A Dangerous Inheritance

Surely it is strange to proclaim a monarch before that monarch has even been informed of her own accession?

‘Hear ye, hear ye, good people!’ the herald cries. ‘Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, sends greetings to her beloved subjects and bids me read you her Majesty’s most excellent proclamation.’

Elizabeth, by the grace of God? How can this be? It should be I, Katherine, by the grace of God – as Queen Mary intended. This is wrong, all wrong – there has been some grave mistake! Someone should tell the herald!

But no, he is reading from the scroll, crying aloud: ‘Because it hath pleased Almighty God to call to his mercy out of this mortal life, to our great grief, our dearest sister of noble memory, Mary, late Queen of England (on whose soul God have mercy), and to bestow upon us, as the only right heir by blood and lawful succession, the crown of the kingdom of England, we do, by this our proclamation to all our natural subjects, notify to them that they be discharged of all bonds and duties of subjection towards our sister, and be from this day in nature and law bound only to us as to their only sovereign lady and Queen; promising on our part our love and care towards their preservation, and not doubting on their part but they will observe the duty which belongs to natural, good, and true loving subjects.’

There is more, but I do not hear it. The crowd has erupted in such a roar of joy and approbation that the herald’s final words are drowned, and all around me there is cheering and praise for Elizabeth, ‘Great Harry’s daughter’, as at least one reveller calls her.

‘God be praised, that’s an end to the burnings!’ a fat goodwife next to me cries. ‘The dread days of Queen Mary are over, and we’ll have a world of blessings with good Queen Elizabeth!’

‘There’ll be bonfires and merrymaking aplenty tonight!’ someone else calls. And suddenly, above the deafening hubbub, all the church bells of London are pealing out in celebration, and everywhere around me people are hugging and kissing each other, and even weeping for gladness. I am jostled and pushed by unheeding, ignorant citizens. This is not what Queen Mary intended! Even before she is cold, she is betrayed. How did Elizabeth bring this to pass?

The fat woman turns sharply to me. ‘If I were you, dearie, I’d get rid of those black weeds and that miserable face. You should be giving thanks for our new Queen.’

‘I feel a little faint,’ I lie, desperate to be gone from here.

‘Oh, sorry, love, I didn’t realise. Do you need a helping hand?’

‘No, I’ll be all right,’ I manage to say, and blindly retrace my steps to the waiting barge. It is too late for me: Elizabeth has proved too clever an adversary, and she has the love of the people on her side. And I am not too stupid to realise that, given the rapturous reception that news of her accession has prompted, few are ever likely to support me as a rival for her crown.

Our horses are trapped in black caparisons down to the ground. Our mourning clothes are sumptuous but sombre, as are my thoughts as I ride in procession behind Queen Mary’s hearse towards Westminster Abbey, where she will be laid to her rest, and take part in the lavish obsequies ordered by Queen Elizabeth. Listening to the soaring requiem Mass – a service soon to be outlawed – and sitting beside my sister Mary as the funeral meats are served at the banquet that follows, my heart simmers with resentment.

For already Elizabeth has made plain her dislike – nay, her hatred. Barely had the ink dried on her accession proclamation than she made her position very clear, and suddenly there was a cold draught blowing in my direction from the throne.

Elizabeth is twenty-five and has never married, so has no child to succeed her; and she has already declared that she means to live and die a virgin. Most people at court think it a bluff, or just maidenly modesty asserting itself. They little know her, for she can be as coarse and foul-mouthed as any sailor. But the fact remains that she is as yet unwed, with no heir of her body. And therefore she plainly sees me as a rival.

Queen Mary never went so far as to change the Act of Succession in my favour, which is why Elizabeth was indisputably her lawful successor. Under that same Act, I, by law, am still Elizabeth’s heir – and thereby a threat.

We both know why Elizabeth does not feel secure on her throne. It is well known that Catholic Europe regards her as a bastard, a heretic and a usurper, and wants her set aside for a Catholic queen. That in itself is enough to keep her awake at night, but she is extraordinarily sensitive on the subject of her marriage too.

She is disposed to flirt politically with this prince and that, as well as with her courtiers, and in particular Lord Robert Dudley; but she is in no hurry to wed and give up her freedom. ‘I will have but one mistress here and no master!’ she is fond of saying. Nor is she eager to have children. I myself watched her flare up when Mistress Astley, her Chief Lady of the Bedchamber, suggested (as none else has dared) that having a child of her body to succeed her would bring her great joy.

‘God’s teeth!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘Do you think I could love my own winding sheet?’ And in her eyes, for that one unguarded moment, I could see fear. I suspect the matter goes very deep with her.

Yes, she is reluctant to wed and bear heirs to continue her line, but she must still name a successor, for what would happen if she were to die suddenly? By law, I should succeed Elizabeth, as I am next in blood, but has she acknowledged me? Nay, she would as soon turn Catholic.

It is my right; yet for all my desire to become queen, I would not intrigue for her throne, on my word of honour, not though many are fawning upon me and paying me flattering addresses. I have seen too much of what happens to traitors.

How do I know she hates me? It has been made plain to me in so many ways. Not being named heir is bad enough, but when Elizabeth added insult to injury, she put me in the most difficult and embarrassing position. Under Queen Mary, despite my youth and inexperience, I was a Lady of the Privy Chamber, later promoted to the Bedchamber, and as such one of her Majesty’s most honoured and intimate servants, as befitted my rank and royal status. And by a further act of that Queen’s kindness, my poor misshapen sister Mary was similarly elevated.

But our gracious Queen Elizabeth has now seen fit to deprive us both of that honour. It is humiliating beyond words, and of course, I ca

Of course, Elizabeth ca

‘Lady of the Presence Chamber, if you please! You are her heir!’ my mother exploded when she heard the news. Yet, shocked as she was, she was the voice of reason, telling me that I must not take it personally. But I did, and I still do. Elizabeth is resolved to eclipse me utterly. I have to put up with catty remarks about my lack of religious principle – which I dare not answer as I would, because she is the Queen – or about my pale, blonde looks, which Elizabeth is now pleased openly to compare un favourably with her own red curls, now done up in the most fantastical styles, and made-up face. Where my skin is fair, hers is sallow, even swarthy, so she sees fit to mask it with a paste made up especially for her, the recipe of which she will confide to barely a soul. Indeed, she likes to pretend she shows to the world her natural complexion!