I could not help thinking that at one time Philip and his father had been eager to see the end of her. Now he seemed to be more tolerant. I thought: Being in love makes one eager to see the whole world happy…even those who may be our enemies.
“It will be different now,” I said, “because of the child. I believe that, before, she refused marriage because it would have meant her leaving the country.”
“I see her point.”
“But now everything has changed.” I smiled radiantly. I was so happy. Soon my child would be born; and if Elizabeth were married to Emmanuel, I could think of her with pleasure. We could exchange personal, sisterly letters, and everything would be as it should be.
It was wonderful to be in agreement with Philip. How well he understood my feelings!
Sir Henry Bedingfield brought Elizabeth up from Woodstock, and in due course she arrived at Hampton Court.
Before I summoned her, I sent Gardiner to her. I told him that he must ask her to confess her fault and then I would consider her confession and perhaps forgive her.
He came back to me and told me that his interview with the Princess had been unproductive.
He said, “I told her that she must confess her fault. She replied that, rather than confess to something she had not done, she was prepared to stay in prison for the rest of her life, for she had never committed any fault against Your Majesty in thought, word or deed, and that therefore she could crave no mercy at your hand, but rather desired herself to be judged by law. I told her that you marvelled at her boldness in refusing to confess—for in doing so she implied that Your Majesty had wrongfully imprisoned her.”
“And what did she reply to that?” I asked.
“She said, ‘She may, if it pleases Her Majesty, punish me as she thinketh good.' ‘Her Majesty says you must tell another tale ere you are set at liberty,' I told her, to which she replied she would as lief be in prison as abroad, suspected by the Queen. I said that she implied she had been wrongfully imprisoned, to which she answered that she spoke the truth, would cling to the truth and seek no advantage through lies.”
I listened attentively. Philip wanted to know what had passed between Elizabeth and Gardiner and listened with great interest when I told him.
I learned from one of the women who was in Elizabeth's household and who reported to me that which she thought would interest me that, after the interview with Gardiner, coupled with the fact that I had summoned her to Court, Elizabeth believed it meant that another charge would be brought against her, and she was sure her enemies were determined to put an end to her. She kissed her ladies fondly, saying it might be that they would never meet her again on Earth.
I was very distressed that she should think this of me when what I wanted was to stop this suspicion between us, and for her to be at Court and that we should be as sisters.
“I must see her,” I said to Philip.
“I should be the one to question her… not Gardiner.”
I was delighted that he agreed with me.
“Summon her,” he said, “and while she is with you I will watch. I will be hidden behind a screen. I would hear what passes between you.”
I thought it was wonderful for Philip to care so much for me and to understand my feelings for my sister far better than others did.
So when Elizabeth was brought to me, Philip hid himself behind a screen placed so that, when Elizabeth stood before me, she would have her back to it. It meant that he could take occasional glimpses at her as well as hear every word that was spoken.
It was ten o'clock at night when she came to me. I could see she was distraught and, having heard of her farewell to her women, I understood that she thought her end was in sight.
I was immediately overcome with pity, remembering the bright child who was the delight and terror of Lady Bryan's life, and I felt a certain nostalgia for earlier days and wished that life could have been different for us all.
She fell to her knees and, before I could speak, began professing her absolute loyalty; she swore by God and the Holy Virgin that she had never been engaged in any plots against me.
I tried to fight the sentiment in myself. She looked very attractive with her red hair falling about her shoulders. I tried to speak sternly. I said, “So, you will not confess your fault, but stand firmly on your truth. I pray that it may become manifest.”
“If it is not,” she replied proudly, “I will look for neither favor nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands.”
“You are so firm…so fervent in your protestations of innocence that you have been wrongfully accused…”
She looked at me with a certain slyness. “I must not say so to Your Majesty,” she said.
“But you will say so to others seemingly.”
“No, Your Majesty. I have borne and must bear the burden. What I humbly beseech is Your Majesty's good opinion of me, as I am, and ever have been, Your Majesty's true subject.”
“How can I be sure?” I murmured.
Then she seized my hands and burst into a passionate appeal. I must understand, she said, that I was to her firstly a dear sister. She remembered my kindness to her when she was an outcast. That she would never forget. She wanted a chance to prove to me that I had never had a more devoted servant. In the great happiness which had come to me, she thought I and my noble husband would be kind to a poor prisoner who was loyal toward her sovereign and tender toward her sister.
She was eloquent. She was, after all, fighting for her life. She believed at that time that I had brought her up from Woodstock with the purpose of sending her to her death.
I was touched, and hurt that she could think this of me. I told her to rise and I embraced her.
I said to her, “No more. Whether you are guilty or not, I forgive you.” I took a ring from my finger. It was a beautiful diamond. I had given it to her on my coronation, telling her that, if ever she was in trouble, she was to send it to me and if possible I would help her. It had come back to me at the time she was taken to the Tower, and I had kept it ever since. Now I gave it back to her.
There was a radiance about her. She had come to me expecting to be sent to the Tower, and instead she had the pledge of my friendship. Her eyes were filled with tears. I was deeply touched, and suddenly she flung herself into my arms.
“You are once more my sister,” she cried. “I have your love and I am happy again.”
When she left me, Philip emerged from behind the screen. There was no doubt that he was greatly interested in Elizabeth. His eyes shone and he almost smiled. But it was not easy to know what he really thought of her.
He said, “You did well. You acted with dignity and tolerance.”
“And what did you think of my sister?”
“I think that much of what I have heard of her is true.”
It seemed an evasive answer, but I was delighted with his approval.
IT WAS ABOUT this time that I noticed one of my ladies behaving in a strange and almost secretive manner. This was Magdalen Dacre. She was outstandingly beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of all my ladies. She was very tall and made dwarves of some of us, and she would have been remarkable because of her statuesque figure if for nothing else. Magdalen had all the virtues. She was religious and efficient. Perhaps some would say she was a little prim, but I liked her for that. I would not have wished to be surrounded by frivolous women.
I noticed that she was absent on one or two occasions. I asked for her and was told she was resting. She seemed to need a good deal of rest. I wondered if she were unhappy about something.
She was hardly ever present when Philip was there, but I noticed that when he was he treated her with great courtesy. He was courteous to all my ladies, but he did seem especially so toward Magdalen.