by Jean Plaidy
I could see that life was going to be very different here from what I had endured at Woodstock.
Unfortunately news of those particular revels reached the Queen and no doubt Gardiner or someone like that pointed out to her the danger that could arise from such entertainments. If people came in disguises why should not spies make their way into the company? Sir Thomas told me regretfully that he had had orders from the Queen that such revelries must cease.
I was still suspect and not to be trusted.
“There are other ways of amusing ourselves,” he said. “However, disguises are forbidden.”
It did not matter. I had my friends about me. It would be a great pleasure to talk in various languages with someone as interesting and erudite as Roger Ascham.
At this time there broke out in the country the very worst wave of persecution that was ever known and which I believe will never be forgotten as long as men live. With her marriage to Philip of Spain, Mary had in fact passed over the government of her realm to him; she had brought the country back to Rome, and although the Inquisition had not yet been set up in the country, its rules were being introduced.
I was glad to be shut away in the country. I was filled with shame for my sister. Her folly was beyond my understanding and she earned the hatred of many of her subjects and that adjective which was to be used often when her name was mentioned: Bloody Mary.
So this was what religious fanaticism did to a woman who was by nature humane. I swore I would have no part in it. Perhaps the Spaniards had endured it and would go on doing so. I did not think the English would.
I was sickened as were so many. How could she allow this to be done in her name?
There were two men who urged her to this cruel folly. Gardiner was naturally one and Edward Bonner, Bishop of London, was the other. I despised them both and I could not believe it when I first heard it. I discussed it with Kat in a highly emotional way and with Roger Ascham more calmly, but with none the less revulsion.
To burn men and women at the stake for their religious opinions was not only hideously cruel, it was quite stupid. How could she say: I worship in this way and therefore it is right, and because you do not agree you will be burned to death! I had heard their miserable arguments: The victims were destined to hell fire, so what did it matter if they began their life of torment a few years earlier? How I loathed those persecutors! How I despised them! Not only for their cruelty but for their folly. It was an affront to all reason.
So passed that dreadful year when the fires of Smithfield sobered all London and palls of smoke and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air even in the smallest towns. It was as though my father had never broken with Rome. But it was not quite as it had been. He had been ruthless, true; he had condemned men to death, but it was because they stood in the way of his personal wishes. That was wrong, of course; but this death and torture for a divergence of belief was something I could not understand.
There were few of us who did not go in fear of our lives. I myself dreamed of standing in a square while they bound my body to a stake. I had been alarmed at the thought of the axe. But that was merciful compared with the terrible slow death by fire.
Yet many were suffering it.
We went to Mass. I did, yes. I admit it. I accepted the Catholic Faith. At least I forced out the words they wished me to say, but I could never believe that the differences between one sect and another were of any importance. Was I a hypocrite? I do not know. If I was, I was a sensible hypocrite. I was certain now that I was going to rule my people and when I did I would put an end to this senseless persecution. I could be of greater use to my people alive than dead and when the time came they would surely forgive me for a few words mumbled in a chapel.
Mary was a sick woman. Her husband had left her and was very happy to do so. He had made a marriage and brought the countries together; they had brought England back to Rome and were now merrily burning her people who refused to accept the faith they would impose on them. Spain had done its work. Our country was as unhappy as theirs. And Mary was aging, ill, and still yearning to bear the child which she never could.
And beside her, those archvillains, tools of Spain and Rome—Gardiner and Bonner—catching their prey, questioning, torturing and condemning to the flames.
Great men died at the stake, men such as Nicholas Ridley who had been a Bishop of London, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Winchester, and John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. These men died with great bravery; they were the martyrs. The people watched them sullenly. How long can this last? I wondered.
There was much talk of the manner in which these men had died. Hugh Latimer's last words were repeated over and over again. He had been tied to a stake next to that to which Ridley was bound and he cried out in ringing tones: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Fine words from a man about to suffer a cruel death. They were truly martyrs.
Not long after the death of these two it was the turn of Thomas Cranmer to burn at the stake. He had recanted earlier to save himself. I did not blame him for that. In my opinion it was the sensible thing to do; but he had repented the act in the end and as the flames were lighted he held out his right hand. “This hand has written lies,” he cried. “It has written them to save my life and therefore it should be the first part of my body to burn.”
And later they heard him cry out: “This hand has offended!” and those watching saw him hold it in the flames unflinchingly.
“They will never be forgotten,” I said to Kat. “My sister is mad. For a while some may accept this, but the people will hate her for it. Does she know nothing of the English?”
“The people wait patiently for you, my lady,” said Kat earnestly. “They wait now…as they never did before.”
And when I looked into her face I knew that she spoke the truth.
IT WAS NOT surprising that there should be discontent. The time was ripe to rid the country of the Queen and her cruel persecutions. I dreaded these rebellions. My name was always associated with them because if Mary were deposed, I was next in the line to the succession. I wished people would understand that there was no need for rebellion. Mary was more ill each day and all her actions were those of a woman sick in mind and body; her false pregnancies—she had had another of those—her fanatical religious mania and her persecution of what she called heretics, all were more than devotion to her faith; her obsession had turned to madness and showed clearly that she was nearing her end. I knew it. We should be patient and wait. It was much safer to let death carry her off than to raise a rebellion when there would surely always be some to take her side. They would never understand that the waiting game was the safe one.
The first of the plots was devised by Sir Henry Dudley, some remote connection of Robert Dudley, who was not himself, I was relieved to learn, involved in the plan of his reckless kinsman. The plot, however, appeared to have the backing of the King of France who was greatly disturbed by the alliance between his two enemies, England and Spain. Like all such conspirators they used my name as a basis on which to build their schemes, at the heart of which was to depose Mary and set me on the throne.
De Noailles had become very friendly with me since the Spanish marriage and took great pains to let me know that he would do anything to help me. His was a very dangerous friendship, I knew—and of course there was no true friendship in it; it was expediency. Two of the officers of my household named Peckham and Werne were involved in the plot and this disturbed me because it immediately increased the suspicions which would come my way whenever these plots were revealed.
The two men were arrested and what was so disconcerting was that Kat Ashley was taken off for questioning again with a very innocent young Italian, Baptiste Castiglione, who had been engaged to help me perfect my conversation in his language. Some of my ladies, too, were taken for questioning, and when I heard that they were in the Tower and
that Kat was in the Fleet Prison I felt that it was going to start again—the terrible anxiety, the fear of what would happen from one day to the next, while my enemies closed in on me. I pictured Kat—dear indiscreet Kat—being forced to make all sorts of statements which would be damning against me, and I became very ill, as I had been during the trials in the past years. The strain was too much. My skin grew yellow with jaundice and I could not stand without feeling dizzy. There was nothing to be done but to take to my bed, and this in itself could be construed as some sort of guilt.
There was one matter for rejoicing. Gardiner had died—not violently as would have been fitting for a man who had caused so much misery, but of dropsy, quietly in his bed.
There was one enemy the less; but I doubted not that many more would spring up to take his place.
I kept to my bed while Kat's apartments were searched. Nothing concerned with the plot was found in her rooms but certain pamphlets which were called seditious—which meant Protestant—were found there and I was in a state of nervous prostration, seeing Kat brought to the stake and hearing her piteous cries as the fire touched her limbs.
I thought: I can bear no more of this. Nothing is worth it. I cannot subject my friends to perpetual terror.
There was another development. A young man appeared at a place called Yaxley and declared he was Edward Courtenay and my husband. It was such utter nonsense that I was not afraid of this one. The young man was a tall golden-haired giant with the Plantagenet looks. This was easily explained because my great-grandfather had been a man who had had countless mistresses of all sorts and conditions in every corner of the country, so there were a great many people who bore a resemblance to him.
I was sure I could not possibly have been arrested for complicity in such a plot as that but had Gardiner been alive he would have found some reason for implicating me.
I was receiving communications from de Noailles who had shown such friendship for me since my sister's marriage. His letters were urging me to take advantage of his King's invitation to visit the Court of France where I should be safe until the time came for me to mount the throne.
A few months before I should have scorned the invitation, seeing it for what it was. I knew that the aim of Henri Deux was to set his daughter-inlaw Mary Stuart on the throne of England. I think I must have been very weak just then. I could not sleep. I became so ill with anxiety that I did not greatly care what happened to me.
When I look back I marvel at myself. But it is strange what illness can do to one, particularly the sort of mental anguish from which I was suffering since the fresh wave of insurrections and the fear aroused by wondering what evil could befall a country which sent good men to a horrible death because of their faith.
I wanted to get away. I felt I could endure no more and the thought of the elegant French court was inviting.
I sent a message to Lady Sussex who had always been a good friend, and I asked her to discover in secret more of this plan from the French Ambassador. I really believed—I must have been suffering from hallucinations— that I could remain at the French Court and come back at the appropriate time to claim the crown.
Then there happened one of those miracles which seem, looking back, like Divine intervention and made me certain of my destiny.
When Lady Sussex was able to meet the French Ambassador she found not de Noailles, whom she had been expecting and who had been the instigator of the plot to get me out of England, but another in his place. Because the Dudley rebellion had begun in France with the backing of the King, de Noailles's communications with me had been noted and some intercepted. Consequently, he had been dismissed abruptly and his brother, the Bishop of Acqs, had been sent to take his place.
I never did understand why the Bishop should seek to protect me. He was certainly not following in his brother's footsteps. Or it may even have been that the King of France did not wish me to leave the field of action, and it had been seen by him that the de Noailles policy of capturing me was not the best for France. Whatever it was, the Bishop told Lady Sussex that if I went to France now, I should never come back, and if I hoped to wear the crown I should be on the spot when the moment came to take it.
When Lady Sussex told me this I saw how foolish I had been. I went onto my knees and thanked God for His merciful act in saving me.
Whatever happened, I must stay. I had come through great dangers. The end must be in sight, and if I could manage to keep alive for a little longer I should be triumphant.
I wrote to my sister assuring her of my loyalty. It was true that the men Peckham and Werne were of my household, but I had known nothing of their schemes any more than I knew of this ridiculous man who turned out to be named Cleobury and who had called himself the Earl of Devonshire.
Kat and the other members of my household returned to Hatfield and as soon as I saw them I began to feel better; my old strength returned and I marveled afresh that I could have been so foolish as to have almost committed an act which would have been fatal to my future.
So there I was at Hatfield—almost a prisoner inasmuch as I could not leave without the Queen's permission, and everything I did was reported to her.
IN THE FEBRUARY of the following year Philip returned to England.
Reports came to us that my sister's health was much improved and my immediate thoughts were that there might yet be a child. Moreover I wondered what Philip's reaction would be to the attempted risings which were an indication of the rumblings of dissatisfaction throughout the land. He must have had a purpose in coming. I was sure it was not merely to be with Mary.
The result of his return was a cordial invitation for me to go to Court. Mary appeared to have accepted my protestations of innocence and I imagined—with some amusement—that I had been invited at the urgings of Philip.
When I rode into London through Smithfield and Old Bailey and Fleet Street to Somerset House the people cheered me. I had wondered what effect my submission to my sister's will in religion, which had now become the law of the country, would have on them; but I was sure the dear good people were wise enough to know that I did what I did to preserve my life so that when the time came I could be alive to serve them.
At every turn they showed their love for me and I managed to convey to them that I was aware of the immense debt of gratitude I owed them.
It was wonderful to be at Court, where I was received with honor as the Queen's sister and heiress to the throne. Chiefly I was gratified by Philip's attitude toward me. I saw plans in his eyes when they alighted on me. He was not insensible to my youth and charms, and with the crown and all that meant I must have seemed to him a glittering prize. I would never marry him, but there was no harm—indeed there was every necessity—in letting him imagine that I might.
Mary was very simple. She was delighted that Philip showed such regard for me. She thought he would be suspicious of one who had been a heretic. Nothing of the sort! I had the impression that he was just waiting for the death of his wife.
I was, therefore, a little taken aback when he once more introduced the subject of Philibert of Savoy. Then I began to wonder whether I had correctly assessed his motives. If I married… what then? Who would take the throne when Mary died? Was he planning to set himself up as King and sole ruler of England? It could not be. Even his Spanish arrogance must realize that that would never be allowed.
I was adamant. I would not marry. I clung to the virgin state, I declared. Marriage was entirely repulsive to me.
He sighed and said his friend Philibert was the best of men. I reminded him that Philibert had been making love to the Duchess of Lorraine, so it seemed to me that, friend of Philip's though he was, he was something of a philanderer and I would have no mind to take such a husband, even if I had not resigned myself to the single state.
He made no sign but I heard afterward that he told Mary she should insist on my marrying. She was the Queen and I was the subject. There again I was mystified as to his real intentions.<
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But that was Philip, as I was to discover later—much later—he was devious and as dangerous as a snake.
There was yet another insurrection. A certain Sir Thomas Stafford had been at the Court of France where he had received some favors from Henri Deux who, it was believed, had urged him to attempt rebellion in England. The French King was growing more and more alarmed at the friendship between England and Spain which since the marriage of Mary and Philip had become very close indeed, Mary being completely under the domination of the husband she adored.
Stafford landed on the coast of Yorkshire and took Scarborough Castle with ease. He tried to rally men to his banner by declaring that, in marrying Philip, Mary had passed over the country to Spain, and that the Spaniards were about to land and complete the enslavement. The Inquisition was preparing to land on our shores. This was, of course, the way in which to arouse the people, but Stafford was not clever enough. His mission was known before he arrived for there were many spies at the Court of France.
An army had been sent up to Yorkshire under the Earl of Westmorland, and in a short time Stafford's men, who were helpless against trained soldiers, were routed and Stafford himself captured, and very quickly sentenced to the barbarous death of hanging and quartering which took place in May at Tyburn.
Fortunately I was not implicated in this, although the aim of every plot was to depose Mary and I was naturally the one to step into her place.
Philip was restive as he always was in England. His heart was in Spain; moreover I think he wanted to get away from the cloying affections of Mary. I knew that her sickly looks were repulsive to him, and whereas he might have stayed longer if she had not tried to force her affections on him, as it was he was very eager to escape.
