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  She began her campaign of correction with me. For I, in my virgin-white gowns and elegant, discreet pearl embellishments, was the beacon of hope the Protestants turned to. I was the living spirit of Tolerance who believed there was but one Jesus Christ and Ten Commandments and the rest was just disputes about trifles. I believed that all people should be left in peace to worship their Heavenly Father as they pleased as long as they showed proper respect and reverence to their earthly sovereign. I represented freedom to follow one’s own conscience, I believed God heard us whenever we spoke to Him, whether it be in Latin, English or even Turkish, and the people loved me for it.

  She began first with my clothes. She had ordered herself a magnificent new wardrobe, one befitting of a queen, all ornate and overembellished, encrusted with embroidery, pearls, precious gems, with gilded fringe or braid borders, in sumptuous shades of rich reds, regal purples, stately dignified blacks, somber dark, or muted oranges and greens, and the glitter of silver and gold, and she wanted to do the same for me.

  “It is unseemly that the sister of the Queen should appear so devoid of ornamentation,” she said. “People will talk.”

  She sent for me to come to her when she was in her petticoats and stays surrounded by seamstresses and dressmakers and bade her attendants strip me down to the same state. She then began to drape me in swathes of fabric in shades of amber, garnet, orange, russet, tawny, purple, green, deep crimson, sapphire, and cinnamon as she chattered on about embroideries and trimmings.

  I felt like a doll; as if she were playing dress-up with me as she used to do when I was a little girl. I remember she used to save pretty scraps of fabric and snippets of lace and gilt braid, and stray gems and beads, to make dresses for my dolls. Mary had such a passion for clothes; had she not been born a princess I am sure she would have excelled at the dressmaker’s craft and been famed throughout Europe for her creations. She was more interested in my dolls than I ever was. In truth, I felt a little awkward and embarrassed for her, this woman who seemed so old to a child’s eyes, playing with dolls, spending hours dressing and undressing them, making them walk and talk and devising little dramas for them to act out and trying to cajole serious little me to join in while I sat watching her with a stormy face and my arms folded across my chest. She would spend hours fastidiously designing and sewing exquisite little dresses for them, with all the proper accoutrements and accessories, even fashioning stays out of buckram and cord. I remember how crestfallen she was the day I petulantly informed her that I was too old to play with dolls.

  Now here we were, playing dress-up again, only I was a real living and breathing person, a grown woman nearing twenty, not a child, and most certainly not a doll. But Mary was Queen of England, and to oppose or disappoint her was to dance and dice with danger.

  I wanted the people to know that no matter what I wore on my body, and even if I were compelled to kneel beside my sister in the royal chapel as the Host was elevated, that I was true to myself and them, so I ordered the goldsmith to fashion a little book with golden covers that I might wear hanging from a cord or chain about my waist, and inside it, upon the ivory pages, I inscribed my brother’s deathbed prayer, and let it be known that I wore it on my person always.

  Lord God, deliver me out of this miserable and wretched life, and take me amongst Thy chosen; howbeit, not my will but Thy will be done. Lord, I commit my spirit to Thee. O, Lord, Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be with Thee; yet, for Thy chosen’s sake, send me life and health, that I may truly serve Thee. O, My Lord God, defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true religion, that I and my people may praise Thy Holy Name, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen.

  Though it was rather strongly worded and placed one faith above the other rather than embodying the tolerance that was my personal creed, still I wore it to convey a silent message. Thus, even on those occasions when gold-embroidered butterflies swarmed across my bodice or bands of ermine snaked up the front of my gown and over my shoulders and down my back, the people would see that little gold book swinging from a chain or cord against my skirts, bouncing and flashing with every step I took, and know where my loyalties truly lay, and that the spirit of Tolerance would remain alive and well in England as long as Elizabeth Tudor drew breath.

  After my wardrobe, it was my soul’s turn. Mary summoned me to her private apartments again. Squinting her shortsighted eyes at me, she set aside her sewing, the beautiful Spanish black-work embroidery she had learned from her mother, and bade me sit beside her.

  She began with gentle persuasions and the gift of an ivory rosary to try to coax me to attend Mass. Nothing could make her happier, she declared, than to have her dear sister kneeling beside her there as the priest held the Host aloft.

  I played for time. I asked for instruction, for learned men and books to teach me and guide me, and then . . . if my conscience were so moved . . . then I might embrace it. I could promise only to do as my conscience dictated.

  “I was brought up another way,” I explained. “I do not believe.”

  “But attend Mass with me and the belief will come!” Mary cried, clasping my hands so hard it hurt. “Just come, sit beside me, open your mind and heart, and God will fill it with belief!”

  “I want to believe,” I assured her.

  In the end, for my own safety, I felt I must concede a little or else lose all. But I let the people see that I went unwillingly, as a move meant only to mollify Mary. In a white gown—saving the new finery Mary had gifted me with for court occasions—with Edward’s deathbed prayer dangling from my waist, I began to accompany Mary to Mass. Sometimes I feigned illness, complaining loudly of pains in my stomach or the violent pangs of a megrim assailing my poor head as I went unwillingly into chapel. Sometimes I even fell faint in the corridor so that I must be picked up, revived, and carried back to my rooms. Sometimes, when I did attend, I had to leave hurriedly before the Elevation of the Host, rushing out with my hand clapped over my mouth, else I disgrace myself, and my sister, the Queen, by being sick right there in the chapel.

  Mary grew even colder toward me. When she looked at me there was the glint of suspicion in her eyes and an icy chill in her rare embrace. She was alert and vigilant, watching and waiting for me to make a grave mistake, like a serpent watching and waiting to corner and strike down its prey. And I knew in both my head and heart, though it hurt so much to acknowledge it, that my sister was now my enemy.

  Religion, that eternal bone of contention, had pitted sister against sister, and made us rivals, and only one of us could emerge the victor. And therein Mary made a fatal mistake that would cost her dear; Catholicism was her religion, and she would fight for it to her last breath even if it cost her everything, whereas I, whilst I called myself a Protestant, my true religion was England and its people.

  23

  Mary

  I was seven years past thirty, no longer a girl in the first radiant glow of youth with pink roses in her cheeks and the whole of life before her. I was far past the age when most women are many years married and mothers many times over. Had I been a private gentlewoman, I would have reconciled myself to the spinster’s lot, but as Queen of England I owed my people an heir. I knew I could not trust Elizabeth to uphold the true faith and fight to stave off the infectious plague of heresy. No, it was far more likely that she would welcome and embrace it. No, to safeguard the soul of England, I needed a child born of my own body, who would be loyal to me as both mother and queen, and, for that, I needed a husband.

  Some thought I should marry Edward Courtenay, that my Tudor blood and his Plantagenet would breed a fine race of English kings, but I could not suffer the thought of that fool in my bed. I needed a real man, a strong and commanding virile presence, someone I could turn to, lean on, and rely on. I needed a man who was born to hold the reins of power in his hands; a man who was born to be a king among men.

  Then one day, as my Council hotly debated the matrimonial issue, and I sprang from my c
hair at the head of the table and fled from them in embarrassment, my cheeks burning at the thought of all these men sitting around discussing who should share my bed and my chances of successfully conceiving at my age, with my own doctors at hand to answer their questions, the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Renard, sought me out. He said he had something to cheer me. He had brought me a present from his master, my cousin, the Emperor. It was a portrait painted by the master artist Titian.

  As I stood, rapt with curiosity before the canvas, tantalizingly veiled in blue velvet, Ambassador Renard delivered a most flattering message from my imperial cousin.

  “Your Majesty, my imperial master bade me tell you this: Since age and infirmity now render him ill-equipped and rob him of the pleasure of becoming himself your bridegroom, a chance he lost once before, and deeply regrets to this day, he offers you the finest and a far superior substitute—his son, Prince Philip of Spain.”

  With those words, Renard ripped away the blue velvet and there before me, staring out at me from inside the gilded frame, was the handsomest young man I had ever seen.

  His hair and short, pointed little beard were like burnished gold silk, his eyes were the blue of a placid ocean, and his mouth wore the tiniest little smile that seemed to me so sensual and inviting that I was startled by the realization that I wanted to kiss it. Beneath my velvet skirts, I felt my knees tremble and go so weak that I had to grope behind me for a chair and sank down into it with my hand going up to clasp my pounding, racing heart. I could not take my eyes off him. He was so beautiful! He stood turned slightly to the side, not fully facing me, which put him half in shadows, and gave him an air of mystery, his slender form encased in rich midnight blue velvet trimmed with pearls and delicate but fine silver and gold beading and embroidery. He was the sun and the moon all at once, and I knew then that he would be the whole world to me.

  My face burned with a red-hot blush as I felt the most exquisite little tingling, the like of which I had never felt before, between my legs, accompanied by a sudden burst of warm wetness. This, I rather poetically fancied, was what a rose must feel like before it first unfurled its petals in full bloom to the morning dew.

  “I . . . I . . .” I tried to speak but my heart was pounding so that it proved most distracting; it was as if I could hear it echoing in my ears. I swallowed hard and tried again. “I thank the Emperor for suggesting a greater match than I deserve, but . . . is he not . . . rather . . . young?”

  “Madame, a man of twenty-six can hardly be considered young!” Renard protested. “I would instead call him a middle-aged man, for he is settled and stable in his ways, and nowadays a man nearing thirty is considered as old as men formerly were at forty, and few men survive to more than fifty or sixty.”

  “But a man of twenty-six is likely to be disposed to be amorous,” I persisted, “and, at my age, such is not my inclination. I have never felt that which is called love,” I confided, “nor have I harbored amorous thoughts. I never even thought of marriage until God was pleased to raise me to the throne, and as a private individual I would not desire it,” I continued, whilst inwardly chastising myself for this untruth, for denying my lifelong dream of marriage and motherhood. “I must, therefore, look to the Emperor for guidance, and leave all in his hands, as if he were my father, and indeed I have long been accustomed to think of him and honor and respect him as such.”

  “Madame”—Renard came and knelt beside my chair—“the Emperor regards you with the same affection as he would a daughter and indeed, if you were his very own daughter he could not hope to discover a better match for you. Prince Philip is unparalleled! He is so admirable, so virtuous, so prudent, so wise beyond his years, and modest in his person and demeanor as to appear too good to be true and too wonderful to be human. Many have gone so far as to call him divine. Far from being young and amorous, I assure you, His Highness is a prince of stable and settled character who deplores lasciviousness and licentiousness in others. And if you accept his proposal, the burden will be lifted from your shoulders; you will be relieved of the pains and travails which are meant to be a man’s work and not the profession of ladies. And His Highness is a puissant prince to whom this kingdom could turn for protection and succor against your enemies.”

  “I . . .” My head began to swim and I closed my eyes and clasped my hands tight around it. “This is all so sudden! Señor Renard, please, I need time! I must think! I must pray and reflect on all that you have told me.”

  “Of course, Madame,” he said kindly, standing, and sweeping me a low bow. “I understand; forgive me, it was not my intention to overwhelm you. With your permission, I shall withdraw.”

  I nodded absently and waved him out, but as he neared the door I called out to him to wait and rushed and took his hand in mine and stared intently into his dark eyes.

  “Tell me truthfully,” I implored, “is Prince Philip really as you say?”

  “Madame, in truth, he is even better! I confess to you now that I have been minimizing his qualities so that he would not sound too good to be true. I assure you, His Highness is the most virtuous prince in this world, and such that one would be tempted to pinch him to make sure he was not a dream, and then to pinch oneself to make sure one was not dreaming to be in the presence of such a man.”

  “So you are not speaking out of duty, or fear, or affection for the Prince or my imperial cousin the Emperor?” I pressed again for reassurance.

  “Your Majesty, I beg you to take my honor and my life as hostages for the honesty of my words!” Renard exclaimed.

  I wanted to believe him, I wanted it all to be true, and yet . . . whether it was something in me, or something about the Prince, still I hesitated.

  “Would it be possible,” I timidly inquired, fearing to give offense by my request and shatter all hope of dragging this dream into reality, “for the Prince to visit me first, before I accept his proposal?”

  Renard shook his head. “I fear not, Madame, but I am certain that as soon as his proposal is accepted he will come to you on the fastest ship. Having heard so much about you and your great and many virtues—I tell you this confidentially—the Prince is already quite smitten.”

  “Really?” I gasped, clutching my chest as my heart fluttered so I thought it had sprouted wings and was about to fly up my throat and out my mouth. Prince Philip smitten, with me? Praise God, it was too good to be true!

  Renard nodded, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “In strictest confidence, Your Majesty—yes, he is indeed quite smitten, and not an hour passes that he does not think of you, nor a night in which he does not dream of having you beside him as his bride. I cannot count the number of times he looks upon your portrait each day. If I may be so bold . . .” He hesitated until I nodded eagerly for him to continue. “Your concern about the difference in age is utterly unnecessary. His Highness relishes the thought of a mature bride, an intelligent woman of dignified and regal bearing and strong faith. He has no liking for the idea of sharing his life with a silly green girl who giggles and blushes and simpers and thinks of nothing but dancing and new clothes.”

  Blushing, I turned away. “Thank you, Señor Renard. That will be all. Leave me, please; you have given me much to think on. And I must pray; I must ask God for guidance.”

  “I understand, Madame,” he said gently. “And I too shall pray, as I know His Highness does every day, that this happy union shall come to pass, for it is like a match made in Heaven under the smiling gazes of God and His angels.”

  “I hope, but yet . . . I dare not!” I breathlessly confided.

  “Hope, Madame, hope!” he urged as he drew the door shut behind him.

  I shut myself away from the prying eyes of the court, and had Susan give out that I was ill, and for two days and nights, I fasted and prayed. Forsaking slumber, I paced my rooms like an animal caged and restless. I scrutinized the face in the portrait, and knelt at my altar. I occupied every moment with deep, intense thought and fervent prayer. And then, my decisio
n made, on Sunday evening I sent Susan to bring Ambassador Renard to my private chapel.

  He found me kneeling before the candlelit altar.

  “I have not slept for the past two days,” I confided, solemn and weary, as I held out my hand to him with a nod that conveyed he should kneel down beside me. “I have spent every moment in thought and prayer, asking God, as my protector, guide, and counselor, to help me make the right decision regarding this marriage. And He, who has shown me so many miracles and favors, has shown me the way and performed yet one more miracle on my behalf.” My Bible lay open upon the altar and I laid my hand upon it. “He has inspired me, now, before you, to make this unbreakable vow. My mind is made up and I can never change it; I will marry Prince Philip and love him perfectly and never give him cause for jealousy.”

  “Oh, Madame!” Renard kissed my hand in a most passionate, heartfelt manner. “I am so happy! May I say on behalf of His Highness the words that I know will be in his heart and on his lips the moment he hears of your decision? You have made him the happiest man in the world!”

  “And I,” I said fervently, as tears rolled down my face, “knowing that he wants me, am the happiest woman in the world! I never thought that I would feel that which is called love, but now . . . God has blessed me with another miracle! He has opened my heart! And for the first time in my life, I am in love! I am to be a wife, and God willing, a mother! And now”—I turned my smiling face, in joyous expectation, to Renard—“there is nothing to stop His Highness from coming to me on the fastest ship!”

  Ambassador Renard frowned and lowered his eyes.

  “What?” I gasped and reached out to grasp his hand. “Is something wrong? Tell me!”

  “There is one thing, Your Majesty—the Protestant usurper, the Lady Jane Grey. There is great unrest in the land, and I fear those who will, out of fear and ignorance, oppose this marriage, might rise up and try to restore the Lady Jane to the throne.”