Chapter 19
“I am very ill, Master Bedingfield,” Elizabeth said in a hard voice. “This is why I am silent at mass.”
“But you are not silent,” Bedingfield countered, his drooping moustache quivering with his words. “Only when prayers are said for the queen.”
“Perhaps that is when my headaches flare,” Elizabeth returned. “I do have them, sir. In fact, I have one now and must lie down. Mass must be sung without me, today.”
Bedingfield gazed at her more mournfully than ever and scuttled away to write of the conversation to Mary.
Love was a strange thing, I mused as I went about my duties. When one is very selfish, love is about how the object of desire makes one feel. A cruel woman could make a courtier her abject servant and be kind to him only when he pleased her.
A less selfish love not only wishes for the pleasure the other person can bestow on one but also wants to make the desired person happy. A mutual pleasing, as between a fond husband and wife.
More selfless still is love that expects no return, a need to keep the beloved safe and ensure their happiness. This love can be beautiful, as a mother with her children or a daughter to an elderly father … or it might turn dangerous and slide into obsession.
I did wonder as much as Colby had why I wanted to keep his secret, why I did not want to see him used by ambitious men or beheaded for the blood in his veins.
I knew only that I wished Colby to be safe, and that I admired him for his sensible acceptance of his position.
If he’d been greedy and zealous, he’d have used the opportunity of Edward’s—or even Henry’s—death to sail in and claim he was Henry’s son, despite the difficulties in proving such a claim.
Colby hadn’t done this, because he did not covet the throne. He wanted nothing to do with it, but fervently wished Elizabeth to have it.
I thought of love for another reason the day that Bedingfield admonished Elizabeth about omitting prayers for her sister during mass. In Winchester that morning, Mary had married herself to Philip of Spain.
I learned the details of the wedding and its splendor a few days later from a reliable source, Uncle John.
He wrote to Parry, who in turn gave the letter to Colby, who let me read it at the empty cottage in the woods.
Because I was searched whenever I came back from my walks, I memorized relevant passages before I returned the missive to Colby.
Philip had arrived in Southampton with great pomp and pageantry and then progressed to meet Mary in Winchester. The Spaniards who’d accompanied him were described as haughty and sneering, though Uncle John, a more charitable man, declared they were no more so than any other aristocrats.
Twenty-six-year-old Philip, their prince, was apparently handsome, blue-eyed, and athletic, and had drawn much praise for his appearance.
Rumor had it that he put his attractive body to use in the bed of any lady who would have him, but that same physique also made him regal and every inch a king consort.
He’d made it quickly clear that although he was glad to pull heretic England back into the fold of the mother church, he would not oppose the fact that Mary was England’s sole ruler.
This pleased the bishops and lords in Parliament and on the council, who had only at the last moment given in about the marriage—with that stipulation.
Philip also had begun organizing tournaments, with all their grandeur, so that the lords of the land could compete as they had done in Henry’s time.
Clever, I thought as I read Uncle John’s letter. Philip knows he’s not wanted and works to soften the blow.
Mary had emerged from their chamber the morning after their wedding a very blushing bride. Uncharitable onlookers claimed Philip was pale and red-eyed from having to fortify himself against the onerous task.
I read of the couple’s consummation with a qualm. A pregnancy would weaken Elizabeth’s position and at the same time strengthen Philip’s.
The royal couple was, at the time of Uncle John’s letter, traveling to London where they would continue their quest to pull England firmly under the dominance of the Catholic church.
Charles, Philip’s father, had given him kingship over Naples and also styled him as King of Jerusalem, and so Mary perforce was now queen of those as well.
“And so it begins,” I sighed as I handed the letter back to Colby. “Are you still willing to wait and see whether Mary conceives?”
“It is the best thing we can do,” he answered. “For now.”
I disliked having to be idle, but Colby was correct. I could think of no other solution that would not involve bloodshed.
Colby kissed me again before I left that day, but I was too distracted to take much pleasure in kisses. Or so I told myself.
When I returned to the palace, my basket, cloak, and pockets were searched, and as usual, they found nothing. I sought Elizabeth to tell her what Uncle John had written and found her in another towering rage. Bedingfield, rigid on his knees, regarded her timorously.
“He refuses to give my Bible to me,” Elizabeth shouted when I entered her chamber. “Can you credit such a thing, Eloise? Shall I not read and study God’s word?”
“I assure you, Your Grace, you may have a Bible,” Bedingfield said in desperation. “Your Grace reads the Latin so well, I am certain it will be a joy for you to read God’s word in that tongue.”
Elizabeth screamed, fists at her sides. Bedingfield fled, and Elizabeth shouted obscenities at his retreating bulk.
The chill of autumn gave way to winter. In November we heard—openly through Bedingfield, and covertly though Parry—that Mary was with child. Elizabeth became quiet as Bedingfield read the official dispatch, her hands clenched fiercely in her lap.
One Cardinal Pole, who’d been exiled by Henry for opposing his marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, returned from the Continent bearing an edict by the Pope forgiving the nation of England for its heresy.
The English people, apparently, were not to blame for their error in leaving the Church of Rome, despite two kings that had led them astray.
So, at one stroke, we were Catholic again. Mary had her handsome husband, her Church restored, and an heir inside her body. Her joy was complete.
“Meanwhile,” Colby said when we next met, “the rest of us wait and watch.”
“She will have her child,” I said unhappily. “What will become of Elizabeth, then? And me?”
“There is rumor of a plot to make certain Mary miscarries the child,” Colby said slowly. “A poison that will cause her to lose the babe.”
I flinched at the cruelty of this. “How awful. Is it true?”
“I do not know.” Colby sat beside me on the bench he’d brought in to furnish the little cottage. It had a table now too, and stools for that. “It is rumor only at this point. It would be most difficult to get near enough to her, in any case.”
“I must draw the line at that,” I said resolutely. “Even if such a child might be the death of us all.”
“It might not be.”
Colby’s tone went thoughtful, and I glanced at him, my interest caught. “Why do you say so?”
“Philip is trying to persuade Mary to be more lenient to Elizabeth. He’s told her that there is no need to disinherit Elizabeth entirely. Whether or not Mary manages to produce an heir, it is best to keep Elizabeth as a possible holder of the crown—reformed church or no.”
“Philip, pawn of the Holy Roman Emperor, prudent?” I asked with a smile. “Who would have thought it?”
“Philip is shrewd, rather. Better Elizabeth than Mary of Scotland, Philip and his father believe. Scotland is in the firm grip of France, and young Mary seems to be an easily manipulated person. She would make England become French too, and the Holy Roman Emperor does not want that.”
“They’d be besieged on all sides,” I said. “Better to gamble on Elizabeth, they suppose.” I sighed. “So, we still do nothing?”
“For now. Philip’s presence keeps conspiracies at bay, because he has the might of Emperor Charles behind him. But we shall see what Fortune brings.”
I rose and shook out my skirts. “I perceive nothing but bleakness ahead. Please send my love to Aunt Kat.”
“I will.” Colby pressed my hand and kissed my cheek. “God speed, Eloise.”
By tacit agreement we had not spoken again of his parentage, but it was there between us, an unacknowledged spectre. I sensed that Colby did not trust me completely, but as with Mary’s pregnancy, he would wait and see what happened.
My knowledge was dangerous to him, but then, he’d passed himself off as the Colbys’ son all these years. Why would anyone disbelieve him now?
I had no idea what he meant to do. These games of intrigue were growing too deep for me.
All that dark winter at Woodstock, we waited and watched, uncertain of our future.
The house was cold and the roof leaked. Fuel, for some reason, was difficult to obtain, and I had no fire in the room where I slept.
I admit I often purposely ingratiated myself with Elizabeth so she’d invite me to spend nights in her bedchamber with its warm fire.
In comfortable London, Mary made happy plans for her babe to come. That she was quick with child, she had no doubt, and the news was broadcast to all corners of England.
Advent arrived and then Christmas. The priests at the chapel in Woodstock sung many long masses, which were supposed to be festive celebrations, but which I found tedious in the extreme.
Elizabeth sat in sullen silence as incense wafted through the cold chapel to choke our throats and burn our eyes.
Though Elizabeth was not allowed the luxurious garments she’d worn before her arrest, I continued to sew gowns with fabric Bedingfield was persuaded to ask Mary for. I kept the cut plain and the frocks somber, but I made certain Elizabeth always looked regal.