A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1

TWO

At Hatfield House the Princess Elizabeth lay in her bed. She was sick, her household declared, of a malady which afflicted her from time to time. This malady never failed to come to her aid at those times when she was uncertain how to act; and there had been many occasions when, by discreetly retiring to the comparative safety of her curtained bed, she had avoided a trying situation.

Bed was obviously the place for her at this time; so, obediently the malady returned.

A courier had brought a letter to her that morning; it was from the Duke of Northumberland. Her brother, the King, was, according to the Duke’s communication, urgently desiring to see his dear sister. “Your Grace should come with all speed,” said the message, “for the King is very ill.”

But the Princess, who had always instinctively bestowed her smiles in the right quarters, was naturally not without friends. Poor as she was and mighty as was Northumberland, she was the richer in friends.

Concealed on his person, the courier had another note for the Princess. It had been sewn in his shoe for safety, and when she read it Elizabeth saw that it had been written by a certain William Cecil, a man whom she believed to be her friend. “The King is already dead,” ran the note. “It is the wish of Northumberland to place Jane Grey and his son Guildford on the throne, and to seize the persons of yourself and your sister. To obey the summons would be to place yourself in Northumberland’s hands.”

And so to bed went the Princess Elizabeth, after penning a note to the Duke regretting that she was too ill to leave Hatfield.

She was in danger. She knew it. But when had she ever been far from danger? She thought of gentle Jane Grey whom Northumberland would make Queen of England. Poor Jane! What did she think of these honors which were to be thrust upon her? Jane was learned, but what was the good of erudition if cunning did not go with it? Jane was a puppet. She would be no more Queen of England than Edward had been King. Her fate had been decided on when she had allowed Northumberland to marry her to his son Guildford. It had been obvious to Elizabeth what would follow as soon as that marriage had taken place.

Elizabeth remembered young Guildford well. He was a weakling. She, being strong, had an unerring instinct for smelling out weaklings. Now, had it been Robert …! She wanted to laugh aloud when she thought of Robert, who had married a simpering country girl. How could he have been such a fool! Yet was he such a fool? If he had not married his rustic bride he would have been married to the Lady Jane Grey. But was that such an enviable position? Only time would show. In any case Robert had no right to have married a country girl.

She laughed into her pillow, forgetting her danger, for this short moment, in her memories. What a pity Kat Ashley was not with her. What fun they would have had with the cards … telling fortunes … seeing if anything came to light concerning Robert Dudley (a tall dark man) as they used to look for Tom Seymour.

How stupid to think of Tom now. She could never think of him and that dreadful time, without a tremor. Tom was beautiful with his great booming laugh, his mighty oaths and his strong arms. Tom Seymour … nothing but a headless corpse! And he had almost taken her with him to the grave, as in life he had wished to take her with him to the throne … to the marriage bed.

Never again must she be so weak as she had been with Tom. What an escape! She might have been tempted to marriage … to love. Tom was such a tempter. No one should tempt her in that way again. A Princess who is only a step or two from the throne must learn her lessons and learn them quickly, for there is often no second chance of doing so.

Now in this moment which she felt to be full of unknown dangers she must brood on that earlier danger still so clear to her.

She could picture him distinctly. She believed she would never forget him, the jaunty Admiral in his gorgeous garments who had come to her after the death of his wife, Katharine Parr, feigning great grief. But was it real grief, when all the time his eyes were pleading with her, telling her that he was now free?

Intuitively she had felt the inclination to hold back; it had ever seemed to her that the trimmings of courtship were more enticing than any climax could be. Elizabeth, almost seduced but never quite, was a much more attractive picture to her than Elizabeth conquered. It was an Admiral to woo her whom she had wanted—not a husband to command her. Men were amusing, yet intent on one thing. Elizabeth wished to be amused, titillated, enjoying in imagination that which she had the good sense to know could never in reality compare with such dreams.

Yet there had been times when she had been on the point of surrender to that fascinating man; there had been times when his cajoling ways had almost got the better of her good sense.

She was older now; she was wiser. When he had come to woo her she had been reluctant, aloof, in no way the same girl who had romped with him during his wife’s lifetime. He had been clever in his way, but not quite clever enough. There had been so many ugly rumors connected with his name, and how could the Princess Elizabeth consent to marry a man who, it was said, had poisoned his wife that he might marry her?

No, the death of Katharine had been the first object lesson; the heartbreaking death of Thomas the second, and his had struck her so hard that it would never be forgotten.

How clear, in her memory, he was to her, as though he stood at the side of the bed now, laughing at her with passion in his eyes, trying to pull off the bedclothes as he had in Chelsea, to tickle, to slap, to kiss.

He had won Kat Ashley to his side. What had he said to Kat? Had he made light love to her with his eyes as he knew well how to do? Had he promised her rewards on the day the Princess Elizabeth became his wife? Kat was quickly his slave, as were so many of the women about their Princess. Kat began to find him a good influence in the cards … dear silly Kat! Elizabeth could hear her voice now with the trill of excitement in it. “Here is a good marriage for you, my darling; the best marriage that you could make. Now let me see, who is this husband I have here for you? He has a golden beard and he is handsome … how handsome! I believe he is connected with the sea …” Then Elizabeth would burst into laughter, and call Kat a fraud, and ask what the Admiral had given her to make her say that. They would laugh and giggle, abandoning the cards to talk of him.

She believed she had toyed with the idea. Yet had she seriously intended marriage with him? Already at that time her thoughts had soared high above him. Her brother Edward sickly, her sister Mary not very young and delicate too—and then … herself.

Was she glad that the Council would not agree to her marriage with the Admiral? When she had been asked if she would marry him her answer had been characteristic of her: “When the time comes and the Council shall give its consent, then shall I do as God puts into my mind.”

And would she have eventually married Thomas? At that time he could flatter so charmingly; he could plead so passionately.

Dear Thomas! He always talked too much. Great power had been his through his charm and beauty, and power was such a potent drug; it went to the head; it soothed the fears; it played tricks with a man’s vision until he was twice the size he was in actuality. Thomas had boasted that he had ten thousand men ready to serve him, that he had persuaded the master of the Bristol mint to coin large sums of money which should be used in his service; he would marry Elizabeth and then … all would see what they should see.

And so Thomas was taken to the Tower on a charge of high treason.

What a time of terror when Kat Ashley and Parry the cofferer were also taken to the Tower, and she herself kept prisoner at Hatfield with guards outside her door, not allowed to venture out into the grounds without an escort! How apprehensive she had been for Thomas! How she had dreaded what Kat and Parry would say in the hands of the questioners!

And what had they said? How could she blame them? She did not. In fact she longed for the day when her dearest Kat would be restored to her. How could she have expected such as her dear tittle-tattling Kat or Parry to keep quiet? They were born gossips, both of them.

Soon the whole country was tattling. Out came the story—every little secret, every little scene, magnified, colored, so that a little innocent flirting became an orgy of lust.

She flushed at the memory, but even so she began to laugh. Oh, why was not Kat here that they might chat together! She herself loved a gossip. She wished now to talk of Northumberland, and Jane Grey, and weak Guildford Dudley on whose head, Elizabeth doubted not, Northumberland would do his best to cram a crown. What fun it would have been during this “illness” to take the cards and to find a tall dark man—Lord Robert Dudley this time, as once they had found an Admiral—and for Kat to purse her lips, put her head on one side and mutter in that serious voice which could send Elizabeth into fits of laughter: “I think I see a handsome young man. He is about Your Grace’s age … and he comes out of the past …”

But how foolish to think of Kat, who had been taken from her, and of Robert Dudley, that foolish boy who had married a country girl!

Yet … how pleasant! And it was necessary to think pleasant and frivolous thoughts when at any moment life might become deadly serious and dangerous.

But now her thoughts had gone to the saddest moment of her life when they had come to her to tell her that Thomas was dead—her beautiful Thomas. She had been surrounded by spies; she had known they were watching her, trying to trip her, and she knew that every word, every look, would be noted and reported. Lady Tyrwhit (how she hated that woman whom they had given her in place of Kat!) had had her sly eyes on her, always watching, hoping that there would be some betrayal of feeling to report to her master the Protector, that false brother of dear Thomas.

She had faced them, calmly and courageously. Yes, she could look now with approval on that young Elizabeth who had not shown by a flicker of her eyes or a twitch of her lips that her heart was almost breaking.

“Your Grace,” had said that spy Tyrwhit, “this day the Admiral laid his head upon the block.” And she waited for the effect of her words.

Elizabeth looked back at the woman with no expression whatsoever on her face. Yet she knew she must speak. Lady Tyrwhit must not be allowed to report that her grief had made her speechless.

“This day,” she had said, “died a man with much wit and very little judgment.”

It was said of her that either she was without feeling or she was a magnificent actress. She was a great actress. That was the answer; for without doubt she had loved Thomas.

And was she not acting all the time? Was it not necessary for her to act, to feign simplicity? How she had acted after the death of Thomas! She had lived quietly at Hatfield, giving up her days to study, reading Cicero and Livy, studying the Greek Testament, reading aloud the tragedies of Sophocles, studying Italian and French. She dressed simply, wore her hair unfrizzed—she who loved fine clothes and who loved to have her red hair frounced and curled, and to wear rich velvets and sparkling jewels. But she was clever enough to know that it was necessary to live down the reputation which the Seymour scandal had given her, and that to live in obscurity was the only way of preserving her life during those difficult days.

Her friends kept her closely informed of affairs at Court, and from the seclusion of Hatfield or Woodstock, she was aware of the heady progress of the Duke of Northumberland, thinking often of the gay Lord Robert who, had he not been so senseless as to marry a rustic girl, might have been a greater power in the land than a poor Princess who must keep as still as a lizard on a stone for fear any movement by her should attract the attention of her enemies.

She watched the tussel between Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, whom she would never forgive for what he had done to Thomas, and John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who was the father of that young man who interested her as no one had since the death of Thomas.

And now Somerset was dead. That which he had done to Thomas had been done to him. It was fearsome, thinking of the heads which fell so readily.

She needed to laugh in order to calm herself, to make light of her misfortunes so that when the test came she might face them with equanimity.

But what could she do now but lie abed … and wait?

The waiting was over sooner than she expected.

Faithful friends brought the news. The would-be King-maker had been defeated. Mary was proclaimed Queen of England. Now was the time for Elizabeth to recover from her malady.

She did so without any fuss; and her first move was to write a letter to the Queen conveying her congratulations and her delight in her sister’s accession. There was an answer to that note: a command to meet Mary at Wanstead, that they might ride into the Capital together.

Elizabeth made ready for the journey. She was excited as always at the prospect of pageantry and a return to Court. Again and again she warned herself of her difficult position. Master Parry, who had come back to her service, also warned her. He flattered her in his sly way; she knew his words for flattery, but flattery was a luxury she would not go without.

“Your Grace must be careful to hide your beauty. The Queen will not be pleased at being outshone.”

“Nonsense, Master Parry!” she retorted. “How can I in my simple garments outshine the Queen’s royal velvet and glittering jewels?”

“Your Grace’s eyes sparkle more brightly than jewels. Your skin is more soft than any satins.”

She tossed her red hair, calling his attention to it; and he smiled that sly smile which he did not attempt to hide from her. “Your Grace has a crown of gold more beautiful than any that ever sat on the brow of King or Queen.”

“Enough, chatterer!” she cried. “I am right glad we bought new liveries for my servants this year, Master Parry. I do not grudge the forty shillings I paid for those new velvet coats.”

“Your Grace is right, and we will make a brave show. But pray accept my warning: do not outshine the Queen.”

She was demure thinking of it. She would wear white; she would cast down her eyes if the cheers for her were too loud. She would wear few jewels on her hands, for too many rings would hide their slender beauty; she would hold them so that the crowd might see them and marvel at their milky whiteness; and she would smile at the multitude—not haughtily but in that friendly way which had never yet failed to set them cheering.

No, she would not outshine the Queen in rich raiment or jewels, only in personal charm with youth and beauty and that subtle indication to the people that she was at one with them, that she loved them and one day hoped to be their Queen.

So, accompanied by a thousand followers—some of them lords and ladies of high rank—she came riding into London. Was it a good omen that she must pass through the City on her way to Wanstead, thus entering it before her sister?

The people of London came out to greet her as they always greeted the Princess Elizabeth. They caught their breath at the sight of her. She was so demure in her white gown; she looked so young; the people sensed in her the regality of her father and the vitality of her mother. She smiled and bowed and was clearly so grateful to the dear people for the homage they paid; she was so moved that there were tears in her eyes. About her rode her servants, all in green, some in velvet, some in satin, some in plain cloth, according to their standing in her household.

On through Aldgate she passed to Wanstead, where she awaited the coming of the Queen.

Mary expressed her pleasure in this meeting with her sister.

How old she looks! thought Elizabeth.

Mary was not yet forty, but she looked older. Neither purple velvet nor jewels could alter that. She had suffered much and life had used her so cruelly that it had left its mark upon her.

“And is my dear sister recovered from her recent illness?” asked Mary.

“My humble thanks to your gracious Majesty. I am fully restored, and if I had not been before this moment, I could not fail to be now seeing your Majesty in such good health and knowing your enemies routed and yourself safely upon the throne.”

“We cannot as yet say safely,” said Mary grimly. “But we have good friends, we hope.”

“And none more ready to serve your Majesty than your humble sister.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mary; and she embraced Elizabeth.

They rode side by side toward London, these two daughters of Henry the Eighth, whose mothers had been such bitter enemies, and on that day the Queen was thinking how happy she was to have her sister beside her. She had been sorry for Elizabeth in those days when the girl had been in disgrace after the death of Anne Boleyn, neglected and unwanted, so that it had been difficult for her guardians to procure enough money to clothe and feed her. Cruel things had been said of this Elizabeth—far worse than anything that had ever been said of Mary. They had both been called bastards, but Elizabeth had suffered greater indignity, for some had declared that the Princess was the fruit of an incestuous union between Anne Boleyn and Anne’s brother, Lord Rochford.

Mary hoped that Elizabeth would now conduct herself in such a manner that would enable them to live in amity.

Elizabeth demurely kept a little behind the Queen, now and then taking covert glances about her, throwing a smile at the crowds, letting her head droop when they cried too loudly for the Princess Elizabeth. She was thinking: What will happen now? She will marry, and if she bears a child, what hope have I of ever wearing the crown? Yet … how ill she looks! She is not strong enough to bear a child. And then … when she is dead?

The City was ready to greet the Queen to whom it had given its support. When Jane Grey had sailed down the river to the Tower that she might receive the crown, the people had been sullen; there had been few to cheer Queen Jane. The City did not want Queen Jane. She was young, beautiful, learned and noble; but right was right, justice was justice, and England accepted no other than Mary as its Queen.

From the windows of the houses strips of brilliantly colored cloth were fluttering. From over the old City Gate the charity boys and girls of the Spital sang the Queen’s praises as she passed under. The streets had been cleaned and strewn with gravel; and the members of the City Guilds had come out in their full dress to welcome Mary to London. On the river was every sort of craft fluttering banners and streamers, some bearing musicians who played sweet music and sang victorious choruses which all had the same theme: the delight of the people of London to welcome their true Queen, the expression of their loyalty to Mary.

Down Leadenhall and the Minories to the Tower of London went the procession. The Lord Mayor greeted the Queen, and the Earl of Arundel was beside him with the sword of state. All about the Queen were her velvet-clad attendants; and next to her rode her sister Elizabeth.

Mary, to show her utmost confidence in the loyalty of her greatest City, had dismissed her guard at Aldgate and had accepted that of the City, and it now followed her and her ladies, each man carrying his bow and javelin.

Sir Thomas Cheney, warden of the Cinque Ports, greeted her as she came to the Tower. Elizabeth could not help but shudder as they passed through the gate and she gazed at the towers. She caught a quick glimpse of the Devlin, the Bell and the Beauchamp Towers, and she remembered that, in the Beauchamp, the handsome young man of whom she thought now and then, was lying a prisoner and that he would doubtless ere long follow his father to the block. It was a sobering thought for a girl who had so recently received the cheers of the crowd. She must think of all the noble men and women who had been shut away from the world in those grim towers, released only that they might take the short walk from their prisons to Tower Green or Tower Hill. She must think chiefly of her mother, who had come to this place by way of the Traitor’s Gate and had left the world by way of Tower Green. She muttered a prayer as they went forward.

They had reached the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and there on the very Green where Elizabeth’s mother had received that blow from the executioner’s sword which had ended her gay and adventurous life, knelt those prisoners of state who under the last two reigns had begged in vain for justice.

Among them were the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been saved by the timely death of Henry the Eighth and had been languishing in prison ever since, Cuthbert Tunstal, Bishop of Durham, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; all were firm supporters of the Catholic Faith and they looked to the new Queen for honors.

The sight of the Bishops brought home afresh to Elizabeth the precarious nature of her position. Staunch Catholics, those men would inevitably view her with disfavor; and since the Queen had by no means the look of a healthy woman and, unless she had a child, Elizabeth was a likely successor, it seemed very probable that those two Catholic gentlemen would use all their formidable power to ensure that Elizabeth should never reach the throne. And what was their best way of doing that?

She imagined that these uneasy thoughts came from her mother’s spirit—surely not far, on this summer’s day, from the spot where it had departed from this Earth.

But there was one among those prisoners of state who turned Elizabeth’s thoughts to pleasanter matters. This was young and handsome Edward Courtenay, a noble of great interest, not only on account of his handsome person, but because of his royal lineage.

His grandmother was Catherine, a daughter of Edward the Fourth, and he was therefore related to the Queen since Mary’s grandmother, Elizabeth of York, had been that Catherine’s sister. Courtenay had been a prisoner in the Tower since he was ten years old, which was fourteen years ago. His father had been executed by Henry the Eighth. Now the young man’s hopes were bright, for Mary would never consent to the prolonged imprisonment of such a staunch Catholic.

He knelt gracefully before her now and lifted his handsome eyes to her face with such admiring devotion that the Queen was touched.

“Rise, cousin,” she said, “you are no longer a prisoner. Your estates shall be restored to you. Your suffering is over.”

There was a faint color in the Queen’s cheeks; and it seemed that even while she received the loyal addresses of men whom she could trust, such as Norfolk and Gardiner, her eyes strayed to the handsome young Courtenay.

Elizabeth, watching and alert, believed that there might be some truth in the rumors which had already begun to circulate as soon as it was known that Mary would take the crown. It was natural that her first duty would be to marry; and if she were wise she would please her people in this. The people of England wanted an English husband for their Queen; well, here was a young man of royal connections, handsome, virile, surely capable of providing the Queen with the heir which all—except Elizabeth and those who followed her—must surely desire.

Mary was aware of this; Courtenay was also aware of it. But now it was the young man’s duty to greet the Princess. Elizabeth extended her hand; he took it; her blue eyes were haughty, yet faintly coquettish; somehow they managed to convey a flirtatious message to the young man. You find my sister old? her eyes seemed to suggest. She is indeed many years older than you are, my lord. But look at me! I am younger than you are. What if I were the Queen whose hand in marriage you might have a chance to win? Ah, my friend, what a different prospect that would be, what a different and dazzling prospect, eh!

Courtenay rose and stood before her. Did he hesitate a little too long? Was the smile he gave the Princess a little too friendly, a little too overcharged with admiration?

The Queen had turned impatiently.

“Have a care,” the spirit of Anne Boleyn might have warned her daughter.

But Elizabeth, cautious and clever as she habitually was, could never resist inviting admiration. To her it was life itself—as necessary as the sun and air.

Who could understand that better than Anne Boleyn? She would certainly wish to warn her daughter.

Jane Dudley, the Duchess of Northumberland, was a brokenhearted woman. In a few short weeks she had lost most of what had made life good for her. John, her husband, was dead. He had shared his father’s fate. The cruelty of that stunned her; and yet it was not wholly unexpected.

In the solitude of her house in Chelsea, which was all that was left to her of her grand possessions, she mourned bitterly. It was futile to weep for John, but what of her sons? With the exception of little Henry, who was too young to have been suspected of treason, they were lying in the Tower. John, the eldest, was already sentenced to death. Ambrose, Robert, and Guildford were all awaiting trial.

As she walked from one deserted room to another she cried out: “Oh, John, why were you not content to live in peace and happiness? We had riches; we had comfort. You placed our beloved sons and daughters in danger. It was not only your own life that you risked.”

She must act. She must do something to save her sons.

She had become like a miser, gathering together a little store of her precious possessions which had been overlooked when her goods had been confiscated. She intended to offer them as presents to any who would help her to save her sons. This was the only task which was left to her.

Dared she crave an audience with the Queen? Was it possible to ask Mary to pardon those who had plotted to destroy her? They had sent her to the Tower when they had taken John, but quickly released her, and she feared that if she tried to see the Queen she might be sent back to her prison. Not that she cared if she were. The discomfort of a cell would mean nothing to her. But if she were imprisoned, how could she work for her sons?

In the days of her husband’s greatness many had come to him with petitions for help; they had offered him money and costly goods. John had amassed a fortune in those years when he had ruled England. Now she herself would plead, as others had pleaded with him. She would offer everything she possessed. She would gladly live in poverty for the rest of her life if her sons might be free.

Each day she walked to the palace. Sometimes she saw people who in the old days had flattered her and thought themselves fortunate when she exchanged a few words with them. Now they turned away. It was not due to pride, or scorn, or unkindness. It was fear. Naturally they were afraid. How could they show friendship to a woman whose husband had plotted against the Queen, to a woman whose son was married to the girl they now called the impostor Queen?

“Oh, God, help me!” prayed Jane.

She was almost demented. She went by barge to the Tower; she would stand in great distress contemplating those impregnable walls.

“What will become of you all?” she murmured. “My John … Ambrose … my poor Guildford and my gay and handsome Robin!”

Elizabeth knew of the plight of the sad Duchess and wished that she could help her. But how could she of all people plead for the Dudleys’ release? Her own position was too precarious for her to risk pleading for others.

Already the Queen was casting suspicious eyes upon her. Already Gardiner and Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, were seeking to destroy her. And they were not alone in this endeavor. Noailles, the French ambassador, was as dangerous as the other two, although he pretended to be her friend.

He would seek her out when she walked in the grounds that he might speak to her alone.

He told her: “My master knows your position to be a dangerous one. You have my master’s sympathy. He seeks to help you.”

“The King of France is noted for his goodness,” said Elizabeth.

“I will tell him how you speak of him. It will enchant him.”

“Nay. He could not be interested in the opinion of such as I am.”

“Your Grace is mistaken. The King of France is your friend. There is much he would do to save you from your enemies. He deplores that you are deemed a bastard. Why, he would do all in his power to reinstate you.”

She looked at him coolly. “But alas it is not in your royal master’s power to have me proclaimed legitimate. Such must surely be left to the decision of the mistress of this realm.”

She left him and she knew that he was angry.

She was too clever to be deceived by an offer of French friendship. She knew full well that Henri Deux wished to destroy her, so that, should Mary die childless, the field would be clear for his own daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth knew, as she made her way to her apartments, that danger was all about her. It would be so easy to become involved in plots with the French. She understood the schemes of the crafty Noailles. He wished to entangle her, to make her betray herself in a way which would lead her to the scaffold.

There was no friendship for Elizabeth in France or in Spain, and she would never be deceived into thinking there was.

Much as the Princess loved the gaiety of the Court, she began to yearn for the peace of her country houses, for only far from intrigue could she have any great hope of survival.

Gardiner was speaking against her to the Queen because she refused to go to Mass. Yet what could she do? She knew that a very large body of Protestants looked to her as their leader. If she accepted her sister’s religion as wholeheartedly as Mary wished her to, it would mean that those Protestants would say: “What matters it which sister is on the throne?” She would lose their support and she would not gain that of the Catholics. So she must hold out against the Mass for as long as she could. But how long could she hold out? Gardiner was urging that she should either be brought to Catholicism or to the block.

The Queen sent for her.

Mary was cold and Elizabeth’s heart quaked as she knelt before her.

Oh, to be at Hatfield or Woodstock where she could suddenly feel her old malady stealing over her, where she could beg for a few days’ grace to recover before she made an arduous journey to see the Queen! It was not so easy here.

“We have heard that which does not please us concerning you,” said Mary.

Elizabeth answered in a mournful voice: “I see plainly that your Majesty has but little affection for me, yet I have done nothing to offend you except in this matter of religion. Your Majesty must bear with me, must excuse my ignorance. Remember in what religion I have been brought up. Your Majesty will understand how I have been taught to accept my religion and no other.”

“You are old enough to recognize the truth.”

“Ah, your Majesty, if I had time to read and learn, if doctors might be sent to me …”

It was the old cry: “Give me Time.” Time had always been her friend.

Elizabeth looked at the pale face of her sister. How ill she looked, how white and sickly! Only a few more years and then … Glory!

The thought gave her courage.

Mary was frowning. One of her dearest wishes was to bring England back to Rome. This girl, young as she was—frivolous and coquettish—could do much to prevent this. Mary must weaken the Protestants, and what weakened a force more than the knowledge that one whom they looked upon as a leader had capitulated? There were three religious sections in England now. There were the Anglo-Catholics, who followed the religion established by Henry the Eighth, which was the same as the old religion with the exception that the sovereign, not the Pope, was the head of the church; there was the Protestant Church, now established as the Church of England since the Protestant Protectorate under Edward VI; and there was the old religion, which looked to the Pope as its head. The last, in the Queen’s eyes, was the true religion, and the one which she wished to see established throughout her realm.

Mary was not altogether displeased with Elizabeth’s reply. She preferred it to a plain refusal, which would have resulted in Elizabeth’s being taken to the Tower.

“I will send doctors to you to teach you the truth,” said the Queen.

“Your Majesty is so gracious that I would make another request.”

“What is that?”

“It would be easier for me to study in the country away from the Court. I realize that I have gone far in my studies of the new Faith and that much concentration will be needed …”

“You shall not leave Court,” said Mary grimly.

Was she beginning to understand this sister who had managed to extricate herself from many an awkward situation with the help of her old friend Time?

Well, thought Elizabeth, I must continue to be exposed to great dangers. But surely the Queen must understand that a great deal of time is needed if I am to assimilate such great truths to which I am now a stranger!

The thoughts of most people were now directed to the Coronation. Only such as Elizabeth and the Duchess of Northumberland had thoughts of more urgency.

Elizabeth’s constant thoughts were of her own preservation. Jane Dudley was only capable of one desire, so overwhelming was it. She had seen a lady of the Court who had come to visit her out of kindness, leaving her barge at the privy stairs, hastening across the lawns wrapped in a cloak which disguised her. It was now as great a danger as it had been an honor to visit the Northumberland residence.

“Oh, Jane, Jane, you must not despair,” cried this lady, embracing her old friend. “The Queen is of a kindly nature. It bodes good that so far your eldest remains in his cell. They say that she is reluctant to send the Lady Jane to the block, even though Gardiner and Renard are persuading her to do so. She wishes to show clemency and I feel sure that she will. Only … for a time they must remain prisoners. Wait until after the Coronation. Then Her Majesty will feel safe on the throne, and the safer she feels, the more merciful will she be.”

Jane wept. “It is because I feel happier this day,” she explained.

“As soon as the Coronation is over I will try to put in a word in the right quarter, dear Jane. Perhaps you may be allowed to visit your boys. Be of good cheer. The more time that elapses, the better, for the more likelihood there will be of their release. Remember, the three younger ones have not yet been tried.”

After that life seemed more bearable. Jane longed for the Coronation to be over.

What rejoicing there was throughout the City when the Queen set out! In a litter covered with cloth of silver and borne by six handsome white horses, Mary was surrounded by seventy of her ladies all clad in crimson velvet. The Queen herself wore blue velvet trimmed with ermine. Her cap was of gold net ornamented with diamonds and pearls. It was so heavy that she could scarcely hold up her head—which was unfortunate, for she suffered much from painful headaches. Mistress Clarencius, her old nurse and the woman whom she trusted more than any other, glanced at her anxiously from time to time and longed to remove that heavy head ornament which she knew was causing pain and discomfort.

Mary suffered from more than a headache on that day. She was deeply conscious of her young sister. She knew that many in the crowds would be comparing them—the sick looks of one, the glowing health of the other, age with youth, Catholic with Protestant. Was Gardiner right? Was Renard right? Was it folly to let Elizabeth live?

Elizabeth was enjoying her state ride. She might be about to die, but such pageantry, with herself playing a prominent part, was the birthright of a daughter of Henry the Eighth. Beside her sat her father’s fourth wife—Anne of Cleves—the only one of six still alive. They were dressed alike, which, for Elizabeth, was an advantage. Anne of Cleves had never been a beauty, and now she was an excellent foil for the radiant young girl of twenty as they sat side by side in their gowns of cloth of silver with the long hanging sleeves, not unlike those which Elizabeth’s mother had introduced from France.

In Fenchurch Street addresses were declaimed by four men, all of whom were nearly seven feet tall. In Gracechurch Street the procession paused that a trumpeter dressed as an angel might play a solo to the Queen; Heywood the poet read some of his verses to Mary at the gates of St. Paul’s School. The people shouted with glee and prepared to make merry as they cheered the Queen, the Princess Elizabeth, and the young and handsome Edward Courtenay, who had now been created Duke of Devonshire. Red wine flowed in the conduits, and this boon pleased the people as much as any.

A few days before the Coronation the Queen came to Whitehall from St. James’s; and there she stayed until the first day of October, when she set out for Westminster Abbey for the ceremony of crowning.

Elizabeth with Anne of Cleves walked directly behind the Queen. Elizabeth’s hopes were high. Surely, she reasoned, the Queen could not feel cold toward her since she allowed her to take such a prominent part in the ceremony.

Elizabeth could not help imagining, during that glittering occasion, that it was herself who held the center of the stage.

She heard the voice of Gardiner: “Here present is Mary, rightful and undoubted inheritrix, by the laws of God and man, to the crown and royal dignity of this realm of England, France, and Ireland; and you shall understand that this day is appointed, by all the peers of this land, for the consecration, unction, and coronation of the said most excellent Mary. Will you serve at this time and give your wills and assent to the same consecration, unction, and coronation?”

And Elizabeth, with all those present, cried: “Yea, yea, yea! God save Queen Mary!”

But the name she seemed to hear was not Mary but Elizabeth.

Whilst the oraisons were said over Mary, whilst her mantle was removed, whilst she was anointed and her purple velvet ermine-edged mantle laid again about her shoulders, Elizabeth saw another in her place. One day it would be Elizabeth who was in robes of velvet, the crown on her head, the scepter in her right hand, the orb in her left. It would be Elizabeth to whom the peers knelt in homage and allegiance, Elizabeth whose left cheek was kissed. “God save Queen Elizabeth!” would be the cry in her ears.

And when they left the Abbey, among the cheering crowds Elizabeth thought she saw a woman, with a white and tragic face and mournful eyes, who stood out among the gaily cheering people because she did not cheer, because she was sad in the midst of all that gaiety.

Was it the sorrowing Duchess of Northumberland?

Elizabeth shivered. Here was another reminder of how close disaster could be to triumph.

A few weeks later when winter had set in, many people waited in the cold streets to see another procession. This was in great contrast with the glittering spectacle of the Queen’s Coronation.

Bishop Ridley led this procession, and among those who walked behind him was Lord Robert Dudley.

Robert held his head high. He, who longed for excitement, was glad even of this; he appeared jaunty as he walked through the narrow streets. Even at the Guildhall, he could only shrug his powerful shoulders. It was what he expected. Ambrose, Guildford, and Lady Jane had already been condemned and returned to their prisons. It was his turn now. And what could save one who had without doubt plotted against the Queen? It was useless to do anything but plead guilty.

It was no surprise to Lord Robert that when he left Guildhall for his journey back to the Tower, the blade of the axe should be turned toward him. He had been condemned to that terrible death which was reserved for traitors: to be hanged, cut down alive, and dis emboweled.

But Robert was by nature optimistic. It would be the axe for him. The son of a Duke would not die the ignoble death of common traitors.

So back to his cell in the Beauchamp Tower he went to await the summons to Tower Hill. But on the way he was aware of women in the crowd who had come to gaze at the prisoners. He noted their looks of sympathy and interest. Life in a dismal cell could not rob him of his powers to charm.

“What a handsome young man!” it was murmured. “So young to die.”

And it was Robert whom their eyes followed.

There was one woman who watched him. She longed to call out his name as he passed; yet she hid herself, fearing that the sight of her there might distress him. How noble was his carriage, she thought; and how careless he seemed of his fate! That was what she would expect of her proud Robin.

As the procession passed on, Jane Dudley fell swooning to the ground.

There was perturbation at Court. The Queen had, after showing favor to Edward Courtenay, turned against him. Some said this was due to her discovery of the profligate habits in which he had indulged during his stay in the Tower. He was without doubt a libertine and could not be so enamored of an aging woman as he pretended to be. Others, more knowledgeable, believed the change in her manner toward this young nobleman could be explained by the secret conferences she had had with the Spanish ambassador, and the fact that Philip, the son of Emperor Charles and heir to vast possessions, was a widower.

Noailles, the French ambassador, secretly sought out the Princess Elizabeth.

“Your Grace has heard that the Queen considers marriage with the Prince of Spain?” he asked.

“There have been such rumors.”

“Your Grace must know that a union with Spain would be most unpopular in England.”

“The Queen is mistress of the country and herself. She will marry when and whom she pleases.”

“There are many people in this country who would not tolerate a Spanish marriage.”

“I know nothing of them.”

“Does Your Grace know why the Queen has turned from Courtenay? It is because she suspects where his affections really lie.”

In spite of Elizabeth’s control her eyes brightened. “I do not understand Your Excellency.”

“It is Your Grace of whom he is enamored. He is so far gone in love for you that he is ready to throw away an immediate crown for the hope of a future one.”

Elizabeth saw the danger. “I know nothing of this,” she said.

“Yet others do. They are saying that if Courtenay married you, and you succeed to that for which you have a claim, the people would be happier than they would be to see a Spaniard the Queen’s husband.”

Her heart was beating fast. Again she heard the Abbey service and the cry of the peers: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

She thought then of the woman she had seen in the crowd, of the Dudley brothers at this moment awaiting the penalty of ambition which had failed.

Noailles went on: “Courtenay has powerful friends in Devon and Cornwall. Your Grace, a great future lies before you.”

I am crossing a chasm on a flimsy bridge, she thought. Walk with balanced care and I shall find a throne awaiting me; but one false step and down … down to disaster, down to a cell in the Tower, and the block.

Noailles wished to prevent the Spanish marriage at all costs because it was against the interest of France that it should take place. But would he wish to see Elizabeth on the throne? Indeed no! His plot would be to ferment trouble which would remove Mary and Elizabeth and leave the way clear for Mary Queen of Scots. Her lips were scornful. The French ambassador must think her a fool.

As soon as he left her, Elizabeth sought an audience with the Queen. Mary granted this, but as Elizabeth was kneeling before her she saw that Mary’s attitude toward her was no more friendly than it had been on their previous meeting. The Spanish ambassador, knowing the unpopularity of the match he was trying to make for the son of his master and the Queen of England, was aware that there were some factions who would prefer to put Elizabeth on the throne and allow her to marry Courtenay. If such a thing should come to pass, England would once more be a Protestant country. Renard was therefore urging the Queen to send Elizabeth to the block. He was sure that the Princess was concerned in plots against the Queen, and he was determined to trap her and thus override the Queen’s sentimental feelings for her sister. But the girl, for all her youth and seeming innocence, was more cunning than those ambassadors. Always she eluded them.

Renard had warned Mary, and the Queen, as she watched her kneeling sister, remembered those warnings.

“Your Majesty,” said Elizabeth, “I crave leave to retire to one of my country houses.”

“Why so?” asked Mary.

“My health is failing. I need the fresh country air.”

“You appear to me very healthy.”

“I suffer much, Your Majesty. In the quiet of the country I could study the books Your Majesty has set me to study. I feel that in the quiet of Woodstock or Hatfield I could come to an understanding with the truth.”

“You will stay here,” said the Queen, “that I may know what plans you make and whom you have about you.”

Elizabeth was dismissed. She left the Queen’s apartment with much apprehension, knowing that she was living through one of the most critical periods in a lifetime of danger.

Strangely enough the Spanish ambassador came to her aid though unwittingly.

The entire country now knew that the Queen was favorably considering a match with Spain. There was disquiet throughout the land, for the English hated the Spaniards; and there was much talk of the virtues of Elizabeth.

The Queen had stubbornly refused to acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. It seemed that she was afraid to do this because the people might decide that a younger, legitimate daughter who was a Protestant would be a better ruler for England than the elder, Catholic daughter of Henry the Eighth. But the real reason simply was that if she herself were legitimate, Elizabeth could not be, for the only way in which Elizabeth could be legitimate was by declaring her father’s marriage with Katharine of Aragon void. Therefore it was not possible for both of them to be legitimate.

The Spanish ambassador, wishing to precipitate matters, unwisely sought to implicate his old enemy Noailles. It would be a master stroke to have Noailles sent back to France and Elizabeth to the block at the same time. He accused Noailles of visiting Elizabeth’s chamber at night in order to plot against the Queen.

This was a ridiculous accusation and the plot was exposed, for not even Elizabeth’s enemies could find a case against her.

On her knees before the Queen she cried: “I beg of Your Majesty never to give credit to the evil tales which are spread concerning me, without giving me an opportunity to prove myself guiltless.”

Mary believed sincerely in justice, and Elizabeth’s words were well chosen.

“My dear sister,” said Mary, “I am sorry that you have been misjudged. Take these pearls as a sign of my affection.”

Elizabeth accepted the pearls and was quick to take advantage of the situation. She lifted her eyes to her sister’s face and said: “Your Majesty is so good to me. I know you will give me leave to retire from Court that I may live in quietness and hasten to do what Your Majesty would have me do. Give me your gracious permission to retire that I may study the books you have set me to study, the sooner that I may govern my thoughts and lead them whither Your Majesty would have them go.”

The permission was granted and, with great relief, Elizabeth retired from imminent danger.

There was one way of escape from ever-threatening danger. Often she thought of it; always she rejected it.

The King of Denmark had offered his son, Philibert Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy, as a husband for her. Spain favored such a match, and therefore it received due consideration by the Queen.

While she lived her quiet life in her house at Ashridge, Elizabeth was filled with apprehension. If a stranger rode up she would be on the alert for a messenger from the Queen bringing a summons for her to appear at Court, which might be followed by imprisonment and death. Only by marrying a foreign Prince could she escape that constant fear. But to abandon fear was also to abandon her most cherished dream. As the Duchess of Savoy she would never hear those magic words which, perhaps next year, or the year after that, or in five or ten years’ time, could ring in the ears of the Princess Elizabeth: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

No, here she was, and here she would stay. All her hopes were in England, and if at times she felt she would never succeed in climbing the slippery path which led to the summit of ambition, well then, she would rather fall in the attempt than give up the climb.

Emphatically she refused the offer from the Duke of Savoy.

The Queen and her ministers were annoyed, but mildly; and temporarily the matter was allowed to drop.

She lived quietly in the country for a few weeks, eagerly learning all she could of what was happening at Court from her friends who were still there.

News came—wild news, news which might lead to triumph or disaster. Wyatt had risen in protest against the Spanish marriage. Letters asking for her support had been sent to her, but she would have nothing to do with such a rebellion. She knew that her hope of success lay in waiting. She knew that Courtenay was concerned in the Wyatt plot, and handsome as he was he was weak and untrustworthy; and if the plot were successful, the Duke of Suffolk, who was also one of the leaders, would surely hope to bring his own daughter Lady Jane Grey to the throne rather than help Elizabeth.

No! Rebellion was not for her.

And she was soon proved to be right, for Courtenay turned traitor in a moment of panic and confessed the plot to Gardiner, so that Wyatt was forced to act prematurely. The rebellion failed and Wyatt was under arrest; Courtenay and Suffolk were sent to the Tower, and the order went forth that Lady Jane and Lord Guildford Dudley were to be executed without delay. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, letters written by Noailles and Wyatt, intended for her, were intercepted and put before the Queen.

When the summons came, Elizabeth knew that in all the dangerous moments of a hazardous life, there had never been one to equal this.

There was one thing she could do. She could go to bed. Alas, she declared, she was too ill to travel; and indeed, so terrified was she, that her illness on this occasion was not altogether feigned. She could neither eat nor sleep; she lay in agony of torment—waiting, listening for the sound of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard which would announce the arrival of the Queen’s men.

It was not long before they came.

They were not soldiers come to arrest her, but two of the Queen’s physicians, Dr. Wendy and Dr. Owen.

Her trembling attendants announced their arrival.

“I cannot see them,” said the Princess. “I am too ill for visitors.”

It was ten o’clock at night, but the doctors came purposefully into her chamber. She looked at them haughtily.

“Is the haste such that you could not wait until morning?” she asked.

They begged her to pardon them. They were distressed, they said, to see her Grace in such a sorry condition.

“And I,” she retorted, “am not glad to see you at such an hour.”

“It is by the Queen’s command that we come, Your Grace.”

“You see me a poor invalid.”

They came closer to the bed. “It is the Queen’s wish that you should leave Ashridge at dawn tomorrow for London.”

“I could not undertake the journey in my present state of fatigue.”

The doctors looked at her sternly. “Your Grace might rest for one day. After that we must set out without fail for London on pain of Her Majesty’s displeasure.”

Elizabeth was resigned. She knew that her sick-bed could give her at most no more than a few days’ grace.

She was carried in a litter which the Queen had sent for her; and the very day on which she set out was that on which Lady Jane Grey and her husband Lord Guildford Dudley walked the short distance from their prisons in the Tower to the scaffold.

Some of the country people came out to watch the Princess pass by, and she was deeply aware of their sympathetic glances. They thought of the lovely Jane Grey, who was only seventeen; she had had no wish to be Queen, but the ambition of those about her had forced her to that eminence. And perhaps at this moment she was saying her last prayers before the executioner severed that lovely head from her slender body. The people could feel nothing but pity for that young girl; and here was another—this young Princess who might be on her way to a similar fate.

For once Elizabeth was desolate and afraid. She was delaying the journey as much as possible because she believed that Mary’s anger might cool if given time. Therefore each day’s delay was important. She spent the first night at Redbourn and her second halt was at St. Albans. Oh, that she might rest a little longer in the comfortable hospitality of Sir Ralph Rowlett’s mansion! But they must go on to Mimms and to Highgate. She made a point of resting as long as she possibly could at these places, and the journey took ten days, far longer than was really necessary.

When Elizabeth reached London it was to find a subdued City in which many gibbets had been erected. Men were hanging outside the doors of their houses; there was a new harvest of heads on the Bridge. London had little heart to welcome the Princess who was sadly conscious of her own uneasy head.

But as she passed through the Capital, which had always been friendly to her, she roused herself from her melancholy. She had the litter uncovered that the people might see her all in white, a color which not only set off the glory of her hair, but seemed to proclaim her spotless innocence; she sat erect and proud, as though to say: “Let them do what they will to an innocent girl.” And if the people of London felt that at such a time it would be unwise to cheer the Princess, they did not refrain from weeping for her; and they prayed that she might not suffer the fate which had befallen the Lady Jane Grey.

She was taken to the Palace of Whitehall.

It was on the Friday before Palm Sunday that Elizabeth, in her closely guarded apartments at the Palace, heard from her attendants that Bishop Gardiner with some members of the Queen’s Council was on his way to visit her.

At length he stood before her—the great Bishop of Winchester, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom and her declared enemy.

“Your Grace is charged,” he said, “with conspiracy against the Queen. You are charged with being concerned in the Wyatt plot.”

“This is a false accusation.”

“Letters are in the Queen’s possession which will prove that you speak not the truth, and it is Her Majesty’s pleasure that you should leave this lodging for another.”

Elizabeth could not trust herself to speak; that which she had most dreaded was upon her.

“Your Grace is to be removed this day to the Tower.”

She was terrified, yet determined not to show her fear. She boldly answered: “I trust that Her Majesty will be far more gracious than to commit to that place a true and innocent woman who never offended her in thought, word, nor deed.”

“It is the will of Her Majesty that you should prepare to leave for the Tower this day.”

An impulse came to her to throw herself upon her knees and plead with these men. Instead she stood still, looking haughtily at them.

“I beg of you, my lords,” she said, “either to plead my case before the Queen or to ask her graciously to permit me to see her.”

Gardiner answered: “The Queen’s orders are that you shall prepare to leave at once.”

The Earl of Sussex was moved by her youth, her courage, and her desperate plight. He said: “If it be in my power to persuade the Queen to grant you an audience, I will do so.”

They left her then, and when they had gone she collapsed upon a stool. She covered her face with her hands and whispered: “So did my mother go to the Tower … never to return.”

All that night she waited for a summons from the Queen. Her servants told her that the gardens surrounding the palace were being patrolled by guards; they were in the palace itself, for it was greatly feared that there might be some plot for her escape.

The next day the Earl of Sussex came to her to tell her that she must leave at once, for a barge was prepared and the tide would not wait. She wrote a note to the Queen and pleaded so earnestly with Sussex to take it to her that he was deeply moved.

“My lord Earl,” she implored, “I beg of you to take it now.”

He hesitated, but he could not resist her pleading and he took the letter to the Queen.

Mary was enraged. This, she cried, was a ruse of her sister’s. Did not my lord Sussex realize that she had duped him into missing the tide for that day?

The next day was Palm Sunday and there was nothing to prevent her going to the Tower.

She had not been taken on the midnight tide because it was feared that in the darkness a rescue might be possible.

As she walked to the barge she murmured: “The Lord’s Will be done. I must be content seeing this is the Queen’s pleasure!” Then she turned to the men who walked beside her and cried out in sudden anger: “It is an astonishing thing that you who call yourselves noblemen and gentlemen should suffer me, a Princess and daughter of the great King Henry, to be led to captivity, the Lord knoweth where, for I do not.”

They watched her furtively. How could they be sure what she would do? They—stalwart soldiers and statesmen—were afraid of this slender young girl.

The barge sped quickly along the river, while the Londoners were at Church, that they might not see her pass by and show her that sympathy which they had never failed to give her. Quickly they came to the Tower—that great gray home of torment, of failure and despair.

She saw that they were taking her to the Traitor’s Gate, and this seemed to her a terrible omen.

“I will not be landed there!” she cried.

It was raining and she lifted her face that she might feel the rain upon it, for when would she again be at liberty to feel its softness? How gentle it is! she thought. How kind in this cruel world!

“Your Grace …” urged Sussex.

“Must I then land here … at the Traitor’s Gate? Look! You have misjudged the tide. How can I step into the water?”

Sussex put his cloak about her shoulders to protect her from the rain. In sudden pettishness she threw it off and stepped out. The water came above her shoe, but she did not heed it. She cried in a ringing voice: “Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, oh God, I speak it, having no other friend but Thee alone.”

As she passed on, many of the warders came out to see her, and some of them brought their children with them. The sight of these small wondering faces calmed the Princess. She smiled wanly at them, and one little boy came forward on his own account and, kneeling before her, said in a high piping voice: “Last night I prayed God to preserve Your Grace, and I shall do so again.”

She laid her hand on his head. “So I have one friend in this sorry place,” she said. “I thank you, my child.”

Then several of the warders cried out: “May God preserve Your Grace.”

She smiled and sat down on one of the damp stones, looking at them almost tenderly.

The Lieutenant of the Tower came to her and begged her to rise. “For, Madam,” he said, “you sit unwholesomely.”

“Better sit here than in a worse place,” she retorted, “for God, not I, knows whither you bring me.”

But she rose and allowed herself, with those few women who had been permitted to accompany her, to be led into the Tower.

The Earl of Sussex still walked beside her. “Your Grace,” he murmured, “you will understand that I like not this task which has been put upon me. Rest assured that I shall do everything in my power to ease your stay in this place.”

“My lord,” she answered softly, “I forget not your kindness to me.”

She was conducted to the apartments prepared for her—the most heavily guarded in the Tower; and as her weeping ladies gathered about her, she felt her courage return.

So it had come—that which she had so often dreaded. Her thoughts were not of the trials which lay ahead but of her conduct during her journey to this place. Had any seen that when they had brought her through the Traitor’s Gate she had almost swooned? She fervently hoped that none had witnessed that display of fear.

Now she felt so calm that she was able to soothe her women. “What happens now is in the hands of God,” she consoled them. “And if they should send me to the block, I will have no English axe to sever my head from my body; I shall insist on a sword from France.”

They knew then that she was remembering her mother, and they wept more wildly; but she sat erect, her tawny head high, while she calmly looked into a future which might bring her a crown or a sword from France.