We would sit, the Countess and I, and talk of Reginald and try to look into the future. Life had its troubles and its joys, the Countess maintained, and when I said there seemed no hope for a better life for us, she chided me and assured me that God would show us a way and that tribulations were often sent for a good reason. They made us strong and capable of dealing with the trials of life.
Letters from Reginald sustained us during that time; but when one day followed another and we heard nothing but news of the concubine's triumphs and the King's besotted devotion to her, I began to lose heart. I knew that my mother was ill, and that threw me into despair.
It was not surprising that I myself began to grow pale and thin, and one morning I awoke in a fever.
The Countess was horrified, for soon it became obvious that I was very ill indeed.
I heard afterward that news of my illness spread quickly through the country and it was thought that I might not live. There would be rumors, of course. The concubine's spies had poisoned me. The King had been duped by her. She was a witch and a murderess.
When the King rode out with her, the hostile crowds shouted at them. That would disturb him for he had always cared so passionately for the people's approval; and he had had it until now. But he had disappointed them and they—particularly the women—had turned against him. His treatment of the Queen shocked them. She had done nothing except grow old and fail to produce a son, and the little Princess Mary, who was the true heir to the throne, was, because of the wickedness of the King's paramour, lying at death's door.
My father hastily sent one of his best physicians to treat me.
I can remember lying in bed longing for my mother. I called her name, and the Countess sent an urgent plea to my father begging him to let my mother come to me.
He was adamant. She was to stay away from me. He may have feared what would happen if we met. Perhaps he thought of the crowds following my mother on her journey to me, shouting their loyalty to her and to me. Riots could so easily arise.
No. He could not grant me what would have been the best remedy for my sickness. But he did send one of his doctors to me.
I was young; I was resilient. And I recovered, thanks to Dr. Butts and the Countess's constant care.
Although I believed that both my father and his mistress would have been glad to see the end of me, they must have felt a certain relief that I had not died. Such an event at that time would most certainly have aroused the people to some action, and they would know that.
I hoped my mother was aware of the people's feelings. It might have brought her a grain of comfort. It would have made her feel less of a stranger in an alien land.
There were some brave men who were ready to face the King's wrath for their beliefs. William Peto was one. He was the Provincial of the Grey Friars, and on Easter Day at Greenwich he preached a sermon in the presence of my father. Frankly, he said that the divorce was evil and could not find favor in the sight of Heaven.
I exulted to think of my father's sitting listening to him. He would be seething with anger. It was a very brave preacher who could stand up before him and utter such words. I could so well imagine his anger. I could see the small eyes growing icy, his expressive mouth indicating his mood. But this was a man who could not be entirely flouted; and there was the mood of the people to be considered.
For some time Peto had wanted to go to Toulouse, for he was writing a book about the divorce and he wished to get it published there; for of course he would not be able to do so in England. My father may have had some inkling of this, for he refused permission, but now, on the advice of one of his chaplains who feared that such a man could do much damage, my father summoned him and coldly told him to leave the country immediately. Then he sent for Dr. Curwin, who would preach a sermon more to his liking.
He was right. Curwin did this to my father's satisfaction, even hinting that Friar Peto, after his disloyal outburst, because he was a coward, had fled the country.
There are some men who court martyrdom. Peto was one; Friar Elstowe was another. Elstowe immediately declared publicly that everything Peto had said could be confirmed by the Scriptures, and this he would eagerly do to support Peto and hopefully give the King pause for thought before he imperilled his immortal soul.
Such talk was inflammatory, and Elstowe, with Peto, was arrested at Canterbury, where they were resting on their way to the Continent; they were brought before the Council, where they were told that such mischiefmakers as they were should be put together into a sack and thrown into the Thames, to which Elstowe retorted that the men of the Court might threaten them if they would but they must know that the way to Heaven lies as open by water as by land.
However, the King wanted no action taken against them. I think he feared how the people would behave.
But the attitude of these men did much to add to his exasperation, which must at that time have been almost unbearable for a man of his temperament and power. I suppose it was the only time in his life that he had been baulked. All through his golden youth his wish had been law; his height, his good looks, his jovial nature—until crossed—had made him the most popular monarch people remembered. They had loved him, idolized him, and now they were criticizing him; and it was all because his unwanted wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles. If she had been of less consequence, he would have been rid of her long ago.
There were others more powerful than Friars Peto and Elstowe. Bishop Fisher was one, and he had set himself against the divorce and had no compunction in letting it be known. The Countess said she trembled for him. She thought he would be arrested and sent to the Tower. This was not the case as yet. My father must have been very disturbed by the attitude of the people.
All that came out of this was that my mother was moved from the Moor and out to Bishop's Hatfield, which belonged to the Bishop of Ely. I worried a good deal about her. It hindered my convalescence. I had become pale and thin and I looked like a ghost. If only I could have been with my mother, I should have been more at peace; anything would have been preferable to this anxiety about her. I looked back with deep nostalgia to those days when we had all been together—my mother and I, Reginald and the Countess. And now there were just the Countess and myself. Reginald was in Padua, my mother at Bishop's Hatfield. Was it warm there I wondered? She suffered cruelly from rheumatism, and the dampness of some of the houses in which she had been forced to live aggravated this. I wondered if she had enough warm clothing. It was unbearable that she, a Princess of Spain, a Queen of England, could be treated so.
But I knew that we were moving toward a climax when I heard that the King was going to France and was taking Anne Boleyn with him.
“This cannot be true,” I cried to the Countess. “How could he take her with him? She cannot go as the Queen.”
“The King of France is now his friend, remember. If he receives Anne Boleyn, it is tantamount to giving his approval.”
“He will do what is expedient to him.”
“Yes, and François needs your father's support and he will go a long way to get that.”
“But how could Anne Boleyn be received at the Court of France!”
“We shall hear, no doubt.”
“But my mother… what will she think when she hears of this?”
The Countess shook her head. “These things cannot go on. But I can't really believe he will take her to France. It is just one of those rumors, and Heaven knows there have been many of them.”
But it was no rumor. My father showered more honors on Anne Boleyn. He created her Marchioness of Pembroke. That was significant. She was no longer merely the Lady Anne.
So he really did intend to take her to France. He was telling the world that she was his Queen in truth and that the marriage was imminent.
I think my hopes died at that time. I was sunk in gloom; my mother was ill and we were parted by a cruel father and his wicked mistress. If we could have been together, what a difference that would have made! H
ow could they be so cruel to us? Our love for each other was well known, and in addition to the trials we were forced to endure was the anxiety we felt for each other.
As we had feared, events moved quickly after that. They went to France; they were received by François, though not by the ladies of the Court, who, I was glad to hear, rather pointedly absented themselves.
But when they returned, the result was inevitable. There was a rumor that Anne was pregnant with the King's child, and they were secretly married.
* * *
I COULD NOT BELIEVE this. It was a false rumor, I insisted to the Countess. Nobody seemed to know where the marriage had taken place. Some said it was in the chapel of Sopewell Nunnery, others at Blickling Hall.
What did it matter where?
Of course it was kept a secret. It was a highly controversial step, for there would be many to ask how the King could marry Anne Boleyn when he was the husband of the Queen.
The ceremony had to take place though and without delay, for Anne was pregnant and it was imperative that the child should be born legitimate.
I often wondered later which was the greater—my father's longing for a son or his passion for Anne Boleyn. Knowing him so well, I believe he considered it a slur on his manhood that a son should be denied to him; and as he wished the world to see him as the perfect being, that irked him considerably.
They must have been in a state of some anxiety, for the marriage had to be legal and it was clear that they were getting no help from Rome. How could they pretend that she was his wife when the people knew he was still married to the Queen? I exulted in their difficulties.
It was May of that year 1533, after my seventeenth birthday, when Cranmer, now Archbishop of Canterbury, presided over a tribunal at Dunstable. There was no need for a divorce between the King and Katharine of Aragon, he stated, for their so-called marriage had been no marriage. The ceremony through which they had gone had been contracted against the Divine Law.
After this declaration they felt free to go along with Anne's coronation.
It was incredible that such a thing could be. But my father was determined on it.
My mother had been moved once more and was at Ampthill. I think my father feared to leave her too long in one place. I constantly asked myself why he would not let us be together, but if he would not allow us to see each other during my illness—when he really did fear what effect my death would have had on public opinion—he surely would not now. I was very, very worried for I knew that my mother suffered from constant ill health and I feared the worst was kept from me.
Events were moving fast. We heard, of course, about the splendid coronation, how Anne Boleyn left Greenwich dressed in cloth of gold, looking splendid, they said, with her elegance and her long black hair and great glittering eyes—witch's eyes, I called them. Many believed that she was a witch and that only her supernatural powers had been able to lure the King to act as he had.
I could imagine the guns booming out and my father's waiting to greet her when she reached the Tower. There she stayed for several days in accordance with the custom of monarchs coming to their coronations. How it sickened me to think of this woman, this upstart Boleyn, whose family by astute trading and noble marriages had climbed to a position where Anne might be noticed by the King. All this honor for her while my mother lay cold and ill, neglected, and while everything possible was done to degrade her.
How I hated that woman! How I wished her ill! I remembered my mother once said, “Hatred is not good for the soul, my child. Pray for this woman rather. It may well be that one day she will be in need of our prayers.” But I could not. I was not the saint my mother was.
So I gave vent to my hatred. I prayed that the child she was about to bear would be misshapen, a monster, a girl! I prayed that she might die in childbirth—that they both should die and I might never have to consider them again.
I could picture her making her procession through the streets of London. She would look magnificent in her evil way. Even her greatest enemies could not deny that she had something more than beauty. It was the spell of witchery. I could see her in silver tissue and her ermine-decorated cloak. I could picture the litter of cloth of gold and the two white palfreys which drew it.
Would the people cheer her? They would be overwhelmed by the pageantry for they loved a spectacle. They would forget temporarily, perhaps, the wrongs against the true Queen. They would remember only that this was a holiday and the conduits ran with wine.
All through the day of the coronation, I brooded, nursing my hatred, thinking of my mother, wondering what would be in her mind on this tragic day. I thought of that woman, crowned Queen, in purple velvet and ermine; I could imagine the King's eyes glazed with desire for this witch who had seduced him from his duty and was leading him along the path to Hell.
What was the use of praying for a miracle?
There was no miracle, and Anne Boleyn was crowned Queen of England which she could never be to me—and to many, I hoped—while my mother lived.
* * *
HOW WELL I remember those months before the birth of Anne Boleyn's child. She was constantly in my thoughts. I tortured myself with pictures of her—imaginary, of course. My father doted on her, sure that she was about to give him the longed-for son.
But there began to be rumors that all was not well, and that, after having waited so long for her, he was now asking himself why he had endured so much for her sake; and he was looking at other women—something he had not done for a long time, since he had first become obsessed by her. Were these merely rumors or was this actually taking place? As much as I wanted to believe them, I could not accept the fact that his mad desire had evaporated so rapidly.
And she was pregnant—that should make her doubly attractive. She was about to give him what he craved.
A messenger came to Newhall with a command from the King. I was to go to Court that I might be present at the birth of the child.
I was furious. I stamped and raged. “I will not go,” I cried. “I will not.”
The Countess looked sorrowful. “Dear Princess,” she said. “Consider. This is a command from the King.”
“I care not. How can he expect me to take part in the rejoicing at the birth of her child?”
“He does, and you must.”
“Never,” I cried. “Never!”
The Countess shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think the King would say to that? You must tread carefully. You could be on dangerous ground.”
“You mean he might kill me?”
The Countess was silent.
“You really believe that might be, do you not?” I demanded.
“I think life could be very unpleasant for you if you disobeyed,” she answered.
“It is unpleasant now.”
“More unpleasant. Dangerous in fact. Princess, I do beg of you. Be careful.”
“Do understand me,” I pleaded. “I must refuse.”
She shook her head.
There was a letter from my mother.
“You must obey the King,” she wrote. “It is your duty. He is your father. Do not add to my anxieties. They are many and would be more if I thought you defied your father and so roused his anger against you. At present he remembers you are his daughter. Do not, I beg of you, do anything to make him turn against you.”
Then I knew I had to accept what was asked of me. I should have to be there when the odious child was born.
So I set out for Greenwich. Until the baby was born I must live under the same roof as my father and the woman I continued to call his concubine.
From the moment I arrived I was made aware of the fact that my situation had changed a good deal from those days when my father had fondled me and delighted in his daughter.
I did see him briefly. He gave me a cool nod and somehow managed to convey that I had better behave in a seemly manner or it would be the worse for me.
I was presented to her, too. There she was, large with
child, smug, complacent, carrying the heir to the throne, she thought. How I hated her! Elegant, she was, in her rich velvets apeing the Queen.
She gave me her hand to kiss. I could have spurned her but I seemed to hear my mother's voice pleading with me; and I could guess at my father's rage if I showed my contempt for her.
So I was cool to her, as she was to me, and if ever hatred flowed between people, it flowed between us two.
“Please God, do not let her live,” I prayed. “Let her and the child die. Let the King realize his cruelty and let all be well between us.”
It was September. The baby was expected hourly. The King was in a state of high excitement, certain that at last he would have his son. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was silently praying for the death of the witch and her offspring.
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.
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