With chivalric grace, Philip relieved me of the tray and then Susan of hers, placing each on a table before he poured wine for us all. I momentarily feared he meant to poison Elizabeth, and perhaps she did as well, because she glanced into the cup Philip handed her without enthusiasm.
Philip carried wine to Susan and me, the pair of us curtsying again to receive it. Philip touched two fingers under my chin, and I looked up a gold-embroidered silk sleeve studded with rubies to his face.
Over his crimson doublet he wore a waist-length black velvet cloak, also embroidered in gold. It was a beautiful costume, and the ease with which he wore it told me he was used to such sumptuousness.
Philip’s brows rose slightly, as though he sensed my assessment, but he turned away, uncaring of my scrutiny.
Once I creaked to my feet, Susan and I remained in the corner while the three royal personages spoke together—or rather, Philip held forth, Mary murmured responses, and Elizabeth listened. They drank wine—Elizabeth barely wet her lips with hers.
It became clear, as Philip chided Mary, that no matter how much Mary feared Elizabeth’s popularity, Philip had more or less demanded that Mary pardon her. I remembered what Colby and I had discussed at our meetings in the cottage near Woodstock—how Philip and his father worried far more about Mary of Scotland inheriting England than they did Elizabeth.
Philip’s welcoming of Elizabeth had nothing to do with compassion, friendship, or sisterhood, no matter what his silver tongue said. He played politics in this room, and Mary had to have realized this.
Elizabeth understood it, and Philip knew the two Tudor women were aware of what he was doing. I seemed to be watching a staged drama in which only Philip had learned all the lines. He fed them to Mary, who obediently stated the correct responses, and Elizabeth, who maintained her silence.
By the time Elizabeth was allowed to leave the chamber, Mary had tentatively agreed to bridge the chasm between them, repeating that she wanted Elizabeth near her during her lying in.
We returned to Elizabeth’s chambers, my lady gleeful but cautious.
“Perhaps, just perhaps, we might return to better times,” she said. She turned a thoughtful look to the dark window, above which a stray HA remained. “’Twas a curious night.”
I could not disagree.
Our stay at Hampton Court stretched through May and June, and then into July, with no sign of Mary’s child arriving. Mary’s midwives and physicians began stammering that they must have been mistaken about how far along she’d been before she’d confined herself.
Elizabeth resided with Mary in the royal apartments, no longer a prisoner, but on the other hand, not encouraged to leave again for one of her own estates.
Philip’s Spanish courtiers who filled the palace were aloof and strange to me. The noblewomen’s gowns ranged in color from black and silver to deep blue and crimson, and were spangled with gold lace, pearls, and glittering jewels.
The ladies had dispensed with the fashion of low-cut bodices and shoulder-baring necklines for close-fitting sleeves with padded sleeve caps pushed well above the shoulder. The overdresses were sometimes fastened all the way down the front rather than split open over the underskirt, though many ladies did like to hook back their overskirts to display a sumptuous kirtle. I took note of these new styles, as I had not had my notebooks with me or news of the changes of fashion on the Continent during our long sojourn at Woodstock.
The Spanish gentlemen wore velvet, silk, and satins even when they rode out in the mud and rain. When they ruined their garments, they tossed them away then complained when replacements were too slow to arrive from Spain. They behaved as though they belonged to a court in exile, and lamented its lack of the comforts of home.
Following Philip’s commands, these courtiers stoically looked the other way when Englishmen jeered at them or threw mud and worse when they strayed from the palace.
One afternoon I entered Mary’s bedchamber to deliver linens to her and found Mary on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her maids and midwives hovering anxiously around her. Mary’s face was twisted in agony, her hair hanging down, and as I stopped, astonished, she emitted a low, guttural cry.
“Is it the baby?” I whispered to one of the midwives.
The woman shook her head. “She has had this illness since spring. Naught to do with the child.”
Mary moaned, a piteous sound. She leaned her head back, her breath coming fast, her body tight. I thrust the linens to another attendant and slipped out of the room.
“Poor Mary.” Elizabeth conveyed genuine sympathy when I relayed this event to her. “I know well how frustrating pain can be.” Her headaches of late had gone, and the swelling that had plagued her last spring and again at Woodstock had not returned, disappearing as mysteriously as it had come. “All I can say is she had better have this child soon, because what they are saying … It is horrible.” She broke off, shuddering.
“What things?” I asked with alarm.
“That she miscarried,” Elizabeth said. “That the baby the bells rang for earlier was dead. That God is punishing her for marrying Philip. People wanted an heir, and now they are angry.”
Through the open window, we heard Mary moan in her chamber across the courtyard, her cries echoing with hollow sorrow. I disliked Mary, but the sound broke my heart.
Now that Elizabeth was no longer officially a prisoner, her ladies and gentlemen could come and go as they pleased—although her favorites, such as Aunt Kat, had not been restored. Elizabeth gave me leave to make visits outside Hampton Court when she did not need me, and I happily departed, rejoicing in freedom and the warmth of summer.
I no longer had to meet Colby in the woods in secret. He lodged near the palace with a man called Sir Shelby Williams and his wife, who’d served Queen Catherine and had been pensioned off by her will. The Williamses were a kind family, not only friends of Colby, but also of William Cecil, Roger Ascham, Uncle John, and others who’d made up Elizabeth’s household once upon a time.
In addition, the plotters who’d surrounded Master Parry in Woodstock often paid visits. We would sit at Sir Shelby’s long table, our elbows on the board, partaking of fine joints of meat and warm wine, while we conversed freely.
We were prudent enough not to openly talk of Mary or Elizabeth, except in a general, gossipy way, but we discussed many other things long into the night. The time was made merry by song and good company.
