In the Shadow of the Crown

Two Wives

EVER SINCE THE DEATH OF JANE, MY FATHER HAD BEEN looking for a new bride. He was obsessed by the idea. Why he did not take a mistress, I cannot imagine. There might have been several prepared to accept that honor. But marriage? Any woman would look askance at that. The whole world knew what had happened to his first two wives. And the third? Had she escaped a similar fate by dying?

He had his eyes on several women at the French Court. The Duke of Guise had three daughters, François Premier one. All were eligible. My father wrote enthusiastically to François. Perhaps the ladies could be sent to England and he would promise to choose one of them to be the next Queen of England.

François' retort was typical of him. “Our ladies are not mares to be paraded for selection,” he said.

The fact was that none of the ladies was eager for marriage. Perhaps my father had forgotten that he was no longer the eligible bridegroom he had once been. He was ageing. His handsome looks were no more; he had grown fat; his once-dazzling complexion had turned purple. Since his fall he walked with a limp, and there was a fistula on his leg which refused to heal. There were times when it was so painful that he could not speak, and his face would grow black in his efforts to prevent himself calling out loud. There were some who said it was an incurable ulcer, others—though only a few bold ones said this—that it was the outward sign of some horrible disease. In addition to all this, it was remembered what had happened to his first two wives.

He was restive and angry; he flew into rages. On one hand fate had sent him his longed-for son and on the other it had turned life sour for him.

He wanted to be young again; he wanted to be in love, as he had been with Anne and Jane—and perhaps in the early days with my mother.

There was a spate of killings. Anyone who spoke against the King's supremacy in the Church was found guilty of treason. Many monks were butchered in the most barbarous way. Hanging was not enough. They were submitted to the most horrifying of all deaths, cut down from the gallows while they still lived, their bodies slit open and their intestines burned before their eyes; the object being to keep them alive as long as possible so that they might suffer the greater pain.

The more opposition there was to my father's rule, the more despotic he became.

He was reaping great wealth from the monasteries, and for some time he had had his eyes on that shrine which was perhaps the most splendid of them all. He must have known that to touch it would arouse great indignation, for the whole country revered Thomas à Becket. Ever since the death of the martyr, people had brought precious jewels to lay on his shrine while they prayed for him to intercede for them in Heaven. My father asked why there should be such worship for a man who had been the enemy of his king? He did not care for traitors, and that was what Becket had been. There should be an end to this idolatry. Becket had been a traitor. He should have been despised rather than idolized.

Becket's bones were burned and, as the belongings of traitors were forfeit to the King, my father took all that was in the shrine at Canterbury. He even wore Becket's ring on his own finger as a gesture of defiance to all those who questioned his behavior.

A tremor of horror seemed to run through the country. I was sure many were waiting for the wrath of Heaven to strike the King dead. For three years the threat of excommunication had hung over him. Not that he took any notice of it. Now the Pope signed the sentence. My father laughed. Who was the Bishop of Rome to tell him what to do? Foreign bishops had nothing to do with the Church of England over which the King was now Supreme Head.

But I think he must have been a little shaken and perhaps in his secret thoughts had a few qualms about his bold actions. He would not fear the wrath of God. My father always made his own peace with God, who was a part of his conscience; he would have already given God his very good reasons for acting as he did. The Church of Rome was corrupt. It extorted bribes. He was a religious man and would see that his subjects were too. God could have no quarrel with him.

But there were other forces. For instance there were signs of growing friendship between Charles and François; and what if they, with the Pope, looked for someone to replace him?

The Tudors' hold on the throne had not existed for very long, and there were still those who boasted of their Plantagenet blood. I knew that he often thought of Reginald, who had done the King's cause no good from the moment he had left the country.

It was on the Poles that my father turned his anger.

The Poles were troublemakers, he said. He could not touch Reginald because he kept out of his way, and he was the real enemy. However, there were other members of the family, and they were within range of his displeasure.

I was horrified when I heard that Sir Geoffry Pole had been arrested and sent to the Tower. Geoffry was the youngest of the Pole brothers and the most vulnerable. He was accused of being in correspondence with his brother the Cardinal, and he had been heard to make remarks in which he showed his disapproval of the King.

I was extremely anxious. My friendship with the family was well known. The Countess of Salisbury, mother of Geoffry, had been my dearest friend. As she and my mother had often talked of the desirability of a marriage between Reginald and myself, she might still be hoping for it. It was strange that that ardent churchman, the Cardinal, had kept himself in a position to marry.

I could see danger creeping close to me, ready to catch up with me. Of course my father was anxious. There were murmurings in the Court against him. The spoliation of the shrine of Canterbury, the dissolution of the monasteries to the great profit of the King and his friends, the severance from the Pope whom they had looked upon as the Vicar of Christ all their lives… this could turn many against him.

And now the Pope had excommunicated him. Reginald Pole was circulating evil gossip about him. He was without a wife and the ladies of France were not eager to marry him; even though he might offer them the crown of England, they did not want it since they had to take him with it. The pain in his leg was cruel; the wretched ulcer seemed to get better and then would flare up again. My father was an angry man.

He gave orders that Sir Geoffry was to implicate his brothers and his friends. At any cost this must be achieved.

As my father must have guessed, Sir Geoffry was not able to stand out against the rigorous questioning and as a result broke down and said all that was required of him.

As a result his eldest brother, Lord Montague, and Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, among others, were arrested and put in the Tower.

My father now had in his power the Plantagenet Poles and Courtenay whose mother was the youngest daughter of Edward IV and therefore in the Plantagenet line. If he could have arrested Reginald at the same time, he would have been overjoyed. As it was, he must leave it to him to wreak his mischief abroad. But he would see that the others did not continue to plague him.

It was tragic. There could not have been a family in the country who had been more ready to support the King when he had first come to the throne; but they were a devout Catholic family; they could not accept first the divorce from my mother and secondly the break with Rome. It was revealed that they and the Marquis of Exeter had expressed approval for what Reginald was doing abroad. They had been in communication with him, and Montague had said there would be civil war in the country because of outraged public opinion on what was being done; and if the King were to die suddenly, it would be certain.

My father could never bear talk of death—and he had always considered mention of his own treasonable.

Lord Chancellor Audley and the jury of peers knew what verdict my father wanted and they gave it.

I was deeply distressed. My thoughts were for the Countess. What anguish she must have suffered. Her sons on trial for their lives, and in the present climate facing certain death.

For some reason Geoffry was pardoned. Perhaps the King was too contemptuous of him to demand the full penalty and possibly believed that more information might be extracted from him. But on the 9th of December Lord Montague and the Marquis of Exeter were beheaded on Tower Hill.

They went bravely to their deaths. Geoffry was released; his wife had pointed out that he was so ill that he was nearly dead. Poor Geoffry—his, I suppose, was the greater tragedy. How did a man feel when he had betrayed his family and friends whom he loved? Desperately unhappy, I know, because a few days after he was released he tried to kill himself. He did not succeed and lived on miserably.

All I could think of was the Countess. How I longed to see her, but I guessed that, in view of the suspicions under which her family now lived, that would never be allowed.

Then, to my horror, I learned that the Earl of Southampton and the Bishop of Ely had been sent to her home to question her and as a result she was taken to Southampton's house at Cowdray and kept a prisoner there. What was my father trying to prove? It was years since the Countess had been snatched from me, but I wondered if he were trying to implicate me.

He was in a vicious mood. Many people were against him, and that was something he could not endure. I heard, too, that his leg, far from improving, was growing more painful. He had always been watchful of those of royal blood. I waited for news in trepidation.

An attainder was passed by Parliament against Reginald and the Countess, among others, including Montague and Exeter who were already dead. Southampton had found a tunic in the Countess's house which had been decorated with the arms of England—the prerogative of royalty.

She was taken to the Tower.

I could not stop thinking of her plight. I knew how bitterly cold it could be within those stone walls when one had no comforts at all, no heat, no warm clothing; and she must be in her late sixties. How could she endure it?

I wanted to go to my father. I wanted to ask him what harm an old lady like that could do.

It was not so much that I feared to face his wrath but that if I attempted to plead for her I would not only arouse his suspicions against myself but make things worse for her. But if I could have helped her, I would have done anything. I found I did not greatly care what became of me, but my instinct told me that to plead for her would only increase his anger against her. He had destroyed Montague and Exeter…royal both of them. Geoffry Pole was too weak to be a menace; Reginald, whom he regarded as the arch conspirator, was out of reach. And, apart from that, the Countess was the last of the Plantagenet line. But how could he really believe that she would harm him?

How precariously we all lived!

Chapuys came to see me.

“You must act with the utmost caution,” he said.

I replied that I was worried about my very dear friend who had been as a mother to me.

He shrugged his shoulders. “The Countess will remain in the Tower, whatever you do.”

“It is ridiculous to say that she is a traitor. She would never harm the King. She is guilty of no crime.”

“She is guilty, Princess, of being a Plantagenet.”

I turned away impatiently.

“Listen,” he said. “The King is fearful of revolt. Those who would take up arms against the King look for a figurehead. He is pursuing a perilous path. I cannot believe he fully understood what he was doing when he proclaimed himself Head of the Church of England.”

“He is determined to remain so.”

Chapuys looked over his shoulder and whispered, “It could cost him his throne. And little Edward is too young. A baby cannot rule a country.” He looked at me steadily. “The King greatly fears the influence of Cardinal Pole. He has hired assassins and sent them to Italy to kill him.”

“Oh no!” I cried. “Will this nightmare never end?”

“In time it will. Have no fear. We are aware of what is happening. The Cardinal will take care. He believes it is his duty to live, to play his part in righting this wrong. He always travels in disguise. None could recognize him as the Cardinal.”

“What are his plans?”

“Perhaps to gather together the foreign princes and force England back to Rome.”

“You mean war?”

“The King will never admit that he is at fault. He will never come back to Rome. It would have to be a new king…or queen…”

I caught my breath.

Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “We can only wait. But for the state of affairs in Europe this would have been done long ago. But … François is unreliable, and my master has many commitments.”

“The times are dangerous.”

“It would be well, my lady Princess, if you remembered that. Lie low. Say nothing that could have any bearing on what is going on.”

“But I am so wretchedly unhappy about the Countess.”

“Curb your grief. Remember… silence. It could be your greatest friend at this time.”

MEANWHILE MY FATHER was becoming restive. He had been a widower far too long and he wanted a wife. He had been very set on the beautiful Mary of Guise and was furious when she was promised to his nephew James V of Scotland. He raged and demanded what they thought they were doing, sending the woman to that impoverished, barbarous land when she could have come to England?

No one said that the lady might be remembering that the King of England had had three wives—one who was discarded and might have been poisoned; another who was blatantly beheaded; and the third who had died in childbirth; and that he had been heard to say when her life was in danger, “Save the child. Wives are easily found.”

Now, it seemed, not so easily.

Thomas Cromwell, always looking for political advantage, had turned his eyes to the German princes. They were Protestant—a point in their favor; moreover François and the Emperor were now behaving in a friendly fashion toward each other. So …Protestant Germany seemed to offer a possible solution.

The Duke of Cleves had recently died and his son, William, had succeeded him. Alliance with England and the possibility of his sister Anne becoming Queen of England would be a great honor for his little dukedom.

My father was very eager to have a young and beautiful girl for his wife. He remained furious with Mary of Guise who was going to Scotland. It was a slight hard to forgive, and he needed to be soothed by a bride younger and more beautiful than Mary of Guise.

He was interested in Cromwell's schemes for the new alliance: it would give him particular satisfaction to snap his fingers at those two old adversaries, Charles and François; alliance with the Germans would give them some anxious qualms. He could attain two desires at one blow—disconcert them and get a beautiful bride for himself.

But she must be young, she must be beautiful, and she must match Anne and Jane in physical attraction and at the same time be docile, loving and adoring…everything he would ask for in a wife.

He sent Hans Holbein to Cleves to make an accurate portrait, and when the artist came back with an exquisite miniature, my father was entranced. The contract was signed at Dàsseldorf and with great impatience he awaited the arrival of his bride.

Cromwell had learned his lessons from Wolsey, who had always sought to strengthen alliances through marriages; and now Cromwell concerned himself with mine. Perhaps he should have paused to remember poor Wolsey's humiliating end and that some of the easiest projects to disappoint were these proposed marriages. At first he decided that the brother of Anne of Cleves would be just right for me, but before the plan could be put into action, he had discovered a man who, he felt, would be a more powerful ally than William of Cleves. He would have the alliance with Cleves through the duke's sister Anne, so why not strike out in another direction? The aim would still be among the German princes. Philip of Bavaria was a nephew of Lewis V, the Elector Palatine, so by this alliance we could have allies in two places instead of one.

Moreover Philip of Bavaria would be coming to England with the embassy which was to arrive for the wedding of the King and his new wife.

For so long I had been the victim of frustration. I had reached the age of twenty-two, which is old for a princess to remain unmarried; and when I came to think of all the prospective bridegrooms I had had, I had come to believe that there would never be a marriage for me.

And now…Philip of Bavaria was here and I was to meet him and, as Cromwell was anxious to forge the bonds between our country and his, it really did seem as though my marriage might be imminent.

I shall never forget that meeting. My heart leaped with pleasure at the sight of him. I could hardly believe what I saw. He was tall and fair, with Nordic good looks; his manners were easy and pleasant; he was a very attractive man.

He took my hand and kissed it and raised his blue eyes to my face. They were such kind blue eyes. I warmed toward him, and I felt he did toward me.

The manners of the Court of Bavaria were different from those of ours, and I was taken by surprise when he leaned forward suddenly and kissed my lips.

I had no German and he no English, so we must speak in Latin.

He told me how great was his pleasure in beholding me, and I replied that I was glad I pleased him.

I wondered how truthful he was. I knew I was not one of the beauties of the Court; I was small and thin and in spite of this I was lacking in that very desirable quality of femininity, for I had a rather deep voice. People often said that when I spoke I reminded them of my father; but I do admit that he had a rather high voice for a man, while mine was somewhat low for a woman.

I must regret—as I always would—that my prospective bridegroom was not Reginald; but I was growing old, and it was long since I had seen him. My father would never consent to that match, and Philip of Bavaria was an exceptionally attractive man.

I enjoyed our conversation. It was somewhat stilted, being in Latin, and very often caused us to smile; but I was gratified and content when he told me that he was falling in love with me.

He presented me with a diamond cross on a chain which he said I must wear for his sake.

Such an adventure was a novelty to me, and I enjoyed it without giving a great deal of thought to what a match with Bavaria might entail.

Chapuys came to see me. He was most disturbed about the Cleves betrothal but far more so with the proposed marriage of myself and Philip of Bavaria.

“You will be expected to embrace the Protestant Faith,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Had that not occurred to you?” he asked in shocked tone.

What a fool I had been! I might have known nothing could go smoothly for me. How could I expect to have the joy of a perfect marriage? I liked Philip. When I considered the kind of bridegrooms who were presented to some princesses, I had reason to rejoice. If only that were all. He was handsome, charming, a man whom I could like. But, of course, he was a heretic.

Chapuys was regarding my horror with some satisfaction.

“You could never marry a heretic,” he said.

“Never,” I agreed. “And yet … my father has allowed Cromwell to arrange this marriage.”

“My master will be greatly displeased.”

I might have pointed out that his master had done little to help in a practical way, being always too immersed in his own political schemes. They did not seem to realize that I was a poor desolate young woman with little power to act in the way she wanted, even though she might have the inclination.

“This marriage will be disastrous.”

“What of the King's?”

“The King's is not good. But you are the hope …” He did not finish but his words made me tremble. I was the hope of the Catholic world. Mine was the task to bring this country back to the true Faith.

How could I have been so blind as to rejoice because Philip of Bavaria was a young and presentable man… when he was a heretic?

I could not marry him. Yet it might be that I must. I prayed. I called on my mother in Heaven to help me. But what could I do? If my father—and Cromwell—desired this marriage, I was powerless to prevent it.

My dream of possible happiness was fading away. I was weak. I was helpless—and I was about to be married to a heretic. I did think about him a good deal. I had wanted this marriage…I was tired of spinsterhood. I had dreams of converting him to the true Faith. I encouraged that dream because I wanted to marry, and it was only with such a project in mind that I could do so with a good conscience.

ON THE 27TH of December Anne of Cleves left Calais to sail for England. When she landed at Deal, she was taken to Walmer Castle and, after a rest there, she proceeded to Dover Castle where, because the weather was bitterly cold and the winds were of gale force, she stayed for three days. Then she set out for Canterbury, where she was met by a company of the greatest nobles in the land, including the Duke of Norfolk. She must have been gratified by the warmth of her welcome and perhaps looked forward with great pleasure to meeting the man who was to be her husband.

Poor Anne! When I grew to know her, I felt sorry for her; and I often pondered on the unhappiness my father brought to all the women who were close to him.

He forgot that he was ageing, that he was no longer the romantic lover. He was excited. Pretending to be young again, going forth to meet the lady of Holbein's miniature and to sweep her off her feet with his passionate courtship. He had brought a gift for his bride: the finest sables in the kingdom to be made into a muff or a tippet.

It was at Rochester where they met. Unable to curb his impatience any longer, my father rode out to meet her cavalcade. He sent his Master of Horse, Anthony Browne, on ahead to tell Anne that he was there and wanted to give her a New Year's present.

I wished that I had seen that first meeting. I will say this in his favor. He did not convey to her immediately his complete and utter disappointment. He curbed his anger and made a show of courtesy. But she must have known. She was never a fool.

I did hear that, when he left her, he gave vent to his anger. There were plenty who heard it and were ready to report it. He was utterly shocked. The woman he saw was not in the least like Holbein's miniature, he complained. Where was that rose-tinted skin? Hers was pitted with smallpox scars. She was big, and he did not like big women. She was supposed to be twenty-four, but she looked more like thirty. Her features were heavy, and she was without that alluring femininity which so appealed to his nature.

He did not stay long with her. It would have been too much to keep up the pretense of welcome when all the time he wanted to shout out his disappointment.

Lord Russell, who witnessed the scene, said he had never seen anyone so astonished and abashed. As soon as he left her, his face turned purple with rage and he mumbled that he had never seen a lady so unlike what had been represented to him. “I see nothing… nothing of what has been shown to me in her picture. I am ashamed that I have been so deceived and I love her not.”

He could not bring himself to give her the sables personally but, as he had mentioned a New Year's gift, he sent Sir Anthony Browne to give them to her.

Meanwhile he raged against all those who had deceived him. She was ugly; her very talk grated on his ears. He would never speak Dutch—and she had no English. They had brought him a great Flanders mare.

I wondered what she thought of him. His manners might have been courtly enough during that brief meeting; his voice was musical, though of a high pitch. But he was now overweight, lame and ageing; though he still had a certain charm; and he would always retain that aura of royal dignity.

It is well known now how my father tried to extricate himself, how he sought to prove that Anne had a pre-contract with the Duke of Lorraine and was therefore not free to marry.

Nothing could be proved. Anne swore that there had been no precontract. Glaring at Cromwell as though he would like to kill him, the King said, “Is there none other remedy that I must needs, against my will, put my neck in this yoke?”

A few days after Anne's arrival, my father invested Philip of Bavaria with the Order of the Garter. It was a moving ceremony, and Philip looked very handsome and dignified. I was proud of him. People commented on his good looks and his reputation for bravery. I was learning more about him. He was called “Philip the Warlike” because he had defended his country some years before against the Turk and scored a great victory. And…I was liking him more every day.

There were many opportunities of meeting him, and Margaret Bryan said I was fortunate. It was not many royal princesses who had the blessing to fall in love with their husband before their marriage.

Margaret was now looking after Edward and, as she had Elizabeth with her, she was happy. Moreover, my position had improved so considerably that she no longer felt the anxieties she once had with her charges.

How I wished that the Countess could be with me! I should have loved to visit her in the Tower and take some comforts to her, but that of course was out of the question. I could not get news of her, much as I tried. She was constantly in my thoughts though.

Young Edward's household was at this time at Havering-atte-Bower. He was quite a serious little boy, already showing an interest in books. He adored Elizabeth, who was so different from himself. Full of vitality, she was so merry and constantly dancing; she was imperious and demanded Edward's attention, which he gave willingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth was very interested to hear about the new Queen.

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

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

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

And had she done this? I asked Margaret.

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

She produced the letter.

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

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

“Surely someone helped her,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so the marriage was celebrated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I asked one of the women who she was.

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

“She is very attractive.”

“Yes…in a way,” said the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a result it was declared null and void.

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

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

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

“You should leave me,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

THEY HAD GONE.

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

“I am thanking God,” she said.

“But you were ill…”

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

I stared at her, as she began to laugh.

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

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

“How can this be?” I asked.

“With the King,” she said, still hovering between laughter and tears, “they do anything he wishes. I was his queen and now he has made me his sister. How can that be? you ask me. It can be because he says it is so.”

“And you…you are safe.”

She gripped my hands, and I knew how great her fear had been.

“I am no longer the King's wife,” she said soberly. “And that is something to be very happy about. Ah, I must be careful. They would call that treason. But you will not betray me, dear Mary.”

“Be calm, Anne,” I said. “You have been so wonderfully calm till now.”

“It is the relief,” she replied. “I did not know how much I wanted to live. Think of it! I am free. I do not have to try to please him. I wear what I like. I am myself. I am his sister. He is no longer my husband. Can you imagine what that is like?”

“Yes,” I told her. “I believe I can.”

“That poor woman… think of her…in her prison in the Tower, waiting for the summons… waiting for death… she was Anne…as I am. I know what it is like.”

“I understand, too.”

“Then you rejoice with me.”

“I rejoice,” I told her.

“I am to have a residence of my own and £3,000 a year. Think of that.”

“And he has agreed to this?”

“Yes…yes…to be rid of me. If only he knew how I longed for him to be rid of me. Three thousand a year to live my own life. Oh, I am drunk on happiness. He is no longer my husband. There is a condition. I am not to leave England.” She laughed loudly. “Well if I tell you the truth, my dear Mary, it is that I do not want to leave England.”

“Shall you be content to stay here always?”

“I think so.”

“He does not want you to go out of England for fear you marry some foreign prince who will say you are Queen of England and have a right to the throne.”

She laughed again. “I am happy here. I have my little family … my sweet Elizabeth and you, dear Mary. To be a mother to you, Elizabeth and the little boy… that is to me greater happiness than to be a queen.”

I never saw a woman so content to be rid of a husband as Anne of Cleves was. My father was at first delighted by her mild acceptance of her state, but later he began to feel a little piqued at her enjoyment of her new role. How-ever, by this time he was so enamored of Catharine Howard that he could not give much thought to Anne of Cleves.

The alliance with the German princes was at an end; and that meant that there was no question of a betrothal to Philip of Bavaria.

THE YEAR 1540 was a terrible one for death. My father was filled with rage against those who defied him. He was probably worried now and then about the enormity of what he had done; it was not only that he had denied the Pope's supremacy and set himself up in his place in England; he had suppressed the monasteries and taken their wealth. His rule became more despotic and those about him obeyed without question, anticipated his desires and did everything possible to avoid offending him. But it was different with the people; and when those men who called themselves holy had the effrontery to deny him and to suggest that he was not the head of his own country's Church, his rage overflowed.

He wanted vengeance and would have it. Respected men were submitted to humiliating and barbarous torture on the scaffold, men who, the people knew, had led blameless lives, like Robert Barnes the divine and Thomas Abell, were submitted to this horrible death with many others.

I thought of these things and shuddered. My father had indeed changed. Where was the merry monarch now? He was irritable, and the pain in his leg sometimes sent him into maddened rages.

When I heard that Dr. Featherstone had been treated in the same manner, I was deeply distressed and I was glad that my mother was not alive, for she would have been very distressed if she knew what was happening to her old chaplain. He had taught me when I was a child, and I could well remember his quiet kindliness and his pleasure when I learned my lessons. I could not bear to think of such a man being submitted to that torture. And all because he had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. How I admired those brave men, and how I deplored the fact that it was my father who murdered them.

People were burned at the stake in such numbers that in the streets of London one could not escape from the smell of martyrs' flesh and the sight of martyrs' bodies hanging in chains to feed the carrion crows.

Rebellion was at the heart of it. My father had broken with Rome but that did not mean he was no longer a Catholic. The old religion remained; the only difference was that he was head of the Church instead of the Pope. He wanted no Lutheran doctrines introduced into England. People must watch their steps … particularly those in vulnerable positions. I was one of those.

Cromwell lost his head on the very day my father married Catharine Howard; that changed him for a while. How he doted on the child…she was little more. They looked incongruous side by side—this ageing man with the purple complexion and the bloodshot eyes, fleshy and irascible, biting his lips till the blood came when the fistula in his leg pained him. And she … that dainty little creature with her wide-eyed innocence which seemed somehow knowledgeable, with her curls springing and feet dancing, a child in her teens… and yet not a child, a creature of overwhelming allure for an ageing, disappointed man.

But he was disappointed no longer; he was rejuvenated; he had regained something of his old physical energy: he was dotingly, besottedly in love.

I felt sickened by it. I remembered his treatment of my mother and Anne of Cleves; to those two worthy women he had behaved with the utmost cruelty, and yet, here he was, like a young lover, unable to take his eyes from this pretty, frivolous little creature whose doe's eyes had secrets behind them.

A horrifying incident happened that year. I shall never forget my feelings when I heard. Susan, whom, happily, I had been able to keep with me, came to me one day. I guessed she had something terrible to tell me and was hesitating as to whether it would be better to do so or keep me in the dark.

I prevailed on her to tell me. I think I knew beforehand whom it must concern because she looked so tragic.

“My lady,” she said when I insisted, “you must prepare yourself for a shock.” She looked at me with great compassion.

I stared at her, and then my lips formed the words, “The…Countess… what of the Countess?”

She was silent. I tried to calm myself.

She said, “It had to come. It is a wonder it did not come before.”

“Tell me,” I begged.

“She is dead…is she not?” “She had been suffering all these months in the Tower. She was wretched there. It is best for her. Cold, miserable, lacking comfort. Heartbroken… grieving for her sons…”

“If only I could have gone to her.”

Susan shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“Only pray for her,” I said.

“And that you did.”

“I always mentioned her in my prayers. Why… why? What had she done? She was innocent of treason.”

“That insurrection of Sir John Neville… such things upset the King.”

“I know. He wants the people to love him.”

“Love must be earned,” said Susan quietly.

I went on, “But there have been so many deaths…so much slaughter… fearful, dreadful deaths. And the Countess… what had she done?”

“She was a Plantagenet…”

I covered my face with my hands as though to shut out the sight of her. I could see her clearly, walking out of her cell to East Smithfield Green, which is just within the Tower precincts.

“She was very brave, I know,” I said.

“She did not die easily,” Susan told me.

“I would I had been with her.”

“You would never have borne it.”

“And she died with great courage. She… who had done no harm to any. She who had had the misfortune to be born royal.”

“Hush,” said Susan. “People listen at times like this.”

“Times like these, Susan. Terrible … wicked times. Did she mention me?”

“She was thinking of you at the end. You were as a daughter to her.”

“She wanted me to be her daughter in truth…through Reginald.”

“Hush, my lady,” said Susan again, glancing over her shoulder.

I wanted to cry out: I care not. Let them take me. Let them try me for treason. They have come near enough to it before now.

“She did mention you. She asked all those watching to pray for the King and Queen, Prince Edward … and she wanted her god-daughter, the Princess Mary, to be specially commended.”

“So she was thinking of me right to the end.”

“You can be sure of it.”

“How did my dear Countess die?”

Susan was silent.

“Please tell me,” I begged. “I want to hear of it from you. I shall learn of it later.”

“The block was too low, and the executioner was unaccustomed to wielding the axe.”

“Oh … no!”

“Do not grieve. It is over now, but several blows were needed before the final one.”

“Oh, my beloved Countess. She was my second mother, the one who shared my sorrows and my little triumphs during those early years. Always she had been there, comforting me, wise and kind…”

I could not bear the thought of her dear body being slaughtered by a man who did not know how to wield an axe.

All through the years I had not seen her I had promised myself that we should meet one day.

The realization that we never should again on Earth filled me with great sorrow and a dreadful foreboding. How close to death we all were.

MY FATHER WAS in a merry mood those days. He was delighted with his fifth wife. He watched her every movement, and he did not like her to be out of his sight. He took a great delight in her merry chatter. I thought she was rather silly.

When I remembered my father's turning from my mother, from Anne of Cleves, even from Anne Boleyn, I marvelled. All of them were endowed with qualities which this silly little girl completely lacked. Yet it was on her that his doting eyes turned again and again.

Queen of England she might be, but I could not treat her with respect. To me she was just a frivolous girl. It could only have been her youth which appealed to him. He was fifty and she was about seventeen; and he was desperately trying to share in the radiant youth which was hers.

I was five years older than she was. I wonder now why it was that I disliked her so much. She was mild enough, and I daresay if I had shown some affection she would have returned it. She was stupid; her education had been neglected, although she was the daughter of Sir Edmund Howard, a younger son of the Duke of Norfolk. He had been the hero of Flodden Field but his services to his country had never been recognized and consequently he was desperately poor. There were ten children and it was a strain on his resources to care for such a large family and he was constantly trying to elude his creditors. He was, therefore, glad to send young Catharine off to her grandmother to be brought up in that rather disreputable household—which was what set her on the road to disaster.

But that was to come. At this time, there she was… the uneducated little girl who had suddenly found herself the King's petted consort, his little Queen.

It was not that she gave herself airs. She certainly did not. She was just overwhelmed by all that had happened to her. She behaved like a child but she was quite experienced in certain ways of the world, as was to be revealed. I realized—only, I must admit, later, when I knew something of her past— that she was a girl of lusty sexual appetites and even if her good sense—of which she had very little—had warned her that she must not act in a certain way, she would have been unable to resist doing so.

I suppose she was just the girl to appeal to the jaded senses of an ageing man who had been bitterly disillusioned in his hopes of a beautiful bride.

I was surprised that she was aware of my dislike. I should have thought she was not intelligent enough to sense it. It was not a habit of hers to complain, but she did about my attitude to her, so she must have felt it deeply.

My father was annoyed that I had offended his little darling.

He said of me, “It is those women about her. She has too many of those whispering cronies. There is too much chatter in those apartments…too much brooding on this and that and rights and wrongs. She shall be taught a lesson.”

The lesson was to rob me of two of my women.

I was angry. I was fond of the women about me, and ours was a very happy household. I needed all the friends I could get. Fortunately Susan remained with some others of my closest comrades, but I did miss those two who were sent away.

I was about to protest when Chapuys came to see me.

“You must patch up this quarrel with the Queen,” he said.

“That stupid little creature!”

He laughed. “She pleases the King.” He gave a little smirk. “They say he has never been so pleased since he set eyes on the girl's cousin all those years ago. There must be a similarity to Anne Boleyn there.”

“Anne Boleyn was a clever woman,” I said. “This one is a fool.”

“None the less, one must beware of fools if they have power.”

“This one has power?”

“Through her devoted lover, of course. You are not entirely out of favor with the Court. Don't forget. You are next… after Edward.”

“Edward is so young.”

Chapuys looked at me slyly. “Who can say?” he murmured. “However, there must be no further estrangement between you and your father, and there will be if you continue to offend the Queen.”

“I did not think to offend her.”

“Yet you have shown disrespect for her in some way.”

“She is so silly.”

“Silly to you, but delectable to His Majesty, and it is His Majesty who has the power over us, remember. Find some means of making up the quarrel. The breach between you must not widen.”

I saw his point. There was always sound thinking behind Chapuys' words.

It was not difficult. When I was next in her presence, I admired her gown. She flashed her smile at me. She was really very pretty, and she had been so unused to having beautiful clothes that she was childishly delighted with her wardrobe. I admired her beautiful curls.

A few days after I had spoken to her, I made some progress. I learned that, while the Countess was in the Tower, Catharine had sent some clothes to her; and because his wife had wished it so ardently, the King had allowed her to do this.

I think that helped matters a great deal between us.

I mentioned to her that I knew she had done this, and I wanted to thank her for it.

“I heard that she was to die,” she said, “and it seemed terrible in that cold place. I hate the cold. It was cold in my grandmother's house in winter… and we were so poor, I hadn't any warm clothes… and I thought of the poor Countess…”

I said with feeling, “It was so good of you. I wanted to thank you for what you did…”

She gave me her dazzling smile.

“I sent her a nightgown of worsted, furred and lined… and I sent her some hose and shoes.”

“It was so kind…so very kind…”

“You loved her dearly,” said the Queen softly.

I nodded, too moved for words.

“She took the place of your mother. I had my grandmother… but she never took much notice of me.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you did for the Countess.”

It was the first time I had brought myself to call her “Your Majesty.” There were tears in her eyes; she was easily moved. I could not really like her or feel close to her as I had to Jane and Anne, but I knew she was goodhearted and generous, and if she was a little stupid, it was not for me to be annoyed because she had wormed her way into my father's affections.

After my speaking to her of the Countess, we were on better terms and I felt my relationship with her should no longer cause Chapuys any anxiety.

The King might be in a state of euphoria now that he had found the perfect wife, but the country was still in turmoil. It was when Sir John Neville had headed a revolt in the North that my father had decided that the Countess must die. The country was now more or less split into two. There were those who wanted to cling to Rome and those who saw the advantage of a break; there were those for the King and those against him. But the issue was not as clear cut as that. The Protestant Church had begun to grow, and there were some in England who were ready to embrace it. The King was not one of these. The break with Rome did not mean a break with the old religion; all the King wanted was to give the Church in England a new head. That was all he sought. It was due to the rival factions that the King had his great power, for neither was big enough to overcome the other, and the King stood apart from them and yet remained the great despotic ruler. It seemed strange that there had been two living Queens, Katharine and Anne; and now we were left with two different queens with similar names. There would be many people in the country who believed that, since the King had gone through a ceremony of marriage with Anne of Cleves, his marriage with Catharine Howard was no true marriage—just as in the days when my mother was alive, some had believed he could not be married to Anne Boleyn.

The tangle of his matrimonial affairs would be discussed for many a year, and I suspected there would always be different opinions. He was aware of this, and it irritated him… just as did the conflict in his realm which had in so many ways resulted from his involvement with his wives.

My father was infuriated by rebellion. He wanted his people to love him and when they showed signs of not doing so, he was more hurt than alarmed.

The John Neville rebellion had enraged him. He uttered threats against Reginald Pole—that devilish mischief-maker, as he called him—roaming the Continent stirring up trouble. He gnashed his teeth because he could not lay his hands on him and do to him what he had done to other members of his family.

He decided to go to Yorkshire to settle matters for himself. The Council he left in London to take care of affairs was well chosen—Cranmer, Audley and one of Jane Seymour's brothers—all men who accepted the King's supremacy in the Church and enemies of Rome.

Seymour had gained a good deal of power; not only was he the brother of the King's late wife—the only one not to be discarded—but also the uncle of Edward, the future King. I think the Howards were casting suspicious eyes on the Seymours, as undoubtedly the Seymours were on the Howards. The Howards were at the moment in the ascendancy, having just provided the delectable Catharine for the King's pleasure.

Chapuys had said we must be watchful of the growing power of the Seymours and the Howards.

Everywhere on his travels the King was received with acclaim. How much of it was genuine, I did not know. The people had seen so many dead men hanging in chains; they had caught a whiff of the smell of burning flesh. They would be careful how they acted toward this powerful monarch.

Meanwhile my father became more and more enamored of his Queen. He was an uxorious, adoring husband; she soothed him and pleased him in every way. If only his people would stop being contentious, he remarked, he could be a very contented man.

It is strange how one does not recognize important events when they occur. The Court was at Pontefract Castle when Catharine admitted a new secretary into her household. This was a goodlooking young man of rather dashing appearance. His name was Francis Dereham.

Poor Catharine! She would have been quite unaware of the storms which were blowing up around her. She would know nothing of the intrigues which were commonplace in the life of the Court. She was the adored Queen of an ageing King; she would not have believed that any harm could come to her.

She did not know that there were men watching the King's besotted attitude toward her; she did not know that the Catholic Howards were rubbing their hands with glee; she did not guess that the ambitious Protestant Seymour brothers were furiously noticing the King's devotion to the Howard Queen. The Seymours had risen from obscurity because their sister had married the King; now it was the turn of the Norfolk Howards.

It could not go on.

By the time the Court returned to Windsor, the plot was in progress. From Windsor the Court went to Hampton Court, and it was there that the storm broke.

I joined my brother's household at Sion, where Elizabeth was also. It was ironic but the day we arrived—it was the 30th of October, I remember—the King and Queen went to church to receive the sacrament, and my father made a declaration in the church. There were many to hear it, and it expressed his utter contentment with the Queen.

“I render, O Lord, thanks to Thee,” he announced in ringing tones at the altar, “that after so many strange accidents that have befallen my marriages, Thou has been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclination as her that I have now.”

How many wives had received such public acclamation of their virtues? She stood beside him, smiling with pleasure, acting in just the way he wished her to. He was a man of some intellect, a man of foresight, and of all the clever women who surrounded him it was this nonentity who pleased him!

Of course, he had always been one to deceive himself. Therein lay his weakness. He had a conscience but that conscience worked according to his will, so he was completely in control of it. He saw everything in the light of what good it could bring to Henry Tudor. And this little girl who said “Yes, my lord,” “Yes, my lord,” all the time, who titillated his ageing senses and aroused in him the desire of a young man pleased him because he drew on her dazzling youth and felt young again.

How deeply he must have felt about her for, having made that public declaration at the altar, he asked the Bishop of Lincoln to prepare a public ceremony. It would be a thanksgiving to Almighty God for having at last blessed him with a loving, dutiful and virtuous wife.

Fate is ironic. It was the very next day when the blow was delivered.

Susan told me about it.

“The King was in the chapel, my lady. The Queen was not with him. It may be that that was why Cranmer chose that moment. He handed a paper to the King and begged him to read it when he was alone.”

“Why? What was in this paper?”

“They say that it is accusing the Queen of lewd behavior before her marriage.”

I was astounded, yet I suddenly realized what it was about her that I had noticed. It was wrapped up in the fascination she had for the King. Of course, she was pretty—but so were others; there was something more than that about Mistress Catharine Howard. She was lusty, and lustiness such as she had, accompanied by fresh, youthful, dainty prettiness was irresistible. Before anything was proved, I guessed the accusations against her were true.

“What do they say?” I asked.

“That she had lovers.”

“They will never prove it. The King won't believe it.”

“The King, they say, is very unhappy.”

“Then if he does not want to believe it, he will not.”

“It may not be as easy as that. There are strong men surrounding him… determined men.”

“So you think it is a matter of politics?”

“Is that not generally the case?”

I had to agree.

We waited for news. These cunning men had collected evidence against her. They could produce her lovers; they had an account of what her life had been like in the household of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. There were young people… all sleeping together in one large room, living intimately. The Dowager Duchess herself was too old or too lazy to care what was happening to her wayward granddaughter. A girl like Catharine Howard, brought up in such a household, could hardly be expected to emerge as an innocent maiden.

I had not liked her and I had thought my father had demeaned himself by doting on her so blatantly. Perhaps I was angry because he had treated my own mother so shamefully, humiliating a great princess of Spain and becoming so foolishly enslaved by this ill-bred little girl. But when I heard the state the poor child was in and how she had taken the news, I felt an overwhelming pity for her.

She had almost gone into a frenzy. She had seen the axe hanging over her head. It was what all my father's wives must have felt when they offended him. The ghost of Anne Boleyn would haunt them all as long as they lived.

And this one was really only a child, in spite of her knowledge of the needs of men. She would not know how to defend herself. She would only think of what had happened to her own beautiful, clever cousin who had found herself in a position similar to that which now confronted her. The difference might be that Anne Boleyn had been innocent; but was Catharine Howard? On the other hand, the King had wished to be rid of Anne that he might marry Jane Seymour. He certainly did not wish to be rid of Catharine Howard.

The shadow of the axe would hang over every bride of my father's from the day of her wedding. Catharine must have felt secure in his love—so petted, so pampered, she was the pretty little thing who knew so well how to please. Had it never occurred to him that she might have learned her tricks through practice?

They told me about her, how she had babbled in her anguish, how she had worked herself up to a frenzy and to such an extent that they feared for her sanity.

How could she help it? Poor girl, she was so young, so full of life. She enjoyed life to such an extent that she could not bear the thought of having it snatched from her.

She believed, naturally, that if she could speak to the King, if she could cajole him, if she could, by her presence, remind him of the happiness she had brought him and still could…he would save her. He would cherish her still. But the wicked men would not allow her to see him. They would keep them apart because they knew that, if she could but speak to him for a moment, this nightmare for her would be over.

They said that when she heard he was in the Hampton Court chapel she ran along the gallery calling his name. But they stopped her before she reached him. They dragged her back to her chamber and set guards on her so that the King should not be aware of her terrible distress. They must have believed, as she did, that if he saw her, he would forgive her.

Susan and I discussed the matter. I suppose everyone was discussing it. We learned many things about the life Catharine Howard had lived before the King set eyes on her and made her his Queen. We heard details of the establishment of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, of the young people who had been under her care… only there was no care.

It was a sordid little story. I could picture it all… the long dormitory, those high-spirited young people. For a girl of Catharine's temperament there would be temptations, and she was not a girl to resist them. Therein lay her great attraction. There would have been many to enjoy what had so pleased the King.

I remembered that she had taken Francis Dereham into her household at Pontefract. What a little fool she was to do so. She was foolish not to see the danger which would have been obvious to a more worldly person. Her knowledge of sexual adventuring might be great but she had no understanding of human nature. It would never occur to her that, for some to see the little Catharine Howard—the poor girl who had scarcely been able to clothe herself—now reveling in the silks and satins which she loved, would arouse great envy, and envy is a most destructive passion.

It all came out… the flirtations with Manox, the musician, the familiarities she allowed Francis Dereham, who wanted to marry her and claimed her as his wife. It had been as though they were married. And she, as Queen, had brought this man, the lover of her humbler self, into her household!

How easy it must have been to build up evidence against her!

There was one other case which was even more damning. Her cousin, Thomas Culpepper, was in the King's household, and many had noticed the soft looks which had passed between him and the Queen. It was soon discovered that there had been interviews between them when they had been alone in a room together.

Lady Rochford's name was mentioned as one who had helped arrange the meetings with Culpepper and to make sure that the pair were not disturbed during them.

I had never liked Lady Rochford. The fact was that I had never liked anyone connected with the Boleyn family overmuch. I had seen Anne Boleyn as the one who had killed my mother. I was not sure that she had plotted to poison her, but I felt she had killed her all the same; but for Anne Boleyn, my father would have remained married to my mother, and I believe she would have been alive still.

Lady Rochford had been the wife of George Boleyn, and it was she who had given credence to the story that he and Anne were lovers. I had never believed that, much as I hated them, and I had always wondered how a wife could give such evidence against her own husband. And now she was accused of helping to further an intrigue between the Queen and Thomas Culpepper. I believed that such a mischievous and unprincipled woman could do just that.

I wished I could go to my father and comfort him. Of course, I could never have done so.

I wondered how deep his affection went and whether it would be strong enough to save her. She had pleased him so much. He had recently given thanks to God for providing him with a wife whom he could love. Surely he would not want to lose her, merely because she had had a lover—or two… or three—before her marriage to him? I sometimes felt an anger against men who, far from chaste themselves, expect absolute purity in their wives. If Catharine had not had some experience before her marriage, how could she have been the mistress of those arts which seemed to please him so much?

I wondered what he would do. I did not talk of this to Susan. I feared I would be too frank about him. He was my father and he was the King. I thought about him a great deal. I had seen him in his moods, when he was preoccupied with his conscience. I had judged him in my mind but I could not do that before others. So I said nothing of these intimate matters.

Susan said one day, “They have arrested Dereham.”

So, I thought, it has started. He will not save her. His pride will have been too hurt. He did not love her more than his own pride.

“On what charge?” I asked.

“Piracy,” she replied.

“He was involved in that in Ireland where he had gone to make his fortune, some say, that he might come back and marry Catharine Howard.”

I nodded. I knew what would happen. They would question him, and he would be persuaded to answer them. Persuaded? In what way? How strong was he? I had thought him a dashing fellow—but one can never tell who can stand up against the rack.

We heard later that he confessed that, when they were together in the Duchess's household, the Queen had promised to marry him. They had thought of themselves as husband and wife, and others had considered them as such; they had exchanged love-tokens. They had lived together in the Duchess's household as husband and wife.

They tried to force him to admit that when he returned and was taken into the Queen's household the relationship between them had been that which they had enjoyed in the Duchess's. This he stoutly denied. There had never been the slightest intimacy between him and Catharine since her marriage to the King.

We heard that the King shut himself in his apartments, that he had burst into tears, that he had raged against fate for ruining his marriage. There was great speculation. Would the King waive her early misdemeanors and take her back?

Even I, who knew him so well, was unsure of what he would do. I wished that I could have seen him, talked to him. I could imagine his tortured mind. He wanted to believe her innocent and on the other hand he wished to know the worst.

I think he might have relented. He could usually be relied on to adjust what he considered right with what he wanted; and he wanted Catharine Howard. There was no doubt of that. I think he would have taken her back if it had not been for Culpepper.

It is not easy for people in high places to act and no one know what they are doing. Catharine had received Culpepper in her chamber, and Lady Rochford had helped her arrange the meetings.

It was all coming out. There were men like Thomas Wriothesley who were determined to ruin the Queen and make reconciliation with the King impossible.

How I hated that man! There was cruelty in him. He sought all the time to bring advantage to himself, and he cared not how he came by it.

All those connected with the early life of Catharine Howard were now in the Tower—even the poor Duchess of Norfolk, sick and ailing, and a very frightened old woman.

My father must have tortured himself. He could not believe that his dear little Queen, his “rose without a thorn,” could possibly have had a lover when she was his wife. That was something he found it hard to forgive. That was the charge he had brought against Anne Boleyn, but I think he never believed it. It was treason for a Queen to take a lover, for it meant that a bastard could be foisted on the nation. And the thought of that charming, passionate little creature going off to her lover… perhaps laughing at the King because he was no longer so young and lusty as Master Culpepper…was more than my father could bear.

He summoned Cranmer. “Go to the Queen,” he said. “Tell her that if she will acknowledge her transgression … even though her life might be forfeit to the law, I would extend to her my most gracious mercy.”

I understood his feelings. He had to know … though he did not want to.

Poor Catharine! I heard that when his message came to her she was almost out of her mind with fear. She was so terrified that the fate which her cousin had suffered would be hers. She was too distraught to speak; words would not come. Cranmer believed that if he questioned her she would go into a frenzy, so he said he would leave her with the King's gracious promise and when she had composed herself he would come back and hear her confession.

It was some time before she was ready to do that. Every time she was approached she was ready to fall into what they called a frenzy. They feared she was losing her senses. But in the end she was ready to talk.

She did admit that she had believed at one time that she was going to marry Francis Dereham. They had kissed many times.

She broke down and it was impossible to get any more information from her; when they attempted to, she became frenzied and was overcome with such terrible weeping that they feared she would do herself an injury.

Culpepper was the son of her uncle, and they had known each other since they were children; they had always been very friendly.

There were those who were ready to give evidence against her. They wanted to prove that she had been guilty of adultery. She had been reckless, indiscreet, there was no doubt of that.

A certain Katharine Tilney of her household told how she and another maid had wondered why the Queen sent strange, enigmatic messages to Lady Rochford and why sometimes they were dismissed before the Queen had retired. They reported secret whisperings with Lady Rochford and the fact that sometimes the Queen would not retire until two of the morning. Thomas Culpepper was seen in her apartments and Lady Rochford kept watch.

It was all very incriminating.

There was a hush over Sion House. Elizabeth, who was now nearly nine years old, was very concerned about what was happening. Could she be remembering how similar was the fate of this Queen to that of her mother? She had only been three years old when Anne Boleyn had been beheaded, but she had always been ahead of her years.

Edward was aware, too. He was always susceptible to Elizabeth's moods. There was a puzzled look on his face.

Elizabeth sought me out when I was alone and asked me what was happening to the Queen.

I said, “She is in the Tower.”

“What are they going to do to her?”

“I don't know.”

“Will they kill her as they did…?” I looked at her steadily. She blinked and went on, “As they did my mother?”

It was rarely that I heard her speak of her mother. What happened to Anne Boleyn was something she kept to herself and brooded on. Not even Margaret Bryan knew how she felt about her mother. Whether she remembered her and mourned her, I do not know. It was always difficult to tell with Elizabeth. Anne Boleyn was not a person who could be easily forgotten, and she was Elizabeth's mother.

“I like her,” she said.

“She is a sort of cousin to me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She is very pretty.”

I nodded.

“My father loved her dearly.” She frowned.

“Why does he no longer do so? And what will happen to her now?”

I could only fall back on those often-repeated words: “We shall have to wait and see.”

Edward came in. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The Queen,” Elizabeth replied.

“Why don't we see her now? She is in disgrace, is she not?”

“She is in prison,” Elizabeth told him.

“In the Tower.”

“In the Tower. That is for wicked people.”

“The King puts his wives there when he doesn't like them any more,” said Elizabeth, and she turned away abruptly and ran from the room. I think she was going to cry and did not want us to see her do so.

I thought: She does remember her mother. Perhaps also she was crying for Catharine. Elizabeth was resolute and strong and she had already come to terms with an uncertain existence such as we all must who relied on the favor of the King.

THEY WERE BRINGING CATHARINE to Sion House, and we had orders to move. We were going to Havering-atte-Bower. I was sad. I should have liked to be near the Queen. So would Elizabeth. We might have comforted her a little.

How sordid this was! How dreary! Why did they pursue it? It was clear that Catharine had behaved freely with certain men. They were tortured, but Dereham would admit only that he had loved Catharine as his wife because he had once regarded her as such. Was that a sin, for there was no question then of her marrying the King? He was a brave man, this Dereham; they tortured him cruelly and tried to make him admit that there had been impropriety between him and the Queen since her marriage, but he would not do so.

Catharine had denied any sexual involvement at first but after a while she broke down and confessed to it.

I know my father was suffering in his way. There was no proof that she had committed adultery in the case of Culpepper. I daresay she had flirted a little with him. It was in her nature to flirt with men—particularly those who admired her—and most did.

I went on wondering whether the King's obsession with her would override his pride. I think it might have done—and if it did, men like Sir Thomas Wriothesley and perhaps Cranmer would find themselves out of favor.

They had seen what happened to Thomas Cromwell over Anne of Cleves. He had died, it would seem, more because he had provided the King with a bride he did not like than for the foreign policy he had pursued with the German princes and the charges which had been brought against him.

So there were powerful men who would find a reconciliation an embarrassment to themselves, and they made sure that the story of Catharine's misdemeanors was circulated abroad. François, King of France, forever mischievous, wrote his condolences to his brother of England. That was the deciding factor. My father could not take back a wife who had humiliated him, however much he wanted her.

I wished that I could have gone to her. Elizabeth did, too. The child was deeply upset. She had been fond of Jane Seymour; she was even closer to Anne of Cleves; and now Catharine Howard was to die.

She became very thoughtful. I guessed she was thinking of the precarious lives we all led.

How brave they were, those two men. Neither Dereham nor Culpepper would implicate Catharine; and surely what had happened before her marriage could not be construed as treason. But the verdict had already been decided. Norfolk turned against his kinswoman just as he had against Anne Boleyn. He had wanted to make the most of the advantages which came from their being in favor, but as soon as they lost that favor he became their most bitter enemy. I despised such men—just as I had Thomas Boleyn for meekly presiding at the baptism of Edward. Self-seekers, all. They had no feeling, no heart. They made me despair of human nature.

That December Dereham and Culpepper were condemned to death. The court judged them traitors. The sentence was to be carried out with that barbarous method of execution which had been seen too frequently in these last years.

How did they feel when they—surely for no crime which could have been proved against them—were condemned to die? How did the Queen feel…if she knew? Poor girl. They said she was in such a state that she was hardly aware of what was happening about her.

Culpepper was of noble birth, and therefore the horrendous sentence would be commuted to beheading. So he, poor man, was merely to lose his head for a crime he had not committed. It was different with Dereham, whose birth did not entitle him to such a privilege. He must suffer the dreadful fate of hanging, drawing and quartering.

He petitioned against it, and the petition was taken to my father. He must have been enraged at the thought of someone's enjoying Catharine's charms before him. He should have known that she was not the girl to have come through her early life without some amatory adventures. If he had wanted an entirely chaste woman, he should have stayed with Anne of Cleves. He wanted everything to be perfect, and if it were not, those who denied it to him must pay with their lives.

So at Tyburn the terrible sentence was carried out on Dereham. He died protesting his innocence, as did Culpepper, who was beheaded at the same time.

The heads of both men were placed on London Bridge—a terrible warning to those who offended the King. People might ask how Dereham could possibly have known he was offending the King. Was no man to love a woman or to speak of marriage to her… for fear the King might fancy her?

Perhaps people were asking themselves a good many questions during those terrible times.

IT WAS A MISERABLE Christmas. I was glad I was not at Court. I could not imagine how my father could celebrate it. It would be a mockery. Catharine was still at Sion House. I wondered if she still thought the King would pardon her. The uncertainty must be terrible. I expect she had been fond of Dereham once; I believe she still was of Culpepper; and she would know that these two had died because of her. Doubtless she would have heard how they stood up to torture and had tried to defend her to the end.

February came—a dreary, desolate month. There was mist over the land until the cold, biting winds drove it away. They brought the Queen from Sion House to the Tower. I guessed that meant her death was inevitable.

I heard she was a little calmer now. She seemed to have accepted the fact that she was to die. Lady Rochford was in the Tower, condemned with her. She was accused of contriving meetings between Catharine and Culpepper; she was therefore guilty of treason.

I kept thinking of Catharine's youth. Such a short time she had been on Earth, and she had been such a merry creature, relishing life in the Duchess's household, reveling in that sexuality which pleased the men. And then the King's devotion, which, they said, she believed to the end would save her.

Susan and I talked of her. We could think of nothing else. I supposed the whole nation was talking of her. She would be the second of my father's wives to be beheaded—but that had not yet become commonplace.

It was the thirteenth day of February when she was taken out to die. Young, so pretty, her crime being that she had been too free with her favors before the ill-fated choice had fallen on her.

At Havering we heard that she had died with dignity. When she knew there was no hope and that the King, who had professed his love for her, was going to leave her to her fate, she accepted it meekly.

What seemed to worry her more than anything was that she might not know what she had to do on the scaffold, and she asked for a block, which would be exactly like the one on which she would have to lay her head, to be brought to her so that she might practice on it. She did not want to stumble on the day of her death. This was done. Later she went out bravely, and before she died she declared that she would rather have been the wife of Thomas Culpepper than a queen.

Lady Rochford died with her. I felt no compassion for that woman. In spite of my hatred for the Boleyn clan, I could not believe in the incest between Anne and her brother, and I thought how depraved she must be to have accused them.

Her last words were reputed to be that she deserved to die for her false accusation of her husband and sister-in-law and not for anything she had done against the King; for she was guiltless of that.

So perished the King's fifth wife, Catharine Howard, on that same spot where his second, Anne Boleyn, had died before her.