22
Elizabeth
A
s I rode beside Mary the triumphant day she entered London and witnessed the great outpouring of joy with which the people greeted her ascension, I noticed her watching me with a wary alertness from the corner of her eye as I smiled and waved and returned the people’s greetings. The coldness that had grown between us had never truly thawed. And with this realization came the sharp stab of fear. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The days when we were loving sisters were long past; the links in the chain that held us together had grown weaker through the years and I feared they might, at any moment, break. And I was afraid, very afraid, that my own sister was destined to become my enemy.
I loved Mary. I remembered the tender care she had taken of me, how she used to comfort, teach, and play with me when I was a child, and I mourned the loss of closeness that had accompanied the passage of years. I wanted us to be friends; I wanted us to love each other as sisters should. But I knew that there was an inflexible intolerance about Mary that had been building a wall between us that only grew higher as time passed, and I feared I might never be able to surmount it.
It quickly became apparent that Mary thought she could turn back time, to undo what she saw as the damage my mother had done, to erase the advent of the Reformed Faith in England, and bring England and Rome back together again. She was determined to be the good shepherd who brought the Pope’s lost flock back to him, chastened and contrite over the folly of their having strayed. She was hell-bent on saving souls, but it was too late for that. Mary was doomed to willful blindness; she could not and would not see that the new ways had already become established—the Reformed Faith was not just some passing fad or fancy. Though there were many who still remained true to the old Roman ways, the Protestants were not just going to hang their heads like naughty children faced with a scolding and apologize, mend their ways, and become good Catholics. But Mary must have all or nothing—that was the one thing she had in common with my mother, whose motto had been “All or Nothing”—and like a crazed gardener she set about trying to rip the tenacious weeds the Reformation had planted out of her garden, out of her England. She seemed to have forgotten there was such a word as
tolerance
or that she had once been forced to beg for it herself during our brother’s brief reign.
She began her campaign of correction with me. For I, in my virgin-white gowns and elegant, discreet pearl embellishments, was the beacon of hope the Protestants turned to. I was the living spirit of Tolerance who believed there was but one Jesus Christ and Ten Commandments and the rest was just disputes about trifles. I believed that all people should be left in peace to worship their Heavenly Father as they pleased as long as they showed proper respect and reverence to their earthly sovereign. I represented freedom to follow one’s own conscience, I believed God heard us whenever we spoke to Him, whether it be in Latin, English or even Turkish, and the people loved me for it.
She began first with my clothes. She had ordered herself a magnificent new wardrobe, one befitting of a queen, all ornate and overembellished, encrusted with embroidery, pearls, precious gems, with gilded fringe or braid borders, in sumptuous shades of rich reds, regal purples, stately dignified blacks, somber dark, or muted oranges and greens, and the glitter of silver and gold, and she wanted to do the same for me.
“It is unseemly that the sister of the Queen should appear so devoid of ornamentation,” she said. “People will talk.”
She sent for me to come to her when she was in her petticoats and stays surrounded by seamstresses and dressmakers and bade her attendants strip me down to the same state. She then began to drape me in swathes of fabric in shades of amber, garnet, orange, russet, tawny, purple, green, deep crimson, sapphire, and cinnamon as she chattered on about embroideries and trimmings.
I felt like a doll; as if she were playing dress-up with me as she used to do when I was a little girl. I remember she used to save pretty scraps of fabric and snippets of lace and gilt braid, and stray gems and beads, to make dresses for my dolls. Mary had such a passion for clothes; had she not been born a princess I am sure she would have excelled at the dressmaker’s craft and been famed throughout Europe for her creations. She was more interested in my dolls than I ever was. In truth, I felt a little awkward and embarrassed for her, this woman who seemed so old to a child’s eyes, playing with dolls, spending hours dressing and undressing them, making them walk and talk and devising little dramas for them to act out and trying to cajole serious little me to join in while I sat watching her with a stormy face and my arms folded across my chest. She would spend hours fastidiously designing and sewing exquisite little dresses for them, with all the proper accoutrements and accessories, even fashioning stays out of buckram and cord. I remember how crestfallen she was the day I petulantly informed her that I was too old to play with dolls.
Now here we were, playing dress-up again, only I was a real living and breathing person, a grown woman nearing twenty, not a child, and most certainly
not
a doll. But Mary was Queen of England, and to oppose or disappoint her was to dance and dice with danger.
I wanted the people to know that no matter what I wore on my body, and even if I were compelled to kneel beside my sister in the royal chapel as the Host was elevated, that I was true to myself and them, so I ordered the goldsmith to fashion a little book with golden covers that I might wear hanging from a cord or chain about my waist, and inside it, upon the ivory pages, I inscribed my brother’s deathbed prayer, and let it be known that I wore it on my person always.
Lord God, deliver me out of this miserable and wretched life, and take me amongst Thy chosen; howbeit, not my will but Thy will be done. Lord, I commit my spirit to Thee. O, Lord, Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be with Thee; yet, for Thy chosen’s sake, send me life and health, that I may truly serve Thee. O, My Lord God, defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true religion, that I and my people may praise Thy Holy Name, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen.
Though it was rather strongly worded and placed one faith above the other rather than embodying the tolerance that was my personal creed, still I wore it to convey a silent message. Thus, even on those occasions when gold-embroidered butterflies swarmed across my bodice or bands of ermine snaked up the front of my gown and over my shoulders and down my back, the people would see that little gold book swinging from a chain or cord against my skirts, bouncing and flashing with every step I took, and know where my loyalties truly lay, and that the spirit of Tolerance would remain alive and well in England as long as Elizabeth Tudor drew breath.
After my wardrobe, it was my soul’s turn. Mary summoned me to her private apartments again. Squinting her shortsighted eyes at me, she set aside her sewing, the beautiful Spanish black-work embroidery she had learned from her mother, and bade me sit beside her.
She began with gentle persuasions and the gift of an ivory rosary to try to coax me to attend Mass. Nothing could make her happier, she declared, than to have her dear sister kneeling beside her there as the priest held the Host aloft.
I played for time. I asked for instruction, for learned men and books to teach me and guide me, and then . . . if my conscience were so moved . . . then I
might
embrace it. I could promise only to do as my conscience dictated.
“I was brought up another way,” I explained. “I do not believe.”
“But attend Mass with me and the belief
will
come!” Mary cried, clasping my hands so hard it hurt. “Just come, sit beside me, open your mind and heart, and God
will
fill it with belief!”
“I want to believe,” I assured her.
In the end, for my own safety, I felt I must concede a little or else lose all. But I let the people see that I went unwillingly, as a move meant only to mollify Mary. In a white gown—saving the new finery Mary had gifted me with for court occasions—with Edward’s deathbed prayer dangling from my waist, I began to accompany Mary to Mass. Sometimes I feigned illness, complaining loudly of pains in my stomach or the violent pangs of a megrim assailing my poor head as I went unwillingly into chapel. Sometimes I even fell faint in the corridor so that I must be picked up, revived, and carried back to my rooms. Sometimes, when I did attend, I had to leave hurriedly before the Elevation of the Host, rushing out with my hand clapped over my mouth, else I disgrace myself, and my sister, the Queen, by being sick right there in the chapel.
Mary grew even colder toward me. When she looked at me there was the glint of suspicion in her eyes and an icy chill in her rare embrace. She was alert and vigilant, watching and waiting for me to make a grave mistake, like a serpent watching and waiting to corner and strike down its prey. And I knew in both my head and heart, though it hurt so much to acknowledge it, that my sister was now my enemy.
Religion, that eternal bone of contention, had pitted sister against sister, and made us rivals, and only one of us could emerge the victor. And therein Mary made a fatal mistake that would cost her dear; Catholicism was her religion, and she would fight for it to her last breath even if it cost her everything, whereas I, whilst I called myself a Protestant, my
true
religion was England and its people.