Now that her father’s face was nearer her eye level, and he was speaking, in good temper, he was less frightening. Somehow, his voice did not fit his figure. Perhaps it had when he had been younger. King Henry’s ordinary speaking voice was light in tone, and he sang a lyrical tenor, which would have graced a willowy youth, which he had never been. As a boy, his voice had embarrassed him, and he had practised a repertoire of roars and thunderings to deepen it.
The King’s face was almost square, as if his head were made of a very large dice. The eyes were a pale grey-blue, and seemed able to swivel and dart more speedily and to more purpose than other people’s, though they seemed very small in that square, fat face. The nearly invisible eyebrows, of faded ginger, were set in permanent astonishment at, and in arrogant certainty of, his omnipotence. Elizabeth wondered what he had looked like when he was nearly ten, like herself, and found it impossible to picture. Did she resemble him? He had named her after his own mother, whom he had loved, so Kat said. Why then, did he never call her by her name, why no more than just ‘daughter’? Why did he look at her sometimes as if he saw something unpleasant, when there was certainly no dirt on her face, or a bogey stuck to her nose? Yet at other times he looked at her like the Creator on the seventh day, with pride in his handiwork. The King rarely did things the same twice over, that was why he was frightening, you never knew what was coming next. Today’s look from those sharp little eyes, over the top of the gold-rimmed spectacles, was favourable.
Come to think of it, Mary had just the same way of looking at her sometimes as the King, though now she was too busy looking at her father, with fear, and longing for approval, and a sort of nervous defiance. Mary wanted her not to be the King’s other daughter; Elizabeth knew that now. Mary had been heard to suggest that her father was a lute player called Mark Smeaton.
‘Am I like my father?’ Elizabeth had demanded of Kat, who realized that something had been overheard.
‘Yes,’ she had said fiercely. ‘You are your father’s daughter. Look in the mirror at your nose.’ Elizabeth had gone away fingering it in secret delight. She could feel a bony ridge in it, so it was not straight, or a turned-up button like Mary’s; it bent, like the King’s. Another thing, Kat had said, was that nobody could argue with red hair. It showed up again and again, father to son, or to daughter, even Mary had a washed-out fair shade of it, and little Edward’s flaxen had begun to show signs of sandy. Today her own hair had been done in a gold mesh cap, which showed its bright colour through. Perhaps it would remind the King that she was indeed his daughter.
The King had noticed her red hair; he always tried to. It increased his mood of benevolence. She was growing fast, at an age when she changed so quickly no one could tell what she would grow up to be like. Apart from the hair, she had a Tudor face; the deep, scooped eye sockets, arched brows and high cheekbones were there for good. He could swear at times she was very like his grandmother Beaufort, his own father, even; perish the thought! The old skinflint had been like an egg with the meat left out for economy. Elizabeth was all kitten softness now, but when she was old, she would be as beaky and bony as her forebears. He put away such thoughts; he did not like to think about things which might happen after he was dead.
He preferred Elizabeth demure, her eyes downcast, so that all he could see was her sandy brows and lashes. It was when she raised eager, lit eyes that he wished her out of his sight and never there in the first place. The night crow’s eyes, big black holes leading down to Hell itself. Anne, the bird of night. He avoided black-haired women like the plague. He wanted to vomit her forth, out of his system altogether. In this he had largely succeeded, except when confronted by her daughter’s eyes. He was aware of the injustice of imparting the mother’s sins to an innocent child, yet how innocent Elizabeth was he could never be sure, just as he could never prevent his revulsion and pain. Thank God, now, for his Kate, she could mother these younger children, set them a decent example of life, and he would be free of the burden. In his constant pain, and recurrent sickness, he could not cope with domestic trivia.
‘Well, daughter,’ he said, making an effort. ‘I hope you are not idle.’ It was undoubtedly a question, requiring a reply.
‘If it please Your Majesty, I have begun to translate a French poem by the Queen of Navarre, called The Mirror of the Sinful Soul.’ She lowered her voice, made bold by the fact that the King had unbent towards her. ‘I should like to make it a present for her grace the Queen,’ she added confidentially. She could not bring herself to call the Queen ‘mother’ yet, to her father.
‘Ah! a secret eh — you’re a good girl, Bess. I’m glad Mrs Champernowne leads you in the path of righteousness. That should keep you busy, Marguerite of Navarre’s work is not light work. I don’t like to hear of idle hands. The devil finds mischief…’
This was something of a triumph. He had not called her a good girl, or Bess, since she was very small. Not since those days when he had shown her the inside of the virginals, and when he had carried her through Whitehall, showing her off to everyone — all in yellow, a dandelion-bright giant, on whose shoulder she rode, to be admired. He had been celebrating the death of Mary’s mother, his first wife, hence the yellow.
Elizabeth would have to work hard to convince him of her virtue. She was not wholly convinced of it herself. Always, her mind surged with questions about all the moral precepts which were her daily diet. She had been made aware very early of the wages of sin, but found most precepts difficult to accept in relation to the behaviour of her elders and betters. Things were particularly confusing for women. ‘The affliction of love strikes everyone, but specially women. Therefore they need to take the more care that it should not steal upon them. For mostly it comes unawares, when the woman neither cares nor minds what is happening, and receives it as a sweet and pleasant thing, not knowing what and how perilous a poison lies hidden under that pleasant face.’ That must have been where her mother had gone wrong. Her father, too, had received his share of perilous poison. It did not seem to deter him, though.
‘My Kate is fond of gardens,’ the King said, enjoying sounding quite honeymoon-foolish. ‘Let us go out, before dinner — we have seen so little of the sun this summer.’ He never could sit still for long, which was one reason why his legs were so bad.
Out they all trooped, in his wake. The great green monster man filled the garden every bit as overwhelmingly as he did the rooms indoors, standing as if carved in topiary work by a clever gardener’s shears, not dark and lowering like holly or yew, but a jolly green, like box. The royal piece of topiary moved off slowly, green velvet slippers making a scrunching, heavy shuffle on the gravel paths. The knot garden was outlined with low hyssop hedges, which only reached up to his swollen ankles. At his side the Queen walked slowly and gravely, as if in procession. Though she was smiling, her smile was somehow serious, as if she concentrated hard upon it, and upon every move she made. Elizabeth admired her gown very much, especially the colour, which was orange-tawny, almost russet, complementing her amber hair. The lining of the huge, hanging sleeves was cloth of gold, patterned with honeysuckle, which shimmered in the sun. Perhaps it was because the King and Queen were in the garden that everything seemed gilded by the sun today, as if arrested by an alchemist in changing into gold. Elizabeth wore orange-tawny, too; it was one of her favourite colours. The Queen had given her the gown earlier in the summer, when she had been at Whitehall and Hampton for the wedding. She kept smoothing the velvet skirt, first one way, then the other, watching the changing face of the pile; you only got that furry silkiness with finest quality velvet. She had never worn anything so fine before.
The garden smelled wonderfully of lavender, and the bees hummed as they worked in the lavender flowers. The sun brought out smells everywhere, of freshly hoed soil, of old brick walls, sun-baked, with moss on them. In the middle of the knot pattern was a sundial, made of stone with a copper dial, which was piled with white bird droppings, because they would perch on
the gnomon.
Queen Katherine Parr liked flowers. She stopped frequently to admire, or to sniff. She picked a slip of lavender and rolled it between her fingers to release the perfume under her nose. Elizabeth did the same. The bees were squeezing in and out of the snapdragon mouths, just as she had used to poke her finger in them. The honesty was turning to paper pennies, from gooseberry green. The drooping tassels of purple amaranth hung mourning down — love-lies-bleeding, the country people called it. In the sunny, south-facing bed in front of the wall towered hollyhocks so high Elizabeth was shocked to see that some of them were taller than the King. In the front of the bed, the flower called balsam apple had been planted, giving masses of rosy-red flowers for the last month. Elizabeth knew from talking to the gardeners that you had to grow it fresh from seed every year, and that the best seed came from Italy. It had not been grown long in England.
Elizabeth swooped and sank, like an orange butterfly settling, poked her finger at the long furry seed pods already formed. She squeezed, and was disappointed, no seeds popping out like a mouthful of grape pips — merely green-smeared fingers.
‘Touch-me-not, or I pop! That’s why they’re called noli-me-tangere! But they won’t…’ she said, to no one in particular, not noticing that there was a lull in the conversation, and that her words clearly addressed everyone present.
A silence fell. Elizabeth, engrossed, squeezed another pod, with the same result. She laughed. It was a laugh like a chime, a high sound, revelling in itself, laughter echoing laughter. The laugh did not ring childish in the King’s cars. It rang bells as dissonant and painful as the crack of doom. Thunder fell upon the garden.
Everyone became suddenly very concerned about their feet, or the state of the gravel path, or the trimming of the knot borders. None of them dared to encounter the King’s eye. The King’s eyes had narrowed, all but disappeared into the fat; the King’s mouth had shrunk to a tiny slit, but the King’s face had got wider, swelling with rage. The silence was terrible. Elizabeth did not know what had happened. Then she noticed that people were looking at her. What had she said, or done? Only touched a plant, and no one had minded before. The silence was frightening, the gilding gone from the garden now.
King Henry did not hear silence. He heard a man’s voice reading, a poet’s voice. A fair, handsome man, who read a sonnet he had composed in the manner of Petrarch. Tom Wyatt.
‘Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer: but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain:
And graven with diamonds, in letters plain
There is written her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.’
A collar of diamonds worn to hide the mole on her neck. Diamonds, her favourite gems, for their sparkle against black, black hair, black eyes, black velvet gowns powdered with diamonds like fallen stars. The night crow, swooping, swishing, in black satin, swift as a shooting star herself, laughing, a high laugh, mocking its own echo. Mocking him. Brittle as stardust. The whore! Diamonds, always diamonds. He had given her diamonds for her hair, diamond bracelets, diamond true-love knots, diamond roses and buttons, hearts and flowers of diamonds.
Wyatt had used her adulterously too — he should never have been let off. There must have been hundreds of them. None of them could satisfy her. He could not. ‘Since in a net I seek to hold the wind…’ The taste of frustration and failure was the thing King Henry was least able to bear. The red-haired child had used Wyatt’s words unwittingly, but she had laughed her mother’s laugh, swooped across her father’s vision, and set the night crow flapping her dark wings in his face again, reminding him of the time spent in vain. Would he never be rid of the infernal memory? The King fled the fire by which he had been burned.
‘Out of my sight!’ King Henry bellowed like a bull with the ring put through his nose. He lumbered off indoors as fast as his legs would allow. Others followed.
Elizabeth, barged aside by a huge green slipper, had toppled over sideways, and was left sitting half in the flower bed, with the hyssop border squashed under her bottom. It was the Queen, hastening after the King, who picked her up and kissed her, before disappearing indoors to try to mollify the royal rage, or whatever emotion it was. Elizabeth was left standing in the garden, which seemed dark now; even the bees refused to keep her company. She had done something dreadful, made her father very angry, and could not for the life of her think what or why.
The garden emptied as if by magic. Robert Dudley, interrupted in talking to his mother, who was in the Queen’s party, could no more understand what had happened than Elizabeth. He saw her standing there, desolate, chalk-faced, like a small orange marigold plucked by careless fingers and tossed aside. The King’s anger had made everyone afraid. What an old monster! Though he was just on twelve, Robert took his mother’s hand, and shivered.
Elizabeth did not see him. When Kat Champernowne came and took her hand to lead her indoors, she burst into frantic tears. Kat cuddled her like a baby. Her father’s displeasure was unbearable, especially when she thought that she at last had his approval. She demanded to know why, but no one would explain. Kat said that she was her lamb and had done nothing wrong, but this seemed a contradiction of the obvious. Denied a reasonable explanation, Elizabeth howled babyishly, on and on, until someone did tell her, or she became tired. She became tired. She was still snivelling when the Queen came to see her. It was hours later.
Katherine Parr sat down, and settled Elizabeth beside her.
‘I have talked to your father the King.’
‘Yes?’ Sniff.
‘He is sorry he shouted. His temper is short these days, especially when he is on his feet. Now he has had his dinner, he has recovered.’
‘Why was he so angry with me? What did I do?’
‘Not with you. He was angry because he was hurt. When you have a husband, Elizabeth, you’ll find the easiest way to anger a man is to be hurtful.’
‘I don’t want a husband.’
‘Shush. Don’t say silly things.’
‘How could I have been hurtful?’
‘You did nothing. But some words you used had a meaning for the King you could not know about. Sir Thomas Wyatt wrote a poem about a wild deer, though for him it meant not a real deer, but a woman — your mother. He had fallen in love with her and she refused him. The deer in the poem wore a diamond collar around her neck, with the words: “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,” meaning that she belonged to the King alone. Those words upset your father because they reminded him of a painful time; her wrongdoing hurt him deeply. She sinned, but God has mercy on sinners.’
‘Do I remind him of that painful time?’
‘He said you laughed, and your laugh sounded like your mother’s. We all have something of each of our parents in us.’
‘Why was it a sword, and not the axe? Why was it special?’
Katherine Parr recoiled at this disturbing non sequitur. That such questions should prey on a child’s mind!
‘I do not really know,’ she said, gently. ‘It was perhaps an act of mercy. More swift and certain. It was your father’s order. We do not question his orders, Elizabeth.’ She looked down into the pathetic, wet eyes of a wounded deer. ‘But your father is not so unkind. He told me to tell you that you have not done wrong, and to be a good girl.
‘You are old enough to understand all this, and I thought that you should be told. It will help you to keep in your father’s good temper. As long as you obey him, he will never be really angry with you.’
The Queen was the first person who had explained a matter so delicate, concerning her mother, to Elizabeth. This was enough to put her on the list of the elect, who were loved.
�
��Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do understand, and I will be good…mother.’
‘Child? I have so wanted to hear you call me mother! But you have reasons for being wary of offering your affection, and have taken you own time about it. Give me a kiss.’
Elizabeth did this happily, hugging Katherine as if she had never held anything back. Perhaps Kat Champernowne had been afraid to speak, and the Queen had more authority. It was wonderful having someone so sensible and perceptive, now her father’s wife. She made no more mention of her mother, and neither did the Queen.
But Elizabeth’s imagination had leapt, like the wild deer in the poem. This was a completely different picture to the night crow. Noli me tangere was not the sort of message given by whores and adulteresses. If Sir Thomas Wyatt had obeyed those words then he could have received no encouragement from her mother. She resolved somehow to find a copy of the poem, and to read it. She would find out more, but keep it to herself. It was necessary to know more about one’s father and mother, for they were surely part of one’s own destiny.
II
The Mirror
1545 – 1552
In the mirror Elizabeth saw a Princess. A royal Princess. A bastard one still, but a bastard Princess was very different from a mere royal bastard. The Act of Succession had established that — the third heir to the throne. The Princess at her twelfth birthday was having her portrait painted. Her stepmother the Queen had given her a new dress for this event, a red dress. It was the grandest dress she had so far owned, of crimson cloth of gold, figured with honeysuckle and pomegranates. The foresleeves and kirtle were of ash-coloured silk, embroidered with gold raised work, with white lawn pullings on the sleeves, and onyx clasps. The neckline and French hood were edged with pearls. Simple but rich. She had stood yesterday, clutching a book, scarcely daring to breathe, in case her head moved, and the artist saw an unflattering view of her. A picture done for her sister, the second heir, on Mary’s twenty-eighth birthday earlier in the same year was not as good. The artist had not flattered, and made Mary’s mouth pinched, and her nose snub, as they were, and her hair crimped and faded, not half as pretty as Elizabeth’s own. The King was too ill to be likely to take much notice of the result. Would either of them ever be Queen? Only if their brother died without children. Elizabeth could not bring herself to think of either her father or her brother dying.
None But Elizabeth Page 3