In the Shadow of the Crown

by Виктория Холт

  I could see danger creeping close to me, ready to catch up with me. Of course my father was anxious. There were murmurings in the Court against him. The spoliation of the shrine of Canterbury, the dissolution of the monasteries to the great profit of the King and his friends, the severance from the Pope whom they had looked upon as the Vicar of Christ all their lives… this could turn many against him.

  And now the Pope had excommunicated him. Reginald Pole was circulating evil gossip about him. He was without a wife and the ladies of France were not eager to marry him; even though he might offer them the crown of England, they did not want it since they had to take him with it. The pain in his leg was cruel; the wretched ulcer seemed to get better and then would flare up again. My father was an angry man.

  He gave orders that Sir Geoffry was to implicate his brothers and his friends. At any cost this must be achieved.

  As my father must have guessed, Sir Geoffry was not able to stand out against the rigorous questioning and as a result broke down and said all that was required of him.

  As a result his eldest brother, Lord Montague, and Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, among others, were arrested and put in the Tower.

  My father now had in his power the Plantagenet Poles and Courtenay whose mother was the youngest daughter of Edward IV and therefore in the Plantagenet line. If he could have arrested Reginald at the same time, he would have been overjoyed. As it was, he must leave it to him to wreak his mischief abroad. But he would see that the others did not continue to plague him.

  It was tragic. There could not have been a family in the country who had been more ready to support the King when he had first come to the throne; but they were a devout Catholic family; they could not accept first the divorce from my mother and secondly the break with Rome. It was revealed that they and the Marquis of Exeter had expressed approval for what Reginald was doing abroad. They had been in communication with him, and Montague had said there would be civil war in the country because of outraged public opinion on what was being done; and if the King were to die suddenly, it would be certain.

  My father could never bear talk of death—and he had always considered mention of his own treasonable.

  Lord Chancellor Audley and the jury of peers knew what verdict my father wanted and they gave it.

  I was deeply distressed. My thoughts were for the Countess. What anguish she must have suffered. Her sons on trial for their lives, and in the present climate facing certain death.

  For some reason Geoffry was pardoned. Perhaps the King was too contemptuous of him to demand the full penalty and possibly believed that more information might be extracted from him. But on the 9th of December Lord Montague and the Marquis of Exeter were beheaded on Tower Hill.

  They went bravely to their deaths. Geoffry was released; his wife had pointed out that he was so ill that he was nearly dead. Poor Geoffry—his, I suppose, was the greater tragedy. How did a man feel when he had betrayed his family and friends whom he loved? Desperately unhappy, I know, because a few days after he was released he tried to kill himself. He did not succeed and lived on miserably.

  All I could think of was the Countess. How I longed to see her, but I guessed that, in view of the suspicions under which her family now lived, that would never be allowed.

  Then, to my horror, I learned that the Earl of Southampton and the Bishop of Ely had been sent to her home to question her and as a result she was taken to Southampton's house at Cowdray and kept a prisoner there. What was my father trying to prove? It was years since the Countess had been snatched from me, but I wondered if he were trying to implicate me.

  He was in a vicious mood. Many people were against him, and that was something he could not endure. I heard, too, that his leg, far from improving, was growing more painful. He had always been watchful of those of royal blood. I waited for news in trepidation.

  An attainder was passed by Parliament against Reginald and the Countess, among others, including Montague and Exeter who were already dead. Southampton had found a tunic in the Countess's house which had been decorated with the arms of England—the prerogative of royalty.

  She was taken to the Tower.

  I could not stop thinking of her plight. I knew how bitterly cold it could be within those stone walls when one had no comforts at all, no heat, no warm clothing; and she must be in her late sixties. How could she endure it?

  I wanted to go to my father. I wanted to ask him what harm an old lady like that could do.

  It was not so much that I feared to face his wrath but that if I attempted to plead for her I would not only arouse his suspicions against myself but make things worse for her. But if I could have helped her, I would have done anything. I found I did not greatly care what became of me, but my instinct told me that to plead for her would only increase his anger against her. He had destroyed Montague and Exeter…royal both of them. Geoffry Pole was too weak to be a menace; Reginald, whom he regarded as the arch conspirator, was out of reach. And, apart from that, the Countess was the last of the Plantagenet line. But how could he really believe that she would harm him?

  How precariously we all lived!

  Chapuys came to see me.

  “You must act with the utmost caution,” he said.

  I replied that I was worried about my very dear friend who had been as a mother to me.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “The Countess will remain in the Tower, whatever you do.”

  “It is ridiculous to say that she is a traitor. She would never harm the King. She is guilty of no crime.”

  “She is guilty, Princess, of being a Plantagenet.”

  I turned away impatiently.

  “Listen,” he said. “The King is fearful of revolt. Those who would take up arms against the King look for a figurehead. He is pursuing a perilous path. I cannot believe he fully understood what he was doing when he proclaimed himself Head of the Church of England.”

  “He is determined to remain so.”

  Chapuys looked over his shoulder and whispered, “It could cost him his throne. And little Edward is too young. A baby cannot rule a country.” He looked at me steadily. “The King greatly fears the influence of Cardinal Pole. He has hired assassins and sent them to Italy to kill him.”

  “Oh no!” I cried. “Will this nightmare never end?”

  “In time it will. Have no fear. We are aware of what is happening. The Cardinal will take care. He believes it is his duty to live, to play his part in righting this wrong. He always travels in disguise. None could recognize him as the Cardinal.”

  “What are his plans?”

  “Perhaps to gather together the foreign princes and force England back to Rome.”

  “You mean war?”

  “The King will never admit that he is at fault. He will never come back to Rome. It would have to be a new king…or queen…”

  I caught my breath.

  Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “We can only wait. But for the state of affairs in Europe this would have been done long ago. But … François is unreliable, and my master has many commitments.”

  “The times are dangerous.”

  “It would be well, my lady Princess, if you remembered that. Lie low. Say nothing that could have any bearing on what is going on.”

  “But I am so wretchedly unhappy about the Countess.”

  “Curb your grief. Remember… silence. It could be your greatest friend at this time.”

  * * *

  MEANWHILE MY FATHER was becoming restive. He had been a widower far too long and he wanted a wife. He had been very set on the beautiful Mary of Guise and was furious when she was promised to his nephew James V of Scotland. He raged and demanded what they thought they were doing, sending the woman to that impoverished, barbarous land when she could have come to England?

  No one said that the lady might be remembering that the King of England had had three wives—one who was discarded and might have been poisoned; another who was blatantly beheaded; and the third
who had died in childbirth; and that he had been heard to say when her life was in danger, “Save the child. Wives are easily found.”

  Now, it seemed, not so easily.

  Thomas Cromwell, always looking for political advantage, had turned his eyes to the German princes. They were Protestant—a point in their favor; moreover François and the Emperor were now behaving in a friendly fashion toward each other. So …Protestant Germany seemed to offer a possible solution.

  The Duke of Cleves had recently died and his son, William, had succeeded him. Alliance with England and the possibility of his sister Anne becoming Queen of England would be a great honor for his little dukedom.

  My father was very eager to have a young and beautiful girl for his wife. He remained furious with Mary of Guise who was going to Scotland. It was a slight hard to forgive, and he needed to be soothed by a bride younger and more beautiful than Mary of Guise.

  He was interested in Cromwell's schemes for the new alliance: it would give him particular satisfaction to snap his fingers at those two old adversaries, Charles and François; alliance with the Germans would give them some anxious qualms. He could attain two desires at one blow—disconcert them and get a beautiful bride for himself.

  But she must be young, she must be beautiful, and she must match Anne and Jane in physical attraction and at the same time be docile, loving and adoring…everything he would ask for in a wife.

  He sent Hans Holbein to Cleves to make an accurate portrait, and when the artist came back with an exquisite miniature, my father was entranced. The contract was signed at Dàsseldorf and with great impatience he awaited the arrival of his bride.

  Cromwell had learned his lessons from Wolsey, who had always sought to strengthen alliances through marriages; and now Cromwell concerned himself with mine. Perhaps he should have paused to remember poor Wolsey's humiliating end and that some of the easiest projects to disappoint were these proposed marriages. At first he decided that the brother of Anne of Cleves would be just right for me, but before the plan could be put into action, he had discovered a man who, he felt, would be a more powerful ally than William of Cleves. He would have the alliance with Cleves through the duke's sister Anne, so why not strike out in another direction? The aim would still be among the German princes. Philip of Bavaria was a nephew of Lewis V, the Elector Palatine, so by this alliance we could have allies in two places instead of one.

  Moreover Philip of Bavaria would be coming to England with the embassy which was to arrive for the wedding of the King and his new wife.

  For so long I had been the victim of frustration. I had reached the age of twenty-two, which is old for a princess to remain unmarried; and when I came to think of all the prospective bridegrooms I had had, I had come to believe that there would never be a marriage for me.

  And now…Philip of Bavaria was here and I was to meet him and, as Cromwell was anxious to forge the bonds between our country and his, it really did seem as though my marriage might be imminent.

  I shall never forget that meeting. My heart leaped with pleasure at the sight of him. I could hardly believe what I saw. He was tall and fair, with Nordic good looks; his manners were easy and pleasant; he was a very attractive man.

  He took my hand and kissed it and raised his blue eyes to my face. They were such kind blue eyes. I warmed toward him, and I felt he did toward me.

  The manners of the Court of Bavaria were different from those of ours, and I was taken by surprise when he leaned forward suddenly and kissed my lips.

  I had no German and he no English, so we must speak in Latin.

  He told me how great was his pleasure in beholding me, and I replied that I was glad I pleased him.

  I wondered how truthful he was. I knew I was not one of the beauties of the Court; I was small and thin and in spite of this I was lacking in that very desirable quality of femininity, for I had a rather deep voice. People often said that when I spoke I reminded them of my father; but I do admit that he had a rather high voice for a man, while mine was somewhat low for a woman.

  I must regret—as I always would—that my prospective bridegroom was not Reginald; but I was growing old, and it was long since I had seen him. My father would never consent to that match, and Philip of Bavaria was an exceptionally attractive man.

  I enjoyed our conversation. It was somewhat stilted, being in Latin, and very often caused us to smile; but I was gratified and content when he told me that he was falling in love with me.

  He presented me with a diamond cross on a chain which he said I must wear for his sake.

  Such an adventure was a novelty to me, and I enjoyed it without giving a great deal of thought to what a match with Bavaria might entail.

  Chapuys came to see me. He was most disturbed about the Cleves betrothal but far more so with the proposed marriage of myself and Philip of Bavaria.

  “You will be expected to embrace the Protestant Faith,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  “Had that not occurred to you?” he asked in shocked tone.

  What a fool I had been! I might have known nothing could go smoothly for me. How could I expect to have the joy of a perfect marriage? I liked Philip. When I considered the kind of bridegrooms who were presented to some princesses, I had reason to rejoice. If only that were all. He was handsome, charming, a man whom I could like. But, of course, he was a heretic.

  Chapuys was regarding my horror with some satisfaction.

  “You could never marry a heretic,” he said.

  “Never,” I agreed. “And yet … my father has allowed Cromwell to arrange this marriage.”

  “My master will be greatly displeased.”

  I might have pointed out that his master had done little to help in a practical way, being always too immersed in his own political schemes. They did not seem to realize that I was a poor desolate young woman with little power to act in the way she wanted, even though she might have the inclination.

  “This marriage will be disastrous.”

  “What of the King's?”

  “The King's is not good. But you are the hope …” He did not finish but his words made me tremble. I was the hope of the Catholic world. Mine was the task to bring this country back to the true Faith.

  How could I have been so blind as to rejoice because Philip of Bavaria was a young and presentable man… when he was a heretic?

  I could not marry him. Yet it might be that I must. I prayed. I called on my mother in Heaven to help me. But what could I do? If my father—and Cromwell—desired this marriage, I was powerless to prevent it.

  My dream of possible happiness was fading away. I was weak. I was helpless—and I was about to be married to a heretic. I did think about him a good deal. I had wanted this marriage…I was tired of spinsterhood. I had dreams of converting him to the true Faith. I encouraged that dream because I wanted to marry, and it was only with such a project in mind that I could do so with a good conscience.

  * * *

  ON THE 27TH of December Anne of Cleves left Calais to sail for England. When she landed at Deal, she was taken to Walmer Castle and, after a rest there, she proceeded to Dover Castle where, because the weather was bitterly cold and the winds were of gale force, she stayed for three days. Then she set out for Canterbury, where she was met by a company of the greatest nobles in the land, including the Duke of Norfolk. She must have been gratified by the warmth of her welcome and perhaps looked forward with great pleasure to meeting the man who was to be her husband.

  Poor Anne! When I grew to know her, I felt sorry for her; and I often pondered on the unhappiness my father brought to all the women who were close to him.

  He forgot that he was ageing, that he was no longer the romantic lover. He was excited. Pretending to be young again, going forth to meet the lady of Holbein's miniature and to sweep her off her feet with his passionate courtship. He had brought a gift for his bride: the finest sables in the kingdom to be made into a muff or a tippet.

  It was
at Rochester where they met. Unable to curb his impatience any longer, my father rode out to meet her cavalcade. He sent his Master of Horse, Anthony Browne, on ahead to tell Anne that he was there and wanted to give her a New Year's present.

  I wished that I had seen that first meeting. I will say this in his favor. He did not convey to her immediately his complete and utter disappointment. He curbed his anger and made a show of courtesy. But she must have known. She was never a fool.

  I did hear that, when he left her, he gave vent to his anger. There were plenty who heard it and were ready to report it. He was utterly shocked. The woman he saw was not in the least like Holbein's miniature, he complained. Where was that rose-tinted skin? Hers was pitted with smallpox scars. She was big, and he did not like big women. She was supposed to be twenty-four, but she looked more like thirty. Her features were heavy, and she was without that alluring femininity which so appealed to his nature.

  He did not stay long with her. It would have been too much to keep up the pretense of welcome when all the time he wanted to shout out his disappointment.

  Lord Russell, who witnessed the scene, said he had never seen anyone so astonished and abashed. As soon as he left her, his face turned purple with rage and he mumbled that he had never seen a lady so unlike what had been represented to him. “I see nothing… nothing of what has been shown to me in her picture. I am ashamed that I have been so deceived and I love her not.”

  He could not bring himself to give her the sables personally but, as he had mentioned a New Year's gift, he sent Sir Anthony Browne to give them to her.

  Meanwhile he raged against all those who had deceived him. She was ugly; her very talk grated on his ears. He would never speak Dutch—and she had no English. They had brought him a great Flanders mare.

  I wondered what she thought of him. His manners might have been courtly enough during that brief meeting; his voice was musical, though of a high pitch. But he was now overweight, lame and ageing; though he still had a certain charm; and he would always retain that aura of royal dignity.