I agreed, but worried that Mary’s council’s divisiveness would encourage Mary to bring about Elizabeth’s end that much faster.
Mistress Norwich and I saw to Elizabeth’s needs at supper that evening, then undressed her, put her to bed, and read to her. Elizabeth’s Bible and Prayer Book had been confiscated, but she had books of devotion and poetry, and Mistress Norwich could read Greek and discuss what she read with her.
At last, we snuffed out the candles, but the night dragged on. When I peered out of the window in my corner chamber, I spied men in armor pacing in the courtyards below. Mary was ensuring that no rescue attempt would whisk Elizabeth out of her reach.
In the morning, Mistress Norwich and I dressed the princess again, and we were ready and waiting when Sussex and Paulet came for her.
If any ever did try this old saying, Elizabeth wrote, anger evident in every curl of ink, that a king’s word was more than another man’s oath—I most humbly beseech your majesty to verify it in me, and to remember your last promise and my last demand: that I be not condemned without answer and due proof.
Elizabeth had gotten her way with Sussex, who’d at last allowed her to write a letter to Mary. Elizabeth had taken her time, penning it carefully in her own hand, with me nearby, so that I could read every word.
And to this present hour I protest afore God (who shall judge my truth, whatsoever malice shall devise) that I never practiced, counseled, nor consented to anything that might be prejudicial to your person . . . therefore I humbly beseech your majesty to let me answer afore yourself and not suffer me to trust your Councilors—yea, and that afore I go to the Tower.
In the next paragraphs Elizabeth reminded Mary of the words of the Duke of Somerset, who’d claimed that if he had spoken to Thomas Seymour before condemning him, letting his brother explain himself, Seymour might not have been put to death.
I pray God as evil persuasions persuade not one sister against the other . . .
She finished in a bolder tone. And as for the traitor, Wyatt, he might peradventure write me a letter, but on my faith, I never received any from him. And as for the copy of my letter sent to the French king, I pray God confound me eternally if ever I sent him word, message, token, or letter by any means, and to this my truth I will stand in to my death.
Elizabeth’s letter ended near the top of a second page. She drew heavy diagonal lines across the remaining empty space so that Mary’s councilors might not fill in something unwanted, then signed it.
She handed the finished letter to Sussex, not bothering to fold it or hide the words from him.
“I thank you, my lord, for delivering this to my sister, before setting me in the boat for the Tower.”
Sussex took the paper, frowning his annoyance. “We cannot leave for the Tower now, Your Grace. The tide has turned, and we must wait for tomorrow.”
Elizabeth shrugged her slim shoulders, the set of her lips telling me she’d known full well that she’d taken too long over the letter. If I calculated aright, the tide would turn again near midnight, but Sussex would never chance taking her on the river so late—one of Elizabeth’s loyal men might arrange for her to be plucked from Sussex’s care and rescued.
Sussex left the chamber to deliver the missive, his back quivering. He returned later to say that he’d given the letter to Mary, and that she’d read it, but she’d made no reply.
Hope faded from Elizabeth’s eyes, but she did not wilt. She merely thanked Sussex loftily and called for her supper.
Sussex gave her a shallow bow and ordered the servants to fetch her a meal.
Elizabeth, for her part, utterly ignored him. She turned from him, calling for Mistress Norwich to bring her wine.
Chapter 17
The journey down the Thames the next morning was one I would remember for the rest of my days. The weather had turned for the worse with the tide, and a cold rain beat on us as I and one of Mary’s armed gentlemen assisted Elizabeth into the barge that would carry us downstream. Sussex and Paulet accompanied us, though neither man looked happy about it.
Water ran from Elizabeth’s cloak and pooled in the bottom of the barge, its flimsy canopy little protection against the cold and wind. Mistress Norwich huddled against Elizabeth on one side, I on the other, as we tried to shield her from the worst of it.
I had been able to get word to Colby about our predicament, though there was little he could do. The lead guard had gazed at me most suspiciously when I’d darted out of Elizabeth’s chamber this morning with a pile of handkerchiefs and commanded that someone bring us clean ones.
The guard had inspected the cloths to see whether I’d buried a letter between the folds, but of course, I had not. I’d spoken a truth when I’d told Elizabeth that day at Ashridge that a thing written was tediously difficult to deny.
But stitches were not writing, at least not to those who couldn’t read the messages. The code Elizabeth and I had perfected could be used in handkerchiefs, cloaks, gloves, sleeves, and even stockings, which were given to a launderer and intercepted by someone Colby trusted.
In this way, I’d communicated during the rebellion where Elizabeth was and that she was safe. Anyone caught with the garments I’d smuggled from Elizabeth’s home, or her chambers in Whitehall, would never realize what information they contained.
The guard at last summoned a serving maid to take the handkerchiefs away and bring me more.
Now, Elizabeth’s barge made its way slowly downriver, past the pile of Somerset House, then the Temple on the north bank and the fields of Southwark on the south. The shore was empty, but bells pealed from the churches and cathedrals—it was Palm Sunday, a feast day, and ordinary citizens rejoiced at the coming end of Lent.
The City’s wall flowed past, then the shadow of London Bridge, the houses built upon it appearing as though they’d tumble into the water at any moment. The boat rocked and tossed as we floated under the bridge, the strong current threatening to carry it into pilings on either side of us.
The boatmen strained against their oars, sweat mingling with the rain, while I clung to the gunwale with both hands. I imagined Aunt Kat having to explain to my mother how I’d gone to a watery grave with the princess she despised. Somehow, I suspected neither my mother nor stepfather would be very sorry.
