36

Elizabeth

At Woodstock, I languished in boredom. Upon arrival we discovered that the old palace was too decrepit to inhabit, and were forced to make do as best we could crammed into the two-story, four-room guest house, itself in none too good repair.

I chafed at being kept in such close confinement. Sir Henry was a man entirely lacking in leniency and imagination. He governed me strictly by the rules that the Council and my sister had laid down, denying himself the liberty of interpretation.

If I asked for anything that was not explicitly allowed or denied me in their instructions, he would dutifully write a letter of inquiry, and then would begin the long dull, dreary delay while we waited for an answer.

I was allowed nothing to read except books of Catholic instruction and prayer sanctioned by Mary. When I asked for an English Bible I was given one in Latin instead; Sir Henry ventured that since I was so skilled in reading Latin I might prefer to read in that language lest my skills grow rusty. My servants were separated from me and forced to lodge elsewhere, most of them taking rooms in a nearby tavern. And I was allowed no writing materials so that I might directly address my sister and the Council, nor was I allowed to speak to anyone, not even the maid who was charged to attend me, out of Sir Henry’s hearing. And when my laundry was returned to me he himself searched it meticulously for hidden messages. And I was compelled, by Mary’s orders, to attend Mass, said in Latin, twice daily.

I festered with fury, boredom, and impatience. It seemed my life was being wasted and whiled away. My days were spent waiting for night so that I might retire to lie restless beneath the blue ceiling painted with silver stars above my bed, and my uneasy nights were spent in restless waiting for the day to arrive. All I was doing was waiting and marking time.

“I am only following orders, Princess, nothing more and nothing less!” Sir Henry would wail each time I rounded on him and railed at him for being overly strict.

Time and again I would point an accusing finger at him and scream, “Gaoler!”

And in response, Sir Henry would, despite the difficulty presented by his great bulk, drop to his knees and implore me not to call him such a harsh and deplorable name. “For I am your officer, appointed to take care of you and protect you from any harm.”

I was allowed to walk in the orchard daily, but only with Sir Henry trudging along, puffing and blowing, red-faced and panting, struggling to keep up with me. He was a man clearly unaccustomed to brisk exercise. In angry frustration, I would quicken my pace and lash my riding crop at the high-grown weeds.

As spring rolled into summer, word reached us of the Spanish bridegroom’s arrival and, at summer’s end, an announcement that Mary was expecting a child.

In deep despair, fearing that the rest of my life would be spent in captivity and the crown would never be mine, I opened my copy of St. Paul’s Epistles and upon the flyleaf wrote, “I walk many times into the pleasant fields of the Holy Scriptures, where I pluck up the goodlisome herbs of sentences, that, having tasted their sweetness, I may less perceive the bitterness of this miserable life.”

One rainy afternoon, when I must stay inside, I took a diamond ring from my finger and used it to etch onto the windowpane a little verse of my own making:

MUCH SUSPECTED OF ME,
NOTHING PROVED CAN BE.
QUOTH ELIZABETH, PRISONER

Seeing it, Sir Henry frowned and, for the umpteenth time exclaimed, “I am only following orders, Princess, nothing more and nothing less!”

“Gaoler!” I screamed shrilly at the top of my lungs, putting all my anger, fear, and frustration into that solitary word, and flung my book at his head.