26
Elizabeth
A
t last she relented and allowed me to leave court, to go to my house at Ashridge. But I knew the eyes of Mary’s spies would follow me wherever I went, never would I escape their scrutiny, and I must take care not to walk into any of the traps they laid for me. I knew that the Spanish Ambassador was doing his utmost to turn Mary against me, adding fuel to the bonfire of her suspicions and mistrust, and urging her to send me to the scaffold. He was also ardently campaigning for the unwilling Protestant usurper, Lady Jane Grey, to be put to death, even though she was in truth the innocent tool of ruthless and power-hungry men. Like Mary, Renard was determined to see Catholicism flourish again in England as the
only
religion, and to kill any and all weeds that might choke or overtake those fragile, beautiful blossoms of faith and grace.
Mary herself came out to see me off despite the coldness of the day. Before I climbed into my litter she removed my russet velvet cloak and fastened a rope of lustrous white pearls round my neck; then, even as I breathed my thanks and admiration of her gift, she replaced my old cloak with a new one of fine sable lined with flame-colored satin. And after clasping them in a sisterly farewell, she tucked my hands into a matching muff adorned with a large crucifix brooch encrusted with rubies. I felt something cold and metallic inside the muff. It was an ornate gold picture frame of the sort that holds two portraits, face to face, and opens and closes like a book. This one was all done in Spanish pomegranates and red and white enameled Tudor roses, so I was not at all surprised when I opened it to behold the faces of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon, angled so they seemed to gaze lovingly and longingly at each other, painted no doubt by the same artist who had done the larger black and gold portrait that hung in the gallery.
I forced myself to smile. “How lovely!” I exclaimed. And, in truth, the frame was fine and the artist was talented. “Thank you, Mary.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I cannot tell you what this means to me.”
And indeed I could not. It would not do to tell her it made a great din and clamor like an alarm bell ringing inside my mind warning me, “Be wary, oh be wary of sister Mary!”
Just as I started to climb into my litter, I impulsively turned back and grasped Mary’s hands. Intently, I looked into her eyes, trying with all my might to make her see that I meant her no harm, only goodwill, and wished most fervently that suspicion, jealousy, and religious differences had not erected this icy wall between us.
“Mary . . .” A lump rose in my throat as I tried to find the right words. “Dear sister, I know there are many who would speak ill of me, and, seeking to make mischief, run to you bearing tales about me.” I knelt then in the snow before her, still holding her hands. “All I can do is assure you that you are my sister and my sovereign and as both I wholeheartedly give you my loyalty and my love, as, despite the differences between us, I always have. May I presume upon your generosity and humbly beg one favor of you?”
“You may,” Mary said softly, her voice a tremulous whisper, and I saw upon her face wariness jousting against her innate desire to believe as she looked down at me.
“Thank you!” I said most fervently, and kissed her hands, before I looked up at her again, begging her with my eyes and all my heart to believe and trust me again. “I humbly implore you, should you ever hear any evil spoken of me, that you withhold your judgment and do not condemn me unheard; allow me first to speak to you so that I may kneel before you, as I do now, in loyalty and love to my sister and sovereign, who are one and the same, and clear my name of any stain others might try to sully it with.”
Mary nodded mutely and raised me to my feet, tears shimmering in her eyes, and her lips aquiver, as she embraced me and kissed both my cheeks.
“I promise,” she whispered, clasping my face between her hands. “I give you my word as your loving sister and queen that I will do as you ask.” She hugged me close again and said into my ear, “You were such a sweet, precocious little girl, I used to pretend you were my own. It breaks my heart that we have come to this”—she drew back and held me at arm’s length—“that there are times when we face each other almost as . . . enemies!” A sob broke from her at the last word.
“Mary!”
I impulsively drew her to me.
“Never, never
think that! Though we do disagree upon matters of faith, I am not, and never have been, and never will be, your enemy! No matter what others may say or do, what schemes they may devise and fly the false banner of my name over them to lend them credence, they will
always
be
lies!
I mean you and your throne no harm.
You are Queen
—by the will of our late father, and our Heavenly Father, and the people of England—
you are Queen
, and I would
never
try to take that from you!
Never!”
“I
want
to believe you!” Mary sobbed, her heart shining in her gray eyes as she looked at me, so fearful and uncertain. They were the eyes of a woman who no longer knew whom to trust or what to believe. Charles and his emissary Renard were the only ones it never even occurred to her to distrust or doubt, and they were snakes in the grass who would bite her if she took one false step.
“Then
believe
”—I squeezed her hands—
“believe!”
“Go with God.” Mary pressed a coral rosary into my hand and, with a choking sob, she turned away from me and hurried back inside the palace, hugging herself against the cold.
Ambassador Renard gave me a curt nod and then, like the Angel of Death, his black velvet cloak flapping like wings behind him, turned and followed her.
As I rode away, I impulsively called one of my retainers to me and bade him ride back to Whitehall with a message for the Queen, requesting that she send me adornments for my chapel—candlesticks, chalices, copes, and chasubles, and everything else I might need—so that I could continue to hear Mass. I also asked that she send books to further instruct and enlighten me, and told her that in the peace and quietude of the country I planned to probe my conscience and make a deep study of the Catholic faith.
As he rode back to deliver my message, I worried that Mary would see my request for what it was—another move to buy me more time. But I knew that she, wanting to believe that I would indeed embrace her religion, would grant it just the same, even if she suspected hypocrisy; she would still comply as it was for the service of God. I knew that she doubted me, but it was that kernel of doubt that was keeping me alive, and so I nourished it as best I could.
Though I knew I was not free of danger, I felt a respite from it, the same sense of release and temporary relief I felt when I removed my stays each night.
One dreary December day as I walked beneath a gray sky, huddled in my furs, amongst naked trees that stood out starkly like black embroidery on a ground of shifting grays, a stranger accosted me. I started as he flung himself in my path and knelt at my feet, a big, auburn-haired and bearded, broad-shouldered brute of a man. He introduced himself as Thomas Wyatt, son and namesake of the poet who had loved my mother, and, kissing the hem of my skirt, vowed he would accord a like loyalty to me.
He wanted to talk of an audacious scheme to pull Mary from the throne and put me in her place. He mentioned Courtenay, and how much the people feared and detested the coming of the Spanish bridegroom, but I would not hear him. It was as if Tom Seymour had come back from the dead to torment me, this time laying all his cards upon the table instead of holding them close to his chest to prevent me from truly seeing the fool he truly was with all his mad brainsick jealousy and ambition-driven folly.
I put my hands up over my ears and ran from him, my hands clasped tight over my ears until distance rendered him mute. I did not slow my steps until Ashridge was in sight.
As I opened the door, I saw him standing still in the distance; he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Your sister puts Spain and the Pope before England, but you . . . you are not just Elizabeth, you
are
England and the people love you for it!”
After that there were notes left and taps upon the windowpanes at night, but I refused to heed them. The notes I burned unread, the knocks and taps I ignored, rolling over in bed, pulling the covers up over my head to muffle that damning tap-tap-tapping that could, if I responded to it, send me to the scaffold. Letters also came, trying to draw me in, asking me to do this or that, go here or there, but I threw them into the fire after no more than a cursory glance.
My heart was torn. I wanted to warn Mary that Wyatt was planning a rebellion, but I knew that if I did I would find myself accused of treason. I could not trust Mary, especially with the Spanish Ambassador whispering words against me into her ear like a sinister black parrot perched upon her shoulder. I could not trust her to believe me if I came to her with such news, so though it rent my heart and mind with fear and worry, and kept me awake at night, I kept silent.
But knowing he was out there plotting, and a rebellion was brewing, ready to boil over at any moment, made me so uneasy that I fell grievously ill. Pains assailed my stomach and head, and I could not keep down even a sip of broth or a morsel of food, and my body began to bloat and swell, my joints ached unbearably, and my skin turned yellow-green with a terrible jaundice, and passing water caused me great discomfort.
I lay there tense and wakeful, pretending to sleep whenever Kat or Blanche Parry came to look in on me, for I had learned from the Tom Seymour scandal that I must keep my own counsel and confide in no one, not even those closest to me. Even though I knew they loved me, I must say nothing and trust no one. So I lay in my dark-shrouded bed and waited, hoping that my illness would save me from suspicion, and knowing it was my penance, the price I paid, for keeping silent.