Mary laughed, and it was like the tinkling of tiny bells. “Very well, then,” she said. She turned to the cardinal and the duke. “If my uncles agree…”
François de Guise and his brother the cardinal nodded their assent, but it was one of the few things upon which they agreed with the King of France. Just as Henri sought to use Mary as a tool to further his ambitions of a united kingdom that included all of France, England, Scotland and Ireland, so her Guise uncles sought to use her as a tool to further their own ambitions of being the power behind the throne of such an empire. It would take Henri’s death to place their niece onto the throne; but they were patient men.
In the meantime, the object of all this scheming let fly her merlin, and by the end of the morning, the Queen of Scotland’s hawk had made the most kills. She was very pleased.
Westminster Palace, January 1559
Elizabeth awakened to the iridescent radiance of a watery sun. A small smile crept about her lips. It had been remarkably gloomy the day before, and towards evening it had snowed. Not very much snow, just enough to cover the ground, and to her eye, to give the world a magical glow. But the city alderman had shaken their heads, their long white beards wagging. With much clucking of their tongues the order was given and all night the citizens of London had labored to strew gravel and straw along the coronation route so that the queen’s procession should not bog down in the mud. Not one of them dared say as much, but she could read it in their eyes: So much for Doctor Dee’s horoscopes and prognostications! The queen’s philosopher had spent weeks studying the stars and casting horoscopes to arrive at the perfect day for the coronation. And now it appeared as if the chosen day, the auspicious day, was to be one of bitter, wet weather when the best place to be was beside one’s own hearth, huddled by the fire.
She yawned and stretched, climbed out of the magnificent canopied bed, she had slept in the King’s Painted Chamber, and padded in her bare feet to the window. The sight that met her eyes made her throw back her head and laugh that raucous laugh which had so affronted Count de Feria, the Spanish ambassador. For although there was still a light mist, the clouds were breaking up and the world seemed yellow and luminous. The quality of the light was truly golden; absent was the rosy glow that sailors claimed foretold a wet day. Her bare feet on the stone floor were cold but not frigid; the temperature had risen over night, and the wind that was making the winter weather so bitter had stilled. She had placed her faith in Doctor Dee…and in God…and all had come right after all.
The windows of the chamber overlooked the gardens, which even in winter were inviting with their neatly clipped yews and boxwoods, and the blue ribbon of the river just beyond. It was going to be a glorious day. For today, despite all the obstacles, old and new, that had been placed in her way, she would be crowned Queen of England. She would be anointed with holy oil and become a semi-divine being.
Elizabeth turned from the window and let her gaze wander about the room. The Painted Chamber had been built by her forebear, King Edward III. It was long and narrow, with a very high ceiling. The room had been gutted by fire when her father was still a young man; he had rebuilt the room and furnished it to his own great measure. One by one, she surveyed the elaborate tapestries and murals that decorated every inch of the walls, and the varied colors which gave the chamber its name. Had her mother ever slept in this room, in this bed? Almost certainly, she decided.
Her mother had been very much on her mind these past days leading up to her coronation. On one of her many progresses through the city since her arrival, a pageant had been set up depicting her lineage. The City of London had erected a glorious arch, festooned with evergreen boughs and silk flowers, since no real flowers were to be had at this time of year.
Beneath the arch a tiered platform had been raised. At the first level, effigies of her grandparents, Henry the Seventh and Elizabeth of York, had been placed. Each was seated in the center of an enormous rose, red for her Lancastrian grandfather, and white for her Yorkist grandmother. From these silken petals up stretched to the second tier a series of green stems, and emerging there, from a red and white rose, was an effigy of her father. Next to him, for the first time since her disgrace and execution, an effigy of her mother had been fashioned and placed beside him. Again the green stems rose upwards until at the very top was an effigy of herself, clad in regal splendor, very life-like, and all framed in wreaths of both red and white roses.
She listened attentively as the child whose duty it was to explain the pageant recited his verses. But she could not take her eyes from the effigy of her mother. In an unguarded moment, she had almost reached out her hand to try to touch the effigy. She choked back tears of emotion, and by the time the play was ended, she was able to respond with effusive praise for the elaborate show. But even now, days later, she could not get the image of her mother out of her mind. It was for this day, her coronation as Queen of England, that her mother’s blood had been spilt.
A tentative knock at the door brought her out of her reverie. The door opened a crack and Kat’s head appeared. “The time is nigh, Your Grace,” she said. “Today is the day!”
Elizabeth understood Kat’s jubilation. Mistress Katherine Ashley had been in her service since she was a child, and loved her like a daughter. Elizabeth’s triumph was her own. She turned from the window. “Dear Kat!” she exclaimed. “Yes, at long last, today is the day.”
###
Elizabeth emerged from the palace to behold a glorious if chilly day. At the sight of her, the crowds, many of whom had waited all night in the cold, cheered themselves hoarse. She would walk from the palace to the great abbey; a magnificent carpet of blue had been laid the entire length of the route for this purpose.
She waited as the assembly of peers of the realm that was to walk before her gathered together and found their places. Finally all was ready and she began to walk. Her rich robes of state were made of cloth of gold and silver, trimmed with ermine, and overlaid with golden lace; she shimmered as she walked in the light of the watery winter sun, a slight breeze causing the yards and yards of glimmering material to undulate. On her head she wore a bejeweled golden cap surmounted by the circlet of gold she had worn as a princess, and which she would soon trade for the crown of England.
Beside her on either side walked her Gentlemen Pensioners in their crimson satin robes, carrying their ceremonial golden battle-axes. But there was something different about them; on each breast the letters “ER” had been embroidered in gold and silver thread. The same symbol was to be seen on the shoulders of the crimson velvet jerkins of her footmen, this time in the form of a patch worked in gold and then sewn on. Directly behind her, leading her white palfrey, was Lord Robert Dudley. It was he who had thought to embellish all of the queen’s servants with the “ER” device that would be used, had he but known it that morning, until the end of her life.
Behind Robert walked the queen’s ladies and maids of honor, all in crimson velvet gowns with sleeves lined in cloth of gold. Following the ladies were the members of the Privy Council in robes of crimson satin. All wore their finest jewels, winking in the sun and dazzling the onlookers.
As soon as the royal party had passed, the people in the crowd descended upon the blue carpet in their frenzy for a souvenir of the day; they tore and cut the carpet to pieces. As soon as the last foot left it, it would disappear behind the cavalcade as if by magic.
When Elizabeth reached the steps of the abbey she was met by the leaders of the city’s guilds, all wearing fur-lined robes in the colors of their craft. In their midst was the Lord Mayor of London, who made a pretty speech and then offered Elizabeth the customary red velvet coronation purse containing one thousand marks in gold coins.
Just beyond, Elizabeth spied the elaborate litter in which she would progress through the city after the ceremony so that the people could behold their new queen. Robert had not disappointed her; even his enemies, and a queen’s favorite would have many of those, had to admit t
hat he had done a magnificent job of planning and executing all of the queen’s progresses. But none had yet seen such an elaborate litter as this one. The canopy and drapings were made of yellow cloth of gold and trimmed in gold brocade. The interior was lined with white satin and was spread with eight down-stuffed satin cushions for the queen’s comfort.
At the entrance to the great abbey, Elizabeth turned to face the multitude. She raised her hands; the cheers and shouts of ‘God save the queen!’ finally ceased and the crowd quietened.
“Good people!” she cried, her voice carrying well on the cold winter air. “I thank my Lord Mayor, the members of the guilds, and all of you, with all my heart, for your good wishes. As to your request that I may continue unto you for many years as your good lady and queen, rest assured that I shall be as good unto you as ever a queen was to her people. God save you all!”
And with that speech, she turned and to the deafening cheers of the crowd and the pealing of church bells, took her first steps into the great abbey to be crowned. Although no one knew it, including Elizabeth, the pale ghost of Anne Boleyn walked beside her, following the same path that she herself had once walked on just such a day.
Syon Monastery, February 1559
A slight mist was falling as Lady Margaret Douglas, the Countess of Lennox, stepped from the barge onto the slippery water stairs at Syon. It felt strange to be coming back to the place in which she had been close confined so many years before by her uncle, King Henry, as punishment for indulging in an inappropriate flirtation…it could hardly be called an affair…when she was a young and flighty girl at the English court. The irony was that she came to love Syon, the nuns, and most of all, the Mother Superior, Dame Agnes, during her stay. Indeed, when her banishment ended and she was called back to court, she was loath to leave the peaceful place. Many was the time that her cousins and friends had come to visit her here. As she walked the silent cloister, it seemed to echo with the laughter of those visits, and the happy times they had been.
As she made the turn that would take her into the South Cloister, she noticed that the little garden, although tended even in February, was bleak indeed. The dwarf fruit trees espaliered on the brick wall were bare and reminded her of so many skeletons. It was difficult to believe that in a few short weeks the little trees would be green and budding with the flowers that would become the fruit that the nuns would gather in the fall.
But would they, she wondered? All was changed now that her cousin Mary was dead and Elizabeth on the throne. Although Elizabeth had equivocated masterfully on the subject of religion until her first Parliament sat, her intentions had become plain with the bills that had so far been passed at the queen’s behest. And now the monks and nuns, who had so joyfully been recalled by Queen Mary from their exile on the Continent to reinhabit the abbeys, monasteries and convents from which they had been turned out years before by her uncle and his henchmen, were to be banished yet again by Queen Elizabeth. One of the Parliament’s recent bills mandated the return of church property that had been retaken by the bishops upon Mary’s accession, to their secular owners. Syon was to revert back to the Seymours.
And so Lady Margaret had come to Syon on this bleak winter’s day to offer shelter and what help she could to the Dame and her little group of nuns, against the day when they would all be homeless once again. After the Dame’s tender care of her those many years ago, it was the least she could do.
Margaret made the last turn and there it was…the Still Room where she and Mary, Elizabeth, Frances, the Fair Geraldine, Dame Agnes and the nuns had spent so many happy hours drying herbs and flowers and making cordials, medicines and potpourri. The day was gloomy, and the candle in the little round window next to the door burned with a steady flame, cheerful and bright. She felt the memories wash over her at the sight of it; it brought tears to her eyes.
She tried to speak a greeting to the Dame, who was standing at the rough wooden work table with her sleeves rolled up and her arms buried in a large copper bowl, but suddenly her throat held a lump that prevented speech. The tears that had welled up in her eyes made the dried flowers arranged around the base of the Dame’s copper mixing bowl swim in a riot of color.
Margaret’s shadow must have blocked the light in the little doorway; Dame Agnes looked up to see her standing there, her arm extended as if reaching out for a past that was lost to them both.
“Oh, my lady!” she exclaimed. “It does my heart that much good to see you!” The Dame withdrew her arms from the fragrant mixture she had been blending in the bowl and strode the few steps to the door with her own arms outstretched.
Margaret Douglas was the daughter of a queen, the niece of a king, and a countess by marriage, but none of that mattered at such a moment. She fell into the Dame’s embrace and cried like a broken-hearted child. Had she been asked at that moment what she cried for, she could not have said; the Dame knew this and did not ask. She stroked the auburn hair and administered soothing little pats to her back. Margaret’s tears of emotion would soon subside and then they would talk of many things. Finally Margaret’s shoulders stopped shaking, and Dame Agnes retrieved the linen square from her sleeve and dried her tears.
“There now,” said the Dame. She took Margaret by the arm and led her into the small room at the back that looked out onto a little herb garden. The room had a tiny hearth. Dame Agnes struck a flint with an expert motion and soon had a merry fire going.
“I was just going to mull some ale when you arrived, my lady,” said Dame Agnes. She thrust a poker into the fire and worked the bellows; the fire crackled and began exuding a welcome warmth.
Margaret ran her hand under her runny nose from finger to wrist, realized what she had done, and groped for her own linen square. “Ale would be delightful, Mother Agnes.”
A shadow passed over the Dame’s face. “I fear me that I have no spices. We have no money for such luxuries now.” She withdrew the glowing poker and thrust it into a pewter mug until the liquid within it steamed, and then passed it to Margaret, who cupped it with her cold hands. The Dame mulled her own mug, took a sip, and satisfied, sat down across from Margaret at the little table.
“I am preparing to depart the court soon,” said Margaret. “When I heard of Parliament’s bill that would render Syon back to the Seymours, I thought of you. I have come to offer you the shelter of Temple Newsam, in Yorkshire. And all the nuns, of course.”
The Dame looked troubled, and then said, “I do not wish to appear ungrateful, Your Grace, and I appreciate your kindness and the generosity of your offer. But we cannot possibly remain in England. I marvel much that you do not fear to do so.” Margaret may have been a flighty girl, but marriage and motherhood had settled her, and she had always been a good Catholic.
Margaret shrugged. “I am the cousin of the queen; that might possibly afford me some protection. And I will be far in the north, in Yorkshire, where there remain many like-minded Catholics. The queen walks a narrow path between the old religion and the new. But…” Margaret looked about her; in her experience walls had ears and one must be careful…
The Dame placed a gnarled, age-spotted hand atop Margaret’s. “You are safe here. No one is about, and the nuns would never betray a fellow Catholic.”
“Well,” said Margaret carefully. “The queen is not as minded to the Reformed faith as she makes out. While it is true that my cousin has urged bills in the Parliament that mandate the removal of the Holy Sacrament from the altar, an English Mass, and the removal of statues of the Virgin from all the churches, she still retains a crucifix in her private chapel. With one side of her royal mouth she placates the Lutheran princes of Europe so as not to lose their support, and with the other she claims that she has no wish to peer into men’s souls, in an effort to placate the Catholics and the pope. Her policy seems to be one that requires outward conformity to a middle ground, but which will not too closely scrutinize what men are doing under that façade of conformity.”
Dame Agnes bl
ew on her ale and sipped it carefully. “For all that, my lady, I still cannot risk the lives of those under my protection. For some, such ambiguity may suffice, but for professed religious, there is no such middle ground. We could not conform to any such compromise, no matter how well intended.”
“Then what will you do?” asked Margaret. “Where will you go?”
Dame Agnes shrugged. “I have written to the convent in the Netherlands where we were sheltering just before Queen Mary ascended the throne. They are now in danger themselves. The King of Spain has vowed to stamp out all heresy, but the situation in the Low Countries is grim just now. The Reformers are determined, the king no less so. So that way, for the present, is closed to us. We are all of us old women now; once we leave this place, we must go to a safe haven which none of us may live long enough to leave. I have written to convents in Spain and Portugal, hoping for asylum in one of those countries.”
“Oh, dear,” said Margaret. “It does make one see why Elizabeth seeks such religious compromise. There is, I hear, much discontent in France, as well. But I am right sorry to think of all of you going a-wandering again, and so far away! But you shall not go empty-handed. If you cannot stay in England, you shall at least go well-provided with what funds I can afford to give you.”
“God bless you for that, my child,” said Dame Agnes. “We are right sorry not to be able to go back to the Netherlands. The Catholics there are good people. So you will not stay at court, then, to serve the queen?”
Margaret stared out at the little herb garden. The nuns were diligent; February was almost ended and March would see the garden back in service. The sisters had already weeded and tilled against the day when the new crop of herbs would be planted. But the nuns would never now reap the herbs they were ready to sow. It was all so very sad.
In High Places Page 7