In the Shadow of the Crown (15 page)

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. 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.

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 future. Life had its troubles and its joys, the Countess maintained, and when I said there seemed no hope for a better life for us, she chided me and assured me that God would show us a way and that tribulations were often sent for a good reason. They made us strong and capable of dealing with the trials of life.

Letters from Reginald sustained us during that time; but when one day followed another and we heard nothing but news of the concubine's triumphs and the King's besotted devotion to her, I began to lose heart. I knew that my mother was ill, and that threw me into despair.

It was not surprising that I myself began to grow pale and thin, and one morning I awoke in a fever.

The Countess was horrified, for soon it became obvious that I was very ill indeed.

I heard afterward that news of my illness spread quickly through the country and it was thought that I might not live. There would be rumors, of course. The concubine's spies had poisoned me. The King had been duped by her. She was a witch and a murderess.

When the King rode out with her, the hostile crowds shouted at them. That would disturb him for he had always cared so passionately for the people's approval; and he had had it until now. But he had disappointed them and they—particularly the women—had turned against him. His treatment of the Queen shocked them. She had done nothing except grow old and fail to produce a son, and the little Princess Mary, who was the true heir to the throne, was, because of the wickedness of the King's paramour, lying at death's door.

My father hastily sent one of his best physicians to treat me.

I can remember lying in bed longing for my mother. I called her name, and the Countess sent an urgent plea to my father begging him to let my mother come to me.

He was adamant. She was to stay away from me. He may have feared what would happen if we met. Perhaps he thought of the crowds following
my mother on her journey to me, shouting their loyalty to her and to me. Riots could so easily arise.

No. He could not grant me what would have been the best remedy for my sickness. But he did send one of his doctors to me.

I was young; I was resilient. And I recovered, thanks to Dr. Butts and the Countess's constant care.

Although I believed that both my father and his mistress would have been glad to see the end of me, they must have felt a certain relief that I had not died. Such an event at that time would most certainly have aroused the people to some action, and they would know that.

I hoped my mother was aware of the people's feelings. It might have brought her a grain of comfort. It would have made her feel less of a stranger in an alien land.

There were some brave men who were ready to face the King's wrath for their beliefs. William Peto was one. He was the Provincial of the Grey Friars, and on Easter Day at Greenwich he preached a sermon in the presence of my father. Frankly, he said that the divorce was evil and could not find favor in the sight of Heaven.

I exulted to think of my father's sitting listening to him. He would be seething with anger. It was a very brave preacher who could stand up before him and utter such words. I could so well imagine his anger. I could see the small eyes growing icy, his expressive mouth indicating his mood. But this was a man who could not be entirely flouted; and there was the mood of the people to be considered.

For some time Peto had wanted to go to Toulouse, for he was writing a book about the divorce and he wished to get it published there; for of course he would not be able to do so in England. My father may have had some inkling of this, for he refused permission, but now, on the advice of one of his chaplains who feared that such a man could do much damage, my father summoned him and coldly told him to leave the country immediately. Then he sent for Dr. Curwin, who would preach a sermon more to his liking.

He was right. Curwin did this to my father's satisfaction, even hinting that Friar Peto, after his disloyal outburst, because he was a coward, had fled the country.

There are some men who court martyrdom. Peto was one; Friar Elstowe was another. Elstowe immediately declared publicly that everything Peto had said could be confirmed by the Scriptures, and this he would eagerly do to support Peto and hopefully give the King pause for thought before he imperilled his immortal soul.

Such talk was inflammatory, and Elstowe, with Peto, was arrested at Canterbury, where they were resting on their way to the Continent; they
were brought before the Council, where they were told that such mischiefmakers as they were should be put together into a sack and thrown into the Thames, to which Elstowe retorted that the men of the Court might threaten them if they would but they must know that the way to Heaven lies as open by water as by land.

However, the King wanted no action taken against them. I think he feared how the people would behave.

But the attitude of these men did much to add to his exasperation, which must at that time have been almost unbearable for a man of his temperament and power. I suppose it was the only time in his life that he had been baulked. All through his golden youth his wish had been law; his height, his good looks, his jovial nature—until crossed—had made him the most popular monarch people remembered. They had loved him, idolized him, and now they were criticizing him; and it was all because his unwanted wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles. If she had been of less consequence, he would have been rid of her long ago.

There were others more powerful than Friars Peto and Elstowe. Bishop Fisher was one, and he had set himself against the divorce and had no compunction in letting it be known. The Countess said she trembled for him. She thought he would be arrested and sent to the Tower. This was not the case as yet. My father must have been very disturbed by the attitude of the people.

All that came out of this was that my mother was moved from the Moor and out to Bishop's Hatfield, which belonged to the Bishop of Ely. I worried a good deal about her. It hindered my convalescence. I had become pale and thin and I looked like a ghost. If only I could have been with my mother, I should have been more at peace; anything would have been preferable to this anxiety about her. I looked back with deep nostalgia to those days when we had all been together—my mother and I, Reginald and the Countess. And now there were just the Countess and myself. Reginald was in Padua, my mother at Bishop's Hatfield. Was it warm there I wondered? She suffered cruelly from rheumatism, and the dampness of some of the houses in which she had been forced to live aggravated this. I wondered if she had enough warm clothing. It was unbearable that she, a Princess of Spain, a Queen of England, could be treated so.

But I knew that we were moving toward a climax when I heard that the King was going to France and was taking Anne Boleyn with him.