrounded by fools!” she shouted and turned them all, save Kat, from the room.
Kat passed her Mistress the polished steel mirror and Elizabeth gazed at the reflection.
A girl of twenty-five stared back at her. A girl with the red-gold hair of her father, a high (some said noble) forehead and the dark, almond-shaped eyes of her mother. The French hood that covered her hair was resplendent with jewels. From her ears hung two huge, pear-shaped diamonds and around her throat sparkled a necklace of diamonds and rubies. She nervously touched the long, slender neck as the echo of a voice from the past came back to her with the words “I have such a little neck.” She shook herself. The reflection was not that of a beauty in the Classical sense of the word but nevertheless she was satisfied.
Her gown was of cloth of gold with a stiff double raised pile, embroidered on the full skirt and slashed sleeves with pearls. The gown itself was covered with a mantle of the same material, falling into a long train and lined with ermine. From the fingers of her exquisite white hands, of which she was justly proud, there blazed more jewels.
“Well, Kat?” she asked, turning to face the only woman she had ever trusted.
She read in the face of Katherine Ashley her answer for Kat was too overcome by emotion to speak.
Elizabeth threw back her head and her laughter echoed around the room.
“God’s Truth! At last I have seen a wondrous sight, Kat Ashley struck dumb!”
Still laughing she went forth to take her place, the brightest star in the glittering cavalcade.
She was not sorry to be leaving the Tower. Few people had any pleasant memory of that grim Norman fortress but for her the memories were all too painful. She pushed these thoughts from her mind as she entered the open litter, richly covered with crimson velvet and cloth of gold. Nothing could spoil this day.
She shivered slightly for the sky was heavy and there were flurries of snow on the wind. Beneath the timbered houses of the well-to-do citizens the streets had been freshly swept and gravelled. Bright carpets and tapestries hung from the upper stories of these houses and barriers had been erected to save any accident to the closely packed crowds of people who, heedless of the weather, had come to acclaim their Queen.
At last the procession moved off—one thousand horses in all. Each Noble House was represented in the peacock colours of its various liveries. Elizabeth followed surrounded by her footmen in crimson velvet jerkins, studded with gilt-silver with her Arms—a white and red rose and the letters E.R.—on their breasts and backs. Next came the Gentlemen-Pensioners of the Axe clad in crimson damask. Behind her rode Lord Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse, who was mounted on a great charger and who led a white horse caparisoned to the ground in cloth of gold. The bells rang out from every church and the people cheered themselves hoarse.
The cries of “God Save Your Grace!” rang in Elizabeth’s ears and she answered them smiling with:
“God Save you all!”
Pageants were presented along the route, which passed from Fenchurch Street, Gracious Street, Cornhill and Cheapside to St Paul’s and Fleet Street but the pageant at Gracechurch Street before the sign of the Eagle touched her deeply.
Here, depicted on three stages, were herself and her ancestors. She herself was represented on the highest stage, whilst on the lowest were the effigies of
her grandparents, King Henry VII and Queen Elizabeth of York.
On the middle stage was her father King Henry VIII, and as a lump like a small apple constricted her throat she gazed upon the accompanying effigy of the woman whose name had never once passed her lips but with whom she felt a close affinity, her mother Anne Boleyn.
As she gazed upon the dark haired figure, her thoughts turned to what she had heard of her mother’s progress through the City. There had been few cries of “God Save Queen Anne” that day in June, 1533, but the people were shouting themselves into a frenzy for her daughter that January day twenty-six years later.
At the Fleet Bridge a poor woman pushed her way through the crowd, her head covered against the cold with a filthy piece of sacking. With grimy, work-worn hands she offered Elizabeth a small bunch of rosemary, all she could obtain at that season.
Through lips blue with cold she stammered, “God Bless your Grace.”
Elizabeth answered her simply but there was a warmth of affection in her voice. So deeply touched was she by the gesture that she kept that poor bouquet beside her all the way to Westminster.
The long procession halted as the Recorder of London in his scarlet and gold robes presented her with a crimson purse, richly wrought with gold and containing one thousand gold marks.
“God knows the Treasury needs it!” she thought quickly before thanking him formally.
At the little conduit in the Chepe she was presented with an English Bible, that book for whose sake so many had suffered the fires of Smithfield in her sister’s reign. With reverence she accepted it, kissed it and laid it upon her breast, promising to read it diligently to the great comfort, and no doubt relief, of many present.
At last the procession came to Temple Bar in the dusk of the winter afternoon and by the light of thousands of torches she stood in the litter to bid farewell to the cheering crowds. She had to shout to make herself heard.
“Be ye well assured I stand your Good Queen!” she promised.
She had not counted on what happened next and she stood shaking with emotion, overcome with pride and ecstatic joy, for at her words there arose a mighty roar as the crowd answered as if with one voice.
“God Save Queen Elizabeth!”
At the same moment the dark sky seemed rent in two as the canon of the Tower thundered forth a nation’s salute to this slim, pale, red-haired girl of only twenty-five summers. A salute to the motherless, bastardised child. The hounded, slandered and imprisoned Princess who had fought every inch of the way to become their Queen.
*
She lay wearily now against the pillows, to-morrow she was to be crowned and history alone would judge her great or commit her to obscurity but to-day had been her triumph. Perhaps, she thought sorrowfully, that triumph would bring some comfort to that restless spirit, set free from its poor, headless body that mayday long ago, for she had been Anne’s downfall. She was not the longed for son.
Chapter One
“The King’s Mistress was delivered of a girl, to the great disappointment and sorrow of the King, of the Lady herself and to the great shame and confusion of physicians, astrologers, wizards and witches, all of whom affirmed it would be a boy.”
So wrote the Imperial Ambassador, Chapuys, to his master the Emperor of the birth of Elizabeth Tudor on Sunday, the 7th September, 1533. Her parents had every reason to be disappointed. Her father desperately needed a son. England remembered all too readily the Wars of the Roses which had torn the country apart and needed no reminder of the disastrous reign of her only Queen Regnant, Matilda. So far there had only been Mary and now Henry was saddled with another useless girl.
Her mother’s disappointment must have been acute for Anne too needed a son to ensure her safety. She had fought so hard and for so long for her Crown and Anne knew as did no other how precarious was her position. For her sake Henry had divorced his wife Queen Catherine, bastardised his only lawful child, alienated half of Europe and turned his country from the Church of Rome, and in return for all this Anne had given him a daughter. Henry was more than disappointed, he was furious!
After his initial anger had cooled, he appeared to become resigned to the matter. There was still time, he told the child’s mother. They were both young and Elizabeth was healthy, a good sign, the next child would be a boy.
Elizabeth was therefore christened with great ceremony on Wednesday, 10th September, at the Church of the Grey Friars, Greenwich. It was an auspicious occasion and no expense was spared. The walls between the palace and the church were hung with brightly coloured, priceless tapestries and the floor strewn with fresh, green rushes. The church too was hung with tapestries and the font was of solid silver. The air was heavy with the scent of burning incense and between the choir and the chancel a brazier burnt so that the baby would not catch cold while being undressed for the ceremony.
The baby was clothed in a mantle of purple velvet, lined with ermine, and was carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walked either side of the Duchess and she was followed by the Countess of Kent and Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, Elizabeth’s grandfather, who was a proud man that day.
Her Godmothers were none other than the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset. The long ceremony was performed—before a glittering array of courtiers—by the Bishop of London assisted by many bishops and abbots.
At last it was over and the Garter-King-At-Arms proclaimed, “God in His Infinite Goodness send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!”
As his voice died away the silvery notes of the trumpets rang out, echoing around the high, vaulted roof as the baby was carried to the altar. The Christening gifts were blessed and were received on behalf of the sleeping babe by her Godmothers. From Archbishop Cranmer a cup of chaste gold. Another cup of gold inlaid with pearls from the Duchess of Norfolk herself. The Marchionesses of Dorset and Exeter respectively presented three gilt bowls with covers.
Wafers and Hippocras were then passed around the assembled company that they might refresh themselves and when they had availed themselves of the refreshments and had appraised amongst themselves the richness of the Christening gifts the procession then returned by torchlight to the palace to be greeted by an outwardly benevolent King. Having further refreshed themselves from the Royal Cellar the participants then departed, somewhat merrily, to their barges.
*
Princesses, even infant ones, were expected to have their own household as befitted their high station in life and despite Anne’s protests arrangements had been made by the end of November for an establishment to be set up for the baby at Hatfield under the charge of Anne Shelton and Alice Clere, two of Anne’s own aunts. Lady Margaret Bryan was to be her “Lady Mistress”, a kind but sensible woman whom the child was to remember with affection. And so on the twelfth day of December the three month old baby Princess was carried through the streets of London.
To show to his people how great was his esteem for his latest daughter Henry had commanded the presence at her side of the Earl Marshall of England, her great-uncle, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
Upon her installation at Hatfield the baby was joined by her half-sister Mary. Mary’s presence was not a voluntary undertaking for she had been forced to join the household, she who had once been the darling of her parents, petted and shown-off to foreign visitors with her proud father declaring that “This child never cries.” The poor child had cried many bitter tears since then. Separated from the mother she idolised, publicly bastardised, neglected, threatened and now forced to wait upon the baby who had supplanted her. Small wonder she was never to forgive Elizabeth for being Anne’s daughter.
In January, 1534, Henry and Anne came to visit the baby but Anne had maliciously given instructions that Mary was to be kept out of sight. Henry looked in vain for his elder daughter. The bitterness of Mary’s life took root in her that January when she was seventeen and Elizabeth but
a babe of four months.
Two months later the household moved to Eltham where they were again visited by the King and Queen. Henry rejoiced in the resemblance of the child to himself and in her robust health. Thereafter the household regularly moved from manor to manor to avoid any risk of infection to the child and because a household of that size quickly exhausted the edible supplies of the surrounding area. Her parents visited her at times and upon certain occasions she was taken to visit them.
Anne ordered white and purple satin caps, laid with a rich border of gold, to be made for her and great importance was attached to her weaning in October, 1534.
So her baby years were spent in comfort and security as Heir to the Throne, though there were many who, refusing to acknowledge the marriage of her parents, referred to her (out of earshot of the King) as “the little bastard”, or more politely as “Madam Baby”.
The New Year of 1536 brought with it tragic news for Mary. Catherine, her mother, was dying. Desperately the unhappy girl wrote begging her father to be allowed to go to her. Every spare minute she could obtain from her duties she spent at her prie-dieu, tears pouring down her sallow cheeks. Gone now the formal Aves and Pater Nosters.
Over and over she repeated the same words, “Oh Dear God let her live, at least until I can reach her.”
Throughout the bitter years God had not failed her, surely he would not forsake her now?
It was Lady Bryan who brought the reply.
Upon seeing the letter in her hand Mary rose quickly from her knees, stretching both hands towards Lady Bryan in mute appeal.
Lady Bryan sadly shook her head.
“The answer is no,” she whispered, her heart going out to the girl who stood transfixed with shock before her, misery written in every line of her thin body.
Elizabeth, the Witch's Daughter Page 1