In the Shadow of the Crown

The Arrival of Edward

I WAS SUMMONED TO JOIN THE COURT AT RICHMOND FOR the Christmas festivities. This meant that I was received back in favor. My letters to the Emperor and the Pope had sealed the matter.

Queen Jane, realizing that after my exile I might not have the clothes I would need and the means to come to Court, thoughtfully sent me money. “A little gift” she called it; and it came with a message that she was so much looking forward to greeting me.

The weather was bitterly cold, and I was glad of the fur-lined wrap which I had been able to acquire through her thoughtfulness.

It seemed strange, after so many years, to be back among the grandeur that was my father's Court. He had stamped his personality upon it, and it was glittering, splendid and outwardly merry, all laughter and song; and yet, I wondered, how many of those seemingly carefree courtiers lived in terror of offending him? I fell to thinking what it must have been like in my grandfather's day. How he would have deplored the extravagance as he watched the dwindling effect it must be having on the exchequer. But this was my father's day, and the perversity of men is such that they loved him more, with all his tantrums, extravagances and adventurous marital life, than they ever did my solemn, careful grandfather. Parsimonious, they had called him, when, if he were so, it was for their betterment.

It was Jane, the Queen, who helped me through those days. There was something very gentle about her. I wondered if she ever considered the perilous nature of her position. Did she ever give a thought to what had happened to Anne Boleyn, so passionately loved at one time and, not so long after their marriage, sent to the block? If she did think of her, she gave no sign of it. She did give a good deal of thought to the comfort of others; she was far from clever; indeed, she was something of a simpleton, but she was able to understand how I was feeling, and she did everything possible to put me at my ease.

Now that I had begun to live a double life, as it were, hiding my true motives under a cloak of deceit, I felt a little ashamed in the company of Jane, who was so straightforward and guileless. But sometimes I asked myself whether she, too, was playing her own little game? How did it feel to be the third wife of a man who had destroyed the two who had gone before? Was Jane assuming the role of docile, loving wife? One might say: Why had she married? Poor girl, what chance had one of her temperament against two ambitious brothers and a monarch who desired her?

However, she did help me over those first difficult days at Court.

My father was tender with her, liking her submissiveness. What a contrast to Anne Boleyn! But I fancied there were times when I saw a little impatience creeping through, and I found myself guessing how long it would take him to tire of her.

I remember one occasion particularly. Jane was so eager to make our reconciliation complete and did everything to smooth things between us, and one day she remarked how pleased he must be to have me at Court: his own daughter, who was so beloved by the people and so important in their eyes.

He looked at her with faint contempt and said, “You are a fool, Jane. You should be thinking of the sons you will have… and not seeking to bring forward others.” He touched her stomach and went on with a touch of coarseness, “That is where your hopes should lie.”

Poor Jane looked abashed. Was she really beginning to suffer from that anxiety which had plagued the lives of both my mother and Anne Boleyn? Was it six months she had been married and no sign of pregnancy yet?

There were times when I gave myself up to the pleasures of being at Court. Jane saw that I had new gowns. I chose bright colors. I felt I needed to because, although I was not ill-favored, I was not startling in any way. My once fresh-colored complexion had grown pale—probably from the privation I had suffered. My features were regular. I suppose I should have been considered quite ordinary outside royal circles; but at least I was the King's daughter, and that set me apart—particularly as he had recognized me as such.

I encountered a certain amount of adulation and secret congratulations, for most knew that I had come through some hazardous times and still managed to survive.

I was twenty-one, so perhaps a little frivolity could be forgiven me. I danced—as I loved to—and I joined in the festivities with a gusto due to long abstinence. I was, in fact, delighted to be back at Court.

Jane noticed this, and it pleased her. “We shall see that it is just as it used to be long ago,” she told me. “I believe you were then the darling of the Court.”

“That was when I was a little girl … and all was well between my parents.”

Jane nodded and changed the subject. I noticed that she avoided any talk which might be controversial; so perhaps she was not quite so simple after all.

Secure in her friendship, I began to talk more freely.

I told her about my dear Lady Salisbury and how, since she had left me all those years ago, I had not seen her. I wished to hear of her and longed to see her.

Jane understood. “She is well, I think,” she said. “But she does not come to Court.”

“No. I suppose her friendship with me over all those years has debarred her.”

“The King is displeased with her son, Reginald Pole.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Do you think that, now all is well between us, my father might allow me to see the Countess?”

She said she would see what could be done.

Poor Jane. Her endeavors brought down the wrath of the King on her head.

She came to me in some distress. “He was quite angry. He shouted at me. Had he not warned me not to meddle? ‘No,' he said. ‘The Countess of Salisbury may not come to Court. Her son is a traitor. I'd have had his head if he had not been skulking abroad spreading malice about me. As for the lady in question, she would do well to take care.' He was really angry.”

I said, “I am sorry you did it for me.”

She said, “I know how one feels about the companions of our young days. They pass all too quickly, don't they, and then… one grows up.”

Poor Jane! She was striving so hard to be the docile wife, remembering no doubt the horrific fate of Anne Boleyn, perhaps giving a thought to the tribulations of my mother. She was in a position as dangerous as any in the country, without my mother's stern resolution and strong character and Anne Boleyn's fire and sharp wit to help her face the onslaught when it came.

Jane was already learning that—as with those two—everything depended on her ability to produce a son. I was indeed sorry that she had aroused the King's anger through me.

I did remember, though, Margaret Bryan's concern for Elizabeth, and I talked to Jane about the little girl.

“She is bright, intelligent and very attractive,” I told her.

Jane nodded. She would have liked to bring Elizabeth to Court. I was there, and Elizabeth should be. Jane longed for a happy family atmosphere. The little one was not responsible for her mother's misdeeds. Jane's eyes filled with tears when I told her how the child was being neglected, no money being sent for her clothes, and how Lady Bryan was at her wits' end wondering if in a few months' time she would have any clothes at all.

“There is a very small allowance for her food,” I said. “It is so sad. She is after all the King's daughter.”

Jane listened and sympathized.

“I shall bring her here,” she said. “It will be possible later but just now the King is so angry at the mention of her mother's name that I dare not.”

I understood, of course. She had risked his displeasure when she had talked to him of the Countess. She could not do it again by mentioning Elizabeth.

“It will change,” she assured me. “But as yet I dare not.”

I was liking her more every day.

She told me I must stay at Court. We had become such good friends that we should not be apart.

This was gratifying. Jane might be a mild creature but she was the Queen and might have a little influence on the King. It was an indication of how my character had changed that I could work out the advantages which could ensue from such a friendship. But on the other hand, I was fond of her. It was impossible not to be fond of Jane. I had a strong urge to protect her. She seemed to me like a lamb among wolves, unsuspicious of danger because, for the time being, they were not preparing to harm her.

So I did want her friendship and not only because of the advantages it might bring me. I even thought that at some stage I might be able to help her, for, one day, God knew, she might need any help she could get.

In the meantime she went on in her own sweet way and we were often together.

The King was pleased to see the friendship between us, though there were times when a tremor of fear ran through me because I thought I caught a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.

But Jane continued to delight in my company, and she confided to me that she very much wanted to bring Elizabeth to Court. “In time,” she assured me, “the King will forget her mother, and his attitude will change toward the child.”

I hoped so. But at the moment I must rejoice in my own return to favor.

All through that January I was with the Court. Jane whispered to me with great delight that she thought she was pregnant, and I rejoiced with her. By the beginning of March she was sure.

The King was absolutely delighted. At last he was going to get his son. When he did, he would know that Heaven approved of everything he had done to reach that happy state.

He talked continually of his son; he would pat Jane's stomach “Good girl,” he said. “This is the first of many.”

Jane was happy and at the same time fearful. She must have been feeling what the others had in their turn.

Would she produce the all-important son? And if not, what would happen to her?

SOON AFTER CHRISTMAS Robert Aske, the leader of the Pilgrimage of Grace, had come to London to see the King. My father received him and listened carefully to his complaints. They should have consideration, he told him, and shortly he would make a visit to Yorkshire and visit the city of York, where his Queen might be crowned.

Robert Aske must have felt the visit was a great success, and he returned to his native Yorkshire. But of course the King was not going to give up the supremacy of the Church in favor of the Pope; he was not going to accept the Pope's judgement on his first marriage and declare me his legitimate daughter. I supposed he was just trying to show his benign nature to the people and hoped the revolt would simmer down.

But the people of the North were serious, and no sooner had Aske returned than a new revolt broke out. Sir Francis Bigod led this. The King marched north, and this time there was no miracle to save the rebels. They had no chance against the King's army. The leaders were caught and hanged in the cities where they had raised the revolt. Robert Aske came to London. This time he was sent to the Tower.

My father was done with peaceful negotiations. He was going to show these northerners who was their master.

Robert Aske was taken to York and hanged in chains, where his body was left for the crows and that all might see what happened to those who opposed the King's will.

The Pilgrimage of Grace was over, and the people, he hoped, had learned their lesson.

IT WAS AN ANXIOUS time for me because now I knew that every time there was an insurrection I should be in danger. There would always be a hint that the King was to be deposed, and I was the one who would be put in his place.

It was, of course, what I was working for; but it must come about in a natural manner. I was only twenty-one. Time was on my side. I felt in my heart that one day I was going to be Queen of this country and, when I was, my first mission would be to bring it back to Rome.

I was not yet ready for the task. I was too young. I had lived too far from the Court for too long. I had much to learn, and I must prepare myself. I must worship as my mother had—wholeheartedly. Religion must come first with me as it had with her; and the only reason why I could think and plan as I did, with a good conscience, was if I made it my first concern, my whole reason for living. I could believe that I had been sent on Earth for this one purpose: to bring the Church of England back to the true Roman Catholic fold.

So I could watch the decline of my father's health with mixed feelings. I was fond of him—odd as it may seem—but it is difficult to describe that unique temperament. One could hate what he did but not entirely hate him. One was warmed by his smile, though it might be fleeting; and to bask in his approval, uncertain as it was, brought a glow of happiness, a gratification, a delight that one had earned it. I cannot explain his charismatic charm; I can only think that it was that which kept men faithful to him— even those against whom he had committed the most outrageous and often barbaric acts.

With the Pilgrimage of Grace over and Jane pregnant, he was a happy man during those waiting months.

I was at odds with myself. I had become so fond of Jane. She admitted once her fear that the child might be a girl; it seemed unfair that she should suffer such anxiety over a matter in which she had no choice. Life was so unfair. If, through no fault of her own, she produced a girl, she would be despised, dubbed no better than her predecessors, and perhaps it would be the beginning of the end for her; on the other hand, if the child were a boy, she would be praised and fêted… good Queen Jane.

And my own position? As I said, I was fond of the girl. I wanted her to be happy; yet if she produced the boy, what of my hopes of achieving my mission?

It was not that I coveted the crown for myself. I wanted it for God and the true religion. It was a crusade, and I was to lead it. I was to bring this country back to the true Faith, which surely must find favor with God.

Now, long after, when I look back on all that happened, I can see why I did the things I did later. I had lived so much of my life on a precipice from which at any moment I could be hurled to disaster. That has an effect on people. Human life can seem of little value; it is the cause that is important. Yes, perhaps that is why I acted as I did. Am I trying to find excuses? Perhaps. But excuses there are, for our characters are surely formed by the events in our early years.

At this time I was fêted at Court, the dear friend of the Queen; and I had my father's favor—but how transient that favor could be everyone knew. The Pilgrimage of Grace had brought that home to me. Men's bodies were now rotting in the great cities of the North, reminding the King's subjects of what happened to them if they disobeyed him. I was his subject, and whenever there were risings of any sort, my name would be bandied about. They had known of my mother's unswerving faith, and they would believe that her daughter shared it. There would always be suspicions. I was not safe. At any moment the King's wrath could be turned on me.

I walked a dangerous path and, looking back, I see that it was even more perilous than I realized at the time.

The Pilgrimage of Grace and its outcome, the suppression of the monasteries… these matters hung over me, for I could not be free of them. In spite of the Queen's friendship and the King's newly discovered affection for his daughter, I lived in fear during those days when the Pilgrimage of Grace was remembered.

I traveled with the Court to Greenwich and back to Richmond and then to various other houses as the Court moved round for sweetening and visiting. And all the time my friendship with Jane was growing. I had not mentioned the Countess of Salisbury again, but I did talk to Jane now and then of Elizabeth; but, with the memory of the Pilgrimage of Grace still in his mind, the King was in no mood for listening to the plight of his young daughter.

The months passed. The Queen's pregnancy was becoming obvious, and never was there a more welcome sight. The King was tender toward her, certain that she bore the son he wanted. Seers prophesied the sex of the child to please him; they would have to make themselves scarce if they were proved wrong.

I was torn between my desire for Jane's happiness and my own need to accomplish my mission, for the two were incompatible. I told myself that, if it were God's will that Jane should bear a son who would be the future King and, on account of his age and mine, my plans would be frustrated, I must not complain.

I was ready and waiting if wanted. I could leave this in God's hands.

Jane was so eager that Elizabeth should be brought to Court that she plucked up courage and mentioned this to the King, and he, eager to pamper her and perhaps fearing what adverse effect there might be on her child if she were crossed, agreed that Elizabeth might come; but he did imply that he did not wish to see her.

I knew how delighted Lady Bryan would be if there was some recognition of her darling, and I wanted to take the news to them and help the child prepare. So I left the Court at the end of summer and went to Hunsdon.

There was a great welcome for me. Margaret was delighted to see me. As for Elizabeth, when she heard she was going to see Queen Jane, she was overjoyed.

Her face was alight with pleasure and anticipation, her red curls bobbed up and down as she jumped, for she found it difficult to keep still, and Margaret was always admonishing her about this. She was four years old but her manner and way of speech were more fitting to a child of eight or nine. She was exceptionally bright and very forward. Margaret said she had never seen a child so full of vitality and yet so eager to study her books. I only half believed Margaret, for I knew her darling was perfect in her eyes. But it was true that Elizabeth was a most unusual child—the sort that one might have expected the King and Anne Boleyn to produce between them. It was over a year now since the little one had lost her mother. I wondered if she still thought of her.

Margaret was anxious about the child's clothes. She could not go in patched shifts, she declared. I was no longer poor. Gifts had been showered on me since my reinstatement, and I had an income and money from both the King and Queen. So between us we were able to equip the child for Court.

Her delight was infectious. I forgot to wonder what would be the outcome of my mission. I was caught up in the excitement of taking Elizabeth to Court.

IT WAS SEPTEMBER. The birth was expected during the following month. There were no more appearances in public for Queen Jane. She was to have a month of quietness at Hampton Court. It is, I suppose, with its courtyards and towers, one of the most magnificent buildings in England. I could never be in it without thinking of Thomas Wolsey. There he must have experienced great anguish when he realized that he, who had risen so high, was soon to fall. How had he felt when he had handed this palace over to the King? My father had questioned whether it was right that a subject should live in greater splendor than his king, and Wolsey, with that immediate perception which had brought him to his elevated position, had remarked that a subject should only have it that he might present it to his king. With that remark he may have given himself a few weeks' grace, but it had lost him his palace.

And now here we were, while Jane awaited the birth of her child.

She was, as I had known she would be, enchanted by Elizabeth. Brighteyed, with reddish curls and that amazing vitality, she possessed that charisma which I had never seen in any other person except my father in his youth. She must have inherited it from him. How could any of her mother's enemies suggest for a moment that she was not his child? He was there in her gestures, in her very zest for life. I thought, if he would only allow himself to see her, he would be completely beguiled.

But he did not see her. He did receive me. He told me that he had heard from Dr. Butts that I was well and that if I would not get over-excited I would cease to be tormented by my headaches.

“You should live more peacefully,” he told me, giving me one of those suspicious looks as though to ask: What are your aspirations? What is it that over-excites you? You are only a bastard, remember.

I shall never forget Jane during those weeks before her confinement. I wondered if she had a premonition of what was to come. It was only natural that she must have been overcome with dread—not only because of the ordeal of childbirth but by what the outcome might be if she gave birth to a stillborn child or one of the despised sex. There were dismal examples of what had happened to others, and I guessed she could not dismiss them from her mind.

I can see her now, standing with me in the great banqueting hall which had only just been completed. She had gazed at the entwined initials—her own and those of the King: J and H. It was a custom of his to have his initials entwined with those of the wife who happened to please him at the moment. They were all decorated with lovers' knots and cast in stone, which was ironical because it was so much more enduring than his emotions, and so remained long after his passion had passed away.

Jane was looking pale and by no means well. I thought a little fresh air would be good for her, such as a quiet walk in the gardens or to sit awhile under one of the trees and enjoy the autumn sunshine. But it was forbidden. The King feared there might be some minor accident which would bring about a premature birth. She was reminded at every turn that she carried the country's—and the King's—hopes for a male heir.

Elizabeth was with us, and she created a diversion. There was no doubt that Jane found pleasure in her company. Elizabeth was completely sure of herself and did not seem in the least concerned because her father would not see her. I was sure she believed that when he did he would fall victim to her charm, as almost everyone else did. I thought it was strange that she, who wanted an explanation of everything she saw or heard, never mentioned her mother. It seemed to me that it was an indication that she knew what had happened to her. Margaret would never have told her, but the sharp ears would be constantly alert for information; and I felt she knew. What would a child of four think of a father who had murdered her mother? What did I think, for he had as good as murdered mine? It says a good deal for his personality that neither of us hated him. It may have been largely due to the aura of kingship which was so much a part of him. But it was more than that. He had something in his nature which enabled him to act most cruelly—barbarously, in fact—and still people would forgive him and seek his approval.

At last the day arrived. The Queen's pains had started. There was a hushed expectancy about the palace. All were afraid to approach the King. The next few hours would be decisive. Either we should have a happy monarch or a furious, raging tyrant to contend with.

We were all in a state of tension. “A boy!” prayed the King and all those about him. Not surprisingly I was unsure of what I wanted. A boy would mean the end of all hope for me. I should lose that great chance which I had believed Heaven was holding out for me if the child were a boy. And yet… a boy would make life easier for us all. Suspicion would shift from me. No one could doubt that the King's marriage to Jane was legal, for both his previous wives had been dead at the time he married. A boy in any case would come before me… and Elizabeth.

I should be praying for a girl…or, more to my advantage, a stillborn child. But how could I? I could not bear to think of the troubles which had beset my own mother falling on Jane.

I said to myself, “God moves in a mysterious way. If it is His will that the task of bringing England back to the true Faith shall be mine, then it will be so.” And I believed that.

The vigil was long. I was in the ante-room with those in high places who must be present at the birth. The time was passing. No child yet…The anxiety was growing. Was something wrong? Was it possible that the King could not get healthy children?

The doctors came out. They must see the King at once. It was clear that the birth was not going as it should. It seemed possible that both the child and the mother could not live. There might have to be a choice. The King must make the decision.

I was glad that Jane was too ill to know his reply, to realize how deeply he desired a son, how frail was his love for her.

His reply was typical of him—brusque and revealing. “Save my son. Wives are easily found.”

My poor, poor Jane!

It was Friday the 12th of October of that year 1537 when the child was born. It was the longed-for boy.

The King's delight was unbounded. At last he had that for which he had so long prayed.

His own son, and meek little Jane had given it to him.

THE BOY WAS RECEIVED with such acclaim that little thought was given to Jane. She was exhausted and very ill but she still lived.

I talked to Margaret about it.

“Poor lady,” she said. “Her ordeal was terrible and she was never strong. Keeping her shut up like that…it was all wrong. I said it from the first. Fresh air would have done her the world of good.”

“But she did it, Margaret. She has produced the son. Both my mother and Anne Boleyn would have given everything they had to do that.”

Margaret nodded. “What she needs now is rest… not all this coming and going.”

“She is happy now, Margaret. She has been so worried.”

“I can believe that! Well now, she must have a good rest … rest and quiet and no more children for a long time.”

“The King's appetite is whetted. She has given him a son. He will want more.”

“He will have to wait. He's got one. Let him be satisfied with that.”

There must be no delay. The baby must be baptized. He was to be called Edward. The King was in a mood of exuberance. He carried the boy in his arms and had to be restrained from bouncing him up and down in his excitement. He smiled good-humouredly at the nurse who stopped him. The baby was very precious.

It was a Friday when he was born and he was to be baptized on the Monday night.

“Too soon for the Queen,” commented Margaret.

“She will be in her bed.”

“There'll be too much fuss round her.”

“I think she must be very happy, Margaret.”

But Margaret looked grim. She bore a great grudge against the King; she could never forget what he had done to her darling's mother and all the subterfuge she had had to practice to keep it from the child.

The baptism of little Edward was to take place in Hampton Court Chapel, and I was to play an important part in the ceremony. My father would feel less anxious about my position now for he had a true heir to replace me. He was therefore inclined to bring me forward a little. Perhaps this was why I was chosen to present the baby at the font.

The procession would begin in the Queen's chamber. Jane, of course, could not rise from her bed; she was far too weak. It was this which angered Margaret so much. She thought rules and customs should be set aside if people were not well enough to partake in them. These men did not realize what it was like, giving birth to a child, she said; it was a pity some of them didn't have to do it sometimes, then they would have some idea of what it was like. Even if everything had gone smoothly, the Queen would have needed rest at such a time.

However, Jane, in accordance with custom, was to be removed from her bed to a state pallet, a type of couch. This was very grand, being decorated with crowns and the arms of England worked in gold thread. The counterpane was of scarlet velvet lined with ermine.

As they lifted her from the bed, Jane was hardly aware of what was happening. She did not seem to see us as we crowded into the chamber and the trumpets blared forth.

In his benign mood, the King had decided that Elizabeth might be present. She had been brought from her bed and put into ceremonial robes. She was to carry the chrisom and, as she was just four years old, this would have been too big a task for her, so Edward Seymour, one of the Queen's ambitious brothers, carried her in his arms.

How she loved the ceremony! It was nearly midnight but she was wide awake, smiling at everyone, so happy to be a part of the procession.

I saw her grandfather, Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, in the chapel; he had a towel about his neck and was carrying a wax taper. I felt a wave of revulsion toward the man. How could he take part in a ceremony which could never have come about but for the murder of his daughter? I supposed his head was more important to him than his principles.

The sight of the man brought home to me a reminder of the perilous times in which we were living and that, because of my position, I was more vulnerable than most.

The baby was carried by the Marchioness of Exeter, under a canopy borne by four noblemen, to a small corner of the chapel, and there he was baptized.

“God, in His almighty and infinite grace, grant good life and long to the right high, the right excellent and noble Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son of our dread and gracious lord, Henry VIII.”

The trumpets rang out. Elizabeth took my hand, and together we walked in the procession back to our stepmother's bedchamber.

It was midnight, and the ceremony had lasted three hours.

The King was beside himself with joy; he smiled on all. He was certain that God had shown His approval for the match with Jane. I wondered if he felt a twinge of conscience, for what he had done to his once-loved Anne. He would be assuring himself: She was a witch. She set a spell on me, and I was not to blame.

God was confirming this. Had He not given him a son!

THE NEXT DAY Jane was very ill. The ceremony had completely exhausted her.

Her priests were at her bedside. She rallied a little but she had caught a bad chill on the night of the baptism and she could not recover from this, so weak was her state.

The King was to go to Esher. He always avoided being near the sick. Illness reminded him that he was not immune. He had never been the same since his fall, and the ulcer in his leg would not heal. It gave him great pain, and the doctors were reticent about it, as though they feared it might be a symptom of something else; so it must not be mentioned.

He was a little irritated. It was absurd that Jane, who had given the nation—and him—the most important gift of a son, should now be too ill to enjoy all the honors he had prepared for the occasion. She must make an effort to get well, he said.

Poor Jane was beyond making efforts. She grew worse, and the King finally decided that he must wait a while before leaving for Esher. He was now expressing concern for the Queen's health as she grew steadily worse.

On the 24th of October, twelve days after she had given birth to Edward, she became very gravely ill. Her confessor was with her. He administered Extreme Unction and at midnight she died.

So the rejoicing for the birth of a son was turned into mourning for the death of the Queen.

THE DAY AFTER Jane's death they embalmed her, and in her chamber Mass was said every day until they took her away. Tapers burned all through the night and ladies kept a watch. I was chief mourner, so I was present, and as I sat with others at the side of her dead body, I thought of her youth, her simplicity and her fears…Jane, who was the tool of ambitious men. I wondered if my father would ever have noticed her if her brothers had not thrust her forward. I was angry that women should be treated so… angry for my mother and myself… and yes, even Anne Boleyn.

And the nights passed thus in meditation and, in spite of the birth of the child, the feeling was strong within me that God had chosen me to work for Holy Church in my country.

It was on the 12th of November when we set out from Hampton for Windsor. In the hearse was Jane's coffin, and on it was a statue of her in wax, so lifelike that one could believe she was really there. The hair fell loose about the shoulders, and there was a crown on the head.

She was buried in St. George's Chapel.

I FELL ILL that winter. I suffered from acute headaches and dizziness and could not rise from my bed. My ladies rallied round me and served me well, and my father sent Dr. Butts to me. I recovered sufficiently to spend Christmas at Court. It was dismal. How could there be the usual feasting with the Queen so recently dead. My father wore black—a great concession. He had not worn it for his two previous wives. He was not his exuberant self, and I began to wonder whether he had cared for Jane. But I soon discovered that he was already putting out feelers to replace her.

His greatest joy was in his son. He would send for the child to be brought to him and hold him gently in his arms. He would look at him with wonder and talk to him. “You must get strong and big, my son. You have a realm to govern one day. A long time yet… but one day.” He would turn to those standing by. “See how he looks at me? He understands. Oh, he is a wonderful boy, this. He is the son I always wanted.”

He was almost boyish in his enthusiasm. Perhaps that was at the root of his charm. He seemed to be saying, “I did this…I murdered my wives… I have caused grievous suffering to monks…I have killed those who were my best servants…Wolsey…Sir Thomas More…Fisher… but I am only a boy really. My heart is warm and loving, and those barbarous acts… well, they were for the good of the country.”

And they seemed to believe him. I half did so myself.

And while he was making a show of mourning for Jane, he was looking for her successor.

He would regard me cryptically. Twenty-two years of age. That was mature for a princess…or should I say a king's daughter, for he would not allow me that title.

I had my household now. I was comfortable. But I did often feel a longing for children. There was Elizabeth. I could have wished she was my daughter; and there was now Edward. What would I have given for such a boy!

And here I was—a spinster, a virgin, to wither on the branch, unloved, unfulfillled—and all because I was branded with the taint of illegitimacy.

But it was a good life compared with what I had known. I had good friends; my servants were loyal to me; they were more than servants; they cared for me; they all believed that I should be proclaimed princess. I was never frivolous. I tried to lead a good life. They all knew I was deeply religious because I was my mother's daughter. My house was open to all the needy. We never turned any away. I had my income from the Court, and a great deal of it was spent on charity. I liked to walk about three miles a day, and it was pleasant to be able to go where I chose; and I always had pennies in my purse to give to those who, I thought, needed it.

The people were fond of me. They always called a loyal greeting when I passed.

I had my books, my music and now beautiful garments to wear. I was well educated. I could talk to any diplomats who came to Court. I was a good musician—excellent with the lute and the virginals.

But I was a woman, and I felt that I was missing the greatest blessing in life. I wanted a child.

Yet the days continued pleasant. I lived the life of a royal person in my own household. My father had even sent me a fool. She had always been a favorite of his. In fact, I think Will Somers was a little jealous of her. It was rare to have a woman as a fool, but Jane was good. Her very appearance set one laughing before she came out with her merry quips. She would dress exactly like a court lady but her hair was shaved off, and the result was ludicrous. She could sing well, and she had a repertoire of comic songs and a host of tricks with which to divert us. Evenings with Jane the Fool amused us all and were very welcome indeed.

So there was little of which to complain, but I wanted the normal life the poorest woman might expect—that I should be allowed to justify my purpose and help replenish the Earth.

There had been one or two propositions. My father would never have let me go abroad before the birth of Edward. That would be asking for some ambitious man, married to the daughter of the King of England, to set about claiming the throne. But now there was a male heir perhaps it would be different.

There were feelers from both France and the Hapsburgs… each eager to form an alliance against the other. There was Charles of Orleans, the son of François, King of France, and Dom Luiz, the Infante of Portugal, who was put forward by the Emperor.

For a few weeks I lived in a state of excitement. I was assured that either of these gentlemen would make a perfect husband. They were both handsome, charming princes. It was just a matter of which it should be.

Then came the stumbling block which had not, as I had hoped it would be, been removed because of the favor my father was showing me.

The King of France intimated that there was no one he would rather have for his son than myself. Yet there was the stain of illegitimacy. If that could be removed … well, then he would welcome none with the same ardour which he would bestow on me.

It was the same with the Portuguese. Yes, the match would be very desirable but there was, of course, this little matter.

The King was furious. He would not give way. To do so would be to undermine the supremacy of the Church—a matter which was already causing him a great deal of trouble.

So these matches were abandoned.

There was a certain rumor which gave me pleasure. I remembered how my mother, since I could not marry the Emperor Charles, had expressed a desire that I should marry Reginald Pole.

In the quietness of my room I talked with Susan Clarencieux, who had become one of my dearest friends. I could talk to her of my dreams and aspirations more openly than anyone else.

She understood my desire for marriage.

She said, “I saw your fondness for the little Elizabeth, although for a while you seemed to fight against it.”

“I hated her mother. She ruined mine. And I am afraid at first I passed my hatred on to the child. That is something one should never do…to blame the children for their parents' sins of which they are entirely innocent. It was cruel and wicked.”

“And the young Elizabeth is such an enchanting creature.”

“I often wonder what will become of her. I fear she will take everything she wishes or, failing to, bring herself to some terrible end.”

“I have a feeling that she will somehow survive.”

“Her position is even worse than mine. The King at least acknowledges me. Sometimes I think he tries to tell himself that she is not his daughter.”

“Could he look at her and doubt it?”

“Perhaps that is why he does not wish to look at her.”

“I have heard certain rumors lately. I believe that at one time you were very fond of him.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of Reginald Pole.”

“Oh.” I was smiling. Memories were coming back. How young I had been, and he had seemed so wonderful…so much older than I was…so much wiser… and yet I had loved him and believed he loved me.

“What did they say of him?” I asked.

“That he has only taken deacon's orders… not those of a priest…so that, when the time comes…he will not be debarred from taking a wife. You and he could be married.”

“Do you think there is any truth in this?”

“It is what some people would like.”

“You mean… those whom the King would call his enemies?”

“Yes.”

“But Reginald is a cardinal now.”

“He remains free to marry.”

“Oh, Susan, I wonder if it could ever be…”

She lifted her shoulders. “The King hates him now, you know. He regards him as an enemy who can do him a great deal of harm on the Continent.”

“Yes, I do know. Oh, Susan, why are things never as they should be?”

She smiled at me fondly. “You would welcome a marriage with him,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

I nodded. “It would be suitable in every way. He is a Plantagenet. Our rival houses would be joined. Besides, I know him well.”

“It is long since you saw him.”

“But he is not a man to change. Susan, there is no one I should rather have for my husband.”

And so we talked.

But I was no nearer to marriage for all that. Sometimes I thought I never should be.