by Jean Plaidy
It was in September when I believed I might be pregnant. I had suffered through my life from internal irregularities, so I could not be sure, but I had a certain exultant feeling within me. I felt blessed, and I said to myself: This is what the Virgin experienced when she was visited by the angel.
This was what I had longed for. A child of my own! Everything I had endured… all my troubles… they were all worthwhile, if I could hold my own child in my arms.
I was afraid to say anything. I was fearful that it might not be so.
But it must be. Why else should I have this feeling of exultation?
SEPTEMBER PASSED. EACH DAY I became more sure. I wanted to sing out to the housetops, “My soul doth magnify the Lord …I am to have a child…a child of my own. It will be a son. It must be a son.” Oh, what rejoicing there would be! If only the time would pass more quickly. When could I expect the birth? Next May perhaps? The child would be my firstborn. Who knew? There might be others…
I could think of nothing but my child.
Susan knew that something had happened. She waited for me to tell her. But I did not just yet, hard as it was to keep a secret. I was afraid that she would remind me of my weakness which had been with me all my life.
“Are you sure?” she would say. “Can Your Majesty be sure?”
I could not bear that there should be a doubt; and she would doubt, I knew. She would say, like the rest: She is nearly forty years old. She is too old for childbearing. She has her weakness. It is a recurrence of that which we have known before.
No! No! I argued with myself. This is different. I am no longer a virgin. I am a wife…a passionately loved wife.
Passionately? Was Philip passionate? How could I know? What experience had I of passion? He seemed eager and loving. He did care for me. He did, I vehemently assured myself.
At last I could not resist telling Philip. We had retired for the night and were alone together.
I said to him, “Philip, I think it may be so…I believe it to be so…” He looked at me eagerly.
“I believe I am with child,” I concluded.
I saw the joy in his face, and my heart swelled with happiness.
“You are sure…?”
“Yes, yes…I think it may be so.”
“When… when?”
“I cannot be quite certain of that. Perhaps next May we may have our child.”
I saw his lips moving, as though in prayer.
A FEW WEEKS PASSED. I was terrified that I should be proved wrong; but so far I was not.
I had told Susan now. She looked alarmed.
“Why, Susan,” I said, “you should rejoice.”
She replied, as I knew she would, “You are sure, Your Majesty?”
“I am absolutely sure.”
“May God guard Your Majesty,” she said fervently.
I knew what she was thinking. I was old… too old… for childbearing. I was going to prove them wrong. I was not yet forty. Women had children at that age. I was small and slight—not built for the task of bringing children into the world. They would all have to change their minds. I would make them.
I was faintly irritated with Susan. She did not share my pleasure. I would have reprimanded her but I knew it was out of her love for me that she was apprehensive.
Philip said to me, “The French are plaguing my father. I should be there to help him.”
A cold fear ran through me. “He will understand that you must be here,” I said.
“Oh yes… for a time.”
“It is your home now, Philip.”
He said a little coldly, “My home is in Spain. One day I shall be the King.”
“That is far ahead, and now that we are married we must be together. The people would never allow me to leave this country.”
He said nothing, but his lips were tight.
I thought: Poor Philip. He is a little homesick. It is natural. Perhaps the Emperor would come and visit us or, mayhap, when the child was born, I could go with him… just for a brief visit.
I knew that could never be. But I was in love and about to be a mother, so I allowed myself wild dreams.
HAPPY AS I WAS, I thought often of my sister Elizabeth. She was a prisoner at Woodstock under the good, though stern, Sir Henry Bedingfield and I knew how that must have irked her.
From Sir Henry I had learned of a plot to assassinate her. The suspicion came to me that it might have been hatched by Gardiner, who was always an enemy of hers, and I expect he feared what might happen to him if she came to the throne. According to Sir Henry, he had been called away and had left his brother in charge, giving him strict injunctions that Elizabeth must be watched day and night, not only because of what she herself might become involved in but because there might be those who wished to harm her.
A man named Basset, with twenty men, had been found loitering in the gardens, with the obvious intent of doing some harm to my sister. Because of the strict vigilance, the conspiracy had been discovered and the plot failed.
Although she caused me continual anxiety, I should hate any harm to come to her; so she continued to be in my thoughts.
I had never understood her and was always uncertain as to whether or not she would plot against me. Whenever we were together, I felt nothing but affection for her. Perhaps I was guileless, but I believed she cherished sisterly feelings toward me.
And these accusations which were brought against her? Were they true? I wished I knew. I wished I could trust her completely and that she could come to Court so that we might be as sisters should.
I spoke to Philip about her.
I said, “My sister is much on my mind. It is hurtful that she should be kept under restraint. After all, she is my sister. I want to see her. I want to ask her, face to face, how much truth there is in these rumors that she has supporters who would set her up in my place. If she has hopes …” My voice softened and I looked at him appealingly, “… they cannot remain…now.”
I believe the Spaniards are brought up to hide their emotions. My mother had not been like that. Formal as she could be at times, she had always been warm and loving with me. Perhaps it was not in Philip's nature to show emotion.
He was preoccupied with the subject of Elizabeth. I had noticed that, whenever her name was mentioned, he became alert and gave his full attention to what was being said.
“Bring her to Court,” he now advised.
I smiled happily. “You think that would be a good idea? Gardiner is against it.”
He lowered his eyes. “Bring her to Court,” he repeated. “Speak with her alone. Ask her… then judge.”
I nodded. “I should like to see her married.” I smiled at him fondly. “Everyone should marry. It is the greatest happiness on Earth…as I have found.”
A wry smile touched his lips. I told myself it meant that he agreed with me.
I went on, “Emmanuel Philibert will be here for a few months. He would be a suitable match. It will be better when she is out of the country. While she is here, there will always be people to see her as a rallying-point. There are a great many heretics in the country, Philip, and they look to her.”
“That will be remedied,” he said. “Send for her. It is the best.”
He asked questions about her, and I told him how, when she had been born, she had been treated with great respect and, when her mother fell out of favor, how her fortunes drastically changed. “She has lived her life under the shadow of death,” I went on. “Many times she has come face to face with it.”
I could not help thinking that at one time Philip and his father had been eager to see the end of her. Now he seemed to be more tolerant. I thought: Being in love makes one eager to see the whole world happy…even those who may be our enemies.
“It will be different now,” I said, “because of the child. I believe that, before, she refused marriage because it would have meant her leaving the country.”
“I see her point.”
“But now everyt
hing has changed.” I smiled radiantly. I was so happy. Soon my child would be born; and if Elizabeth were married to Emmanuel, I could think of her with pleasure. We could exchange personal, sisterly letters, and everything would be as it should be.
It was wonderful to be in agreement with Philip. How well he understood my feelings!
Sir Henry Bedingfield brought Elizabeth up from Woodstock, and in due course she arrived at Hampton Court.
Before I summoned her, I sent Gardiner to her. I told him that he must ask her to confess her fault and then I would consider her confession and perhaps forgive her.
He came back to me and told me that his interview with the Princess had been unproductive.
He said, “I told her that she must confess her fault. She replied that, rather than confess to something she had not done, she was prepared to stay in prison for the rest of her life, for she had never committed any fault against Your Majesty in thought, word or deed, and that therefore she could crave no mercy at your hand, but rather desired herself to be judged by law. I told her that you marvelled at her boldness in refusing to confess—for in doing so she implied that Your Majesty had wrongfully imprisoned her.”
“And what did she reply to that?” I asked.
“She said, ‘She may, if it pleases Her Majesty, punish me as she thinketh good.' ‘Her Majesty says you must tell another tale ere you are set at liberty,' I told her, to which she replied she would as lief be in prison as abroad, suspected by the Queen. I said that she implied she had been wrongfully imprisoned, to which she answered that she spoke the truth, would cling to the truth and seek no advantage through lies.”
I listened attentively. Philip wanted to know what had passed between Elizabeth and Gardiner and listened with great interest when I told him.
I learned from one of the women who was in Elizabeth's household and who reported to me that which she thought would interest me that, after the interview with Gardiner, coupled with the fact that I had summoned her to Court, Elizabeth believed it meant that another charge would be brought against her, and she was sure her enemies were determined to put an end to her. She kissed her ladies fondly, saying it might be that they would never meet her again on Earth.
I was very distressed that she should think this of me when what I wanted was to stop this suspicion between us, and for her to be at Court and that we should be as sisters.
“I must see her,” I said to Philip.
“I should be the one to question her… not Gardiner.”
I was delighted that he agreed with me.
“Summon her,” he said, “and while she is with you I will watch. I will be hidden behind a screen. I would hear what passes between you.”
I thought it was wonderful for Philip to care so much for me and to understand my feelings for my sister far better than others did.
So when Elizabeth was brought to me, Philip hid himself behind a screen placed so that, when Elizabeth stood before me, she would have her back to it. It meant that he could take occasional glimpses at her as well as hear every word that was spoken.
It was ten o'clock at night when she came to me. I could see she was distraught and, having heard of her farewell to her women, I understood that she thought her end was in sight.
I was immediately overcome with pity, remembering the bright child who was the delight and terror of Lady Bryan's life, and I felt a certain nostalgia for earlier days and wished that life could have been different for us all.
She fell to her knees and, before I could speak, began professing her absolute loyalty; she swore by God and the Holy Virgin that she had never been engaged in any plots against me.
I tried to fight the sentiment in myself. She looked very attractive with her red hair falling about her shoulders. I tried to speak sternly. I said, “So, you will not confess your fault, but stand firmly on your truth. I pray that it may become manifest.”
“If it is not,” she replied proudly, “I will look for neither favor nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands.”
“You are so firm…so fervent in your protestations of innocence that you have been wrongfully accused…”
She looked at me with a certain slyness. “I must not say so to Your Majesty,” she said.
“But you will say so to others seemingly.”
“No, Your Majesty. I have borne and must bear the burden. What I humbly beseech is Your Majesty's good opinion of me, as I am, and ever have been, Your Majesty's true subject.”
“How can I be sure?” I murmured.
Then she seized my hands and burst into a passionate appeal. I must understand, she said, that I was to her firstly a dear sister. She remembered my kindness to her when she was an outcast. That she would never forget. She wanted a chance to prove to me that I had never had a more devoted servant. In the great happiness which had come to me, she thought I and my noble husband would be kind to a poor prisoner who was loyal toward her sovereign and tender toward her sister.
She was eloquent. She was, after all, fighting for her life. She believed at that time that I had brought her up from Woodstock with the purpose of sending her to her death.
I was touched, and hurt that she could think this of me. I told her to rise and I embraced her.
I said to her, “No more. Whether you are guilty or not, I forgive you.” I took a ring from my finger. It was a beautiful diamond. I had given it to her on my coronation, telling her that, if ever she was in trouble, she was to send it to me and if possible I would help her. It had come back to me at the time she was taken to the Tower, and I had kept it ever since. Now I gave it back to her.
There was a radiance about her. She had come to me expecting to be sent to the Tower, and instead she had the pledge of my friendship. Her eyes were filled with tears. I was deeply touched, and suddenly she flung herself into my arms.
“You are once more my sister,” she cried. “I have your love and I am happy again.”
When she left me, Philip emerged from behind the screen. There was no doubt that he was greatly interested in Elizabeth. His eyes shone and he almost smiled. But it was not easy to know what he really thought of her.
He said, “You did well. You acted with dignity and tolerance.”
“And what did you think of my sister?”
“I think that much of what I have heard of her is true.”
It seemed an evasive answer, but I was delighted with his approval.
IT WAS ABOUT this time that I noticed one of my ladies behaving in a strange and almost secretive manner. This was Magdalen Dacre. She was outstandingly beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of all my ladies. She was very tall and made dwarves of some of us, and she would have been remarkable because of her statuesque figure if for nothing else. Magdalen had all the virtues. She was religious and efficient. Perhaps some would say she was a little prim, but I liked her for that. I would not have wished to be surrounded by frivolous women.
I noticed that she was absent on one or two occasions. I asked for her and was told she was resting. She seemed to need a good deal of rest. I wondered if she were unhappy about something.
She was hardly ever present when Philip was there, but I noticed that when he was he treated her with great courtesy. He was courteous to all my ladies, but he did seem especially so toward Magdalen.
I wondered mildly about her, and then I ceased to think of her for something very important was about to happen.
I had not yet achieved my mission, which was to return England to Rome. It was too dangerous to do so at the moment. I did not want to plunge the country into civil war. At the same time I did feel that there should not be too much delay.
The news from the Continent delighted me. Reginald Pole was coming home.
He had been out of favor with the Emperor, for at one time he had made it clear that he opposed my marriage to Philip. I believed that his opposition was due to the fact that he thought I was too old for childbearing and that to attempt it would be dangerous to me. None wanted the retur
n to Rome more than he did, but he believed it could be done without the marriage.
I daresay the Emperor thought that, if he came to England, he would be my chief adviser, which was very likely, and I was not sure that the Emperor wanted that. Reginald would doubtless have returned to England earlier but for these considerations. After all, he was no longer an exile. He had left the country only because he upheld my right to the succession; now I was Queen the way was clear for his return.
And now he was coming.
It was November, and I was now certain of my pregnancy. I was wildly happy, and the thought of seeing Reginald after all these years added to my joy. He was not strong and had had to take the journey by easy stages. There should be a royal yacht at Calais to bring him to Dover.
I was delighted to hear that he had arrived safely in England, and as he made the journey to Gravesend he was in the midst of an impressive cavalcade. At Gravesend the barge I had sent for him was waiting and, with his silver cross fixed on the prow, he sailed to Whitehall.
Gardiner received him at the water's edge, and at the entrance of the palace Philip was waiting for him. I myself stood at the head of the stairs.
With what emotion we embraced! The years seemed to slip away, and I was young again, dreaming of him, telling myself that one day he would be my bridegroom.
That was in the past. How old Reginald looked—yet handsome in an aesthetic way. He was frail, thin and of medium height, but he looked tall beside Philip. His hair and beard, which I remembered as light brown, were now white; but he still had the same gentle expression which I had loved.
“Welcome home,” I said.
“It is wonderful to see you. I know that, now you are come, all will soon be…as it should be.”
He congratulated me on my marriage. I raised my eyebrows, reminding him that he had warned me against it.
“I was wrong,” he said charmingly, reading my thoughts. “It has worked out in the best possible way. I am happy for you.”
He meant it. I wonder if he remembered the plans to get us married, how my mother and his had planned when we were both much younger. But nothing had come of it, and he had gone on his way—indeed he had had no choice, for if he had stayed he would have gone to the block with most of his family. And now I had Philip—whom I would not have exchanged for any man in the world.
