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About Roger Ascham and the Dead Queen's Command
Elizabeth is Protestant.
She is 25 years old.
And in a palace filled with many
of Mary's old courtiers, it is difficult
to know whom she can trust
His longcoat and boots caked in mud, Roger Ascham strode quickly
down the length of the throne room before he dropped to one knee
and bowed his head.
‘Your Majesty, I came as quickly as I could.’
He had indeed. He'd ridden through the night.
And when he announced himself at the palace gates, they'd
ushered him directly here.
They even let him carry his bow and quiver— the queen had been
very specific about allowing that. Being the new queen's childhood
schoolteacher afforded Ascham a few minor privileges, but never
that. No one but the queen's personal guards were allowed to be
armed in the presence of the sovereign.
Something must be very wrong, he thought.
Before him sat the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth I, in all her
regal glory.
Twenty-five years old, beautiful and confident, she was clad almost
entirely in gold: glittering dress, high collar and a sparkling golden
headdress that set off her flame-red hair. The freckles of her youth
had been covered with powder, but nothing could mask her
penetrating stare.
It was the 18th of January 1559.
She had been Queen of England for exactly three days.
‘Mr Ascham,’ the queen said evenly. ‘I thank you for your haste. A
difficult matter has arisen and I need your help.’
Ascham looked at the collection of advisors and courtiers gathered
around her and wondered what help he could possibly give her that
they could not.
‘I am yours to command, Your Majesty,’ he said.
The young queen’s lips curled into a wry smile.‘ I pray that my
education was good enough to make my commands worth following,
Mr Ascham.’
‘Believe me, so do I, Your Majesty,’ Ascham said.
Some of the courtiers gasped. Elizabeth’s chief advisor, William
Cecil, shook his head at the sheer cheek of the remark.
The queen turned to her retinue. ‘Leave us. Everyone but Cecil, Sir
William and Mr Ascham here.’
The courtiers left and soon Ascham was alone in the great room
with only the queen, Cecil and Sir William St Loe, the Captain of the
Queen’s Body Guard.
The queen cocked her head at Ascham. ‘I could have you
beheaded for making tart comments like that, you know.’
‘I am keenly aware of that, Your Majesty.’
‘Oh, stop all this “Your Majesty” poppycock, Roger. Call me Bess,
like you used to. We have been through too much together for such
formalities. Besides, I can’t cut off your head. I need the mind that
resides inside it.’
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Ascham saw the worry on her face and he got serious. ‘An urgent
summons to the palace. My weapon allowed in your presence. And
now a private audience with only these two gentlemen. What‘s
wrong?’
‘Someone wants to kill me,’ the queen said simply. ‘And they plan
to do it tomorrow.’
2.
For the rest of the afternoon, Ascham scoured the markets and
alleyways of London, visiting the stores of toy and doll makers.
He took with him the doll of Queen Elizabeth that had been sent to
the queen, of course having taken care to remove the arrow that had
been so provocatively stuck into it.
He discovered very quickly that with the coronation of a beautiful
new queen, London had become awash with dolls of her image. At
every tinker‘s stall and knick-knack shop, he found a dozen Elizabeth
dolls, most of them depicting her in a gold coronation gown.
Ascham compared the artistry of the dolls on display to the one
that he possessed. None of them matched the workmanship of the
doll that had been sent to the queen.
Over the course of his inquiries that afternoon, Ascham had learned
of a dollmaker by the name of Mrs Emily Wimple who operated a
small shop on the bridge. Apparently, her work was of the finest
quality, so much so that she had made dolls at the command of
Queen Mary, as gifts for the children of foreign kings.
Ascham hastened down the bustling bridge.
Cows and sheep milled about. Sailors, prostitutes, mothers and
shopkeepers all haggled and traded: Ascham had often said that if
any one place could represent the many facets of English life, it was
London Bridge.
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"Well—arty and all that. And her looks aren't her strong point."
"You needn't be offensive, Wimsey. Surely I may be allowed to
appreciate a woman of intelligence and character. I may not be
highbrow, but I have some ideas beyond the front row of the chorus.
And what that girl went through with that blighter Penberthy makes
my blood boil."
"Oh, you've heard all about that?"
"I have. She told me, and I respected her for it. I thought it most
courageous of her. It's about time somebody brought a little
brightness into that poor girl's life. You don't realize how desperately
lonely she has been. She had to take up that art business to give her
an interest, poor child, but she's really cut out for an ordinary,
sensible, feminine life. You may not understand that, with your ideas,
but she has really a very sweet nature."
"Sorry, Fentiman."
"She made me ashamed, the way she took the whole thing. When I
think of the trouble I got her into, owing to my damned dishonest
tinkering about with—you know—"
"My dear man, you were perfectly providential. If you hadn't tinkered
about, as you say, she'd be married to Penberthy by now."
"That's true—and that makes it so amazing of her to forgive me. She
loved that blighter, Wimsey. You don't know. It's absolutely pathetic."
"Well, you'll have to do your best to make her forget it."
"I look on that as a duty, Wimsey."
"Just so. Doing anything to-night? Care to come and look at a
show?"
"Sorry—I'm booked. Taking Miss Dorland to the new thing at the
Palladium, in fact. Thought it'd do her good—buck her up and so on."
"Oh?—good work!—Here's luck to it...."
"... and the cooking is getting perfectly disgraceful. I spoke to Culyer
about it only yesterday. But he won't do anything. I don't know what's
the good of the committee. This club isn't half what it used to be. In
fact, Wimsey, I'm thinking of resigning."
"Oh, don't do that, Wetheridge. It wouldn't be the same place without
you."
"Look at all the disturbance there has been lately. Police and
reporters—and then Penberthy blowing his brains out in the library.
And the coal's all slate. Only yesterday something exploded like a
shell—I assure you, exactly like a shell—in the card-room; and as
nearly as possible got me in the eye. I said to Culyer, 'This must not
occur again.' You may laugh, but I knew a man who was blinded by a
thing popping out suddenly like that. These things never happened
before the War, and—great heavens! William! Look at this wine!
Smell it! Taste it! Corked? Yes, I should think it was corked! My God!
I don't know what's come to this Club."
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