In the Shadow of the Crown

Rebellion

IT WAS FOUR DAYS AFTER MY CORONATION WHEN I OPENED my first Parliament. It was a splendid occasion. People lined the streets to see me ride by, and everyone who could be there was present.

I realize now that I was guileless. I did not know how to dissimulate. How unlike Elizabeth I was! Innocently, I expected everyone to be as I was. It took me a little time to learn that they were not.

The people had chosen me for their Queen. I thought that meant that they were ready to turn back to the Catholic Church and that it would be just as it was before my father broke with Rome.

When it was learned that I intended to return to papal authority, there was dismay in all quarters…even where I had least expected it.

I can see now that few people cared as strongly about religion as I did. There were many who were ready enough to go back to the way it had been during the last years of my father's reign. The religion itself had not changed then. All that had happened was that the monarch was the head of the Church instead of the Pope.

There was another point. Almost every nobleman in the land had profited from the dissolution of the monasteries and acquired Church land, and they would be in no mood to give that up.

All the ambassadors were a little shocked—even Renard, who, I had thought, would be entirely with me.

“You are moving too fast,” he said.

I could not believe that I had heard aright.

“But this is what I have always intended,” I protested.

“The people know it. It is why they have made me their Queen.”

“There will be trouble throughout the country, and Your Majesty is not secure enough to withstand trouble.”

“What do you mean? Did they not proclaim me? Have you not heard how they shout for me in the streets?”

“They shouted for you because they see you as the true heir to the throne, and the people did not like the succession to be meddled with. But have a care. There are many Protestants in this country. They might accept a return to the Catholic Faith, but to take the Church back to Rome at one stroke…it would be too much… too soon.”

“But it is my mission…my purpose.”

“I know … and a worthy one. But go slowly… feel your way. Leave things as they are at the moment.”

“But I will have Mass heard in the churches.”

“That…yes. But do not press for a return to Rome… not yet.”

He was not the only one to warn me. De Noailles, the French ambassador, called. I did not trust him. He was a very wily man. I had known for some time that he was more of a spy than an ambassador. Most of them were, of course, but de Noailles more than any. I knew he hated the thought of my closeness to Spain. Simon Renard, as my cousin's emissary, was a confidant as well as an ambassador. De Noailles knew this, and I believe he wanted to drive a wedge between us, for France and Spain were perennial enemies. If the French had heard of a possible match between myself and Philip of Spain, they would do everything they could to prevent it.

But this time he was in agreement with Simon Renard. France, like Spain, wished to see England back under the papal authority; but they could foresee revolt in England if it came too suddenly. They had just seen Jane Grey made Queen—albeit for only nine days—and they realized how dangerous the situation was and how uncertain my grip on the crown. There was my half-sister Elizabeth waiting to seize her chance.

I was warned not to be too fervent a papist.

Gardiner was one of the few who supported me, but I remembered that he had made no protest when my father had declared himself Head of the Church; and now that there was a new sovereign who believed that the country should return to Rome, he was in agreement with that. Protestants, who must be deploring his release from the Tower, called him Turncoat and Doctor Doubleface.

At the opening of Parliament Gardiner was the one who announced that it was my intention to return to Rome. That was all, but the views of so many which I received afterward influenced me, and I understood that I must not act too quickly; and nothing more was done about the matter at that time.

In the same Parliament I wanted it known that the harsh laws which my father had set up were to be relaxed. A great many people had suffered under my father's rule; I wanted mine to be more merciful.

I found a certain relief in writing to Reginald because I was sure that, from the Continent, he would be watching events in England with great concern.

“I had thought it would be simple,” I wrote to him. “I thought it could be changed at once. But I have been warned. The Emperor's ambassador has warned me. I must not be too hasty. The people are not yet prepared. But I trust you do not think me dilatory. Please do not think for a moment I am failing in my purpose. But I dare not yet show the people my intent.”

He would understand, I felt sure.

How I wished he were younger—and with me. I felt uneasy about the proposed match with Philip. I wondered a great deal about him. I had heard that he lacked the astuteness of his father. Well, that was to be expected as the Emperor Charles was known as the wisest ruler of the age.

Philip, I was told, was deeply religious. On the other hand, he had led rather a wild life, some said. I had heard that he was sensuous and fond of women. That was what alarmed me. He had been married before, to Isabella of Portugal, who had died three years later giving birth to a son, Don Carlos, who must be about six years old. If Philip was looking for passionate excitement in a marriage, I was not the wife for him to choose. But he was the son of the Emperor and I was the Queen of England, so the match was highly suitable on that score. But was it? The people would not wish me to marry a foreigner. They would have liked me to take Edward Courtenay. Moreover, I could not leave my country to go to Spain, and Philip could not leave his and come here. We should see each other rarely, it seemed to me. I began to think that this marriage with Spain would go the way of all the others.

But Reginald I had known and loved in my childhood. Did it matter that he was older than I? Did it matter that we should be unlikely to have children?

What I looked for was loving companionship, someone to be beside me, to care for me, to cherish me.

Simon Renard was the nearest I had to that, but in my heart I knew that his loyalties lay not with me but with his master, as a good ambassador's should. I tried to assure myself that the Emperor's interests were mine and that we stood together…as we always had.

Now that the Mass was being said in churches, there were bound to be protests. There were rumors of restlessness in several of the counties. From Kent, Leicestershire and Norfolk there were complaints.

My sister Elizabeth was a source of anxiety. She would not attend Mass, and Renard believed that those who wished to keep the Protestant way of worship were looking to her as a figurehead.

“She is very dangerous,” he said.

The Council sent a message to her telling her that she must conform. She did not appear at the ceremony at which the title of Earl was bestowed on Edward Courtenay, using the often employed excuse of sickness.

Renard came to me in some consternation.

“What is this sister of yours planning? She is trying to please the Protestants. While she behaves as she does she is fomenting danger. People will look to her—and believe me, there are many. She should be sent to the Tower.”

“How could I send my own sister to the Tower?”

“Merely by giving the order. I doubt not that, if there was an investigation, something could be proved against her.”

“De Noailles is showing friendship toward her.”

“She will get no good from him. His one aim is to get Mary of Scotland on the throne.”

“Mary of Scotland! How could he believe that possible?”

Renard looked at me with a hint of pity for my shortsightedness.

“Mary of Scotland is the daughter-in-law of the King of France. De Noailles is his servant. The King sees England coming to France with Mary Queen and young François King. But depend upon it, de Noailles will use Elizabeth to try to bring this about.”

“Is there no one to be trusted?”

Renard shook his head. “No one but my master, who is your friend and always will be. When you are married to Philip, you will have an even stronger hold on his affections, and you will have a man beside you. But in the meantime we have to deal with Elizabeth. We have to stop these Protestants looking to her as their new Queen.”

“It is treason.”

“Your Majesty speaks truth. So … let us begin to flout these treasonable schemes by turning our attention to your sister.”

“I cannot imprison her.”

“Not until she is implicated. But let us be watchful and begin by preventing her setting up this image to staunch Protestants. She must attend the Mass.”

“I will have her told that she must obey.”

“That will be the first step,” agreed Renard.

Before I could send the order to her, a messenger came from her with a letter begging me to grant her an interview.

I did this.

As soon as she approached me, she fell on her knees.

I said, “You may rise and tell me what it is you have to say to me. I see that you have recovered from the sickness which prevented your attending Courtenay's ceremony. You appear to be in rude health.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have recovered. May I say I hope Your Majesty is in good health.”

There was a look of concern on her face which told me I looked ill. She did not say I did, for she knew that would annoy me, but she implied it with a glance of compassion which made me immediately aware of the contrast between us—she so young, so vital, so full of good health, and myself ageing, pale, several inches shorter than she was, so that when we stood, she looked down on me.

I told her I was well. I repeated, “What is it you wish to say to me?”

“Your Majesty, I am deeply grieved.”

“Why is that?”

“I fear Your Majesty has lost her love for me. This makes me sad indeed. You have ever been a good sister to me, and I am desolate to think I may have done something to offend you. I know of nothing…except this matter of religion.”

I said, “You have been told many times to attend Mass, and you stubbornly refuse to do so.”

“Your Majesty, I have not had your advantage. I was brought up in the Reformed Faith, and I have heard no other.”

“There is no excuse. There are many who would instruct you.”

“Then Your Majesty has relieved me greatly. I must have instruction. Perhaps some learned man could be appointed for me. I will willingly learn. Your Majesty will understand that, having been instructed in one form of religion, it stays with one, and it is hard to change.”

I never knew whether to believe her or not. But for Renard's warning, I would have embraced her and told her that she should have tuition at once and we should be good sisters again. But I did hesitate. I knew Renard was right when he said she was wily and she must be watched. But seeing her before me, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, the look of humility in her face, the obvious eagerness to be taken back into my affections, I almost believed her.

I said, “You will attend Mass on the 8th of September. It is the day the Church of Rome celebrates the nativity of the Virgin.”

She looked a little taken aback. I tried to read her thoughts. She could not refuse. She knew that there were spies about her, all waiting for her to make some slip. Renard would be happy to see her in the Tower, considering her safer there. De Noailles would want her out of the way too. He wanted us both out of the way, to make the road clear for Mary of Scotland. On the other hand, Elizabeth was next in succession, and she only had to wait for my death.

The thought made me shiver. But I could not believe this fresh-faced young girl would be foolish enough to become involved in a plot which, if it did not succeed, could cost her the crown and possibly her head.

I kissed her. “We are sisters,” I said. “Let us be friends.”

She smiled radiantly, and I warmed to her. I knew she had been deeply hurt because, when I had been acclaimed legitimate, that could only mean that she was not. When we had both been called bastards, there had been a bond between us. As Queen I had to be proclaimed legitimate, and deeply I had desired this… not only for myself but for the sake of my mother. But I did feel for Elizabeth. It was bad enough to be the daughter of Anne Boleyn who, many believed, had been a witch.

It pleased me to be lenient with her. I would help her. It might well be that all she needed was instruction.

But I was adamant that she must attend Mass on the occasion I had mentioned.

She did appear. She came, looking pale and wan.

How did she manage it? I asked myself. I only half-believed in her illnesses. She recovered a little too quickly for them to be genuine.

She was surrounded by her ladies. They almost carried her into the chapel. When they arrived, she asked them to rub her stomach in the hope of bringing her some relief.

It was a good piece of acting—if acting it was. People would say, “Poor Princess! She was forced to attend Mass, but it was easy to see how reluctant she was. It made her quite ill.”

And it seemed to me that she had scored again.

RENARD WAS INCENSED by the manner in which Elizabeth had behaved. Far from upsetting the Protestants with her little bit of playacting, she had strengthened her position.

“I shall never be happy while she remains free,” he grumbled.

He thought I was a fool. I had been taken in by my sister's wiles. I kept Jane Grey alive in the Tower. Again and again he tried to impress on me that these two women represented rallying-points. The country could break into revolt at any time. Did I not see that Elizabeth and Jane, as Protestants, could be at the very center of plots against me?

I replied that the people were with me. They had chosen me.

“They could choose Elizabeth,” he said.

I shook my head and he lifted his shoulders and turned away. He said, “She must be watched. If there is the least indication that she is plotting against you, it must be the Tower for her… and most likely her head.”

He came to me a few days later with the news that de Noailles was visiting Elizabeth secretly. It could only be that they were plotting to destroy me.

“Why should de Noailles be working for Elizabeth?”

“He is not,” replied Renard. “Depend upon it, once he had dispatched Your Majesty, Elizabeth would go the same way. She is too naàve … too eager for power to see that. His only interest is to put Mary Stuart on the throne.”

“Must there always be these plots against me?”

“Until we are sure that you are safe on the throne, there will be.”

“And when will that be?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Your Majesty must see that we take every precaution and that while Madam Elizabeth is here, charming the people and being, as she thinks, so clever, we must be watchful. She should be sent to the Tower at once.”

“But nothing has been proved against her.”

“Then we must find out if there is anything to prove.”

I summoned two of my ministers—Arundel and Paget—and told them that the Princess had been behaving in a suspicious manner with the French ambassador.

“Go to her,” I said. “Discover if there is any truth in these rumors.” They clearly did not like the task. I noticed that people were becoming more and more careful how they treated Elizabeth. If she could survive, if she did not commit some treasonable act and if nothing could be proved against her, she had a very good chance of coming to the throne. I knew that was what she wanted more than anything. She always implied when I was in her presence that my health was poor and I looked sickly. Though perhaps I imagined that, and it was only myself who compared her healthy looks with my delicate ones. The people had shown that they did not like the succession interfered with. So … Paget and Arundel would remember that the young woman they were questioning for treason could be their Queen tomorrow. Naturally they were loth to go to her.

But they did and they came back and reassured me. They had proved without a doubt that de Noailles had made no indiscreet calls on her. She had given ample proof of her loyalty.

I was relieved. It would have worried me considerably to have to send my sister to the Tower.

She asked for an audience again, which I granted, and when she came to me she fell onto her knees.

“Your Majesty, dearest sister,” she said, “how grateful I am that you have justly given me the opportunity to disprove charges of which I am innocent. I might have been condemned unheard, but Your Majesty is bountiful and loving to your poor subjects, of whom I am the most loyal. I beg of you that you will never give credit to the calumnies that might hereafter be circulated about me, without giving me the chance to defend myself.”

“I will promise you that,” I told her.

“Then I am happy, for I am your loving and devoted servant, and as I would never act against you, nothing can ever be proved against me.”

“You are looking pale,” I said, turning the tables, for it was indeed true. She must have been very worried, and it had had its effect on her.

“I have been grievously ill, Your Majesty. I yearn for the country air. I wonder if you would grant me permission to retire from Court for a little while.”

I looked at her steadily. Her eyes were downcast; she looked very innocent.

I hesitated. I wondered what Renard would say. As for myself, I should be glad to be rid of her. Her good looks and youth aroused such envy in me, and whenever I saw her, I became more conscious of my own appearance and that my marriage was imminent.

She was so sure of herself, so vain, so confident of her power to charm.

“Where would you go?” I asked.

“I thought to Ashridge, Your Majesty. The air there does me good.”

“Very well. You shall go.”

She fell to her knees once more and kissed my hand.

“Your Majesty is so good to me.”

So good? When I had recently sent Paget and Arundel to test her loyalty? She was appealing in her way, and I was as unsure of her now as I ever was.

I called to one of my women to bring me a box of jewels, and from it I selected a pearl necklace. I put it round my sister's neck.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she went so far as to forget the respect she owed to the Queen and put her arms round me and kissed me. Or did she really forget, and was this another of her gestures?

Then she drew back, as though alarmed by her temerity. “Forgive me, Your Majesty… sister…”

My reply was to draw her to me and kiss her cheek.

“You will recover quickly in the healthy atmosphere of Ashridge,” I said; and then I dismissed her.

Renard shook his head over my decision to let her go.

“I would prefer,” he said, “always to have that young woman where I can see what she is doing.”

ELIZABETH CONTINUED TO OCCUPY Renard's thoughts. He would not be happy until she was out of the way—either in another country or in her grave. I sometimes wondered whether some charge would be trumped up against her. I must be watchful of that. I did not want to have my own sister's blood on my hands. Marriage was a better idea.

The Emperor evidently thought so too. He suggested that Elizabeth be betrothed to the Prince of Piedmont.

She stubbornly refused to consider this. Of course she did. She wanted the English throne above all things.

Renard was annoyed with her, but I could see that he had a grudging admiration for her, too. I think sometimes he wished she were the Queen with whom he had to work. They would have understood each other better than he and I did.

However, there was no way of getting rid of Elizabeth through marriage. She was clearly determined on that.

Christmas had come, and it was in January of the following year, 1554, when Gardiner uncovered the plot.

The news of my proposed marriage to Philip of Spain was leaking out, and the reaction was as I had feared it might be.

The French ambassador called on me. He was clearly deeply disturbed. Did I realize the dangers? he wondered. Philip would dominate me.

I replied haughtily that I was the Queen of this realm and intended to remain so.

“Husbands,” replied de Noailles, “can be persuasive.” He added that his master, King Henri Deux, did not like the match at all.

That was no news to me; I was fully aware that he would dislike it and do all he could to prevent it.

Every day seemed to bring home to me more and more the danger of my position. Though I had been crowned Queen of England, there were others who had envious eyes on that crown. Oddly enough, they were all women. There was Lady Jane Grey in the Tower at the moment, my prisoner; but perhaps she did not want it for herself, it was others who coveted it for her. There was Elizabeth, patiently waiting to step into my shoes; and in France was the young Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by becoming the wife of the Dauphin of France, had made Henri Deux cast speculative eyes in its direction.

This was no news to me. I knew very well that the French would dislike the Spanish match.

My position was as dangerous as it had ever been. There had been no peace for me since that day when my father had decided that he wished to be rid of my mother.

I needed a strong man—someone to care for me, to stand beside me and help fight off my enemies.

Philip of Spain would help me to do that. I should have the might of Spain behind me. It would be a good match.

But the news of my intended marriage was already causing trouble.

I knew that Edward Courtenay was bitterly disappointed. He had pretended to care for me, but I often asked myself if he really did. I had been attracted by him. Who would not have been? He was so good-looking and charming, and his history was so touching. The idea of such a man being prisoner all those years for committing no sin but having royal blood in his veins. It was admirable that, during those years in the Tower, he had educated himself so that he was as polished as any courtier; all he lacked was horsemanship and outdoor skills, for how could he have practiced those, confined as he was? Yet I doubted not that in a year or so he would vie with any.

I was fond of Gertrude, his mother, whom I had made a lady of my bedchamber. She was constantly extolling the virtues of her son. So there was another who was disappointed.

I did not realize how deeply this disappointment had gone. I had been hearing rumors about him. He was extravagant; he mingled with a fast set; it was said that this included relationships with loose women. I excused him.

He was a lusty young man and he had been shut away for a long time; in any case I had ceased to regard him as a possible husband. I could see that to marry such a man, just because he was young and handsome, was not the way a queen should act. I had, I confess, been a little overwhelmed by his grace and good manners and his show of affection for me. But I was not so easily deluded. I knew that I was not good-looking, that I showed signs of age, and I should have been a fool if I had not understood that it was my glittering crown which dazzled, not my person.

I was sure I had done the right thing in agreeing to marriage with Philip of Spain. He was not expecting a beauty; what he wanted was a queen, and he would not be disappointed in that respect.

The members of the Council were constantly on the alert, and they knew the Spanish marriage was not going to be popular. Gardiner discovered that a certain Peter Carew of Devon was going through the towns of that county, telling people that they must not allow the marriage to take place. It would be letting the Spaniards into the country. They were a harsh and cruel race, he warned them, and they would be bringing Spanish laws into England. There were sailors in Devon who had come into the clutches of the evil Inquisition and had, by great good luck, escaped. Let the people listen to their stories of hideous torture. The Spaniards would rule England, and the Queen would be merely the wife of a foreign king. There must be no Spanish marriage.

There was only one thing for the Council to do, and they did it. They ordered Peter Carew to come to London for questioning. But Carew realized what was happening and, when he did not come and they sent guards to arrest him, he had already disappeared.

It was disturbing, for there was no doubt that there would soon be revolt in Devon.

Stephen Gardiner came to me and begged an audience. When I received him, I saw at once how grave he was.

“I have news which will shock you,” he said.

“This revolt …” I began.

“Carew has escaped, as Your Majesty knows. He is a bold fellow with a colorful past. He has led a life of adventure, and he is the sort men choose for a leader.”

“It is a pity he was not forced to come before the Council. He should have been arrested and brought here.”

Gardiner nodded slowly. Then he said, “I have discovered what was afoot.”

“Then pray tell me.”

“As the rising was in the Earl of Devonshire's territory, I thought of questioning him.”

“Yes,” I said uneasily.

“He has confessed that he knows of the plot to oppose the Spanish marriage. He says he took no part in it, but when I questioned him he was very ready to tell me about it.”

“He is a weak young man, easily led, and he has become ambitious,” I said.

Gardiner agreed. “It is good that we have this warning,” he said. “It enables us to put down the revolt with less trouble than we should have if it were allowed to develop. There are certain people of whom we must be watchful and… Courtenay is one.”

I nodded.

“And more dangerous still… the Princess Elizabeth.”

“Do you think…?”

“I am of the opinion, Your Majesty, that she is a very dangerous lady.”

It all seemed to come back to Elizabeth.

While I was growing more and more anxious about these rumblings of revolt, the marriage treaty was signed. It had been very carefully drawn up. Our two dominions, England and Spain—which Philip would inherit on the death or abdication of his father—were to be governed separately. Only the English were to hold office in the English Court and government. If I had a child, it was to inherit my dominions with the addition of Holland and Flanders. I was not to be taken out of the country, nor should any children I might have, without my consent and that of the government. England was not to be involved in any wars in which Spain might be engaged, nor was Spain to appropriate English ships, ammunition or the crown jewels; and if I died without children, all connection between England and my husband would cease.

All this seemed fair enough, but there was one final clause, and I think that was what aroused the indignation of the people: Philip was to aid me in governing the country.

It was soon after the contents of the treaty were made public that trouble started in earnest.

The disappearance of Sir Peter Carew had to a certain extent quelled that which was about to take place in Devon. Courtenay had left London. He had not been arrested because he had alerted us to the dangers of the plot; but at the same time he had been guilty of traitorous intent. The plan had been to dethrone me, marry Courtenay to Elizabeth and set her on the throne, at the same time establishing the Protestant religion throughout the land.

There was a rising in the Midlands by the vassals of the Duke of Suffolk. Their aim was to set up Lady Jane Grey and also the Protestant religion.

Courtenay's confession had helped a great deal, and these were suppressed. But there was yet another to contend with, and this proved to be a very serious matter.

It was headed by Sir Thomas Wyatt. He was a headstrong young man from Allington Castle in Kent, and he continued to rouse the men of that county to action.

Wyatt was not unknown to me. He was the son of the poet who had been a close friend of Anne Boleyn—possibly her lover. I was greatly suspicious of his motives, and I wondered whether his father's love and admiration for the mother had been transferred by him to the daughter.

Every time I heard of these disloyal insurrections, my thoughts went to Elizabeth.

This Wyatt was a man to watch. He was an adventurer such as Peter Carew. They stepped naturally into the role of leader. They were fearless in the first place; they were reckless, too. I supposed it was those qualities which endeared them to others.

As a very young man Wyatt had been in trouble along with Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, who himself had lost his head just before my father died. They had been wild young men, roaming the streets of London together, taking part in mischievous tricks which had resulted in their being arrested and spending a few weeks in the Tower. As such young men often do, Wyatt had later distinguished himself. This was in military service in Boulogne, and later he had been among those who had helped to defeat the Duke of Northumberland when the latter had tried to set Jane Grey on the throne. It seemed that he had been a loyal subject until the intended Spanish marriage was proposed.

Later I heard more of what had happened. Edward Courtenay was more deeply involved than we had at first realized. He it was who, knowing of Wyatt's dislike of the Spaniards, had invited him to raise men in Kent to join the insurrections. Wyatt was enthusiastic. Long ago, he had traveled to Spain with his father, the poet, who had been arrested and taken before the Inquisition. It was something he had never forgotten, and an intense hatred of Spaniards had been born in him then. He was determined to do everything possible to stop the Spanish marriage, and he, like many others, believed that, with a Spanish consort, Spanish manners and customs would be introduced into the country.

When a number of the conspirators were arrested, Wyatt found himself the head of the revolt. He might have fled the country, which would have been his wisest course of action, but men like Wyatt are never wise. Caution and self-preservation are traits quite unknown to their nature.

Finding himself forced into the position of leader, he rode to Maidstone and there proclaimed his cause. His neighbors and friends from other counties were urged to fight for the liberty of the people which would be suppressed if the Queen married a foreigner.

Renard came to see me in great consternation.

He had his spies placed everywhere, and the most accomplished were in the household of the French ambassador, who, he said, was our most dangerous enemy. The news he had to impart was indeed disquietening.

“King Henri is planning to open a front along the Scottish border,” he told me.

“And he is hinting at giving help to the rebels.”

“He cannot do that!” I cried.

“Why not? The Scots are always ready to come against us. They will welcome him. He has twenty-four warships on the Normandy coast, just waiting until the moment is ripe.”

“Why should he help the rebels?”

“He will help them to defeat your supporters, and then he will step in to perfect his plan.”

“To put Mary of Scotland on the throne. But the rebels want Elizabeth.”

“They are simpletons, he thinks. He will get them to do the worst of the work for him, and that will be the end of them.”

“How dangerous is this? We have suppressed the risings… all except this one of Wyatt's.”

“It is this one of Wyatt's that we have to watch. The sooner you are married, the better it will be.”

“Wyatt cannot do much against trained men.”

“Wyatt has been a soldier. He is not merely some hothead with a grievance. It is disturbing that the French should be ready to involve themselves in this.”

“I should like to dismiss de Noailles.”

“It would do no good. There would be another, and it is better to have one of whose methods we know something.”

“I shall send Norfolk against them.”

I was confident at this time that the trouble would soon be over.

This was not the case. As Renard had pointed out, Wyatt was a soldier; and, to my horror, it was not Wyatt who was defeated but Norfolk. I was greatly distressed when our soldiers returned to London; they were tired, dirty and hungry; they looked like the defeated army they were. There was great consternation among the citizens. It was clear to them that this was a serious revolt.

Then came the news that Wyatt was preparing to march on London.

It began dawning on me that I was in a desperate situation. I had no army to defend me. I asked myself how far I could trust my Council. I knew them for a group of ambitious men jostling for power. There was a small faction against Gardiner. He—with my support, it is true—was too fervent a Catholic; he was accused of causing trouble by trying to force people to join in religious observances against their will and for which they were not yet ready. Gardiner turned to them and declared that the sole trouble was the Spanish marriage and he had often questioned the wisdom of that.

So there I was, in my capital city, without an army, with a Council who were quarrelling among themselves, and rebels preparing to come against me.

Wyatt's headquarters were at Rochester, where he had gathered men and ammunition and was preparing to march on London. I sent messages throughout the country, offering a pardon to all his followers who left him within the next twenty-four hours and returned peacefully to their homes, reminding them that, if they did not, they would be judged traitors.

Then we heard that he was on his way with 4,000 men.

Gardiner came to see me. He was in a state of some agitation. Clearly he felt Wyatt to be a formidable foe. He said he had sent messages to him, asking him to state his demands.

I was astounded. “This is amounting to a truce,” I said.

“Your Majesty, the situation is dangerous. We have to halt this march on London.”

“I will not parley with him. Let him come. We will face him.”

“Your Majesty does not fully grasp the danger. He is marching on us with his army. The Council has considered the matter. Your Majesty must go to the Tower immediately… no, better still, Windsor. You should not be here when Wyatt's men come into the town.”

“They shall not come into the town,” I said firmly, “and I shall not go to Windsor. I will stay here and face these rebels.”

“It was suggested that you should dress as one of the people … and mingle with them so that it would not be known who you are.”

“I shall certainly not do that. I am the Queen, and everyone must know that I am the Queen.”

Renard came to tell me that the Imperial Commissioners were preparing to leave the country. I thought that was wise, as they had been negotiating the marriage contract and the people might turn on them in their fury.

“They wish to come and take their leave.”

“Then bring them,” I said.

When they arrived, I told them to give my best wishes to the Emperor and to tell him that I would write to him and tell him the outcome of this little matter.

They were astounded by my calmness. They believed I was in acute danger. I might have been, but at that time I was so confident of my destiny that I had no fear.

When they left, I went to the Guildhall. The people, aware of my coming, assembled there.

They cheered me as I approached, and it was heartwarming to hear the cry of “God save Queen Mary!”

I spoke to them, and I was glad of my deep voice—which some had said was more like a man's than a woman's—as I heard it ringing out with confidence which seemed to inspire them and disperse some of their anxieties.

“My loving subjects,” I cried, “who I am, you well know. I am your Queen, to whom at my coronation you promised allegiance and obedience. I am the rightful inheritor of this crown. My father's regal state has descended on me. It would seem that some do not like my proposed marriage. My beloved subjects, I do not enter into this out of self-will or lust, but it is my bounden duty to leave you an heir to follow me. It is untrue that harm will come to our country through my marriage. If I thought I should harm that and you, I should remain a virgin all my life. I do not know how a mother loves her child because I have never been a mother, but I assure you that I, being your Queen, see myself as your mother, and as such do I love you. Good subjects, lift up your hearts. Remember that you are true men and brave. Stand fast against these rebels. They are not only my enemies but yours also. Fear them not, for I assure you I fear them not at all.”

As I stopped speaking, the cheers rang out. “God save Queen Mary!”

“People of London,” I went on, “will you defend me against these rebels? If you will, I am minded to live and die with you and strain every nerve in your cause, for at this time your fortunes, goods and honor, your personal safety and that of your wives and children are in the balance.”

As I stopped speaking, once more the cheers rang out.

It was clear that they were all deeply moved. Gardiner, who had been beside me, looked at me with a dazed expression. Then he said, “I am happy that we have such a wise Queen.”

The people of London were rallying to my side. The streets were full of men prepared to fight. I was gratified. I knew I had taken the right course. I felt that I had been inspired and that God was showing me the way.

IT WAS THREE O'CLOCK in the morning. I was startled out of a dreamless sleep to find Susan at my bedside.

“Your Majesty, the Council are here. They must see you at once.”

I hastily rose. Susan wrapped a robe about me, and I went into the anteroom where the Council were waiting for me.

Gardiner said to me, “Your Majesty must leave London without delay. Wyatt is at Deptford. He will be at the city gates ere long.”

I replied, “I have promised the people of London that I will stay with them.”

“It is unsafe for Your Majesty to stay here.”

I was thoughtful for a moment. It was all against my instincts to fly, and yet, on the other hand, if I stayed and was murdered, what good would I be to my faith? It was my duty to restore this country to God's grace, and how could I do that… dead?

I was very undecided. My inclination was to stay, because I had given my word to the people of London. But was it foolish?

Only the previous day Renard had congratulated me on my speech to the people at the Guildhall. He said that if I had left London then, Wyatt could have succeeded, and that would have meant putting Elizabeth on the throne and strengthening the Protestant influence in the country. How wise I had been to act as I did, he said. The Emperor would approve.

And now here was my Council suggesting flight.

I said, “I will decide in the morning.”

Gardiner replied that the time was short. In the morning it might be too late.

“Nevertheless,” I replied, “I will decide then.”

As soon as they had gone, I sent one of my servants to bring Renard to me. He came with all speed.

“They are suggesting I leave for Windsor,” I told him. “They say that Wyatt is all but at the gates of the city, and if I stay here and he is victorious, it will be the end of my reign, and me most likely.”

“Your presence here has brought out the loyalty of these citizens,” said Renard.

“If you go, Wyatt will be allowed to walk in. Elizabeth will be proclaimed Queen, and that will be the end of your reign.”

“You are saying that I should stay.”

He nodded slowly. “I am saying just that.”

So my mind was made up. I should stay.

LONDON WAS A CITY at war. The shops had been boarded up, and all the goods were removed from the stalls. Armed men were everywhere; the drawbridges were cut loose, and the gates of the city were barred and guarded.

We waited in trepidation.

The guns of the Tower were trained on Southwark, but I could not allow them to be fired, even though Wyatt and his men were sheltering there. I had to consider the little houses and the people living in them. How could I fire on my own people? It was no fault of theirs that they were in the line of fire.

Wyatt must have been getting uneasy. One day passed … and then another. The bridge was too well guarded for him to cross; if he attempted to storm it, there would be bitter fighting and the village of Southwark would be destroyed. I imagined that at this stage he was wishing he had never been caught up in this rebellion. He had only meant to raise men against the Spanish marriage, and when the others had deserted, he had found himself the leader and it was too late to turn back. He was an honorable man; there was no pillage and looting in his army.

He must have realized that he could not fight his way across the bridge and therefore must leave Southwark. It was with relief that we saw his army on the march, although we knew that would not be the end; he would attempt to cross at another point.

We heard that he was at Kingston. He was in a quandary, for the rain was teeming down, the river was swollen and the bridge had broken down. Nothing daunted, Wyatt set his men to repair the bridge, which, in the heavy rain, took hours; but at length, after much toil and skill, it was sufficiently repaired to allow the men with their ammunition to cross the river.

All these delays and difficulties had had their effect on the men. It is a tribute to Wyatt's leadership that he kept them together. But at least he must congratulate himself. He had arrived with his army—albeit not in the condition it had been in when it left Southwark. But he was now on the Middlesex side of the river; he had successfully crossed, and London lay before him.

I was awakened once more in the night to hear that he had reached Brentford. Several of the guards were in the streets beating drums—the signal for citizens to be out of their beds and to prepare.

Then he reached Knightsbridge.

The Council told me I should go to the Tower, but I refused. I would stay at Whitehall. I knew the people must see me. If I went to the Tower, it would seem as though I were afraid and should have to protect myself. I did not want that. I must show the people that I was prepared to face danger, as they must.

Instinct told me that Wyatt was a desperate man. He must have believed that there were enough Protestants among the population of London to come to his aid, and that someone would open the gates when he had been at Southwark. I believed it was my action in staying with the people of London, and showing them my confidence, which had made them rally to me.

It seemed to me that I had acted on inspiration from Heaven, and I thanked God for those men who were loyal to me on that day. I had come near to a disaster which would have changed the face of history. Wyatt was a strong man with deep convictions; he was a leader, but the odds were against him. Perhaps he had ill luck. Perhaps it was that God intended me to live and fulfill my mission. I believed that, at the time, and I have gone on believing it.

Pembroke was magnificent. He was a skilled general. As Wyatt made his way toward St. James's, Pembroke kept his forces in hiding; and when Wyatt's forces had passed along unmolested, Pembroke and his men sprang out and attacked them in the rear. Winchester, another of my good commanders, was waiting ahead for him, so that he was between Wyatt and Ludgate.

The fighting was fierce. I was in the gatehouse, waiting, watching, desperately anxious for news.

A messenger came hurrying in. “All is lost!” he cried. “Pembroke has gone over to Wyatt.”

“I don't believe it!” I cried. “Pembroke is no traitor.”

“Wyatt is close. Your Majesty must take a barge at once. You could get to Windsor.”

“I will not go,” I said. “I shall stay here. Let us pray, and the Lord will save the day for us. I know in my heart that this will be so. I put my trust in God.”

I felt then that He was the only one in whom I could put my trust.

That was my darkest hour.

It was not long before the news reached me. The rumor was false. Pembroke was no traitor, as I had known he could not be. Wyatt's men, dispirited, cold, dirty and hungry after their experiences at Kingston, were no match for my men. They knew it, and when such knowledge comes to a soldier, he is a defeated man.

I wondered what Wyatt's thoughts were as he battled there at Ludgate; he must have realized with every passing second that his cause was a lost one.

Sir Maurice Berkeley called to him to surrender.

“If you do not,” he said, “all these men whom you have brought with you will doubtless be killed— yourself, too. Give in now. It may be that the Queen will show you mercy.”

Wyatt hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew that he had lost and he gave up gracefully.

Sir Maurice took Wyatt on the back of his horse and rode to the keep where I was watching, so that I might see that the leader of the rebellion was his prisoner.

My first thought was, “We must give thanks to God.” And, taking my women with me, I went to the chapel, where, on our knees, we gave thanks for this victory.

I was exultant. To me it meant confirmation of my dreams. God's purpose was clear to me. I prayed that I should be worthy to complete my mission.

NOW WAS THE TIME for retribution.

Wyatt was in the Tower. Although there was no question of his guilt, he was not executed immediately, because it was hoped that he would incriminate others—mainly my sister Elizabeth and Edward Courtenay.

At the Old Bailey, as many as eighty-two persons were judged and condemned in one day. In every street in London hung the bodies of traitors— a grim warning. This continued for ten days, and there were so many executions that men had to be cut down from the gibbets to make way for others. As Wyatt came from Kent, it was thought necessary to let the Kentish people see for themselves what happened to traitors. Men were taken there, and in the towns and villages their bodies were set up on gibbets or in chains.

Renard had told me frequently that the leniency I was inclined to show was dangerous. There would always be such insurrections while Lady Jane lived—and I could see that that was true. I knew I must agree that she be brought to the block.

I was wretched. I should have rejoiced. Our victory over Wyatt was complete, and yet, because it must result in so many deaths, I was unhappy. God had shown me how to act, and I had followed His instructions but I wished there need not be this carnage.

I told myself that these men were traitors, and they all knew the risk they ran when they took up arms against the anointed sovereign. It was the thought of Jane which haunted me, but I knew my advisers were right. While she lived, this sort of thing could happen again. It was better for her to die than that thousands should lose their lives because of her.

So at last they prevailed on me to sign the death warrant.

Guilford Dudley was taken out to the block the day before her. It was unnecessary cruelty to make her watch his execution from a window in the Tower. I did not know of this until after it had happened. There were many of my courtiers who regarded me as a soft and sentimental woman who let her heart rule her head. I should not have forced that cruelty on Jane, for, in my view, it served no purpose. Die she must, but I wanted it to be done with the least possible discomfort to her.

There were many to tell me how she went to her death, how she came out to Tower Green, wondrously calm, her prayer book in her hand, looking very young and beautiful. And as she was about to mount the scaffold, she asked permission to speak. When this was given, she spoke of the wrong done to the Queen's Majesty and that she was innocent of it.

“This I swear before God and you good people,” she added.

Her women tied a handkerchief about her eyes, and pathetically she stretched out her hands, as she could not see the block.

“Where is it?” she said. “I cannot see it.”

They said it was the most piteous sight, to observe her thus, a young and beautiful girl, so innocent of blame. I was glad I did not witness it.

They helped her to the block and, before she laid her head on it, she asked the executioner to dispatch her quickly, and he promised he would.

Then she said in a firm, clear voice, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.”

I was deeply moved when they told me, and how fervently I wished that it had not had to be.

Others followed her, including her father, the Duke of Suffolk. I did not feel the same pity for him.

On the day Jane died, Courtenay was taken to the Tower. De Noailles was under suspicion. He had certainly played a part in the rebellion, and papers had been found to prove this. But it is not easy to deal with an ambassador. One cannot clap him into prison. We might have insisted on his recall, but Renard was against this.

I do believe that de Noailles was a very uneasy man at that time.

Elizabeth was the one Renard was most interested in. He had always regarded her as the greatest menace. In a way he respected her. He thought her clever, but that only added to his desire to put her away.

“She must be questioned,” he said to me. “She has had a hand in this. She is at the very heart of the plot. She must have known that Wyatt would have set her up as Queen.”

“He insists that it was merely to stop my marriage that he rebelled.”

“He would have stopped that by seeing that you were not here to marry. Depend upon it, his plan was to set Elizabeth on the throne. I tell you this: the Prince of Spain might refuse to come here unless she is put away…and Courtenay with her.”

“Courtenay is already in the Tower.”

“And Elizabeth should be there, too. You must send for her to come to London. There will be no peace in this realm while she is free.”

Gardiner added his voice to Renard's. I knew they were right. I did not trust my sister; but I did not believe she would be party to my murder. She knew that I was not strong; I had no heirs; she could come to the throne constitutionally. She was young. Would a woman of her astuteness, her farseeing nature, not be prepared to wait until she could achieve her desires peacefully and with the people behind her?

However, Gardiner and Renard thought differently. They were sure that Elizabeth would be safe only in the Tower.

I summoned her to Court. The reply was just what I expected. She was too ill to travel. I did not believe this, although she must have suffered great anxiety when she knew that Wyatt had been captured and that he—with Courtenay, who had been paying her some attention—was in the Tower.

I sent two of my doctors to discover whether she was well enough to travel, and they were fully aware that, if they agreed she was too ill, they would be under suspicion.

Elizabeth came to London.

As was expected, she made sure of a dramatic entrance. She was dressed in white and rode in a litter, insisting, truthfully, that she was too ill to come on horseback. She had ordered that her litter should not be covered. Naturally, she wanted the people to see her so that she might win their sympathy.

The people came out to watch her retinue as it passed along the roads. Many were weeping, knowing for what purpose she was going to London, to her death, they thought.

It was only eleven days since the beautiful Jane Grey had walked to the block. Was Elizabeth's fate to be the same? That was what they must have been asking themselves.

Perhaps some recalled her mother, who had lost her head on Tower Green.

I was relieved, though, that they did not shout for her, even though they gave themselves up to tears. The times were too dangerous to show partisanship; there could hardly have been any of them who had not seen the corpses rotting in chains.

They took her to Westminster, from whence she sent a plea to me, reminding me of my promise never to condemn her unheard.

I did not answer that plea. I wanted others to question her—not I.

I could not get her out of my thoughts. I reproached myself for refusing to see her. I could not forget that she was my sister.

It was proved that Wyatt had written to her on two occasions: once to advise her to move farther from London and secondly to tell her of his arrival at Southwark; but she was too wise to have replied to either of these communications.

De Noailles had mentioned her in his dispatches to France, and these had been intercepted by Renard, so, to a certain extent, she was implicated, if not of her own free will.

Of course, she vowed her innocence. I believed her because I did not think she would be foolish enough to embroil herself in a revolt which could easily fail, when all she had to do was wait. If I had a healthy child, then she might have reasons, but as it was, I could see none. And Elizabeth was one who would always have her reasons.

I wanted others to decide what was done with her. Renard wanted her out of the way; Gardiner wavered. He was not really in favor of the Spanish marriage, and in this he was alone in the Council. He was of the opinion that, if I married, Philip would dominate affairs. He regarded me with that mild contempt which men often bestow on women. He was loyal but he could not believe that women were capable of government.

He it was who declared that there was no actual proof of Elizabeth's participation in Wyatt's plot. There was no correspondence between them except the letters which Wyatt had written and which had apparently been unanswered. I wondered how big a part his objections to the Spanish match played in his judgements. When the Council decided that the best place for Elizabeth was in the Tower while her case was investigated, Gardiner was inclined to stand out against this; yet when he saw he was outnumbered, he gave way.

Her passage to the Tower was as dramatic as she knew how to make it. Even the elements seemed to work in her favor, for I wished her to be taken by night so that the people might not see her and express their sympathy. I was furious with Sussex, who was to conduct her to the Tower, for allowing her to delay so that she missed the tide and had to go the next morning. It was Palm Sunday, which seemed to make it all the more dramatic. I decided she must go while most people were at church.

Many have since heard of Elizabeth's journey to the Tower, how the stern of the boat struck the side of the bridge and almost overturned, how she was at length taken to the Traitor's Gate to step into the water, her words ringing out to all those about her that they might sympathize with her.

“Here lands as true a subject being prisoner as ever landed at these stairs.”

And the response from the lookers-on: “May God preserve Your Grace.” Many of them wept, and she turned to them and told them not to weep for her; and there she was, comforting them who should have been comforting her. “For you know the truth,” she said. “I am innocent of the charges brought against me, so that none of you have cause to weep for me.”

Then they took her to her prison in the Tower.

But the thought of her haunted me. I believed that, as long as we lived, she would be there to disconcert me.

SO WYATT, ELIZABETH and Courtenay were all in the Tower—Wyatt certain of death, Courtenay and Elizabeth uncertain, but living in fear of it. Life must have been very uncomfortable for de Noailles. He knew that he was watched and suspected. I had no doubt that he would have preferred to be recalled, although that could have offered him little joy, for to be recalled in such circumstances would be an indication of failure.

At about the same time as Elizabeth was being lodged in the Tower, Wyatt was brought to trial, condemned and sentenced to death. Even so, the deed was not to be performed immediately, and the 11th of April was fixed for his execution.

I was told that early that day he asked to be allowed to see Courtenay, who was lodged near him. The request was granted, and at the meeting Wyatt fell to his knees and begged Courtenay to admit that he had been the instigator of the rebellion.

This upset me a great deal, for I remembered how at one time I had thought Courtenay cared for me. How foolish I had been to think a young and handsome man would have tender feelings for an old woman. He certainly had coveted my crown. I felt hurt, but my anger was more for myself for having been so easily deluded than for this vain and arrogant young man. He had touched my feelings rather deeply, for I made excuses for him. He was but a boy, younger than his years, so many of which had been spent in unnatural captivity. It was not surprising that, when he found himself released and saw the possibility of a crown, he became reckless and behaved in such a way as to show a complete lack of judgement.

On the scaffold, when he was face to face with death, Wyatt made a statement in which he took the entire blame for the rebellion and declared that Elizabeth and Courtenay were innocent.

He was a brave man, but brave men are often rash and foolish.

His head was hung high on a gallows near Hyde Park, and his quartered limbs were placed for display about the town.

This was a grim warning to all traitors.