Sir Robert wrote to the Protector and a copy of his letter was shown to Elizabeth.
With shaking hands she read:
“I further declared what a woman Mrs Ashley was… saying that if she would open all things herself, all the evil and shame should be ascribed to them and her youth considered both with the King’s Majesty, your Grace and the whole Council. But in no way she will not confess any practice by Mistress Ashley or the cofferer concerning my Lord Admiral; and yet I do see it in her face that she is guilty and do perceive as yet she will abide more storms ere she accuse Mistress Ashley.”
Well, in the last respect he was right, she thought. She would never betray Kat. Kat had been her comfort and her mainstay since babyhood. To Kat she had confided her hopes and fears and they asked her to abandon Kat, to blame her. Never!
Sir Robert left.
Elizabeth was desperately afraid for she had heard how Parry had rushed to his chamber declaring that he wished he had never been born for he was undone. He had thrown away his chain of office and had torn the rings from his fingers.
“What is happening to them both, what are they telling their tormentors?” she wondered frantically.
Sir Robert returned and she could see that he was determined to wring some form of confession from her. This time he tried a different approach—persuasion. She vehemently denied any knowledge of the Admiral’s involvement with Sharington and repeated the conversation she had had with Parry on his return from London concerning the loan of Seymour Place.
Sir Robert smiled inwardly. “Well, ’tis a start,” he thought. With a great show of reluctance he proceeded to show her a letter he had received from the Lord Protector regarding his instructions towards her.
Elizabeth was not taken in. She thanked him kindly but refused to comment further. He then left her alone to contemplate her position.
Each day for a week the interrogation continued and Elizabeth held out, repeating only what she had already told him and denying all knowledge of Sharington. By the end of the week Sir Robert was infuriated for she had told him nothing. Elizabeth was grimly fighting with all her strength. She was afraid and constantly spied upon but with the spirit of her mother she fought on for she knew that perhaps her life depended upon it.
Early the next week she received a letter from the Lord Protector himself.
“At last, they have given me the very chance I need,” she thought, “the chance to speak for myself.” She sat down at her desk and thoughtfully composed her defence.
There had been no secret understanding between herself and Mrs Ashley, she wrote. She related the Admiral’s offer of the loan of Seymour Place and her conversations with Thomas Parry and Kat Ashley concerning the Admiral’s advances towards herself. If she could remember anything further she would write and inform him of the same.
“Master Tyrwhit and others have told me that there goeth rumours abroad which go greatly against my honour and honesty (which above all things I esteem) which be these: That I am in the Tower and with child by my Lord Admiral. My Lord, these are shameful slanders for which, beside the great desire I have to see the King’s Majesty, I shall most heartily desire your Lordship that I may come to Court after your first determination that I may show myself there as I am,” she finished.
She sat back and re-read the letter. “Just let me show myself and I will quickly put a stop to these evil, lying tales,” she thought.
But it was not to be. Permission was refused.
Sadly she realised that the Council would not let her near her brother lest she succeed in making him realise what lies they had used to poison his mind against her.
“God knows what they have told him,” she thought desperately, “surely, surely Edward would not believe them. Edward loves me,” but then she remembered that he was no longer the little boy who had turned to her for comfort. The worst was yet to come!
The next morning Sir Robert burst in upon her waving a letter. Satisfaction was written all over his face and her heart missed a beat.
“My God, what now?” she thought. She faced him calmly. “To what do I owe this intrusion upon my privacy?” she demanded.
“Mistress Ashley and Thomas Parry have confessed!” he told her bluntly.
She sat down suddenly. The strain of the last weeks had taken its toll and she fought down the hysteria that threatened to overcome her.
“No, no!” she cried, “let me see the signatures.” Her hands shook as she took the parchment from him, indeed they shook so badly that she was unable to read what was written but she saw clearly the two signatures that she knew so well.
“So they have failed me!” she thought.
Sir Robert removed the letters from her hands. Parry had broken first, he informed her. Mrs Ashley would say nothing until confronted with him and then she had lost control and had shouted that he was a false wretch for he had promised never to confess it to death.
Elizabeth raised a tear-stained face. “Then it was a great matter for him to promise such a promise and to break it,” she said quietly.
Seeing that he had at last triumphed Tyrwhit left, leaving the confessions that she might read them later.
Elizabeth moved numbly to the fire and stood staring into the bright flames for a long time.
Poor Kat, she had tried, she thought.
Was this the end? So short a time ago it seemed since she had vowed that she would fight to the end and now was this the end? With the warmth of the fire, a warmth crept through her numb body.
“No,” she vowed. “I will never give up!” She picked up the letters and began to read them through carefully. It was all there for everyone to read. The silly romps at Chelsea and Hanworth and she blushed as she realised that now she would be considered little better than a serving wench.
Anger burned in her. “You fool! You fool!” she told herself. But at least there was nothing treasonable in her conduct. Time and time again she had stated that she would never marry without the consent of the Council.
“A fine mess you have made of things, Tom Seymour,” she cried aloud with venom. “You can rot in the Tower but I shall never expose myself again,” she vowed. Always there was a man involved in the downfall of a woman, she thought.
“Women are used by greedy, selfish men for their own ends.” She thought of Katherine Parr and of poor Queen Catherine, of her own mother and Katherine Howard and quiet Jane Seymour. All of them sacrificed to a man’s greed and lust.
“Never!” she vowed. “No man will be my master. No man will ever own me!”
Next morning Sir Robert entered her chamber cheerfully. Today he was sure to have the confession that he had laboured all these weeks to obtain.
He was in for a shock. He found not the docile, frightened girl he had expected but a very determined young woman. Elizabeth flatly refused to say any more than she had already told him and it was a thoroughly exasperated man that left her that morning.
A week later he reported to her that the Council had seen fit to appoint a new Governess for her as Mrs Ashley was obviously not fit for the post. He introduced in her place his wife, Lady Elizabeth Tyrwhit and relayed the Council’s wish that Elizabeth accept her service willingly.
Elizabeth rounded on him in fury! “Mrs Ashley is my mistress,” she stormed, “I have not so demeaned myself that the Council should now need to put anyone else in her place.”
Lady Tyrwhit confronted the furious girl calmly and remarked sarcastically, “Seeing you did allow Mrs Ashley to be your mistress you need not be ashamed to have any other honest woman to be in the place.”
Elizabeth shook with temper. How dare she, this sanctimonious, sour-faced woman, speak to her like that. “Oh! I remember you well, Elizabeth Tyrwhit,” she thought. “It was to you that Katherine Parr confided her deathbed grievances.”
Aloud she said coldly, “You may leave us, Madam.”
With an impudent look Lady Tyrwhit swept from the room.
All the next day Elizabeth fumed and Sir Robert informed her that in his opinion she needed not one Governess, but two!
“When I need your opinion, Sir, I shall ask for it!” she replied crossly.
She was depressed for the hated Lady Tyrwhit watched and reported her every word and action. She longed for Kat’s company. She had heard that the Admiral’s household had been disbanded and wondered feverishly and for the hundredth time what would happen to her. There had been a long silence from the Protector since Kat and Parry had confessed. At last she decided to write to him.
She heard that he had received her last letter but that he had not been pleased with it, she wrote. She was sorry but he had asked her to speak plainly and she had told the truth. She was sad to see that he made no mention of the rumours concerning her but suggested that he send forth a Proclamation declaring them to be lies, so that the people would see that the Council and the Protector himself were concerned about such rumours being spread of the King’s sister.
“I am ashamed to ask any more because I see you are not so well minded thereunto,” she finished.
She wearily laid down her quill and shook fresh sand over the signature. At last she felt herself to be out of danger for they had no proof against her, only gossip. She felt far older than her fifteen years and knew herself to be very much wiser for the experience she had come through.
The Council met on the 22nd February, and declared that the Lord High Admiral was “sore charged with divers and sundry Articles of High Treason”. Thirty-three charges, in fact. He demanded a public trial and this being refused, he stubbornly refused to issue a statement.
Eventually his brother gave the necessary permission and on the 20th March, Tom Seymour was led out to the scaffold on Tower Hill. He met his end resignedly for he had gambled everything and had lost.
It was the hated Lady Tyrwhit who brought the news to Elizabeth. She watched the girl intently for any sign of grief which could be passed on to the Council. The experiences of the past two months had prepared Elizabeth and she gazed back steadily at Lady Tyrwhit and answered in a voice totally lacking in emotion,
“This day died a man with much wit and very little judgement.”
She had the pleasure of seeing the expectant expression wiped from Elizabeth Tyrwhit’s face but after she had gone Elizabeth felt sorrow sweep over her. She had concealed her feelings well but now that he was dead she admitted to herself that she had loved him a little. She also admitted that had the roles been reversed, he would have left her to her fate. She would do everything in her power from now on to live down the association with him for there would be many who would be watching her and who would not hesitate to remark “like mother, like daughter!” and the fact that both had been slandered would count for little.
She was out of danger, though Lady Tyrwhit stayed on. Soon she began to write to the Protector requesting the release of Kat and Parry. This was at first refused but she continued her petitioning and at length they both returned to Hatfield.
Kat fell sobbing to her knees and was so completely overcome with remorse that Elizabeth could only catch disjointed phrases.
Raising her gently Elizabeth led her to a chair.
“Kat, dearest Kat,” she soothed, “I do not blame you. ’Tis all past now, we must forget.”
Kat hiccuped. “The Admiral,” she moaned.
“We must forget him too,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Come, let me help you. You must rest.” With her arms around Kat she led her to her apartments.
“To those she loves she is a true friend,” Kat thought. “God Bless you, Bess,” she sobbed.
Elizabeth continued to live quietly at Hatfield, returning to her neglected studies. Her manner of dress was stark and severe with no ornamentation. She wore no jewellery save the rings which never left her fingers. Her red curls she repressed beneath her hood and she gave the appearance of maidenly modesty. With the visual proof that she carried no illicit child and with her quiet, studious manner the rumours gradually died.
In the autumn of 1550 she learnt with satisfaction that the Protector’s power was waning. The rising power was the Earl of Warwick, John Dudley. Thinking back on what she knew of him Elizabeth was not sure that the change was for the better.
Upon his accession to the throne her father had made the popular decision to execute Dudley’s father along with Empson; these being the two most hated men of Henry VII’s reign. But Dudley’s son John had inched his way back to power over the years. He was a silent man who cared little for the opinions of others. He had waited patiently for his chance and now it had come.
A man to be wary of, she thought. He had a large family and Elizabeth remembered well his son Robert as they shared the same birthday. Robert Dudley was a handsome, merry lad who was just as ambitious as his father.
The Lord Protector had lost a great deal of his popularity after signing the death warrant of his brother and Elizabeth had heard him called various names lately, ‘bloodsucker’ and ‘ravenous wolf’ being the most widely used. In mid September came the news that after Warwick had returned from quelling a revolt in Norfolk, things had begun to look very ominous for Edward Seymour.
The Lords and Councillors armed themselves and their servants and took possession of the Tower. The Protector was with the King at Hampton Court when he heard and promptly took fright. He dragged Edward out of bed and in pouring rain rode with the boy to Windsor. Edward was never to forgive his Uncle Somerset for that undignified flight. The Lords under Warwick proved too strong and the Protector surrendered and was taken under arrest to the Tower.
Warwick was a cautious man. Realising that the Protector still commanded a large following he did not press the charges against him and he was eventually released, but the power that the Lord Protector Somerset had once wielded was gone.
Elizabeth gloated over the downfall of the man who had once held her future in the palm of his hand but she did not underestimate Warwick and kept a watchful eye on his progress.
During the next two years—which she spent at Hatfield and Ashridge—she watched his power grow. In 1550 she was finally granted the £3,000 per annum which had been left to her in her father’s will. But hard upon the heels of this good news came the unwelcome news that Warwick had designs on Hatfield House.
Elizabeth was annoyed. “These greedy upstarts,” she thought, “a little power and they covet the property of their betters!” She picked up her quill. “I have an especial affection for Hatfield,” she wrote to her brother. Indeed Hatfield had become home for her, she thought, and now this grandson of a tradesman threatened to take it from her. “No Dudley is going to take over my home,“ she fumed to herself.
When she received Edward’s reply she breathed a sigh of relief. She could keep Hatfield but must relinquish a manor in Lincolnshire in its place. This was bad enough but at least she had managed to keep Hatfield out of the grasping hands of John Dudley.
So for a while the Council left her alone and instead turned their unwelcome attentions to her sister, Mary.
All her unhappy life Mary’s only comfort had been her faith and her love for her religion. She had clung to the faith of her mother, the Roman Catholic faith, but now a campaign was started to deprive her of even that. Persecution for her beliefs was not a new experience for Mary. She had suffered terribly whilst her father had lived and had been forced in the end—on pain of death —to acknowledge him as the head of the Church of England. For this act Mary never forgave herself feeling that she had betrayed her mother who had refused to accept Henry’s supremacy even unto death. But most of all Mary felt that she had betrayed her God.
The Act of Uniformity had been passed in l549 and had sounded the death knell of the Latin Mass. Mary had desperately appealed to her cousin the Emperor, Charles V, and her pleas had not gone in vain for Charles had instructed his Ambassador, Van der Delft, to obtain a guarantee that the Princess Mary should be allowed to hear her Mass in the privacy of her own home. This Van der Delft had done but with the fall of Somerset, Mary’s troubles began again.
The battle for her freedom to hear Mass escalated into a full-scale campaign of persecution against her and Mary—fearing for her life—furtively made plans to escape to her cousin.
Elizabeth felt sorry for her sister but she knew that in her place she would not endanger her place in the succession for the sake of religion. Religion was more a matter of policy with Elizabeth. She was a member of the Reformed Religion and she knew well that the Protestant Party looked to her but she made no public show of her beliefs.
When she paid her Christmas visit to court in 1551, she cautiously avoided the subject for Warwick was ever watchful. The Lord Protector, Somerset, had gone to his death the previous January and Elizabeth watched with growing distrust the rise of John Dudley, now Duke of Northumberland.
March of 1552 was wet and windy and Kat sat huddled in her litter muttering peevishly as the party rode towards London. Elizabeth had managed to obtain the loan of St James’ Palace for the duration of her visit and rode ahead, not seeming to mind the weather as she waved to the people who came to see her ride by. The rain had stopped by the time they reached the City although the weather was still raw. This however did not stop the citizens from turning out to welcome her. She rode in the midst of her party, all of whom were dressed in her livery of green and white. She herself wore a plain, dark green riding habit covered by an equally plain cloak. On her head she wore a small hat which was devoid of any ornament and which covered her tightly netted hair. Many of the watching crowd compared her to the painted, overdressed ladies of the court. Here was a girl after their own hearts, they thought. True to the new religion and with that red-gold hair and warm, but dignified manner—wasn’t she old Harry’s own, they asked themselves?
When she saw Edward she was shocked by the change in him. He was pale and far too thin.
After their initial, formal greetings the crowd of courtiers moved away a little and she had the chance to speak to him.
“Edward, you must take care of yourself!” she said anxiously.
“But I am perfectly well, Bess,” he replied. “I am allowed far more freedom and exercise than I was when…” he paused, a frown coming over his face, “when the Protector was alive,” he finished uncomfortably.
“Do they keep you at your books too long?” she whispered.
“No, Bess, truly,” the boy replied.
Elizabeth was sure that he was not telling her the whole truth.
Later she wondered about her brother as he certainly did not look well. Edward had always been frail and delicate, even as a baby. She thought of her uncle Arthur, Catherine of Aragon’s first husband and Henry’s brother, who had died upon reaching the age of sixteen and of all the Tudor male babies who had been born dead or who had lived only for a few days. She wondered whether the male line was cursed for even Henry’s natural son, Harry Richmond, had died in his teens and he had been a healthy child.
She was still concerned for Edward’s health when she took her leave of him.
“Edward, promise me that you will have a care for your health,” she begged him.
“Oh! Bess, don’t fuss,” he replied.
“Promise me, Edward,” she persisted.
“Alright, Bess, if it will please you,” he promised.
“We will meet again soon, I hope?” she queried.
“Of course we will,” he assured her.
She rode away feeling a little easier for she was not to know that she would never see her brother alive again.
Shortly after this visit she received bad news from London. Edward was ill! He had developed a high fever and a rash. Elizabeth’s mind flew at once to the only illness she knew that produced those symptoms. Smallpox! She fell to her knees to pray for her brother for she knew that for someone as frail as Edward the chances of recovery from that dreaded disease were very slight.
Edward was lucky for it was not smallpox he had contracted but measles and he slowly recovered, but the seeds of the illness that was to kill him had already been sown in his feeble body.
He was well enough to attend the celebrations for St George’s Day and in June he set out on a Royal Progress through the counties of the south and west of England. When autumn came it was clear that the boy too was in the autumn of his life for he became weaker and started to cough blood.
Both Mary and Elizabeth heard these reports with growing concern. A King Edward undoubtedly was but he was also their brother.
Mary set out for Court at Christmas for she had helped Katherine Parr to nurse her father before he died and she was prepared now to nurse her brother. Upon reaching Hampton Court she was told that His Majesty was too ill to see her. She fumed and fretted for two days but seeing that Northumberland had no intention of letting her see the boy, she reluctantly returned home.
Elizabeth meanwhile was certain that Edward’s true condition was being kept from them. She had never trusted Northumberland. He was too clever a man not to realise that should Edward die, his own influence and power would die too and Elizabeth recognised the fact that such a man would not let all that he had fought for over the years slip from his grasp so soon.
She continued to write to her brother, although she doubted that he ever received her letters.
That spring she made a determined effort to reach Edward.
“I intend to find out just what is going on,” she firmly told Kat, bidding her make ready for the journey and it was a determined young girl who set out next day.
They were halfway to London when they were intercepted by a single rider. Judging by the condition of his horse and his mud-spattered garments he had been ordered to reach her at all speed, she thought.
“A messenger from the King, Your Grace,” her Sergeant-at-Arms informed her as he led the travel-stained man to her.
“Is he indeed,” she replied coldly. “Well, man, what message have you from His Majesty?” she asked.
“His Majesty sends you his greetings, Your Grace, and bids you to have no fear for his health and safety as he is exceedingly well,” he said but she noticed that he refused to meet her eyes. He continued. “He bids you return to Hatfield as he has heard that your own health has not been good of late and he fears that the journey may cause you further distress.”
“So,” she fumed, “like Mary even should I reach the Court I would not be allowed to see him.”
She nodded curtly to the man and wheeling her horse around rode in bitter silence back to Hatfield, certain now that Northumberland was up to no good.
When the news of the marriage of fifteen-year-old Jane Grey to Northumberland’s son Guildford Dudley reached her she began to understand.
“So, Master Dudley, that is what you are up to!” she thought. “Should Edward die, you hope to put your son and that silly Grey girl on the throne.” She laughed aloud, receiving a piercing look from Kat. “Is he really such a fool?” she asked herself. “Does he not realise that the people of England will suffer no usurper? Mary is the true heir and Catholic though she may be, they will have no other.” She shrugged her shoulders. “When has John Dudley ever considered the opinions of others,” she thought. She wondered whether Mary realised what he was up to. She probably did but knowing Mary she would probably be on her knees praying for a miracle! Elizabeth knew what she would be doing in Mary’s place: she would be carefully gathering support.
What neither girl knew was that the wily Northumberland had persuaded Edward to make a will, excluding Mary from the succession on the grounds of her religion and Elizabeth on the flimsy excuse that she could possibly, at some time in the future, be forced to marry a Catholic. Edward therefore named as his heir Jane Grey.
Edward’s life was drawing to a close. The poor boy was suffering dreadfully, persecuted by his doctors and their useless remedies and ceaselessly badgered by Northumberland. His hair had fallen out and his fingers and toes had turned gangrenous and had dropped off. In terrible pain, weak and afraid, ‘England’s Treasure’ was dying.
On the 6th July, 1553, during a terrific thunderstorm Edward Tudor died and England was faced with the very situation that Henry had dreaded. The country’s future was in the hands of a woman—but which woman?