Just a Girl (10 page)

‘You will ride directly behind me.' She turned to a nearby retainer, and her voice was immediately commanding. ‘Arrange for the Princess Elizabeth to join the procession.' Then as she turned back to me, she became once more vulnerable and motherly. ‘My servant will see that you receive refreshments. We start for the city soon.'

‘Your Majesty is too gracious,' I said, but she had gone and we were being led away to our horses to await her journey into the city.

Once I had taken my place in the procession, my fears were largely forgotten. The excitement of the moment was intoxicating. As I held my restless horse in check, for the first time in my life I felt like the sister of a queen, a royal princess, my father's daughter and the heir to the throne. I was to ride, as Queen Mary had promised, directly behind her, enabling the common
people to know me at a glance as her sister. We began our triumphal progress and the people who had gathered on the outskirts of the city raised three cheers as we passed. Their joy and support were heady. They roared their approval of the return of the Tudors, they hallooed my sister's name and they hallooed mine. My sister, as befitting a rightful monarch, acknowledged their cheers with a dignified and gracious wave of her hand, although she kept her eyes fixed on her destination, the now not-so-distant city of London. I, on the other hand, a mere princess, lost my head and promptly forgot my own wise counsel. I bowed and waved to the people who called out my name. I smiled and nodded my pleasure; I tossed my long hair at them and swept it from my eyes, when the wind blew it hither.

‘Look,' the onlookers told their children, ‘there she is, the queen's sister, the old king's second daughter, the Princess Elizabeth. Isn't she beautiful?'

I have been called many things – bastard, whore's spawn, heretic, changeling, witch – but never beautiful. Resembling my long-nosed, narrow-faced grandfather as much as I do, how could I be? But in the summer of my sister's accession to the throne, I was nineteen and wore my long auburn hair flowing over my back, as befit an unmarried virgin. And that day I had arrayed myself in my best gown, a white dress, embroidered in silver and embossed with small pearls. On my shoulders
and flowing over the haunches of my white horse was my crimson cloak. It was a little travel stained, if one looked closely, but most people did not. Our party of queen, princess, ladies, noblemen, courtiers and soldiers, resplendent in all its finery, dazzled those who lined our way. The queen wore royal purple and a scarlet cloak, her hair also flowed loose over her shoulders, but it was mere brown and already flecked with grey. She looked what she was: a serious middle-aged woman and the world has always preferred a pretty young girl. Nevertheless, she was enjoying herself and, thanks be to God, did not seem to begrudge the cheers that came my way.

Indeed, as we trotted unobserved through a copse between villages, she turned and bestowed on me a loving sister's smile. ‘My father would be proud of us, this day, would he not, sweet sister?'

And I bowed my head and smiled back to her my agreement, but did not fail to notice that the father she referred to was hers only.

‘Thank the Lord's good grace,' she continued, turning her attention to her confessor who rode beside her, ‘He has blessed the rightness of our cause.' Her confessor, in his turn, shot me a poisonous look. My sister seemed to have forgiven my popularity with the common folk of England that day, but her followers had not.

When we arrived at the gates of London, however,
my sister called a halt to the procession and paused for a moment before signalling that we should proceed. The moment lengthened and, as we stood quietly, the gathering crowds also slowly fell silent, until nought but the sound of a snorting horse or the clink of a ceremonial standard accompanied us and we could hear the tumult and the clamour of the great metropolis beyond the wall. My sister trembled visibly as she kept her hand above her head, calling us to halt, but there was no turning back now. She muttered a prayer under her breath in Latin and crossed herself. Many of her followers and some of those gathered in the streets did the same. Eyes slid sideways to see what I did. So, like a dutiful younger sister, I followed her good example and muttered a quiet ‘Amen'. Prayer finished; still she did not call us to movement, but squared her slight shoulders and took a quick breath.

‘God save England!' she cried and lowered her hand majestically. Then she kicked her horse forward and rather haphazardly those who followed did the same.

‘God save Queen Mary!' I shouted, as my horse lurched into a surprised trot, and the men and women around me took up the cry.

We clattered onto the cobblestones inside the gates of London and came almost precipitously to a halt. Once we were inside the walls of that great city, the atmosphere was utterly different from the way it was as
I had ridden virtually anonymous through the streets to meet up with my sister in the early morning. Now, in the blazing heat of the midday sun, the atmosphere was fetid and frantic. Every vantage point was occupied by a Londoner, from the most prosperous to the very poor. Beggars rubbed shoulders with blue bloods – and picked their pockets, no doubt. As we entered, a silence fell upon both them and us. Monarch and people surveyed one another and then a great unearthly cry went up from thousands. It seemed all London had left their homes to welcome their Queen. Mary signalled that we should move forward, and so we did, awkwardly finding our place in the procession despite the narrow streets.

Looking up, I saw that the even narrower gaps between the upper storeys of the overhanging houses were festooned with flags and Tudor roses. Women pelted us with more flowers as we passed – some, as I discovered, still bearing their thorns. Fathers hoisted children onto their shoulders and we were forced to ride slowly, to avoid trampling drunken revellers under our horses' hooves. My sister bobbed her head, left and then right, smiling. The people roared their blessings back to her, and to me. I waved and laughed out loud. Never before had I seen such acclamation and, despite the hot stench of human filth, horse droppings and rotting food, never before had I felt such joy.

Though tomorrow I shall be carried on a litter rather
than be seated on a horse, I wonder if my ride to my coronation will feel as exhilarating? I remember that my sister did not seem to have lost her head over the roars of the crowd; she seemed strangely solemn, almost frightened, despite her great triumph. Having now had my own ride through the city of London to claim my throne, I have some idea how she felt. The weight of the crown is heavy.

Mary's procession passed in a kaleidoscope of colour, sound and sensation, yet still I can picture individual faces that caught my eye in that crowd. I remember the faces of the most unfortunate best: the toothless, filthy, pock-marked, cankered, leprous women and men with wens, boils and goitres. We stopped so often to watch a tableau or morality tale, to receive flowers or hear short speeches from local dignitaries, that we did not reach our destination until evening. At the Tower gates, with bladders strained almost beyond bearing, we were greeted by four kneeling figures: the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been under sentence since my father died, Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester (I had not forgotten that he was the man who had almost brought my stepmother undone), the Duchess of Somerset and the last of the Plantagenets, Edward Courtenay. Although we were desperate to escape inside, my sister called a halt to our procession and dismounted. All four knelt with their heads bowed, arms raised in silent prayer, all four
held rosaries, and the crowds who had gathered to watch their new queen enter the old castle held their collective breath as we waited to see what action she would take. Gently she reached out to each supplicant, helped them to their feet and kissed them. Then she turned to all those gathered around and smiled.

‘These are my prisoners,' she said in such a way that all of us understood they would not be so for much longer. The crowd roared their approval, the old Duchess burst into tears and Courtenay, Norfolk and the bishop fell once more to their knees. But there were other prisoners in that Tower. Poor Jane, her husband Guildford Dudley and his brothers – including my old playmate Robin. The future augured not so well for them, it seemed. Even after the Tower gates closed behind us, we still could not dismount, but had to receive patiently the welcome and the oaths of loyalty from the Tower's retainers, who had been changing kings and queens more rapidly in those few weeks, perhaps, than they changed their linen. Finally we were able to lower our aching limbs from our horses and relieve ourselves.

We were exhausted, our instructions were to change for dinner, but I had no grander change of clothing than the white and silver dress I already wore. A maidservant brought me a sponge and some warm water and together we attempted to remove the worst of the day's grime. Perhaps she thought me rather addled in my wits
as we attempted to make something presentable out of my dusty finery, but I could not help laughing, I was reminded so forcibly of all the other times I had found myself in royal palaces without suitable clothes to wear.

Now, in this splendid chamber, my own coronation gown hangs from a railing. Even in this pale and flickering candlelight, I can see its cloth of gold glinting and glittering. My fingers itch to feel the weight of the fabric and examine the perfection of its rich and intricate embroidery. Never before have I owned such a fine garment. I fussed and prevaricated over its design for weeks and chose and then rejected fully five different bolts of the finest cloth before finally settling on this one and, even now, if I had more time I might change the gold to white.

My sister stuck with her favourite purple, the colour of royalty and of cardinals. The symbolism may have suited her soul, but unfortunately the colour did not suit her complexion. Her face looked sallow and strained against all that rich heaviness. I will never wear purple; it has the same effect on my pale skin as it did on her swarthier complexion. But a more earnest soul than I, my sister was not interested in fine clothes and fripperies. She had more serious business at heart: the saving of men's souls.

As I had expected, the first soul she attempted to save was mine.

Within a month of Mary reclaiming her throne, mass was being said in London churches and riots greeted its return. By proclamation, no Englishman could preach, interpret or teach the scriptures unless he was a priest ordained by Rome. My sister banned books, banned thought, banned argument and many cried foul. I said nothing and read conscientiously all the learned popish texts she had her confessor place before me. As I had promised myself, I bowed my head before the man, but no meekness on my part could remove the suspicion from his eye. He read my soul and read expediency; my sister, more fond and foolish, hoped for a miracle. She spent little time with me, because she was busy – as I have been – with the dry and difficult affairs of men, but I remained a refuge. Old habits die hard. As children we had clung together in this place and I was the closest thing she had to an equal. Although she deemed me a
bastard and reduced me once more to a mere lady, she still treated me as her sister – at least in the first exciting but strange days of her rule. Yet still she blew hot and cold. The way she treated me often depended on things I had no knowledge of: threats, rumour and the prejudices of those who spoke with her about me. When she was at her most suspicious of my so-called intrigues against her, she gave me a wide berth and, when she did see me, shot barbed and self-pitying remarks in my direction. Sometimes, when she felt warmly towards me and correspondingly cool towards her advisors, she called me to her private chamber and we shared a small supper and talked together, as women and as sisters.

‘What think you of the King of Spain?' she asked me, late one chill evening, soon after her accession. The autumn had begun early and the winds already held the snap of winter. We were close upon her great fire, toasting our slippered feet on stools.

‘That he is the King of Spain and that I have heard no ill of him as king or man.'

‘He is a fine Catholic prince, indeed,' she said, bridling a little at the omission.

‘Aye, Your Majesty, I said not otherwise.' I was tense, by this time, aware that she was sounding me out, but not quite certain which way to jump.

‘What say you of him as a husband?'

‘A husband for whom, Your Majesty?' My heart was
beating a little faster as she spoke. Whether for me or for her, neither was to my liking, and both possibilities were well within her power.

‘So you would like him for yourself, would you, you jade?' she shot back at me, her small eyes flashing in the firelight.

‘As I said, I know little of him. My view will be guided by yours. For myself, I desire no husband.'

‘Humph,' she snorted, but I could see she was soothed. ‘Unnatural woman. You take not after your mother, in that case. She could not keep her hands from husbands.' I let this pass, as I let all such insults. ‘Nay, it is as
my
husband that his name has been mentioned.'

What reaction did she want from me – approval, caution, girlish excitement? Was this a test of some kind? ‘What say
you
of him as husband, then, Your Majesty? It seems to me your opinion in this matter is of greater weight than mine.'

‘Cautious, as always, Elizabeth. Yet I should not complain. Who knows better than I the perils of being in such a position as yours?' Then she opened her small and ink-stained hand and I saw that she held something. ‘Look – and see if you can gauge my feelings.' She bent towards me and opened what I could now see was a highly decorated enamel miniature. I leant forward and considered the portrait of the slender, elegantly bearded man within.

‘Is he not pleasing to the eye? Not tall, they tell me, but that is as it should be, for I am also but low. Kind, yet a leader of men and a knight of the true church. Slender, you notice, yet broad of shoulder and long of leg. A fine swordsman and equestrian, by all accounts, and a proud son of Spain.'

‘It seems, madam, that you like him well as a husband.' And at this she blushed and I felt cold.

‘Aye, sister,' she said, leaning back into her chair and sighing like a lovesick girl. ‘You guess aright. I am happy that my desire coincides with my duty. For I must marry and produce heirs for England – good Catholic princes, who will continue my mission to return this country to the true church. Only one thought troubles me.'

‘What is it, madam?' I had also moved away from the fire, so she could not see my face. I could not answer for the composure of my features. A child for Mary meant the end of hope for me.

‘Will he like me for a wife, think you?' Her voice had dropped to a whisper and her diffidence tugged at my heart. My poor sister, great queen or no, God's anointed one or no, was a frightened woman, conscious of her age and her lack of charms. ‘Would that he had seen me ten years ago, when I was but a light and carefree girl. I would not have feared his coming so. Now my hair is grey, my teeth are few and my cares many. He is young and likely disposed to be amorous. At my time of life
and never having harboured thoughts of love, that is not my desire.'

‘Nay, madam,' I said, reaching for her hand. ‘If he be as wise and goodly a prince as you say, he will think very well of you as a wife.'

‘Flatterer.' She tossed the greying hair that she wore loose down her back, as befit a maid, but she was pleased. Her careworn face lit up with hope and excitement in the firelight and my heart was touched. ‘Well, should he think ill of me or no, 'tis done, and before next year is out, I shall be married to Philip of Spain.'

She took a large jewelled ring from her pocket and slid it over her finger, flashing it at me so that it caught the flame. ‘It is his token,' she said. ‘I keep it hidden till the morrow, when the tidings of the queen's betrothal will be carried far and wide. But you are my sister, my only living relative, and it is right that you know.'

‘I am honoured, Your Majesty, and delighted at your happiness.' I stood up, curtsied and she held out her new ring to be kissed.

‘We will make a good Catholic of you yet, my husband and I, my heretic sister, and God and all the angels will rejoice when it is done.' With that, she lifted me from my knees, threw her arms about me and kissed me heartily.

Yet even in the blaze of her great happiness, I felt a cold shivering through my innards – not just for the
obstacles such a wedding could place in the way of my own fate, either. As I have said, I hate all this marrying. No good ever comes of it.

I was not the only person who feared this marriage, either. A Catholic queen was threat enough to the Protestant lords, but a Catholic queen married to the most powerful Catholic prince in Christendom was not to be borne.

As the disquiet around my sister's betrothal intensified, so did her sense of insecurity. And, as she grew more wary and suspicious, so her previously mercurial attitude towards me, her heretic sister, hardened and grew colder. The realities of rule are harsh: the allies you need to help you gain power are often the very people you see as your enemies once you have it. And so it soon became between Queen Mary and me.

The whisperings of insurrection and disapproval grew at court. As rumours of secret meetings at the Duke of Suffolk's London home circled giddily from nobleman to nobleman, so my situation at my sister's court deteriorated. Within days of our quiet and intimate conversation, to my bewildered astonishment and growing alarm, I found myself once again losing precedence. I was told that my cousin Margaret, Countess of Lennox, was to take my place at banquets and gatherings. When I sought to voice my displeasure,
I found my access to my sister barred. She was always ‘regretfully' too busy to see me, no matter when I tried. Whenever I sent invitations to her, they were refused under the pretext that she was too preoccupied with affairs of state for socialising.

The confidential moment we had shared before the fire, it seemed, was to be our last, at least for the foreseeable future. No longer did my sister seek out my company. At first I blamed her ministers for the new and mysterious rift between us. It was always the stern-faced Bishop Gardiner, newly released from the Tower, who seemed to bar my way to her. If I could just find my way round him, I reassured myself, I could retrieve the recent sisterly intimacy that had seemed to bode so well. Now, as a queen myself, I know that ministers work on instructions. My way to my sister was barred because she herself had commanded it. Stephen Gardiner might well have been my enemy, but he was doing my sister's bidding.

My bewilderment did not turn into real fear, however, until I heard she had begun to deny publicly our blood tie. My enemies and, yea, many of my friends, delighted in telling me that she took every opportunity to remark on my resemblance to Mark Smeaton, the musician who had been executed for adultery with my mother. I could not understand what had undone the good beginning we had made. Much as I wanted to, I
could not quite believe it was the work of evil tongues alone. Sometimes I wondered if it had something to do with her forthcoming marriage – not the political, but the human ramifications of the union. Skulking in my apartments, I dwelt on our last conversation. She had been so quick to show jealousy, and her insecurity about her charms haunted me. Perhaps she did not wish to have a younger and prettier sister too close to hand when her bridegroom arrived. And with a Catholic husband, she would soon have no further need of me. Whatever the real reasons, I felt the chill wind of royal disfavour. Whereas once many eyes smiled upon me because hers did, now there were none. I kept to my corner of Richmond Palace, unless I received word that I might catch sight of her and beg an audience. But even if I happened to find myself in the right place at the right time, I could no longer see and speak to her in a private fashion, and she treated me as coolly as any other anxious, out of favour petitioner.

Eventually my alarm grew to such a pitch I asked for a private audience. To refuse such a formal request I knew was unlikely. She granted it, but signalled her reluctance by allowing me to speak to her only on the wrong side of a half-door in the corner of one of the galleries.

‘Your Majesty,' I said falling to my knees, as she approached. The cold expression on her face chilled me
horribly and I could not help tears filling my eyes and rolling unbidden down my face. I knew myself to be truly out of favour and, therefore, in great danger. This was no womanish whim or passing mood. My sister now saw me as a potential enemy.

‘Lady Elizabeth,' she said, in a voice so formal she could have been speaking to a stranger, and a distasteful one at that. ‘What do you want from me?' At this, I could restrain myself no longer and burst into noisy sobs. I was terrified.

‘Oh Madam, I have hesitated to – I have been afraid – but I – I can see only too clearly – I feel you are no longer well disposed towards me, good Madam, and this is a mystery to me. Would that I knew what has caused you to look upon me so coldly. I have searched my memory and examined my conduct and know not how I have displeased you. But I have followed Your Majesty's good example and searched my soul, and now I feel it can only be our difference in religion that has caused this rift between us.'

‘Heresy is distressing to all who follow the true church.' Still she would not unbend towards me.

‘But, madam, in your mercy you must excuse my ignorance. You know better than any other living that I was brought up in the way I was and have never been taught the doctrine of the ancient faith.' I paused, but she merely continued to gaze upon me, her face still stiff
with suspicion and disapproval. ‘Please, madam, send me books contrary to those I have always read and known hitherto, so I can see if my conscience will be persuaded. Or send me a learned man to instruct me in the truth.'

‘I will do as you ask, Elizabeth. God welcomes all who can be guided out of the darkness into the light.'

And so I began to read the books she sent me, and to listen to the religious instruction of one of her priests, and the more I learnt of the Catholic faith, the more I felt there was only one Christ Jesus and one faith; the rest was a dispute about trifles. Had I been able to do so without notice being taken, I would happily have attended mass and partaken of its rituals, for my own safety and my sister's satisfaction. But my task was a more complex one than mere religion. I must appear to one side to be attempting conversion sincerely and to the other to be just as sincerely resisting it. Unlike my sister, I had no instinct for martyrdom; mine was all for survival. So I attended mass no more often than I could avoid and took refuge in ill health, so that people could read into my behaviour what they wished. And, indeed, those men who were wont to hate me claimed my conversion to be all show and sham, and those who preferred to love me agreed with them, to the satisfaction of both sides.

But all my efforts and tears were in vain. I soon had evidence that the queen had begun to believe
reports that I intrigued against her. She sent the Earl of Arundel and Lord Paget to warn me against continuing the secret consultations I was supposed to be having with the French ambassador. I assured them such warnings were unnecessary. I had held no consultations with the ambassador, secret or otherwise. After some anxious weeks, unable to bear the atmosphere of dread and suspicion any longer, and much troubled by my old dreams of my mother and Queen Katharine Howard, I sought my sister's permission to leave the court and retire to the country. Eager though I was to leave, I knew my absence would make it even easier for my enemies to further poison the queen's mind against me. Nevertheless, my presence clearly made her insecurity worse. I could see no point in remaining on the periphery of court, impotent witness to the ill-natured and ill-informed whispering campaign against me, yet powerless to do anything to stop it and protect myself.