She was uniquely placed to sympathize with Elizabeth over her fears, and the shame and disgrace associated with being brought to the Tower by the Traitor’s Gate. Had not her own head been in jeopardy during those dark days when all her hopes had been dashed and she had had to live with the humiliation of knowing that her husband found her so unattractive that he would have executed her to be rid of her? She had walked a narrow line between anger and disappointment, and being level-headed enough to know that her only hope was to show nothing of the bitter pain and disappointment that had been visited upon her by this distraught child’s father. She had swallowed her pride, her bile and her anger, and smilingly accepted the generous settlement offered her to give up the throne of England. But she had never recovered completely either her self-esteem or the ability to experience sheer delight. She had been overjoyed with her brilliant match with England, so unexpected at her age; she had thought to die an old maid at her brother’s court, first under her mother’s iron thumb, then whomever her brother took it into his mind to marry. But instead, she had been called to mighty England from humble Cleves, to be its queen. She had been a bit fearful of her husband-to-be; he had a vile reputation and had already either murdered or put away his wives, and his third wife had died in childbed…or so they said! But it had been all right; she had loved Henry on sight…so manly, so virile! A shudder wracked her at the memory of it all; but Elizabeth did not notice as she ranted on about all the injustices being done to her. And well did she, Anne, understand injustice! She could never again bring herself to feel about anything as she had felt about her brilliant match and her handsome husband, for fear that if she did, she would lose it. She loved her palace, her other manors and castles, and her rich lands, but always there was a part of her that held back even as she admired and enjoyed them.
And as for marriage! Never again! She had almost lost her head, and the lesson learned was a hard one. She was best alone. No man would ever disappoint…or threaten her…ever again.
“And that is why she is sending me away,” said Elizabeth.
Oh dear, thought Anne; she had not been listening, and now knew not what to say in response. Perhaps an innocent question…? “Are you certain off dat?” she asked.
“Indeed, yes,” said Elizabeth vehemently. “Kat Ashley, my governess, hears all the gossip. She is a great gossip herself; but she knows better than to ever gossip about my affairs again! Still, she makes fast friends everywhere we go, she even made friends with the guards in the Tower, if you can own that! And that is what she heard. At least that is what they claim is being said. That my sister knows there is not a shred of evidence against me, and that is why they cannot charge me with anything. But instead of admitting her error and allowing me back at court in the place I deserve as Heir Presumptive, I am exiled to Oxfordshire! Tell me, Anne, if you had a prince coming to marry you who was eleven years your junior, would you want your younger sister at your side, at the risk of his making unfair comparisons?” Her eyes flashed.
So that was it! “Off a certainty, you are right,” said Anne. “You, meine Schatze, are so young, so beautiful! Nein, I vouldt not vant you by mine site ven mine hussband arriffed!” She smiled and rocked with laughter.
Immediately Elizabeth realized there was truth in what Anne said; so her fate was not to be murder, but exile. It made sense; Mary, she was certain of it, did not want to harm her; there was no evidence with which to justify doing so; but she wanted her out of the way. In that moment the overwhelming feeling of dread under which she had been laboring for so long evaporated like a morning mist. But slowly, ever so slowly, it was replaced by a burning anger. But better anger than dread! She felt alive, in command, for the first time in months. What Anne said was true; she was young; and Mary was much older. All she had to do was wait.
And while she waited she had something new, something exciting to think about.
It had all started when she was first allowed to walk in the gardens on the Tower Green. A little boy approached her on one of her walks and shyly offered up a posy of flowers. She had looked to her guards; she wanted no trouble. They had only smiled and bid her take the flowers. The child was the son of a Tower warder and presented no threat that they could discern.
The third such posy had contained a note from Robert Dudley. Northumberland’s sons still languished in the Tower; they were housed in the Beauchamp Tower at the other end of the leads from her own. The message was innocuous enough; it simply remembered her childhood friend to her and enquired after her health. She dared not write back; she dared not entrust a verbal message to the child. She could only hope that Robert did not write again, because any such correspondence with known traitors might be enough to spell her own doom.
And then came the day that they had both been allowed to walk on the leads between their two towers at the same time. How handsome Robert had grown to be! They were not allowed to converse, but smiles, winks, then suppressed giggles melted into a blown kiss and a meaningful look. They were young; they had played together as children; they were both now in fear of their lives and knew not what any day might bring forth for them. They must take their pleasure as they could, and if this was all that was vouchsafed to them, then they must make the best of it.
Elizabeth vowed to herself that if she ever got out of her predicament, the first thing she would do would be to send for Robert.
Chapter 41
“She is a perfect saint who dresses badly.”
– Ruy [Raul] Gomez, Prince of Eboli and Duke of Estrana
Bishop’s Waltham Palace, July 1554
It was high summer but one would never have known it; the out of doors was chilly and the few crops that managed to sprout in the foul weather had long since rotted where they stood. The moat was getting dangerously full; if it did not stop raining soon, there was a risk that it would flood.
Mary sat staring disconsolately out of the window. The monotonous sound of the rain was beginning to drive her mad. She could concentrate on nothing except when Philip would arrive. Why didn’t he come? At first, she had thought, May; he will come in May, when the forget-me-nots are blooming…after all, how could one forget one’s bride? But he didn’t come.
The Marquis de las Navas arrived in mid-June, when the roses were blooming. With him he brought more promises, jewels for her and all her ladies, and a letter in Philip’s own hand saying how happy he was to be coming to England. The exquisite La Peregrina dazzled her eyes and she had worn it every day since the marquis presented it to her on Philip’s behalf. But still he didn’t come, and after a while the excitement of the marquis’s arrival and the novelty of the jewel began to wear off. The marquis assured her that Philip was making ready to depart Spain with all speed; with that declaration she had to be content. And then Lady Strelly gently disabused her of the notion that Philip would be departing Spain any day to hie to his eager bride.
Frideswide, Lady Strelly, had been in Mary’s service since she was a child and was the only one amongst her ladies who could be depended upon to tell her the truth instead of what she wanted to hear. Lady Strelly had overheard some rumors and gossip, gleaned from people in the marquis’s entourage. While she did not want to distress the queen, Lady Strelly felt that Mary had a right to know what was being said. At the core of rumor and gossip there were often grains of truth, and so she believed that they should not be dismissed out of hand.
It seemed that Philip had departed his court at Valladolid in mid-May, but instead of proceeding directly to Coruna to take ship to England, he had gone to the pilgrimage town of Santiago de Compostella. His Grace had still been lingering there, hunting and feasting with his Spanish grandees and his son and heir, Don Carlos, enjoying pageants and bullfights, when the marquis was dispatched with Philip’s wedding gifts and his letter to the queen.
Mary withdrew the well-worn letter from her bodice and read it through for the hundredth time. If he was so happy to be coming to England, why didn’t he come?
&
nbsp; And then Lady Strelly shared some darker rumors. It seemed that the prince had mistresses and illegitimate children. While this shocked Mary’s Catholic sensibilities, she was not blind to what men were. Their foibles must be tolerated; most men had mistresses and bastards. She must simply look the other way; after all, he was leaving them all behind on the Continent and coming to make his home in England, was he not? And a man who had many mistresses usually gave his heart to none. She had already given her heart to Philip, sight unseen; perhaps he would reciprocate when he finally came to England. Why didn’t he come?
Henry FitzAlan, the earl of Arundel, had assembled a princely household for Philip, three hundred and fifty strong. It was thought that the prince’s arrival was imminent when the Marquis de las Navas arrived in June, and so Philip’s household had been sent to Southampton to greet him. But June turned into July, and victuals and provisions began to run low, as did the spirits of the nobles who must bide in lodgings. Some of the appointees had even begun to drift away on one excuse or another, thinking it very strange that Philip still had not arrived. The cost of keeping the prince’s entire household waiting in the port of Southampton was tremendous, and Mary shuddered every time she thought about it. But still he didn’t come.
Mary had departed Whitehall Palace in June in high spirits. The rain abated and there were even intermittent periods of sunshine. The birds sang, the earth smelt fresh and new, the trees blew in the breeze, the raindrops lingering on them falling in a shower of dewy diamonds with every warm gust of wind.
When news of de las Navas’s arrival in the port of Southampton was received, she believed that Philip could not be far behind. She would journey by easy stages to Winchester, where she would see to it that all was prepared for her wedding. It was unfortunate, but she dared not hold the wedding in London, for fear that some demonstration, protest or other unpleasantness might occur. Parliament had ratified her marriage contract, but there were still some who were against the Spanish marriage and looked at it askance. Winchester would be a much better place for her nuptials; it was Bishop Gardiner’s ecclesiastical seat, and was eminently appropriate as a venue for the royal wedding. Then she and Philip would make a state entry into London as king and queen; the people always loved a pageant and the deed would be done before they arrived, a fait accompli.
Thoughts of her recent Parliament still rankled; although much had been accomplished, Parliament rejected out of hand a bill reintroducing the old heresy laws. How was she to hope cleanse the country of heretics whilst to be one was still legal by English law? What would God think? What would Philip think, he who was as devout a Catholic as her cousin Charles? Would God turn away from her if she could not bring England back to the true faith? She knew what ailed them; many of them owned what had been church lands for nigh on twenty years, and they were loath to relinquish these lands and estates back to the church. They feared that a return to Rome would mean the return of all that wealth; and the lion’s share of these were Catholic! Could it really be that worldly goods meant more to them than their own salvation?
Still, she had accomplished so much; just a year earlier she had been preparing to battle Northumberland for her throne, and look at her now! Northumberland was moldering in his well-deserved grave, and she was on her way to claim her bridegroom!
Yes, she had accomplished much in just one year. She had emerged triumphant from not one but two attempts to usurp her throne. She had her marriage contract, even if some still abhorred her choice of husband. She had restored ecclesiastical order to the extent of removing the Protestant bishops and replacing them with good, faithful, loyal Catholics; and she had removed all the married clergy, who were anathema to any reconciliation with Rome. And unbeknownst to all except herself, the pope and dear Reginald, Cardinal Pole, she now had absolution for denouncing her faith so many years before, when she had been forced by her father to do so as the price of her life. England was still under interdict and technically, she could not marry in the Catholic Church; along with this long-awaited absolution had come a dispensation allowing her marriage to the prince of Spain to take place on English soil, despite the Interdict.
She had stopped at Richmond and spent two nights with dear Anne; she loved her ladies and all her household, but they were, when all was said and done, servants. It was only with her cousin Margaret, who was royal, that she could speak freely of her concerns; but Margaret had her own obligations and could not always be there with her. Frances had not been herself since Suffolk’s execution, and had gone back to East Anglia to nurse her tremendous grief. So it was a welcome relief to melt into Anne of Cleves’ ample embrace and share with her stepmother all her cares and woes.
She departed Richmond refreshed and relieved, and when she arrived at Guildford, the Marquis de las Navas had been waiting there for her with her beautiful wedding gifts, and miracle of miracles! …the letter from her husband in his own hand. She would finally be able to write to him now that he had written to her. It was not without some uncomfortable prompting; she had finally sent a direct message to Philip through Renard, saying that they had a kingdom to rule and she would like to be able to share some of her immediate concerns with him and enjoy the benefit of his advice. The letter de las Navas handed her was therefore most welcome, but she wished that Philip had written it of his own accord and that he had not had to be encouraged so vehemently to do so. But still, here was her letter at long last, and she was very happy with it. His words gladdened her heart; he was happy…happy! …to be coming to England. To her…? So why had he not yet come?
The weather held and in the sunshine she had ridden on to Farnham Castle, and thence to Winchester to see to the wedding arrangements. She and Philip would spend their wedding night (heady thought!) at Wolvesey Castle. She brought with her a set of sumptuous bed hangings that she had had made especially for the nuptial bed; they entwined the arms and emblems of England and Spain. She stayed to see the vast bed made ready for her wedding night…which could not be far away now. As she stood gazing at the bed and the hangings a little thrill went up her spine; in this bed she would cease to be a virgin queen, in this bed she would become a wife, in this bed her son might be conceived.
At last, she reluctantly turned away and proceeded on in great good spirits to Bishop’s Waltham. There she would stay in the palace and wait for her husband’s arrival. The palace was a mere two miles from Southampton, where soon Philip’s fleet would come sailing in, and he would claim her his.
And here she had waited in the rain and gloom for almost a month.
Why didn’t he come?
The Bay of Biscay, July 1554
The wind moaned and the rain blew in torrents from all directions. It stung any exposed skin like tiny needles, and mercilessly pricked at the eyes. Waves crashed across the bow as the ship pitched and rolled. Don Diego de Mendoza had been sailing Spanish galleons in the Bay of Biscay for most of his life; in his experience the passage from the Spanish port of Coruna to the Low Countries was usually rough, and heavy seas were only to be expected. So he had weathered some fierce storms in his time; but never had he experienced a storm like this one. For two days and two nights he struggled at the ship’s wheel to keep the unwieldy vessel on course in the violent sea, but even he could not tell with any certainty at this point exactly where they were. The sky was a dark, roiling cauldron by day and there were no stars by which to navigate at night.
The prince had set sail from Coruna on his flagship, the Espiritu Sancta, with a fleet of seventy ships, but Don Diego knew the fate of none of them. The fleet was almost surely scattered. But the emperor had entrusted his precious son and heir to him, and Don Diego was determined not to fail in the task of delivering Prince Philip safe and sound to his affianced bride, the Queen of England.
Out of the darkness and gloom a figure resolved itself, making its way across the main deck and up to the bridge. A violent gust of wind whipped the hood of the man’s cape off of his head. In the faint light of
dawn Don Diego could just make out the face of Mateo, his First Mate. Speech was impossible with the wind howling like a banshee, but Mateo indicated that he would take a turn at the wheel. And not a moment too soon; several times now Don Diego had caught himself not sleeping, but awakening. He nodded and stepped back, still holding the wheel against the churning sea. Mateo stepped up and gripped the wheel with an iron hand.
Don Diego fought his way across the bridge and down to the deck, using as lifeline anything that came to hand. The wind was variable and anticipating where it would choose to fling one was impossible; but finally he gained the passageway to the below decks. The iron ring he gripped to open the hatch was wet and slippery and resisted his tugging, but finally he managed to shift it, and then the savage wind flung it open and out of his hand. He scrambled down the ladder and it took all his strength to bring the hatch back down into position.
As he secured the hatch behind him, the difference in atmosphere was immediate. The wind sounded farther away now, in fact, the quiet was almost eerie when compared with the maelstrom going on above. But below decks one became even more aware of the violent pitching and heaving of the tortured ship. A swinging lantern gave off a dim yellow glow; in its peculiar light one could see that there was a full six inches of water on the floor. In the black-looking water floated myriad unidentified, unidentifiable objects. In the faint light he could just make out the shape of a drowned rat; perhaps it was better not to know what all the other things were that he felt brush past his ankles as he sloshed in the direction of the galley.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 50