THE CHILD ELIZABETH
It was a strange household at Hunsdon, a baby ruler with crowds of
attendants to do her honor and obey her slightest whim. Over all was
the strong hand of the king, and his imperious will to which every
member of the house yielded save the one slender girl who paid no heed
to his threats, but stood firmly for her mother's rights and her own.
For more than two years all honor was shown to the baby Elizabeth,
but on the king's marriage to Jane Seymour, he commanded his obedient
Parliament to decree that Elizabeth should never wear the crown, and
that, if Jane had no children, the king might will his kingdom to whom
he would. To the little child the change in her position was as yet
a small matter, but to the young girl of twenty-one years the future
seemed very dark. Her mother had died, praying in vain that the king
would grant her but one hour with her beloved daughter. Mary was fond
of study and spent much of the time with her books. Visitors were rare,
for few ventured to brave the wrath of Henry VIII., but one morning it
was announced that Lady Kingston awaited her Grace.
"I give you cordial greeting," said Mary. "You were ever true to me,
and in these days it is but seldom that I meet a faithful friend."
"A message comes to your Grace through me that will, I hope, give you
some little comfort," said Lady Kingston.
"From my father?" cried Mary eagerly.
"No, but from one whose jealous dislike may have done much to turn
the king against you, from her who was Anne Boleyn. The day before
her death," continued Lady Kingston, "she whispered to me, 'I have
something to say to you alone.' She sent away her attendants and bade
me follow her into the presence chamber of the Tower. She locked and
bolted the door with her own hand. Then she commanded, 'Sit you down in
the royal seat.' I said, 'Your Majesty, in your presence it is my duty
to stand, not to sit, much less to sit in the seat of the queen.' She
shook her head and said sadly, 'I am no longer the queen. I am but a
poor woman condemned to die to-morrow. I pray you be seated.' It seemed
a strange wish, but she was so earnest that I obeyed. She fell upon
her knees at my feet and said, 'Go you to Mary, my stepdaughter, fall
down before her feet as I now fall before yours, and beg her humbly to
pardon the wrong that I have done her. This is my message.'"
Mary was silent. Then she said slowly:--
"Save for her, my mother's life and my own would have been full of
happiness, but I forgive her as I hope to be forgiven. The child whom
she has left to suffer, it may be, much that I have suffered, shall be
to me as a sister--and truly, she is a winsome little maiden." Mary's
face softened at the thought of the baby Elizabeth.
She kept her word, and it was but a few weeks before Mary, who had once
been bidden to look up to the child as her superior, was generously
trying to arouse her father's interest in his forsaken little daughter.
Henry VIII., cruel as he showed himself, was always eager to have
people think well of him, and in his selfish, tyrannical fashion, he
was really fond of his children. Mary had been treated most harshly,
but she longed to meet him. Her mother was dead, she was alone. If he
would permit her to come to him, it might be that he would show her
the same kindness and affection as when she was a child. She wrote him
submissive letters, and finally he consented to pardon her for daring
to oppose his will. Hardly was she assured of his forgiveness before
she wrote:--
"My sister Elizabeth is in good health, thanks to our Lord, and such a
child as I doubt not but your Highness shall have cause to rejoice of
in time coming."
The months went by, and when Elizabeth was about four years old, a
message came from the king to say that a son was born to him, and that
the two princesses were bidden to come to the palace to attend the
christening.
Such a celebration as it was! The queen was wrapped in a mantle of
crimson velvet edged with ermine. She was laid upon a kind of sofa on
which were many cushions of damask with border of gold. Over her was
spread a robe of fine scarlet cloth with a lining of ermine. In the
procession, the baby son was carried in the arms of a lady of high
rank under a canopy borne by four nobles. Then came other nobles, one
bearing a great wax candle, some with towels about their necks, and
some bringing bowls and cups, all of solid gold, as gifts for the child
who was to inherit the throne of England. A long line of servants and
attendants followed. The Princess Mary wore a robe of cloth of silver
trimmed with pearls. Every motion of hers was watched, for she was
to be godmother to the little child. There was another young maiden
who won even more attention than the baby prince, and this was the
four-year-old Princess Elizabeth. She was dressed in a robe of state
with as long a train as any of the ladies of the court. In her hand
she carried a golden vase containing the chrism, or anointing oil, and
she herself was borne in the arms of the queen's brother. She had been
sound asleep when the time came to make ready for the ceremony, for the
christening took place late in the evening, and the procession set out
with the light of many torches flashing upon the jewels of the nobles
and ladies of rank and upon the golden cups and bowls.
Along the wide hall and down the grand staircase went the glittering
line. The baby was christened "Edward," and then was proclaimed "the
beloved son of our most dread and gracious Lord, Henry VIII." On the
return the little Elizabeth walked beside Mary, keeping fast hold of
her sister's hand, while the long train was borne by a noble lady of
the court. The trumpet sounded all the way back to the royal bedchamber
where lay the queen, waiting to greet her son with her blessing. It was
midnight, and Elizabeth as well as her baby brother must have been glad
to be allowed to rest.
Only a few days later came the death of the mother of the little
prince. Greatly as King Henry disliked black, he wore it for four
months, even on Christmas day. Elizabeth was probably at Hunsdon, but
Mary spent Christmas with her father. She did not forget the little
sister, but sent her a box decorated with silver needlework made by her
own hand. She gave the baby brother a cap which must have been very
elaborate, for it cost enough to pay the wages of a working man for
four months. To the baby's nurse she sent a bonnet that cost half as
much as the cap. Another gift, which she herself made, was a cushion
covered with rich embroidery.
This baby brother was a delight to both the princesses. Mary went often
to see him, and looked after him as if he had been her own child, and
to Elizabeth he was the most precious thing in all the world. "I pray
you, take me to see my brother," she often pleaded. One day the older
sister said to her, "Elizabeth, is there aught that I can do to please
you greatly?"
"I would gladly go to see my brother," was the child's answer.
"That cannot well be," said Mary. "Is there nothing better that you can
wish?"
"No, sister."
"But there is surely one thing better. When it is two of the clock,
stand you close by the west window of the hall, and what is to come
will come."
Clocks were not very common in those days, but there was one in the
hall at Hunsdon, and the excited little girl watched the hands move
slowly around until they marked the hour of two. What was to come?
A little after two a single rider appeared. "Make way for his Grace,
Edward, Prince of Wales!" he cried. Then came the trumpeters and,
following them, the nobles. After the nobles came the royal baby for
whom all this ceremonial had been arranged. He lay in the arms of his
nurse, "Mother Jack," and was borne in a litter. The upright poles were
heavily gilded, and the canopy was of the richest white silk edged with
a golden fringe. Clusters of white plumes were fixed at each corner. On
the shoulders of eight men rested the shafts of the chair. All around
it gathered noble lords and ladies, mounted on horses whose trappings
were marked with the monogram of many a family of rank and power. Every
man wore a sword to defend the heir of England's king, if need should
arise, and stalwart guards marched on either side.
"It's my own little brother," cried Elizabeth.
"And he comes to abide with us for a while," said Mary. "Is not that
better, my little sister, than going to him to pay a visit of a day?"
"Will Lady Margaret grant me leave to show him my birds and my rabbits?
He shall play on my virginals, if he will; and, truly, I'll not mind
the sharp prick of the needle, if I may but sew a dress for him. I
would fain learn to make letters with the needle, sister Mary, that I
might sew one all myself on everything that he will wear. Oh, it will
be an 'E,' even as it is on whatever is mine."
It is quite possible that the next few years were the happiest that
Elizabeth ever knew. She was four years older than Edward, and she had
been so carefully trained by Lady Margaret that King Henry was glad
that she should be the playmate of the sweet-tempered little fellow who
was his only son and heir. Lady Margaret was troubled because Edward's
best coat was "only tinsel" instead of cloth of gold, and because he
had "never a good jewel to set on his cap;" but this was nothing to the
little prince so long as he had his sister. Lady Margaret wrote to the
king that she wished he could have seen the prince, for "the minstrels
played, and his Grace danced and played so wantonly that he could not
stand still." Elizabeth taught him to speak, and for his sake she even
conquered her dislike to the "prick of the needle," for when his second
birthday came and the rich nobles of the kingdom sent him jewels and
all sorts of beautiful things made of gold and silver, she gave him a
tiny cambric shirt, every stitch of which had been made by the little
fingers of his six-year-old sister. Mary sent him a cloak of crimson
satin. The sleeves were of tinsel. It was heavily embroidered with gold
thread and with pansies made of pearls.
It was about this time that King Henry sent an officer of high rank
expressly to bestow the royal blessing upon the two princesses. On his
return he reported to the king the grateful message that Mary had sent.
"And how found you her Grace, the Lady Elizabeth?" asked King Henry.
"Truly, your Majesty," replied the chancellor, "were the Lady Elizabeth
not the offspring of your illustrious Highness, I could in no way
account for her charm of manner and of speech. 'I humbly thank his
most excellent Majesty,' she said, 'that he has graciously deigned to
think upon me, who am verily his loving child and his true and faithful
subject.'"
"She is but six years old," mused Henry. "Were those her words?"
"I would gladly have had pen and paper," answered the chancellor, "that
no one of them should have been lost, but I give the message as it has
remained in my memory. She asked after your Majesty's welfare with as
great a gravity as she had been forty years old."
More than one trouble came to the older princess. Soon after the king
had sent his blessing to the two sisters, a councilor came to Mary with
a message of quite another character.
"It is his Majesty's pleasure," said he, "that your Grace should
receive the Duke Philip of Germany as a suitor for your hand." This
German duke was a Protestant, and Mary was a firm Roman Catholic, but
she dared not refuse to obey the king's bidding.
"I would gladly remain single," said she, "but I am bound to obey his
Majesty. I would, too, that the duke were of my own faith, but in so
weighty a matter I can do naught save to commit myself to my merciful
father and most sovereign lord, knowing that his goodness and wisdom
will provide for me far better than I could make provision for myself."
The duke sent her a beautiful diamond cross, but before a year had
passed, she was bidden by the king to return the gift. Henry had wedded
a German wife, and had treated her so badly that Mary's betrothal was
broken.
There were sad times in England in those days. When Henry VIII. wished
to marry Anne Boleyn, he asked the Pope to declare that his marriage to
the mother of Mary was not lawful. The Pope refused. Henry then asked
the opinion of several universities in England, Italy, and France, and
it is probable that his question was accompanied by either bribes or
threats. The universities declared the first marriage unlawful, but
the Pope would not yield. Henry then declared that the English church
should be free from the Pope, and that the king himself was properly
the supreme head of the church in his own kingdom.
There were tyrants, and most cruel tyrants before the days of Henry
VIII., but they were generally satisfied to rule men's deeds. Henry
was determined to rule his subjects' most secret thoughts. If he
suspected that a man did not believe that his divorce was right, he
would pursue the man and force him to express his opinion. If the man
was too honest to tell a falsehood, he was imprisoned or executed,
for Henry said that it was treason to refuse to acknowledge that the
king of England was at the head of the church of England. Many of the
noblest, truest men in the land were put to death for this reason. This
was not all, for although Henry would not acknowledge the authority
of the Pope, he nevertheless declared that he was a Roman Catholic,
and that all Protestants were heretics and deserved to be burned to
death. The result of this strange reasoning was that if a man was a
Protestant, he ran the risk of being burned at the stake, while if he
was a Roman Catholic, he was in danger of being hanged.
Mary was often at the court. She must have heard her father's brutal
threats against all those who did not love his will. One after another
of her childhood's friends was beheaded or burned at the stake; her
old teacher, her mother's chaplain, and the beloved countess to whose
care her mother had confided her as an infant. Not a word or look of
criticism might she venture, for the despot would hardly have hesitated
to send his own daughter to the stake if she had dared to resist him in
this matter.
The case was quite different with Elizabeth and Edward. They knew
little of burnings and executions. Whatever of gentleness and kindness
was in King Henry was shown to the children, especially to his son.
The little ones played and studied together. "My sweetest and dearest
sister" was the little boy's name for Elizabeth. She was a favorite
wherever she went. The king married three times after the death of Jane
Seymour, and each of these stepmothers was fond of the merry, pleasing
little girl.
The first of the three was the German princess. She was rather slow and
dull, and Henry took a great dislike to her. When the little Elizabeth,
then about seven years old, begged to be allowed to come to court to
see the queen, King Henry roared, "Tell her that her own mother was so
different from this woman that she ought not to wish to see her." This
was the only time that he ever spoke of Anne Boleyn.
Elizabeth met the new stepmother after a short delay, and this lady was
so charmed with the little maiden that she begged to see much of her,
the only favor that she ever asked of the king. The next wife was a
distant relative of Anne Boleyn, and when she dined in public, she gave
the place opposite herself to the child. "She is of my own blood," said
the queen, "and it is only right that she should be next to me."
At Henry's last marriage Mary and the two children were present, and
this new queen became like the others a warm friend of Elizabeth, who
was now fully ten years old. Henry must have felt some affection for
Anne Boleyn, for he was never displeased to hear the praises of her
daughter. He seemed beginning to have a real fondness for the child,
and one day he looked at her keenly and said:--
"There's more than one that would be glad to have you. Would you be
married, Elizabeth, or would you stay with your books and birds and
viols and lutes?"
"I would fain do that which your Majesty bids," answered the child. "I
know well that what your Majesty commands is ever the thing which is
best."
"She's a child of wisdom," declared Henry with a smile of
gratification, "and I'll do more for her than anyone can guess." Then
said he to Elizabeth:--
"It shall be brought about that you shall become the bride of some
great man. If any German emperor plays you false, he shall feel the
weight of my hand. How would it please your Grace to marry a prince of
Portugal?" he asked playfully, for he was in a rarely good humor, "or
perhaps Philip of Spain? Philip will be a king, and he would make you a
great lady. Would it please you to wed one that would make you a queen?"
"Far rather would I wed one that I could make a king," answered the
child, drawing herself up to her full height.
"What!" cried the king, his face changing in a moment, and his eyes
flashing ominously. The girl seemed looking not at the king, but far
away into some distant future. She did not see the warning glance of
the queen.
"I would fain be so beautiful and so great," said she, "that whoever
came near me should admire me and should beg me to become his wife.
I would say no to one and all, but by and by I would choose one for
myself. Him I would raise to be as great as I, and I would----"
Elizabeth of England, even as a child, rarely forgot herself, but she
was absorbed in the picture that she was making, and she stopped only
when she felt the silence and saw her father's wrathful gaze fixed upon
her. His eyes were fairly blazing with anger, and his face was purple.
"So that is what you plan, is it?" he roared. "And here you stand
before me and tell your schemes to become queen and raise some
miserable rascal to the throne. Get out of my sight, ingrate that you
are."
Quick-witted as Elizabeth was, she did not at once see wherein she was
in fault. She was so dazed by this sudden fury that she did not even
think to throw herself at the feet of the king and beg to be forgiven,
even though she knew not for what. The stepmother pleaded, "Pardon the
child, my king. She meant no wrong."
"No wrong," thundered the king. "Is it 'no wrong' to plan what she will
do as soon as the breath is out of her father's body? I tell you, girl,
that you may find another father and another throne, for never shall
you sit upon mine. Get to your litter, and do you never come before my
eyes again."
The little Edward had slipped up softly behind his angry father and had
laid his tiny hand upon the king's purple cheek.
"Your Majesty is naughty," he declared gravely. "You have made my
sweetest sister cry. I don't want my sister to cry." Never had the
little boy received a harsh word from his father, and he was perhaps
the only one in the kingdom who had no fear of the king. "Come," said
he, "and tell her not to cry." He caught the king by the hand, but even
for his son King Henry's anger could not be suppressed.
"You little know her," he said. "It is you that she would rob. She
would seize upon the place that is your own and drive you from it. Tell
her to depart from the palace and never enter it," he commanded his
chamberlain, and soon the little girl, not yet twelve years old, was
sent away from the court in disgrace.
"Hold yourself with patience," whispered the queen to the child. "Trust
me, and believe that it shall not be long before you will again be sent
for."