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  “And do you also disdain your sister’s love, Edward?” I asked gently. Then, without waiting for an answer, I continued, gesturing down at his ruined feet, “Oh, Edward, what have they done to you?”

  “When the doctors failed to cure me with medicines and herbs, blistering and bleeding, Northumberland, in desperation to save my life, and to save England from you and your papist ways, sought the advice of others—quacks, charlatans, miracle workers, wise men and women, even witches in the service of Satan—all tempted by the promise of riches if they could effect a cure and sworn to secrecy on pain of a horrible and lingering death. And it was the opinion of one wise-woman Northumberland consulted that a pair of fish should be bound live, one each, to the soles of my feet, securely with twine lest they in their death throes thrash free, and as they rotted the pestilence and putrescence that afflicts my lungs would be drawn down through my limbs and out through the soles of my feet into the rotting carcasses of the fish as like attracts like, and then, when nothing but bones was left, I would be cured.”

  “But that is absurd!” I cried, horrified to learn that any quack who wished to was allowed to attempt to restore the King’s health.

  In a peeved, angry tone, Edward went on to tell me that he had also been made to eat thrice daily a broth made from a black cat thrown into a kettle and boiled alive and left constantly to stew and simmer. He had even been given minute doses of poison in the theory that it would murder the disease and save, rather than take, his life; unfortunately one of the effects of this had been the loss of all his hair and nails. And to cure the resulting gangrene, a blood-charmer had been brought in who had danced newborn-naked, with his skin painted like a heathen’s with strange symbols, round and round Edward’s bed, shrieking some shrill gibberish, and then bathed my brother’s ruined feet and hands with the urine of fair-haired virgins that had been collected at dawn on May Day morning and bottled and saved to treat conditions such as this. Another suggested drinking nightly before bed a large goblet of red wine with twenty or so crickets floating and drowning in it. Another put my poor brother on a strict diet of nothing but boiled carrot mush for each of his three daily meals to restore his strength and vigor augmented by a spoonful of honey in which a little brown mouse was preserved every hour upon the hour to cure his cough. Another tried to burn his fever out by packing his frail little body in slivers of boiled onions so densely that only his eyes, nose, and mouth were left uncovered. And when that failed, another quack insisted that a sure cure for consumption could be wrought by swallowing seven live baby frogs each morning before breakfast. One afternoon my brother even awoke from a drugged slumber to find a circle of smiling nude men and women wearing antlers and animal masks and garlands of wildflowers surrounding his bed holding hands and chanting. Before they departed, they propped Edward up in bed and gave him a sweet, soothing drink with a very pleasant taste and showered him with flowers and festooned his bed and chamber with wreaths and garlands until it looked a very garden and threw wide the windows to let the sunshine in. Another time, a more sinister naked coven cut the throat of a black cock at the stroke of midnight and drained it into a chalice which Northumberland, almost weeping and begging God to forgive them all, implored Edward to drink for England’s sake. And two of their members lay down naked beside Edward in his bed and copulated, explaining that to save his life they must make a new life which, out of their devotion to the King they would, when the time for its birth drew nigh, come to have birthed in this very chamber, in Edward’s bed beside him, just as it was conceived, so the moment it emerged from the mother’s womb Edward might lay his hands on the infant and let it absorb his illness so that he might recover and reign happy, prosperous, and long over England; for the King and the gold Northumberland was paying them, they were willing to make the sacrifice. And on the advice of yet another the Duke of Northumberland himself had tenderly taken up my brother’s weak, emaciated body in his own arms, as Edward was no longer able to walk, and carried him through a flock of sheep as they left their pen in the morning to go out to graze and laid him down to rest in their hay, still warm from their wooly bodies. And later that day, after he had slept, Edward was made to suckle the milk directly from a sheep’s teats as if he were indeed a little lamb. But all to no avail. My brother was clearly dying and the remedies they subjected him to were barely better than torture.

  As I sat and listened to this catalog of horrors, tears poured down my face.

  “Oh, Edward!” I shook my head and the lump in my throat prevented me from saying more.

  “So, Mary,” Edward said, “you have come to vex me further about that papist pother you cling to so tenaciously. My Council tells me that you refuse to obey and conform to my laws, and have, by your example, encouraged others to likewise ignore and flout my laws. By doing so you deny my sovereignty . . .”

  “Edward, no, I . . .”

  “Silence! I am King and I am speaking and you will listen!” Raising his voice brought on another bout of coughing and he grudgingly accepted another handkerchief from me, which, like the other, came away stained black and red. Trying to pretend nothing had happened, he went on speaking. “Your nearness to us in blood, your greatness in estate as a daughter and sister of kings, and the tumultuous and precarious conditions of our time, make your fault all the greater. And now I will say no more”—he shut his eyes and leaned back, looking all the more pale and weak—“because my duty would compel me to use much harsher words, which you deserve, but which I, out of love for you as my sister, will spare you, suffice it to say that I am king of this realm and I will see my laws obeyed and those who break them shall be punished if they do not mend their ways.”

  “But Edward, dear, it was the faith I was raised in, and I am too old and ill to change my ways!” I insisted.

  “Ill?” He arched his brows at me and with a movement of his eyes indicated the condition of his body, then glared hard at me.

  I shut my eyes at my ill-chosen words; indeed, compared to Edward I was in glowing health, even with my megrims, toothaches, and cramping monthly agony. I knew nothing I could say would erase them, so I pressed on. “Brother, you did agree not to take the Mass away from me!” I reminded him.

  “But only temporarily,” Edward insisted, “so that you might be weaned from your imbecility while you learned to embrace the Protestant faith.”

  “That I can never do! Brother”—I softened my tone and reached out for his hand, which he jerked away—“although Our Lord has blessed you with greater gifts and knowledge superior to others of your tender years, it is not possible that at your age you can be a judge in matters of religion. When you have attained riper and fuller years . . .”

  I gasped, realizing what I had just said, as Edward glared at me. Gulping hard and inwardly kicking myself for the insensitivity of my words, I rushed on. “In the last resort there are only two things that matter: the body and the soul. And my soul belongs to God, but I gladly offer my body to Your Majesty, better that you take my life than take away the religion I was brought up in and desire to live and die in.”

  “Go away, Mary. You weary me!” Edward sighed, making a shooing motion with his hand as he slumped back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “You may have your Mass if you must, provided you go about it quietly and without grandiose show and display. Later, when—if—” he hastily amended, “I am better and have attained riper and fuller years”—there was a cruel mockery in his voice as he repeated my poorly chosen words—“we will discuss this further, but for now, go and leave me in peace.”

  Softly I tiptoed back and bent over the bed and pressed a gentle kiss onto his feverish brow. “Thank you, brother dear,” I whispered. “Rest assured, you are in my thoughts and prayers; I shall pray every hour for your recovery. Please, give no credit to any person who might desire to make Your Grace think evil of me. I am, as I have always been and always will be, your humble, obedient, and unworthy, but always loving, sister.”

  “G
o away, Mary!” Edward groaned feebly.

  And then I left him to sleep, knowing that soon, no matter how hard or often I prayed, unless it pleased God to work a miracle, Edward would soon be sleeping eternally in his grave.

  The next morning, before I embarked on the return journey, I went to bid Edward farewell, but the Duke of Northumberland was there, barring the door against me with his own stocky determined body.

  “Madame, I fear you may not see the King. It would do him more harm than good. You make him sad and melancholy, for in your person he sees all his good work undone.”

  “No,” I challenged boldly, squaring my shoulders and meeting Northumberland’s cold, lying snake’s eyes, “he sees a strong woman who will not be cowed and ruled by greedy, soulless men like you, who do not fear the wrath of God because their greed for gold and earthly wealth and prominence blinds them to all else. No, in me he sees a woman who will, when she is queen, if God so ordains it, put all the wrongs right!”

  “Oh, Madame!” Northumberland said mockingly, widening his eyes and bending and shaking his knees in a parody of extreme fear, “My knees are already shaking with fear!”

  “And well they should!” I declared in all seriousness, and spun on my heel and strode briskly from the palace, slapping my riding crop sharply against my full black velvet and red satin skirts, a warrior queen-to-be in the service of God like my grandmother, the great Isabella, who had ousted the Moors from Spain, just as I would one day oust the heretical Protestants from England. That was my destiny!

  18

  Elizabeth

  “My Lady, you must come at once!” Kat’s frantic cries from the foot of the stairs brought me at a run. There was a messenger from the Lord Protector saying that Edward was mortally ill, dying, and I must come at once if I wished to see him before he departed this life.

  I ordered my horse saddled—my trunks could follow later by cart—and threw on my riding clothes. But then, inexplicably, just as my booted foot crossed the threshold to step out into the courtyard where my horse and the small retinue that would accompany me awaited, I felt as if a hand had reached out and forcefully yanked me back, adamantly shouting the word “No!” right into my ear.

  So strong was the feeling, I could not ignore it. I had always had an instinct for self-preservation and I knew that my very life might hang upon heeding that warning voice regardless of whether it came from my conscience or some other source.

  I gave a little cry and began to sway. I dropped my riding crop, and raised a hand to my brow as I staggered and slumped in the doorway before I let myself fall in a swoon cushioned by my skirts. My servants, led by a hysterically shrieking Kat, fidgeting and anxious to undo my stays so I could breathe unimpeded, rushed to bear me up, back upstairs, to my bed, and summon a physician.

  From my bed, where I complained loudly of pains in my head and stomach to such an extent I easily persuaded my physician to send word to London that I was too unwell to travel, I heard the news that my cousin, Lady Jane Grey, had been married to Northumberland’s youngest son, Guildford, that petulant, gilt-haired pretty boy who was his mother’s preening pet peacock.

  My poor little cousin had tried to resist the match, but had been beaten into submission by her parents, and forced to eschew her plain garb for a splendid wedding gown of gold and silver trimmed with pearls, diamonds, and gold lace, and walk sore-backed and stiff-legged to the altar where a vain golden bridegroom more in love with himself than he would ever be with her or anyone else awaited her. Curiously, neither Mary nor I had been invited to the wedding.

  That was enough to tell me that these were the ingredients of a new stew Northumberland was brewing. Better to stay here, safe in my bed, I reasoned, and contemplate the position of the pieces on the chessboard of the nation before I made my move.

  19

  Mary

  I was on my knees in my private chapel at Hunsdon, praying for my brother, when Susan and Jane burst in to tell me that a messenger had arrived from court. Edward was dying, and begged me to come to him; he didn’t want to die with harsh words hanging between us.

  Giving orders for horses to be saddled, and for a small retinue of four guards, a priest, and the more hardy Susan to accompany me, I raced up the stairs to don my riding clothes. As Jane helped me dress, while Susan went off to likewise prepare herself, I gave orders for her to follow with my trunks and a more suitable escort befitting my station. But right now I must travel light; speed was of the essence. Then down the stairs I ran, and out into the courtyard. Disdaining the proffered assistance of my groom, I sprang into the saddle astride—now was not the time to be ladylike—dug in my heels, plied my crop, and took off at a gallop, leaving the rest of my startled and amazed entourage to recover their wits and hasten after me.

  I was frantic to reach Edward in time so that he could die in peace. And perhaps, on the threshold of death, between Heaven and Hell, he would listen to me and embrace the true faith with his dying breath; for this reason I had asked one of my priests to accompany me. As I galloped through the night toward London, my deep crimson skirts flapping up and down like red wings with the motion of my mount, my limp, thin hair slipping from its pins beneath my feathered cap, I prayed in time to the rhythm of the hoofbeats. “Please don’t let it be too late, please don’t let it be too late . . .”

  Suddenly I spied a dark figure standing in the road ahead, faintly lit by a lantern held in his left hand, while he extended his right to me, palm emphatically outward, fingers stiff and pointing up straight to the sky, in a gesture that screamed the word halt!

  I reined in my mount so sharply to avoid colliding with him that I nearly went flying over my horse’s head. My heart began to race and pound and my mind teemed with lurid and frightening tales of highwaymen who waylaid travelers and divested them of all their valuables and sometimes left them lying dead or dying in pools of blood in the dusty road while they galloped off with their ill-gotten gains.

  As he came toward me, I saw he wore a dark hooded cloak and beneath it a scarf was wound so that it concealed the lower portions of his face, whilst the hood and a black mask hid the rest so there appeared to be only blackness where a face should have been.

  “Who are you?” I demanded in a commanding tone, drawing myself up straight in the saddle. “How dare you waylay me like this? Do you know who I am?”

  Silently, he came toward me and thrust a folded square of paper up at me. He wore no rings, I saw, so there was no signet ring bearing a family crest that I could identify him by, if he were indeed of a noble family as his commanding bearing seemed to suggest.

  Puzzled, I bent my head and, in the orange glow of the lantern he held for me, I unfolded the paper and read:

  The king is dead.

  Turn back NOW!

  You are riding into a trap.

  Northumberland lies in wait for you.

  His son Robert is leading an army to arrest you.

  Prepare to fight for your throne.

  Do NOT let them take you!

  God save Queen Mary!

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Is this . . . can this be true?”

  He nodded his head once, most emphatically, and I knew the words written on that paper did not lie.

  “Why do you not speak? Are you mute?” And then the truth suddenly dawned on me. “You don’t want me to recognize your voice!”

  He stood before me in the road again and lifted his arm and jabbed his finger in an adamant point back in the direction I had come, over and over again, the gesture urgently screaming “Go! Now!”

  “Thank you,” I said falteringly, as the enormity of the words written on that piece of paper sank in. Edward, my poor dear little brother, was already dead—he had died a heretic instead of in the true faith—and Northumberland and his hell-bound lackeys were already moving to keep me from the throne that was my right by birth. I must not let them do it! “Whoever you are, I thank you.” And, fighting to hold back my tears, I turned my moun
t around, dug in my heels, and galloped back the way I had come, with my bewildered and mystified entourage following after.

  Whoever the mysterious dark man who came out of the shadows to warn me was I never did discover.

  20

  Elizabeth

  Lying in the quiet of my bed, with the curtains drawn, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

  I had always known Edward would never make old bones. A recent attack of smallpox following hard on the heels of a virulent case of measles had fatally undermined his constitution, and a consumption of the lungs had set in. I heard he was worn to a shadow by a constant racking cough and often brought up blood.

  Northumberland clearly relished his role as the power behind the throne and was loathe to relinquish it as he surely must with Edward’s death.

  Mary was next in line to the throne, and as an ardent Catholic, would undermine the Protestant regime, reverse it out of existence in her vain attempt to turn back the clock to the happy days of her youth, and root out what she saw as heresy with all the zeal of a pig after truffles. She would never suffer Northumberland to continue in his current role or any other. He wanted to rule, not be ruled, and it would be folly to place him in any position of power. No, Northumberland would have to go first into the Tower and then up the thirteen steps of the scaffold. It would not be safe to let him live, even if sent into exile he would never stop plotting to regain power. And Northumberland knew that if I came to the throne instead of Mary he could not control me; no puppetmaster would pull my strings or put words into my mouth.

  But, if, by some means, both Mary and I were excluded from the succession, then the next logical heir would be Cousin Jane—fifteen, meek, weak and, most importantly to Northumberland and her power-hungry parents, malleable. Easily intimidated, devoutly Protestant Lady Jane Grey might be an intellectual power to be reckoned with when it came to scholarship, but when it came to her own life, was a spineless quivering heap of fear who had been intimately acquainted with cruel words and physical brutality from babyhood; she would not be able to fight those who would force her onto the throne and cram onto her head a crown I knew she did not want. She had recently been forced into wedlock with Northumberland’s youngest son.