The hour approaches

Turn over your shoes to stop the pixies and ogres walking in them. Shut the drapes so the moonlight doesn’t drive you mad.

Keep your ladies of the bedchamber close for tis now you need them most.

Gold and silver thread shimmer in my candlelit chamber. The figures of three noblewomen standing beneath a garden tree in the tapestry opposite feel as much part of me as the veins in my still slender hands. One holds a bunch of flowers, one carries a basket of eggs, and the third stretches out her hand to a pelican. Symbol of motherhood, it is said the pelican will pluck its breast and feed the young on its own blood rather than see them starve.

💀🪦💀

I can almost hear the mocking laughter of lives mercilessly cut short. In my dreams, the piercing cries of unquiet souls falsely accused. Grisly husks with popping eyes whose contortions form a grotesque parody of life.

Your time will come. We are waiting. The hour approaches.

Not if I keep standing.

While the rest of my body crumbles, my ears hear well enough. In the early years, wigs leant majesty; later they covered the true extent of my hair loss. In my next dream, I enter a hall of mirrors, long forbidden in my palaces. Wig-less and mask free, I recoil at the grey tufts springing from a once noble crown; I’m dismayed by the sunken hollows that pass for cheeks, and my neck is a cavern of worms. I open my mouth to find stumps rattling in my jaw like beaten soldiers. My eyes, once glorious pools of gold-brown, are blackened pits. I wake up yelling and Kat is there to soothe my brow as she did when I was a child.

Yet Kat died years ago!!

You killed her with overwork. The hour approaches.

🪦💀🪦

Only last week I was indulging in my favourite candies, and my neck was bedecked in a fine ruff with loops of hanging pearls. Since then, I’ve barely eaten though my thirst is unquenchable. Knowing I no longer have the stomach for wine, my maids pour weak ale down my unprotesting throat. That way, I live longer.

Pain and melancholy have been my bedfellows for so long, no amount of bloodletting of the body’s humours can rid me of them.

I must remain upright.

💀🪦💀

I was once a tall striking creature with auburn hair. Unfortunately, my womanly body was regarded as unfit to rule on account of its corruption, the result of Eve’s fall from grace in the garden of Eden. I had nightmares of a ghastly preacher shaking his fist at me and inveighing against the “monstrous regiment of women” whose ruling over men was deemed repugnant to nature. However, at the key moment, my imperfect flesh became wedded to the “body politic.” By some mysterious process, it rose above physical limitations and took on a perfect form.

Early on I learnt to suppress any sign of weakness and use my femininity as a weapon. Born under the sign of Virgo, I was married only to my people. As expressed in my clothing, I sacrificed self for their symbolic love.

Over the years, this red-painted cochineal mouth has issued commands, witty rejoinders, sarcastic ripostes; when it suited me, occasional snippets of wisdom. These childlike lips had courtiers running to do my bidding, trembling lest they displeased me and lost their heads. Little by little, I emerged from feebleness impressing statesmen and learned men alike. On my progresses through the country, I was said to have the “common touch.” Waiting for hours to catch a glimpse, ordinary people were touched by my concern for their comfort and welfare; admittedly there was precious little to be had in some of the city’s hovels.

You put on a good show, but the hour approaches.

🪦💀🪦

Finally, my supreme moment came. The defeat of the Spanish Armada turned my country’s fortunes around; after exhorting the men encamped at Tilbury to victory before they set off in their cannoned ships, I emerged as Gloriana. I may have had the body of a “feeble woman” but proved I had the “heart and stomach of a king.”

Perhaps triumph entrenched me, made me more like my father. Loved and feared in equal measures, he bestrode the court like a colossus; a rule which started full of promise grew tyrannical. People feared for their lives.

Now you fear for yours. The hour approaches.

Not if I keep standing.

💀🪦💀

You may wonder how I could love a man who in one foul swoop instigated the destruction of my mother when I was not yet three. My first brush with death. Even now I’m unsure whether it was love or fear that drove our relationship. I never spoke to anyone directly about my mother, least of all the king, when he lived. My early sagacity may have saved me during my most perilous moments. During my sister Mary’s reign, my very survival hung in the balance. I died many times in my mind then.

The consummate player, I played for the highest stakes and won by a hair’s breadth. Even when I succeeded to the throne, I rarely let my guard down, those I’ve truly trusted have been few and far between.

But if I outranked them all in terms of flair, capacity and intellect, I didn’t do it alone. I took advice from the best counsellors in the land. Namely, my dear Cecil, who served me faithfully until he died a few years ago, and whose son now takes his place. Perhaps the older Cecil didn’t always please me but without him, the burden of politics presses heavily. The well of depression which first opened when I lost Kat, my governess and dear friend, deepened. I miss her!

“Take those leaches away and let me have some peace!”

Nay. None of it feels like winning now. There’s nothing triumphant about lying swaddled in a heap of cushions – even if they are in Richmond palace’s private quarters. Our family often decamped here to escape the turmoil of state affairs. Yet this dreamscape of towers and turrets overlooking the river has become a glorified prison. A servant stokes the fire keeping off the last of winter’s chill before Spring’s sweet arrival which I won’t see. With each passing day, my ladies add more cushions so when my legs buckle from the strain of standing for hours, no bones get broken.

“You need to rest and get some sleep, your majesty.”

Except to lie down is to face death! Your hour approaches.

Ignoring the doctor’s a wheedling, I remain fixed as the northern star. He and Cecil work in tandem – the smooth politician (who isn’t a patch on his father) and the oily medic grown greedy on royal patronage. Between them, they will pluck the name of my successor from their childless queen’s lips if it’s the last thing they do.

🪦💀🪦

Of course, I should never have agreed to have the coronation ring removed from my finger “to relieve the swelling.” I’d not taken it off since my coronation all those years ago and nothing has been right since. However, I’m adamant that my mother of pearl locket ring remains on my finger for as long as I breathe. What happens next is beyond my control. I trust the women who wait on me will honour my wishes.

💀🪦💀

Only two weeks ago, I was able to cast the pain aside and demand my wardrobe mistress clothe me in a fine linen dress and put a ruff round my neck. Enduring the discomfort of hoop and bustle, my face was covered in a thick layer of white lead makeup to cover the pocks I was left when I caught smallpox as a young queen. The daubing of my wrists in sweet perfume made me feel almost human.

Now sunken in cushions, the chime of bells reaches across our fading fields. I catch the tail end of whispers, infuriated at not being able to hear precisely what’s being said. I can no longer demand they tell me or suffer the consequences.

💀🪦💀

The nightmare of that fortress rising above me is upon me again. At the time the sight of the royal prison almost unhinged me, but a mistress of deception must survive such trials. My elder sister Mary was ruling the country with a rod of iron and the stakes were kept busy dealing with dissenters.

To be so fierce in her beliefs may have been my sister’s undoing. When I first became queen, I refused to “make windows into men’s souls.” So long as people confirmed to the Anglican religion carved out by my father, they had no need to fear.

Yet in your reign you’ve ordered more deaths than your sister. Your hour approaches.

🪦💀🪦

The very mention of the Tower would make the most hardened traitor’s bowels shrivel, especially with the threat of torture. As a member of royalty, I would not have to suffer the horrors of Wyatt and his supporters when their rebellion failed.

Although I distanced myself from all plots to overthrow my sister, every failure put me in peril. With rumours and counter rumours circulating of my complicity, I daily faced the threat of destruction.

I vividly remember that journey to the Tower, passing scenes of horror and desolation. Heads and body parts mounted on spikes at the city’s gates displayed the consequence of treason. As we approached, I heard the blood curdling roar of its lions and turned feverish. To be revisiting the place where my mother had spent her last days and to have to endure interrogation seemed beyond me, but I kept my resolve. Any consolation in being given pleasant rooms was short lived when I discovered the only means of stretching my legs meant having to pass the site of my mother’s scaffold.

💀🪦💀

If it came to it, I’d planned on asking for a French sword rather than the cumbersome axe. My mother had made exactly that request before her execution and then had to suffer the agonies of waiting for my father to grant her wish. Much later I learnt there was talk of sparing her and allowing her to flee to a nunnery. When the king’s love turned sour, he had punished her ‘failure’ to produce a male heir by getting Cromwell, his clever and formidable politician, to accuse her of numerous acts of treason. They included witchcraft and adultery, including with her own brother! No woman’s name was more besmirched. She had been called “the King’s whore” before he made her Queen. But she met her death with dignity, making a wise speech to the gathered crowd. In a stroke, she was dead, but not dishonoured.

I gleaned the details of my mother’s final days long after her death. I dimly recall seeing her as a child. I did not live with her and when her deliveries of lovely clothes dried up, I sensed something was wrong.

🪦💀🪦

In the flickering candlelight, they have coaxed me to bed where the dark knight hovers waiting for my soul.

I’ve always been surrounded by people wanting something. The country’s most senior men wait here, watchdogs to a diminishing power.

Even a queen cannot hold back death forever. The hour approaches.

💀🪦💀

My physician presses my wrist and clears his throat.

“Your majesty. There’s the matter of the post-mortem?”

“No. No cutting.”

“But with great humility, it can be helpful to know the cause of illness for future understanding and enquiries.”

“No.”

“And er… the issue of embalming?”

“No.”

“It is usual practice with royalty.”

“No.”

“Of course, your majesty.” His shoulders slump: he will have nothing interesting to report for posterity.

The archbishop arrives carrying oils.

“Must speak… alone.” My voice cracks. “Everyone to go.”

In the silence the archbishop reaches for my hand.

“I dreamed of Mary again,” I whisper.

“Which one. Your sister? Or …?”

“The other one. My cousin. She was the queen of Scotland. I should never have signed the death warrant. I didn’t mean it to be sent.”

“It had to be, your majesty. She was complicit in the Babington plot.”

“I tell you; my hand was forced. It was unseemly. I fear God will judge me harshly.”

“Yet while your cousin lived, you were in constant danger. She was your ultimate rival.”

“But then the manner of her death … arg! She was not felled straightaway. I heard her dog ran out from under her dress howling, and then they dipped his nose into her blood!” Bitter tears form runnels in my makeup. “To go the grave with such thoughts is abominable.”

“What is done cannot be undone, your grace.”

“But will I be pardoned for my sins?”

“You will be pardoned and treated as a queen in heaven as you are on earth.” But his voice lacks conviction.

“Have you thought any more about the most pressing matter?” The kiss of his lips to my hand is like the flutter of a bee’s wings over a honey pot. “They need to know. Who will it be?”

A vacant tear falls onto the pillow. I have no heirs so it will have to be Mary’s son, James, but I’m damned if they’re getting it out of me till I’m ready.

🪦💀🪦

They plagued me to marry and produce an heir, although no man ever pleased them. I played along with their schemes, kept them dangling while they sought out the best alliances. My maids were bribed to report the regularity of my monthly bleeds, but in the end, nothing could induce me. When it came to it, I couldn’t allow a man to rule over me. Not even Dudley who I almost loved – at least until our ardours dampened to the warmth of friendship. But how could I forget what happened to my mother when she married my father, and his love turned to hate? Or, how my sister’s husband deserted her and returned to Spain leaving her bereft and childless. I played all proposed alliances off against one another, secretly resolved to remain single.

💀🪦💀

No matter that the cushions have been removed. I request the assistance of my ladies to help me out of bed so I can see the tennis court from the window. I remember Dudley, long gone, playing hopelessly, to amuse me. He was however a fine horseman, and we spent hours riding together. The only time I felt truly free.

My chief counsellor strides over, touches my shoulder.

“Your majesty must go to bed.”

 A knight and Leader of the Privy Council, he may be, but I will not abide such insolence from a whippersnapper.

“Little man. You do not use the word “must” to princes. Your father would not have spoken so.” The truth is as bitter as gall. Knowing I must soon leave this life makes him presumptuous.

England will have but one Queen and no master!

The roar of the lion is in my ears.

At my coronation, I wore my mother’s crown. It fitted me well.

Lying in bed, strangled by unspoken words, their waxen faces loom, pressing for the name of my successor.

“Will it be James of Scotland, your grace?”

🪦💀🪦

My mind flips back and I’m riding in the barge along the Thames heading towards the Tower again. I keep telling myself I’m a passenger, not a prisoner, but my body has swollen. After my sister, I am the rightful heir to England’s throne. My father restored my legitimacy at a grand ceremony in 1544. These men cannot get the better of me. I’m a queen in waiting, popular with the people. I cannot be harmed.

Sickened by the boat’s motion, I cry out.

“Let us pull over so I may recover.” The warehouses line the north bank, rising up like monsters from the deep.

💀🪦☠️

I’ve slept in many beds during my life’s course. Often with maids, occasionally alone, never with a man, though a number tried. The one here is appropriately boat-shaped, and sumptuously draped with sea-green curtains. Composed of flesh, blood and mottled bruises, I will the lungs beneath my chest to keep breathing. In and out, in and out. Mere mortal that I am…

Your procrastinating must end! The hour fast approaches.

🪦💀🪦

“J …” The name sticks like a craw in my throat.”

“Did you hear that?” The archbishop asks breathlessly.

“She can’t speak.”

In air now grown fetid, my finger draws a circle. 

“She’s making the shape of a crown.” My lady of the bedchamber understands. As does Kat, my old governess, returned to help me in my final trial.

“Is it to be James, the king of Scotland?” Cecil’s voice, low and urgent, breaks through the gloom.

“She’s nodding consent,” the archbishop says.

“She keeps fiddling with the locket. What’s in it?”

“Leave it.” Kat covers my hand. No man dare argue. In such moments, women protect their own.

💀🪦💀

The ring has six rubies and the letters E and R; the letter E has diamonds set over it and the R is enamelled in blue. But the ring bears a secret. Within the hinged head lie two miniature portraits. One of myself and another of an unnamed woman wearing a French hood.

I imagine their gasps on opening it. “She bears the look of…”

Kat will likely puff out her chest and tell them, “There was never any doubt she was her father’s daughter. You only had to look at her! But God bless her, she was her mother’s daughter too.”

Lingering on the threshold, my soul must finally meet its maker. I hear Kat’s voice loud and clear.

“Open the windows so the queen can smell the fresh cut grass. It’s being pecked at by a rook.”

No more prevarication. My hour has come.