her. It had been patched up and painted, but it was still a sorry sight, and there were cries of “Shame!” from the riverbank, where hordes of common folk had gathered, as if in defiance of the Queen’s command, as soon as word of her coming spread.
At Greenwich, she found her sister too busy to see her. In fact, Mary was making the most of her final hours with Philip. All too soon, the time passed, and when the moment came for his departure, she said her agonizing, tearful farewells in private, then stood stony-faced at the top of the great staircase, helplessly watching him descend and walk away from her and through the great doorway, bound for the waiting ship that would take him to Flanders. Until he was out of sight, she held on to herself, then when she could bear it no longer, she withdrew into her apartments and hastened to a window in the gallery, desperate for one last glimpse of her beloved. Following with the other ladies, Elizabeth watched her sister break into anguished sobs as she waved her kerchief at the distant figure on the departing ship.
It did not do to give your heart to a man so entirely, she thought. Men did not value what they came by easily. Once you loved, you laid yourself open to pain. She would not make the same mistake as her sister, that much was sure.
With Philip gone, the court was a gloomy place. It was as if it had gone into mourning. As if in reflection of the Queen’s desolation at being deprived of both her expected baby and her husband, its inhabitants had taken to wearing dark colors.
“I suppose I must go about looking like a crow in these weeds,” Elizabeth grumbled, holding up her black velvet gown. “You would think the King had died.”
“I mind there was a time when Your Grace liked to dress in black,” Blanche reminded her archly.
“That was in my brother’s reign,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “We are all good Catholics now, and must dress the part. But I must say I do not relish looking like a nun.”
“I do not think Your Grace would make a very good nun!” Blanche giggled.
“I would be a very rebellious nun!” Elizabeth laughed. “I should certainly eat too much!”
There was not much occasion for laughter these days. Occasionally, Mary would send for her, although clearly she did not delight in Elizabeth’s presence. She made it quite clear that she was extending her favor only because it was Philip’s desire that she should do so.
“His Majesty has written again of you,” she would say. “He constantly commends you to my care, and requests that I be a gracious prince to you.” Her tone always implied that, but for Philip’s exhortations, relations between them would be far less cordial.
And indeed, as Mary had feared, Elizabeth was proving a constant thorn in her side. Her youth and barely restrained vitality were in themselves enough to arouse the older woman’s resentment, but above all Mary could not bring herself to trust her sister, and must always think the worst of her. Then she would despise herself for it, and remind herself that Elizabeth was truly her own flesh and blood, to be loved as such. But she found that so hard, so very hard.
“She hates me,” Elizabeth told Blanche. “When we meet, we exchange mere courtesies and discuss the weather. I know she is jealous of me, if only because I enjoy the favor of the King. And because I am her heir. I can understand it, of course: What man loves his own winding sheet?”
“But Your Grace goes with her to Mass daily,” Blanche said. “That must please Her Majesty.”
“Oh, yes, and I even fasted for three days for the sake of saving my soul,” Elizabeth reminded her, wincing at the memory of how ravenous she had been at the end of it. “Yet it avails me little. The Queen remains suspicious, Cardinal Pole is unfriendly, and the courtiers shun my company. But I have one friend at court. Master Ascham was recently appointed Latin Secretary to the Queen, and she has agreed that he may spend some time each week in study with me. I have so longed for some intellectual stimulation!”
It was wonderful to see Master Ascham again, and it was clear, from the broad smile on his face when he rose from his bow, that he too was delighted at the prospect of resuming