by Jean Plaidy
Then Anne Boleyn was brought to bed.
A special chamber in the Palace of Greenwich had been prepared for the birth. It had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of holy virgins. My father had given her one of the most beautiful beds he had ever possessed to receive his son when he came into the world. The bed was French and had come to him through the Duc d'Alençon as a ransom when he had been my father's prisoner.
It was a long and arduous labor. Seated with others in the chamber adjoining that in which she lay and of which the door was open, we could hear her groans of agony, and at each one I have to admit I exulted.
“Oh God,” I prayed, “let this be her last. Let her die… and the bastard with her.”
I seemed to see my mother's face admonishing me. “The woman is in labor. My child, you have no notion of what this means. She suffers pain such as you cannot imagine. Did not Our Lord teach us to be merciful?”
Merciful to that woman who had deprived my mother of her health, strength and happiness? How could I? I was honest at least. Desperately I wanted her dead. Somewhere in my heart, I believed that if a benign God— benign to us, of course, not to her—would arrange her death, all would be well between my parents.
The King did not come to see her. He knew that as soon as the child appeared he would be told.
Through the night we sat. The next day dawned. I shall never forget that day—September. It must have been between three and four o'clock in the morning when I heard the cry of a child.
Breathlessly I waited, angry with God for not answering my prayers. They were alive—both of them. Anne Boleyn had given the King the child for which he craved.
And then the news. My heart began to sing. A girl! I wanted to laugh out loud. My mother had done as well as that. She had given him a girl—myself. And he had gone through all this for the sake of another! It was a joke. Hysterical laughter bubbled up within me.
How was she feeling now, the concubine? Witch that she was, this was something she could not achieve.
And the King? How was he feeling? He would be realizing now that his efforts had been in vain.
The Countess had not been allowed to accompany me, and I was desolate without her. There was no one whom I could trust as I did her, and I was old enough to know how easily I could commit some indiscretion which could do me great harm.
I did, however, see Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador. I believe my father would rather have kept us apart but he could hardly do that without arousing hostile comment, and probably at this time he was feeling too frustrated to give much thought to it.
“The King is bitterly disappointed,” Chapuys told me. “He cannot altogether hide it, although at her bedside he told her that he would never desert her. But that in itself betrays that the thought of doing so must have entered his mind. They will have more children, he said, sons… sons… sons. She is still the Queen but his eyes stray and it seems there are others.”
“But for so long he sought her! She was the only one for him all those years.”
“It may be that now he regrets what he had to pay for her. He has taken great risks, and we do not yet know what will be the outcome of that. But what I have to say to you is this: You are the Princess of Wales but there is now another whom he might try to put ahead of you.”
I was aghast. “He cannot!” I cried.
“He can and if it is possible he will. You must be prepared.”
“What can I do?”
“We will wait and see.”
“What of the Emperor?” I said. #x201C;Why does he stand aside and see my mother and me treated thus?”
“The Emperor watches. He cares what becomes of you. The King's actions toward you are an insult to Spain, but the Emperor cannot go to war on that account. The time is not ripe, and the French and English are allies to stand against him.”
I covered my face with my hands.
“Be prepared,” he said.
I remembered those words when I was told I must attend the christening of the child, this Elizabeth, my half-sister who was destined to plague me in the years to come.
IT WAS FOUR DAYS after her birth—four days of bitter foreboding for me. Why had I been submitted to this extra torture? Why did I have to see honors showered on her? Wasn't it enough that she was born?
After his initial disappointment the King was expressing a certain delight in the child. I sometimes thought in the years ahead that she had inherited her mother's witchery. She was beautiful and healthy. “Oh God,” I asked in anguish, “why did You not listen to my prayers?” From the beginning she charmed all those who came into contact with her.
It was the cruelest act to make me attend her christening.
There was a letter from my mother which had been smuggled in to me. I was sure that woman and my father would have stopped our correspondence if they knew her letters were reaching me.
She told me that Anne Boleyn had had the effrontery to write to ask her for the special robe which had been used at the christening of that son who had briefly brought her and the King such joy and then almost immediately died.
I remembered my mother's showing me the robe. She had brought it with her from Spain. It was to be worn by her sons at their christening. How ironic that she had been able to use it only once, and then for little purpose. Even I—as a girl—had not worn it. And that woman had dared to ask for it for her daughter!
My mother had refused, amazed that my father had known of his concubine's request and had not stopped it.
My mother wondered whether they would come to her and take it by force; but they did stop at that, and although the young Elizabeth was carried in a gown of purple velvet edged with ermine, it was not the Spanish christening robe.
To me it was like a nightmare. I kept marvelling how they could have been so insensitive as to insist that I take part. It might have been to show the people that my father was not casting me out. I knew a great many rumors were circulating about his treatment of my mother and me and that they disturbed him.
This was a very grand ceremony. The walls between the Palace and Grey Friars were hung with arras, and the path was strewn with fresh green rushes. Elizabeth was carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, who was her great-grandmother, and the canopy was held by Anne's brother George Boleyn, now Lord Rochford, Lords William and Thomas Howard and Lord Hussey, another of the Boleyn clan recently ennobled.
The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walked beside the baby.
It was indeed a royal christening.
I was so wretched. Why had they insisted that I be present? At least my mother had escaped this.
Then came the final blow. I felt stunned when Garter-King-at-Arms proclaimed, “God, of His infinite goodness, send a prosperous life and long to the High and Mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.”
Princess of England! But I was the Princess of England. How could she be so?
I heard the shouts and trumpets through a haze of apprehension. What did this mean? Need I ask myself? I knew. This was the final insult.
WHEN I LOOK BACK over that time, I think it must have been one of the most dangerous of my life. There have been many crises, and my life has been at risk many times, but then I was so young, so inexperienced in the ways of the world, so inadequate to cope with situations in which I found myself; I was so reckless, so lacking in good counsel. Lady Salisbury was not with me at this time and I did not realize then how much I had relied on her. My mother had written warning me, but my natural resentment made me one of my own worst enemies.
I was seventeen years old and had already faced as many dangers in a few short years as most people face in a lifetime.
I know now that there are people in the world who revel in the troubles of others and find excitement in fomenting them. They take a delight in seeing what will happen next. There was I, once Princess of Wales, heir to the throne…and now there was this child who had usurped my place and had been named Princess of England.
&
nbsp; How they beguiled me—those people about me—with their gossip. They treated me as an adult. Was it not shocking the way in which Queen Anne behaved with all those men about her? She was never without a bevy of adoring young men. They had seen the looks which passed between them… and looks told a great deal. And the King? He was not so enamored of her as he had once been.
I was too young, too foolish, to restrain myself. Of course I should not have listened. I should not have told them of my hatred for her and how I had prayed that she would die in childbirth… and her child with her.
Lady Salisbury would never have allowed it; my mother would have forbidden it. But I was parted from them; I was alone in a hotbed of treachery, and these gossipers seemed so sympathetic toward me that they lured me into expressing my true feelings.
I did not know that my remarks were recorded and taken back to Anne Boleyn.
I was bewildered and bitterly humiliated. I was the Princess of England, I declared, and foolishly not only to myself. A bastard did not count. The King was still married to my mother and I was born in wedlock.
In due course I was sent back to Beaulieu. At least the Countess was there.
I fell into her arms and sobbed out what had happened.
“They called her the Princess of England!” I sobbed. “What does that mean?”
The Countess was silent. She knew full well what it meant.
But at least I was back with her and I found a certain comfort in going over my experiences while she stroked my hair and soothed me with gentle words, but she could not hide the fear in her eyes.
Sir John and Lady Hussey arrived at Beaulieu. He was to be my Chamberlain, he informed me, and his wife was to join my household.
The Countess was disturbed. She told me that Hussey was one of the King's most trusted servants. I guessed now that he had been sent because of the remarks I had made and which had been reported to Anne Boleyn, who would have convinced my father that I was dangerous. Hence he had sent Hussey to watch over me. He might be suspicious of the Countess—after all she was a Plantagenet, and her son Reginald had openly expressed his feelings about the King's marriage in no uncertain terms.
Hussey had been a long and tried friend to the Tudors; he had fought for my grandfather when he came to the throne and had been made Comptroller of his household. When my father had become King, he had felt the need to win the people's approval by taking revenge on those who had helped his father collect the taxes, and he had executed Dudley and Empson, the hated enforcers of the royal extortion. Hussey had been involved with them, but shrewdly guessing that he would be a good friend, my father pardoned him and granted him land in Lincolnshire. So he had a loyal servant in Hussey. He was quite an old man now, therefore very experienced; and he had been useful to my father during the devious negotiations for the divorce.
My heart sank when he was presented to me as my Chamberlain; and I believe the Countess's did too. She guessed more accurately than I could what this meant. One of Hussey's duties was to tell me the doleful—though not unexpected—news of what the Council's ministers had decided.
Hussey looked uneasy, and I thought I caught a glint of sympathy in his eyes.
“My lady,” he said, “I have received orders.” I felt a twinge of uneasiness as he had not addressed me as Princess. “It is with regret I have to tell you of them.”
“Then tell me,” I said as coolly as I could.
He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. He looked at it and bit his lips. I had not suspected him of such sensitivity.
“The orders are that you are no longer to be addressed as Princess.”
“Why not?”
“It…er…it seems that this is no longer your title.”
I stared at the man. “How can that be? I am the King's daughter.”
“Yes, my lady, but…in view of the fact that the King's marriage to the Princess of Spain was no true marriage, you are no longer entitled to be called Princess. Indeed, my lady, we are forbidden to address you as such.”
“I do not believe it. May I see that paper?”
He nodded and handed it to me.
It was there, plain for me to see. I was to be called the Lady Mary, the King's daughter. But I was no longer the Princess of England. That title had been passed to the little bastard whose christening I had been forced to witness at Greenwich.
Hussey bowed his head. He said, “I will send the Countess to you.”
She came and I threw myself at her.
“There! There!” she said. “At least you have a shoulder to cry on. Do not grieve, Princess.”
“You must not call me that any more.”
“When we are alone together…”
I had grown up suddenly. I saw dangers all around us. “Oh no, dearest Countess. You must not. Someone might hear. They would tell tales of you. I believe those who call me by my rightful title will be punished.”
“It is so,” she confirmed. “We have been warned.”
“But I am the Princess. I shall call myself Princess, but I will not bring trouble to you. They would take you from me. Perhaps put you in the Tower.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “You are growing up, Princess. You are beginning to understand how dangerous are the times in which we are living.”
“But I will not accept this,” I said. “I am the Princess. That trumped-up divorce is wrong. It is a sin in the eyes of God, and Anne Boleyn is no true Queen.”
“Hush. Did I say that you were growing up? Now you are behaving like a child.”
“My father does care something for me, surely.”
“Your father wants complete obedience. We must wait quietly…not calling attention to ourselves.”
I did not answer.
I was young and I was reckless. I was telling myself I could not endure this. I would not stand aside and let them treat my mother and myself in this way. She had cautioned discretion but she was weary and sick and had not the heart for the fight. I was different.
My household might be intimidated into dropping the title of Princess when addressing me, but I would continue to use the title. It was mine. And it was not for the Council to take it away from me.
When I went out into the streets there were always people to cheer me. They would cry, “Long live Princess Mary.” I must have caused much anxiety to the King and his concubine for they knew what support there was throughout the country for my mother and me. The people knew that we had been separated and they thought that cruel. Yes, my father and Anne Boleyn must be having some very uneasy moments.
There would always be those fanatics who seemed to court martyrdom and make a great noise doing so. There was one known as the Nun of Kent. She was a certain Elizabeth Barton who had begun life as a servant in the household of a man who was steward to the estate owned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. She appeared to have special powers of prophecy and was taken up by a number of well-known people which gave her great prestige. Sir Thomas More was said to have been interested in her. She sprang into prominence when my father had returned from France with the newly created Marchioness of Pembroke. Elizabeth Barton had met him at Canterbury and warned him that if he married Anne Boleyn he would die one month later.
She had begged my mother to see her. My mother was too wise to do this and refused to do so.
I wondered that my father had not had her removed long ago. But he was always somewhat superstitious and because the nun had been taken up by prominent people—and in particular Sir Thomas More—he was a little in awe of her. He was very anxious at this time to win back that public approval which he had lost since his Secret Matter was revealed.
After the marriage everyone waited for the prophecy to come true. A month passed and nothing happened. Now Anne Boleyn had come through the ordeal of childbirth and had a healthy child, albeit a girl. As for Anne, she was as well as ever. The nun's prophecy had not been fulfillled.
For two months after my return I waited in trepidation for what woul
d happen next. The baby Elizabeth had remained at Greenwich with her mother for those two months; then the King decided that she should have a household of her own. I heard that Hatfield had been chosen.
Much to my horror, Hussey came to me, with further instructions from the Council. I, too, was to be moved. I imagine my recalcitrant attitude had been reported to him.
“Your household is to be broken up, my lady,” he said. “You are to go to Hatfield.”
“My household broken up!” I repeated stupidly.
He nodded slowly and horror dawned on me. “The Countess of Salisbury …” I began.
He did not meet my eyes. He said, “The new mistress of your household will be Lady Shelton.”
“Lady Shelton!” I cried in dismay. “Is she not related to…to…?”
“To the Queen, my lady.”
“To Anne Boleyn!”
“She is the Queen's aunt.”
Anne Boleyn's aunt—a member of that hated family—to take the place of my beloved Countess! This was intolerable. I might bear other humiliations which had been heaped on me, I might endure insults, but to be deprived of the one to whom I had turned when I lost my mother … that was just not to be borne.
“This cannot be true,” I stammered.
“I fear so, my lady.”
“No one could be so cruel. If the Countess could be with me…if…”
“These are the King's orders, my lady.”
I turned and ran out of the room.
She came to me almost immediately. “You have heard,” she said.
“How can he? How can he? Everything else I have borne, but this…”
“I know, my dearest. I shudder with you. We have been so close…you have been as one of my own…”
“Since they would not allow me to be with my mother, you took her place.”
She nodded and we just clung together.
“It will pass,” she said at length. “It can only be temporary. We shall be together again…”
