Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (35 page)

night, she had no thought of being received by her sister, whom she

understood to be at Whitehall, and did not even trouble to ask it. So

she was taken by surprise later that evening when Bedingfield arrived to

conduct her to the Queen’s private chamber.

Mary was alone, hunched in a high-backed chair beside a blazing fire,

and Bedingfield withdrew at her gesture. Elizabeth glanced after him with

regret. She did not feel safe with Mary and she would have preferred the

security of a witness, however hostile.

“Come here.”

She came, like an errant child, and as she sank into a deep curtsey

before the chair she had time to be shocked at her sister’s face, so shriv-

elled and sallow in the yellow candlelight. She reached out to take the

hand which lay on the tapestried arm, but Mary snatched it away, as

though her touch might be leprous.

Elizabeth moistened her dry lips.

“No—don’t speak,” said the Queen curtly. “I have not brought you

here to listen to your lying protestations of innocence. No words of yours

will move me again.” She made an irritable gesture. “Stand up, I will not

be mocked by your feigned humility.”

Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet. Her throat was parched and she

was trembling like a bird in the clutch of a cat. She could not believe

this bitter woman, half-demented with hatred, was truly her sister. All

through her turbulent childhood she had received nothing but unstinting

kindness from this selfless, dutiful lady. A dozen memories of Mary’s

generosity distracted her mind when it should be struggling to think of

words safe to utter to her most deadly enemy. Yards of yellow satin to

make a gown—the curious pomander ball set with its own clock—she

wore it now on a chain about her narrow waist in the hope that the sight

of it might please her sister. She had always taken Mary’s generosity for

granted, the kindness of a dull, unbending old maid, reliable as a rock.

How could Mary, who had always been so unfailingly good to her…?

Her question stopped abruptly. Mary had been good to Jane too, had

certainly liked her better; and Jane was dead.

Mary was staring hard at the pomander ball, knowing full well why

her sister had worn it and not liking her any better for the calculating

instinct it revealed. She had come to the point where she could no longer

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bear Elizabeth in the same room without being stricken with a sickening

desire to inflict some physical assault upon that smooth elegance, so

terribly reminiscent of Anne’s.

“I hear you were royally entertained on your journey from the

Tower,” she remarked.

“I beseech Your Majesty to remember that I was in no way responsible

for the merchants’ gesture.”

“Ah, no—you are never responsible for anything, are you, sister? A

helpless victim of malign fate!”

Elizabeth ignored the direct invitation to a quarrel.

“Your Majesty sent for me,” she prompted nervously.

“I did,” snapped Mary. “Merely to remind you that you have

exchanged one prison for another. And to promise you that you will find

the guardianship of Sir Henry Bedingfield more irksome than the closest

Tower surveillance. You will discover he has little time for women—do

you understand me, madam? There is no way that even you will find to

undermine his guard.”

Elizabeth was silent.

“You are to be shut away from all you hold dear,” continued the

Queen coldly, “shut away indefinitely from laughter and music—and

men. Ah, yes—that last touches you, does it not, sister? You need men

as a flower needs the sun. Without their attentions you wilt and wither.

Your mother was just the same—the
Concubine
they called her.”

Elizabeth stirred uneasily. “Madam—”

“You never speak of your mother, do you?” mused Mary with

narrowed eyes. “Even as a child, you never asked awkward questions.

I always thought it odd—unnatural even—it was as though you already

knew all the answers.”

“Madam,
please
—”

“Do I make you uncomfortable? It is in my power to make you more

than that, Elizabeth. It is also in my power to set you free if I choose.

Shall I so choose, sister? Shall I give you the one key that will unlock your

prison door?”

Elizabeth’s head jerked upwards and Mary smiled faintly and sat back

in her chair.

“Hope springs eternal, is that not so, sister? There are terms, of course,

to that freedom.”

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“Name them, madam.” Elizabeth was cautious.

“The Duke of Savoy has renewed his suit for your hand in marriage.

Take him, Elizabeth. Swear to leave my kingdom in exile and you shall

have your full liberty.”

Elizabeth stared down into her sister’s eyes and said with soft vehe-

mence, “Madam, I would rather die first.”

“That too can be arranged,” the Queen shouted suddenly. “Never be

in doubt of it.”

“I have never doubted it,” said Elizabeth wearily. “I only wonder why

Your Grace does not give the word and free me from this cruel suspense.”

That touched on a very sore point and Mary’s face contorted with

rage. She started out of her chair and Elizabeth instinctively shrank back.

“You think I’m
afraid
to do it, don’t you?—Afraid of the people who

chant your name in the streets. You think to rule here one day—but I swear

before God that you will never succeed me. How could you—heretic,

hypocrite, traitor, and bastard that you are?
Bastard
—but not my father’s.

Oh, no! Your mother was an infamous whore and you are the living

image of her lute player, Mark Smeaton, who died for his adultery with

her.” Hysteria was welling up in Mary. She clutched her crucifix as though

it alone stood between her and the Devil. “So, who are you—Smeaton’s

brat—to question my command? You’ll marry Savoy and count yourself

fortunate that the man is still willing to take you. God knows why he

should be, after all he must have heard—perhaps his taste runs to whores.”

“Or corpses,” suggested Elizabeth, and stood aghast at her insane

remark.

Without warning, the Queen stepped forward and struck Elizabeth

full in the face with a violence that rocked her to the floor. There was

ecstasy in Mary’s panting frenzy as she stood over her sister—the sudden

achievement of a long-delayed satisfaction.

“Do you
dare
to mock me to my face, you—you low-born strumpet?

Oh, yes—bring tears to your pretty eyes, you were always very good at

that as a child. Do you think I don’t remember all the times you deceived

me? But it’s too late now to try that trick on me again, too late, do you

hear? I shall bear a son to the Prince of Spain and the moment my child

is born I will see that you are shut away for the rest of your miserable life!

You tell me you would rather die than marry—go now and lie in your

chosen grave.”

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Somehow she got out of the Queen’s room and back to her own

where her terrified servants flocked round her, aghast at her colour.

“Madam, are you ill?”

Her gentleman usher, Cornwallis, was clinging to her hand and trying

to help her to a chair. She started to answer him, then stopped as the door

flew open and Bedingfield marched into the room.

“Out! Out all of you. It is Her Majesty’s command that Her Grace

should be left quite alone this night.”

Alone
!

They stared at him, their eyes wide with fear, for this could mean only

one thing and Elizabeth, too, now appeared to think it.

“Pray for me,” she sobbed suddenly, as Cornwallis bent over her, “for

tonight I think I am to die.”

Cornwallis blazed round upon Bedingfield.

“If the Princess Elizabeth is in danger of death, sir, I and my compan-

ions wish to die with her.”

“God forbid,” said Bedingfield with cool irony, “that any such wick-

edness should be intended.”

He indicated the door once more and one by one, weeping and kissing

her hand, they bowed and curtsied and trailed from the room until she

was alone, facing her gaoler.

“Goodnight, madam.” He bowed curtly and went out, locking the

door behind him.

Silence weighed in upon her and she lay on the bed, too exhausted to

undress. She was to be shut up for the rest of her life because she refused

to be shipped away from all hope of the Succession, because she refused

to give up her dream. But that dream was all that gave meaning to her life

and without it she might as well be dead. Suddenly she no longer cared

whether a dagger came to her in the still darkness behind the curtains; for

why should she fear the end of this wretched existence?

Neither hope nor terror remained to disturb her mind. She curled her

arms around the lumpy pillow and fell dead asleep.

t t t

Next morning, strange women were sent to attend her, Catholic ladies

from the Queen’s household who performed their duties in taciturn

silence. Breakfast was set before her, but she pushed it away without a

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second glance and then looked up in surprise to find the girl who had

served her still hovering at her side uncertainly.

“It will be a long journey—will Your Grace not take just a little of

the meat?”

Elizabeth shook her head slowly and glanced around the room; the

matrons had withdrawn and for the moment they were alone.

“What is your name?” she asked guardedly.

“Sands, madam.” The girl dropped a pert curtsey and returned her

smile cheerfully. “Elizabeth Sands.”

“Elizabeth?” The Princess laughed. “Not a very fortunate name. I’m

afraid it will bring you little favour at this court.”

“I have been appointed to serve Your Grace,” said the girl steadily.

“The only favour I shall seek now is from your hands alone. If there is

anything—anything at all—that I can do to ease Your Grace’s lot, you

have only to ask—”

Behind them the door opened to admit Sir Henry; Elizabeth Sands

curtsied formally and withdrew, leaving her new mistress curiously

elated. Bedingfield watched suspiciously as she left the room. He did not

care for Mistress Sands—she had a stubborn look and a frivolous manner

which irritated him. When he looked at her side by side with his prisoner,

he had the shrewd suspicion that it was more than a name they shared.

Well—he would watch the girl. And at the first sign of active partisanship

he would send her packing.

Aloud he said gruffly, “The litter is waiting in the courtyard, madam.

We leave at once.”

Elizabeth was vaguely amused by the litter that awaited her. It was

a shabby, broken-down vehicle which had plainly seen better days,

eminently suitable for the worst of travel-sick children; she wondered idly

whether the Queen’s litter had been refurbished yet. As the entourage

rolled out of the courtyard, she realised she was in for a very uncomfort-

able ride. There was a broken mechanism on the litter which caused a

constant jolting. Pure coincidence? Somehow she did not think so as the

miles stretched behind her and her head began to reel.

But the journey had compensations. Word of her coming had spread

in spite of all Bedingfield’s efforts at secrecy, and the people along their

way flocked out of their houses treasonably to cheer their imprisoned

princess and shower her with flowers and cakes, until the floor of the

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old litter overflowed with them and she cried out, laughing, for them

to stop.

But they did not stop. An almost magical transformation was turning

a journey of disgrace into a royal progress of triumph and there was

nothing Sir Henry could do to stop it. In vain he ordered them back in

the Queen’s name and heard their fearless hoots of derision. The boys

of Eton College flocked around her, cheering and waving their caps in

the air. At Aston they rang the church bells for her and Bedingfield had

the two culprits gaoled for it; but he could not imprison the inhabitants

of every village and hamlet through which they passed and his futility

mocked him.

“God save the Princess Elizabeth!” The cry reverberated through

Oxfordshire.

Inconstant, faithless and treasonable…given so much to change and infidelity,

the people left their hovels and their poverty to join the girl who already

reigned in their hearts, to tell her that in this dark moment of her life she

was not alone and friendless. She looked out on the cheering, loving crowd

and saw her life before her, the life that their love alone had preserved.

England was like a storm-tossed ship, rolling helplessly on the tides of fear

and unrest, a ship in desperate need of an anchor. She would be that anchor,

strong enough to hold this perilously bobbing vessel from the rocks.

She owed her life to England’s love and she saw that in return she must