In the Shadow of the Crown

The Queen is dead: Long Live the Queen

IF PHILIP WAS DISAPPOINTED—WHICH I AM SURE HE MUST have been—he did not show it.

I felt not only desolate but intensely humiliated. I had believed myself to be with child, and there was no child. I could imagine the manner in which I was being discussed in the streets of the cities and villages, and even in the tiny hamlets; all over the country they would be talking of the child which had never existed.

Philip was always mentioning his father, who needed him badly.

“He has missed you from the day you left,” I said. “I understand that.”

“He has many commitments. I should be with him.” He was looking at me with the faintest dislike in his eyes. Oh no, I told myself, not dislike. It was only that terrible disappointment. He had so much hoped that we should have our child by now. Was he thinking that I was incapable of bearing children? I knew I was small; I was not attractive; I had been old when I married him. How did I please him as a lover? I did not know. Such matters were not discussed between us; they just happened. Was that how lovers behaved? I wondered. Did I disappoint him? He had already had a wife; he never spoke of her. I heard rumors that sometimes he went out at night with some of his gentlemen, that they put on masks and went about the town, adventuring. There were bound to be rumors.

If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.

How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.

“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”

Any mention of the child unnerved me.

“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”

“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”

I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.

And I was beginning to wonder, too.

I felt humiliated and defeated.

“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.

“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”

He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”

I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.

He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.

It was natural that he should want to go.

“I shall return,” he said.

“I pray God that you will ere long,ȍ I answered.

SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.

We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.

It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.

I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt they were wondering about me and the baby which had never existed. I knew there must have been fantastic rumors. There was one I heard about a certain woman—and even mentioning her name. It was Isabel Malt, who lived in Horn Alley in Aldersgate. She had given birth to a beautiful healthy boy at that time when I was waiting for mine. It was said that a great lord had offered Isabel a large sum of money for her baby if she would part with him and tell everyone that the child had died. The baby was to have been smuggled into Hampton Court and passed off as mine.

These wild rumors might have been amusing if they were not so tragic; and unfortunately there will always be those to believe them.

If I had had a child, I wondered, what rumors would have been created about him?

I had never been so unhappy as I was at that time. As I rode through those crowded streets and met the curious gaze of my people and heard their half-hearted, if loyal, shouts, I thought I would willingly have given my crown for the happiness of a loved wife and mother.

It had been arranged that Elizabeth, who was to be a member of the party come to bid Philip farewell, should travel by barge. I did not want to have to compete with her for the cheers of the people. I felt that she, with her young looks and easy manners, would have commanded the greater share of the acclaim—and, worse still, it would have been noticed.

I took a barge with Philip at the Tower Wharf and was beside him as we sailed down to Greenwich.

The members of the Council accompanied us, and I noticed how ill Gardiner was looking in the torchlight, for it was dusk. I was glad of the gloom. I did not want the bright sunlight to accentuate the ravages in my face which the last weeks had put there.

There came the moment when we must say goodbye.

Philip kissed all my ladies, as he had when he arrived, and I was reminded of that day and yearned to be back in that happy time.

At last he took his leave of me. He kissed me with great tenderness, and I tried to tell myself that he was as grieved at our parting as I was; but I knew in my heart that he was not. I was aware that, if he had greatly desired to stay, he would have found excuses for doing so. He gave no sign of his pleasure in leaving, and his features were set in a mold of sad resignation.

I felt the tears in my eyes and tried to suppress them. But I could not do so. Philip would hate tears.

I clung to him. He responded stiffly and then, murmuring, “I shall be back ere long,” he left me.

I stood lonely and bereft, watching him depart. I would not move. He stood on the deck, his cap in hand, watching me as I watched him.

And there I stayed until I could see him no more.

I had lost my child, and now my husband was taking with him all hopes of happiness.

I THINK I MUST have been the most unhappy woman in the world.

Sullen looks came my way as I rode out; a pall of smoke hung over Smithfield, where men were chained to stakes and died because they would not accept the true faith. I had not wanted that.

“Persuasion,” I had said. Was this persuasion?

Gardiner had died. He had left me to reap the harvest and had not stayed long enough to see what effect it would have.

I was lonely and helpless. This was my mission. I had completed it. I had brought the Church back to Rome but there was little joy for me.

I was ill most of the time. My headaches persisted. My dreams were haunted by the screams of people chained to the stakes in that Smithfield which had become a Hell on Earth.

It had to be, I assured myself. The Council said so. Every man had a chance to recant and save his life. They were all offered mercy. Most of them preferred martyrdom, and the fires continued. It had become a common sight to see men and women led out to be chained to the stakes, and the sticks lighted at their feet.

It was a black day when Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, went to their deaths. They had been tried and sentenced in Oxford, and the stakes were set up in the ditch near Balliol College.

It must have been a pitiable sight to see such men led to their deaths. They came out to die together.

The scene was later described to me. I did not want to hear of it but I had to know. Two such men… noble, good men in their ways, though misguided, to die so!

Latimer presented an impressive sight to the watching crowds, in his shabby frieze gown tied at the waist with a penny leather girdle, a string about his neck on which hung his spectacles and his Testament. I could not bear to think of this infirm old man shuffling to his death. But they said he had such nobility of countenance that the crowds watched in silent awe.

Nicholas Ridley, who came with him, presented a contrast.

He was about fifteen years younger and an extremely handsome man. Why…oh why? If only they would renounce their faith! But why should I expect them to do that? I would not have renounced mine.

I could not bear to think of those two men.

Neither of them showed fear. It was as though they were certain that that night they would be beyond all pain, in Heaven.

And as the sticks were lighted at Ridley's feet, Latimer turned his head toward him and said, “Be of good cheer, Master Ridley. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's Grace, in England, as I trust will never be put out.”

The power of words is formidable. There would be people who would never forget those. They would inspire. There would be more martyrs in England because Ridley and Latimer had died so bravely.

Latimer, being old and feeble, died almost immediately; Ridley lingered and suffered greatly.

There were two more to haunt my dreams.

MY GREAT CONSOLATION at that time was Reginald. I spent hours with him. He had done so much in aiding the return to Rome. I was hoping that in time he would come to be Archbishop of Canterbury now that Cranmer was in prison.

It seemed to me that that was a post which would suit him. He had more understanding of Church affairs than those of government.

While we talked, I often found myself slipping into a daydream, wondering how different my life might have been if I had married him as my mother and his had wished.

In spite of his saintliness, there was a strong streak of bitterness in his nature. It was understandable. His happy family life had been completely changed because my father had desired Anne Boleyn and had thrust aside with ruthless ferocity all those who had stood in his way. And so many had.

It was that which had changed the course of our lives, and Reginald could not forget it.

I was right. The martyrdom of Ridley and Latimer had had its effect. No one could have witnessed such a spectacle without being deeply affected by it. There was murmuring all over the country.

I was so unhappy that I fell into fits of melancholy. I was tired and spiritless. I longed for Philip. His absence was to have been brief, he had said, but in my heart I knew that, once he had gone, he would not hurry to return.

Here I was, barren and lonely, having to face the fact that the child I had so desperately wanted was nothing but a myth.

Why had God deserted me? I asked myself. When had He ever given me aught to be thankful for? Why should I be so ill-used? Those were dangerous thoughts. I must subdue them. I must, as my mother would have said, accept my lot and keep my steps steadily upon the path of righteousness.

It was inevitable that there should be plots; and there was one which could have been very dangerous.

Every few weeks someone was accusing someone. It was often proved that a person had a grudge against another or someone had made a certain remark which could have been construed as treason; but when a conspiracy was discovered which involved the King of France, that was a serious matter.

It was by great good fortune that this came to light before it had gone too far, because one of the plotters lost his confidence in the success of the rebellion and went along to Reginald to confess what he knew.

His name was Thomas White, and his part in the scheme was to rob the Exchequer of £50,000.

Reginald had been skeptical at first, but when White explained that he was friendly with the wife of one of the tellers in the Exchequer who had promised to get impressions made of her husband's keys, he took it seriously.

Robbery was one crime, treason was another; but it emerged that robbery was a preliminary to the greater plan. The money was needed by Sir Henry Dudley to get together an army of mercenaries who would be banded together in France and who would cross the Channel to attack the south coast.

This Sir Henry Dudley was the distant cousin of the Duke of Northumberland who had set Jane Grey on the throne. The Dudleys were a formidable family, and the fact that he belonged to it made him a figure of importance not only in my eyes but in those of many others.

If only Philip were here! I needed a strong man beside me, for it had become clear that the plot was far-reaching. I wondered whom I could trust among those around me. I could rely, as I knew from the past, on my dear friends Rochester and Jerningham, and I asked them to choose men whom they could trust to investigate what was going on.

It was revealed that the French ambassador, de Noailles, who had always caused much anxiety, was fully aware of what was happening and was reporting it to his master, on whom they were relying for help. John Throckmorton, a relative of Nicholas who had sent the goldsmith to warn me of my brother Edward's death, was one of the leaders of the plot and that threw suspicion on Nicholas.

The magnitude of the scheme was alarming, involving the French as it did. Plans for landing and taking the Tower of London were revealed, and they had all been drawn up very carefully.

I was very tired and sick. I almost longed for death.

Meanwhile the conspirators were brought to justice. The object of the plot had been to dispatch me as I had dispatched Jane Grey, and to set up Elizabeth, who would marry Courtenay.

I did not believe for one moment that Elizabeth was aware of this. She would not be so foolish. She knew the state of my health and that it would be wiser to wait. Surely I could not have long to live? I did not wish to. If Philip would return to me and I could have a child, then only would life be worth living. But deep within me I feared that would never be. I was too old. I had this illness in my inner organs. It was what had plagued me all my life. I tried to fight against the conviction that it had made me barren; and I fought hard to reject the idea because I could not bear to accept it.

It was said that Sir Anthony Kingston was involved in the conspiracy. He was in Devonshire and immediately commanded to come to London to stand trial with the others.

I was to learn that he died on the journey to London. It was rumored that he had killed himself rather than face trial.

The prisoners were tried and questioned. Only John Throckmorton proved himself to be a brave man and, even when racked most ferociously, he refused to betray any of his fellow conspirators and declared he would die rather than reveal anything. The others were less brave and implicated others, some of them men in high positions.

Executions followed and there were further arrests.

The Council urged that Elizabeth be brought for questioning, but I would not have that. I believed she was loyal to me, and I did not want them to trump up a charge against her. Apart from my sisterly feelings toward her, I feared that, if she were harmed in any way, the people would rise in strength against me. She had won their hearts. I had always known that her popularity far exceeded my own.

I wanted nothing now so much as to be left alone with my grief and melancholy.

THE BURNING OF PROTESTANTS continued. It was only when some notable person was led to the stake that it was an event.

So it was with Cranmer.

As Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer had played a big part in my father's affairs and had been one of the prime movers in the break with the Church of Rome; and it was thought that it would be safe and wise to be rid of him.

He was a man of great intellectuality but such men are often less brave than others. Cranmer was not a brave man… not until the very end. The return of papal authority must have filled him with terror, for he would know that one who had been at the very heart of the break would find himself in a difficult position.

I was pleased when he signed a declaration agreeing that, as Philip and I had admitted the Pope's authority in England, he would submit to our views. That should have been enough; and doubtless it would have been but for his position in the country and the effect he would have on so many people.

I had said that those who admitted their heresy and turned to the true faith would be free. But there were politics to be considered as well as religion and, much as I deplored this, I was overruled.

If only Philip had been here, I said, over and over again; but I knew that if Philip were here he would be on the side of the Council. Yet I deluded myself into thinking that he would have stood by me. I had to delude myself. It was the only way to bring a glimmer of hope into my life.

Cranmer signed two documents. In one he agreed that he would put the Pope before the King and Queen; and in the other he promised complete obedience to the King and Queen as to the Pope's supremacy.

This should have saved him, but his enemies were determined he should die. He was too important to be allowed to live; and he was condemned and taken out to the stake.

Face to face with death, martyrdom descended upon him. He addressed the people, telling them that in his fear of death he had signed his name to certain documents. He had degraded himself by doing so, and before he died he wished to proclaim his faith in the new religion.

The sticks were lighted and, as the flames crept up his body, he held out his right hand and said in resonant tones, “For as much as my right hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, it shall be punished therefor and burned first.”

He stood there, his hand outstretched while the flames licked his flesh.

All over the country they were talking of Cranmer.

“Where will it end?” they were asking. “What next? Will they bring the Inquisition to England?”

Sullen anger was spreading.

I had done what God had intended I should, but it had brought me into ill repute.

There was no comfort anywhere. Reginald was ill and growing very feeble; I could not believe he would live long. And still Philip did not return.

WHY DID HE not come? I wrote to him, “I am surrounded by enemies. My crown is in danger. I need you.”

But there was always some excuse.

His father had now abdicated in his favor, and he was King of Spain in his own right. This seemed a good reason to keep him away. I made excuses for him to others, but in my own chamber I said to myself: He does not want to come. I am his wife. Why does he not want to be with me as I do him?

He had never loved me. Once more I had deluded myself. He had gone through the motions of being a husband; and I, feeling so deeply myself, had been aware of the lack of response in him. But I would not admit it. I had tried to believe because I so desperately wanted to.

I was deeply upset by the burnings. I did not know what I should do. It was God's will, I told myself continually. This was what He had preserved me to do. Those who died, I assured myself, were doomed to hell fire in any case. They were heretics, and heretics are the enemies of God. They must be eliminated before they spread their evil doctrines.

I concerned myself with the poor. I would go to visit them in their houses, talk of their problems with them, take them food and give them money if they needed it.

It comforted me to some extent. It helped to shut out the ghostly cries that echoed in my ears, the smell of burning flesh which seemed constantly in my nostrils.

Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper, Latimer … I could not forget them. They were men I had known, spoken with. I had liked some of them… and I had condemned them to the fire. No, not I. It was their judges. I would have pardoned them. But the ultimate blame would be laid on my shoulders.

Apart from Reginald, my greatest comfort was in my women. There was Susan, of course, and Jane Dormer was another whom I particularly liked. Jane was betrothed to the Count of Feria, a gentleman of Philip's suite, and one of his greatest friends. When Philip returned to England with his entourage, Jane was to be married, so she and I had a great deal in common at that time, both awaiting the return of a loved one.

My fortieth birthday had come and passed. How the years pressed on me! If Philip did not return soon, I should be too old for childbearing.

I still cherished the hope.

Why did he not come? I asked myself again and again. Always it was the same answer when I wrote to him pleadingly: “I will come soon…as yet there are duties which keep me here.”

He wrote that he must go to Flanders to celebrate his coming to power there, as well as in Spain.

There were malicious people to bring me news of those celebrations. Philip was playing a big part in them. He was giving himself up to pleasure. It was difficult to imagine Philip's doing that. He had always been so serious when he was with me.

“Why does he not come?” I kept demanding of Susan and Jane.

“What can be keeping him all this time?”

If they were silent, I would make excuses for him. His father had renounced the realm in Philip's favor, I reminded them. He was no longer merely the Prince of Spain but the King. He had his obligations.

But I was worried. Reginald could not help me. He was very ill, and I was discovering that he was not a practical man. He was clever and learned, but I needed advice.

I was desperately worried about the burnings, in spite of the fact that I told myself it was God's will. I heard terrible stories of wood which would not ignite properly, of people who were scorched for hours before they finally passed away. Some of the screams were terrible. Men talked of Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper and Latimer, but there were humble folk, too… the unlearned who had been led astray. Having been on my errands of mercy, disguised as a noble lady with no hint that I was the Queen, I had learned something of the lives of these people. I felt it was wrong to send them to a fiery death simply because they were ignorant and saw themselves as martyrs.

If only Philip were here! But he upheld the Inquisition in his land. He would bring it to England, and persecution would be intensified then.

To whom could I turn?

I decided to send to Flanders to find out the real cause for Philip's continued absence. Were those stories of his adventurings true? I could not believe them. But then, just as I had never understood my sister Elizabeth, I did not understand Philip either. I was too downright, I supposed. I was at a loss with those people who showed a certain front to the world when they were secretly something else.

At the same time I sent a messenger to the Emperor. I had the utmost respect for his judgement. I had always regarded him as one of the most shrewd leaders in Europe, possessed of great wisdom.

I wanted him to be told of the heretics who made martyrs of themselves and the effect it was having on the people. I had always wanted to persuade … to coerce perhaps… and only rarely impose the final penalty. The Emperor might give me his views. There was another point. People varied. What the Spaniards accepted, the English might not. I wanted him to know that there was discontent throughout the kingdom and that even the most faithful to the old religion felt a repugnance toward the fiery death—particularly for men who had led good lives—men such as Hugh Latimer, for instance.

Why did I expect Charles to understand? On his orders, 30,000 heretics in Flanders had been either beheaded or buried alive. And Philip? What did he care for those people? The numbers who had died in England since the rules were introduced were infinitesimal compared with those who had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition.

No, the Emperor would think, with Philip and some members of my Council, that I was a foolish woman, and that a woman needed a man beside her if she was to rule with a firm hand.

I was ready to agree. If only he would come!

He had so many commitments now, he wrote. As soon as it was possible, he would be with me. It was only duty which kept him from me! Duty! Paying homage to beautiful women in Brussels! Was that duty?

I was told that Ruy Gomez da Silva had told our ambassador that Philip could not come because his astrologer had prophesied that, if he returned to England, he would be assassinated. Therefore he felt it wiser to stay away. After all, the Spaniards had been treated rather badly when they were in England. They had been shunned almost everywhere; they had been robbed and often attacked. It was small wonder that the King was inclined to listen to his astrologer.

I was ill… sick with disappointment. My women were anxious about me. They thought of everything they could do to amuse me for a while, but I was not amused. Even Jane the Fool could not bring the slightest smile to my lips.

I was with Susan and Jane Dormer one day when they began to chide me for my listless attitude. I was not eating enough; I was staying in my apartments, brooding.

“It will be different when the King returns,” I said.

“Your Majesty should try to enjoy what is here for your pleasure.”

“My heart is with my husband,” I replied.

“You must know that.”

“But he does not come, Madam,” said Jane Dormer sadly.

“He has too much with which to occupy himself.”

I caught a glance which passed between them. Susan's lips were a little pursed. Jane lifted her shoulders slightly. It was as though Jane were asking a question. I distinctly caught the faint shake of Susan's head.

“What have you heard?” I demanded.

Jane flushed scarlet. Susan was more self-contained.

She said, “I doubt little that Your Majesty does not already know.”

“Then why is it that you have decided not to tell me?”

They opened their eyes wide and looked at me, assuming innocence. But I knew them well, and I guessed there was something they were keeping from me.

“Susan…Jane…” I said.

“Have you joined the ranks of my enemies?”

“Your Majesty!”

“You are hiding something from me.”

“But Your Majesty…”

“Susan, what are you afraid to tell me?”

“Oh … it was nothing. Just idle gossip.”

“Concerning me.”

They were silent.

“And the King… was he concerned?” I persisted.

Susan bit her lip. “It is all nonsense. There will always be rumors.”

“And these rumors?”

Susan looked at Jane and Jane at Susan. It was Susan who spoke. “They are saying that the King will never come back.”

“Why should he not?”

“They are saying, Your Majesty, that he prefers to be somewhere else.”

There was silence. Jane fell to her knees and, taking my hand, kissed it.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” she said earnestly, “I wish all could be well with you. I pray he will come soon and show how he loves you… and that there will be a child.”

“I pray for it, Jane.”

“I, too, Your Majesty,” added Susan.

I looked at her. There was an expression of infinite sadness on her face. I had known Susan for many years. She was one of those most dear to me. I trusted her. I knew of her love and devotion.

“You do not believe that he will come, Susan,” I said. “And you know something which you are afraid to tell me.”

She could not dissimulate. She was my honest, open Susan.

She drew a deep breath and said, “There are rumors. But there are always rumors.”

“And these rumors? Come. Since they are only rumors, we need not believe them if we do not wish to.”

“That is so, Your Majesty.”

“Then tell me what you have heard. It is not good that I should be kept in the dark.”

“Your Majesty has suffered. Only those of us who have been near you know how much. I cannot bear to see Your Majesty suffer… and to remain deluded.”

“Deluded? What of these rumors? They concern the King. You must tell me.”

Still she was silent.

“Susan,” I commanded. “Tell me.”

“There are women, Your Majesty. The Duchess of Lorraine is his mistress.”

I tried to smile. I heard myself saying, “The King is a man, Susan. It is the way of men. I am not there. He wants me, of course. I am his wife. But we are separated. We should not take these women any more seriously than he does.”

I was amazed at myself, surprised that I could speak calmly when I was seething with jealousy within. It was hard to pretend. He should be faithful. We were married. We had taken our sacred vows. But I knew this rumor was true. A mistress! How was he with her? Not as he had been with me… courteous… like a stranger. We must try to get a child. Just that. No real love, no passion. Was that how he was with her? But he would not be with her because of the urgent need to get a child. He would be with her because that was where he wanted to be.

And this was why he did not come to England.

I knew that was not all. Half of me said, Do not pursue this. It is only going to make you more unhappy. But if there was more to know, I must know it.

“What else, Susan?” I asked.

“There is nothing else.”

“Usually you are truthful, Susan. It is one of the qualities which have endeared you to me. Come, do not disappoint me. What else have you heard?”

“One cannot trust the French,” she said.

“No. But sometimes they make some pertinent comments. What is their verdict on my marriage?”

She was silent and looked as though she were on the point of bursting into tears.

“I insist on knowing, Susan.”

“The French ambassador told the Venetian ambassador that Philip has said that England is nothing but a costly nuisance. He does not like the people and he does not want to return to it.”

“That cannot be true.”

“Your Majesty asked…”

“Yes, I asked because I like to know what tales are being circulated. What else, Susan? You are still holding something back.”

She paused; she held up her head and a certain defiance came into her eyes. I knew she did not like Philip because she blamed him for my unhappiness.

She said, “It is that King Philip is hoping to have his marriage annulled.”

It was out, and now it was difficult for me to hide my dismay. They knew me too well, both of them. They had seen my exultation. I had talked to them of the perfections of my husband, of my perfect marriage, of my hopes. I could not disguise my misery from these two who knew me so well.

I sat very still and covered my face with my hands. There was a deep silence in the room. Then I felt them at my feet. I opened my eyes and saw them both kneeling there. There were tears on Jane's cheeks, and Susan looked stricken.

“It is only gossip, Your Majesty,” said Susan.

“Only gossip,” I repeated.

“Yet it has a ring of truth…”

They saw now that there was to be no more pretense. It was no use. They knew of my love, of my hopes. They had been with me during those terrible weeks when I was awaiting the birth of a non-existent child. They had been through it all. They had suffered with me.

I could no longer hide my true feelings from them. They were my very dear and trusted friends.

Susan spoke first. “Your Majesty must not grieve. It is better to look at the truth.”

“Better to say I deluded myself,” I murmured, “that he did not care for me, that he never did.”

“It is often so in royal marriages, Your Majesty… and in the marriages of those who are high born.”

“But sometimes love comes,” I said.

They were silent.

“He is a great man,” I said.

“Your Majesty is a great Queen,” added Susan.

I put out my hands and touched their heads gently.

“You should not grieve, Your Majesty, for one who would betray you,” said Susan.

I did not answer. Did she know that she was uttering treason against the King? But she was safeguarding the Queen.

“He was not what Your Majesty believed him to be,” she went on.

“He was all that I believed him to be.”

She was silent for a moment, then she burst out, “You thought he was so solemn…so pure…so chaste. It was never so. Why, he tried to seduce Magdalen Dacre.”

“Magdalen Dacre!”

“Yes. She told us. She was horribly shocked.”

I remembered how I had noticed the girl because she was so tall. They would look incongruous together, I thought inconsequentially. Ludicrous. Perhaps that was what appealed to him about her. But she was exceptionally beautiful. I remembered there had been a time when she had been subdued and always seemed to absent herself when Philip was there.

“It was at Hampton Court,” said Susan, who, having begun, seemed to find it difficult to stop.

“She was at her toilette. There was a small window. He must have seen her as he passed. He tried to open the window and put his arm into the room. Magdalen rapped him sharply and told him to be off.”

“She did not tell me.”

“She would not have grieved you.”

“Perhaps it would have been better if I had known.”

There was no pretense now. I could not hide my misery from them, and they would not have believed me, however good a job I made of it.

“He gave me no sign …” I said.

“He was particularly courteous to her afterward.”

“He bore no grudge,” said Jane, as though calling my attention to something in his favor.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” said Susan, “you must not be unhappy. There are such men. They know not the meaning of fidelity. It is better not to care too much. We heard how he used to go off with a group of friends. They were of a kind.”

“I had heard rumors and not believed them.”

“They used to sing that song about the baker's daughter,” said Jane.

I closed my eyes. So they knew! All my people knew, and I was the only one who believed he loved me!

“What song?” I asked.

Susan said quickly, “It was a silly little rhyme … nothing … nothing…I have forgotten it.”

I caught Jane's wrist. “Tell me the rhyme,” I commanded.

“Your Majesty, I…I can't remember.”

“Tell me,” I said coldly.

So she told me.

The baker's daughter in her russet gown

Better than Queen Mary—without her crown.

The humiliation! The pain of rejection! My happiness had been nothing but an illusion. It was a phantom creature of my imagination to mock me now. It was created out of nothing… like the child of whom I had dreamed, for whom I had planned…a will o' the wisp…to taunt me and to leave me desolate.

I wanted to be alone with my sorrow. It overwhelmed me. I could share it with no one.

“Leave me,” I said.

“Your Majesty …” began Susan, but I only looked at her coldly and repeated, “Leave me.”

So I was alone… alone with my wretchedness, staring the truth in the face as I should have done many weary months before. I had conceived a dream, a flimsy figment of my own imagination. It had nothing to do with reality. I had duped myself; and I had been seen to be duped by those around me. There would be some who laughed at my gullibility and others who kept silent and protected me from the knowledge because they loved me.

At length I rose. I went to that chamber where his picture hung.

How I had loved it! He stood erect, as he always did to disguise his low stature. His face was handsome with his fair hair and beard and his firm Hapsburg chin. I had stood many times before this picture, glowing with pride and pleasure, while he had been romping with some low woman of the town. The baker's daughter who was better than Mary … without her crown, of course.

I found a knife and I slashed at the picture. I felt better than I had for some time. The knife pierced the canvas, and still I went on cutting.

Susan came in.

She must have heard me come here. She was terribly anxious and feared what effect the revelations had had on me.

She saw at once what I had done.

“Have it taken away,” I said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Gently she took the knife from me and hid it in the pocket of her skirt. The next day the picture was gone, but my unhappiness remained.

I WAS ILL after that. No one was surprised. My periodic illnesses had become commonplace… too frequent for anyone to notice.

I spent long hours alone. I brooded on the past. I recalled incidents, our being together, our love-making, which had been conducted in a manner to resemble a stately pavane. There had been no joy in it, no laughter, no fun. It was a ritual which had to be borne—on his side—for the sake of an heir.

As for myself, I had not known it could be any other way. How could I, ignorant as I was of such matters? Now I wondered how it had been with the Duchess of Lorraine, the baker's daughter and all the others.

I stormed…to myself, of course. I wept. I talked to him as though he were there beside me. I told him what he had done to me. He had humiliated me, used me, slighted me, and never had he loved me.

I remembered how he had been with Elizabeth. He had said she should not be forced to marry. Did he plan to marry her when I was dead? He surely could not be thinking of annulling our marriage so that he could marry my sister? Dispensation could, of course, always be obtained for the powerful.

How empty my life was! For the happiness I craved I would have exchanged twenty crowns.

But one cannot mourn for ever. I must meet my Council. The country was unstable. The burnings were deplored in several quarters. I was blamed for them. Families all over the country were cursing my name.

I wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to explain how distressed I was. My task had been to bring England back to Rome, and that I had done, but there were sullen looks everywhere. There were murmurings against me.

Only those close to me, the people who really knew me, gave me their love—and mingled with it, I think, their pity.

I told myself that I hated Philip.

NEWS CAME FROM ITALY. Edward Courtenay had died.

I was deeply moved. He was so young. So handsome he had been. I could have been in love with him. Then Philip had come, a King, a ruler, a strong man. Poor Courtenay! What chance had he had then? I thought of all those years when the Tower had been his home; it was commendable that he had educated himself, but there was more needed than education. To have married him would have been an even greater disaster than my marriage with Philip.

Would he have loved me any more? Not he. I was too old. Love had passed me by until I was too old to understand and enjoy it. I had nothing to offer but a crown. A low-class baker's daughter was more attractive than I … if my crown were taken away.

But with it, of course, I had been a glittering prize.

I knew poor Courtenay had found it hard to live in exile. Right up to the time of his death he was pleading to return. I would have granted his request but the Council was horrified at the prospect. Often they had pointed out how dangerous such people could be. With Courtenay, his good looks made up for his lack of sense, and he was a member of that dynasty which, now it was no longer the ruling family, had been ennobled with the sanctity of that which was and now is no more. Oh yes, the Plantagenets had become holy now their age was past. Had people loved them so devotedly while they lived? Would the Tudors be as revered when they had passed away?

So Courtenay had wandered about Europe, dreaming of home and perhaps a crown. It was tragic to be born within reach of it—even when the chances of attaining it are remote—and to spend one's life in endless striving for the unattainable.

Yes, the Council had been right. It would have been folly to have allowed him to return.

So the golden boy had died in Padua. He was buried there, and all his dreams of glory with him.

PHILIP WAS WRITING to me. Such tender letters they were. He desired to return but events delayed him. However, he was coming. There was so much he wished to discuss with me. Our enforced separation had gone on too long.

How could I help it if my melancholy lifted, if I began to dream again?

The rumors had been false, I told myself. He loved me. He implied it in his letters. There had certainly been weighty matters to occupy him. Now he wanted to talk with me that we might act together, which, as husband and wife, was natural for us.

Perhaps I was not so guileless as I had been, for while a part of me wanted desperately to believe, there was another part which knew why he was so eager to express his affection.

He needed help.

Well, should not a wife help her husband? It should be her joy and privilege to do so.

The fact was that he was coming home. I should see him again. I studied myself in my mirror. There were dark circles under my eyes, and wrinkles round them. I was an old woman. But the news had brought a certain radiance to my face, and I assured myself I looked younger.

Susan said I did. She was anxious, though. She believed that Philip would hurt me again as he had before.

I knew why he was coming. He wanted help against the French.

There were times when I did not care that he came for this reason. It was only important that he was coming. We should be together again…lovers, and perhaps this time there would be a real child. A child would make up for everything.

I was arguing with myself again. Some women of my age had children. Why should not I? I prayed fervently. I wanted the whole country to pray with me. But I did not ask them to. I could not have borne the humiliation. They would have tittered when and where they dared. They would have sung “The Baker's Daughter.”

But I was a desperate woman, longing for the love I never had.

I went to see Reginald. He was very ill, but there were days when he was lucid and it seemed that all his old power returned to him. He could not walk now, but he still studied. That was his pleasure in life—as, I imagined, it always had been.

He kept abreast of what was happening in Europe and, because of the years he had spent there, was in close contact with Rome and those who, like himself, held the office of Cardinal.

I said to him, “Philip writes of coming home.”

“To England?”

I nodded.

“Ah, yes,” went on Reginald. “It is the war. I deplore it. The Emperor and the King of France fought for years—each wanting to rule the Continent. They will never achieve this… either of them. Perhaps one succeeds for a few years… and then the other. It will go one way and then swing back. It always has. I cannot see why they do not understand it always will.”

“It has kept us apart. Philip has his duties and now that he is the King …” I shook my head sadly.

“I was against the marriage,” he said. “You remember, I warned you. You should not have married. You could have reigned alone. The people never wanted Philip. They will never accept him with a good grace. They hate foreigners.”

“People seem to hate those who are not of the same nationality as themselves—and sometimes they hate people who are. There is too much hate in the world.”

Reginald was silent for a few moments; then he said, “And now there is a new force in Europe… this new Pope.”

“He is an old man. I heard that he was eighty. Surely that cannot be? How could they elect a man of that age?”

“He is no ordinary man. And he has had eighty years of experience which few men have, and he uses what he has gleaned through the years to his advantage.”

“They should have elected you, Reginald. You should have been Pope.”

“My dear Mary, I am a sick man.”

“So they chose this old man!”

“You have not seen him. He has the energy of youth and the experience of old age. A man who can combine the two is a rarity, but such is Cardinal Caraffa who is now Paul IV. It is unfortunate that he has a grudge against Philip.”

“How could Philip have aroused his animosity? It was not very wise of him, was it?”

“It would have been if the Cardinal had failed to be elected. Philip tried to prevent that and so, I fear, has earned the Pope's enduring emnity.”

“A man of God will forgive,” I said.

Reginald smiled wryly. “The Pope will try to drive Philip out of Europe and to achieve this is ready to make an alliance with the French.”

“All my life I remember it. There was an alliance between my father and the King of France… and then they were enemies and there was an alliance with the Emperor. Then he quarrelled with the Emperor and was the friend of France. How much are these alliances worth, Reginald?”

“A great deal while they last. Philip is disturbed.”

“That is why he is coming home. He will talk to me. It is what he wants.”

“I will tell you what he wants. He will want England to stand with him. He will want you to declare war on France.”

“War! I hate war! There are enough troubles here already. The drought has not helped. The people fear famine, and when that threatens they turn against those who in their eyes are wealthy and well fed. There has been trouble since we turned to Rome. Oh, Reginald, there are times when I am so unhappy. The people no longer love me. I think they are waiting for my death… hoping for it… that they may turn to Elizabeth.”

“She would take the country away from Rome.”

“She would do what the people wanted her to.”

“She has heard the Mass.”

“Yes… but showing her reluctance. She sways with the wind. Which way do you want me to go? What is the best for me? she asks herself. And that is the way she will go.”

“There are some who think she should be questioned.”

“I cannot believe she would ever harm me.”

“You are too trusting.”

“Yes,” I agreed, thinking of Philip. “It may be that I do not employ subterfuge as some people do.”

He put his hand over mine. “You have done well,” he said.

“Remember you used to say you had a mission? God had chosen you to bring England back to His true Church? You must rejoice, for you have done that. Always it will be remembered that it was in your reign that England returned to the Church of Rome.”

It was pleasant to be with him. I wanted to talk of the old days when I was a child and I had first known him. He had seemed so noble then. I liked to think of our mothers talking confidentially over their needlework, matchmaking for us.

If I had married Reginald when I was young and had wanted to, how different my life would have been. It would surely have been a very suitable and happy marriage.

But it did not come to pass; and now Philip was coming home because he wanted my country to join his in the war against the French.

WE WERE DISTURBED by the menace of another rebellion. This time it was Thomas Stafford. It was very disconcerting to me because the young man was Reginald's nephew.

Reginald was very upset about it. He talked to me about Thomas, who had renounced the Catholic faith. When he was on the Continent, Reginald had made great efforts to bring him back to it—but in vain.

Thomas's mother, Ursula, was the daughter of my dear Countess of Salisbury; thus she was Reginald's sister. So the young man had royal blood on that side of the family; but his father was the third Duke of Buckingham who was descended from Thomas Woodstock, third son of Edward III. So … Thomas had royal blood on both sides, and he had the temerity to consider that his claim to the throne was greater than mine, for he declared that, by marrying a Spaniard, I had forfeited my right to it.

It seemed so recklessly stupid that one felt one should ignore it, and, as Thomas Stafford was abroad, we did for some time. It had seemed just one of the minor irritations I was doomed to suffer.

Gradually we began to see that it was not so trivial. This was when the English ambassador to France sent dispatches home which indicated that Thomas Stafford was being received with respect by Henri Deux, who was giving him encouragement, and had even promised him two ships to help him.

Ruy Gomez da Silva arrived in England. It was February and bitterly cold.

I was delighted to see him, because I knew that his coming meant that Philip would soon follow.

Ruy Gomez was a typical Spanish nobleman. He was a master of courtesy, as Philip was; but Ruy Gomez had an ease of manner, a way of flattering with his eyes and paying unspoken compliments which made one feel attractive even though one knew to the contrary. He was a very gracious, charming gentleman.

He asked for an audience immediately on his arrival and, of course, I granted it with alacrity.

Susan warned me that, underneath all the charm, here was an astute diplomat who should be carefully watched.

He talked pleasantly and easily of the journey, the crossing and the health of Philip, which was good.

“His Majesty has been completely immersed in his duties, which were onerous, and now that the Emperor has passed his dominions to his beloved son, those duties are increasing.”

“We shall have much to discuss,” I said.

“The French are causing a great deal of trouble,” Gomez told me.

“There are always some to cause trouble, and often it is the French.”

“The King needs all the assistance he can get.”

He did not actually say that Philip was coming to ask me to give assistance, but he implied it. Though, of course, I knew that already.

“The Council and the country would not be in favor of our being involved in war at this time,” I told him.

He gave me the most flattering of smiles. “You are the Queen,” he said.

“It would be necessary for the Council to agree.”

“The French are no friends of England.”

“It seems to me that no country is a friend of another.”

He looked at me reproachfully. “But our countries, Your Majesty, are united by the marriage of yourself and the King.”

“That is so,” I agreed.

“And it is because the King relies on your love and loyalty that he will tear himself away from his duties to come to you.”

“It is long since I have seen him.”

“His duties have kept him, most reluctantly, from your side.”

I thought: Fêting the beautiful women of Brussels? Enjoying a liaison with the Duchess of Lorraine?

“And now he will come,” I said, “because he needs help.”

“He has yearned to be with Your Majesty. As I stress, it is only duty which has kept him away from you.”

“And now duty bids him come to me.”

“It is his love for Your Majesty which will bring him.”

His eyes were shrewd. I knew what he was telling me in his subtle way. He was sounding me. Would I and my Council be prepared to declare war on France? If so, Philip would come to England and we would work together on that project. If not, he would be wasting his time in coming.

I tried to stifle the wretchedness I was feeling. It was better to be ignorant when knowledge brought so much pain.

He was watching me closely. He would have to report to Philip. Was it worth his while to come? If there was no hope, he would find some excuse to stay away. If there was hope, he would come and persuade me.

That was not true, I admonished myself. He was my husband. He wanted to be with me. Of course, his duties were extensive; he had a kingdom to govern. I had allowed people to poison my mind against him. When he came, he would assure me that he loved me and that it was only his overwhelming duties which kept us apart.

For a moment I looked steadily at Ruy Gomez da Silva. I could not face the truth. I had to see Philip.

I said, “The French are as great a menace under Henri as they were under François.”

He nodded. That was good enough. Philip would come.

I WAS AT GREENWICH. The news had come that evening. Philip had landed at Dover.

It was wonderful to see him again. I embraced him warmly, and he smiled at me affectionately. I was a little concerned, because he had aged considerably. Yet in a way that made me feel better, for I knew that my looks had not improved since his departure. There had been too many sleepless nights, too much bitterness.

As soon as I saw him, my heart softened toward him. I told myself romantically, foolishly, We shall start again.

I ordered that the bells of London should ring out and the Tower guns fire their salutes. And we rode together into the capital. There was a noticeable lack of rejoicing in the streets. I fancied I could smell the smoke from the Smithfield fires. There were a few faint cheers and a great deal of silence.

The citizens no longer loved me, and they distrusted my husband. Reginald would say he had been right. There should never have been a Spanish marriage.

I had prepared banquets and masques to welcome Philip but he displayed little interest in them. He had never had any great enjoyment in that kind of activity.

When we were alone together, he was subdued. He told me he had been concerned in affairs of the Continent, and the election of Paul IV had been a shock to him.

I said that a man such as he was, a firm upholder of the true faith, should be beloved by the Pope.

“This Pope is an ambitious man,” he said. “He should never have been elected.”

“I wish that Reginald had become the Holy Father,” I said.

He did not answer.

And so we retired. It was not quite as it had been before. I felt I was outside the scene, looking on at myself and my husband. There was no spontaneous love. Did I imagine it or was he as one performing an onerous duty? In the past it had been necessary in the hope of getting an heir. That reason was there no longer. He regarded it as an impossibility, though hope lingered with me. But now he must perform his duty for the sake of getting England to declare war on France.

It was not for such purposes that love was meant.

I half deluded myself. I suppose, when one has been so deprived of love as I have, one snatches at even a pretense of it.

The next day, when I was introduced to the ladies and gentlemen of his entourage, I received a shock.

A tall and beautiful woman was presented to me, and I was immediately struck by her radiant good looks.

“The Duchess of Lorraine…”

I felt sick. He had brought her with him! Oh, how dared he! How could he be so blatant?

She was kissing my hand, lifting her dark-fringed eyes to my face, studying me, no doubt seeing me as the plain, unwanted wife. I looked at her coldly, nodded and passed on to the next who was being presented to me.

I was wondering what he had said of me. People talked indiscreetly during intimate moments. I was angry, but most of all very sad.

SUSAN AND JANE DORMER understood. They were indignant.

“It is nothing,” I said to them. “Kings have mistresses. They are not serious entanglements.”

“Do they bring them in their trains?” demanded Susan.

“Often, I suppose. It just happens that we have heard her name mentioned. He does not know that.”

I turned over in my mind what I should do. Should I confront him with the fact that I knew who she was? Should I demand how he dared bring his mistress to my Court? Or should I feign ignorance?

But how should I receive the woman? I could not endure it. I would have her sent back. On the other hand, if I did, there would be more whispering, more titters. Pretend I did not know? I had been living a life of pretense for so long, shutting my eyes to the truth.

I could not bring myself to be civil to the woman. Yet I did not see how I could order her to go.

Sometimes I was on the verge of telling Philip that I would not have his mistress here, but I did not.

When we were together, when he showed affection for me, I was still able to deceive myself. It was because I so earnestly wanted there to be love between us.

He talked a good deal about the iniquity of the French. They must be defeated. They were the enemies of England as well as of Spain. I must see that the sooner England declared war on them the better.

This was why he had come. Not to be with me. I knew it and still I wavered. There were moments when I completely deluded myself. I wanted him with me. I wanted to please him.

He was getting exasperated because I was shelving the question. It was urgent, he said. The French were laughing at us. They were working against us as they always had.

I said I would speak to the Council.

The verdict was noncommittal. We were not in a position to go to war. The Exchequer was alarmingly low. The people were not in a mood to suffer taxation.

It seemed as though Philip had come in vain.

My attitude toward the Duchess of Lorraine was becoming very strained. I wondered whether people noticed. No one mentioned it to me. But at several banquets I cut her when she approached me, and I always insisted that she be seated as far from Philip as possible.

Susan came to me in distress one day. She had friends who were always ready to pass on news, and she thought it her duty to garner it and sometimes tell me.

She explained that she had heard that, at the French Court, they were laughing about the ménage à trois, and there was speculation as to how the Queen would deal with her beautiful rival.

“It is an impossible situation,” I said.

“I do not know what to do.” Susan was forthright. She had already expressed her disapproval of Philip's behavior with Magdalen Dacre, so she did not hesitate to do so now.

She said, “Your Majesty should send her away.”

I frowned. I said, “But she is in Philip's entourage. It would not be good manners for me to interfere with his private circle.”

“In the circumstances,” she said, “Your Majesty should remember that you are the Queen. He had no right to bring her here but you have every right to dismiss her.”

“How could I?”

“Simply by telling her that her presence is no longer required at your Court.”

“Philip would be angry.”

“Your Majesty is angry.”

I said, “I think you may be right.”

I pondered on it for a few days. I almost spoke to Philip, and then found I had not the courage to do so. I was afraid he would leave me. He was already becoming impatient about the delay in agreeing to make war on France.

Eventually I did it. I sent a message to ask her to leave, as her presence was no longer required at my Court.

She was a discreet lady. A few days after receiving the order, she left.

I WAS NOT SURE what would happen. There was a feeling in the Council against war. As for myself, I wavered. There were times when I wanted to please Philip beyond everything; there were others when I reminded myself that he had not come to see me but to persuade England to declare war on France.

He made no comment on the departure of the Duchess of Lorraine. I was glad of this, although I should like to have known what his true feelings were. I had come to the conclusion that I would never know much about this strange, cold man I had married.

He seemed to be obsessed by the need to bring us into the war with France.

I am not sure what would have happened but for the Stafford affair. Reports of the latter's activities were coming in from our people in France, and it was clear that what had seemed just another little plot was really dangerous, due to the increasing involvement of the King of France.

Stafford was becoming more vociferous. It was clear that the influence of the French King was making him very confident. It seemed as though Henri might be using Stafford as he had attempted to use others before; this put a new aspect on the matter.

Stafford was declaring that the Spanish marriage was a disaster and that the Spaniards were preparing to land in England, bring in the Inquisition and make England a vassal of Spain.

I knew how inflammatory such talk could be. He called himself “the Protector,” and he had supporters in England who were already urging the people to rise and fight the Spaniards who were dragging the country into war.

He landed in Yorkshire and took possession of Scarborough Castle. It was a foolhardy thing to do. His forces were pitiably small and lacked the means to fight against us. It was hardly a battle.

He was soon captured and brought to London, where he was tried and hanged and quartered at Tyburn.

That was the end of the Stafford rebellion, but it changed the minds of those waverers on the Council.

The French part in the affair was apparent, and we had to make it clear to them that we would not have them meddling in our affairs.

So Philip achieved his object through Stafford rather than through me. England was at war with France.

THOSE WERE HAPPY DAYS. Philip was in high spirits. Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration. Philip could never be in high spirits; but let me say he was pleased. He looked better, and he had the air of a man whose mission is accomplished.

I was expecting him to declare his intention to depart, and when he did not and seemed to be happy to be with me, my joy was boundless. I had come from the depth of despair to the heights of happiness.

He discussed military preparations with me; and the only time he left me was when campaign strategy had to be worked out with the generals, in which he said I should not be interested.

Ruy Gomez da Silva had left soon after Philip arrived. He had returned to Spain to raise the necessary army and funds for the proposed war.

I was as happy as I had been in the first days of my marriage. I was believing once more in the love of Philip. He wanted to be with me, I told myself. He was finding it difficult to tear himself away. When he had conquered the French, he would return to me, and we should live happily together.

As for the Duchess of Lorraine, she was just a memory to me—and, I hoped, to Philip. There was no question of philandering now. There would have been no time for him to indulge in such things. When he was not with his generals, he was with me.

I threw myself into the task of raising money to support the army.

It was wonderful to share a project. We talked of it incessantly. There was even time for a little hunting, and with Philip beside me that was a great joy. I found such pleasure in being in church with him. A fervent devotion to religion was something we shared. He was as eager to attend the service as I was, and to worship together brought us even closer, I was sure.

I knew that every day he asked if there was any message from Ruy Gomez. I tried not to think of it. He did not mention it, but I knew he was eagerly awaiting the return of his friend.

And then at last the news came. Ruy Gomez da Silva was in the Channel, and with him was the Spanish Fleet. They were ready to go into battle.

From the day Ruy Gomez was sighted, Philip was all eagerness to be gone; and only ten days later, he was ready to leave.

He was to join the Spanish Fleet at Dover. I was wretchedly unhappy and wanted to be with him as long as possible so, sick as I felt, I insisted on making the journey with him from London to Dover.

I cherished every moment of those four days we spent on the road. We halted three times and that last night at Canterbury was a bittersweet one for me.

I could scarcely bear to look at the ship which was going to take him away from me, but he could not hide his eagerness to be gone. It was his duty, I told myself. He had to defend his country. It was not that he wished to leave me.

He bade me a tender farewell, but even then I could not help being aware of his impatience to be gone.

Sadly I stood on the shore, watching until I could see the ship no longer.

I had a terrible presentiment that I should never see him again.

BEFORE PHILIP LEFT, he asked Reginald to look after me.

“I know your regard for each other,” he said. “It is rooted in the Queen's youth. You alone, Cardinal, can comfort her.”

The trouble had begun just before Philip left. The Pope, who had made himself Philip's enemy, declared he was deeply dissatisfied by the manner in which the return to Rome had been conducted in England. I had to admit he had some cause for complaint. I had thought it would be a simple matter and that, once the law was changed and the Pope acknowledged as Head of the Church, everything would be as it had been before the break.

There were certain facts which had escaped my attention. With the break and the introduction of Protestantism, many of the churches had been destroyed; the monasteries had been dissolved, and their lands sold or given away. The Exchequer was very low, and the war with France was depleting it further. It seemed to the energetic Pope that we were not really trying; and for this he blamed Reginald.

It was unfair. Reginald had never forgotten his duty to Rome. He had been placed in a very difficult position when the Pope and Philip had become enemies, for as a cardinal he owed his allegiance to Rome. We had brought England back to Rome, and now the Pope regarded us as his enemies, for friends of Philip were enemies of his. Moreover, Paul had allied himself with France—so we were at war with him.

Paul blamed Reginald, who was supposed to be my guide and counsellor, and he had allowed me to be persuaded to join the alliance with Spain against him.

The Pope was withdrawing all his legates from Philip's dominions, and that meant that Reginald himself was recalled. He was to be replaced by Cardinal William Peto.

To add to his tribulations, Reginald was accused of heresy. This was absurd but typical of the fiery Pope. He was good to his friends but could not hate his enemies enough, it seemed; and, having decided that Reginald was serving Philip and myself, he was determined to destroy him.

His next move was to command Reginald to appear before the Inquisition. True, he had been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, but in the Pope's eyes he was guilty of heresy because he had not succeeded in bringing England back to Rome as he should.

I am sure Reginald was not afraid of facing the Inquisition; he would never fear bodily torment or even death; but he was bitterly wounded by the Pope's treatment of him, for he had always been a loyal son of the Church. It was the break with Rome which had made him an exile; his entire life had been changed because he had been faithful to his beliefs. My father had loved Reginald dearly before the disagreement between them; it would have been easy for Reginald to have denied Rome and kept my father's favor. What a different life he might have had if he had done so! But he had been true to his faith… and now, to be accused of heresy…it was more than he could bear.

He was seized with tertian fever and became very ill indeed. He had been ill for a long time but now he seemed to have lost something of himself. He became vague and suddenly, in the midst of a discussion, he would seem to lose his way and wonder what we were talking about. He would wander through the Court, unsure of where he was going. It was very sad to see him.

I felt I was losing one of my dearest friends—for already he seemed more dead than alive.

Life was so unhappy. I had to create dreams. And as we passed into the autumn I began to believe that I was pregnant.

I did not tell anyone at first. I could not forget the humiliating experience when everyone had been awaiting the birth of the child which had never been conceived.

I clung to the thought. I knew it. All the symptoms were present. I must be so this time. God would not desert me again.

When I told Susan, I saw the look of horror dawn on her face before she set her features into joyous lines.

“Your Majesty, can it really be so?”

“It is, Susan, I know it. Everything points to it.”

“Then…it is wonderful news. It will give Your Majesty new life.”

“What I have always wanted, more than anything, Susan, is my own child.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I know.”

“As yet I shall tell no one.”

She could not hide her relief.

“No,” I said. “Not even Philip. I will wait awhile.”

“It is best,” said Susan.

“But I am sure,” I said firmly.

I had to be sure. It was the only thing which could draw me out of the morass of misery into which life had plunged me.

I HAD THOUGHT I had touched the very depth of misery, but there was more to come.

We were at war. The people said we were fighting Spain's war. We had not the means to finance a war. The Council had been against it. It was only when the Stafford affair had exposed the perfidy of the French that they had reluctantly agreed to declare war on them.

Now we were reaping the harvest.

One of the greatest blows I had been called upon to suffer had come upon me. The French had taken Calais. It was the final humiliation. That this should have happened in my reign! I was more deeply wounded than I could express. Calais had always meant something to the English. It was the gateway to France, and we had always seen the need to keep it well protected. It had been in our possession since it was taken by Edward III in 1347, and he had won it after a twelve-month siege. Always its importance had been recognized.

And now it was in the hands of the French; and all because we had become involved in a war which we did not want, which would bring us little good, and into which we had gone largely because I wished to please Philip.

It was no use telling me that our garrison had behaved with the utmost bravery—at the end only 800 of them holding out for a week against 3,000 troops of the Duke of Guise.

We had lost Calais, and in my heart I blamed myself.

Not even the thought of my pregnancy could lift my spirits.

THERE WAS SILENCE in the streets. They were burning people at Smithfield and all over the country. They are heretics, I said. It is God's will. He has set me on the throne for this purpose, and I am carrying out that purpose to the best of my ability.

But I was failing. The Pope said so. Pamphlets were being issued illegally. They condemned me. They called me a Jezebel. They said I had brought misery to my country. No man was safe from the accusations of heresy and the fire.

One of my greatest enemies was John Knox. This fanatical misogynist poured forth his hatred for my sex, and what infuriated him so much was to see a woman in control. Having hated Mary of Guise in Scotland and Catherine de' Medici in France, simply because they were women of power, he turned his attention to me. He regarded himself as the great reformer, the guardian of the people's conscience. In his opinion only papists were more to be despised than women.

He thundered forth in his pulpit, and he had only recently brought forth his First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women. It was banned in England but this did not prevent reckless people bringing it into the country.

I was indeed the Jezebel. According to my father, I had been a bastard. I had no right to the throne. God must be punishing England for her sin in allowing a woman to reign over her. He referred to my “Bloody Tyranny.”

It was then that people began to call me “Bloody Mary.”

I was deeply unhappy. People were dying for their faith, it was true. But how many more had suffered, and as cruelly, in my father's reign? Yet no one had hurled abuse at him. He had sent them to their deaths because they disagreed with him; I had done so because these victims had disagreed with God's Holy Writ. Why should I be so stigmatized when none had questioned him?

There was disaster everywhere. Calais lost, and my people and my husband deserting me. My friends were dying round me. What had I to live for? Only the child which I deceived myself into thinking I carried in my womb. I had to. It was my only reason for living.

I was ill. There was no disguising the fact. I suffered from the same fever which had attacked Reginald. He was dying. Every time a messenger came from him, I feared it was to announce his death.

News came that the Emperor Charles had died. I felt deeply depressed. I had not seen him since my childhood, but I had always felt that he was there to help me in my need. He had not always done so, I know, but it had been comforting to know that he was there…a friend.

Everything around me was changing. I wrote to Philip begging him to come to me. I knew now that the swelling in my body was due to dropsy.

Yet another disappointment, but those around me had never believed it was anything else.

I left Hampton Court for St. James's. Something told me I had not long to live.

Philip would not come to me. He was too deeply involved elsewhere. He deplored the loss of Calais. “But we shall recover it,” he wrote. He had made me name Elizabeth as my heir, for, as he pointed out, if I did so, that would avoid the possibility of civil war.

He did not say he was expecting my death, but I guessed that he was. He would have been told of my increasing infirmity…of my poor dropsical body which had succeeded twice in deluding me into thinking I was about to become a mother. He told me Reginald Pole would comfort me. Did he not know that Reginald, wandering in a shadowy world of his own, was past giving comfort to anybody?

Susan and Jane Dormer were with me. Jane was very beautiful, young and in love with the Count of Feria, who was soon to be her husband. I rejoiced with her and hoped she would know all the happiness which had been denied to me.

I had asked her not to marry until Philip came back.

Now I thought, when will that be? Dear Jane must not wait so long. I told her so. “You are fortunate,” I added. “The Count is one of the most charming men I ever met and, Jane…he loves you. That is wonderful.”

Jane turned away to hide her emotion. In the depth of her own happiness, she would understand how I had suffered from my loveless marriage.

When one knows that death is close, one looks back over one's life and sees events with a special clarity.

I have made so many mistakes. Yet I cannot see where I could have acted differently, except perhaps in my emotions, my tendency—in love only—to look upon what should have been clear to me and distort it to fit my own needs and desires. Why could I not have accepted our marriage as one of state? So many women of my kind had to do the same. I had been too old for marriage. Why did I not see that? If I had not married, everything might have been different. I would have ruled single-mindedly. I would not have been seeking to please him and so led my country into war. I should have acted on my own judgment.

Had I succeeded in the mission God had set me? I was not sure. We had returned to Rome but not very securely. I could not see into the future. I wondered what my successor would encounter. She would be ready though. Her hands were already stretching out for the crown.

Elizabeth's accession now seemed to be a certainty, and people were ready for that. They were waiting for me to die, for they believed England would be a happier place under her. It had certainly not been happy under me.

The weeks were passing. I was becoming more and more feeble. I did not see Reginald. He was too ill to come to me and I to go to him.

I heard that people were calling at Hatfield. I knew that Philip had sent orders to the Spaniards in the country to pay respectful court to Elizabeth.

So he was expecting my death… and he did not come.

It had occurred to me often that he was interested in Elizabeth. I remembered the occasion when he had hidden behind a screen that he might study her. I remembered the look in his eyes… speculative…a little lustful? I had not recognized it then, but now I knew what it meant. When I was dead…he saw himself a suitor for Elizabeth's hand.

I did not want to live. I was aware of that so strongly at that time. She had always been my rival, this vitally attractive, unpredictable sister, so much cleverer than I, always alert for her advantage. And she would succeed me. There was no question of that now.

There would be no more burnings at the stake which had made me so unpopular. Even the staunchest papists did not like them. England was determined that the Inquisition should never be allowed on its soil.

“Bloody Mary” they called me. I could hear the screams of the people as the flames licked their limbs. I could smell the pungent odor of burning human flesh. I called on God to forgive me. I had thought it was His will— and my people hated me for it. Bloody Mary! That awful epithet rang in my ears.

They blamed me, they reviled me… only Mary…Bloody Mary. Yet others had committed greater crimes. Some 300 people had been burned at the stake in my reign. Nobody blamed those who had murdered thousands in the name of the Holy Office of the Inquisition! Isabella, Ferdinand, Charles, who had buried people alive in Flanders—30,000 of them. Yet I, who was held responsible for sending 300 to the stake, was Bloody Mary.

It was small wonder that I welcomed the prospect of death. What was there for me here?

The Court was growing more and more deserted. Why stay with a woman who was almost dead?

What should I be remembered for… the cries of martyrs, smoke rising from the fires which had been lighted at their feet because they denied the faith which I had imposed on them?

I was tired of life and my people were tired of me. It was time I went.

Susan was with me, so was Jane. They would not leave me. There were other faithful women, too.

Susan tried to cheer me. But nothing would cheer me.

They brought me materials so that I could write, for thinking of the past could draw my mind from the present. Susan was not sure that that was right for me.

“Sometimes it makes you so sad,” she said.

“There are many wounds that trouble my oppressed mind,” I told her.

“And there is one which is greater than any.”

Susan said, “If the King knew you were so ill, I am sure he would come.”

“Do not let us deceive ourselves, Susan, my dear friend. If he knew how ill I was, he would do just what he is doing now, only perhaps he would renew his attention to Elizabeth. But I was not thinking of Philip then. I was thinking of Calais. When I die, they will find Calais lying upon my heart. I lost it, Susan. I lost it because I wanted Philip. I wanted to please him… to keep him with me. Always I have suffered through my affections.”

“Not always, dear lady. You have not suffered through us who have always loved you and will do so until you die.”

I turned to Susan and embraced her. Then I took Jane into my arms and wished her all the happiness I had missed.

“And that,” I added, “is a great deal.”

They left me, and I took up my pen and wrote.

They are all going to leave the Court. To them the Queen is dead. So I shall write no more, for soon they will be at Hatfield crying, “Long live the Queen!”