Текст книги "In the Shadow of the Crown "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
IF PHILIP WAS DISAPPOINTED—WHICH I AM SURE HE MUST have been—he did not show it.
I felt not only desolate but intensely humiliated. I had believed myself to be with child, and there was no child. I could imagine the manner in which I was being discussed in the streets of the cities and villages, and even in the tiny hamlets; all over the country they would be talking of the child which had never existed.
Philip was always mentioning his father, who needed him badly.
“He has missed you from the day you left,” I said. “I understand that.”
“He has many commitments. I should be with him.” He was looking at me with the faintest dislike in his eyes. Oh no, I told myself, not dislike. It was only that terrible disappointment. He had so much hoped that we should have our child by now. Was he thinking that I was incapable of bearing children? I knew I was small; I was not attractive; I had been old when I married him. How did I please him as a lover? I did not know. Such matters were not discussed between us; they just happened. Was that how lovers behaved? I wondered. Did I disappoint him? He had already had a wife; he never spoke of her. I heard rumors that sometimes he went out at night with some of his gentlemen, that they put on masks and went about the town, adventuring. There were bound to be rumors.
If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.
How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.
“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”
Any mention of the child unnerved me.
“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”
“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”
I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.
And I was beginning to wonder, too.
I felt humiliated and defeated.
“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.
“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”
He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”
I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.
He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.
It was natural that he should want to go.
“I shall return,” he said.
“I pray God that you will ere long,ȍ I answered.
SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.
We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.
It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.
I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt they were wondering about me and the baby which had never existed. I knew there must have been fantastic rumors. There was one I heard about a certain woman—and even mentioning her name. It was Isabel Malt, who lived in Horn Alley in Aldersgate. She had given birth to a beautiful healthy boy at that time when I was waiting for mine. It was said that a great lord had offered Isabel a large sum of money for her baby if she would part with him and tell everyone that the child had died. The baby was to have been smuggled into Hampton Court and passed off as mine.
These wild rumors might have been amusing if they were not so tragic; and unfortunately there will always be those to believe them.
If I had had a child, I wondered, what rumors would have been created about him?
I had never been so unhappy as I was at that time. As I rode through those crowded streets and met the curious gaze of my people and heard their half-hearted, if loyal, shouts, I thought I would willingly have given my crown for the happiness of a loved wife and mother.
It had been arranged that Elizabeth, who was to be a member of the party come to bid Philip farewell, should travel by barge. I did not want to have to compete with her for the cheers of the people. I felt that she, with her young looks and easy manners, would have commanded the greater share of the acclaim—and, worse still, it would have been noticed.
I took a barge with Philip at the Tower Wharf and was beside him as we sailed down to Greenwich.
The members of the Council accompanied us, and I noticed how ill Gardiner was looking in the torchlight, for it was dusk. I was glad of the gloom. I did not want the bright sunlight to accentuate the ravages in my face which the last weeks had put there.
There came the moment when we must say goodbye.
Philip kissed all my ladies, as he had when he arrived, and I was reminded of that day and yearned to be back in that happy time.
At last he took his leave of me. He kissed me with great tenderness, and I tried to tell myself that he was as grieved at our parting as I was; but I knew in my heart that he was not. I was aware that, if he had greatly desired to stay, he would have found excuses for doing so. He gave no sign of his pleasure in leaving, and his features were set in a mold of sad resignation.
I felt the tears in my eyes and tried to suppress them. But I could not do so. Philip would hate tears.
I clung to him. He responded stiffly and then, murmuring, “I shall be back ere long,” he left me.
I stood lonely and bereft, watching him depart. I would not move. He stood on the deck, his cap in hand, watching me as I watched him.
And there I stayed until I could see him no more.
I had lost my child, and now my husband was taking with him all hopes of happiness.
I THINK I MUST have been the most unhappy woman in the world.
Sullen looks came my way as I rode out; a pall of smoke hung over Smithfield, where men were chained to stakes and died because they would not accept the true faith. I had not wanted that.
“Persuasion,” I had said. Was this persuasion?
Gardiner had died. He had left me to reap the harvest and had not stayed long enough to see what effect it would have.
I was lonely and helpless. This was my mission. I had completed it. I had brought the Church back to Rome but there was little joy for me.
I was ill most of the time. My headaches persisted. My dreams were haunted by the screams of people chained to the stakes in that Smithfield which had become a Hell on Earth.
It had to be, I assured myself. The Council said so. Every man had a chance to recant and save his life. They were all offered mercy. Most of them preferred martyrdom, and the fires continued. It had become a common sight to see men and women led out to be chained to the stakes, and the sticks lighted at their feet.
It was a black day when Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, went to their deaths. They had been tried and sentenced in Oxford, and the stakes were set up in the ditch near Balliol College.
It must have been a pitiable sight to see such men led to their deaths. They came out to die together.
The scene was later described to me. I did not want to hear of it but I had to know. Two such men… noble, good men in their ways, though misguided, to die so!
Latimer presented an impressive sight to the watching crowds, in his shabby frieze gown tied at the waist with a penny leather girdle, a string about his neck on which hung his spectacles and his Testament. I could not bear to think of this infirm old man shuffling to his death. But they said he had such nobility of countenance that the crowds watched in silent awe.
Nicholas Ridley, who came with him, presented a contrast.
He was about fifteen years younger and an extremely handsome man. Why…oh why? If only they would renounce their faith! But why should I expect them to do that? I would not have renounced mine.
I could not bear to think of those two men.
Neither of them showed fear. It was as though they were certain that that night they would be beyond all pain, in Heaven.
And as the sticks were lighted at Ridley's feet, Latimer turned his head toward him and said, “Be of good cheer, Master Ridley. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's Grace, in England, as I trust will never be put out.”
The power of words is formidable. There would be people who would never forget those. They would inspire. There would be more martyrs in England because Ridley and Latimer had died so bravely.
Latimer, being old and feeble, died almost immediately; Ridley lingered and suffered greatly.
There were two more to haunt my dreams.
MY GREAT CONSOLATION at that time was Reginald. I spent hours with him. He had done so much in aiding the return to Rome. I was hoping that in time he would come to be Archbishop of Canterbury now that Cranmer was in prison.
It seemed to me that that was a post which would suit him. He had more understanding of Church affairs than those of government.
While we talked, I often found myself slipping into a daydream, wondering how different my life might have been if I had married him as my mother and his had wished.
In spite of his saintliness, there was a strong streak of bitterness in his nature. It was understandable. His happy family life had been completely changed because my father had desired Anne Boleyn and had thrust aside with ruthless ferocity all those who had stood in his way. And so many had.
It was that which had changed the course of our lives, and Reginald could not forget it.
I was right. The martyrdom of Ridley and Latimer had had its effect. No one could have witnessed such a spectacle without being deeply affected by it. There was murmuring all over the country.
I was so unhappy that I fell into fits of melancholy. I was tired and spiritless. I longed for Philip. His absence was to have been brief, he had said, but in my heart I knew that, once he had gone, he would not hurry to return.
Here I was, barren and lonely, having to face the fact that the child I had so desperately wanted was nothing but a myth.
Why had God deserted me? I asked myself. When had He ever given me aught to be thankful for? Why should I be so ill-used? Those were dangerous thoughts. I must subdue them. I must, as my mother would have said, accept my lot and keep my steps steadily upon the path of righteousness.
It was inevitable that there should be plots; and there was one which could have been very dangerous.
Every few weeks someone was accusing someone. It was often proved that a person had a grudge against another or someone had made a certain remark which could have been construed as treason; but when a conspiracy was discovered which involved the King of France, that was a serious matter.
It was by great good fortune that this came to light before it had gone too far, because one of the plotters lost his confidence in the success of the rebellion and went along to Reginald to confess what he knew.
His name was Thomas White, and his part in the scheme was to rob the Exchequer of £50,000.
Reginald had been skeptical at first, but when White explained that he was friendly with the wife of one of the tellers in the Exchequer who had promised to get impressions made of her husband's keys, he took it seriously.
Robbery was one crime, treason was another; but it emerged that robbery was a preliminary to the greater plan. The money was needed by Sir Henry Dudley to get together an army of mercenaries who would be banded together in France and who would cross the Channel to attack the south coast.
This Sir Henry Dudley was the distant cousin of the Duke of Northumberland who had set Jane Grey on the throne. The Dudleys were a formidable family, and the fact that he belonged to it made him a figure of importance not only in my eyes but in those of many others.
If only Philip were here! I needed a strong man beside me, for it had become clear that the plot was far-reaching. I wondered whom I could trust among those around me. I could rely, as I knew from the past, on my dear friends Rochester and Jerningham, and I asked them to choose men whom they could trust to investigate what was going on.
It was revealed that the French ambassador, de Noailles, who had always caused much anxiety, was fully aware of what was happening and was reporting it to his master, on whom they were relying for help. John Throckmorton, a relative of Nicholas who had sent the goldsmith to warn me of my brother Edward's death, was one of the leaders of the plot and that threw suspicion on Nicholas.
The magnitude of the scheme was alarming, involving the French as it did. Plans for landing and taking the Tower of London were revealed, and they had all been drawn up very carefully.
I was very tired and sick. I almost longed for death.
Meanwhile the conspirators were brought to justice. The object of the plot had been to dispatch me as I had dispatched Jane Grey, and to set up Elizabeth, who would marry Courtenay.
I did not believe for one moment that Elizabeth was aware of this. She would not be so foolish. She knew the state of my health and that it would be wiser to wait. Surely I could not have long to live? I did not wish to. If Philip would return to me and I could have a child, then only would life be worth living. But deep within me I feared that would never be. I was too old. I had this illness in my inner organs. It was what had plagued me all my life. I tried to fight against the conviction that it had made me barren; and I fought hard to reject the idea because I could not bear to accept it.
It was said that Sir Anthony Kingston was involved in the conspiracy. He was in Devonshire and immediately commanded to come to London to stand trial with the others.
I was to learn that he died on the journey to London. It was rumored that he had killed himself rather than face trial.
The prisoners were tried and questioned. Only John Throckmorton proved himself to be a brave man and, even when racked most ferociously, he refused to betray any of his fellow conspirators and declared he would die rather than reveal anything. The others were less brave and implicated others, some of them men in high positions.
Executions followed and there were further arrests.
The Council urged that Elizabeth be brought for questioning, but I would not have that. I believed she was loyal to me, and I did not want them to trump up a charge against her. Apart from my sisterly feelings toward her, I feared that, if she were harmed in any way, the people would rise in strength against me. She had won their hearts. I had always known that her popularity far exceeded my own.
I wanted nothing now so much as to be left alone with my grief and melancholy.
THE BURNING OF PROTESTANTS continued. It was only when some notable person was led to the stake that it was an event.
So it was with Cranmer.
As Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer had played a big part in my father's affairs and had been one of the prime movers in the break with the Church of Rome; and it was thought that it would be safe and wise to be rid of him.
He was a man of great intellectuality but such men are often less brave than others. Cranmer was not a brave man… not until the very end. The return of papal authority must have filled him with terror, for he would know that one who had been at the very heart of the break would find himself in a difficult position.
I was pleased when he signed a declaration agreeing that, as Philip and I had admitted the Pope's authority in England, he would submit to our views. That should have been enough; and doubtless it would have been but for his position in the country and the effect he would have on so many people.
I had said that those who admitted their heresy and turned to the true faith would be free. But there were politics to be considered as well as religion and, much as I deplored this, I was overruled.
If only Philip had been here, I said, over and over again; but I knew that if Philip were here he would be on the side of the Council. Yet I deluded myself into thinking that he would have stood by me. I had to delude myself. It was the only way to bring a glimmer of hope into my life.
Cranmer signed two documents. In one he agreed that he would put the Pope before the King and Queen; and in the other he promised complete obedience to the King and Queen as to the Pope's supremacy.
This should have saved him, but his enemies were determined he should die. He was too important to be allowed to live; and he was condemned and taken out to the stake.
Face to face with death, martyrdom descended upon him. He addressed the people, telling them that in his fear of death he had signed his name to certain documents. He had degraded himself by doing so, and before he died he wished to proclaim his faith in the new religion.
The sticks were lighted and, as the flames crept up his body, he held out his right hand and said in resonant tones, “For as much as my right hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, it shall be punished therefor and burned first.”
He stood there, his hand outstretched while the flames licked his flesh.
All over the country they were talking of Cranmer.
“Where will it end?” they were asking. “What next? Will they bring the Inquisition to England?”
Sullen anger was spreading.
I had done what God had intended I should, but it had brought me into ill repute.
There was no comfort anywhere. Reginald was ill and growing very feeble; I could not believe he would live long. And still Philip did not return.
WHY DID HE not come? I wrote to him, “I am surrounded by enemies. My crown is in danger. I need you.”
But there was always some excuse.
His father had now abdicated in his favor, and he was King of Spain in his own right. This seemed a good reason to keep him away. I made excuses for him to others, but in my own chamber I said to myself: He does not want to come. I am his wife. Why does he not want to be with me as I do him?
He had never loved me. Once more I had deluded myself. He had gone through the motions of being a husband; and I, feeling so deeply myself, had been aware of the lack of response in him. But I would not admit it. I had tried to believe because I so desperately wanted to.
I was deeply upset by the burnings. I did not know what I should do. It was God's will, I told myself continually. This was what He had preserved me to do. Those who died, I assured myself, were doomed to hell fire in any case. They were heretics, and heretics are the enemies of God. They must be eliminated before they spread their evil doctrines.
I concerned myself with the poor. I would go to visit them in their houses, talk of their problems with them, take them food and give them money if they needed it.
It comforted me to some extent. It helped to shut out the ghostly cries that echoed in my ears, the smell of burning flesh which seemed constantly in my nostrils.
Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper, Latimer … I could not forget them. They were men I had known, spoken with. I had liked some of them… and I had condemned them to the fire. No, not I. It was their judges. I would have pardoned them. But the ultimate blame would be laid on my shoulders.
Apart from Reginald, my greatest comfort was in my women. There was Susan, of course, and Jane Dormer was another whom I particularly liked. Jane was betrothed to the Count of Feria, a gentleman of Philip's suite, and one of his greatest friends. When Philip returned to England with his entourage, Jane was to be married, so she and I had a great deal in common at that time, both awaiting the return of a loved one.
My fortieth birthday had come and passed. How the years pressed on me! If Philip did not return soon, I should be too old for childbearing.
I still cherished the hope.
Why did he not come? I asked myself again and again. Always it was the same answer when I wrote to him pleadingly: “I will come soon…as yet there are duties which keep me here.”
He wrote that he must go to Flanders to celebrate his coming to power there, as well as in Spain.
There were malicious people to bring me news of those celebrations. Philip was playing a big part in them. He was giving himself up to pleasure. It was difficult to imagine Philip's doing that. He had always been so serious when he was with me.
“Why does he not come?” I kept demanding of Susan and Jane.
“What can be keeping him all this time?”
If they were silent, I would make excuses for him. His father had renounced the realm in Philip's favor, I reminded them. He was no longer merely the Prince of Spain but the King. He had his obligations.
But I was worried. Reginald could not help me. He was very ill, and I was discovering that he was not a practical man. He was clever and learned, but I needed advice.
I was desperately worried about the burnings, in spite of the fact that I told myself it was God's will. I heard terrible stories of wood which would not ignite properly, of people who were scorched for hours before they finally passed away. Some of the screams were terrible. Men talked of Cranmer, Ridley, Hooper and Latimer, but there were humble folk, too… the unlearned who had been led astray. Having been on my errands of mercy, disguised as a noble lady with no hint that I was the Queen, I had learned something of the lives of these people. I felt it was wrong to send them to a fiery death simply because they were ignorant and saw themselves as martyrs.
If only Philip were here! But he upheld the Inquisition in his land. He would bring it to England, and persecution would be intensified then.
To whom could I turn?
I decided to send to Flanders to find out the real cause for Philip's continued absence. Were those stories of his adventurings true? I could not believe them. But then, just as I had never understood my sister Elizabeth, I did not understand Philip either. I was too downright, I supposed. I was at a loss with those people who showed a certain front to the world when they were secretly something else.
At the same time I sent a messenger to the Emperor. I had the utmost respect for his judgement. I had always regarded him as one of the most shrewd leaders in Europe, possessed of great wisdom.
I wanted him to be told of the heretics who made martyrs of themselves and the effect it was having on the people. I had always wanted to persuade … to coerce perhaps… and only rarely impose the final penalty. The Emperor might give me his views. There was another point. People varied. What the Spaniards accepted, the English might not. I wanted him to know that there was discontent throughout the kingdom and that even the most faithful to the old religion felt a repugnance toward the fiery death—particularly for men who had led good lives—men such as Hugh Latimer, for instance.
Why did I expect Charles to understand? On his orders, 30,000 heretics in Flanders had been either beheaded or buried alive. And Philip? What did he care for those people? The numbers who had died in England since the rules were introduced were infinitesimal compared with those who had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition.
No, the Emperor would think, with Philip and some members of my Council, that I was a foolish woman, and that a woman needed a man beside her if she was to rule with a firm hand.
I was ready to agree. If only he would come!
He had so many commitments now, he wrote. As soon as it was possible, he would be with me. It was only duty which kept him from me! Duty! Paying homage to beautiful women in Brussels! Was that duty?
I was told that Ruy Gomez da Silva had told our ambassador that Philip could not come because his astrologer had prophesied that, if he returned to England, he would be assassinated. Therefore he felt it wiser to stay away. After all, the Spaniards had been treated rather badly when they were in England. They had been shunned almost everywhere; they had been robbed and often attacked. It was small wonder that the King was inclined to listen to his astrologer.
I was ill… sick with disappointment. My women were anxious about me. They thought of everything they could do to amuse me for a while, but I was not amused. Even Jane the Fool could not bring the slightest smile to my lips.
I was with Susan and Jane Dormer one day when they began to chide me for my listless attitude. I was not eating enough; I was staying in my apartments, brooding.
“It will be different when the King returns,” I said.
“Your Majesty should try to enjoy what is here for your pleasure.”
“My heart is with my husband,” I replied.
“You must know that.”
“But he does not come, Madam,” said Jane Dormer sadly.
“He has too much with which to occupy himself.”
I caught a glance which passed between them. Susan's lips were a little pursed. Jane lifted her shoulders slightly. It was as though Jane were asking a question. I distinctly caught the faint shake of Susan's head.
“What have you heard?” I demanded.
Jane flushed scarlet. Susan was more self-contained.
She said, “I doubt little that Your Majesty does not already know.”
“Then why is it that you have decided not to tell me?”
They opened their eyes wide and looked at me, assuming innocence. But I knew them well, and I guessed there was something they were keeping from me.
“Susan…Jane…” I said.
“Have you joined the ranks of my enemies?”
“Your Majesty!”
“You are hiding something from me.”
“But Your Majesty…”
“Susan, what are you afraid to tell me?”
“Oh … it was nothing. Just idle gossip.”
“Concerning me.”
They were silent.
“And the King… was he concerned?” I persisted.
Susan bit her lip. “It is all nonsense. There will always be rumors.”
“And these rumors?”
Susan looked at Jane and Jane at Susan. It was Susan who spoke. “They are saying that the King will never come back.”
“Why should he not?”
“They are saying, Your Majesty, that he prefers to be somewhere else.”
There was silence. Jane fell to her knees and, taking my hand, kissed it.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” she said earnestly, “I wish all could be well with you. I pray he will come soon and show how he loves you… and that there will be a child.”
“I pray for it, Jane.”
“I, too, Your Majesty,” added Susan.
I looked at her. There was an expression of infinite sadness on her face. I had known Susan for many years. She was one of those most dear to me. I trusted her. I knew of her love and devotion.
“You do not believe that he will come, Susan,” I said. “And you know something which you are afraid to tell me.”
She could not dissimulate. She was my honest, open Susan.
She drew a deep breath and said, “There are rumors. But there are always rumors.”
“And these rumors? Come. Since they are only rumors, we need not believe them if we do not wish to.”
“That is so, Your Majesty.”
“Then tell me what you have heard. It is not good that I should be kept in the dark.”
“Your Majesty has suffered. Only those of us who have been near you know how much. I cannot bear to see Your Majesty suffer… and to remain deluded.”
“Deluded? What of these rumors? They concern the King. You must tell me.”
Still she was silent.
“Susan,” I commanded. “Tell me.”
“There are women, Your Majesty. The Duchess of Lorraine is his mistress.”
I tried to smile. I heard myself saying, “The King is a man, Susan. It is the way of men. I am not there. He wants me, of course. I am his wife. But we are separated. We should not take these women any more seriously than he does.”
I was amazed at myself, surprised that I could speak calmly when I was seething with jealousy within. It was hard to pretend. He should be faithful. We were married. We had taken our sacred vows. But I knew this rumor was true. A mistress! How was he with her? Not as he had been with me… courteous… like a stranger. We must try to get a child. Just that. No real love, no passion. Was that how he was with her? But he would not be with her because of the urgent need to get a child. He would be with her because that was where he wanted to be.
And this was why he did not come to England.
I knew that was not all. Half of me said, Do not pursue this. It is only going to make you more unhappy. But if there was more to know, I must know it.
“What else, Susan?” I asked.
“There is nothing else.”
“Usually you are truthful, Susan. It is one of the qualities which have endeared you to me. Come, do not disappoint me. What else have you heard?”
“One cannot trust the French,” she said.
“No. But sometimes they make some pertinent comments. What is their verdict on my marriage?”
She was silent and looked as though she were on the point of bursting into tears.
“I insist on knowing, Susan.”
“The French ambassador told the Venetian ambassador that Philip has said that England is nothing but a costly nuisance. He does not like the people and he does not want to return to it.”
“That cannot be true.”
“Your Majesty asked…”
“Yes, I asked because I like to know what tales are being circulated. What else, Susan? You are still holding something back.”
She paused; she held up her head and a certain defiance came into her eyes. I knew she did not like Philip because she blamed him for my unhappiness.
She said, “It is that King Philip is hoping to have his marriage annulled.”
It was out, and now it was difficult for me to hide my dismay. They knew me too well, both of them. They had seen my exultation. I had talked to them of the perfections of my husband, of my perfect marriage, of my hopes. I could not disguise my misery from these two who knew me so well.
