Colby had kissed me, but it had been a ruse. On the other hand, the soft imprint of his lips refused to fade and stayed with me the rest of that afternoon and long into the night.
I determined, after that encounter with Colby in the passageway, to discover everything I could about him.
But strangely, though I asked as many questions as I dared over the next several days, I found no one who truly knew anything about the man or what his life had been before he’d joined Elizabeth’s household. Even Uncle John, who’d obtained the position in the guards for him, confirmed he’d come from a quiet, genteel family in Shropshire, but little else. The one gentleman who might know—Robert Dudley—remained locked in the Tower.
I informed Elizabeth of the conversation I’d overheard between Mary and Ambassador Renard about cutting Elizabeth out of the succession.
Not surprisingly, Elizabeth flew into one of her rages. Not only was Mary trying to bar her from the throne, but she’d speculated that Elizabeth was not even Henry’s child. The entire business made her ill again with fury.
Elizabeth stewed in a foul temper the day Mary opened her first Parliament, but Elizabeth’s anger and my fears turned out to be premature.
Mary managed to restore the legitimacy of Catherine of Aragon’s marriage to Henry—implying that his marriage to Anne Boleyn therefore was not—but Mary’s wish to disinherit Elizabeth was never entertained.
I learned later from Uncle John that the wiser gentlemen in Mary’s council had persuaded her that cutting Elizabeth out of the succession posed far more risk than retaining her as the legitimate heir. All Mary had to do, the council said, was to find a husband and provide an heir—naturally, Elizabeth would then be moved down the line of succession.
Mary capitulated, though I heard that her words to her advisors on the matter were harsh.
After that, she seemed to decide that if she could not stymie Elizabeth by law, she would severely cut at her in personal ways.
In the cold days of early winter, Mary invited Margaret Douglas—King Henry’s niece by his sister Margaret, and a firebrand in her own right—to live with her and be her closest companion. The pair of them cut out Elizabeth at every turn, who by rights should be next to her sister in importance at court gatherings.
Margaret now rode with the queen when they went out for exercise, leaving Elizabeth behind. Margaret followed just behind Mary when she moved through the palace, forcing Elizabeth to trail after them. Margaret did this gleefully, making certain everyone knew she’d been honored above Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s temper soured, and her headaches grew worse.
When one day Mary chastised Elizabeth for having a private chat with the French ambassador—implying that Elizabeth leaned toward treachery—Elizabeth came to the end of her patience.
She asked stiffly to be allowed to retreat to her estate at Ashridge in west Hertfordshire for Christmas. Mary’s crowded and hectic court hurt her health, Elizabeth claimed, and she needed to heal in the country air.
Mary smiled and acquiesced. She bade Elizabeth a pretty farewell and bestowed on her lovely furs to keep her warm during the journey.
Chapter 14
The problem with returning to Ashridge was that, no matter how beautiful I found this corner of Hertfordshire, we were isolated from the court and its gossip. While the privy council believed that anything decided within its body was secret and private, rumor of every discussion and decision ran through the halls of the palaces almost the moment they happened.
In the country, on the other hand, the news we received was days stale. Elizabeth, however, made it clear she was determined to rusticate as long as Mary held sway with her foolishness.
We would rusticate with her, as Elizabeth liked her ladies close to her at all times. I asked Colby, somewhat waspishly, what on earth I could do to help while stuck in drafty chambers at Ashridge Priory. He told me that watching over Elizabeth and reporting to her what intelligence he brought me was enough. He’d said it serenely, but I chafed at the inactivity.
Elizabeth allowed Colby, as a gentleman of her household, to come and go as he pleased. Because he was not an important nobleman, he was often able to discover information others could not. Most of what we learned about Mary’s plans and desires in the next months came from him and Uncle John.
Thus, we were aware when Mary succeeded in ramming her proposed marriage to Philip of Spain down the collective throats of Parliament.
The gentlemen in the House of Lords had at least persuaded her to agree that Philip would not rule as king over Mary’s English subjects. Mary conceded, though reluctantly, but all believed Philip would have more sway once he fathered the heir to the English throne.
I did not need to be at court to learn that the proposed marriage was opposed by all. Even those in the village at Ashridge shared the sentiment.
“They’ll sing Spanish songs in the streets and outlaw the good English tongue,” one woman said darkly to me when I’d gone to the high street to purchase extra pins. “No good will come of it.”
I heard that phrase repeatedly: No good will come of it.
No more, Blessed Mary, Queen of England. It was grumbling that a woman could not possibly rule well—she needed a husband, but an English one.
Philip was heir to the kingdom of Spain and son of the Holy Roman Emperor. His father, lofty Charles the Fifth, was encouraging the marriage so he could use England as a contingency against the uncertainty of France and the Netherlands.
If Philip and Charles had their way, England would become an adjunct of Spain and the Empire, and even the lowest, most illiterate farmer in the fields around Ashridge knew it.
Worries were echoed all over England.
