She searched his face. Archbishop Heath looked pained, his manner was conciliatory and apologetic, but relent he would not.
Elizabeth glared at the entire group of men. Bishops they may be, but they were still, when all was said and done, merely men. “Do not,” she said quietly, “think to trifle with me, my lords. What think you? To proclaim me queen of this realm and then refuse to crown me? Would you make nonsense of my accession?”
“Your Grace,” said Nicholas wearily, shifting his stance, “I cannot, in good conscience, crown Your Grace as Defender of the Faith. However, it was not my intention to imply that you will not be crowned; I only meant to ensure that Your Grace understands that it shall not be I who does so.”
Elizabeth glowered at him. “It is the responsibility of the Archbishop of York to officiate at the coronation in the absence of an Archbishop of Canterbury. If you refuse to do so, all of Christendom will wonder why, and may even consider my coronation to be invalid.”
Nicholas once again heaved a heavy sigh. “Your Grace, we are old men and many of us have of late been very ill. May we have your gracious permission to be seated?”
Elizabeth waved an imperious hand, and the men looked about them for their places.
“I, for one,” continued the archbishop, as he lowered himself onto a chair by the fire, “am far too ill to even consider attempting to officiate at such a long and tedious ceremony.”
Elizabeth rounded on him swiftly. “Hah!” she exclaimed. “A neat piece of backpedaling, Sir Bishop!” She stood before the weary bishops with her back to the fire. “You shall none of you leave this room until one of you agrees to officiate at my coronation. Whom shall it be?” Seconds ticked by in suspenseful silence. No one replied. As she waited for an answer she eyed each of the men assessingly.
John White, the Bishop of Winchester, had angered her beyond all reason at the funeral of her sister. During his eulogy he had quoted from the bible a passage that a live dog was better than a dead lion. Had ever any queen been so insulted? What could these men possibly be thinking? Did they truly believe that she was going to be as compliant as her sister had been, and that she would kowtow to the Roman Church?
She narrowed her eyes. “Do I not attend Mass each day? Did I not allow my sister to be buried with the full rites of the Catholic Church? And did I not endure, during my sister’s Requiem Mass, Bishop White, the insult of being likened to a dog? You, sir, are excused from any consideration for officiating at my coronation!”
“Allow? Allow?” sputtered Bishop White. “Is this not a Catholic country, Your Grace?”
Elizabeth rounded on him, the fury evident in her eyes. “Yes, this is a Catholic country, because it is so by English law! Everyone, from its queen to the lowest villein, shall act according to the law of the land, sir, until Parliament sits again and such can be amended!”
But Bishop White was not to be backed down. “And yet Your Grace has issued a proclamation that the Litany, the Epistle, the Gospel and even The Lord’s Prayer are to be said in English during the Mass! See you not the danger of placing such sacred words into the hands of the common man, who is ill able to understand them? Your Grace’s intentions concerning the religion of this country could not be more clear, and I would not crown a heretic if it meant the forfeiture of my head!” Like most of the bishops in the room, Bishop White was an old man, and had lately suffered from the new ague; he had turned very pale and was gasping for breath after his outburst. But the bishop’s last words hung palpably on the air.
Nicholas closed his eyes and awaited the storm of words that he was certain would follow from the queen.
But Elizabeth was silent. She stood regarding the bishop coldly. Finally she said, “The long, dark nightmare of my sister’s reign is finally ended. And my reign, sir, shall not be a bloody one!” No, she thought, I will not have your head on a pike; I have other plans for you, and for all these old men who seek to hide behind the throne of the pope in Rome!
Reminded of the bloodiness of which she had just spoken, Elizabeth turned the beacon of her anger onto Edmund Bonner, the Bishop of London. “And you!” she cried. “Bloody Bonner, the English people call you! I would not allow you to kiss my hand at the city gates, and I surely shall not allow Your Eminence to crown me!”
Bonner was practically in tears; his snubbing at the city gates had wounded him deeply. “But Your Grace, I tried, truly I did, to advise the queen that the burnings were upsetting the people and that they ought to be conducted in private…”
Elizabeth pounded her fist on the table in front of which she was standing. “As if that would make any difference to the poor wretch on the stake!” she cried.
The bishops of Lincoln, Durham, Ely and St. Asaph’s all held their heads high, but quaked inwardly as the queen’s gaze held their own, each in their turn. Finally her gaze alighted upon Owen Oglethorpe, the Bishop of Carlisle. He had raised her ire by elevating the Host at her Christmas Mass, even after she had expressly forbade him to do so. She had been so incensed that she had walked out of the service. The Elevation of the Host was the single most important issue between Catholics and Reformers; Catholics believed in the miracle of Transubstantiation, and that the Host became the actual flesh of the Body of Christ at the moment of the elevation; Reformers did not so believe, indeed, they felt that to believe such a thing was the vilest superstition. This one thing she had taken to heart after the years of forced conformance to the strictest Protestantism during her brother’s reign.
Suddenly Bishop Oglethorpe became aware that seven sets of baleful eyes were assessing him. The Archbishop of Canterbury was dead; the Archbishop of York was obviously too ill to perform the exhausting rites of the coronation, a ceremony that would take several hours at least; the next logical person to crown the queen was the Bishop of London, but Elizabeth had refused even to consider him for the honor; from Bishop White the queen would accept no apology for what she perceived as his insult at Mary’s funeral; the other bishops would not even meet her gaze, but their reluctance to crown a known heretic was writ plainly upon their faces. They would not relent. He could see which way the wind was blowing. He was, of all of them, the least senior bishop.
The country must have an anointed queen.
“Very well,” he said. “But there are conditions.”
Elizabeth turned her icy glare onto him and he felt his blood run cold. “Which are?”
Bishop Oglethorpe raised his head and looked directly into the angry queen’s face. “Your Grace shall be crowned according to the ancient rites.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course. Of what use would a coronation be if the ancient rites and ceremonies were not observed and performed? But the coronation Mass must be sung in English in addition to being sung in Latin.”
“Very well,” said Oglethorpe. “But there must be an Elevation of the Host. If there is not, no Catholic realm will recognize Your Grace’s coronation as valid.”
“Agreed,” she retorted. “I am certain that I can find a worthy task to perform whilst that part of the ceremony occurs! I shall retire behind the screen to change my gown for the anointing before the Mass proceeds to that point.”
The eyes of the others had been darting back and forth as the bishop and the queen bargained. Finally, both fell silent.
“All right, then,” said Nicholas with a weary sigh. “We shall render unto Caesar’s that which is Caesar’s, Your Grace. You shall be crowned. Now for the love of God, let us get on with it.”
Yes, thought Elizabeth, let us get on with it. And for your cowardly reluctance to crown me, you shall render up the Great Seal, Sir Bishop! All in good time.
As queen, she was determined to have the last word in any debate. Now was the perfect time to inform the bishops that their days in office in her realm were numbered.
“Be aware, Your Eminences, that soon you shall all be called upon to take the Oath of Supremacy, just as in my father’s time. Now leave me, all of you.”
Brussels, January 1559
For once the voyage from Dover to Antwerp had been mercifully calm. The Spanish ambassador, Gómez Suárez de Figueroa y Córdoba, the Count de Feria, stepped from the gangplank onto the wharf at Antwerp on the morning of the third day after his departure from England, and he was thankfully none the worse for wear. It was the first time he had made the daunting journey across the water from England to the Continent without suffering the most acute seasickness. Unfortunately, this feat had only been accomplished by never leaving the topside deck for the entire time he was on board the old carrack on which he had booked his passage. The ship’s captain found this behavior most peculiar; de Feria had actually spent his two nights on board the ship sleeping on a coil of rope covered by spare canvas on the poop deck instead of in his cabin. But to de Feria such minor discomfort was worth it. Between the calm seas, the ship’s steady gait above decks, and the constant fresh air, he had survived the journey tolerably well and was able to walk off the ship little the worse for wear.
He spent the time in the jolting wagon from Antwerp to Brussels composing his thoughts; he had much to tell the King of Spain about events in England since the death of the king’s wife, Queen Mary of England. This brought to mind his own wife; he was a newly wedded man. He had had to leave dear Jane behind in England, but that was, perhaps, for the best; Jane was an Englishwoman and for now, she would be more comfortable there.
The new queen did not like him, this he knew for certain, although it was through no fault of his own. He was also certain that Her Grace did not trust him; but not only that, she treated him with the utmost contempt. The king needed an ambassador at the much-changed court of England who would be able to make a fresh start with this new heretic queen. He planned to ask Philip (he would beg if needs be!) if he could be replaced as Spain’s ambassador to Queen Elizabeth’s court. It was time to take his English bride and go home to Spain, or at least to Brussels if the king still required his services there. If he were fortunate, perhaps all he would need to do would be to send for Jane, and he would not have to cross the water again.
The shadows were growing long and the torches had been lit when, weary beyond description, he arrived at the palace.
“The king is expecting you,” said the steward, who led him to a room off the great entrance hall where he could refresh himself. The land between Antwerp and Brussels was marshy and wet; but thankfully, the roads had been very dry. He brushed his coat and dusted his shoes. At last he was ready to be brought before the king.
King Philip of Spain sat at his writing desk; he was sanding a letter when de Feria was shown into his royal presence.
“Ah!” cried Philip, blowing off the sand and waving the parchment in the air to dry it. “Good Figueroa! How was your journey?”
It was not an idle question; the last time he had crossed the water from England to the Continent, de Feria had been so ill that the king had had to have him removed bodily from the ship and placed in a litter. He had not been able to make his report to the king for a full day.
De Feria bowed. “Tolerable, Your Grace. I am as you see. I have discovered that the secret, for me, is plenty of fresh air and staying out of the belly of the ship.”
“A plausible strategy,” said Philip. He rang the little bell that sat next to the candlestick on his desk. The candle was burning low; the wax had dripped into an intricate pattern all over the brass holder and onto the wooden surface of the desk.
Candlelight was usually kind, but even in its forgiving glow, de Feria remarked to himself that the once handsome king was looking very drawn and hollow. Philip had lost his father, his beloved aunt, and then his wife in close succession. De Feria knew that the king truly grieved for his father and his aunt. The loss of his wife was probably more of a relief; Queen Mary had been eleven years his senior, barren, and cloyingly in love with her handsome cousin. But still…even if there had been no love on Philip’s part in the strictly political match between England and Spain, one could not help but be saddened by any death. And the king, for all that his burden of rule weighed on him so heavily, was still a young man with only one son and heir. He must remarry and have more sons; it was his royal obligation to do so.
When a page appeared in answer to the bell, Philip turned back to the writing table, sealed the letter with a blob of red wax, and handed it to the boy. The page bowed silently and disappeared.
“Now,” said Philip. “Good Figueroa, pour us some wine and tell me all the news from England.”
De Feria went to the sideboard, filled two goblets, handed one to the king and sat down opposite him in a chair by the fire. He waited for the king to drink, then took a long pull from his own goblet. He shook his head. “I hardly know where to begin, Your Grace.”
Philip stared into the fire and waited in silence as de Feria collected his thoughts.
“The English court is in absolute chaos,” said de Feria. “But Her Grace seems to thrive on the confusion. Indeed, she causes much of it herself, I believe, to keep everyone off balance.”
Yes, thought Philip, that sounded exactly like his sister-in-law.
De Feria stroked his beard. “Verily in truth, Your Majesty, I hardly know what to make of Her Grace. For instance, she conducts herself without the dignity one expects from a queen; she is sadly lacking in decorum.”
Philip looked up languidly. “In what manner mean you?”
“Well,” said de Feria carefully, the new queen was, after all, related to the king by marriage and was likely to be his next wife, “whilst making her progresses to town and through the city, Her Grace laughed raucously at almost everything, and sometimes, it seemed, for no reason at all. She would stop her entire cavalcade to speak to the lowliest personage if such a one offered her a posy. And she replied to all the people who addressed her, each and every one, my lord! She traded jests with the meanest villeins and even answered people leaning from their windows who called out to her. It is as if she tries to make all believe that she is…I do not know; that she is one of them, and not simply a queen.”
Philip sipped his wine. “And the people were receptive to this unseemly behavior?”
De Feria nodded vigorously. “Yes, of a certainty, Your Grace! Every time someone cried ‘God Save the Queen!’, which they did right often, Her Grace would shout back ‘And God save you! God save all of you, my Good People!’ or some such.”
Philip continued to sip his wine and stare into the fire. Mary had been shy in crowds, and when they had ridden together from place to place as king and queen, they had done so with their heads held high and in silence, as if the people around them did not exist. He was not at all certain that Elizabeth’s way was not better, at least in England.
“Her Grace of England also seems very puffed up with pride,” said de Feria. “She acts much like a peasant who has suddenly had a barony bestowed upon him! With her lowest subjects she is most familiar, but with her nobles, court and Council she conducts herself in haughty fashion, as if she has no peer.”
Philip’s Spanish reserve would never have allowed such displays as de Feria described. But he must admit, if only to himself, that the unmitigated joy that was probably driving his sister-in-law’s somewhat offensive behavior was not to be wondered at. She had had no mother, indeed, had been raised by servants. Several times over the years she had been in danger of her life. And she no doubt by this time must know that her mother had died in disgrace. He did not doubt that Elizabeth Tudor’s path to the throne had been, unlike his own, which was assured from the day of his birth, one of danger, uncertainty, and at times, despair. There had been many obstacles to Elizabeth ever ascending the throne of England. One might even have said that it was an event most unlikely ever to occur. And yet she was now Queen of England. Perhaps God, and not mere circumstance, had truly pla
ced her there. Indeed, as a good Catholic, he could believe no other thing.
“And what of the Council?” asked Philip.
De Feria shifted in his chair. “That is another thing!” he cried. “Her Grace is retaining few on her Council of those who served her sister. Indeed, she seems determined to exalt any whoever discomfited Queen Mary.” Philip did not respond; perhaps now was his opportunity to put in a word for himself. “Also, Her Grace seems to have little patience for the Spanish ambassador who served Queen Mary so faithfully. I had the devil of a time getting an audience with her. I know for a fact that she was avoiding me, and seemed to take childish pleasure in doing so. And when I finally was granted an interview, her Grace treated me mockingly.” It had been worse than their last interview at Somerset House when Elizabeth had still been only a princess!
“In what way, mockingly?” asked Philip.
De Feria pursed his lips. “Well, Your Majesty, the Tudor is clever, as you well know. Nothing she actually said could be construed as disrespectful; it was more the manner, the tone, in which she spoke. Disdainful, scornful. For instance, when I assured Her Grace that the King of Spain would do all in his power to support her accession to the throne of England, Her Grace let out a loud guffaw. That was all. No gracious words of thanks, not even a diplomatic nod of the head in acknowledgement. Just that laugh! She made me feel as if such promises were of no importance whatsoever, and that I had arrived at the court of England not with guarantees of support from the King of Spain, but with bulls from a dead pope! Your Grace, I feel compelled to enquire if it would not be better if you were to assign someone else to represent you in England.”
In High Places Page 5