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particularly so for me, in view of my previous weakness. I said to Philip, “Until this child is born, Elizabeth is the heir presumptive, and I believe she should be treated as such.” He said he had no objection and was very affable to her, often seating himself beside her and engaging in conversation. It was a great pleasure to me that they seemed so friendly toward each other but I did feel a little dismayed when Elizabeth was inclined to be coquettish. I thought Philip might have been a little disgusted. He was no Thomas Seymour to smile on or encourage 320 such conduct. But so determined was he to be amiable that he made no objection. I mentioned to him that he seemed very interested in her, and he replied that she was too near the throne for him to ignore her. “She seems to be happy about the child,” I said, “but it has blighted her hopes.” “She will understand that it is God who decides what is to be.” “As we all must,” I said. I put my hand over his, but his lay cold beneath mine. It was his Spanish nature. He did not seem to know how to respond to those little endearments, and therefore pretended he was unaware of them. I said, “Philip, you do think it is right to treat my sister as heirpresumptive, do you not?” “We must until the child is born.” “So thought I. Then she must be seated at my table. And she must receive honors. That is right, Philip?” “I believe that to be right,” he said. “I am glad that she will have an opportunity to become acquainted with Emmanuel Philibert.” Philip nodded gravely. When it was seen that I was treating Elizabeth with the respect due to the heir presumptive, there were many to flock round her. Philip's eyes were speculative as he watched her success. If I had not known him well, I should have thought he was interested in her as a woman. As for Elizabeth, she was in her element. I had never seen anyone recover so quickly, whether it was from sickness or fear of death; as soon as it was over, she seemed able to dismiss it from her mind. Emmanuel Philibert was paying court to her. She accepted his attentions and then wide-eyed declared that she could never marry. I was irritated with her. She must have known what was expected of her, yet she put on that pretense of innocence which I knew was entirely false. I sent for her and told her she was foolish. The prince was a good man; she was fortunate that he should agree to marry her. “My dear sister,” she said, “I have a repugnance for the state of marriage. I wish to remain a virgin.” “What! All your life!” “It would seem so…at this time.” “You are a fool, sister.” She piously raised her eyes to the ceiling, accepting my judgement. But I could see the stubborn look about her mouth. 321 Later I consulted Philip. I was feeling very ill now, and I know I looked wan. Philip was most anxious about me, and I was gratified that he showed such care for me. He said, “She should not be forced to marry.” “It would be difficult to force her.” He nodded. “Let her stay. She is watched. No harm can come that way.” I thought how kind he was, how considerate of others. I told Elizabeth that the King thought she should make her own decision about marriage. Her eyes lighted with pleasure, and she smiled secretively. THE ACTS SETTING OUT the return to Rome were now confirmed, and those nineteen statutes against the See of Rome brought in during my father's reign were repealed. It was not to be expected that the country would easily change, and there must certainly be dissenters. When Gardiner came to me and told me that the Council were going to enforce the old laws against heresy, I was disturbed. I questioned this. In my imagination I saw the pale, martyred face of Anne Askew, and I remembered those days when my stepmother Katharine Parr went in fear of her life. Anne Askew and Katharine Parr had been good women, though misguided. I could not bear to think of people being tortured and burned at the stake. “I think persuasion would be the best way to proceed,” I said. “Your Majesty, with all respect, when has persuasion ever persuaded? These people are as firm in their beliefs as…” “As you or I?” “They need guidance.” “Then let us give them guidance.” “The Council are of the opinion that the old laws should be enforced. Moreover, it is the Pope's wish.” “All I wanted was to bring the country back to Rome, for the Mass to be celebrated openly and with due reverence. I must think of this.” Gardiner looked at me with something like exasperation. Often he had deplored what he thought of as my woman's sentimentality. One did not govern a country on sentiment. If the law of the country was that people should worship in the way it was before my father broke with Rome, then that was how it should be. I wanted to explain to him that it was different now. Since Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five theses on the church door at Wittenberg, Protestantism had grown apace, and there were many Protestants in England who had flourished under my brother. Would they lightly discard those new beliefs and cheerfully return to the old? They certainly 322 would not, and then… “Let it be gradual,” I said. “Perhaps you will talk to the King,” replied Gardiner. He knew that I would. He knew that I sought every opportunity of talking to Philip, and he knew that Philip would doubtless agree with the Council. I told Philip how gratified I was that we were restoring the true religion. We had come out of the sleep, as someone said, and we were now getting back onto the right course. It was what God had ordained for me, and I was achieving it. “It is a matter for rejoicing,” said Philip. “Philip,” I said earnestly. “I do not wish the law to be harsh.” He never betrayed his feelings, but I could see his thoughts were much the same as Gardiner's had been and that he believed my misguided sentiments stood in the way of good government. He said, “If the people will not come to the truth voluntarily, they must be led to it.” “How can they be led if they will not listen?” “When they see what happens to heretics, they will be led.” “There will always be martyrs.” “There will always be heretics and they must be removed.” “I remember Anne Askew. She was a good woman, but misguided in her views. They racked her. They burned her at the stake.” “You must understand. A heretic denies God's truth. What is there for him…or her… when they are brought before their Maker? It will be hell fire for them… eternal fire. That which is felt at the stake will be nothing compared with what is to come.” I covered my face with my hands. “I wish it need not be,” I said. “There must be examples.” “Each person must be given a chance to recant.” Philip nodded. “That should be. And for the death of one, think of the thousands who will be saved by his example. It is easy to talk of martyrdom, but when the flames are actually seen to consume the bodies of those who sin against God, men and women will question their beliefs. It is the way to turn people to the truth.” He persuaded me, and in January, when Parliament was dissolved, the way ahead was clear. I wanted every person to have a chance to save himor herself. All they had to do was turn from the new learning to the old, true religion. I wanted all to know that I would be a loving monarch if my people would obey the laws of the land. I wanted no trouble. I 323 wanted them to regard me as their mother. I wanted them to know I loved them and that, if I agreed to punishment—and this applied particularly to heretics, it was for their own good. I said that all those who had been imprisoned at the time of the Wyatt rebellion should be released. I thought often of Edward Courtenay, with whom I had at one time considered a marriage. How fortunate I had been to escape that! In spite of his Plantagenet blood, he would have been a most unsuitable husband. How different Philip was! I said he should be released from Fotheringay, where he had lived virtually as a prisoner since his release from the Tower. But he must not stay in England, of course. That could be unsafe. He and Elizabeth might plot together. She had sworn she was loyal to me, and I tried to believe her, but I would never really know Elizabeth. She was shrewd. The perils through which she had passed would have made her so. I must remember her dangerous flirtation with Seymour, which might have had dire results. So Courtenay could go free only if he left the country. He went, with the injunction that he must not return to England without permission. It was in February of that second year of my reign that the first heretic was burned at the stake for his religious opinions. His name was Rogers, and people gathered at Smithfield to watch him burn. In Coventry the rector of All Hallows Church was burned and at Hadleigh Rowland Taylor, a wellknown adherent to the Protestant cause, met the same fate. He was the parish priest and much loved, a man of great virtue, apart from his stubbornness in religious matters. He had protested violently when a priest had been sent to perform Mass in his church. His arrest and sentence to the stake had followed. But the most prominent victim was John Hooper, the Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. I was very distressed. Why could they not accept the truth? All were given the chance to. All they had to do was deny their faith and accept the true one, and they would be saved. I did remember how I had clung to my faith and how I had put myself in danger by my firm adherence to it. But that was the true faith. I laughed at myself. These poor people deluded themselves that their was the true one. Because Hooper was so well known, there was more talk about him than the others. He had been such a good man, people were saying: he had a wife who had borne nine children. I knew this. But he had been remonstrated with and given every chance. He had been arrested some time before on some petty charge, because Gardiner had intimated to me that he was a dangerous man. He believed so fervently in his style of religion, and people were moved by his eloquence and inclined to follow him. Hooper had been in the Fleet Prison for some time, and he had made it known that there he had been treated worse than if he had been a slave. Gardiner saw how distressed I was that this man had suffered death by burning, and he insisted that he had done much harm with his preaching and writing, and would have done more if he had been allowed to live. He had been offered every chance. The day before his death, Sir Anthony Kingston had gone to him and begged him 324 to recant, for to do so would save his life. But he would not. He said he would rather face the flames. “He was a foolish man,” said Gardiner. “Aye,” I replied, “but a brave one.” I was deeply disturbed that there should be this religious persecution in my reign. I had wanted to be good to all my people. I almost wished that I was back in the past, when I was without responsibilities, even wondering who was seeking to destroy me. Now the power was mine to destroy others, I could not rest. My nights were haunted by memories of my stepmother Katharine Parr. She came to me in dreams, side by side with Anne Askew. “All these heretics have to do is recant,” I continually reminded myself. If they did, they would be received with joy. Is there not greater joy in the sinner who repents? They should have instruction. They should have time to learn. I would insist on that. I was pleased when one of the Franciscans preached at Court, pointing out that burning at the stake was not the way. I said to Philip, “He is right.” But Philip did not think so. In his native country the Inquisition flourished. It had a beneficial effect, he insisted. People lived in fear of it. Only the reckless and foolhardy wanted to pit themselves against it. After that sermon, there was a lull for a while, and then the arrests began again and the burning continued. What was happening threw a cloud over my happiness. It was April, and I believed that the birth of my child was imminent. I was to go to Hampton Court, where arrangements were being made for my confinement. Soon, I told myself, I should forget my troubles. In a few weeks from now I should have my child. I then embarked on the most extraordinary and heartbreaking time of my whole life. The first weeks at Hampton were peaceful. I was glad of the custom which decreed that a queen should retire and live quietly with her women, awaiting the great event. Here Jane Seymour had come before me. She had given birth to a boy, and that had killed her—yet she had been young and healthy and ripe for childbearing, it had seemed. Susan said I must not think of Jane. She had not been taken care of after the birth. She would see that I had every care. And so we waited. I had the cradle placed in my room so that I could see it all the time. It was very elaborate and splendidly decorated—worthy of the child born to be King. My dearest hope was about to be realized, and it seemed as though the days would 325 never pass. I said to Susan that time seemed to have slowed down. “It is ever so, when one is waiting,” she replied. “Very soon your time will come.” I talked all the time of the child. “He will be a boy, I know it…a perfect boy. I can see him, Susan. He will be like Philip. That is how I would have him. But perhaps he will be tall…as my father was… although I am small and so is Philip… but sometimes children take after their grandparents. The child's grandfather was a big, fine man. I should like my son to be like him … as he was in his youth before … before … And my father's grandfather, Edward IV, was a big and handsome man.” “Be the child large or small, you will love it just the same,” said Susan wisely. “How dare you call my child ‘it', Susan?” “We do not know that it will be a boy. It is wise at such a time to see what God will send.” “I should love a girl, of course. But it is a boy that everyone wants. A King… not a Queen… but if the child is a girl, we might get boys after.” Susan raised her eyes to the ceiling. She did not approve of my having a child at all. She thought I was too old and not strong enough. I could have been angry with her, but I knew all she thought and all she did was out of love for me. 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. 326 “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. 327 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. 328 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 329 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, worse 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, 330 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 331 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. 332 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. I wanted nothing now so much as to be left alone with my grief and melancholy. THE BURNING OF PROTESTANTS continued. It was only when some notable person was led to the stake that it was an event. So it was with Cranmer. As Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer had played a big part in my father's affairs and had been one of the prime movers in the break with the Church of Rome; and it was thought that it would be safe and wise to be rid of him. 333 He was a man of great intellectuality but such men are often less brave than others. Cranmer was not a brave man… not until the very end. The return of papal authority must have filled him with terror, for he would know that one who had been at the very heart of the break would find himself in a difficult position. I was pleased when he signed a declaration agreeing that, as Philip and I had admitted the Pope's authority in England, he would submit to our views. That should have been enough; and doubtless it would have been but for his position in the country and the effect he would have on so many people. I had said that those who admitted their heresy and turned to the true faith would be free. But there were politics to be considered as well as religion and, much as I deplored this, I was overruled. If only Philip had been here, I said, over and over again; but I knew that if Philip were here he would be on the side of the Council. Yet I deluded myself into thinking that he would have stood by me. I had to delude myself. It was the only way to bring a glimmer of hope into my life. Cranmer signed two documents. In one he agreed that he would put the Pope before the King and Queen; and in the other he promised complete obedience to the King and Queen as to the Pope's supremacy. This should have saved him, but his enemies were determined he should die. He was too important to be allowed to live; and he was condemned and taken out to the stake. Face to face with death, martyrdom descended upon him. He addressed the people, telling them that in his fear of death he had signed his name to certain documents. He had degraded himself by doing so, and before he died he wished to proclaim his faith in the new religion. The sticks were lighted and, as the flames crept up his body, he held out his right hand and said in resonant tones, “For as much as my right hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, it shall be punished therefor and burned first.” He stood there, his hand outstretched while the flames licked his flesh. All over the country they were talking of Cranmer. “Where will it end?” they were asking. “What next? Will they bring the Inquisition to England?” Sullen anger was spreading. I had done what God had intended I should, but it had brought me into ill repute. There was no comfort anywhere. Reginald was ill and growing very feeble; I could not believe he would live long. And still Philip did not return. WHY DID HE not come? I wrote to him, “I am surrounded by enemies. My crown is in danger. I need you.” But there was always some excuse. His father had now abdicated in his favor, and he was King of Spain in his own 334 right. This seemed a good reason to keep him away. I made excuses for him to others, but in my own chamber I said to myself: He does not want to come. I am his wife. Why does he not want to be with me as I do him? He had never loved me. Once more I had deluded myself. He had gone through the motions of being a husband; and I, feeling so deeply myself, had been aware of the lack of response in him. But I would not admit it. I had tried to believe because I so desperately wanted to. I was deeply upset by the burnings. I did not know what I should do. It was God's will, I told myself continually. This was what He had preserved me to do. Those who died, I assured myself, were doomed to hell fire in any case. They were heretics, and heretics are the enemies of God. They must be eliminated before they spread their evil doctrines. I concerned myself with the poor. I would go to visit them in their houses, talk of their problems with them, take them food and give them money if they needed it. It comforted me to some extent. It helped to shut out the ghostly cries that echoed in my ears, the smell of burning flesh which seemed constantly in my nostrils. Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper, Latimer … I could not forget them. They were men I had known, spoken with. I had liked some of them… and I had condemned them to the fire. No, not I. It was their judges. I would have pardoned them. But the ultimate blame would be laid on my shoulders. Apart from Reginald, my greatest comfort was in my women. There was Susan, of course, and Jane Dormer was another whom I particularly liked. Jane was betrothed to the Count of Feria, a gentleman of Philip's suite, and one of his greatest friends. When Philip returned to England with his entourage, Jane was to be married, so she and I had a great deal in common at that time, both awaiting the return of a loved one. My fortieth birthday had come and passed. How the years pressed on me! If Philip did not return soon, I should be too old for childbearing. I still cherished the hope. Why did he not come? I asked myself again and again. Always it was the same answer when I wrote to him pleadingly: “I will come soon…as yet there are duties which keep me here.” He wrote that he must go to Flanders to celebrate his coming to power there, as well as in Spain. There were malicious people to bring me news of those celebrations. Philip was playing a big part in them. He was giving himself up to pleasure. It was difficult to imagine Philip's doing that. He had always been so serious when he was with me. “Why does he not come?” I kept demanding of Susan and Jane. “What can be keeping him all this time?” If they were silent, I would make excuses for him. His father had renounced the realm in Philip's favor, I reminded them. He was no longer merely the Prince of Spain but 335 the King. He had his obligations. But I was worried. Reginald could not help me. He was very ill, and I was discovering that he was not a practical man. He was clever and learned, but I needed advice. I was desperately worried about the burnings, in spite of the fact that I told myself it was God's will. I heard terrible stories of wood which would not ignite properly, of people who were scorched for hours before they finally passed away. Some of the screams were terrible. Men talked of Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper and Latimer, but there were humble folk, too… the unlearned who had been led astray. Having been on my errands of mercy, disguised as a noble lady with no hint that I was the Queen, I had learned something of the lives of these people. I felt it was wrong to send them to a fiery death simply because they were ignorant and saw themselves as martyrs. If only Philip were here! But he upheld the Inquisition in his land. He would bring it to England, and persecution would be intensified then. To whom could I turn? I decided to send to Flanders to find out the real cause for Philip's continued absence. Were those stories of his adventurings true? I could not believe them. But then, just as I had never understood my sister Elizabeth, I did not understand Philip either. I was too downright, I supposed. I was at a loss with those people who showed a certain front to the world when they were secretly something else. At the same time I sent a messenger to the Emperor. I had the utmost respect for his judgement. I had always regarded him as one of the most shrewd leaders in Europe, possessed of great wisdom. I wanted him to be told of the heretics who made martyrs of themselves and the effect it was having on the people. I had always wanted to persuade … to coerce perhaps… and only rarely impose the final penalty. The Emperor might give me his views. There was another point. People varied. What the Spaniards accepted, the English might not. I wanted him to know that there was discontent throughout the kingdom and that even the most faithful to the old religion felt a repugnance toward the fiery death— particularly for men who had led good lives—men such as Hugh Latimer, for instance. Why did I expect Charles to understand? On his orders, 30,000 heretics in Flanders had been either beheaded or buried alive. And Philip? What did he care for those people? The numbers who had died in England since the rules were introduced were infinitesimal compared with those who had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition. No, the Emperor would think, with Philip and some members of my Council, that I was a foolish woman, and that a woman needed a man beside her if she was to rule with a firm hand. I was ready to agree. If only he would come! He had so many commitments now, he wrote. As soon as it was possible, he would be with me. It was only duty which kept him from me! Duty! Paying homage to beautiful women in Brussels! Was that duty? 336 I was told that Ruy Gomez da Silva had told our ambassador that Philip could not come because his astrologer had prophesied that, if he returned to England, he would be assassinated. Therefore he felt it wiser to stay away. After all, the Spaniards had been treated rather badly when they were in England. They had been shunned almost everywhere; they had been robbed and often attacked. It was small wonder that the King was inclined to listen to his astrologer. I was ill… sick with disappointment. My women were anxious about me. They thought of everything they could do to amuse me for a while, but I was not amused. Even Jane the Fool could not bring the slightest smile to my lips. I was with Susan and Jane Dormer one day when they began to chide me for my listless attitude. I was not eating enough; I was staying in my apartments, brooding. “It will be different when the King returns,” I said. “Your Majesty should try to enjoy what is here for your pleasure.” “My heart is with my husband,” I replied. “You must know that.” “But he does not come, Madam,” said Jane Dormer sadly. “He has too much with which to occupy himself.” I caught a glance which passed between them. Susan's lips were a little pursed. Jane lifted her shoulders slightly. It was as though Jane were asking a question. I distinctly caught the faint shake of Susan's head. “What have you heard?” I demanded. Jane flushed scarlet. Susan was more self-contained. She said, “I doubt little that Your Majesty does not already know.” “Then why is it that you have decided not to tell me?” They opened their eyes wide and looked at me, assuming innocence. But I knew them well, and I guessed there was something they were keeping from me. “Susan…Jane…” I said. “Have you joined the ranks of my enemies?” “Your Majesty!” “You are hiding something from me.” “But Your Majesty…” “Susan, what are you afraid to tell me?” “Oh … it was nothing. Just idle gossip.” “Concerning me.” They were silent. “And the King… was he concerned?” I persisted. 337 Susan bit her lip. “It is all nonsense. There will always be rumors.” “And these rumors?” Susan looked at Jane and Jane at Susan. It was Susan who spoke. “They are saying that the King will never come back.” “Why should he not?” “They are saying, Your Majesty, that he prefers to be somewhere else.” There was silence. Jane fell to her knees and, taking my hand, kissed it. “Oh, Your Majesty,” she said earnestly, “I wish all could be well with you. I pray he will come soon and show how he loves you… and that there will be a child.” “I pray for it, Jane.” “I, too, Your Majesty,” added Susan. I looked at her. There was an expression of infinite sadness on her face. I had known Susan for many years. She was one of those most dear to me. I trusted her. I knew of her love and devotion. “You do not believe that he will come, Susan,” I said. “And you know something which you are afraid to tell me.” She could not dissimulate. She was my honest, open Susan. She drew a deep breath and said, “There are rumors. But there are always rumors.” “And these rumors? Come. Since they are only rumors, we need not believe them if we do not wish to.” “That is so, Your Majesty.” “Then tell me what you have heard. It is not good that I should be kept in the dark.” “Your Majesty has suffered. Only those of us who have been near you know how much. I cannot bear to see Your Majesty suffer… and to remain deluded.” “Deluded? What of these rumors? They concern the King. You must tell me.” Still she was silent. “Susan,” I commanded. “Tell me.” “There are women, Your Majesty. The Duchess of Lorraine is his mistress.” I tried to smile. I heard myself saying, “The King is a man, Susan. It is the way of men. I am not there. He wants me, of course. I am his wife. But we are separated. We should not take these women any more seriously than he does.” I was amazed at myself, surprised that I could speak calmly when I was seething with jealousy within. It was hard to pretend. He should be faithful. We were married. We had taken our sacred vows. But I knew this rumor was true. A mistress! How was he with her? Not as he had been with me… courteous… like a stranger. We must try to get a 338 child. Just that. No real love, no passion. Was that how he was with her? But he would not be with her because of the urgent need to get a child. He would be with her because that was where he wanted to be. And this was why he did not come to England. I knew that was not all. Half of me said, Do not pursue this. It is only going to make you more unhappy. But if there was more to know, I must know it. “What else, Susan?” I asked. “There is nothing else.” “Usually you are truthful, Susan. It is one of the qualities which have endeared you to me. Come, do not disappoint me. What else have you heard?” “One cannot trust the French,” she said. “No. But sometimes they make some pertinent comments. What is their verdict on my marriage?” She was silent and looked as though she were on the point of bursting into tears. “I insist on knowing, Susan.” “The French ambassador told the Venetian ambassador that Philip has said that England is nothing but a costly nuisance. He does not like the people and he does not want to return to it.” “That cannot be true.” “Your Majesty asked…” “Yes, I asked because I like to know what tales are being circulated. What else, Susan? You are still holding something back.” She paused; she held up her head and a certain defiance came into her eyes. I knew she did not like Philip because she blamed him for my unhappiness. She said, “It is that King Philip is hoping to have his marriage annulled.” It was out, and now it was difficult for me to hide my dismay. They knew me too well, both of them. They had seen my exultation. I had talked to them of the perfections of my husband, of my perfect marriage, of my hopes. I could not disguise my misery from these two who knew me so well. I sat very still and covered my face with my hands. There was a deep silence in the room. Then I felt them at my feet. I opened my eyes and saw them both kneeling there. There were tears on Jane's cheeks, and Susan looked stricken. “It is only gossip, Your Majesty,” said Susan. “Only gossip,” I repeated. “Yet it has a ring of truth…” They saw now that there was to be no more pretense. It was no use. They knew of my love, of my hopes. They had been with me during those terrible weeks when I was 339 awaiting the birth of a non-existent child. They had been through it all. They had suffered with me. I could no longer hide my true feelings from them. They were my very dear and trusted friends. Susan spoke first. “Your Majesty must not grieve. It is better to look at the truth.” “Better to say I deluded myself,” I murmured, “that he did not care for me, that he never did.” “It is often so in royal marriages, Your Majesty… and in the marriages of those who are high born.” “But sometimes love comes,” I said. They were silent. “He is a great man,” I said. “Your Majesty is a great Queen,” added Susan. I put out my hands and touched their heads gently. “You should not grieve, Your Majesty, for one who would betray you,” said Susan. I did not answer. Did she know that she was uttering treason against the King? But she was safeguarding the Queen. “He was not what Your Majesty believed him to be,” she went on. “He was all that I believed him to be.” She was silent for a moment, then she burst out, “You thought he was so solemn…so pure…so chaste. It was never so. Why, he tried to seduce Magdalen Dacre.” “Magdalen Dacre!” “Yes. She told us. She was horribly shocked.” I remembered how I had noticed the girl because she was so tall. They would look incongruous together, I thought inconsequentially. Ludicrous. Perhaps that was what appealed to him about her. But she was exceptionally beautiful. I remembered there had been a time when she had been subdued and always seemed to absent herself when Philip was there. “It was at Hampton Court,” said Susan, who, having begun, seemed to find it difficult to stop. “She was at her toilette. There was a small window. He must have seen her as he passed. He tried to open the window and put his arm into the room. Magdalen rapped him sharply and told him to be off.” “She did not tell me.” “She would not have grieved you.” “Perhaps it would have been better if I had known.” 340 There was no pretense now. I could not hide my misery from them, and they would not have believed me, however good a job I made of it. “He gave me no sign …” I said. “He was particularly courteous to her afterward.” “He bore no grudge,” said Jane, as though calling my attention to something in his favor. “Oh, Your Majesty,” said Susan, “you must not be unhappy. There are such men. They know not the meaning of fidelity. It is better not to care too much. We heard how he used to go off with a group of friends. They were of a kind.” “I had heard rumors and not believed them.” “They used to sing that song about the baker's daughter,” said Jane. I closed my eyes. So they knew! All my people knew, and I was the only one who believed he loved me! “What song?” I asked. Susan said quickly, “It was a silly little rhyme … nothing … nothing…I have forgotten it.” I caught Jane's wrist. “Tell me the rhyme,” I commanded. “Your Majesty, I…I can't remember.” “Tell me,” I said coldly. So she told me. Yüklə 2,31 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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