Chapter 25 #2
After a long time, I wiped my eyes and asked, “Did you know that Aunt Kat and I had gone to Fleet Prison?”
“Yes.” Colby’s voice darkened. “I found out after I’d been hustled off to France.” He pressed a kiss to my hair. “I wanted to rush back and tear down the walls to get you out, believe me, but Dudley restrained me. He had a better way, he said. He has some influence with Philip.”
I thought about the timing of all that had happened. “Was that why Aunt Kat and I were released without a trial?” I wondered. “Dudley spoke for us.”
Colby nodded. “Very likely.”
“And Philip pardoned you for joining his army. It seems we owe much to Philip of Spain.”
“Yes.” James pulled me close. “Ironic, that.”
I had to agree. “I thought you would forget about all me,” I said as I snuggled into him.
Colby chuckled, his laughter vibrating pleasantly. “Eloise, how could I ever forget you?”
He kissed me for a while after that, both of us contented.
Mary never truly recovered from the devastating loss of Calais. Later that spring she claimed she was again pregnant, although this time her midwives reserved judgment.
When I made a journey to London with Colby in the summer to purchase fabric for Elizabeth, Robert Dudley had us as his guests at St. James’s Palace, and I saw Mary in passing there.
She did not look as though she was belly-full. Instead, Mary was bloated and ill, with a gray cast to her face. Her clothes hung on a body that was swollen at the midriff and bone-thin in shoulders and chest, her face nearly skeletal.
“She is dying,” I whispered to Colby that night. He agreed with me, but we dared speculate this to no other, including Robert.
That visit was in August. By November, everyone admitted what I had seen on that sojourn.
Queen Mary, abandoned and forgotten by her husband, faced her last days.
That November in 1558 is a time I will never forget. On the sixth of the month, Jane Dormer approached Hatfield, surrounded by outriders who bore the queen’s standard. She curtsied low before Elizabeth and offered her jewels Mary had sent as a peace offering.
Elizabeth received Jane in her presence chamber and took the casket without expression. “My sister still lives?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Jane answered with quiet deference. “She is sore ill, but still alive.”
“And she has named me as her successor, at last?”
Jane nodded. “On two conditions, Your Grace.”
“Conditions?” Elizabeth’s voice sharpened, but only Jane Dormer, the dearest and closest of Mary’s ladies, would be tolerated giving Elizabeth conditions. “How interesting. Name them, and I will give my answer.”
Jane was not in the least intimidated. “First, that you pay the queen’s debts. She fears too many will be ruined if you do not.”
Elizabeth gave a nod. “That shall be done. And the other?”
Jane raised her head and dared meet Elizabeth’s gaze. “That you uphold the religion of the one true church. That you continue the work Mary has done.”
Elizabeth’s red-gold brows rose. “This is her stipulation?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth laughed once, a derisive sound. “She need not have bothered with conditions. I will pay her debts—she can be assured of that. And I pray to God that the earth might open up and swallow me alive if I am not a true Roman Catholic.”
Jane peered at her in some amazement. I did as well, although I strove to hide my expression from Jane and her servants.
“I may tell this to the queen?” Jane asked. I could forgive her for sounding skeptical.
“You may,” Elizabeth answered. Her voice softened. “Also, that my prayers are with her, as well as my hope that she goes easily and quickly to God.”
Jane curtsied. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth smiled, and Jane departed for London.
Several days later, Jane Dormer’s betrothed, Count Feria, who was a Spanish ambassador to England, rode to Hatfield to dine with Elizabeth.
Very few sat down with Elizabeth at table these days. She supped like the heir to the throne she was, eating alone at her board, with highborn ladies waiting on her. She liked court etiquette and was well aware of where everyone fit into the vast chart in her head.
After Jane Dormer’s visit and revelations, Elizabeth carried herself even more like a queen. Her household rapidly expanded—prominent ladies and gentlemen deserted Mary in her last hours to seek a place with the new monarch.
I found it sad that more and more abandoned Mary each day but had to admit excitement about the coming change. No more leaky roofs and cold prisons.
Elizabeth had chosen gentlemen for prominent positions in the coming government, these men ready to slide into place as soon as word came of Mary’s death.
Elizabeth had also brought some of the highest-born ladies in the land into her service, and she awaited the imminent return of several favorites who had fled into exile.
Gomez Suarez de Feria, Jane Dormer’s affianced, had become Philip’s eyes and ears, and Elizabeth received him as she would an ambassador from a far land. She treated him with the courtesy due his rank, at the same time realizing he would report everything she did or said to Philip.
Even so, I do not believe Feria was prepared for her.
He approved of Elizabeth, it was clear in the way he looked her over, as though sizing up an unfamiliar horse to determine its soundness.
“I congratulate you, Your Grace,” Feria said in pleasant tones. “You have survived dark times. And ever in these troubles was His Grace, Philip, reaching his hand out to steady you. Because of my master, you will be queen of England. A generous gift from Spain and the Empire.”
His words fell into cold silence. Elizabeth glanced up from her venison—game caught in her own parks—her knife balanced expertly in her hand.
“A gift from Spain?” she repeated.
“It was His Grace Philip who released you from your prison.” Feria, confident, trundled on. “He, who prevented your sister from doing you harm. And so, you come to your inheritance.”
Elizabeth laid down her knife. Candlelight touched her hair and the pale gown studded with pearls I’d finished only this afternoon. She studied Feria, her gaze as piercing as Mary’s ever had been.
“It is not Spain or the Empire who gives me my crown,” she said in a voice like winter ice. “It is the grace of God and the people of England who grant it to me. The rule is mine, by right of my succession as laid down by my father, King Henry. Not a gift from Spain.”
Feria flushed. I felt a bit sorry for him, but the absurd man had expected Elizabeth to clap her hands in glee and bestow hearty thanks upon him and Philip.
Elizabeth had more to say. “Your master, dear Philip, tried to induce me to marry the Duke of Savoy, as you doubtless will recall. My refusal stemmed from one thing only, and that is from witnessing how my sister the queen lost much affection from her people by marrying outside the realm. Therefore, I never will do as she has done.”
Feria swallowed. “I see, Your Grace.”
“It is clear that you do not,” Elizabeth said. “You have affection for my sister—you are to marry one of her most trusted ladies after all—as well as affection for your ruler. I find that commendable, Lord Feria. But do not expect me to share it.”
She lifted her goblet with a dismissing gesture, the subject closed.
The abashed Count Feria returned to London to confide to his beloved Jane his forebodings about Elizabeth’s accession. The true faith, he predicted, was doomed in England.
He and Jane later retreated to Spain to live in exile with other English Catholics—Jane, from all I heard, was happy married to her Spanish count, who later became a duke. I wished her well.
Not long after Feria’s visit, I was awakened very early in the morning by a commotion in Hatfield’s courtyard.
The house had filled with so many guests that they now overflowed to the outbuildings.
The servants were already stirring at dawn, rushing to build fires and ready meals for the many who resided here.
The noise came from more than the usual bustle of servants. I scrambled from my bed and pattered to the window to peer out. James pulled on his nightshirt as he joined me.
A rider had charged through the gates and was pelting hard for the main doors. I felt a ripple move through the house, beginning with the rider and flowing all the way to the attics. I snatched up a wrap and ran downstairs, sliding into Elizabeth’s chamber before anyone else could reach her door.
“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked me from her bed.
“A rider.” My mouth was dry, my words a croak. “I could not see who.”
But we guessed.
Elizabeth tore back her covers and wrenched herself out of bed. “Help me,” she commanded.
I assisted her into a dressing gown to cover her night rail and smoothed her hair into some semblance of order. Only when she was satisfied that she appeared calm and tidy did she let me open the door.
Elizabeth glided regally into her outer chamber, nodding to the crowd of her gentlemen and ladies who’d hastened there as they bowed or curtsied.
The man they stood aside to admit was not the messenger we’d expected. Elizabeth had told Sir Nicholas Throckmorton to come to her when Mary had at last died, but the young man who entered was not Throckmorton.
The youth bowed low and thrust something at Elizabeth. Her face changed as she took it.
I saw what lay on her palm—a plain, unadorned ring, the betrothal ring Mary had worn on her finger since the day Philip had placed it there. She would have parted with it only at her death.
Elizabeth fell to her knees. I ran to assist her, but she waved me away, tears flowing down her cheeks, though she smiled as hard as she could.
“This is the doing of the Lord,” she said, her voice clear. “And it is marvelous in our eyes.”