The Heretic Heir Read online

  The Heretic Heir

  G.Lawrence

  Copyright © Gemma Lawrence 2015

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this manuscript may be reproduced without Gemma Lawrence's express consent

  For my parents… for their love, their humour and compassion.

  For bringing me into this world and always impressing on me that it can be changed for the better.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Prologue

  Richmond Palace, London

  February 1603

  Death sighs softly at my ear.

  I almost smile, pulled from my thoughts of the past by that slight noise which no other mortal can hear. He waits still for me to follow him, but I have other affairs to attend to.

  Death has had to wait for me for a long time. He has had to be patient. He must have thought that he had my soul surely within the grasp of his hands many times, only to be thwarted at the last moment.

  I can almost hear skeletal fingers rapping against the wood of the table before me. Poor Death. I sense his exasperation with me; that even now, when the end is surely here, I delay him once again.

  He is not the only one to have felt thus. Many others have found me confusing, perplexing, bewildering… Perhaps it was my greatest strength; to have never been as I was expected to be. The unexpected is enticing, alluring… dangerous. That is why I was feared, that is why I was loved. That is why I will be remembered where others fall to the wayside of history. Oh yes, I will be remembered. They will speak of me long after I have left this life. The minds of the people will remember their Elizabeth.

  Death can wait for me a while longer. I am a fine prize for his collection. I am worth the wait. Soon enough, I will step into the dark maw which marks the passage of the living to the realms of the dead.

  But not yet.

  Not yet… Poor Death, my old friend.

  You must tarry at my side a while longer.

  Listen to my tale a while. Remember with me when I was young, when I sparkled like the sun in a sultry sky. Remember with me when you almost took me once before.

  For to live close to the throne, is to live close to Death.

  And to be the unwanted heir of an unhinged queen is to dance with Death.

  Take my hand once more, poor Death, old friend. I shall lead you on a merry dance.

  Chapter One

  Forty-Nine Years earlier…

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Palm Sunday, March 1554

  It was early in the morning.

  Blue and grey, silver and white slipped the first hints of dawn over the gardens of Whitehall Palace.

  I had not slept. She had not answered my letter. There would be no reprieve, not now, not for me. Sat by my window, my glassy eyes staring at nothing and everything, I listened to the first jumbled calls of the birds in the trees… watched as the light returned to the world.

  They came for me early. They did not want any crowd to gather, any resistance to grow. So, quietly they came… to take me from palace, to prison.

  As the door opened, I looked to my side; the pupils of my ladies were wide with fear as they stood by me. The whites of their eyes glistened in the muted light as we looked to the dour faced men, and they beckoned to us, their low voices telling me what I knew already.

  That I was arrested under suspicion of high treason against the Queen, my sister; that I was to be taken to the Tower of London. And what they did not say was possibly worse; that if I was found guilty, then Mary, my sister, my queen, would take my head in payment for betrayal.

  Out of the room they guided us. We scurried fast and quiet at their urging on hushed feet behind their guards, down the stone corridors of the palace, past the staring portraits of my ancestors, the Kings and Queens of England. I sought to hold my chin up, for pride, for dignity, even as we scuttled like mice down those paths. My pale face was pinched, ghostly, but I held it high; so should be the face of the daughter of a king.

  The first cold rush of the morning hit my skin as we left the palace and even beneath my fur-covered shawl, I shivered. Breathing in gulps of the frosty spring air, I sought courage from the very air and earth of my family estates.

  I was afraid. I knew well enough that my survival did not rest on whether or not I was guilty. It rested on my sister and her suspicions of me. Therefore, I had good reason to feel fear.

  I breathed in again, forced my shoulders back and my head up. My father once walked here and he would have never shown fear to any enemy. I am the daughter of a king, I thought. I cannot quail now like a mewing child; not when I need my courage the most.

  The gardens were damp; cobalt and navy blues of the dissipating dawn lit our way through the paths. Small pockets of silver mist still clung to the horizon, drifting gently in the breeze. The grass and water of the river were black in the dim light, tiny drops of moisture shone from leaves and trees.

  I looked up and back at the darkened windows of the palace. Little lights, as red as bright fire against the dark shone from the palace windows as the servants started their morning’s work to warm the rooms of the Queen, to light the candles and the fires. I looked to see if I could see her eyes; perhaps to make one final plea to her, my own blood, the daughter of my father. But there was nothing. My sister did not show herself that morning.

  But I knew she was there.

  Something deep in my soul told me that somewhere beyond that stone and glass façade were the dark, watchful eyes of my sister, catching one last glimpse of me as her guards led me to impri
sonment and possible death at her command. I could feel the bright heat of her hatred and suspicion for me. Jealousy and resentment, distrust and doubt, guilt and fear… all those emotions she sought never to acknowledge in herself…. I felt them burning into my back as I marched behind her guards.

  I knew she was watching me.

  Down through the gardens we hurried at the ushering of the guards, soft step on well-tended path. They were taking us by water; quicker, quieter than mounting horses and riding through London to the dreaded fortress. They did not want to give any a chance to halt our progress. They feared my popularity with the people of England.

  The boat bobbed on the dark water calmly, merrily; it was too happy in its task. I stopped before the boat; my courage seemed to drain from me. I looked about me and my heart skipped within my chest with a heartbeat of fear… Could I run now? Could I flee my captors, call for help? I would not get far.

  Lord Sussex held out a pale hand to me, startling me from my thoughts of escape. His face was eerie in the strange light, strained and pale from the task he now performed. He had little love for it, I knew well. A small smile for him, not lit in my eyes or believed in by my heart, touched my lips. I took his outstretched hand and stepped into the vessel. My ladies, Kat and Blanche, following my lead as always, stepped in after me. Rain fell on our heads and an ill wind chilled our bones.

  I heard the shallow, scared breathing of my ladies as they sat beside me. Felt flesh tremble with dread against my own. I slipped my hands into theirs, and gave one brief squeeze before folding my hands before me and sitting straight.

  I was the daughter of a king. That one phrase echoed in my mind. I was the daughter of a king. I must have courage, like a king.

  I was the daughter of a king.

  The daughter of a king… I thrust those words out to mask the coward within me, trying to cover her, silence her with my refrain.

  The daughter of a king… The daughter of a king.

  I knew I must stay calm, as much for my ladies as for me. I fought to retain control over myself as I sat on the rude seat. I sat straight and tall on the uncomfortable plank. No cushions were provided on this journey for a princess of the Tudor line, but more than enough guards. Comforts were for treasured royalty, not for prisoners.

  Winchester and Sussex talked in hushed tones at the head of the boat. The quicker this was over the better for both of them; the worse for me. Down the River Thames we moved. Soft waves caused by other boats bobbed the boat up and down, and on the horizon, the red dawn approached. People were already up and moving in the city; carts rumbled through the rough streets, horses snorted white clouds of breath in the chill dawn light. Boats started to ferry people back and forth to the city. There were shouts from the waterside and the sound of inn doors opening, for today was Palm Sunday and under the rule of my sister, the old celebrations had been brought back. The common people were gathering to take part in the revived ceremony of the old Catholic ways, to carry crosses made of palm leaves to mark the day that Christ entered Jerusalem, starting the journey to his own death.

  Was my journey, nodding along in the black water, lit by the gathering lights of the sunrise, to end in the same way?

  They were taking me to the Tower of London. Into that fortress where so many kings and queens and princes and lords had been taken into the arms of God. It was a royal place to die indeed. I almost laughed at the thought. At least, in the place of my incarceration and execution, my sister was finally admitting I was of royal birth. Had I been the daughter of a lowly musician, as Mary had professed at times to believe, then she would have just had me tried and then hanged like any commoner.

  Would I be fated instead to stand on a scaffold, to knee before a baying crowd as my mother had done? Would my head be cleaved from my body by clumsy blows of the axe, or a sharp sword? Or would my end come with a quiet pillow forced down on my face in the dark of night? Would I stand shaking before crowds of common and noble peoples as I faced death, or simply see the small shining lights of one man’s eyes in a dim, gloomy chamber, as his dagger plunged into my flesh?

  Those thoughts were too awful to linger on. My lips seemed to move by themselves in prayer. Although I could not hear the words in my own ears, I hoped God could hear me.

  In the gathering light of the day, the great Tower loomed close as we approached, its towers, dotted about its battlements reached into the skies. The Tower had all the freedom that its inhabitants did not. I looked up, my neck bent, at the White Tower.

  I am Elizabeth, prisoner.

  Traitor to the Queen. Enemy of the Crown.

  I am Elizabeth, prisoner.

  And on this day, I fear to die.

  Chapter Two

  Seven Month Earlier…

  Wanstead, outside of London

  August 1553

  Kat’s deft fingers made good the clasp at the back of my neck; she straightened the necklace from behind, and then walked in front of me to better view her work. My long fingers rested on the little coral beads, glistening like diamonds and trimmed in bright yellow gold, which hung around my white neck. They winked at the ruby and diamond brooch fastened to the front of my white gown. It winked back, as though the trappings of royalty shared a secret that morning.

  Kat’s warm brown eyes studied me carefully, and then a nod of approval was given. Her work on me was done.

  I turned to inspect myself in the mirror. My long white gown was edged with gold cloth and green silks. My sleeves hung long and wide, accentuating the slim bend of my waist. The beautiful necklace and brooch, both presents from my royal sister, the new Queen of England, set the picture off perfectly.

  Long red hair, flowing down my back in thick folds to proclaim my maidenhood, flashed and gleamed in the sunlight from the window. Pale skin and dark, deep eyes; a tall and lithe figure completed the picture of the nineteen year old maid who looked back at me gravely in the mirror. I would never be a beauty like some of those at court, but I was certainly more unusual, more memorable than many of those blonde-haired, blue-eyed does. And I was a princess; that they would remember me for if nothing else; the second richest noble in the kingdom, after my sister Queen Mary, the second daughter of the great Bluff King Hal… Elizabeth Tudor, heir to the English throne.

  Kat’s face appeared behind me at my side. She was smiling at me.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” she said. Her voice was hushed in awed appreciation of the pretty picture before her. Her charge, the child she had sung to, the girl she had raised, was now a woman grown and bled, a premier noble of the land, one of the most appealing prizes for marriage in the country, and in the world.

  I smiled at her. I was always vulnerable to flattery; being never as sure of my own beauty as those with conventional good looks, I was more prone to falling against the warmth of obsequiousness and praise than others.

  We all have our flaws. We cannot help them, but it is certainly in our interests to recognise them so that they do not become our weaknesses.

  I touched the necklace again. These gifts from my sister glowed with the warmth of her present happiness. Raised like a phoenix from the flames of rebellion and deceit to take the throne on a wave of popularity, Mary felt as though all her trials in life had finally brought her to her birthright as queen. She was the eldest child of Henry VIII, the discarded, humiliated daughter of his first marriage. The woman that Warwick and the Grey family had tried to bypass by placing our little cousin Lady Jane Grey on the throne. My sister, Mary Tudor; the first Queen of England to rule unchallenged in her own name.

  Her army had flocked to her across land and sea, eager to put wrong to rights and place the daughter of Bluff Hal on the English throne. Mary’s rise to the throne had seen off her enemies, and now those foes languished in the Tower of London, their fake Queen, little Jane Grey, amongst them. Mary was ready to ride triumphant into London, with me, her loyal Tudor sister at her side.

  None of this present glory, however, solved the pr
oblems that waited for us just ahead on the road. Once the dust of the festivities was settled and the last merry shout receded in the darkness, there would still be concerns to resolve. Mary was the first Queen of England, the first woman to inherit the throne of England in her own right. Not since Matilda, the granddaughter of William I, the Conqueror, had a woman sought to rule in her own right. Matilda had brought the country to civil war in her pursuit of the crown against her cousin Stephen, who also claimed the throne of England, and only much later, when Matilda’s son took the throne, was peace restored to England in truth. Later Queens, consorts who tried to wield power through their husbands, were vilified, their names and reputations blackened. To most people, a woman should ever be in the background of power, not at its head. Few people believed women should hold power, and certainly not on their own, without a male to guide them. The country of England and the courts of the world were asking that day; could a woman truly rule alone and rule well?

  Opinions were not divided. The country thought not, the Royal Council thought not, the Church thought not and above all, my sister the Queen thought not. It was not accepted that any woman could or should have the power to rule alone… Not without a husband to aid her.