In the Shadow of the Crown (19 page)

All the gentlemen around him did likewise.

I had been noticed. And that was all his visit meant to me.

I WAS HEARING NEWS of my mother through Margaret and my maid.

When they moved me to Hatfield, they had tried to move her from Buckden to Somersham, at the same time dismissing part of her household. I had been worried about her being at Buckden which is a most unhealthy place, but Somersham is worse. It is in the Isle of Ely and notoriously damp, and as she was suffering from excruciating pains in her limbs, I was sure that would have been disastrous for her. I often marvelled at my mother's indomitable spirit and the manner in which she clung to life. She must have known that she could not live long in Somersham, and the thought occurred to me that my father—lured on by his concubine—might have thought it would kill her to stay there long. Her death would make things easier for them, and I was sure it was what the concubine desired—if not my father.

My mother had defied the commissioners sent to carry out my father's orders; she had shut herself in her room and sent word down to them that if they wished to remove her they must break down her door and carry her off by force.

They could have done this, of course, but there was a rumor that the people in the neighborhood were bringing out their scythes and other such implements implying that, if the Queen were taken, her captors would have to face the people, and this made them hesitate.

The result had been that my mother had remained at Buckden.

I heard what her life was like there. She found great comfort in prayer. I
did too, but she was more intensely involved. Religion was all-important to her. It was becoming so with me, as it does with people who have nothing else to cling to. She, however, would never rail against her misfortunes, but meekly accept them. That was the difference in us. She passed her time in prayer, meditation and sewing for the poor. There was a window in her room from which she could look down on the chapel, and there she spent a great deal of her time. I was thankful that she had a loyal chamberwoman who cooked for her. Several new servants had been assigned to her, and naturally she must feel suspicious of them.

It is a terrible state when someone you once loved can be suspected of trying to poison you. I understood so well what she was suffering. After all, I was undergoing something similar myself.

She was constantly in my thoughts. I worried about her and the Countess. I often thought of Reginald and wondered what he was doing now. All I knew was that he was on the Continent and that he had further enraged the King by writing to advise him to return to my mother. Should we ever see each other again? Would that love between us which had begun to stir ever come to fruition?

I thought then what little control we have over our destinies. It was only the all-powerful like my father who could thrust aside those who stood in their way—but even they came up against obstacles.

In January of that momentous year 1534, anticipating the verdict of the court of Rome, my father ordered the Council to declare that henceforth the Pope would be known as the Bishop of Rome, and bishops were to be appointed without reference to the See of Rome. It was the first step in the great scheme which he had devised with the help of Cranmer and Cromwell. It was to have far-reaching effects which must have been obvious to everyone.

Very soon after, the Rome verdict was announced. My father's marriage to my mother was legal, and the Pope advised the King to put Anne Boleyn from him immediately.

My father retaliated by announcing that the children of Queen Anne were the true heirs to the throne and that all those in high places must swear on oath to accept them as such. All over the country preachers were instructed to applaud the King's action and revile the Pope.

It could not be expected that this would be received quietly by everyone, and there were naturally those who were ready to risk their lives and stand in opposition to the King's command. Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More were two of those who were sent to the Tower.

There were murmurings of revolt throughout the country. People continued to blame Anne Boleyn.

I was more frustrated than ever. It was maddening to receive only news
which was brought to me through Margaret Bryan and my maid. I often wondered how true it was. Could it really be that the country was in revolt, that they were calling for the restoration of Queen Katharine and the religion they—and their ancestors before them—had known throughout their lives?

How could the King suddenly sever his country from Rome? And just because the Pope would not grant him the right to put his good wife from him and set up his concubine in her place?

I think he must have been very disturbed. He had always courted popularity so assiduously; he had revelled in it, sought it on every occasion; and now when he rode out he was met by sullen looks, and when that woman was with him there were some bold spirits who dared give voice to their disapproval. He must fear that we were trembling on the edge of disaster… perhaps even civil war.

There were rumors that the Emperor was going to invade England, to rescue the Queen, depose the King and set me up as Queen. It was frightening to be in the midst of such a storm.

Attention was turned on Elizabeth Barton, the Nun of Kent. Cromwell had made much of her confession—and those of her adherents. He wanted the whole country to know of the deception. I supposed that was why she had not been executed at the time of her arrest. I think they were trying to incriminate others… all of those who were making things difficult for the King. Sir Thomas More had once listened to this woman's prophecies with interest, and he was incriminated, but, clever lawyer that he was, he was able to extricate himself from the charge, although he was still in the Tower because he refused to agree that my father's marriage to my mother was invalid and he would not accept that Anne Boleyn's children were the true heirs to the throne. Panic was spreading all over the country; people were discovering that their bluff and hearty King could be cruel and ruthless. They did not yet know how cruel, how ruthless—but they were beginning to suspect.

All those who had professed interest in the Nun—and there were some in high places—now wished to dissociate themselves from her.

However, the King was determined to show the people what became of those who opposed him; but in spite of all the trouble she had caused him, the Nun's confession was gratifying to him. She said, before the crowds who had come to witness her last hours at Tyburn, that she was a poor wretch without learning who had been made to believe she had special powers by men who encouraged her to fabricate inventions which brought profit to themselves.

Poor creature, she was hanged with those who had been her close associates.

Each day we waited to hear what would happen next. Lady Bryan was very fearful on my account. She tried to hide it but she asked my chambermaid to take special care with my food.

If I was in this dangerous situation, I asked myself, what of my mother? How was she faring? If only I could have seen her, if only we could have been together, I could have borne this. I was growing thinner and very pale; I suffered from headaches and internal periodic pains and difficulties. I would find myself babbling prayers and asking Heaven to come to my aid.

My little maid came in one day and said, “Madam…Princess… there are two cartloads of friars being taken to the Tower. People watch them. They stand in the cart, their hands together in prayer. People are asking, is that going to happen to us all?”

Later Margaret told me that the Franciscan Order had been suppressed. Then I knew that the King's attention had turned on me, for his commissioners came to Hatfield. They searched the rooms of all those about me; and to my horror they took Lady Hussey away with them.

I was appalled. She had not been a great friend to me in the way that Margaret Bryan had but she had shown a certain sympathy for me. She had always treated me with respect and had on occasion called me Princess. I trembled lest they should take Margaret. She had been very careful, but I could not think of any misdemeanor Lady Hussey had committed.

Later I learned that she had been imprisoned because she had been heard to address me as Princess and on one occasion had said, “The Princess has gone out walking,” and on another asked someone to take the Princess a drink.

What a pass we had come to when a woman could be in fear of losing her life because she had made such a remark!

I worried a great deal about her; I prayed for her; and I was delighted when I heard later that, after a humble confession and a plea to the King for mercy, she was released.

There was a change in my household. Everyone was terrified. It says a great deal for Lady Bryan's courage that she continued to visit me and bring messages, taking mine in return. It would have been certain death for her if she had been discovered.

My mother might hear of Lady Hussey's arrest. What anguish that would cause her, for her fears would not be for herself but for me.

I was fortified by messages from Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador. My maid, being in a humble position, was not watched as some like Margaret would be; she had sources outside the palace, and through her I kept in touch with the ambassador.

I had his assurance that the Emperor was watching events with the
utmost care. If it had been possible, he would have come to rescue my mother and me. He could not do this. François was now an ally of my father and the Emperor had to be watchful and could not leave his own dominions. I understood this, and it was comforting to know he was aware of what was going on.

Chapuys wrote that he had information of a plot to execute my mother and me because we refused to accept Anne as the true Queen. That was what others were suffering for, and the King could never be at peace while we lived.

There were times when I thought death would be a way out of my miseries; but when one comes close to it, one changes one's mind.

Now, I hesitated every night before lying down; I searched my little room for an assassin; I paused before taking a mouthful of food. I found I would tremble at a sudden footfall. I was eating scarcely anything. I prayed for guidance. And then suddenly, the idea came to me that I might escape.

Could I do that? I had friends to help me. Would they be prepared to risk their lives for me? Perhaps my father would be glad to see me go and rejoice…even reward those who helped me get away. Oh no, wherever I was, I should be a menace to him, and particularly so in the care of the Emperor, my cousin. It was dangerous but I needed some stimulation at that time.

So I planned my escape. I had a letter smuggled out to Chapuys. He must help me. I could no longer endure this way of life.

Chapuys was considering what could be done and, I supposed, how my escape would affect the imperial cause. That was always a first consideration. But I imagined the Emperor would not find me an encumbrance, and if I were in his care I should be a continual anxiety to my father, which would please my cousin. So … there seemed a possibility that the escape might be arranged.

It was at this time that all the months of anxiety, the lack of food and my deep depression took their toll of me. I awoke one morning and was too ill to lift my head.

Lady Shelton came to me. She was in a panic. They wanted me dead but everyone was afraid of being accused of killing me.

There was much activity in the house. Vaguely I was aware of it.

Then I found myself being carried out in a litter. By this time the fever had taken such a hold on me that I was not aware of what was happening to me.

They took me to Greenwich.

I learned about this later when people were more ready to talk to me. The King was in a dilemma. He must have been hoping for my death and
at the same time afraid of the stir it would raise. For six days I lay at Greenwich, unseen by a doctor, while the fever took a greater hold on me. I was delirious, they tell me, calling for my mother.

My father sent for Chapuys, to tell him that I was dangerously ill and that he wanted the ambassador to select doctors to send to me. If he would do so, my father told him, they should be sent to me with the royal doctors.

Chapuys was uneasy. If he sent doctors and they failed to cure me, how would that affect the Emperor?

It amuses me now to imagine those men all watching me on my sickbed and wondering what my life or death would mean to their politics.

My father was surely hoping for my death and thought I could not live long when Dr. Butts announced that I was suffering from an incurable disease. Chapuys, on the other hand, had said that Dr. Butts' words were that I was very ill indeed but good care might save me, and that if I were released from my present conditions the cure would be quick.

I was now under the sole care of Lady Shelton. I had been robbed of Margaret, who of course remained with Elizabeth; and my little maid had been suspected of working for me. She had been threatened with the Tower and torture if she did not confess, so, poor child, she admitted to a little. It was enough to bring about her dismissal. So there I was, sick until death and friendless.

I kept calling for my mother, but there was no one to hear me or care if they did.

I owe a great deal to Chapuys. He may have used me as a political pawn for the advancement of his master's cause, but he saved my life. If the King was sending out rumors of my incurable illness, Chapuys had his own way of refuting that. There were hints of poison.

My mother sent frantic messages to the King. “Please give my daughter to me. Let me nurse her in her sickness.”

The requests were ignored. But the people heard of them and they did not like what they heard.

My mother had at this time been sent to Kimbolton Castle—a grimly uncomfortable dwelling in the flat Fen country where the persistent east winds I feared would greatly add to her discomfort.

People gathered about the castle as they did at Greenwich where I lay. They mumbled their displeasure; they cried, “God save the Princess!” in defiance of those who declared that I no longer had a right to that title.