But the queen dowager chose poorly for her fourth husband. Thomas Seymour was a scheming manipulator. His desire had been to marry the princess Elizabeth and he tried to ingratiate himself at every opportunity. The queen dowager watched his amorous advances toward the young princess with great amusement, knowing nothing would ever come from them. When it became clear that her husband would not cease his folly, to avoid a scandal and the possibility of discovery, she removed the imposter from their home.
“Seymour’s advances toward me were unexpected. They remain the only time in my life when the secret was in jeopardy. But the queen dowager protected me and was sad to see me go. We spoke on the day I left, privately, and she told me to take care and always be careful. She wanted me know that the great deception was safe with her. She died a few months later, but not before writing me a letter, which arrived after her death, in which she told me that I would one day be queen.”
He handed me the letter.
“Bury this with me.”
I nodded my acceptance of the charge.
“During that final talk Queen Katherine also told me something my grandfather had told her. A secret. One only for royal Tudors. But there are no more of us. So listen to me, good Robert, and follow my instructions without fail.”
I nodded again.
“King Henry called the queen dowager to his deathbed, as I have called you. Before that, my grandfather had been summoned to his father’s side. Each time the secret was passed. King Henry wanted the queen dowager to tell his son, Edward. But she did not. Instead, she told me, and trusted that I would do what was best with the information.”
I listened with an intensity that surprised me.
“There is a place, known only to four souls. Three of those are now dead, as I soon will be. You will be the fifth to know. In this place I have stored much wealth, as my grandfather and great grandfather had done. There also I placed the body of the princess Elizabeth. Thomas Parry long ago dug her from her grave at Overlook and brought her there. You cannot bury me in a royal tomb. There is no assurance that the grave might not one day be opened. Unless that occurred at a time when my remains are but dust, my secret, that which I have guarded so zealously during my life, would then be revealed. Place the princess Elizabeth in my grave and me in hers. That completes the circle and all will be safe then. I want your pledge, upon God’s hand, that you shall do this.”
I offered the pledge, which seemed to please him.
He laid a trembling hand onto mine. “The wealth there should be for James. Tell him to use it wisely and rule this nation with wisdom and justice.”
Those were the last words we spoke.
The queen’s death spurred an occasion of universal mourning. It fell to me to provide for the final resting place. I personally supervised the body’s preparation. Then the imposter lay beside his great grandfather, Henry VII, in the Tudor vault, while a fitting tomb was constructed. This required three years. During that time the body of the young princess, Elizabeth, found in the locale detailed to me, was substituted for that of the imposter. That task I personally accomplished without any assistance. I chose to join Queen Mary and the princess Elizabeth, sisters in life, together in death, their bones in one tomb, intermingling. It seemed a proper way to further mask the truth. When the bodies were finally entombed inside the marble, I composed the epitaph that would define the imposter’s life.
Sacred to memory: Religion to its primitive purity restored, peace settled, money restored to its just value, domestic rebellion quelled, France relieved when involved with intestine divisions; the Netherlands supported; the Spanish Armada vanquished; Ireland almost lost by rebels, eased by routing the Spaniard; the revenues of both universities much enlarged by a Law of Provisions; and lastly, all England enriched. Elizabeth, a most prudent governor 45 years, a victorious and triumphant Queen, most strictly religious, most happy, by a calm and resigned death at her 70th year left her mortal remains, till by Christ’s Word they shall rise to immortality, to be deposited in the Church, by her established and lastly founded. She died the 24th of March, Anno 1603, of her reign the 45th year, of her age the 70th.
I varied on my pledge to the queen in two respects. First, I kept the letter that Katherine Parr had sent to him. It seemed the last remnant of physical proof that existed. But I burned it on completion of this journal. Second, the wealth that lay within the secret chamber I never revealed to anyone. King James was not an honorable man. I harbored little respect and no admiration for this first of the Stuart family. If he be a prelude of what is to come, I daresay the monarchy could be doomed.
The time of my own death now draws near. If this journal is being read that means someone with intellect and perseverance found the stone I commissioned for Nonsuch Palace. The odd assortment of letters seemed to fit the whimsical world of that royal residence. What be a secret if it cannot be revealed? Fitting that the means of its revelation rested in plain sight. This journal will stay among my papers, guarded by my heirs. If one day someone discovers the connection between it and the stone, then let the truth be told. For that intrepid soul, if you dare, seek out that place which the Tudors created for themselves. But be warned. More challenges shall await you there. If you further doubt this account, I left one other marker. A painting of the queen, commissioned by myself, and designated in my will to hang in Hatfield House for as long as my heirs own the property. Study it with care. To be remembered is a good thing. My father’s memory is one of honor and respect. Perhaps mine will be the same.