by Jean Plaidy
“And what is that?” I asked.
“You must honor me as the Queen. You must be respectful … and accept that this is now a fact.”
I could listen to no more. I saw it all. She and my father wanted me there to tell the people that I was not being shut out and ill treated. They did not want me. They would not accept me as the Princess Mary. I was not to be a princess. That title was reserved for this woman's bastard.
I said to her, “I could not acknowledge you as Queen because you are not Queen. I know of only one Queen of England, and that is my mother.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are a fool,” she said. “A stubborn little fool.”
“I can only speak the truth,” I retorted. “If you would speak to my father on my behalf … if you would persuade him to allow me to join my mother…I should appreciate that.”
“You know that is not what I meant. I am suggesting that you come to Court. All you must do is accept the fact that there was no true marriage between the King and your mother, that I am the King's wife and Queen of this realm and that my daughter, Elizabeth, is the Princess of England.”
“But I accept none of this. How can I when it is not true?”
“Do you know you are in danger?” she said. “You incur the wrath of the King. Do you realize what could happen to you? I am giving you a chance to save yourself…to leave all this …”—she looked round the room with contempt—“… all this squalor. You shall have a luxurious apartment. You shall have all that is due to you as the King's daughter.”
“As the King's bastard, you mean.”
“There is no need for you to stress the point.”
“I stress it only to show its absurdity. I am the King's legitimate daughter. It is your daughter who is the bastard.”
She had risen. I thought she was going to strike me.
“I see that you are determined to destroy yourself,” she said.
“It is others who will try to destroy me,” I replied. “They have already tried persistently, God knows, but they have not succeeded yet.”
“I see I have made a mistake,” she went on. “I thought you would have more sense. You are stupidly blind. You do not see the dangers of your situation. You carelessly provoke the King's wrath. That can be terrible, you know.”
I took a shot in the dark. I had heard life was not running smoothly for her and the King, that he looked at other women now and then and was perhaps beginning to regret the hasty step he had taken. I said, “As we both know.”
It is true, I thought. I noticed the sudden color in her cheeks, the glint in her magnificent eyes.
She turned to me. “You will regret this,” she said. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I have given you a chance.”
After that she left me. Lady Shelton was hovering.
I heard Anne Boleyn say, “The girl is a stubborn little fool. I will see that her Spanish pride is brought low.”
It had been a shattering experience. I sat on my bed, my limbs trembling so violently that I could not move.
WE WERE INTO ANOTHER new year, 1535. Could there ever be another like that which had gone before, when my father had shocked the whole of Europe by the unprecedented action of breaking with Rome?
I could not believe that even he could look back with equanimity on what he had done. He was never one to admit himself wrong, but surely he must suffer some disquiet in the secret places of his mind. How could he not? He was a religious man, a sentimental man. Oh yes, if he paused to think, he must suffer many an uneasy qualm.
The rumors about the differences between him and the concubine were growing. Life had not gone smoothly for her since her marriage. She had failed again. The longed-for boy had not appeared. There had been great hopes of him until she—as my mother had so many times—miscarried. There seemed to be a blight on my father's children. Even that golden boy, the Duke of Richmond, was very ill at this time and not expected to live. If he died, as he surely would soon, there would only be two of the King's children left—and both girls.
People's attitude toward me changed at the beginning of that year. Even Lady Shelton was less insolent. It may have been that she feared she had gone too far. This was because the concubine was falling out of favor. She had a fierce temper; she was dictatorial. I daresay she found it hard to believe that she, who had kept a firm hold on the King's affection all those years, could so quickly lose it. He was becoming enamored of a lady at the Court who it seemed had decided to champion me. Whether she did this to strike a blow against Anne Boleyn or whether she was genuinely shocked at the manner in which I was treated, I could not tell. The outcome was that people were beginning to wonder whether they ought to take care how they behaved toward me.
I was allowed to walk out now. I could even take my goshawk with me. I was feeling a little better, recuperating, and when I left Greenwich and went to Eltham, I was allowed, because I was so weak, to ride in a litter.
And how the people cheered me along the route!
“Good health and long life to the Princess!”
Those words were music in my ears.
IN THE EARLY PART of that year there was indeed danger of revolt. There was nothing weak about my father. He was every inch a king. Everyone would grant him that; and when he was confronted by danger, those qualities of leadership were very much in evidence. All that happened had changed him visibly. I could hardly recognize the jovial fun-loving man in the ruthless autocrat who was now emerging.
Those who were not with him were his enemies—as had been seen in the case of his own wife and daughter.
His peace would be destroyed by the rumblings of discontent throughout the country; he knew that if my cousin Charles, the Emperor, had not been so deeply involved in Europe, he might have attempted to invade England. So he took action and, being the man he was, it was drastic. There were no half measures with him.
In April of that year the first proceedings were taken against those who refused to accept the fact that he was Supreme Head of the Church. Five monks—one of them the Prior of the London Charterhouse—were condemned as traitors and submitted to the most brutal of executions: they were hanged, drawn and quartered. There were many to witness this grisly scene, which was what my father intended. It was to provide a lesson to all those who opposed him. I was reminded of the masques my father had so loved when he appeared among the company in disguise. Now he had thrown off his mask, and in place of the merry, jovial bluff Hal was a ruthless and despotic monarch who would strike terror into all those who thought they could disobey his command.
Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More were in everyone's thoughts. Those two noble men had done exactly what the monks had. What would their fate be? The King had been a close friend of Sir Thomas More. He had loved the man—as many did; he had often been seen walking in Sir Thomas's riverside garden, his arm about his shoulders, laughing at one of those merry quips for which Sir Thomas was renowned.
What will happen to Sir Thomas? people wondered. The King must find some excuse to save him. One thing was certain: Sir Thomas was a man of high principles. He was not one to deny what he believed merely to save his life.
All over the country bishops were ordered to insist that the King's supremacy should be preached.
The Pope intervened. He created Bishop Fisher a cardinal. I could imagine my father's fury. He retorted that he would send the bishop's head to Rome for his cardinal's hat.
That seemed significant. Nothing could move the King.
On the 22nd of June Bishop Fisher went out to Tower Hill and was beheaded. On the 6th of July Sir Thomas followed him. A silent sullen crowd looked on.
This was the King's answer. No matter who disobeyed him, they should die.
The execution of Sir Thomas More sent a shiver through the country and waves of indignation abroad. The Emperor was reputed to have said that he would rather have lost his best city than such a man. The Pope—a new one now, Paul III—declared that Sir Thom
as More had been excellent in sacred learning and courageous in his defense of the truth. He prepared a Bull excommunicating my father for what he called the crime. The King, of course, snapped his fingers at the Pope. He was nothing now. He could send out bulls for excommunication as much as he liked. They meant nothing in England, which was now free of his interference.
Even François Premier was shocked and remarked on my father's impiety and barbarism…as did the Emperor, but the former needed him as an ally, and political power came before pious indignation. There were nobles all over the country who would have welcomed the Emperor if he came in arms, but he could not do that. He was engaged in the conquest of Tunis, and he could not start a war on another front.
So these monarchs of Europe could do nothing to prevent my father's keeping a firm hold on his power and changing the course of religious history in England.
The country had submitted to the new Head of the Church and he had given examples of what would happen to those who acted against him. They had seen his treatment of his wife and daughter; and they had seen the execution of his friend, Sir Thomas More.
They knew their master.
EVERYONE WAS AWARE that the King's passion for Anne Boleyn was fast waning, and he made no attempt to hide it. She was a woman who could never be humble; it seemed that she had complete belief in herself. And who would not, after the lengths to which he had gone to get her?
I had passed into a new phase, for, as the concubine's star waned, mine…well, not exactly rose but it began to show a faint light below the horizon; for if the King should discard Anne Boleyn, what excuse would he make for doing so? If he should decide that his marriage with her was no marriage, might he not discover that that with my mother was?
It was all wild speculation, but when a man breaks with the Church of Rome he is surely capable of anything.
If it should so happen that I be taken back in favor, it would be unwise for people to treat me scurvily. I was sure this was the thought in many minds and I had suffered such hardship that I could only rejoice in the change.
Many of my women talked freely now, and I began to learn more of what was going on.
Then there was a change again. The concubine was pregnant. It was a setback to those who had been hoping to see the end of her. Everything depended on the child. If it should be a boy she would be safe forever.
Disquieting news was brought to me of my mother. It was December and bitterly cold. I used to lie in bed wondering what it was like at Kimbolton with that icy wind blowing over the fens. I could visualize her on her knees praying. She would not stop doing that. I could picture the comfortless room, the inadequate clothing, and I would think of her as I knew she would be thinking of me.
The news was whispered to me by one of my women. “Madam…my lady… the Emperor's ambassador is going to the Queen, your mother.”
“What?” I cried. “But how? It is forbidden for her to have visitors.”
“Madam, the King is permitting it because…”
I felt sick with fear.
“Because… the Queen is very ill?”
She nodded.
A terrible despondency descended on me. This was what I had feared for so long.
I was avid for news. I asked everyone who might know something, and there were several who were eager to please me now. There was nothing to comfort me.
Christmas had come—a joyless season for me now.
My mother's health was a little improved, for she had seen Chapuys, and there was something else which had cheered her. My women told me all they knew of it.
The Emperor's ambassador went to Kimbolton on New Year's Day, and later that day there appeared at the castle gates a woman begging for shelter. She was cold and had fallen from her horse and was in dire need. Because she was clearly a lady of noble bearing, she was allowed to enter the castle.
“Who do you think she was, Madam?” asked my woman.
I shook my head.
“Lady Willoughby, the lady who came with your gracious mother from Spain. The Queen and Lady Willoughby embraced and swore that they would never be parted again. Lady Willoughby said she would die rather. That and the visit of “the ambassador cheered her mightily.”
I was greatly relieved.
She has spirit, I told myself. She will recover.
IT WAS THE 11TH of January…a date I shall never forget. Lady Shelton came to my room. She said, “I have come to tell you that your mother is dead. She died four days ago.”
Her face was a mask. She had lost a little of her truculence now but she managed to convey her dislike of me. Perhaps it was more intense for being subdued, now that her mistress Anne Boleyn was no longer sure of her position.
I was stunned. I had been expecting this for so long but now that it had come I was deeply shocked. I wanted desperately to be alone with my infinite sorrow.
“Leave me,” I said and I must have spoken imperiously for she obeyed. Dead! I should never see her again. For so long I had been parted from her but I had always hoped to. And now she was gone and there was no hope. Never again…
Oh, the cruelty of life…of people who satisfy their wanton desires by trampling on the lives of those about them.
How had she been at the end? There would be no more pain for her. I should rejoice that she was safe in Heaven and far from her miseries. I should have been with her. I thanked God that Lady Willoughby had found a way of getting to her. That would have been a great comfort to her.
My woman came in. She stood looking at me, her eyes brimming with sympathy. I shook my head at her. “I wish to be alone,” I said.
She understood and left me, and I was alone with my grief which was what I wanted.
How had it been at the end? I asked myself. I wondered if I could see Lady Willoughby, who could tell me how she died. But I should not be allowed to, of course.
I sat in my room. I could face no one. I dressed myself in black and thought of all we had been to each other. I recalled endearing incidents from my childhood—some of them when my father had been present. We had been a loving, happy family then.
I was horrified when I learned that, hearing of my mother's death, my father's first words were, “God be praised! We are now free from all fear of war.” Did he remember nothing of those happy days? Had he not one morsel of tenderness left for her?
He was justifying himself, of course. He wanted to believe that my mother's death was a reason for rejoicing. There was no court mourning. Instead there were celebrations—a grand ball and a joust. The people must remember that her death had delivered them from war. In the tiltyard at the joust he performed with great skill. He was the triumphant champion. He was telling the people that he was the leader, the one they could trust to take them away from the devious Church of Rome. At the ball he dressed in yellow—yellow jacket, yellow hose and yellow hat with a white feather. The concubine was dressed in yellow too.
How could he care so little for one who had never harmed him and who had always been a dutiful wife?
I became obsessed with the idea that my mother had been poisoned. It would have been so easy and, as they made no secret of their delight in her death, my suspicions might be well founded. I could think of nothing but that. How had she died? I must discover. I asked that my mother's physician and apothecary should come to see me.
When he heard this, my father asked why I should need a doctor. He could understand that I felt a little low in the circumstances, but I should get over that. Chapuys, however, talked to my father and, to my surprise, at last he agreed to allow me to see them. No doubt he was softened by his pleasure in my mother's death; moreover he knew there would be silent criticism of his treatment of her, and he did not want to show more harshness toward me at this time.
One of my maids brought me a letter from Eustace Chapuys in which he advised me to be brave and prepared for anything that might happen, for I could be assured that there would be changes. He also sent me a little gold cross which
my mother was most anxious that I should have.
I was deeply moved and I was in a state of indifference as to what might happen to me. There were times when I wished with all my heart that I was with my mother.
In due course the physician arrived, with the apothecary, and from them I learned the details of my mother's last days, and of how delighted she had been at the arrival of Maria de Salinas, so much so that briefly her condition improved. The two friends had not been parted for an hour since Maria arrived, and my mother was in better spirits than she had been for a long time. Her talks with the ambassador had cheered her also. Eustace Chapuys had departed on the morning of the 5th of January. He had left her in a mood of optimism, believing that, if she could continue with the companionship of Lady Willoughby, she would recover.
“It was in the early hours of the morning of Friday the 7th that it became obvious that she had taken a turn for the worse,” said the physician. “At daybreak she received the sacrament. Lady Willoughby was, of course, with her. Her servants came to the chamber, for they knew the end was near. Many of them were in tears. She asked them to pray for her and to ask God to forgive her husband. Then she asked me to write her will, which I did. She told me that she wished to be buried in a convent of the Observant Friars.”
I said, “But the King has suppressed that order.”
“Yes, my lady, but I did not tell her. It would have distressed her. It was ten o'clock when she received Extreme Unction and by the afternoon she had passed away.”
“Was there anything… unusual about her death?”
“Unusual, my lady?”
“Did you have any reason to suspect it might have been something she had eaten or drunk?”
He hesitated and I shivered perceptively.
“Yes?” I prompted. “There was something?”
“She was never well after she had drunk some Welsh ale.”
“Do you think…?”
He took a deep breath and said quickly, “She was not ill as people are when they are poisoned by something they have taken. It was just that she seemed… feeble after taking the beer.”
