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

THREE

Robert was pacing up and down his cell. He had been excited since that rainy Palm Sunday when he had heard, from the warder who brought his meals, that there was a most distinguished prisoner not very far from him.

How long had he to live? he wondered. Young Guildford had gone, alas! It was a sobering thought. Guildford and he had spent so much of their lives together. Father … Guildford … Who next?

When the threat of death hung over a man for so long, there were times when he forgot about it. It was some months since he had walked from the Guildhall back to the Tower, aware of the axe with its edge turned toward him. When his cell door had been locked upon him and he was alone with those two servants, whom, because of his rank, he was allowed to have with him, he had felt nothing but bleak and utter despair; he had almost longed to be summoned for that last walk. But such as Robert Dudley did not despair for long. He had been born lucky. Was he not Fortune’s darling? Had she not shielded him when she had made him commit the seemingly foolhardly act of marrying Amy? If he had not done so, it would have been Robert, not Guildford, who had walked to the scaffold to be beheaded with the Lady Jane Grey, since his father would most certainly have married him to that most tragic young lady. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that he was preserved for some glorious destiny.

It was Easter time, always a season for hope.

The warder came in to bring his food, and with him he brought his small son. The little boy, not quite four years old, begged that he might accompany his father when he visited Lord Robert. The child would stand gravely surveying the prisoner, and although he said nothing, his eyes scarcely left Robert’s face.

Robert was amused. He could see in the child’s eyes the same admiration and sympathy which had shone in those of the women who had stood in the street to watch him on his journey from Guildhall to the Tower.

He bowed to the boy and said: “I am honored by your visit.”

The child smiled and hung his head.

“My lord,” said his father, “he asks always if I am going to visit you, and if I am he implores to come too.”

“I repeat,” said Robert, “I am honored.”

And with a display of charm which was natural with him, he lifted the child in his arms so that their faces were on a level.

“And what think you of what you see, my little one?” he asked. “Take a good look at this head, for the opportunity to do so may not long be yours. One day, my child, you will come to this cell and find another poor prisoner.”

The little boy’s lips began to quiver.

“And this poor head which you survey with such flattering attention will no longer have a pair of shoulders to support it.”

The warder whispered: “My lord, my lord, he understands your meaning. He will break his little heart. He sets such store by your lordship.”

Robert was immediately serious. He kissed the boy lightly on the cheek.

“Tears?” he said. “Nay, we do not shed tears. Do you think that I shall allow them to harm me? Never!”

The child smiled now. “Never!” he repeated.

Robert lowered him to the ground. “A bonny boy,” he said. “I look forward to his visits. I hope he will come again.”

“He shall, my lord. Always he pleads: ‘I want to see Lord Robert!’ Is that not so, my son?”

The boy nodded.

“And great pleasure it gives me to see you,” said Robert smiling.

“He has another friend in the Tower, my lord.”

“Ha! I grow jealous.”

“It is a lady Princess,” said the boy.

Robert was alert, eager to hear more.

“It is the Princess Elizabeth, my lord,” put in the warder. “Poor lady! It is sad for her … though they have allowed her a little freedom. She is allowed to walk in the small garden to take the air.”

“Would I could walk in a small garden now and then,” said Robert.

“Ah, my lord, yes indeed. They were at first strict with the Princess, keeping her closely guarded. But my lord of Sussex and the Lieutenant have put their heads together and have decided to give her this freedom.”

“It would seem that they are wise men.”

“How so, my lord?”

“They remember that the Princess may well be Queen one day. She would not look too kindly on those who had, during her imprisonment, shown her something less than kindness.”

The warder looked uneasy. He did not like this reckless talk. It was all very well for Lord Robert, who had little to lose since he was under sentence of death, but a humble warder to be caught listening to such talk concerning the Queen’s enemies!

He took the boy by the hand but Robert said: “And so my little friend visits the Princess in her garden, eh?”

“Oh yes. Her Grace is fond of children. She encourages them to talk to her; and young Will is almost as devoted to the lady as he is to your lordship.”

Robert swung the boy up into his arms once more. “It would seem, Master William,” he said, “that you are a gentleman of much discernment.”

The boy laughed aloud to find himself swung aloft, but Robert was thoughtful as he lowered him to the floor.

The next day when the warder came, the boy was again with him; this time he brought a nosegay—flowers which he had picked from the patch of ground outside his father’s apartments within the prison precincts. Primroses, violets, and wallflowers made a sweet-smelling bunch.

The boy handed them shyly to Robert.

“Why,” cried Robert, “this is the pleasantest thing that has happened to me for a long time. I need a bowl in which to put them, for they will quickly fade if I do not. A small bowl of water. Could you procure such a bowl for me?”

“I will bring one next time I come,” said the warder.

“Nay, that will not do. I’d not have my friend’s flowers fade. Go, like a good fellow, bring me a bowl and leave your son with me that I may thank him for his gift.” He picked up the boy. “You will stay with me … locked in my cell for a little while, will you not? You are not afraid to stay with me?”

The boy said: “I wish to stay with my lord.”

The warder looked fondly at his son and, seeing that to be locked in the cell with Lord Robert would delight him, agreed to go and bring the bowl. He went out, carefully locking the door behind him.

As soon as he had gone, Robert, who still held the boy in his arms, whispered into his ear: “You are my friend. You would do something for me?”

The boy was all eagerness.

“Bring me some flowers tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lord … bigger, better flowers tomorrow.”

“And when you bring me more flowers, I shall take these which you have brought today, out of the bowl and give them to you.”

“But they are for you.”

“I would that you should take them to a lady.” The boy’s eyes were alert. “ To the Princess,” whispered Robert. “But you must tell no one … no one at all … not even your father. It must be thought that I give you a present of flowers, and so you in return give me one. No one must know that you are going to take a present from me to the Princess.”

The boy was puzzled, but he was concentrating with all his might. His one desire was to do what his hero wished.

“Remember! It is a great secret. No one must know. In the bunch of flowers I give you, there will be a letter. You must be careful that you do not drop it. And if no one is near when you give the flowers to the Princess you might say: ‘I bring these from Lord Robert!’ Could you say that?”

The boy nodded. “I bring these from Lord Robert,” he said.

“Then you will do this for me? Tomorrow … bring more flowers for me. I shall give you these which you brought today. It is a game we are playing because we are such friends. It is a present from me to the Princess … but a secret present, and none knows of it but my little ambassador. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Robert put his fingers to his lips and the boy nodded gleefully.

“And can you do this for me, my clever little friend?”

The boy nodded.

“Not a word,” said Robert. “Here comes your father. Remember. It is our secret—yours, mine, and the Princess’s.”

When the warder had returned, Robert marveled at his own fool-hardiness. What a reckless thing to do! For himself it was unimportant; he was under sentence of death. But what if he had involved the Princess in further trouble? He had trusted her life perhaps in the hands of a small boy.

But, he soothed himself, there was no political intrigue in this; he was not plotting rebellion or escape.

Moreover the plot was so simple. It could not fail. He sat down and wrote:

Dearest lady, My cell in this dreary prison has become brighter since you are close to me, grieved though I am by your misfortunes. If your walks should bring you past my cell and I might see you, that is the only boon I would ask before I die. This comes from one who has had the great joy of laughing with you, dancing with you, and would now find equal joy in a glimpse of your sweet face. From one who has never forgotten you, nor ever shall. R.D.

He hid the note in the posy, binding it fast; and eagerly he awaited the next day, wondering, as he had through the night, whether the child had been unable to keep the secret or if he would remember to bring fresh flowers on the next day.

As soon as the boy entered the cell with his father, this time bearing a larger bunch of flowers, Robert saw from the brightness of the boy’s eyes and the tightly pressed lips that he had not forgotten.

“You bring me a present,” said Robert. “Now I shall give you one.” He took the new bunch and pressed the old one into the child’s hands. Their eyes met and the boy’s were brimming over with excitement.

“God bless you,” said Robert.

“God bless my lord,” said the boy.

“I envy you this fine boy,” said Robert to the warder. “I … who have no sons … nor daughters either, for that matter.”

He thought with exasperation of Amy, waiting for him in the manor house which was their home—Amy who had saved him from marriage with the Lady Jane Grey and who now stood between him and he knew not what.

“Ah, he’s a bonny fellow,” said the father. “And he has brothers and sisters.”

“You are a lucky man.”

The warder shook his head, thinking of the splendors of the Dudleys which had ended so tragically and abruptly.

The little boy wandered out, tightly clutching the bunch of flowers.

A change had come over the Princess Elizabeth. There was fresh color in her cheeks, renewed sparkle in her eyes. It was obvious that she looked forward to her walks in the Tower garden.

She would smile and kiss the warder’s little boy who so often brought her flowers. She would pick him up in her arms and whisper to him, walking with him among the flower beds. Her attendants and the guards said: “She is very fond of children.” And it was touching to see the eager way in which she took the flowers which the child brought to her.

She had thrown off her melancholy. It was difficult to believe that her life was in danger and that none was more aware of that dismal fact than herself.

“Ah, my little one,” she would cry, on seeing the boy, “so you do not forget me then?”

“I would never forget you, Mistress,” he would say.

She would take his little hand and walk away from those who attended her; she wished to be alone in the gardens with her little friend.

“How is my lord?” she would whisper.

“He says that he is in wondrous health since he has had word from your Grace.”

“He looks for a letter from me, I doubt not?”

“Nay, Mistress. He says you must not write. I will tell him what you say.”

“You are a dear good child and I am fond of you.”

So she blossomed among the flowers and passed much time in her apartments—which otherwise would have been spent wearily—in remembering the charm of Robert Dudley, picturing what would happen if they met again.

Other children began to follow the warder’s little boy into the gardens. There was so much talk of the Princess, that they too wished to see her and to tell her how sorry they were that she was a captive.

There was the son of the Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, and little Susannah, the daughter of another warder, who came with the boy. They would run into the garden and stand before the Princess, who always had a word and smile for them; but little Will was her favorite.

There were many persons of importance who wished to show leniency toward the Princess. It was folly, said Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, to offend more than need be, a lady of Elizabeth’s rank. One turn of Fortune’s wheel and she would be their Queen. He expressed his feelings thus in order to win support for them; for he himself was a kind man and the plight of the Princess had aroused his compassion. He swore to himself that while Elizabeth was in his charge she should have as much respect as he dared give her.

It was not long before the Princess was allowed to go where she wished within the precincts of the Tower; and thus it was that she saw Robert.

She knew that he was in a lower cell of the Beauchamp Tower, and that if she passed by he would be able, by looking through the bars of his window, to see her. On that first day of her new liberty, she curbed her impatience, but on the second she dressed herself with the utmost care and with her attendants about her and her guards nearby, she walked aimlessly in the direction of the Beauchamp Tower.

“Wait here,” she said to her attendants. “I would be alone for a while.”

The sympathetic guards allowed her to go on, but they begged her not to go from their sight or they would be forced to follow her.

She paused by the Beauchamp Tower and whispered: “Robert. Robert Dudley. Are you there?”

He was at the window looking through the bars.

“My … Princess!” he murmured.

He was pale through long confinement, but his pallor seemed but to enhance the beauty of that incomparable cast of features; the flesh had fallen away to disclose the fine contours of his face. How handsome he is! thought the Princess; and any man who admired her seemed to her charming.

“I cannot tarry long,” she murmured. “My guards are watching. Have a care.”

“You came … to see me! I shall remember it till I die.”

“Robert … what will they do to us?”

“Time will tell.”

“You do not care?”

“Life has to end sometime, sweet Princess. I have railed against my fate. But I am here and, because I am a prisoner, and you are a prisoner, I have shown you what is in my heart. How could Robert Dudley have said to a noble Princess what one prisoner could say to another?”

“You have been very bold,” she said with feigned severity.

“It is well, mayhap, that the walls of a prison separate us, for if they did not, how could I, dazzled by your beauty, control what might be unforgivable boldness?”

She pretended to contemplate the April sky, and her eyes seemed to take color from its blueness. She heard the call of the cuckoo from the distant meadows. Spring was in the air and in her heart; she could not think of death for herself at such a time. They were both so young. Prisoner as she was, this was one of the happiest moments of her life. She vowed there and then that she would never forget the man who had made it possible for her to be so happy in this grim prison.

“It is well indeed,” she said. “I shall walk on a few paces and turn back. I see they are watching me.”

His voice followed her. “If tomorrow I walk out to the scaffold, I shall not complain. I am a prisoner here under sentence of death, yet I rejoice … for the Princess has passed my way.”

How handsome he was! How ardent his eyes! She had heard it said that he was irresistible. Yet because she was a Princess her royalty would resist him. But what need to think of resistance? They were separated by unbreakable barriers: her royalty, his prison walls, his marriage to a country girl. She did not resent these barriers; she wished for barriers. She saw herself as the most desirable woman in England, young, beautiful, yet unattainable. That was how she wished it to be.

She dawdled past his window once more.

“I was grieved,” she said, “when I heard of your arrest. I was grieved because I remembered you and because of the reason you are here.”

He was prepared. He had not mentioned politics in his letters; those spoke of nothing but love and devotion. He said: “I am my father’s son. I had no alternative but to fight in my father’s cause. I was young … without experience, his to command.”

“And who may command you now?”

“The Princess Elizabeth. She may command me, body and soul.”

She was delighted, but she said with asperity: “When was your allegiance severed from the Lady Jane Grey? When she went to the scaffold?”

“I can only say that I served my father.”

“Robert, you are a fool. And so am I to linger here.”

“But … you will walk this way again?”

She stooped as though to flick a piece of grass from her shoe. “Should I step out of my way to listen to you?”

“If you are merciful, yes.”

“Merciful?” She looked round. Those who were watching her were growing suspicious. She dared dally no longer, but she was finding it difficult to tear herself away. Flirtation such as this was a game she enjoyed beyond all others. “Who am I, a poor prisoner, to be merciful?”

“There is none other whose mercy I would ask. I crave the mercy of a smile from your sweet lips. The memory of your beauty will stay with me … lighting my cell. If I die tomorrow I shall die happy … because you came to see me, my dearest Princess.”

“I but passed this way.”

“Then Your Grace is displeased because I wrote to you?”

“It was somewhat impertinent of you.”

“Then if my letters have given you displeasure, I must deny myself the great joy of writing them.”

“As to that you must please yourself.”

“If I pleased myself I should write all day. You will come this way again?”

“My lord, do you think I shall go out of my way to avoid you?” There was a trill of excitement in her voice. She knew she ought to go, but she could not resist lingering there.

“To see you is the most wonderful thing that has happened to me,” he said.

“I must go.”

“I shall live for this hour tomorrow.”

“My guards grow suspicious. I must tarry no longer.”

“Would I could kiss your hand … Elizabeth.”

“I dare stay no longer.”

“I shall wait … and hope.”

“It is a good thing to wait … and hope. It is all that is left to us poor prisoners.”

She had turned her face to the sky so that the light fell upon it; she shook out her hair and touched her throat with one of those white slender hands of which she was so proud. She made a charming picture for him to see and retain in his memory.

“You are so beautiful,” she heard him whisper. “Even more so than I remembered.”

Did they know, those guards and friends of hers, why her morning walks always took her in one direction? Did they know who the prisoner was on the other side of the grille? If they did they feigned ignorance.

She would sit on the grass outside the cell and, leaning back against the walls, look up at the sky while she talked to Robert Dudley.

She scolded him, but there was a warmth of tenderness always beneath the scolding. She was as excited as she had been during that most exciting experience with Thomas Seymour.

“So, Robert Dudley, you are a traitor to our most gracious Queen.”

“Princess, I serve only one Queen.”

“Then that must be Queen Mary.”

“Nay, the Queen of my heart, the Queen I shall always worship to the end of my days. Her name is not Mary.”

“Might it be Amy?”

“Ah, speak not of poor Amy.”

“Speak not of her indeed! Poor soul, I pity her. She happens to be your wife.”

“I spoke of a Queen,” he said. “I spoke of the only one in the world whom I could ever love, but who, I fear, is far beyond my reach.”

“What name has she?”

“Elizabeth.”

“The same as mine!”

“You mock me!”

“Robert, you are a philanderer, as many know to their cost.”

“If that is so, might it not be because, knowing I can never reach my love, I seek desperately to find others who remind me of her?”

“So these others … these country girls … remind you of her?”

“In some small way, mayhap. Perhaps one has blue eyes; another has hair—not the same color, for how could that perfection be matched?—but perhaps when the sun shines in a certain way that hair has a faint resemblance to Elizabeth’s. Perhaps one has white and slender fingers, lacking the perfection, it is true, but they serve to remind.”

“Robert Dudley,” she challenged, “a woman would be a fool to put her trust in you.”

“One would not. But who am I to hope she would dare look my way?”

“You are under sentence of death,” she said quietly.

“I am almost glad of it. Because of it I am reckless. I say to the one I love that which, in other circumstances, I would not dare to say.”

“Say on,” she murmured.

“I love you … no one but you. There would be no place in my life except by your side. It is well that soon they will come for me and that I shall walk out to the scaffold, for, loving one so far above me, how could I hope for that love to be returned?”

“A man is a fool who gives up hope.”

“Is that so then?”

“Hope is what we live by … such as we are.”

“What could I hope for?”

“For life.”

“But what would life be worth if it held not love?”

“Then hope for life and love.”

“Elizabeth … my love!”

“It is true,” she admitted, “that I have a fondness for you.”

“I am the happiest man alive.”

“It is a marvelous thing, Robert, that you can say so at such a time.”

“Would I could be there beside you on the grass.”

“I fancy that you would be over-bold, which might mean that I should have to be cold to you.”

“I would break through your coldness.”

“Yes. I have heard that you have melting powers.”

“You have heard much of me. I am flattered again that you lent your ears so often to news of me … even when it went against me.”

“I did not forget you. You were such an arrogant boy.”

“You remember how we danced together … how our hands touched?”

“Do not talk of the past. Talk of the future.”

“What has the future for me?”

“Or for me?”

“You! There will be a great future for you. You will be a Queen.”

“Shall I, Robert?”

“A Queen! And your husband will be a foreign prince of great power and riches. Your ministers will choose him for you.”

“If I am ever Queen I shall choose my own husband.”

Such words set his hopes rising. Such hopes were absurd, he told himself. But were they? She was so proud, so brave, so determined. She was her father’s daughter; he had heard it said many times. Her father had married outside royalty. It was true that two of his wives had lost their heads; but Robert was sure of his powers.

“If ever I come out of here alive …” he began.

“Yes, Robert?” she prompted.

“I shall dedicate my life to your service.”

“Others have promised that.”

“I shall serve you with the love of a subject and … a man.”

“Subject?”

“When you are Queen …”

“You talk treason. If any heard, that would, without delay, cost you your head.”

“My heart is so deeply involved that my head seems of little importance.”

“I dare stay no longer.”

Yet how she wanted to do so! What a pleasant game it was that she played outside the walls of the Beauchamp Tower.

It was one of the children who broke the enchantment.

Little Susannah came to her one day as she walked in the gardens.

Susannah had found some keys, and these she had brought to the Princess. The little girl had listened to the conversations of her elders and had thought how she would like to do something for the sweet young lady. Young Will took her flowers, and those pleased her so much. What could Susannah do?

Then Susannah thought of something better than flowers. The Princess was a prisoner, was she not? Flowers were pretty to look at, but keys were so much more useful. So purposefully Susannah took the keys to the Princess, holding them out in her small chubby hand.

“These are for you, Mistress. Now you can unlock the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth bent over the child, but her guards had come forward.

“Your Grace will understand,” said one of the guards, “that I must take these keys, and that it will be necessary for me to report what has happened.”

“You may do as you please,” said Elizabeth. “This innocent child but plays a game.”

Susannah cried: “But the keys are for the lady. They are so that she may open the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth stooped to comfort the child. “It was good of you to bring me the keys, Susannah,” she said. “But you see, my dear little one, they will not let me have them.”

Susannah began to whimper: “Have I done wrong then, Mistress?”

“Nay. You thought to please me. That was not wrong.”

“But they are angry now.”

“Nay. They have taken the keys because I am their prisoner and that is how they wish to keep me.”

“But I would help you to escape.”

“I know, my little one. But that is not to be. You must be of good cheer. I am happy because you brought me the keys—not so that I might escape for I could not go until they say I may—but because it shows you love me.”

Susannah was comforted.

But now the officials of the Tower were conferring together.

“A child … to take keys to the Princess! That is very dangerous. Important keys could be smuggled into her apartments in this way.”

“The keys which the child took to her were useless keys. They had been thrown away.”

“That is so. But keys! And what is this about flowers?”

“Only that one of the warders’ boys takes her a bunch of flowers now and then. He picks them from his garden and takes them to his favorite prisoner.”

“Messages … notes … could be concealed in a bunch of flowers. We have here an important state prisoner. If she should escape it might cost us our heads.”

The result of this conference was that young Will found himself standing before a committee of impressive gentlemen, among them the awe-inspiring Lieutenant of the Tower himself.

Will was a little afraid, because he sensed the trepidation of his father, who waited outside while Will stood before a table about which sat the gentlemen.

There was one thought in the little boy’s mind: He must not betray the fact that he had carried a note in the bunch of flowers. Lord Robert had been most insistent about that. That was why they were angry, but he would not tell them. He must remember that Lord Robert did not wish it, and he did not care how angry the gentlemen were so long as he did what Lord Robert wished.

He stood there, his feet wide apart, his face firm and set, remembering that he was Lord Robert’s friend.

“Now, my boy, you took flowers to the Princess, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get these flowers?”

“From our garden.” That was true; the flowers had come from the garden.

“Now listen, my boy. Did any of the prisoners give you anything to put among the flowers?”

“No, sir.” That was true too. Lord Robert himself had put the notes among the flowers.

“Think very hard. You are sure no one gave you a letter to take to the Princess?”

“I am thinking hard,” said the boy. “Nobody gave me a letter, sir.”

The men looked at each other.

“Has he ever visited Courtenay’s apartments?” asked the Lieutenant.

“We will have his father in and ask him.”

Will’s father entered.

“Has the boy ever accompanied you to the apartments of the Duke of Devonshire?”

“No, sir. I have never been there myself.”

“Have you ever visited any of the prisoners who have recently been brought to the Tower … those concerned in the Wyatt rebellion?”

“No, sir.”

The men again looked at each other and at the small boy who presented such a picture of bewildered innocence. It was said that the Princess was fond of children and they of her; it was probable that there was nothing in this matter but pure friendship between the Princess and the child. So far no harm had been done. Elizabeth was still their prisoner.

“I will double the Princess’s guards,” said the Lieutenant. “ We will curtail her freedom. She shall walk only for a short time in the gardens and not where she willed as heretofore. And, warder, your son is to take no more flowers to prisoners. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, my boy, you understand? You must take no more flowers to the Princess.”

The boy nodded miserably.

When he next saw the Princess she was walking in her little garden, and the gates were locked so that he could not reach her. But he called to her through the railings.

She did not come near because her guards surrounded her; but she waved and smiled at him.

“I can bring you no more flowers, Mistress,” he called sadly.

The Queen fell ill and there was consternation among those who had persecuted Elizabeth. The chief of these was Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester—he who was the most formidable of the Princess’s enemies. He had a clear picture of what would happen to him if Mary died and Elizabeth became Queen.

He was the Queen’s favorite Bishop and statesman; he could take liberties; and it seemed to him that unless he took a very great one now, he could not expect to outlive Queen Mary by more than a week or two. So he decided to act with extreme boldness.

He wrote a death warrant and had a special messenger take it to Bridges in the Tower. The sentence was to be carried out on the Princess Elizabeth without delay.

When Bridges received the warrant he was bewildered.

Nothing had been proved against Elizabeth, although she was under constant suspicion. Was she to be executed without trial? That did not appeal to the fair-minded Bridges. He was proud of his office; he wanted justice to prevail in his domain. Moreover he was not insensible to the charm of the Princess. She was so young and her good spirits and bravery in captivity had made a marked impression on him; he was also not unmindful of what the future might bring.

A death warrant! Instructions to hurry on with the execution, to keep it secret and hustle the Princess from her prison to the scaffold in the early morning, to behead her while the country was ignorant of what was happening!

“I like that not!” murmured Bridges.

The Queen was not by nature a cruel woman, and the Princess had implied that she was very willing to accept the Catholic Faith. Bridges did not believe that the Queen would wish to take the life of her sister except on religious grounds, or of course, if treason were proved against her—which was not the case.

He examined the death warrant once more. That was not the Queen’s signature. He looked closely. Yes, Gardiner had signed for the Queen during her indisposition.

Bridges made up his mind. He would rather risk Gardiner’s displeasure than send a young girl to her death.

He took up his pen and wrote to Gardiner:

“I see that this warrant does not bear Her Majesty’s signature, and I should consider I was not acting within the bounds of my duty if I allowed to take place an execution of so important a state prisoner without special instructions from Her Majesty the Queen.”

Gardiner was furious when he received the letter and realized that his plan had miscarried. He pondered the matter for a few days, wondering whether to command Bridges to carry out his wishes. But in the meantime the Queen had recovered, and when she heard what had happened she was horrified.

All her sentimental feelings came to the surface. She remembered the baby Elizabeth who had won her affection. Elizabeth was misguided; she had been brought up in the wrong religion; and it was true that she must be looking with ambition toward the throne; but nothing had been proved against her—and she was Mary’s own sister.

She did not reprimand Gardiner; she had too high an opinion of him. She knew that he was a staunch Catholic and that in itself endeared him to her. It was Elizabeth, the heretic, whom he wished to persecute; and she was not sure that he was not right in that.

As for herself she saw Elizabeth as her sister—heretic though she might be. Elizabeth was young; she had not been proved a traitor; therefore it was the Queen’s duty to save her from heresy.

Mary called to her a man whom she trusted completely; this was her old friend Sir Henry Bedingfeld.

“I have a task for you,” she told him, “which I would entrust to no other.”

“I shall execute it with all the strength at my disposal, Your Majesty.”

“I know it, dear Bedingfeld. That is why I give it to you. I know you will watch over her and that you will be just, both to her and to me. I speak of my sister.”

Bedingfeld was dismayed.

“Yes, my dear friend,” went on the Queen, “I have decided to put the Princess in your charge. You will watch over her night and day. Every action of hers will be noted and, if need be, reported to me. This is a difficult task I have set you, but, my lord, I do so because I know you to be one of the few about me whom I can trust.”

“I am your Majesty’s obedient and humble servant.”

But he showed himself to be perplexed, and Mary marveled that a man as courageous as Bedingfeld should be so disturbed at the prospect of guarding a young girl.

Elizabeth heard the approach of Sir Henry Bedingfeld with a hundred men-at-arms. From a window she saw them and when she knew that they were all about her apartments she feared this could mean only one thing, and her terrors returned. She clung to her favorite attendant, Isabella Markham, and cried: “Isabella, this is the end. I did not think I should greatly mind, but I do. My sister has sent Bedingfeld to see her orders carried out. Tell me … is the Lady Jane’s scaffold still in its place?”

“Hush, dearest Princess. I beg of you be calm as you always have been. Wait and learn what this means before you believe the worst.”

“Bedingfeld is my sister’s trusted knight. She has sent him to destroy me. I feared as soon as I entered this place of gloom that I should never leave it.” She cried out hysterically: “It shall not be an axe for me! I shall have a sword from Calais!”

Her ladies, knowing that she thought of her tragic mother, bent their heads and wept.

But it was not Elizabeth’s way to mourn for long. Very soon she became the imperious Princess. She cried: “Send for Bridges. Command him to come to me at once.”

When he came she demanded haughtily: “What means this? Have you not guards enough that you must send to my sister for more?”

“Your Grace refers to Sir Henry Bedingfeld and his company?”

“I do indeed.”

“Your Grace, this is not a matter for alarm, but for rejoicing. Sir Henry will soon present himself to you and tell you of his instructions. You are to leave the Tower.”

“To be freed?”

“You will be in the charge of Sir Henry, but no longer a prisoner in the Tower.”

Elizabeth was relieved. She was to change one captivity for another, but the Tower was a place of ill omen. But after a while she was conscious of some regret, for the Tower still held Robert Dudley.

The barge carried her from Tower Wharf to the Palace of Richmond, a strong company of guards accompanying her.

Her sister sent for her when she arrived at the Palace.

Mary, so recently recovered from what many believed would be a fatal illness, looked exhausted. She was nervously awaiting the coming of her bridegroom, with feelings which alternated between eagerness for him and apprehension as to what he would think of her.

The sight of her young sister—so healthful in spite of her recent imprisonment—filled her with melancholy and envy. What would Philip think when he saw this sister? Would he wish that she were the Queen of England and his bride?

But it was absurd to envy Elizabeth, whose life was in the utmost danger; and if Mary were wise, according to Gardiner and Renard, she would not hesitate to send that young lady to the block.

“So you are recently come from the Tower?” said Mary coldly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. By your great clemency, I come hither.”

“Many have spoken against you,” said the Queen.

“They lied who spoke against me,” said Elizabeth. “But Your Majesty is wise and recognizes the lies of a liar—as she does the poor babblings of those under torture—for what they are worth.”

“I am not convinced of your loyalty.”

Elizabeth opened her blue eyes very wide. “Your Majesty cannot mean that!”

“I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean. Now, sister, I know you well. Remember we have spent many years together. When there was trouble in your nursery, as I well remember, you had little difficulty in proving your innocence.”

“Your Majesty, it should be an easy matter for the innocent to prove their innocence. It is only the guilty who face an impossible task.”

The Queen waved a hand impatiently. “I have a husband for you.”

Elizabeth grew pale. She was tense, waiting.

“It is Philibert Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy.”

“The Duke of Savoy!” echoed Elizabeth blankly.

She had expected death and had been offered a duke. To die would be the end of life, but to marry a foreign duke and leave England would mean abandoning all that she had hoped for. Only now did she fully realize how she had always longed to be the Queen of England. To resign her hopes would be as bad as death.

She said firmly: “Your Majesty, I could never agree to the match.”

“You could not agree!”

“I could not agree, Your Majesty.”

The Queen bent forward and said coldly: “What right have you to object to the husband I have chosen for you?”

Elizabeth was thinking of Robert Dudley as she had seen him through the bars of his cell—tall, dark, handsome … and those passionate daring eyes. If it were Robert … she thought. No, not for him would she abandon her dream. But she was not being offered Robert. She was offered a foreign prince whom the Queen favored because he was a vassal of Spain; and all things connected with Spain were good in the Queen’s eyes since she had taken a look at the picture of a short, trim young man who was destined to be her husband.

“There is only one reason why I could object to your choice, Your Majesty, and that is because I feel within myself that the married state is not for me.”

Mary looked cynically at her sister. “You … to be a spinster! When did you make up your mind to this?”

“I think, Your Majesty, that it is something I have always known.”

“I have not noticed that you have shown much maidenliness toward the opposite sex.”

“Your Majesty, it is because I have always felt thus that I have perhaps at times appeared to be unguarded.”

“Do you feel then that there is no need to guard that which you have determined at all costs to preserve?”

“Your Majesty, it is only necessary to put a guard on that which one is in danger of losing. My inclination for virginity being what it is, I had no need to restrain myself as have some maidens.”

“I would not have you come to me in frivolous mood.”

“Your Majesty, I was never more serious.”

“Then we shall contract you to the Duke of Savoy.”

Elizabeth folded her hands on her breast. “Your Majesty, I am of such mind that I prefer death to marriage.”

“I should not talk too readily of death. It could be reckless talk.”

“Your Majesty, I am reckless. I prefer death to betrothal to the Duke of Savoy.”

“We shall see,” said Mary.

She summoned the guard, and Elizabeth was taken back to her apartments, believing that her end was at hand.

She lay on her bed staring up at the tester. Her ladies were weeping quietly. She had come back from her interview with the Queen and had told them: “I think I am to die.”

Did she really prefer death to marriage with the Duke of Savoy?

For so many years she had dreamed that she would wear the crown. How many times had Kat Ashley read it in the cards? She could not give up that dream. But would she in truth rather die?

Once during the night she half rose. She thought: Tomorrow I will go to the Queen. I will accept Savoy. I am a fool to go meekly to death.

Wait, said her common sense. Has there not always been safety in waiting?

The next day she left the Palace, but not for the Tower. The Queen was undecided what to do with her sister, and finally she resorted to the old method. Elizabeth should go back to Woodstock, where she would remain a captive, although living in the state her rank demanded. The people would be appeased if the Princess was in one of her country houses; they had been restive while she was in the Tower. Elizabeth, sly and cunning, appeared to them young and pathetic; and she had the people on her side as always.

Even when she sailed up the river the people lined the banks to watch her pass. They called cheering words to her; they had gifts for her. At Wycombe cakes were brought to her, and so numerous were these that she could not accept them all. She thanked the people prettily, and all along the river their cries resounded: “God bless the Princess. God save Her Grace.”

She felt happy now. She had done the right thing in refusing Savoy. Time would always be her ally, for she was young and the Queen was old.

She arrived at Woodstock, yet even there she was not given the royal apartments but taken to the gatehouse. This was surrounded by guards, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld told her that his instructions were that she was to be kept under strict surveillance.

She wept a little. “Like a sheep to the slaughter I am led,” she said, as her ladies helped her to retire.

As she lay in her bed unable to sleep, the door of her room was quietly opened; the curtains of her bed were suddenly divided, and she found herself held tightly in a pair of loving arms.

“Kat!” she sobbed in relief. “How did you get here?”

“Hush, my love! Hush, my little lady! I am free once more. This prisoner is released, so what did she do? When she heard her lady was on the way she arrived before her. I reached the house before Master Bedingfeld and his merry men. And what do we care, sweetheart, since we are together!”

“What do we care!” said Elizabeth and began to laugh.

Kat lay beside her on the bed; and through the night they talked of what had happened.

Elizabeth said suddenly: “And, Kat, what do you think? I had an adventure when I was in the Tower. You remember Robert Dudley?”

“Remember him! Who could forget him! The loveliest man I ever saw … except one.”

“Except none!” said Elizabeth.

And they pulled the bed coverings over their heads that they might gossip and laugh together without being overheard.

Elizabeth’s captivity at Woodstock passed merrily enough. Kat was with her, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld did not think it necessary to report this matter to the Queen. Perhaps he knew that if he did so Kat would be removed and that removal would mortally offend the Princess Elizabeth. He could see no harm in Kat’s being with her.

So they were together as they had been in the old days. There was laughter and gossip and talk which if overheard might have been called treason.

When they were alone Kat whispered: “Your Majesty!” and that was sweet music to Elizabeth. Kat read the cards with that flattering skill which provoked much laughter.

“Here is that dark, handsome man again! See how close he is to your little Majesty. We shall hear more of him, I doubt not.”

It was like the old days when Kat had seen another handsome man in the cards. They had recognized him as Thomas Seymour. Kat reminded Elizabeth that she had been wont to say there would never be one like him, never one so charming.

“But then,” said Elizabeth, “I did not really know Robert Dudley.”