heavy head ornament which she knew was causing pain and discomfort.
Mary suffered from more than a headache on that day. She was deeply conscious of her young sister. She knew that many in the crowds would be comparing them—the sick looks of one, the glowing health of the other, age with youth, Catholic with Protestant. Was Gardiner right? Was Renard right? Was it folly to let Elizabeth live?
Elizabeth was enjoying her state ride. She might be about to die, but such pageantry, with herself playing a prominent part, was the birthright of a daughter of Henry the Eighth. Beside her sat her father’s fourth wife—Anne of Cleves—the only one of six still alive. They were dressed alike, which, for Elizabeth, was an advantage. Anne of Cleves had never been a beauty, and now she was an excellent foil for the radiant young girl of twenty as they sat side by side in their gowns of cloth of silver with the long hanging sleeves, not unlike those which Elizabeth’s mother had introduced from France.
In Fenchurch Street addresses were declaimed by four men, all of whom were nearly seven feet tall. In Gracechurch Street the procession paused that a trumpeter dressed as an angel might play a solo to the Queen; Heywood the poet read some of his verses to Mary at the gates of St. Paul’s School. The people shouted with glee and prepared to make merry as they cheered the Queen, the Princess Elizabeth, and the young and handsome Edward Courtenay, who had now been created Duke of Devonshire. Red wine flowed in the conduits, and this boon pleased the people as much as any.
A few days before the Coronation the Queen came to Whitehall from St. James’s; and there she stayed until the first day of October, when she set out for Westminster Abbey for the ceremony of crowning.
Elizabeth with Anne of Cleves walked directly behind the Queen. Elizabeth’s hopes were high. Surely, she reasoned, the Queen could not feel cold toward her since she allowed her to take such a prominent part in the ceremony.
Elizabeth could not help imagining, during that glittering occasion, that it was herself who held the center of the stage.
She heard the voice of Gardiner: “Here present is Mary, rightful and undoubted inheritrix, by the laws of God and man, to the crown and royal dignity of this realm of England, France, and Ireland; and you shall understand that this day is appointed, by all the peers of this land, for the consecration, unction, and coronation of the said most excellent Mary. Will you serve at this time and give your wills and assent to the same consecration, unction, and coronation?”
And Elizabeth, with all those present, cried: “Yea, yea, yea! God save Queen Mary!”
But the name she seemed to hear was not Mary but Elizabeth.
Whilst the oraisons were said over Mary, whilst her mantle was removed, whilst she was anointed and her purple velvet ermine-edged mantle laid again about her shoulders, Elizabeth saw another in her place. One day it would be Elizabeth who was in robes of velvet, the crown on her head, the scepter in her right hand, the orb in her left. It would be Elizabeth to whom the peers knelt in homage and allegiance, Elizabeth whose left cheek was kissed. “God save Queen Elizabeth!” would be the cry in her ears.
And when they left the Abbey, among the cheering crowds Elizabeth thought she saw a woman, with a white and tragic face and mournful eyes, who stood out among the gaily cheering people because she did not cheer, because she was sad in the midst of all that gaiety.
Was it the sorrowing Duchess of Northumberland?
Elizabeth shivered. Here was another reminder of how close disaster could be to triumph.
A few weeks later when winter had set in, many people waited in the cold streets to see another procession. This was in great contrast with the glittering spectacle of the Queen’s Coronation.
Bishop Ridley led this procession, and among those who walked behind him was Lord Robert Dudley.
Robert held his head high. He, who longed for excitement, was glad even of this; he appeared jaunty as he walked through the narrow streets. Even at the Guildhall, he could only shrug his powerful shoulders. It was what he expected. Ambrose, Guildford, and Lady Jane had already been condemned and returned to their prisons. It was his turn now. And what could save one who had without doubt plotted against the Queen? It was useless