Jean Plaidy - For a Queens Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II Страница 22

“My darling,” said Kat, “have a care.”

“Silly Kat! What is there to fear? Go now and read what I wrote with my diamond on the window of this very room. Go, Kat, and read it aloud to me now.”

Kat made a mock curtsy and went to the window. She read slowly:

“Much suspected—of me,

Nothing proved can be,

Quoth Elizabeth, the prisoner.”

“’Tis true, Kat. ’Tis true now as it was when I wrote it.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you go tossing your head and frivoling with your sister’s husband as you once did with your stepmother’s, I shall be trembling in my shoes.”

“Nay,” said Elizabeth, smiling a little sadly, for memories of the gay and dashing Admiral Seymour always made her sad. Then she turned suddenly to Kat and cried: “I was a child then, Kat, and do you not remember him? There was none like him … nor will ever be. And they say this Philip is quiet and sober … everything that Tom Seymour was not.”

“None the less dangerous for all that.”

“Say you so? Well, Thomas nearly brought me to the executioner’s axe; and this Philip, for all he is a King, could not take me further than that, now could he, Kat? For, stupid one, I have only one neck, you know; and it has been in danger so many times that once more … well, what is that?”

Then she laughed and Kat laughed with her. In their hearts they both believed that she was clever enough to come through danger and that she would rise to that high eminence which must one day be hers.

The next day she set out from Woodstock. She was cheered as she passed along the way, for many had come out to see her; the more unpopular the Spanish marriage became, the more they looked to Elizabeth. There were many ugly whispers throughout the country as to what would follow this return to the Catholic fold.

“Long live the Princess Elizabeth!” cried the people, at which Elizabeth would become demure, curbing her smiles, remembering that if there was one thing which angered Mary more than another it was to hear how spontaneously the people had cheered her sister.

After several days’ journey, Elizabeth arrived at Hampton Court, where she was taken to the “Prince’s Lodgings;” but no sooner had she entered with a few of her trusted attendants than the doors were locked behind her, and she knew that she was again a prisoner.

Before she had been in her lodgings an hour, messengers came to tell her that Bishop Gardiner, with some members of the Cabinet, was on his way to see her.

Kat was trembling as she helped to adjust her mistress’s robes. “Gardiner … that man?” she cried. “If he could have his way …”

“Yes, Kat. If he could have had his way my head and body would have parted company.”

“How I hate him!” cried Kat.

“Such indiscretion!” mocked Elizabeth.

“I never forget the way in which he persecuted your father’s sixth wife.”

“But she outwitted him. Remember that also. My quiet stepmother outwitted the mighty Gardiner. Do you imagine that what Katharine Parr could do, the Princess Elizabeth could not? Then you are guilty of double treason!”

“Hush, hush, my darling. Now are you ready? I beg of you, I pray you, my precious love, be careful.”

They kissed fondly. “I give you my special permission, Kat, to listen at the keyhole. Though you do not need such permission. Get along with you at once.”

“God bless … your Majesty.”

“Hush! At such a time! You’ll make me give myself too many airs. I must be modest … at least outwardly.”

The Bishop was at the door, so Kat hurried away to take up her position at the keyhole and to experience great fear mingled with pride and love.

The Bishop came forward and Elizabeth gave him her hand to kiss. He bowed over it. Greatly, she thought, would I like to see your head on London Bridge, Sir Bishop; for if I could witness that cheering sight, mine would feel much happier where it rests still, in spite of your efforts to dislodge it.

She did not wait for him to speak. She said: “My Lord, how glad I am to see you! I have been kept a great while from you, desolately alone. I would entreat you to be a means to the King’s and Queen’s Majesties that I may be released from my imprisonment.”

Gardiner replied: “Your Grace speaks truth. Her Majesty has, alas!, found it often necessary to keep you under restraint. And if you would remedy this permission, my advice to you would be to confess your fault and put yourself at the Queen’s mercy.”

It would indeed, Sir Bishop! she thought. Confess my fault! Admit my treason so that she could with free conscience lop off my head? Naturally, that is your advice, my Lord, for are you not at the head of those whose greatest wish is to see me headless?

Her eyes were clear and innocent as she lifted them to the Bishop’s face. “Confess, my Lord? How could I, when I know not what my fault might be? Should I lie to the Queen? Should I invent a fault that she might forgive me for that which I have not committed? Rather than be so false I would lie in prison all my life. I have never offended against the Queen; therefore I can crave no mercy at her Majesty’s hands.”

The Bishop hid his exasperation. He said: “I marvel at your Grace’s boldness. Say you then that the Queen has wrongfully imprisoned you?”

“Nay, my Lord. How could that be? I am the Queen’s subject, and it is her privilege to punish me if she thinks fit so to do.”

“Her Majesty would have you know that you must tell another tale if you would be set at liberty.”

“Then, my Lord, if I must say what is not true, if I must plead for forgiveness when I have done naught to need it, I would rather lie in prison than say aught against my conscience.”

Gardiner changed his method. He insinuated that the Queen was not pleased with Elizabeth’s religious views. The Princess’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Had she not heard divine service after the manner of Rome? Had she not frequently been confessed?

“These things you have done, some say, for expediency only. I should like to hear from your own lips what is your opinion as to the real presence of Christ in the sacrament.”

Elizabeth was prepared for this. It was a question asked of all those who were suspected of being heretics. She spoke earnestly the lines which she herself had composed:

“Christ was the word that spake it,

He took the bread and brake it,

And what His word did make it,

That I believe, and take it.”

What could be done with such a woman? wondered Gardiner. He rejoiced that the Queen was with child, for he could imagine what would happen to such as himself if ever this wily termagant came to the throne. It seemed little use trying to entrap her; she would have one of her cunning answers ready for every emergency.

“I advise your Grace to ponder well your position,” he said severely; and then he left her.

Kat came in as soon as he had gone; she embraced the Princess, and Elizabeth tore herself away to give an impression of the dignified Bishop. Louder and louder grew their laughter, more boisterous their play-acting, until Kat cried: “Be silent. The danger is grave.”

She fancied she had caught an echo, in Elizabeth’s laughter, of that which beset people when they played with death. Thus her mother was said to have laughed in her gloomy lodging of the Tower.

Mary was nervous. As she paced the apartment, Philip walked beside her.

“You do not know what you ask,” said Mary. “She is deceitful. She works with my enemies. She seeks to depose me and take the throne.”

“How could she do that, my dear Mary, when you are the rightful Queen, and now are to have a child?”

The mention of the child never failed to soften her. “Ah, yes … But what if a rising against me were successful? I have to be doubly careful now … because of the child.”

“Forgive her and please the people. Be calm when she comes … and she will be here at any moment. I shall hide myself behind these curtains that I may observe her without her being aware of my presence. I will draw my conclusions of her character; and when we have married her to Philibert, she will give us no more anxiety.”

“Could you ask him to marry a bastard?”

“He is a vassal of my father’s, and doubtless it would not be difficult to persuade him.” He paused listening. “I hear them coming.”

There was a knock on the door, and Mary cried: “Enter.”

The door was opened, and a herald announced: “The Princess Elizabeth.”

Philip had hastily hidden himself behind the curtains. His heart had begun to beat faster. He had heard so many tales of his young sister-in-law. Was it, he wondered, that nowadays every woman except his wife must excite him?

Mary was sitting in her state chair when Mistress Clarencius and Sir Henry Bedingfield brought in the Princess. Mary dismissed Mistress Clarencius and Bedingfeld as Elizabeth fell to her knees.

Through a small gap in the hangings, Philip watched the girl. He saw an elegant young woman with reddish hair and blue eyes; she was rather pale, no doubt because she had suffered many an illness in recent years, generally supposed to be due to her imprisonment and her perpetual fear of death. She lived midway between the executioner’s axe and the throne, and would never be sure which way her steps must take her.

He noticed how cleverly she had dressed herself to enhance what beauty she had; he saw the rings which glittered on her beautiful white hands, and he was aware of how she deliberately displayed them even at a time such as this.

She said: “Your Majesty sent for me?”

“How else could you be here?” asked Mary coldly.

The long, sandy lashes were immediately lowered over the blue eyes. Philip sensed how vital she was. She looked demure, but she did not deceive him for a moment. She was all fire; within her ambition mingled with her womanliness. She might wish, as he had heard, to be a much-desired woman; but her burning desire was to be a Queen.

He must watch her very carefully. She must indeed be made to marry his cousin of Savoy and banished from her country, for one thing was certain: where she was, there trouble would be also.

Elizabeth kissed the Queen’s hand, but Mary withdrew it immediately.

Elizabeth cried with passion: “Your Majesty must believe in my loyalty. Much slander has been spoken against me.”

“Why is it that you always attract such slander?”

“Because it is the desire of mean-spirited people to misrepresent me, to undermine your Majesty’s faith in me. I have never sought to rival your Majesty.”

“What of your relationship with Courtenay?”

Elizabeth fluttered her eyelashes and allowed herself to look even more demure. “That, your Majesty, was no fault of mine.”

She implied, as she said this, that she could not help it if men such as Courtenay found her so attractive that they risked their heads for her sake, even though she knew them to be acting foolishly and had no wish to accept what they offered her.

Elizabeth’s vanity always annoyed Mary; yet, knowing this, and being wise and quick-witted in all other matters, Elizabeth could not eschew it, such was the pleasure of flaunting herself as the irresistible woman.

“I think otherwise,” said the Queen. “I doubt your innocence. There are too many stories.”

“Your Majesty, it is true that men when racked have spoken against me, but can confession made under torture be relied upon?”

Mary said: “Do you swear that you have never been involved in any rebellion against me?”

“I swear it, your Majesty.”

“Would I could believe it!”

“Your Majesty must believe what is true.”

“If you would confess your offense, sister …”

“Your Majesty, gladly would I do so if I had aught to confess.”

“You stand stoutly in your truth, then?”

“I do, your Majesty.”

“I pray God that it will so fall out that you speak the truth, for if you do not and we discover it, then your punishment would be the greater for your deceit.”

“If your Majesty discovered aught against me to be true, then should I deserve all that befell me, and I should never sue your queenly mercy.”

“That we shall see,” said Mary. “Now I am tired. You may go back to your apartment. I have decided to forgive you this time, and unless I find aught against you, you may join our Christmas revels.”

The Princess took the Queen’s hand and insisted on kissing it. “Beloved sister,” she said, “never shall I forget your clemency.”

What was going on behind those blue eyes, Philip wondered. Was she already deciding what dresses, what jewels, she would wear to charm the courtiers? Was she praying that the child in Mary’s womb might sicken and die before it saw the light of day? Was she waiting for the moment when none stood between her and the crown? It might be any of these things; and Philip realized that it could be all of them.

When she had gone he stepped from behind the curtains.

“What did you think of my sister?” asked Mary.

“Comely enough. Shrewd too, I should say.”

Mary looked at him, noting the flush on his pale cheeks. Had he been slightly attracted by Elizabeth? Elizabeth herself so believed that every man must fall in love with her, that others found themselves believing it also. But Philip was no philanderer.

His next words disarmed her suspicions. “It would be well to marry her to Philibert. She is ripe for marriage.”

But on looking at him more closely, Mary began again to wonder.

That was a merry Christmas. What tournaments, what jousts there were, with all the nobility of Spain to tilt against the lords and dukes of England!

There were the usual rivalries; there was sly English laughter at Spanish dignity, Spanish disdain of English crudity.

Philip was happy thinking: Before the summer is here, I shall have left England. Once the child is born, I shall be away—and if he is healthy, my duty is done.

He was watching Magdalen Dacre, that strange girl who seemed remote yet conscious of the honor he conferred on her when he singled her out. It was not always true that English and Spaniards did not get on well together. There were the Count of Feria and Jane Dormer to prove that. Feria had told Philip that he had fallen in love with the English girl and wished to break off the engagement he had made with a Spanish lady of noble birth. What could Philip say to that but wish him luck? If Feria could satisfy the family of his first love, there was no reason why he should not marry Jane Dormer. What a useful spy that lady should make for Spain!

The red-headed Princess, who, delighted to be back at court, was throwing herself wholeheartedly into the revels, gave him cause for anxiety. He suspected her of … he knew not what. Every action which seemed so spontaneous could have its motive. Courtiers said: “How gay it seems now that Elizabeth is back at court!” and he knew they meant to convey: What gaiety there could be, what merrymaking, if she were Queen! That was what she intended; while she was demure she was bold; she seemed full of humility, but what arrogance shone from those blue eyes!