A few days later Doctors Owen and Wendy arrived at Hatfield to examine her. Mary had sent them to ascertain whether she was indeed fit to travel. She was ill enough—her face and limbs were swollen to twice their normal size. She felt sick unto death and this time it was no pretence. Surely they would inform her sister that she was seriously ill and if Mary had any compassion she would not command that she be moved. But Mary was beyond pity for she had had a bad fright and two days later a deputation arrived bearing her command that Elizabeth repair to London.
Protestations made by Kat concerning Elizabeth’s health and the lateness of the hour availed her nothing and the deputation was ushered into the girl’s bed-chamber and the letter from the Queen presented to her.
Elizabeth was informed that the Royal Physicians had agreed that she could be moved and she must therefore set out the following day.
“My Lords,” Elizabeth pleaded, “I much fear my weakness to be so great that I shall not be able to travel and to endure the journey without peril to my life.”
Her plea met with failure. They were polite but firm, she had no choice but to agree.
When the door had closed behind them Kat took her hand and gazed at her fearfully.
“To have me travel in this condition Mary must believe me guilty!” Elizabeth cried. “Mayhap she thinks I will die on the road!” She was close to despair as she clasped Kat’s hand so tightly that the rings cut into her flesh.
Kat winced but did not pull her hand away for between the two frightened women there was a close bond. Whatever the future held for Elizabeth, Kat vowed she would do everything in her power to stay with her and try to ease the burden.
Kat sank to her knees beside the bed, still clasping the swollen, feverish hand. “Let us pray, Bess,” she said. “O God, deliver us from all evil both present and to come,” she implored the Almighty, “have pity upon your servants and give us the strength to endure the tribulations and to proclaim our innocence. Preserve us from wicked and untruthful men. God grant us peace!” she finished. Wearily she laid her head on the coverlet, intending to stay with the girl until she slept. “Dear God, help her,” she prayed. Her thoughts turned distractedly to the girl’s mother. “All have forsaken her,” she whispered into the darkness. “In the Name of God, if it be in your power, help your daughter now Anne!”
Two hours later Kat awoke, cramped and half frozen for the fire had gone out, her hand still clasped in Elizabeth’s. She rose stiffly and gently withdrew the swollen fingers from her own. She looked down at her mistress who appeared to be sleeping peacefully and wondered if anyone, let alone the long-dead Anne, could save Elizabeth now!
To Kat the next morning was a nightmare! At nine o’clock they brought Elizabeth out to the Queen’s own litter which Mary had sent. Elizabeth was so ill that she should not even have left her bed. She fainted three times before they managed to get her into the litter and Kat was mortally afraid that Elizabeth would be proved right—she would die upon the road. To forcibly take a young girl, so desperately ill, from the warmth of her bed and transport her in a jolting, swaying litter—separated from the freezing February elements by only curtains—was in Kat’s opinion, certain death! But Kat was powerless to resist. Mary was adamant. As Kat rode beside her mistress huddled in her warmest cloak which though made of heavy felt offered little resistance to the biting wind, she feared that this was the end. The bright dream of the Crown that Elizabeth held so dear, worked so hard to prepare herself for—sacrificing her health and youth in the process—looked as though it was about to end here on the frozen, rutted road to London or worse, was it to end on the scaffold on Tower Green as her mother’s dreams of power had ended? Kat shivered uncontrollably with cold and fear knowing that with what little strength Elizabeth had left she would be preparing her defence. Struggling against the tide which now threatened to engulf her for like her sister, Elizabeth was a Tudor and would never give in even with her dying breath!
It took them ten painful days to reach the City—stopping overnight at various manor houses en route. Days through which the girl endured the jolting which racked her body with hideous pain and the cold which made her shiver with fever but she clung tenaciously to the thin thread of life—defying death.
When the cortege at last reached the outskirts of the City she demanded that the curtains of the litter be drawn back.
“The good citizens shall see me as I am,” she thought “they must realise that I have been brought here forcefully, sick unto death though I am.” Earlier she had demanded that Kat dress her entirely in white which added to the illusion of youthful martyrdom which was not lost on the crowds who quickly gathered to watch her pass and she heard the word “Shame” muttered frequently as the sad procession wound its way towards Whitehall.
All around her were the relics of the rebellion—the heads of the insurgents adorned every gate and were set high on the city walls. A gruesome reminder to all of the fate of traitors. She had also heard that Mary had finally agreed to the execution of her sixteen-year-old cousin, Jane Grey and her husband, Guildford Dudley. If Mary intended to execute Jane who was entirely innocent of complicity in Wyatt’s plot, what hope did she have? Would Mary give up the God-sent opportunity of revenge upon her long-dead enemy?
They arrived at the palace of Whitehall in the late afternoon. Here a further shock awaited her for she was separated from her household and lodged in a remote part of the palace.
Kat stood her ground. “I will not leave my mistress unless dragged away by the guard!” she steadfastly informed the burly Knight who stood before her.
Seeing quite plainly that she meant every word, he merely shrugged and so Kat remained.
Elizabeth immediately sent word to her sister requesting an interview but to her consternation she received no reply. “Better to have died on the road!” she sobbed to Kat.
Kat was at a loss for she too believed that this was the end for her mistress.
“To think that I once pitied her,” Elizabeth continued, “my poor, foolish sister. One should never pity a Queen, especially a Tudor Queen!” she ended with a bitter laugh in which there was more than a trace of hysteria.
For a whole month both she and Kat lived a nightmare. Daily they expected the entrance of the Guard to convey Elizabeth to the Tower and death.
“What can they prove against me?” she asked herself again and again throughout those long weeks. “There is no proof. The copy of a letter and Wyatt’s allegations of two letters having been sent to me. One informing me of his arrival and the other advising me to move to Castle Donnington.” The alleged replies to these letters had been verbal and non-committal but always she ended these question and answer sessions with herself with the same hopeless conclusion. “Mary needs no proof—the lies and trumped-up charges will suffice. I am my mother’s daughter and in Mary’s eyes that is the most heinous sin—the sin that condemns me!”
William Saintlow—a member of her household—was taken away to be put to the question. How she dreaded those words knowing the vicious methods that would be used against him. But Saintlow proved loyal. He denied with conviction any knowledge of Wyatt’s plans and indeed so strong were his protestations that he was finally believed and set at liberty. To Elizabeth this seemed a minor miracle. Could she, dare she hope?
The Court moved to Richmond and Elizabeth was taken under guard with the rest of the household. It was here that she heard on the 15th March that Sir Thomas Wyatt had been tried and convicted of High Treason against the Crown. She heard the news calmly—it had been a foregone conclusion. How coincidental, she thought, that the son of the man who had been accused of loving her mother should bring so much pain and trouble to herself.
Very gradually her fears abated for she had been at Richmond for over a month and it was now two months since she had been dragged from her sick bed at Hatfield. The very next day, like a bolt from Heaven, came the dread tidings she had expected since she had arrived.
She was up, dressed and trying feebly to work with her needle when Bishop Gardiner and nineteen members of the Council were announced.
Kat, who was with her, trembled visibly whilst Elizabeth gripped her needle so tightly that it pierced her skin but she was so overcome with fear that she did not feel it. Fighting to control herself, to show no surprise or fear she managed at last to ask the Bishop his business. She had always known Gardiner to be her avowed enemy and he made no pretence to the contrary now.
“Madam,” he began, the hatred in his voice thinly veiled, “you are suspected of complicity in the conspiracy of Thomas Wyatt and also that of Sir Peter Carew and it is the Queen’s pleasure that you should be taken to the Tower while the matter be further tried and examined.”
At last the dreaded words had been spoken and her mind reeled under the shock whilst a short, sharp cry of terror was emitted by Kat who stood shaking, while gripping the back of a chair for support.
Terror constricted Elizabeth’s throat or was it, she thought crazily, a foretaste of the axe? Half remembered tales of that bloody place swooped like birds of prey into her petrified mind.
“I am innocent! Innocent of all charges,” she pleaded. “I am truly guiltless. Pray God the Queen’s Majesty will be a more gracious Lady unto me than to send me to so notorious and doleful a place!” she begged while the tears ran unashamedly down her thin cheeks.
Gardiner gazed at her without pity and with something akin to scorn on his lean, fanatical features. Without another word he turned and signalling the Council members to follow, left.
She remained standing as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the closed door. Kat ran to her and threw her arms about her.
“Bess, Bess, what are we to do? O, God help us!” she cried.
At her words Elizabeth’s trance broke and she clung to Kat and sobbed.
Barely an hour later she learnt that even Kat was to be taken away from her. Kat who had been her only comfort through the last terrible months, the only one in the world whom she felt she could trust. With mounting terror she realised that she was to die alone with not even Kat to help her through her last agony. They clung to each other in those final moments, both believing that it would be the last time they should see each other alive.
Six of the Queen’s ladies were appointed to wait upon Elizabeth.
“Spies,” she thought. “My mother, too, they surrounded with spies, but they will learn nothing of me!” she vowed.
One hundred northern soldiers, usually employed guarding the wild border country, were sent to guard the palace and gardens and two Lords kept watch in the Great Hall all night. She slept little knowing that to-morrow she would sleep beneath the walls of the Tower from which few ever returned.
She remembered what she had heard of her mother’s imprisonment, of Kat’s tales of the horrible deeds which were committed in the dark, rat infested dungeons. She lay shivering with fear trying to pray for strength and courage to die as bravely as Anne had done, but prayers would not come—only stark, abject terror!
By morning she had regained some of her unquenchable spirit. Never would she betray her feelings before these spies of Mary’s. The Earl of Sussex and the Marquis of Winchester came to inform her that the barge was waiting and that the tide tarrieth for no man.
She glimpsed a tiny ray of hope. “The tide,” she thought, “the tide! If I could but gain a little time.”
“If I am denied permission to see my sister, may I not at least write to her?” she begged.
Winchester refused but Sussex, with a change of heart, agreed. Writing materials were produced and she sat down to write the most important letter of her life.
“If any 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 in 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. I protest before God, who shall judge me truly, whatsoever malice shall devise, that I never practised, counselled nor consented to anything that might be prejudicial to your person any way, or dangerous to the State by any means. And therefore I 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 move your Highness to take some better way with me, than to make me condemned in all men’s sight afore my desert (be) 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, and 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.”
Winchester was urging her to hurry so she hastily concluded.
“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. And as for the traitor Wyatt, he might peradventure write me a letter, but on my faith I never received any from him. And for the copy of my letter sent to the French King, I pray God confound me eternally if ever I sent him word, message, token or letter by any means. And to this truth I will stand to my death. I humbly crave but only one word of answer from yourself.
Your Highness’s most faithfull subject that hath been from the beginning and will be to my end.
Elizabeth.
As she added her signature she knew that she had achieved her object. They had missed the tide. They would not take her through the streets for fear of a riot and to take her on the midnight tide would be suicide for them all so they would have to wait until morning.
Her letter met with no success for Mary flew into a violent rage.
“Would that my father had been alive, but for one month!” she raged at her hapless Council.
So for Elizabeth there was to be no reprieve.
At nine o’clock next morning Sussex and Winchester arrived again and this time there was to be no time-wasting!
To their relief the girl seemed to be resigned to her fate and to their summons answered.
“If there be no remedy I must needs be content.”
They led her out through the chill, deserted gardens to the river steps. Hopelessly she searched the palace windows but there was no sign of Mary, no sign of anyone. Desolately she remarked,
“I marvel at the nobility of this land who will suffer me to be led into captivity, the Lord knows whither for I do not.”
A small party awaited at the water steps, three of Mary’s ladies and three of her own, but search though she may she could see no sign of Kat. Theres was also her Gentleman Usher and two of her own grooms.
As they all embarked that cold Palm Sunday a fine rain began to fall. All the citizens had been exhorted to attend Church so that there was no one to see the removal of the captive Princess. Her spirits could not have sunk further. Chilled to the very bones she now lived the nightmare that had haunted her for months. She sat silently as the barge moved slowly down river. Nearly eighteen years ago they had rowed her mother to the same, final destination. Sunk in apathy Elizabeth was convinced that history was repeating itself: she too was to die on the scaffold as Anne had done—as too had the five ill-fated young men accused with her, including her own brother. Poor Katherine Howard had travelled this route to her death and Elizabeth shivered involuntarily as she remembered even now Kate’s pitiful screams. Tom Seymour had gone to his death in the Tower, followed by his brother Ned. The mighty Northumberland and two of his sons and but a few weeks ago her poor cousin, Jane Grey. Dreams of power and the Crown of England had proved the downfall of them all and now it was to claim her too.
She was pulled back into the present by the startled cries of the ladies and the oaths of the oarsmen. The fools had misjudged the tide after all! There was a desperate moment as the barge struck on the wooden starling of the bridge and was sucked into the tiderace and Elizabeth feared that her end by drowning was imminent as she clung to the wooden pole which supported the canopy. After a few minutes’ confusion they were carried safely on. Through the needle-fine rain the grim, forbidding walls of the Tower were visible ahead.
Her racing heart missed a beat, there was no miracle that could save her now!
As the barge tied up at the Water Gate she became paralysed with fear. Traitor’s Gate, they called this gate and anyone who passed beneath the ugly teeth of the portcullis never came out alive. Summoning every ounce of courage she refused to land.
“I am no traitor,” she declared. “You have misjudged the tide and I shall be over my shoes in water,” she cried, clutching at any excuse.
Winchester, who had been halfway up the steps, turned back.
“Madam, you have no choice,” he told her bluntly but he did offer her his cloak.
She glared at him. “Thank you, no,” she replied. As she placed one foot on the slimy steps her courage seemed to return, “Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner as ever landed at these stairs and before God I speak it, having no other friend but Thee Alone!” she cried.
Winchester was not impressed. “If that be so then ’tis better for thee,” he remarked caustically.
She now appealed to the little band of soldiers and warders who were drawn up waiting to escort the party. The thin frail girl who should have been utterly beaten but in whose ailing body there still burnt the indomitable spirit of her ancestors.
“O Lord,” she cried, “I never thought to come in here as a prisoner and I pray you all good friends and fellows bear me witness that I come in no traitor but as true a woman to the Queen’s Majesty as any now living,” she stretched out her hands appealingly, “thereon will I take my death,” she finished.
From the ranks of these men a voice cried
“God Preserve Your Grace!”
She turned to the Lord Chamberlain, “Are all these harnessed men for me?” she asked.
“No, Madam, it is usual when any prisoner comes thither,” he answered but her courage began to desert her, the spark was dying.
“Yes, I know it is so. It needed not for me being but a weak woman.”
Her courage gave out entirely and she sank down upon the cold, wet steps; the very steps her mother had taken—she could go no further.
“Madam, you were best to come out of the rain for you sit unwholesomely,” a voice e advised her, it was the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Bridges.
Mournfully she replied, “’Tis better sitting here than in a worse place, for God knoweth I know not, whither you will bring me.”
At her words her Gentleman Usher promptly burst into tears for the sight of his proud, beloved mistress reduced to utter despair was too much for him.
His tears brought back a little of Elizabeth’s strength.
“What do you mean to so uncomfortably use me?” she said sharply. His pity had stung her to life for a Tudor never accepted pity!
She rose and with all the dignity she could muster, climbed the remaining steps and walked on into that haunted prison.