ABSTRACT
What visions of grandeur did these words conjur up for me, an eager grammar-school swot, in the early 1960s? I was introduced to Margaret Irwin’s trilogy about Queen Elizabeth I by my mother on one of our many trips to the Carnegie Public Library in Fratton Road, Portsmouth: Young Bess (1944), Elizabeth Captive Princess (1948) and Elizabeth and The Prince of Spain (1953), all chart the fortunes of the Tudor monarch from girlhood to her coronation as England’s Virgin Queen. These opening lines can still thrill me, though I’m less excited by the prospect of leading a regiment. No one in my family was a royalist-my mother and grandmother were outspoken antimonarchists-‘about time they pensioned off Mr and Mrs Windsor’ was their usual attitude. Yet perhaps the fact that my middle name is Elizabeth, my birthday shared with the Queen Mother, and I too was about twelve years old when I first encountered Young Bess, made me more susceptible.
