In the Shadow of the Crown - Plaidy Jean - Страница 25

This was an addition to our worries, but at least Reginald seemed at peace, and he set about writing his treatise.

I think my father was genuinely fond of him, because he read it with interest and showed no displeasure, although Cromwell said it must not be made public because it was contrary to the King's purpose; and he added that the arguments were set down with wisdom and elegance but would have the opposite effect of what the King wanted.

We trembled afresh when we heard this.

“This man Cromwell is an evil influence on the King,” declared Reginald.

“I do believe he is trying to undermine the supremacy of the Church. Pray God he does not succeed. The King does not like the man but he is very taken with his arguments. I am greatly in fear of what will happen next.”

We had many serious talks after that. His mother was in constant fear for she was convinced he was in acute danger. She was persuading him to go abroad. She said to me, “I know we do not want to lose him, nor does he wish to leave us, but I am terrified every day he remains.”

“What do you think will happen?” I asked.

“Cromwell's idea is that the King should break with Rome and set himself up as Supreme Head of the Church of England. That is what Reginald thinks will happen. The King will then demand to be accepted as such, and those who refuse to accept him—as all good churchmen must—will be accused of treason.”

“Surely my father would never go so far!”

“He is caught up in this matter. It is more than a desire to marry Anne Boleyn. It is a battle between Church and State, and it is one he must win to satisfy himself.”

“And you think that Reginald…”

“Is in danger if he stays. He must get out now … and stay away until it is safe for him to come back.”

At length his mother prevailed on Reginald to go; but first he must get the King's permission.

I remember that day when Reginald presented himself to the King. The Countess had been all for his going away and writing to the King from Paris, Padua or some safe distance; but Reginald would not agree to that. He thought it cowardly.

He presented himself to my father and told him he wished to continue his studies abroad. He told us afterward what happened. The King was pleasant to him, and Reginald was able to tell him frankly that he could not go against his conscience. Perhaps the King was particularly sympathetic about consciences, for he listened with sympathy. Reginald told my father that he believed it was wrong to divorce the Queen and, no matter what happened to him, he could not go against his convictions.

The King was sorrowful rather than angry and at length he agreed to allow Reginald to go.

How relieved we were to see him arrive back to us but that relief was tempered with sadness that he should be leaving us.

I was very melancholy. I had lost one of my few friends; and one of the best I should ever have.

TIME WAS PASSING. IT WAS NEARLY SIX YEARS SINCE THE King had first thought of divorce, and still he was without satisfaction. There had never been such a case in royal history.

We were at Greenwich with the Court, my mother and I, when we heard there was to be a move to Windsor.

Relations between my parents had become even more strained. Although my mother was still treated in some ways as the Queen, the King was hardly in her presence, and Anne Boleyn had her own apartments within the household.

We awoke one morning the find the Court ready to depart but to go to Woodstock instead of Windsor. We began to prepare to leave in the usual way when we were told that the King would not require our presence at Woodstock and we were to go to Windsor.

We were astonished. The Countess was very anxious. I had not seen her so disturbed since those days when she was urging Reginald to leave the country.

“I cannot think what it means,” she said to me. “But mean something it does.”

We remained at Windsor for three weeks before a messenger came from the King.

He was coming to Windsor to hunt and when he arrived he desired that we should not be there. My mother was to go with her household to the Moor in Hertfordshire. Then came the blow. I was not to go with her. I was to go to Richmond.

We were dismayed and clung to each other.

“No, no,” I cried. “I will not endure it. Anything but this.”

“Perhaps it is only for a while,” said the Countess soothingly.

But we none of us believed that. We understood. When we rode out together, the people cheered us. Anne Boleyn received very different treatment. She was “the Concubine” and they shouted abuse at her, calling her the King's goggle-eyed whore. They felt differently toward me. I was their dear Princess, the heir to the throne. They would have none other but me.

This must have been infuriating to my father and his paramour; and I guessed she had had a hand in this.

So they would separate us and we should not be seen together. No doubt then we might come to our senses if we realized the power of the King.

“I will not leave you,” I cried passionately. “Oh, my mother, we must be together. Let us run away and hide ourselves.”

“My dearest child,” she said. “Let us pray that we shall be with each other again soon.”

“What is the use of prayers?” I demanded. “Have we not prayed enough?”

“We can never pray enough, my child. Always remember my thoughts are with you. Let us be resigned to our cruel fate. It cannot endure, I am sure of that. Say your prayers while we are apart. It may well be that soon we shall be together again.”

But how sad she looked in spite of her brave words. I was in an agony of fear for her. He had taken so much away from us. Why could he not leave us each other?

My heart was filled with anger—not toward him so much as toward her, the goggle-eyed whore, the woman who was his evil genius. I blamed her for all the trials which had befallen us.

My mother took a sad farewell of the Countess. They embraced tenderly.

“Care for my daughter,” said my mother.

“Your Highness…you may trust me.”

“I know, my dear friend, I know. It is my greatest comfort that she is with you.”

I had loved Richmond until now; the view of the river, the irregular buildings, the projecting and octagonal towers crowned with turrets, the small chimneys which looked like inverted pears…I had loved them all. But now it was like a prison, and I hated it because my mother was not there with me.

I DID TRY to follow my mother's instructions. It was difficult. I thought of her constantly. I was afraid for her health; the anxieties of the last years were clearly undermining it—as they were my own.

I said to the Countess, “If we could only be together, I would suffer anything. But this separation is unendurable.”

“I know,” she replied. “It cannot continue. There are murmurings among the people. They are with you and your mother. They will never accept Anne Boleyn.”

“They will have to if it is my father's will. He is all powerful.”

“Yet he has failed so far to get this divorce.”

“I hope he never does. I wish she could die. Why did she not when she had the sweat?”

“It was God's Will,” said the Countess.

And there was no disputing that.

We heard that Anne Boleyn was living like a queen, and of the jewels she wore—all gifts from the King. But every time she appeared in public, insults were hurled at her.

“Bring back the Queen!” cried the people. “Long live the Princess!” It was gratifying but ineffectual.

We had no friends. There was only the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, who could visit my mother, advise her and comfort her and keep her in touch with the Emperor, because of whom the Pope would not grant the divorce though beyond that he could do little. He could not go to war with England on my mother's account. Moreover my father and Francois were allies now.