Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (37 page)

she had broken him in the end and could now trot him off to that menag-

erie which still housed Sussex and Arundel, elderly pets of whom she was

mildly fond.

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And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks
!

She turned away hastily lest he see the smile which hovered at her lips.

Woodstock held more than one prisoner…

t t t

Philip was utterly bemused by the muddled accounts which came in a

steady stream from Woodstock.

“My dear,” he ventured one evening, looking up at his wife in irrita-

tion, “was this old dotard the best custodian you could find?”

“He wasn’t a dotard when I appointed him.” Mary flung her

embroidery across the room. “Oh, don’t you see, have I not said it often

enough?—it’s
her
!
She corrupts all men with her evil wiles. If you had

met her you would understand what I mean.”

“But I have not met her,” said Philip pointedly.

“No!—nor will you!” Mary leapt from her chair. “Oh, I will hear no

more of her, no more, do you understand? As for those disguised and

colourable letters of hers—I swear I shall not receive another one. She

shall be forbidden to write—absolutely forbidden.”

He shrank from the scene he had provoked and turned away to his letters;

he hated these hysterical outbursts, so undignified, so ugly, so frequent. In

Spain, no one ever raised their voice—even orders for torture and execu-

tion were given with placid courtesy. It seemed to him that the English, as

a race, had no self-control and that everyone from the Queen down to the

rabble mob delighted in making an exhibition of their emotions.

He was ill at ease in this marriage; and in this adopted country of

his, where he seemed like a fish out of water. Every night as he climbed

reluctantly into the state bed and regarded the Queen’s withered little

body, eager enough—oh God, almost indecently eager!—but scarcely

inviting, he reflected that some duties were decidedly more distasteful

to perform than others. It was then that his thoughts turned unwillingly

to the sister-in-law of whom he had heard so many odd tales. He was

assured on every side that she was a bad lot, and the more firmly he was

assured, the more perversely his unhealthy interest grew.

Loneliness was growing on him steadily, and loneliness was an

emotion to which Philip was a complete stranger. Since childhood, he

had possessed those recluse-like qualities which would have placed him

happily in a silent Order, so this restless, unaccountably strong desire to

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meet Elizabeth was quite beyond his understanding. Why should he feel

such vulgar curiosity about an ill-bred courtesan, whose very existence

placed him at risk in this realm? Barring the little Queen of Scots, whip-

hand of his French enemies, Philip honestly considered Elizabeth to be

the most dangerous person in Europe. Oh yes, he wished to get the

measure of that tricky young lady—but was that the
only
reason he was

quietly manoeuvring to get her back at court?

He put his pen down and leaned his chin moodily on his hands. He

had precious little to look forward to in this land, beyond that meeting.

Eighty of his disillusioned grandees and retainers had already left for home,

and those who remained complained pitifully that, “We are miserable

here, much worse than in Castile…the English cannot bear the sight of a

Spaniard, they would rather see the Devil.” There were open brawls on

the streets between the two races and in every shop and market-place the

Spaniards were mercilessly fleeced. Even the religious settlement, effected

by Mary’s cousin, Cardinal Pole, showed little sign of bringing peace and

reconciliation. The Papal Legate had been escorted to England by no less

a person than that “very honest man,” Sir William Cecil, and the country

was now officially Catholic. Yet no one would part with church lands

plundered during Henry’s break with Rome, and Protestant opposition

remained vociferous in the streets.

Compromise had failed and the rigours of persecution were slowly

taking its place. Gardiner’s Heresy Bill had legalised the examination

and punishment of all heretics who publicly persisted in practising their

creed and in February the first martyrs had gone to the stake. The former

Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer, had been forced to watch while

Bishops Latimer and Ridley burned, and knew his turn would come.

The burnings had not increased Philip’s popularity. Indeed, if Mary

should die while he was still in England he would be fortunate to

escape with his life. The rabble howled against him and circulated crude

lampoons which mocked his dignity and his manhood. Even Mary no

longer spoke hopefully about his coronation. The heir to half the world

had been reduced to the status of a stud horse, but at least there his selfless

devotion to duty had achieved its purpose.

The Queen—God be thanked!—was with child at last.

t t t

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They told this to Elizabeth and in the next breath asked her the fatal

question.

Did she believe that the bread and wine at Communion was trans-

formed into the actual body and blood of Christ?

Her fingers tightened on the rosary beads which hung from her waist.

Her life depended on her answer. If she denied belief in the Sacrament

she would burn as a heretic; if she publicly avowed belief she would lose

her Protestant support and be cut adrift in the future like a rudderless ship.

It was a moment of terror and supreme loneliness, that showed her the

gulf between herself and the rest of the world. For to her this issue was

a dispute over trifles which threatened to tear the Christian world apart.

She saw no purpose in dying for any creed—did that make her wicked?

Certainly it made her different; she knew, as she gazed into the bigoted

faces around her, that her mind stretched out beyond the narrow confines

of this century towards a more enlightened age of tolerance.

When I am Queen I swear I will make no windows into any man’s soul…

But now she had to speak and mock the infallibility of this test of faith.

And suddenly, the words revolving in her head resolved themselves into

a neat little riddle.

“Christ was the Word that spoke it,

He took the bread and broke it.

And what His Word did make it,

That I believe…and take it.”

Slowly she raised her eyes in a cool y defiant gaze that dared them to probe

any further. And one by one they lowered their eyes to the ground. Not a

man of them took up her pointed chal enge, for the slight emphasis on “take

it” had been unmistakable and they were al wel acquainted with her dutiful

attendances at Mass. Too clever by half was the general opinion, but they

had no knife long enough to reach her; and at length they had to let her go.

Bedingfield was waiting to escort her back up the narrow staircase to

her room, and once there she went across to the window where the light

of a bleak day was rapidly failing. Somewhere in the distance she could

hear a milkmaid singing as she crossed the meadow to the barn with two

pails swinging from a yoke across her shoulders.

“Your Grace is weary,” ventured Bedingfield with cautious sympathy.

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“Weary of this miserable existence,” Elizabeth muttered, “I wish I

were that milkmaid out there.”

“Madam.” He laid his heavy hand on her arm. “You must not despair.

The Queen is with child and will surely soften towards you in her great

joy. We must all rejoice in the news and pray for a son.”

Elizabeth looked out into the dusk through blurred eyes and wondered

if she would ever set foot again outside her prison door.

“Yes,” she said dully. “We must all rejoice and pray for a son.”

Pray—oh, God forgive me—that it is still-born
!

t t t

Philip had been sitting for over an hour at his meticulously tidy desk,

staring at the letter he had received from Renard, recently recalled to

Spain. It was full of advice on what to do with Elizabeth and, frankly,

what to do with Elizabeth was rapidly becoming a very urgent question.

Renard had been blunt, as was his wont.

“Should the Queen’s pregnancy prove a mistake the heretics will place

their hopes in Elizabeth, and here you are in difficulty whatever is done,

for if Elizabeth is set aside the crown will go to the Queen of Scots.”

Philip frowned. That was Elizabeth’s trump card, should he choose to

set her free and let her play it. In due course, the Queen of Scots would

be Queen of France. Add the crown of England to Scotland and France

and you altered the entire balance of power in Europe. And Mary Tudor,

nearing forty and in poor health, was at a dangerous age for bearing

children. If he should lose wife and son at the birth, Elizabeth was all that

stood between France and England.

“Before you leave the country you should see the Princess yourself

and on your part promise that you will be her friend and assist her where

you can find opportunity.”

Philip folded the letter and locked it in his desk. A sound fel ow,

Renard—he’d always thought so. Wel then, there was no choice, was there?

He must see the Princess and become her friend—he owed it to himself and

to his father. Self-defence, common sense, nothing more, he told himself

firmly. And yet that subdued, lecherous dog, kennel ed in the cel ar of his

mind, was sitting up with wagging tail and drooling tongue. He felt extraor-

dinarily pleased with himself as he made his way to his wife’s apartments.

“Bring her to court?” echoed Mary, wild-eyed against her pillows.

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“She should surely be there to witness the birth.”

“She should be
dead
!”

“My dear, you had the opportunity to take her head and let it slip away.”

“Next time I may not be so foolish.”

He came out of the shadows and looked down on her in alarm.

“Next time?”

Mary stared at him with tired jealousy.

“How careful you are of her safety. Is her power so great it can enslave

a man she had not even met?”

“You are distressed,” said Philip coldly. “You must not excite yourself

in this manner—it is bad for the child.”

Mary turned away to hide her tears in the pillow.

“Once you set eyes upon her you will go the way of all the rest. I

know it.”

He was vaguely offended by the suggestion.

“You think I cannot handle the young lady? You are mistaken,

madam. I am no callow boy to be taken advantage of by a pretty woman.

I merely make a political suggestion in the spirit of duty.”

“The same duty that tied you to me?”

Her thin shoulders were shaking with sobs. There was nothing for it

but to get on the bed beside her and speak a few soft words of comfort.

“It distresses me that you should doubt my motives,” he said at length

in a pained tone. “Don’t you trust me, Mary?”

“Oh, yes.” She buried her ravaged face in his doublet. “Of course I

trust you, my love.”

“Then you will show that trust by obliging me in this matter.”

She clung to him in terror; she had heard the threatening note in his voice.

He was bored and homesick; it would take very little to drive him away.

“You will write to Bedingfield soon?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she said hopelessly against his shoulder, “I will write at once.”

So he had turned the key in the lock and opened the prison door. In

spite of his satisfaction he felt a moment of real apprehension.

He was not entirely sure what he was releasing upon the world.

Much suspected of me

Nothing proved can be

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner

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Susan Kay

That crude little phrase, etched on her window with a diamond ring, was

Elizabeth’s defiant farewell to her imprisonment at Woodstock.

On a blustery April day, when early flowers were struggling in the

hedgerows, she rode away from the gatehouse with a retinue of servants.

It was more than fifteen months since she had been on horseback.

A teasing wind billowed out the ladies’ skirts and flung petulant

bursts of rain in their faces. Bedingfield would not budge above a clumsy

canter, and Elizabeth, feyed by the squallish weather, resisted a crazy

impulse to take off across the fields and frighten the life out of him. She

had grown curiously fond of him, but oh, what a bore he was with his

endless authority.

Christ, if I am ever Queen no man in this world will ever say “must” to

me again…

To the left of the muddy road lay a large house and along the track a

well-dressed young man was running to meet them.

Elizabeth thought rapidly. The wind had already blown the sable hood

down her back. When Bedingfield’s attention was diverted, she lifted her