The Lonely Queen/Spain Proposes



HE music of a pavane came from the banquet hall. In the long gallery a crowd of gay folks passed and dallied. Elizabeth was there with a man of perfect shape, save that he had no chin. He wore blue velvet and pink, and plainly conceived himself incomparable. “In faith, my lord, the divine harmony of you makes me tremble,” she was saying, and looked down at the great bows of silver velvet which advertised the company how small were her feet.

The symmetrical gentleman, my Lord Courtenay, gaped at her for her meaning.

She started aside. Her alert eyes had not been admiring her feet so much that she was not aware of a man trying to pass her. He was lean and bowed in ample robes of black, Simon Renard, the ambassador of Spain. “I fear I stand in your way, sir,” she said, with a bow, as she drew back.

He glanced at her and smiled. “Nay, madam, you are too anxious. I could have made my way.” He passed on through a lane of bows and curtsies.

Courtenay was glowering at her. “Madame, you are pleased to make game of me?”

“Oh fie, my lord! How should I venture it? I am but a poor, silly soul, which you only deign to heed because it wears a woman's body.”

He smiled, and then flushed and made an angry exclamation. “As I conceive, madam, you are mocking me. I do not know by what right. Methinks your blood may not well presume to mock mine. For I am (not to boast) nothing less royally born. Being wholly of the right Plantagenet line, great-grandson in the direct descents of King Edward IV. and counting my ancestors”

“As far as Adam. Good lack, my lord, you proclaim your pedigree as though you were your own herald with an offer of marriage.”

“Well, madam, well! And if I were?”

She made him a low, languorous curtsey. “In faith, my lord, I should faint beneath the honour”—he made a petulant exclamation—“and when I came to myself I would remark to you that the good Sir Thomas Wyatt hath been seeking speech with you these ten minutes.”

Courtenay turned to look where she was looking, and saw a dark, hairy man with prominent eyes staring eagerly. “'Tis you he seeks, madam, not me,” he said sulkily, “and now I remember I promised to get him speech of you.”

“I give him joy of his ambassador. Conduct me to the garden gallery, my lord.”

Courtenay could not move ungracefully, but his manner was petulantly ungracious.

The garden gallery was dark and lonely. Wyatt came close upon their heels. “You would honour me with your conversation, sir?” Elizabeth smiled.

“Ay, madam!” his voice was nervous and vehement. “Are you content?”

“Why—why, what else? In the beautiful company of a true Plantagenet,” she laughed.

Courtenay dropped her arm. “I have had enough of being madam's fool,” he cried, and strode away.

“Why must you quarrel with him?” Wyatt said angrily. “We need you both.”

“Kind thanks for your taste, kind sir. And for what?”

“I ask you again: are you content? Content that your sister should bring us under the dominion of Rome and Spain? Content to see the faggots flame about every man who stands for England's freedom? Content”

“Sir, I am my sister's loyal subject while she lives. While she lives her will must be law for England and me.”

“While she lives! Ay, you may count that her life will be short and the throne soon yours. But she is contracted to marry Philip of Spain”

“Marry, sir?” He peered at her face, but could not see it in the gloom. Her voice was changed. “She is something old to marry—and if she should marry, why, she is old.”

“I know she is contracted to marry him. She may rear a brood of Spanish snakes that will suck the life blood out of England. And though she die childless, if Philip once may get his teeth in England's flesh, will he let go? You know the Spaniard better. What if there be some stout fellows minded to tear this mongrel Spaniard queen from her throne and set on it a true-born, hearty English soul? What then, madam?”

“Why then, sir, I know nothing.”

Wyatt laughed. “Though we peril life and fortune to make you Queen—you'll know nothing of us? Ay, you are a Tudor.”

“To make me Queen—is it so, sir? And that pretty, true-born Plantagenet who brought me here, is he to be one of you? Is he to be King, perhaps?”

“Why, if you can suit each other, why not?”

“Oh, I thank you, I thank you! You are pleased to provide for me completely.”

“Well, madam, what then?”

She hesitated long. “I know nothing, sir,' she said.

“Will you betray us?”

Again she hesitated. “What should I betray, who know nothing?” Wyatt peered at her through the gloom, and gave an angry, scornful laugh. “Oh, madam, you are a Queen worth dying for!” he cried, and flung away.

Elizabeth stood still looking after the sound of his angry feet. “Now, whenever I meet a man in earnest I feel myself passionate to be a nun,” she murmured, and laughed a little. But she lingered alone in the dark.

There was need enough for thought. Her sister Mary was firm upon the throne, and even to hear a word of treason against her might be perilous. But Elizabeth had the wit to see that if she were deaf to the traitors she might be yet worse off; for Mary had Cranmer in prison, and Latimer and Ridley, and it was known that she meant to send them to the flames. If she threatened fire against all who were not of her taste in religion England was like to breed many traitors to her rule, and wise folks must choose to be of the traitors' side. And if Wyatt, the earnest man, were right about the Spanish marriage, Elizabeth saw no chance for herself but in treason and revolt. Philip of Spain, once wedded to Mary, would not lightly loose his grip on the sceptre of England. Even if Mary bore him no children, even if she died soon, he would have no mind to give place to Elizabeth.

What was to do? Revolt had no charms for that cool brain, and revolt with Wyatt for general and the pretty fool Courtenay to share the fruits of victory seemed midsummer madness. But to stay at Court in Mary's power while the good gentlemen played at treason was inviting death.

Elizabeth stole back to her bed-chamber. By a very humble letter she prayed her Majesty's leave to rest awhile in the country. Her Majesty's generous entertainments had been something too much for her frail body, which, as her leeches advised, was still frail with youth.

Mary came herself in answer, and found a pale, picturesque invalid girl. Mary gave her gracious leave to go.

As she rode out to her house at Ashridge Renard, the ambassador of Spain, and Gardiner, the champion of Spain and Rome, came to Mary's closet.

You see the little flat-bodied woman, flushed and nervously panting. Some queer, pathetic vanity had made her trick out her faded, wasted womanhood in the splendours of an orange brocade and ermine. The square, dark jowl of Gardiner was at her elbow, and she glanced at him timidly as Renard bowed in stiff, punctilious ritual. There was nothing of respect in that lean, sharp face. It was cold and haughty and cruel.

“You are pleased to summon me, madam?” he asked, and waited to be told why.

“Why, will you not sit?” she cried, breathless, and turned to Gardiner. “You may sit, my lord.” The two black-robed men bowed solemnly, and sat one on either side and waited. Her hands on her knee writhed together. She flushed darker. She nodded to Gardiner, who did not or would not understand. “Will you speak, my lord?” she panted fiercely.

“At your desire, madam,” he bowed.

“The Queen desires word of her proposed marriage.”

“I regret that I overlooked your Majesty's anxiety,” Renard bowed.

“Anxious, quotha!” she cried. “And if I am anxious I would have you know 'tis no woman's vanity or worldly desire. I—I—I seek nothing in marriage but the advancement of the faith and our realms.”

You are of a lofty virtue, madam,” Renard bowed.

“Well, sir, well? I—I am a woman, too. It is not—I may not—why should you make me always wooing?”

“Oh, madam!” Renard put up a deprecating hand. “My master means no such unseemliness. He feels the honour of your Majesty's choice, and desires his grateful thanks. I am advised that he is on fire to be with you, but he feels the need of caution.”

“Caution, sirrah!” Her eyes flamed. “God's death! Is a man to tell me he will be cautious of taking me?”

“You mistake me, madam. For you he can have only a royal affection.” The woman broke in with an hysterical laugh that made him stare. “But there are dangers and dangers of your own household. While you cherish a snake in your bosom I cannot in conscience advise my master to venture himself on these shores.”

She was pale and stammered, trying to find words. “His Excellency hath in mind your bastard sister Elizabeth,” said Gardiner coldly.

“His Excellency—he—he is pleased to give me his orders,” she cried.

“I hope I know my duty, madam,” said Renard calmly. “I must needs advise you that you cherish in the Princess Elizabeth one who pretends to your throne and may at any hour lead a revolt against you to your destruction. You have the right to imperil yourself, but not my master. While Elizabeth lives I cannot counsel him to trust himself at your side.”

“Speak it out, man!” her voice rang deep. “I am to butcher a girl to quiet my lord Philip's tremors. I am to buy me a husband by the blood of my father's daughter.”

“Why, madam, is a heretic's life so dear? Methinks her blood should be an acceptable sacrifice to earn a blessing on your marriage.”

She turned upon Gardiner with a bitter laugh. “Here is Christian faith, my lord bishop!” and then swung ungainly upon Renard. “Sirrah, who made you my monitor? God's body, are you to be lord of life and death in England? Get you gone! Get you gone, I say! Seek me not again till you have learnt that I am Queen.” She started up, shouting at him like a man. She would hear nothing from him or Gardiner. She drove them out.

Fate and their enemies served them better than they served themselves. While they were torturing their wits to find a fairer reason for Elizabeth's murder, Sir Francis Wyatt put the torch to his revolt. He raised his banner at Rochester, he seized the Queen's ships in the Medway and all Kent rose in arms. Gardiner was well content. His stolid temper had no fear of the issue, and the danger was real enough to frighten Mary to desperate remedies. One thing only displeased him. Wyatt's proclamations had no word of Elizabeth. He declared himself the champion of England against Spain and Rome, but he said nothing against Queen Mary, nor yet for any new Queen or King.

But Wyatt was adequately alarming. He marched upon London by Dartford and Greenwich with an army of thousands. Renard was in a panic for his skin. Mary was all that Gardiner desired. She bore herself boldly, and in private she swore that she would have a rich revenge on all traitors which should make England sleep quiet for a generation.

Wyatt came with his army to Southwark and found that a gulf yawned in the midst of London Bridge and cannon faced him from the Middlesex shore. He hurried up river to the next bridge at Kingston, forced a crossing there and marched on London by way of Kensington. On the slope of the hill where Hyde Park corner is, the Queen's cavalry cut his army in two. With the vanguard he struggled on to Charing Cross. A company of archers there made an end of all his discipline. Leader of a scanty rabble he fought on down the Strand and at last, worn out in body and will, yielded himself at Temple Bar, while his men were driven to prison like sheep.

The Queen had conquered utterly, and her blood was hot for revenge. Through that long February night she sat with Gardiner and Renard making a list for death. No one of the three saw any shadow upon her triumph.

The common folk were driven to the gibbets in crowds. The Tower had scarce room for all the knights and nobles appointed to die. But the tremulous malignity of Spain sought occasion to be quit of all its enemies, and Gardiner's passionate hate was eloquent in the same plea and Mary with the fever of blood-thirst upon her would not withstand them. She put Courtenay under arrest at Whitehall. She dispatched a commission to bring Elizabeth to judgment.

The Lord Admiral, Lord William Howard, and Sir Edward Hastings and Sir Thomas Cornwallis rode with such zeal that they came to Ashridge by ten o'clock of night. The house was all dark. After much battering and blowing of trumpets, they were admitted by dishevelled servants and received by Mr. Parry, who was all apologies and yawns. The Admiral demanded instant audience of Elizabeth, and when Mr. Parry protested that she was in bed, said bluntly that in bed or out they must see her.

Like a very truculent boor, he stamped and clanked upstairs, the two behind him. Parry scurried to get in front of them. At the head of the stair Mrs. Ashley met them in some coquettish night-gear, vociferous about unseemliness. “Go to, woman,” the Admiral growled. “If thy modesty be the worse for us, take it back to bed.”

Mrs. Ashley screamed at him for a brutish beast, and fled into Elizabeth's room. The Admiral shouted in a sailor's voice that he would give madam two minutes to compose herself and then come in willy-nilly.

Elizabeth chose to stay in bed. She lay still in the flickering candle light, her eyes dark and glittering from a white face, set in the wild curls of bronze and gold that flooded her pillow. The Admiral clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly, with one curt word—“Madam!” The others were more courtly.

“I greet you, my lord and gentleman,” she said calmly. “Is your haste such that it might not have pleased you to come in the morning?”

“You must ride to London, madam,” said the Admiral. “The Queen's order.”

She allowed herself to show surprise, but not anger or alarm. “The Queen's will is my pleasure, my lord,” she said mildly.

The Admiral gave a contemptuous laugh. “Why babble? We march in the morning.” He turned on his heel.

“I thank you for your courtesy, my lord. I will do my endeavour.”

“Endeavour, madam?” he checked.

“As you may learn from my physicians, I have been sick and very near to death, I doubt I cannot ride far.”



“A girl's green-sickness, or a woman's trick,” the Admiral growled.

“If you say that, my lord, you say falsely. I will do the Queen's will though I die for it.”

“You were best,” quoth the Admiral, and strode out.

She sighed as though she were in pain. “Gentlemen, I give you good-night,” she said wearily. “I beseech you bear with me kindly as you may.”

“I do protest, madam!” cried Cornwallis. “We have it not in charge to treat you with discourtesy.”

She laughed a little. “That doth not appear.”

“I make bold to promise you all kindness in our duty, madam.”

“I know well my sister would have it so. I pray you now let me rest.”

In the morning two physicians announced themselves to the Admiral and his companions. Dr. Owen and Dr. Wendy had a volume of jargon to deliver about Elizabeth's illness. They protested against her travelling at all; they declared it plain murder to make her ride more than a few miles in a day. The Admiral turned on them with a brutality that disgusted his companions. He swore that he would bring the wench, dead or alive. Cornwallis and Hastings cried shame. Such cruelty could only earn the Queen's high displeasure. With the physicians' aid they drew up a schedule which made her ride some five miles a day and take five days upon the road. The Admiral scoffed and mocked, and washed his hands of it. Angry and nervous they left him, and he chuckled delight. The girl was playing well. She had seen that it was worth her while to give Mary's temper time to cool, to get the first rush of slaughter over and the turmoil of the revolt forgotten, before she ventured herself in London. It was a pleasure to help a wench who knew so well how to use help. He rejoiced in admiration of his subtlety and hers.

But the subtlety of her brain was to amaze him.

They rode to London, and day after day she answered his well-devised brutality with a pathetic dignity that kept him convinced she did not guess him her friend. On the fourth day, as they drew near to Highgate, she sent on Cornwallis and Hastings, who were now the devoted servants of a girl so pretty, so gentle, so hardly used, to see that Mr. Cholmeley's house was prepared for her lodging. The Admiral was left alone at her side. “There go two soft knight errants,” he sneered.

Sad, reproachful eyes turned to him. “Why are you ever so rough to me, my lord? Do you of the fleet hate me so?”

He frowned at her. Why was she suddenly humbling herself to complain? And why, of all things irrelevant, talk of the fleet? “What are you to the fleet or the fleet to you?” he growled.

While he stared he saw her eyes grow keen. “Nay, then, what am I to you, my lord?” she said softly, and laughed. He moved in the saddle. He was startled. The cunning wench had seen through him. “I used to hear that the men of the fleet had a kindness for me,” she murmured.

He frowned at her still. “There are too many cursed heretics in the fleet,” he growled. The wench was playing marvellous deep.

“How sad that I, too, am a heretic, my lord,” she murmured.

“What do these follies mean, madam?”

“I am glad that my sister's fleet is so strong,” she murmured.

The Admiral reined his horse back with a jerk. He heard her laugh gently and wanted to swear. He saw well enough what she meant. The fleet was to know of her danger. The fleet, passionate always against Spain, passionately loyal to King Henry's blood, would be ill-content if she were killed to give England to a Spanish king and his heirs. Ill-content and something more. If the fleet knew her peril in time there would be turmoil and mutiny which might shake Queen Mary from her throne.

And the curst wench desired him to let the fleet know. She read him well enough. He did wish to save her from death. He hoped for a day when she might reign. He had ill will for a Spanish king. But to dabble in treason, to be involved in a revolt, was not for his temper. The craft of the girl and her courage dazed him. He kept nervously aloof from her. He wanted to try to think of something safe.

But she sought no more occasion to speak with him. That night she went to bed betimes, and when in the morning they made ready to enter London she was coldly stern to all. Cornwallis had procured a litter for her. She thanked him haughtily. “Draw back the curtains,” she said. “I would have the people see me.” She had dressed herself in white, that made her pale face paler, but she sat erect and she looked a proud and splendid scorn. The road into London was lined with gibbets, from which hung the bodies of the poor fools who had taken Wyatt for their leader. Beneath, a great crowd gathered, gaping and gazing, but tor the most part silent. Some were crying, some called down mercy and blessing upon her. She took no heed. She looked right on down the lane of swaying corpses and her head was borne high. Sometimes a terrible smile curved her lips and passed.

So she was brought to Whitehall. She rode in by Holbein's gate and heard oak and iron clang behind her. The captain of the Queen's yeomen appeared, and without courtesy bade her follow him. Her gentlemen and her waiting. women were driven apart. She was led to an apartment in the tower where Gardiner lodged as Chancellor. She felt danger instant. She lay in Gardiner's hand. He might have her murdered. He would surely do his possible to make the law murder her. But she reviewed the moves in her game and could find no fault in them. She went to sleep with a smile on her lips, and the thrill of danger bore her kind dreams.

No more than the thickness of the floor away, Gardiner huddled over his fire, thinking out a way to make an end of her. She misjudged him. His morality would not let him have her murdered without some form of law. Before law could condemn her, there was need of two things, the Queen's good will and some evidence. The Queen, though he tried to frighten her, still faltered and paltered and would not hear of killing the girl till there were some proof of her treason. Proof, the poor bishop had none. He believed, as he believed in God, that Elizabeth had been concerned in Wyatt's plot. But Wyatt would not be bullied into betraying her. A rogue incorrigible!

At last, with prayer and thought, the bishop made out a plan. That Courtenay was hand in glove with Wyatt he had proof. If Courtenay could be proved intimate with Elizabeth that would involve her in the treason of the revolt. Before he slept he had the man removed to a chamber near Elizabeth.

In the morning, as Courtenay sat yawning and twisting his pretty, fair moustachios and biting his nails, Gardiner's chaplain came to him. The poor creature saw a priest before him and had just wit enough to be frightened, for, if they sent him a priest, that must mean that he had to make his last confession.

“I—I am not ready,” he stammered. “No, it is an infamy. It is”

The chaplain smiled. “Peace, my son, peace. I am no messenger of ill tidings.”

“Why, are you not come about my soul?” Courtenay cried.

“It is not for your salvation in heaven but your safety on earth that I am come.”

Courtenay looked incredulous a moment and then gave a silly, giggling laugh. “Why, then you are very welcome, reverend father.”

The chaplain shook his head and muttered something properly pious. “My son, it is not unknown to you that suspicion rests upon you because it is thought you have imagined treason in concert with the Lady Elizabeth. I come as your friend. Whether you have meditated folly with her I neither know nor desire to know. But as the servant of God I would not see you cut off in your youth. The which may well befall you unless you take counsel with the Lady Elizabeth how you shall answer the questions which my lords will put you. I would have you make agreement with her, so that you may both tell the same tale of innocency.”

Courtenay gaped at him. “Out on it, man. How can I agree with anyone while I fret here like a dog on the chain?”

“She is lodged in the chamber over your head, and the guard sleeps at the foot of the stair. Go to her, my son, and make your plans together. So may you preserve a royal lady and your noble self.” The chaplain slid away.

Courtenay still gaped. The good chaplain, who, as you see, had rated his wits low, yet rated them too high. They discovered, indeed, no guile in the chaplain's advice, but they were hard put to it before they made out what it was meant to mean. At last he did find himself able to see that he and Elizabeth had best tell exactly the same lies as to how little they knew of Wyatt. When he once conceived the idea of going to talk to Elizabeth, he was swiftly eager to go, for he was one of the men who find life without someone to talk to mere melancholy, and life without a woman to look at no better than death.

With the smile of a dancing master he advanced into Elizabeth's room. There was nothing of welcome in her amazement. She rose from the fireside, slow and stately, her finger in the Greek Testament which she had been reading. Courtenay giggled: “You are always a sweeter rose, sweet madam.”

“I did not know that I had desired your presence, my lord,” she said haughtily.

Courtenay plucked at his tuft of beard and made an epigram. “If you had desired me, then should I have all that I desire.” He chuckled over it.

“By your leave, my lord, we will not babble folly. In a word, how came you here?”

He laughed. “Out of a door and up a stair and in by a door—to the shrine of beauty.”

“I thought you were a prisoner like myself.”

“And so I am, most lily-sweet nymph. There lies the humour of it. Behold me a prisoner in paradise.”

She bent her brows. Her eyes gleamed cold. “Who let you loose to trouble me?”

“Oh, fie, now you are cruel!” he simpered.

She cried out “Fool!” and her voice made him start back and change colour. She stamped her foot. “Fool, when you come here you peril your head and mine. Who sent you?”

“Nay, now, nay. Marry, that is neither sense nor kind neither. Why, 1 came to save us both. I”

Her lip curled. “You save me!” she said, and her eyes struck at him. “Prithee, who put that in your fool's head?”

“Now, what has set you in such a flame?” he whined. “Fool's head, quotha! You women with tongues are all so sure that you are a man's betters. And withal you see no more than an owl in daylight. Be pleased to hearken to me, madam. We be tied up here because we are suspect of interest in Wyatt's plot. And the truth is we had some smack of it—we did something incline. Why, then, is't not well that we should take counsel together what tale we will tell, so that neither I give you the lie nor you me? As the good fellow of a priest said to me”

“It was a priest sent you here! What priest?”

“Good lack, how can I tell? They are all crows of the same feather.”

“A priest bade you come and make a tale about Wyatt's madness with me? Now, may God do justice upon you for a fool!” She whirled round and sped to the door, and at the door, with flushed cheeks and flaming eyes, turned and cried to him: “Stay you there, fool, on your life!” The door slammed. Courtenay stood gaping till he gathered wits enough to swear.

She found guards outside who had been ordered to keep Courtenay with her once he ventured there. “I seek Dr. Gardiner!” she cried; and they dared not touch her, having no orders for her.

As she darted down the stair she came full into the arms of Gardiner's chaplain, who, dutifully spying, had not counted upon meeting a woman in a whirlwind. She clutched at his shoulder with a man's grip. “Where is Dr. Gardiner's chamber?” she cried.

He was so bewildered that he never thought of evading her. He pointed at the door like an automaton. As she sped past him he began to come to himself, and “Madam, madam, Dr. Gardiner is not within!” he cried.

Her hand was on the latch as she turned. “Go to him, then. Tell him that I am come to thank him for his plan.” The chaplain was puzzled by her smile. “If you can find him nowhere else you will find him with my sister.” She vanished through the doorway.

The chaplain stood frowning. He could not make up his mind whether she was of a devilish astuteness or whether Dr. Gardiner was playing some deeper game than he had confided to his chaplain. In either case it seemed best to obey her and make haste to Gardiner.

For Gardiner had gone to the Queen. As soon as his servants told him that Courtenay had stolen up to Elizabeth he was off to carry the damning news.



The Queen was busy about finery for her long-sought wedding. He had some trouble to get her alone. When she came it was with a frown, and “You are something importunate, my lord.”

“I am always importunate for your Majesty's safety. Madam, I bring you proof of what you have long doubted to your peril.”

The sallow, eyebrowless forehead contracted. “Elizabeth?”

“Your good sister Elizabeth. Even here under guard in your palace she defies you. While I speak, madam, she is devising treason with that proven traitor, Courtenay.”

Mary's pale eyes flashed. “How, my lord? What guard, then, do your knaves keep?”

“Good enough and wary enough. They watched Courtenay steal from his chamber and watched. whither he would go. When it was seen he would be at Madam Elizabeth they hurried to me as I to you, choosing to catch the traitors with their confederacy patent. Are you pleased to doubt? By my faith, madam, you will doubt yourself to death.”

“She dares!” Mary muttered in her deep man's voice.

“Dares!” Gardiner laughed. “What would the wench not dare with so pretty a man? Treason with such a paramour were a feast. She hath her mother's wanton blood—the wantonness, madam, that wrought your mother's sorrow.”

“God's body, man, do you speak true?”

“Ah, doubt and doubt!” he cried passionately. “Come, see the wench and her lover.” He flung the door open. She followed him with bowed head and a flame in her sunken cheeks.

As they came through the anteroom the chaplain started up from a chair where he had waited in anguish. “My lord—your Majesty's most humble pardon—my lordMadam Elizabeth”

“Be silent,” Gardiner hissed, and took him by the sleeve to draw him aside.

It was too late. Mary strode forward. “You bear this strangely, my lord. What of the Lady Elizabeth good father?” The chaplain looked nervously from one to the other. “Speak out!” she cried.

“Your Majesty—she is fled to my lord's cabinet. She bade me say, my lord”

“Were there no guards?” Gardiner growled.

“Why yes, my lord. With orders to keep my Lord Courtenay in her room. But not herself. And she said, my lord, that she had come to thank you for your plan.”

Gardiner's jaw fell. Mary turned upon him: “What plan?”

“I protest, madam, this is some monstrous impudence. I will go examine into it. I”

“You will follow me, my lord. I will speak with my sister. You are something too subtle for me.”

“I profess, madam”

“You profess too much, my lord.” She strode on.

Mary flung open the door of Gardiner's cabinet. Elizabeth rose from a seat in the window and made her lowest and most elaborate curtsey. Then they stood a moment eyeing each other, the splendid girl and the wan, shrunken woman, with Gardiner's square, black jowl menacing in the background. “I humbly thank your Majesty for this grace,” said Elizabeth. “And beg leave to ask your Majesty whether it is by your will that Dr. Gardiner sends my Lord Courtenay to my chamber. The which is an insult to me as honest maid and as your Majesty's loyal servant, bitter wrong.”

Mary turned frowning to Gardiner. “How say you, my lord?”

“I say this is a brazen brow that seeks to cover patent treason with insolence. What have I to do with madam's lovers? Did I teach her to lure Courtenay to be a traitor? I am not the mother of her wanton blood and ambitions.”

Elizabeth laughed. “My lord is eloquent. Why did his guards at my door let my Lord Courtenay come to me? Why did he send a priest to bid my Lord Courtenay come and chatter treason in my ear?”

“I—a priest—bid him to treason!” Gardiner echoed her words like a man amazed. He gave a contemptuous laugh. “Madam, this is the very madness of lying.”

Mary stared blinking from one to the other. Elizabeth came nearer. “I swear by all that is most sacred, madam, Courtenay came to my chamber unsought. He said that a priest had counselled him come to me and talk of his part in the late treasons that I should warrant him guiltless. The which, when I heard, divining a snare to entrap me in his guilt, I came straightway to demand reason of Dr. Gardiner. And if it were not a snare, how came he to me? Who bade him? Why was he suffered to pass the guards? Madam, I entreat your just protection from an enemy so venomous.”

Gardiner laughed again. “Madam finds all your Majesty's servants venomous.”

Mary frowned at him. “Answer her. How came the man through your guards?”

“I shall show your Majesty another meaning of all this when you consider it privately.”

She cried out: “God prevent us, God prevent us. You have too many meanings for me, my lord. As for you, madam, we shall commit you to the care of my Lord Admiral, where, as you shall find no subtleties, you shall need none.”

Elizabeth curtsied to the ground. “I humbly thank your Majesty. I desire no more than to be in the charge of an honest, faithful servant of your crown.”

Mary stared at her doubt and dislike, and Gardiner began to whisper: “If I might be private with you, madam”

“Why, no!” she cried sharply, and peered blinking from one to the other and brushed her hand across her brow and stared a moment more. “I have good friends of my household,” she said, and laughed a little and turned wearily away. “God give you both justice. Go before me, my lord. Summon my guard.” She followed him out.

Elizabeth, left alone with her triumph, allowed herself a contemptuous smile. She felt no call to pity her sister.

That afternoon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, had a letter in Latin to this purpose. “I have failed. She knows not friends from foes and likes the bastard's word better than mine. Act for thyself.” Renard held the paper to the candle and as it flickered he smiled. In a little while he was demanding an audience of Mary.

She was alone to receive him. Her hands were restless, her eyes sparkled. “You have news of my Lord Philip? Good news, I pray you.”

“He is well in body, madam.”

She bit her lip. “No riddles, so please you. When does he sail? When will he come to me?”

“Madam!” Voice and eye spoke cold astonishment. “He must needs suppose that you do not desire him to come.”

“Not desire him!” She flushed crimson and shrank together and writhed in her chair. “Blessed Virgin! If he knew!” she groaned.

Renard's voice was still cold and contemptuous. “Since you will not make an end of his most pestilent enemy.”

She gave an inarticulate cry. “Man, do you think I do not long for her death? In God's name, how can I order it? For what I know the girl is innocent of all but my hate.”

Renard smiled. “Though all men know her deep in treason against you and my master. Madam, he cannot trust his life to such blindness.” He rose. “While the Lady Elizabeth lives my master cannot come to your arms.”

“Ah!” She gave a cry of pain, and stared at him while he moved to the door. “Her blood be upon your head!” she muttered.

Renard smiled as he made his bow.

She fell upon her knees crying to the Virgin. She rose to write an order that sent Elizabeth to the Tower.

The Lord Admiral had received Elizabeth with a grave civility. Since she had got herself out of Gardiner's hands it was plain that by some miracle she had placated the Queen. He could therefore seem loyal without seeming brutal. And he had other reasons for going delicately with her. His master of ordnance, one Captain Coffin, had sent him some strange news of the fleet.

To the amazement of them both came the Earl of Sussex, with his scarred brow drawn and his soldierly bark: “Madam, you must to the Tower. The Queen's pleasure. A barge waits, and you must go with the tide, which tarries for no one.”

Elizabeth answered him haughtily. He must be blundering. She had but just seen her good sister, who was Sussex showed her the warrant in the Queen's hand. She lost her temper; she had been so sure that Mary was conquered. “Here are the practices of my enemies!” she cried.

“Enemies, madam?” Sussex growled. “'Tis the Queen.”

She bit her lip and changed her tone, and begged him, with pathos and ready tears, to let her come to the Queen's feet.

“That I durst not,” quoth Sussex gruffly. “No more is it convenient for you.” She wept skilfully again. “No boot, madam,” he growled. “Will you, nill you, go you must. And good will's best. Come, cloak and hood. Force looks ill.”

“Force?” she cried. “You dare?”

“I durst not not dare,” he shrugged.

She stamped out of the room; but it was the defeat, not fear, that angered her.

Under a sullen sky the air was a haze of chill rain. Close guarded by the white coat men-at-arms, Elizabeth crossed the garden to the river. She checked a moment and stared up at the Queen's window. There was no one to see. She gave a little hard laugh and turning to Sussex: “I marvel what the nobles mean that suffer their King's daughter to be led into captivity.”

Sussex gave no sign. She turned and stared at the Lord Admiral on her other hand. The words were for Sussex, the meaning for him, and she saw that he understood.

The barge lay moored by the steps. She was hardly aboard before they cast off and sped down stream. She sat apart, huddled in her cloak, her face white and keen. She had cause enough to fear. On such a journey her mother had been borne, to find a swift release in death. But it was not fear of death that tortured her mind. She was racked with hate and a passionate desire to conquer.

The grey walls loomed close through the rain. The barge drew in to the beach by Traitor's Gate and grounded. Sussex jogged her elbow.

“Land here?” she cried. “Must I walk the water for you?”

“You must not choose,” Sussex growled.

“Oh, brave!” she laughed in his face, and sprang to the stone ramp. She flung back her cloak and took a poise which set off her fine form finely. “Here lands as true a subject,” she cried, “as Queen or King had ever!” And turning her eyes to heaven: “Before Thee, O God, I speak it, having no friend but Thee alone.”

“If it be so,” said the Admiral, “so were it best. Will you go in, madam?” She looked round once at the river and the free world, and passed to her prison.

That night the Admiral, pondering over his papers, was moved to write once more to Captain Coffin, his master of ordnance in the fleet at Portsmouth.

In her narrow room under the great alarm bell of the Tower Elizabeth was visited by lords of the council, who plied her with questions to make her entangle herself in treason. This was a game at which she was easily master of them all, and it ended with some of them asking her pardon and some professing sorrow for her, while she piously prayed God forgive them all.

Mary, the Queen, lonely among intriguers who only cared for her as their tool, was torn in an agony of doubt. The conscience, the religion that would not have her kill without proof of guilt, fought wildly for her soul with the bigotry that bade her make an end of the heretic and the long pent hungry desires of womanhood. Day by day Renard and Gardiner tempted her desires to madness with fresh craft.

Elizabeth had won leave to walk in the little garden of the Tower. On a mellow spring evening she found a man there before her. It was Sir Thomas Wyatt, all his eager vehemence gone, listless and squalid. She drew in her breath. Was this another trap? He saw her and bowed with a scornful smile. “I wish you well, madam.”

“Then you will not know me,” she breathed.

He laughed. “Have no fear. I was promised life if I would own you [sic] part in my revolt.”

“Well, sir?”

“Well, madam, I have preferred to die.”

She was all smiles, and then controlled herself and looked nobly sad: “Sir, there can be no thanks for noble, knightly honour, but a woman's sore sorrow for the death of a right noble, knightly heart.”

“You were always skilful with words, madam,” he smiled. “I give you joy. It is a fortunate life to know nothing.” He laughed. “You—know nothing, you remember. Madam, I give you good-night.” He turned away. The warders were at the gate. He stayed a moment bidding good-night to the flowers. He died in the morning.

All this while the Admiral deserves the pity due to a virtuous man embarrassed with the necessity of doing something important. To save England from the dominion of Spain it was plainly his duty to keep Elizabeth alive. He had let news of her danger pass to the fleet. He had carefully reported the angry, mutinous murmurs of the fleet to the Queen. But the Queen made it not matter for fear or warning but rage.

To his perplexities was announced Captain Coffin, the master of ordnance. The Admiral was nervous. “What brings you, man? What news from Portsmouth?”

Captain Coffin grinned broadly. “Storms and tumults and murderous oaths,” said he. “They're a wasp's nest, with your foot in it, as you might say.”

The Admiral execrated them for fools.

Captain Coffin opened his little eyes. “Where's the wind now, my lord? You being so careful they should hear of Madam Elizabeth's troubles, I thought you would like them to run free.”

“How shall that serve? Save to hang us all. The Queen is the more bitter against her.”

Captain Coffin began to look cunning. “She is slow on the helm is Madam Queen. Would you say now this Spanish marriage is a match?”

The Admiral gave a rueful laugh and fumbled amongst his papers. “Here is an order that we sail to Flanders to make a convoy for the Prince of Spain.”

Captain Coffin's face set like a plump mask. “And very pretty company for we, to be sure,” said he. “But, O Lord, O Lord, if we be to take a Prince of Spain we must have more ordnance. We be so light in our metal, the Frenchys o' Dunkirk could eat mun alive. But there's very pretty ordnance to the Tower, my lord. Would you take me there now and we would see what we could borrow of the longshore gunners.”

“What do you mean?” said the Admiral sharply. Captain Coffin said what he had said all over again. “You'll be pleased to mean no more than that,” said the Admiral.

“I' fegs,” quoth Captain Coffin, “I like my head as much as any and more than most. Being it's better worth liking.”

The Admiral waved him away and he went and drank sack with his friend, Captain Hawkins, who, full of wine and more subtle spirits, rode the night through to Portsmouth.

The next day betimes a wherry came down to the Tower and the Admiral followed his master of ordnance from gun to gun round the ramparts. Captain Coffin was profusely technical, and his zeal could not be satisfied. He demanded more guns and still more guns till the Admiral was weary. He thrust himself into strange places in the search for them, and at last made for the garden. “Go to, man,” the Admiral cried, “do you think they keep their ordnance among the gillyflowers?”

“It's what you might look for with they longshore gunners,” quoth Captain Coffin.

“You have dragged me through it twice on your rounds,” the Admiral protested.

“The third time is lucky,” quoth Captain Coffin, and they entered to find Elizabeth there. “I' fegs, here be a fine lady,” he said in a loud whisper. “Who will she be, my lord?”

The Admiral looked hard at him. “It is Madam Elizabeth, sirrah.”

Captain Coffin opened his mouth. “And is that Madam Elizabeth?” he said and chuckled. “And a buxom, sonsy wench to be sure.”

Elizabeth turned smiling and knew him, and guessed that she was not meant to know him. “Good morrow, good fellow.”

Captain Coffin saluted. “Captain Peter Coffin, master of ordnance to the fleet, if you please. And just sailing to get madam, your sister, the Prince of Spain for a husband.”

The Admiral drew back in a hurry. He had no wish to make one in a conversation turned so. Elizabeth still smiled sweetly. “And will you do so, Captain Coffin?” she said.

“If you please. And so be all be well.”

“The fleet will bring the Prince of Spain!” She laughed. “May I be alive to see.”

Captain Coffin scratched his head. “Ay, ay, and so be it,” he said. “For there's perils of the deep, to be sure. And I have heard tell a silly sailors' tale that if you was not alive to greet him he would never smell English land. Some talks of telling that to Madam Queen. But you'm no mind for such tales.”

Elizabeth stooped and plucked a rose. “I like tales well told,” she said.

Captain Coffin saluted. “'Tis a sailorman's trade,” said he, and turned to look for his Admiral, who had vanished. “Now that's good sense, too,” he remarked. “Which is what I never hope of Admirals.”

He found that the Admiral had taken the wherry and left him to find his own way back, so he dined nobly and leisurely in Eastcheap. You find him next covered with dust and mud, rolling into the Admiral's cabinet. The Admiral, remarking his filth and the wanderings of his bright eyes, cried out: “Thou art drunk, rogue.”

“Sober as an angel.” Captain Coffin's speech was miraculously clear. “My lord, I be come to tell ye this last order to be a convoy to the Prince of Spain hath set fire to the linstocks. They do swear in the fleet that while Madam Elizabeth is in prison they will not have e'er a Spaniard land. They'm making ready to sail to hold the narrow seas against mun. The which news I have rid till I am sore to bring you for Madam, the Queen.”

The Admiral frowned at him. “How canst think such a trick will serve?”

“A farthing for all tricks. This be holy truth.” He leered at the Admiral. “John Hawkins rode to Portsmouth last night to make it true.”

The Admiral exclaimed: “Out on it! Hawkins and you—you dream yourselves admirals.”

“God ha' mercy! And do you think then it's you gilt and carven Admirals that make the fleet?. You'm the pretty wooden ladies on the bow. 'Tis we, your tarry, old sailormen, that con the ship. By the Lord, my Lord Admiral, if we'm fretted more, we'll turn our culverins on the Prince of Spain and the Queen too belike. Get you to Madam Queen and teach her sense.”

The Admiral was the more startled because he had always had the wit to know the truth of it. But the old seamen whom the fleet trusted had ever been cautious and complaisant to the noble gentlemen set over them. If Captain Coffin spoke out, he must feel sure of himself. And if he were right, if the fleet would follow him, what answer was there but yielding?

He took himself to the Queen, and, wrapping it in such loyalty as he could, told Captain Coffin's tale. At first she raged like her father. She would have no scurvy seamen deny her will. She would hang every man of them.

“So be it, madam,” the Admiral bowed. “And if they sail and hold the seas against the Prince of Spain, what then is to do?” Whereat she began to rate him for a traitor. “If I were a traitor, madam,” he said, “I should gladly hear you so beside yourself.”

She was something ashamed, and her passion so checked, began to think, and discovered the whole difficulty of her case. “Well, my lord, well. You are pleased to acquaint me with dangers. Show me how I may avoid them, since you will not have me dare.”

“Methinks, madam, there need be no danger,” said the Admiral smoothly. “These foolish lads of the fleet intend no dishonour to you nor yet to the Prince of Spain. They do but rage against him since it is believed Madam Elizabeth is held in durance at his order. The which, were it true, no good Englishman would endure. If it were your pleasure to set her free they would welcome Prince Philip right gladly. But else, I profess, I see no good will for him.”

He expected another outbreak. But she sat quiet and thoughtful, her head upon her hand. Indeed, she saw a way out of her perplexities. If the fleet would not suffer the Spaniard to come till Elizabeth was free, Spain could no more demand the girl's death. And she would be guiltless of blood, yet win her husband. “My lord, you told me a good fellow had ridden from the fleet with news. Bring him to audience.”

The Admiral was very willing. He had more confidence in Captain Coffin's subtleties than his own. But when he came back with his man, still artistically dirty, he found Renard at the Queen's elbow.

“You bring tidings, good fellow,” Mary said graciously.

Captain Coffin saluted again. “I be come having rid till I am as raw as beef, saving your Majesty's presence, forasmuch as the fleet is in a naughty temper. They do swear that while Madam Elizabeth is in prison they will not have e'er a Spaniard land. They'm making ready to sail to hold the narrow seas against mun, and do swear that if they do catch mun they will sell him to the Frenchys. For they do hold in their follies that 'tis by my lord of Spain's ill will King Harry's daughter is endangered.”

Mary turned to Renard. “You hear?”

“I hear that your Majesty hath mutinous rascals in your service.”

“Now that is not reason, neither,” quoth Captain Coffin.

“How say you, good fellow?” said Mary.

“Why, I say, if you be minded to keep madam in prison, keep her. Keep the Prince of Spain out of England, too, and all is well. You'm Queen and may have your way. What the sailormen will not abide is his'n.”

She turned to Renard with a smile. “You hear?”

He stared at her, wondering how she had found courage to defy him. “I hear a malapert knave,” he growled.

“Now that's scurvy,” muttered Captain Coffin. The Admiral motioned him to silence. Mary, smiling, bade him speak. “Why now, 'tis no knavery to say that Madame Queen hath no need of any Prince of Spain, being as she is Queen of England that takes orders of none.”

She laughed. “There's a right Englishman,” her deep voice rang. She gave him her hand to kiss. The Admiral ushered him out.

Renard glowered at her. He had no weapon to use against that temper. He had labelled her an old maid sick of love who would do anything for a husband. And now he dared not so much as taunt her, for her fleet commanded the seas and she boasted its enmity to Spain. He had counted on her hungry desires to conceal from her that Spain coveted the marriage, which would make a sure alliance with England's power, as much as she. Now, thanks to this boor of a sailor, she commanded the Spaniard to take her on her own terms as though he could not afford to refuse. And there was no answer in the world but yielding. Renard felt himself bitterly misused.

“Well, sir, well?” she cried.

He yielded with the worst grace. “I see, madam, my counsel is not to your taste.”

“Is that my fault or yours?” she said gaily. “Methinks you have done your possible to make your master hated. But I will make him amends,” she laughed and looked quaintly demure. “I'll bid my sister to a house in the country. Tell him that he may come without fear.”

Renard was afraid to say anything for rage.

The next day the gates of the Tower opened for Elizabeth, and as her barge came upstream the guns of the merchants in the steelyard thundered for joy. So for the first time the fleet saved her from Spain. But she, as she sat grave and thoughtful, gave thanks to none but her own ingenious mind. That was ever her way. She found it satisfying and economical.