Queen Of This Realm

The Dangerous days

IT WAS ON THE TWENTIETH OF MAY—TWO MONTHS AFTER my arrival at the Tower through the Traitor's Gate—that I left that formidable fortress.

I should have been delighted, but I could not rid myself of the terrible fear that I was leaving one prison for another which might be even more dangerous.

I felt a sudden wave of hope, though, when I heard that I was going to Richmond, for the Queen was there and I believed that if I could see her I could convince her of my loyalty to her and appeal to her sisterly feelings for me.

As we moved along the river I could not but exult in my freedom, brief though it might be. How beautifully green were the trees, and the fragrance of the wild flowers was particularly poignant to me because it seemed so long since I had smelt them. Rose-colored apple trees and white cherry were in bloom in the orchards close to the river and the hawthorn was weighed down with buds. I wanted to capture the colors and smells, for they meant freedom. And there was Richmond Palace which had been built by my grandfather on the site of old Shene. I alighted at the stairs and went through the gates into the palace.

As soon as I was in the apartment allotted to me, Sir Henry Bedingfeld came to inform me that the Queen had graciously agreed to see me. Haughtily I inclined my head. I hated the man and I wanted to demand how he dare address me as though I were some wayward schoolgirl. I supposed to men of his age I did seem young, but I was now twenty-one years old… old enough to be a queen.

I was ushered into my sister's presence and saw to my relief that we were to be alone. I should have been dismayed if that old villain Gardiner had been there.

The first thought which struck me was how old and ill she looked. The crown seemed to be a heavy burden for her to carry.

I knelt and she gave me a hand to kiss but there was no real warmth in her greeting.

“I trust your health is improved, sister,” she said.

I thanked her for her concern and said that I was as well as I could hope to be after my sojourn in the Tower.

“Let us hope that you do not return there,” she said enigmatically.

“I share Your Majesty's hope,” I replied quietly.

“You come to me as a prisoner of the state,” she went on. “It grieves me that it should be thus with my own sister. You are my father's daughter and that I do not forget. My ministers and I have discussed your future. There have been suspicions regarding your conduct and although the traitor Wyatt exonerated you from complicity in his plot when he was on the scaffold, there are certain matters which remain unclear.”

“Your Majesty, I know full well that people have poisoned your mind against me, but I assure you, with all my heart, that I am your most loyal and faithful subject.”

“I understand that you will not go to Mass.”

“I was not brought up to go to Mass, Your Majesty. As our brother was not either.”

“That was sad for England and has done untold harm,” said my sister. “However we shall right that as best we can. You will not willingly accept the true faith and I tremble for you when the time comes to face your Maker.”

I was silent.

She went on: “But you are young and unwise, so I have a husband for you. There are some about me who tell me that while you are in England you will cast envious eyes on my throne.”

“Your Majesty has been misinformed.”

“That is as may be. But you are, I sense, impatient for the throne. It will never be yours, sister. I shall shortly marry a great ruler and our son will be the next King of England. There is no place for you here. That is why I am offering you Philibert of Savoy, the Prince of Piedmont. He is agreeable to the match and you can have a happy life with him.”

I was cold with horror. Go to Piedmont! Leave England! That would be to say goodbye to the throne forever. No! I would never do that. I would rather stay here where I was in perpetual danger. In that moment I realized how desperately I wanted the crown. There was something within me which told me it was my right, that it was my destiny. I was meant to be Queen of England and I must never agree to anything that would divert me from that purpose. I struggled for composure…

My sister was regarding me coldly.

“You do not seem overcome with joy, sister,” she said. “You have not yet understood your good fortune. Philibert is a great Prince. Oh, I know you are a Princess, but a bastard Princess and known to be such now that it is acclaimed that our father was not truly married to your mother since his marriage to mine was valid.”

I wanted to shout at her, to tell her that it was not long ago that we were both declared bastards. I did not care if I was. I only knew that I was the King's daughter and that I was meant to be a queen.

“Your Majesty,” I said, choosing my words very carefully, “I have no desire for the married state.”

“You are being foolish,” she said testily.

“It is true, Your Majesty, that the thought of marriage sickens me. It is something in me which is not as others of my sex. I was born in the Chamber of Virgins under the sign of Virgo. Your Majesty, I beg you to understand that I cannot marry… that I would rather face anything than that.”

“You are stubborn. I have no wish to force you into marriage, but I tell you this: It is a matter of marriage or captivity. You may choose which.”

I was silent for a few moments, grappling with myself. But I knew what I had to say. It was my destiny. If I left England now, I should never attain the crown.

Then I said slowly: “I must then continue to be a prisoner who faces captivity without knowledge of the fault which has placed me in restraint.”

She was impatient with me. She had been hoping to get me married and out of the country and out of her conscience.

But I was too wise for that.

I HEARD THAT I was to go to Woodstock, where I should be in the care of that same Sir Henry Bedingfeld. The servants who had so far accompanied me were to be dismissed. I said my farewells to them and wept bitterly.

“Pray for me,” I said, “for I think I am to die soon.”

They knew that I meant that when royal persons were sent away to remote country castles they were either left to be forgotten or removed; and since in my case I was an undoubted threat to the Queen, it seemed obvious what fate was intended for me.

I was so certain that I was being taken to my death that I had come to a point where I accepted my fate. I was overcome by melancholy because somewhere in the recesses of my mind had been the certain feeling that one day I should be Queen. Now it seemed I had deluded myself. Death seemed inevitable.

My attendants must have felt the same for many of them wept openly and some were so blinded by their tears that they could not serve me. I admonished them gently but their love for me was a great comfort.

One of my ushers went to Lord Tame, a gentleman of the Court, and demanded to know whether I was in danger that night and if there was a plot to kill me before I left Richmond or if it had been decided to do the deed elsewhere, at which Lord Tame cried out in anger: “Marry, God forbid that any should consider such vileness. If it were intended, I and my men would die defending her.”

The good man came to tell me what Lord Tame had said. “I am sure he spoke in earnest, Your Grace,” he said. “Whatever evil there is abroad, there is good too, and you will have many to protect you besides the members of your household.”

Such incidents are great balm when one is in dire need of comfort.

The next day we started on our journey to Woodstock, and once again my spirits were lifted for as we rode into the country people came out to see me pass. The manner in which they ran to me was very touching. I saw their good wishes and affection in their eyes. “God bless the Princess!” they cried with such emotion that Bedingfeld was most displeased. He believed, and rightly I was sure, that a “God bless” for me meant a curse on the Queen.

In one village we passed through, the bells started to ring and when Bedingfeld asked what was the occasion for it, he was told: “It is for rejoicing that our Princess is no longer in the Tower.”

He raged against them. They talked like traitors, he said. They had no right to sing the praises of one who so recently had been suspected of treachery and was not yet wholly proved innocent.

The bell-ringing was stopped. I think they were all terrified that they might be accused of treason.

In due course we came to Ricote in Oxfordshire and stayed at the mansion of Lord Williams of Tame, who came out to greet me with an air of great deference and said that his lady was giving orders in the kitchens and the best apartment had been prepared for me. He added that he was deeply honored because I, the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of great Harry, was to stay under his roof.

He made me feel that I was not a prisoner and I blessed him for that. He sat me in the place of honor in his great hall and I was royally served; he had even arranged an entertainment to divert me which grew very merry until the miserable Bedingfeld complained. It was not meet and fitting, he said, that such treatment should be shown to the Queen's prisoner.

Lord Williams looked stunned. He said he was merely entertaining the Princess Elizabeth in a manner such as his purse and humble house would allow him. He believed it must seem very poor in the eyes of royalty, but he trusted I would understand that it was the best he could do.

“My dear lord,” I said gently, flashing a look of hatred at Bedingfeld, “there are some whose pleasure it is to humiliate me. You have cheered me mightily by giving me this wonderful welcome.”

Lord Williams was pleased but I could see that Bedingfeld was angry. I hoped he would not report Lord Williams to the Council. But perhaps he would not. I grudgingly admitted to myself that he was a just man and only acted in accordance with what he believed to be right.

We left Ricote in the morning and in due course arrived at Woodstock.

Woodstock! How dreary it was! I had been as well off in the Tower. There were soldiers to guard me day and night. They paraded round the walls at night and every door and gateway was supplied with locks. I could not move without being spied on. I was never alone in the gardens. Everywhere I looked there were guards watching me. They must have been very much afraid that I would escape.

I look back on that period of my life and shudder. The days seemed never-ending and even my books could not entirely comfort me. It is true that I did not hate Sir Henry Bedingfeld as much as I had at first, for I did gradually come to realize that he was a good man, the sort I respected and would have been glad to have on my side. Of course he was a fanatical Catholic and he regarded me as a lost soul, a heretic; but I began to understand that the rigorous guard he placed on me was as much to ensure my safety as to prevent my escape.

This was brought home to me on the occasion when Sir Henry had to leave Woodstock for a few days. He put a trusted man in charge of the place, which meant in charge of me, and it was while he was away that an attempt was made on my life.

I felt certain that Gardiner was behind it. I suspected that man of every villainy. He was ambitious like many churchmen, and if ever I came to the throne he would know that he could never have a chance of reaching the power he sought. Therefore he had every reason for wanting me out of the way, and it would have been foolishly careless not to have suspected that he would have some plan for getting rid of me.

A man named Basset came to Woodstock with the story that he was from the Council and that he had an urgent message for the Princess Elizabeth which he had been instructed to deliver into her hands only.

Fortunately for me, Bedingfeld had left me in the charge of a man who proved worthy of his trust, so he and several of the guards accompanied Basset to my chamber. Basset said he came from the Queen and had a party of men waiting to escort me to her. The waiting party was interrogated while its leader was absent and a bigger parcel of ruffians it would be hard to find.

Basset was told that a messenger was being sent to Sir Henry Bedingfeld to tell him of their coming and as he was with the Queen they must wait at Woodstock until permission came from Sir Henry.

Basset said he would explain to his men and they would find quarters for the night. What they actually did was make off with all speed, knowing that they would be betrayed as soon as Bedingfeld heard of their arrival.

I often wondered what Basset and his men intended to do to me. It did not require much imagination!

My jailers became even more careful than they had been before. It was fortunate that they were. Otherwise I might have been burned in my bed, for my enemies had even managed to get their spies into the household.

This must have been the case because a fire broke out in the chamber immediately below mine, and I could easily have been burned in my bed with no means of escape, if it had not been discovered in time. It was clearly a fire which had been deliberately started.

To be the victim of those who wished to murder me put me in a state of continual tension.

Meanwhile events were moving fast, for Philip of Spain had arrived in England. I could well imagine all the pomp and ceremonies; and I did hear accounts of what was going on for there were messengers going constantly between the Court and Woodstock and the servants gossiped. I had always made a habit of talking to them and establishing an easy relationship with them so I was able to piece together scraps of news and fit them into a complete picture.

Philip had arrived at Southampton on the twentieth of July. The Queen was at Winchester for she had decided that the marriage should take place there; the ceremony would be conducted by the odious Gardiner, of course; she would not have Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, because she did not accept his religious views, which were of the Reformed Faith. Men like Cranmer must be feeling very uneasy now that Philip was actually here. The alliance could not bode well for him, nor for any who were not of the Catholic Faith.

Philip had been given a great welcome and to row him ashore the Queen had sent a barge lined with tapestry of the richest colors and seats of gold brocade. When he mounted the steps at Southampton he was met by a deputation sent by the Queen which included all the great noblemen in the land. Arundel immediately presented him with the Garter and a magnificent horse was provided for him. Philip himself was dressed very simply in black velvet making, so I heard, an austere contrast to all the glitter, and which gave him a special dignity. There were the usual eulogies which fall to royal brides and grooms, regarding his personal appearance, but secretly I heard that he was far from prepossessing with scanty sandy hair, a lack of eyebrows and lashes and watery little blue eyes—all this not helped by an expression of intense gloom.

My thoughts were with my sister. She had fallen in love before she saw him and, knowing Mary, I guessed that nothing would deter her from continuing in that blissful state once she had decided on it. He had sent her magnificent jewels worth fifty thousand ducats, I heard, and his Grand Chamberlain, Don Ruy Gomez da Silva, who carried them to the Queen, was as dignified as his master.

The weather was appalling—driving rain and wind, which was not to be expected as it was July, and, said those who were against the match, it was a bad omen. Philip however braved the elements and came in slow dignified Spanish fashion from Southampton to Winchester.

Apparently the meeting between the pair was entirely amicable. I imagine Mary did not see Philip so much as a man as an important part of her plan to bring England to Rome. As for him, how did he see Mary? He saw a crown, I was sure, and the domination of our country. I felt angry and frustrated. If there should be a child of this union my hopes were dashed forever. And apart from that I could not bear to see my dear people forced under a rule which they did not want. There would be no tolerance. I knew that people were persecuted with more violence in Spain than had ever been known in England. Would Philip and his Inquisition, with a pliant Mary, be able to subdue a proud people?

On the twenty-fifth of July, which was the festival of St James and therefore very appropriate, he being the patron saint of Spain, Mary was married to Philip.

I listened to the gossip. Both Mary and Philip were pleased with the marriage. Their first duty would be to get an heir and the prospect of that filled me with so much melancholy that only then did I realize the greatness of my hopes. Ever since my father's death I had lived with the idea that one day I could come to the throne, although at that time it had seemed most unlikely, with Edward and Mary to come before me, both of whom might have offspring.

When Edward had died and there had been merely Mary, my hopes had risen, for Mary had been aging then and had no husband. As the time passed my hopes grew to a dedication. Every observation I made taught me something. I followed events as far as I could. I weighed up what had happened and considered what might have happened. I loved my country passionately. I loved the people as neither Edward nor Mary ever had. I was fitted to rule as neither of them had been.

And now Mary was married; she loved her bridegroom and she was not too old to bear a child, and that child would stand between me and the throne.

Meanwhile I remained a prisoner. If they could prove something against me I should be led to the block as my mother had been, as Katharine Howard and poor innocent Jane Grey had been.

But so far they could prove nothing against me, and I was determined that they should never have a chance of doing that, so the impulse came to me to write down my determination somewhere where it could be read by people for years to come. I took the diamond ring from my finger and scratched on the windowpane:

“Much suspected—of me.

Nothing proved can be

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.”

I WAS SUMMONED to Court for the Christmas festivities. Did this mean that I was no longer a prisoner? My excitement was intense. It might well be that my sister in her happy condition—for she said she was pregnant—no longer considered me a threat. I was sure her bridegroom was an astute man and he would quickly sense his lack of popularity in England. Perhaps he wished to please the people by recalling me. There must have been a reason—perhaps many. But the fact remained I was summoned to Hampton Court.

When one is a prisoner and life, though fraught with danger, is tedious, any little diversion is welcome even if it holds an element of even greater danger, which a trip to Court must surely hold for me.

So with growing excitement I prepared to leave for Hampton Court in the company of Sir Henry Bedingfeld. We spent the first night at Ricote where I renewed my pleasant friendship with Lord Williams and was so right royally treated that I felt I had left my prison behind me already. After two more days of travel we came to Hampton, and as my guards stayed with me I supposed that my status had not changed as I had hoped.

I had not been an hour in the apartments allotted to me when I had a call from the Council headed by Gardiner. Before they could speak I cried out that I was glad to see them and I hoped they would plead with the Queen and King to release me from my imprisonment.

“My advice to you,” said Gardiner, “is to confess your faults and throw yourself on the Queen's mercy.”

“As I have never offended against the Queen,” I retorted, “either in thought, word or deed, rather than confess to a fault I have not committed I would lie in prison all my life.”

“The Queen marvels at your boldness,” said Gardiner. “Your refusal to confess suggests that Her Majesty has wrongfully imprisoned you. You must do other than plead your innocence if you are to be set at liberty.”

“Then I will stay in prison with honesty,” I cried. “I stand by everything I have said, and may God forgive you for what you have done to me.”

I saw no use in trying to placate this man. Whatever I did or said he would be my enemy. I was not so much a person to him as an obstacle to his ambitions.

They left me. I knew that I had not behaved as they expected me to. They judged me wrongly. Having endured so much I was not prepared to barter my hopes of the crown—forlorn though they might seem now—for a brief concession. I was playing for high stakes, and if my death was the result, that was more acceptable to me than ignoble capitulation.

For a week I was left alone and I wondered what the motive could have been to take me from my prison in Woodstock merely to put me in another at Hampton Court.

But at last the summons came. The Queen wished to see me.

I faced her with some trepidation as I fell to my knees and she gave me her hand to kiss. She looked at me steadily and said: “I hear that you will confess to no fault.”

“It is hard to confess to what is not, Your Majesty.”

“You swear that you speak the truth?”

“I swear,” I said.

“I pray God this may become manifest.”

“If aught can be proved against me,” I said stoutly, “I shall be prepared to accept with meekness any punishment Your Majesty may think fit to bestow upon me.”

“So you say you have been wrongfully treated?”

“To say so is not possible in your presence.”

“Because it would imply my injustice, you mean? So you do not tell me I am unjust, but I doubt not you report so to others.”

“Your Majesty, I have never said that you were unjust,” I replied coolly. “I have borne and must bear Your Majesty's displeasure, but I swear I have never been aught else than Your Majesty's loyal and true subject.”

She looked at me somberly and murmured as though to herself: “God knoweth.”

I suspected that she was inclined to believe me and that she was not happy with this rift between us. I had always been vaguely sorry for Mary. I had sensed in her that desire for affection. She had had it from her mother— the only person it turned out to be from whom she ever did have it; and she had seen that mother suffer humiliation, repudiation and imprisonment at our father's hand. No wonder she was warped, no wonder she was starved for affection. I had heard that she lavished it on Philip. And, dear God, I thought, she is with child by him!

She made me sit beside her and my spirits were lifted a little because I felt she was showing friendship toward me. She would while we were together thus but when in conclave with her advisers, my archenemies Gardiner and Renaud, she would allow the suspicions to creep back.

There was a certain unwieldiness about her body. So the child was already making its presence known.

While we were talking together I was aware of a certain movement at the curtains. I fancied that when I turned my head sharply someone had moved back. Could it be that we had a witness to this scene, someone listening to every word that was uttered, noting them to discuss afterward with the Queen? I must be doubly careful.

During that interview, which was growing more and more cordial, I kept an alert eye on the curtains behind which was the retiring chamber. Someone was there who could not resist taking a peep through the curtains. I could not believe it! I had caught a glimpse of black velvet. Philip! Who else could be in the retiring room? So Philip of Spain was eager for a few covert glances at his sister-in-law while he listened to what she said to his Queen.

ALTHOUGH I WAS still guarded I was not treated like a prisoner and as the Christmas festivities began I took my place at Court and was usually seated in a place of honor at the table. I had now been presented to Philip who showed excessive courtesy toward me. It was true that he was far from prepossessing; he had those sandy lashes like my own but mine were thick and my hair was abundant and shining while his was scanty. Moreover my skin was white while his complexion was mud color. He had a very high forehead which coupled with an alert expression gave him a look of cleverness and I was sure he was an extremely brilliant man. Anything he lacked in appearance he made up for in dignity and exquisite manners.

I caught his eyes on me calculatingly and I remembered that he had spied on me when I was with my sister. Meeting him exhilarated me, as clever people always did, and when I realized I had to be very wary of him, I was doubly stimulated.

It was wonderful to be back at Court and arouse the interest of important people. There were feasting and tournaments for we were not only celebrating the season but the wedding as well. I had been provided with some beautiful clothes and it was very pleasant to appear as a princess again instead of a prisoner.

I wished I could see Kat and I wondered what was happening to her. I did hear that Robert Dudley had been released from the Tower and I wondered whether I should see him at Court. But that could hardly be expected; he might be free from imprisonment but he would hardly be received with honor since his father had succeeded in putting Jane Grey on the throne even if it was only for nine days. Robert Dudley, it seemed, was now in the army or in Norfolk, where some years before, he had been married. If he had not been, he would have been chosen as the husband for Jane Grey. When Northumberland saw the opportunity of putting Jane on the throne, Guildford had been the only remaining unmarried son at that time.

I was recovering from my melancholy and when I was dressed in my magnificent gown of white satin decorated with myriads of tiny pearls, I could not believe that I had ever been reconciled to death. This sojourn at Hampton Court had made me realize how much I loved life, how I loved my country and the English people, and that I would never give up hope, however distant, of ruling them one day.

In spite of all this euphoria I did not lose sight of the fact that I was in danger. The Queen looked very sickly. Could she reach a successful confinement? I asked myself, and I knew that others were asking it. Chief of them perhaps Philip himself. Why did he look at me with such speculation? Surely he did not think that if Mary died he could marry me… Elizabeth, the heretic! How could he? But heretics are acceptable when a throne goes with them, and I was sure Philip would have no doubts as to his ability to rule a woman as well as a country.

Not this one, my lord! I thought. But I liked him to regard me in that light for he must be comparing my physical aspect with that of Mary. She was getting so old; she was really pathetic; she followed him with her eyes; she loved him completely. It was folly to allow one's feelings to become involved and even greater folly to show them.

Yes, he was comparing my youth with her age, my liveliness with her languor, my challenge with her cloying devotion. I had made it my business to study people and I knew a great deal about Philip of Spain.

There were moments when he cast off his dignity. He might appear to be cold and restrained but I believed there were times when he could be less so. Ever a collector of what the people were saying, I discovered that he was not averse to a little dalliance. Some of the women were giggling about the repulse he had received from Magdalen Dacre, one of Mary's ladies of honor, when Philip had peeped through her window while she was dressing and tried to open the window and get to her. The window could only be opened a little way and she, seeing his arm protruding into her chamber, gave it a sharp rap which made him withdraw it hastily, showing him clearly that she had no intention of engaging in frivolous behavior with anyone, even the Prince of Spain.

Magdalen Dacre was certainly an exceptionally beautiful girl. Philip must have noticed her and perhaps he hoped to seduce her which he probably thought would be easy, he being who he was. One thing I did like about him was that after the rap and his humiliation, he did not attempt to take revenge and always treated her with extra special courtesy as though while desiring her he could yet respect her virtue.

Mary had hardly been seductive before her body had swollen, and it is not the custom of princes to deny themselves. It was reported—but it may well have been malicious gossip—that he liked to visit some of the more questionable haunts of London and that he had a fancy for little girls of the lower classes.

There was a rhyme about him which people sang constantly. It went something like this:

“The baker's daughter in her russet gown

Better than Queen Mary without her crown.”

At the tournaments I was seated beside my sister and Philip was on the other side of her. I noticed how his eyes were often on me, assessing my physical attractions, I guessed; he already knew my political views. Mary did not notice. I supposed she had not heard the rhyme about the baker's daughter, and I was sure Magdalen Dacre would not mention the Prince's pursuit of her. Mary was innocent of guile. Perhaps that was why she could not please the people.

I guessed that the Spanish Ambassador was of less importance now than he had been. His main mission was accomplished with the marriage, but of course he would still be making sure that events went as Charles the Fifth and Philip ordered that they should. Then there was the French Ambassador, de Noailles, who must not be forgotten. His mission was to bring the English crown to Mary Queen of Scots. He was more my enemy now than Renaud.

Wherever I looked there was intrigue but I thrived on it. After the tedium of prison this was a stimulating life.

As the winter passed, the Queen grew larger and we all awaited her confinement with great expectancy. If it were a healthy boy or girl, that was the end of my hopes. It was the health of the child, not the sex, which would be decisive this time. A living child would mean that England was doomed to return to Rome with all the intolerance and persecution which were pursued in those countries under the domination of the dreaded Inquisition.

I felt I was justified in hoping that the child would not live, though naturally I never said a word of this to anyone.

Mary's skin seemed yellow in daylight; her body was becoming more and more clumsy. One of my ladies whispered to me: “There is a rumor that what the Queen is carrying is not a child.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That her swollen body has another cause.”

“This must be nonsense.”

“I can only tell you what is being said, Your Grace.”

HOW SAD THOSE DAYS were for my poor sister! Much as they heralded good news for me I could not but be sorry for her. She had so set her heart on a child. She was so certain that she was pregnant; there had been all the signs. What a terrible blow! What almost unbearable humiliation! It was no child she carried. She was suffering from some hideous form of dropsy.

I think she nearly died of sorrow. She had so longed for that child and she had been so proud to be able to produce it. She needed a child so much and now all her hopes had gone.

She was desperately ill for a long time. People were very careful how they treated me and I enjoyed the deference. I think they were daily expecting news of her death. When I woke up in the morning my first thought was: Will it be today?

Philip was genial with me. I was sure he was a little in love with me, and I was always gratified when men fell in love with me, particularly those who could not ask me to marry them. I still regarded marriage as a state which must be avoided, for when I became Queen I wanted to be Queen in my own right with no one at my side. But it was pleasant to think that Philip admired me. Of course it was a different feeling from that which he had for the bakers' daughters—but there was a part of that too. Philip was not the cold, sexless man he might have been believed to be because of his black velvet, rather somber clothes and the exaggerated ceremony of his manner.

Philibert of Savoy had appeared at Court during the Christmas festivities and another attempt had been made to bring about a match between us. The Queen had been eager for it; she still wanted me safely out of the way; but Philip had not insisted that I marry Philibert, which he might so easily have done, and the reason was, I guessed, that he was looking ahead. If Mary died he would secure the crown of England for Spain by marrying me… heretic or not. I'll swear he thought he could soon subdue me on that point. No, no, Master Philip, I thought. Admire me, make your plans, imagine yourself my doting husband, if you will, but it is not to be, for I want no husband. When I am the Queen of England I shall be the Queen … absolute Queen with no husband beside me attempting to usurp my power.

After that illness, Mary had changed. She had given up hope of bearing a child, so Philip had discovered that he had duties in Spain and when he left Mary was heartbroken.

I think I owed something to Philip of Spain. I have said his attitude to me had been one of friendship, even something warmer, but at the same time he would have been ready to agree to my elimination if I had threatened his political schemes. However, instead of setting him against me, the fact that Mary was not going to bear a child had made him eager to preserve my life. I was sure he thought of marrying me. Mary Queen of Scots presented a problem. She had already staked her claim to the English throne. I suppose Philip thought it was better to have a heretic Queen for England— whom he might marry and convert—than that the French should become too powerful in England through Mary of Scotland.

So I had not only moved nearer to the throne but stepped out of imminent danger. Of course men like Gardiner and certainly the French Ambassador would seek to destroy me, but the Spanish Ambassador would not wish me to die if my continuing to live was important to Philip of Spain. So my danger was slightly less than it had been, since my powerful and influential enemies had decreased.

I was told that I might retire to Hatfield. I should not be entirely a prisoner but my movements would be under surveillance. Sir Henry Bedingfeld was to be relieved of his duties and Sir Thomas Pope was to be put in charge of my household. He would watch over me and prevent my entering into conspiracies with undesirable people. I had already met Sir Thomas Pope and found him a charming and honorable gentleman, and although I had become somewhat reconciled to Sir Henry I was not displeased at the change. When I arrived at Hatfield great joy awaited me for I found Kat Ashley there. “Come to serve Your Grace,” she cried, and we flew into each other's arms.

IT WAS NOT only Kat who was awaiting me at Hatfield. Her husband was with her, Parry too; and to my great joy, my dear and respected tutor Roger Ascham also. Even if I were not entirely free, I could not be unhappy surrounded by such people.

Moreover Sir Thomas Pope was a very different person from Sir Henry Bedingfeld. He was a merry man as well as a kindly one and in order to show me how pleasant life was going to be at Hatfield he decided to give an entertainment in the great hall to amuse me. It was to be a masque and a pageant such as my father had loved. Even the minstrels wore disguises and every lady and gentleman was warned that they must make themselves so different from their usual selves that even their most intimate friends would find it difficult to recognize them. There was dancing and at the banquet we all unmasked and showed ourselves and there was much laughter and exclamations of amazement to the delight of all.

I could see that life was going to be very different here from what I had endured at Woodstock.

Unfortunately news of those particular revels reached the Queen and no doubt Gardiner or someone like that pointed out to her the danger that could arise from such entertainments. If people came in disguises why should not spies make their way into the company? Sir Thomas told me regretfully that he had had orders from the Queen that such revelries must cease.

I was still suspect and not to be trusted.

“There are other ways of amusing ourselves,” he said. “However, disguises are forbidden.”

It did not matter. I had my friends about me. It would be a great pleasure to talk in various languages with someone as interesting and erudite as Roger Ascham.

At this time there broke out in the country the very worst wave of persecution that was ever known and which I believe will never be forgotten as long as men live. With her marriage to Philip of Spain, Mary had in fact passed over the government of her realm to him; she had brought the country back to Rome, and although the Inquisition had not yet been set up in the country, its rules were being introduced.

I was glad to be shut away in the country. I was filled with shame for my sister. Her folly was beyond my understanding and she earned the hatred of many of her subjects and that adjective which was to be used often when her name was mentioned: Bloody Mary.

So this was what religious fanaticism did to a woman who was by nature humane. I swore I would have no part in it. Perhaps the Spaniards had endured it and would go on doing so. I did not think the English would.

I was sickened as were so many. How could she allow this to be done in her name?

There were two men who urged her to this cruel folly. Gardiner was naturally one and Edward Bonner, Bishop of London, was the other. I despised them both and I could not believe it when I first heard it. I discussed it with Kat in a highly emotional way and with Roger Ascham more calmly, but with none the less revulsion.

To burn men and women at the stake for their religious opinions was not only hideously cruel, it was quite stupid. How could she say: I worship in this way and therefore it is right, and because you do not agree you will be burned to death! I had heard their miserable arguments: The victims were destined to hell fire, so what did it matter if they began their life of torment a few years earlier? How I loathed those persecutors! How I despised them! Not only for their cruelty but for their folly. It was an affront to all reason.

So passed that dreadful year when the fires of Smithfield sobered all London and palls of smoke and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air even in the smallest towns. It was as though my father had never broken with Rome. But it was not quite as it had been. He had been ruthless, true; he had condemned men to death, but it was because they stood in the way of his personal wishes. That was wrong, of course; but this death and torture for a divergence of belief was something I could not understand.

There were few of us who did not go in fear of our lives. I myself dreamed of standing in a square while they bound my body to a stake. I had been alarmed at the thought of the axe. But that was merciful compared with the terrible slow death by fire.

Yet many were suffering it.

We went to Mass. I did, yes. I admit it. I accepted the Catholic Faith. At least I forced out the words they wished me to say, but I could never believe that the differences between one sect and another were of any importance. Was I a hypocrite? I do not know. If I was, I was a sensible hypocrite. I was certain now that I was going to rule my people and when I did I would put an end to this senseless persecution. I could be of greater use to my people alive than dead and when the time came they would surely forgive me for a few words mumbled in a chapel.

Mary was a sick woman. Her husband had left her and was very happy to do so. He had made a marriage and brought the countries together; they had brought England back to Rome and were now merrily burning her people who refused to accept the faith they would impose on them. Spain had done its work. Our country was as unhappy as theirs. And Mary was aging, ill, and still yearning to bear the child which she never could.

And beside her, those archvillains, tools of Spain and Rome—Gardiner and Bonner—catching their prey, questioning, torturing and condemning to the flames.

Great men died at the stake, men such as Nicholas Ridley who had been a Bishop of London, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Winchester, and John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. These men died with great bravery; they were the martyrs. The people watched them sullenly. How long can this last? I wondered.

There was much talk of the manner in which these men had died. Hugh Latimer's last words were repeated over and over again. He had been tied to a stake next to that to which Ridley was bound and he cried out in ringing tones: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Fine words from a man about to suffer a cruel death. They were truly martyrs.

Not long after the death of these two it was the turn of Thomas Cranmer to burn at the stake. He had recanted earlier to save himself. I did not blame him for that. In my opinion it was the sensible thing to do; but he had repented the act in the end and as the flames were lighted he held out his right hand. “This hand has written lies,” he cried. “It has written them to save my life and therefore it should be the first part of my body to burn.”

And later they heard him cry out: “This hand has offended!” and those watching saw him hold it in the flames unflinchingly.

“They will never be forgotten,” I said to Kat. “My sister is mad. For a while some may accept this, but the people will hate her for it. Does she know nothing of the English?”

“The people wait patiently for you, my lady,” said Kat earnestly. “They wait now…as they never did before.”

And when I looked into her face I knew that she spoke the truth.

IT WAS NOT surprising that there should be discontent. The time was ripe to rid the country of the Queen and her cruel persecutions. I dreaded these rebellions. My name was always associated with them because if Mary were deposed, I was next in the line to the succession. I wished people would understand that there was no need for rebellion. Mary was more ill each day and all her actions were those of a woman sick in mind and body; her false pregnancies—she had had another of those—her fanatical religious mania and her persecution of what she called heretics, all were more than devotion to her faith; her obsession had turned to madness and showed clearly that she was nearing her end. I knew it. We should be patient and wait. It was much safer to let death carry her off than to raise a rebellion when there would surely always be some to take her side. They would never understand that the waiting game was the safe one.

The first of the plots was devised by Sir Henry Dudley, some remote connection of Robert Dudley, who was not himself, I was relieved to learn, involved in the plan of his reckless kinsman. The plot, however, appeared to have the backing of the King of France who was greatly disturbed by the alliance between his two enemies, England and Spain. Like all such conspirators they used my name as a basis on which to build their schemes, at the heart of which was to depose Mary and set me on the throne.

De Noailles had become very friendly with me since the Spanish marriage and took great pains to let me know that he would do anything to help me. His was a very dangerous friendship, I knew—and of course there was no true friendship in it; it was expediency. Two of the officers of my household named Peckham and Werne were involved in the plot and this disturbed me because it immediately increased the suspicions which would come my way whenever these plots were revealed.

The two men were arrested and what was so disconcerting was that Kat Ashley was taken off for questioning again with a very innocent young Italian, Baptiste Castiglione, who had been engaged to help me perfect my conversation in his language. Some of my ladies, too, were taken for questioning, and when I heard that they were in the Tower and that Kat was in the Fleet Prison I felt that it was going to start again—the terrible anxiety, the fear of what would happen from one day to the next, while my enemies closed in on me. I pictured Kat—dear indiscreet Kat—being forced to make all sorts of statements which would be damning against me, and I became very ill, as I had been during the trials in the past years. The strain was too much. My skin grew yellow with jaundice and I could not stand without feeling dizzy. There was nothing to be done but to take to my bed, and this in itself could be construed as some sort of guilt.

There was one matter for rejoicing. Gardiner had died—not violently as would have been fitting for a man who had caused so much misery, but of dropsy, quietly in his bed.

There was one enemy the less; but I doubted not that many more would spring up to take his place.

I kept to my bed while Kat's apartments were searched. Nothing concerned with the plot was found in her rooms but certain pamphlets which were called seditious—which meant Protestant—were found there and I was in a state of nervous prostration, seeing Kat brought to the stake and hearing her piteous cries as the fire touched her limbs.

I thought: I can bear no more of this. Nothing is worth it. I cannot subject my friends to perpetual terror.

There was another development. A young man appeared at a place called Yaxley and declared he was Edward Courtenay and my husband. It was such utter nonsense that I was not afraid of this one. The young man was a tall golden-haired giant with the Plantagenet looks. This was easily explained because my great-grandfather had been a man who had had countless mistresses of all sorts and conditions in every corner of the country, so there were a great many people who bore a resemblance to him.

I was sure I could not possibly have been arrested for complicity in such a plot as that but had Gardiner been alive he would have found some reason for implicating me.

I was receiving communications from de Noailles who had shown such friendship for me since my sister's marriage. His letters were urging me to take advantage of his King's invitation to visit the Court of France where I should be safe until the time came for me to mount the throne.

A few months before I should have scorned the invitation, seeing it for what it was. I knew that the aim of Henri Deux was to set his daughter-inlaw Mary Stuart on the throne of England. I think I must have been very weak just then. I could not sleep. I became so ill with anxiety that I did not greatly care what happened to me.

When I look back I marvel at myself. But it is strange what illness can do to one, particularly the sort of mental anguish from which I was suffering since the fresh wave of insurrections and the fear aroused by wondering what evil could befall a country which sent good men to a horrible death because of their faith.

I wanted to get away. I felt I could endure no more and the thought of the elegant French court was inviting.

I sent a message to Lady Sussex who had always been a good friend, and I asked her to discover in secret more of this plan from the French Ambassador. I really believed—I must have been suffering from hallucinations— that I could remain at the French Court and come back at the appropriate time to claim the crown.

Then there happened one of those miracles which seem, looking back, like Divine intervention and made me certain of my destiny.

When Lady Sussex was able to meet the French Ambassador she found not de Noailles, whom she had been expecting and who had been the instigator of the plot to get me out of England, but another in his place. Because the Dudley rebellion had begun in France with the backing of the King, de Noailles's communications with me had been noted and some intercepted. Consequently, he had been dismissed abruptly and his brother, the Bishop of Acqs, had been sent to take his place.

I never did understand why the Bishop should seek to protect me. He was certainly not following in his brother's footsteps. Or it may even have been that the King of France did not wish me to leave the field of action, and it had been seen by him that the de Noailles policy of capturing me was not the best for France. Whatever it was, the Bishop told Lady Sussex that if I went to France now, I should never come back, and if I hoped to wear the crown I should be on the spot when the moment came to take it.

When Lady Sussex told me this I saw how foolish I had been. I went onto my knees and thanked God for His merciful act in saving me.

Whatever happened, I must stay. I had come through great dangers. The end must be in sight, and if I could manage to keep alive for a little longer I should be triumphant.

I wrote to my sister assuring her of my loyalty. It was true that the men Peckham and Werne were of my household, but I had known nothing of their schemes any more than I knew of this ridiculous man who turned out to be named Cleobury and who had called himself the Earl of Devonshire.

Kat and the other members of my household returned to Hatfield and as soon as I saw them I began to feel better; my old strength returned and I marveled afresh that I could have been so foolish as to have almost committed an act which would have been fatal to my future.

So there I was at Hatfield—almost a prisoner inasmuch as I could not leave without the Queen's permission, and everything I did was reported to her.

IN THE FEBRUARY of the following year Philip returned to England.

Reports came to us that my sister's health was much improved and my immediate thoughts were that there might yet be a child. Moreover I wondered what Philip's reaction would be to the attempted risings which were an indication of the rumblings of dissatisfaction throughout the land. He must have had a purpose in coming. I was sure it was not merely to be with Mary.

The result of his return was a cordial invitation for me to go to Court. Mary appeared to have accepted my protestations of innocence and I imagined—with some amusement—that I had been invited at the urgings of Philip.

When I rode into London through Smithfield and Old Bailey and Fleet Street to Somerset House the people cheered me. I had wondered what effect my submission to my sister's will in religion, which had now become the law of the country, would have on them; but I was sure the dear good people were wise enough to know that I did what I did to preserve my life so that when the time came I could be alive to serve them.

At every turn they showed their love for me and I managed to convey to them that I was aware of the immense debt of gratitude I owed them.

It was wonderful to be at Court, where I was received with honor as the Queen's sister and heiress to the throne. Chiefly I was gratified by Philip's attitude toward me. I saw plans in his eyes when they alighted on me. He was not insensible to my youth and charms, and with the crown and all that meant I must have seemed to him a glittering prize. I would never marry him, but there was no harm—indeed there was every necessity—in letting him imagine that I might.

Mary was very simple. She was delighted that Philip showed such regard for me. She thought he would be suspicious of one who had been a heretic. Nothing of the sort! I had the impression that he was just waiting for the death of his wife.

I was, therefore, a little taken aback when he once more introduced the subject of Philibert of Savoy. Then I began to wonder whether I had correctly assessed his motives. If I married… what then? Who would take the throne when Mary died? Was he planning to set himself up as King and sole ruler of England? It could not be. Even his Spanish arrogance must realize that that would never be allowed.

I was adamant. I would not marry. I clung to the virgin state, I declared. Marriage was entirely repulsive to me.

He sighed and said his friend Philibert was the best of men. I reminded him that Philibert had been making love to the Duchess of Lorraine, so it seemed to me that, friend of Philip's though he was, he was something of a philanderer and I would have no mind to take such a husband, even if I had not resigned myself to the single state.

He made no sign but I heard afterward that he told Mary she should insist on my marrying. She was the Queen and I was the subject. There again I was mystified as to his real intentions.

But that was Philip, as I was to discover later—much later—he was devious and as dangerous as a snake.

There was yet another insurrection. A certain Sir Thomas Stafford had been at the Court of France where he had received some favors from Henri Deux who, it was believed, had urged him to attempt rebellion in England. The French King was growing more and more alarmed at the friendship between England and Spain which since the marriage of Mary and Philip had become very close indeed, Mary being completely under the domination of the husband she adored.

Stafford landed on the coast of Yorkshire and took Scarborough Castle with ease. He tried to rally men to his banner by declaring that, in marrying Philip, Mary had passed over the country to Spain, and that the Spaniards were about to land and complete the enslavement. The Inquisition was preparing to land on our shores. This was, of course, the way in which to arouse the people, but Stafford was not clever enough. His mission was known before he arrived for there were many spies at the Court of France.

An army had been sent up to Yorkshire under the Earl of Westmorland, and in a short time Stafford's men, who were helpless against trained soldiers, were routed and Stafford himself captured, and very quickly sentenced to the barbarous death of hanging and quartering which took place in May at Tyburn.

Fortunately I was not implicated in this, although the aim of every plot was to depose Mary and I was naturally the one to step into her place.

Philip was restive as he always was in England. His heart was in Spain; moreover I think he wanted to get away from the cloying affections of Mary. I knew that her sickly looks were repulsive to him, and whereas he might have stayed longer if she had not tried to force her affections on him, as it was he was very eager to escape.

Philip took advantage of the Queen's annoyance and that of her ministers in the interference of the French over Stafford to get further English help for Spain against the French; and having succeeded in this I fancy he felt that his visit was not altogether without results. He had not married me off, but he had succeeded in involving England in his conflict with the French.

I was sorry for Mary after he had gone. She was so pathetic, so ill, so lacking in feminine attractions; and in her heart she knew that he had no love for her at all. Strangely enough it was to me she turned in those months which followed. After all, whatever conflict there was between us, I was her sister, and she was a very lonely woman. She had no friends of whom she could be sure, and her only hope of close contact with her own was through me.

I knew this and I tried to be tender to her. I could not exactly love her. It was not easy to love Mary; and in those last days I could never be in her presence without thinking of those people whom she had sent to the stake in the name of religion. Indeed, if one rode out into the streets of London one could not but be aware of the pall of smoke which hung over Smithfield; and I was often sickened when I fancied I could detect the odor of burning flesh in the air. Yet she did not suffer any qualms about the terrible suffering which was being inflicted in her name.

She was such an unhappy woman—but perhaps she should have been. If only she had not suffered so in her youth and seen her beloved mother so humiliated; if she could have married when she was young and had children, she might have been different. She was never one to show her affection— except with Philip. She was more honest than I. I could act and imply friendship when it was wise to do so. I could go to Mass, but when the time came I was going to stand firm as the Protestant Queen. All this I could do; but Mary never could. She would never dissemble and would always stand by what she considered to be the truth.

We talked now and then together in a sisterly fashion. There was a possibility, she said, that she might yet have a child.

I said I hoped she would be blessed.

So I did, but not with a child. Sometimes I would wake in the night and start up thinking that my sister had been delivered of a beautiful boy. Then I would come back to reality and I knew in my heart that she would never bear a healthy child. I knew too that time was running out for her.

I hoped it would not be long. I wanted to be Queen while I still had my youthful freshness, which was important to me. I was paid many compliments but I did realize that the nearer one came to the throne the more glowing they would be. I liked to think of myself as beautiful but in my franker moments I knew that while I was pleasant to look at, I lacked that beauty which many Court ladies possessed. I had my bright hair and my eyes were large and tawny which made them rather striking, but my eyebrows and lashes were pale. I needed long dark lashes and well-defined brows to show off my eyes. I was tallish and straight and elegant in figure and my white skin and hands and tapering fingers were my greatest beauty. So I was fair enough and being royal, I could be called a beauty. But when I rode through the streets to be acclaimed as Queen I did not want to have lost my youthful freshness.

I spent my time between the Court and Hatfield, and during that time Hatfield was still something of a prison because I was guarded night and day and no one came and went without its being reported to the Queen.

Sir Thomas Pope was always trying to divert me and I was often allowed to hunt. When we journeyed from one place to another we went in search of the hart and Sir Thomas always made that something of a ceremony. I would have my retinue of ladies dressed in white satin seated on their palfreys and my yeomen all in green, and I of course would be splendidly clad and the privilege of cutting the throat of the captured animal always fell to me.

Gustavus Vasa, the King of Sweden, was asking for my hand for his son Eric and again I felt a mingling of excitement and determination to refuse, but it pleased me very much to be asked in marriage though I had every intention of refusing.

The relationship between my sister and myself had so improved that when I went to Richmond to visit her she sent a royal barge for me with an awning of green silk decorated with fresh flowers—a mark of her respect for me and my position as her heiress.

To be in her company might have been something of a strain but I was adept at guiding the conversation in the way I wished it to go, and because outwardly I accepted the Catholic Faith Mary was guileless enough to believe that I was converted. I had to avoid the subject of religion and the terrible events in Smithfield for if they were mentioned I feared I might show my repugnance.

I was delighted that she made no effort to persuade or even force me to marry. She knew of the offer from Eric of Sweden which I had rejected, but I had carefully said in my reply that I should not dream of marrying without the Queen's consent, which had pleased her, for Gustavus had approached me first, which was unusual in these matters. I insisted that I had no wish to marry.

“You will one day,” she answered.

“As yet,” I replied, “the virgin state is the one I wish for.”

She smiled at me. “There are great blessings in marriage,” she said wistfully.

Blessings! Had she found them with Philip? An indifferent husband, whose sole reason for marrying was the power and political advantage it would bring him, whose visits to her were clearly distasteful to him, an unpleasant duty which must be performed in the hope of getting an heir, slinking off incognito for an assignation with the baker's daughter. Marriage! Oh no, not for me! Mary might have kept her dignity intact if she had never married.

The more I thought of marriage—and when I did my thoughts were dominated by my mother—the less I desired it.

The safe subject with Mary was the child she believed she carried and I was making some garments with the most delicate embroidery—at which I was quite good—and Mary was delighted with them.

I shall never forget the sight of her as she sat holding the tiny shift in her hands and that look of bliss on her face as she contemplated the joy of having the child she hoped to bear. It was particularly poignant as I was sure— as was everyone else—that she would never have a child.

But she softened toward me, and I toward her, because I saw her then as she was, a lonely woman reaching for affection. She spoke of Philip tenderly—and it was not the Philip he was but the one she had gulled herself to believe he was. “A great man,” she said, “and a great King. I am the luckiest woman on Earth to be his wife.”

I could not bear it. I was not given to tears but I wanted to weep then.

She twisted the ring on her finger. It was black enamel and gold. She called it her betrothal ring.

“I look at it often,” she said. “It reminds me of Philip when he is absent. Of course, it is inevitable that he must be absent. He has a great country to rule. I would that he could be beside me all the time. One day, sister, you will know the blessings of a good husband.”

I could scarcely prevent myself from protesting. I wanted no husband, least of all a power-seeking cynic like Philip.

“This ring is so precious to me,” she said. “I have vowed it shall never leave my finger while I live.”

I took her hand and kissed it.

“I hope, sister, that it will remain there for a very long time,” I said, which was not exactly true. Yet I pitied her.

Was it wrong to hope for Mary's death? Perhaps. But what had life to offer her but lost hopes, a heartless husband and a childless fate? Even more important, what had England to hope for under her rule? In any case one cannot help one's thoughts and I knew that I was the one chosen to lead my country from disaster.

So friendly did she become toward me that she proposed to visit me at Hatfield. Sir Thomas Pope was thrown into a fever of anticipation and he and I discussed with great excitement how we would entertain the Queen. The cost would be enormous, but Sir Thomas was a very wealthy man and I was not poor so we determined to entertain the Queen in a royal manner. Sir Thomas had in his possession a set of superb tapestries representing the siege of Antioch and I proposed that we decorate the state chamber with these. He was very ready to do anything to please me and agreed immediately.

When they were hung we reviewed them with great pride and Sir Thomas said to me: “It may well be that when Her Majesty comes, she will urge you to marry.”

“Sir Thomas,” I replied firmly, “since I have become mature I have made up my mind that I do not wish to marry.”

He smiled indulgently, for we were the best of friends. “Your Grace will change her mind when some suitable person comes to you with the Queen's consent.”

“My dear Sir Thomas,” I replied, “what I shall do hereafter I know not, but I assure you upon my truth and fidelity and as God be merciful unto me, I am not at this time otherwise minded than I have declared unto you. No, though I were offered the greatest prince in Europe.”

He merely smiled at me. I was sure he thought my remarks were not to be taken too seriously.

“Come,” I said, “let us talk of other matters. We should have a play to entertain Her Majesty.”

So we went on with our arrangements. There was a play after supper which was performed by the choirboys of St Paul's which pleased the Queen. We had been careful not to arrange a boisterous entertainment but to concentrate entirely on the tastes of the Queen, which meant presenting music and singing. I accompanied one of the boys on the virginals. He had a pure and lovely voice which enchanted the Queen.

It was a very successful visit and I was glad that Mary and I were on better terms and she seemed no longer to suspect me of plotting to depose her. One only had to look at her poor yellow face and her swollen body—not with child as she so fondly hoped, but with disease—to realize that she could not live for many more months.

It was a disastrous year for her. The time had come when she had to accept that she was not pregnant and never had been. The protuberance which she had fondly hoped was a child was some growth within her. It seemed now that my accession was inevitable. She accepted it and so did Philip; and so did the people. With the coming of the new year, so disastrous for Mary, so thrilling for me, events were moving fast.

Appeals were coming from the town of Calais, the only town left to England of all the conquests of Edward III and Henry V. The French, enraged by England's alliance with Spain, had marched on Calais and on a bitterly cold January day we heard that the town had surrendered to the Duke of Guise.

Mary was frantic. Calais was not so very important; it was difficult to defend it; but it was the last possession on the coast of France and it had been held for generations as a symbol that the English still had one foot in France. And she had lost it because she had allowed Philip to persuade her to join him in war against the French.

I often wondered then if that poor unhappy woman ever thought what disaster the Spanish marriage had brought to her and her country. Oh, what a lesson! The people had been against it and one must always have the people on one's side. Yes, the people had hated the Spanish marriage; it had brought a religious intolerance to England, not known since the persecution of the Templars. Men and women were being burned at the stake. Who was ever going to forget Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer and Hooper? The marriage had failed to produce the only thing which would have made it worthwhile from Mary's point of view—and now the last disaster. The English had lost Calais.

Unreasonable in her grief, the Queen begged the Council to spare no effort to regain the town which she called the chief jewel of our realm. The Council pointed out to her the cost of such an operation and if the town were regained it would have to be held at even more expense, for it was obvious that, having captured it, the French would be determined to retain it— and in short, the town was not worth the effort of recapturing it.

Mary mourned deeply. She said that when she died they would find “Calais” written across her heart.

Meanwhile life at Hatfield was changing. There was a less rigorous guard on me. Sir Thomas Pope had always been my good friend so there was little change in his attitude toward me. It was different with others. Visitors came to Hatfield from Court and there was a clear indication in their manner toward me that they already regarded me as their Queen.

One of my best friends was Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, an ardent Protestant. In fact I detected a certain fanaticism in him which I did not share, for I did not like that stern unrelenting attitude from whichever side it came. It was dangerous, bred cruelty and intolerance and prevented one from changing one's mind when it would be wise to do so.

All the same I knew that Sir Nicholas would be a good friend to me because in spite of recent deviation for form's sake, I represented the Protestants. He had been suspect at the time of Wyatt's rebellion and had only narrowly escaped death then. He was well versed in political affairs and had a wide knowledge of what was happening at Court; and his visits to Hatfield were becoming more frequent. I knew from Sir Nicholas how rapidly the Queen's health was declining.

“There are rumors of her death,” he said, “even while she lives.”

“One must be careful not to be misled by rumor,” I replied.

“Indeed that is so, Your Grace. The Queen is so sick and clearly on her death-bed. People are being put in the pillory because they are saying she is already dead.”

“I shall need proof before I believe it. And the burnings?” I continued.

“They go on apace. It would seem as though the Queen believes that the more people who die in torment, the greater her glory in Heaven. As I left London a poor woman named Alice Driver was preparing for her death and the people had come out to watch her last minutes. She had already had her ears cut off and was calling Her Majesty Jezebel as they tied her to the stake.”

I shivered. “The Queen knows of this… and death is close to her!”

“The Queen believes she does God's work, Your Grace.”

“It is beyond my understanding, Master Throckmorton,” I said.

“The people are looking to you, Your Grace. They say when your turn comes there will be an end to this misery.”

“There shall be, Nicholas, my friend. There shall be. It would appear to be near now but we must step with caution. I have faced death too many times to want to challenge it. I have my enemies. It is not too late for them to turn against me… while the Queen lives.”

“Which cannot be long, my lady.”

“You speak carelessly. I will not claim the throne until I am certain that my sister is dead. There is a ring she wears day and night. She calls it her betrothal ring because it was given to her by Philip. I will not believe that she is dead, until I hold that ring in my hand.”

“It shall be my duty, Your Grace, to bring it to you.”

And so I waited at Hatfield and each day when I rose, I wondered: Is this the one?

THERE WERE SO many visitors to Hatfield, so many who wished me well. I often said to Kat: “How many of these men would be coming to me now if they thought I had little chance of mounting the throne? How many come for love of me? How many for hopes of what good will come to them?”

“It is hard for queens to tell the difference, my love,” said Kat, wise for once.

“Perhaps one can never be sure and since one cannot it is well to make certain that one never has a chance of finding out… unless one wants to.”

“Oh, you are a shrewd one,” said Kat.

At least I was sure of her love. It had remained steadfast through all my adversities and so would it be to the end of our days.

We had one visitor at Hatfield who threw Kat into a flutter of excitement. In fact it had the same effect on me, though I was more discreet about it.

So many visitors to Hatfield—so what could be so special about one more? He was exceptionally tall—not too broad but broad enough to give an impression of masculine strength to his elegance. He had dark hair and eyes, with a fresh complexion and the most perfectly shaped features I had ever seen… not too finely chiseled, as Kat said afterward, but with that little touch of rough hew which was so becoming in a man. His clothes were rich, the colors not overbright but tastefully blended. He was the most handsome, the most graceful and the most attractive man I had ever seen—even including Thomas Seymour.

I never forgot that meeting; all through the years I have carried with me the memory of Robert Dudley as he was when he presented himself to me on that autumn morning.

I was told he begged an audience of me though I could never imagine Robert begging anything. He would ask it in a manner which suggested he was sure of success. Confidence was ever his way.

When they told me that Lord Robert Dudley was asking to see me, I was excited even before I saw him. I remembered the boy I had known at my father's Court; even then there must have been some quality in him which impressed me; then there had been the time when we had been in the Tower together and the fact of his nearby presence had given me courage and lightened the dark days. Now here he was at Hatfield asking an audience.

I went down and received him in the great hall.

When he saw me he fell onto his knees. He took my hand and kissed it and lifted his eyes to my face.

“Welcome to Hatfield, Lord Robert,” I said.

“My gracious lady,” he replied. “It is indeed good of you to see me.”

“There is no need to remain on your knees,” I told him.

He rose and then I saw how tall he was, while he looked at me as though in wonder and I felt a glow of pleasure, for his gaze was not only of respect for my rank but deep admiration for my person.

“Why have you come, Lord Robert?” I said to hide a certain confusion. “Is it for the same reason that many come to Hatfield now?”

“I have just returned from battle.”

“Yes. I believe you did good service for your country. And now you are here…as many others are.”

“I came to bring you gold,” he said. “I have sold some of my estates so that I might have the money. I trust you will not need it, but if there should be trouble it would be well for you to be prepared.”

“You bring me money, Lord Robert!”

“I have it here. My man will bring it to you. Your Grace, if it should be necessary to fight for what is yours by right, here is one who will stand beside you and cares so much for your cause that he has sold certain of his estates to raise money for any need or emergency which may arise.”

“You are indeed a friend,” I said, “and I thank you.”

“There was a time when you and I were both prisoners in the Tower,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face. “There was a young boy…”

“Little Martin,” I replied. “He brought me your messages of cheer until they stopped him.”

“Your Grace remembers! It is more than I dared hope. I never forgot, and I shall be with you should you need my help.”

“Thank you, Lord Robert. I accept your offer and your friendship.”

“I shall be watchful of Your Grace. There is much coming and going on the road to Hatfield. The Queen is very sick. If anything should go wrong, Hatfield could become a prison.”

“If aught goes wrong? What mean you by that?”

“None knows more than Your Grace what a dangerous world we live in.”

“Lord Robert, are you telling me there are plots against me?”

“I know of none. None would confide in me. I have always been Your Grace's most ardent supporter.”

“Except,” I said, a little sharply, “when you were among those who tried to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne.”

“That was my father, and as he was my father I was forced to stand with him. It was no disloyalty to Your Grace. I am yours to command. My lands and goods are at your disposal. This I have brought with me is but a token. Whatever need you should have of me, I am yours … these arms, this heart… this man.”

I was so touched I held out my hand, which he took and kissed fervently. He was a little too bold, perhaps, a little too intense, but I was honest enough to admit that I liked his fervor.

I said: “Thank you, Lord Robert. You may go now. I shall not forget this magnanimous offer. I may hold you to it, you know.”

“I shall be here whenever you need me.”

He bowed low and departed.

I went to my room. I did not want to speak to anyone for a while. I just wanted to think of him. I would remember every word he had said, every inflection of his voice, every expression which had touched his handsome face, the ardor in his eyes.

I should see him again soon and perhaps then I should be Queen.

MY SISTER KNEW that she was dying. I heard that she had received a letter from Philip in which he urged her to name me her heir. I did not see that that was important. I was her heir on the terms of my father's will. It was not for Mary to name me, or anyone else. But it did show that Philip realized I must follow her. He must have been extremely nervous about French aspirations through Mary Stuart and I still believed that in his heart he was hoping to marry me. I was certain that he was a little enamored of my person and because of his nature he would look forward to marriage with one who was young and attractive; moreover, in his arrogant way he would think he was quite capable of bending me to his will. How mistaken he was!

I was a little surprised when two members of Mary's Council arrived. I thought they might well have come to announce her death and I was wondering whether I should believe them. I had to watch for traps. I had said that I would not accept that my sister was dead until I held her gold and ebony ring in my hands, and I meant that.

But the councilors had not come to kneel to me as their Queen. They bowed with due deference and one of them said: “The Queen has sent us to Your Grace to tell you that it is her intention to bequeath the royal crown to you. In return for this favor there are three conditions with which you must comply. The first is that you will not change the Privy Council; the second that you will make no alteration in religion; and thirdly that you will discharge the Queen's debts and satisfy her creditors.”

I felt anger rising within me, but I said calmly enough that I could satisfy her on the last of these matters with the utmost ease as she was asking nothing more than what was just. “As to the others,” I went on, “there is no reason why I should thank the Queen for her intention to give me the crown for she has neither the power to bestow it upon me nor can I be deprived of it. It is my hereditary right. I respectfully point out that I should be allowed to choose my own councilors as she chose hers.”

I could see they were really taken aback and I really believe they thought I should be overcome with gratitude because the Queen was giving her consent to what was mine by right. But now I had come to the dangerous clause: religion. It was always religion which caused the greatest trouble. The Queen was not yet dead and I still had to walk warily. I paused to consider my reply. Then I said: “As to religion, I promise this much, that I will not change it providing only that it can be proved by the word of God which shall be the only foundation and rule of my religion.”

They looked bemused, as well they might. Experience had taught me that it is always wise to be obtuse when discussing religion, and if one could bring in God as one's advocate so much the better.

The Councilors went away. I fancied they were gravely considering my words and I felt that I was getting very near to the crown.

THE NEXT CALLER was the Count de Feria, the Ambassador from Philip himself. He was extremely affable, and I was inclined to be a little aloof, for I fancied I did not have to be so careful in manner toward him as I had been in the past. He and his master would immediately lose their importance when my sister was no longer there to sustain it and it pleased me to let these arrogant Spaniards know that England was slipping out of their clutches.

He began by conveying Philip's friendly feelings toward me.

“He has ever been kindly disposed toward Your Grace,” he said. “You will remember that it was through his persuasion that you came to Court.”

“I remember it well,” I replied.

“Moreover, it was he who advised the Queen to make you her heir and you must feel gratitude toward him for this.”

There was nothing which annoyed me more than to be told that my sister had had to be persuaded to give me that to which I had a right, and I felt my anger flaring up. I said coldly: “This was no matter of persuasion. I am the heir to the throne by right of birth. As my father's daughter, I am so named in his will. Therefore no matter what your master said to my sister, my right to the throne is my own, and I believe the people of England will see right done.”

“I am sure you will be grateful for the continued friendship of my master.”

“Friendship is always to be preferred to enmity and I shall remain friendly with all those who mean well to my country.”

“Through his marriage my master became King of this country.”

“He was the Queen's consort it is true, although he spent very little time with her.”

“He had so many duties in Spain…”

“And now he will be even more engrossed in his duties,” I said, referring to the death of the Emperor Charles which had occurred the previous month.

De Feria could not deny that. I was smiling, inwardly wondering what he would report to his master.

I went on: “As you know the King, your master, urged me more than once to marry Philibert of Savoy. Ah, if I had, where should I be now? Not here, most certainly. I should have been ill advised to have listened to him.”

“My master believed at the time that it would have been an excellent match for you. He was eager for your good.”

That was too much and I need not be subservient now.

I said sharply: “Your master has the good of his own country ever at heart, and that is all that can be expected of a ruler. My sister lost favor with her people when she married a foreigner and brought him to these shores.”

De Feria was nonplussed. I wondered if he had been told to sound me out about marriage with Philip. If he had, he evidently decided that this was not the moment to raise the matter. Nor was it, with Philip's poor wife, my sister, not yet dead, certain though it was that her end was imminent.

He went away somewhat crestfallen and I felt I had handled the situation very well.

THE TENSION WAS MOUNTING. I wanted to be alone to think. Mary was dying. It could not be many days now. I went into the gardens and as I was there I heard the sound of horses' hoofs. A party of riders were close. I stood still, my heart beating fast. Then I saw them.

They were members of the Council and they could only be here on one mission.

They dismounted and came toward me. They fell to their knees.

“God save Queen Elizabeth!” they cried, and they took my hand and, in turn, kissed it and swore to serve me.

I listened to them and was exultant. This was the greatest moment of my life.

I was overcome with joy but perhaps because of the vicissitudes through which I had passed I felt strangely humble.

Often during my most dangerous moments I had made Kat read Psalm 118 with me and I knew it by heart.

“It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in princes.

“Thou hast thrust sore at me that I might fall; but the Lord helped me.”

Often I had repeated those words and they came once more into my mind and I cried aloud: “This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.”

EVERYONE WAS NOW converging on Hatfield, all eager to proclaim me Queen.

Nicholas Throckmorton arrived with the gold and ebony ring, and he was a little put out because the Council had reached me first. I thanked him for his good service, which I promised I should not forget.

There was one other who came riding at full speed on a magnificent white horse.

I was delighted to see him and when he knelt down, kissed my hand and cried: “God save the Queen!” I almost wept with an emotion which I had to conceal.

“I would I had been the first to reach you,” he said. “As soon as I heard the news, for which I was earnestly waiting, I took my fastest horse. I wished to be the first to call you Queen and offer my life in your service.”

“I forget not that you came earlier,” I said. “Rest assured, Lord Robert, that you will not be forgotten.”

“My lady…so young…so fair… and a crown to carry!”

“Do not fear for me,” I answered. “I have long been prepared.”

“Fortune is smiling on England this day,” he said.

“Perhaps too it will smile on Robert Dudley,” I said. “I offer you the post of my Master of Horse. What say you?”

He was on his knees again. His eyes sparkled with pleasure and all the time they watched me. I was young…so was he. We were of an age.

“Master of the Queen's Horse,” he said slowly. “There is nothing I could have wished for more… because it will bring me close to Your Majesty. I shall be beside you for as long as you need me.”

Oh, glorious day! Dull November perhaps, but for me no day could have been brighter.

Truly it was marvelous in our eyes. At last I had my crown. I had the homage of my subjects, the love of my people—and the passionate admiration of Robert Dudley.