“Then ask what you will and let us be done with this subject.”
We spoke for nearly two hours. The tale was one of amazing doing and dare. He was the grandson of Henry VIII, his father the bastard child of Elizabeth Blount, his mother a Howard, the daughter of a great lord. He had lived in obscurity, raised by the Howards, his existence unknown to any Tudor. He was but thirteen, innocent, highly educated, and taught from birth that he was special. But no chance existed of him ever being anything more than the son of a bastard. All titles and privileges which his father had enjoyed ended with his father’s death. Barely a year after that Jane Seymour gave the king a legitimate son and, thereafter, no Tudor cared a moment for Henry FitzRoy or any child he may have sired. But with the unexpected death of princess Elizabeth, and the appearance of Thomas Parry with a plan to substitute the grandson for the daughter, Mary Howard saw an opportunity.
At the time he’d worn his red hair long, his muscles and bones slim, trim, and feminine. In fact, he’d always thought himself trapped. His body that of a man, his mind a woman. The conflict had raged in him since he was old enough to remember. The opportunity his mother offered would end that debate. He would become a woman, taking the princess Elizabeth’s identity in every way.
That happened in 1546. No one at the time considered that he might one day be queen. The idea had simply been to placate Henry and save the lives of Kate Ashley and Thomas Parry. Many obstacles remained in the path to the throne. Edward still lived, as did Mary. Elizabeth, at best, was third in line but only if a half brother and sister died without heirs. The subterfuge, though, worked and, as years passed, the grandson blossomed behind the heavy makeup, wigs, and billowing dresses that became his trademark. Lady Ashley tended to his every need, as did Thomas Parry, and no one ever suspected any deceit. Twelve years passed and both Edward and Mary died with no heirs. His mother, Mary Howard, also died. He was alone, no identity save for the one created by him as the princess Elizabeth. Then, at age 25, he became queen. When I inquired how the deception was maintained after he was crowned, he became whimsical. He assured me that so long as one was careful and diligent, there was no fear of any revelation. Lady Ashley served the queen until 1565, when she died.
“One of the saddest days of our life,” he told me, eyes reddening, though 33 years had passed.
Thomas Parry died in 1560, barely two years into the reign. He was never a popular man at court, and many said he left this world of mere ill humor. Of course, he conceived the deception so he always remained close to the queen. Knighted, he served as controller of the royal household. My father told me that the queen paid for his funeral in Westminster, which was never understood by me until that day at Nonsuch.
Blanche Parry became the queen’s Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber after Lady Ashley’s death and served until 1590. Though never acknowledged, Lady Parry was surely aware of the deception. The queen treated her as a baroness, granting her two wardships in Yorkshire and Wales, and burying her in St. Margaret’s Chapel, Westminster, with all the pomp of royalty.
“So long as we do certain things in private,” the queen explained, “no one could ever know.”
Which explained many of the habits. He dressed in private and bathed only with either Lady Ashley or Parry in attendance. He owned an array of eighty wigs and insisted on clothing that concealed his chest and lacked contour from the waist down. He wore heavy white makeup on his face, a sign of purity many observers noted, but it also allowed a masking of features. Always more feminine than masculine, he had sparse hair on his body, including the head, as he’d inherited the Tudor tendency toward baldness. Doctors were allowed to treat him, but never to examine anything more than his eyes, mouth, and throat. At no time could anyone touch his person, and few ever did.
I left the encounter that day feeling both scared and satisfied. This man, who had by then ably ruled England for thirty-nine years, perhaps better than any monarch before, was an imposter. He possessed no right to the throne, yet he occupied it, as completely and thoroughly as if Elizabeth herself had survived. The people loved him, the queen’s popularity never in question. My father had made me pledge to serve him and that I did, until the day he died in 1603. Ever vigilant, he left specific instructions that no autopsy would be performed and none was. I was told by the queen exactly what to do with the body, which I followed only somewhat precisely.
“It seems Robert Cecil lived up to his nickname,” Miss Mary said. “The Fox.”
Ian was curious. “What does that mean, somewhat precisely?”
“That he chose what he wanted to respect and ignored the rest. Which explains why his journal even exists. He seems to have wanted people to know the truth.”
The train stopped at a station.
He and Miss Mary exited, then wound their way around to a connector line that would take them to The Goring Hotel.
Once inside the new train he asked, “Can we read some more?”