“The King’s Mistress was delivered of a girl, to the great disappointment and sorrow of the King, of the Lady herself and to the great shame and confusion of physicians, astrologers, wizards and witches, all of whom affirmed it would be a boy.”
So wrote the Imperial Ambassador, Chapuys, to his master the Emperor of the birth of Elizabeth Tudor on Sunday, the 7th September, 1533. Her parents had every reason to be disappointed. Her father desperately needed a son. England remembered all too readily the Wars of the Roses which had torn the country apart and needed no reminder of the disastrous reign of her only Queen Regnant, Matilda. So far there had only been Mary and now Henry was saddled with another useless girl.
Her mother’s disappointment must have been acute for Anne too needed a son to ensure her safety. She had fought so hard and for so long for her Crown and Anne knew as did no other how precarious was her position. For her sake Henry had divorced his wife Queen Catherine, bastardised his only lawful child, alienated half of Europe and turned his country from the Church of Rome, and in return for all this Anne had given him a daughter. Henry was more than disappointed, he was furious!
After his initial anger had cooled, he appeared to become resigned to the matter. There was still time, he told the child’s mother. They were both young and Elizabeth was healthy, a good sign, the next child would be a boy.
Elizabeth was therefore christened with great ceremony on Wednesday, 10th September, at the Church of the Grey Friars, Greenwich. It was an auspicious occasion and no expense was spared. The walls between the palace and the church were hung with brightly coloured, priceless tapestries and the floor strewn with fresh, green rushes. The church too was hung with tapestries and the font was of solid silver. The air was heavy with the scent of burning incense and between the choir and the chancel a brazier burnt so that the baby would not catch cold while being undressed for the ceremony.
The baby was clothed in a mantle of purple velvet, lined with ermine, and was carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walked either side of the Duchess and she was followed by the Countess of Kent and Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, Elizabeth’s grandfather, who was a proud man that day.
Her Godmothers were none other than the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset. The long ceremony was performed—before a glittering array of courtiers—by the Bishop of London assisted by many bishops and abbots.
At last it was over and the Garter-King-At-Arms proclaimed, “God in His Infinite Goodness send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!”
As his voice died away the silvery notes of the trumpets rang out, echoing around the high, vaulted roof as the baby was carried to the altar. The Christening gifts were blessed and were received on behalf of the sleeping babe by her Godmothers. From Archbishop Cranmer a cup of chaste gold. Another cup of gold inlaid with pearls from the Duchess of Norfolk herself. The Marchionesses of Dorset and Exeter respectively presented three gilt bowls with covers.
Wafers and Hippocras were then passed around the assembled company that they might refresh themselves and when they had availed themselves of the refreshments and had appraised amongst themselves the richness of the Christening gifts the procession then returned by torchlight to the palace to be greeted by an outwardly benevolent King. Having further refreshed themselves from the Royal Cellar the participants then departed, somewhat merrily, to their barges.
Princesses, even infant ones, were expected to have their own household as befitted their high station in life and despite Anne’s protests arrangements had been made by the end of November for an establishment to be set up for the baby at Hatfield under the charge of Anne Shelton and Alice Clere, two of Anne’s own aunts. Lady Margaret Bryan was to be her “Lady Mistress”, a kind but sensible woman whom the child was to remember with affection. And so on the twelfth day of December the three month old baby Princess was carried through the streets of London.
To show to his people how great was his esteem for his latest daughter Henry had commanded the presence at her side of the Earl Marshall of England, her great-uncle, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
Upon her installation at Hatfield the baby was joined by her half-sister Mary. Mary’s presence was not a voluntary undertaking for she had been forced to join the household, she who had once been the darling of her parents, petted and shown-off to foreign visitors with her proud father declaring that “This child never cries.” The poor child had cried many bitter tears since then. Separated from the mother she idolised, publicly bastardised, neglected, threatened and now forced to wait upon the baby who had supplanted her. Small wonder she was never to forgive Elizabeth for being Anne’s daughter.
In January, 1534, Henry and Anne came to visit the baby but Anne had maliciously given instructions that Mary was to be kept out of sight. Henry looked in vain for his elder daughter. The bitterness of Mary’s life took root in her that January when she was seventeen and Elizabeth but a babe of four months.
Two months later the household moved to Eltham where they were again visited by the King and Queen. Henry rejoiced in the resemblance of the child to himself and in her robust health. Thereafter the household regularly moved from manor to manor to avoid any risk of infection to the child and because a household of that size quickly exhausted the edible supplies of the surrounding area. Her parents visited her at times and upon certain occasions she was taken to visit them.
Anne ordered white and purple satin caps, laid with a rich border of gold, to be made for her and great importance was attached to her weaning in October, 1534.
So her baby years were spent in comfort and security as Heir to the Throne, though there were many who, refusing to acknowledge the marriage of her parents, referred to her (out of earshot of the King) as “the little bastard”, or more politely as “Madam Baby”.
The New Year of 1536 brought with it tragic news for Mary. Catherine, her mother, was dying. Desperately the unhappy girl wrote begging her father to be allowed to go to her. Every spare minute she could obtain from her duties she spent at her prie-dieu, tears pouring down her sallow cheeks. Gone now the formal Aves and Pater Nosters.
Over and over she repeated the same words, “Oh Dear God let her live, at least until I can reach her.”
Throughout the bitter years God had not failed her, surely he would not forsake her now?
It was Lady Bryan who brought the reply.
Upon seeing the letter in her hand Mary rose quickly from her knees, stretching both hands towards Lady Bryan in mute appeal.
Lady Bryan sadly shook her head.
“The answer is no,” she whispered, her heart going out to the girl who stood transfixed with shock before her, misery written in every line of her thin body.
As if in a trance Mary stumbled to her prie-dieu, eyes fixed upon the Crucifix above.
“Dear God, he could not be so cruel,” she murmured in a strangled voice, “surely he could not be so cruel?”
Suddenly the full realisation of Henry’s brutal denial seemed to engulf her and she fell to the floor, her anguished sobs torn from her heart.
Despite her instructions Lady Bryan could hear no more. She crossed to where Mary lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor and picking the girl up, cradled her in her arms.
Mary’s whole body was convulsed with sobs.
“Mary, Mary,” soothed Lady Bryan, gently rocking the girl while her own heart was desolate for she could find no words with which to console the heart-broken Princess.
So Catherine had died, neglected and virtually alone. She the daughter of the great Isabella, Princess of Spain and Queen of England was laid to rest with little ceremony at Peterborough. Her last thoughts had been for the husband to whom she had devoted over twenty years of her life. She was deeply mourned by her daughter and by the great majority of her subjects but not by her husband.
She left behind a broken-hearted girl who was never to completely forgive her father for his cruelty and who was to extend the hatred and bitterness she felt for his new Queen to that Queen’s daughter.
For Elizabeth’s mother the death of Catherine meant that at last there was but one Queen of England. Anne felt secure, Catherine was dead and she was again pregnant and she was certain that this time it would be a boy.
The court exploded into a riot of gaiety. Balls, masques and all manner of festivities were devised. In the midst of this revelry Henry carried his baby daughter high in his arms that all may admire her, conveniently forgetting that he had once carried Mary in the same way.
A few months later everything had changed for Elizabeth.
Young as she was she sensed a strange and frightening atmosphere. Suddenly no one wished to listen to her infant chatter, seemingly wishing to go away quickly as she entered a room. The little girl was hurt and bewildered. She did not know what she had done but she thought it must be something very bad. Her dresses were shabby but there were no new ones, no more satin caps to replace the ones grown too small and soiled to be worn.
She asked Lady Bryan one day, “How haps it yesterday my Lady Princess, but to-day my Lady Elizabeth?”
Lady Bryan did not reply but looked at the child with sorrow.
“What is it that I have done that my Lady mother never comes to see me?” the little girl persisted.
Lady Bryan’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. She could not trust herself to answer. She stumbled from the room leaving a puzzled and frightened child.
It was many years later that Elizabeth was to learn that all her mother’s sparkling beauty had gone forever with the sword of the headsman from France on the orders of her father, unjustly accused of the crimes of treason and adultery. Her head with its dark, mocking eyes and raven hair lay on the bloody straw of the scaffold that day in May, 1536. Before they led her out to die they annulled the marriage that cost her her life and Madam Baby too was declared a bastard.
The child was forgotten in the unseemly haste of the King’s new marriage to Jane Seymour, one of Anne’s own Maids of Honour. Indeed things became so bad that in August Lady Bryan was forced to write to Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s Chief Minister, because the little girl was rapidly growing and was short of clothes.
“She has neither gown nor kirtle, nor petticoat nor linen for smocks,” wrote Lady Bryan. Moreover, she was at a loss how to address the child and had allowed her much more freedom of late because Elizabeth was in great pain with her teeth. The pain at times was great and the tantrums which resulted served to remind Lady Bryan forcibly of the child’s father.
Elizabeth’s safe, secure little world was gone forever, leaving behind a child who would bear the scars on her character for the rest of her life.