fait accompli
. I often wondered why he was
not as frank as he might have been with Wolsey. It might have been because he respected
the man and really had a great fondness for him. In any case, he allowed Wolsey to go to
France and get François' approval for the divorce and to suggest the King's marriage to
one of the princesses of France.
My father had called on his conscience so many times that it began to have a life
of its own and would not always be guided by him. It now began to disturb him on
account of his previous relationship with Mary Boleyn and, since he had lived on
intimate terms with the sister of the woman he intended to marry, was he not in a similar
position to that of which he was trying to accuse my mother? I knew this because it came
to light later that he had sent one of his secretaries, a certain Dr. Knight, to the Pope to
get a dispensation in advance so that he could feel perfectly free to marry Anne.
This mission had to be kept secret from Wolsey, who was at this time presenting
himself to François suggesting a French marriage for the King. So my father was playing
a double game in his own immediate circle. Poor Wolsey. Although he was no friend to
my mother and me and would have cast us off without qualm if need be, I could spare a
little pity for him. He had risen so high, and it is always harder for such people when the
fall comes.
I did catch a glimpse of Wolsey setting out on his mission. Pride and love of
splendor would be his downfall, I thought then. He rode with as much pomp as the King
himself. He was at the center of his entourage on his mule caparisoned in crimson velvet,
with stirrups of copper and gilt. Two crosses of silver, two silver pillars, the Great Seal of
England and his Cardinal's Hat were all carried before him. It was a magnificent show,
and people came out of their houses to catch a glimpse of it as it passed. They watched it
sullenly, murmuring under their breath “Butcher's Cur.”
63
I have come to learn that the lowly, instead of admiring those who have risen, are
so consumed with envy toward them that they cannot contain their animosity. I often
wondered why they did not regard them as an example to be emulated; but no, they prefer
to hate. Wolsey's exaggerated splendor increased their anger against him, I always
believed. They did not like his habit of carrying an orange which was stuffed with
unguents as an antidote to the foul smells which came from the press of people. This
seemed to stress the difference between them and himself. It was small wonder that it
added to the resentment.
It must have been during that visit to France that Wolsey realized his influence
with the King was in decline, for one of his spies managed to steal papers from Dr.
Knight's baggage, and so the Cardinal knew that my father had sent Dr. Knight to act in
complete opposition to him. It was the writing on the wall. What could Wolsey do? How
could he assume any authority if the King was working against him? He must have
returned from that visit to France a disillusioned man.
I heard about his return. The King was surrounded by his courtiers, Anne Boleyn
at his side, when Wolsey sent a messenger to tell him of his arrival, expecting my father
to tell him he would receive him at once and naturally in private. He was travel-stained
and wished to wash and change his linen before meeting the King, but Anne imperiously
ordered him to come to them as he was, there in the banqueting hall. Wolsey was
dismayed. This was not the treatment he was accustomed to, but when the King did not
countermand Anne Boleyn's order, he must have known this was the end.
The King intended to marry the woman; and farseeing, clever as he was, Wolsey
could see that there would be no place for him at Court while she was there.
When my mother heard what had happened, she was very melancholy.
It seemed that the King was determined.
She said, “But time is on our side. He will tire of her in due course. I am sure of
it.”
She was right in a way, but she did not see it. Perhaps she knew him too well to
trust in his fidelity. Heaven knew, she had had experience of his nature in this respect.
There was little comfort for us except in the love and support of the people. When
my mother and I took a barge from Greenwich to Richmond, they lined the banks of the
river to cheer us. The sound was heartening. “Long live the Queen! Long live the
Princess!”
Did we imagine it or was there an extra fervor in their cheers? How much did they
know of the King's plan to replace my mother and disinherit me?
THERE WAS TROUBLE EVERYWHERE. My father was on unfriendly terms
with the Emperor. There was no doubt that he was shocked by my father's attempts to
divorce my mother and regarded it as an insult to Spain. I rejoiced that she had such a
strong champion. This meant a halt to trade, which caused unrest in the country. England
did a certain amount of business with Spain but that with the Netherlands was vital to our
people and especially the clothiers of Suffolk. As before, the manufacturers found it
necessary to discharge workers and there was a return of the riots.
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My father had always dreaded to lose his subjects' affection. I had never seen
anyone so delighted by approval as he was. Despot that he was, he wanted to be loved. It
was a measure of his infatuation with Anne Boleyn that he risked their displeasure.
However, there was an immediate truce with the Netherlands.
Then disaster struck. The sweating sickness came to England.
This was the most dreaded disease which seemed to strike our country more than
any other, to such an extent that it was often known as the “English Sweat.” There was a
superstition about it because it had first appeared in the year 1485, at the time of the
battle of Bosworth Field when my grandfather, Henry VII, had become King after
defeating Richard III. People said it was revenge on the Tudors for having usurped the
throne; and now here it was again when my father was contemplating divorcing my
mother.
It was dreaded by all and was so called because the victim was struck until his
death—which was usually the outcome—by profuse sweating. It was a violent fever; it
rendered those who suffered from it with pains in the head and stomach and a terrible
lethargy. The heat the patient had to endure was intense, and any attempt to cool it meant
instant death.
When victims were discovered in London, there was great consternation.
The Court broke up. The King believed that the best way to escape the disease
was to leave for the country without delay and move from place to place, and this he
proceeded to do.
I could not help feeling great satisfaction when I heard that Anne Boleyn had
caught the disease. She was immediately sent to Hever, away from the Court.
My father was deeply distressed and sent his second-best physician—but only
because his first was away—to look after her. This was Dr. Butts, a man of great
reputation. I heard my father was in a panic lest she die.
I frankly hoped she would.
I said to my mother and the Countess, “This is God's answer. When she is dead,
all our troubles will be over.”
My mother answered, “It may be that her death would not be the end of our
troubles.”
I retorted angrily, “My father says that he is afraid his marriage is no true
marriage but the truth is that he wants to marry Anne Boleyn.”
The Countess looked at me steadily. Since they had known I was aware of what
was happening, they had treated me more like an adult, talking to me frankly—and at
least I was grateful for that.
She said, “He wants to marry Anne Boleyn, but it is true that he wants sons, too.”
“And he thinks she will provide them.”
“He has two desires—one for her, and one for sons.”
65
“Suppose she could not have them?”
The Countess said slowly, “Well, then it would depend…”
“On what?”
“How deep is his feeling for her? Is it love? We shall never know perhaps. I will
say this: I have a feeling that these negotiations will drag on for a long, long time.”
“But I wish she would die,” I said. “It will save us all much unhappiness if she
does.”
The Countess was silent. I was sure she agreed with me that that would be the
best solution.
DURING THAT PERIOD everyone at Court realized how obsessed the King was
by Anne Boleyn. I was in dark despair. My hatred for the woman overshadowed
everything for me; she was never out of my thoughts. I gloated over the fact that she was
suffering from the dreaded disease. I reminded myself again and again that there were not
many who survived. People said it was a punishment from God. Surely, if God's wrath
should be turned against anyone, that should be Anne Boleyn. So I whipped up my
hatred. I prayed for her death. What a wonderful release that would be!
My father wrote often to her. He was plunged into melancholy. Hourly he waited
for news from Hever. So did I… for the news that she was dead.
But she did not die. She was nursed back to health by her devoted stepmother. My
father was joyful. His sweetheart was saved. Meanwhile my mother and I had been
traveling from place to place with the Court.
“God is not on our side,” I said bitterly, and my mother admonished me.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “we must endure it because it is God's will.” So
when the epidemic was over, we were in the same position as we had been in before it
started.
That year was the most unhappy I had lived through—up to that time. I did not
know then, mercifully, that it was only a beginning. I thanked God that I was surrounded
by those I loved. I was with my mother each day, I had my dear Countess, and there was
also Lady Willoughby, my mother's greatest friend. Maria de Salinas had been with her
when she came from Spain and had stayed beside her ever since. She had married in
England and become Lady Willoughby but their friendship had remained steadfast.
Then, of course, there was Reginald. How grateful I was for his company. He had
said that he would not stay in England but I think perhaps my need of him made him
change his mind. He was very fond of my mother and, like us all, greatly saddened by her
suffering.
I would be thirteen years old in the February of the following year. Perhaps I
flatter myself but I am sure I was like a girl at least four years older. My education and
upbringing had done that for me. Moreover at an early age I had been aware of my
responsibilities and of a great future either as the wife of a monarch or as ruler in my own
right.
66
I was often in Reginald's company—indeed, I believe he sought this, for he was
clearly eager that it should be. The only brightness in those days was provided by him.
What was so gratifying was that he treated me like an adult, and from him I began to get
a clearer view of the situation. My father was very fond of Reginald, for he had a great
respect for learning. He would summon him and they would walk up and down the
gallery talking of religion and, of course, the subject which was uppermost in his mind:
his desire to do what was right; his fears that he had offended God by living with a lady
who was not in truth his wife. All that he told Reginald, seeking to win his sympathy in
his cause, I believe, for he cared very much for the opinions of scholars.
It must have been difficult for Reginald, whose sympathies were with my mother
and me, to choose his words carefully, for I was sure if my father thought he did not
agree with him he would be very angry. Sometimes I trembled for Reginald during those
encounters, but he was clever; he had a way with words and he did learn a great deal of
what was in the King's mind during these interviews. But I knew my father's temper and I
was uneasy.
My father was, in some ways, a simple man. He made much of Reginald, calling
him cousin and when they walked along the gallery putting his arm round Reginald's
shoulders. At the back of his mind would be the memory of what his father had done to
the Earl of Warwick because he feared people might think that Plantagenet Warwick had
had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. Later, when I began to understand
my father's character more I could believe that he wanted to make much of Reginald
because he was placating Heaven in a way for the murder of Reginald's uncle.
What uneasy days they were when we never knew what momentous event was
going to erupt.
So my consolation was Reginald.
He it was who told me that the Pope had now been released and was at this time
in Orvieto trying to build up a Court there.
“He is in a dilemma,” said Reginald. “The King is demanding judgement in his
favor, and he is too powerful to be flouted. But how can he defy the Emperor?”
“He should do what he considers right.”
“You ask too much of him,” said Reginald with a wry smile.
“But surely as a Christian…”
Reginald shook his head. “He is still in the hands of the Emperor. But, who
knows, next week everything could be different. He is in too weak a position to defy
anyone.”
“Then what will he do?”
“My guess is that he will prevaricate. It is always the wise action.”
“Can he?”
“We shall see.”
And we did. It was Reginald who told me, “The Pope is sending Cardinal
67
Campeggio to England.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked.
Reginald lifted his shoulders. “We shall have to wait and see. He will try the case
with Cardinal Wolsey.”
“Wolsey! But he will be for the King.”
“It should not be a case of either being for one or the other. It should be a matter
of justice.”
“I fear this will make more anxiety for my mother. I worry so much about her,
and I think she worries too much about me. I think she is fighting for me rather than
herself.”
“She is a saint, and it is true that she fights for you. But you are her greatest hope.
The people love you. You strengthen her case. The people cheer you. They call you their
Princess, which means they regard you as heir to the throne. They will not accept
another.”
“I never thought anything like this could happen.”
“None of us can see ahead. None of us knows what the future holds for us.”
“Reginald,” I said, “you won't go away yet?”
He looked at me tenderly. “As long as I am allowed to remain here, I will.”
He took my hand and kissed it.
“I hope you will never go away,” I told him. He pressed my hand firmly then
released it and turned away.
I knew there was some special feeling between us, and I was glad that there had
been no marriage with the Emperor Charles. My betrothal to the little Prince of France I
did not consider. I was certain that it would come to nothing.
It must… because of Reginald.
IT IS AN OLD story now. Everyone knows that Cardinal Campeggio did not
arrive in England until October, although he had left Rome three months before. He was
so old, so full of gout, that he had to take the journey in very slow stages, resting for
weeks when the attacks brought on by discomfort were prolonged.
Reginald, who was very far-sighted in all matters, confided in me that he believed
Campeggio had no intention of making a decision. How could he when the Emperor
would be watching the outcome with such interest? He dared not give the verdict the
King wanted, because it would displease the Emperor, and to go against the King would
arouse his wrath.
“What a position for a poor sick old man to be in!” he said. “It is my belief tht the
Pope sent Campeggio because of his infirmity. Why should he have not sent a healthy
man? Oh, I am certain Campeggio has his instructions to delay.”
Reginald understood these matters; he had traveled widely on the Continent and
he had an insight into politics and the working of men's minds.
68
How right he proved to be!
I heard from Reginald that the King was in a fury. He had told him that this man
Campeggio was determined to make things more difficult. “ ‘He has come here not so
much to try the case as to talk to me. As if I needed talking to!' he cried. He cited his
sister of Scotland, who divorced her second husband, the Earl of Angus. Louis XII of
France had been divorced from Jeanne de Valois with little fuss. Why all this preamble
because the King of England was so concerned for his country, to which he must give a
son, and was merely asking for a chance to do so? So he went on. He gripped my arm so
fiercely. I was glad he did not expect me to speak.”
“Oh, you must be careful.”
“My dear Princess, you can rest assured I shall be. What alarmed me— forgive
me for disturbing you, but I think you should see the case clearly— is that the King flew
into a rage when the Cardinal suggested that the Pope would be only too ready to amend
the dispensation and make it clear that the King's marriage to the Queen was valid.”
“I know he does not want that. He is blinded by his passion for this woman.”
“That… and his desire for a son.”
“How can he be sure that she can give him one?”
“He has to risk that, and he is determined to have the opportunity to try.”
I was glad we were prepared, for shortly after that Campeggio and Wolsey called
on my mother.
I was with her when they arrived and made to leave but she said, “No, stay,
daughter. This concerns you as it does me.”
I was glad to stay.
They were formidable, those two, in their scarlet robes, bringing with them an
aura of sanctity and power. They wanted to impress upon us the fact that they came from
the highest authority, His Holiness the Pope.
They hesitated about allowing me to stay, but my mother was adamant and they
apparently thought my presence would do no harm.
Wolsey began by citing cases when royal marriages had for state reasons been
annulled. The one my father had referred to with Reginald was mentioned—that of Louis
XII and Jeanne de Valois.
“The lady retired to a convent,” said Wolsey, “and there enjoyed a life of sanctity
to the end of her days.”
“I shall not do that,” replied my mother. “I am the Queen. My daughter is the heir
to the throne. If I agree to this, it will be said that I am expiating the sin of having lived
with the King when not his wife. This is a blatant lie, and I will not give credence to it.
Moreover the Princess Mary is the King's legitimate daughter, and unless we have a son
she will remain heir to the throne.”
Wolsey begged her to take his advice.
69
She turned on him at once. “You are the King's advocate, Cardinal,” she said. “I
could not take advice from you.”
Campeggio leaned forward in his chair and stroked his thigh, his face
momentarily contorted with pain. “Your Grace,” he said, “the King is determined to bring
the truth to light.”
“There is nothing I want more,” retorted my mother.
“If this matter were brought before a court, it could be most distressing for you.”
“I know the truth,” she answered. “It would be well for all to know it.”
“Your Grace was married to Prince Arthur. You lived with him for some time. If
the marriage were consummated…”
“The marriage was not consummated.”
“This must be put to the test.”
“How?”
“Those who served you when you and your first husband were together might
have evidence.”
My mother gave him a look of contempt. She had for some time regarded him as
one of her greatest enemies.
“Would your Grace confess to me?” asked Campeggio.
She looked at him steadily. She must have seen, as I did, a poor sick old man who
had no liking for his task. He might not be her friend but he was not her enemy.
Moreover, he was the Pope's messenger and she trusted him.
“Yes,” she said, “I would.”
I was dismissed then, and she and Campeggio went into her private closet. She
told me afterward that he had questioned her about her first marriage. “I told the truth,”
she said. “I swore in the name of the Holy Trinity. They cannot condemn me. The truth
must stand. I am the King's true wife and I will not be put aside.”
I WAS NOW PASSING into one of the most distressing periods of my life up to
that time. It is well known how the legatine court opened in Blackfriars in 1529 and when
my parents were called to state their cases, my mother threw herself at my father's feet
and begged him to remember the happiness they had once shared and to consider his
daughter's honor.
I could imagine his embarrassment and how he declared that, if only he could
believe he was not living in sin with her, she would be the one he would choose above all
others for his wife.
I wondered how he could utter such blatant hypocrisy when everyone knew that
his passion for Anne Boleyn was the major reason for his desire for a divorce, for she
would not become his mistress but insisted on marriage.
It is common knowledge that my mother declared that she would answer to no
court but that of Rome, that she withdrew and when called would not come back. I still
70
marvel at my father. I wondered how he could possibly maintain that his reason for
wanting the divorce was solely due to his fear of offending God when all knew of his
obsession. Because he felt I was an impediment to the fulfillment of his wishes on
account of the people's attitude toward me, and the fact that I was undoubtedly his
daughter, he was eager to get me married and out of the picture. The possibility of my
marrying the little French Prince was becoming more and more remote, and in any case it
would not come about for years. And at one stage the King had the effrontery to suggest a
marriage between myself and Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond. How could he, while
pretending to be so disturbed because of his connection with his brother's widow, suggest
marrying me to my half-brother!
It was well that this suggestion did not become widely known, but I did marvel
that the possibility had entered his mind and that the Pope should consider the idea and be
prepared to provide the necessary dispensation. It brought home to me the fact that most
men were completely concerned with their own grip on power and would do anything,
however dishonorable, to keep it. I was developing a certain cynicism.
I was not surprised that my mother was in despair. How could she, in such a
world, ever expect justice!
“What think you?” she said to the Countess. “Will any Englishman who is the
King's subject be a friend to me and go against the King's pleasure?”
Reginald grew more and more convinced that Campeggio had received orders to
bring the matter to no conclusion and that his task was to delay wherever possible. This
he seemed to do with a certain skill, while my father grew more and more angry as the
case dragged on and nothing was achieved.
That which Reginald had prophesied came to pass. The Pope recalled Campeggio.
It was announced that the case was to be tried in Rome. My mother was jubilant, my
father incensed. They both knew that Rome would never dare offend the Emperor as far
as to give the verdict the King desired. He naturally refused to leave the country.
During those weary weeks my mother and I were sustained only by each other
and our friends. The scene around us was changing. Anne Boleyn was now installed at
Court; she was the Queen in all but name; but still she kept my father at arms' length.
Thus she kept her power over him. Wolsey was in disgrace; he had failed; according to
the King, he had served his master, the Pope, against the King, and that was something
my father would not endure. Poor Wolsey! I could feel it in my heart to be sorry for him.
To have climbed so high and now fall so low—it was a tragedy, and one could not fail to
commiserate just a little even though he had been no friend to us. He had worked for the
divorce; where he had failed was not to work for the marriage of the King and Anne
Boleyn.
Campeggio had left the country, and the King was so furious with the old man
that he commanded his luggage be searched before he embarked for the Continent.
Campeggio complained bitterly at this indignity—a small matter when one considered
what was happening to Wolsey.
Thomas Cranmer had leaped into prominence by suggesting the King appeal to
the universities of England and Europe instead of relying on a papal court. This found
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great favor with the King who guessed—rightly— that bribes scattered there could bring
the desired result.
I was heartily sick and weary—and completely disillusioned—by the whole
matter.
When I look back on those three years 1529 to 1531, I am not surprised that my
mother's health, and mine also, deteriorated. She was really ill and I was growing pale
and suffering from headaches. But at least we were together most of the time, although I
had a separate household at Newhall near Chelmsford in Essex. My mother was still
living as the Queen and moving from place to place with the Court, but she was being
more and more ignored, and often the King would leave her and go to some other place
with Anne Boleyn. I at least was comforted by the constant company of the Countess and
her son.
I knew I gave some concern to the King. Not that he cared for my welfare but he
believed I was an impediment to the granting of the divorce and that, if it were not that
she was determined to fight for my rights, my mother would have gone into a convent by
now and the whole matter could have been settled.
It was sad to see my mother growing more and more feeble in health, although at
the same time her resolve was as strong as ever and grew stronger, I think, with every
passing day and new difficulty.
We would sew together and read the Bible. She liked me to read to her. She told
me once that the path to Heaven was never easy and the more tribulations we suffered on
Earth the greater the joy when we were received into Heaven. “Think of the sufferings of
our Lord Jesus,” she said. “What are our pains compared with His?”
We used to pray together. She it was who instilled in me so firmly my religious
beliefs. Religion was our staff and comfort. I shall never forget how it maintained us
during those days.
My mother and I were so close that I think we sometimes knew what was in each
other's minds. I know she longed for death—though she clung to life because she
believed she must fight for me. She would never give the King what he asked, for that
would mean that she accepted the fact that I was their illegitimate daughter. She wanted
me to be a queen. She wanted me to rule the country with a firm and loving hand. She
believed that there were not enough religious observances in England. The people, on the
whole, were not a pious race. They were too preoccupied with amusement and finery and
bestowed too little attention on sacred matters.
“You need a strong man beside you,” she said to me once.
“My lady, I am betrothed to the son of the King of France.”
“That will come to nothing. The friendship of kings is like a leaf in the wind. It
sways this way and that, and when the wind blows strongly enough, it falls to the ground,
is trampled on and forgotten. I do not wish to see you married into France.”
“I dareswear I shall marry where it pleases my father.”
“My dear daughter, if I could see you married to a good man, a man of deep
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religious convictions, someone whom I could trust, I could die happy. I want to see you
protected from the evil of the world. I want someone who will stand with you, for your
position could be difficult in the days ahead. It is my most cherished dream to see you on
the throne of England, and I want you to have the right man beside you when you are
there.”
“Where is such a man?” I asked, although I knew of whom she was thinking.
Again she read my thoughts: “My child, I think you know. His mother and I have
watched the growing friendship between you. It is more than friendship. His mother has
seen it … and we are of one mind on this matter.”
I flushed and said quietly, “But it would be his choice?”
“Has he not made that clear? He was to leave England. He was to go back to Italy
to complete his studies, but he is still here.”
I was suffused with happiness. If it could only be! If I could be spared that fate
which befell most princesses, to go to a foreign land, to a husband whom I had never
seen…if it could be Reginald!
My mother was smiling and looking happier than she had for a long time.
She said, “It would be a suitable match. He is of royal blood. He is a Plantagenet
and you know how the people feel about them. Now they are no longer ruled by them,
they see them as saints or heroes. Some of them were far from that… but that is human
nature and in this case serves us well. Ah, my child, if only it could be. If I could see this
come about, I should die happy.”
“Please, my lady, do not talk of dying. You must not leave me now. What should
I do without you?”
She put down her needlework and held out her arms to me. We clung together.
“There,” she said, “my dearest daughter, do you think I should ever leave you if it
were in my power to stay. Rest assured that wherever I am I shall be with you in spirit.
You are my reason for fighting, for living … always remember that.”
I wondered later whether she had a premonition of what was to come.
Soon after that, Reginald came to me in a very serious mood.
He said, “Princess, I have to go away.”
My dismay was apparent.
He was in a great quandary. He wanted to be a supporter of my mother's cause,
but the King was fond of him and he was expected to be in his company. It was very
difficult for him to be frank as to his feelings.
“I cannot stay here,” he told me, “without letting the King know that I do not
agree with his plans for divorce.”
“Have you let him see that you do not approve?”
“Not yet, but I fear I soon shall. I find it hard to deceive him. There was a time
when he talked of other matters but this is never far from his mind and soon he will
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discover my true feelings.”
“Reginald…be careful.”
“I will try but I cannot dissemble forever. This could cost me my head.”
“No!”
“Remember I am in a vulnerable position already because of my birth. If I showed
opposition to the King, my life would be worth very little.”
“Oh, it is cruel…cruel,” I cried.
“My dearest Princess, we have to face facts. I have asked his permission to go to
Paris to study. I have deserted my books for so long.”
“You are going away,” I said blankly.
He took my hand and looked at me earnestly. “I will come back,” he said. “As
soon as this miserable business is over, I shall be with you. We have much to talk of.”
He kissed me tenderly on the forehead.
“It is you, Princess,” he said, “whom I hate leaving.”
So he went and that added a gloom to the days.
“I persuaded him to go,” the Countess told me. “Life can be dangerous for those
who do not agree with the King.”
I suppose we were all thinking of Cardinal Wolsey, who had so suddenly lost the
King's favor and had died, some said, of a broken heart.
I heard that the King had sent orders to Reginald to get favorable opinions on the
divorce from the universities of Paris. Poor Reginald! How he would be torn. I did not
believe for one moment that he would obey the King. It was well that he was out of the
country. Perhaps I should feel happier for that but it was so sad to lose him.
So we lived through those days. Often my mother was not with us but the
Countess and I talked frequently of her and Reginald, and then it did not seem that they
were so very far away.
The Countess told me that Reginald had such a distaste for the task the King had
set him that he had written back asking to be released from it on the grounds that he
lacked experience. But my father was certain of Reginald's powers and he sent Edward
Fox out to help him. I was hurt when I heard that the answer the King wanted had come
from Paris until I discovered that this had come through the intervention of François
Premier who, as his sons were now released and he was married to Eleanora, was a free
man.
Then the King sent for Reginald to return home.
He visited his mother immediately, which meant that he came to me.
We embraced. He looked less serene than he had when he went away. He was
very perturbed by the situation.
“The King remains determined,” he said. “The more obstacles that are put in his
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way, the stronger is his desire to overcome them. It is now a battle between the power of
the Church and that of the King. And the King has decided he will not be beaten by the
Church. He will have his way no matter what the consequences. Instead of a battle for a
woman, it is becoming one between Church and State.”
“And if this is so, it means that everyone will have to take sides. I know which
side yours must be.”
He nodded. “I must defend the Church.”
“And now the King has sent for you.”
He nodded. “Do not fret,” he said. “I know how to take care of myself.”
I was delighted to have him home but I was worried about what would happen. I
tried to console myself with the fact that the King had always been fond of him. Reginald
was summoned to his presence.
The Countess was in a state of great anxiety; so were we all. We kept thinking of
Wolsey's fate.
It seemed that, apart from the fact that the matter of the divorce remained in the
same deadlock, everything else was changing…my father most of all. He was irascible
and feared by all. He could suddenly turn on those who had been his best friends. The
conflict obsessed him day and night. It was said that his hatred against the Pope was
greater than his love for Anne Boleyn.
He guessed where Reginald's sympathies lay and, apart from his affection for
him, he had a great respect for his learning. If he could get men like Reginald on his side,
he would be happier. Moreover, Reginald was a Plantagenet. People remembered that.
He was still a layman, though he did intend to take Holy Orders later in life.
People said afterward that he delayed doing this because he had it in his mind that a
marriage might be possible between him and me. This might have been so but, layman as
he was, the King offered him an alternative choice of the Archbishopric of York and that
of Winchester.
This was a great honor, but Reginald knew it was an attempt to get his support. It
was difficult for him to refuse it for fear of offending the King but, of course, he must.
He talked of this to his mother, and I was present.
He said, “This cannot go on. Sooner or later I shall have to tell the King that I
cannot support him in this matter of the divorce.”
“Perhaps you should return to Paris,” suggested his mother. “Much as I hate to
lose you, I have no peace while you are here.”
“I feel I should talk to him,” said Reginald.
“Talk to the King!”
“I believe I might make him see that he can find no happiness through this
divorce.”
“You would never do that. He is determined to marry Anne Boleyn and how can
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he do that if there is no divorce?”
“I will go to him. I will appeal to his conscience.”
“His conscience!” said the Countess contemptuously.
“He refers to it constantly. Yes, I have made up my mind. I will go to him. I will
ask for an audience. I know he will see me.”
What agonies we lived through when he left Newhall for the Court. The Countess
and I sat together in silence imagining what would happen. We were terrified for him. I
was glad my mother was not with us. I was sure she would have been deeply distressed.
When Reginald returned to us from York Place we hurried to meet him. He
looked pale and strained. It had been a very uneasy meeting, he told us.
“I begged the King not to ruin his fame or destroy his soul by proceeding with the
matter.”
“And what said he?” whispered the Countess.
Reginald was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly, “I thought he would kill
me.”
I covered my face with my hand. Reginald smiled and laid a hand on my arm.
“But he did not,” he said. “See. I am here to tell the tale.”
“He listened to you?” asked the Countess incredulously.
“No. Not after my first few sentences. He was very angry. He thought I had come
to him with one of the suggestions such as he is getting from Cranmer and Cromwell.
While I was talking, his hand went to his dagger. I thought he was going to plunge it into
my heart without more ado. The King is a strange man. There are such contradictions in
his nature. He can be so ruthless … and yet sentimental. He changes from one moment to
another. That is why one sometimes believes what he says, however outrageous. One
could accept that he wants this divorce solely because of his conscience. One believes
that he really is worried about the fact that he married his brother's widow because when
he says it he seems to believe it…sincerely. Then, the next minute one knows it is the
desire for this woman. I do not understand him. I do not believe he understands himself.
Just as he was about to lift his dagger and strike me, he seemed to remember that he was
fond of me. He looked at me with rage… and sorrow.”
“And he let you go.”
Reginald nodded.
“He shouted at me, ‘You say you understand my scruples and you know how they
should be dealt with.' It was like a reprieve. I said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.' ‘Then set it
down. Set it down,' he cried. ‘And let me see it when it is done. And go now …go…
before I am tempted to do you an injury.' So I went, feeling deeply wounded and at the
same time rejoicing that he was no longer in doubt as to my true feeling.”
This was an addition to our worries, but at least Reginald seemed at peace, and he
set about writing his treatise.
I think my father was genuinely fond of him, because he read it with interest and
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showed no displeasure, although Cromwell said it must not be made public because it
was contrary to the King's purpose; and he added that the arguments were set down with
wisdom and elegance but would have the opposite effect of what the King wanted.
We trembled afresh when we heard this.
“This man Cromwell is an evil influence on the King,” declared Reginald.
“I do believe he is trying to undermine the supremacy of the Church. Pray God he
does not succeed. The King does not like the man but he is very taken with his
arguments. I am greatly in fear of what will happen next.”
We had many serious talks after that. His mother was in constant fear for she was
convinced he was in acute danger. She was persuading him to go abroad. She said to me,
“I know we do not want to lose him, nor does he wish to leave us, but I am terrified every
day he remains.”
“What do you think will happen?” I asked.
“Cromwell's idea is that the King should break with Rome and set himself up as
Supreme Head of the Church of England. That is what Reginald thinks will happen. The
King will then demand to be accepted as such, and those who refuse to accept him—as
all good churchmen must—will be accused of treason.”
“Surely my father would never go so far!”
“He is caught up in this matter. It is more than a desire to marry Anne Boleyn. It
is a battle between Church and State, and it is one he must win to satisfy himself.”
“And you think that Reginald…”
“Is in danger if he stays. He must get out now … and stay away until it is safe for
him to come back.”
At length his mother prevailed on Reginald to go; but first he must get the King's
permission.
I remember that day when Reginald presented himself to the King. The Countess
had been all for his going away and writing to the King from Paris, Padua or some safe
distance; but Reginald would not agree to that. He thought it cowardly.
He presented himself to my father and told him he wished to continue his studies
abroad. He told us afterward what happened. The King was pleasant to him, and Reginald
was able to tell him frankly that he could not go against his conscience. Perhaps the King
was particularly sympathetic about consciences, for he listened with sympathy. Reginald
told my father that he believed it was wrong to divorce the Queen and, no matter what
happened to him, he could not go against his convictions.
The King was sorrowful rather than angry and at length he agreed to allow
Reginald to go.
How relieved we were to see him arrive back to us but that relief was tempered
with sadness that he should be leaving us.
I was very melancholy. I had lost one of my few friends; and one of the best I
should ever have.
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78
TIME WAS PASSING. IT WAS NEARLY SIX YEARS SINCE THE King had
first thought of divorce, and still he was without satisfaction. There had never been such a
case in royal history.
We were at Greenwich with the Court, my mother and I, when we heard there was
to be a move to Windsor.
Relations between my parents had become even more strained. Although my
mother was still treated in some ways as the Queen, the King was hardly in her presence,
and Anne Boleyn had her own apartments within the household.
We awoke one morning the find the Court ready to depart but to go to Woodstock
instead of Windsor. We began to prepare to leave in the usual way when we were told
that the King would not require our presence at Woodstock and we were to go to
Windsor.
We were astonished. The Countess was very anxious. I had not seen her so
disturbed since those days when she was urging Reginald to leave the country.
“I cannot think what it means,” she said to me. “But mean something it does.”
We remained at Windsor for three weeks before a messenger came from the King.
He was coming to Windsor to hunt and when he arrived he desired that we should
not be there. My mother was to go with her household to the Moor in Hertfordshire. Then
came the blow. I was not to go with her. I was to go to Richmond.
We were dismayed and clung to each other.
“No, no,” I cried. “I will not endure it. Anything but this.”
“Perhaps it is only for a while,” said the Countess soothingly.
But we none of us believed that. We understood. When we rode out together, the
people cheered us. Anne Boleyn received very different treatment. She was “the
Concubine” and they shouted abuse at her, calling her the King's goggle-eyed whore.
They felt differently toward me. I was their dear Princess, the heir to the throne. They
would have none other but me.
This must have been infuriating to my father and his paramour; and I guessed she
had had a hand in this.
So they would separate us and we should not be seen together. No doubt then we
might come to our senses if we realized the power of the King.
“I will not leave you,” I cried passionately. “Oh, my mother, we must be together.
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Let us run away and hide ourselves.”
“My dearest child,” she said. “Let us pray that we shall be with each other again
soon.”
“What is the use of prayers?” I demanded. “Have we not prayed enough?”
“We can never pray enough, my child. Always remember my thoughts are with
you. Let us be resigned to our cruel fate. It cannot endure, I am sure of that. Say your
prayers while we are apart. It may well be that soon we shall be together again.”
But how sad she looked in spite of her brave words. I was in an agony of fear for
her. He had taken so much away from us. Why could he not leave us each other?
My heart was filled with anger—not toward him so much as toward her, the
goggle-eyed whore, the woman who was his evil genius. I blamed her for all the trials
which had befallen us.
My mother took a sad farewell of the Countess. They embraced tenderly.
“Care for my daughter,” said my mother.
“Your Highness…you may trust me.”
“I know, my dear friend, I know. It is my greatest comfort that she is with you.”
I had loved Richmond until now; the view of the river, the irregular buildings, the
projecting and octagonal towers crowned with turrets, the small chimneys which looked
like inverted pears…I had loved them all. But now it was like a prison, and I hated it
because my mother was not there with me.
I DID TRY to follow my mother's instructions. It was difficult. I thought of her
constantly. I was afraid for her health; the anxieties of the last years were clearly
undermining it—as they were my own.
I said to the Countess, “If we could only be together, I would suffer anything. But
this separation is unendurable.”
“I know,” she replied. “It cannot continue. There are murmurings among the
people. They are with you and your mother. They will never accept Anne Boleyn.”
“They will have to if it is my father's will. He is all powerful.”
“Yet he has failed so far to get this divorce.”
“I hope he never does. I wish she could die. Why did she not when she had the
sweat?”
“It was God's Will,” said the Countess.
And there was no disputing that.
We heard that Anne Boleyn was living like a queen, and of the jewels she wore—
all gifts from the King. But every time she appeared in public, insults were hurled at her.
“Bring back the Queen!” cried the people. “Long live the Princess!” It was
gratifying but ineffectual.
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We had no friends. There was only the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys,
who could visit my mother, advise her and comfort her and keep her in touch with the
Emperor, because of whom the Pope would not grant the divorce though beyond that he
could do little. He could not go to war with England on my mother's account. Moreover
my father and François were allies now.
There seemed no way out of this situation. My mother was alone and almost
friendless in a country which had been her home for some thirty years and now was an
alien land to her.
Then, to my delight, six months after my separation from my mother, I was
allowed to join her again. What joy there was in our reunion and what anxiety when I saw
how ill she looked!
“The hardest thing I have had to bear in this sad time is my parting with you, my
daughter,” she told me. “Oh dear, there is so much to say…so much to ask. How is your
Latin?”
We laughed together rather hysterically because at such a time she could think of
my Latin.
We were together every moment of the day. We cherished those moments, and we
were right to do so for there were not to be many left to us.
We would sit talking, reading, sewing… each of us desperately trying to take hold
of each moment, savor it and never let it go. We knew this was to be a brief visit. They
were three weeks when I realized how much my mother meant to me and that nothing in
my life could ever compensate for her loss.
How could they be so cruel…my father, reveling with his concubine, and she, the
black-browed witch—had they no sympathy for a sick woman and her frightened
daughter?
Compassion there was none, and at the end of those three weeks came the order.
My mother and I were to separate. The brief respite was over.
I became listless. The Countess worried a good deal about me. She was constantly
trying to think of something to cheer me. Something must happen soon, she said, and she
was sure it would be good.
Dear Lady Salisbury, she provided my only comfort. We talked of Reginald. We
heard from him now and then. He was in Padua studying philosophy and theology and
meeting interesting people whose outlook on life was similar to his own. He mentioned
Gaspar Contarini, a good churchman, and Ludovico Priuli, a young nobleman whom he
found of the utmost interest. He wrote of these friends so vividly that we felt we knew
them and could enjoy their conversation as he did. He was following events in England,
and it was amazing how much he could learn from his friends, as there were constant
comings and goings, for the King's affair was of the utmost interest to all.
He would come home soon to us, he wrote. We were never out of his thoughts,
and it was a great consolation to him to know that we were together.
We would sit, the Countess and I, and talk of Reginald and try to look into the
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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
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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.
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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! How 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
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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
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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?”
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“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
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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.
The King did not come to see her. He knew that as soon as the child appeared he
would be told.
Through the night we sat. The next day dawned. I shall never forget that day—
September. It must have been between three and four o'clock in the morning when I
heard the cry of a child.
Breathlessly I waited, angry with God for not answering my prayers. They were
alive—both of them. Anne Boleyn had given the King the child for which he craved.
And then the news. My heart began to sing. A girl! I wanted to laugh out loud.
My mother had done as well as that. She had given him a girl—myself. And he had gone
through all this for the sake of another! It was a joke. Hysterical laughter bubbled up
within me.
How was
she
feeling now, the concubine? Witch that she was, this was something
she could not achieve.
And the King? How was he feeling? He would be realizing now that his efforts
had been in vain.
The Countess had not been allowed to accompany me, and I was desolate without
her. There was no one whom I could trust as I did her, and I was old enough to know how
easily I could commit some indiscretion which could do me great harm.
I did, however, see Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador. I believe my father
would rather have kept us apart but he could hardly do that without arousing hostile
comment, and probably at this time he was feeling too frustrated to give much thought to
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it.
“The King is bitterly disappointed,” Chapuys told me. “He cannot altogether hide
it, although at her bedside he told her that he would never desert her. But that in itself
betrays that the thought of doing so must have entered his mind. They will have more
children, he said, sons… sons… sons. She is still the Queen but his eyes stray and it
seems there are others.”
“But for so long he sought her! She was the only one for him all those years.”
“It may be that now he regrets what he had to pay for her. He has taken great
risks, and we do not yet know what will be the outcome of that. But what I have to say to
you is this: You are the Princess of Wales but there is now another whom he might try to
put ahead of you.”
I was aghast. “He cannot!” I cried.
“He can and if it is possible he will. You must be prepared.”
“What can I do?”
“We will wait and see.”
“What of the Emperor?” I said. #x201C;Why does he stand aside and see my
mother and me treated thus?”
“The Emperor watches. He cares what becomes of you. The King's actions toward
you are an insult to Spain, but the Emperor cannot go to war on that account. The time is
not ripe, and the French and English are allies to stand against him.”
I covered my face with my hands.
“Be prepared,” he said.
I remembered those words when I was told I must attend the christening of the
child, this Elizabeth, my half-sister who was destined to plague me in the years to come.
IT WAS FOUR DAYS after her birth—four days of bitter foreboding for me.
Why had I been submitted to this extra torture? Why did I have to see honors showered
on her? Wasn't it enough that she was born?
After his initial disappointment the King was expressing a certain delight in the
child. I sometimes thought in the years ahead that she had inherited her mother's
witchery. She was beautiful and healthy. “Oh God,” I asked in anguish, “why did You
not listen to my prayers?” From the beginning she charmed all those who came into
contact with her.
It was the cruelest act to make me attend her christening.
There was a letter from my mother which had been smuggled in to me. I was sure
that woman and my father would have stopped our correspondence if they knew her
letters were reaching me.
She told me that Anne Boleyn had had the effrontery to write to ask her for the
special robe which had been used at the christening of that son who had briefly brought
her and the King such joy and then almost immediately died.
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I remembered my mother's showing me the robe. She had brought it with her from
Spain. It was to be worn by her sons at their christening. How ironic that she had been
able to use it only once, and then for little purpose. Even I—as a girl—had not worn it.
And that woman had dared to ask for it for her daughter!
My mother had refused, amazed that my father had known of his concubine's
request and had not stopped it.
My mother wondered whether they would come to her and take it by force; but
they did stop at that, and although the young Elizabeth was carried in a gown of purple
velvet edged with ermine, it was not the Spanish christening robe.
To me it was like a nightmare. I kept marvelling how they could have been so
insensitive as to insist that I take part. It might have been to show the people that my
father was not casting me out. I knew a great many rumors were circulating about his
treatment of my mother and me and that they disturbed him.
This was a very grand ceremony. The walls between the Palace and Grey Friars
were hung with arras, and the path was strewn with fresh green rushes. Elizabeth was
carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, who was her great-grandmother, and the
canopy was held by Anne's brother George Boleyn, now Lord Rochford, Lords William
and Thomas Howard and Lord Hussey, another of the Boleyn clan recently ennobled.
The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walked beside the baby.
It was indeed a royal christening.
I was so wretched. Why had they insisted that I be present? At least my mother
had escaped this.
Then came the final blow. I felt stunned when Garter-King-at-Arms proclaimed,
“God, of His infinite goodness, send a prosperous life and long to the High and Mighty
Princess of England, Elizabeth.”
Princess of England! But
I
was the Princess of England. How could she be so?
I heard the shouts and trumpets through a haze of apprehension. What did this
mean? Need I ask myself? I knew. This was the final insult.
WHEN I LOOK BACK over that time, I think it must have been one of the most
dangerous of my life. There have been many crises, and my life has been at risk many
times, but then I was so young, so inexperienced in the ways of the world, so inadequate
to cope with situations in which I found myself; I was so reckless, so lacking in good
counsel. Lady Salisbury was not with me at this time and I did not realize then how much
I had relied on her. My mother had written warning me, but my natural resentment made
me one of my own worst enemies.
I was seventeen years old and had already faced as many dangers in a few short
years as most people face in a lifetime.
I know now that there are people in the world who revel in the troubles of others
and find excitement in fomenting them. They take a delight in seeing what will happen
next. There was I, once Princess of Wales, heir to the throne…and now there was this
child who had usurped my place and had been named Princess of England.
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How they beguiled me—those people about me—with their gossip. They treated
me as an adult. Was it not shocking the way in which Queen Anne behaved with all those
men about her? She was never without a bevy of adoring young men. They had seen the
looks which passed between them… and looks told a great deal. And the King? He was
not so enamored of her as he had once been.
I was too young, too foolish, to restrain myself. Of course I should not have
listened. I should not have told them of my hatred for her and how I had prayed that she
would die in childbirth… and her child with her.
Lady Salisbury would never have allowed it; my mother would have forbidden it.
But I was parted from them; I was alone in a hotbed of treachery, and these gossipers
seemed so sympathetic toward me that they lured me into expressing my true feelings.
I did not know that my remarks were recorded and taken back to Anne Boleyn.
I was bewildered and bitterly humiliated.
I
was the Princess of England, I
declared, and foolishly not only to myself. A bastard did not count. The King was still
married to my mother and I was born in wedlock.
In due course I was sent back to Beaulieu. At least the Countess was there.
I fell into her arms and sobbed out what had happened.
“They called her the Princess of England!” I sobbed. “What does that mean?”
The Countess was silent. She knew full well what it meant.
But at least I was back with her and I found a certain comfort in going over my
experiences while she stroked my hair and soothed me with gentle words, but she could
not hide the fear in her eyes.
Sir John and Lady Hussey arrived at Beaulieu. He was to be my Chamberlain, he
informed me, and his wife was to join my household.
The Countess was disturbed. She told me that Hussey was one of the King's most
trusted servants. I guessed now that he had been sent because of the remarks I had made
and which had been reported to Anne Boleyn, who would have convinced my father that
I was dangerous. Hence he had sent Hussey to watch over me. He might be suspicious of
the Countess—after all she was a Plantagenet, and her son Reginald had openly
expressed his feelings about the King's marriage in no uncertain terms.
Hussey had been a long and tried friend to the Tudors; he had fought for my
grandfather when he came to the throne and had been made Comptroller of his
household. When my father had become King, he had felt the need to win the people's
approval by taking revenge on those who had helped his father collect the taxes, and he
had executed Dudley and Empson, the hated enforcers of the royal extortion. Hussey had
been involved with them, but shrewdly guessing that he would be a good friend, my
father pardoned him and granted him land in Lincolnshire. So he had a loyal servant in
Hussey. He was quite an old man now, therefore very experienced; and he had been
useful to my father during the devious negotiations for the divorce.
My heart sank when he was presented to me as my Chamberlain; and I believe the
Countess's did too. She guessed more accurately than I could what this meant. One of
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Hussey's duties was to tell me the doleful—though not unexpected—news of what the
Council's ministers had decided.
Hussey looked uneasy, and I thought I caught a glint of sympathy in his eyes.
“My lady,” he said, “I have received orders.” I felt a twinge of uneasiness as he
had not addressed me as Princess. “It is with regret I have to tell you of them.”
“Then tell me,” I said as coolly as I could.
He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. He looked at it and bit his lips. I had
not suspected him of such sensitivity.
“The orders are that you are no longer to be addressed as Princess.”
“Why not?”
“It…er…it seems that this is no longer your title.”
I stared at the man. “How can that be? I am the King's daughter.”
“Yes, my lady, but…in view of the fact that the King's marriage to the Princess of
Spain was no true marriage, you are no longer entitled to be called Princess. Indeed, my
lady, we are forbidden to address you as such.”
“I do not believe it. May I see that paper?”
He nodded and handed it to me.
It was there, plain for me to see. I was to be called the Lady Mary, the King's
daughter. But I was no longer the Princess of England. That title had been passed to the
little bastard whose christening I had been forced to witness at Greenwich.
Hussey bowed his head. He said, “I will send the Countess to you.”
She came and I threw myself at her.
“There! There!” she said. “At least you have a shoulder to cry on. Do not grieve,
Princess.”
“You must not call me that any more.”
“When we are alone together…”
I had grown up suddenly. I saw dangers all around us. “Oh no, dearest Countess.
You must not. Someone might hear. They would tell tales of you. I believe those who call
me by my rightful title will be punished.”
“It is so,” she confirmed. “We have been warned.”
“But I
am
the Princess. I shall call myself Princess, but I will not bring trouble to
you. They would take you from me. Perhaps put you in the Tower.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “You are growing up, Princess. You are beginning to
understand how dangerous are the times in which we are living.”
“But I will not accept this,” I said. “I am the Princess. That trumped-up divorce is
wrong. It is a sin in the eyes of God, and Anne Boleyn is no true Queen.”
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“Hush. Did I say that you were growing up? Now you are behaving like a child.”
“My father does care something for me, surely.”
“Your father wants complete obedience. We must wait quietly…not calling
attention to ourselves.”
I did not answer.
I was young and I was reckless. I was telling myself I could not endure this. I
would not stand aside and let them treat my mother and myself in this way. She had
cautioned discretion but she was weary and sick and had not the heart for the fight. I was
different.
My household might be intimidated into dropping the title of Princess when
addressing me, but I would continue to use the title. It was mine. And it was not for the
Council to take it away from me.
When I went out into the streets there were always people to cheer me. They
would cry, “Long live Princess Mary.” I must have caused much anxiety to the King and
his concubine for they knew what support there was throughout the country for my
mother and me. The people knew that we had been separated and they thought that cruel.
Yes, my father and Anne Boleyn must be having some very uneasy moments.
There would always be those fanatics who seemed to court martyrdom and make
a great noise doing so. There was one known as the Nun of Kent. She was a certain
Elizabeth Barton who had begun life as a servant in the household of a man who was
steward to the estate owned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. She appeared to have
special powers of prophecy and was taken up by a number of well-known people which
gave her great prestige. Sir Thomas More was said to have been interested in her. She
sprang into prominence when my father had returned from France with the newly created
Marchioness of Pembroke. Elizabeth Barton had met him at Canterbury and warned him
that if he married Anne Boleyn he would die one month later.
She had begged my mother to see her. My mother was too wise to do this and
refused to do so.
I wondered that my father had not had her removed long ago. But he was always
somewhat superstitious and because the nun had been taken up by prominent people—
and in particular Sir Thomas More—he was a little in awe of her. He was very anxious at
this time to win back that public approval which he had lost since his Secret Matter was
revealed.
After the marriage everyone waited for the prophecy to come true. A month
passed and nothing happened. Now Anne Boleyn had come through the ordeal of
childbirth and had a healthy child, albeit a girl. As for Anne, she was as well as ever. The
nun's prophecy had not been fulfillled.
For two months after my return I waited in trepidation for what would happen
next. The baby Elizabeth had remained at Greenwich with her mother for those two
months; then the King decided that she should have a household of her own. I heard that
Hatfield had been chosen.
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Much to my horror, Hussey came to me, with further instructions from the
Council. I, too, was to be moved. I imagine my recalcitrant attitude had been reported to
him.
“Your household is to be broken up, my lady,” he said. “You are to go to
Hatfield.”
“My household broken up!” I repeated stupidly.
He nodded slowly and horror dawned on me. “The Countess of Salisbury …” I
began.
He did not meet my eyes. He said, “The new mistress of your household will be
Lady Shelton.”
“Lady Shelton!” I cried in dismay. “Is she not related to…to…?”
“To the Queen, my lady.”
“To Anne Boleyn!”
“She is the Queen's aunt.”
Anne Boleyn's aunt—a member of that hated family—to take the place of my
beloved Countess! This was intolerable. I might bear other humiliations which had been
heaped on me, I might endure insults, but to be deprived of the one to whom I had turned
when I lost my mother … that was just not to be borne.
“This cannot be true,” I stammered.
“I fear so, my lady.”
“No one could be so cruel. If the Countess could be with me…if…”
“These are the King's orders, my lady.”
I turned and ran out of the room.
She came to me almost immediately. “You have heard,” she said.
“How can he? How can he? Everything else I have borne, but this…”
“I know, my dearest. I shudder with you. We have been so close…you have been
as one of my own…”
“Since they would not allow me to be with my mother, you took her place.”
She nodded and we just clung together.
“It will pass,” she said at length. “It can only be temporary. We shall be together
again…”
“Oh Countess, dearest Countess, what am I to do?”
“There is nothing to be done but to remain quiet and confident of the future. We
must pray as Our Lord did in the wilderness.”
I was not as meek as she was. I could never be. She was like my mother, and they
were both of the stuff of which martyrs are made. But I was not. I was filled with hatred
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toward this woman whom I blamed for all our misfortunes. I hated the innocent baby who
had taken my place and for whose sake I was being made to suffer thus.
I took up my pen and, against the Countess's advice, wrote to the Council. I gave
vent to the rage I felt. The very act of picking up a pen, though, brought me back to my
senses a little. I knew I should have to go to Hatfield, to part from the Countess, and that
it was no use protesting about this. But I could call attention to the deprivation of my title
which was mine by right of birth, and that I would do.
“My lords,” I wrote, “as touching my removal to Hatfield, I will obey His Grace
as my duty is… but I will protest before you all, and to all others present, that my
conscience will in no wise suffer me to take any other than myself for Princess or for the
King's daughter born in lawful matrimony, and that I will never wittingly or willingly say
or do aught whereby any person might take occasion to think that I agree to the contrary.
If I should do otherwise I should slander my mother, the Holy Church and the Pope, who
is judge in this matter and none other, and I should dishonor the King, my father, the
Queen, my mother, and falsely confess myself a bastard, which God defend I should do
since the Pope hath not so declared by his sentence definitive, to whose judgement I
submit myself…”
It was foolish. It was rash. But I was beside myself with misery because my
dearest friend, who had been a mother to me, was about to be taken away from me.
There was a further blow. The Princess Elizabeth was to go to Hatfield with her
household, and it seemed that, with no household of my own, I should be a member of
hers. A lady-in-waiting perhaps! It was intolerable. This was proclaiming to the world
that she was the Princess, the heir to the throne, and I was the bastard.
I could not understand how my father could do this to me. I remembered those
days when he had shown great affection for me. How could he have changed? It could
only be because he was under the influence of witchcraft.
On impulse I wrote to him. I told him that I had been informed by my
Chamberlain that I was to leave for Hatfield and that, when I had asked to see the letter
and had been shown it, it stated that “… the Lady Mary, the King's daughter, should
remove to the place aforesaid.” I was not referred to as the Princess. I was astonished and
could not believe that His Grace was aware of what had been written, for I could not
believe that he did not take me for his true daughter born in matrimony. I believed this
and, if I said otherwise, then I should earn the displeasure of God, which I was sure His
Grace would not wish me to do. In all other matters I should always be his humble and
obedient daughter.
I signed myself “Your most humble daughter, Mary,
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