Palace of Westminster, February 1554
Mary stood at the window of her privy chamber and looked out at the sky. Everything seemed gray; the steady drizzle of rain that fell in an unceasing downpour, the river, as it made its sluggish way towards the sea; and the sky, with its brooding clouds.
An eerie silence had cast a pall over the city. People came and went on their business as usual, but an atmosphere of gloom prevailed. Everywhere one looked there were dead men; hundreds of gibbets swayed in the wind throughout the city. Borne on that same wind was the pervasive odor of corruption. The White Coats who had defected to Wyatt’s cause at Rochester had been hung in their own doorways and their bodies swung there still, to the lamentation of their widows. All of this contributed to the somber mood that prevailed throughout London. That the queen had conquered the rebels and subjugated them was, in her opinion and in the opinions of many, another miracle wrought by God, but she could not rejoice in the deaths of her countrymen.
The men around her were finally convinced of her steadfastness and courage, and now openly admired her. Even those opposing the Spanish marriage could not resist her show of determination, bravery and sheer audacity on the day that the rebels had attacked London. She had shown herself to be resolute and defiant in the face of what some had been convinced was certain defeat. But in retrospect, and without factoring in her unshakable faith that God was on her side and that she was in the right, she was convinced that had Wyatt not made the mistakes he most certainly had made, the whole affair might have turned out very differently. Had he not hesitated at London Bridge for three days, had he made his move on London immediately and decisively, he might very well have prevailed.
But Wyatt had made those mistakes, and was in the Tower. And she was once again victorious and in full possession of her throne. All of this had earned her a new respect, but the price of this new respect and admiration was very high. For this time there could be neither forgiveness nor mercy. The time for such was past; she knew if she did not back up her bold action and astounding victory with swift and terrible retribution that she would be perceived as weak. Many believed that had she taken such a hard line at the time of Northumberland’s attempt to seize the throne that the rebellion just past might never have been. But whether one believed that or not, all were agreed, even Mary herself, that her tremendous show of courage and the astonishing triumph that followed it must be followed by stern and immediate punishment.
The room was so silent and still, with no other sounds than the crackling of the fire on the hearth and the gentle rain caressing the windowpanes, that when she heard the blast of the Tower canon, a resounding boom that shook her down to her very vitals, she was taken unawares. Her hands flew to her breast and her mouth went dry. So it was over. She could not help herself; she began to weep, the tears spontaneous and falling hot on her face.
She had given orders that she was not to be disturbed and all was silent again except for the fire and the rain. But she knew that from this moment forward, she would never be the same again. For this firing of the Tower cannon that she had just heard, just felt in her very bones as if she had been standing right next to it, announced the death of her cousin, Jane.
Tear blinded, Mary groped for a chair and fell with an inelegant plop into the nearest one her hand closed down upon. She rocked back and forth, the tears streaming, her mouth set in an attitude of anguish, and yet she made no sound. She was beyond even the keening that might have released her from her great distress.
Part of the terrible misery that she was suffering had its roots in the fact that she had never liked her cousin Jane, nor approved of her; the girl was a staunch Reformer. But despite their differences in religion and regardless of the fact that Jane had, when all was said and done, tried to take her throne from her, she had had no intention of carrying out the death sentences that had been visited upon Jane and Guildford Dudley at their respective trials in the year just past. She had hoped simply to let enough time pass that all could see and know that the pair was truly innocent and had been manipulated by the powerful men around them. At such a time she had planned to pardon and release them.
But the Duke of Suffolk’s undeniable role in Wyatt’s rebellion and his intention to once again usurp the throne in her cousin’s name had sealed his own fate, his daughter’s, and that of his daughter’s hapless husband. Guildford had also been executed that morning, but not being a royal person, he had been beheaded on Tower Hill and no cannon had boomed for him. Jane was royal and had been beheaded within the more private precincts of the Tower, on Tower Green. Mary still wondered at Jane’s state of mind; she had done her best to convert the girl to the true faith so that she would not die in a state of grievous sin, but Jane had remained true to her own beliefs to the end. Mary had even relented as far as to allow Jane and Guildford to meet one last time to say goodbye, but Jane had stoically refused even that tender mercy; her reason being that it would simply upset them both. One could but admire, no matter how misguided…
But the greater part of her prodigious grief was that she had succumbed to the threat made promptly by the emperor on behalf of her affianced husband that unless the Lady Jane was executed forthwith, Prince Philip would not set foot in England; nor would he even consider departing from Spain to fulfill the marriage contract. In Charles’ estimation, it was simply too dangerous to allow his heir, the Empire’s heir, to abide in a country where there lived and breathed such a constant threat to Mary’s throne. For as long as Jane lived, she would always be a focus for rebellion. Therefore, she must die.
No one held Mary to blame; all had sung the same song, all for their different reasons. Jane had to die. The fact, and in some people’s minds it was a dubious one at best, that Jane was innocent in this most recent attempt to overthrow the Marian regime, meant nothing. She had been tried, convicted, and remained in the Tower awaiting the carrying out of the death sentence that had been visited upon her for her complicity in Northumberland’s schemes in the year before. Now that sentence must be executed upon her for the sake of the peace and serenity of the realm. And if that also satisfied Charles’ and Philip’s fears, was she to blame for that? She was not. She was guiltless in her cousin’s death. But still she knew that she would never, from this moment forward, be the same again. It was an inexplicable feeling, and one that she had shared with no one, nor ever would.
# # #
Mary was brought out of her reverie by the sound of a tentative tapping upon her door. She had asked not to be disturbed; the matter must be important. She arose, wiped her eyes, blew her nose with a honk, and opened the door.
God’s teeth, she thought. What on earth did this unholy trinity want with her? For there stood the Lord Chancellor, the Imperial ambassador, and Lord William Howard. Their business must be urgent or they would not have dared to disturb her.
“My lords?” she said, the question in her voice.
“It concerns the Princess Elizabeth, Your Grace,” said Bishop Gardiner.
Mary had come to dread those words recently. “What of my sister?” she asked wearily. “Is she on her way to court at last?” The rebellion was over, but there were those who considered Elizabeth to be every bit as much of a threat as Jane had ever been. Was she never to have a moment’s peace…?
The three men stood, cap in hand, in the small room. Mary waved an expansive hand to bid them sit.
Renard held his peace; it was not for him to speak first when two of the queen’s own countrymen were present. She knew that a strange alliance had been forged between Bishop Gardiner and Renard; both hated Elizabeth and wanted her dead and out of the way, each for their own reasons. But Lord Howard, newly made Baron Howard of Effingham for his resolute bravery during the recent rebellion, was Elizabeth’s blood uncle. What was afoot, she wondered?
“Your Grace,” said Gardiner, the senior amongst the men in age as well as rank. “There has appeared in Noailles’ diplomatic pouch a most disturbing letter.”
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br /> The diplomatic pouches of all the foreign ambassadors were routinely intercepted and their contents read; but Mary was still abashed that the fact should be even tacitly admitted with Renard in the room. But these men had obviously discussed the matter before bringing it to the queen; no sense in belaboring that point, then. She regarded Bishop Gardiner with raised eyebrows, and a look that said yes? And what is that to me?
“Amongst the correspondence was a copy of a letter from the princess to yourself.” Gardiner had a look of supreme satisfaction on his face; Renard’s did as well, with just a hint of I-told-you-so in his expression.
“And how did such a letter come to be in Noailles’ possession?” she asked.
Renard leaned forward in his chair, unusual for him; Mary could have sworn that he had a habit of shrinking back when in her presence. “Is it not obvious, Your Grace? How else could Noailles have come to have such a letter if the princess herself had not supplied it to him?”
Mary blew the air out of her cheeks. “I could think of at least a dozen ways, Your Excellency, not the least of which is that it was pilfered.” This was an oblique reference to the fact that without such diplomatic pilfering, these three men would hardly have come into possession of such a letter themselves!
Gardiner shifted uneasily in his chair and Renard blushed pink to the tips of his ears; at this observation Mary did her best to stifle a laugh, the first she had had in days. But enough was enough. “Come, gentlemen, have you disturbed my peace only to tattle to me about the contents of the French diplomatic pouch? And how do you know that the letter is a copy?”
Bishop Gardiner replied promptly, “The letter has been translated into French, Your Grace.”
“I see,” said Mary. “And what were the contents of this letter?” It would have been odd for the two royal sisters not to communicate; she and Elizabeth corresponded regularly on a number of matters, but never at a political depth that, in her estimation, could have any interest for the French king.
The three men eyed each other nervously. Finally Gardiner said, “Your Grace, the letter in itself said nothing important, but the very fact that…”
Mary held up her hand. “My lords, forgive me, but what damage could such a letter possibly do? You know and I know that the letter must have been innocuous; the princess and I do not correspond on state matters in our sisterly correspondence. You have as much as admitted that there is nothing special about this letter. This suggests to me that it is a routine occurrence for such letters to be intercepted, translated, and sent on to the French king. The letter in the French pouch proves nothing except that the French are as good spies as we English.” She could not help herself from allowing a small smile to curve her lips.
Renard was not about to let such an opportunity get past him; he had been trying to implicate the princess since his arrival. “With respect, Your Grace, what of the French fleet that was amassing off the Normandy coast when the rebellion was brewing? Had the circumstances been auspicious and the rising successful, the French would have been here in a trice to support the claims of the princess and Courtenay to the throne.”
“Renard is right,” said Lord William. “All know that the princess’s mother was raised at the French court and had a great many admirers and associates there.”
“That is true,” agreed Gardiner. “Anne Boleyn was extremely Frenchified and it stands to reason that her daughter would look to the French to support her cause.”
Mary regarded the three men closely. All had their motivations for attempting to turn her against her sister; Gardiner because Elizabeth was a heretic and he wanted to stop her from succeeding to the throne of England; Renard because Elizabeth posed the same sort of threat to her own throne right now that Jane had done; and Lord William because he had been raised to the peerage for his recent good service in the Wyatt rebellion, and wished to show his loyalty. So much for blood being thicker than water! He was Elizabeth’s own great-uncle, but he apparently cared nothing for that; Lord Howard was a man who trimmed his sails to the prevailing wind, and right now, it was herself who was prevailing.
She observed another worried glance flit between the three men.
“There is more, Your Grace,” said Gardiner. “We have proof positive that Sir James Croft stopped at Ashridge on his way to the Welsh marches.”
Mary pursed her lips. “Can the princess prevent even a humble peddler from calling at her house?”
“But Your Grace…” said Renard.
“My lords, what was the outcome of this visit? And what is your proof that it even took place?” Mary had promised her sister to listen to no gossip; so far that was all this was.
“Her own servant, Sir William St. Loe, has testified that Sir James had words with Her Grace, on behalf of none other than Sir Thomas Wyatt himself,” said Lord William.
“And what were those words, if you please?” asked Mary.
“That Her Grace should get as far from London as possible so that she could not be seized and placed in the Tower,” said Sir William defiantly.
Mary considered; she had been in Elizabeth’s position herself, numerous times, and that seemed like sound advice to her! “And Her Grace’s response?”
Lord William shifted uneasily in his seat. “Sir William claims that the princess thanked both Sir James and Sir Thomas for their concern for her, and that she would do as she saw fit.”
Mary suppressed a chuckle. Her sister certainly had her wits about her; she could not but admire her for that. “And have you any proof, beyond the word of Sir William St. Loe, that this conversation ever took place? For instance, have you any letters?” It was a deliberate taunt, apropos of the letter found in the French diplomatic pouch.
Gardiner bristled visibly, but knew better than to display his impatience to the queen. “Your Grace, does not the princess’s refusal to come to court speak volumes to you?”
Mary leveled her steely gaze at the three men. “It might do had Dr. Owen and Dr. Wendy not concurred in their diagnosis that the princess is very ill. The princess is dropsical and in a great deal of pain. As soon as Her Grace is fit to travel, she will come to court. I have no wish to make her any more ill than she already is.”
This visibly exasperated them. But it was all true; and she had promised Elizabeth not to condemn her without a hearing. She had her own doubts and suspicions about her sister, but she was not going to share them with men whom she knew might be Elizabeth’s enemies. And it was not just the promise that she had made to Elizabeth; she was loath to let the fact that Elizabeth was the daughter of her bitterest enemy cloud her judgment.
Mary pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose; pressure placed in just that spot would often help to ward off what promised to be a remarkable headache.
“My lords,” she said. “Has it occurred to you that my sister would have very little to gain and much to lose by making such a treasonous alliance with the French?”
The very word “treason” seemed to explode into the room like cannon fire, and she was instantly sorry that she had used it.
“It is that very treason that we seek to expose to Your Grace!” said Gardiner. “Care you nothing for your throne, that you suppress one rebellion simply to allow another?”
Mary regarded the three men stonily. She could not afford to alienate anyone; and she had no intention of doing so simply for Elizabeth’s sake. What harm could come from letting them run their suspicions to ground?
“My lords, the princess will very shortly be coming to court. Once she is fully recovered from her illness, then you may question her about these issues. If you are able to produce proof of her complicity in the recent rebellion or uncover any new plot involving the French, bring it to me, and I assure you, I will give it due consideration. But I will condemn no man, nor woman,” she said, fixing them with a gimlet eye, “on mere hearsay.”
Gardiner knew when enough was enough; he had what he had come for. He would produce this proof and then
he would use it to destroy the princess. He was in no doubt of Elizabeth’s guilt; all that remained was to find the evidence, and that he fully intended to do. Now that he had the queen’s own permission to question the princess, he could not…he would not…fail.
Chapter 40
“Oh, how happy we are, to whom God hath given such a wise and learned prince!”
- Bishop Stephen Gardiner, Lord Chancellor of England
Whitehall Palace, March 1554
Kat Ashley sat by Elizabeth’s bedside pretending to read; she was a great reader of books. Every so often she would sigh and regard her charge over the top of the volume she was holding. She longed to speak her mind about her fears and concerns for the princess, but she dared not disturb Elizabeth’s rest. Elizabeth had been very ill and was only just recently showing any signs of recovery. The slog in the rain from Ashridge to London had not helped matters any! What was the queen about, she wondered? Did Her Grace hope to tax the princess’s frail strength to its limits, and do away with her that way? She sighed again and glanced over the top of her book once more, but Elizabeth’s eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady.
The weather was dismal and it seemed there was to be no end to it; it had been raining for weeks and there had not been a day of even brief sunshine since early in the month before. All in all, Kat’s mood matched the climate, both out of doors and inside the palace. Both were dreary, gloomy and depressing.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 46