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.
