Mary did what she could with no money but she was distracted. Although this time she made no public announcements, she was aware of the change in her body. Her belly swelled and her fluxes, never very regular, stopped altogether. In December, Mary wrote to Philip, that this time she was certain that she was with child.
She begged her husband to come to her. Philip, pleading the duties and anxieties heaped on him by the war, sent Count Feria, who had three missions. The first was to determine whether it was actually possible that Mary was pregnant. Philip had done his marital duty regularly during the four months he had been in England, so it was barely possible. Feria's second commission was to convince Mary to make her will as childbirth was always dangerous. The last was to promise Elizabeth that Mary would publicly name her heir to the throne if she would accept Emmanuel Philibert as a husband.
The first mission was easy to discharge. Mary's women were sure she was not with child despite the swelling of her belly. It was clear from their looks, from tear-filled eyes, that the cause for the swelling belly was far darker than a coming child. None said in plain words that Mary was dying, but Feria's betrothed wife, Jane Dormer, wept every time the subject arose.
Jane was the closest of all the women to Mary now, although Rosamund Scot was well enough loved to give Jane some relief from attendance. For that Feria was grateful, although there was something he could not like about Mistress Rosamund; he suspected she was like too many English and hated him because he was Spanish.
As to the will, Mary agreed without any difficulty. When she had thought out the provisions and taken advice from Cardinal Pole and the few other councilors she trusted, she would make her will. About agreeing to name Elizabeth her heir, she was far less complaisant. A flush rose under her graying pallor and she did not lower her loud, harsh voice as she said that Elizabeth was not her sister. Ann Boleyn had been a whore, and Elizabeth had no right to the throne.
Feria wrote to Philip that he would broach the topic with Elizabeth first. If he could get her to agree to maintain the Catholic religion in England, possibly Mary would put aside her doubts about Elizabeth's parentage. Instead Feria came away from that meeting with a firm conviction that Elizabeth would never marry Philip's choice and would always do as she pleased. He left Hatfield with a permanent and violent dislike of her.
Elizabeth, who had totally lost patience with the efforts to have her marry the powerless and subservient Emmanuel Philibert, for once spoke her mind. "What kind of a fool do you think me after seeing how this nation responded to my sister's marriage to take a foreign husband? Why, I would sooner marry my dear old Denno." She gestured to the white-haired common merchant talking to Lady Alana near an open window.
Feria flushed with rage at the insult and descended to a threat. "Then perhaps King Philip will use his influence to prefer some other claimant to the throne."
Elizabeth smiled very faintly. "The king is a very clever man, I doubt he will act the fool. I am Great Harry's daughter and both his will and an act of Parliament place me next in the succession. Recall what happened when Northumberland tried to set Queen Mary aside. England will brook no other claimant." Now her eyes pinned Feria as a butterfly is pinned to a board. "And my sister is alive and well and queen. Surely there is no need to talk about such matters."
It was hopeless, Feria wrote to Philip. "She is a very vain and clever woman and has been thoroughly schooled in the way her father ruled. I am afraid she will not be well-disposed in matters of religion, for the men she has around her I suspect are at heart heretics and I know the women to be. Beside that, it is clear to me that she is highly indignant about how she has been treated during the queen's lifetime."
Although Feria did not know that when he spoke to her, any accommodation with Elizabeth was already hopeless. On January tenth news came to England of a disaster that Elizabeth credited entirely to Philip's war and Philip's pernicious influence on Mary.
In mid-December Calais had been lost.
Mary sent no letter to Elizabeth to announce the disaster, but there was no need. Regular reports of all rumor and most Court business now came from William Cecil, and all the news the courtiers who visited Hatfield brought was bad.
Even before the loss of Calais, events in England were driving Elizabeth to angry, if concealed, impatience for Mary's death. The burnings continued and the people were more and more enraged. It was often necessary to call out the men of the nearest armed post to protect the executioner and more particularly the priest who accompanied the victim. Twice the small troop had been rushed and a woman and child rescued. Soon, Elizabeth feared, riot would become a common habit in the people, making them impossible to govern.
Robert Dudley, returned from serving with the army at St. Quentin, gave his opinion between his teeth—Elizabeth's ladies were out of earshot. Money went to build churches; money went to Philip. The crown was so poor that armed troops had to be small.
"Sixty thousand pounds in revenue she has handed to Cardinal Pole to restore the Church." Robert Dudley's fine dark eyes blazed; Elizabeth thought him a very pretty man. "There will soon be no kingdom in which to raise churches."
Elizabeth said calmly, in a normal voice, "Mary is queen. She must do what she thinks best."
But inwardly she was furious with Mary's stupidity. To worship God was good and right. To beggar the kingdom to raise churches was wrong. If the people wanted churches, they could tithe and raise them on their own. It was no business of the crown.
From the beginning Mary had made one mistake after another in governing. She had not thought about who would be best to help her rule, but let gratitude and affection create the overlarge Council that only fought each other, sought advantage, and accomplished nothing. And to allow her fixed love of everything Spanish to select a husband her people hated was utter idiocy. The love of the people was a sovereign's best security. Finally, Mary's blind devotion to her husband's demands had cost England Calais.
When the news of Calais' fall came on the tenth of January, 1558, Elizabeth did not try for public restraint. Even her long-time attendants were shocked by her language. And then she wept bitterly, groaning "Lost. Lost." That was all she said aloud, but she was sure if she had been queen, Calais would still be English; England would never have been involved in the Spanish war.
She might as well have said the words aloud. Mary would not have cared. She seemed to be slipping into a world that was not quite real. At the end of February she invited Elizabeth to come to Court. Terrified anew that an effort might be made to abduct her, Elizabeth arrived with a huge attendance of noblemen and their wives and daughters.
Whether Mary had intended abduction or simply wanted her sister's company, remembering the red-haired child who had run to greet her with love, no one ever knew but Elizabeth. She did not say—not even to Denno, who on this visit to London attended her openly. Whatever Mary's reason, Elizabeth's visit did not serve the purpose. She returned to Hatfield within a week.
In March Mary completed the will Philip had asked her to write—a document based solidly on delusion. She wrote it as if she would certainly bear a living child. No mention at all was made of Elizabeth.
April brought a proposal of marriage to Elizabeth from the king of Sweden. He offered his son and heir. Mary wakened from her languid indifference to be furious; she thought Elizabeth would snatch at the proposal, which certainly did not favor Spain. And Mary could not bear the thought of Elizabeth married, able to hold her husband with her "spirit of enchantment," young enough to bear children.
Mary sent Thomas Pope to sound Elizabeth out. Elizabeth said what she always said, that she did not know what she would do in the future, but for the present she did not intend to marry. Pope did not believe her; neither did Mary but no more could be got from Elizabeth, not a wink, not a flicker of expression.
Over the summer, Mary grew weaker, losing interest even in the possibility that Elizabeth would become a happy wife. In August the queen was very ill
with a raging fever. Courtiers now arrived at Hatfield with greater frequency. Some said the queen was already dead and had named Elizabeth as her heir. Elizabeth said that could not be true, Mary still ruled, and said no more.
Elizabeth waited a sure sign lest she commit treason. She knew such a sign would come. She had charged Sir Nicholas Throckmorton to bring to her the black enameled betrothal ring that Philip had sent to Mary. That, Elizabeth knew, would never leave her sister's hand while she was alive.
Mary recovered somewhat during September, but not completely. Through October she lay for hours in a melancholic stupor; she was alive but had ceased to rule. Her own Council gave her up for dead; if not today then very soon. On the sixth of November the Privy Council, warned by Mistress Rosamund Scot that the queen was awake and lucid, came to her bedside to persuade her to make a declaration in favor of Lady Elizabeth concerning the succession.
Mary no longer cared; wearily she agreed the girl she insisted was a bastard should rule. She knew Elizabeth would be queen no matter whom she named as heir. All her further refusal could accomplish was to start a civil war—and by now Mary sadly acknowledged she had done her country enough harm.
Elizabeth woke on the eighth of November, 1558, with no notion the day was special. She did ask immediately whether there had been any news; she could not help it, although she knew it was silly. If the news she waited for—that Mary was dead—had arrived in the night someone would have wakened her. No news, Kat said, and Elizabeth prepared to go about her ordinary business.
But it was no ordinary day. Just after Elizabeth finished dressing, Blanche, who was about to hand her a fan, froze. Elizabeth instinctively drew up her shields as she whirled around, spells trembling on her lips. She drew a breath to speak one. Everyone in her chamber was still as marble—everyone except one tall, exquisitely beautiful Sidhe.
"Lord Ffrancon," Elizabeth breathed, dropping a curtsey.
Oberon's chief factotum merited a curtsey, but the truth was the bow owed more to the sudden weakness of Elizabeth's knees than to respect. Elizabeth had not been Underhill for more than a year, not since she and the others had torn the Evil from Mary's womb. She did not go because she could not bear to see what she thought of as the unfading land of dreams slowly die. In the beginning she had not altogether approved of Underhill where she felt life was a too-easy lie. Now she loved it dearly and desperately desired to save it . . . but all she could do was wait for Mary to die.
The powerful Sidhe gestured for her to rise. "No need for that any more," he said with a smile. "You are summoned by High King Oberon and High Queen Titania to attend a Great Court Underhill. At mortal midnight a portal will open. Do not fail."
And he was gone.
The fan Blanche had been about to hand her dropped to the floor. Automatically Elizabeth turned back to take it as Blanche bent to pick it up. She heard one of her ladies finish a sentence she had started but could make no reply and just shook her head. Summoned? By Oberon? Summoned where? Had Oberon returned Underhill?
She spent most of the morning reliving Lord Ffrancon's brief visit, seeking in her mind for signs of age, of decay, of the ruin that was overtaking Underhill. Hope made her breath come quickly. There were no such signs. Lord Ffrancon's face was unlined, its perfect features sharp and clear; his long silver hair glowed with life, his green eyes were bright with vitality. Of course, Denno looked as strong and lively as ever too. Could Lord Ffrancon also be able to drink lightning?
After dinner Elizabeth received another shock. When she heard that two members of the Privy Council had come to speak with her, her heart stopped and then leapt. Mary was dead!
Elizabeth stood tall and still, her hands clasped at her waist, her breath held . . . but the bows the Privy Councilors made were not deep enough. Elizabeth allowed her breath to sigh out and drew it in evenly.
"My lords?" she asked quietly. "What can I do for you?"
They told her that her sister had at last acknowledged her as heir apparent. Few conditions were being placed on her elevation, only that Mary desired Elizabeth to promise to maintain the Catholic religion and pay Mary's debts.
Elizabeth had no more intention of continuing Mary's mad attempt to force England into Catholicism than she had of trying to fly. She made no response to that, instead hurrying to promise to do her best to pay Mary's debts—after all, she would need the goodwill of those creditors in the future. She knew she should make a graceful, ambiguous speech about religion, but could not.
Had Oberon known that Mary was dying and would name her heir? How could he have known? Where had he been? All Elizabeth could do was thank the councilors for coming to her, ask after her sister's welfare, and hope that the officials would believe she was so strongly moved she could not make sense.
To appear cooperative was the habit of many bitter years but Elizabeth's mind was in total turmoil and she fumbled for the equivocal phrases about her faith. She was shocked and confused that the promise of what she had dreamed of and hoped for from the moment of her brother's death could be so overshadowed by a message from King Oberon.
Finally Mary's comptroller and master of the rolls took their leave. Elizabeth's mind jumped from what Oberon's summons meant to the fact that she was now the undisputed heir to the throne; that jump prodded her to send a messenger to Brocket Hall where William Cecil was staying. Since the Hall was no more than two and a half miles from Hatfield, Cecil returned within half an hour, his face faintly flushed, his eyes bright with satisfaction.
Cecil had always been aware of Mary's determination to ruin Elizabeth and set God knew who on the throne. He thanked God, he said to Elizabeth, that the Council had that much common sense. Between Henry VIII's will, the Act of Succession, and Mary's final acknowledgment there was no longer any danger of civil war. Elizabeth was the accredited, recognized heir.
Cecil's disciplined, logical mind moved on to the next problem. The ugly subject of Cardinal Pole. Elizabeth did not like the cardinal; he returned the compliment in no uncertain terms. But Mary had made Pole archbishop of Canterbury.
"Do you think he will refuse to crown you or try to wring some oath of subservience to the pope from you?" William Cecil asked. "He is as obsessed as Mary with bringing England under the pope's rule again."
"He is very ill," Elizabeth said. One of the secretly Protestant courtiers had brought the news. "Some kind of fever. Surely it would be possible for me to excuse him from the coronation on the grounds of his health?"
"That would be best," Cecil agreed, "but then who will you get to crown you?"
Crown. Elizabeth could not remember Oberon ever wearing a crown. Not that it mattered. Everything about Oberon declared him High King. Cecil said her name, gently questioning her lack of immediate response.
"I have no idea," Elizabeth admitted, not willing to say to Cecil that she could not really think about it.
Her eyes followed the servants who were lighting candles throughout the room. She pulled herself together, knowing that the Catholic bishops Mary had appointed would all try to wrench some promise from her, or would be unwilling to crown her, claiming she was at heart a heretic, or insisting on some Catholic service she wished to avoid.
"You had better begin a canvass of the bishops who might be willing," she suggested finally, and then admitted. "I am all heels over head. Mary must have known since this pregnancy was also false that I would come to the throne, but I was afraid she would die before she conceded or name someone else just for spite. I need time to swallow this down and digest it."
"Yes." Cecil bowed, then took the hand she held out to him and kissed it. "And it is growing dark. I had better get back to Brocket Hall. There is much to do now, and it will be easier as I can do it more openly."
Elizabeth watched him go without really seeing it. Mention of the coronation had sent her mind back Underhill. Her father had been the greatest mortal ruler Elizabeth would acknowledge (Charles V was probably greater, but the rack could not have drag
ged that admission out of Elizabeth) but Oberon was in no competition with Great Harry; he was Other.
There was no air spirit to send for Denno. He was in London, his informants at Court listening for the first word of Mary's death. And Alana was away too, probably at Cymry, which was less affected by the loss of power because the Sidhe there used less magic. Elizabeth had no one to talk to. She said she was cold and would change to a warmer gown, which gave her an excuse to tell Blanche, but the maid was no help. She was frightened. She could not imagine why King Oberon should want to summon Elizabeth.
How could I have offended him? Elizabeth wondered. I have not been Underhill in so long. But what if he did know that Mary was dying and he wanted her to find him a place in the mortal world? Elizabeth shuddered. Perhaps Oberon had abandoned Underhill. The last she had seen of it, the mortal world was richer.
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