A Thousand Eyes: A Novel of Elizabeth I

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

1558

When Mary summoned me, I knew the situation was dire. Her messenger loitered nervously at the door, tapping his foot in a way that would have me snapping at him were I not so preoccupied.

"Is it bad?" I asked him, knowing the answer. "Is she - "

The messenger shook his head. "You should come immediately, my lady."

My lady, I thought. One way or another, he wouldn't be calling me that for much longer. My shoes clacked down the hall as we made our way to Mary's chambers - what awaited me there, I was afraid to see. All that Mary had done to me, all she had done to the Protestants - and still, to my last breath, I would love her. So it was with sisters, I supposed. We had the same father, we lived a life nobody around us could understand - of course I would mourn her, even if we had always remained at a detached distance.

The great doors of her chambers greeted us with a solemnity that almost broke my heart, but the messenger stepped dutifully before me and opened the door for my passage.

It occurred to me, a second before I glimpsed Mary, that I would not be the heir. If Mary died, she might prefer our cousin of the same name as her, the Scottish queen, who was as Catholic as my sister herself was. If our cousin Mary became queen, it was guaranteed that beloved England would never fall into Protestant hands like mine.

Mary looked dreadful. So it was for a dying woman - the babe she awaited for so long had sucked the life out of her - indeed, if there had been a babe after all. Now she looked pallid, almost jaundiced. Her breaths came in weak, infant-like puffs. All those years, all those years of wicked jeers and venomous insults from that mouth, and nothing now.

"Mary," I said, rushing to her side with no mind for the physicians and courtiers crowded anxiously around her. "Mary!"

"Fear not, Elizabeth," she whispered. Her voice was not kind, but it had lost its customary malice. "It's as you've always wanted. When I die - when I die you will be queen."

"Mary, surely -" But I didn't have anything to say. She was a dead woman, sure as the sky hung above us. "I love you."

She nodded, too weak to speak. For several minutes - an hour, a whole day maybe - I knelt next to her, hand clasped in her bony fingers. When the physician moved to take her pulse, I moved to accommodate him even though I knew Mary wasn't gone yet. He clasped her wrist in his hand for a few precious seconds, and then he let it fall limp. "Gone," he said. "The queen is dead."

All eyes turned to me. The whole world was open in that moment, shoved into my hands, mine to bend or break. Everyone in the room sank to their knees as I stood before them, everyone muttered the sacred words that were never meant for me: "Your Majesty."

I was not old enough for this. Only twenty-five, only - only a girl, compared to Mary. England was beloved to me, but mine to rule? Mine to ruin? It could not be. Who was letting this happen - what was the Lord thinking?

"Dear subjects." I was surrounded by Catholics, by Mary's supporters - oh, how they must loathe me, I thought. So long Mary and those who followed had fought for their religion and here I was, the Protestant queen.  I could not be weak now. They may dislike me, but I was their queen. "I need messengers now."

They all looked at me.

"Now!" I snapped. "I don't care who it is. I must have messengers."

A portly man stepped forward. "I have a horse tied outside, sir. But livery?"