In the Shadow of the Crown

The Betrayal

NO SOONER WAS ANNE BOLEYN DEAD THAN MY FATHER WAS betrothed to Jane Seymour. I am not sure how many days elapsed before he married. It could not have been more than ten. I heard that it had taken place on the 30th of May in the Queen's Closet at York Place. Anne Boleyn had died on the 19th.

I often wondered about my father and whether his nights were disturbed by the ghosts of those who had fallen foul of his will. For so many years Anne Boleyn had been the center of his life. How could he have tired of her so quickly? I wondered about Jane Seymour. I had seen her on one or two occasions and found her gentle and unassuming. She had always been pleasant to me.

The story was that about a month before Anne's death my father had sent her a purse of sovereigns, telling her of his passion for her and hinting that she should become his mistress. Her reply had been that she could be no man's mistress, not even the King's. It was the familiar pattern. Anne Boleyn had started it. I wondered Jane Seymour did not have a few qualms about following her predecessor along such a dangerous path.

Of course she had ambitious brothers and, from what I heard of her, I imagined she would not be one to put up much resistance. In that of course she was the exact opposite of Anne. In fact, she seemed to be so in many ways. Perhaps that was why the King was attracted by her.

Elizabeth was at Hunsdon. She was now three, old enough to recognize the chilly change which was passing through the house and was to affect her.

She was no longer the pampered princess. Poor motherless little creature, I wondered how much she understood. She was a bright child with reddish hair almost exactly like her father's. She resembled him in many ways and had his fondness for her own way. Lady Bryan adored her. It was pleasant to be with my old friend again. I would always be grateful to her for her kindness to me when I was so alone.

Several of my old servants came to me… people I had not seen for several years. That was a joyous reunion. I was above all delighted to see Susan Clarencieux, who had been in my household when I was at Ludlow. I had always been especially fond of her.

I had thought that my circumstances would change with the departure of Anne Boleyn from the scene, and I was proved right.

Chapuys came to me. He was gleeful.

“You could very easily be received back at Court,” he said. “That is what we must work for. The new Queen is ready to be your friend.”

“I do remember meeting her in the past.”

“She has sentimental reasons about the family. The King is amused by them and apt to be indulgent at the moment. I am sure she will speak to him with regard to bringing you to Court.”

“A change from her predecessor!”

“A great change indeed…in all ways. The point is…I wonder how long it will take the King to tire of this shy violet. However, I feel sure it will not be long before you are back at Court. There must be no hitch. It is imperative that you come out of your exile.”

“Do you think the King will admit now that he was truly married to my mother?”

“I think he has gone too far with that to retreat with ease.”

“Still, he now hates Anne Boleyn so much.”

“And blames her for all that has happened. He is saying that it was through witchcraft that he became enamored of her and now that is removed he sees clearly. The people cheer you when you go out, do they not?”

“Yes, more so than ever now.”

“That is good. The King will have to respect the people's wish which is that you be reinstated. It might be advisable for you to write to him and ask his blessing and forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness… for what? For saying what is true… what I meant… for defending my mother?”

Chapuys raised his hand admonishingly. “A little compromise might be necessary.”

“I shall never deny my mother's marriage. She never did and was incapable of lying.”

“We shall see…we shall see,” murmured Chapuys.

“The King is in a mellow mood just now. He has a new wife and she pleases him. He has convinced himself that Anne Boleyn was evil, a witch…so his conscience is at rest on that score.”

“Do you think he will return to Rome?”

“I fear not. He has come too far to turn back.”

“So we are doomed for ever.”

Chapuys looked at me slyly. “It is unwise to talk of these matters, but it is not inconceivable that one day England will return to the true faith.”

“But if the King never would…”

He was looking at me intently. “You are no longer a child. Princess Elizabeth is now proclaimed to be a bastard. Fitzroy might have presented a threat but he cannot live more than a few months. He has death written on him. And the King's fall affected him more than was realized.”

“You mean his fall from the horse just before my mother died?”

He nodded.

“He has not ridden in the joust since. He has aged considerably. I have heard that there is an ulcer on his leg which is very painful. There is a possibility…But perhaps I should say no more. Indeed, it might be unwise to…”

I knew what he meant. My father was ageing. He had not been spectacularly successful in begetting children. What if he could get no more? Then who would follow him? Elizabeth? She was out of favor now, judged a bastard, for the King did not accept his marriage with Anne Boleyn. Nor did he accept his marriage to my mother. So there were two of us. Young Richmond—Henry Fitzroy—could not be counted because he would not be here much longer. I was the elder, and I would find greater favor with the people than the daughter of Anne Boleyn.

Chapuys was pointing to a dazzling prospect. Queen of England! A queen with a mission, which was to bring England back to the Holy Catholic Church.

Something happened to me then. I was lifted out of my despondency. I had a reason for living.

God would smile on me, surely. He would approve. My father had sinned against the Church. If ever I were Queen of this realm, I would repair the damage he had done.

Everything had changed. I was a woman with a mission.

I MUST RETURN to Court. I had been long enough in exile. I was not sure how my father felt about me, but I did know that he had been very angry about my loyalty to my mother. I had stood firmly for her against him and what had especially infuriated him was that the people were on my side. He would remember those cries of “Long live the Princess Mary!” when he had declared that I was no princess. Even now they were shouting loyally for me, and he could not have liked that.

I dared not write to him direct. Instead I addressed myself to Cromwell.

I did humble myself. I hoped my mother would understand if she could look down and see what I was doing. If I continued to be obstinate, I should be in exile forever, always wondering when someone would consider it necessary to make an end of me. Chapuys had now endowed me with a new ambition. I would succeed. I must succeed. I should have Heaven on my side, for I should be the one to bring England back to the true religion.

And if to do so I must humble myself, then humble I must be.

So I wrote asking my father's forgiveness, and I said how sorry I was to have disobeyed his wishes.

I waited for some response. There was none.

I wrote to him again and, having written, my conscience smote me. How could I, even as I stepped toward that dazzling future, deny the legality of my mother's marriage? Whatever the result, I knew that could only give her pain; and she, with her Catholic Faith, her unswerving devotion to the Church of Rome, would never wish me to deny my faith…no matter what good it brought to England.

On impulse I wrote a separate note to Cromwell, telling him that, while I wished him to give my letter to the King, I feared I could not deny the validity of my mother's marraige and I could not agree with the severance from Rome.

In spite of this, Cromwell seemed determined to do all he could to bring me into favor with the King. He was fully aware that the people expected it and wanted it and that the King should do it for that reason. He must have been uneasy as to the effect my father's conduct was having on the people, who had clearly shown their support for us; true, they had hated Anne Boleyn when she was puffed up with pride, but people are apt to change their minds when those about them fall from grace. There was no cause now to envy Anne Boleyn, and envy is often at the roots of hatred.

Cromwell was first and foremost a politician and he would see that I must be received back at Court, which was the safest place for me to be… not for myself so much as for him and the King. He wanted no supporters gathering round me, seeking to right my wrongs.

My father must have realized that it could be dangerous to refuse to bring me back. I was, after all, no longer a child, being twenty years old— old enough to be a figurehead, old enough for those who deplored the break with Rome to rally to me.

It may be that the wily Cromwell persuaded him but the fact was that the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Sussex headed a small party who came to visit me. They brought with them a document in which I was referred to as a monster—a daughter who had acted disobediently toward her father. It was only due to the generous and gracious nature of the King that I was still here to ask his forgiveness.

It was difficult for me. I kept thinking of my mother. How could I deny her? She had always been adamant, even though she had believed her enemies were trying to poison her and would possibly use other means to kill her. Always she had stood defiant against them. But Chapuys had shown me my mission.

Even so I could not bring myself to accept the verdict that my mother had never been truly married to my father, that I was bastard and the Pope was not the Vicar of Christ but just another bishop.

I tried to keep that glittering future in mind. I prayed for guidance. If God meant to lead me to my destiny, He would help me.

But I could not do it. I said I would obey my father in all things save his denial of his marriage with my mother and his break with Rome.

They were very angry—in particular Norfolk, who was a violent man and not of very good character, as his Duchess could well confirm. Both he and Sussex were abusive. I was understanding more of people now and I guessed that they were afraid. They would have to go back to the King and tell him that I stood firm on the two very issues which had caused all the contention between us. He would have to face the fact that he had a rebellious daughter and that many of his subjects, who were already murmuring about the state of the Church, would agree with her. I could see that I was a danger and that my father wished to have me back in the fold. He wanted to ride out with me and the new Queen, showing the people that I was his beloved daughter—though illegitimate—and that all was well between us. And these men would have to go back and tell him that they had failed.

Messengers bringing ill news were never popular; and the King's moods were variable and could be terrible. He had changed with the failing of his health. “Bluff King Hal” peeped out only occasionally now and then, when years ago this had been the face his courtiers saw most frequently.

Sussex shouted at me, “Can it be that you are the King's daughter? I cannot believe this to be so. You are the most obstinate woman I ever knew. Surely no child of the King could be as wayward … as stubborn… and as foolish as you are.”

I looked at him sardonically. He might have known that what he called my stubbornness had been inherited directly from my father.

Norfolk was even more explicit.

“If you were my daughter, I should beat you.”

“I am sure you would attempt to, my lord,” I replied. “I believe your conduct toward your wife, simply because she objected to your mistresses, has been especially brutal.”

His eyes narrowed and his face was scarlet. “I would beat you … to death,” he muttered.

“I am of the opinion that, if you attempted to do so, the people in the streets would set upon you and you would suffer a worse fate.”

He knew there was truth in my words and he shouted, “I would dash your head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple!”

“Threats worthy of you, my lord. And they affect me not at all. You would not dare lay a hand on me. And I should be glad if you would remember to whom you speak.”

Lady Shelton had complained of my regal manners, so I suppose I possessed them; and now, with Chapuys' prophecy before me, perhaps they were even more apparent.

They slunk away, those irate commissioners, like dogs with their tails between their legs.

CHAPUYS CAME TO see me.

He was very grave, although there was a hint of amusement in his gravity.

“The commissioners were ill received when they returned to the King. He is convinced that you are in touch with the rebels. There is a party forming in the North and murmurings throughout the country. Your name is often mentioned. The King is most uneasy. But you have seen how obstinate he is… and we must get you to Court. I fear he may take some drastic action against you on the spur of the moment. Do not forget, he is allpowerful in this country. Now that he has broken with Rome, the Church has no hold on him. Who would have believed this possible?”

“But we shall come back one day.”

“I beg of you, do not speak of it now.”

“But that is our eventual aim.”

“To be put away until the time is ripe. It is something to think about but never to be spoken of. If it were…your life would not be worth much. Remember. The Church relies on you. Your day will come. And until it does we must play this game as deviously as is demanded.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you cannot stay in exile. We have to do anything… simply anything…to get you to Court. Cromwell goes in fear of his life because he first told the King that you would be ready to bow to his will. The King is in such a mood of anger that no one is safe. But this is good, for it shows the extent of his uneasiness. Queen Jane pleads for you with the King. She is simple and clearly does not know the man she has married. She was heard to say that it was natural that you should defend your mother and she thought it was a noble thing to do. She was abruptly told not to meddle in matters beyond her powers of understanding and to remember that her predecessor meddled and what happened to her. It is the first time the King has been heard talking to her thus, and it shows how anxious he is.”

“Then we should be pleased.”

“Not entirely. He is capable of drastic action when aroused to anger, and his anger has its roots in uncertainty. Those about the King, including Cromwell, have to act regarding you. They are preparing a document. It is headed ‘The Lady Mary's Submission.' In it will be set down all that the King will require you to agree to.”

“That will include…”

He nodded. “Your agreement that your parents were never legally married, that you are illegitimate and accept the King, your father, as Head of the Church in England.”

“I will never do it.”

“Have you thought of the alternative?”

“What do you mean?”

“You forget that Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More lost their heads because they would not sign the Oath? You are doing the same.”

“You mean that I should lose my head?”

“I mean that you could be tried for treason… and the punishment for treason is death.”

“My father would not dare.”

“He has dared a great deal. He fears a rising in your favor. But he is the most powerful man in the country. He could put down a revolt, and then what would happen to the Princess Mary? What of the plans for the future of England?”

I said, “What must I do?”

“There is only one thing you can do. You sign.”

“Deny my mother's marriage! Deny Holy Church!”

“There could be a papal absolution which would relieve you from the sin of perjury,” said Chapuys.

“The Emperor and the Pope will know the reason why you signed. I advise you to do it. This is the only way. If you do not, I would not give much hope for the chances of your survival.”

“I would not do it for the fear of what would happen to me.”

“I am aware of that, as you are of your destiny. It would be folly now to refuse to sign.”

I knew he was right, but I had to quieten my conscience. My mother would understand. Those who cared for me, who knew that I had a duty to perform… they would all understand why I had to sign.

So, with a firm hand and a strong purpose in my heart, I put my name to the document.

NOW THAT I HAD given way, my life changed. I was treated with the respect due to the King's daughter—though not a legitimate one. I enjoyed more freedom than I had known for years. I was no longer treated with suspicion. I could write to whom I pleased and receive visitors.

I was still grappling with my conscience. I had committed perjury. I had agreed to that which in my heart I abhorred. I prayed constantly. I talked to my mother as though she were with me.

“Understand, please, dear Mother. I did this because I believe that in time it will have been proved to be the right action to have taken at this time. They would have tried me for treason if I had refused. They would have trumped up some charge against me. If the King could kill his wife, why not his daughter? Chapuys knew it. I acted on his advice and one day, I swear on all that is sacred to me, that when the opportunity comes I shall bring England back to the Holy Church.”

That was the motive I kept my eyes on. And I began to believe fervently that what I had done—however much it had been against my principles— was the only way in which I could have acted.

Elizabeth was at Hunsdon, still under the charge of Margaret Bryan. I was with her a great deal. All my enmity toward her had gone. How could one dislike a three-year-old child? Her mother might be evil but what crime had the child committed? Lady Bryan never ceased to marvel at her. She was the most perfect child it had ever been her joy to know, she told me. She was so bright and eager to learn.

“Nose into everything,” said Margaret fondly.

“If it is there, she must know what and why. Questions… all through the day. And she remembers, too. To see her skip and dance… and hear her little voice singing…She can already handle a lute, you know.”

Then she would express her fury at the manner in which her little darling was being treated now.

“Look at this kirtle! I have darned and patched it. I need new clothes for her. I keep asking but none come. It is a shameful way to treat a princess.”

“Hush, Margaret,” I cautioned her. “Do you want to be charged with treason?”

She shook her head sadly, “I know not what we are coming to.”

I took her hand and pressed it.

“I know. I understand your feelings. It happened to me… just like this. At least Elizabeth is too young to understand.”

“There you are mistaken. That child is old for her years.”

“That is well. She will have need of her good sense, I doubt not.”

“My poor innocent lamb! I suppose I must go on with this patching. She asked for her mother. ‘When will she come to see me?' It breaks my heart. At least it seems a little brighter for you, my lady. Perhaps you can put in a word for your little sister.”

“I will… when I can.”

“Bless you. There has been such suffering, but none should hold that against this little one.”

“I do not,” I said. “Nor would my mother.”

Margaret nodded. She was too moved for words.

There was a great deal of talk about what was happening throughout the country. During the previous year my father had set Thomas Cromwell to make a report on the conditions of the monasteries. This had sent a ripple of unease throughout the land. The monasteries were devoted to the Church of Rome, and everyone knew that this was no ordinary survey. It was a further gesture of defiance toward the Pope; and Cromwell was prepared to give my father what he wanted, knowing full well that he dared do nothing else.

The result was the Black Book in which were set down all the evils which were said to be practiced within those walls. I could not believe it. There were sinners everywhere, I knew, but according to Cromwell the monasteries he visited were hotbeds of vice. We heard stories of orgies between monks and nuns, of riotous and lewd behavior, of unwanted babies being strangled at birth and buried in the grounds.

It was time, said my father, in his most pious tones, that these matters were brought to light and given close examination.

There was a great deal of wealth in the monasteries, and the royal exchequer, which had been so well stocked by my shrewd and careful grandfather, had become much depleted during my father's extravagant reign. A great deal of money had been spent on his lavish entertainments, his splendid journeys, his magnificent jewels, and latterly on bribery all over Europe in the hope of getting agreement on his divorce. The exchequer needed bolstering up and the spoils from the monasteries could play a good part in doing that.

An Act had now been passed for the suppression of all monasteries whose incomes were less than £200 a year.

I wondered whether that was an experiment to see how the people reacted to it. The larger monasteries were left unmolested; but I could imagine that many an abbot was trembling in his sandals.

Then I was told that I was to meet the King, and everything else was banished from my mind.

My feelings were mixed. I wanted to see him. Part of me could not forget those days of my early childhood when he had loomed so large in my life—a god, all-powerful and gloriously benign. I had been so proud that he should be my father; and although I loved my mother more dearly than any living person, it was he who filled me with awe and admiration. His smile of approval had made me sublimely happy, and no matter how cruelly he behaved to me and those I loved, I still had the same special feeling for him which I was sure could never be entirely eradicated.

He would not come to Hunsdon; nor should I go to Court …yet. He wanted to see me first and he did not want too much noise about it. He must have felt a little uncertain about meeting a daughter who had for so many years defied him and had only just signed her submission most reluctantly.

I was to be taken at an appointed time to a country house where he would receive me.

I could not eat. I could not sleep. I hovered between excitement and apprehension. I prayed for guidance. I talked to my mother, begging her, once more, to understand why I had betrayed her in words, although in my heart I would always be true to her.

I talked to Susan Clarencieux of my fears.

She reassured me. “My lady,” she said, “you need have no fears. You are royal…as royal as the King.”

I put my finger on her lips. “Hush, Susan. I do not want to lose you. Such things as you say could be construed as treason.”

“It is true.”

“Truth can sometimes be treason, Susan. There. I am worse than you. We must guard our tongues. Let's talk of other things. What am I going to wear?”

For so long I had had few clothes and what I had were mended; but recently new garments had been sent to me and now I believed I could dress so that I would not look too shabby for the occasion.

Command came that I was to leave the following morning. Margaret Bryan came to me on the night before. She sat by my bed and held my hand as she used to in those long-ago days when my trials were just beginning.

“Have no fear,” she said. “All will be well. Remember, you are his daughter.”

“He forgot that once.”

“Nay. A man does not forget his daughter. He was plagued by other matters.”

“And I would not say what he wished me to. And now, I have, Margaret. God forgive me.”

“Hush, hush,” she said. “Everything will be understood. Try to rest. Be yourself… and all will be well.”

At the door she paused and looked at me.

“Do not forget the child,” she said. “She is only a baby. Speak for her… if there is a chance.”

I said, “I will, Margaret. But I must go carefully. He is so full of hatred for her mother now … as once he was for mine.”

“They are both gone now, God rest their souls,” said Margaret. “It is the poor children who remain.”

She then left me and I tried to compose myself and prepare for the next day's ordeal.

AT DAWN WE SET out and by mid-morning had reached our destination.

There I met the father whom I had not seen for five years. With him was his new Queen.

For a few moments we stood looking at each other. I wondered what he thought of me. When he had last seen me I had been a thin, spindly-legged girl of fifteen. Now I was a woman. I knew I had gained in dignity, especially so since I had been aware of my destiny. But I was so shocked by the change in him that I could think of little else.

When I had last seen him he had been the most handsome man I had ever known. He had stood taller than most men; he had always been recognized by his height and width at all those masques where he had delighted in trying to disguise himself. His complexion had been florid, but healthily so. Now it was purplish rather than pink. His weight had increased enormously. His was no longer an athletic figure. “Corpulent” would be a more accurate way of describing it. But it was his face in which the greater change had taken place. In the past there had been an engaging aspect. Could I call it innocence? Hardly. Perhaps rather a boyish delight in the world and himself which at that time had seemed endearing. Even in those days we had dreaded to see his mood change, which it had done now and then, and the small mouth would become a thin, straight line and the little eyes points of light almost disappearing into his full face. Much of the old benignity had departed. New lines had appeared to rob him of that quality. To look at him now, so large in his surcoat with the puffed sleeves barred with strips of fur and built-up shoulders which increased his size and made him a figure of splendor, completely over-awed me. I felt very small and insignificant beside such a glittering figure and I knew that I could never do what I had thought during my journey here that I might, which was to throw myself at his feet and beg him not to ask me to deny my mother and the Church of Rome.

To see him there, powerful and formidable in the extreme, I knew that I should never do it even if I could.

And beside him was his new Queen—slender, pretty, looking frail beside his great girth, gentle, welcoming, a little hesitant, but endeavoring to tell me she was pleased to see me.

I went to him and knelt. He gave me his hand, which I kissed. Then he made a gesture for me to stand up, so I did so.

“At last,” he said. “I rejoice to see you, daughter.”

I was trying to overcome my emotion and he sensed this. It pleased him. He saw me as the repentant daughter, asking for forgiveness because of her foolish behavior which had caused him pain.

I would have knelt to the Queen but she had taken my hands. She must have been about the same age as Anne Boleyn… but she seemed younger and I felt older in experience.

There was nothing false about the greeting she gave me. She smiled tremulously. “Oh welcome…welcome,” she said. “I have so wanted this meeting.”

The King smiled at her indulgently.

“The Queen speaks for us both,” he said.

He dismissed everyone so that we should be alone together, he said, and talk as a family should.

So we were alone and he spoke of his sufferings, of how he had been mistreated, but now that he had his good Jane beside him, all that was behind us.

He sat in the chair which had been provided for him, and Jane brought up one for me so that I could sit beside him.

“Your Grace must not wait on me,” I said.

“But it is what I want,” she told me with her rather girlish smile. “I am so happy. I have always wanted you to be at Court, and now you are going to be there.”

The King was evidently enamored of her. She was so gentle and seemed to me guileless. She was as different from Anne Boleyn as one woman can be from another. Therein, I supposed, lay her attraction.

Jane sat close to the King, who from time to time patted her knee. I thought she was like a little kitten, and I could not suppress the question which rose in my mind: How long can he be content with her?

Meanwhile she was eager to show herself my friend.

“We shall arrange for you to come to Court … in time,” said the King.

“Yes,” added Jane, “and it shall be soon.”

“I shall be leaving for the hunting season shortly,” said my father. “Perhaps after that.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said. Recently he had given himself the title of “Majesty” which was now generally used instead of the old “Your Grace.” After all, dukes could be Graces, but only the King—and Queen— Majesties.

“You are uneasy, daughter,” he said. “Do not be so. Now that you have confessed your faults, I forgive you freely. She who did you much harm has now reaped her just deserts. Witchcraft is a fearsome cult. It must be crushed wherever we find it. And now … if you will be my good child, I will be father to you.”

“You will be welcome at Court,” said Jane. “We shall be friends…we shall be as sisters.”

The King laughed at her. I thought her charming in her rather simple way.

He asked about my household at Hunsdon. I said that of recent date it had begun to grow.

“You shall have the comforts you once enjoyed before you were misguided enough to oppose my will.”

“I thank Your Majesty.”

“Aye… and you will find there will be much for which to thank me.”

Jane laughed happily. I thought she was really a good creature and was genuinely rejoicing in my changed fortunes.

I wondered whether I could mention Elizabeth but the dark look which had come into his face when he had spoken of her mother made me hesitate. Not yet, I thought, I must tread very carefully.

“Yes,” my father went on. “Be a good daughter and you will find me not ungenerous. I am giving you a thousand crowns so that you can indulge yourself. Get some little comforts, eh? I'll swear you could use them.”

“You are most gracious…”

His face had become soft and sentimental, as I remembered it from the past. “Aye… and ready to be more so…as you will find, will she not, Jane?”

Jane smiled from me to him. “The most generous King in the world,” she said ecstatically.

I thought how different she was from my mother as well as from Anne Boleyn. Could it be possible that this one could give him what he wanted? If she could provide a son, yes. And if not…I found myself looking at that white neck.

She had taken a diamond ring from her finger and held it out to me.

“It would make me very happy if you would wear this for me,” she said simply.

Then she took my hand and slipped the ring on my finger.

“You are so good to me,” I told her.

My father watched us, his eyes glazed with sentiment. How quickly his moods changed! I wished that I did not see him quite so clearly. Part of me wanted to go on believing in the image I had created in my childhood; but I kept thinking of my mother. On whose order had the Welsh beer been produced? Had she been poisoned? I thought of Anne Boleyn, the one for whom he had sacrificed his religious beliefs and had run the risk of losing his crown; and yet there had come the day when she had been taken out to Tower Green and her head had been cut off with a sword specially sent from France. What could I think of such a man? How could I love him? And yet, in spite of all I knew of him, in a way I did.

Poor little Jane Seymour, what would become of her?

The mood passed. Jane, with her simple reasoning, had an effect on us. She saw this as a family reunion and she made us see it as such. I lost some of my qualms; my father forgot that he was King; in that brief moment we were father and daughter, and Jane's presence, with her simple faith in the goodness of human nature, had created this scene in her imagination and, briefly, we accepted it.

It was a pleasant half hour. There was laughter: I was delighted to be with my father, for after all he had done, he was still my father, and such was the aura which surrounded him that I could suppress my fears of him. Whether it was love, I do not know; but it was something akin to it. And while we were together, I forgot that I was deceiving him, that I had lied to him; and he seemed to forget the past when he had had it in his mind to poison me or take my life in some way.

Jane was there, rejoicing that the dissension in the family was over; and everything was as it should be; in the future we should all love each other.

Such is the power of innocence.

I DID NOT SEE my father for some time. He went off with the Court for the hunting season. My household at Hunsdon was growing, as was customary for a person of my rank. People were sending me gifts. Thomas Cromwell had taken me under his wing and had sent me a horse as a present.

The newly elevated brother of Jane Seymour was now Lord Beauchamp and Chamberlain. He wrote to ask me what clothes I needed.

I was delighted. I was able to ask for some materials which Margaret could make into clothes for Elizabeth. I was getting quite fond of my little half-sister. She was such an engaging child, and our friendship gave great pleasure to Margaret. My reconciliation with my father delighted her, and that helped to ease my conscience. She was fond of me but the darling of her heart was young Elizabeth, and she was so pleased because she thought I should be able to do something about the neglect from which the poor child was suffering.

Then there was trouble in the North which gave me some uneasiness for, in my vulnerable position, I could so easily be implicated.

The appearance of the Black Book, containing its accusations against monks and nuns, and the suppression of the smaller monasteries, had been the cause of this unrest. The first sign of trouble was in Lincolnshire but this was quickly suppressed by the Earl of Shrewsbury, who assured the objectors that everything that had happened had been sanctioned by Parliament.

It was not long before a more serious revolt broke out in Yorkshire. The people were against the break with Rome and they wanted the Supremacy of the Church to be in the hands of the Pope as it always had been. A man called Robert Aske led the people on what he called the Pilgrimage of Grace. They marched with banners depicting Christ on the cross on one side and on the other a chalice and wafer. They did not accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church. The Pope had been for them and their fathers Christ's Vicar on Earth and still was. No Acts of Parliament could change that. They wanted the true religion brought back to England.

The revolt quickly spread through the North. These men were ready to fight for the religion they wanted. But there were rumors. If they succeeded, the King, who had set himself up as Head of the Church, would naturally be deposed. He had in their eyes one legitimate heir, for they had always believed that my mother was the true Queen of England and legally married to the King. That heir was the Princess Mary; and although their main aim was to restore the true religion, it was hinted that it was also their plan to set me on the throne.

I was in acute danger. Chapuys was soon on the spot to advise me.

“Keep out of sight,” he warned me.

“Do not be seen in any public place. Keep to the house and the gardens. We will watch events closely.”

The King was very disturbed, as he always must be when some of his subjects were in revolt, and as it was an uprising of this size there was something to be really anxious about.

He sent an army up to the North. I was certain that the rebels would not be able to stand against it and there would be terrible slaughter. However, the rain was heavy and prolonged and the land became so water-logged that the two armies could not approach each other.

There were many who were ready to interpret this as a sign from God. He was working a miracle to save the rebels. My father was loth to go to war with his own subjects and after discussions with those close to him, he sent a message to say that he would pardon all rebels, and if they would prepare a list of their grievances he would study them carefully.

The insurgents, no doubt feeling they had made their point, returned to their homes. The King had suggested that their leader Robert Aske should come to London, where he would be received and differences discussed.

Just after this I was surprised to receive a visit from the King.

It was one morning when I returned from riding to find the household in a flutter of excitement. The King, out hunting, had called and was in the house. He was impatiently waiting to see me, and I had better go to him with all speed.

I found him pacing up and down in the salon. He was alone.

I went to him and knelt. He took my hands and kissed them with a show of tenderness.

“I trust I find Your Majesty in good health,” I said.

“Yes…yes… and you, daughter?”

I thanked him for his gracious enquiry and told him that I was well.

He shook his head impatiently. “There has been trouble with these rebels in the North,” he said.

“I trust it is settled to Your Majesty's pleasure.”

“Yes…yes. That was soon put to rights. There'll be no more trouble from them. There were some who would have it that you were involved in it.”

“I swear I knew nothing about them.”

He lifted a hand. “I know it. I know it. But when these fools start meddling in matters of which they know nothing… they will speak of you.”

“It is my earnest regret that they should do so.”

“You are a loyal subject then?”

“I am, Your Majesty. I do not forget that I am your daughter.”

He nodded. “Methinks you speak truth. Do you know, there is one thing I abhor… and I will do all in my power to stamp it out. It is dishonesty.”

I was beginning to tremble.

“Myself…I am a stranger to that vice,” he went on. “You may think that there are occasions when a king must speak what is an untruth…for the sake of diplomacy, eh?”

“I am an ignorant woman, Your Majesty. I know nothing of these matters.”

He grunted, suggesting approval of my attitude. “I will not do that. Nay!” He began to shout. “Even though I am told it is expedient and it is not dishonesty in the normal sense…‘This is for the country,' they may say, but no: I am an honest man.”

I lifted my eyes and tried to look admiring; but I could not stop thinking of all he had done and how he had talked of his conscience, how he had made it work for him, so that all his deeds were wrapped in a covering of righteousness. It was hard to hide my feelings when he talked of dishonesty—but I must.

This was one of those occasions when he believed himself, and he saw no reason why I should not believe him either.

“I want to be sure of your sincerity,” he said.

I felt my knees would not support me, and I was afraid he would see my hands trembling and would regard my fear as evidence of my guilt.

“You signed the Act of Submission,” he said. “You agreed that my marriage to your mother was invalid, and you accepted me, as did my loyal subjects, as Head of the Church.”

“Yes,” I said faintly.

“Will you give me a truthful answer?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said even more quietly.

“You had much to gain from signing, had you not?”

“I yearned for Your Majesty's favor.”

“Aye. Your fate depended on it, did it not? You would have been a fool not to sign, and I do not think you are a fool, daughter. Your mother would not give in. It would have been easier for her if she had. But you are made of different stuff.”

Yes, I thought, common clay. I could never be the martyr she was. I lack her goodness, her saintliness.

“But tell me this,” he went on. “Did you agree with your heart as well as your pen?”

I dared not hesitate. To do so would be fatal. I had my mission, my destiny.

I answered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He gave me an expansive smile and took me in his arms.

“Then, daughter,” he said, “we are in truth good friends. You have told me that you signed the submission in good faith, and that pleases me. There are some who would suggest that you were forced to do this. You and I, daughter, know that this is not so. But there are those doubters, and I would have them know the truth. You will help me to dispel their doubts, good daughter that you have now become. There are two of these doubters to whom I would have you address yourself. One is the Emperor Charles; the other is the Pope.”

I was appalled. Was it not enough that I had signed his document? Must I deny my love for my mother, my adherence to the Faith? Must I tell this to the whole world?

Refusal trembled on my lips. I saw myself languishing in the Tower, tried for treason, brought out to Tower Hill as his beloved, the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, had been.

Where was that shining dream? I must bring England back to the Faith.

I was not merely a devoted daughter: I was a woman fighting for her future, perhaps her life, but my life was of little importance beside what I must do for the Faith.

He was looking at me intently; his little eyes were benign at the moment, but I knew how quickly they could change.

I heard myself say, “Yes, Your Majesty, I will write to them. I will tell them that I am in agreement with everything that has been done and will be done.”

He could be charming when pleased. I could see why men followed him. He was like the father I had known in my childhood. He seized me in his arms and held me against his jewel-encrusted jacket. I felt the stones pressing into my heart. I despised myself. I murmured apologies to my mother; but I knew this had to be done.

“Now,” he said, “all is well, and this is a delight to me. I like it not when there is discord in families. From now on you are my dear daughter. You shall come to Court. All shall be as it should be between a father and his daughter.”

He was in an excellent mood, and I was fighting to hide my despondency. He would prepare drafts for me to send to the Emperor and the Pope. All I needed to do would be to sign them and the matter would be most happily settled from his point of view.

I was becoming devious. I was playing my own games as carefully as he played his; only perhaps I had more of the quality which he so much admired: honesty—and with myself. I despised myself and yet I knew that what I was doing was necessary. I could honestly say I was not doing it to preserve my life or to bring myself a comfortable style of living. Always I had the main object in mind; and it was for that I lied and dissembled.

I was thankful that I could see people freely now; and when Chapuys visited me I gave him an account of my interview with my father.

“You did what was right,” he told me.

“But I have lied. I have denied my legitimacy and dishonored my mother.”

“Sometimes it is necessary to act against one's conscience if the matter is great enough.”

“I do not wish the Emperor to regard me as a weakling who has given way to save her life.”

“The Emperor knows well your purpose.”

“I wish to write to him personally to tell him that what I have officially sent to him is untrue.”

“Do so,” he said, “and I will see that the letter reaches him.”

“If it did not and was discovered, that would be the end of my hopes… and of me.”

Chapuys nodded gravely. “It shall not be discovered. All the hopes of the Church rest with you. I swear to you that your letter will be delivered safely into the Emperor's hands.”

“I must also write to the Pope.”

“Do that. They will be sure then that you are working for God and the Church.”

He smiled at me and went on, “You are anxious. You fear that you have betrayed your mother. Rest assured that she understands. This country of England will have reason to thank you. You are going to bring it back to the Faith when the time comes.”

He took my letters. I had visions of their falling into the hands of my father. I dared not dwell on what my fate would be if they did. But I could trust Chapuys, and my cousin Charles would know that I was no traitor to the Faith.

Thus I was able to still my conscience.