Although all these acts were done in the name of Edward, the boy king had really very little freedom. “He is not alone half a quarter of an hour,” said one who knew of his life. When he first became king, he wrote to Mary, “I will be to you a dearest brother and overflowing with all kindness;” but he was taught by Somerset and others that it was a danger to the kingdom to allow his sister to remain a Catholic. When he had been on the throne for about three years, she was summoned to court.
“Your Highness,” said the chamberlain to Edward, “I have to announce the arrival of her Grace, the Princess Mary.”
“Give welcome to her and her train,” said the young monarch, “and say that it is my will and that of my councilors to receive her straightway.” This visit was not for the pleasure of meeting her brother, though they greeted each other most cordially. The royal council was sitting in another room, and there she was summoned.
“Your Grace,” said the councilors, “is it true that, contrary to the wishes of his Majesty the king, mass is still said daily in your house?”
“It is true,” answered Mary, “that the worship of God is carried on in my house in such wise as I do firmly believe is most pleasing to him.”
“There is then no hope of your Grace’s amendment shortly?”
“None, my lord.”
“It is the will of his Majesty, who is supreme head of the church in England, that the mass should be no longer celebrated in his realm. It becomes the duty of all that owe him allegiance to obey. It is his Majesty’s command that you obey as a subject, attempting not to rule as a sovereign.”
“I will neither change my faith nor conceal that which is my true opinion,” declared the princess, “and in testimony of my belief I am ready to lay my head upon the block for the truth, though I am unworthy to suffer death in so good a cause.”
Mary soon left the palace. Letters bidding her give up her religion came from the king, but the elder sister replied:—
“They may be signed with your own name, but they cannot be really your own, for it is not possible that your Highness can at these years be a judge in matters of religion, and by the doings of certain of your councilors I mean not to rule my conscience.”
With his councilors telling him how dangerous it was to the peace of the kingdom for Mary to be allowed to practise a form of religion that was contrary to the law, the brother and sister can hardly have been very happy together, and their meetings grew further apart.
Elizabeth was living quietly in her own house, spending most of her time in study. The boy king was hardly more than a toy in the hands of his councilors. Somerset was finally condemned to death, but when he wrote to Elizabeth and begged her to appeal to the king and save his life, Elizabeth was obliged to answer:—
“The king is surrounded by those who take good care to keep me away from him, and I can no more gain access to his Majesty than you can.”
The one who was keeping Elizabeth from her brother was the new Protector, the Duke of Northumberland. Edward became ill, and everyone knew that his life would be short. Elizabeth tried to visit him, but was prevented. Then she wrote him a letter, but it is not probable that he ever saw it. Northumberland was in power, and he did not mean that either Mary or Elizabeth should wear the English crown; he had quite another plan in his mind.
Edward was not fifteen when the Duke of Northumberland became Protector. At eighteen the boy king was to be really king and to govern his kingdom as he chose, but until then, although everything was done in his name, it was the Protector who would rule. Northumberland thought that in those three years he could gain so great an influence over the young sovereign that even when the time came to give up the high office, he would still retain much of his power.
Edward had never been strong, and before many months had passed, it was clear that he would not live to be eighteen. Northumberland had no mind to lose his power. What could he do?
One morning in June he went to the chamber of the king. Edward lay by the window looking out into the bright sunshine.
“My humble greeting to your gracious Majesty,” said Northumberland. “I have brought news that cannot fail to give to your Highness an increase of health and strength.”
“I think that nothing can do that,” said Edward, “but good news will at least make the day less weary. What is it that you have to tell?”
“That two of those followers of the Pope who have most strongly opposed your Majesty’s efforts for the good of the land have at last accepted godly counsel.”
“I rejoice,” said the king. “Would that the Princess Mary were one of them. Is it true, my lord, that no word of submission to him who is rightly the supreme head of the church in England has come from her Grace?”
“It is true, your Highness.”
“Then when I die—no, my lord, do not deny it. I know well that few days are left to me—my sister will be on the throne. She will bring back the falseness of the old religion. Not the sovereign but the Pope will rule in the land, and I can do nothing to prevent it. How little power a king has!” Northumberland’s heart beat fast. Now was his opportunity.
“Has your Majesty considered that the rightful heirs of king as well as of subject are those whom he himself shall name?”
“Do you mean, my lord, that it is my right to name her who shall follow me? that I could leave the crown to her Grace, the Princess Elizabeth, if I would?”
“Our glorious ruler, Henry VIII., bequeathed his crown as he would have it to descend. Surely, it would be in your Majesty’s power to leave it to the Princess Elizabeth’s Grace or to whomever of the descendants of the illustrious sovereign, King Henry VII., your Majesty might choose.”
“The Princess Elizabeth was taught the principles of the truth even as I myself was,” mused the king.
“True, your Majesty,” agreed the duke, “but she is only twenty years of age. It might easily come to pass that she would wed a foreign prince of the false faith, and that the land, now so favored with the light of truth, would be again plunged into darkness. If she were already wed, it would be safer, though many in the realm believe that neither of the daughters of King Henry can rightfully inherit the crown. An heir upon whom all must unite would save strife and it may be bloodshed.”
“That might well be,” said the king thoughtfully. Then Northumberland suggested boldly, though with some inward fear:—
“The sisters of your Majesty’s illustrious father, could you——” the duke hesitated.
“The granddaughter of Margaret Tudor is the Queen of Scots, the little maiden who refused my hand,” said the king with a faint smile, “but she is of the false faith. The granddaughter of Mary Tudor is my old playmate, the lady Jane Grey, or is she not now Lady Dudley, my lord? Was it not a few days ago that she became the wife of your son? She is well-principled in the truth.”
“Do not fancy, I beg your Highness, that a thought of what your Majesty had in mind moved me to look with favor upon the mutual affection of the young couple.”
“No,” said the young king a little wearily. “Arrange it in any way that you will to have the kingdom fall into the hands of her who will lead it more fully into the light, and bear it further from the idolatrous worship of the earlier days.”
Northumberland had obtained his wish, but there must be lawyers to write a deed of gift of the crown. He went to three judges of the realm and gave them the king’s command.
“Gladly would we see the faith of his Majesty more fully established,” they said, “but, my lord duke, in the time of King Henry Parliament decreed that whoever did aught to change the order of succession to the crown should suffer death as a traitor.”
Northumberland persuaded and threatened, but the judges had no mind to run the risk of losing their heads for the sake of setting his daughter-in-law upon the throne of England.
“If you had the written pardon of the king, would you do it?” demanded Northumberland, and after much discussion the judges hesitatingly agreed. Edward was now as eager as the Protector to have it made sure that Lady Jane would ascend the throne, and he willingly signed a pardon to free them from all punishment, if they were ever accused of breaking the law of the land. The pardon was signed, then the deed of gift, bequeathing the crown to Lady Jane, was signed. The dying king rejoiced, but the bold schemer trembled.
There were very good reasons why each of four women had a right to feel honestly that she alone ought to be queen of England. These four were Mary, Elizabeth, Mary, the child Queen of Scots, who was descended from Margaret, sister of Henry VIII., and last, Lady Jane, who was descended from his youngest sister Mary. According to King Henry’s will, which Parliament had confirmed, the crown was to go to Lady Jane, if Henry’s three children died without heirs. It seemed quite possible that she might some day be the ruler of England, and her parents set to work to prepare her to become a queen.
Now when less than a century ago a lady in England found that her little daughter Victoria would probably be the sovereign of her country, she said, “I want you to be a good woman, and then I shall be sure that you will be a good queen.” Lady Jane’s parents thought more of training her to do everything according to the etiquette of the court, and they were so anxious that she should walk and talk and sit and eat and dance precisely as they thought a queen ought to perform those acts, that they were exceedingly severe with her. She was a gentle, loving girl, and she did her best to satisfy them, but she was upbraided and pinched and struck whenever she was in their presence. The one great pleasure in her life was the time that she spent with her teacher, whom she called “Master Aylmer,” for he was so kind to her and so gentle in all his ways that she was happy when the hour of study had arrived.
Everyone knew that Northumberland was the most powerful man in the kingdom, and when he said to Lady Jane’s father, the Marquis of Dorset, “If you will give your daughter to my son Guilford to wife, I will persuade the king to make you a duke,” the marquis was delighted. Lady Jane was but sixteen and Lord Guilford Dudley was only one year older. They were married at once with the most brilliant festivities.
Not many days after the wedding, King Edward became very ill. “Hold yourself in readiness for what may be demanded of you,” said Northumberland to Lady Jane. “Should the king fail to recover, you are made by his Majesty heir of his realm.”
The girl of sixteen had never thought of such a thing as becoming queen of England until many years should have passed, and probably not even then, and she was greatly troubled. She dared not disobey Northumberland, and when a few days later he sent his daughter to bring her to the royal council, she did not venture to refuse. When the duke and the other members of the council entered the room, they fell on their knees before her and kissed her hand.
“We make our humble submission to your Majesty as our sovereign lady and rightful ruler of this realm of England,” said they.
Lady Jane was much abashed, and she said:—
“My lords, I can but thank you for the grace that you show to one who is so unworthy of such honor; but if I understand your words aright, you greet me as your sovereign lady and ruler. My lords, there is surely some grievous error. His Majesty, King Edward, is, happily, still on the throne, and even if it had pleased God to remove his Grace from earth to heaven, no claim have I so long as the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth live. Will your lordships grant me permission to withdraw?”
Then spoke the Duke of Northumberland:—
“Your Majesty and members of the royal council, it is a painful duty that falls to my lot to announce the death of our beloved and illustrious king, Edward VI. Much reason have we to rejoice not only in his praiseworthy life and his countless acts of goodness and clemency, but especially in that he, being at the close of his days, thought most earnestly upon the welfare of his realm. In his last hour on earth he prayed that his kingdom might be defended from the popish faith, and he left it in the hands of her who he believed would be faithful to the trust, and would guard the land from falsehood and from error.”
All her life Lady Jane had known and loved the young king. Tears came to her eyes. She looked pitifully about the room. Several noble ladies had been brought into the council chamber, but not one had even a glance of sympathy for the young girl. The Duchess of Northumberland frowned at her, and her own mother whispered sternly, “Demean yourself as is fitting for a queen.”
“His Majesty gave command to his council,” said the duke, “and they have no choice save to obey him. Thus declares the will of the king, signed and sealed, and drawn up by three capable judges of the realm. It names as his heir and successor on the throne of England her gracious Highness, Lady Jane, descendant of Mary, who was the youngest and most beloved sister of his Majesty, King Henry VIII.”
Then all the lords of the council knelt at the feet of Lady Jane. “We render to your Majesty only the honor that is due,” said they, “for you are of true and direct lineage heir to the crown. With deliberate mind we have promised to his Highness, King Edward VI., that in your Grace’s cause we will spare neither goods nor lands nor the shedding of our blood.”
Lady Jane stood before them, white and trembling. Then grief and pain overcame her, and with a sudden burst of tears she fell to the ground. When she was a little recovered, she said to them:—
“My lords, I can but grieve from my heart for the death of so noble a prince and one that was so dear to me. I am weak and feeble. I have little power to govern the land as he in his greatness of mind and of heart would have done, but if that which you say has been given me is rightfully and lawfully mine own, then will I turn to God in my insufficiency and humbly beseech his grace and spirit that I may rule the land to its advantage and to his glory and service.”
In the afternoon of the same day Lady Jane went in state to the Tower of London, for it was an old custom that sovereigns should go forth from the Tower on the day of their coronation. Her relatives knelt before her and humbly promised to be obedient to her commands; and her own mother walked meekly behind her, bearing the daughter’s train. In the evening she was proclaimed in London ruler of the kingdom. There was little rejoicing. The people as a whole were sullen and silent, for most of them understood that the affair was but a scheme of Northumberland’s to gain power for himself.
Lady Jane Grey and Roger Ascham.—From painting by J. C. Horsley.
The duke knew that if Mary and Elizabeth were free after Edward’s death was known, a party would be formed in favor of one or the other, and therefore he had planned to get them both into his hands. He sent messengers to them to say that the king was very ill and begged that they would give him the happiness and comfort of their presence.
Elizabeth paid no heed to the message. Either she was really ill, as she said, or she was wise enough to suspect that there was some trickery about this sudden demand for her society, when for so long a time she had not been allowed to see her brother. At any rate, she remained in her own house.
Mary returned word by a swift rider that she was made very happy by the thought that she could help to bring cheer and consolation to her brother, and she set out at once to go to him. When she was only a few miles from London, a man who had been her goldsmith came riding in hot haste.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I beg that you will go no farther. The king is not ill, he is dead. Northumberland plans to set Lady Jane upon the throne. Flee, I do pray you.” Mary hesitated. Was the word of the goldsmith true? Whom could she trust? Should she go on to London and perhaps be thrown into the prison of the Tower by Northumberland? Should she flee to Norfolk and refuse, it might be, her brother’s last tender wishes? Was it a trap to make her declare herself queen and then behead her for treason? While she questioned, another rider came, a nobleman whom she trusted, and he told her that the king was indeed dead.
Mary turned toward Norfolk. Night came on. The princess herself and many of her retinue were exhausted. They asked for shelter at a country-seat. It was given them, but the Protestants in the neighborhood had heard that Edward was dead and that the Catholic princess was among them. A mob set out in the morning to destroy the house that had sheltered her. Mary had been warned of the danger and had ridden away. She glanced back from the top of a hill and saw the house in flames. “Let it go,” she cried. “I will build him a better one.”
As soon as she reached her own castle in Norfolk, she sent a letter to the royal council saying:—
“We are greatly surprised that we have had from you no knowledge of the death of our brother, but we trust your love and your loyalty. Whatever may have been said to us of any disloyal intentions on your part we do put far from us, and do agree to grant you pardon and receive you graciously into our service as true and faithful subjects.”
Even though the councilors had failed to secure Mary, they still believed that their side would win, and they sent her a rather arrogant letter. It said:—
“Lady Jane is our queen, but if you will show yourself quiet and obedient as you ought, you will find us all ready to do you any service that we with duty may.”
Mary then rode to Framlingham, a strongly fortified castle some twenty miles away. It was so near the sea that she could escape to the continent if flight should become necessary, but she could hardly have been in a safer place. The walls of the stronghold were eight feet thick; town and fortress were surrounded by three deep moats. Here she flung out her banner and called upon all loyal subjects to come to the assistance of their rightful queen. So many thousands gathered that she ventured to set out for London, and as she drew near the city, she met such a welcome that she disbanded her army.
Now at Edward’s death when Northumberland saw that his plan to capture Elizabeth had failed, he sent a messenger to promise her land and money if she would but resign all title to the crown. With rare wisdom for so young a woman, she replied:—
“That is not for me to say. Lady Mary is by my father’s will and by decree passed in open Parliament the rightful queen of the realm. Whatever my claim may be, I can make no challenge so long as my sister doth live.” Elizabeth then set out to meet Mary, and they entered London together, followed by a long train of ladies and noblemen, and escorted by the city guard.
Northumberland too, had collected an army, but his men deserted by hundreds. In less than two months after he had triumphantly set his daughter-in-law upon the throne, he was executed, together with two of those who had most strongly supported him. Lady Jane and her husband were imprisoned. Mary’s advisers declared that there was no safety for her so long as Lady Jane lived, but Mary refused to put her to death.
As the day for the coronation drew near, there were great rejoicings. Many of those that did not wish to have a Catholic ruler were so glad to be free from Northumberland’s schemes and to feel that she who was lawfully their queen was now on the throne that they were ready to unite in the joy of the others. In the procession to the Tower, Queen Mary rode in a litter, or chariot, drawn by six horses, glittering in their trappings of cloth of silver. She was robed in the richest of blue velvet, made even richer by bands of ermine. She wore a sort of head-dress, so heavy with gold and pearls and jewels that she often had to hold up her head with her hands. In a litter almost as splendid as her own rode Elizabeth and her first stepmother, Anne of Cleves. Noble ladies rode on horseback in all the splendors of crimson velvet. Companies of guards followed in white and green, the royal colors.
The next morning after all this magnificence, there was such a brilliant display as made the gorgeousness of the ride through the city seem simple and modest, for the queen was to be crowned in Westminster Abbey.
When she was on the platform in full view of the people, the Bishop of Winchester demanded of them whether it was their will that the crown should be placed on the head of the most excellent princess, Mary, eldest daughter of King Henry VIII. The people shouted, “Yea, yea! Queen Mary, Queen Mary!” Mary made a solemn promise to govern England aright and faithfully preserve the liberties of the people. Then followed all kinds of ceremonies, changing of robes, and sounding of trumpets. She was girded with a sword, a ring was put upon her finger, and at last the crown was solemnly placed upon her head. This was by no means the end of it all, for many nobles came to kneel before her and promise to be true to her. Each one of them kissed her cheek.
In all this ceremonial as well as in the feasting and the entertainments that followed it, the Princess Elizabeth was in every way ranked next to the queen. Elizabeth wore the coronet of a princess. “It is very heavy,” she whispered to the French ambassador. “Be patient,” murmured he, “it will be parent to a better one.”
Parliament was soon in session, and one of the important questions to be decided was what should be done with Lady Jane.
“She attempted to seize the crown from Mary, who is our rightful sovereign,” declared one, “and she should be put to death as a traitor.”
“What she did was done at the bidding of the Duke of Northumberland,” said another. “She was but a tool in his hands, and she should be freed.”
“That cannot well be,” objected a third. “Whoever commits a crime is guilty of that crime and must bear the punishment.”
“Yes,” agreed the first, “and moreover, some who would question Elizabeth’s right to the throne would perchance unite under the banner of Jane. There will be neither rest nor safety in the kingdom so long as she is spared to lead any rebellious faction that may need a head.”
Parliament decided that Lady Jane was guilty of treason, and she was sentenced to be either burned or beheaded as the queen should choose. Everyone was sorry for her. Even those that condemned her could hardly look upon the young girl without tears, and when she was taken back to her prison in the Tower, crowds of weeping people followed her.
“She is to be put to death ‘at the queen’s pleasure,’” said one royal attendant to another. “Do you believe it will be soon?”
“He who dwells in a palace should see but not speak,” answered the other. “To you, however, I may venture to whisper that the death of Lady Jane will never be ‘the queen’s pleasure.’”
Mary did not forget to show gratitude to those who had aided her in gaining possession of her crown. To some she gave high positions, and for the one whose house had been burned she built a much finer residence.
“And now, my well-beloved cousin and councilor,” she said to the Earl of Sussex, “we would gladly show to you our hearty appreciation of your loyalty in a troublous time. Ask what you will of us, and it shall be granted.”
The only way of heating houses in those days was by means of fireplaces, and therefore, even the royal palaces were full of chills and drafts. Whenever the earl came to court, he took cold. A thought struck him and he said:—
“If your Grace is really of intent to bestow upon me the gift that will give me most of comfort and peace of mind and body, I would beg humbly for the royal permission that I need no longer uncover my head before man or woman.”
Mary was greatly amused. “Either cap or coif or nightcap [skullcap] may you wear,” said she, “and woe to the one that dares to dispute your privilege.” The next morning a parchment bearing the royal arms was presented to the earl with all formality. It read:—
“Know ye that we do give to our well-beloved and trusty councilor, Henry, Earl of Sussex, license and pardon to wear his cap, coif, or nightcap, or any two of them, at his pleasure, as well in our presence as in the presence of any other person within this our realm.”
Not all the questions of the day were settled as easily. One of the most important ones was who should succeed Mary on the throne. If she married and had children, they would be her heirs, but if not, the Princess Elizabeth would probably follow her as ruler of England. Now Mary was a strong and sincere Catholic, and her dearest wish was to lead England back to the old faith and have the Pope acknowledged as the head of the English church. She hoped to be able to bring this to pass, but she was not well, she had little reason to look for a long life, and when Elizabeth became queen, all Mary’s work would be undone, the land would be again Protestant. Elizabeth was to Mary still the little sister whom she had so often led by the hand. Would it not be possible to persuade her to become a Catholic? Elizabeth had loved Edward, would she not go with Mary to hear a mass for the repose of his soul? Elizabeth refused. Again Mary asked, and again Elizabeth said no.
“She would not dare be so bold if stronger than herself were not behind her,” declared Mary’s councilors. “There is danger to life and throne in this audacity.” Others too were to be feared, those Protestants who did not believe in the right of Elizabeth to the crown. They were not sorry to see disagreement between the two sisters, for if the younger should be shut out from the succession, Lady Jane, prisoner in the Tower as she was, would be accepted as Mary’s heir. Evidently Elizabeth must be induced to become a Catholic if it was possible. Mary begged and then she threatened. She had sermons preached before Elizabeth, and she sent the royal councilors to talk with her, but in vain. At last the princess was made to understand that she must yield or withdraw from court. More than this, it was said to her, “There are suspicions that you are bold in resisting the queen because you have support from without.”
Elizabeth was alarmed, and she sent a message to the queen:—
“I pray you, let us meet, there is much that I would say.” Soon the meeting came to pass. Mary entered the room attended by only one lady, who followed her at a greater distance than was customary. Elizabeth threw herself at Mary’s feet and said with many tears:—
“Most gracious queen and sister, I have ever looked up to you with love and respect, and since I have had the use of my reason, I have been interested in everything that concerns your greatness and glory. It grieves me to the heart to feel that for some reason unknown to myself I am no longer as dear to your Majesty as I have believed myself to be.”
“My well-beloved sister,” answered the queen, “gladly would I show to you all affection if I were but sure that your heart was turned toward me and toward that which is not only my dearest wish but is for the salvation of your own soul.”
“I have but followed the belief in which I was brought up,” said Elizabeth. “Such books as my father approved have been my reading. I will study others if you will, and it may be that my mind will be opened to perceive truth in doctrines wherein I had not thought it to lie.”
“It will be a pleasure to my chaplain to choose for you those that are of such quality as to lead a truly inquiring heart into the way of right.”
“Yet another kindness do I beg of you, my queen and sister,” said Elizabeth. “I have listened to those whom I was told to hear. Will your Grace send to me some well-taught preacher to instruct me in the way wherein you would have me to walk? Never have I heard any learned doctor discourse in such wise as to show me where lay my error.” Mary agreed, and a few days later the two sisters attended mass together. Elizabeth even wrote to the German emperor that she intended to have a Catholic chapel opened in her own house, and asked his permission to purchase in Flanders a cross, chalice, and such ornaments as would be needed.
No one had much confidence in her sudden change of creed. Those Protestants who were discontented went on with their plots to make her queen, convinced none the less that once on the throne, she would restore the Protestant form of worship. The German emperor, who was Mary’s chief adviser, urged that to insure the queen’s safety Elizabeth ought to be imprisoned, or at any rate, so strictly guarded that she could do no harm. There was reason for his fears. Mary, Queen of Scots, would soon become the daughter-in-law of the French king, and while he was pretending to be a true friend to Elizabeth, he was in reality doing all in his power to make trouble between her and Mary. If Elizabeth could be led into some plot that would anger Mary and so could be shut out from the succession, his daughter-in-law might easily become queen of England as well as of Scotland. Vague rumors of discontent and plots came to the ears of Mary, and for some time she refused Elizabeth’s request to be allowed to go to her own house.
The German emperor was Mary’s cousin, Charles V., to whom she had been betrothed when she was a child. He was seventeen years older than she, and was the most powerful sovereign in Europe. To him she went for counsel concerning the difficult questions that pressed upon her. The most urgent one was that of her proposed marriage. She was to marry, that was settled, but the bridegroom had not yet been selected. No fewer than four foreign princes were suggested, but the English hoped most earnestly that she would marry an Englishman. Charles V. seemed to favor first one and then another, but he could always give good reasons why no one of them should be the chosen one. At last he named his own son Philip. Mary made many objections.
“The emperor is also king of Spain,” said she to Charles’s ambassador, “and when Philip succeeds him on the Spanish throne, how can he come and rule in England?”
“That matter would not be difficult to arrange,” answered the ambassador. “The prince could rule in Spain and dwell in England, even as his father is able to rule both Spain and Germany.”
“He is very young,” said she.
“He is a staid man,” declared the ambassador. “He has often had to stand in responsible positions, and indeed in appearance he is already many years older than your Majesty.”
“When I marry, I shall marry as a woman, not as a queen,” said Mary, “and I shall promise to obey my husband, but it will be my right to rule my kingdom. No foreigner may have part or lot in that. The English people would not bear it, nor would they endure to have places of honor or of power given to foreigners.” Still, she did not reject Philip.
It was soon whispered about that there was a possibility of a Spanish marriage. The chancellor came to the queen and begged her to make no such alliance. “No other nation is so disliked as the Spaniards,” said he, “and Philip’s haughtiness and arrogance have disgusted his own subjects. Philip will rule the Low Countries, and the king of France will never endure it to have the Netherlands fall into the hands of England.”
In spite of her objections Mary really favored the marriage with Philip. He was her cousin, of her own faith, and of her mother’s nation. With Philip to support her, she could bring England back to the old faith. She allowed Charles’s ambassador to discuss the matter again.
“Your Highness,” said he, “never was a sovereign in a more difficult position. You stand alone without an honest adviser in the land. See how easily your councilors who were Protestants one year ago have now become Catholics. Will they not as readily become Protestants again, if they have good hope of farther advancement under the Princess Elizabeth? You are surrounded by enemies. There are those who do not love the true church, and there are the rebels who followed Northumberland; Lady Jane and the Princess Elizabeth stand ready for their hand. Then there are France and Scotland; the Scotch queen would willingly add England to her domain. In Spain lies your only hope.”
“Even if what you say is true,” she responded, “I am not a young girl whose hand is to be disposed of at the will of her father, I must see the prince before I decide.”
“Pardon, your Majesty,” said the ambassador, “but the emperor will never permit that his son and heir should be exhibited before the court as a candidate for your Majesty’s hand, and perchance be rejected before the eyes of Europe. A man’s face is a token of the man, shall a portrait of the prince be sent you?”
The queen agreed, and the picture was sent. It portrayed a young man with blue eyes, yellow hair and beard, and a rather gloomy expression; but the face must have pleased the queen, for when Parliament again begged her to marry none but an Englishman, it was too late. Two days earlier she had in the presence of the Spanish ambassador taken a solemn oath that she would wed no other man than Prince Philip of Spain.
Nothing was talked of in the kingdom but the Spanish marriage.
“It is a poor business,” said one. “King Henry is but seven years dead, and his kingdom will soon be only a province of Spain.”
“Not so fast,” rejoined the other. “Spain is the richest country in Europe. I wish I had but the twentieth part of the gold that comes from the New World in one of those high-decked galleons of hers.”
“For the queen to marry Philip will bring it no nearer to us,” retorted the first.
“Why not, my friend? Will not freedom to trade help to fill our empty treasury? Spain is a strong ally. Let France and Scotland attack us, and it will be well to have a helper with ships and treasure.”
“Ships and treasure will not give us freedom,” declared the first. “Better be poor than be ruled by Spain. I’m as true a Catholic as you, but no wish have I to see the torture chamber of Spain brought into England. Philip’s own subjects detest him.”
Mary’s councilors soon ceased to oppose what she so plainly wanted, though it was whispered about that they were convinced by bribes rather than by arguments. An ambassador came from Spain to bring the engagement ring and to draw up the marriage treaty. The English people were angry and indignant, and the children played a game called “English and Spaniards.” Philip was one of the characters in this play, and there was always a pretence of hanging him. Nevertheless, the treaty was drawn up. It was agreed that no Spaniards should hold office in England. If the queen should have children, they must not be carried out of the land without the consent of the nobles, and they should inherit not only England but the lands of Holland and Flanders to which Philip was heir.
In spite of all these careful arrangements, the English became more and more enraged, and there were insurrections in various parts of the country. One was headed by the Duke of Suffolk, Lady Jane’s father. Mary had supposed that if Suffolk was forgiven and his daughter allowed to live, he would be loyal from gratitude, but this was not the case. He went from one place to another, raising troops and proclaiming Lady Jane queen of the realm.
Another insurrection was headed by a young poet named Wyatt. His forces came so near London that the queen was in great danger. Lawyers wore armor under their robes when they pleaded in court, and clergymen wore armor under their vestments when they preached. The insurgents came nearer, and there was hot fighting. “Flee, my queen, flee!” called one after another, but Mary was perfectly calm and answered, “I warrant we shall hear better news anon.”
When it became clear that there would be bloodshed, Mary had written to Elizabeth, telling her of the danger and urging her to come at once where she would be protected. “Assuring you that you will be most heartily welcome,” the letter ends. Elizabeth sent word that she was ill and not able to travel. Many days passed, and they were days full of events. The Duke of Suffolk was captured.
“You have pardoned him once,” said Mary’s councilors, “and his gratitude is but another attempt to thrust you from the throne. This time there can be no pardon.” Mary agreed. “There is one thing more,” said they. “There will be neither peace nor quiet nor safety in the land so long as Lady Jane lives.”
“I can never sign the death warrant of my cousin,” declared Mary, “not even to save my own life.”
“Have you a right to shed the blood of your subjects?” they demanded. “The ground about us is wet with their blood. Shall such scenes come to pass a second time?” Mary yielded, and Lady Jane was beheaded.
A question even more difficult than this had arisen. When Wyatt was examined, he declared that the Princess Elizabeth had known of the plot. Now Mary sent, not an affectionate invitation, but a command for her sister’s presence. Two physicians accompanied the commissioners. They agreed that the princess was able to travel, and the company set out for the court. One hundred of her attendants escorted her, and one hundred more of Mary’s guards followed. Elizabeth was greatly loved by the masses of the people. She was fine-looking, well educated, and witty, and they were proud of their princess.
“Draw aside the curtains,” she commanded. “Let the people see me if they will.” The people saw her indeed. Crowds lined the road as the procession moved slowly by.
“Alas, poor young lady,” sobbed one kind-hearted woman. “I mind me well when her own mother went to the block.”
“She’s over young to be facing the cruel axe,” declared another. “She’s but the age of my own girl, only one and twenty, if she is a princess.”
“Mayhap it will all be well,” said a third. “See her sitting there in the fair white gown, and her face as white as the stuff itself. She’s not the one to plot and plan to take the life of the queen.”
Elizabeth came to the palace, but Mary refused to meet her.
“Bear this ring to her Majesty,” commanded the princess. It was much the custom in those days for one friend to give another a ring whose sight should renew their friendship if misunderstanding had arisen between them, and Elizabeth wore one that had been given her by Mary long before. The pledge had lost its power, for Mary sent only the message, “Before we can meet, you must show your innocence of that of which you are accused.”
Day after day it was debated what should be done with the princess. Although just before Wyatt’s death he had taken back his words of accusation, the royal council still suspected her. Charles V. was more than willing that she should be put to death, and the Spanish ambassador told Mary that until the punishment of the rebels had made the realm safe for Philip, he could not land on English soil. “It is most important,” said he, “that the trial and execution of the Lady Elizabeth should take place before the arrival of the prince.”
One morning ten of the royal commissioners demanded audience of Elizabeth.
“Your Grace,” said the leader, “a grievous charge is made against you, that you were knowing to an evil and felonious attempt to overthrow the government and take the life of our most gracious queen. It is the pleasure of her Highness that you be at once removed to the Tower.”
“I am an innocent woman,” Elizabeth answered, “and I trust that her Majesty will be far more gracious than to commit to the Tower one who has never offended her in thought, word, or deed. I beg you intercede for me with the queen.”
The intercession was of no avail. Elizabeth sent a letter to Mary denying all charges and begging that they might meet, but the only reply was the order, “Your Grace must away to the Tower.”
“I am content, inasmuch as it is the queen’s pleasure,” Elizabeth replied, and the carefully guarded boat set off. It drew up, not at the door which led to the royal apartments of the Tower, but at the one called the Traitors’ Gate, where many a prisoner had been landed in the past troublous times.
“I am no traitor,” said she, “nor will I go in at the Traitors’ Gate.”
“Madam, there is no choice,” answered sternly one of the commissioners, but he added kindly, “The rain falls in torrents, will your Grace honor me by making use of my cloak?” Elizabeth flung it down angrily, and put her foot on the step, covered with water as it was.
“Here lands as true a subject as ever landed at these steps,” she declared solemnly. Up the stairs she was taken, and to the room that was to become her prison. The doors were locked and bolted.
She was not without friends even within the walls of the Tower. Both Mary and Elizabeth were fond of children, and Elizabeth especially could always win their hearts. She had not been long a prisoner before one little girl, the child of an officer, began to watch for her when she walked in the garden.
“Lady,” asked the child, “do you like to be in the Tower?”
“No, I do not,” answered Elizabeth, “but the doors are locked and I have no key, so I cannot go out.” In a few days the little girl came to her with a beaming face. “I want to tell you something,” she whispered. “I want to tell it right into your ear.” She threw her arms around the princess’s neck and whispered: “I’ve brought you some keys so you needn’t always stay here. Now you can open the gates and go out as you will, can’t you?” and the child pulled from the bosom of her frock some little keys that she had found.
A boy of four years was one of her pets, and used to bring her flowers every day. The council suspected that he was bringing messages to her from another prisoner in the Tower and ordered his father to forbid his speaking to the princess. Nevertheless, the little fellow watched at the bolted door for a chance to say good-by, and called softly, “Lady, I can’t bring you any flowers, and I can’t come to see you any more.”
In those times executions followed accusations so easily that Elizabeth was alarmed at every little commotion, and one day she asked anxiously whether the scaffold was still standing on which Lady Jane had been executed. The princess, was indeed, very near death at one time, for the queen’s chancellor sent to the Tower an order for her execution. Mary was very ill and not expected to recover, and the chancellor may have thought that only the death of Elizabeth could save England for the Catholic church. The order was delivered to the keeper of the Tower.
“Where is the signature of the queen?” he demanded.
“The queen is too ill to sign the paper, but it is sent in her name.”
“Then in her name will I wait until by the blessing of God her Majesty shall be well again, and can speak for herself,” returned the keeper.
When Mary had recovered, she was exceedingly angry that the life of Elizabeth had been so nearly taken. It was soon decided that the princess should stay no longer in the Tower, but, should be taken to the palace at Woodstock.
Elizabeth expected to be put to death. “Pray for me,” she said to one of her servants, “for this night I think I must die.” All along the way to Woodstock the people flocked to gaze upon her. They filled her litter with cakes and flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. Every one saluted her. “God save your Grace!” cried the crowds, and in one little village the bells rang a hearty welcome as she passed through. Nevertheless, she was a prisoner and as closely guarded as she had been in the Tower.
While one sister was in prison, the sister on the throne had not found life altogether happy. The more she gazed upon Philip’s picture, the more she longed to meet him, but he made no haste in coming. Two months had passed since Mary put on the betrothal ring, and never yet had he even written to her. Philip had begged his father to choose a young wife for him, but to the emperor the fact that Mary was ten years older than his son was a small matter if only he could secure for Philip a possibility of ruling England.
The marriage was to take place at Winchester, and as the time drew near, Mary set out with her retinue. She was borne in the royal litter, and if all the vehicles were as gorgeous as the one provided for her maids of honor, the procession must have been a dazzling sight. This one was a “wagon of timber work with wheels, axletrees, and benches.” It was painted red, lined with red buckram, and covered with red cloth. This covering was adorned with heavy fringe of red silk.
Not at all agreeable was Philip’s journey to Winchester. When he landed in England, he found a great company of nobles waiting to do him honor, and he was escorted to a palace in which most beautiful rooms had been prepared for him. This was pleasant, but when he set off for Winchester, the wind blew and the rain came down in floods, and the four or five thousand riders in the procession were thoroughly drenched.
Before they had ridden many minutes, a swift messenger drew rein in front of the prince, presented him a ring, and said:—
“Her Majesty the queen doth send your Grace this ring as a token that she would pray you to advance no farther.”
Philip did not understand English perfectly. “There is danger,” said he to his officers. “Little welcome have I from these English.” It was explained to him that the queen’s message only meant that she begged him not to expose himself to the storm, and he went on.
That evening the prince, all in black velvet and diamonds, made his first call on the woman whom he was to marry two days later. They talked together in Spanish for half an hour, and the next day they had another meeting, and Philip—now in black velvet and silver—stood with the queen under the canopy of state. She kissed him in greeting, and they talked together before the hundreds of ladies and nobles in the great audience hall.
On the following day came the marriage, and then there was such gleaming of pearls and blazing of rubies and flashing of diamonds as one might see in a splendid dream.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” asked the archbishop, and four great nobles of the kingdom came forward and answered, “We do give her in the name of the whole realm of England.” A plain gold ring was put on the queen’s finger, for “I will marry with a plain hoop of gold like any other maiden,” she had said. The people shouted, “God save our Queen! God send them joy!” and Mary of England had become the wife of Philip of Spain.
While the wedding rejoicings were going on, Elizabeth was a prisoner at Woodstock. What was to be done with her was the question. There was some reason to think that she had known of the plot to dethrone the queen, and in any case, if she was free, any leader of an insurrection could have an opportunity to try to win her support. Mary did not wish to keep her in the Tower, and she thought of sending her to some of her own Spanish relatives on the continent, but the royal marriage helped to decide the question, for Prince Philip expressed himself very decidedly to his royal wife that it would be best to set Elizabeth free.
“I would do it most gladly,” said Mary, “could I be sure of her innocence.”
“Does not your English law claim that one is innocent till he is proved guilty?”
“True,” replied Mary, “but there is proof and there is no proof. My councilors declare that to set her free will be to say that she has been unjustly imprisoned.”
“Can she not be induced to confess that she has done wrong and throw herself on your mercy?”
“Never,” answered the queen quickly. “I have known her since she was a little child. When she storms and rages, she will yield, but when she quietly persists, she stands firm. I will see her. Nothing do I long for more than to believe that she is guiltless.”
Elizabeth was sent for, and late one evening she had an audience with the queen. The younger sister knelt with her eyes full of tears and sobbed:—
“I beg your Majesty to believe in my truth and loyalty, no matter who shall say to the contrary.”
“Then you will not confess,” returned Mary. “You persist in declaring that you are innocent.”
“If I am not innocent,” said Elizabeth solemnly, “never again will I ask favor or kindness from the hands of your Grace.”
“God knows,” murmured the queen half turning away. A minute later she said, “Elizabeth, will you swear by all that you do hold sacred that you have no guilt in this matter?”
“I will,” answered Elizabeth without a moment’s hesitation.
“Then do I forgive you—be you innocent or be you guilty,” she said to herself—“and in token of my pardon I restore to you the ring, pledge of my sisterly affection. May the time never come when you will have need to send it to me again.”
At Christmas there was a grand round of festivities at court. The Pope had sent a representative to receive from Mary the humble submission of the kingdom, and the rejoicings were looked upon not only as celebrating this reconciliation but as in some measure continuing those of the queen’s marriage. Elizabeth was made prominent in everything. She sat at the queen’s table and was treated as heir to the throne. Nevertheless, Mary did not fully trust her, and when the princess was about to return to her own home, the queen presented a nobleman and said that henceforth he would abide in Elizabeth’s house, charged with the duty of guarding her safety and comfort. This nobleman was a learned and upright man of most perfect courtesy, and his presence can hardly have failed to give her pleasure, even though Elizabeth well knew that he was sent to make sure that she had no connection with any of the plots which were to be feared.
It is no wonder that a close watch needed to be kept for conspiracies, for several were formed against the queen. A story was spread abroad that Edward VI. was not dead, but was living in France and was about to return to regain his throne. There were rumors that certain men in the land had the power of magic, and had stuck pins into waxen images of the queen, thereby causing her intense suffering. The king of France was ready to encourage any rumor, however absurd, and to aid any conspiracy that would better the chances of Mary of Scotland to wear the crown of England. If Elizabeth was dead or shut out of the succession, these chances would be greatly increased, and probably this is why Philip had now become the friend of Elizabeth, for if France and Scotland and England were united, his own power and that of his father would be much less. Several foreign husbands were proposed for the princess, one of them the son of Philip by a former marriage, a boy of ten years. Elizabeth refused them all, and the queen declared that she should not be forced to marry against her will.
Mary’s reign was shamed and disgraced by the burning of a large number of persons, two hundred at least, because their religious belief differed from that which she thought right. She is called “Bloody Mary” because this took place in her reign, but just how far she was in fault no one knows. Neither Henry VIII. nor Edward nor Mary ever showed the least regard for the physical sufferings of others, but Mary had never manifested the least vindictiveness of disposition. Indeed, she had often been more inclined than her councilors thought best to pardon and overlook deeds that most rulers of the time would have punished. Moreover, during some of the worst persecutions Mary was so ill that it was said “she lay for weeks without speaking.” One of the reasons why the English had feared to have Philip marry their queen, was because he was known to approve of torture, if by its means the sufferers could be induced to give up beliefs that he thought false. He now wrote to his sister, “We have made a law, I and the most illustrious queen, for the punishment of heretics and all enemies of Holy Church; or rather, we have revived the old ordinances of the realm, which will serve this purpose very well.” It must not be forgotten, however, that this burning at the stake was done with the consent of Parliament, and that, as Philip said, it was in accordance with the old laws.
A hard life was Mary’s. She had no child, and she was not sure of the faithfulness of her sister and heir. It was chiefly by her determination to marry Philip that she had lost the love of her people, and after all that she had sacrificed for his sake and all her affection for him, he cared nothing whatever for her. An old ballad says that he liked