Just a Girl (14 page)

Woodstock was as dreary a prison as I had expected: a run-down and neglected hunting lodge, ill befitting one of my pedigree, but remote and inaccessible enough for my enemy's purpose. My days there quickly became as long and wearisome as they had in my other prison. Thanks to the stout-hearted loyalty of those we passed on our journey, I no longer believed they intended to kill me – merely to immure me in the countryside, out of harm's way. While I studied my Catholic tracts, translated my texts, practised my lute, chafed against my isolation and begged Sir Henry to let me write to my sister, Mary married the King of Spain amid much celebration. To my considerable chagrin, even on this momentous occasion, I was not permitted to send even a line of congratulations. I was to be comprehensively excluded. My continued existence was at most a dark shadow at the back of my sister's mind. How I envied the lodge's milkmaid who sang so sweetly as she came and went, morning and afternoon, to tend to her
business. Her case was so much better and her life so much merrier than mine.

We had arrived at dreary Woodstock in the late spring; we sat within its grounds throughout summer and into autumn. By October, as the days drew in, Sir Henry had to bring his soldiers down from the hills and inside the gates of the lodge at night, because it became too cold for them to remain so exposed. Worse, as he grumbled oftentimes to me, he had to begin paying for them and for some of the much needed repairs to the rundown hunting lodge from his own pocket. This news depressed me further, not on behalf of Sir Henry – for whom I had conceived a robust dislike – but because it proved how unimportant I was and how thoroughly I was banished.

Despite the headache-inducing hammer and saw of his joiners, come November, the wind still whistled uncomfortably under wainscoting and along corridors, and my attendants and I huddled ever closer to the smoking fires and tried to keep warm by fanning the flames of our resentment and our anger. Kat Ashley and Elizabeth Sands no longer spoke to one another and I had to be careful not to appear to favour either one of them. We had so little to do that each began to count the number of words and smiles I bestowed, and sulk if I favoured the other with as much as an extra syllable. On any pretext I could, I sent one of them off to confer
daily with my cofferer Thomas Parry, who had taken up much more agreeable and comfortable lodgings at The Bull in Woodstock village. From there, to Sir Henry's consternation, we were kept abreast of developments at court.

‘My lady, my lady!' Elizabeth Sands had come running from the village, red of face and short of breath. Boredom had led many of my attendants to take solace in food – food that I was paying for – and some were showing signs of their indulgence. Elizabeth, whose dresses had had to be let out by another inch or so, was now bent before me, clutching her side, her bosom heaving as she attempted to catch her breath.

‘What is it, Mistress Sands? What excites you so?'

Unable to form any words, she waved her hands at me in a gesture asking for patience.

‘Don't wave your hands like that at Her Grace!' snapped Kat Ashley, quick as always to pick fault.

‘Hush, Kat,' I said, turning back to Elizabeth, whose face had become an alarming shade of puce. ‘Something momentous has occurred.'

‘Aye, my lady, that it has,' she replied, able to form words at last. ‘The queen, my lady–' She paused again to catch her breath.

‘Yes, yes, what about the queen?'

‘The queen is with child.'

Even Kat Ashley was rendered speechless by the
news. I stepped towards Elizabeth. Her breathing had almost returned to normal. ‘You are sure of this?'

‘Aye, my lady. The news is all over the village and Thomas – Master Parry, begging your pardon, my lady – himself heard the town crier proclaiming the news. I am sure if you ask Sir Henry he will confirm it.'

I turned to my chair and sat down. This was the news I had been dreading ever since I heard she had wed. It meant that for the next few months, at least, I would again be in a strange, uncertain place. Childbirth is notoriously dangerous, particularly to a small, unhealthy woman as old as my poor sister. So it was possible many things might happen. ‘How far gone is she?'

‘I know not, Your Grace, but they say the babe is expected in the spring.'

‘As soon as that?' Once more, I felt buffeted by winds that were beyond my control. While being the second person in England was an unhappy fate, I could see no advantages in being once more the third. I would be no safer and, in fact, might be less secure. I knew full well it was my status and closeness to the throne that helped prevent my sister actually removing me from the succession altogether. As my importance diminished, my chance of a quiet death increased. But, as always thanks to my strange and difficult position, it was even more complicated. Because of the religious
divide in England, my importance would both decrease and increase with the birth of a Catholic heir.

Protestant zealots would feel they could no longer merely wait for Mary to die and see me ascend the throne in God's good time. No – many would feel the need to take matters into their own hands, and the clouds of conspiracy would darken once more above my head, whether aided by me, or no. And, after all the months of incarceration, I could see how sheer boredom could lead any prisoner to yearn for release, by whatever means, and how such yearning could lead one into intrigues and thence into dangerous waters indeed.

Yet, as I said, childbirth is dangerous and I knew that Mary could easily die. My mind turned immediately to my beloved stepmother, Catherine Parr, who had been near on Mary's age when she died in childbed. Not only Mary, but the whole country was embarking on a time of great peril. A pregnant queen who rules in her own right is a different proposition from one who is merely consort to a king. If a queen consort dies giving birth, she can be replaced. If a queen regnant dies, by whatever means, all the inevitable uncertainty and anxiety that surrounds a change of government follows. If Mary died, but left a living child – an infant – who would rule as regent? England would once again face all the hazards of being ruled by a child. Philip would return to Spain and appoint a Spanish proxy to rule
England on his behalf, perhaps: a recipe for insurrection and instability, aye, even for out-and-out rebellion. If this occurred, would I then find myself at the head of an army leading a rebellion against my infant niece or nephew? My heart thudded at the picture such a thought conjured up in my head. I might rebel against a Spanish regent, but if Mary's child were rightful king – as he would be – it would be foul treason to unseat God's anointed from his throne. By rights, I should be regent until the child reached his majority, but I knew there was little chance of my sister or her advisors allowing such a thing to come to pass. Philip's view on this I did not know. Perhaps his grasp of politics was better than his wife's. For surely such a solution would be the safest course, allying Protestant and Catholic English under one authority, acceptable to both.

And if Mary and her child both died, as often happened? My heart began to beat in earnest at this seditious but utterly unavoidable thought. Well, then I would be Queen.

‘What means this, my lady?' Kat whispered.

‘I know not – except that things will change. Whether for better or for worse remains to be seen.' And, with that, I rose from my chair and walked to the window, spattered now with icy rain, as if whatever the future held was out there, able to be seen, walking towards us up the avenue.

Long grey fingers of daylight have reached around my window coverings and penetrated my chamber. One ghostly finger rests gently on my knee, another upon this page. I can push the candle further away from me and still see clearly enough to place words upon the paper. Others will be stirring throughout London now, ready for this day of days. The bakers will have been about their task for hours, only waiting now for their loaves to prove. The nightwatchmen will be yawning and stretching, anticipating their day's rest after their night's labour. A few drunken revellers may still be wending their way home, humming snatches of drinking songs. The housewives and scullery maids will be poking sleepily at embers dying in grates, teasing them reluctantly into flame. They will begin to prepare the morning meal for their still sleeping households and, perhaps, parcels of food to be eaten later in the day,
when they stand with the jostling throngs lining the route my coronation procession will take from Tower to Abbey.

Perhaps they will soon step into the half-light to buy new-baked bread for the purpose. Some diehards may already be claiming their vantage points, determined to see more than a glimpse of splendour. Coronations, parades, mummeries, beheadings, hangings, floggings, drawings and quarterings, witch duckings, cock fights, bear baitings, wrestling matches, horse races, riots, protests and triumphal marches – all tease Londoners from their homes, drawing them irresistibly with the promise of spectacle and relief from the humdrum. There is nothing the people like better than a show, whether it be the fear and terror of the traitor's last moments on the scaffold, or the laughter and squeals that greet Punch and Judy.

Today it is their new monarch's job to give them awe and pleasure. Please God the spectacle we have planned will earn the crowd's acclamation, not its ridicule. Please God that all goes to plan, that no horse, soldier or monarch, stumbles, forgets a part or farts. All must be solemn, touched by the hand of God as befits God's anointed. For as I reflect on all the twists and turns that led me to this place, at this hour, hale and hearty, God's anointed I must be and intended for queen all along.

None of the twisting and turning is stranger than was the progress of my sister's pregnancy.

Quietly, but in an agony of suspense, my attendants and I weathered the winter and the spring in that cold and draughty place. Each week that passed we waited to hear of some mishap or miscarriage, but, for aught we heard, this was an uneventful pregnancy and progressed as such things should. Word came from court that the queen had felt her baby quicken in her womb when the papal legate arrived in London to reconcile her kingdom with Rome. Such news, announced by a gleeful and sharp-eyed Sir Henry as cause for celebration, depressed our spirits further. I knew it was wicked to wish my sister's baby would die and I prayed for God's forgiveness for carrying such a dark desire in my heart, but how could I do otherwise?

One fine spring day, late in April, my ladies and I were seated in the garden enjoying the sunshine when Sir Henry made his way officiously towards us. He was a small man, with a fast and noisy way of walking. Everything he did he did with haste and purpose, as if the fate of nations hung on the speed with which he could reach his next destination, be it merely the privy. I had no premonition, therefore, that this audience was likely to be of any more import than the usual complaint about my tardiness over breakfast, or over one of my
ladies laughing too loud. I looked back on my fear of Sir

Henry the day I first set eyes on him in the Tower and felt ashamed. It was inconceivable anyone could fear Sir Henry Bedingfield. Now I could laugh out loud at the thought that he might run a knife between my ribs or beneath my shoulder blades. My sister had placed me in the care of an excellent and honest gaoler: pedantic and meticulous to a fault (and it was a fault that drove my nerves to breaking point), he would do nothing for me that was outside the bounds of his brief, nay, nor nothing to me, neither.

‘Good news, Your Grace,' he cried as he came within hearing distance. My heart stood still. Was it news that a healthy prince had been born?

‘You have been summoned to court.' I almost laughed with relief and it took much effort to keep my features impassive.

‘Not before time, Sir Henry, not before time.'

‘You show little joy at these tidings.'

‘I am a little too used to disappointment, it seems.

What has brought about this change of fortune?' I still wondered if there were news of a child.

‘I know not, my lady, though I warrant it has to do with Her Majesty's lying in, God save Her Grace.'

‘God save her, indeed. When do we leave?'

‘We are to depart on the morrow, so you must make haste to pack your belongings.'

‘I have no wish to prolong my stay here, Sir Henry.'

‘Well, we are agreed in that, if nothing else.'

Three days we journeyed before we reached Hampton Court, staying at public houses along the way. So eager was Sir Henry to be rid of his troublesome charge that he pushed us onwards at a great pace. I was reduced to combing my hair in hedgerows and snatching food and drink in any meagre time he allowed. When we arrived at our destination, breathless and covered in dust, there were no dignitaries to greet us; there was no ceremony of welcome. Instead, we were ushered stealthily into that great and familiar palace by a back door. So closely guarded were we and so quickly and quietly were we herded to my apartments that it was clear I was as much a prisoner in my childhood home as I had been at Woodstock. Back at court or not, I was still under suspicion and I knew my sister and her councillors remained determined to convict me of treason. Indeed, no longer than a day after my arrival I found myself once again subjected to determined interrogation.

‘I would rather lie in prison all the days of my life, my lord Bishop, than confess to something I did not do. I want no mercy from the queen – I wish the law to decide if ever I did offend Her Majesty in thought, word or deed. Moreover, if I were to yield and speak against myself and confess myself to be an offender towards
Her Majesty – which I never was – the king and queen might ever after think badly of me. And therefore I say, my lords, it were better for me to lie in prison for the truth, than to be abroad and suspected by my sister.'

Despite repeated protestations, still they tried to bully, wheedle and threaten a confession out of me, day after wearisome day. Bishop Gardiner, the lord chancellor, was my most dogged interrogator. He tried every angle he could think of, including the use of my own plea of innocence, to try and trip me up. When I declared that I had never knowingly offended the queen in thought, word or deed, he countered by accusing me of calling the queen unjust and alleged that my refusal to confess made it look as if I had been wrongfully imprisoned.

‘No,' I said, ‘the queen must deal with me as she feels is right.'

‘Well,' said the bishop, ‘Her Majesty charges me with the message that you must tell another tale ere that you be set at liberty.' Again I told him that I would rather moulder in prison than be free under a cloud.

‘And this I have said I will stand unto, for I will never belie myself.'

At this the bishop fell to his knees. ‘Then Your Grace hath the vantage on me, and on the other lords, for your wrongful and lengthy imprisonment.'

‘But I seek no such vantage over you, God forgive me – and you also.'

And so it went on, until, no doubt, he was as weary of the circular argument as I was. Then there fell a great silence and my attendants and I were left alone once more to cool our heels in isolation. A week passed and then, at 10 o'clock one night, just as I was beginning to think I might retire to my bed, there was a knock on my chamber door.

‘The queen wishes to see you.' It was Susan Clarencieux, the mistress of the robes. She dropped into a curtsy and I acknowledged her.

‘Now, my lady?'

‘Now, Your Grace.'

I had not seen my sister for well over a year. I had yearned to do so, had begged to, ever since I wrote that letter as I was about to be taken to the Tower. My one thought had been to put my case personally to the queen, but now that my chance had come I was unaccountably terrified. If I could have refused to go I would have done so.

‘Wait, wait, if you please, I am in no fit state to see the queen.' I dashed about, straightening my rather creased and spotted dress and looking for a comb to run through my dishevelled hair. I have a habit of running my fingers through it when I concentrate, and Kat Ashley and I had been playing chess. She is a shrewd tactician and has a strong desire to win, so I need all my concentration to protect my king from her manoeuvres
and playing with my hair helps me stay focused. Kat had won the game this night and I was displeased, but now the sting of losing was forgotten in my shame at my appearance and my fear of what might be to come. Kat found me a comb and dragged it quickly through my locks. ‘Come, come, my lady, we must not keep the queen waiting.'

I pushed Kat aside and shoved my hair behind my ears. Then, taking her with me, began to follow Madame Clarencieux from the room. ‘Pray for me,' I said to those of my people who were to stay behind. A premonition of doom had suddenly gripped me. ‘I cannot tell whether I shall see you again or no.'

Sir Henry and a collection of my gentlemen met us at the foot of the stairs.

‘Sir Henry.' I acknowledged him with a nod. ‘It seems we are not yet rid of one another.'

‘I am always happy to be of service to Your Grace.' This said as he ran a disapproving glance over my tousled appearance. One of my hands flew to my hair and tried in vain to pat it into some sort of shape; the other to my waist, where it tried to smooth out the creases in the material – just as hopelessly. I had been sitting on my chair with my feet tucked under me. I'd had no warning of this great audience – and scratched at the spot of gravy that I only now noticed on my bodice.

We were escorted solemnly the little way across the
courtyard to the staircase that led to my sister's grand apartments. Madame Clarencieux pushed open the door and she, Kat and I made our way inside.

Mary stood in the shadows, her hand pressed against her back, her pregnancy well advanced. She turned as we entered the room, but without waiting for her to speak, I crossed the space between us in two strides and threw myself on my knees.

‘I am a true subject, Your Majesty, and I beg Your Majesty so to find me. I will not be found to the contrary, whatsoever reports you have of me.'

‘You will not confess your offence,' said Mary, dropping her shoulders, as if my innocence was yet another cross for her to bear. ‘But stand stoutly to your truth. I pray God it may fall out that way.'

‘If it doth not, I request neither favour nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands.'

‘Well, you persevere in your truth, nevertheless. It seems all you will confess to is that you have been wrongfully punished.'

‘I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you.'

‘Why then, you probably will to others.'

‘No, if it please Your Majesty. I have borne the burden and must continue to bear it. I humbly beseech Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me, and to think me your true subject, not only from the beginning, but forever – as long as life lasteth.'

And then my sister turned towards the gorgeous tapestry that lined one wall and threw her hands wide in a gesture of exasperation and defeat. With a weary, yet theatrical shrug of her shoulders she muttered something I could not quite catch, I think in Spanish. It was then I became aware of the strange shape beneath the wall hanging, as if, perhaps, someone was hidden there behind it, listening to all that we had to say to one another. The king, I thought, immediately; it is he who is behind this strange midnight interview. They have been speaking of me and he has insisted she bring me here to have it out once and for all.

Mary turned and walked to her chair by the fire, with the flat-footed, wide-legged gait of the heavily pregnant. Despite her great stomach, she had lost weight. Her face was thin and pale. With exhaustion and melancholy etched into the lines of her face, she looked not well. In repose, her mouth, never naturally upturned, settled into a harsh and grim line. When she carefully lowered her bloated form to sit, she collapsed and slumped back against the chair.

She gestured for me to sit also.

‘You look well, Elizabeth. The countryside suits you.'

‘It is kind of you to say so, Your Majesty.'

‘Aye, you think yourself ill-used and in prison at Woodstock, as indeed I did during the reign of our brother. But you know nothing of imprisonment.
Sometimes I weep bitter tears for this child I carry and the inexorable fate that awaits him when he claims his throne.'

‘Your Majesty is prey to the natural fears of your condition.'

‘So they tell me, so they say. But I do not think I will live long after the birth of the babe–'