In the Shadow of the Crown

Waiting for the Child

WHEN I AWOKE NEXT MORNING, IT WAS TO FIND THAT HE was no longer beside me. There was a great commotion outside the door. My women were talking loudly, protesting.

I rose and went out to them.

Several Spanish gentlemen of Philip's entourage were standing there, being held at bay by my valiant ladies. They were trying to explain that it was a breach of etiquette to call on a lady the morning after her wedding.

I said, “I daresay it is a Spanish custom.” I would ask Philip when I saw him.

I could not imagine where he could be. I wondered if I might ask him what induced him to rise so early. I had hoped to wake and find him beside me. But I did not ask him. One did not ask Philip such things. For all my love for him, I felt there was a barrier between us. But I did discover later that it was a Spanish custom for certain gentlemen to come into the bridal chamber after the wedding night in order to congratulate the married pair.

I was learning that the customs of my husband's Court were very different from ours, but at that time I was amused by the differences and told myself how interesting it would be to learn each other's ways.

I was surprised when I did not see Philip all that day. I was told that he was busy attending to dispatches he had received from his father.

It was my duty to meet the wives of the gentlemen who had accompanied him, and I began with the Duchess of Alva. She was very elegant and rather alarmed me by her stately demeanor. But I was in love with all things Spanish. It was natural that I should be. I had Spanish blood in my veins. I remembered snatches of conversation I had shared with my mother years ago. She had been brought up in a Court which must have been very like that in which Philip had lived. I thought of how happy she would be if she could see me now.

The Duchess and I got on very well after a while. I suppose she was as nervous of me as I was of her. I had gone to meet her, which surprised her because she had expected to find me seated, and she did not know how to greet me. She sank to her knees and tried to kiss my hand, but I put my arms round her and kissed her cheek.

I meant to be warm and friendly but my manner seemed to disconcert her; however, after a while we were able to speak in a friendly fashion together.

It was very difficult to break through the solemnity of the Spanish, and I could see that this was going to be a problem with Philip. I could never be sure what he was thinking. He behaved with courtesy and gentleness toward me, yet he was never abandoned, never passionate. If I had not deluded myself, I could have feared that our marriage, our love-making, was to him a task, a duty which must be performed.

Later I believed this was so, for when he had gone, people talked more freely of him, and I have to admit that whenever possible I urged them to do so. There came a time when I felt a certain masochistic pleasure in torturing myself, when I wanted to learn the truth about my marriage.

Then I reminded myself that I was old and he was comparatively young… that I was to him a kind of maiden aunt.

But for the time being I was blissfully happy.

We left Winchester for London and crossed London Bridge at noon, surrounded by the nobility of Spain and England. We were greeted by the pageantry one grows accustomed to on such occasions; but what pleased the people most, I am sure, were the ninety-seven chests—each over a yard long—which contained the bullion Philip had brought with him.

We came to Whitehall, where celebrations continued. These were, however, cut short by the death of the old Duke of Norfolk. I insisted that the Court go into mourning. Poor Norfolk! The last years of his life had been very melancholy. After narrowly escaping being beheaded by my father, he had been a prisoner all through the last reign; and when I had come to the throne, he had been released but his luck had not changed. He had led an inferior force against Wyatt and had suffered the humiliation of being defeated, which would be heartbreaking for a man of his caliber. So it seemed right to put on mourning for an old friend.

At Windsor the ceremony of the Garter was officially performed, and I was happy to see Philip honored. I wanted to give him so much, which could seem only very little after all the happiness he had brought me.

Susan used to watch my exuberance with a certain fearfulness. I know I behaved like a young girl in love; but, if I was not a young girl, I was certainly in love, and older people's feelings can be so much stronger than those of the young, particularly when happiness comes to them late in life after much tribulation.

I wanted Philip to have a coronation. So did Renard, who came to see me about the matter and to stress what a good thing it would be.

“He would take so much of the burden from your shoulders. You have too much to contend with. You must see that he is given the status here that he so richly deserves.”

“I would willingly give it,” I said.

“There is nothing I want more. I will speak to the Council.”

I did.

Gardiner said, “The people would never accept it.”

“I am the Queen,” I reminded him. “I intend to rule as my father did.”

“It was different in your father's day. It is not long since people flocked to Wyatt's banner. There is your sister…”

“I know you want to have her…removed… but I will not allow that. She is not concerned with this. I am sure the country would welcome a king to help in governing them.”

“The time has not come…yet,” insisted Gardiner.

It was a sort of compromise. Not yet, he said. He must mean that we should wait awhile.

I had to admit that he was right, for after that first enthusiasm when we had our ceremonies and pageants, which people always enjoy, they began to display their dislike of foreigners in general and Spaniards in particular. It was said that there were more Spaniards than English in the streets of London. “England is for the English,” was their cry. “We want no aliens here.” Those who had come in Philip's train were rich, and that aroused the people's envy. Children called after them in the streets and threw stones at them. Quarrels were picked and there was frequent fighting. The Spaniards began to fear that it was unsafe to go out alone, for they were constantly being robbed.

I was ashamed of my countrymen, but Philip remained calm and as courteous as ever; he would not give up his Spanish household and, as I had provided him with English servants, he kept the two, which must have been a great expense; but as he could not easily dismiss those I had found and would not give up those he had brought, he accepted the cost.

I wished that we could have talked more openly together. I wished I had known what was in his mind. There were constant dispatches arriving from the Emperor. Philip would spend most of the day dealing with them. I saw very little of him except in company, and when we were alone in our bedchamber, very few words were spoken.

It was in September when I believed I might be pregnant. I had suffered through my life from internal irregularities, so I could not be sure, but I had a certain exultant feeling within me. I felt blessed, and I said to myself: This is what the Virgin experienced when she was visited by the angel.

This was what I had longed for. A child of my own! Everything I had endured… all my troubles… they were all worthwhile, if I could hold my own child in my arms.

I was afraid to say anything. I was fearful that it might not be so.

But it must be. Why else should I have this feeling of exultation?

SEPTEMBER PASSED. EACH DAY I became more sure. I wanted to sing out to the housetops, “My soul doth magnify the Lord …I am to have a child…a child of my own. It will be a son. It must be a son.” Oh, what rejoicing there would be! If only the time would pass more quickly. When could I expect the birth? Next May perhaps? The child would be my firstborn. Who knew? There might be others…

I could think of nothing but my child.

Susan knew that something had happened. She waited for me to tell her. But I did not just yet, hard as it was to keep a secret. I was afraid that she would remind me of my weakness which had been with me all my life.

“Are you sure?” she would say. “Can Your Majesty be sure?”

I could not bear that there should be a doubt; and she would doubt, I knew. She would say, like the rest: She is nearly forty years old. She is too old for childbearing. She has her weakness. It is a recurrence of that which we have known before.

No! No! I argued with myself. This is different. I am no longer a virgin. I am a wife…a passionately loved wife.

Passionately? Was Philip passionate? How could I know? What experience had I of passion? He seemed eager and loving. He did care for me. He did, I vehemently assured myself.

At last I could not resist telling Philip. We had retired for the night and were alone together.

I said to him, “Philip, I think it may be so…I believe it to be so…” He looked at me eagerly.

“I believe I am with child,” I concluded.

I saw the joy in his face, and my heart swelled with happiness.

“You are sure…?”

“Yes, yes…I think it may be so.”

“When… when?”

“I cannot be quite certain of that. Perhaps next May we may have our child.”

I saw his lips moving, as though in prayer.

A FEW WEEKS PASSED. I was terrified that I should be proved wrong; but so far I was not.

I had told Susan now. She looked alarmed.

“Why, Susan,” I said, “you should rejoice.”

She replied, as I knew she would, “You are sure, Your Majesty?”

“I am absolutely sure.”

“May God guard Your Majesty,” she said fervently.

I knew what she was thinking. I was old… too old… for childbearing. I was going to prove them wrong. I was not yet forty. Women had children at that age. I was small and slight—not built for the task of bringing children into the world. They would all have to change their minds. I would make them.

I was faintly irritated with Susan. She did not share my pleasure. I would have reprimanded her but I knew it was out of her love for me that she was apprehensive.

Philip said to me, “The French are plaguing my father. I should be there to help him.”

A cold fear ran through me. “He will understand that you must be here,” I said.

“Oh yes… for a time.”

“It is your home now, Philip.”

He said a little coldly, “My home is in Spain. One day I shall be the King.”

“That is far ahead, and now that we are married we must be together. The people would never allow me to leave this country.”

He said nothing, but his lips were tight.

I thought: Poor Philip. He is a little homesick. It is natural. Perhaps the Emperor would come and visit us or, mayhap, when the child was born, I could go with him… just for a brief visit.

I knew that could never be. But I was in love and about to be a mother, so I allowed myself wild dreams.

HAPPY AS I WAS, I thought often of my sister Elizabeth. She was a prisoner at Woodstock under the good, though stern, Sir Henry Bedingfield and I knew how that must have irked her.

From Sir Henry I had learned of a plot to assassinate her. The suspicion came to me that it might have been hatched by Gardiner, who was always an enemy of hers, and I expect he feared what might happen to him if she came to the throne. According to Sir Henry, he had been called away and had left his brother in charge, giving him strict injunctions that Elizabeth must be watched day and night, not only because of what she herself might become involved in but because there might be those who wished to harm her.

A man named Basset, with twenty men, had been found loitering in the gardens, with the obvious intent of doing some harm to my sister. Because of the strict vigilance, the conspiracy had been discovered and the plot failed.

Although she caused me continual anxiety, I should hate any harm to come to her; so she continued to be in my thoughts.

I had never understood her and was always uncertain as to whether or not she would plot against me. Whenever we were together, I felt nothing but affection for her. Perhaps I was guileless, but I believed she cherished sisterly feelings toward me.

And these accusations which were brought against her? Were they true? I wished I knew. I wished I could trust her completely and that she could come to Court so that we might be as sisters should.

I spoke to Philip about her.

I said, “My sister is much on my mind. It is hurtful that she should be kept under restraint. After all, she is my sister. I want to see her. I want to ask her, face to face, how much truth there is in these rumors that she has supporters who would set her up in my place. If she has hopes …” My voice softened and I looked at him appealingly, “… they cannot remain…now.”

I believe the Spaniards are brought up to hide their emotions. My mother had not been like that. Formal as she could be at times, she had always been warm and loving with me. Perhaps it was not in Philip's nature to show emotion.

He was preoccupied with the subject of Elizabeth. I had noticed that, whenever her name was mentioned, he became alert and gave his full attention to what was being said.

“Bring her to Court,” he now advised.

I smiled happily. “You think that would be a good idea? Gardiner is against it.”

He lowered his eyes. “Bring her to Court,” he repeated. “Speak with her alone. Ask her… then judge.”

I nodded. “I should like to see her married.” I smiled at him fondly. “Everyone should marry. It is the greatest happiness on Earth…as I have found.”

A wry smile touched his lips. I told myself it meant that he agreed with me.

I went on, “Emmanuel Philibert will be here for a few months. He would be a suitable match. It will be better when she is out of the country. While she is here, there will always be people to see her as a rallying-point. There are a great many heretics in the country, Philip, and they look to her.”

“That will be remedied,” he said. “Send for her. It is the best.”

He asked questions about her, and I told him how, when she had been born, she had been treated with great respect and, when her mother fell out of favor, how her fortunes drastically changed. “She has lived her life under the shadow of death,” I went on. “Many times she has come face to face with it.”

I could not help thinking that at one time Philip and his father had been eager to see the end of her. Now he seemed to be more tolerant. I thought: Being in love makes one eager to see the whole world happy…even those who may be our enemies.

“It will be different now,” I said, “because of the child. I believe that, before, she refused marriage because it would have meant her leaving the country.”

“I see her point.”

“But now everything has changed.” I smiled radiantly. I was so happy. Soon my child would be born; and if Elizabeth were married to Emmanuel, I could think of her with pleasure. We could exchange personal, sisterly letters, and everything would be as it should be.

It was wonderful to be in agreement with Philip. How well he understood my feelings!

Sir Henry Bedingfield brought Elizabeth up from Woodstock, and in due course she arrived at Hampton Court.

Before I summoned her, I sent Gardiner to her. I told him that he must ask her to confess her fault and then I would consider her confession and perhaps forgive her.

He came back to me and told me that his interview with the Princess had been unproductive.

He said, “I told her that she must confess her fault. She replied that, rather than confess to something she had not done, she was prepared to stay in prison for the rest of her life, for she had never committed any fault against Your Majesty in thought, word or deed, and that therefore she could crave no mercy at your hand, but rather desired herself to be judged by law. I told her that you marvelled at her boldness in refusing to confess—for in doing so she implied that Your Majesty had wrongfully imprisoned her.”

“And what did she reply to that?” I asked.

“She said, ‘She may, if it pleases Her Majesty, punish me as she thinketh good.' ‘Her Majesty says you must tell another tale ere you are set at liberty,' I told her, to which she replied she would as lief be in prison as abroad, suspected by the Queen. I said that she implied she had been wrongfully imprisoned, to which she answered that she spoke the truth, would cling to the truth and seek no advantage through lies.”

I listened attentively. Philip wanted to know what had passed between Elizabeth and Gardiner and listened with great interest when I told him.

I learned from one of the women who was in Elizabeth's household and who reported to me that which she thought would interest me that, after the interview with Gardiner, coupled with the fact that I had summoned her to Court, Elizabeth believed it meant that another charge would be brought against her, and she was sure her enemies were determined to put an end to her. She kissed her ladies fondly, saying it might be that they would never meet her again on Earth.

I was very distressed that she should think this of me when what I wanted was to stop this suspicion between us, and for her to be at Court and that we should be as sisters.

“I must see her,” I said to Philip.

“I should be the one to question her… not Gardiner.”

I was delighted that he agreed with me.

“Summon her,” he said, “and while she is with you I will watch. I will be hidden behind a screen. I would hear what passes between you.”

I thought it was wonderful for Philip to care so much for me and to understand my feelings for my sister far better than others did.

So when Elizabeth was brought to me, Philip hid himself behind a screen placed so that, when Elizabeth stood before me, she would have her back to it. It meant that he could take occasional glimpses at her as well as hear every word that was spoken.

It was ten o'clock at night when she came to me. I could see she was distraught and, having heard of her farewell to her women, I understood that she thought her end was in sight.

I was immediately overcome with pity, remembering the bright child who was the delight and terror of Lady Bryan's life, and I felt a certain nostalgia for earlier days and wished that life could have been different for us all.

She fell to her knees and, before I could speak, began professing her absolute loyalty; she swore by God and the Holy Virgin that she had never been engaged in any plots against me.

I tried to fight the sentiment in myself. She looked very attractive with her red hair falling about her shoulders. I tried to speak sternly. I said, “So, you will not confess your fault, but stand firmly on your truth. I pray that it may become manifest.”

“If it is not,” she replied proudly, “I will look for neither favor nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands.”

“You are so firm…so fervent in your protestations of innocence that you have been wrongfully accused…”

She looked at me with a certain slyness. “I must not say so to Your Majesty,” she said.

“But you will say so to others seemingly.”

“No, Your Majesty. I have borne and must bear the burden. What I humbly beseech is Your Majesty's good opinion of me, as I am, and ever have been, Your Majesty's true subject.”

“How can I be sure?” I murmured.

Then she seized my hands and burst into a passionate appeal. I must understand, she said, that I was to her firstly a dear sister. She remembered my kindness to her when she was an outcast. That she would never forget. She wanted a chance to prove to me that I had never had a more devoted servant. In the great happiness which had come to me, she thought I and my noble husband would be kind to a poor prisoner who was loyal toward her sovereign and tender toward her sister.

She was eloquent. She was, after all, fighting for her life. She believed at that time that I had brought her up from Woodstock with the purpose of sending her to her death.

I was touched, and hurt that she could think this of me. I told her to rise and I embraced her.

I said to her, “No more. Whether you are guilty or not, I forgive you.” I took a ring from my finger. It was a beautiful diamond. I had given it to her on my coronation, telling her that, if ever she was in trouble, she was to send it to me and if possible I would help her. It had come back to me at the time she was taken to the Tower, and I had kept it ever since. Now I gave it back to her.

There was a radiance about her. She had come to me expecting to be sent to the Tower, and instead she had the pledge of my friendship. Her eyes were filled with tears. I was deeply touched, and suddenly she flung herself into my arms.

“You are once more my sister,” she cried. “I have your love and I am happy again.”

When she left me, Philip emerged from behind the screen. There was no doubt that he was greatly interested in Elizabeth. His eyes shone and he almost smiled. But it was not easy to know what he really thought of her.

He said, “You did well. You acted with dignity and tolerance.”

“And what did you think of my sister?”

“I think that much of what I have heard of her is true.”

It seemed an evasive answer, but I was delighted with his approval.

IT WAS ABOUT this time that I noticed one of my ladies behaving in a strange and almost secretive manner. This was Magdalen Dacre. She was outstandingly beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of all my ladies. She was very tall and made dwarves of some of us, and she would have been remarkable because of her statuesque figure if for nothing else. Magdalen had all the virtues. She was religious and efficient. Perhaps some would say she was a little prim, but I liked her for that. I would not have wished to be surrounded by frivolous women.

I noticed that she was absent on one or two occasions. I asked for her and was told she was resting. She seemed to need a good deal of rest. I wondered if she were unhappy about something.

She was hardly ever present when Philip was there, but I noticed that when he was he treated her with great courtesy. He was courteous to all my ladies, but he did seem especially so toward Magdalen.

I wondered mildly about her, and then I ceased to think of her for something very important was about to happen.

I had not yet achieved my mission, which was to return England to Rome. It was too dangerous to do so at the moment. I did not want to plunge the country into civil war. At the same time I did feel that there should not be too much delay.

The news from the Continent delighted me. Reginald Pole was coming home.

He had been out of favor with the Emperor, for at one time he had made it clear that he opposed my marriage to Philip. I believed that his opposition was due to the fact that he thought I was too old for childbearing and that to attempt it would be dangerous to me. None wanted the return to Rome more than he did, but he believed it could be done without the marriage.

I daresay the Emperor thought that, if he came to England, he would be my chief adviser, which was very likely, and I was not sure that the Emperor wanted that. Reginald would doubtless have returned to England earlier but for these considerations. After all, he was no longer an exile. He had left the country only because he upheld my right to the succession; now I was Queen the way was clear for his return.

And now he was coming.

It was November, and I was now certain of my pregnancy. I was wildly happy, and the thought of seeing Reginald after all these years added to my joy. He was not strong and had had to take the journey by easy stages. There should be a royal yacht at Calais to bring him to Dover.

I was delighted to hear that he had arrived safely in England, and as he made the journey to Gravesend he was in the midst of an impressive cavalcade. At Gravesend the barge I had sent for him was waiting and, with his silver cross fixed on the prow, he sailed to Whitehall.

Gardiner received him at the water's edge, and at the entrance of the palace Philip was waiting for him. I myself stood at the head of the stairs.

With what emotion we embraced! The years seemed to slip away, and I was young again, dreaming of him, telling myself that one day he would be my bridegroom.

That was in the past. How old Reginald looked—yet handsome in an aesthetic way. He was frail, thin and of medium height, but he looked tall beside Philip. His hair and beard, which I remembered as light brown, were now white; but he still had the same gentle expression which I had loved.

“Welcome home,” I said.

“It is wonderful to see you. I know that, now you are come, all will soon be…as it should be.”

He congratulated me on my marriage. I raised my eyebrows, reminding him that he had warned me against it.

“I was wrong,” he said charmingly, reading my thoughts. “It has worked out in the best possible way. I am happy for you.”

He meant it. I wonder if he remembered the plans to get us married, how my mother and his had planned when we were both much younger. But nothing had come of it, and he had gone on his way—indeed he had had no choice, for if he had stayed he would have gone to the block with most of his family. And now I had Philip—whom I would not have exchanged for any man in the world.

It was wonderful to know that he was back, and perhaps even more so to realize what his coming meant, for he had come to help restore the Pope's supremacy in England which, I had convinced myself, was the reason why God had preserved my life and set me on the throne to work His will.

Gardiner came up the stairs.

He was to take Reginald to Lambeth Palace.

MY PLEASURE IN SEEING Reginald was married by the change in him. He was still handsome, still noble, but I sensed a deep sadness, and there was in him a bitterness against my father.

We met frequently and there were times when he and I were alone together. Then he talked of his family, all of whom—with the exception of Geoffry, who had tried and failed to take his own life and was now living abroad in exile—had been murdered. What affected him most was the death of his mother, who, he said, had been butchered on the scaffold.

“My mother,” he said, “was a saint. She was the most pious of women who had never harmed a living soul… and to be murdered so.”

I wept with him, remembering so much of my life with her.

“But it is over, Reginald,” I said. “Life dealt harshly with you and yours, and we do no good by remembering.”

He said, “I see myself as the son of a martyr, for such was my mother and I shall never forget her.”

“The past is over,” I said. “Many died and your family among them. We cannot bring them back. We have to think ahead. We have to continue with this great task which God has set us.”

He was certainly zealous in that cause. Three days after his arrival, the two Houses of Parliament were assembled to hear Reginald speak. He told them he had come to restore the lost glory of the kingdom.

A few days later Philip and I were presented with a petition from the two Houses to plead with the Legate to absolve the country from its schism and disobedience.

We were moving toward our goal. High Mass was celebrated at St. Paul's. The Act restoring supremacy to the Pope had not yet been passed but it was on the way.

There was a ceremony at St. Paul's at the end of November to celebrate my condition. It was very moving. The Virgin Mary was referred to, and the similarity of our names seemed significant. “Fear not, Mary,” the angel had said, “for thou hast found favor with God.”

The fear meant that they were all remembering my age and the dangers of childbirth, even to the young and healthy. They would certainly be remembering the last prince to be born, my brother Edward, whose coming had meant the death of his mother.

I listened to the prayers with emotion.

“Give therefore unto Thy servants, Philip and Mary, a male issue.” I was always a little apprehensive about this manner of giving commands to God. Few would have dared treat me in the same manner! “Make him comely and in wit notable and excellent.”

All I wanted was a healthy son; and I was the happiest woman in the world at the prospect of having one.

CHRISTMAS HAD COME. I was delighted that my sister would be at Court to celebrate it with me. She did not appear often in public—only when her presence was commanded. Then she was subdued, and there was a secretive air about her. Philip was immensely interested in her. I often noticed his eyes following her.

I told myself: He is a little suspicious of her; he fears she may be plotting against me.

Dear Philip, he was so careful of me, and I was very happy that I had conceived so soon. It was a sign of fertility.

I was feeling quite ill at times but I rejoiced in my suffering. It was all part of pregnancy, which could be very trying to some women. I expected it would be particularly so for me, in view of my previous weakness.

I said to Philip, “Until this child is born, Elizabeth is the heir presumptive, and I believe she should be treated as such.”

He said he had no objection and was very affable to her, often seating himself beside her and engaging in conversation.

It was a great pleasure to me that they seemed so friendly toward each other but I did feel a little dismayed when Elizabeth was inclined to be coquettish. I thought Philip might have been a little disgusted. He was no Thomas Seymour to smile on or encourage such conduct. But so determined was he to be amiable that he made no objection.

I mentioned to him that he seemed very interested in her, and he replied that she was too near the throne for him to ignore her.

“She seems to be happy about the child,” I said, “but it has blighted her hopes.”

“She will understand that it is God who decides what is to be.”

“As we all must,” I said.

I put my hand over his, but his lay cold beneath mine. It was his Spanish nature. He did not seem to know how to respond to those little endearments, and therefore pretended he was unaware of them.

I said, “Philip, you do think it is right to treat my sister as heirpresumptive, do you not?”

“We must until the child is born.”

“So thought I. Then she must be seated at my table. And she must receive honors. That is right, Philip?”

“I believe that to be right,” he said.

“I am glad that she will have an opportunity to become acquainted with Emmanuel Philibert.”

Philip nodded gravely.

When it was seen that I was treating Elizabeth with the respect due to the heir presumptive, there were many to flock round her. Philip's eyes were speculative as he watched her success. If I had not known him well, I should have thought he was interested in her as a woman.

As for Elizabeth, she was in her element. I had never seen anyone recover so quickly, whether it was from sickness or fear of death; as soon as it was over, she seemed able to dismiss it from her mind.

Emmanuel Philibert was paying court to her. She accepted his attentions and then wide-eyed declared that she could never marry. I was irritated with her. She must have known what was expected of her, yet she put on that pretense of innocence which I knew was entirely false.

I sent for her and told her she was foolish. The prince was a good man; she was fortunate that he should agree to marry her.

“My dear sister,” she said, “I have a repugnance for the state of marriage. I wish to remain a virgin.”

“What! All your life!”

“It would seem so…at this time.”

“You are a fool, sister.”

She piously raised her eyes to the ceiling, accepting my judgement. But I could see the stubborn look about her mouth.

Later I consulted Philip.

I was feeling very ill now, and I know I looked wan. Philip was most anxious about me, and I was gratified that he showed such care for me.

He said, “She should not be forced to marry.”

“It would be difficult to force her.”

He nodded. “Let her stay. She is watched. No harm can come that way.”

I thought how kind he was, how considerate of others.

I told Elizabeth that the King thought she should make her own decision about marriage.

Her eyes lighted with pleasure, and she smiled secretively.

THE ACTS SETTING OUT the return to Rome were now confirmed, and those nineteen statutes against the See of Rome brought in during my father's reign were repealed.

It was not to be expected that the country would easily change, and there must certainly be dissenters. When Gardiner came to me and told me that the Council were going to enforce the old laws against heresy, I was disturbed.

I questioned this. In my imagination I saw the pale, martyred face of Anne Askew, and I remembered those days when my stepmother Katharine Parr went in fear of her life. Anne Askew and Katharine Parr had been good women, though misguided. I could not bear to think of people being tortured and burned at the stake.

“I think persuasion would be the best way to proceed,” I said.

“Your Majesty, with all respect, when has persuasion ever persuaded? These people are as firm in their beliefs as…”

“As you or I?”

“They need guidance.”

“Then let us give them guidance.”

“The Council are of the opinion that the old laws should be enforced. Moreover, it is the Pope's wish.”

“All I wanted was to bring the country back to Rome, for the Mass to be celebrated openly and with due reverence. I must think of this.”

Gardiner looked at me with something like exasperation. Often he had deplored what he thought of as my woman's sentimentality. One did not govern a country on sentiment. If the law of the country was that people should worship in the way it was before my father broke with Rome, then that was how it should be.

I wanted to explain to him that it was different now. Since Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five theses on the church door at Wittenberg, Protestantism had grown apace, and there were many Protestants in England who had flourished under my brother. Would they lightly discard those new beliefs and cheerfully return to the old? They certainly would not, and then…

“Let it be gradual,” I said.

“Perhaps you will talk to the King,” replied Gardiner.

He knew that I would. He knew that I sought every opportunity of talking to Philip, and he knew that Philip would doubtless agree with the Council.

I told Philip how gratified I was that we were restoring the true religion. We had come out of the sleep, as someone said, and we were now getting back onto the right course. It was what God had ordained for me, and I was achieving it.

“It is a matter for rejoicing,” said Philip.

“Philip,” I said earnestly. “I do not wish the law to be harsh.”

He never betrayed his feelings, but I could see his thoughts were much the same as Gardiner's had been and that he believed my misguided sentiments stood in the way of good government.

He said, “If the people will not come to the truth voluntarily, they must be led to it.”

“How can they be led if they will not listen?”

“When they see what happens to heretics, they will be led.”

“There will always be martyrs.”

“There will always be heretics and they must be removed.”

“I remember Anne Askew. She was a good woman, but misguided in her views. They racked her. They burned her at the stake.”

“You must understand. A heretic denies God's truth. What is there for him…or her… when they are brought before their Maker? It will be hell fire for them… eternal fire. That which is felt at the stake will be nothing compared with what is to come.”

I covered my face with my hands.

“I wish it need not be,” I said.

“There must be examples.”

“Each person must be given a chance to recant.”

Philip nodded. “That should be. And for the death of one, think of the thousands who will be saved by his example. It is easy to talk of martyrdom, but when the flames are actually seen to consume the bodies of those who sin against God, men and women will question their beliefs. It is the way to turn people to the truth.”

He persuaded me, and in January, when Parliament was dissolved, the way ahead was clear.

I wanted every person to have a chance to save himor herself. All they had to do was turn from the new learning to the old, true religion. I wanted all to know that I would be a loving monarch if my people would obey the laws of the land. I wanted no trouble. I wanted them to regard me as their mother. I wanted them to know I loved them and that, if I agreed to punishment—and this applied particularly to heretics, it was for their own good.

I said that all those who had been imprisoned at the time of the Wyatt rebellion should be released. I thought often of Edward Courtenay, with whom I had at one time considered a marriage. How fortunate I had been to escape that! In spite of his Plantagenet blood, he would have been a most unsuitable husband. How different Philip was!

I said he should be released from Fotheringay, where he had lived virtually as a prisoner since his release from the Tower. But he must not stay in England, of course. That could be unsafe. He and Elizabeth might plot together. She had sworn she was loyal to me, and I tried to believe her, but I would never really know Elizabeth. She was shrewd. The perils through which she had passed would have made her so. I must remember her dangerous flirtation with Seymour, which might have had dire results.

So Courtenay could go free only if he left the country. He went, with the injunction that he must not return to England without permission.

It was in February of that second year of my reign that the first heretic was burned at the stake for his religious opinions. His name was Rogers, and people gathered at Smithfield to watch him burn. In Coventry the rector of All Hallows Church was burned and at Hadleigh Rowland Taylor, a wellknown adherent to the Protestant cause, met the same fate. He was the parish priest and much loved, a man of great virtue, apart from his stubbornness in religious matters. He had protested violently when a priest had been sent to perform Mass in his church. His arrest and sentence to the stake had followed. But the most prominent victim was John Hooper, the Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester.

I was very distressed. Why could they not accept the truth? All were given the chance to. All they had to do was deny their faith and accept the true one, and they would be saved.

I did remember how I had clung to my faith and how I had put myself in danger by my firm adherence to it. But that was the true faith. I laughed at myself. These poor people deluded themselves that their was the true one.

Because Hooper was so well known, there was more talk about him than the others. He had been such a good man, people were saying: he had a wife who had borne nine children. I knew this. But he had been remonstrated with and given every chance. He had been arrested some time before on some petty charge, because Gardiner had intimated to me that he was a dangerous man. He believed so fervently in his style of religion, and people were moved by his eloquence and inclined to follow him.

Hooper had been in the Fleet Prison for some time, and he had made it known that there he had been treated worse than if he had been a slave.

Gardiner saw how distressed I was that this man had suffered death by burning, and he insisted that he had done much harm with his preaching and writing, and would have done more if he had been allowed to live. He had been offered every chance.

The day before his death, Sir Anthony Kingston had gone to him and begged him to recant, for to do so would save his life. But he would not. He said he would rather face the flames.

“He was a foolish man,” said Gardiner.

“Aye,” I replied, “but a brave one.”

I was deeply disturbed that there should be this religious persecution in my reign. I had wanted to be good to all my people. I almost wished that I was back in the past, when I was without responsibilities, even wondering who was seeking to destroy me.

Now the power was mine to destroy others, I could not rest. My nights were haunted by memories of my stepmother Katharine Parr. She came to me in dreams, side by side with Anne Askew.

“All these heretics have to do is recant,” I continually reminded myself. If they did, they would be received with joy. Is there not greater joy in the sinner who repents? They should have instruction. They should have time to learn. I would insist on that.

I was pleased when one of the Franciscans preached at Court, pointing out that burning at the stake was not the way.

I said to Philip, “He is right.”

But Philip did not think so. In his native country the Inquisition flourished. It had a beneficial effect, he insisted. People lived in fear of it. Only the reckless and foolhardy wanted to pit themselves against it.

After that sermon, there was a lull for a while, and then the arrests began again and the burning continued.

What was happening threw a cloud over my happiness.

It was April, and I believed that the birth of my child was imminent. I was to go to Hampton Court, where arrangements were being made for my confinement. Soon, I told myself, I should forget my troubles. In a few weeks from now I should have my child.

I then embarked on the most extraordinary and heartbreaking time of my whole life.

The first weeks at Hampton were peaceful. I was glad of the custom which decreed that a queen should retire and live quietly with her women, awaiting the great event.

Here Jane Seymour had come before me. She had given birth to a boy, and that had killed her—yet she had been young and healthy and ripe for childbearing, it had seemed.

Susan said I must not think of Jane. She had not been taken care of after the birth. She would see that I had every care.

And so we waited. I had the cradle placed in my room so that I could see it all the time. It was very elaborate and splendidly decorated—worthy of the child born to be King.

My dearest hope was about to be realized, and it seemed as though the days would never pass. I said to Susan that time seemed to have slowed down.

“It is ever so, when one is waiting,” she replied. “Very soon your time will come.”

I talked all the time of the child. “He will be a boy, I know it…a perfect boy. I can see him, Susan. He will be like Philip. That is how I would have him. But perhaps he will be tall…as my father was… although I am small and so is Philip… but sometimes children take after their grandparents. The child's grandfather was a big, fine man. I should like my son to be like him … as he was in his youth before … before … And my father's grandfather, Edward IV, was a big and handsome man.”

“Be the child large or small, you will love it just the same,” said Susan wisely.

“How dare you call my child ‘it', Susan?”

“We do not know that it will be a boy. It is wise at such a time to see what God will send.”

“I should love a girl, of course. But it is a boy that everyone wants. A King… not a Queen… but if the child is a girl, we might get boys after.”

Susan raised her eyes to the ceiling. She did not approve of my having a child at all. She thought I was too old and not strong enough. I could have been angry with her, but I knew all she thought and all she did was out of love for me.

The waiting went on. The weeks were passing. What was wrong? Sometimes I would look out of my windows and see people gathered some little way from the palace. They were waiting for the announcement.

“Let it be soon, O Lord,” I prayed. “And give me a son. That is all I need for my happiness. Is it asking too much? The lowest serving woman can have sons… many of them. Please God, give me a son.”

But the time was passing, and my prayers were unanswered.

At the end of the month a rumor circulated that I had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. Bells were rung, and the people were already celebrating in the streets. All through the morning the rejoicing went on, but by afternoon the truth began to be known.

There was no child. I was still waiting.

May had come, and there was still not a sign. To my secret alarm, the swelling in my body, which I had convinced myself was my child, began to subside.

Susan had noticed. She did not mention it but I knew she was thinking that I had had such disorders before. The swellings had not been so great and they had subsided more quickly. A terrible fear began to dawn on me that what I had experienced was not pregnancy but a return of my old complaint.

At last Susan spoke of it.

“It is as it was before,” she said.

“I have never been so swollen before.”

She agreed and tried to comfort me.

“Perhaps the child will come at the end of May.”

I clutched at the hope. But I was growing melancholy. I did not see Philip. I told myself that it was a Spanish custom not to see a wife who was about to give birth until after the child appeared.

I felt certain pains such as I had suffered before, but I knew they were not concerned with childbirth.

The people were growing restive.

Where is the child? they were asking. Could there have been a miscalculation so great as to be two months late? Rumors began to circulate. Was the Queen dead? Where was the child? Had the Queen given birth to a monster?

And I stayed in my apartments, seeing none but my own women, and I felt as though my heart would break. I was too old, too small… something was very wrong.

One of my household sent a woman to me. She was of very low stature and not very young; she had just given birth to three babies and had regained her strength in a week. The babies were brought to show me. They were all strong and healthy.

It was a comfort to see her, but in my heart I began to accept the truth. There was no child. I had suffered from the symptoms which had been with me for a greater part of my life; but perhaps because of my great need, my great desire to bear a child, I had forced my body to show the outward signs of pregnancy.

But I would not give up.

The midwife said, “We have miscalculated the time. It will be August or September.”

I wept bitterly. I clung to Susan. I said to her, “They say this to soothe me. In their hearts they know there will never be a child. Susan, don't lie to me. It is true, is it not?”

She looked at me sadly, and we both began to weep.