Elizabeth Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  England 1544

  1 July, 1544 Greenwich Palace

  2 July, 1544

  Later

  3 July, 1544

  4 July, 1544

  5 July, 1544

  10 July, 1544 Hatfield

  11 July, 1544

  12 July, 1544

  13 July, 1544

  14 July, 1544

  15 July, 1544

  17 July, 1544

  20 July, 1544

  22 July, 1544

  24 July, 1544

  28 July, 1544

  1 August, 1544

  7 August, 1544

  8 August, 1544

  9 August, 1544

  10 August, 1544

  Later

  11 August, 1544

  12 August, 1544

  13 August, 1544

  20 August, 1544 Elsynge Palace

  23 August, 1544 Hampton Court

  25 August, 1544

  26 August, 1544

  27 August, 1544

  28 August, 1544

  29 August, 1544

  30 August, 1544

  1 September, 1544

  2 September, 1544

  4 September, 1544

  5 September, 1544

  7 September, 1544

  8 September, 1544

  10 September, 1544

  14 September, 1544

  15 September, 1544

  19 September, 1544

  20 September, 1544

  21 September, 1544

  22 September, 1544

  Later that evening

  Still later

  23 September, 1544

  24 September, 1544

  25 September, 1544

  26 September, 1544

  27 September, 1544

  28 September, 1544

  30 September, 1544

  1 October, 1544

  3 October, 1544

  5 October, 1544

  6 October, 1544

  7 October, 1544

  10 October, 1544 Whitehall Palace

  11 October, 1544

  12 October, 1544

  14 October, 1544

  15 October, 1544

  Later

  16 October, 1544

  17 October, 1544

  18 October, 1544

  20 October, 1544

  21 October, 1544

  22 October, 1544

  24 October, 1544

  Later

  25 October, 1544

  Later

  26 October, 1544

  27 October, 1544

  28 October, 1544

  29 October, 1544

  Later

  30 October, 1544

  31 October, 1544

  2 November, 1544

  3 November, 1544 Whitehall Palace

  5 November, 1544

  7 November, 1544

  8 November, 1544

  10 November, 1544

  11 November, 1544

  16 November, 1544 Ashridge House

  17 November, 1544

  19 November, 1544

  21 November, 1544

  23 November, 1544

  25 November, 1544

  28 November, 1544

  29 November, 1544

  5 December, 1544

  9 December, 1544

  12 December, 1544

  13 December, 1544

  15 December, 1544

  20 December, 1544

  21 December, 1544

  22 December, 1544

  26 December, 1544 Hampton Court

  27 December, 1544

  28 December, 1544

  31 December, 1544

  1 January, 1545

  3 January, 1545

  7 January, 1545

  8 January, 1545

  9 January, 1545

  11 January, 1545

  14 January, 1545

  18 January, 1545 Enfield Palace

  26 January, 1545

  30 January, 1545

  31 January, 1545

  12 February, 1545

  13 February, 1545 Elsynge Hall

  14 February, 1545, Saint Valentine’s Day Noon

  Later

  15 February, 1545

  19 February, 1545 Enfield Palace

  22 February, 1545

  24 February, 1545 Hatfield

  25 February, 1545

  Later

  27 February, 1545

  28 February, 1545

  3 March, 1545

  7 March, 1545

  8 March, 1545

  9 March, 1545

  10 March, 1545

  20 March, 1545

  21 March, 1545

  Later

  22 March, 1545

  24 March, 1545

  25 March, 1545

  26 March, 1545

  27 March, 1545

  28 March, 1545

  29 March, 1545

  5 April, 1545 Windsor Castle

  9 April, 1545

  10 April, 1545

  12 April, 1545, Easter Sunday

  19 April, 1545

  20 April, 1545

  25 April, 1545 Greenwich Palace

  27 April, 1545

  28 April, 1545

  29 April, 1545

  30 April, 1545

  1 May, 1545

  2 May, 1545

  8 May, 1545

  10 May, 1545

  1 September, 1545

  2 September, 1545

  6 September, 1545

  7 September, 1545

  16 September, 1545

  25 September, 1545 Woodstock

  27 September, 1545

  28 September, 1545

  1 October, 1545

  3 October, 1545

  8 October, 1545 Whitehall Palace

  10 October, 1545

  11 October, 1545

  15 October, 1545

  17 October, 1545

  22 October, 1545

  25 October, 1545

  26 October, 1545

  3 November, 1545

  7 November, 1545

  9 November, 1545

  10 November, 1546

  11 November, 1545

  13 November, 1545

  18 November, 1545 Westminster Palace

  19 November, 1545

  20 November, 1545

  21 November, 1545

  26 November, 1545

  27 November, 1545

  28 November, 1545

  15 December, 1545 Greenwich Palace

  16 December, 1545

  19 December, 1545

  24 December, 1545

  Later

  26 December, 1545

  Still later

  27 December, 1545

  6 January, 1546

  7 January, 1546

  9 January, 1546

  18 January, 1546 Hatfield

  19 January, 1546

  23 January, 1546

  26 January, 1546

  1 February, 1546

  Later

  10 February, 1546

  14 February, 1545

  18 February, 1546

  4 March, 1546

  Later

  12 March, 1546

  15 March, 1546

  19 March, 1546

  21 March, 1546

  22 March, 1546

  27 March, 1546

  5 April, 1546 Windsor Castle

  8 April, 1546

  15 April, 1546

  20 April, 1546

  25 April, 1546 Hampton Court

  28 April, 1546

  3 May, 1546

  5 May, 1546

  6 May, 1546

  12 May, 1546

  16 May, 1546

  17 May, 1546

  Later

  19 May, 1546

  24 May, 1546
<
br />   25 May, 1546

  30 May, 1546

  4 June, 1546

  6 June, 1546 Whitehall Palace

  11 June, 1546

  25 June, 1546

  4 July, 1546

  10 July, 1546

  Later

  11 July, 1546

  20 July, 1546 Ashridge

  25 July, 1546

  23 December, 1546 Enfield

  24 December, 1546

  25 December, 1546

  18 January, 1547

  19 January, 1547

  21 January, 1547

  28 January, 1547

  29 January, 1547

  31 January, 1547

  1 February, 1547

  5 February, 1547

  10 February, 1547 Whitehall Palace

  Later

  13 February, 1547

  16 February, 1547

  28 February, 1547 Enfield

  3 March, 1547

  Epilogue

  Historical note

  The Tudor family tree

  My Royal Story – a series

  Copyright

  England

  1544

  1 July, 1544

  Greenwich Palace

  I am a forgotten princess.

  At times my father, King Henry VIII, needs to forget me. When the King needs to forget, the whole court follows suit and I am usually exiled to Hatfield. I don’t mind. Hatfield is lovely. It is more of a mansion than a Palace, cosy, red brick with a huge forested hunting park. But when one is in exile, one is not treated the same. Everything is different.

  Now, thank goodness, I am back at Court after nearly a year of being banished. The dear Queen, Catherine Parr, convinced my father to bring me back from Hatfield. She told him that he must see me before he goes off to France. She is very kind, this new mother of mine.

  Kat, my governess, gave me this diary just this morning. It is bound in leather and embossed with the Tudor rose, the symbol of my family. As soon as I opened it and touched its creamy white pages, I knew that it was the perfect companion for me, a forgotten princess. Within these leather covers I can commit my most private and utmost secret thoughts. It is here that I shall speak my mind. There will be no flourishes of words and language. I shall call the King Father, for that is what he is, and not use language such as Sire and Your Majesty, the way one must write in letters or speak in Court.

  And because these thoughts are so secret, they must never be read and forever be hidden. Here, at Greenwich Palace, there is a loose stone under the bed in my chamber where I shall keep this diary. But I live in many palaces, as the court is always moving. So I must find equally secret places wherever I am. My candle burns down low. I do not know why they give me these short, slender candles. I need some of those fat tapers they use to light the hallways and corridors. My chamber is so large here, too large really to be cosy. The candle casts the smallest pool of light. I write by a narrow slit of a window through which only a piece of the moon can shine and a single star. So I must blow out the candle and wait for the break of day and new light.

  Goodnight.

  2 July, 1544

  The light this early in the morning is pink and is enough by which to read and write. But to whom am I writing here on this blank page? To whom am I speaking when I speak to an empty piece of vellum?

  Do you know who I am? I shall tell you. I am Elizabeth, Princess of England, daughter of Henry VIII and his wife Anne Boleyn. I am eleven years old. My mother, once Queen, is now dead. Almost eight years ago, when I was not yet three, Father chopped off her head. Not he himself. He ordered it done. Indeed, he sent for a French swordsman. They are skilled in beheading, and it hurts less with a sword than with an axe, or so they say. It is not as if anyone has come back to speak on the matter.

  I hear Kat rustling in the adjoining chamber. The servitor has come with breakfast no doubt. I hope it is not the cold rabbit pie again. I am sick to death of rabbit pie. I am not hungry anyway. I am by my window, watching Father mount his horse and take a turn in the yard below. Father is quite, no, very fat. Because of his weight and the terrible sores that afflict his legs and make them swell, he can no longer mount a horse by himself. He requires four attendants and a crane to get him onto his horse in full armour. It is almost as exciting as watching a tournament to see him being cranked up and then lowered onto his horse.

  Later

  It was rabbit pie, but Kat didn’t make me eat it. She didn’t eat it, either. She sniffed it in that special way she has. The very tip of her long bony nose takes on a life of its own and begins to twitch. Then the fatal words: it is off. “Off” means rancid, spoiled. So we just ate cheese and bread and drank cider.

  In two days’ time, Father leaves for France, which he is invading. He will ride to Dover and then cross the Channel to Calais. Her Majesty Catherine Parr, his sixth wife, promises that she will do all she can to permit us, the children, to accompany the royal party as far as Dover so we can see him off. That will be an even greater spectacle with ten thousand men and drummers and trumpeters.

  Oh! Oh! Finally, Father is on the horse! He canters off round the yard. “Hooray! Hooray!” they all cry. Then, “Hal! Hal!” My father’s fool, Will Somers, shouts. Will is the only one to call him Hal. Yes, he is a sight, my father. The Sun glints off his armour. He is like a mountain of silver – gleaming and huge.

  3 July, 1544

  So, dear Diary, I read my last words, My father glints like a mountain of silver. And I, looking down upon him yesterday, was like a slim shadow in the window. For you see I am not only often forgotten but nearly invisible. I promised I would tell you all. Well, here is the start of my story of invisibility, of being forgotten.

  I have had five mothers in all. I have liked them all. I did not know the first of my father’s six wives. But I have liked all the others. They do, however, run together in my head. I barely remember Jane Seymour, Prince Edward’s mother. I was but four when she died. I cannot talk of Catherine Howard. She was so beautiful and young. More like a playmate than a mother. But I cannot bear to tell of her end, not now at least. It was too awful. I was old enough to remember, unlike with my mother.

  Just before Catherine Howard, there was Anne of Cleves. A very jolly sort. She is German and speaks in great guttural gushes, often spraying spit. That and the fact she looks like a horse, or so my father said, made for a very short marriage. Father “un-wifed” her. He does not like the term “divorce”. But they are friends still, rather like sister and brother. She is here now at Greenwich and shall go to Dover with all of us. It will be a jolly affair sending Father off to war. Really jolly if Princess Mary wouldn’t come. I do wish that as sisters Princess Mary and I were as fond of each other as Father and his “sister” Anne of Cleves. Princess Mary is twenty-eight, and all she ever does is pray, and she never smiles.

  Father likes to forget Princess Mary sometimes, too, for she reminds him of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Somewhere between all these wives I became invisible, because I was part of something he wanted very badly to forget, too. He likes to think, or indeed he passes decrees that say, that Mary and I are bastards, children of what he insists were illegal marriages, and therefore we could never be Queens of England and rule.

  But Catherine Parr changed all that. Now it is said that when Father dies Edward, our little brother, who is just six, shall become King. Then if Edward dies, Princess Mary will be Queen, and if Mary dies, I shall rule. This will not happen. I am third in line and Edward seems healthy to me, although Father thinks Edward is too fat! Is that not funny? My father is the fattest person in the realm and he is calling Edward, who is a trifle plump, fat. Some might think our family is quite confused or mad. That last sentence could be considered treasonous. The punishment for treason is beheading. And I for one would find a French swordsman little comfort. You see why I must hide you.

  That, in short, is my story of how
I became invisible. I doubt I shall ever be queen, for it is very difficult for an invisible princess to wear a crown. I suppose by the same token it might be difficult to behead an invisible princess. But I am my father’s daughter. I do look the most like him and though I am not nearly of his size, I am of his stature. One does not have to be huge to have a stature and a bearing that is royal. Mary does not. Edward, well, Edward is so frail, even if Father thinks he’s too fat. I want to be Queen. I think I am smart enough to be Queen. I know I am smart enough. This is not pride. I simply know what I know. But what does it all mean if I remain a slim shadow in a palace window?

  4 July, 1544

  I cannot believe what has happened. I am not to go to Dover. I am to be sent forthwith to Hatfield. Everyone else is going – Prince Edward, Princess Mary, Anne of Cleves, the Queen and all her ladies, and dear Robin Dudley! My time at Hatfield would be so much more cheerful if Robin were there, but why should he suffer for me? Robin is my best friend. He is the son of John Dudley, one of my father’s closest advisers in the Privy Council and, in fact, commander of the fleet in the campaign against France. So of course he would not miss a chance to see his father off and his father would not banish him like mine has just done to me! Robin dreams, I am sure, of going on campaign someday against the French. It is every knight’s dream, and Robin will be a knight, more surely than I shall ever be Queen.

  Here is what happened. It was last evening and we were all in the Great Hall for a festive banquet, the last before the campaign. My father likes his amusements, so Will Somers, his fool, had come to tell each of us children to prepare a musical piece to perform. I myself play the table harpsicord – also called the virginal. I usually favour Father with one of the compositions that he has written, such as “Greensleeves,” and then he asks if I have composed anything new. Well, I had, so I played it, but I did not sing the words. “Oh, do sing it, Elizabeth,” he said. Well, a King does not have need to press. He commands. So I sang reluctantly, for I knew that the lyrics could be thought of as troublesome. Could – not necessarily would.

  Robin clad in green did come to see the queen.

  And sitting by the throne

  two Princesses were shone.

  Hey, nonny, nonny. Hey, nonny, nonny.

  One in shadows glowed despite her lack of gems.

  The other in the Sun looked verily so glum.

  Father erupted. He felt the words a terrible insult. That I was fretting about Mary getting to be Queen before myself. That I was an ungrateful wretch! “Enough,” he said in that low deadly voice that stops everything. I swear even the birds shut their beaks. A terrible silence descended on the room. It was all I could do to keep from crying. I was sent to my apartments. Half an hour later, Sir Anthony Denny, a groom of the Privy Chamber, came to inform me that I would be going to Hatfield forthwith.