No immediate contradiction of the rumor came from the queen's apartment. There utter confusion reigned. The servants and the few ladies who had been in the outer reception room had all heard the terrible screams from the queen's bedchamber. They crowded the doorway behind the duchess of Norfolk and supported her contention that she had opened the queen's door uninvited because the cries made her fear ill had come to the queen.
Moreover, there was the dead body of the physician lying on the floor, blood staining his scalp and cheeks, his medical instruments flung hither and yon. That could not have happened in silence. Yet the queen and her five ladies had heard nothing. Mary looked from one to the other and saw no answer in their frightened faces. She strained for an answer, any answer, to screams that had been heard through a closed door that she and her women, in the same chamber as the screamer, had not heard.
At which point Lord Paget pushed his way through the crowd at the door and said, "Madam, I was told that you had been brought to bed. What has been going forward here?" And he saw Albertus's body. His hand fell to his sword hilt. "What is that? Who is that?"
Everyone began to explain at once, voices mingling and overriding each other, producing a cacophony that was no more than noise. Twice the queen tried to speak but could not be heard. Anger with others who would not listen caused raised voices which only led to more noise. Eventually Lord Paget bellowed, "Quiet!" and the room fell still.
Paget pushed his way into the room and bowed deeply to the queen. "Madam, I beg your pardon for intruding, and for raising my voice in your chamber . . . but how did this dead man come here?"
Queen Mary and Lord Paget did not always get along. From time to time Paget had been accused of corruption and Mary suspected him of gathering around him supporters of less than pure Catholic conviction apurpose to interfere with her policies. She dared not say to him that she did not know how a man died in her bedchamber, that she did not even know how he had come into her bedchamber.
"My lord—"
The voice, high and thin and trembling, was nonetheless pitched so that Paget looked down, every eye in Queen Mary's bedchamber, and all those still in the reception room strained to see the speaker. Mistress Rosamund stood, white faced, clinging to the door frame, seeming barely able to stand.
"I saw," she said. "I saw what I can hardly believe, but I did see it. The duchess of Norfolk saw too. There were two terrible shrieks. We ran together to the queen's door and pulled it open. The queen was kneeling at her prie-dieu with her ladies behind her. She was rapt in prayer, entranced in prayer. It was plain that she had not heard the cries that drew me and Her Grace of Norfolk to the door."
"So it was," the duchess of Norfolk agreed faintly.
She waited uneasily for Rosamund to describe the fearsome woman who had vanished; she could not decide whether to admit she had seen the woman and also had seen her vanish. But Rosamund said nothing of that terrible female figure. The duchess let out a relieved breath. Perhaps she had seen some twisted reflection in a window. There had never been a vanishing woman.
Rosamund was speaking again, her voice a little stronger. "The man was already lying on the floor with blood spurting from his head, as if something with claws had held him and then discarded him. I can only believe that some great evil threatened our queen and God protected her and all those with her because of the sanctity of her life and the sincerity of her prayers."
"It is true that I did not hear the cries," the queen said. "Nor did the ladies who were with me."
Mary looked around at the women who had been in the room with her. All murmured agreement that they had not heard the screams, that none of them had seen the man enter the room. All were wide-eyed and breathless with wonder. All gazed at her with awe. Even Paget who was not a credulous man, was convinced that the ladies with Mary were telling the truth as they knew it. Whether or not God had actually shielded them all from evil . . . that was not so easy for a rational man to believe as it was for a superstitious woman.
It was not, however, a subject on which Paget was about to argue. There had been so many "miracles" on Mary's behalf since Edward had died: that she had been crowned and Northumberland's plot defeated; that she had triumphed over Wyatt's revolt when the rebel was entering the city; that she was with child at her age . . . if she was with child . . .
"Let us all thank God for his mercies," Paget said, just as Mistress Rosamund slumped to the floor.
The queen ran to her and knelt beside her. The other ladies ran, too. As he was forced away from the woman, Paget briefly wondered if Mistress Rosamund was somehow involved with the death of the queen's physician. Had she told the tale of the depth of the queen's prayers to cover her crime? But he could not see how that was possible. The duchess of Norfolk had heard what Mistress Rosamund heard and had seen what she saw. A quick question to the duchess of Norfolk confirmed that Rosamund had never entered the queen's bedchamber.
Paget then turned his attention to having the dead man removed from the queen's bedchamber. The ladies were all occupied with Mistress Rosamund, who was revived from her faint. Her maid was summoned and she and Susan Clarencieux supported Rosamund to her bed.
Meanwhile various alarms had been transmitted to the chancellor and to King Philip. Both had heard that the queen had been brought to bed and that the queen had been attacked. Both tales were obviously untrue; Mary was unharmed, calm, even exalted, and quite clearly had not borne a child. However, long and elaborate explanations were necessary before the two most powerful men in the country could understand everything that had happened.
It was well into morning before anyone got to bed and most of the men involved were in foul moods. Their servants hesitated to wake them again to inform them that the entire city was celebrating the birth of an heir. When each learned, he felt a flicker of hope that a babe could be procured to confirm the false rumor. It was no more than a flicker. Each man knew in an instant that Queen Mary could never be convinced to agree to such a deception.
For one thing, Mary still expected to bear her own child. For another, she was a person of such transparent honesty that she could never sustain the pretense.
Some effort was made to discover how the false rumor of the birth of an heir came about, but no one who confessed to passing word of the queen's delivery could remember how they knew of it. They were sure. Someone of great authority and close to the queen had told them, but who, which of the queen's ladies, could not be identified. Late on the first of May proclamations went forth denying a prince had been born. Such a joy was still a matter of expectation.
Elizabeth had missed all the excitement. Stricken by a violent headache, she had taken a dose of opiate and slept heavily all night on the thirtieth of April and well into the morning on May first. By the time she woke, Blanche had the true story and told it aloud with embellishments to her mistress and the other ladies. All exclaimed equally in wonder and horror. By no flicker of an eyelid or tone of voice did Elizabeth betray any emotion not completely shared by the ladies who served her on Mary's orders.
After such thrilling events, the week that followed was exceedingly dull. No one came to visit Elizabeth; her ladies did go out—to report to the queen, Elizabeth thought—but she made no comment and no complaint. She merely listened more keenly while her eyes were bent on the pages of a book; she learned that uneasiness was growing among Mary's attendants about the possibility of her bearing any child.
A kind of affirmation of that doubt came in the middle of the next week in the arrival of Chancellor Gardiner and several members of the Council. They came to ask if Elizabeth was yet ready to submit herself to the queen's mercy, to which she answered sharply that she had no reason to do so having never by word or deed ever willingly offended Her Majesty. Rather than mercy, Elizabeth said, she wished for the law. Let her be tried in public where these sly accusations could be exposed and shown to have no substance.
Gardiner and the Council members left without the smallest satisfa
ction, and some of the Council members looked very thoughtful. If Queen Mary did not soon deliver a child, the lady with whom they were crossing swords might be the next queen.
The next day Gardiner returned carrying a message from Queen Mary herself. She marveled, Gardiner reported the queen as saying, that Elizabeth should so stoutly refuse to confess that she had offended. It seemed, Mary added, that Elizabeth thought she had been wrongfully imprisoned.
Elizabeth smiled thinly. "No, not at all. It is the queen's right to deal with me, her subject, as she pleases."
"Well," Gardiner returned angrily because she had said nothing rebellious, "Her Majesty wants me to tell you that you must tell another tale before you can be set at liberty."
Liberty from my life and my chance at the throne, Elizabeth thought, and said, "Then I would rather remain in prison with honesty and truth, than to go free under a cloud. This I have said and I will stand thereto, for I will never belittle myself."
Suddenly Gardiner dropped to his knees, "If this be true, then Your Grace hath the advantage of me and the other lords, for your wrong and long imprisonment."
But Elizabeth did not fall into that trap and assure him that she did not blame him. She smiled very slightly and said, "What vantage I have, you know. Taking God to record, I seek no vantage for your so dealing with me. But God forgive you . . . and me also."
Elizabeth's voice was even, her smile unchanged, but two of the Council members who had come with Gardiner began to edge their way toward the door hoping she had not noticed them. What would God have to forgive her for if not for what she would do to them when she came to power.
The others made deeper bows as they said quiet fare wells than they had on arriving. They doubted Elizabeth had failed to notice every person who came in Gardiner's train. Gardiner met Elizabeth's eyes; they were dark, not blue, but the look reminded him painfully of Henry VIII, who had not dealt with him gently when crossed.
Gardiner reported to the queen and to Philip, making it clear that he was certain Elizabeth would never confess any connection with the rebellion or even ask a general forgiveness. Philip had to suppress a smile when he remembered how roundly Elizabeth had defended herself from his accusation. He did not admit how much Elizabeth interested him, nor did he protest when Gardiner again said that Elizabeth was the worst threat to Mary's reign and to ensure its safety must be removed.
When Gardiner was gone, however, Philip asked, as if mildly curious, how Elizabeth was to be removed.
"Declared bastard, which she is," Mary hissed, "and debarred from the throne."
"And how likely is this to happen?" Philip asked gravely.
Mary bit her lip. Gardiner had tried many times to push through a bill with those provisions. He had never even succeeded in bringing it to a first reading, let alone a vote. Parliament was not in the least interested in having the heir presumptive declared ineligible and having civil war or total anarchy in the country.
"When the child is born," Mary said, placing her hand on her still-swollen but rather flabby belly. "Then they will vote to set her aside."
Philip made no direct answer to that assertion. He remembered the taut distension of his first wife's belly when she was carrying Don Carlos, and he thought it less and less likely that Mary was going to bear a child. To remove Elizabeth would make Mary of Scots, the French dauphin's wife, heir presumptive; whatever Mary felt about Elizabeth, Mary of Scots on the throne of England could not be tolerated by the Empire.
"Perhaps you have gone about this in a fashion ill-suited to such a headstrong chit," Philip said slowly, as if thinking of something new. "As she believes she has been harshly treated for no real cause, Lady Elizabeth must have little faith in your mercy. Perhaps if you see her and bespeak her kindly and release her from confinement—she can be watched from afar—she would be more willing to confess her fault."
"You do not know Elizabeth," Mary snapped.
Philip shrugged, the indifferent gesture a lie like the words. "No, nor do I wish to know her, but I know when certain measures must be acknowledged a failure and new measures tried."
A week later, when her belly was even softer, Mary sent for Elizabeth. She did not invite her to dinner, nor to attend any Court function; she would not give her the satisfaction of being publicly acknowledged. Mary even waited until after dark, when no one would see Elizabeth brought to her rooms. Philip, curious, concealed himself behind a curtain in the bedchamber, not far from the garden stair which Albertus had climbed.
Now when the door opened, Elizabeth entered, straight and slender and lithe. She did not wait for Mary to speak; as soon as she was well into the room, Elizabeth fell to her knees and declared in a clear but not aggressive voice that she was a true subject in word and deed and begged the queen to so judge her.
Frustrated and infuriated, Mary forgot all about appearing to be kind and forgiving and said, "You will not confess your offense but stand stoutly to your truth. I pray God it may so fall out."
"If it does not," Elizabeth returned steadily, "I request neither favor nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands."
"Well, so you stiffly persevere in your truth. Likely you also believe you have been wrongfully punished."
There was a tiny pause. Peering out of a crack in the curtain Philip saw that Elizabeth was fighting to control a quivering lip. "I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you," she got out in a slightly unsteady voice.
"No, but doubtless you will quickly enough say so to others."
Elizabeth raised a perfectly solemn face and said, most soberly, even sadly, "No I would not, if it please Your Majesty, I have borne the burden and must bear it. I may only humbly beseech Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me and to think me to be your true subject, not only from the beginning but for ever, as long as life lasts."
There was a slight sound behind the curtain. Elizabeth's eyes flicked in that direction. She lowered her head and bit her lip as Mary looked over her shoulder and murmured an apologetic-sounding sentence in Spanish. So Philip was there. How very interesting. Her mind flashed back over what she had said and how she had looked, and she was satisfied enough to need to suppress a smile.
"I can hope if I take your word it will be so," Mary said, ungraciously, obviously suppressing emotions other than laughter.
She gestured for Elizabeth to rise and gave her leave to go. Elizabeth backed cautiously away, until the hand held behind her touched the door. She curtsied, went out, and wondered, as she went down the stair into the garden to join Bedingfield and the escort he had brought, what Mary had thought the meeting would produce.
She did not need to wonder for long. Five days later, soon after breakfast, Bedingfield asked for audience, and when Elizabeth agreed, he came in bringing Sir Edward Paulet with him. Behind Bedingfield's back, Sir Edward was grinning to split his face. Elizabeth did not acknowledge his expression with so much as a blink, merely asking, "What would you have of me so early, Sir Henry? I hope you have no order to travel. I am not ready."
"May Christ, his Merciful Mother and all the saints be praised, I desire nothing of you, Your Grace, except to bid you farewell. The queen has lifted the burden of your care from me. I return it, with joy and gratitude to Her Majesty, to Sir Edward."
For a long moment Elizabeth was silent, then she held out her hand to be kissed. "Most faithfully, if often not to my liking, have you fulfilled your charge, Sir Henry. I cannot say I am sorry to bid you God speed, but you are an honest and faithful man and free of you, I wish you well."
Taking that as a dismissal, Bedingfield almost ran out of the room. Sir Edward stood looking after him, his grin even wider. "I think, my lady, that Sir Henry did not fully appreciate the honor of your care."
Again Elizabeth was silent for a moment, although her lips twitched. She was aware of the expressions of surprise and dismay on the faces of Elizabeth Marberry, Mary Dacre, and Susanna Norton. They expected as immediate a dismissal as she had given Bedingfield but Eliza
beth was far too clever to do that.
"You will replace Bedingfield's guards with my four," she said.
"Done, Your Grace. Gerrit is at the door of the apartment and Nyle at the back entry. But, Your Grace, if you have any suspicion of trouble, I beg you give me warning so that I can add a younger man to watch with each of them. They are devoted, but . . ."
"Are there younger men you think could be trained by my four? They know without needing long lists—" which Elizabeth had no intention of supplying so Mary would have written evidence of whom she regarded as friends "—who I would wish to see, whom to announce, and who to turn away with an excuse. But I know they are not getting any younger. Only make clear that they will be welcome to me as long as they wish to serve."
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