W ith the rebellion quelled, Queen Mary and her councillors had time to consider the behaviour of the Lady Elizabeth, and on 9 February they dispatched three councillors, Lord William Howard, Sir Edward Hastings, and Sir Thomas Cornwallis, and two royal physicians, Dr Thomas Wendy and Dr George Owen, to Ashridge to determine whether the princess was indeed as sick as she had claimed to be. As both Queen and Council believed Elizabeth to have been implicated in Wyatt's rebellion, the doctors were under instructions to bring her to court in Mary's own litter if, in their professional opinion, she could be safely moved. Renard had his own suspicions that Elizabeth was pregnant with Courtenay's child, while the malicious de Noailles was putting it about that Mary had tried to poison her.
The physicians duly examined Elizabeth and concluded that, although she was suffering from 'watery humours' (probably nephritis), she was able 'without danger to her person' to travel to court. The princess, although 'very willing and conformable, much feared her weakness to be so great that she should not be able to endure the journey without peril of life', and pleaded for a few days' grace until she had better recovered her strength. But when told that all excuses must be set aside, she agreed to be ready to leave on 12 February.
Elizabeth had good cause to fear her arrival in London, for the Queen was coming under increasing pressure to deal with her sister as she had dealt with Lady Jane Grey. Renard repeatedly declared that he would not know any peace of mind until two more heads had fallen -those of Elizabeth and Courtenay, 'the two people most able to cause trouble to the realm. Her Majesty is absolutely determined to have strict justice done.' When these traitors had been removed, he told the Queen, 'Your Majesty need have no fear for your crown.'
Gardiner also urged Mary to proceed against Elizabeth, preaching openly before the court that, by cutting off its 'hurtful members', she would be showing mercy to the whole commonwealth. He also instructed that Wyatt be rigorously questioned in order to make him reveal Elizabeth's involvement in his conspiracy. De Noailles, however, who had been privy to the plot, and was lucky to have escaped censure by the Queen, was adamant that neither the princess nor Courtenay had had anything to do with it.
Courtenay was easily snared, for it was possible for the Queen to accuse him of treasonable negligence in failing to help prevent Wyatt's hordes from entering London. This was rather unfair, since Courtenay had received no training in the martial arts, but it served to put him safely behind bars. On 12 February, half an hour after Lady Jane's head had fallen in the straw, Courtenay was brought through the privy gate beneath St Thomas's Tower (now called Traitors' Gate) into the Tower of London, where he was given his old room in the Bell Tower. Soon afterwards he underwent five examinations by Sir Robert Southwell on behalf of the Council, and was also brought face to face with Wyatt, but all he would admit was that a servant of his had gone to France without his permission. After his arrest, his mother, the Marchioness of Exeter, was banished from court, and on 3 March, Courtenay himself was moved to St Thomas's Tower.
On that same day, at nine in the morning, Elizabeth and her escort set out from Ashridge. When the princess was led forth from the house, 'she was very faint and feeble, and in such a case that she was ready to swoon three or four times', but at last she was settled into the litter. The three councillors showed her every consideration, riding very slowly and covering only six or seven miles a day. Even so, Elizabeth was violently sick several times during the journey, and de Noailles heard later that she was 'so ill that her life was despaired of.
On 21 February, Elizabeth and her escort spent the night at the house of a Mr Cholmley at the village of Highgate on the hills north of London, and on the 22nd they began their descent to the city. Elizabeth, who had that morning donned a white gown to enhance her alarming pallor, now had the curtains of the litter drawn apart so that the crowds who gathered to see her could see how ill she looked. 'She was a pitiful sight,' wrote de Noailles. Her face, like her body, was grossly swollen and she could not smile for the people, which prompted Renard to conclude that she was deliberately putting on a 'proud, lofty and defiant' air in order to cover her mortification at the way in which she was being treated. The ambassador believed that her symptoms were caused solely by a guilty conscience.
Upon arrival at Whitehall, most of her attendants were dismissed. She asked for an audience with the Queen, but was informed that Her Majesty would not see her until she had been closely examined by the Council concerning her recent conduct. For the present, she must remain in her apartments, which were isolated from the rest of the court and heavily guarded. The room above her bedchamber belonged to her Scots cousin, Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox (daughter of Henry VIII's sister Margaret), who deliberately turned it into a kitchen so that the princess would be continually disturbed by the noisy 'casting down of logs, pots and vessels'. There were rumours that Mary would set aside Henry VIII's will and name the Countess her successor, and - with her eye on the crown - Margaret Douglas seized every opportunity to denigrate Elizabeth to Mary and report every snippet of gossip that tended to confirm her guilt.
In London, the dreadful consequences of the rebellion were soon all too evident. On 14 February, forty-five rebels were hanged; more suffered at Southwark the next day. Soon afterwards thirty were marched to Kent to be dispatched there as an example to the people, although some were pardoned before they arrived. In all, more than a hundred people were executed. The Queen gave orders that their bodies were to be displayed on gibbets at every street corner, and before long the Londoners were averting their eyes from the ghastly spectacles and holding their breath to avoid the stench of rotting corpses. Above the city gates severed heads and dismembered limbs hung gruesomely. Even so, Mary felt compelled to exercise her prerogative of mercy in some cases; when the wives of 400 rebel soldiers besought her to pardon their husbands, she made a grand gesture: the condemned men, wearing halters about their necks, were brought into the courtyard of Whitehall Palace and pardoned by their sovereign. Even Jane Wyatt, Wyatt's wife, was treated with sympathy by the Queen, although there was no question of her husband being pardoned.
Most of Wyatt's rank and file were in fact allowed to return home unmolested. It was the gentlemen and nobles who were suspected of complicity that were imprisoned, among them Sir James Crofts and Sir Peter Carew, who was arrested at Antwerp and sent back to England in a fishing boat. Mary had him imprisoned in the Tower, where he stayed until his release in 1556.
On 15 February, Mary triumphantly informed the Emperor that the rebellion had been successfully suppressed, concluding, 'I trust therefore that the result will be to establish my reign more firmly than ever to enable the alliance with my lord the Prince to be concluded and to purify the kingdom by exemplary punishment inflicted on the guilty.'
Simultaneously, Renard was sending Philip a carefully-censored account of the rising, claiming it was a minor disturbance over religious issues. The ambassador, aware that Philip had made no attempt to communicate with Mary since the marriage treaty was signed, was at pains to emphasise that England was perfectly safe for Spaniards.
The Prince had actually been busy making preparations to come to England, and at the beginning of February had begun to assemble his fleet at La Coruna and to gather his household. He planned to take with him 3000 courtiers, 1500 mules and 60 ships. His father, however, continued to urge haste, and he had to abandon his plan to take such a large retinue. He assured the Emperor that he would cross to England as soon as his new ships were seaworthy, and promised to take only as many servants as were strictly necessary, for he was aware he would be expected to 'accept the services of natives in order to show them that I mean to trust myself to them, and favour them as if I were an Englishman born'. Before long, however, Philip had learned from his father of the real reason for Wyatt's rebellion, and this naturally made him less than eager to depart for England.
Others were also having second thoughts. On Mary's thirty-eighth birthday on 16 February, she received a discouraging letter from William Peto, Cardinal Pole's chief aide, urging her not to marry: 'You will fall into the power and become the slave of your husband. At your advanced age you cannot hope to bear children without peril of your life.'
Even Renard, fearful for his young master's safety, was counselling Philip to delay his arrival until the autumn, and secretly hoped that the whole matter might be re-thought. But, despite all the gloomy forecasts, Mary was determined to be married as soon after Easter as possible.
On 17 February, Suffolk was attainted and condemned for supporting the rebels, and six days later was beheaded on Tower Hill. His head fell into sawdust that had become impregnated with tannin, which preserved the head perfectly for 400 years. It was shown as an object of curiosity until the Second World War, but after that it was buried in St Botolph s Church, Aldgate, London. The rest of Suffolk's body was interred on the day of his death in St Peter ad Vincula within the Tower.
Soon afterwards, Lady Katherine Grey's marriage to Pembroke's heir was annulled and the Queen brought her to live at court, granting her an annual allowance of £80, and treating her and her hunchbacked sister Mary Grey with great favour. This led many to believe that Katherine might supplant Elizabeth as Mary's successor, and some Protestants were in favour of this because, as well as being of undoubted legitimacy, Katherine had been reared in the reformed faith. But before long it was being said she might convert to the Roman faith, which led those of that persuasion to declare that they would prefer her to the other Catholic heiresses, Mary, Queen of Scots and Margaret Douglas, because they feared the intervention of the French and the Scots in English affairs.
On 9 March, less than a month after the execution of her husband, the Duchess of Suffolk remarried, causing a scandal because her bridegroom was her impecunious, low-born master of horse, Adrian Stokes. Not only was he a poor match for a princess of the blood, but he was also, at twenty-one, half her age. Furthermore, it seems that the marriage was rendered necessary because Frances had become pregnant, for later that year she bore a daughter, Elizabeth, who died in infancy. Even though Queen Mary received the newly-wedded pair, she would not allow Frances's elder daughters to return to her care, but sent them instead to live under the guardianship of the formidable Dowager Duchess of Somerset at Hanworth. Here Katherine met the Duchess's son, Lord Hertford, who would later marry her clandestinely. As for the Duchess of Suffolk, she bore Stokes two sons who did not live, died in 1559, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
There was still no word from Philip, apart frorn^a formal agreement to a proxy betrothal ceremony, which took place on 6 March at Whitehall. Count Egmont, who had returned to England for the purpose, represented the groom, and knelt with Mary before Bishop Gardiner, who officiated at the ceremony, in the presence of the entire Council. Afterwards, the Queen knelt before the Holy Sacrament and called upon God to witness that she was marrying Prince Philip, not out of any carnal affection or desire, nor for any motive whatsoever but the honour and prosperity of the realm. She called upon all those present to pray that God would give her the grace to accomplish the marriage, and that He would look upon the union with favour. Egmont then placed upon the Queen's finger a ring sent by the Emperor, which she received with obvious pleasure and displayed afterwards to her councillors. The betrothal was considered binding on both parties.
The Council, meanwhile, had been doing their best to uncover evidence incriminating Elizabeth. Sir James Crofts was 'marvellously tossed and examined' by 'Mr Secretary' Sir John Bourne, but gave away nothing. On 25 February, Wyatt was also interrogated by Bourne, but the latter was obliged to tell Gardiner that, even though he had resorted to torture, he could not make the prisoner reveal anything about communicating with the princess. Later, after several agonising sessions on the rack, Wyatt admitted that he had contacted her twice, once to warn her to leave London for her own safety, and once to advise her that he had arrived at Southwark. On the first occasion she had sent Willaim Saintlow to thank him and say she would do as she thought fit. Saintlow, however, 'stoutly denied' that any of this had happened, 'protesting that he was a true man, both to God and his prince'. Lord Russell, one of the rebel leaders, confessed to having delivered letters from Wyatt to Elizabeth, but no trace of them was ever found, nor was there any proof that she had responded to them.
On 1 March, Renard reported that Crofts had 'admitted in plain terms the intrigues of the French ambassador with the heretics and rebels', but there was no evidence to prove that Elizabeth had furnished de Noailles with the letter found in his postbag. And when Wyatt was tried and found guilty on 15 March, he would say nothing further about the princess beyond what he had already confessed. He did, however, declare that he was only the fourth or fifth man in the rebellion, claiming that Courtenay had been the prime mover.
Without proof of her complicity, there was no case against Elizabeth, but Renard could not understand why Mary and her Council were so at pains to find direct proof. 'She has been accused by Wyatt, mentioned by name in the French ambassador's letters, suspected by the councillors, and it is certain that the enterprise was undertaken for her sake. If she does not seize this opportunity of punishing her and Courtenay, the Queen will never be safe,' he fumed. However, he had discovered to his dismay 'that the law as laid down by the English Parliament does not inflict the capital penalty on those who have consented to treason if they have committed no overt act'. In the ambassador's opinion, it looked as if someone - Gardiner, probably -was being deliberately negligent 'in the hope that something may crop up to save' Elizabeth and Courtenay.
Gardiner was in fact one of those who had continually urged Mary to proceed against Elizabeth, yet he had been hampered by his concern to protect Courtenay, for it was likely that the prosecution of one would lead to the incrimination of the other. The Chancellor, however, was convinced that the removal of Elizabeth was essential, even though he had to admit that there was as yet no case against her.
'As long as she lives,' he told Renard, 'I have no hope of seeing the kingdom at peace.'
Mary felt the same. 'My sister's character is just what I have always believed it to be,' she confided bitterly to Renard, but even though she was in favour of having Elizabeth indicted for treason, she had to admit that it would be inadvisable to institute criminal proceedings against her at this stage; Paget and others had warned her that to do so might well precipitate another rebellion. However, both Queen and Council were convinced of Elizabeth's guilt and debated long and hard what to do with her. Some lords favoured keeping the princess under house arrest in the country, but no one was willing to have so dangerous a person under his roof, and the idea was abandoned.
By the middle of March, the councillors were bitterly divided in their opinions and unable to find a solution. The Queen was to leave London for Oxford shortly, and it was essential that Elizabeth be placed in safe custody, in a place where she could wreak no mischief. Gardiner urged that she be confined to the Tower and there questioned further about her activities, but this provoked a violent clash of opinions, for many lords believed that Mary would not live long after her marriage and that Elizabeth might soon be their queen; how, then, would she deal with those who had brought about her imprisonment? Gardiner, however, by sheer good sense and force of character, prevailed; the Queen agreed, insisting that her sister be dealt with fairly; and on the 16th Renard learned to his satisfaction that Elizabeth's fate had been settled.
On that Friday the princess received a visit from the Lord Chancellor and nineteen lords of the Council, who questioned her closely about her involvement in Wyatt's rebellion. Gardiner warned her that she would incur the severest penalties if she did not admit her guilt and throw herself upon the Queen's mercy. Elizabeth firmly denied that she had done anything worthy of reproach, saying she could not ask mercy for a fault she had not committed. Firmly believing that she had only to come face to face with her sister in order to convince her of her innocence, she asked for an audience with the Queen, only to be told that Mary was about to leave London.
'It is the Queen's pleasure that you should go to the Tower while the matter is further tried and examined,' she was informed, to her horror. For her, this was the worst punishment that could be devised, for in that grim fortress her mother had suffered the agonies of confinement as a condemned prisoner and died a terrible death. What else could her own imprisonment portend but a similar fate? The executions of Jane Grey, Guilford Dudley and Suffolk had been, she was sure, but a prelude to her own. Vigorously, and with some desperation, Elizabeth again denied having had any involvement with Wyatt, 'affirming that she was altogether guiltless therein. I trust the Queen's Majesty will be a more gracious lady unto me than to send me to so notorious and so doleful a place.'
But the councillors could offer her no reassurance on that point, and bowed out of the room 'with their caps hanging over their eyes'. An hour later, four lords returned with orders to dismiss the princess's servants and replace them with six members of the royal household who could be trusted to ensure that 'none should have access to Her Grace'. That night, a hundred soldiers in white coats were set on watch in the gardens of Whitehall, whilst a huge fire burned in the great hall as the Council appointed two of their number - the Marquess of Winchester and the Earl of Sussex - to escort the princess to the Tower on the morrow.
These gentlemen duly presented themselves in her apartments on the morning of Saturday, 17 March, and informed Elizabeth that a barge was waiting to take her to the Tower; she must come without delay for the tide 'tarrieth for nobody'. There was no charge, for the lords of the Council could not agree on one. Elizabeth, visibly distressed, was ready to try any delaying tactics, and begged them to wait for the next tide, which would allow her another day of freedom. Her request was refused, as was her plea to see the Queen. She then asked if she could write a letter to Mary before leaving for the Tower. Winchester told her that he dared not permit such a thing, which he believed would do more harm than good. Sussex, however, remembering that they were in the presence of a lady who might one day become their queen, fell to his knees before Elizabeth and said, 'You shall have liberty to write your mind and, as I am a true man, I will deliver your letter to the Queen and beg an answer, whatsoever comes thereof Pen and paper were fetched, and the princess sat down to write the most difficult letter she had ever been driven to compose.
If any ever did try this old saying, that a king's word was more than another man's oath, I most humbly beseech Your Majesty to verify it to me, and to remember your last promise and my last demand, that I be not condemned without answer and due proof, which it seems that now I am; for that without cause proved I am by your Council from you commanded to go into the Tower, a place more wonted for a false traitor than a true subject, which, though I know I deserve it not, yet in face of all this realm appears that it is proved.
I protest afore God, Who shall judge my truth, whatsoever malice shall devise, that I never practised, counselled nor consented to anything that might be prejudicial to your person in any way, or dangerous to the state by any means. And I therefore humbly beseech Your Majesty to let me answer afore yourself and not suffer me to trust to your councillors; yea, and afore that I go to the Tower, if it is possible; if not, afore I be further condemned. Let conscience make Your Highness take some better way with me, than to make me condemned in all men's sight afore my desert known. I have heard in my time of many cast away for want of coming to the presence of their prince; and in late days I heard my Lord Somerset say that if his brother had been suffered to speak with him, he had never suffered, but the persuasions were made to him too great that he was brought in belief that he could not live safely if the Admiral lived, and that made him give his consent to his death. Though these persons are not to be compared to Your Majesty, yet I pray God as evil persuasions persuade not one sister against the other, and all for that they have heard false report. Therefore, once again, kneeling with humbleness of heart because I am not suffered to bow the knees of my body, I humbly crave to speak with Your Highness, which I would not be so bold to desire if I knew not myself most clear, as I know myself most true. As for the traitor Wyatt, he might peradventure write me a letter, but on my faith I never received any from him; and as for the copy of my letter sent to the French King, I pray God confound me eternally if ever I sent him word, message, letter or token by any means, and to this my truth I will stand in till my death.
By now Elizabeth's handwriting was becoming less controlled; that and her frequent deletions and amendments betrayed her consuming anxiety. She had come to a halt near the top of a page; if she signed it now, her enemies might forge some incriminating statement in the space that was left, and so encompass her ruin. To prevent this she drew diagonal lines across the offending space, then concluded, 'I humbly crave but one word of answer from yourself. Your Highness's most faithful subject that hath been from the beginning and will be to my end, Elizabeth.'
Meanwhile, time had been creeping on, and the waiting councillors realised that they had missed the tide. The Thames would now be so low that it would be dangerous to attempt to steer the barge between the piers supporting London Bridge. The next favourable tide would occur at midnight, but transferring the prisoner under cover of darkness would be risky in case there was an attempt by London Protestants to rescue her. Winchester and Sussex therefore decided to wait until the next morning, which would be Palm Sunday; the journey could be made when the citizens were in church, so as to avoid any popular demonstration on Elizabeth's behalf.
When Elizabeth finished writing, she handed her letter to Sussex, who immediately took it to the Queen. The sight of it made Mary very angry, as did news of the delay it had caused, and she refused to look at it.
'Such a thing would never have been allowed in my father's time,' she raged at the quailing Sussex. 'I would he could come back, if only for a month, and give my councillors the rebuke they richly deserve!'
It rained heavily the next morning, but at nine o'clock Sussex and Winchester came to inform Elizabeth that the Queen would not see her. Instead, they were to escort her to the waiting barge and convey her by river to the Tower.
'The Lord's will be done. If there be no remedy, I must needs be contented,' she said, but as they hastened through the gardens of the palace to the river stairs, she kept looking behind her, hoping she might see the Queen at a window and attract her attention.
'I marvel much at the nobility of the rearm,' she cried scornfully, 'who suffer me to be led into captivity, the Lord knows whither, for I do not.' Sussex replied that quite a few members of the Council 'were sorry for her trouble', and he was himself sorry that he had lived to see this day.
Accompanying Elizabeth were six ladies-in-waiting - three of the Queen's and three of her own - and a gentleman usher and two grooms, who all sat with her in the cabin of the barge, out of the rain. Even now, at high tide, the craft nearly capsized whilst navigating London Bridge, and as it turned towards the privy gate of the Tower of London, a shaken Elizabeth emerged from the cabin and pleaded with Winchester and Sussex to be allowed to enter the fortress through any gate other than this one, for many had passed through it and never come out again. Such a gate was not fit for a princess to enter, and she would not use it, she declared. The lords refused to listen, whereupon she grew impatient at their insensitivity, and sulked. However, seeing that she was becoming soaked, Winchester offered her his cloak, but she pushed it away 'with a good dash'.
Above the privy stairs the kindly Lieutenant, Sir John Bridges, waited with a troop of yeomen warders to receive his prisoner. But after her escort had alighted from the barge, Elizabeth refused to leave it, complaining that she would get her shoes wet, and sat glaring at the waiting guards. Winchester turned back and informed her that she had no choice but to accompany them.
Elizabeth placed one foot on the stairs and cried, 'Here landeth as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, O God, do I speak it, having no other friend than Thee alone. O Lord, I never thought to come in here as a prisoner!' Then, turning to address the yeomen warders, she continued, 'I pray you all, good friends and fellows, bear me witness that I come in as no traitor but as true a woman to the Queen's Majesty as any as is now living; and thereon will I take my death.'
Her speech had such an effect on the warders that a few came to cast themselves on their knees before her, and some cried, 'God preserve Your Grace!'
But at that moment Elizabeth's courage failed her. Death might well await her in this place, and the prospect was so dreadful that she refused to take a step further. Instead, she sat down on the cold, wet flagstones and would not move.
'You were best come out of the rain, madam, for here you sit unwholesomely,' said Sir John Bridges gently.
'It is better sitting here than in a worse place, for God knoweth, I know not, whither you will bring me!' cried Elizabeth, raising a tearful face to him, and for some minutes the Lieutenant's persuasions proved fruidess. Then Elizabeth's usher, moved by her plight, burst into tears. Angrily, she rose to her feet and castigated the poor man for 'uncomfortably using her, seeing she took him to be her comforter'.
'I thank God that I know my truth to be such that no man can have cause to weep for me,' she declared, and with renewed courage allowed Bridges to escort her and her retinue to the rooms prepared for her in the twelfth-century octagonal Bell Tower, which was adjacent to the Lieutenant's Lodging and had housed in its time Edward Courtenay and Sir Thomas More. It had earned its name because within its sixty-foot-high walls hung the great bell that summoned the Tower garrison to arms or sounded an alarm.
Elizabeth's quarters, which had in 1535 been occupied by the martyred John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and would in 1685 be allocated to the doomed Duke of Monmouth, were on the second floor, above More's former cell, and consisted of a large, circular, vaulted chamber boasting a great fireplace and lit by three tall arched windows with seats set in the thickness of the ancient walls. In this room, Elizabeth would spend her days and nights, sleeping in a tester bed, with her ladies disposed about her on pallets on the floor. Outside was a passage leading to three latrines which overhung the moat. Bridges deposited his prisoner and her ladies in the great chamber, then locked the door 'very straitly' behind them. As he did so, Sussex began weeping.
'Let us take heed, my lords,' he warned, 'that we go not beyond our commission, for she was the King our master's daughter as well as the Queen's sister. Let us use such dealing that we may answer it thereafter, if it shall so happen; for just dealing is always answerable.' Bridges and Winchester silently indicated their agreement, whereupon the lords left, deeply pensive.
Throughout her confinement in the Tower Elizabeth was treated with respect and consideration by Bridges, who never forgot who she was and what she might become. He arranged for her to take her meals with him in the Lieutenant's Lodging, which must have aroused conflicting feelings in his prisoner, for her mother had spent her last days in that house, although it had since been refurbished. Elizabeth's servants were allowed out to buy food for her, at her expense, not only to ensure that she might enjoy such luxuries as she was used to, but also to guard against any attempt to poison her.
For recreation, Elizabeth was allowed to walk along the walls, accompanied by five attendants, as far as the Beauchamp Tower. Here too were poignant reminders of Anne Boleyn, and of more recent tragedies, for the wall-walk overlooked the scaffold on Tower Green, a scaffold which might well serve for Elizabeth herself in the near future, or so she feared.
Bridges's superior, the Constable of the Tower, Sir John Gage, soon became concerned at the freedoms permitted the prisoner, and before long Elizabeth found her privileges withdrawn. Her servants were ordered to hand over their provisions at the gate, which meant that they were usually purloined by 'common rascal soldiers'. When the servants complained to Gage, he 'sware by God that, if they did either frown or shrug at him, he would set them where they should see neither sun nor moon', and stated that the princess would be treated the same as any other prisoner. Eventually, a compromise was reached: Elizabeth's servants might bring food in for her, as long as Gage was able to employ the services of her skilled cook. 'And good cause why, for he had good cheer and fared of the best, and Her Grace paid well for it.'
There were other petty restrictions, though. The princess was not allowed pen or paper because she was forbidden to communicate with anyone. Being confined to her rooms affected her health so badly that after a month Gage allowed her to walk about in the gloomy Queen's lodgings in the crumbling royal apartments, so long as the windows were closed and she did not look out. As Elizabeth continued to pine for fresh air, he was obliged to permit her to use the Lieutenant's walled garden, as long as she was escorted by an armed warder and the gate was locked.
One day, as she sat in the garden, a five-year-old boy, the son of the Keeper of the Wardrobe, accompanied by a child 'not above three or four years' called Susannah, came to the gate and offered a posy of flowers; with them was another little girl who presented Elizabeth with a miniature bunch of keys 'so that she might unlock the gate and go abroad'. Their visits became a regular occurrence until Gage became suspicious, and there came a day when, as the boy offered his floral tribute, the guard swooped, and the terrified child was borne off and questioned closely as to who had given him the flowers. Was any secret message concealed within them? Was it from the prisoner Courtenay? Of course, the posy had been an innocent, childish gift, but the boy was warned that he would be soundly whipped if he dared to speak to the princess again. Nevertheless, he bravely returned the next day and called through the gate, 'Mistress, I can bring you no more flowers now.' She smiled, but did not answer.
For all the kindness shown her, Elizabeth suffered both physically and mentally as a result of her imprisonment. She was in a ferment of anxiety as to what was going to happen to her, and went daily in mortal fear of being executed. Many years later she confided to the French envoy Castelnau that she was so desolate and despairing that she thought only of asking the Queen to have her beheaded by a swordsman, as her mother had been, because she knew it would guarantee a quick death not always afforded by the axe.
There may, fortunately, have been lighter moments. Historians have long speculated that Elizabeth's enduring romance with Lord Robert Dudley, later Earl of Leicester, who was still incarcerated in the Tower with his brothers, may have begun at this time. The two had known each other since childhood, and may have derived comfort from knowing they were near each other. However, it is unlikely that they would have been allowed to meet, and there is no evidence that they did. Besides, Robert had been married for four years to Amy Robsart, who visited him frequently; he could therefore have no legitimate interest in the heiress to the throne.
A week after Elizabeth arrived at the Tower a deputation of ten councillors headed by Gardiner came to question her, and began by 'examining her of the talk that was at Ashridge betwixt her and Sir James Crofts, concerning removing from thence to Donnington Castle, requiring her to declare what she meant thereby'.
Elizabeth hedged. First she denied knowledge of owning such a house, but then she admitted that she did know of it, although she had never visited there and could not remember anyone advising her to do so. At this juncture Crofts was brought in to confront her with his evidence, but she insisted she had little to say to him or 'to the rest that were prisoners in the Tower'.
'My lords,' she said, 'you do examine every mean prisoner of me, wherein, methinks, you do me great injury. If they have done evil and offended the Queen's Majesty, let them answer it accordingly. I beseech you, join not me in this sort with any of these offenders.'
She then confessed that she did remember Crofts suggesting she move to Donnington, but what harm was there in that? 'Might I not, my lords, go to mine own houses at all times?' she asked.
Some of the councillors were beginning to feel rather uncomfortable, and many were at heart unhappy about Elizabeth's imprisonment. Like Sussex and Bridges, they had an eye to the future, and even Arundel, who supported the Spanish marriage, now fell to his knees and told Elizabeth, 'Certainly we are very sorry that we have so troubled you about so vain matters.'
'My lords, you do sift me very narrowly,' she replied, 'but well I am assured you shall not do more to me than God hath appointed, and so God forgive you all.' It was obvious that nothing further was to be gained from the interview, and the councillors departed without having obtained any incriminating evidence at all.
Renard, however, was still expecting to hear that Elizabeth and Courtenay were to be put to death. 'It seems to me', he told the Emperor, 'that while they are alive there will always be plots to raise them to the throne, and it would be just to punish them, as it is publicly known that they are guilty and deserve death. While the Lady Elizabeth lives it will be very difficult to make the Prince's entry here safe.' On 24 March, he told Mary as much, saying that he would not recommend Philip's crossing to England until 'every necessary step' had been taken to ensure that he was not in danger.
Mary burst into tears at this, crying, 'I would rather never have been born than that any harm should be done to His Highness.' At length, she reassured Renard that Elizabeth and Courtenay would be tried before Philip's arrival. As a precaution, she advised, the Prince should bring his own doctors and cooks.
At the end of March, Paget began assembling Philip's household, but when Renard insisted on interfering, 'venomous' disputes arose, for the English courtiers felt that this was their responsibility, not his. The Emperor, meanwhile, was urging Philip to leave for England as soon as possible, as Mary would be disappointed at any delay 'and she does not deserve that'. To the Duke of Alba, who was to accompany the Prince, Charles wrote, 'Duke, for the love of God, see to it that my son behaves in the right manner, for otherwise I tell you I would rather never have taken the matter in hand at all.'
The Council continued to debate what they should do with Elizabeth. Gardiner was all for having her executed in the interests of state security, but his was a minority voice on the Council, most of whose members were aware that her guilt was by no means established and that there was no case against her. The Queen, who agreed with Gardiner, consulted senior judges, but they too advised her that there was no evidence to justify a conviction. Gardiner urged that the princess be at least disinherited, but Paget led his colleagues in violent opposition to this idea, and suggested instead that Elizabeth be married abroad to a friendly Catholic prince. At the same time, Courtenay's friends were pressing for his release and pardon, on the grounds that he had committed no overt act of treason.
By 3 April Renard had reluctandy resigned himself to the fact that the government would not proceed against either Elizabeth or Courtenay. Nothing could be proved against them, nor was it likely that any further evidence of import would come to light, although the Queen still believed that the rebels would not have contacted Elizabeth 'unless they had more certain knowlege of her favour than is yet confessed by her'. But when Wyatt was executed on n April on Tower Hill, he assured the large crowds that had gathered to see him die that neither Elizabeth nor Courtenay were 'privy to my rising'. News of their exoneration by him spread fast, despite efforts by the authorities to suppress it, and provoked joy and pride in the people, in whose affections Elizabeth had always occupied a special place. After he was hanged, Wyatt's body was dismembered and exhibited in different parts of London, but his head was stolen by those who regarded him as a martyr.
Parliament had met on 2 April. There was no opposition to the Queen's marriage treaty being ratified, but an attempt to revive the old law against heresy was thwarted. There was strong feeling, especially in the House of Lords, that a Catholic revival would threaten the continued tenure of those who had been granted Church property after the Reformation. Mary and Gardiner were known to be in favour of reunification with Rome, but Paget stirred up popular feeling in
Parliament against this, and was lucky to escape arrest. Nevertheless, he was obliged to leave court in disgrace. Parliament also authorised a public dispute at Oxford between the imprisoned Protestant bishops, Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley, and a panel of Catholic theologians. At the end of three days, during which a thousand spectators jeered at and interrupted the reformers, the three were denounced as heretics and excommunicated, despite their eloquent and skilful arguments. As there was no law under which heretics could be condemned to death, the three bishops were sent back to prison. »
In the middle of April there were further demonstrations in London against the Queen's impending marriage and her religious reforms. A mysterious voice in a city wall would say 'So be it' in response to 'God save the Lady Elizabeth', but when people said 'God save Queen Mary' it remained silent. Seditious pamphlets were distributed and a dead cat dressed as a priest was hung from the gibbet at Cheapside.
The councillors were still deeply divided over what to do with Elizabeth. 'What one advises, another opposes,' observed Renard. There was no justification for keeping the princess in the Tower, but because the Queen was convinced of her guilt she insisted that it would not be 'honourable, safe or reasonable' to receive her sister at court, and demanded that Elizabeth be held under house arrest in a secure place in the country, where she could be kept under surveillance. As before, few councillors were willing to undertake the responsibility of being Elizabeth's gaoler, but at length a loyal Catholic gentleman and privy councillor, Sir Henry Bedingfield of Oxburgh Hall in Norfolk, who has been one of the first to rally to Mary in July 1553, was nominated.
Gardiner and Renard wanted Elizabeth sent to the North, where most people were Catholics, perhaps to Pontefract Castle, scene of the murder of Richard II in 1400, but Elizabeth's influential uncle, Lord William Howard, opposed this, and it was eventually decided to send her to the ancient royal manor at Woodstock in Oxfordshire. Mary's chief desire was to have Elizabeth out of the way before Philip's arrival, and there may have been an element of personal jealousy as well as fear for her own security in this, in case the striking looks and coquettish manners of her twenty-year-old sister aroused Philip's sense of chivalry or even prompted him to contrast them with Mary's fading charms.
Sir Henry, a former diplomat now in his forties, was the son of Sir Edmund Bedingfield, who had been gaoler to Katherine of Aragon during her imprisonment at Kimbolton Castle in the 15305. Sir Henry was a conscientious man with a rigid sense of principle and duty, one of little imagination who would not be swayed by the caprices of a flirtatious young woman, and he accepted his new responsibilities without question, although with a heavy heart. On 4 May, he arrived at the Tower at the head of a hundred soldiers wearing armour and blue liveries, in readiness to take charge of the princess. When Elizabeth saw them from her window she was greatly alarmed, imagining that they had come to escort her to her execution, and anxiously asked her attendants 'whether the Lady Jane's scaffold were taken away or no'. Even when they assured her that it had been dismantled, she was still convinced that her end was imminent.
Bedingfield - 'a man unknown to Her Grace and therefore the more feared' - then appeared and announced that he had come to make preparations to escort her to a more comfortable place of confinement, the royal manor of Woodstock in Oxfordshire, where he would be her guardian. Elizabeth felt sure that this was a plot to do away with her, and that once she was away from London she would be quietly murdered. Nor did Bedingfield's correct, officious manner reassure her.
'If my murdering were secretly committed to your charge, would you see to the execution thereof?' she asked, with candour born of panic. Bedingfield, shocked, answered that he would certainly not. However, the princess remained fearful, even though she was informed that Sir Henry had orders to protect her from attacks by Catholics or rescue attempts by Protestants.
Two weeks later, at one o'clock on 19 May, the eighteenth anniversary of Anne Boleyn's execution, Elizabeth - escorted by Bedingfield and Lord Williams of Thame, the Sheriff of Oxfordshire — left the Tower by barge and was taken along the Thames to Richmond Palace, then owned by Anne of Cleves. However, to Bedingfield's dismay, it soon became apparent that what had been planned as the discreet transfer of a state prisoner from one place of security to another was rapidly turning into a triumphal progress. German gunners of the Hanseatic League on the Steelyard wharf let offjoyful bursts of cannon-fire when apprised that Elizabeth was passing, and crowds gathered on the banks to see her, cheer and wave.
At Richmond, the princess, believing that her end would be expedited by the demonstrations in her favour, said to Lord Williams, 'Pray for me, for this night I think to die.'
'You need have no such fears; you are safe with me,' soothed Lord Williams, and so it proved: there was no poison cup, no assassin lurking in the shadows. An intruder was found lurking in the grounds, but he turned out to be one of de Noailles's spies, and - stripped to his shirt -was packed off to London for questioning. It turned out he had heard a rumour that Elizabeth was being married off to one of France's
enemies, and was trying to establish if it were true. Because of the disturbance and her fears, the princess spent a 'doleful' night.
The next day she set out in a dilapidated litter to make the journey by road to Windsor, still believing she was on her way to her doom. Again, crowds gathered to watch along the roadside, and she bade a friendly guard go over and pass a message to them:'Tanquam ovis — Like a sheep to the slaughter.' At Windsor, the princess and her escort spent the night at the Dean's house, and when they rode offin the morning the schoolboys of Eton College gave Elizabeth a rousing ovation.
All along the route, the story was the same. Church bells were rung to celebrate Elizabeth's release from the Tower - Bedingfield ordered that the offenders be clapped in the stocks or the lock-up - and the country folk came with their blessings and their simple offerings: cakes, wafers and bunches of herbs or flowers, which they tossed into the litter, or into the arms of the princess's attendants, who could not carry all the gifts she was given. Bedingfield was flustered and irritated by the attention paid to his charge, and did his best to ward off well-wishers, but with little success, and he sourly reported to the Queen that 'betwixt London and this place [the people] be not good in matters of religion'. For all his authority, he could not punish everyone who cried out, 'God save Your Grace!' as the princess passed, although he would dearly have liked to.
After spending the third night at Sir William Dormer's mansion at High Wycombe, Elizabeth was escorted through the villages of the Thames Valley until she was brought to Lord Williams's house at Rycote near Thame where her host held a great banquet in her honour, inviting all his neighbours and friends. Bedingfield thought this was going rather too far, and reprimanded Williams for forgetting that Elizabeth was 'the Queen's Majesty's prisoner, and no otherwise', but he was overruled and the feast went ahead as planned and 'Her Grace was marvellously well entertained.'
At last, after what seemed to Bedingfield an endless four days of unwelcome compromise, they arrived at Woodstock. Even here, a small group of well-wishers awaited them at the gates, much to his disapproval.
The old palace at Woodstock has vanished, having been demolished in 1710 to make way for Blenheim Palace, the magnificent mansion presented by Queen Anne to the Duke of Marlborough, but in its day it was a splendid royal residence. The manor of Woodstock, which was eight miles north of Oxford, had been a royal demesne since Saxon times and a favoured royal residence during the Middle Ages. Here, Henry I had established a menagerie, and legend had it that Henry II had built a maze for his mistress, Fair Rosamund Clifford, so that she could hide from his jealous queen. The Black Prince had been born here, as had numerous other royal infants, and successive kings had used the place as a hunting lodge, but although Henry VII had spent more than £40,000 on repairs and rebuilding between 1494 and 1503, little now remained of the palace's former glories. Its fabric was crumbling and many of the rooms were uninhabitable. The main house, which occupied a site north of the present bridge over the lake in Blenheim Park, was built of stone around two courtyards, but Elizabeth was informed that she was not to lodge here but in four rooms in the gatehouse, two up and two down, which had been furnished with items brought from her own houses or lent by the Queen. One room had a vaulted ceiling painted blue and decorated with gold stars. There was insufficient room for her attendants, who had to find lodgings in the village, and the princess made a great fuss about the poor accommodation, while Bedingfield made a greater fuss when he discovered that the locks did not work on three of the four doors. In fact, he became obsessed with security and suspicious of all contacts with the outside world.
The Queen's instructions to Sir Henry required him to guard his prisoner closely and 'use her in such good and honourable sort as may be agreeable to our honour and her estate and degree'. He must ensure that she had no 'conference with any suspected person out of his hearing, yet permit such strangers whom ye shall think honest to speak with her in your hearing only'. When Elizabeth walked in the gardens or orchard, he was to accompany her. Mrs Ashley was forbidden her presence, and so was Parry, although he was to look after her accounts, and pay Bedingfield's expenses, from his lodging in the nearby Bull Inn, which Sir Henry thought to be 'a marvellous colourable place to practise in', meaning that he saw it as a weak link in his security arrangements. The princess's other servants were to be thoroughly vetted, and watched at all times in case they carried messages. There was to be no cloth of estate above her chair when she dined, nor was she permitted to write or receive any letters. Her laundry was to be searched for hidden messages. Unsuitable books were to be banned. If Elizabeth had any requests, these must be referred to the Council for approval.
Bedingfield followed these instructions to the letter, endeavouring at the same time to retain the goodwill of his demanding and often capricious charge. He was unfailingly courteous to her, even when refusing her many and various requests. She wanted books: a Cicero, an English Bible and the Psalms of David in Latin. She wanted more maids to wait on her. She wanted a tutor so she could converse in foreign tongues. She wanted to walk in the park, as she had been promised. She wanted paper and ink so that she could write to the Council. She wanted to send messages to the Queen by courier. Bedingfield, who was 'marvellously perplexed' by this stream of demands, passed every one on to higher authority, telling her that he was unable to 'grant her desire or say nay'.
'I shall do for Your Grace what I am able to do,' he would say. Elizabeth became very irritated when he would not even grant the most trivial request on his own authority, but he was impervious to her complaints.
Before long, she came to realise that her life was not in danger. Fear was replaced by boredom and frustration, and she took pleasure in baiting Sir Henry or in being deliberately awkward. Often, he confessed, he could not decide 'if her meaning go with her words, whereof God only is judge'. But she never got the better of him. Although he obtained several books for her, he refused to let her have an English Bible because, he said, she was able to read Latin so well that he imagined she would take greater pleasure reading books in that language. Elizabeth took this 'not in good part', nor was she very pleased when one of her favourite ladies, Elizabeth Sands, was dismissed for her 'evil opinions'.
The princess could not bear the restrictions placed upon her, and chafed at her imprisonment, which she felt was entirely undeserved. On one occasion, when Bedingfield accompanied her on her walk in the gardens, she stood watching as he patiently locked six pairs of gates, one after the other, and then lost control of herself.
'Gaoler!' she screamed at him, but he only fell on his knees and begged her not to refer to him by that harsh name.
'I am your officer, appointed to take care of you and protect you from any injury,' he said with feeling. He saw himself as a kindly guardian, and would defer punctiliously to her rank, always kneeling to address her. He took his duties most seriously, and reported all his dealings with his 'great lady' in a series of detailed letters to the Council, which still survive. He divulged that, while Elizabeth was happy to attend mass, she preferred to have parts of the service said in English. Mary was angry to hear this, and Elizabeth had to promise to follow the Latin form, though her sister was still not convinced of her sincerity.
Elizabeth's contemporaries, John Foxe, the martyrologist, and Raphael Holinshed, the chronicler, claim that on one occasion during her captivity she took a diamond ring and scratched on a window pane these words:
Much suspected of me,
Nothing proved can be,
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.
Nothing had been proved against Courtenay either, despite Renard's efforts to secure his conviction for treason, but he was still seen as a menace to the Queen's security and, at Gardiner's suggestion, was sentenced to be banished from the kingdom. His house was given to the Duchess of Somerset, and on 25 May he was released from the Tower into the custody of Sir Thomas Tresham and taken to Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire, a former stronghold of the Yorkists during the Wars of the Roses, now in poor repair and said to be damp. His gaoler was kindly, however, and he was allowed to go out hunting during the summer months whilst the Council debated where to send him.
With both Elizabeth and Courtenay in safe custody, and the memory of Wyatt's rebellion receding into the past, the kingdom was relatively tranquil, and the Queen began to hope for news of Philip's arrival. It seemed that nothing now could prevent their union, and de Noailles commented cynically, 'Perhaps God is permitting this marriage in order to punish them both.'