Elizabeth’s irritable rivalry turns to fear when Queen Mary announces that she is the rightful Queen of England. The question of who should be named as heir to Elizabeth is suddenly made irrelevant as Queen Mary declares Elizabeth to be a usurper. She has the support of the new pope, Pius V, to make such a claim, and so all of Europe turns against Elizabeth. The Spanish support Queen Mary for her faith; the French support her for family reasons; and half of England would rise for her if she came over the border at the head of a papist army. She could lead a holy war into the heart of England and win the throne by right and with the blessing of the papist Church. Of course, all I think, as I am allowed into the icy garden for a short half-hour walk, is that my offense and Katherine’s offense are diminished even more in comparison with the declaration of war from Queen Mary. But I know that the announcement will have plunged Elizabeth into jealous terror. She will not be able to think of anything else. She will not speak of anyone else. She will have mercy for no one.

I write to William Cecil, reminding him that Katherine and I have done nothing to further our claim to be Elizabeth’s heirs, that we will never claim our rights. That we are Protestants, coreligionists to him and to the queen, that if she is threatened by papist cousins, she can turn to us for our friendship; she can show everyone that she supports our shared religion. We can stand beside her, before the court. We can support her claim to the throne in the country. At the very end, I write that I beg him—if nothing else—to allow Thomas Keyes a bigger cell and permission to walk outside.

I renounce him, I write. Let our marriage be annulled as if it never was. I will never see him again if you will just let him go.

Again, I sign myself Mary Grey, denying my love, denying my marriage, denying my very self. Again I wait for news.

* * *