Текст книги "In the Shadow of the Crown "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
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.
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.
