“Indeed,” said Cecil, through a mouthful of cheese. “King Philip vetoed the suggestion.”
Elizabeth smiled her secret smile. Of course he had vetoed it! Her sister’s husband wanted her for himself. That much was clear to her!
“That is perhaps as well,” she replied.
“Mistress Ashley has absented herself from Mass twice in a row,” said Cecil.
No wonder Cecil had waited and watched her walk away from the house before pursuing her! Some things could not be risked, and discussing the true nature of their feelings about religion within possible earshot of anyone was one of them.
“I shall speak to her,” said Elizabeth. It was all that needed to be said, even where there was no danger of being overheard. There was no choice but for her entire household to demonstrate their devotion to the Catholic faith. She knew that there were spies in her household, but one could never be certain exactly who they were. Inconspicuous, unquestioned conformance was the only way to avoid trouble.
“It is ironic,” said Sir William, “that since Gardiner’s death, the burnings have increased. Many believed that it was he who was primarily responsible for them. But the people realize now that it is Her Grace who is behind them.” Cecil shifted his position and clasped his hands around his knee. He sighed. “Where will it all end? I have heard that both Gardiner and Renard begged Her Grace to cease the burnings, or at least to conduct them more privately, but she would not.”
Elizabeth snorted. “My sister is a religious fanatic who believes that the more heretics she burns, the more God will favor her. The public outcry and the violent demonstrations by the people against the burnings are lost on her. She cannot see that she will defeat her own purpose! But I am worried, Cecil. The crowds of people who cheered me all the way from London to Hertfordshire could be heard to cry “Give us Elizabeth!” If my sister hears of it, she will be certain to blame me. Anyone may plot in my name and I none the wiser!”
“I know it well,” he said. “It is that about which I came to speak with you. There is trouble brewing. You must be careful of your company and your correspondence, Your Grace.”
“And so I shall be.”
Again, no more needed to be said. Indeed, more than this oblique warning he could not give her, for her own safety. She must not know what was afoot so that if the day came when she must vehemently deny it, she would be able to do so with a completely clear conscience. He would have to bear that burden for her. He wished that he did not know himself of the conspiracy that was afoot, but it was too late for that now. He did know of it, he had done his best to discourage it, and more than that he could not do. In his heart he believed that waiting was the best strategy. That Elizabeth would come to throne in time seemed inevitable now. But others were less certain. Perhaps they were right. Only time would tell. And what dangerous times they were!
Cecil observed a shudder wrack Elizabeth’s slight frame. “It grows cold. I am for my hearth and a cup of mulled wine. Will Your Grace do me the honor of accompanying me back to the palace?”
Elizabeth arose and smoothed her skirts. “Of course. And I am for Dr. Ascham and an hour of study.” Her studies served a dual purpose; they distracted her mind and at the same time prepared her for what she believed to be her destiny. If… when! …she gained the throne of England, she would need to have all of her wits about her.
London, December 1555
The spell of fine weather had ended and there was a decided chill in the air. The Tower of London was a dismal, dreadful place at any time, but even more so on a cold, dark winter’s night. Sir Thomas White knew the Tower like the back of his own hand; he had been a royal page before going to work as a clerk at the Exchequer and had, after many years of devoted service, been appointed an official of that same institution. He held keys to both the Exchequer rooms and to parts of the Tower itself. There was no one better placed to lay hands on the money needed for the daring escapade of which he was a part, and no one better placed to spirit the money out of the Tower to its hiding place.
That the emerging conspiracy to dethrone the queen was the right thing to do was beyond question in his mind. If England had been leery of the queen’s Spanish marriage when it was first proposed, all good Englishmen now knew for certain that under no circumstances must the queen’s husband be crowned King of England. Had they not just endured eighteen months of the Spanish on their shores? And it had caused nothing but trouble! No one wanted Hapsburg domination now that they had had a taste of it. King Philip had departed for his own domains; let him stay there! The only way to save England was to send the queen to her husband and place their Good Elizabeth onto the throne. Many of the gentry had been sounded and were willing to support the coup; the conspirators had even managed to enlist the support of the captain of the Isle of Wight, Richard Uvedale. A safe landing place on English shores was essential to the plan’s success. The Isle of Wight was the perfect mustering place; from there the invasion force would take Portsmouth and march on London. They wished no harm to the queen’s person; they simply wanted to rid England of a queen so intimately connected to such a formidable foreign power as Spain and the Hapsburg Empire.There were even rumors that if England did not agree to crown Philip of Spain that he would invade England with an Imperial army and force the issue. All of this must be stopped before it could begin.
Even the French king, not wishing to perpetuate Spanish rule in England, had agreed to assist the conspirators. All seemed fair fit to succeed, but success ultimately depended on money, and that was where he came in. So far he had spirited almost twenty thousand pounds out of the Exchequer and hidden it against the day when the invasion from the Continent of English exiles and the mercenaries they had engaged would come to fruition.
The leader of the plot was Sir Henry Dudley, that same Sir Henry who had gone to France seeking support from Henri II for his cousin, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. That plan had come to nothing, but Sir Henry had not given up. He had lain low in France, cultivating his contacts, and encouraging the friendship of the French king.
Some thought that it was best to wait, and counseled patience; the queen was in ill health and had proved herself barren. But others believed that if positive action were not taken, and soon, the queen would bow under the pressure of her Spanish husband and have him crowned. Once that happened, it would be difficult to oust him, even should the queen die. There were rumors that Philip was trying to convince the queen to provide him with English soldiers to help him fight his war against the king of France. The very thought that English blood should be spilt in the Hapsburg cause made his own blood boil. It would never happen, not if Thomas White had anything to say about it!
He reached the little-used stairwell that led down to a side door that would take him almost to the river itself. It was rarely used and few even knew of its existence. The stairway was winding and narrow and smelt of damp. He reached the wooden door, so swollen with damp that he had to use his shoulder to force it open. It gave way and he locked it behind him. The moneybags were heavy; the walk had been long. Finally, he reached the little boat that he would row to his hiding place near London Bridge.
As he stashed the bags he thought back over their plan. He did not see how it could fail. He did not wish the queen ill; in fact, he felt sorry for her and for her troubles. But he must think of England first. Not everyone who was privy to the conspiracy agreed with it; his wife, in whom he had confided, had told her brother of the plan. Sir William Cecil had been adamant that they should not proceed. Sir William had the Princess Elizabeth’s ear; but he had refused absolutely to make Her Grace privy to the plot, and had done his best to discourage it. Very well, if Sir William did not want to be a part of the plan to place his protégé on the throne, so be it. They did not need his help. And his brother-in-law could not divulge what he now knew about the plot without danger of implicating himself.
They would succeed, and Sir William would see that they were right.
&nbs
p; Thomas’s arms ached with rowing against the tide; he could not pick his times, and had to smuggle the money out when circumstances offered, whether the current was with him or not. He finally reached his destination, unloaded and secured the new bags with the ones already tucked away, and departed. Not long now!
Richmond Palace, February 1556
A blanket of snow lay on the ground. It had fallen overnight, but the weather had cleared by dawn and now it was one of those bright blue, bracing days that is possible only in winter. The sun reflecting off the snow made the entire room seem to glow with an unearthly light.
It was her birthday; she had come to Richmond to share the return of the day with her step-mother. Anne had planned all sorts of entertainments to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of the queen. But barring Philip’s return, Mary could not have been vouchsafed any gift that would have been more precious to her than that which she held in her hand at that moment.
The document had been delivered to her that morning by her new Lord Chancellor. She had then dismissed him and all her ladies. This was a moment that she wished to savor alone.
She walked to her writing desk and tried to lay the document out. It was a formal document and so it was written on the finest vellum; it was very supple. If one used one’s imagination, one could still see where the sheep’s legs had been before they had been cut off and the skin cured. She weighted its corners down, which kept curling up, with her inkpot, a candlestick, a golden mug and a blotter. She ran her hands over it; it was exceedingly smooth and the creamy color of it was pleasing to the eye. A multitude of red wax seals hung from it, and they clicked together every time Mary moved the document to get a better look at it.
But it was what was written in the stark black ink that made this document so special. For before her, awaiting her signature, was Cranmer’s death warrant. Rome had concurred and approved the judgment of heresy; the case had been handed over to the secular authorities and here was the warrant at last. This was the man who had anointed Anne Boleyn with the holy oils and unctions that had made her queen of England in place of her mother. This was the man who had christened Elizabeth. Now, with a stroke of the quill, she would visit upon this hateful man a deserved death, sanctioned by the Vicar of Christ himself, and her revenge would be complete.
All her troubles confirmed her belief that she was not stamping out heresy fast enough in England. She had recently issued a royal edict that there were to be no more stake-side recantations; a heretic was a heretic, and no longer would the cowards among them, afraid to die to uphold the courage of their convictions, be granted reprieve. Heretics were not only criminals against God, they were enemies of the state. They would burn, as they were meant to burn. In the same royal writ she had insisted that any person showing undue sympathy at the burning of a heretic was to be noted by the authorities and watched; if the situation warranted, they were to be arrested and tried themselves. She was also doing her personal best as Defender of the Faith; some days she heard as many as nine masses. Despite all of this, she was still miserable and things were going horribly wrong for her.
It all came back to the head of the snake; Cranmer was the head of the Reformed faith in England and he must be struck down. Once he was so struck, she felt certain that her fortunes would change.
She lifted the quill, inked it, and her hand was poised to sign when a soft but urgent-seeming knock sounded upon her door.
She turned, quill still in hand, to see Jane standing in the doorway, an animated expression upon her normally docile features; she was breathless from running.
“Well, child,” said Mary. “What is it?” It had better be important!
“An Imperial messenger,” she gasped. “It is a letter, Your Grace! A letter for you, from the king!”
“A letter…? From the k-king?” It was an answer to prayer! The quill dropped from her fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter; ink splattered the hem of her gown.
She had not had a letter from Philip for two whole weeks; she had suffered agonies each day as the sun went down and the hours dwindled and nothing, no courier, no messenger, no message arrived for her. But it was her birthday, and he had not forgotten her! She crossed the floor in quick strides and took the letters, for there were actually two of them, from Jane’s hands. Jane curtsied and closed the door behind her.
It was with trembling hands that Mary examined the seals. The first letter bore Philip’s privy seal. The other letter was sealed by Sir John Mason. She kept a jeweled dagger as part of her ceremonial dress. It lay on her writing table. She retrieved it and used it to gently pry up the seal upon Philip’s letter. Her birthday letter! She would cherish the seal, intact, as a keepsake, a remembrance of the day.
Carefully, lovingly, she opened the page and began to read.
He began by chiding her for her choice of a new Lord Chancellor. Philip had conceived a great affinity during his time in England for Sir William Paget, and had nominated him for the post when Gardiner died. But she did not like Paget and had instead given the post to Nicholas Heath, the Archbishop of York.
She had demanded that Sir John obtain a firm answer from Philip as to when he would finally be returning to England; but she did not need to open Sir John’s letter to get her answer. On the page before her very eyes, in Philip’s own hand, he declared that he had no plans to return to England nor would he until he was granted a coronation. He was an anointed sovereign in his own domains and it was beneath his dignity to serve as King of England without being crowned. He was aware that the Parliament was against a coronation, but she did not need their approval; since when had the people had a say in whether or not their sovereign was crowned? Why, if she loved him as she claimed, did she not move forward with a plan for his coronation on her own authority? She was the queen, after all… And if she were unwilling to have him crowned, then he at least expected her to declare to the Council that he, as her husband, should be crowned king upon her death.
Mary threw the letter to the floor and dashed the contents of her writing table, including Cranmer’s death warrant, to the floor. She began pacing up and down, up and down; was the man mad? If she produced no child of her body, then Elizabeth was heir by the terms of both her father’s will and Act of Parliament. Why could her husband not see that the proper course was for him to return and endeavor to give her that heir? She had not given up on having a child; why had he? She knew why! And her name was Madame d’Aler! It would be cold in Hell on the day that she overrode her father’s will and denied the laws of her own country to please an unfaithful husband!
As she paced back and forth she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Forty! She was forty years old this very day. She studied her face. It was lined and careworn, and she had dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.
Things could not go on this way. Philip was refusing to honor his marriage vows. And it worried her immensely that the rift between the Hapsburgs and the papacy under the new pope was widening alarmingly. Her emissary at the Vatican had written to tell her that the new pope was actually ill-disposed towards her, despite all her efforts against the Reformed faith in England, simply because she was married to a Hapsburg! At this rate, Philip would become little more than a political liability. It was all too horrible to contemplate.
She had not yet finished reading Philip’s letter; she retrieved it from the floor. If she had been disappointed in the letter’s contents because it contained no mention of her birthday, then shocked at her husband’s refusal to return to her unless she met his conditions, the rest of the letter appalled her. For as she continued to read, what she found was a request for English troops to be sent to the Low Countries to fight in his war against the French. How could he even think to ask such a thing? While his coronation might cause further discontent and unrest, providing troops and involving England in a foreign war could cause the loss of her throne. Never would she agree to such a thing. Never! The worst part of it all was that she truly
loved him. But she must be a queen before she was an obedient wife. If only she had listened to her cousin Margaret’s words when she had said that love was not for such as them.
She crushed the letter in her hand; at that moment the fire sputtered and a spark snapped loudly. She turned to look at the flames roaring in the hearth. Before she knew what she was doing she had taken three long strides and had thrown the letter, the letter that she had waited for, fretted over for weeks, into the fire. She turned and spied the red seal that she had, only moments before, so carefully pried up so as not to damage it. She seized it and it followed the letter, now a heap of gray ashes, into the flames.
Sir John’s letter still sat waiting on her desk. She desperately needed something to distract her from the shattering disappointment of Philip’s letter. She seized the letter, broke the seal, and began to read. She had been pressing Sir John to find out from Philip when he expected to return to her; she was tired of living on vague promises. She was now informed, not by her husband but by her own ambassador, that Philip was preparing to make an extended tour of his Flemish provinces and evidently had no plans of returning to England in the near future at all. Even had she granted him the boon of a coronation, it would be months before he returned to take advantage of it! And as if that were not enough, it was likely that Philip had not written to her for the past two weeks because all of his time was being taken up planning a joust with the theme that “The Women of Brussels are Handsomer Than Those of Mechelin.” Her blood began to boil; but she read on.
The last straw, the final indignity, was that Philip was also preparing to receive the King and Queen of Bohemia at the court at Brussels, and all the indications were that it would be Madame d’Aler who would be by his side when he did so.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 62