But now her thoughts had gone to the saddest moment of her life when they had come to her to tell her that Thomas was dead—her beautiful Thomas. She had been surrounded by spies; she had known they were watching her, trying to trip her, and she knew that every word, every look, would be noted and reported. Lady Tyrwhit (how she hated that woman whom they had given her in place of Kat!) had had her sly eyes on her, always watching, hoping that there would be some betrayal of feeling to report to her master the Protector, that false brother of dear Thomas.

She had faced them, calmly and courageously. Yes, she could look now with approval on that young Elizabeth who had not shown by a flicker of her eyes or a twitch of her lips that her heart was almost breaking.

“Your Grace,” had said that spy Tyrwhit, “this day the Admiral laid his head upon the block.” And she waited for the effect of her words.

Elizabeth looked back at the woman with no expression whatsoever on her face. Yet she knew she must speak. Lady Tyrwhit must not be allowed to report that her grief had made her speechless.

“This day,” she had said, “died a man with much wit and very little judgment.”

It was said of her that either she was without feeling or she was a magnificent actress. She was a great actress. That was the answer; for without doubt she had loved Thomas.

And was she not acting all the time? Was it not necessary for her to act, to feign simplicity? How she had acted after the death of Thomas! She had lived quietly at Hatfield, giving up her days to study, reading Cicero and Livy, studying the Greek Testament, reading aloud the tragedies of Sophocles, studying Italian and French. She dressed simply, wore her hair unfrizzed—she who loved fine clothes and who loved to have her red hair frounced and curled, and to wear rich velvets and sparkling jewels. But she was clever enough to know that it was necessary to live down the reputation which the Seymour scandal had given her, and that to live in obscurity was the only way of preserving her life during those difficult days.

Her friends kept her closely informed of affairs at Court, and from the seclusion of Hatfield or Woodstock, she was aware of the heady progress of the Duke of Northumberland, thinking often of the gay Lord Robert who, had he not been so senseless as to marry a rustic girl, might have been a greater power in the land than a poor Princess who must keep as still as a lizard on a stone for fear any movement by her should attract the attention of her enemies.

She watched the tussel between Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, whom she would never forgive for what he had done to Thomas, and John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who was the father of that young man who interested her as no one had since the death of Thomas.

And now Somerset was dead. That which he had done to Thomas had been done to him. It was fearsome, thinking of the heads which fell so readily.

She needed to laugh in order to calm herself, to make light of her misfortunes so that when the test came she might face them with equanimity.

But what could she do now but lie abed … and wait?

The waiting was over sooner than she expected.

Faithful friends brought the news. The would-be King-maker had been defeated. Mary was proclaimed Queen of England. Now was the time for Elizabeth to recover from her malady.

She did so without any fuss; and her first move was to write a letter to the Queen conveying her congratulations and her delight in her sister’s accession. There was an answer to that note: a command to meet Mary at Wanstead, that they might ride into the Capital together.

Elizabeth made ready for the journey. She was excited as always at the prospect of pageantry and a return to Court. Again and again she warned herself of her difficult position. Master Parry, who had come back to her service, also warned her. He flattered her in his sly way; she knew his words for flattery, but flattery was a luxury she would not go without.

“Your Grace must be careful to hide your beauty. The Queen will not be pleased at being outshone.”

“Nonsense, Master Parry!” she retorted. “How can I in my simple garments outshine the Queen’s royal velvet and glittering jewels?”

“Your Grace’s eyes sparkle more brightly than jewels. Your skin is more soft than any satins.”

She tossed her red hair, calling his attention to it; and he smiled that sly smile which he did not attempt to hide from her. “Your Grace has a crown of gold more beautiful than any that ever sat on the brow of King or Queen.”

“Enough, chatterer!” she cried. “I am right glad we bought new liveries for my servants this year, Master Parry. I do not grudge the forty shillings I paid for those new velvet coats.”

“Your Grace is right, and we will make a brave show. But pray accept my warning: do not outshine the Queen.”

She was demure thinking of it. She would wear white; she would cast down her eyes if the cheers for her were too loud. She would wear few jewels on her hands, for too many rings would hide their slender beauty; she would hold them so that the crowd might see them and marvel at their milky whiteness; and she would smile at the multitude—not haughtily but in that friendly way which had never yet failed to set them cheering.

No, she would not outshine the Queen in rich raiment or jewels, only in personal charm with youth and beauty and that subtle indication to the people that she was at one with them, that she loved them and one day hoped to be their Queen.

So, accompanied by a thousand followers—some of them lords and ladies of high rank—she came riding into London. Was it a good omen that she must pass through the City on her way to Wanstead, thus entering it before her sister?

The people of London came out to greet her as they always greeted the Princess Elizabeth. They caught their breath at the sight of her. She was so demure in her white gown; she looked so young; the people sensed in her the regality of her father and the vitality of her mother. She smiled and bowed and was clearly so grateful to the dear people for the homage they paid; she was so moved that there were tears in her eyes. About her rode her servants, all in green, some in velvet, some in satin, some in plain cloth, according to their standing in her household.

On through Aldgate she passed to Wanstead, where she awaited the coming of the Queen.

Mary expressed her pleasure in this meeting with her sister.

How old she looks! thought Elizabeth.

Mary was not yet forty, but she looked older. Neither purple velvet nor jewels could alter that. She had suffered much and life had used her so cruelly that it had left its mark upon her.

“And is my dear sister recovered from her recent illness?” asked Mary.

“My humble thanks to your gracious Majesty. I am fully restored, and if I had not been before this moment, I could not fail to be now seeing your Majesty in such good health and knowing your enemies routed and yourself safely upon the throne.”

“We cannot as yet say safely,” said Mary grimly. “But we have good friends, we hope.”

“And none more ready to serve your Majesty than your humble sister.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mary; and she embraced Elizabeth.

They rode side by side toward London, these two daughters of Henry the Eighth, whose mothers had been such bitter enemies, and on that day the Queen was thinking how happy she was to have her sister beside her. She had been sorry for Elizabeth in those days when the girl had been in disgrace after the death of Anne Boleyn, neglected and unwanted, so that it had been difficult for her guardians to procure enough money to clothe and feed her. Cruel things had been said of this Elizabeth—far worse than anything that had ever been said of Mary. They had both been called bastards, but Elizabeth had suffered greater indignity, for some had declared that the Princess was the fruit of an incestuous union between Anne Boleyn and Anne’s brother, Lord Rochford.

Mary hoped that Elizabeth would now conduct herself in such a manner that would enable them to live in amity.

Elizabeth demurely kept a little behind the Queen, now and then taking covert glances about her, throwing a smile at the crowds, letting her head droop when they cried too loudly for the Princess Elizabeth. She was thinking: What will happen now? She will marry, and if she bears a child, what hope have I of ever wearing the crown? Yet … how ill she looks! She is not strong enough to bear a child. And then … when she is dead?

The City was ready to greet the Queen to whom it had given its support. When Jane Grey had sailed down the river to the Tower that she might receive the crown, the people had been sullen; there had been few to cheer Queen Jane. The City did not want Queen Jane. She was young, beautiful, learned and noble; but right was right, justice was justice, and England accepted no other than Mary as its Queen.

From the windows of the houses strips of brilliantly colored cloth were fluttering. From over the old City Gate the charity boys and girls of the Spital sang the Queen’s praises as she passed under. The streets had been cleaned and strewn with gravel; and the members of the City Guilds had come out in their full dress to welcome Mary to London. On the river was every sort of craft fluttering banners and streamers, some bearing musicians who played sweet music and sang victorious choruses which all had the same theme: the delight of the people of London to welcome their true Queen, the expression of their loyalty to Mary.

Down Leadenhall and the Minories to the Tower of London went the procession. The Lord Mayor greeted the Queen, and the Earl of Arundel was beside him with the sword of state. All about the Queen were her velvet-clad attendants; and next to her rode her sister Elizabeth.

Mary, to show her utmost confidence in the loyalty of her greatest City, had dismissed her guard at Aldgate and had accepted that of the City, and it now followed her and her ladies, each man carrying his bow and javelin.

Sir Thomas Cheney, warden of the Cinque Ports, greeted her as she came to the Tower. Elizabeth could not help but shudder as they passed through the gate and she gazed at the towers. She caught a quick glimpse of the Devlin, the Bell and the Beauchamp Towers, and she remembered that, in the Beauchamp, the handsome young man of whom she thought now and then, was lying a prisoner and that he would doubtless ere long follow his father to the block. It was a sobering thought for a girl who had so recently received the cheers of the crowd. She must think of all the noble men and women who had been shut away from the world in those grim towers, released only that they might take the short walk from their prisons to Tower Green or Tower Hill. She must think chiefly of her mother, who had come to this place by way of the Traitor’s Gate and had left the world by way of Tower Green. She muttered a prayer as they went forward.

They had reached the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and there on the very Green where Elizabeth’s mother had received that blow from the executioner’s sword which had ended her gay and adventurous life, knelt those prisoners of state who under the last two reigns had begged in vain for justice.

Among them were the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been saved by the timely death of Henry the Eighth and had been languishing in prison ever since, Cuthbert Tunstal, Bishop of Durham, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; all were firm supporters of the Catholic Faith and they looked to the new Queen for honors.

The sight of the Bishops brought home afresh to Elizabeth the precarious nature of her position. Staunch Catholics, those men would inevitably view her with disfavor; and since the Queen had by no means the look of a healthy woman and, unless she had a child, Elizabeth was a likely successor, it seemed very probable that those two Catholic gentlemen would use all their formidable power to ensure that Elizabeth should never reach the throne. And what was their best way of doing that?

She imagined that these uneasy thoughts came from her mother’s spirit—surely not far, on this summer’s day, from the spot where it had departed from this Earth.

But there was one among those prisoners of state who turned Elizabeth’s thoughts to pleasanter matters. This was young and handsome Edward Courtenay, a noble of great interest, not only on account of his handsome person, but because of his royal lineage.

His grandmother was Catherine, a daughter of Edward the Fourth, and he was therefore related to the Queen since Mary’s grandmother, Elizabeth of York, had been that Catherine’s sister. Courtenay had been a prisoner in the Tower since he was ten years old, which was fourteen years ago. His father had been executed by Henry the Eighth. Now the young man’s hopes were bright, for Mary would never consent to the prolonged imprisonment of such a staunch Catholic.