Текст книги "In the Shadow of the Crown "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
I was as happy as I had been in the first days of my marriage. I was believing once more in the love of Philip. He wanted to be with me, I told myself. He was finding it difficult to tear himself away. When he had conquered the French, he would return to me, and we should live happily together.
As for the Duchess of Lorraine, she was just a memory to me—and, I hoped, to Philip. There was no question of philandering now. There would have been no time for him to indulge in such things. When he was not with his generals, he was with me.
I threw myself into the task of raising money to support the army.
It was wonderful to share a project. We talked of it incessantly. There was even time for a little hunting, and with Philip beside me that was a great joy. I found such pleasure in being in church with him. A fervent devotion to religion was something we shared. He was as eager to attend the service as I was, and to worship together brought us even closer, I was sure.
I knew that every day he asked if there was any message from Ruy Gomez. I tried not to think of it. He did not mention it, but I knew he was eagerly awaiting the return of his friend.
And then at last the news came. Ruy Gomez da Silva was in the Channel, and with him was the Spanish Fleet. They were ready to go into battle.
From the day Ruy Gomez was sighted, Philip was all eagerness to be gone; and only ten days later, he was ready to leave.
He was to join the Spanish Fleet at Dover. I was wretchedly unhappy and wanted to be with him as long as possible so, sick as I felt, I insisted on making the journey with him from London to Dover.
I cherished every moment of those four days we spent on the road. We halted three times and that last night at Canterbury was a bittersweet one for me.
I could scarcely bear to look at the ship which was going to take him away from me, but he could not hide his eagerness to be gone. It was his duty, I told myself. He had to defend his country. It was not that he wished to leave me.
He bade me a tender farewell, but even then I could not help being aware of his impatience to be gone.
Sadly I stood on the shore, watching until I could see the ship no longer.
I had a terrible presentiment that I should never see him again.
BEFORE PHILIP LEFT, he asked Reginald to look after me.
“I know your regard for each other,” he said. “It is rooted in the Queen's youth. You alone, Cardinal, can comfort her.”
The trouble had begun just before Philip left. The Pope, who had made himself Philip's enemy, declared he was deeply dissatisfied by the manner in which the return to Rome had been conducted in England. I had to admit he had some cause for complaint. I had thought it would be a simple matter and that, once the law was changed and the Pope acknowledged as Head of the Church, everything would be as it had been before the break.
There were certain facts which had escaped my attention. With the break and the introduction of Protestantism, many of the churches had been destroyed; the monasteries had been dissolved, and their lands sold or given away. The Exchequer was very low, and the war with France was depleting it further. It seemed to the energetic Pope that we were not really trying; and for this he blamed Reginald.
It was unfair. Reginald had never forgotten his duty to Rome. He had been placed in a very difficult position when the Pope and Philip had become enemies, for as a cardinal he owed his allegiance to Rome. We had brought England back to Rome, and now the Pope regarded us as his enemies, for friends of Philip were enemies of his. Moreover, Paul had allied himself with France—so we were at war with him.
Paul blamed Reginald, who was supposed to be my guide and counsellor, and he had allowed me to be persuaded to join the alliance with Spain against him.
The Pope was withdrawing all his legates from Philip's dominions, and that meant that Reginald himself was recalled. He was to be replaced by Cardinal William Peto.
To add to his tribulations, Reginald was accused of heresy. This was absurd but typical of the fiery Pope. He was good to his friends but could not hate his enemies enough, it seemed; and, having decided that Reginald was serving Philip and myself, he was determined to destroy him.
His next move was to command Reginald to appear before the Inquisition. True, he had been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, but in the Pope's eyes he was guilty of heresy because he had not succeeded in bringing England back to Rome as he should.
I am sure Reginald was not afraid of facing the Inquisition; he would never fear bodily torment or even death; but he was bitterly wounded by the Pope's treatment of him, for he had always been a loyal son of the Church. It was the break with Rome which had made him an exile; his entire life had been changed because he had been faithful to his beliefs. My father had loved Reginald dearly before the disagreement between them; it would have been easy for Reginald to have denied Rome and kept my father's favor. What a different life he might have had if he had done so! But he had been true to his faith… and now, to be accused of heresy…it was more than he could bear.
He was seized with tertian fever and became very ill indeed. He had been ill for a long time but now he seemed to have lost something of himself. He became vague and suddenly, in the midst of a discussion, he would seem to lose his way and wonder what we were talking about. He would wander through the Court, unsure of where he was going. It was very sad to see him.
I felt I was losing one of my dearest friends—for already he seemed more dead than alive.
Life was so unhappy. I had to create dreams. And as we passed into the autumn I began to believe that I was pregnant.
I did not tell anyone at first. I could not forget the humiliating experience when everyone had been awaiting the birth of the child which had never been conceived.
I clung to the thought. I knew it. All the symptoms were present. I must be so this time. God would not desert me again.
When I told Susan, I saw the look of horror dawn on her face before she set her features into joyous lines.
“Your Majesty, can it really be so?”
“It is, Susan, I know it. Everything points to it.”
“Then…it is wonderful news. It will give Your Majesty new life.”
“What I have always wanted, more than anything, Susan, is my own child.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I know.”
“As yet I shall tell no one.”
She could not hide her relief.
“No,” I said. “Not even Philip. I will wait awhile.”
“It is best,” said Susan.
“But I am sure,” I said firmly.
I had to be sure. It was the only thing which could draw me out of the morass of misery into which life had plunged me.
I HAD THOUGHT I had touched the very depth of misery, but there was more to come.
We were at war. The people said we were fighting Spain's war. We had not the means to finance a war. The Council had been against it. It was only when the Stafford affair had exposed the perfidy of the French that they had reluctantly agreed to declare war on them.
Now we were reaping the harvest.
One of the greatest blows I had been called upon to suffer had come upon me. The French had taken Calais. It was the final humiliation. That this should have happened in my reign! I was more deeply wounded than I could express. Calais had always meant something to the English. It was the gateway to France, and we had always seen the need to keep it well protected. It had been in our possession since it was taken by Edward III in 1347, and he had won it after a twelve-month siege. Always its importance had been recognized.
And now it was in the hands of the French; and all because we had become involved in a war which we did not want, which would bring us little good, and into which we had gone largely because I wished to please Philip.
It was no use telling me that our garrison had behaved with the utmost bravery—at the end only 800 of them holding out for a week against 3,000 troops of the Duke of Guise.
We had lost Calais, and in my heart I blamed myself.
Not even the thought of my pregnancy could lift my spirits.
THERE WAS SILENCE in the streets. They were burning people at Smithfield and all over the country. They are heretics, I said. It is God's will. He has set me on the throne for this purpose, and I am carrying out that purpose to the best of my ability.
But I was failing. The Pope said so. Pamphlets were being issued illegally. They condemned me. They called me a Jezebel. They said I had brought misery to my country. No man was safe from the accusations of heresy and the fire.
One of my greatest enemies was John Knox. This fanatical misogynist poured forth his hatred for my sex, and what infuriated him so much was to see a woman in control. Having hated Mary of Guise in Scotland and Catherine de' Medici in France, simply because they were women of power, he turned his attention to me. He regarded himself as the great reformer, the guardian of the people's conscience. In his opinion only papists were more to be despised than women.
He thundered forth in his pulpit, and he had only recently brought forth his First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women. It was banned in England but this did not prevent reckless people bringing it into the country.
I was indeed the Jezebel. According to my father, I had been a bastard. I had no right to the throne. God must be punishing England for her sin in allowing a woman to reign over her. He referred to my “Bloody Tyranny.”
It was then that people began to call me “Bloody Mary.”
I was deeply unhappy. People were dying for their faith, it was true. But how many more had suffered, and as cruelly, in my father's reign? Yet no one had hurled abuse at him. He had sent them to their deaths because they disagreed with him; I had done so because these victims had disagreed with God's Holy Writ. Why should I be so stigmatized when none had questioned him?
There was disaster everywhere. Calais lost, and my people and my husband deserting me. My friends were dying round me. What had I to live for? Only the child which I deceived myself into thinking I carried in my womb. I had to. It was my only reason for living.
I was ill. There was no disguising the fact. I suffered from the same fever which had attacked Reginald. He was dying. Every time a messenger came from him, I feared it was to announce his death.
News came that the Emperor Charles had died. I felt deeply depressed. I had not seen him since my childhood, but I had always felt that he was there to help me in my need. He had not always done so, I know, but it had been comforting to know that he was there…a friend.
Everything around me was changing. I wrote to Philip begging him to come to me. I knew now that the swelling in my body was due to dropsy.
Yet another disappointment, but those around me had never believed it was anything else.
I left Hampton Court for St. James's. Something told me I had not long to live.
Philip would not come to me. He was too deeply involved elsewhere. He deplored the loss of Calais. “But we shall recover it,” he wrote. He had made me name Elizabeth as my heir, for, as he pointed out, if I did so, that would avoid the possibility of civil war.
He did not say he was expecting my death, but I guessed that he was. He would have been told of my increasing infirmity…of my poor dropsical body which had succeeded twice in deluding me into thinking I was about to become a mother. He told me Reginald Pole would comfort me. Did he not know that Reginald, wandering in a shadowy world of his own, was past giving comfort to anybody?
Susan and Jane Dormer were with me. Jane was very beautiful, young and in love with the Count of Feria, who was soon to be her husband. I rejoiced with her and hoped she would know all the happiness which had been denied to me.
I had asked her not to marry until Philip came back.
Now I thought, when will that be? Dear Jane must not wait so long. I told her so. “You are fortunate,” I added. “The Count is one of the most charming men I ever met and, Jane…he loves you. That is wonderful.”
Jane turned away to hide her emotion. In the depth of her own happiness, she would understand how I had suffered from my loveless marriage.
When one knows that death is close, one looks back over one's life and sees events with a special clarity.
I have made so many mistakes. Yet I cannot see where I could have acted differently, except perhaps in my emotions, my tendency—in love only—to look upon what should have been clear to me and distort it to fit my own needs and desires. Why could I not have accepted our marriage as one of state? So many women of my kind had to do the same. I had been too old for marriage. Why did I not see that? If I had not married, everything might have been different. I would have ruled single-mindedly. I would not have been seeking to please him and so led my country into war. I should have acted on my own judgment.
Had I succeeded in the mission God had set me? I was not sure. We had returned to Rome but not very securely. I could not see into the future. I wondered what my successor would encounter. She would be ready though. Her hands were already stretching out for the crown.
Elizabeth's accession now seemed to be a certainty, and people were ready for that. They were waiting for me to die, for they believed England would be a happier place under her. It had certainly not been happy under me.
The weeks were passing. I was becoming more and more feeble. I did not see Reginald. He was too ill to come to me and I to go to him.
I heard that people were calling at Hatfield. I knew that Philip had sent orders to the Spaniards in the country to pay respectful court to Elizabeth.
So he was expecting my death… and he did not come.
It had occurred to me often that he was interested in Elizabeth. I remembered the occasion when he had hidden behind a screen that he might study her. I remembered the look in his eyes… speculative…a little lustful? I had not recognized it then, but now I knew what it meant. When I was dead…he saw himself a suitor for Elizabeth's hand.
I did not want to live. I was aware of that so strongly at that time. She had always been my rival, this vitally attractive, unpredictable sister, so much cleverer than I, always alert for her advantage. And she would succeed me. There was no question of that now.
There would be no more burnings at the stake which had made me so unpopular. Even the staunchest papists did not like them. England was determined that the Inquisition should never be allowed on its soil.
“Bloody Mary” they called me. I could hear the screams of the people as the flames licked their limbs. I could smell the pungent odor of burning human flesh. I called on God to forgive me. I had thought it was His will– and my people hated me for it. Bloody Mary! That awful epithet rang in my ears.
They blamed me, they reviled me… only Mary…Bloody Mary. Yet others had committed greater crimes. Some 300 people had been burned at the stake in my reign. Nobody blamed those who had murdered thousands in the name of the Holy Office of the Inquisition! Isabella, Ferdinand, Charles, who had buried people alive in Flanders—30,000 of them. Yet I, who was held responsible for sending 300 to the stake, was Bloody Mary.
It was small wonder that I welcomed the prospect of death. What was there for me here?
The Court was growing more and more deserted. Why stay with a woman who was almost dead?
What should I be remembered for… the cries of martyrs, smoke rising from the fires which had been lighted at their feet because they denied the faith which I had imposed on them?
I was tired of life and my people were tired of me. It was time I went.
Susan was with me, so was Jane. They would not leave me. There were other faithful women, too.
Susan tried to cheer me. But nothing would cheer me.
They brought me materials so that I could write, for thinking of the past could draw my mind from the present. Susan was not sure that that was right for me.
“Sometimes it makes you so sad,” she said.
“There are many wounds that trouble my oppressed mind,” I told her.
“And there is one which is greater than any.”
Susan said, “If the King knew you were so ill, I am sure he would come.”
“Do not let us deceive ourselves, Susan, my dear friend. If he knew how ill I was, he would do just what he is doing now, only perhaps he would renew his attention to Elizabeth. But I was not thinking of Philip then. I was thinking of Calais. When I die, they will find Calais lying upon my heart. I lost it, Susan. I lost it because I wanted Philip. I wanted to please him… to keep him with me. Always I have suffered through my affections.”
“Not always, dear lady. You have not suffered through us who have always loved you and will do so until you die.”
I turned to Susan and embraced her. Then I took Jane into my arms and wished her all the happiness I had missed.
“And that,” I added, “is a great deal.”
They left me, and I took up my pen and wrote.
They are all going to leave the Court. To them the Queen is dead. So I shall write no more, for soon they will be at Hatfield crying, “Long live the Queen!”
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JEAN PLAIDY is the pen name of the late English author E. A. Hibbert, who also wrote under the names Philippa Carr and Victoria Holt. Born in London in 1906, Hibbert began writing in 1947 and eventually published over two hundred novels under her three pseudonyms. The Jean Plaidy books—ninety in all—are works of historical fiction about the famous and infamous women of English and European history, from medieval times to the Victorian era. Hibbert died in 1993.
WRITTEN BY ONE OF THE GRANDES DAMES OF HISTORICAL fiction, In the Shadow of the Crown is the richly compelling story of Mary Tudor, the oldest child of Henry VIII. Though born a royal princess, her life is far from easy, and her first-person account is a spellbinding storm of danger, intrigue, and dashed romantic dreams. As a mere female, Mary is caught—in the politics of succession, as Henry tosses aside countless wives in a dire quest for a son, each time endangering Mary's life from those who would claim the throne themselves; in the constantly shifting politics of Europe, as Henry repeatedly betroths Mary to the scion of his latest ally, only to call it off before any wedding takes place; and in the politics of religion, as her refusal to accept her father's new Church of England has disastrous repercussions in her own five-year reign, leaving her forever known as “Bloody Mary.” Through her eyes, we see all the telling details—the majesty, the magnificence, and the machinations—of one of England's most turbulent eras.
Questions For Discussion
1♦ Mary's motto is, “Time unveils Truth.” Why does she believe that? Does it prove to be an accurate statement? How does it become a recurring theme of the novel?
2♦ Love—for her mother, her betrothed, her siblings, her handmaids—is an enduring motif in Mary's story. Do you think she understands what love is? Does she find true love in any form?
3♦ Mary portrays her father at various times as a cruel tyrant, an incorrigible dissembler, and “a god, all-powerful and gloriously benign.” Do you think she believes each one at the time? What do you think of Henry—how he treats his daughter, his wives, and women in general? Is he a good king, even if he's not the best father? If he were ruling a country today, how might he be perceived by the world?
4♦ After her betrothal to the Emperor is rescinded, Mary says, “I must thrust aside sentimentality. I must cease to dream of chivalry and romance. That was not for such as I was, and oddly enough I did not wish it to be different.” Does she succeed in this effort? Why or why not? Does she really want to?
5♦ Mary says, “My heart was filled with anger—not toward him so much as toward [Anne Boleyn], the goggle-eyed whore, the woman who was his evil genius. I blamed her for all the trials which had befallen us.” Why does she lay the blame at Anne's feet instead of her father's? In doing so is she betraying her gender, or rationalizing as any child of a broken home might do?
6♦ Over and over, Mary criticizes her father for his malleable conscience, but it often seems hers is equally compliant. As she says on page 133, “I began to believe fervently that what I had done—however much it had been against my principles—was the only way in which I could have acted.” When does that cease to be a purely personal foible? What are the repercussions? Does Mary ever recognize this trait in herself?
7♦ How does Catherine of Aragon's example affect Mary's behavior? Ultimately, do you believe her mother would be proud of her? What about her surrogate mother, the Countess?
8♦ Symbolism plays a great role at court, through rituals, family members' inclusion or exclusion, even room décor. What would you say was Mary's most symbolic act? What did it signify?
9♦ Most, if not all, of what happens in Mary's life stems from the simple fact of her gender. How might things have been different if Catherine had managed to produce a son in addition to Mary? If Mary had been permitted to marry and have children at a reasonable age?
10♦ Mary's illnesses often come on at critical times. What does Plaidy lead you to believe about these spells, through Mary's own narration? If she were alive today, would her bouts be taken seriously, or would she be sent for psychiatric treatment?
11♦ Throughout the novel, Mary persists in believing her cousin the Emperor to be her staunch supporter, even though he repeatedly refuses to involve himself in any meaningful way in her plight. Is she just naàve, or is something bolstering her belief? Do you see parallels in her relationships with Elizabeth and Philip?
12♦ Ultimately Mary gains the throne. Is this because, as she seems to believe, she has learned to maneuver in the politics of the court, or just happenstance? What do you think of her choices as Queen? Is she making up her own mind or being manipulated? How do her advisors differ from her father's?
13♦ “Though I was a woman and they might think a man would be more suitable to rule them, I had a heart full of sympathy for my subjects and I would be a gentle and loving sovereign.” Mary says this at the beginning of her reign, but later she complains, “How many more had suffered, and as cruelly, in my father's reign?…He had sent them to their deaths because they disagreed with him; I had done so because these victims had disagreed with God's Holy Writ. Why should I be so stigmatized when none had questioned him?” Given the fact that Mary is telling her story in hindsight, what do you make of these two quotes? Was her gender a factor in the way her subjects judged her? Was her legacy deserved?
14♦ Do you see any parallels between the hunts for “heretics” in Henry's reign, and again in Mary's, and religious extremism in the world today? What might we learn from the Tudor era?
