Chapter 12 #3
“Mistress Rousell sews to my dictation,” Elizabeth said. “If I am to be more at court, then of course, my wardrobe will reflect this. She shall prepare gowns worthy of my position. I wish to do honor to the queen.”
Mary only smiled and inclined her head, while I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
I did not seek my bed until late, as I spent the time after supper in Elizabeth’s chamber, helping her ladies undress her for the night.
Elizabeth bade me to stay after that and listen to another lady read from the Bible—in English—as she lay abed.
By the time I sought my own pallet, I was exhausted and dropped off to sleep quickly.
I dreamed of Mary, her musty odor hidden by perfume when she embraced me, and behind that came a cloying odor of smoke. Incense, I first thought, but the scent grew stronger and the emotions that came with it flooded me—despair, anger, fear, and determination. All very odd and somewhat frightening.
The dream changed, and I saw Mary and Elizabeth standing together, facing each other, as they had this afternoon in the hall. Elizabeth grew in stature while Mary shrank, until finally Mary put her hand over her face and screamed in despair.
I woke abruptly in the quiet of the night.
Royal houses were never completely silent—somewhere servants tramped through passageways to wait on the ladies and gentlemen who in turn waited upon the royals.
Guards outside patrolled the grounds and stablemen looked after horses, but this night not much sound reached my bed in the attics.
The smoke of the kitchen fires wafted up the chimney in my chamber, the cooks already roasting the meat for the next day. I reasoned that the smoke must have tickled my nose and entered my dreams, nothing more, but still it troubled me.
We remained only a short time at Wanstead before the two sisters rode back to London together. I bedecked Elizabeth in a gown with enough gold brocade to please Mary, but I was careful to not let her outshine the queen.
The people of London lined the streets as Elizabeth and Mary rode into the city side by side. It was early August, the weather warm and clear, which seemed a good omen. Men cheered as we passed, children tossed flowers in our path, and women bounded out to hand up gifts to both queen and princess.
These gifts touched my heart—knitted gloves or handmade tokens like pressed flowers or drawings, things a family had spent much time and what little money they had on. Both ladies, I was pleased to see, accepted them graciously.
Bells rang from every church tower we passed, and the City guard turned out in their livery to salute us and escort us through the streets.
Mary radiated pure happiness. Elizabeth seemed content to ride a few paces behind her once we were in the City’s narrow roads, nodding regally at the crowds.
The people of England have much power, Elizabeth had always told me. Their happiness or unhappiness can make all the difference to a prince’s reign. Contented and serene, or angry and rebellious.
Under the summer sun with the crowds celebrating, it was difficult to believe that Mary’s reign would be anything but joyful.
“No,” Elizabeth said in a hard voice. “I cannot possibly do as she wishes. Let me speak to her, and explain why I cannot.”
We were at Richmond, several weeks after Elizabeth and Mary’s triumphal entry into London.
Elizabeth sat upright on a cushioned chair in her chamber, facing Bishop Gardiner, who was now the Lord Chancellor, and other gentlemen of Mary’s council. Their task: to make Elizabeth explain why neither she nor any of her ladies had attended mass since their arrival at court.
We lodged in Richmond Palace at Mary’s invitation, where she prepared for her coronation with the enthusiasm of a bride for a wedding to a beloved.
Mary lavished much attention on the upcoming pageantry and fretted over who would have what position in the procession. She’d pore for hours over the written details of what she was to wear, what responses she’d give in the ceremony, and who would stand next to whom.
Thus far, Mary had shown every sign of becoming a tolerant ruler.
She made no secret that she wanted the old religion restored but had proclaimed, not many days ago, that she’d be merciful to those who’d grown used to the reformed services.
There need be no forced conversions, she said.
Those who’d strayed would soon understand their error and turn quietly back to the true church of their own accord.
Generous Mary had caused a murmur when she’d released Edward Courtenay from the Tower, where he’d spent many years in a kind of limbo since Henry’s reign.
His father had been accused of trying to overthrow Henry and was executed, and Edward had grown up in the Tower alone, more or less forgotten.
Bishop Gardiner had looked after him, as he himself had been a prisoner there, and I imagined that his influence had assisted with Courtenay’s release.
Mary had gifted Courtenay with a ring when he was presented to her, which he’d romantically proclaimed made him her prisoner.
Courtenay’s mother, the Marchioness of Exeter, a close friend to Catherine of Aragon, had been freed and pardoned years earlier. Now Mary requested that the marchioness become a lady of the privy chamber.
As Uncle John had told me, Mary had released the Duke of Suffolk and others who’d conspired with Northumberland against her, though Northumberland and his sons remained under arrest, and Jane was still a prisoner.
But Mary’s tolerance began to wane as Elizabeth evaded attending mass or even having it read to her in private by one of Mary’s clergymen.
Elizabeth had not out-and-out refused, of course, but her excuses for not attending chapel became many and varied.
We ladies of her household had done nothing overt against Mary’s wishes, but we continued to read our daily devotions in English rather than Latin, and like Elizabeth, contrived to be elsewhere when it came time for mass.
Now Elizabeth faced the Bishop Gardiner—whom Mary had also freed—as he stood before her and interrogated her about this lack.
Bishop Gardiner was a rather handsome man, clean-shaven with an almost triangular face and thick-lashed eyes. Those eyes had seen much and had grown hard and arrogant.
“The opportunity to attend mass is given to you six times a day,” Bishop Gardiner said, his voice a dry crack. “Perhaps your duties have been too strenuous to allow you to attend chapel, Your Grace?”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth responded coolly. “I have much to do.”
“Then your tasks will be lightened,” Gardiner answered without hesitation. “The attempt at the reformed religion is over, Your Grace. It failed. Her majesty the queen will restore the nation to the faith.”
And restore you to power, you old goat, I thought from my place among Elizabeth’s ladies.
Gardiner, once he’d knelt at Mary’s feet and accepted his new position of Lord Chancellor, had plunged himself into restoring the church to its old glory.
As far as I could tell, this meant rich robes on his back, money in his coffers, and the permission to cuff those against whom he held a personal grudge.
Today he’d decided to cuff Elizabeth. Elizabeth represented all Gardiner disliked, and he’d apparently decided to relieve his pique by lecturing her.
“It distresses the queen,” Gardiner went on, “to have a sister who leans dangerously toward heresy. Her Majesty is in fear for your soul.”
“I have no doubt.” Elizabeth swept him and the nobles who’d accompanied him an imperious gaze. “I have been ill. My headaches are frequent, and my ladies remain to attend me.”
“I am unhappy to hear of your poor health,” Gardiner returned, though he looked not the least bit concerned. “The queen will send a priest to your chamber in the event you are too ill to attend chapel.”
Elizabeth sat up straighter, her pale face more icy than usual. She was not going to win, and the flash in her eyes told me she knew this.
However, she would not give Gardiner the satisfaction of witnessing her hanging her head, mumbling an apology, or begging him to intercede with Mary for her.
Elizabeth rose from her chair, indicating the audience over as far as she was concerned.
“I will give some thought to what you say.” She nodded to the gentlemen of the council, who bowed as she swept from the chamber.
Gardiner’s eyes sparkled in fury as he watched her go, which worried me not a little.
Mary had not spoken much to Elizabeth in private since we’d arrived at Richmond, which I took to be an ominous sign. We did attend the queen’s entertainments—which involved dancing, card games, or little theatricals put together for her.
Elizabeth loved to dance and would rise from her ostensible sickbed for that. I also knew she left it for the opportunity to chat and flirt with Edward Courtenay, who had swiftly become a popular gentleman.
Courtenay had spent most of his youth in the Tower, and now, at age twenty-seven, he found himself a member of Parliament, restored to his estates as Earl of Devon, and having a favored position in the queen’s court.
I considered him rather pallid and foppish, but rumor had it that the queen’s council hoped Mary would wed him.
Courtenay was of the correct blood, being descended from Edward IV through his father, making him a second cousin to Mary and Elizabeth.
He was of a good age to sire a son, and most importantly, native to this land.
I could not decide what Mary thought of him. She treated him with courtesy but one that came more from pity than fascination.
Courtenay made it a point to smile at Mary and flatter her, but I heard scurrilous gossip that he enjoyed walking about London of nights and seeking the company of street courtesans.
I supposed being locked away for so long had deprived him of the ordinary pleasures of gentlemen, but from what others whispered, he was now rather overdoing it.