Elizabeth, the Witch's Daughter

by Elizabeth, the Witch's Daughter (retail) (epub)

  Mannox and Dereham were tortured. Dereham they failed to break. Henry would have perhaps forgiven Kate in time for after all she had not been his wife when these affairs had taken place. Katherine had been orphaned and brought up in the household of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, under whose care she had not been sufficiently supervised and these affairs had taken place when she was little more than a child. If anyone was to blame it was the old Duchess, thought Kat Champernowne, seeing the effect this whole business was having on Elizabeth. She had been too young to understand the last time a Queen was accused of adultery but this time she was quite old enough and sharp enough to understand all that was going on.

  Very soon there came to light the more recent misconduct on Katherine’s part, notably her affair with Thomas Culpepper who was one of Henry’s favourite young men, and this Henry could not forgive for Katherine had entertained this young man under his very nose, using Lady Jane Rochford, the infamous wife of George Boleyn as her go-between. Henry wept publicly; he was a broken man.

  Poor, foolish Kate. Elizabeth was never to forget the terrible day when Katherine made her last futile bid for freedom. The child was in the chapel at Hampton Court with her father and the household when a disturbance was heard in the gallery. She tried to concentrate on the service but could not for the noise grew steadily louder. The sounds of someone running along the gallery came clearly to her ears, followed by the heavier footsteps of the guard. Then the sounds of a struggle and as the notes of the organ faltered and died, those terrible, terrible screams.

  Elizabeth longed to cover her ears to shut out those screams that reminded her of a half-crazed animal when the steel teeth of the trap close upon it. Over and over Katherine screamed her father’s name until the child felt she could endure it no longer. They seemed to last an eternity before the guards succeeded in dragging her back to her room. The priest carried on with the service and she glanced nervously from under her lashes at her father. He had not moved and looked as though he had never even heard Kate’s agonising pleas for mercy.

  So on a cold, grey February day Katherine’s head fell like that of her cousin, on the bloody straw of the scaffold. She died with great dignity, that girl of just nineteen, but before she died she dealt Henry a mortal blow from which he was never to recover. In her clear, young voice, she spoke her epitaph to the assembled crowd.

  “I die the wife of a King, but I would sooner have died the wife of Thomas Culpepper.”

  That night Kat Ashley (for she had recently married) was awakened by screams. Throwing a robe around her shoulders she wrenched open the heavy door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber.

  The child was still screaming as Kat took her in her arms.

  “Bess, Bess, what is the matter?” she asked, as the screams subsided to become choking sobs. Elizabeth was shivering so Kat pulled the bedrobe from her own shoulders and wrapped it around her.

  The child became calmer and after a few minutes lifted a tear-stained face. Her nightcap had fallen off and her red curls were tangled.

  “Kat, ’twas me,” she whispered fearfully. “They had come for me, not Katherine. The shadow of the axe hung over me!” Her voice rose higher as hysteria overtook her and she sobbed incoherently on her governess’s shoulder.

  Kat let her cry until her fear had passed and after a little while she lifted her head, the fear had gone from her eyes.

  “Did she scream too, Kat? Did she scream when they took her away?”

  With a great effort Kat brought her voice under control and answered, “No, Bess, she did not scream. Katherine was but a child; your mother was a proud woman and she was innocent.”

  The child was silent and then she said, “I have heard many whispers, Kat, ever since I was a babe but no one has ever told me the truth. Will you tell me, Kat? What did she do that she had to die?”

  Kat stared at her in silence. “Better that she should hear it from one who loves her than from others,” she thought and so she told Elizabeth the story of a young and beautiful girl, cruelly torn from the only man she ever loved, whose love turned to vengeance. How pushed ever forward by her ambitious family, she set her sights on the highest position in the land, the position which would give her the power over the two men who had broken her heart, Wolsey and the King.

  For six long years she held off Henry’s advances, whilst captivating him with her gaiety, quick wit and sparkling black eyes. She swore she would never be his mistress and so to have this woman Henry put aside his Queen, the Pope and the opinions of his subjects and made Anne his Queen. But like a small child who cries for the moon, once he had attained his heart’s desire he began to tire of her. After the birth of Elizabeth herself his dissatisfaction turned to intense dislike and finally to hatred.

  Anne too changed. Knowing how precarious was her position she became nervous, afraid, subject to wild rages, not caring who heard her as she berated Henry for his infidelities. But by that time Henry had found another love, one of her own ladies, Jane Seymour, and he was searching for any excuse to be rid of Anne. When Anne miscarried her son shortly after the death of Queen Catherine, she miscarried of her saviour.

  Divorce was out of the question. Henry would be the laughing-stock of all Christendom, but at last Thomas Cromwell (he who had just lost his head because of another Anne) offered the solution—treason and adultery—the penalty for which was death.

  Kat was not too sure just how much of this Elizabeth understood, but she continued. Cromwell tortured one of Anne’s musicians, Mark Smeaton, who finally confessed that Anne had committed adultery with himself and three other men.

  Kat paused and looked into the pale, intent face of the child.

  “Dear God, give me the strength to tell this child gently of her mother’s end,” she prayed. “They took her to the Tower,” she continued steadily. She told Elizabeth of her mother’s fears, her protestations of innocence, her courage at her trial and finally her courage as she had walked out shortly before nine o’clock on the morning of Friday 19th May, 1536. Dressed in a gown of crimson and grey damask, her beautiful, dark hair pinned under a coif, she was more beautiful that day than she had ever been. She was brave right to the end.

  “She died with dignity, Bess. She was truly a Queen,” Kat said firmly. “She declared her innocence to the end and innocent she surely was. Never forget that, child, no matter what others say of her.“

  The child remained silent and calm but Kat saw the pain, pride and bitterness in her eyes.

  “But bitterness against whom?” thought Kat. One could never tell what was in the mind of this child.

  Elizabeth was never to admit to anyone that in her heart she would never forgive her father for his murder of her mother and never once was the name of Anne Boleyn to pass her lips, although she thought of her mother many, many times throughout the years ahead.

  Kat settled her into bed, tucking the coverlet around her.

  “Sleep now, Bess. There is nothing to fear,” she whispered as she left the room, leaving the door slightly open should Elizabeth wake again in terror. It was many hours later before Kat Ashley slept for the child’s dream weighed heavily on her mind. They said Anne had been a witch. Did Elizabeth, too, possess some strange power to see into the future? Some said Anne had felt the presence of the Man in Black long before she walked to the scaffold and now her child had seen the shadow of the axe.

  Kat fell on her knees, beseeching the Good Lord protect her mistress, through the perils that lay ahead for a child left motherless in a cruel world.

  The next morning they set off to join Edward’s household and to Kat’s relief Elizabeth seemed to have forgotten the terrors which had disturbed her sleep and was eager to commence the journey.

  She settled easily into life under the same roof as the brother she had once resented. She became engrossed in her studies, sharing Edward’s tutors under Dr Cox, Provost of Eton. She was an intelligent child as was Edward, and they delighted in each other’s company. The months pass
ed during which she regularly wrote to Mary and to her fourth stepmother, Katherine Parr.

  At ten years old, Elizabeth was a serious child. Although at times she could break into infectious laughter, she could also show the fierce temper she had inherited from her father. William Grindal was appointed her tutor and her Greek and Latin studies progressed. Grindal was proud of her accomplishments and of his own position and Elizabeth soon found that she had an ardent admirer. This was a new experience for her and she took great delight in plaguing the poor man, which Kat frequently chided her for.

  A little later French and Italian were added to her curriculum. She continued with her lessons on the virginals and became an accomplished player, having inherited her love of music from both father and mother. There was no need to teach Elizabeth to dance for it came to her as naturally as breathing and she danced with a grace which reminded all who saw her of her mother, though none dared mention the fact.

  And so the months turned to years as she grew from a child to a healthy young girl and the affection between brother and sister grew into a close bond which neither dreamed would ever be broken.

  Chapter Four

  One cold November day in 1546, Elizabeth was sitting over her needlework, a frown of concentration on her face. A bright fire burnt in the hearth, dispelling the gloom of the November afternoon outside the window. Her head was bent over her work and it was a few minutes before she realised she was not alone.

  She looked up quickly and seeing Kat she exclaimed impatiently, “What now, Kat? If I am to finish this in time for Christmas I must needs do without interruptions!”

  Kat did not answer for seeing Elizabeth was in a pettish mood, she feared to break the news she had just received.

  At last she said apprehensively, “We are instructed to leave at once for Enfield.”

  She stood waiting for the storm to break. It did. The dark eyes widened in disbelief and then the sandy brows rushed together in a frown.

  Elizabeth rose, scattering silks and needlework in all directions.

  “Who has given these instructions and why?” she asked, her temper mounting. As Kat did not answer immediately she shouted, “I asked you a question, Kat Ashley!”

  “The King, your father,” Kat replied, thinking how exactly like that father the girl looked. Hoping to calm her in some way she continued, “Your brother too is to depart for Hartford.”

  Elizabeth turned from her and gazed out on the drab November landscape. Her anger gone, she answered as though speaking to herself, “Can we never be left in peace?” She sighed as she realised that her brother was a Prince and she a Princess and for them there could be no placid, tranquil life. “You had best commence the packing,” she said over her shoulder to Kat who was patiently picking up the discarded needlework.

  Next morning two unhappy children took their leave of each other. Edward was manfully trying to control his tears for he knew that Princes do not cry and with so many people watching someone would be sure to take the story back to his father.

  Elizabeth looked down at the sandy-haired little boy whose lip trembled.

  “It won’t be for long, Edward, truly,” she told him, but somehow he knew that she didn’t really believe her words.

  “Good Bye, Bess,” he managed to say, with a stammer.

  “Good Bye,” she smiled, fighting back her own tears, lest he should see them and lose his own fight.

  She turned to wave as she passed through the lodge gates but she could not see her brother for her tears blinded her.

  She was silent and pensive as she rode towards Enfield. She rode well and the severe cut of her riding habit was becoming and made her appear older than her thirteen years.

  “She is growing up,” thought Kat as she watched her. “What will become of her,” she thought, “alone in a world where Princes and Princesses are naught but pawns in the hands of unscrupulous men?”

  *

  Life at Enfield was dull without Edward. Christmas of 1546 was spent quietly as her father was ill, seriously this time she had heard.

  She was sitting with Kat in the presence chamber. The candles had been lit and the heavy curtains pulled across the windows shutting out the cold January evening. Kat drew her chair closer to the fire, her needlework lying half finished on her lap. Elizabeth was half-heartedly reading Edward’s last letter with only one ear to Kat’s chatter. Her fourth stepmother, Katherine Parr, was little better than a sick nurse, Kat said.

  “Still, it is better than being an old man’s darling and losing one’s head for it,” she continued tactlessly, “although even the spotless Katherine came close to the block not so very long ago.” Kat glanced at her mistress and as Elizabeth appeared to be listening she prattled on. “Ah! Indeed there are quite a few heads uneasy upon their shoulders at this time,” she muttered ominously. “The old Duke of Norfolk for one, and do not forget his son Surrey, they are both in the Tower under sentence.”

  Elizabeth was idly wondering to herself how a woman like Katherine Parr could have married a man like her father? She was fond of her fourth stepmother who was kind, learned and like herself interested in the Reformed Religion whilst Henry was a diseased, old man. So obese was he now that he had to be carried in a chair, his ulcerated legs causing so much pain that he frequently went black in the face, whilst his temper was reputed to be vicious! She had also heard that the stench from his legs was nauseating, but then Katherine had twice nursed a dying, old husband out of life and—if rumours were to be believed—she had not had much choice in the matter. She thought of her father, remembering how she had loved him as a very small child. He had been a God-like figure in those far-off days, tall, handsome and athletic. She was still in awe of him for he was a great King and to be a King seemed to her to be something only a little less great than God himself. A little dart of hatred stabbed at her heart. “Remember your mother!” she told herself, but unbidden came the thought that Henry wielded absolute power. “The wrath of the King is death” was a popular saying, and it was true. Gazing into the flames she thought, “One day I, too, will wield that power.”

  Kat’s voice brought her back to reality for Kat was discussing the reason for the imprisonment of the soldier-poet, Surrey. He had dared to quarter the Plantagenet leopards on his Coat of Arms, declaring by that action that he came of the Blood Royal.

  “Perhaps the Howards,” whose blood ran in her own veins, “are indeed descended from the Conquerer,” she thought, “but Surrey was a fool to remind Henry Tudor of his less adequate ancestry.”

  Still gazing into the fire she spoke clearly and deliberately. “Surrey is an arrogant fool and for that he deserves to die.”

  Kat looked at the girl closely. “She will be another such as he,” she thought grimly, “truly another such as he.”

  *

  On a bitterly cold day at the end of the month Edward Seymour arrived at Enfield, bringing with him a confused and alarmed Edward. The boy had been hastily brought from Hatfield and to all his questions had received the same answer, that he was going to visit his sister.

  Elizabeth was at her studies when she heard the arrival of visitors in the courtyard below. Jumping up she went to the window and was just in time to see Edward dismount. With a cry of joy she ran to the door and then stopped short. Something was wrong! Edward had not mentioned this visit in his letter nor had she received any information concerning his arrival. Slowly she went down the stairs to meet him.

  The boy was sitting huddled before the fire in the Great Hall. His pale, pinched face lit up when he saw her.

  She swiftly crossed to his side and took both his cold hands in her own. “Edward, I have missed you so,” she said.

  The boy smiled. “I, too, Bess,” he replied.

  She was suddenly aware of Edward Seymour standing beside her brother. A tall, dark, silent man for whom she had little liking. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with something oppressive. She shivered and drew the boy closer to her as though to pro
tect him, but from what she did not know.

  Seymour cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he said, addressing her, “I fear I have grave news.”

  She gazed back at him steadily, although her heart raced with a fear she did not understand. “Continue,” she said, her voice cold and calm.

  “His Gracious Majesty King Henry, your father, departed this life on the 28th day of this month,” he finished.

  She felt herself sway as though she had been struck. She managed to steady herself as Edward turned towards her, disbelief and fear in his eyes.

  The tears spilled from his eyes and his face crumpled. He was no longer a Prince but a little boy who has lost his way in a dark world. “Bess, Bess, what are we to do?” he stammered.

  To her horror her own control broke and clinging to Edward she sobbed heartbrokenly for the security that had gone with the passing of that man. She tried in vain to regain her composure. The floodgates, closed throughout the long years, broke open and she cried bitterly, not as Edward Seymour thought, for her father, but for the mother she had scarcely known.

  When she was alone that night she gazed up at the embroidered curtains of her bed. Dry-eyed now she wondered why she had cried so that morning. Henry was dead but in her short life she had seen little of him. He had brought unhappiness to both herself and Mary and to countless others. It would be centuries before the country would be free from the scourge of religious strife that he had so carelessly plunged it into. Somehow she could feel no sorrow now for she realised that the tears she had shed that day had not been for him, but for herself and for the mother that he had murdered.

  A pale, watery January sun was visible the next morning and there were touches of frost on the hedges and trees.

  Edward Seymour shivered as he sat waiting for brother and sister to say goodbye.

  Elizabeth’s heart was heavy as she looked at her brother for she knew that this was the last time they would meet as brother and sister. From now on they would be King and subject.