“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.
Spring came none too soon for me, with Candlemas in February and then the quiet season of Lent. We waited for news of Mary’s lying in, and while those around us prayed out loud for her safe delivery, Elizabeth remained silent.
Colby and I met regularly at the little house, but we were not the only spies whispering clandestinely. Elizabeth’s gentlemen attendants spent much time at The Bull in the village, where Master Parry lodged, and Elizabeth, through me, was seldom short of information.
Bedingfield must have known of these meetings, but he either was stupidly oblivious or simply did not want to deal with the complexities of the situation.
Colby and I became closer. Whether he was relieved to have someone with whom he’d shared his secret or whether he simply wanted to keep an eye on me, I could not tell.
I realized he might be using my growing attraction to him to manipulate me, but I was so confused about what I truly felt, I did not mind. All I knew was that I looked forward to my encounters with Colby and missed him grievously when he roved about England keeping watch for Elizabeth.
Whenever Colby and I met in private we kissed, though with little of the passion I’d witnessed in Elizabeth and Robert on the eve of his wedding.
I never spoke about what was blossoming between us, deciding to enjoy the friendship as I had it. Woodstock was a lonely place, and I was lucky to be able to occasionally stroll to the village and back, speak to Colby in the woods, and communicate—even underhandedly—with Aunt Kat, who was still under house arrest in Highgate, north of London.
It was the strangest winter of my young life. That year, 1555, I would be twenty-two.
The loneliness at Woodstock came to an abrupt end in April. At Easter, Mary had gone into seclusion at Hampton Court for her lying in, and she sent for Elizabeth to attend her.
The summons both stunned and relieved Bedingfield, but not me or Elizabeth. We knew that Philip had been gradually persuading Mary to release Elizabeth and embrace her as sister once more. This apparent reconciliation was his idea, not Mary’s.
As we prepared to depart, Elizabeth paced through the rooms that had confined her, glaring at them in distaste. “A horrible place,” she declared. “Whenever I am queen, I shall burn it to the ground.”
One of Mary’s ladies sent her a disparaging glance, but I believed it was more for Elizabeth’s assumption that she’d become queen than for her vow of destruction.
My gaze fell on the window frame, glass, and shutters where Elizabeth had inscribed verses, much to Bedingfield’s irritation, though he hadn’t stopped her. One in particular now caught my eye.
Much suspected by me, nothing proved can be.
Elizabeth, A Prisoner.
It was the last thing I saw of her jail at Woodstock.
We lodged at Hampton Court for several weeks in quarters that had been built for Edward when he’d been a boy prince, without word from Mary. One morning we were startled by bells pealing all over the palace and throughout the town.
