In the Shadow of the Crown (31 page)

“You should see his little face light up when his sister comes in,” said Margaret fondly.

I did see what she meant. There was that quality about Elizabeth.

I was happy to be part of this family, scattered as it was, and living, as I often thought, on the edge of disaster. Neither Elizabeth nor I knew when we would be in or out of favor.

The New Year was a pleasant one, apart from those recurring memories of the Countess and a slight apprehension about my prospective bridegroom and his heresy… though I had to admit that, so charming was he, I was lulling myself into an acceptance of that. I would convert him to the true Faith, I promised myself, which helped me indulge in daydreams of what marriage with him would be like.

I enjoyed being with the family that Christmas and New Year.

Elizabeth was always short of clothes, and Margaret was in a state of resentment about this; she was constantly asking for garments for her and grew very angry when there was no response. So, for a New Year's gift, I gave the child a yellow satin kirtle. It had been rather costly but I was glad I had not stinted in any way when I saw how delighted she was. I have never known anyone express her feelings so openly as Elizabeth did. Her joy was spontaneous. She held the kirtle up to her small body and danced round the room with it. Edward watched her and clapped his hands; and Margaret fell into a chair laughing.

For Edward I had a crimson satin coat, embroidered with gold thread and pearls. He was just past two at this time and a rather solemn child, completely
overpowered by Elizabeth. Elizabeth declared the coat was magnificent. She made him put it on and, taking his hands, danced with him round the chamber.

Margaret watched with some apprehension. Everyone was perpetually worried that Edward might exert himself too much. If he had a slight cold they were all in a panic. They feared the King's wrath if anything should happen to this precious child.

Elizabeth was very interested to hear about the new Queen.

“I want to meet her,” she said. “She is, after all, my stepmother, is she not? I should meet her.”

I often wondered how much she knew. She was only a child—not seven years old yet; but there was something very mature beneath the gaiety— watchful almost. She was certainly no ordinary six-year-old.

When I was alone with Margaret, she told me that Elizabeth had begged her to ask her father's permission to see the new Queen. The King had replied that the Queen was so different from her own mother that she ought not to wish to see her; but she might write to Her Majesty.

And had she done this? I asked Margaret.

“She never misses an opportunity. I have the letter here but I have not sent it yet. I suppose it is all right to send it as she has the King's permission; but I should like you to see it and consider that it is the work of a child not yet seven years old.”

She produced the letter.

“Madam,” Elizabeth had written, “I am struggling between two contending wishes—one, my impatient desire to see Your Majesty, the other that of rendering the obedience I owe to the King, my father, which prevents me from leaving my house until he has given me permission to do so. But I hope that I shall shortly be able to gratify both these desires. In the meantime, I entreat Your Majesty to permit me to show, by this billet, the zeal with which I devote my respect to you as my Queen, and my entire obedience to you as my mother. I am too young and too feeble to have power to do more than felicitate you with all my heart in this commencement of your marriage. I hope that Your Majesty will have as much good will for me as I have zeal for your service…”

It was hard to believe that one so young could have written such a letter.

“Surely someone helped her,” I said.

“No…no…it is not so. She would be too impatient. She thinks she knows best.”

I marvelled with Lady Bryan but she told me that she had ceased to be surprised at Elizabeth's cleverness.

Later, when they did meet, Anne was completely charmed. I daresay she
had been eager to meet the six-year-old writer of that letter. Her affection for the child was immediate, and she told me that if the Princess Elizabeth had been her daughter, it would have given her greater happiness than being Queen. Of course, being Queen brought her little happiness, but she did mean that she had a very special feeling for Elizabeth, and as soon as she was acknowledged as my father's wife she had the girl seated opposite her at table and accompanying her at all the entertainments.

It was decreed that I should spend some time with her. I was to talk to her in English and try to instruct her in that language. I should acquaint her with our customs. This I did and came to know her very well; I grew fond of her and, during that time when she was wondering what would become of her, because it was quite clear that she did not please the King, having suffered myself, I could sympathize with her.

I was wondering whether my father would actually marry her. But there was no way out. It had been proved that Anne had entered into no contract with any man and therefore was perfectly free. My father's three previous wives were all dead. There was no impediment.

My father must have been the most reluctant bridegroom in the world. He said to Cromwell just before the ceremony, “My lord, if it were not to satisfy the world and my realm, I would not do what I have to do this day for any earthly thing.”

Words which boded no good to Cromwell, who had been responsible for getting him into this situation—nor to his poor Queen, who was the victim of it.

I was present at the wedding. My father looked splendid in his satin coat, puffed and embroidered and with its clasp of enormous diamonds; and he had a jeweled collar about his neck. But even the jewels could not distract from his gloomy countenance.

Anne was equally splendid in cloth of gold embroidered with pearls; her long flaxen hair was loose about her shoulders.

And so the marriage was celebrated.

There was feasting afterward. I soon learned that the marriage had not been consummated. It was common knowledge, for the King made no secret of it. In his own words, he had no heart for it, and he was already looking for means of ridding himself of Anne.

Because I was close to her at that time, I knew of her anxieties. The King was no longer trying to hide the revulsion she aroused in him. She was quite different from all his other wives. She was not learned like my mother; she was not witty and clever like Anne; she was not pretty and docile like Jane.

I sensed the speculation in the air. What did he do with wives when he wanted to be rid of them? Would he dare submit her to the axe? On what
pretext? He was adept at finding reasons for his actions. Was her brother, the Duke of Cleves, powerful enough to protect her? Hardly, when the Emperor Charles had not been able to save his aunt.

I knew what it felt like to live under the threat of the axe. I myself had done so for a number of years. We were none of us safe in these times.

When we sat together over our needlework, she would ask me questions about the King's previous wives. I talked to her a little about my mother, and it was amazing to me that there could be such sympathy between us, because she was a Lutheran; yet this made little difference to our friendship.

I think she was most interested in my mother and Anne Boleyn—the two discarded wives. Jane had not reigned long enough for her to meet disaster; and she had been the only one to produce a son. I knew what was in her mind. The King wanted to be rid of her, and we had examples of what he did with unwanted wives.

At times there was a placidity about her, as though she were prepared for some fearful fate and would accept it stoically; at others I glimpsed terror.

There was something else I noticed. It was at table. There was a young girl there—very pretty, with laughing eyes and a certain provocative way with her, and the King often had his eyes on her.

I asked one of the women who she was.

“She's the old Duchess of Norfolk's granddaughter, Catharine Howard.”

“She is very attractive.”

“Yes…in a way,” said the other.

I thought if she was related to the Howards she must be a connection of Anne Boleyn. There was something about these Howard women.

I put the matter out of my mind. After all, the King had always had an eye for a certain type of woman.

I did not realize then how great was my father's passion for this girl. She was small, young and childlike—very pretty in a sensuous way, with doe-like eyes and masses of curly hair. There was a look of expectancy about her, a certain promise, which I understood later when I learned something of what her life had been.

As for Anne of Cleves, she had none of that quality about her at all; she was pleasant-looking; she was tall, of course, and perhaps a little ungainly; her features were a trifle heavy, but her eyes were a beautiful brown, and I thought her flaxen hair charming.

However, my father would have none of her, and his growing passion for Catharine Howard made him determined to be rid of her.

They were uneasy days. Philip had gone back to Bavaria after taking a loving farewell and telling me we should soon be together. I was sorry to see him go. I had liked to have him near me. I had had so little of that attention
he bestowed on me, and it made me feel attractive and desirable like other women; and as one day I planned to convert him back to the true Faith, I was able to still my conscience about his religious views.

Cromwell was created Earl of Essex in April. I wondered why, for my father was blaming him more and more for his marriage.

Politics were changing, too. Chapuys told me with some amusement that my father's interest in the German princes was waning, and he was veering now toward the Emperor. My cousin was a man of whom my father was afraid more than of anyone else—and with good reason, too. Charles was proving himself to be the most astute monarch in Europe; his power was increasing, and it was not good to be on bad terms with him. My mother being dead meant that there was no great reason for contention between them. I was being treated with a certain respect, so there was no quarrel on that score. Of course, the Emperor would not approve of my betrothal to Philip of Bavaria any more than he had liked the alliance with Cleves, but my father did not like it either—so he and the Emperor were in agreement about that.

Who had forged the German alliance? Cromwell. Who had brought the King a bride he disliked? The same.

The King had never liked Cromwell, and, like Wolsey's, Cromwell's swift rise from humble origins had angered many at Court; moreover, Cromwell's enemies were as numerous as those who had helped Wolsey to his fall.

There were two things my father ardently desired: to rid himself first of all of his wife, and secondly of Cromwell And those who looked for favors would help him to attain both those ends.

The alliance with the petty German princes had been a mistake; and Cromwell had made that mistake. He had, it was said, received bribes; he had given out commissions without the King's knowledge; he had trafficked in heretical books. There was rumor that he had considered marrying me and setting himself up as king, an idea which shocked me considerably, even though I did not, for one moment, believe it.

He was tried, and as all those present knew what verdict the King wanted, they gave it.

I was horrified. Whatever else Cromwell had done, he had worked well for the King. It appalled me that he could have come to this. I knew that Cromwell's vital mistake was to have arranged the marriage with Anne of Cleves. But was it his fault that her physical appearance did not please the King?

I felt sorry for the man…to have risen so high and to fall so low. There was only one to say a good word for him and that was Cranmer. Cranmer,
though, was not a bold man. He asked the King for leniency but was abruptly told to be silent, and immediately he obeyed.

Cromwell languished in prison, not knowing whether he would be beheaded or burned at the stake. He did implore the King to have mercy, but my father was intent on one thing, and that was to bring his marriage to Anne of Cleves to an end.

Norfolk was sent to visit Cromwell in the Tower, and there Cromwell revealed to him the content of several conversations he had had with the King disclosing intimate details of the latter's relationship with Anne of Cleves which made it clear that the marriage had not been consummated.

As a result it was declared null and void.

I was with Anne at Richmond when the deputation arrived. She went to the window and saw Norfolk at the head of it. She turned very pale.

“They have come for me,” she said. “They have come as they came for Anne Boleyn.”

I stood beside her, watching the deputation disembark at the stairs and come toward the palace.

“You should leave me,” she said.

I took her hand and pressed it firmly. “I will stay with you,” I told her.

“No, no. It is better not. They would not allow it … Better to leave me.”

I knew her thoughts. She was seeing herself walking out to Tower Green as her namesake had gone before her. She must have thought during the last months of this possibility, and she had considered it with a certain calm, but when it was close… seeming almost inevitable, she felt, I believe, that she was looking death straight in the face.

I could see that my presence distracted her. So I kissed her gently and left.

I learned that when the deputation was presented to her, she fainted.

THEY HAD GONE.

I went to her apartments. I had already heard of the faint and was surprised when she greeted me with exuberance.

“I am thanking God,” she said.

“But you were ill…”

“I am well now. I am no longer the Queen.”

I stared at her, as she began to laugh.

“I …” she spluttered. “I am the King's sister!”

I could see that she needed to recover from the shock she had suffered when the deputation had arrived, for she had been sure they had come to
conduct her to the Tower. But no… they had come to tell her that she was no longer the King's wife. In future she would be known as his sister.