Chapter 12 #2
“I serve the princess,” Colby answered without heat. “I have been told you do as well. Mary is very much of the old religion, and Elizabeth sees that danger. Mary can be fair-minded, but when her religion is challenged, she is blind. I have seen this.”
I had seen it as well, in a distant sort of way, throughout my life, though I’d never paid much attention. I’d expected Edward and his sons to rule for many years, and Mary’s beliefs not to matter. Now everything about Mary was of severe and sharp importance.
Colby sent me another of his assessing stares before he nodded at me and rode on, as though finished with my company. The man made me impatient, though I was not certain why.
Rude, I told myself. I was simply bothered by his abrupt comings and goings and his high-handed demands.
I caught up with the other ladies and tried to push Colby from my thoughts.
Not long later, we arrived in London.
Our large retinue had to slow as we entered via Aldgate and paraded through the cheering City to Fleet Street. We passed Temple Bar and flowed into the Strand, following it a short way to Somerset House, the huge estate that had been granted to Elizabeth after Somerset’s downfall.
This manor was enormous, with large grounds and a pile of buildings backing onto the Thames.
My lodgings were high in the rear of the house, the damp and stink of the river wafting into my chamber. It could not be healthy, I thought, but we’d not linger here long.
Indeed, we rode out of London again the next morning to meet Mary north and east of the city at Wanstead.
I stayed near Elizabeth for this leg of the journey, keeping my eye on Colby. Elizabeth had not brought her entire entourage today, but I spied him with us, dressed in her colors as one of her gentlemen.
I did not know what to make of Colby, nor could I decide whether he truly had Elizabeth’s best interests at heart.
I could not help but wonder whether he and Robert Dudley worked schemes of their own, using her for their gain.
Sweet Robin, in his own way, could be as canny and manipulative as his father.
I drew a breath of relief once we were free of London again.
While life in Town could be entertaining after long stretches of rustication, I preferred the air of the country.
Too many bodies pressed together in the city, and the air was thick with the stench of privies plus animals living without the sun or the grass beneath their feet.
I thought the country air more salubrious, my belief justified by the fact that plague gathered mostly in cities.
Mary waited for us at a great house near Wanstead. Once she’d won the battle against Northumberland, she’d traveled to London to be proclaimed queen before retreating here to meet her sister.
I did not know what to expect of Mary now that she’d come into power. She’d been a bitter and angry young woman when I’d first arrived in Elizabeth’s household, commanded to wait upon her small half-sister, and I hadn’t really blamed her.
She’d been much criticized at both Henry’s and Edward’s courts for her religious leanings and her Spanish heritage, and she’d turned a frosty demeanor to the world that disapproved of her.
Edward’s rather stiff-necked ladies and gentlemen had found fault with Mary’s expensive costumes and jewels as well as her stubbornness. They’d also disparaged her short stature, deep voice, and dark brows drawn too often over her piercing eyes.
Mary had felt their disapprobation keenly and had responded by becoming more pious and disagreeable than ever.
All that seemed a long time ago as Mary greeted Elizabeth in the middle of a great hall festooned with garlands that must have been hastily hung.
Mary was very royal in an ensemble of golden velvet with large pearls decorating her bodice and seed pearls lining her French hood.
Rubies and sapphires glinted on Mary’s plump fingers, and a diamond crucifix hung from her neck.
She waited for Elizabeth to glide to her and curtsy, then Mary caught Elizabeth’s hands and pulled her to her feet, beaming her a wide smile.
Elizabeth, at least a foot taller than her older sister, stooped so that Mary could kiss her on both cheeks. When they straightened and stood toe to toe, hands clasping, the contrast between the two women was remarkable.
Elizabeth was twenty, Mary thirty-seven.
Mary had an almost rectangular body, her shoulders, waist, and hips nearly the same width.
I noted that her seamstress had padded her bodice to emphasize her chest and likewise her hips to make her waist seem smaller in proportion.
Mary’s face was rectangular also, barely curving at her chin, her eyes wide-spaced, her mouth small.
Elizabeth stood tall, her posture naturally upright, with shoulders thrown back to show off her slender figure. Her hair was red gold, like King Henry’s had been, her brows and lashes fair, her dark gray eyes glittering.
The gown I and my assistants had created spoke of simple elegance—bodice closed at the throat, gray velvet surcoat drawn back to reveal a dress of white and silver brocade. The costume was a work of art and far more subdued than Mary’s showy finery.
I watched Mary busily compare Elizabeth to herself and draw a different conclusion than I had.
Mary’s eyes gleamed with satisfactory pride as she perceived that her jewels were more numerous, more costly, and larger than Elizabeth’s.
Mary’s gown rippled with velvet, her sleeves trimmed lavishly with furs, while Elizabeth’s ensemble was deceptively simple.
More importantly, Elizabeth was only a princess—an illegitimate one in Mary’s eyes—while Mary, daughter of Catherine of Aragon and granddaughter of Isabella of Spain, was now queen.
After years of being shunted aside, ignored, and disdained, Mary reigned at last.
The Catholic queen and the Protestant princess, I whispered to myself. Foreboding filled me, even as Mary turned to Elizabeth’s ladies, her smile welcoming.
Each lady was presented to Mary in turn, by rank, including myself, as a gentlewoman.
A heavy wave of perfume engulfed me as Mary raised me from my curtsy and kissed my cheek. The perfume could not quite hide the musty smell of a warm body sweltering under too many layers of clothing.
Mary pressed a gift into my hand, as she had the other ladies, a small brooch of gold with a crucifix emblazoned on it.
“Your Grace does me honor,” I murmured, hoping my voice was not too hoarse.
Mary’s indulgent smile faded as she looked me up and down. “You are the seamstress?”
I curtsied again. “I have that privilege, Your Grace.”
Mary took in my gown, which was, as usual, a humbler version of Elizabeth’s—I could copy the style, but I would never presume to wear the fabrics of a royal princess. Mary’s gaze then flicked to Elizabeth, and her mouth turned down in one corner.
She disapproved of the plainness of the gown, I realized.
Simplicity was the Reformed way. Elizabeth’s religion did not favor ornamentation—not on the body and certainly not in the church.
Mary’s garments spoke of her convictions that God was to be worshipped with the most glorious jewels and precious metals money could buy.
Mary likely never contemplated it in these words, but she saw the contrast, and it annoyed her.
She turned to the next lady in line with her smile fixed in place and gave her the kiss, the greeting, and the gift.
Elizabeth dined with Mary that evening, and we ladies were given the privilege of waiting on them. The topics Mary chose were safe ones—the weather, the ease of the journey, Elizabeth’s health and hers, the coming coronation.
Not one word of Northumberland, or Jane trembling in the Tower, or Edward’s duplicity in changing the succession at the last moment. Nothing that would bring anger or recriminations to this festive occasion.
Next to Mary stood a woman I’d met often when Elizabeth and I had sojourned at Edward’s court—Jane Dormer.
Jane was a few years older than Elizabeth and unmarried.
With delicate movements, Jane carved a slice of meat out of the haunch presented for Mary and laid it on a plate, then cut it into smaller pieces for her.
Jane lifted her sleeve out of the way as she poured wine, glanced my way, gave me a nod of greeting.
I nodded back. Jane and I had become friends, of a sort. Jane’s family was very Catholic, and what’s more, her family in Buckinghamshire was close with that of Sir Philip Baldwin, my stepfather.
Mary’s gaining the throne, I had well to worry, might not simply restore the nation to the old religion, but it might make my stepfather and mother insist that I be restored to it as well.
“… for the coronation,” Mary was saying to Elizabeth. “What say you, sister, that you’ll wear as fine a cloth of gold as any ever saw? I will send you the material myself.”
“You are kind.” Elizabeth took a delicate sip of wine. “My seamstress will be pleased. She is quite the artist. Perhaps the sleeves puffed over the shoulders in the new way?”
“Have you kept up with fashion then, in the country?” Mary asked, with a hint of derision.
Elizabeth’s eyes glinted like a snake’s. “As well as can be expected, Your Grace. I have been fortunate to be instructed on the subject by the ladies of the court. They have given me much advice.”
Which she obviously had not followed. Some among the courtiers whispered that Mary depended far too much on the counsel of her ladies. Elizabeth was declaring that she, for her part, did not.
“You are a Tudor, and a princess,” Mary said, missing the reference. “You must now wear clothes as befits your station. Perhaps another seamstress can be found?”
Cold washed through me. If Mary had me dismissed, I might have to return home to that awful man for whom my mother had gladly deserted me.