In the Shadow of the Crown

Enter Elizabeth

TIME WAS PASSING. IT WAS NEARLY SIX YEARS SINCE THE King had first thought of divorce, and still he was without satisfaction. There had never been such a case in royal history.

We were at Greenwich with the Court, my mother and I, when we heard there was to be a move to Windsor.

Relations between my parents had become even more strained. Although my mother was still treated in some ways as the Queen, the King was hardly in her presence, and Anne Boleyn had her own apartments within the household.

We awoke one morning the find the Court ready to depart but to go to Woodstock instead of Windsor. We began to prepare to leave in the usual way when we were told that the King would not require our presence at Woodstock and we were to go to Windsor.

We were astonished. The Countess was very anxious. I had not seen her so disturbed since those days when she was urging Reginald to leave the country.

“I cannot think what it means,” she said to me. “But mean something it does.”

We remained at Windsor for three weeks before a messenger came from the King.

He was coming to Windsor to hunt and when he arrived he desired that we should not be there. My mother was to go with her household to the Moor in Hertfordshire. Then came the blow. I was not to go with her. I was to go to Richmond.

We were dismayed and clung to each other.

“No, no,” I cried. “I will not endure it. Anything but this.”

“Perhaps it is only for a while,” said the Countess soothingly.

But we none of us believed that. We understood. When we rode out together, the people cheered us. Anne Boleyn received very different treatment. She was “the Concubine” and they shouted abuse at her, calling her the King's goggle-eyed whore. They felt differently toward me. I was their dear Princess, the heir to the throne. They would have none other but me.

This must have been infuriating to my father and his paramour; and I guessed she had had a hand in this.

So they would separate us and we should not be seen together. No doubt then we might come to our senses if we realized the power of the King.

“I will not leave you,” I cried passionately. “Oh, my mother, we must be together. Let us run away and hide ourselves.”

“My dearest child,” she said. “Let us pray that we shall be with each other again soon.”

“What is the use of prayers?” I demanded. “Have we not prayed enough?”

“We can never pray enough, my child. Always remember my thoughts are with you. Let us be resigned to our cruel fate. It cannot endure, I am sure of that. Say your prayers while we are apart. It may well be that soon we shall be together again.”

But how sad she looked in spite of her brave words. I was in an agony of fear for her. He had taken so much away from us. Why could he not leave us each other?

My heart was filled with anger—not toward him so much as toward her, the goggle-eyed whore, the woman who was his evil genius. I blamed her for all the trials which had befallen us.

My mother took a sad farewell of the Countess. They embraced tenderly.

“Care for my daughter,” said my mother.

“Your Highness…you may trust me.”

“I know, my dear friend, I know. It is my greatest comfort that she is with you.”

I had loved Richmond until now; the view of the river, the irregular buildings, the projecting and octagonal towers crowned with turrets, the small chimneys which looked like inverted pears…I had loved them all. But now it was like a prison, and I hated it because my mother was not there with me.

I DID TRY to follow my mother's instructions. It was difficult. I thought of her constantly. I was afraid for her health; the anxieties of the last years were clearly undermining it—as they were my own.

I said to the Countess, “If we could only be together, I would suffer anything. But this separation is unendurable.”

“I know,” she replied. “It cannot continue. There are murmurings among the people. They are with you and your mother. They will never accept Anne Boleyn.”

“They will have to if it is my father's will. He is all powerful.”

“Yet he has failed so far to get this divorce.”

“I hope he never does. I wish she could die. Why did she not when she had the sweat?”

“It was God's Will,” said the Countess.

And there was no disputing that.

We heard that Anne Boleyn was living like a queen, and of the jewels she wore—all gifts from the King. But every time she appeared in public, insults were hurled at her.

“Bring back the Queen!” cried the people. “Long live the Princess!” It was gratifying but ineffectual.

We had no friends. There was only the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, who could visit my mother, advise her and comfort her and keep her in touch with the Emperor, because of whom the Pope would not grant the divorce though beyond that he could do little. He could not go to war with England on my mother's account. Moreover my father and François were allies now.

There seemed no way out of this situation. My mother was alone and almost friendless in a country which had been her home for some thirty years and now was an alien land to her.

Then, to my delight, six months after my separation from my mother, I was allowed to join her again. What joy there was in our reunion and what anxiety when I saw how ill she looked!

“The hardest thing I have had to bear in this sad time is my parting with you, my daughter,” she told me. “Oh dear, there is so much to say…so much to ask. How is your Latin?”

We laughed together rather hysterically because at such a time she could think of my Latin.

We were together every moment of the day. We cherished those moments, and we were right to do so for there were not to be many left to us.

We would sit talking, reading, sewing… each of us desperately trying to take hold of each moment, savor it and never let it go. We knew this was to be a brief visit. They were three weeks when I realized how much my mother meant to me and that nothing in my life could ever compensate for her loss.

How could they be so cruel…my father, reveling with his concubine, and she, the black-browed witch—had they no sympathy for a sick woman and her frightened daughter?

Compassion there was none, and at the end of those three weeks came the order. My mother and I were to separate. The brief respite was over.

I became listless. The Countess worried a good deal about me. She was constantly trying to think of something to cheer me. Something must happen soon, she said, and she was sure it would be good.

Dear Lady Salisbury, she provided my only comfort. We talked of Reginald. We heard from him now and then. He was in Padua studying philosophy and theology and meeting interesting people whose outlook on life was similar to his own. He mentioned Gaspar Contarini, a good churchman, and Ludovico Priuli, a young nobleman whom he found of the utmost interest. He wrote of these friends so vividly that we felt we knew them and could enjoy their conversation as he did. He was following events in England, and it was amazing how much he could learn from his friends, as there were constant comings and goings, for the King's affair was of the utmost interest to all.

He would come home soon to us, he wrote. We were never out of his thoughts, and it was a great consolation to him to know that we were together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This cannot be true,” I cried to the Countess. “How could he take her with him? She cannot go as the Queen.”

“The King of France is now his friend, remember. If he receives Anne Boleyn, it is tantamount to giving his approval.”

“He will do what is expedient to him.”

“Yes, and François needs your father's support and he will go a long way to get that.”

“But how could Anne Boleyn be received at the Court of France!”

“We shall hear, no doubt.”

“But my mother… what will she think when she hears of this?”

The Countess shook her head. “These things cannot go on. But I can't really believe he will take her to France. It is just one of those rumors, and Heaven knows there have been many of them.”

But it was no rumor. My father showered more honors on Anne Boleyn. He created her Marchioness of Pembroke. That was significant. She was no longer merely the Lady Anne.

So he really did intend to take her to France. He was telling the world that she was his Queen in truth and that the marriage was imminent.

I think my hopes died at that time. I was sunk in gloom; my mother was ill and we were parted by a cruel father and his wicked mistress. If we could have been together, what a difference that would have made! How could they be so cruel to us? Our love for each other was well known, and in addition to the trials we were forced to endure was the anxiety we felt for each other.

As we had feared, events moved quickly after that. They went to France; they were received by François, though not by the ladies of the Court, who, I was glad to hear, rather pointedly absented themselves.

But when they returned, the result was inevitable. There was a rumor that Anne was pregnant with the King's child, and they were secretly married.

I COULD NOT BELIEVE this. It was a false rumor, I insisted to the Countess. Nobody seemed to know where the marriage had taken place. Some said it was in the chapel of Sopewell Nunnery, others at Blickling Hall.

What did it matter where?

Of course it was kept a secret. It was a highly controversial step, for there would be many to ask how the King could marry Anne Boleyn when he was the husband of the Queen.

The ceremony had to take place though and without delay, for Anne was pregnant and it was imperative that the child should be born legitimate.

I often wondered later which was the greater—my father's longing for a son or his passion for Anne Boleyn. Knowing him so well, I believe he considered it a slur on his manhood that a son should be denied to him; and as he wished the world to see him as the perfect being, that irked him considerably.

They must have been in a state of some anxiety, for the marriage had to be legal and it was clear that they were getting no help from Rome. How could they pretend that she was his wife when the people knew he was still married to the Queen? I exulted in their difficulties.

It was May of that year 1533, after my seventeenth birthday, when Cranmer, now Archbishop of Canterbury, presided over a tribunal at Dunstable. There was no need for a divorce between the King and Katharine of Aragon, he stated, for their so-called marriage had been no marriage. The ceremony through which they had gone had been contracted against the Divine Law.

After this declaration they felt free to go along with Anne's coronation.

It was incredible that such a thing could be. But my father was determined on it.

My mother had been moved once more and was at Ampthill. I think my father feared to leave her too long in one place. I constantly asked myself why he would not let us be together, but if he would not allow us to see each other during my illness—when he really did fear what effect my death would have had on public opinion—he surely would not now. I was very, very worried for I knew that my mother suffered from constant ill health and I feared the worst was kept from me.

Events were moving fast. We heard, of course, about the splendid coronation, how Anne Boleyn left Greenwich dressed in cloth of gold, looking splendid, they said, with her elegance and her long black hair and great glittering eyes—witch's eyes, I called them. Many believed that she was a witch and that only her supernatural powers had been able to lure the King to act as he had.

I could imagine the guns booming out and my father's waiting to greet her when she reached the Tower. There she stayed for several days in accordance with the custom of monarchs coming to their coronations. How it sickened me to think of this woman, this upstart Boleyn, whose family by astute trading and noble marriages had climbed to a position where Anne might be noticed by the King. All this honor for her while my mother lay cold and ill, neglected, and while everything possible was done to degrade her.

How I hated that woman! How I wished her ill! I remembered my mother once said, “Hatred is not good for the soul, my child. Pray for this woman rather. It may well be that one day she will be in need of our prayers.” But I could not. I was not the saint my mother was.

So I gave vent to my hatred. I prayed that the child she was about to bear would be misshapen, a monster, a girl! I prayed that she might die in childbirth—that they both should die and I might never have to consider them again.

I could picture her making her procession through the streets of London. She would look magnificent in her evil way. Even her greatest enemies could not deny that she had something more than beauty. It was the spell of witchery. I could see her in silver tissue and her ermine-decorated cloak. I could picture the litter of cloth of gold and the two white palfreys which drew it.

Would the people cheer her? They would be overwhelmed by the pageantry for they loved a spectacle. They would forget temporarily, perhaps, the wrongs against the true Queen. They would remember only that this was a holiday and the conduits ran with wine.

All through the day of the coronation, I brooded, nursing my hatred, thinking of my mother, wondering what would be in her mind on this tragic day. I thought of that woman, crowned Queen, in purple velvet and ermine; I could imagine the King's eyes glazed with desire for this witch who had seduced him from his duty and was leading him along the path to Hell.

What was the use of praying for a miracle?

There was no miracle, and Anne Boleyn was crowned Queen of England which she could never be to me—and to many, I hoped—while my mother lived.

HOW WELL I remember those months before the birth of Anne Boleyn's child. She was constantly in my thoughts. I tortured myself with pictures of her—imaginary, of course. My father doted on her, sure that she was about to give him the longed-for son.

But there began to be rumors that all was not well, and that, after having waited so long for her, he was now asking himself why he had endured so much for her sake; and he was looking at other women—something he had not done for a long time, since he had first become obsessed by her. Were these merely rumors or was this actually taking place? As much as I wanted to believe them, I could not accept the fact that his mad desire had evaporated so rapidly.

And she was pregnant—that should make her doubly attractive. She was about to give him what he craved.

A messenger came to Newhall with a command from the King. I was to go to Court that I might be present at the birth of the child.

I was furious. I stamped and raged. “I will not go,” I cried. “I will not.”

The Countess looked sorrowful. “Dear Princess,” she said. “Consider. This is a command from the King.”

“I care not. How can he expect me to take part in the rejoicing at the birth of her child?”

“He does, and you must.”

“Never,” I cried. “Never!”

The Countess shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think the King would say to that? You must tread carefully. You could be on dangerous ground.”

“You mean he might kill me?”

The Countess was silent.

“You really believe that might be, do you not?” I demanded.

“I think life could be very unpleasant for you if you disobeyed,” she answered.

“It is unpleasant now.”

“More unpleasant. Dangerous in fact. Princess, I do beg of you. Be careful.”

“Do understand me,” I pleaded. “I must refuse.”

She shook her head.

There was a letter from my mother.

“You must obey the King,” she wrote. “It is your duty. He is your father. Do not add to my anxieties. They are many and would be more if I thought you defied your father and so roused his anger against you. At present he remembers you are his daughter. Do not, I beg of you, do anything to make him turn against you.”

Then I knew I had to accept what was asked of me. I should have to be there when the odious child was born.

So I set out for Greenwich. Until the baby was born I must live under the same roof as my father and the woman I continued to call his concubine.

From the moment I arrived I was made aware of the fact that my situation had changed a good deal from those days when my father had fondled me and delighted in his daughter.

I did see him briefly. He gave me a cool nod and somehow managed to convey that I had better behave in a seemly manner or it would be the worse for me.

I was presented to her, too. There she was, large with child, smug, complacent, carrying the heir to the throne, she thought. How I hated her! Elegant, she was, in her rich velvets apeing the Queen.

She gave me her hand to kiss. I could have spurned her but I seemed to hear my mother's voice pleading with me; and I could guess at my father's rage if I showed my contempt for her.

So I was cool to her, as she was to me, and if ever hatred flowed between people, it flowed between us two.

“Please God, do not let her live,” I prayed. “Let her and the child die. Let the King realize his cruelty and let all be well between us.”

It was September. The baby was expected hourly. The King was in a state of high excitement, certain that at last he would have his son. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was silently praying for the death of the witch and her offspring.

Then Anne Boleyn was brought to bed.

A special chamber in the Palace of Greenwich had been prepared for the birth. It had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of holy virgins. My father had given her one of the most beautiful beds he had ever possessed to receive his son when he came into the world. The bed was French and had come to him through the Duc d'Alençon as a ransom when he had been my father's prisoner.

It was a long and arduous labor. Seated with others in the chamber adjoining that in which she lay and of which the door was open, we could hear her groans of agony, and at each one I have to admit I exulted.

“Oh God,” I prayed, “let this be her last. Let her die… and the bastard with her.”

I seemed to see my mother's face admonishing me. “The woman is in labor. My child, you have no notion of what this means. She suffers pain such as you cannot imagine. Did not Our Lord teach us to be merciful?”

Merciful to that woman who had deprived my mother of her health, strength and happiness? How could I? I was honest at least. Desperately I wanted her dead. Somewhere in my heart, I believed that if a benign God— benign to us, of course, not to her—would arrange her death, all would be well between my parents.

The King did not come to see her. He knew that as soon as the child appeared he would be told.

Through the night we sat. The next day dawned. I shall never forget that day—September. It must have been between three and four o'clock in the morning when I heard the cry of a child.

Breathlessly I waited, angry with God for not answering my prayers. They were alive—both of them. Anne Boleyn had given the King the child for which he craved.

And then the news. My heart began to sing. A girl! I wanted to laugh out loud. My mother had done as well as that. She had given him a girl—myself. And he had gone through all this for the sake of another! It was a joke. Hysterical laughter bubbled up within me.

How was she feeling now, the concubine? Witch that she was, this was something she could not achieve.

And the King? How was he feeling? He would be realizing now that his efforts had been in vain.

The Countess had not been allowed to accompany me, and I was desolate without her. There was no one whom I could trust as I did her, and I was old enough to know how easily I could commit some indiscretion which could do me great harm.

I did, however, see Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador. I believe my father would rather have kept us apart but he could hardly do that without arousing hostile comment, and probably at this time he was feeling too frustrated to give much thought to it.

“The King is bitterly disappointed,” Chapuys told me. “He cannot altogether hide it, although at her bedside he told her that he would never desert her. But that in itself betrays that the thought of doing so must have entered his mind. They will have more children, he said, sons… sons… sons. She is still the Queen but his eyes stray and it seems there are others.”

“But for so long he sought her! She was the only one for him all those years.”

“It may be that now he regrets what he had to pay for her. He has taken great risks, and we do not yet know what will be the outcome of that. But what I have to say to you is this: You are the Princess of Wales but there is now another whom he might try to put ahead of you.”

I was aghast. “He cannot!” I cried.

“He can and if it is possible he will. You must be prepared.”

“What can I do?”

“We will wait and see.”

“What of the Emperor?” I said. #x201C;Why does he stand aside and see my mother and me treated thus?”

“The Emperor watches. He cares what becomes of you. The King's actions toward you are an insult to Spain, but the Emperor cannot go to war on that account. The time is not ripe, and the French and English are allies to stand against him.”

I covered my face with my hands.

“Be prepared,” he said.

I remembered those words when I was told I must attend the christening of the child, this Elizabeth, my half-sister who was destined to plague me in the years to come.

IT WAS FOUR DAYS after her birth—four days of bitter foreboding for me. Why had I been submitted to this extra torture? Why did I have to see honors showered on her? Wasn't it enough that she was born?

After his initial disappointment the King was expressing a certain delight in the child. I sometimes thought in the years ahead that she had inherited her mother's witchery. She was beautiful and healthy. “Oh God,” I asked in anguish, “why did You not listen to my prayers?” From the beginning she charmed all those who came into contact with her.

It was the cruelest act to make me attend her christening.

There was a letter from my mother which had been smuggled in to me. I was sure that woman and my father would have stopped our correspondence if they knew her letters were reaching me.

She told me that Anne Boleyn had had the effrontery to write to ask her for the special robe which had been used at the christening of that son who had briefly brought her and the King such joy and then almost immediately died.

I remembered my mother's showing me the robe. She had brought it with her from Spain. It was to be worn by her sons at their christening. How ironic that she had been able to use it only once, and then for little purpose. Even I—as a girl—had not worn it. And that woman had dared to ask for it for her daughter!

My mother had refused, amazed that my father had known of his concubine's request and had not stopped it.

My mother wondered whether they would come to her and take it by force; but they did stop at that, and although the young Elizabeth was carried in a gown of purple velvet edged with ermine, it was not the Spanish christening robe.

To me it was like a nightmare. I kept marvelling how they could have been so insensitive as to insist that I take part. It might have been to show the people that my father was not casting me out. I knew a great many rumors were circulating about his treatment of my mother and me and that they disturbed him.

This was a very grand ceremony. The walls between the Palace and Grey Friars were hung with arras, and the path was strewn with fresh green rushes. Elizabeth was carried by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, who was her great-grandmother, and the canopy was held by Anne's brother George Boleyn, now Lord Rochford, Lords William and Thomas Howard and Lord Hussey, another of the Boleyn clan recently ennobled.

The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walked beside the baby.

It was indeed a royal christening.

I was so wretched. Why had they insisted that I be present? At least my mother had escaped this.

Then came the final blow. I felt stunned when Garter-King-at-Arms proclaimed, “God, of His infinite goodness, send a prosperous life and long to the High and Mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.”

Princess of England! But I was the Princess of England. How could she be so?

I heard the shouts and trumpets through a haze of apprehension. What did this mean? Need I ask myself? I knew. This was the final insult.

WHEN I LOOK BACK over that time, I think it must have been one of the most dangerous of my life. There have been many crises, and my life has been at risk many times, but then I was so young, so inexperienced in the ways of the world, so inadequate to cope with situations in which I found myself; I was so reckless, so lacking in good counsel. Lady Salisbury was not with me at this time and I did not realize then how much I had relied on her. My mother had written warning me, but my natural resentment made me one of my own worst enemies.

I was seventeen years old and had already faced as many dangers in a few short years as most people face in a lifetime.

I know now that there are people in the world who revel in the troubles of others and find excitement in fomenting them. They take a delight in seeing what will happen next. There was I, once Princess of Wales, heir to the throne…and now there was this child who had usurped my place and had been named Princess of England.

How they beguiled me—those people about me—with their gossip. They treated me as an adult. Was it not shocking the way in which Queen Anne behaved with all those men about her? She was never without a bevy of adoring young men. They had seen the looks which passed between them… and looks told a great deal. And the King? He was not so enamored of her as he had once been.

I was too young, too foolish, to restrain myself. Of course I should not have listened. I should not have told them of my hatred for her and how I had prayed that she would die in childbirth… and her child with her.

Lady Salisbury would never have allowed it; my mother would have forbidden it. But I was parted from them; I was alone in a hotbed of treachery, and these gossipers seemed so sympathetic toward me that they lured me into expressing my true feelings.

I did not know that my remarks were recorded and taken back to Anne Boleyn.

I was bewildered and bitterly humiliated. I was the Princess of England, I declared, and foolishly not only to myself. A bastard did not count. The King was still married to my mother and I was born in wedlock.

In due course I was sent back to Beaulieu. At least the Countess was there.

I fell into her arms and sobbed out what had happened.

“They called her the Princess of England!” I sobbed. “What does that mean?”

The Countess was silent. She knew full well what it meant.

But at least I was back with her and I found a certain comfort in going over my experiences while she stroked my hair and soothed me with gentle words, but she could not hide the fear in her eyes.

Sir John and Lady Hussey arrived at Beaulieu. He was to be my Chamberlain, he informed me, and his wife was to join my household.

The Countess was disturbed. She told me that Hussey was one of the King's most trusted servants. I guessed now that he had been sent because of the remarks I had made and which had been reported to Anne Boleyn, who would have convinced my father that I was dangerous. Hence he had sent Hussey to watch over me. He might be suspicious of the Countess—after all she was a Plantagenet, and her son Reginald had openly expressed his feelings about the King's marriage in no uncertain terms.

Hussey had been a long and tried friend to the Tudors; he had fought for my grandfather when he came to the throne and had been made Comptroller of his household. When my father had become King, he had felt the need to win the people's approval by taking revenge on those who had helped his father collect the taxes, and he had executed Dudley and Empson, the hated enforcers of the royal extortion. Hussey had been involved with them, but shrewdly guessing that he would be a good friend, my father pardoned him and granted him land in Lincolnshire. So he had a loyal servant in Hussey. He was quite an old man now, therefore very experienced; and he had been useful to my father during the devious negotiations for the divorce.

My heart sank when he was presented to me as my Chamberlain; and I believe the Countess's did too. She guessed more accurately than I could what this meant. One of Hussey's duties was to tell me the doleful—though not unexpected—news of what the Council's ministers had decided.

Hussey looked uneasy, and I thought I caught a glint of sympathy in his eyes.

“My lady,” he said, “I have received orders.” I felt a twinge of uneasiness as he had not addressed me as Princess. “It is with regret I have to tell you of them.”

“Then tell me,” I said as coolly as I could.

He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. He looked at it and bit his lips. I had not suspected him of such sensitivity.

“The orders are that you are no longer to be addressed as Princess.”

“Why not?”

“It…er…it seems that this is no longer your title.”

I stared at the man. “How can that be? I am the King's daughter.”

“Yes, my lady, but…in view of the fact that the King's marriage to the Princess of Spain was no true marriage, you are no longer entitled to be called Princess. Indeed, my lady, we are forbidden to address you as such.”

“I do not believe it. May I see that paper?”

He nodded and handed it to me.

It was there, plain for me to see. I was to be called the Lady Mary, the King's daughter. But I was no longer the Princess of England. That title had been passed to the little bastard whose christening I had been forced to witness at Greenwich.

Hussey bowed his head. He said, “I will send the Countess to you.”

She came and I threw myself at her.

“There! There!” she said. “At least you have a shoulder to cry on. Do not grieve, Princess.”

“You must not call me that any more.”

“When we are alone together…”

I had grown up suddenly. I saw dangers all around us. “Oh no, dearest Countess. You must not. Someone might hear. They would tell tales of you. I believe those who call me by my rightful title will be punished.”

“It is so,” she confirmed. “We have been warned.”

“But I am the Princess. I shall call myself Princess, but I will not bring trouble to you. They would take you from me. Perhaps put you in the Tower.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “You are growing up, Princess. You are beginning to understand how dangerous are the times in which we are living.”

“But I will not accept this,” I said. “I am the Princess. That trumped-up divorce is wrong. It is a sin in the eyes of God, and Anne Boleyn is no true Queen.”

“Hush. Did I say that you were growing up? Now you are behaving like a child.”

“My father does care something for me, surely.”

“Your father wants complete obedience. We must wait quietly…not calling attention to ourselves.”

I did not answer.

I was young and I was reckless. I was telling myself I could not endure this. I would not stand aside and let them treat my mother and myself in this way. She had cautioned discretion but she was weary and sick and had not the heart for the fight. I was different.

My household might be intimidated into dropping the title of Princess when addressing me, but I would continue to use the title. It was mine. And it was not for the Council to take it away from me.

When I went out into the streets there were always people to cheer me. They would cry, “Long live Princess Mary.” I must have caused much anxiety to the King and his concubine for they knew what support there was throughout the country for my mother and me. The people knew that we had been separated and they thought that cruel. Yes, my father and Anne Boleyn must be having some very uneasy moments.

There would always be those fanatics who seemed to court martyrdom and make a great noise doing so. There was one known as the Nun of Kent. She was a certain Elizabeth Barton who had begun life as a servant in the household of a man who was steward to the estate owned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. She appeared to have special powers of prophecy and was taken up by a number of well-known people which gave her great prestige. Sir Thomas More was said to have been interested in her. She sprang into prominence when my father had returned from France with the newly created Marchioness of Pembroke. Elizabeth Barton had met him at Canterbury and warned him that if he married Anne Boleyn he would die one month later.

She had begged my mother to see her. My mother was too wise to do this and refused to do so.

I wondered that my father had not had her removed long ago. But he was always somewhat superstitious and because the nun had been taken up by prominent people—and in particular Sir Thomas More—he was a little in awe of her. He was very anxious at this time to win back that public approval which he had lost since his Secret Matter was revealed.

After the marriage everyone waited for the prophecy to come true. A month passed and nothing happened. Now Anne Boleyn had come through the ordeal of childbirth and had a healthy child, albeit a girl. As for Anne, she was as well as ever. The nun's prophecy had not been fulfillled.

For two months after my return I waited in trepidation for what would happen next. The baby Elizabeth had remained at Greenwich with her mother for those two months; then the King decided that she should have a household of her own. I heard that Hatfield had been chosen.

Much to my horror, Hussey came to me, with further instructions from the Council. I, too, was to be moved. I imagine my recalcitrant attitude had been reported to him.

“Your household is to be broken up, my lady,” he said. “You are to go to Hatfield.”

“My household broken up!” I repeated stupidly.

He nodded slowly and horror dawned on me. “The Countess of Salisbury …” I began.

He did not meet my eyes. He said, “The new mistress of your household will be Lady Shelton.”

“Lady Shelton!” I cried in dismay. “Is she not related to…to…?”

“To the Queen, my lady.”

“To Anne Boleyn!”

“She is the Queen's aunt.”

Anne Boleyn's aunt—a member of that hated family—to take the place of my beloved Countess! This was intolerable. I might bear other humiliations which had been heaped on me, I might endure insults, but to be deprived of the one to whom I had turned when I lost my mother … that was just not to be borne.

“This cannot be true,” I stammered.

“I fear so, my lady.”

“No one could be so cruel. If the Countess could be with me…if…”

“These are the King's orders, my lady.”

I turned and ran out of the room.

She came to me almost immediately. “You have heard,” she said.

“How can he? How can he? Everything else I have borne, but this…”

“I know, my dearest. I shudder with you. We have been so close…you have been as one of my own…”

“Since they would not allow me to be with my mother, you took her place.”

She nodded and we just clung together.

“It will pass,” she said at length. “It can only be temporary. We shall be together again…”

“Oh Countess, dearest Countess, what am I to do?”

“There is nothing to be done but to remain quiet and confident of the future. We must pray as Our Lord did in the wilderness.”

I was not as meek as she was. I could never be. She was like my mother, and they were both of the stuff of which martyrs are made. But I was not. I was filled with hatred toward this woman whom I blamed for all our misfortunes. I hated the innocent baby who had taken my place and for whose sake I was being made to suffer thus.

I took up my pen and, against the Countess's advice, wrote to the Council. I gave vent to the rage I felt. The very act of picking up a pen, though, brought me back to my senses a little. I knew I should have to go to Hatfield, to part from the Countess, and that it was no use protesting about this. But I could call attention to the deprivation of my title which was mine by right of birth, and that I would do.

“My lords,” I wrote, “as touching my removal to Hatfield, I will obey His Grace as my duty is… but I will protest before you all, and to all others present, that my conscience will in no wise suffer me to take any other than myself for Princess or for the King's daughter born in lawful matrimony, and that I will never wittingly or willingly say or do aught whereby any person might take occasion to think that I agree to the contrary. If I should do otherwise I should slander my mother, the Holy Church and the Pope, who is judge in this matter and none other, and I should dishonor the King, my father, the Queen, my mother, and falsely confess myself a bastard, which God defend I should do since the Pope hath not so declared by his sentence definitive, to whose judgement I submit myself…”

It was foolish. It was rash. But I was beside myself with misery because my dearest friend, who had been a mother to me, was about to be taken away from me.

There was a further blow. The Princess Elizabeth was to go to Hatfield with her household, and it seemed that, with no household of my own, I should be a member of hers. A lady-in-waiting perhaps! It was intolerable. This was proclaiming to the world that she was the Princess, the heir to the throne, and I was the bastard.

I could not understand how my father could do this to me. I remembered those days when he had shown great affection for me. How could he have changed? It could only be because he was under the influence of witchcraft.

On impulse I wrote to him. I told him that I had been informed by my Chamberlain that I was to leave for Hatfield and that, when I had asked to see the letter and had been shown it, it stated that “… the Lady Mary, the King's daughter, should remove to the place aforesaid.” I was not referred to as the Princess. I was astonished and could not believe that His Grace was aware of what had been written, for I could not believe that he did not take me for his true daughter born in matrimony. I believed this and, if I said otherwise, then I should earn the displeasure of God, which I was sure His Grace would not wish me to do. In all other matters I should always be his humble and obedient daughter.

I signed myself “Your most humble daughter, Mary, Princess.”

It was an act of defiance. I was stating clearly that in my opinion his marriage to Anne Boleyn was no true marriage, and as I was legitimate, Elizabeth was a bastard.

As soon as I had dispatched the letter, I realized the enormity of what I had done. Both my mother and the Countess would have been horrified.

The result was to bring the Duke of Norfolk down to Beaulieu with Lord Marney, the Earl of Oxford and the Duke's almoner, Dr. Fox. Their purpose was, I think, to warn me of the folly of continuing in my stubborn mood, to administer the breaking up of my household and to see me on my way.

I knew from the attitude of the Duke toward me that I could expect no sympathy from him or any of his henchmen; and that was an indication of my father's feelings toward me.

The Husseys would remain in my household, and I might take two personal maids. I had to say goodbye to all the rest. Even now I cannot bear to brood on my parting with the Countess. It was one of the most harrowing experiences through which I had passed. When my mother had been separated from me, she had handed me over to the Countess and we had been able to mourn together.

I had never felt so alone, so bereft, as I did when I left Beaulieu behind and made my way to Hatfield.

News traveled fast and spread through the neighborhood. The people of Beaulieu knew I was leaving and those of Hatfield that I was coming.

Courtiers are subservient to their masters; not so the people. They have means of expressing their feelings which are often denied those in high places.

They were on the road…groups of them… cheering me.

“Long live our Princess Mary! Long live Queen Katharine! We'll have no Nan Bullen!”

That was music to my ears—particularly when they called me Princess.

I smiled, acknowledging their greetings. I hoped my father would hear of the people's attitude toward me. I was sure it would give him a few qualms of uneasiness.

All too soon the journey was over. I had arrived at Hatfield Palace, and I felt as though I were being taken into prison.

MISERY DESCENDED UPON ME. Lady Shelton was anxious to let me know that I was a person of no importance and that if I gave myself airs it would be the worse for me.

I treated her with a cold contempt which so aroused her anger that she told me that if I persisted in my stubborn ill behavior she had been advised to beat me.

“Advised by whom?” I asked.

She did not answer but I knew. She was so proud of the fact that she was related to the woman they called the Queen.

During the first days of our encounter I knew that she would never lay hands on me. When she insulted me, I would draw myself up to my full height and merely look at her. I was royal and perhaps that was apparent. I could see little lights of apprehension in her eyes. What was she thinking? “One day this prisoner could be Queen of England? It would be wise not to antagonize her too much. To strike her would be quite unforgivable.”

I found just a slight elation in the midst of my gloom to know that, although she might make me uncomfortable in a hundred ways and abuse me verbally, she would never lift her hand against me.

Hatfield is a beautiful place, but I was alone and desolate, deserted by my father and separated from my beloved mother and the Countess.

All the attention in the household was for the baby. The Princess, they called her. I would not call her that. To me she was sister, just as the Duke of Richmond was brother. There was no difference. They were both the King's illegitimate children.

Sometimes I dream of those days. They are remote now but I can still conjure up the infinite sadness, the deep loneliness, the longing for my mother and the Countess, the abject misery. I felt then that whatever happened I could never be truly happy again.

Sometimes I thought the object of the household was to humiliate me. The Duke of Richmond had a fine household; the King made much of him. But, of course, it was different with me. I was a continual reproach to him. I was there at the back of his mind, jerking that mighty conscience of his so that it refused now and then to do his bidding. Hatfield! The very name means blank misery, a certain feeling of hopelessness which is what comes to those in prison with no indication of how long their incarceration will last, wondering if only death can release them from the wretchedness of their days.

But I suppose nothing is complete gloom. Although in the beginning I had resented the Husseys, I was now rather glad that they were with me… particularly Lady Hussey, who, I was sure, had great sympathy with me. Once or twice she had addressed me as Princess. It may have been deliberate. On the other hand she had been accustomed to referring to me thus before it had been forbidden to do so. But so bereft was I of friends that I was grateful for that little show of sympathy.

Then I had the two maids who had come with me to Hatfield. They served me loyally and showed in a hundred ways that they regarded me as their Princess.

There was another blessing. It so happened that Elizabeth's governess was Lady Bryan, who had held the same post to me during my early years.

There seems to be a bond between a motherly woman and a child to whom she has been close in infancy. It may have been because Margaret Bryan was a kindly woman, or it may have been because there was that early bond between us, but it soon became clear that she deplored the way in which I was treated under Lady Shelton's rules. Looks were exchanged between us, and then we found opportunities of talking. She brought me some comfort, and I shall always be grateful to Margaret Bryan.

A great deal was happening. I suppose that year was one of the most momentous in history.

The Nun of Kent had been arrested soon after I arrived at Hatfield. She was sent to the Tower with some of her associates. When they were brought before the Star Chamber, they all confessed to fraud, and Elizabeth Barton was accused of trying to dethrone the King, which was, of course, treason.

Christmas came—the most dreary I had ever spent. It was cold. It was long since I had had new clothes, and I saw no means of getting any. I was not allowed to have my meals served in my room. If I wished to eat, I had to go down to the hall and seat myself where I could; and if I did not go, nobody seemed to care. Except, of course, Margaret Bryan, who surveyed me with some anxiety. She assumed the role of nurse and talked to me as though I were a wayward child.

“What good is this doing?” she demanded. “It is hard for you but you must make the best of it. Going without food is not going to help you.”

I said, “You and my two maids are the only friends I have. Perhaps Lady Hussey is…in a way.”

I saw the tears in her eyes. I knew it was difficult for her to speak to me, for she might be noticed, and if she were she would be sent away. But as she saw I was growing more and more wan, she became reckless. I had once been her charge and she could not forget it. Moreover as any good woman would be, she was appalled at the manner in which my mother was treated.

She said to me, “If I came to your room after the household has retired, we could talk.”

I was overcome with emotion. I felt as though a light had appeared in a dark room, and it brought with it a glimmer of comfort.

It was Margaret Bryan who kept me sane during that long time. Sometimes I felt an urge to throw myself out of a window. It was a sin to take life…even one's own. It was that thought which restrained me. My great comfort was in prayer. I was sustained by reading the holy books, by remembering the sufferings of Jesus and trying to emulate his example. At least I had managed to subdue Lady Shelton sufficiently to escape the humiliation of physical punishment.

And there was Margaret Bryan.

When the house was quiet, she would come to my room. I was terrified at the risk she was taking, for I knew that, if Lady Shelton discovered, she most certainly would be sent away; she might even be imprisoned. I was sure both the King and Anne Boleyn were very much afraid of the people's feelings for my mother and me.

She was helped in this by one of the maids who was a sweet girl and wanted to do more for me. I was afraid her devotion would be noticed and she sent away; I told her that would sorely grieve me.

There was a secret understanding between us that she should pretend to be brusque with me, in common with the others around me. It was very important to me that she should stay near me, and although she thought of me as the Princess, it was necessary that she did not show this.

It was little incidents like this which sustained me. Later she became bolder, and it was through her, with Margaret Bryan's help, that letters from my mother and even Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador, were smuggled in to me.

One day Margaret told me that the King was coming to Hatfield to see the Princess.

Now was my chance. If I could speak to him face to face, surely he would not fail to be moved by my plight. I would plead with him. I would make him understand. I must see him, I told myself.

The house was in tumult. The King was coming! I wondered whether she would be with him. Surely she would, for it was the baby they would come to see… her baby. If she came, there would be no hope of my seeing him. I was sure of that.

I thought of what I must do. I would throw myself at his feet. I would beg him to remember that I was his daughter.

The great day came.

My little maid was agog with excitement. “They say Queen Anne is not coming to Hatfield because you are here,” she told me.

“Surely she will come to see her own child.”

“They say she will not.”

“If he comes alone …” I murmured. The girl nodded. She knew what I meant.

And at length he came. It was true that Anne Boleyn had stayed some miles away and he would rejoin her after the visit.

I could smell the roasting meats; I was aware of the bustle of serving men rushing hither and thither in the last throes of preparation for the royal visit. And at last there he was, riding into Hatfield.

I was in my room… waiting. Would he send for me? Surely he must. Was I not his daughter? He had come to see one; surely he must see the other, too.

The hours wore on. Margaret came to tell me that he had been with Elizabeth and seemed mightily pleased with her. Margaret glowed with pride every time she mentioned Elizabeth. “He is now feasting in the hall,” she went on.

“They are in a panic in the kitchens lest anything go wrong.”

Surely he must ask: Where is my daughter Mary? Why is she not here?

But I could not go unless he sent for me.

The hours were passing. He was preparing to leave and he had not sent for me. Perhaps he had not asked about me. I must see him, I must.

But he was not going to send for me, and already they were riding out of the palace.

I dashed to the balcony. There he was. I stood there, looking down at him.

I did not call his name. I just stared and stared, my lips moving in prayer. Father…your daughter is here… please… please…do not leave without seeing me. Just a look…a smile… but look at me.

And then something made him turn, and for a few seconds we looked full at each other. He did not smile. He merely looked. What thoughts passed through his head, I did not know. What did he think to see this palefaced girl who had once been his pretty child, shabbily clad, when once she had been in velvet and cloth of gold, an outcast in his bastard daughter's household… what did he think?

He had passed on. He did lift his hat, though, in acknowledgment of my presence as he turned away.

All the gentlemen around him did likewise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took me to Greenwich.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was an uneasy atmosphere throughout the land. The King was now Supreme Head of the Church in England, and the break with Rome was complete; so it was not only the treatment of my mother and myself which was threatening revolt all over the country.

I often wondered whether my father paused to think what he had done when his desire to marry Anne Boleyn had possessed him. He would have visualized an easy divorce, marriage to his siren and a succession of sons. And how differently it had turned out! The break with Rome, the cruelty to his wife and daughter and still the longed-for son had not arrived. What he had done could not possibly endear him to his people.

And there was I—expected to die. Then at least one of the causes for disquiet would be removed. It was a realization I was forced to face. My father must be praying for my death. Nevertheless he dared not withhold help from me entirely, and Dr. Butts was attending me. He was a man whose loyalty to his profession came first. I was his patient now and he was determined to save my life. He knew the cause of my illness. It was not the first time that I had been ill, though I was not fundamentally weak. I had been made to suffer deprivations and such anxieties as I hope few people have to endure; and these had had their effect on me. My mother was ill, too, but her ailments were more of a physical nature—rheumatism, gout, chest complaints brought about by cold and uncomfortable dwelling places. She was saintly and her religion sustained her; she was made for martyrdom. Not so myself. I too had suffered from deprivations but it was not they alone which had brought me to my sickbed. I suffered from a smouldering resentment, a hatred against my persecutors. Mine was more an illness of the mind. If I could have been with my mother, if I could have taken the example she set, I would recover, I knew.

Now I must lie in my bed, sickly and alone, longing to be with her that we might comfort each other. If Lady Salisbury could have come to me, that would have helped. But my father did not want me to be helped… unless it was to the grave.

He did come to visit me because of the grumbling discontent in the country. I was vaguely aware of him at my bedside.

I heard him mutter to Lady Shelton, “There lies my greatest enemy.”

Afterward I discovered that he had not asked to see me but that the good Dr. Butts had forced himself into his presence and told him how ill I was and that he knew the cause and begged him to send my mother to me; whereupon the King rounded on him, calling him disloyal and declaring that he was making too much of my illness for political reasons.

The doctor was abashed but nothing could shift him from his ground. He insisted that if I could be with my mother that would do more for me than a hundred remedies.

Why did I want to go to Kimbolton? demanded the King. So that I and my mother could plot against him, raise armies against him? “The Dowager Princess Katharine is another such as her mother, Queen Isabella of Castile,” he said; and he went on to rave about my stubborn behavior, which was part of a plot to raise people against him. Already people in high places were turning to us.

Yes, he was certainly afraid.

I wondered if he knew then that certain nobles in the North were intimating to Chapuys that they would be ready to support the Emperor if he invaded England in an attempt to bring the Church back to Rome and restore my mother to her rightful place and make me the Queen after dethroning my father.

A story was being circulated about a girl of seventeen or so—my age— who impersonated me in the North of England, where it was unlikely anybody had seen me. She went from village to village telling a sad story of the persecution she had suffered, explaining that she had escaped and was trying to reach the Emperor. Her name turned out to be Anne Baynton and she collected a fair amount of money, so she did succeed in deceiving people. It showed their sympathy to me that none attempted to betray her and instead were willing to help her on her way.

Meanwhile I lay sick in my bed, hovering between life and death.

At length I did begin to recover, for Dr. Butts was determined that I should. He had to prove that my sickness was not incurable. I had always known that he was the best doctor in the kingdom. He was aware of the cause of my illness, and although it was due to a certain extent to illnourishment, it was the sheer misery which I had suffered which was the chief cause.

And as I returned to health there was born in me a determination to live to fight for my rights. I had been through so much that there was little worse that could happen to me. I was denied the company of those I loved; those of my friends who would visit me were turned away. I was kept from my mother; I was deprived of the company of my dear Countess; and Lady Bryan was no longer with me. I told myself I had touched the very nadir of my suffering.

I was very weak and scarcely able to walk across the room; but at least I was alive.

To my surprise, one day I had a visitor.

I was astonished when Lady Shelton came to my room. She said, “Her Grace the Queen commands you to her presence.”

I felt suddenly very cold, and my hands began to tremble.

Lady Shelton was smiling at the prospect, I presumed, of a royal princess having to obey the command of that woman.

I said, “You know my condition. I am unable to walk across the room without help.”

She smiled secretively with a lift of her shoulders.

“Her Grace the Queen commands your presence,” she repeated.

“If she wants to see me, she will perforce have to come to me.”

With a smirk, Lady Shelton nodded and disappeared.

I sat down on my bed, putting my hand to my heart. It was beating wildly. What had I done? I had shown my contempt for her. What would be the punishment for such conduct? Should I be sent to the Tower?

The door of my room was opened. I stared in surprise, for it was the woman herself. I could not believe it. I half rose.

She shook her head and signed for me to remain seated.

She was impressive, I could not deny it. She had an air of distinction. In that moment I could almost understand my father's obsession with her. She was most elegantly attired—not flamboyantly and yet more outstanding for the sheer elegance, the cut of her clothes and her style of wearing them.

I noticed the band about her neck which many had copied but none wore as she did. I noticed the long hanging sleeves to cover the sixth nail. Marks of the devil, I thought, which she has exploited to add to her grace.

Her enormous dark eyes held mine. I was trembling, unable to believe this was really happening. It must be something in a dream. I had thought of her so much. I had conjured up this vision. But there she was. She had seated herself on the bed facing me. She smiled. It changed her face. She was dazzling.

She said in a gentle voice, “You have been very ill.”

I did not answer and she went on, “But you are better now. This rift… it has gone on too long. I do not want it to continue. I understand your feelings, of course, and I have come to talk to you, to make a proposition. If you will come to Court I will do all in my power to restore your father's love for you.”

I listened dazed, becoming more and more convinced that I was dreaming.

She smiled graciously. What did it mean? I reminded myself that I hated her. There was some ulterior motive in this… some evil purpose. She must be thinking that I was overwhelmed by this show of friendship. Did she expect me to fall on my knees and thank her?

I remained silent. I could find no words to answer her.

She went on, “There must be an end to these differences between you and your father. It is not good for the King, for you or for the country. So let us put an end to them.”

I heard myself stammer: “How?”

She smiled confidently. “You will return to Court. I promise you, you will be well treated. There shall be no discord. Everything that you had before will be yours. Perhaps it will be even better. There is only one thing you must do to achieve this.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“You must honor me as the Queen. You must be respectful … and accept that this is now a fact.”

I could listen to no more. I saw it all. She and my father wanted me there to tell the people that I was not being shut out and ill treated. They did not want me. They would not accept me as the Princess Mary. I was not to be a princess. That title was reserved for this woman's bastard.

I said to her, “I could not acknowledge you as Queen because you are not Queen. I know of only one Queen of England, and that is my mother.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are a fool,” she said. “A stubborn little fool.”

“I can only speak the truth,” I retorted. “If you would speak to my father on my behalf … if you would persuade him to allow me to join my mother…I should appreciate that.”

“You know that is not what I meant. I am suggesting that you come to Court. All you must do is accept the fact that there was no true marriage between the King and your mother, that I am the King's wife and Queen of this realm and that my daughter, Elizabeth, is the Princess of England.”

“But I accept none of this. How can I when it is not true?”

“Do you know you are in danger?” she said. “You incur the wrath of the King. Do you realize what could happen to you? I am giving you a chance to save yourself…to leave all this …”—she looked round the room with contempt—“… all this squalor. You shall have a luxurious apartment. You shall have all that is due to you as the King's daughter.”

“As the King's bastard, you mean.”

“There is no need for you to stress the point.”

“I stress it only to show its absurdity. I am the King's legitimate daughter. It is your daughter who is the bastard.”

She had risen. I thought she was going to strike me.

“I see that you are determined to destroy yourself,” she said.

“It is others who will try to destroy me,” I replied. “They have already tried persistently, God knows, but they have not succeeded yet.”

“I see I have made a mistake,” she went on. “I thought you would have more sense. You are stupidly blind. You do not see the dangers of your situation. You carelessly provoke the King's wrath. That can be terrible, you know.”

I took a shot in the dark. I had heard life was not running smoothly for her and the King, that he looked at other women now and then and was perhaps beginning to regret the hasty step he had taken. I said, “As we both know.”

It is true, I thought. I noticed the sudden color in her cheeks, the glint in her magnificent eyes.

She turned to me. “You will regret this,” she said. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, I have given you a chance.”

After that she left me. Lady Shelton was hovering.

I heard Anne Boleyn say, “The girl is a stubborn little fool. I will see that her Spanish pride is brought low.”

It had been a shattering experience. I sat on my bed, my limbs trembling so violently that I could not move.

WE WERE INTO ANOTHER new year, 1535. Could there ever be another like that which had gone before, when my father had shocked the whole of Europe by the unprecedented action of breaking with Rome?

I could not believe that even he could look back with equanimity on what he had done. He was never one to admit himself wrong, but surely he must suffer some disquiet in the secret places of his mind. How could he not? He was a religious man, a sentimental man. Oh yes, if he paused to think, he must suffer many an uneasy qualm.

The rumors about the differences between him and the concubine were growing. Life had not gone smoothly for her since her marriage. She had failed again. The longed-for boy had not appeared. There had been great hopes of him until she—as my mother had so many times—miscarried. There seemed to be a blight on my father's children. Even that golden boy, the Duke of Richmond, was very ill at this time and not expected to live. If he died, as he surely would soon, there would only be two of the King's children left—and both girls.

People's attitude toward me changed at the beginning of that year. Even Lady Shelton was less insolent. It may have been that she feared she had gone too far. This was because the concubine was falling out of favor. She had a fierce temper; she was dictatorial. I daresay she found it hard to believe that she, who had kept a firm hold on the King's affection all those years, could so quickly lose it. He was becoming enamored of a lady at the Court who it seemed had decided to champion me. Whether she did this to strike a blow against Anne Boleyn or whether she was genuinely shocked at the manner in which I was treated, I could not tell. The outcome was that people were beginning to wonder whether they ought to take care how they behaved toward me.

I was allowed to walk out now. I could even take my goshawk with me. I was feeling a little better, recuperating, and when I left Greenwich and went to Eltham, I was allowed, because I was so weak, to ride in a litter.

And how the people cheered me along the route!

“Good health and long life to the Princess!”

Those words were music in my ears.

IN THE EARLY PART of that year there was indeed danger of revolt. There was nothing weak about my father. He was every inch a king. Everyone would grant him that; and when he was confronted by danger, those qualities of leadership were very much in evidence. All that happened had changed him visibly. I could hardly recognize the jovial fun-loving man in the ruthless autocrat who was now emerging.

Those who were not with him were his enemies—as had been seen in the case of his own wife and daughter.

His peace would be destroyed by the rumblings of discontent throughout the country; he knew that if my cousin Charles, the Emperor, had not been so deeply involved in Europe, he might have attempted to invade England. So he took action and, being the man he was, it was drastic. There were no half measures with him.

In April of that year the first proceedings were taken against those who refused to accept the fact that he was Supreme Head of the Church. Five monks—one of them the Prior of the London Charterhouse—were condemned as traitors and submitted to the most brutal of executions: they were hanged, drawn and quartered. There were many to witness this grisly scene, which was what my father intended. It was to provide a lesson to all those who opposed him. I was reminded of the masques my father had so loved when he appeared among the company in disguise. Now he had thrown off his mask, and in place of the merry, jovial bluff Hal was a ruthless and despotic monarch who would strike terror into all those who thought they could disobey his command.

Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More were in everyone's thoughts. Those two noble men had done exactly what the monks had. What would their fate be? The King had been a close friend of Sir Thomas More. He had loved the man—as many did; he had often been seen walking in Sir Thomas's riverside garden, his arm about his shoulders, laughing at one of those merry quips for which Sir Thomas was renowned.

What will happen to Sir Thomas? people wondered. The King must find some excuse to save him. One thing was certain: Sir Thomas was a man of high principles. He was not one to deny what he believed merely to save his life.

All over the country bishops were ordered to insist that the King's supremacy should be preached.

The Pope intervened. He created Bishop Fisher a cardinal. I could imagine my father's fury. He retorted that he would send the bishop's head to Rome for his cardinal's hat.

That seemed significant. Nothing could move the King.

On the 22nd of June Bishop Fisher went out to Tower Hill and was beheaded. On the 6th of July Sir Thomas followed him. A silent sullen crowd looked on.

This was the King's answer. No matter who disobeyed him, they should die.

The execution of Sir Thomas More sent a shiver through the country and waves of indignation abroad. The Emperor was reputed to have said that he would rather have lost his best city than such a man. The Pope—a new one now, Paul III—declared that Sir Thomas More had been excellent in sacred learning and courageous in his defense of the truth. He prepared a Bull excommunicating my father for what he called the crime. The King, of course, snapped his fingers at the Pope. He was nothing now. He could send out bulls for excommunication as much as he liked. They meant nothing in England, which was now free of his interference.

Even François Premier was shocked and remarked on my father's impiety and barbarism…as did the Emperor, but the former needed him as an ally, and political power came before pious indignation. There were nobles all over the country who would have welcomed the Emperor if he came in arms, but he could not do that. He was engaged in the conquest of Tunis, and he could not start a war on another front.

So these monarchs of Europe could do nothing to prevent my father's keeping a firm hold on his power and changing the course of religious history in England.

The country had submitted to the new Head of the Church and he had given examples of what would happen to those who acted against him. They had seen his treatment of his wife and daughter; and they had seen the execution of his friend, Sir Thomas More.

They knew their master.

EVERYONE WAS AWARE that the King's passion for Anne Boleyn was fast waning, and he made no attempt to hide it. She was a woman who could never be humble; it seemed that she had complete belief in herself. And who would not, after the lengths to which he had gone to get her?

I had passed into a new phase, for, as the concubine's star waned, mine…well, not exactly rose but it began to show a faint light below the horizon; for if the King should discard Anne Boleyn, what excuse would he make for doing so? If he should decide that his marriage with her was no marriage, might he not discover that that with my mother was?

It was all wild speculation, but when a man breaks with the Church of Rome he is surely capable of anything.

If it should so happen that I be taken back in favor, it would be unwise for people to treat me scurvily. I was sure this was the thought in many minds and I had suffered such hardship that I could only rejoice in the change.

Many of my women talked freely now, and I began to learn more of what was going on.

Then there was a change again. The concubine was pregnant. It was a setback to those who had been hoping to see the end of her. Everything depended on the child. If it should be a boy she would be safe forever.

Disquieting news was brought to me of my mother. It was December and bitterly cold. I used to lie in bed wondering what it was like at Kimbolton with that icy wind blowing over the fens. I could visualize her on her knees praying. She would not stop doing that. I could picture the comfortless room, the inadequate clothing, and I would think of her as I knew she would be thinking of me.

The news was whispered to me by one of my women. “Madam…my lady… the Emperor's ambassador is going to the Queen, your mother.”

“What?” I cried. “But how? It is forbidden for her to have visitors.”

“Madam, the King is permitting it because…”

I felt sick with fear.

“Because… the Queen is very ill?”

She nodded.

A terrible despondency descended on me. This was what I had feared for so long.

I was avid for news. I asked everyone who might know something, and there were several who were eager to please me now. There was nothing to comfort me.

Christmas had come—a joyless season for me now.

My mother's health was a little improved, for she had seen Chapuys, and there was something else which had cheered her. My women told me all they knew of it.

The Emperor's ambassador went to Kimbolton on New Year's Day, and later that day there appeared at the castle gates a woman begging for shelter. She was cold and had fallen from her horse and was in dire need. Because she was clearly a lady of noble bearing, she was allowed to enter the castle.

“Who do you think she was, Madam?” asked my woman.

I shook my head.

“Lady Willoughby, the lady who came with your gracious mother from Spain. The Queen and Lady Willoughby embraced and swore that they would never be parted again. Lady Willoughby said she would die rather. That and the visit of “the ambassador cheered her mightily.”

I was greatly relieved.

She has spirit, I told myself. She will recover.

IT WAS THE 11TH of January…a date I shall never forget. Lady Shelton came to my room. She said, “I have come to tell you that your mother is dead. She died four days ago.”

Her face was a mask. She had lost a little of her truculence now but she managed to convey her dislike of me. Perhaps it was more intense for being subdued, now that her mistress Anne Boleyn was no longer sure of her position.

I was stunned. I had been expecting this for so long but now that it had come I was deeply shocked. I wanted desperately to be alone with my infinite sorrow.

“Leave me,” I said and I must have spoken imperiously for she obeyed. Dead! I should never see her again. For so long I had been parted from her but I had always hoped to. And now she was gone and there was no hope. Never again…

Oh, the cruelty of life…of people who satisfy their wanton desires by trampling on the lives of those about them.

How had she been at the end? There would be no more pain for her. I should rejoice that she was safe in Heaven and far from her miseries. I should have been with her. I thanked God that Lady Willoughby had found a way of getting to her. That would have been a great comfort to her.

My woman came in. She stood looking at me, her eyes brimming with sympathy. I shook my head at her. “I wish to be alone,” I said.

She understood and left me, and I was alone with my grief which was what I wanted.

How had it been at the end? I asked myself. I wondered if I could see Lady Willoughby, who could tell me how she died. But I should not be allowed to, of course.

I sat in my room. I could face no one. I dressed myself in black and thought of all we had been to each other. I recalled endearing incidents from my childhood—some of them when my father had been present. We had been a loving, happy family then.

I was horrified when I learned that, hearing of my mother's death, my father's first words were, “God be praised! We are now free from all fear of war.” Did he remember nothing of those happy days? Had he not one morsel of tenderness left for her?

He was justifying himself, of course. He wanted to believe that my mother's death was a reason for rejoicing. There was no court mourning. Instead there were celebrations—a grand ball and a joust. The people must remember that her death had delivered them from war. In the tiltyard at the joust he performed with great skill. He was the triumphant champion. He was telling the people that he was the leader, the one they could trust to take them away from the devious Church of Rome. At the ball he dressed in yellow—yellow jacket, yellow hose and yellow hat with a white feather. The concubine was dressed in yellow too.

How could he care so little for one who had never harmed him and who had always been a dutiful wife?

I became obsessed with the idea that my mother had been poisoned. It would have been so easy and, as they made no secret of their delight in her death, my suspicions might be well founded. I could think of nothing but that. How had she died? I must discover. I asked that my mother's physician and apothecary should come to see me.

When he heard this, my father asked why I should need a doctor. He could understand that I felt a little low in the circumstances, but I should get over that. Chapuys, however, talked to my father and, to my surprise, at last he agreed to allow me to see them. No doubt he was softened by his pleasure in my mother's death; moreover he knew there would be silent criticism of his treatment of her, and he did not want to show more harshness toward me at this time.

One of my maids brought me a letter from Eustace Chapuys in which he advised me to be brave and prepared for anything that might happen, for I could be assured that there would be changes. He also sent me a little gold cross which my mother was most anxious that I should have.

I was deeply moved and I was in a state of indifference as to what might happen to me. There were times when I wished with all my heart that I was with my mother.

In due course the physician arrived, with the apothecary, and from them I learned the details of my mother's last days, and of how delighted she had been at the arrival of Maria de Salinas, so much so that briefly her condition improved. The two friends had not been parted for an hour since Maria arrived, and my mother was in better spirits than she had been for a long time. Her talks with the ambassador had cheered her also. Eustace Chapuys had departed on the morning of the 5th of January. He had left her in a mood of optimism, believing that, if she could continue with the companionship of Lady Willoughby, she would recover.

“It was in the early hours of the morning of Friday the 7th that it became obvious that she had taken a turn for the worse,” said the physician. “At daybreak she received the sacrament. Lady Willoughby was, of course, with her. Her servants came to the chamber, for they knew the end was near. Many of them were in tears. She asked them to pray for her and to ask God to forgive her husband. Then she asked me to write her will, which I did. She told me that she wished to be buried in a convent of the Observant Friars.”

I said, “But the King has suppressed that order.”

“Yes, my lady, but I did not tell her. It would have distressed her. It was ten o'clock when she received Extreme Unction and by the afternoon she had passed away.”

“Was there anything… unusual about her death?”

“Unusual, my lady?”

“Did you have any reason to suspect it might have been something she had eaten or drunk?”

He hesitated and I shivered perceptively.

“Yes?” I prompted. “There was something?”

“She was never well after she had drunk some Welsh ale.”

“Do you think…?”

He took a deep breath and said quickly, “She was not ill as people are when they are poisoned by something they have taken. It was just that she seemed… feeble after taking the beer.”

“Did the thought occur to you that her condition might have something to do with the beer?”

“Well… there have been rumors…Yes, the thought did occur to me that it might have had something to do with the beer. But it would have been an unusual substance … not one which would be recognized as a poison.”

“Ah,” I said. “So the thought did occur to you.”

He was silent.

Then he went on, “After she died …” He paused. Evidently he was trying to decide how much he should tell me. He seemed to come to a decision. “Eight hours after she died she was embalmed and her body enclosed in lead. I was not allowed to be present… nor was her confessor.”

“It seems as though they were in something of a hurry.”

He lapsed into silence.

I wanted to ask him outright if he believed she had been poisoned, but I could see how uneasy he was. One simple remark could lose him his life.

I felt I could ask no more; but the suspicion remained in my mind.

How had she died? Had she been poisoned? Heaven knew her health was in a sorry state, and those who wanted to be rid of her would surely not have had to wait very long.

The thought hung over me, and I felt it always would. I should never know the truth now.

I was angry and desperately unhappy. I had lost the one I loved most in the world, and I should never recover from that loss. But she would be happy now. She had lived a saintly life; she would be at peace in Heaven. It was what she had been craving for over the last years.

ONE OF MY MAIDS came to tell me the news. My father had had an accident. It was at Greenwich during a joust. He had been riding a great warhorse when suddenly the creature had fallen to the ground, taking my father with him.

There was terrible consternation. Everyone present thought my father had been killed, for he lay unconscious on the ground. They carried him to his bed and gathered round it. It would seem that this was the situation which had been most feared. The King dead… and no heir to take his place except the baby Elizabeth. And might there not be some to think that she was not the true heir to the crown?

He was not dead and very soon recovered but this incident did stress the need for the King to live a good many more years until a healthy son could appear to take over from him. At such a time as this, his death would cause great trouble in the country.

No one would have thought that my father could be near to death. He was strong and could still outride all his friends; he was always the champion of the games—though perhaps there was a little contriving to reach that result, and the most agile always managed to fall in just behind him. To win in a paltry game would be foolish if by doing so the winner risked the King's displeasure. But this did bring home the fact that even one as hale and hearty as my father could be struck down at a moment's notice.

There had been the usual murmurings. This was God's revenge for the manner in which he had treated his wife. This was his punishment for raising up his harlot and living in sin with her while his poor wife was neglected and left to die.

But that was soon over. Within a day or so he was his exuberant self again.

My mother was given a dignified funeral. My father dared not further offend the Emperor by giving her anything less. It had to be remembered that after all she was the daughter of the late King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

I longed to go, though I knew it would be a harrowing experience; but that was not permitted.

She was to be buried at Peterborough, in the abbey church there, and three weeks after her death her body was conveyed there by two stages. I should have been there. I was the one who mourned her more than any. I wished that I could have shared my grief with the Countess of Salisbury, but I was denied that comfort. The daughter of Mary Tudor and the Duke of Suffolk were the chief mourners in my place. The King's sister had always been a friend to my mother and had deplored the manner in which my father had put her from him. It seemed fitting therefore, that if I could not be there, her daughter should take my place. The procession rested for a night at Sawtry Abbey before proceeding to Peterborough; and there my mother was solemnly laid to rest.

Perhaps it was better that I should not be there, for the bishop who delivered the funeral sermon stated that on her deathbed my mother had admitted that her marriage to the King was no true marriage.

All those who had been close to her were shocked by this, for they knew it was a lie. I was deeply hurt that my father could do this. Was it not enough that she was dead, brought to an early grave through his cruelty?

It was almost like a sign from Heaven. First my father had his accident, which some would say was a warning to him; and on the very day of my mother's funeral Anne Boleyn miscarried. And to make matters worse, the three-month fetus was proved to be a boy.

How did she feel, I wondered, lying there? All her hopes had been on this boy. And it had happened again. It was a sign of Heaven's displeasure, I was sure. Anne Boleyn was doomed from that moment.

There were many to report the King's reception of the news that he had lost his longed-for son. He had not been able to hide his fury and disgust. He blamed her, of course. That was because now he wanted to be rid of her, as once before he had wanted to be rid of my mother.

It was emerging as a terrifying pattern. I exulted. The concubine would be put from him… just as my mother had been.

He had told Anne Boleyn, as she lay there exhausted from her ordeal, weighed down as she must have been with anxiety and fear of the future, “You will get no more boys from me.”

Everyone knew we were on the edge of great events and were waiting to see what would happen next.

LADY SHELTON WAS no longer insolent but mildly placating. I treated her coolly but I was not so foolish as to reject my new concessions. Her attitude told me a great deal about the rapidly declining importance of Anne Boleyn.

Eustace Chapuys came to see me. I was amazed that he had been allowed to do so, and my delight was profound.

He told me that there would almost certainly be a change in my position. He understood my deep sorrow at the death of my mother, but that event had made my position safer. There were rumors about Anne Boleyn. She would be removed in some way, there was no doubt of that. The King was working toward it.

“We do not know,” went on Chapuys, “what method the King will choose. Anne Boleyn has no royal relations to make things difficult for him. Her family owe their elevated position to the King's favors through Anne and her sister Mary before her. They will be put down as easily as they have been raised up. Her fall is imminent. The Seymours are promoting their sister. Edward and Thomas are a pair of very ambitious gentlemen, and Jane is a quiet, pale creature … a marked change from Anne Boleyn. But rest assured, events will move fast and we must be prepared.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“If the King puts Anne Boleyn from him, his next move will be to marry again. If his plan is to declare the marriage to Anne invalid, then his marriage to Queen Katharine was a true one and you are his legitimate daughter. We cannot guess how he will do it, but in any case it seems your status must change. There is a rumor that he had been seduced by witchcraft and now is free from it. We must hold ourselves in readiness for whichever way he turns.”

The intrigue was helpful to me in a way. It lifted me out of my overwhelming sorrow and imposed itself on the despondency which had enveloped me.

It was action … and whatever happened seemed preferable to sitting alone in my room brooding on the death of my mother.

I was now hearing more because I could have visitors

Anne Boleyn blamed her miscarriage on her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, because he had broken the news of the King's accident to her too suddenly. She had been so worried about the King that the shock had brought on the premature birth of her child.

It did not help her. Nothing could help her now. The King was as determined to be rid of her as he had once been to possess her.

I had thought the last two years, when I had been more or less a prisoner, were the two most eventful through which I had lived. But there was more to come.

It was a relief to me to be able to talk to Chapuys and to learn that the Emperor's concern for me had been great and that he had always been eager to seize an opportunity to help me.

Now it seemed there was a chance.

“If you were out of this country, in Spain or Flanders … under the Emperor's care, he would be happier,” said Chapuys. “The King, your father, has shown himself to be capable of any rash act which momentarily serves his purpose. He broke with Rome so that he might marry Anne Boleyn. To take such an unprecedented step for such a reason must give us all some concern. Whether Queen Katharine was poisoned—and poisoned at his command, we cannot be sure, but it is a possibility which we must not lose sight of. The Emperor would feel happier if you were out of the country.”

“My father would never let me go.”

“Certainly he would not. It would be a great blow to him if he thought you were with the Emperor, for if he declared his marriage to Anne Boleyn nall and void, you are the heir to the throne.”

“But he has declared his marriage to my mother was no true one, and it was said by the bishop at her funeral service that she admitted it, which was a lie, I know … but it was all done at my father's command.”

“That was before he knew that Anne Boleyn had lost the child. All is different now. Her reign is over.”

“They say that he plans to put another in her place.”

He nodded. “We cannot be sure which way events will turn but you must be prepared.”

“What do you suggest?”

“This is highly secret. If it were mentioned outside these walls, it could cause trouble…great trouble. It would cost you your life and there would be little I could do to save it. I should immediately be sent back to Spain. You understand the importance of secrecy?”

“I do.”

He nodded. “My plan is to get you out of this place. There will be horses waiting to take us to the coast, and there we shall cross to Flanders.”

“I shall be taken to my cousin?”

He nodded.

“Now, we must plan. Could you get away without your women's knowledge?”

“I have few servants now, you know.”

“That is good.”

“There are some whom I can trust.”

Chapuys shook his head. “Trust no one. You must slip away unseen. No one must know that you have gone until you are on the sea.”

“They are here. They would see me leave. Unless I gave them a sleeping draught.”

“Would that be possible?”

“I think so…if I had the draught.”

“That would be an easy matter.”

“I should have to avoid Lady Shelton.”

“Would that be difficult?”

“Less so now. She is not so watchful as she once was. She no longer acts like my jailer.”

“This sounds plausible. We should have horses waiting. We could get to Gravesend easily from here… and there embark. You will be hearing more of this from me.”

After he had gone, I lay in my bed thinking of it. I should be taken to my cousin. I remembered so well that occasion—years and years ago it seemed now—when my mother had held my hand and we had stood on the steps at Greenwich while the barge came along. I could see my dazzling father and beside him the young man in black velvet with the gold chain about his neck… the young man with whom I had been told I was in love.

He had broken our engagement, but I had forgiven him that now. I understood that monarchs such as he were governed by expediency. I forgave him for that and for not coming to my rescue as a knight of chivalry and romance would have done, however difficult.

I was no longer romantic. Events had made me cynical, yet still there was a softness in me. I was capable of loving deeply, which was clear by the sorrow the loss of my mother was causing me.

SO WE PLANNED and Chapuys visited me often. Lady Shelton made no objection. Chapuys was deeply anxious that all should go well, for if it did not, there would be dire consequences.

He told me that he was making arrangements with the utmost secrecy and would bring the sleeping draught to me when it was to be administered. I had practiced what I must do. I had made a careful study of how I should go without passing Lady Shelton's window. We must wait for a moonless night when all would be ready.

Lady Shelton came to me the day after I had had a visit from Chapuys and he had told me that, as soon as the moon waned, we would put our plan into action.

She said; “Madam, my lady, we have orders. We leave tomorrow for Hunsdon.”

“But …” I cried, “why?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Orders,” she said tersely.

After she had gone, I sat on my bed and stared at the window. This would change everything. We could not go tonight for the moon was too bright. Someone would almost certainly see me creeping across the garden. Besides, the horses would not be ready. Everything had to be perfect. Had someone heard? How could I be sure? There were spies everywhere. I could not believe that it would be someone in my household.

Chapuys came to see me in some consternation.

“Hunsdon,” he said.

“Hunsdon! It will be too difficult from Hunsdon. We could not do it in a night. We should have to ride through the countryside. We should have to change horses. We should be detected. Everything depends on the closeness to Gravesend.”

“What do you suggest that we do? That we give up the plan?”

“Not give it up. Postpone. You will be moved again perhaps. Let us hope it will be back here. One thing I am certain of: we cannot do it from Hunsdon.”

I was not sure how disappointed I was. Now that I had lost my mother, I often thought I had lost my interest in life and my reason for living.

So the plan was set aside and in due course I came to my home at Hunsdon.

I HAD CEASED to brood on what my fate would have been if the escape plot had proceeded, for events were moving very fast at Court. The rift between the King and Anne Boleyn was widening; his feelings for Jane Seymour were deepening; and people were rallying to the Seymour family as before they had to the Boleyns. Chapuys was excited. He believed that the marriage was about to be declared invalid, and he considered what that would mean to me. But if my father was enamored of Jane Seymour, his desire would be to get a son from her; he could still do that if he divorced Anne, for now that my mother was dead he would be free to marry, even in the eyes of the Pope—though my father did not have to care for his opinions now. We all knew that he could without much difficulty cast off Anne Boleyn. He only had to trump up a charge against her. Adultery was the most likely for, according to reports, she was always surrounded by admiring young men, and her attitude was inclined to be flirtatious with them.

Chapuys was watching the situation closely, and his visits to me were more frequent. He told me that my father had people looking into the possibility of a divorce.

“There seem to be some difficulties,” said the ambassador. “All the proceedings were so closely linked to his marriage with your mother, and he does not want that brought out again. It will remind people of his quarrel with the Pope. He just wants to rid himself of Anne Boleyn as simply and speedily as possible.”

“What do you think he will do?”

“He might try charging her with adultery, which would have farreaching effects. Treason to himself… foisting a bastard on the nation as the King's child… all good reasons for getting rid of her.”

It was long since I had thought of the child Elizabeth. How I had resented her when we were both at Hatfield and I was more or less a member of her household. Poor baby, it was no fault of hers. Yet I had hated her. That was just because I had been insulted by her taking precedence over me. Now I thought: Poor child, is she to be treated as I was? What will become of her?

The winter was over, and spring had come; and my father was still married to Anne Boleyn. I heard rumors of the quarrels between them, how she had discovered him with Jane Seymour behaving like lovers, how she had raged and ranted against him and had been told she must take what her betters had before her. So he remembered my mother and admitted the anguish he had caused her. And the proud, brazen Anne Boleyn, how would she take that?

Everyone knows what happened on that May Day, how they were together at the joust at Greenwich, how the King did not speak to Anne as she sat beside him in the royal lodge, how she took out a handkerchief, wiped her brow and allowed it to flutter to the ground, how one of the courtiers—Norris, I think—picked it up on his lance and held it to her with a bow, how the King suddenly turned away in anger and so the joust ended.

That was the beginning. My father must have staged it, for he had already set Cromwell to question those about her. He had decided that, as it would be difficult to arrange a divorce, he would accuse her of adultery. His love had been intense, and no doubt that made his hatred the more fierce. Greatly he had disliked my mother but never with the same venom that he turned on Anne Boleyn. He was going to accuse her of adultery, treason to the King, which carried the penalty of death.

Cromwell wrung a confession from Mark Smeaton, one of her musicians, through torture, most people thought; the young men closest to her— Norris, Francis Weston and William Brereton—were all arrested and sent to the Tower. Most shocking of all, her brother George was accused of incest with her, and there was even a suggestion that Elizabeth was his daughter.

I had always hated her, as she had hated me. We had been the bitterest of enemies; but when I thought of all the indignity and humiliation which had been heaped on my mother, and realized that Anne Boleyn was now the object of my father's fury, I could feel sorry for her.

She was found guilty with those who were accused with her. Of course she was. It was intended.

Norris, Weston and Brereton were taken out to Tower Hill and beheaded. George Boleyn and his sister would follow.

The day before her execution, Lady Kingston, in whose care Anne Boleyn had been placed in the Tower, came to me.

She said, “The Queen has sent me to you, my lady.”

I was always a little taken aback to hear Anne Boleyn referred to as the Queen, even now, though Heaven knew I had heard that title used often enough to describe her. I was about to retort: You are referring to the concubine. But something restrained me. For all her sins, she was suffering acute anguish now.

“What would she want of me?” I asked.

“Forgiveness, my lady,” she replied. “She made me sit in her chair… the Queen's chair… for they have not taken that away from her… and she knelt most humbly at my feet. She said to me, ‘Go to the Princess Mary and kneel to her as I kneel to you. My treatment of the Princess weighs heavily on my conscience. I was cruel to her and I regret that now. For everything else I can go to my Maker with a clear conscience, for I have committed no sin save in my conduct toward the Princess and her mother. I cannot ask forgiveness of Queen Katharine but I humbly beg the Princess to grant me hers. Let her know you come in my name and that it is I who kneel to her through you.'”

I was astounded. I thought: Poor woman, she is indeed brought low.

But she remembered me in her darkest moments and she was now asking my forgiveness.

It was hard to forgive her, but an image of my mother rose in my mind and I knew what she would have me do.

I said, “Tell her to rest in peace. I forgive her on behalf of myself and my mother.”

The next day she went to Tower Green and laid her head on the block.