Queen of This Realm (27 page)

Cecil agreed but said: “We must go cautiously with regard to Winchester. Let him cool in prison. Your father would have had his head. I am sure you will see the virtue in greater caution.”

I saw at once. Indeed Cecil was voicing my opinion and, as usual, we were in agreement.

But it was a lesson learned. I must act cautiously and especially in this matter of religion.

I TOOK A
tentative step forward on the morning of Christmas Day. I was in the chapel where the service was being conducted in the way it had been during Mary's reign and the Bishop of Carlisle was at the altar about to officiate at High Mass when I rose and, with my ladies, left the chapel.

It was a carefully calculated action. What I had done would soon be known throughout the capital and the country no doubt, and I would wait to see what the people thought of it. If they were displeased, I could easily make excuses; I had felt unwell—or something such. Illness had stood me in good stead in the past, so why not now? If there was approval I should know how to act.

I was left in no doubt of the people's feelings. They were joyful. I then decided to take another step. Services in my chapel and all over the country should be conducted in English.

I was concerned with my coronation and I was determined to make it a day which all my subjects would remember with joy.

On the twelfth of January I went from the Palace of Westminster to the Tower, for an English monarch must set out from that fortress for the Coronation, and the previous day's journey is almost as ceremonious as the day of coronation itself.

I sailed in my state barge and all along the river were craft of every description with flowing banners of welcome and sweet music. The Lord Mayor's barge was fitted with artillery, which was fired off at intervals. There was wild cheering everywhere and nothing could have gratified me more. I landed at the Tower and, as always, I must think of that other landing at the Traitor's Gate.

On the afternoon of the next day I left the Tower in a chariot covered
with crimson velvet, and when I entered the city the cheers were deafening. Everywhere people shouted: “God save Your Grace.”

I called back to them: “God save you all. I thank you, dear people, with all my heart.”

How they loved me! I don't think any other monarch had shown such regard for them. They came to me with their flowers and I took them all and thanked them with emotion, and I laid them tenderly in my chariot that they might see how I prized them.

One of the things which pleased me most during that ride was the tableau in Gracechurch Street which represented the royal line from which I had sprung. There was my grandmother, Elizabeth of York, stepping out of a gigantic white rose to take the hand of my grandfather, Henry VII, who was emerging from a red one; but my greatest pleasure was in the effigy of my mother, who was set up beside my father. It was the first time since her execution that any homage—or common decency—had been paid to her. From these two sprang another branch, and there was an effigy of myself seated on a golden throne surrounded by entwined red and white roses.

I clapped my hands, which might seem undignified in a queen, but I was not so much anxious to uphold royal dignity as to win the love of my people. I had the power, I discovered, and I developed this later, to be able to speak to them and be with them as one of themselves, which I think was the chief reason I kept their good will.

All along the route there were pageants and children to sing my praises. I remember still the glory of Cheapside on that day with the tapestries hanging down from the windows and my dear subjects assuring me of their loyalty. I hope I made them aware of my love for them and my determination to serve them well.

On the morning of my coronation, I left Whitehall whither I had come from the Tower and came to Westminster. I looked very regal in my erminetrimmed crimson velvet. I was a little anxious because the bishops had refused to crown me. They knew that I was determined to make myself Head of the Church, like my father before me, which, as I saw it, was the only way of restoring tolerance and reason in religious matters to my realm. Because the See of Canterbury was vacant, it was the duty of Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York, to perform the ceremony, but as Heath was aware of the changes I proposed to make, he refused to crown me. Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, pleaded that he was too old and ill for such an exacting occasion, and the task therefore fell on Owen Oglethorpe, Bishop of Carlisle.

Oglethorpe would have liked to refuse, I believed. First he pleaded that
he did not possess the necessary robes for such a function, but someone found robes and that excuse was not good enough; and oddly enough it was Bonner who lent his. It was very disturbing to have this conflict within the clergy, but I knew it was what I had to expect. If it meant displeasing the Church to please the people, then I knew what I had to do.

And so I came to the altar and there was anointed—an operation which I did not greatly enjoy as the oil was greasy and smelt vilely—but its significance was great and therefore to be endured.

But how pleased I was to be dressed in my golden mantle while the Bishop put the crown on my head and when I sat in the chair of state and my subjects came and knelt to me to swear allegiance, I was very happy.

Then to the ceremonial banquet in Westminster Hall where I sat in state while Sir Edward Dymoke rode into the hall and made the traditional challenge under the eyes of the eight hundred guests at the long tables and the assembled serving men. I was sure no one present would ever forget that occasion; as for myself it was the one I had dreamed of all through the dangerous years. Now here I sat in my velvet and ermine robes with my crown on my head while two of the greatest noblemen in the land, Lord William Howard and the Earl of Sussex, stood beside me and served me with food and wine. I ate sparingly. I was not a great eater and I had rarely felt less like food. I was in a state of great exultation; I was filled with emotion and determination in equal part. I was making my vows as earnestly as any nun ever did, but instead of dedicating my life to the service of the Church, I was giving mine to my country.

It was not until the early hours of the morning that the feasting was over and I could retire to my bed.

Kat was waiting for me.

“You are exhausted, my love,” she said. “Kat will put you to bed.”

“Kat,” I reminded her, “you will have to remember that I am your Queen.”

“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Tonight you are my tired little one.”

I was very glad to be divested of my robes, too tired to talk, even to Kat.

I lay in my bed and thought about this significant day, and my hopes were all for the future.

THERE WERE LONG TALKS
with Cecil and constantly he impressed on me the need to marry.

He said: “The King of France has proclaimed Mary Stuart Queen of England and the Dauphin, King.”

“Let him proclaim,” I retorted. “Words will hurt no one. I have been
anointed and crowned Queen. Do you think the people of England would accept Mary Stuart—half Scot, half French, the hated enemies of the country!”

“The people would have to accept what was forced on them. Let us make your position secure, and the best way you can achieve that is by marriage and the bearing of an heir.”

“I have no wish for marriage,” I said.

“It would be wise to take a husband and bear a child,” insisted Cecil.

I did not intend to argue with him further. I would wait until the suitors appeared, which would not be long I was sure. In the meantime I would concern myself with the religious controversy because I knew my people expected me to restore the Reformed Faith and put an end to religious persecution.

I had made up my mind. I would be Head of the Church as my father had been; and there was no need for me to pretend any longer to accept orders from Rome.

Accordingly I wrote to the Princes of Germany, Sweden and Denmark—those lands in which the Protestant Faith had flourished—and I told them that I would like to make bonds of friendship with them since my views coincided with theirs. At the same time I ordered Sir Edward Carne whom my sister had sent to Rome as Ambassador to Pope Paul IV to announce my accession and coronation to His Holiness, asking him also to inform the Pope that I had no intention of using violence against my subjects on account of their religion.

As might have been expected, the Pope was most displeased at this information, but I was not in the least perturbed. If I was to break with Rome my people would not expect me to take orders from him, and his enmity would certainly not harm me in their eyes.

Carne replied that His Holiness was against liberty of conscience and that he could not understand the hereditary rights of one not born in wedlock, and that the nearest relation of Henry VII was, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scotland and Dauphiness of France.

If, however, I chose to place the matter of the right of succession in his hands, he would consider it. I had no doubt that he would—or what his conclusions would be. Thank you very much, I thought. But I decline your generous offer!

What I did do was recall Carne, whereupon the Pope threatened the poor man with excommunication if he left Rome without Papal consent. Poor Carne was in a dilemma. He knew that I was breaking away from Rome and he was a stern Catholic—one of my sister's most trusted adherents. He chose to remain in Rome. I did not blame him. I had said that I
did not intend to punish my subjects for worshipping as they pleased, and I meant it.

Even so the Pope was displeased—with me, of course—and he took his revenge on poor Carne and robbed him of his ambassadorial standing and made him governor of an English hospital in Rome.

I told Cecil that we should not insist on his release as at this stage it would be unwise to enter into further conflict with the Pope, and Cecil replied that I was already showing wisdom.

So I dismissed the matter. But I had made my course clear. I knew now the way I had to go.

Religion was only one problem. The overwhelming one in the minds of those about me was marriage. They were all determined that it should take place without delay. Marriage! The subject fascinated me and repelled me. It was not that I did not like men. Indeed I liked them very well. There were two sides to my nature. Oh, I know well that we all have many facets to our character, but to have two so diametrically opposed as those that warred in me made me perhaps unusual. I was shrewd; my wits were quick; I had amazed my teachers with my ability to profit from learning; I possessed those faculties which could make me an able ruler. That was one side. On the other, I was vain, inclined to coquetry; I desired admiration for my person; I craved compliments even though my wiser nature reminded me a thousand times that they were false; I longed for men to pine for love of me even though my wiser self reminded me that they feigned to do so because they were ambitious and lusted after those favors which only a queen could grant. From one side I deluded myself; from the other I saw all—including myself—with the utmost clarity.

Yes, there were two Elizabeths—the one clever and the other foolish; but the foolish one was not so foolish as not to see her folly; and the clever one was not clever enough to stop, or even want to stop, the frivolity of the other.

The foolish one was in love while the shrewd one looked on almost cynically, watching the other closely, knowing that she would never allow her to fall into the trap which could be set for her. The clever one said: “Remember Thomas Seymour.” And the foolish one replied: “It was one of the most exciting times of our life. Seymour was a wonderful man, but no one is quite like Robert Dudley.”

Both acknowledged that there never had been, nor ever could be, a man to compare with Robert Dudley. To ride with him—and his duties demanded that he be constantly at my side—to see the gleam of desire in his eyes when they fell on me, added the greatest pleasure to the thrilling days through which I was living. No matter how often my wise self pointed out
that it was in great measure the glittering crown which set Robert's eyes sparkling, still I did not care, and even the cynical one sometimes said: “It might be both, the two of us
and
the crown.”

The circumstances delighted me. Robert Dudley, the only man whom I would have considered marrying, already had a wife. It was a situation which appealed to both sides of my nature. Perpetual courtship.

Philip of Spain was courting me and his Ambassador, the Count de Feria, was constantly calling on me. The last man I would marry would be Philip of Spain, but I saw no reason for telling de Feria so. I was quite enjoying raising my brother-in-law's hopes. It amused me and it was necessary to keep the King of France guessing. The last thing he would want would be yet another alliance between England and Spain. It was also the last thing I wanted, but I must be diplomatic. So I pretended to consider Philip's proposal.

De Feria was most attentive. What fools these men are! Did they think I would forget their treatment of me in the past?

On one occasion he told me that his master was pleased that I had accepted the allegiance of the Catholic peers in spite of my—forgive him but he must say it—misguided attitude in some matters.

I replied breezily that I was of the nature of a lion, and lions did not descend to the destruction of mice.

He smiled uneasily. I really did enjoy my encounters with de Feria. He was having rather a bad time, and I thought that sooner or later Philip would become exasperated with him. Then I heard that through de Feria Philip was offering bribes to some of the Catholic peers, suggesting that they work for him and try to reestablish the Church as it had been in Mary's reign. The first thing Lord William Howard did—for he was one who had been sounded as a possible recipient of Philip's bounty—was to come to me. I advised him to tell de Feria that I gave my consent to his accepting the money.

I could imagine de Feria's face when Lord William Howard told him that. I could not resist teasing the Spaniard further and when he next came into my presence I said: “I hope, Count, that His Most Catholic Majesty will not object if I employ some of his servants he has here among my courtiers.”