The Redheaded Princess: A Novel (18 page)

"I will protect Calais to the death!" she said. "To my death, and that of my child." Immediately her ladies and knights rushed her and wrestled the armor and sword away.

"Madam," they cried. "Madam, there is no need for this!"

She fell to her knees then and cowered in a corner, crying. "What's to become of the kingdom? I'm dying!"

"No, you're not," I lied.

"Then what is this thing inside me? Certainly it is not a babe.”

“I'll stay with you," I promised. "I'll stay."

We got her settled. They gave her some wine with opium in it. And I thought, if there is a babe, that will kill it. But I could do no more. I must have looked terrible, haggard and distraught, for my other knights and James and Richard Vernon were in the hall with me of a sudden, and John Chertsey was giving them orders to make ready, to get our people, that we were going back to Hatfield. I protested, but John only looked at me. "Princess, forgive me for disobeying you, but she is dying. When she dies, you will be Queen. You must think of your duties, your obligations, your kingdom. You can do that back at Hatfield, not here where you are treated like a court jester."

His language was strong but he was right. I got permission from the council and we went back to Hatfield. Before I left, I saw Sir William Cecil and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton and told them to let me know right away when my sister died. They were only too glad to agree, and promised to keep me informed about everything. It was November 5, when we arrived back at Hatfield, the day Parliament reconvened. The fall foliage was all but spent. An abundance of leaves was scattered all over the grounds. My workmen were raking them up and the pungent smell of them burning filled the air. The skies were November gray. I drew my cloak around me as I dismounted from my horse. Cat and Mr. Parry and Roger Ascham came out to greet me. From the house kitchens I could smell good things cooking. The household dogs came out to greet me, to sniff everyone, and when one of my knights hailed another, the sound echoed off the empty trees in the front courtyard, where bushels of apples were lined up, red and inviting. I was home. For how long, I did not know. I wanted simply to sit in front of the fireplace in the front parlor and stare into the yellow and red flames. That first night I did.

We had peace and contentment, all of us, while we roasted apples and nuts on the fire and drank hot mulled cider. My knights, Cat, Mr. Parry, and Roger--all of us--sat there bantering and making light talk, speaking of the horses in the stables, the cows in the barn, the fall harvest, and repairs that had been made on the roof. Each knew, in our hearts, that this might be the last night we did this. That as soon as Mary died a certain formality would settle over us all. We were saying good-bye to something and hello to something else, we all sensed. But none of us were quite sure how it would be once I was Queen. We waited. One week went by and once again messages were coming to Hatfield. Mary was declining. She had agreed there was no babe, no Prince. On the tenth of November five more heretics had gone to the stake at Canterbury.

"Let's hope those poor souls will be the last," I told Cat Ashley. Other messages said that Mass was celebrated daily in Mary's bedchamber, that she had a ring sent to Philip to show him of her undying love. Still others said she had finally been convinced to make a will, making me her heir. Her only requirements were that I "keep the Roman Catholic faith in England and pay all her debts."

Cecil wrote to me privately saying that he was drafting proclamations announcing my accession to be sent to all the towns and shires. Meanwhile, people were steadily coming to Hatfield. Every morning when I awoke I saw crowds of people at the gates come to serve me. They were peasants as well as noblemen. Because of the lean harvest and the plague of influenza, the peasants had to be fed and attended to. Mr. Parry and Roger Ascham helped me with the problem. Together they investigated the noblemen and then hired them to help. The kitchen was going twenty-four hours a day to feed the hungry. I hired three more cooks. Roger Ascham fielded many requests for me. Then came Sir William Cecil, riding up with an entourage of people to help me. He was to act as secretary, something he was very good at. And to advise and comfort.

We fed the hungry and gave them portions of food to take home. We hired some. We hired some dressmakers and tailors, even musicians and entertainers on the spot. Some were sent to town to board; some were given rooms. One man who came said he had the finest horses to sell. He brought one, a sleek animal who pranced and whinnied. I thought of Robin. I did not know horseflesh, but he would. I would need a Master of Horse. I looked for Robin but he did not come. Pledges came of money and service, from knights vowing to set me on the throne or die beneath my banner. A note came from Nicholas Throckmorton on the fifteenth, saying Mary was in a trancelike state, seeing angels, prone in bed and feverish, babbling in a dementia. She could not last the night. I could not sleep that night. I had some of the hired musicians play soft music as I sat in the great room before the fire with my people and now Sir William Cecil. We waited up half the night. I fell asleep in my plush chair, clutching the carved lions' heads on the arms, and was aware only of someone putting a velvet cover over me, of taking off my velvet slippers and putting my feet on a footstool.

For a while I heard the soft talk of those around me and the music and the crackling of the fire. Then the talk and music stopped and I fell into a disturbed sleep. I dreamed I was back in the Tower, that the eight ravens were watching me with beady eyes, that little Henry Martin was handing me a bunch of ragged robin flowers. Of a sudden I woke. The room was dark but for a few pine-knot torches set in wall sconces. Everyone was sleeping. John Chertsey was snoring. Mr. Parry and Sir William Cecil lay curled up on the Persian carpet on the floor. My knights were sprawled in chairs, completely oblivious of all that was about them. Cat Ashley was curled up on a couch and a few other servants sprawled about, all sleeping. I smiled. This could be my last night as Princess. Tomorrow I could be Queen. My whole being surged with excitement and anticipation as I thought about it. I had wanted to be Queen since I was three and in a moment of childish fancy had made my knights kneel at my feet and declare me so. I could not waste this night sleeping. Quietly I put on my slippers, took up my shawl, and stepped over people to go out into the hall, where guards were stationed. I gestured to the great wooden front door with the brass hinges and they nodded and opened it quietly for me.

Outside it was surprisingly warm for a November evening. The guards offered to follow me and I told them to keep a discreet distance. I wanted to be alone. There was a three-quarter moon, and I walked across the front courtyard of Hatfield, feeling excited and warm and full of love for this place that had always taken me in when I was in trouble. Here I had lived as a toddler, when Cat Ashley had to scout up scraps of fabric to make my dresses because my father would not pay for any materials. Here I had ridden across the fields with Robin, just the two of us racing under the trees. Here I had played with my poor little brother, who would grow up to be King and find himself pushed around by everyone. Here I had played with Lady Jane Grey, who had been Queen for only nine days and beheaded at sixteen. Here Mary had been sent to serve me when I was five or six, as punishment simply for being her mother's daughter, and here she would not kneel to me and we fought, even then. Here I had studied and learned with my tutors, painstakingly conquering the problem of penmanship, so that now I could sign my name with flourishes and dignity and power. I walked out of the courtyard to stand under an old holm oak, to lean and think.

The eastern sky was already silver as if making ready for the sun. I heard a whinny of a horse from the barn, heard a dog bark, saw the guards in the distance standing and watching. And then I heard them. A galloping of horses' hooves down the road, where trees and frightening shadows loomed. They could be outriders, I told myself, here to plunder and steal. But I knew they were not. Something about the urgency of the horses told me they were not. Robbers would approach quietly, not with a celebration of sound. How long, I asked myself, as my eyes strained to see them, how long have you wanted to be Queen? And the answer came. All of my life. They were carrying torches. And they wore the green and white of the Tudor court. There were four of them from the Council. The first to dismount was Sir Nicholas Throckmorton. He knelt at my feet. All the others dismounted and followed suit.

"The Queen is dead," said Throckmorton. "Long live the Queen." I wanted to lean against the old oak for strength, but I must stand, straight and commanding. I must, until I must fall to my knees too, and say the verse I had so long practiced in private. It was the Latin version of the 118th psalm.
"A Domine factum est illud et est mirabile in oculis nostris!"
I said. "This is the Lord's doing: it is marvelous in our eyes." I rose and gestured that they should rise also.

"Your Highness is being proclaimed in the House of Lords this morning," Sir Nicholas told me. "We could not wait for that." And he reached for my hand, which I gave him. On my finger he put the black-and-gold coronation ring that Mary had worn to her death.

"Others are coming," Sir Nicholas said. "Clerks with books and records. Members of the court. You should go in, Your Majesty." I turned to go, but halted. Others were coming out. Just in time to see beacons flaring in the sky, to see bonfires lighted on the hills around Hatfield, to hear the bells of the local churches pealing.

"How news travels in this kingdom," Sir Nicholas said wryly. My knights fell to their knees before me. Sir John Chertsey was crying. The Vernon brothers, who also had known me all my life, looked about to cry. Cat Ashley was babbling about gowns and jewelry, of getting out my red satin to wear this day. My maids hugged me. Mr. Parry was speaking in Welsh. Roger Ascham was quoting somebody in Greek. Sir William came out and knelt, and I immediately told him he was going to be my Secretary of State.

"Keep the people from the gates," Sir Nicholas yelled. Immediately my knights and yeomen were springing into action. I gave an order, and immediately my yeomen and some workers were bringing barrels and staves of wine from the cellar. The maids were bringing tankards and cider from the kitchen. Then a new sound. The gallop of one horse in the distance, determined and rushing to me. It was light enough now for us to see him clear a fence in the pasture to take a shortcut. My heart stopped and I drew in my breath. He came on a white horse, and dismounted even before the horse stopped. He fought his way through the crowd that had been slowly gathering at the gates, and his appearance alone warranted his entry. He was dressed in green and white. A dark green doublet, a green velvet cloak and jaunty hat, white trousers, black shining boots, and a silver-hilted sword at his side. He swept off his hat and knelt before me.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I am here to serve and congratulate you." He handed me a bouquet of oak leaves as his pledge of love. Tears were coming down his face. I wanted to say, "Dear Robin, let's go riding across the fields and pick up the apples and walnuts from the ground." But I could not. Those days were over.

"I wanted to be the first to bring you the news, Majesty," he said breathlessly. "But these gentlemen"--he gestured toward Throckmorton and the other members of the council--"said it was not my place. They said--”

“You will have your place, Lord Robert Dudley," I told him. "I wish to make you my Master of Horse. What say you?"

He had been standing. Now he knelt again. "I will be happy to serve as your Master of Horse, Highness. I am at your service for anything." Master of Horse! He knew what it meant. It meant he would be close to me. He would pick out the horse for me to ride every day. When we went anywhere, just out riding or in a procession to London, or on a royal progress, he would be right beside me. He would be invited to court, attend all banquets and masques and tournaments and celebrations with me. My dear Robin!

"Now, Majesty," he said carefully, "I think, if I may make so bold, that you should go into the house. Kneeling at your feet, I could see that your slippers are wet through and through." Everyone laughed and all went into the house to celebrate and to get to work for the kingdom.

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Author's Note:
After writing some thirty-two novels concerning American history, why would I go outside my sphere of knowledge to write a book about Princess Elizabeth? The only answer I have is the stock answer I call upon when being asked why I wrote any of my books: because she held my interest. Because she sat there in the back of my mind and refused to leave, even as I explored the environment of Texas during the American Civil War and Georgia plantations before it. Elizabeth just sat there on her gold-encrusted throne, surrounded by her knights; her ladies-in-waiting; her sickly brother, Edward, who was younger than she and already King of England; her half-sister, Mary, who was ahead of her in line for the throne; the ghosts of her father, Henry VIII, and her mother, Anne Boleyn; and her dear friend Robin Dudley. And she waited. She waited for me to finish fooling around with all my other duties and finally get to her. She had so much to tell me. But hadn't she told it to so many others before? Weren't there numerous and wondrous books, fiction and nonfiction, about her trials, her comings and goings, her victories and her defeats? She had, and there were. But she was always glad to tell her story again.

There are as many versions of the princess's story as there are books about her, and as every writer does, I could not help but put my own interpretation on the life and adventures of this hearty, brave, noble soul who grew up to become Queen Elizabeth I. I wasn't breaking any new ground in taking on England at this time. I had already written of Lady Jane Grey, so I knew of the language, the manners, the architecture of their minds, the foolishness of their loyalties, the impossibility of their dreams. I knew, for instance, that protocol dictated that no woman should go to the funeral of a King. That Elizabeth, though Henry VIII's daughter, dared not write him a letter directly. That because she was in line for the throne, to be caught kissing a man could be called treason and mean death for the unfortunate man and possibly for her. I knew that though she might only be four years old, she would already have her own "household." That she could easily be removed from her place in line of succession to the throne at the mood of her father, and that one could be confined to the Tower for the mere suspicion of disloyalty. Who would want to live in such a world? At its best it was primitive in the ways of justice; at its worst it was barbaric. Ah, but if one was a noble, if one rubbed shoulders with royalty, one had moments of purest enjoyment in feasting, in clothing and adornment, in the numerous little courtesies of everyday life. Did I do justice to the privileges awarded to persons of eminence? I could not possibly have, but it was a joy trying, a joy moving in and out of those chambers, under those sparkling chandeliers, beneath those tapestries and sculptures and past those knighted figures.