The Lonely Queen/A Game of Bowls



N the glossy lawn above the river Elizabeth stood with her fine hand shading her eyes, a woman rich in strength and grace, all eager for life. The sunshine made the clear pallor of her face very white, and the bronze mass of her hair sparkled and glowed. Her face was vivid enough, too, and fierce, but for all the passionate power of her, when she moved she was something slow and studied, and her eyes were seen dull and dark to tell nothing.

She was playing at bowls with Mr. Parry and Mrs. Ashley and some ladies and gentlemen of her household, and she was much too slow to please them. The bowls lay clustered close about the jack. The game was even. Elizabeth loved to come last, and on her they waited. She moved to this side and that, scanning the green, hesitating subtly which way she would aim, and how. The young ladies began to smile contempt as they looked at each other, and Mrs. Ashley cried out: “Marry, madam, caution is never a winner.”

Elizabeth made no answer. Still she dandled her bowl, feeling its weight and bias, and looked, and planned.

They whispered and murmured about her, and Mr. Parry said: “Nay, madam, if you think so much you will think your chance away.”

Still she hesitated, and hesitating did not for a moment see a serving man bow, and bow before her. She stared at him.

“The Lord Robert Dudley craves audience of your ladyship.”

“Anon, sirrah.” She waved him away and turned to the game, and in a hurry sped her bowl. It ran far before the others to a worthless place. The ladies and gentlemen had some ado to conceal their smiles. She turned upon a gaudy lad: “Mr. Champernowne, you'll pay my wagers. Parry, go before us.” She went off with a slow, majestic gait.

Mr. Champernowne pulled out his purse. “Here's a caution that will be no loser neither,” he said ruefully.

Elizabeth was twenty, and at last in comfort. Gentlemen of an ability to see beyond their noses had discovered that a few years might make her a person of importance, perhaps the invaluable figurehead of a party, perhaps even a queen. So she found zealous friends who thought it worth their while to wrench from the greedy lords of the council a decent provision for her royalty, and furnished her from their own kinsfolk with a household of the gently born.

The times were turbulent and changeable as an English May. Edward, the feeble pedant of a child who was called King, had passed from the grip of one master to another, and his name had been warrant for a medley of knavish blunders. The Lord Protector, the boy's uncle, who, but for an unreasonable pride in himself and a desire to make the world anew to his own taste, was something of an honest man, and not altogether a fool, had been caught in a web of intrigue by his obsequious friend Lisle, and sent to the block. Lisle, who was altogether knave and sometimes a fool as well, had himself made Duke of Northumberland, and did what he would with King and kingdom. The kingdom fell into an agony of penury and discontent, and the King was sick to death.

If the King died, the crown belonged to his elder sister, Mary, whom some desired and some feared as the foe of the Reformation, whom men with memories doubted as the friend of the empire of Spain. Whether the King died or lived, England was not like to be rid of Northumberland easily. So the men of experience and memories who had no taste for any more Reformation, but saw the worst evil in undoing what the Reformation had done, bethought them of Elizabeth.

With Mr. Parry before her, and Mrs. Ashley and two women more behind, Elizabeth climbed the terraces of the garden, and at last the stone stair that made a way to the Upper Court, the great quadrangle, half stone in an Italianate style, half English red walls and gables. If Lord Robert Dudley were looking from the window of the ante-room, he had chance enough to see how fine a woman she was grown, and what art there was in her walk. Perhaps it was to delight his eyes, perhaps to show him that she did not mind making him wait, that she loitered and lingered on her way; and, again, for some reason or the other, she spent some time changing her dress and tiring her well attired hair.

Lord Robert Dudley was the son of Northumberland, had a fair portion of his father's ambition and something of his father's ability for intrigue, but lacked his father's smooth control of temper. By the time that Elizabeth's groom of the chambers was allowed to bid him to her presence, he was fuming to and fro, as angry a man as a cool mind could desire to do business with.

She was splendid in vivid green brocaded with silver, a sparkle of little diamonds on her ruff and in her glowing hair, but she sat with eyes cast down, a shy and modest maid, so that his magnificence (he was a tall fellow in crimson and gold, thin, but with good legs) and his haughty bow were lost upon her. He saw it, and was the more angry.

“Madam!” he cried, “it seems your great affairs leave you no leisure for my poor presence. Yet”

“Oh, my lord, you wrong yourself.” Her voice was silvery. “All the world must be at leisure for you.”

“I must command your ear!”

She looked up with an innocent smile. “To maids all men talk like kings.”

“I am not here to jest, madam. Prithee, let us be alone.”

“Oh, fie, my lord. In truth, you are too pretty a man for a modest maid to be private with you.”

He hesitated. His own vanity and other women had well assured him that he was a pretty man. She could not but be smitten. He smiled upon her. “I am no man, madam, but an ambassador. I come upon high affairs, which must be for your private ear.”

She shuddered delicately. “I hate your high affairs,” she cried. “You frighten me. Leave us, Parry—and you—” she signed to the waiting women, and was left with Ashley alone beside her chair. “My good Kate is in all my secrets, my lord.”

“Doubtless, madam, but not in mine. This is for you alone.”

“Oh, my lord, now I fear you mean to undo me!” she murmured.



Dudley smiled down at her coy tremors. “I am absolute, madam.”

“Go, Ashley!” she cried in a flutter. “Go! But wait close without.”

Mrs. Ashley departed with reluctant feet. You see Elizabeth smiling and shrinking before the magnificent man in the right fashion of a frightened, amorous girl. If there was something too much of strength in her form and face for the performance to be perfect, the gentleman's perceptions were not delicate. He curled his tiny moustachios and laughed in the conceit of manly condescension. “I profess, madam, you have nothing to fear from me. By my heart, I wish that you had.”

“Oh, my lord!” she fluttered.

“Nay, madam, I have to speak for the King, not myself. It is known to you with what fond love he cherishes your welfare.”

She lay back in her chair and sighed sweet affection. “In truth, I have many evidences,” she murmured, knowing well that any power the boy King had was used to grudge her money and consequence.

“His Majesty is now most concerned to protect you from the perils which might encompass you if aught untimely should befall him.”

“Ah, God forbid, my lord!” she cried eagerly. But her keen brain was already piercing to the truth of Dudley's errand. If the boy King were to die childless her father's will ordered that the crown should fall to Mary, and after Mary to herself. Was the King like to die at once? Were Northumberland and his kin already at work to play such tricks with the succession as should keep themselves in power? “I pray God my good lord the King is yet very far from death,” she said solemnly.

“Madam, so do we all. Yet such is his Majesty's sage forethought—indeed, he is of wisdom altogether beyond his years—that already he makes provision for the good governance of the kingdom when he shall be no more. 'I would not,' he says, and I give you his own gracious words, 'I would not that my sweet sister Temperance,' thus fairly is he wont to name you, knowing your maiden moderation in all things, 'I would not that she were troubled with the torturing cares of a realm in turmoil.' He is graciously minded to make a device which shall assure a firm and stable rule for the general good, for the which he desires your goodwill and thanks.”

Her face spoke out innocent wonder, but her mind was sure now of the truth. There was to be a device planned by Northumberland in the King's name which would bar Mary and herself from the throne, to keep it for some puppet of Northumberland's She was afire with angry malice, but she spoke meekly as a little child. “Nay, my lord, but you go beyond my poor wits. How may I thank the King for a device when I know not what it is?”

Dudley frowned. “Why, madam, would you set yourself against his Majesty's will?”

“Ah, you are cruel!” she cried. “I am his most faithful loyal subject. Prithee, my lord, let me come to his feet and tell him so.”

“It needs not,” said Dudley coldly. “I am commanded to bear his Majesty your dutiful goodwill.”

“Why, how now, my lord?” sharply she changed her tone. “Is it for you to deny me my brother's presence? Methinks you serve him ill. And if you would hold me from speech of him you make me doubt whether you speak his mind.”

“You impugn my honour, madam,” Dudley cried.

“Oh, no, no, no! Only your discretion, my lord.” She smiled, and he stood frowning down at her while she smiled still. She was a frightened girl no more, but a woman sure of her wit and her beauty's power. “Good, my lord, I ask but to know what is this new device, and to be heard upon it. Haply when it was made my part in it was misjudged.”

“What should that mean, madam?”

“Nay, how can I tell, who know not the device?” Dudley made an exclamation of anger. “Nay, my lord, be not so hasty. I would be your friend, if you will suffer me. And methinks we might be” She ended in a laugh.

“What, madam?”

“Ay, what, my lord? Not foes, at least—I and you and your kin. Think on it, my lord.”

He waited a moment. “I know not what you think, madam,” he said slowly, staring at her.

She lay back in her chair to show him the rich strength of her form. “I think, my lord,” she laughed, “I think it were well to bring me to the palace to hear more of this device.”

“You seek the King still, madam?”

“Why, is not the device the King's?” she said softly.

A moment more he stared at her. “Suffer me to be your escort, madam.”

“I could find none manlier.” She smiled and clapped her hands, and brought the women in.

She had put new notions into his head. As they rode out and past the Savoy and on to Whitehall he made his horse curvet and caracole beside her white palfrey and plied his wit in elaborate compliment. All his courtly graces were displayed to dazzle her. He was, despite his youth, a man with much experience of women, and, like many of his easy taste, he felt a woman who did not disdain the tricks of his own craft vastly alluring. But he was not altogether without affection for something better. The strength of that rich supple body called to him, and in it, through it, he was aware of a strength of will and ambitious purpose which commanded his desires. His swift, reckless brain began to seek a place for her in his father's schemes, and by her grace a higher place for himself. For mere safety they had better count her with them than against them. How if they chose her for their war cry and set her on the throne? Could he get himself a place by her side? He was married already, indeed, but he had not the temper to let a marriage hamper him.

Such dreams were to colour all his life. The gay woman who rode beside him played with them many a year. But when the sun set on that summer day it seemed as if they were lost like a burst bubble.

Dudley brought her to the palace, left her with some of his mother's women, and in a hurry sought his father. Northumberland's sleek, neat face and form were something swollen by his prosperous ambitions, and his manner was swollen, too. “Well, sirrah,” he said coldly, “hast been long upon thy business. “Is it done?”

“Nay, sir, I know not that it is begun.”

“Give me no boy's riddles. Hast thou blundered? I have no room for fools in my household.”

“It is no fool's tale that I tell, sir, Something subtler, methinks, than the message with which I was charged.”

“I want no tale that thou hast the wit to make. What is the wench's answer, sirrah?”

“She gives none. She will not approve the device till she knows what it is. She asks speech of the King.”

“Thou art a fool easily cozened. Dost not know more of a wench yet than to let her answer thee so?”

“If there lives a man who can make her answer when she would be silent, I know him not. She is no timid girl to be played upon. And yet, methinks, she will serve us well.”

“Why, how now?”

“She hints that she will be our friend if we make her not our foe. Sir, I desire you, consider of it. She is a woman of a royal beauty and grace to win the people. She is King Harry's own daughter, and hath strong friends. How if we keep the crown for her? I will be sworn for it she will keep faith”

“Now beshrew thee for an amorous fool! What, canst not see a woman with a white skin but she must bewitch thee? Set a child of Boleyn's temper on the throne? Ay, when my neck is weary of my head.”

“Sir, I do profess”

“Profess thyself a sheep. Away with thee. Get to the waiting women. Thou art fit for nothing but their usher.”

Lord Robert flushed. “It is well for you that you are my father, sir. I take leave to go. You will find Madam Elizabeth in my mother's apartments.” He flung out.

His last words brought an angry oath from Northumberland. There were too many reasons why Elizabeth should not have the chance to spy out what was happening at Whitehall.

And Elizabeth was using her time. She plied smiles and compliments to the waiting women, who, weary of the hauteurs and angry tempers of the upstart tribe of Dudley, were obsequious, effusive, garrulous. In a little while all the rumours and scandal of the palace were spread before her. How some whispered the King was dead two nights ago, and some that his Grace of Northumberland would keep the corpse on the throne for as long as suited him; what strange leeches, astrologers, and alchemists had been brought to the King's bed; how no one was allowed in the King's chamber but Northumberland and his sons, not even Madam Jane.

“Madam Jane?” Elizabeth caught up the word. Lady Jane Grey, her cousin, the grand-daughter of Henry VIII.'s sister, was, after Mary and herself, heiress to the throne. “Is Madam Jane here?”

Surely. Madam Jane had been in the palace some weeks—since the King first fell ill.”

“Ah, how sweet to see her again!” Elizabeth clasped her hands in an ecstasy. “Go, one of you, I pray you, and tell her I wait upon her.” She must know what Lady Jane was doing in Northumberland's power.

In a moment one of the women came back with the message that Madam Jane welcomed her dear cousin, but prayed that she would not long detain her from her studies, which had been sorely distracted.

“She is all goodness and learning!” Elizabeth cried, and hurried away.

She found a slight, pale girl, sombrely clad, bending close over a book, who started up clumsily and stared at her, and began to make a solemn, studied courtesy. Elizabeth, crying “Sweet cousin!” caught her in a hearty embrace.

Lady Jane was limp in her arms, and when let go, “I thank you, cousin. I wish you health and all God's gifts,” she said dully. “Be pleased to sit. But I have so little leisure. I find it here in the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus his 'Meditations,” which I read with great edification, though I must needs grieve that he was not a Christian, and methinks his Greek was not the purest, 'Even in a palace life may be lived well.' But I cannot tell. I find it hard. I have no time for the cultivation of the soul, whereof is the only true happiness.”

Elizabeth sighed sympathy.

“I do protest I have found it nowhere else, sweet cousin. But we be young maids, and haply do not know all things yet, and must render trust and obedience to those in authority over us.”

Lady Jane's face was ineffably dreary. “In truth, cousin, your speech is of a fragrant piety and a seasonable admonishment. My heart is froward and ever covets its own pleasure. Yet I do strive to honour my parents according to the holy ordinance. It is but in obedience to their will that I am here.”

Elizabeth's downcast eyes glanced aside and gleamed. If she did not know all yet, she knew more than when she came. The girl's parents had compelled her to the palace, and they were hand and glove with Northumberland. Why, then She spoke demurely again. “It is a duty to obey cheerfully. And methinks, as the Imperial philosopher has it, even in a palace there should be leisure to fructify the good works of the soul. For none would cumber maids like thee or me with the pomp or great affairs of State.”

“Ah, cousin!” Lady Jane gave a miserable sigh. “If that were true true comfort it were. For surely Plato he is right, though he groped in pagan darkness, when he hath it that the noblest life is in the pure search of wisdom.”

“A gladsome truth, fair cousin,” Elizabeth murmured. “But of such honourable philosophic joy thy good father can have no mind to hinder thee?”

“Alas! madam, he commands me to the base tasks of this world. He would have me marry.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “'Tis the common lot of women. A cross to be borne. Doubtless that we may be made perfect through suffering.”

“Truly, if it were not heresy, I must needs count marriage the less honourable state. Methinks it must be an impediment to meditation.”

“Oh, my fair cousin, I count the man wondrous happy who is graced with so sage a bride. I pray that he may know how to honour thee worthily.”

“Fie, fie, you would tempt me to pride, whereof the fruit is destruction. Oh, cousin, the good works of spiritual humility are made hard for us.”

“I have heard tell,” said Elizabeth demurely, “that to win the sweet virtue of humility a husband may give good aid.”

“I would that he may so do unto me,” said Lady Jane without confidence. “But I know not.”

“Why, do you not know him?”

“I have seen him,” Lady Jane said listlessly. “He was without words.”



Elizabeth controlled her features. “Doubtless he was abashed by your manifold fair excellencies, dear cousin.”

“Nay, nay, now you wrong me again. This is but flattery, which distracts the mind from virtuous thought. And in truth I believe he contemned me for unfair. Methinks he is of the world wordly.”

“Say, rather, he is dull and blind,” Elizabeth cried in affectionate wrath.

Lady Jane shuddered. “Nay, say nothing. We dare not. He is the son of the gospel's champion. He is Lord Guilford Dudley.”

Elizabeth had the clue at last. Swiftly she understood Robert Dudley's bullying diplomacy, and that mysterious device which she was to approve. Northumberland had found in the pedant Lady Jane a perfect puppet, as like a soul as the world could furnish to the cold pedant of a boy who was called King. Edward had never found wit or will to thwart his ambitious Minister; there would be neither will nor wit in the bloodless Lady Jane. If she were Queen, Northumberland would be King still in all but name and crown.

For fear of any accident of ill temper in her, he would marry her to the fool who was his best loved son, and so bind her in service to his blood. A great device!

What sort of colour was to gloze it for the public eye? How would Northumberland make it look like justice? The good Robert Dudley protested that the device was of the King's mind. Elizabeth smiled to hers2lf for the naiveté of the intrigue. A child could guess it. As her father had left a will ordering the succession, so Edward would be made to leave a will. It would be very righteous. It would bar herself and her sister Mary from the throne as born of marriages that were no marriages. It would proclaim Lady Jane Grey by her right as an unimpeachably legitimate child of the Tudor blood. Sure, all good Protestants must applaud such crowning evidence of the good boy's austere virtue!

While she thought it out, all her keen mind sneering at it, she talked amiably with Lady Jane. “Lord Guilford Dudley! With such a splendid swain, marriage should be all joy.”

“Methinks it were the sin of levity to look for joy in marriage.”

“I hope my good Lord Guilford hath no levity,” said Elizabeth solemnly, “But prithee, sweet coz”

The door was flung open. His Grace of Northumberland entered stormily. Lady Jane started up in nervous dutiful respect. Elizabeth lay back at her ease, something ungraceful and mannish in her parade of nonchalance. “Were you bidden here, madam?” he said sternly.

She laughed. “I wish you health, sir. You seem in a heat.”

“I understand you, madam.” He turned upon Lady Jane, who cowered before him. “Go in, child. Leave us. The lady Elizabeth is no company for you.” The girl fled away.

Elizabeth laughed. “I am the better of your kindly opinion, sir. Would it please you hear mine of you?”

“Folk who trespass in the King's house unbidden have no courtesy from the King's servants, madam. You are pleased to mock at his good-will and flout his message to you. I bear you his Royal warning. He will know how to command obedience.”

“My Lord Duke, you translate my answer so ill that I doubt you mistranslate the King.”

“These word plays serve for children, madam. I am commanded to obtain your submission and goodwill for the King's device for the good governance of this realm.”

“What is it, sir?”

“Do you question the King's wisdom, madam?”

“Nay, in truth, not I.” She changed her tone. She was insolent no more, and instead gave him the cunning whine of the bargainer and a narrow knowing glance. “But, your grace, if I give my submission to I know not what, how shall my poor person fare, which owes very livelihood to the King's grace?”

Northumberland's pompous face relaxed. He conceived that he understood. The young woman had only made trouble to make herself worth buying. It was a temper that he approved. “Content you, madam,” he said with a magnificent condescension. “The King's purposes are generous towards you. Give me in your hand of writ your submission to his device, and I may assure you a rich provision—five thousand pounds by the year.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Didst ever hear tell of Esau, sir?”

“Esau, madam?”

“Which sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.”

She started up. “My thanks for your bounty and my good wishes for your wits,” and she made for the door.

“Stay, madam, stay,” he hurried after her.

“Not a moment, not a word. Farewell, my Lord Duke, farewell; I know all that I came to know.” She sped down the corridor, she was out to the courtyard while Northumberland stood bewildered. She shouted for her servants like a man, as her way was when she took no time to act a part, and they came scurrying, and she sprang on her horse and spurred off, leaving them to follow as they might.

it was all something less than royal, but in playing a game with Northumberland she could not afford to wear royalty. If he had contrived to keep her at the palace, if he had her in his power there might swiftly be an end of her ambitions and her. No one could tell why Edward was dying, save that it suited Northumberland that he should die. She rode fast to Somerset House, and swore to herself when hay-wains, coming laden from the meadows about the convent garden north of the Strand, blocked her way. But she smiled to the waggoners, and bowed and cried a “Good morrow, good harvest” to them and their mates among the haycocks. She was always gracious and gay to the common people, and not only of policy. She liked men and women because they were men and women.

But as she rode, she thought. Somerset House was too near Whitehall, too near Northumberland to be safe. The mob of London was accounted in his service. Before help could come, before her friends knew her in danger, he could hurry her away to the Tower. And if he thought her an enemy to fear, he would not hesitate.

So when she sprang down in the great quadrangle to Mr. Parry's obsequious hand, “Hither, good Parry,” said she, and drew him in leaning on his shoulder. “We must to Hatfield in an hour.”

Mr. Parry blenched and stood aghast. “Why, madam?” he cried.

“Why—why? Why are thy ears so long? Because Providence ordered it for my pleasure. Go to, see that my train be ready. In an hour!” She left him staring.

While she was hurrying all her tirewomen to madness, a letter was presented. It bore no name or date. She read only:


 * “Away from London hastily to thy friends. But count among them,

“.”

“Who brought this?” she cried.

“Please you,” the sergeant-footman bowed, “a varlet in a black livery, who would say nought but that it was life and death, and was gone.”

Elizabeth laughed. “None manlier—” she remembered her sweet phrase to Robert Dudley. So the good Robert had fallen duly to her beautiful eyes, and would be for her against her father. “'Tis a pretty man,' said she, “but not so necessary as he conceives.”

In the square garden of Hatfield, under the dark yew arches Elizabeth sat watching the sky. Over the blue western hills it blazed crimson and scarlet, and far across the zenith hovering clouds were suffused faintly with red. Her strong face was dark against the glow. She sat quite still, careless of all the world but her thoughts.

Her life was imperilled. She had defied Northumberland, and he would kill her swiftly if he felt himself strong enough. But it was not fear that troubled her, or any care for life. There was too much of passionate vigour in her blood for her to count life worth keeping unless it gave her what she coveted. But what she coveted, what she had planned, and dared, and suffered for every hour of her conscious life, the crown and its splendour, and power, the infinite joy of power, all that she was like to lose. If Northumberland worked his will and his son Lord Guilford were firm on the throne with Lady Jane, she might as well seek comfort in death. For which she had no mind at all.

But how could she fight for herself? There were friends who would risk something for her, who would fight, perhaps, to save her from Northumberland. But she wanted more than safety. Would they fight to win her the crown? The cautious mind, strong as her ambition or her passionate will, cried a loud warning. She had no right to the crown yet. For every claim that she had, Mary's claim was stronger. Mary was the elder, Mary came before her in their father's will. Mary, the good Catholic, had a party in England to match with any. Doubtless, Mary was twice her age, and feeble beyond that age. But that was an argument for waiting. If she tried to strike for the crown, Mary must be against her as well as Northumberland, and she challenged Mary to show her no mercy. Her mind bade her wait, and wait still....

And then, as the red light faded and mellowed to gold, a short plump man rolled into her sight. He grinned benignly, and put up his hand in salute: “Now God be with thee, for so am I,” quoth he.

She remembered Captain Coffin, the henchman of her first lover, the Admiral, who had saved her from the only madness of her life. He came in good time to warn her that she must not be mad again. But why had he come? “You should always be welcome to my house, sir,” she smiled, and held out her fine hand.

Captain Coffin went down heavily on one knee to kiss it, and watched her face as he kissed it. “You was thinking, my lady,” said he. “I ha' brought you something to think about.”

“Thou hast indeed,” she laughed; but he beckoned to the shadow of the hedge behind him, and, with a rolling gait like his own, came a square young fellow.

“Here a be, Captain John Hawkins, a strong rogue, and a masterless man; and if there's a mariner in Devon will not follow me they'll follow he to the port of hell and out again. Will that help your thinking, now?” His little eyes twinkled at her.

“You are brought by a good man and true, sir.” She bent her head to Captain John Hawkins's salute, and he grinned at her sheepishly. “Prithee, Captain Coffin, how can I serve thee?”

“'Tis how may we serve you, my lady,” he chuckled. “Now, what was you a-thinking. Here's your brother, the King, all but dead, as they say. Here's that old rogue Northumberland waiting to snatch the crown. And you be a-thinking. Well, we'm a-thinking, too, we men in the west. And we do think, if your brother, King Henry's son, be dead, there's none so fit as you to put on the crown, which we will not have it go to old Northumberland, that is no better born than my cook boy, and hath ever starved the fleet. Why, you be a maid with hot blood in you, and as high in your tempers as King Harry's self. You'll not let that old hang-dog take your rights. And we'm all for you in the west. Come down to Devon, and from Poole Haven to Falmouth we'll break out your banner. When the west country hoists her colours England backs topsails.”

“I would be a weevil before I served Master Northumberland,” quoth Captain Hawkins. “And I've eat so many since his knaves had the victualling of the fleet, I know they be the slimiest of all beasts. Saving your presence, my lady.”

She laughed a little. “Captain Coffin, when I was tempted to ambition the crown before, you made a mock of my wits.”

“For why? You was risking yourself for the sake of a man with no bones. And now it's yourself for yourself, and little risk withal.”



“Say you so?” Her eyes were narrow and crafty. “Suppose my brother dead, which God forbid”—Captain Coffin interjected a laugh of contempt for her piety—“my sister Mary hath the right to the crown.”

“Your sister Mary is a sour old woman, and her wits have gone a-wool gathering with priests. And you're a buxom fresh lass to draw the men.”

She laughed. She liked flattery of any flavour. But her eyes were cold and crafty still.

Still another man came through the twilight, a splendid young gallant, booted and spurred, who knelt before her, crying: “Your servant, madam. My father bids me say that he will be here anon with fifty horse.”

“Why, how now, Mr. Brydges?”

“'Tis conceived that you are in danger, madam. But have no fear; your friends are rallying.”

She started up. It seemed that her friends were minded to be more forward than she. But she was the more earnest in her caution. “I have no fear while I have such friends,” and she bowed to Mr. Brydges and smiled at the sailors. “Yet”

Parry rushed upon the scene. “My lady, here is a fellow from his Grace of Northumberland with a dozen horse, who swears that he must bear you back to London.”

“Deny him, madam! Brydges cried. “I came with three or four, and we will make good against the knaves till my father comes up.”

“Nay, God forbid that we should shed blood,” she said meekly. “Good Parry, bear word to the gentlemen that I am very sick, and may not leave my bed, but send my greeting to the Duke. Alas! I am too sick to speak with any but my leech.” Parry bowed and hurried off. Captain Coffin laughed. Mr. Brydges' handsome face expressed disgust. “Good friends, I will take order for your entertainment. Prithee, use my poor house as you will.” She made a stately courtesy and swept away.

In a little while Sir John Brydges came, and after him Sir John Williams, with many gentlemen and yeomen, till something of an army lay about Hatfield House. Elizabeth was young enough to be excited. Such power at her will tempted her.

Her judgment was unsure still, for all her craft. She had not thought that there were so many in England ready to fight for her and the cause which she was born to lead—the quarrel of her father with Rome and Spain. The wealthy knights and squires, who had much to risk if they rose in arms, and would be comfortable though Northumberland himself were King, were as urgent that she should claim the crown as the bold Devon seamen. They wrapped their purposes in finer phrase, but one and all they made it clear that they had not come merely to save her from Northumberland, but to make her the mistress of England.

It was a scheme to intoxicate the brain of a girl of twenty. But the more the grand vistas of it thrilled her, the more wildly ambition worked in her, the more imperiously her mind commanded caution. Once, indeed, reckless with passion for a man, she had staked all on a desperate throw. But there was no more passion to blind her, and her mind would allow her no dazzling delusions. Doubtless she had a strong army about her. But what had Mary? She, too, commanded powerful friends and many, and neither Mary nor her Catholics would suffer the child of Anne Boleyn to usurp the throne without a struggle. If she fought and lost, she was lost indeed. There would be no mercy. It needed little thought, little knowledge of her world to be sure of that. She who had watched the chance and change of the kingdom's fortune all her life long, and studied it as happier children study the ways of a game or a mother's housewifery, discovered more matter for discouragement, disaster even, in victory. For if she won, how much would she win? All Catholic England would be bitter against her; she would have to struggle with sullen enemies or harassing revolt, a Queen only in name, the wretched chief of a faction. It was not a place her large ambitions could count worth winning. She coveted an England which would worship her as it worshipped her father. If she waited, if she let Mary reign, why, in all reason Mary's reign must be short, and she would come to the throne without a rival in unchallenged right.

And yet it might not be safe to wait. There was Northumberland. If Mary could not maintain herself against him they were plunged into a dark maze of turmoil. She thought and thought long through the sultry July night in vain. She saw too clear, she saw too much, to be sure of the best way. She was chained in the weakness of a subtle, cautious mind. She could not make a resolution, and doubting, she fell into a troubled sleep.

Her army had grown in the night. When its leaders came, eager for action, they found her haggard from her vigil and all doubt and cold hesitation. She puzzled and annoyed them. A young woman, if she were King Harry's daughter, ought to be wild with delight that so many admirable gentlemen were ready to fight for her. It would best become her to thank them passionately, and passionately beg them go forth and conquer, instead of which she was pleased to signify that she wanted nothing of them or knew not what she wanted. So that Sir John Williams swore to Sir John Brydges the wench was a coward, which proved her no child of her father's nor her mother's neither. And she spent all the day planning and calculating what she must not do, and all the day more gallant Protestant gentlemen came rallying to Hatfield to find a glowering host cursing a woman who would not when she might.

The day was heavy with heat under a leaden sky. At nightfall the storm came, with lightning that tore the zenith in flame and a bombardment of hail. The army waited the morning in growling alarm. After the storm it was cold as winter, and the tardy pale light of dawn showed the hail still cloaking the grass and the battered trees, and the hail was red. They found in that manifold omens of death.

Before noon a troop of horse came spurring from London. They wore the dark colours of Northumberland, and the wiser gentlemen in that weather-beaten army could hardly keep it from falling on them. Their leader demanded speech of Elizabeth, and presented a letter under Northumberland's hand, which haughtily ordered her to the Tower. She smiled over it, and sorrowed that she was too sick to obey my lord's commands, and bade her servants entertain the good gentleman. But the gentleman was in a hurry to be gone from the neighbourhood of that menacing host, and spurred for London.

In a little while anxious partisans from London came panting news. The King was dead at last, or at last Northumberland had confessed him dead, and Northumberland's heralds had proclaimed Lady Jane Grey Queen of England, France, and Ireland, and London was quiet, and Northumberland held the King's treasure and the Tower.

Elizabeth heard with pale face and dull eyes. “God's body, madam,” cried Sir John Williams, “now will you march?”

She sat silent pulling at her lip.

Williams lost his temper. “Why, if you have nothing to say, I have nought to say to you. If you would be Northumberland's serving-maid, we are but in your way.”

“If you speak so wildly, sir, methinks you'll bite your tongue,” she sneered.

“I'fegs, 'tis all if and if in this house,” quoth Captain Coffin.

“How now, sirrah?” she turned upon him. He, at least, was no hot-headed country squire who could not see beyond his nose.

“Why, since you like them, let us have one if more. If you will not help yourself, who is to help you?”

“You say so?” she frowned at him.

“The seaman is in the right, madam,” said Sir John Brydges haughtily. “If we are to serve you, we must serve you now. Our men are out of heart already with your delays. March on London, strike for your right, and we are with you. Falter and linger still, and we must needs bid you farewell as one who will not venture in her own cause.”

“In fine, sir,” she started up, “if I will not go your way, I may go my way alone?”

“There is no serving one who will not be served, madam.”

“Nor no daring for a Queen who will dare nothing,” Sir John Williams growled.

She flushed, and her eyes gleamed. “Marshal your men, uncase your banners!” She brought her clenched fist down on the chair arm. “God's death, sirrah, there is no man dares more than I dare.”

“There spoke King Harry's blood,” Brydges cried, and flashed out his sword to salute her.

So the host was set in array and they rode for London. Not for the last time men made up her mind for her. But since it was done, she bore herself as if she had longed to do it. She rode in her gayest dress, gay as a girl who has just found her happiness. She was all confidence and life, and the gentlemen about her forgot the cold doubting woman who saw only dangers, and gave themselves joy of so gallant a Queen.

Some of them were soldierly enough to send on a party in advance to spy out the land. As the brave army crested the hill by Monken Hadley, and marched upon Barnet battlefield, the scouts came galloping back. They told of London in turmoil. Northumberland's own friends had turned against him, and held him in durance. His powers had melted like snow. No man knew who was master. But it was rumoured loud that Mary would come ere nightfall. The wiseacres were well assured that all the great lords had rallied to her cause. She was marching with a noble array such as England had not seen since her father died.

The news froze the gaiety in the ardent gentlemen about Elizabeth. She looked round upon black brows and dejection. Sir John Williams swore aloud. “Now we know what we gained by our paltering and faltering at Hatfield.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Ay, truly, my lord, now we know.”

“Well, madam, well?” Brydges cried. “What is now your will?”

“Surely, my lord, we will ride to meet her.”

Brydges frowned at her. “I know two ways to meet her, madam.”

“Ay, sir, but how may you know which is the better?”

He stared a moment. “I understand you, madam. Have with you in God's name!” He turned his horse, and calling to his friends, rode back to set the march in martial order.

Mary must come—if she were coming—by the Cambridge road. So when they drew near the city walls, they went eastward round the butts to the open ground beyond Aldgate. There they halted, and sent outriders towards Cambridge to give timely warning. The citizens crowded on the walls to watch the issue. Nearer the shipwrights of Stepney mustered, chattering and gaping like folk at a bull-baiting. Very soon the scouts brought back a tale of a great array. Soon the dust cloud of its march rose over the heath, and the glimmer of steel and banners aglow. When its first troop caught sight of the marshalled force about Elizabeth, there was a sudden halt, and men went galloping to and fro. Then the array came on slowly, ordered for fight.

“How now, madam?” Sir John Brydges cried.

She gazed at the marching ranks. “Why, well!” She turned suddenly to him and laughed loud. “Have I not proved me loyal to my sister? I bring her all my friends in aid.” She gave her horse the spur, and sped forward upon the lances of Mary's army.

The gentlemen about Brydges exclaimed, and swore, and murmurs rose loud among their array. “Now we know what it is to serve a woman, gentlemen,” he sneered.

“I'fegs, if you obey a woman, you'll always serve her ill,” quoth Captain Coffin.

Elizabeth was in among Mary's army, crying “God save you, gentlemen. Where is the Queen?” The ranks halted and parted for her. In the midst, among a glittering company, she saw the little pale woman in drab. She reined up and bowed to her horse's neck: “I bear your Majesty my humble duty,” she cried joyfully.

Mary stared at her, blinking short-sighted eyes. “Who are these?” she said coldly. “Who are these in arms with you?”

“I made bold to muster some of my friends to do your Majesty honour,” Elizabeth smiled.

Mary bowed stiffly. “Ride by my side here. We shall be seemlier so. My lord,” she turned to one of her train, “bear my gracious thanks to these loyal gentlemen and say that I need them not.”

Elizabeth bowed dutiful gratitude. She had no eyes for the disorder of her array, no ears for its murmurs and mutterings and laughter. She was all joyous flattery of Mary.

Mary did not affect to heed. She rode stiffly, her flat little body like a board in the saddle; the pale face, bald of eyebrows, was puckered and frowning as though she were trying to see or think something clear that puzzled her. She said nothing.

The citizens upon the wall hurried down as the army drew near the gate, but the gate stood open and the crowds waited only to shout and toss their caps in the air. The church bells rang out, the cannon of the Tower thundered salute. “A right loyal and kindly welcome!” cried Elizabeth.

Mary turned and looked at her a moment.

They rode on together through the acclaiming crowds, the drab mean shape of the woman who was Queen beside her sister's splendid womanly strength. Mary took no pains to bow or smile or commend herself, while her sister was all gaiety and grace, and with her palfrey's paces and her airs made the most of her beauty. So together they made their progress through London and on to Whitehall.

Once within the palace Elizabeth found herself kept in waiting while lords and gentlemen spoke compliments to her sister. At last Mary allowed her her turn. “I also give your Majesty heartily joy,” Elizabeth said, “and rejoice that I have lived to-day. Will it please your Majesty that I go to my own house?”

“I thank thee,” said Mary coldly. “It is better thou shouldst stay by my side. My chamberlain will assign thee lodging.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious.” Elizabeth drew away with a courtesy. She was something puzzled to know what the woman meant. Mary was ever so cold that she seemed malign when she meant no evil. But Elizabeth was well pleased with herself. Whatever came of the future she had saved herself from ruin that day. She had no fear that caution and ready wit would not save her again. And if she had lost some friends—why, the good gentlemen could find her again when they needed her. She slept sounder than the Queen.

Early in the morning she was summoned to the Queen's presence. After dutiful greeting and cold answer, “I have bidden thee here because I am now to speak with the woman who called herself Queen, our base-born cousin, the Lady Jane Grey, or Dudley, if her marriage be Christian marriage. It is well that thou shouldst hear.”

“Your Majesty honours me,” said Elizabeth.

“Stand here by my chair,” said Mary, and pointed her to a place full in the window light. Elizabeth.

In a moment two yeomen of the guard marched Lady Jane in. The girl looked sick to death. Her pale face was wasted and sunken and crescents of black were marked beneath the eyes. She stood stooping and limp. But she betrayed no fear, she made no appeal; she met Mary's blinking anger with a dull, steady stare in which there was something of resolute enmity, something of contempt.

“What hast thou to say?” Mary said stridently.

“Why should I say anything, who have nothing to ask?”

“Dost thou not ask mercy?”

“I ask mercy of God alone.”

“Thou dost not acknowledge thy guilt, then?”

“Before God we be all miserable sinners. I pray that you may come to see your iniquity.”

Mary flushed. “This is the eternal insolence of heresy. Dost not confess thy treason, woman?”

“You speak as a Pharisee. I am loyal to my God and know no other loyalty.”

“Out upon thee for an impudent blasphemer!” Mary cried. “Was it for God's sake thou wouldst have stolen the crown, which is my right?”

“To me the crown hath ever been but a grievous burden, which I bore only to keep power from thee, who art the servant of the powers of darkness.”

“Nay, now, this is unseemly!” cried Elizabeth.

Mary turned upon her, peering and searching her face for something that might betray her heart. “Who bade thee speak?” she said coldly. “Be silent.” Elizabeth bowed, and Mary turned again to Lady Jane. “I will teach thee humility, woman. Thy husband must die.”

“Thereof God will grant him a martyr's crown.”

“Fool! Thy vain ambitions have slain him. Thy husband's father must die also.”

“He is the happier. I give thanks for thy cruelty, for it is promised us 'the bloodthirsty man shall not live half his days.'”

Mary started up. “I have done with thee. I was ready to pardon penitence. Thou art obstinate in treason and heresy. Thy blood be upon thine own head.”

A faint smile trembled on the girl's face. “'Tis ever the murderer's prayer. But I thank thee. Thou hast assured me a place in the heavenly mansions.”

Mary stamped her foot and shouted for the guards.

When the girl was led out and the sisters were alone Mary paced the room a moment with a mannish stride. Then she turned upon Elizabeth. “Thou hast heard now. Thou hast heard,” she said fiercely.

Elizabeth bowed. “I am honoured by your Majesty's confidence.”

“Thou hast learnt what my foes have to fear.”

“Nay, madam, I was ever sure of your royal resolution.”

Mary peered at her, trying to read beneath the smooth, meaningless words. “Mark it well, then. If any stand against me for heresy or treason I will have mercy on none, though they count friends of half my people, though they claim mine own blood.”

“Oh, madam, I give you joy of your power and high purpose with all my heart!”

Mary peered at her still a moment. “Mark it well, then,” she muttered again. “Thou hast leave to go.”

Elizabeth courtesyed herself out.

It was in the afternoon, on the lawn beyond the Italianate garden by the river, while she loitered and lingered and dallied playing at bowls herself against herself, she heard a West-country burr, “When you play with yourself you always lose,” and turned to see Captain Coffin.

“I do not know you, sir,” she said aloud, knowing not who might be listening.

“You'm no use at knowing your friends,” said he. “Fair it would be you should have none left. But against any brat of Spain the West country be all your friends when you'm minded to use them.” He slid away silently as he had come among the bay hedges.

Elizabeth stood a long time, weighing a bowl and its bias.