Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2: The Queen’s Fool, The Virgin’s Lover, The Other Queen. Philippa Gregory
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the old religion back home again.
In the second carriage was the Protestant princess, but the cheers for her were nothing compared to the roar that greeted the diminutive queen every time her chariot rounded a corner. With Princess Elizabeth rode Henry’s neglected queen, Anne of Cleves, fatter than ever, with a ready smile for the crowd, the knowing gleam, I thought, of one survivor to another. And behind that chariot came forty-six ladies of the court and country, on foot and dressed in their best, and flagging a little by the time we had processed from Whitehall to the Tower.
Behind them, in the procession of officers of the court, came all the minor gentry and officials, me amongst them. Ever since I had come to England I had known myself to be a stranger, a refugee from a terror that I had to pretend I did not fear. But when I walked in the queen’s coronation procession with Will Somers, the witty fool, beside me, and my yellow cap on my head and my fool’s bell on a stick in my hand, I had a sense of coming into my own. I was the queen’s fool, my destiny had led me to be there with her from the first moment of her betrayal, through her flight and to her courageous proclamation. She had earned her throne and I had earned my place at her side.
I did not care that I was named as a fool. I was the holy fool, known to have the Sight, known to have predicted this day when the queen would come to her own. Some even crossed themselves as I went by, acknowledging the power that was vested in me. So I marched with my head up and I did not fear that all those eyes upon me would see my olive skin and my dark hair and name me for a Spaniard or worse. I thought myself an Englishwoman that day, and a loyal Englishwoman at that, with a proven love for my queen and for my adopted country; and I was glad to be one.
We slept that night in the Tower and the next day Lady Mary was crowned Queen of England, with her sister Elizabeth carrying her train, and the first to kneel to her and to swear allegiance. I could hardly see the two of them, I was crammed at the back of the Abbey, peering around a gentleman of the court, and in any case, my sight was blinded with tears at the knowledge that my Lady Mary had come to her throne, her sister beside her, and her lifelong battle for recognition and justice was over at last. God (whatever His name might be) had finally blessed her; she had won.
However united the queen and her sister had appeared when Elizabeth had kneeled before her, the Lady Elizabeth continued to carry her brother’s prayer book on a little chain at her waist, was never seen except in the soberest of gowns, and rarely appeared at Mass. She could not have shown the world more plainly that she was the Protestant alternative to the queen to whom she had just sworn lifelong loyalty. As ever, with Elizabeth, there was nothing that the queen could specifically criticise, it was the very air of her: the way she always set herself slightly apart, the way she always seemed to carry herself as if she, regretfully, could not wholly agree.
After several days of this the queen sent a brisk message to Elizabeth that she was expected to attend Mass, with the rest of the court, in the morning. A reply came as we were preparing to leave the queen’s presence chamber. The queen, putting out her hand for her missal, turned her head to see one of Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting standing in the doorway with a message from Lady Elizabeth.
‘She begs to be excused today, and says she is not well.’
‘Why, what is the matter with her?’ the queen asked a little sharply. ‘She was well enough yesterday.’
‘She is sick in her stomach, she is in much pain,’ the lady replied. ‘Her lady in waiting, Mrs Ashley, says she is not well enough to go to Mass.’
‘Tell Lady Elizabeth that I expect her at my chapel this morning, without fail,’ the Lady Mary said calmly as she turned back to her lady in waiting and took her missal; but I saw her hands shaking as she turned the pages to find the place.
We were on the threshold of the Lady Mary’s apartments, the guard just about to fling open the door so that we could walk along the gallery filled with well-wishers, spectators and petitioners, when one of Elizabeth’s other ladies slipped in through a side door.
‘Your Grace,’ she whispered, poised with a message.
The queen did not even turn her head. ‘Tell Lady Elizabeth that I expect to see her at Mass,’ she said and nodded to the guard. He flung open the door and we heard the little gasp of awe that greeted the queen wherever she went. The people dropped into curtseys and bows and she went through them, her cheeks blazing with two spots of red which meant that she was angry, and the hand which held her coral rosary beads trembling.
Lady Elizabeth came late into Mass, we heard her sigh as she crept through the crowded gallery, almost doubled-up with discomfort. There was a mutter of concern for the young girl, crippled with pain. She slipped into the pew behind the queen and we heard her loud whisper to one of her ladies: ‘Martha, if I faint, can you hold me up?’
The queen’s attention was on the priest who celebrated the Mass with his back to her, his entire attention focused on the bread and wine before him. To Mary, as to the priest, it was the only moment of the day that had any true significance; all the rest was worldly show. Of course, the rest of us sinners could hardly wait for the worldly show to recommence.
Lady Elizabeth left the church in the queen’s train, holding her belly and groaning. She could hardly walk, her face was as deathly white as if she had powdered it with rice powder. The queen stalked ahead, her expression grim. When she reached her apartments she ordered the doors shut on the public gallery to close out the murmurs of concern at Lady Elizabeth’s pallor and her enfeebled progress and the cruelty of the queen insisting on such an invalid attending Mass when she was so very ill.
‘That poor girl should be abed,’ one woman said clearly to the closing door.
‘Indeed,’ the queen said to herself.
It was as dark as midnight, though it was still only six in the evening, the mist peeling like a black shroud off the corpse of the cold river. The smell in my nostrils was the scent of despair from the massive wet weeping walls of the Tower of London, surely the most gloomy palace that any monarch ever built. I presented myself to the postern gate and the guard held up a flaming torch to see my white face.
‘A young lad,’ he concluded.
‘I’ve got books to deliver to Lord Robert,’ I said.
He withdrew the torch and the darkness flooded over me, then the creak of the hinges warned me that he was opening the gate outward and I stepped back to let the big wet timbers swing open, and then I stepped forward to go in.
‘Let me see them,’ he said.
I proffered the books readily enough. They were works of theology defending the Papist point of view, licensed by the Vatican and authorised by the queen’s own council.
‘Go through,’ the guard said.
I walked on the slippery cobblestones to the guardhouse, and from there along a causeway, the rank mud shining in the moonlight on either side, and then up a flight of wooden steps to the high doorway in the fortress wall of the white tower. If there was an attack or a rescue attempt, the soldiers inside could just kick the outside steps away, and they were unreachable. No-one could get my lord out.
Another soldier was waiting in the doorway. He led me inside and then rapped at an inner door and swung it open to admit me.
At last I saw him, my Lord Robert, leaning over his papers, a candle at his elbow, the golden light shining on his dark head, on his pale skin, and then the slow-dawning radiance of his smile.
‘Mistress Boy! Oh! My Mistress Boy!’
I dropped to one knee. ‘My lord!’ was all I could say before I burst into tears.
He laughed, pulled me to my feet, put his arm around my shoulders, wiped my face, all in