The Virgin Elizabeth Read online

  Chelsea House was a lovely country castle fit for the queen that inhabited it. Situated on a gentle curve of the Thames, its red Tudor brick walls and turrets were topped with dozens of chimneys. Broad mullioned windows flooded every chamber with light, allowing a cheerful atmosphere even on the darkest winter day. On the north side was a glorious park and woodland, well stocked with red and fallow deer, and it was from this direction that Elizabeth now approached on horseback.

  Chelsea House was a large establishment, Catherine’s own servants numbering more than two hundred, besides the Princess’s personal household staff. But they were a happy, congenial lot, and more so in recent weeks with the exciting and mysterious comings and goings of the Queen Dowager’s lover.

  Riding through the outer courtyard gate, Elizabeth was first met by the armed yeomen’s appropriately reserved smiles and nods, then by cheerful hellos from the battalion of gardeners who stopped their hedge trimming to tip their caps to her. When she reached the stables the liverymen and stable hand who helped her down from her mount and came to lead the horse away were decidedly warm and solicitous, inquiring if Elizabeth would be riding later that day and, if so, which animal would be her preference. By the time she walked through the great carved doors of Chelsea House the greetings of the Queen Dowager’s ladies standing in a gossipy clutch near the entryway, and of the maids scurrying up the great staircase, were profuse and respectful in the extreme.

  “Good afternoon, Princess Elizabeth,” said Lady Tyrwhitt with a smile and curtsy.

  “I do hope you had a lovely ride,” Lady Milton said shyly She was the youngest of Catherine’s waiting women.

  “Very lovely, thank you,” replied Elizabeth, and started up the stairs.

  “I believe the Queen has been asking for you, Princess,” Lady Tyrwhitt called after her.

  As she climbed the broad stone steps of the sweeping stairway and gazed down at the grand entry and the gaily dressed waiting ladies, Elizabeth’s heart swelled and tears suddenly threatened. She was loved and respected in this royal household, once again “Princess Elizabeth.” Certainly she had been born to that title, and as an heir to the Tudor throne, fawned over and protected as a valuable asset to her father’s kingdom. But all that had changed with Anne Boleyn’s humiliating downfall and death. Not yet three, Elizabeth had been bastardized, her title revoked by Henry’s decree, and exiled into wretched poverty. Her household allowance had been so pitiful that she had, year after year, been forced to squeeze into gowns she’d long outgrown. Her few loyal servants were paid but sporadically. The story was widely told — though Elizabeth herself did not remember — that at the end of the day on which the disastrous change in her circumstances had occurred, she had questioned her keeper, saying, “How is it that this morning I was Princess Elizabeth and this evening merely Lady Elizabeth?”

  As she moved down the main corridor and made for her apartments in Chelsea’s south wing, she recalled how her condition and reputation had suffered further at the execution of her young cousin Catherine Howard, Henry’s fifth wife. Accused and convicted of adultery before and after her marriage to the King, Queen Catherine was widely compared to her kinswoman, “the goggle-eyed whore” Anne Boleyn. Afterwards all women of the Howard line, including the eight-year-old Elizabeth, were said to have wanton blood running through their veins. The reputation had persisted to make Elizabeth’s life an endless humiliation — until Henrys marriage to Catherine Parr. This kind and intelligent noblewoman, who’d borne no children of her own, knew more about mothering than most women who had. She’d lavished her affection on all of Henry’s brood, but of the three children, Elizabeth had benefited most specifically.

  Edward, Henry’s long hoped-for boy, had always been doted upon and was given the brilliant education expected for the heir to the English throne. Mary had suffered a miserable life after Katherine of Aragon’s downfall and, like Elizabeth, had been bastardized by Henry’s decree. But by the time of Catherine Parr’s coronation, Mary was already an adult, with Catholic retainers and foreign allies to support her place in the royal landscape.

  It was Elizabeth, of all the children, that lived in the most wretched of purgatories. Catherine Parr had swept the gangly redheaded nine-year-old from oblivion and infamy, restoring to her not simply her honor but the promise of a rich and dignified future.

  “Princess Elizabeth,” she whispered to herself with a smile as she was admitted into her lavish apartments. There, standing beside the Princess’s canopied bed, now spread from corner to corner with fine new gowns, was Elizabeth’s beloved Kat, nurse and waiting woman since her fourth year. Katherine Ashley had been a rock of salvation in the terrifying storm of Elizabeth’s life. She had been doting, fiercely protective, and audaciously outspoken in her disapproval — even to King Henry himself— of the cruel treatment to which her young charge was subjected. The woman had fallen in love with the sad-eyed, precocious little creature and, whilst treating her always with the respect due a princess, title or no, she never spoiled the child. Herself an educated woman, Kat never allowed Elizabeth with her quicksilver mind to run roughshod over her. Bad behavior was punished sternly, but good was rewarded with lush praise and many embraces. Too, there had always been an understanding between them, a directness and a sometimes painful honesty made necessary by the harshness and constant peril of Elizabeth’s circumstances. She could at any time, by the King’s whim and pleasure, be cast off, accused of treachery — even “disposed of” as, in the past, other inconvenient youngsters of royal blood had been.

  Even as a small child Elizabeth was taught by Mistress Ashley the politic behavior that might save her limb and life. She became adept at the abundant obeisances that must needs be shown her great father on the few occasions she’d been called into his presence. She would kneel three times before addressing him, proffer handmade gifts that spoke of her undying devotion to the greatest king in the world, and acquit herself admirably with her Greek and Latin and scripture if, at a moment’s notice, she was called upon to perform. Despite this, and to Kat Ashley’s undying chagrin, Elizabeth retained an untainted love for her father that no vile treatment or ignoring could sunder. She was ever proud to be Henry’s daughter, and delighted to be the only child of the three that bore a striking physical resemblance to him.

  “What are these?” Elizabeth demanded gaily, moving up behind Kat, wrapping her arms around the woman’s waist and peering over her shoulder at the dresses. At thirteen the Princess was nearly as tall as her nurse.

  “The Queen has made you a present,” replied Kat. “Or should I say a whole new wardrobe.”

  Elizabeth, gawking now, moved to the bed to examine the silks and brocades more carefully. Though they were all in the blacks and grays of mourning, they were nevertheless exquisite gowns in cut and design. “Surely she cannot mean for me to have them all? I’ll choose the one I like best.”

  “She means for you to have them all.” Kat now wore an indulgent smile. “Come, give me a kiss, young lady. You’ve been gone the whole morning and half the afternoon. Your tutor is becoming annoyed.”

  Elizabeth moved into Kat’s arms for a brief but warm embrace. Just then Thomas Parry, the Princess’s longtime servant and now her household accountant, strode into the room.

  “Good afternoon, Princess,” he greeted her cheerfully. “How was your ride? And how is young Dudley?”

  “Both were excellent,” she replied.

  “My good wife Blanche will have a word with you when you have a moment, Mistress Ashley. What’s this?” he cried when he saw the fine cloth bounty laid out on the bed.

  “The Queen Dowagers generosity, it would appear,” answered Kat.

  “Or perhaps a case of high and happy spirits overflowing to the members of her household,” he suggested with an obvious smirk.

  “What have you heard?” demanded Kat, her nose fairly twitching with desire for a tidbit of juicy gossip.

  Elizabeth pretended to examine the charcoal
beaded gown but listened with the greatest of interest.

  “So the newlywed has a hankering for more dirty linen than in her own bedchamber?” Thomas teased. Indeed, Kat had recently married John Ashley, though there had been some rumor that she’d had a previous lover torn from her in order to satisfy her parents’ wishes.

  “Just tell me, Thomas Parry. What are they saying in the kitchen?”

  “Yesterday the Lord High Admiral came to Queen Catherine again just before dawn. They remained secreted in her private apartments all through the day, and he left after dark.”

  “Ooooh, the wicked widow,” crowed Kat devilishly.

  “Come now, Mistress Ashley, be kind.” Parry continued in a jesting vein, though it was suffused through and through with simple truths. “The woman deserves a love match, married as she was three times for duty’s sake.” Thomas flushed suddenly in Elizabeth’s presence, remembering that one of Catherine’s “duties” was the Princess’s own father.

  “You needn’t blush, Thomas,” Elizabeth said, giving up her pretense of studying the gowns. “If the Queen loves Thomas Seymour and he loves her the same, then I am happy for them both. I daresay my brother the King will feel the same. He adores Catherine and wishes her well. And he loves his uncle, too.”

  “ ‘Tis the other uncle worries me, he that rules the King.”

  Kat shot Parry a threatening look, one not lost on Elizabeth.

  “It’s all right, Kat. I know the Duke of Somerset holds sway over Edward,” said Elizabeth with all the worldly wisdom she could muster. She was mightily grateful for Robin Dudley’s timely intelligence. “He changed Father’s will and wrested control from the sixteen Councillors he’d chosen for the regency.”

  Kat’s and Parry’s eyes went wide as saucers to hear the girl talking. For want of a decent interval between the old kings death and a lesson in the current politics of treachery, Kat had not yet apprised Elizabeth of the dukes handling of young Edward.

  “Despite the fact that Somerset takes no heed of the King’s wishes,” Elizabeth went on, “I still believe my brother will prevail in this matter. Hell let Catherine and Seymour marry if they ask. The one I would watch carefully is that conniving old cow married to the duke.”

  “Elizabeth!” cried Kat in dismay.

  Parry was trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter.

  “It’s that young Dudley puts these foul oaths in the child’s mouth,” insisted Kat.

  “At least he keeps this child’ informed, Katherine Ashley,” replied Elizabeth tartly.

  “Aren’t you the rude little snippet!” Kat was outraged.

  “I’ll be going now, ladies,” said Parry, edging out of the fray. “Don’t forget to have a word with Blanche, Mistress Ashley.” He closed the door behind him, leaving the Princess and her nurse squared off and steaming, neither of them prepared to give an inch and both prepared for warfare. A moment later the door opened again, only wide enough for Thomas Parry’s head to poke through it.

  “Saved from the wrath of God, Lady Princess.” He winked. “The Queen Dowager wishes a word with you. Pronto.”

  Elizabeth smiled sweetly, gave Kat’s flushed cheek a quick peck, and escaped before her nurse could fathom that she had once again been beaten at her favorite game.

  “Your Majesty.” Elizabeth curtsied gracefully before the Queen Dowager and allowed herself to be embraced. Catherine Parr, thought Elizabeth, looked more radiant than she ever had. A mature woman at thirty-three, this day she had the air of a maid — eyes bright, un-rouged cheeks a natural glowing pink, lips relaxed into a graceful smile.

  “Good afternoon, Princess Elizabeth,” said William Grindal, who stepped forward now. Her tutor and the Queen, it appeared, had been chatting on two stools set before a brazier in Catherine’s study.

  “I hope you’ve not be waiting for me in the schoolroom, Master Grindal,” said Elizabeth, mildly alarmed.

  “No, no. I received your message that we’d not begin our work until three.”

  “Grindal has been visiting with me, Elizabeth. We’ve been discussing your studies.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Elizabeth, pleased with this news. It was a wonder, she thought, that the Queen, preoccupied as she was with her love affair and her household, should still have time to worry about Elizabeth’s education.

  “Come, sit,” instructed the Queen as Grindal pulled up another stool. They all sat, the women taking a longer moment to rearrange their skirts. Even without the rigid stays beneath her bodice, Elizabeth’s tall slender body would have remained, after the long years of posture and deportment training, perfectly erect in the backless seat. Lately, though, she had had to overcome shyness in the presence of men, even her beloved Grindal, for her small breasts had begun to bud.

  “We were arguing the merits of enlarging your study of mathematics,” began the Queen. “Your Greek and Latin, logic, and other languages are of course superb, but the former, so says your tutor, is somewhat lacking.”

  “I admit I do not much love numbers,” offered Elizabeth earnestly. “Shall I increase the mathematics, then?”

  “Not necessarily,” Grindal replied. “A debate now rages in Cambridge about the merits of teaching that science within the boundaries of a humanist education. One Roger Ascham, a don there and a brilliant fellow, claims that studied too rigorously, mathematics thwarts the soul.”

  “Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis, “said the Princess.

  Grindal and Catherine laughed delightedly. They were both mightily proud of Elizabeth’s shining intellect.

  “True, very true, Princess,” Grindal agreed. “And so do you believe that ‘in these changing times’ mathematics will prove an important course of study?”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, I do think so,” she replied.

  “Interesting,” said Catherine. “With this argument against mathematics, things have come full circle.”

  “How so, Your Majesty?” asked Grindal.

  “I was thinking of my grandmother Fitzhugh, and your father’s grandmother Margaret Beaufort,’ she said, looking at Elizabeth. “The two were friends around the turning of the century. And the New Learning had not yet taken hold. Highborn girls were promised no education save elementary law and arithmetic, enough to manage their husbands’ estates whilst they were off fighting foreign wars for months, even years at a time. But their mothers sensed a change coming and a need for their daughters to know more. Happily for us, all the tutors whom they imported for the girls were teaching humanism.”

  “Many of those mothers quietly sat in on their daughters’ lessons,” interjected Grindal.

  “Indeed,” agreed Catherine. “This was the first generation of educated women. King Henry’s grandmother Beaufort was both well positioned and a passionate champion of education for girls as well as boys. The school she and my grandmother, and later my mother, fought to establish at court fostered not only your father and your friend Robin Dudley’s father, but your aunts, your sister Mary, and myself. Your mother too, for your grandmother Elizabeth Boleyn was part of that inner circle of women who loved learning.”

  The unexpected mention of her mother made Elizabeth flush with sudden shame, but Catherine went on.

  “They struggled, learning to fight men with the greatest weapon on earth — their intellect — and they finally won the right for gentlewomen to receive the same classical education as boys. Greek, Latin, the sciences. Mathematics. And here we sit today debating the merits of teaching it at all.”

  “Full circle indeed,” said Grindal, smiling with enjoyment at the Queen’s remembrances.

  “Will you come and continue our conversation in a fortnight, Master Grindal?” inquired Catherine pleasantly.

  “My pleasure and my honor, Your Majesty,” he said, standing to take his leave. He bowed to both ladies and made for the door.

  “Elizabeth will be up presently,” called the Queen after him. “I’ll just have a few more words with he
r.”

  The door shut behind him. Queen Dowager and Princess found themselves alone and comfortable in the quiet of each others presence. Elizabeth warmed her hands at the brazier as the late afternoon chill crept into the room. Watching Catherine’s face — one some considered attractive, others prim — it occurred to Elizabeth that her stepmother was not merely enjoying her company in the quiet. She was actively collecting her thoughts. Elizabeth began to grow impatient, wishing to know those thoughts, though of course it would have been impertinent to do anything but wait. Finally Catherine spoke.

  “There is more to your education,” she began, “than what Master Grindal and your chaplain and your music and dance instructors can teach you. Of course you know this.” She looked to Elizabeth for affirmation, but saw instead a face filled with confusion. Catherine continued. “One of my greatest teachers, Elizabeth, was your mother.” She paused, knowing the upwelling of emotion this would produce in the girl. In fact, Elizabeth was well and truly speechless, her lips tightening into a thin, straight line.

  “Anne Boleyn possessed one of the most brilliant minds of her day. Many dismiss her intellect and her contribution because of her … infamous end. I never knew her personally, but my sister Anne Parr waited on her when she was queen, and her friend and chaplain Archbishop Cranmer served and befriended me when I was married to your father. They both had nothing but the highest regard for Queen Anne. As a girl, just your age, I watched her closely but from afar. You see, I’d lived my whole life with my mother and sisters in Henry’s court and inner circle. Your half sister, Princess Mary, was my dear friend. I observed Anne’s unparalleled rise to power and her equally rapid fall from grace. I learned many of the rules of queenship from Anne Boleyn, some by good example, many more by her mistakes.”