“Keep out of sight,” he warned me.
“Do not be seen in any public place. Keep to the house and the gardens. We will watch events closely.”
The King was very disturbed, as he always must be when some of his subjects were in revolt, and as it was an uprising of this size there was something to be really anxious about.
He sent an army up to the North. I was certain that the rebels would not be able to stand against it and there would be terrible slaughter. However, the rain was heavy and prolonged and the land became so water-logged that the two armies could not approach each other.
There were many who were ready to interpret this as a sign from God. He was working a miracle to save the rebels. My father was loth to go to war with his own subjects and after discussions with those close to him, he sent a message to say that he would pardon all rebels, and if they would prepare a list of their grievances he would study them carefully.
The insurgents, no doubt feeling they had made their point, returned to their homes. The King had suggested that their leader Robert Aske should come to London, where he would be received and differences discussed.
Just after this I was surprised to receive a visit from the King.
It was one morning when I returned from riding to find the household in a flutter of excitement. The King, out hunting, had called and was in the house. He was impatiently waiting to see me, and I had better go to him with all speed.
I found him pacing up and down in the salon. He was alone.
I went to him and knelt. He took my hands and kissed them with a show of tenderness.
“I trust I find Your Majesty in good health,” I said.
“Yes…yes… and you, daughter?”
I thanked him for his gracious enquiry and told him that I was well.
He shook his head impatiently. “There has been trouble with these rebels in the North,” he said.
“I trust it is settled to Your Majesty's pleasure.”
“Yes…yes. That was soon put to rights. There'll be no more trouble from them. There were some who would have it that you were involved in it.”
“I swear I knew nothing about them.”
He lifted a hand. “I know it. I know it. But when these fools start meddling in matters of which they know nothing… they will speak of you.”
“It is my earnest regret that they should do so.”
“You are a loyal subject then?”
“I am, Your Majesty. I do not forget that I am your daughter.”
He nodded. “Methinks you speak truth. Do you know, there is one thing I abhor… and I will do all in my power to stamp it out. It is dishonesty.”
I was beginning to tremble.
“Myself…I am a stranger to that vice,” he went on. “You may think that there are occasions when a king must speak what is an untruth…for the sake of diplomacy, eh?”
“I am an ignorant woman, Your Majesty. I know nothing of these matters.”
He grunted, suggesting approval of my attitude. “I will not do that. Nay!” He began to shout. “Even though I am told it is expedient and it is not dishonesty in the normal sense…‘This is for the country,' they may say, but no: I am an honest man.”
I lifted my eyes and tried to look admiring; but I could not stop thinking of all he had done and how he had talked of his conscience, how he had made it work for him, so that all his deeds were wrapped in a covering of righteousness. It was hard to hide my feelings when he talked of dishonesty—but I must.
This was one of those occasions when he believed himself, and he saw no reason why I should not believe him either.
“I want to be sure of your sincerity,” he said.
I felt my knees would not support me, and I was afraid he would see my hands trembling and would regard my fear as evidence of my guilt.
“You signed the Act of Submission,” he said. “You agreed that my marriage to your mother was invalid, and you accepted me, as did my loyal subjects, as Head of the Church.”
“Yes,” I said faintly.
“Will you give me a truthful answer?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said even more quietly.
“You had much to gain from signing, had you not?”
“I yearned for Your Majesty's favor.”
“Aye. Your fate depended on it, did it not? You would have been a fool not to sign, and I do not think you are a fool, daughter. Your mother would not give in. It would have been easier for her if she had. But you are made of different stuff.”
Yes, I thought, common clay. I could never be the martyr she was. I lack her goodness, her saintliness.
“But tell me this,” he went on. “Did you agree with your heart as well as your pen?”
I dared not hesitate. To do so would be fatal. I had my mission, my destiny.
I answered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He gave me an expansive smile and took me in his arms.
“Then, daughter,” he said, “we are in truth good friends. You have told me that you signed the submission in good faith, and that pleases me. There are some who would suggest that you were forced to do this. You and I, daughter, know that this is not so. But there are those doubters, and I would have them know the truth. You will help me to dispel their doubts, good daughter that you have now become. There are two of these doubters to whom I would have you address yourself. One is the Emperor Charles; the other is the Pope.”
I was appalled. Was it not enough that I had signed his document? Must I deny my love for my mother, my adherence to the Faith? Must I tell this to the whole world?
Refusal trembled on my lips. I saw myself languishing in the Tower, tried for treason, brought out to Tower Hill as his beloved, the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, had been.
Where was that shining dream? I must bring England back to the Faith.
I was not merely a devoted daughter: I was a woman fighting for her future, perhaps her life, but my life was of little importance beside what I must do for the Faith.
He was looking at me intently; his little eyes were benign at the moment, but I knew how quickly they could change.
I heard myself say, “Yes, Your Majesty, I will write to them. I will tell them that I am in agreement with everything that has been done and will be done.”
He could be charming when pleased. I could see why men followed him. He was like the father I had known in my childhood. He seized me in his arms and held me against his jewel-encrusted jacket. I felt the stones pressing into my heart. I despised myself. I murmured apologies to my mother; but I knew this had to be done.
“Now,” he said, “all is well, and this is a delight to me. I like it not when there is discord in families. From now on you are my dear daughter. You shall come to Court. All shall be as it should be between a father and his daughter.”
He was in an excellent mood, and I was fighting to hide my despondency. He would prepare drafts for me to send to the Emperor and the Pope. All I needed to do would be to sign them and the matter would be most happily settled from his point of view.
I was becoming devious. I was playing my own games as carefully as he played his; only perhaps I had more of the quality which he so much admired: honesty—and with myself. I despised myself and yet I knew that what I was doing was necessary. I could honestly say I was not doing it to preserve my life or to bring myself a comfortable style of living. Always I had the main object in mind; and it was for that I lied and dissembled.
I was thankful that I could see people freely now; and when Chapuys visited me I gave him an account of my interview with my father.
“You did what was right,” he told me.
“But I have lied. I have denied my legitimacy and dishonored my mother.”
“Sometimes it is necessary to act against one's conscience if the matter is great enough.”
“I do not wish the Emperor to regard me as a weakling who has given way to save her life.”
“The Emperor knows well your purpose.”
&
nbsp; “I wish to write to him personally to tell him that what I have officially sent to him is untrue.”
“Do so,” he said, “and I will see that the letter reaches him.”
“If it did not and was discovered, that would be the end of my hopes… and of me.”
Chapuys nodded gravely. “It shall not be discovered. All the hopes of the Church rest with you. I swear to you that your letter will be delivered safely into the Emperor's hands.”
“I must also write to the Pope.”
“Do that. They will be sure then that you are working for God and the Church.”
He smiled at me and went on, “You are anxious. You fear that you have betrayed your mother. Rest assured that she understands. This country of England will have reason to thank you. You are going to bring it back to the Faith when the time comes.”
He took my letters. I had visions of their falling into the hands of my father. I dared not dwell on what my fate would be if they did. But I could trust Chapuys, and my cousin Charles would know that I was no traitor to the Faith.
Thus I was able to still my conscience.
The Arrival of Edward
I WAS SUMMONED TO JOIN THE COURT AT RICHMOND FOR the Christmas festivities. This meant that I was received back in favor. My letters to the Emperor and the Pope had sealed the matter.
Queen Jane, realizing that after my exile I might not have the clothes I would need and the means to come to Court, thoughtfully sent me money. “A little gift” she called it; and it came with a message that she was so much looking forward to greeting me.
The weather was bitterly cold, and I was glad of the fur-lined wrap which I had been able to acquire through her thoughtfulness.
It seemed strange, after so many years, to be back among the grandeur that was my father's Court. He had stamped his personality upon it, and it was glittering, splendid and outwardly merry, all laughter and song; and yet, I wondered, how many of those seemingly carefree courtiers lived in terror of offending him? I fell to thinking what it must have been like in my grandfather's day. How he would have deplored the extravagance as he watched the dwindling effect it must be having on the exchequer. But this was my father's day, and the perversity of men is such that they loved him more, with all his tantrums, extravagances and adventurous marital life, than they ever did my solemn, careful grandfather. Parsimonious, they had called him, when, if he were so, it was for their betterment.
It was Jane, the Queen, who helped me through those days. There was something very gentle about her. I wondered if she ever considered the perilous nature of her position. Did she ever give a thought to what had happened to Anne Boleyn, so passionately loved at one time and, not so long after their marriage, sent to the block? If she did think of her, she gave no sign of it. She did give a good deal of thought to the comfort of others; she was far from clever; indeed, she was something of a simpleton, but she was able to understand how I was feeling, and she did everything possible to put me at my ease.
Now that I had begun to live a double life, as it were, hiding my true motives under a cloak of deceit, I felt a little ashamed in the company of Jane, who was so straightforward and guileless. But sometimes I asked myself whether she, too, was playing her own little game? How did it feel to be the third wife of a man who had destroyed the two who had gone before? Was Jane assuming the role of docile, loving wife? One might say: Why had she married? Poor girl, what chance had one of her temperament against two ambitious brothers and a monarch who desired her?
However, she did help me over those first difficult days at Court.
My father was tender with her, liking her submissiveness. What a contrast to Anne Boleyn! But I fancied there were times when I saw a little impatience creeping through, and I found myself guessing how long it would take him to tire of her.
I remember one occasion particularly. Jane was so eager to make our reconciliation complete and did everything to smooth things between us, and one day she remarked how pleased he must be to have me at Court: his own daughter, who was so beloved by the people and so important in their eyes.
He looked at her with faint contempt and said, “You are a fool, Jane. You should be thinking of the sons you will have… and not seeking to bring forward others.” He touched her stomach and went on with a touch of coarseness, “That is where your hopes should lie.”
Poor Jane looked abashed. Was she really beginning to suffer from that anxiety which had plagued the lives of both my mother and Anne Boleyn? Was it six months she had been married and no sign of pregnancy yet?
There were times when I gave myself up to the pleasures of being at Court. Jane saw that I had new gowns. I chose bright colors. I felt I needed to because, although I was not ill-favored, I was not startling in any way. My once fresh-colored complexion had grown pale—probably from the privation I had suffered. My features were regular. I suppose I should have been considered quite ordinary outside royal circles; but at least I was the King's daughter, and that set me apart—particularly as he had recognized me as such.
I encountered a certain amount of adulation and secret congratulations, for most knew that I had come through some hazardous times and still managed to survive.
I was twenty-one, so perhaps a little frivolity could be forgiven me. I danced—as I loved to—and I joined in the festivities with a gusto due to long abstinence. I was, in fact, delighted to be back at Court.
Jane noticed this, and it pleased her. “We shall see that it is just as it used to be long ago,” she told me. “I believe you were then the darling of the Court.”
“That was when I was a little girl … and all was well between my parents.”
Jane nodded and changed the subject. I noticed that she avoided any talk which might be controversial; so perhaps she was not quite so simple after all.
Secure in her friendship, I began to talk more freely.
I told her about my dear Lady Salisbury and how, since she had left me all those years ago, I had not seen her. I wished to hear of her and longed to see her.
Jane understood. “She is well, I think,” she said. “But she does not come to Court.”
“No. I suppose her friendship with me over all those years has debarred her.”
“The King is displeased with her son, Reginald Pole.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Do you think that, now all is well between us, my father might allow me to see the Countess?”
She said she would see what could be done.
Poor Jane. Her endeavors brought down the wrath of the King on her head.
She came to me in some distress. “He was quite angry. He shouted at me. Had he not warned me not to meddle? ‘No,' he said. ‘The Countess of Salisbury may not come to Court. Her son is a traitor. I'd have had his head if he had not been skulking abroad spreading malice about me. As for the lady in question, she would do well to take care.' He was really angry.”
I said, “I am sorry you did it for me.”
She said, “I know how one feels about the companions of our young days. They pass all too quickly, don't they, and then… one grows up.”
Poor Jane! She was striving so hard to be the docile wife, remembering no doubt the horrific fate of Anne Boleyn, perhaps giving a thought to the tribulations of my mother. She was in a position as dangerous as any in the country, without my mother's stern resolution and strong character and Anne Boleyn's fire and sharp wit to help her face the onslaught when it came.
Jane was already learning that—as with those two—everything depended on her ability to produce a son. I was indeed sorry that she had aroused the King's anger through me.
I did remember, though, Margaret Bryan's concern for Elizabeth, and I talked to Jane about the little girl.
“She is bright, intelligent and very attractive,” I told her.
Jane nodded. She would have liked to bring Elizabeth to Court. I was there, and Elizabeth should be. Jane longed for a happy family atmosphere. The little one was not responsible f
or her mother's misdeeds. Jane's eyes filled with tears when I told her how the child was being neglected, no money being sent for her clothes, and how Lady Bryan was at her wits' end wondering if in a few months' time she would have any clothes at all.
“There is a very small allowance for her food,” I said. “It is so sad. She is after all the King's daughter.”
Jane listened and sympathized.
“I shall bring her here,” she said. “It will be possible later but just now the King is so angry at the mention of her mother's name that I dare not.”
I understood, of course. She had risked his displeasure when she had talked to him of the Countess. She could not do it again by mentioning Elizabeth.
“It will change,” she assured me. “But as yet I dare not.”
I was liking her more every day.
She told me I must stay at Court. We had become such good friends that we should not be apart.
This was gratifying. Jane might be a mild creature but she was the Queen and might have a little influence on the King. It was an indication of how my character had changed that I could work out the advantages which could ensue from such a friendship. But on the other hand, I was fond of her. It was impossible not to be fond of Jane. I had a strong urge to protect her. She seemed to me like a lamb among wolves, unsuspicious of danger because, for the time being, they were not preparing to harm her.
So I did want her friendship and not only because of the advantages it might bring me. I even thought that at some stage I might be able to help her, for, one day, God knew, she might need any help she could get.
In the meantime she went on in her own sweet way and we were often together.
The King was pleased to see the friendship between us, though there were times when a tremor of fear ran through me because I thought I caught a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.
But Jane continued to delight in my company, and she confided to me that she very much wanted to bring Elizabeth to Court. “In time,” she assured me, “the King will forget her mother, and his attitude will change toward the child.”
I hoped so. But at the moment I must rejoice in my own return to favor.
In the Shadow of the Crown Page 20
