The Lonely Queen

Front matter

BY H. C. BAILEY

Illustrated by Wal Paget.

Copyright 1910 by H. C. Bailey.

I. The Way She Should Go

I.—THE WAY SHE SHOULD GO.

Note.—This is the story of Elizabeth. You know her best as the Queen of that great age of England which shattered the empire of Spain and won for the English blood and English ideals the heritage of the New World and changed the future of humanity. In the triumph of that fight we see the fierce, keen face of Elizabeth, and that cold Tudor craft of hers and the vehement will. You may read here of her magnificence when the conquering lords of the sea were proud to acclaim her their inspiration, when the most splendid gallants of all history worshipped at her throne, when she made a jest of many a lover and sometimes of herself. But before that you find her forlorn and desperate, plotting to save her birthright and life from the sister who dreaded her, and the Spaniard who hated, and the hungry intriguers who coveted her to be their tool. First of all you must meet her, a sad cunning child in the maze of that cruel court which Henry VIII. made for his greedy passion of mastery. And first and last, by fate or her own proud choice, she stands lonely for the honour of England.

THE palace of Placentia glowed crimson above the broad river. On the lawn a child sat, all red hair and brown frock. A barge of purple and gold was turning against the glittering eddies of the ebb to make the palace stairs. The child started up and revealed herself thin, too small yet for her bones. Out of the flood of red hair, her face was thrust, pale and aquiline. She was running to the walk by the river, when she saw a short drab woman, still and staring. She checked. It was plainly beneath her dignity to be caught running after sights. She had a glimpse of a large crimson man landing from the barge, and turned away with her head held high and haughty. It was not for the Lady Elizabeth of England to be interested in her father.

She dropped herself down on the grass again to her play. She had a score of little wooden figures gaudily painted. They could stand, and their arms could move. She arranged them in new scenes: they were a king and his court, hunters over their quarry, knights at sword play, soldiers in rank. Their occupations were limited, for they had not a woman among them. Her quick hands grew listless. She stopped and stared at the mannikins drearily. She began to frown at them, and her thin face was too fierce for a child's.

She scrambled to her feet and stood looking about, ploughing furrows in the grass with a foot. Then she made for the short drab woman who was pacing by the river, “Mary!”

The woman turned. The sunlight fell on a sallow face with no eyebrows. Save for that it was well formed, but dreary and sour.

“Mary, shoot a match with me.”

“Make thy match with my waiting woman.” The voice was hard. She looked at the child as something she loathed, and turned and stalked away ungainly.

Over Elizabeth's cheekbones came spots of red and she stared after the little drab woman with flashing eyes, but she made a careful curtsey. Then slowly, with dragging steps, she wandered over the lawn. She was aimless, she went this way and that, she gaped and gazed about her drearily....

The lawn ended in a bank, and as she climbed that “the most excellent cordial smell” of strawberry leaves dying was about her; then she passed into a lane of musk roses and gave a cry and darted forward. A tiny boy was coming towards her. Feeble legs bore him unsurely and his fat cheeks were pale and flaccid and his eyes dull. When he saw her, he gave a silly, happy laugh, but cut it short to turn and look nervously behind him. Close behind him was a sturdy lad, rosy and good-humoured and silly, not to be feared; but then came a man in black with a square, hard face.

Elizabeth gave one swift glance at him and ran on to the little boy and put her arms round him, “Come and play with my men, brother.” The child laughed and nestled against her; then, with another look behind him, drew away.

A cold voice came from the man in black. The Prince's royalty may not company with the Lady Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth rose to her lean height. “Oh, is Dr. Gardiner my brother's lord? Dr. Gardiner would make himself King.”

“Dr. Gardiner obeys the King's will”—he smiled at her—“which is dread to any who dares deny it.” He walked on and took the little boy's hand and drew him from Elizabeth. “You will be safe, sir, in the privy garden. Come, Master Barnaby.” The Prince stumbled at his side, holding away from him. Master Barnaby, the Prince's whipping-boy, made a funny face at Elizabeth and shambled after them.

Elizabeth stood with her bony hands clenched, glaring and flushed. Gardiner looked back at her. She flung round and pretended to be smelling a rose. They passed out of sight and an iron gate clanged. The rose bush broke in her hand. She started away and stamped her foot. She thrust her hand into her eyes and gave a sob and struck herself.... Fighting hard to be calm and proud, she made for the palace.

On her way she saw Gardiner walking the lawn with her sister Mary. Their voices were very busy. She hurried on, and her quick eyes glowed and flashed.

His Most Gracious Majesty Henry, by the grace of God, Defender of the Faith, was now at his fourth wife. Mary's mother, Catharine the Spaniard, shamelessly divorced, had slunk wretched and defiant to the grave. The hot-blooded woman of the wonderful hair, who had lured the King to cast off wife and faith, and change the fate of a nation to possess her, Anne Boleyn, whose heir was Elizabeth, had been branded, guilty or guiltless, with horrible shame and slaughtered. Jane Seymour, the pale, soulless creature for whom she had been forsaken, had borne the King a sickly prince as the man-child he needed, and faded out of life. In her place was a strange figure, a placid German house-wife, Anne of Cleves.

Thomas Cromwell, the Protestant Machiavelli, had lured the King into marriage with her to bind him to the German Protestants and the enemies of Spain and the Pope. And behold, the woman was plain, and Cromwell had committed the sin without forgiveness. The King cast him off in righteous wrath and his enemies destroyed him. How long would Anne of Cleves wear the King's ring? There was no fault in her, no venom could imagine any fault in the stolid woman, save ugliness. But her husband was Henry VIII.

Mary and Elizabeth, the sisters, were dowered with their mothers' mutual hate. Mary's Spanish blood kept hot the memory of her mother's wrongs, and she missed no chance to make the child of the low-born, shameless woman suffer. Elizabeth, cunning by nature and trained by the court's cruelty to the inscrutable craft of an unhappy child, endured everything, betrayed nothing. But she, too, forgot nothing; and keener, subtler than Mary, she saw everything. Mary, her rival, her foe, in consort with Gardiner, who was of all the men about the King the bitterest against the German Queen—the child was quick to imagine danger as any time-serving courtier. What new plan, what change afoot?

“Elizabeth flung back a sharp answer to a coarse jest.”

Elizabeth ran into the palace. What she feared, the child's mind might not have been able to tell. Her life was all fear and caution and lies. Anne the Queen had ever been kind to her, and she, the child of the quarrel with Spain and the Pope, counted Anne her guard and ally.

She found the Queen, but could hardly see her for clothes. All the room was flooded with a sea of rich, piebald colours, velvets and brocades and cloth of silver and gold and furs. In the midst the Queen sat, her lap laden with dresses, and her heavy German waiting women held up before her and paraded more dresses and unmade stuff. They were all voluble together, like housewives in a mercer's shop.

For a moment the child was dazzled by the feminine allure of it, and forgot her troubles and cried “Oh!” and laughed and stood round-eyed.

The Queen turned. Her long, pockmarked face was mottled red by excitement; the narrow eyes were almost bright. She gave a loud, deep laugh. “Ah, little love, come and see the pretty things.” Her voice was guttural, with a thick German accent. She moved her large, angular frame awkwardly. “Come, sit by me. Thou must choose something for thy own.”

Elizabeth came quickly to a dress of cloth of gold, on which a pattern was worked by masses of gold leaf. “Please you, I will have that,” she cried eagerly.

“Then she felt a silence. Queen and waiting-women were all staring at her, and the women's faces exhibited emotions. One of them began to cry. The Queen waved a hand at her: “Tsss, tsss, Lotta! Not that, my child.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “It is my wedding-dress.”

Elizabeth let it fall from her caressing fingers. She stared round the room. “What are you all doing?” she cried anxiously.

“I take a count of my robes, little love. See, I am going away.”

A second time the woman Lotta exploded sobs and was rebuked.

“Going away?” the child repeated in a dull voice, her face pale and drawn. “Please you, madame, why?”

“Ah, do not make a sad face. I will not be sad. The King, he is very kind. I take with me all my robes and my jewels.”

“The King sends you away? And you—you2” The child drew apart. The fear in her face was yielding to something hard.

The Queen shrugged her shoulders. “See, I am not beautiful.”

“He sends you away? And you—you do not care?” the child said coldly.

“I obey, little one. It is better, Do not be sad; he makes me rich.”

The child laughed.

“What is that?. I do not understand. Thou art sorry I go, little one, is it not?”

“You do not care. You are weak. You are all weak.”

“All weak! What dost thou say?” She looked at her women and back to the child with a puzzled frown. “These! They have done nothing. This is foolish, little one.”

“Oh, you cannot understand. You are all weak.” Her hands were clenched, she spoke fiercely, and her eyes flamed. “You are just one more, just like all the rest. Oh!” She flung out her thin arms wildly. “Mary's mother who was sent away—my mother who was killed—Edward's mother who died—now you2”

The Queen giggled. “But—but I am not like those, little one. See, I am alive. Also, I mean to keep alive. I like it better.”

The child exclaimed at her. “You—you are not angry, even. You do not care. You will not be anything or do anything. If he lets you stay alive, it is enough.”

“Herrgott! It is something which is better than nothing, my child.” The Queen stared at her in stolid amazement.

“If I were you I would loathe myself,” the child cried. “Oh, I would not let it be! I would keep myself Queen always and always.”

The Queen gave another shrug. “Little wild cat!” she said, and laughed, but the kindliness of her was banished.

The child turned upon her, free from all pretence of respect. “You! Do you feel no hurt of it? Are you not ashamed? Why do you go?”

The Queen flushed. “Little naughty one! Thou lovest me no more if I am not Queen. Is it not? Go, make thy love to Mistress Catharine.”

“Mistress Catharine?” the child echoed. “Catharine Howard?” Her thin face was set in an ugly sneer.

“Ah, thou wilt love her now—and greatly. So, little false one!”

The child stood up. “I shall not. I shall not love any one. I do not want any one to love me.” She stalked out of the room.

The Queen tossed her head. “Little snake!” she said, and turned again to her dresses. But the tearful Lotta gave a sob under her breath, and murmured, “The poor little maid!”

Elizabeth went slowly through the blotches of light and shade in the palace corridor. You see her a long wisp of a girl, her red mane tumbling over her face as she walks with head bent, her pale high brow furrowed across and across, and her thin lips twitching.

“The child came from behind the tapestry, saying solemnly, 'Do you like Dr. Gardiner?' Catharine Howard screamed, and started back with her hand to her throat.”

The German Queen, friend of her friends, her party, her faith, was to be banished. What triumph, and what opportunity for those of Gardiner's mind, who fought to reconcile the King with Spain and Rome and make him disown the daughter who was the quarrel incarnate. If Catharine Howard were the new Queen, a soft round minx all prettiness, if she were the tool of Gardiner2. The child felt herself fighting desperately for life, honour, royalty. There were always strange threats echoing through the court. She might be thrown into a sickly prison. She might be married to a low-born fool. She, who was a princess of England, as royal as the mongrel Spaniard her sister, or the feeble baby brother, with the right and hope some day to reign.

Mistress Catharine Howard must be caught and sounded. But in the room where the maids of honour lolled and giggled and chattered, Mistress Catharine was not to be found. Elizabeth flung back a sharp answer to a coarse jest and hurried away. It was worth while to try the woman's private lodging.

The little anteroom was empty, but as Elizabeth looked in she heard a peal of gay laughter from the room beyond. She stole in quietly and listened. Then came Mistress Catharine's voice, vastly arch. “Nay, in faith, sir. If I should wed all who tell me I am fair, I were wife to more men than I can count.” She giggled, “I think it would weary me in a while.”

“Mistress Catharine weary of lovers! A miracle!”

“Not of lovers, good Thomas, but of husbands. Heigho! I fear it was for a husband you were born.”

The gentleman laughed loud. “Come, try me, Kate.”

There was the sound of a polite scuffle. The child in the anteroom sneered savagely. Mistress Catharine spoke through laughter: “No, sir, no. You would not suit my complexion.”

“Why, then, I will make it blush and we are well matched.”

“Oh, like a fool and his folly. And they are soon parted. Faith, Master Culpepper, when I blush it shall be for something more than you.”

“Then take me boldly, Kate, and blush when thou wilt.”

“Take thee! I would—for fast days. With another or twain to keep holiday withal.”

“And a king to wear o' working days! God save the wench for modesty. But come, am I Lenten fare? Am I a penance?”

The child in the anteroom gave an angry laugh as she heard them laughing and sounds of the gentleman being repulsed. Then she checked herself and drew back. There were footsteps in the corridor, a hand on the door. She slipped behind the tapestry. The sturdy black form of Dr. Gardiner came in. He paused a moment. There was still some noise as of a skirmish of coquetry. He tapped at the inner door and flung it open.

The child heard an exclamation and a scurry, then Gardiner's voice fierce with anger: “Master Culpepper! You offend against the order of the King's court. You peril yourself, sir.”

“Why, how now, Doctor? What sets you preaching?”

“This is no place for you, sir. This is the private lodging of a lady of honour.”

“Right, Doctor. And no place for a priest, neither.”

“What, sirrah, are you impudent? Get you gone and take heed to yourself. Do not force yourself on women of high estate, if you would keep your skin whole. And hark ye, Master Culpepper: a loose tongue may loose your head from your shoulders. I have done. If I do not see you or hear of you again, it will be well for you.”

There was silence. When Culpepper spoke again, his voice was chastened. “Why, then—why, what an alarm is this because a man pays his duty to a fair lady?”

“If you have no wit, sirrah, be taught by those who have. Away with you! Mistress Catharine bids you trouble her no more.”

“Mistress Catharine2”

“My patience is out, Master Culpepper. Get you gone!”

The child behind the tapestry, peeping out, saw Culpepper slink away. His plump, handsome face was blotched with red, and he stooped and slouched as though all the strength had gone out of him. In the farther room Catharine Howard flung her trim little form upon a chair like an angry child. Gardiner approached her, but she stared away from him, pouting.

“Madame”—he banished the angry menace from his voice, but he talked to her like a schoolmaster—“such folly as this will destroy you.”

“I am not a fool,” she snapped.

“I wish to believe that. Do not make it difficult.”

“I will not have you preach at me. What have I done? I have not done anything wrong.”

“Will you tell the King that it pleases you to play with Master Culpepper?”

She grew pale. “Why, it is nothing. It is only sport. And what is it to the King if I—if2”

“The King bade me say that he would walk in the privy garden at four.”

“Oh!” It was a cry of childish triumph. She clasped her hands together and her eyes glittered, and she laughed to herself.

“It is a great honour, madame.”

Catharine sprang up. “Doctor! told you? It is true? He means2”

“Madame, you had best not know what he means. The King loves humility.”

She laughed. “Fie, Doctor; would you teach me a woman's business?”

“I would teach you, madame”—he bent his black brows—“that only your folly can harm you now—or after. Be advised by those who wish you well, and you may be the envy of every woman in the world.”

“And the servant of pious Dr. Gardiner!” She laughed at him. “Oh, Doctor, I kiss your solemn hands.”

“No, madame. Keep your sport now for your master.” He turned on his heel and strode out.

Catharine made a face after him. Then she went dancing about the room, laughing and clapping her hands, now staying a moment to look at herself in the mirror and pull her dress and pat her hair. She came to her wardrobe and was feverishly busy in it, but in another moment gave a petulant cry and turned and hurried away.

The child came from behind the tapestry, saying solemnly, “Do you like Dr. Gardiner?”

Catharine screamed, and started back with her hand to her throat. “Oh, by'r Lady! Good lack, how ghostly! Oh, why do you frighten me, child? Why are you hiding there? What have you heard?”

Elizabeth looked as if she would cry. “I want you. Every one was hating me, and you are always kind. I came here to find you. Then Dr. Gardiner came. He always frightens me. I hid. Please do not be angry”—she made a curtsey—“I did not mean to do wrong.”

Catharine ran to her and kissed her. “Thou poor forlorn little maid. Nay, 'tis no matter. Come, come, do not look so sad. I am not angry.”

“I am frightened,” the child protested solemnly. “Do you like Dr. Gardiner? I think he hates you.”

“Oh, faith, why?” Catharine laughed.

“I do not know.” The child stared at her. “The way he looks. The way he looked at you when he went away.”

Catharine's pretty face grew cross, She was silent a moment. “'Tis a sour priest, child.” She tossed her head. “Never heed him. Faith, he does not trouble me.”

“I am afraid,” said the child solemnly.

“Fie, children must never be afraid!” Catharine kissed her again. “There, run away with thee and play.”

“Will you not play with me?” The child was plaintive.

“I've no time for thee now. Another day. Do not hinder me now.”

The child went obediently but with slow and listless steps, and Catharine, as she hurried to seek a tirewoman's skill, was sorry for her. But once out of sight, Elizabeth ran fast to the privy garden.

To a child's mind that privy garden was a very castle of mystery. Through the scrollwork of the gates one might see strange devices wrought in the ground with stones of many colours, likewise a fountain which spouted clear water and transformed it into a flood of wine and molten gold as it fell. There were gilt statues too, and strange flowers and trees. The high red walls on their outer side bore great plums and apricots. What wondrous fruit should grow within! But it was not safe to linger or look long at the gates, for that privy garden was only to be trodden by the King and those the King chose for his company and that son whom he loved if he loved anything but himself and England. It was forbidden to the King's daughter.

Elizabeth had never enjoyed childhood. She had never dared be naughty for the pure delight of naughtiness. Disobedience of any one of the unalterable laws made to hold her in subjection meant that she would be put to shame before the underlings of the court. But if there was something to be gained by disobedience, she was always ready for the risk. And now she needed to know what would happen in the privy garden: whether Catharine was to be Queen, how the King felt for her and she for the King. The unhappy child knew that she must spy out everything to keep herself safe.

So you find her with hands clasped on the bars of the gate and her sharp face thrust through, peering, listening. She heard her brother's voice shrill and peevish. “I do not want thee, naughty Barnaby!” Then the sound of footsteps and an angrier cry: “Naughty Barnaby, do not go away!

“So be it, sir. I am here and I am not here. For I am beside myself,” quoth Barnaby the whipping-boy placidly.

“Thou art a fool,” the angry child cried.

“Truly, sir, a fool I am. Else I were not here at all.”

They came round a brier hedge into Elizabeth's sight, the little boy calling out: “Thou shalt be whipped, naughty Barnaby!”

“Truly, sir, once again. Now go I to Dr. Gardiner and say 'Prithee, whip me roundly, for my lord the Prince he is very naughty.' And he lays on with good will, for in sooth he loves thee dearly, and I come back to thee all an ache and a smart from neck to leg.” He contorted himself comically.

The child began to whimper. “No, Barnaby. Do not go to Dr. Gardiner. I will be good. Do not go to Dr. Gardiner.”

“Barnaby, Barnaby, fat face Barnaby,” Elizabeth called from the gate.

“How now? Which of my sweethearts calls?” The whipping-boy looked round him with a grin. “Oh! see the noble lady, sir—like a falcon poking out of a cage.” He made a mock bow to Elizabeth's hawk face behind the bars.

“Elizabeth!” the little Prince cried. “I want Elizabeth!” and he ran as well as his unsteady legs could to the gate. Barnaby shambled after.

“See! I've brought my men, Edward.” She held up two of the gaudy wooden mannikins. “They will not heed me at all. They are naughty and froward. They must have a man like thee to rule them.”

“I will whip them,” said the little boy solemnly. “I will scold them like the King.”

Elizabeth nodded and smiled to Barnaby: “Let me in, good Barnaby, prithee, let me in.” She clasped all her mannikins to her bosom in one hand and thrust the other through the bars and patted his shoulder and stroked him. “Art a dear fellow, Barnaby.” She made eyes and smiled and her lean fingers caressed him. “I have been always kind to thee, thou knowest. Thou art so big and strong and bold. Alack!”—she became mightily plaintive—“it is I who most need kindness.”

Barnaby put his head on one side and pretended to ogle her. “Art a sweet lady,” he said sentimentally. “But for honesty—God save thee!”

“I want them!” the little boy cried, holding out his hands for the mannikins.

“Good Barnaby, let me in. I am so lonely. There is no one here will play. Ah, I would not be cruel to thee.”

“Good lack, fair lady, if I were thy whipping-boy—“he wriggled his back comically—“I should need live my life standing.”

“I would never let thee suffer for my sake, Barnaby,” Elizabeth said mournfully.

Barnaby affected to sob.

“I want them,” the little Prince began to whimper. “I want them, Let her in, Barnaby, naughty Barnaby.”

“Nay, then, if we are all to weep, let us e'en do somewhat to weep for.” He reached up and loosed the bolt above Elizabeth's head.

The gate swung and in she danced. “Good Barnaby, kiss my hand.”

“As you might say 'Kiss the rod,'” Barnaby grimaced.

Whereat she slapped his face royally.

On a plot of grass behind the brier hedge the wooden men were set up and Elizabeth told the tale of their iniquities and the little Prince scolded them with chill cruelty. It was a queer, ugly business, as though a callous masterful man talked from his little flacid, feeble body. But Elizabeth was not frightened or concerned. She was listening for other sounds, her eyes quick all about the garden, and suddenly she stared up at Barnaby. The black shape of Dr. Gardiner had crossed the grass not far away and vanished stealthily. He must have seen her. He had done nothing. He had not scolded. He had not spoken. Why?

He would never miss a chance of humbling her without grave cause, and here she was defying him. What restrained him? Was he afraid—afraid to make a noise—afraid to reveal himself? Ay, with reason enough, if he too were spying upon the King. It must be that. Why else should he be lurking in the privy garden at the hour when he had bidden Mistress Catharine come wait His Majesty's pleasure? Dr. Gardiner daring to spy upon his master's amours! Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. She was schooled enough in the ways of the court to understand what the cunning priest wanted. She saw that it concerned him much to know how the King's gracious proffer of marriage was made and taken, how strong his passion was, how the pretty minx bore herself to him privately, how much power she was like to have and how long she would keep it. It was just this knowledge the girl wanted for herself. She felt herself matched against Gardiner's cold, cunning ferocity. But she saw that he might be in danger as well as herself. Doubtless, Catharine was his creature. Doubtless, to make her Queen would be a triumph for him. And yet—and yet—the girl's excited mind imagined many a danger for him.

“Catharine was clinging to the King, and her pretty face all wondering innocence. 'My Lord, what does he mean? See, he tries to frighten me.'”

The little Prince plucked at her sleeve. “Elizabeth! They are good ones. See! They are sad and sorry. They ask me to punish them so that they can be happy again.” He displayed the wooden men with their limbs bent into attitudes of humble prayer.

“Oh, Edward, how grand! Thou hast mastered them mightily. In truth, dear, thou wast born to be a king.”

Behind them Barnaby chuckled. “And thou, sweet lady, to be a woman.”

But the little boy smiled, self-content. “I will have them all beaten and they will love me. I will tell them to love thee also, Elizabeth. Then they will be afraid not to.”

“Then thou 'lt be a king indeed, Edward. Ah, if thou wouldst let me be thy sister always.”

The child was puzzled. “But—but a sister must be a sister always.”

“Not when a man has a wife2”

“I will not ever have a wife,” the Prince cried passionately. “They are an abom—abomination, and always wanting something. My father has told me so. He says they are all alike, except in the face.”

“His royal Majesty should know,” Barnaby chuckled.

“I will not have a wife. I will let thee be my sister always, Elizabeth,” the child declared.

“Oh, Edward!” she was grateful with emotion. “And I will always serve thee and care for thee—but I shall fear thee sometimes. Thou art so stern.”

“That is right,” said the child with his big head held high, and he fell to beating the wooden men.

Over the lacework of coloured stones by the fountain came Catharine Howard. Her little form was piquant in a simple robe of primrose silk that pretended modesty. She walked with tiny childish steps, her hands were clasped before her, her eyes cast down. If even to Elizabeth's eyes she looked rather demure than innocent, doubtless she knew her business.

She lingered by the fountain, gazing down into its coloured waters in a languorous luscious pose that the water mirrored comically. Elizabeth watched eagerly, watched her and the path of white stones by which she had come. The little Prince found that his punishment of the wooden men was not winning due attention. “Elizabeth,” he said in a tone of peevish reproach, “What is it, Elizabeth? I am being so splendid.” Then with a stifled cry his voice changed and spoke terror. “Oh, come away, Elizabeth, come away! I do not like him.”