Page 84 of Eloise and the Queen
Colby and I liked to speak together at length, alone in the hall after others had departed or retired, Sir Shelby and his wife making a tacit agreement not to disturb us.
“I heard that Mary miscarried,” Colby said to me one night in July. We sat side-by-side on a bench facing a small hearth fire, the summer night having turned cool.
“Whoever says so is wrong,” I answered. “Poor Mary is in much pain, and her entire body is swollen, but not from carrying a child. She never did carry one, she has now realized.”
“She ought to show herself, then,” Colby said grimly. “Stories are circulating in London that Mary is dead.”
I huffed a laugh. “What nonsense. If Mary were dead, Philip would depart, taking his Spanish court with him.” I went somber. “The villagers near Hampton Court despise the Spaniards. I cannot help feeling sorry for Philip’s gentlemen and their ladies, though at the same time, I do wish they would go away.”
“That time might come sooner than you think,” Colby said, his blue gaze on the flames. “Philip has other kingdoms to worry about, and England is only a small corner of the Empire.”
“England is an independent nation,” I said indignantly. “And part of no empire.”
Colby flashed his smile at me. “You echo the sentiment of the English people.”
“And of Princess Elizabeth, I am afraid.”
Colby nodded, returning his attention to the fire. “True.”
I let out a sigh. “Even Philip knows he is not welcome, but Mary will not admit it. She is so certain God will not desert her, so certain she is right.”
“God has deserted her.” Colby’s tone was so stern I blinked at him in surprise. “He must have, and for good reason. She has revived the heretic laws. We have not spoken of it in this house, because it is so terrible, but she has already had people tried and burnt alive in London.” His large hands tightened on his knees. “Ordinary people, Eloise, who refuse to give up their beliefs and who cannot afford to flee to someplace like Geneva. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his cronies have been imprisoned at Oxford for creating the Book of Common Prayer at Edward’s command. It is madness.”
I’d heard about Archbishop Cranmer’s arrest, because he’d been housed not far from us at Woodstock. I’d learned that he’d quickly recanted his reformed faith, but it is easy to recant anything when your fingers are being crushed.
“You are in no danger of being arrested yourself, are you?” I asked in concern.
I’d not put it past Mary to imprison Colby out of pique because he’d been in Elizabeth’s company of gentlemen. Once interrogators began torturing him, what truths might be revealed?
I wondered if Colby’s adoptive parents had recorded his birth and baptism, claiming him as their own son, or whether anyone traveling to Shropshire could discover that he’d been a by-blow.
I also wondered if the milkmaid who’d borne him had officially revealed the identity of Colby’s true father, and whether anyone had written this into some record or other. No one had any reason to check Colby’s antecedents, but if Bishop Gardiner and Mary’s council decided to try him for heresy, who knew what might come to light?
“Do not fret, Eloise.” Colby took my cold hand between his warm ones. “I mouth pious Catholic prayers and attend mass like a good lad. Martyring myself for the cause will help nothing. I do what I must to stay alive.”
“Good,” I said fervently.
“Good because I work for Elizabeth?” Colby’s lips quirked, a sparkle entering his eyes. “Or good for my own sake?”
“On both counts.” I regarded him without blushing. “On both counts, James.”
I strangely did not mind whether Colby returned the affection I felt for him or not. I wanted his safety, and his happiness, more than I cared about anything for myself.
Colby kissed me with more warmth than usual when we parted. He studied me thoughtfully, but I refused to be embarrassed.
At the end of July, Mary left Hampton Court, commanding Elizabeth to accompany her. No trumpeters or heralds raced before us, and no lavish pageantry proclaimed the queen’s progress as we sailed downriver, back to London.
Mary’s depression ran deep. She stoically faced the humiliation that she’d been wrong about her pregnancy, but another followed close behind it—Philip announced to Mary that he was leaving England.
It would not be for long, he adamantly promised, but everyone in the court except Mary herself understood he was deserting her. The marriage and the attempt at an heir had been a failure.
Nobody but Mary was sorry the Spaniards departed, sailing from Greenwich where we’d traveled to see them off. Mary mourned for days after they were gone, her dream of marriage, a child, and perfect happiness dashed from her.
“Such a thing shall never happen to me,” Elizabeth vowed quietly as we watched Mary’s gaze return again and again to the window of her chamber. Below her, the Thames on which Philip had taken ship ran wide and full. “I shall never ruin myself with a bad marriage. A woman must always be careful whom she marries, especially a queen.”
I silently agreed. I’d received an alarming letter from my mother not many days ago positing that it was high time I married. I hoped it to be a passing whim on her part—or rather, her husband’s. I knew quite well who had prompted the letter.
I determined that I, like Elizabeth, would refuse any suit I didn’t wish, and asked Elizabeth to stand by me against my stepfather.
