by Jean Plaidy
The waiting went on. The weeks were passing. What was wrong? Sometimes I would look out of my windows and see people gathered some little way from the palace. They were waiting for the announcement.
“Let it be soon, O Lord,” I prayed. “And give me a son. That is all I need for my happiness. Is it asking too much? The lowest serving woman can have sons… many of them. Please God, give me a son.”
But the time was passing, and my prayers were unanswered.
At the end of the month a rumor circulated that I had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. Bells were rung, and the people were already celebrating in the streets. All through the morning the rejoicing went on, but by afternoon the truth began to be known.
There was no child. I was still waiting.
May had come, and there was still not a sign. To my secret alarm, the swelling in my body, which I had convinced myself was my child, began to subside.
Susan had noticed. She did not mention it but I knew she was thinking that I had had such disorders before. The swellings had not been so great and they had subsided more quickly. A terrible fear began to dawn on me that what I had experienced was not pregnancy but a return of my old complaint.
At last Susan spoke of it.
“It is as it was before,” she said.
“I have never been so swollen before.”
She agreed and tried to comfort me.
“Perhaps the child will come at the end of May.”
I clutched at the hope. But I was growing melancholy. I did not see Philip. I told myself that it was a Spanish custom not to see a wife who was about to give birth until after the child appeared.
I felt certain pains such as I had suffered before, but I knew they were not concerned with childbirth.
The people were growing restive.
Where is the child? they were asking. Could there have been a miscalculation so great as to be two months late? Rumors began to circulate. Was the Queen dead? Where was the child? Had the Queen given birth to a monster?
And I stayed in my apartments, seeing none but my own women, and I felt as though my heart would break. I was too old, too small… something was very wrong.
One of my household sent a woman to me. She was of very low stature and not very young; she had just given birth to three babies and had regained her strength in a week. The babies were brought to show me. They were all strong and healthy.
It was a comfort to see her, but in my heart I began to accept the truth. There was no child. I had suffered from the symptoms which had been with me for a greater part of my life; but perhaps because of my great need, my great desire to bear a child, I had forced my body to show the outward signs of pregnancy.
But I would not give up.
The midwife said, “We have miscalculated the time. It will be August or September.”
I wept bitterly. I clung to Susan. I said to her, “They say this to soothe me. In their hearts they know there will never be a child. Susan, don't lie to me. It is true, is it not?”
She looked at me sadly, and we both began to weep.
IF PHILIP WAS DISAPPOINTED—WHICH I AM SURE HE MUST have been—he did not show it.
I felt not only desolate but intensely humiliated. I had believed myself to be with child, and there was no child. I could imagine the manner in which I was being discussed in the streets of the cities and villages, and even in the tiny hamlets; all over the country they would be talking of the child which had never existed.
Philip was always mentioning his father, who needed him badly.
“He has missed you from the day you left,” I said. “I understand that.”
“He has many commitments. I should be with him.” He was looking at me with the faintest dislike in his eyes. Oh no, I told myself, not dislike. It was only that terrible disappointment. He had so much hoped that we should have our child by now. Was he thinking that I was incapable of bearing children? I knew I was small; I was not attractive; I had been old when I married him. How did I please him as a lover? I did not know. Such matters were not discussed between us; they just happened. Was that how lovers behaved? I wondered. Did I disappoint him? He had already had a wife; he never spoke of her. I heard rumors that sometimes he went out at night with some of his gentlemen, that they put on masks and went about the town, adventuring. There were bound to be rumors.
If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.
How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.
“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”
Any mention of the child unnerved me.
“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”
“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”
I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.
And I was beginning to wonder, too.
I felt humiliated and defeated.
“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.
“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”
He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”
I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.
He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.
It was natural that he should want to go.
“I shall return,” he said.
“I pray God that you will ere long,ȍ I answered.
SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.
We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.
It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.
I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt they were wondering about me and the baby which had never existed. I knew there must have been fantastic rumors. There was one I heard about a certain woman—and even mentioning her name. It was Isabel Malt, who lived in Horn Alley in Aldersgate. She had given birth to a beautiful healthy boy at that time when I was waiting for mine. It was said that a great lord had offered Isabel a large sum of money for her baby if she would part with him and tell everyone that the child had died. The baby was to have been smuggled into Hampton Court and passed off as mine.
These wild rumors might have been amusing if they were not so tragic; and unfortunately there will always be those to believe them.
If I had had a child, I wondered, what rumors would have been created about him?
I had never been so unhappy as I was at that time. As I rode through those crowded streets and met the curious gaze of my people and heard their half-hearted, if loyal, shouts, I thought I would willingly have given my crown for the happiness of a loved wife and mother.
It had been arranged that Elizabeth, who was to be a member of the party come to bid Philip farewell, should travel by barge. I did not want to have to compete with her for the cheers of the people. I felt that she, with her young looks and easy manners, would have commanded the greater share of the acclaim—and, wo
rse still, it would have been noticed.
I took a barge with Philip at the Tower Wharf and was beside him as we sailed down to Greenwich.
The members of the Council accompanied us, and I noticed how ill Gardiner was looking in the torchlight, for it was dusk. I was glad of the gloom. I did not want the bright sunlight to accentuate the ravages in my face which the last weeks had put there.
There came the moment when we must say goodbye.
Philip kissed all my ladies, as he had when he arrived, and I was reminded of that day and yearned to be back in that happy time.
At last he took his leave of me. He kissed me with great tenderness, and I tried to tell myself that he was as grieved at our parting as I was; but I knew in my heart that he was not. I was aware that, if he had greatly desired to stay, he would have found excuses for doing so. He gave no sign of his pleasure in leaving, and his features were set in a mold of sad resignation.
I felt the tears in my eyes and tried to suppress them. But I could not do so. Philip would hate tears.
I clung to him. He responded stiffly and then, murmuring, “I shall be back ere long,” he left me.
I stood lonely and bereft, watching him depart. I would not move. He stood on the deck, his cap in hand, watching me as I watched him.
And there I stayed until I could see him no more.
I had lost my child, and now my husband was taking with him all hopes of happiness.
I THINK I MUST have been the most unhappy woman in the world.
Sullen looks came my way as I rode out; a pall of smoke hung over Smithfield, where men were chained to stakes and died because they would not accept the true faith. I had not wanted that.
“Persuasion,” I had said. Was this persuasion?
Gardiner had died. He had left me to reap the harvest and had not stayed long enough to see what effect it would have.
I was lonely and helpless. This was my mission. I had completed it. I had brought the Church back to Rome but there was little joy for me.
I was ill most of the time. My headaches persisted. My dreams were haunted by the screams of people chained to the stakes in that Smithfield which had become a Hell on Earth.
It had to be, I assured myself. The Council said so. Every man had a chance to recant and save his life. They were all offered mercy. Most of them preferred martyrdom, and the fires continued. It had become a common sight to see men and women led out to be chained to the stakes, and the sticks lighted at their feet.
It was a black day when Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, went to their deaths. They had been tried and sentenced in Oxford, and the stakes were set up in the ditch near Balliol College.
It must have been a pitiable sight to see such men led to their deaths. They came out to die together.
The scene was later described to me. I did not want to hear of it but I had to know. Two such men… noble, good men in their ways, though misguided, to die so!
Latimer presented an impressive sight to the watching crowds, in his shabby frieze gown tied at the waist with a penny leather girdle, a string about his neck on which hung his spectacles and his Testament. I could not bear to think of this infirm old man shuffling to his death. But they said he had such nobility of countenance that the crowds watched in silent awe.
Nicholas Ridley, who came with him, presented a contrast.
He was about fifteen years younger and an extremely handsome man. Why…oh why? If only they would renounce their faith! But why should I expect them to do that? I would not have renounced mine.
I could not bear to think of those two men.
Neither of them showed fear. It was as though they were certain that that night they would be beyond all pain, in Heaven.
And as the sticks were lighted at Ridley's feet, Latimer turned his head toward him and said, “Be of good cheer, Master Ridley. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's Grace, in England, as I trust will never be put out.”
The power of words is formidable. There would be people who would never forget those. They would inspire. There would be more martyrs in England because Ridley and Latimer had died so bravely.
Latimer, being old and feeble, died almost immediately; Ridley lingered and suffered greatly.
There were two more to haunt my dreams.
MY GREAT CONSOLATION at that time was Reginald. I spent hours with him. He had done so much in aiding the return to Rome. I was hoping that in time he would come to be Archbishop of Canterbury now that Cranmer was in prison.
It seemed to me that that was a post which would suit him. He had more understanding of Church affairs than those of government.
While we talked, I often found myself slipping into a daydream, wondering how different my life might have been if I had married him as my mother and his had wished.
In spite of his saintliness, there was a strong streak of bitterness in his nature. It was understandable. His happy family life had been completely changed because my father had desired Anne Boleyn and had thrust aside with ruthless ferocity all those who had stood in his way. And so many had.
It was that which had changed the course of our lives, and Reginald could not forget it.
I was right. The martyrdom of Ridley and Latimer had had its effect. No one could have witnessed such a spectacle without being deeply affected by it. There was murmuring all over the country.
I was so unhappy that I fell into fits of melancholy. I was tired and spiritless. I longed for Philip. His absence was to have been brief, he had said, but in my heart I knew that, once he had gone, he would not hurry to return.
Here I was, barren and lonely, having to face the fact that the child I had so desperately wanted was nothing but a myth.
Why had God deserted me? I asked myself. When had He ever given me aught to be thankful for? Why should I be so ill-used? Those were dangerous thoughts. I must subdue them. I must, as my mother would have said, accept my lot and keep my steps steadily upon the path of righteousness.
It was inevitable that there should be plots; and there was one which could have been very dangerous.
Every few weeks someone was accusing someone. It was often proved that a person had a grudge against another or someone had made a certain remark which could have been construed as treason; but when a conspiracy was discovered which involved the King of France, that was a serious matter.
It was by great good fortune that this came to light before it had gone too far, because one of the plotters lost his confidence in the success of the rebellion and went along to Reginald to confess what he knew.
His name was Thomas White, and his part in the scheme was to rob the Exchequer of £50,000.
Reginald had been skeptical at first, but when White explained that he was friendly with the wife of one of the tellers in the Exchequer who had promised to get impressions made of her husband's keys, he took it seriously.
Robbery was one crime, treason was another; but it emerged that robbery was a preliminary to the greater plan. The money was needed by Sir Henry Dudley to get together an army of mercenaries who would be banded together in France and who would cross the Channel to attack the south coast.
This Sir Henry Dudley was the distant cousin of the Duke of Northumberland who had set Jane Grey on the throne. The Dudleys were a formidable family, and the fact that he belonged to it made him a figure of importance not only in my eyes but in those of many others.
If only Philip were here! I needed a strong man beside me, for it had become clear that the plot was far-reaching. I wondered whom I could trust among those around me. I could rely, as I knew from the past, on my dear friends Rochester and Jerningham, and I asked them to choose men whom they could trust to investigate what was going on.
It was revealed that the French ambassador, de Noailles, who had always caused much anxiety, was fully aware of what was happening and was reporting it to his master, on whom they were relying for help. John Throckmorton, a relative of Nicholas
who had sent the goldsmith to warn me of my brother Edward's death, was one of the leaders of the plot and that threw suspicion on Nicholas.
The magnitude of the scheme was alarming, involving the French as it did. Plans for landing and taking the Tower of London were revealed, and they had all been drawn up very carefully.
I was very tired and sick. I almost longed for death.
Meanwhile the conspirators were brought to justice. The object of the plot had been to dispatch me as I had dispatched Jane Grey, and to set up Elizabeth, who would marry Courtenay.
I did not believe for one moment that Elizabeth was aware of this. She would not be so foolish. She knew the state of my health and that it would be wiser to wait. Surely I could not have long to live? I did not wish to. If Philip would return to me and I could have a child, then only would life be worth living. But deep within me I feared that would never be. I was too old. I had this illness in my inner organs. It was what had plagued me all my life. I tried to fight against the conviction that it had made me barren; and I fought hard to reject the idea because I could not bear to accept it.
It was said that Sir Anthony Kingston was involved in the conspiracy. He was in Devonshire and immediately commanded to come to London to stand trial with the others.
I was to learn that he died on the journey to London. It was rumored that he had killed himself rather than face trial.
The prisoners were tried and questioned. Only John Throckmorton proved himself to be a brave man and, even when racked most ferociously, he refused to betray any of his fellow conspirators and declared he would die rather than reveal anything. The others were less brave and implicated others, some of them men in high positions.
Executions followed and there were further arrests.
The Council urged that Elizabeth be brought for questioning, but I would not have that. I believed she was loyal to me, and I did not want them to trump up a charge against her. Apart from my sisterly feelings toward her, I feared that, if she were harmed in any way, the people would rise in strength against me. She had won their hearts. I had always known that her popularity far exceeded my own.
