by Hall, Ian
In the taverns afterwards, I heard one name; Sir Edward Croft.
“He fought for father against the Scots,” Elizabeth told us that evening. “I don’t know him at all well, but he was one of King Henry’s men. He also temporarily sided for Lady Jane Grey, but it seems he’s been released from the Tower.”
“Queen Mary’s generosity.” I took a sip of my brandy.
“Queen Mary’s stupidity.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Croft fought for my father, then Lady Jane, why did she release him? That might prove folly.”
“So Hereford rises for you, my princess,” I said, giving her a warm smile. “How do you feel to the news?”
She paused before answering. “Well, if Queen Mary is to transform the country back to a papist state and marry Prince Phillip of Spain, perhaps a rebellion is for the best.”
I couldn’t really argue with her, because I’d studied Henry’s time, this new era held many mysteries. But I knew Elizabeth gained the throne, I mean, everyone knew that. Well, everyone in the present day.
“And you don’t mind being the head of the rebellion?” I asked.
“If Mary marries Phillip, then dies, she cedes England into Spanish hands.”
“But if she has children, it will all change.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It is unlikely she’ll produce offspring, she’s thirty-seven years old.”
“How would I approach Sir Edward Croft?” I asked. “If I needed to get information on the rebellion.”
Kat, who had been mostly silent in our discussions of rebellion, interrupted. “Mention my husband’s name, Sir John Ashley. He is a cousin to Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mother. This will give you instant recognition as a rebel.”
In my next trip to Hereford, it rained incessantly, and no one had taken to the streets. The taverns were full of talk, though it proved difficult to tell truth from tales.
Phillip of Spain had a fleet, sailing for England.
Lady Jane Grey had escaped the Tower, and sat at the front of a huge army in Kent.
Queen Mary had burned the Archbishop of Canterbury. Yeah, and that would happen.
Deep into a cold December, I accidentally met Sir Edward Croft. I literally stepped in front of his horse in Hereford market.
“Watch out!” He pulled his mount to one side as armed men ran forward.
I held my hands up in surrender and smiled, hopefully looking harmless.
“Do you know who this is?” one of the men asked.
“I do not, but I regret not looking where I was going.”
A large, beefy character stepped forward. “You’ll regret…”
“Enough, Stan!” the man on the horse bellowed. “I apologize for my man’s reckless enthusiasm. I am Sir Edward Croft.”
Holy crap; of all the people to bump into.
I gave a bow. “At your service, sire.”
“And your name?”
“Thomas Bentley,” I said, quickly remembering the British motor car. “I am an acquaintance of Sir John Ashley, well, his wife really, Kat.”
“What a coincidence,” He looked suitably impressed. “Will you share a glass with me?”
“Anything in this miserable weather.”
Chapter 17
December 6th, 1553
In the Depths of Conspiracy
The tavern got cleared of normal patrons before we stepped inside, followed by Sir Edward Croft and his whole entourage. “I prefer partisan surroundings,” he said, walking up to the landlord with a jingling purse. “Whatever anyone wants, I’ll pay.”
“Yes, your lordship.” He began taking orders, shouting at his wenches to get to work.
Sir Edward Croft looked about forty, and although he bore himself well, he slumped on a chair, showing signs of an active past life, perhaps catching up with him. Greying at the temples, he also seemed to be well used to a drink, downing a whole tankard of ale in one swig.
“So, my new friend, tell me more of the people you know.”
“My grandfather served Prince Arthur until his death, and I’ve met both Princess Elizabeth and her lady, Kat. We have often talked together.”
“Have you now?” He slapped my shoulder. “And will you rise?”
“For Elizabeth, yes,” I began. “England can do without Spain’s influence.”
“Well said, well said.”
I’d never met a man more eager to put his head on a block; the more drink he consumed, the more beans he spilled.
The rebellion had been planned for March next year; four counties would rebel, simultaneously raising armies and marching on London. To my horror, they talked of the possibility of raising in excess of 20,000 men.
And they had international aid; a French fleet would race into the Channel to block any possible involvement by Spain.
When I got back to Walterston House and Elizabeth, I held my tongue. There seemed no way I needed to tell her. After all, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her later if the rebellion failed. She could hardly admit to having been involved if she knew nothing at all.
Then in December, the weather broke, and we got our first fall of snow.
Steve and I talked about the rebellion, then decided I should play both sides to a point, by returning to London, and reporting my findings both to Fakenham and the Queen. But we’d leave Elizabeth out of the loop.
With my usual trip to Hereford looming, I took off the next morning, making quick work of the thin dusting of snow on the ground.
Despite my vampire speed, due to the ground conditions, it took all day to get to London.
And five seconds to get a face-to-face with Fakenham.
I told him everything I knew, then watched him process it for a moment. “From Croft’s own lips?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Wait here.”
So I waited, and then five minutes later, found myself with Fakenham, the Queen, and Simon Renard.
“Tell them,” Fakenham said. His face looked impassive, his stance unnatural, as if he wanted me to feel uncomfortable.
“I cannot, sire.”
“Why not?”
“Because, sire, my Queen has not instructed me to include the Ambassador into our circle.” I hoped that would inform the Queen; I too felt uncomfortable.
“Sir Richard, you can tell Monsieur Renard anything.” The Queen spoke slowly.
So it had taken the Frenchman a year of fawning, but he had finally hooked his fish, and she sat on his barb, exhausted and ready for eating.
So I told my story again, omitting actual mention of the town of Hereford. As I spoke I looked from the Queen to Renard, watching their reactions. Predictably, Renard further questioned me, the Queen remaining silent. “Where did you hear this?”
“In the counties, Monsieur.” I hoped he’d take my omission as my limitation, but of course, he pushed. “Where?”
“I cannot say exactly, Monsieur.” I looked at Queen Mary, but got no clue as to how to proceed.
Renard continued. “And you hear this from Sir Edward Croft, personally?”
“From his very lips, as close to me as you are now.”
He began to pace the room, his shoes clipping on the mosaic tile on the floor. “And you say the Princess Elizabeth has not been approached?”
I shook my head firmly. “Not once in the last two months.”
“Preposterous!” he shouted, his word echoing. “She must be aware of this!”
I let the sound die. “Monsieur, she has been under house arrest for two months, as per my Queen’s order. She may be aware sedition is talked about, but she has not been formally approached.”
I could see his pupils stare at mine, cursing me, aching to call me a liar. I held his gaze, teasing him onward. “Sir Richard? You have been absent from the house for periods of time, no?” He tried to hide the cunning behind his words. “You are here now, so you have been absent for days. You cannot make such guarantees.”
“Monsieur, I cannot state it any plainer.” My
tone verged on the impudent. “I keep a firm hold on the security of the Princess Elizabeth. I repeat for your ears, sir, the Princess has not been approached.”
“Renard, Renard.” The Queen brought her hand to his sleeve, drawing him back from me. “I think we can trust Sir Richard. They rise in four counties only?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty; Kent, Devon, Hereford, and Leicestershire.”
“And you say Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, has been chosen as her husband?”
“It seems so, Your Majesty.”
“My cousin had been in the Tower for fifteen years when I came to power as Queen.” Her voice had lowered, whether in reflection or to placate the tempers in the room, I could not tell. “I released him; I gave him his title, I made him Knight of the Bath in the same ceremony as you, Sir Richard.” Her hands had come together in front of her waist, and her fingers now strove to weave together, gripping ever tighter. “And this is how he repays me?”
“Your Majesty,” Renard said quietly, hopefully sensing the Queens growing dark mood. “Perhaps he feels he is wronged because you rejected him for Prince Phillip?”
“I do not care.” She turned quickly. “Fakenham?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Arrest warrants for all the ringleaders, I want them in the Tower before they know what hit them.” She turned to leave the room “In the Tower!” Renard walked after her like a stray dog that wouldn’t go away.
But she hadn’t told me to do anything with Princess Elizabeth.
“May I be on my way?” I asked Fakenham.
“Yes. Can you report every week?”
“Best if it’s two weeks.”
“Very well.”
So another two weeks of embroidery passed, and I raced into London. Nothing.
And another.
So I spent another fortnight in a very snowy Walterston, talking into the wee hours, polishing my conversational French with two very intelligent women.
On my next trip to London, at the beginning of February, things had changed.
“They started the rebellion early,” Fakenham said, more calmly than I would have done. “With the arrest of the Earl of Devon, the rest must have brought the date forward.”
I’d sat in conversation with Princess Elizabeth in sleepy Walterston, and I’d missed a whole rebellion. “But you’re still here, so it must have failed. Right?”
“It’s over now.” He grinned at the memory.
I still found it difficult to believe there had been a rebellion, and I’d missed it. We’d holed up in such a sleepy hollow we’d been overlooked by history. But then again, that had been the objective.
“Only Sir Thomas Wyatt actually raised a force, but his men did stay together long enough to attack London. The whole situation was considerably dicey for a couple of days, but his men eventually just broke up. They didn’t have the heart for a real fight.”
“So perhaps the Queen had been right all along; without a head to rally round, the rebellion would be destined to fail.”
“Perhaps.” He gave me a sideways look. “Perhaps you and your men were the reason the rebellion failed.”
I shrugged. “So where do we stand now?”
“The Queen wants Elizabeth back at court; the danger is over. The Tower is full of rebel Captains, Lieutenants, and a few lords.”
“Did we get them all?”
“No.” He shook his head and gave a cynical grimace. “Carew slipped through our fingers. We think he may have fled to France.”
“But the Queen definitely wants Elizabeth back?”
“Yes, you have your orders. Take her immediately to Ashridge House in Hertfordshire, she’ll know where it is. The Queen will summon her from there.”
And thus ended my winter idyll with the future Queen of England.
“We head for Ashridge House, your grace,” I told Elizabeth.
She gave a distant smile. “My man will be there, Sir William St. Loe. He is a trusted friend.”
With the roads impassable for carriages, I returned Elizabeth the way I’d taken her over two months previously; dressed as a man, slung over my shoulder.
With instructions to look for Sir William St. Loe, I arrived at Ashridge House late that night. I stood at the door, the inert Princess over my shoulder, until Sir William showed his rather flushed face.
“What is this?” He looked bleary-eyed, obviously roused from sleep.
“I come from the Princess Elizabeth. Aren’t you going to ask me inside?”
He looked at the black wrapped body on my shoulder. “Yes, of course, why don’t you come in? You say you come from the Princess?”
I walked past him. “Where is her bedchamber?”
“You cannot go there!” He raced after me, trying to grab my arm. “The Princess is gravely ill, she cannot see anyone.”
I stopped, laughing at his ruse; obviously he’d rebuffed everyone this way for many months. “I have the Princess Elizabeth on my shoulder,” I grinned warmly at him. “In a few moments she’ll be awake, and wondering why she’s not in her bedchamber. Now, lead the way.”
He lifted the hood to see Elizabeth’s red hair, then grinned from ear to ear. He took a deep breath and stalked off, climbing to the second floor by a huge sweeping curved staircase.
“Has she had many visitors while she was gone?” I asked as we reached the upper floor.
“Almost daily. Doctors have been sent from London, but we never let them inside.”
“Good man.”
He opened a door, and I followed, carefully setting the Princess onto her bed.
I unwrapped the cape from around her face.
“Is she ill?” Sir William asked.
“Just sleeping,” I said, standing back. Obviously the man cared for her. “Don’t worry, she’ll be awake soon enough.”
She opened her eyes as I heard loud knocking from downstairs. “They come again,” Sir William said.
I gave Elizabeth a last look. “Let them in, the Princess has just made a miraculous recovery.”
Sir William left the room grinning as widely as I did.
“Your Grace?” I shook her more awake. “You have to get out of these clothes, and into a nightgown; you’ve been ill, and have just this moment recovered.”
Thirty minutes later, the two doctors left her room, seemingly satisfied Elizabeth could be pronounced fit to travel, and she should attend the execution of the conspirators Lady Jane Grey and Lord Guildford Dudley, in two days hence.
“I will not,” she said once the door had been closed. Sir William had gone, escorting the doctors out of the house.
“But you have been summoned.”
“My dear Sir Richard, a Princess fresh from sickness would take days merely to get ready to travel. I cannot possibly get there in time.” Her face paled slightly. “Besides, I have no wish to see my cousin’s head struck from her shoulders, only to be reminded of my own probable fate.”
I would have loved to tell her of her future, but the words stuck in my throat.
Ashridge House was a sprawling palace, about thirty miles to the northwest of London. In comparison to our previous abode, I stood in luxury.
Steve arrived later that same morning, after returning Kat to her husband.
With the ruse complete, I relaxed for the first time in many weeks, letting a very nice brandy drizzle down my throat.
More knocks at the door interrupted my rest, and I rose to see the source of the commotion.
Two men, smartly dressed, were being shown inside.
“Sir Graham Ousterhouse, and Sir Thomas Culross.” Sir William introduced them to me.
“Sir Richard DeVere, servant of her majesty, Queen Mary.” I moved forward to greet them. “What’s your mission here?”
“We come to escort the Princess Elizabeth to London.”
“Have you come to pack her valises?” I asked.
“Why, no of course.”
“Have you come from the Queen her
self?”
The men baulked slightly. “We have orders.”
“From the Queen herself?” I now challenged them to answer.
“We come from the Privy Council,” Culross eventually admitted.
“Well I act under orders of the Queen directly. Princess Elizabeth will travel as soon as she can.” I pushed them back towards the door. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Chapter 18
February 12th, 1554
The Long Road to London
In typical Princess/woman fashion, Elizabeth wasn’t even ready to begin the trip on the morning of the 12th. So I had some debating to do; whether to actually go see the beheading of a Queen, or sit out the whole thing, thirty miles away.
In the end, curiosity won the day.
Steve and I did the distance in minutes, and soon found a good vantage point on the outer wall of the Tower.
They did Dudley first; led through a huge screaming crowd, his head bowed, his arms held by a man at each side. His normal clothing had been stripped to loose shirt and britches. When they pulled him onto the scaffold, I noticed he stood barefoot, his toes wet and muddy. He seemed to shake from head to toe, and although the morning proved actually quite chilly, I’m sure his nerves were the reason.
Kneeling on the wooden platform, he extended his hands above his head, and leant forward to put his neck on the large darkened block.
Then a shimmering sound of the swing of the wide-bladed axe.
Bam; head bouncing about like an over-aired soccer ball.
We stood about for a bit while they threw buckets of water over the platform, and brushed the mess away. Then, slowly, they led Lady Jane Grey out to the stage. I couldn’t help misting up a bit. I mean, we’d shared moments, even if they’d been contrived ones.
Again, one single stroke dispatched her, arms twitching for a split second, then falling limp at her sides.
“Who’s next?” Steve asked.
“I think that’s all for today,” I said, my mind not really on the scene in front of me.
“No, I mean, which one will be next to put their head on the block? Elizabeth?”
“It can’t be, she rules for years, I’ve seen the Cate Blanchett movie.” I managed a dry smile.