In the Shadow of the Crown - Plaidy Jean - Страница 36
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I was allowed to walk out now. I could even take my goshawk with me. I was feeling a little better, recuperating, and when I left Greenwich and went to Eltham, I was allowed, because I was so weak, to ride in a litter.
And how the people cheered me along the route!
“Good health and long life to the Princess!”
Those words were music in my ears.
IN THE EARLY PART of that year there was indeed danger of revolt. There was nothing weak about my father. He was every inch a king. Everyone would grant him that; and when he was confronted by danger, those qualities of leadership were very much in evidence. All that happened had changed him visibly. I could hardly recognize the jovial fun-loving man in the ruthless autocrat who was now emerging.
Those who were not with him were his enemies—as had been seen in the case of his own wife and daughter.
His peace would be destroyed by the rumblings of discontent throughout the country; he knew that if my cousin Charles, the Emperor, had not been so deeply involved in Europe, he might have attempted to invade England. So he took action and, being the man he was, it was drastic. There were no half measures with him.
In April of that year the first proceedings were taken against those who refused to accept the fact that he was Supreme Head of the Church. Five monks—one of them the Prior of the London Charterhouse—were condemned as traitors and submitted to the most brutal of executions: they were hanged, drawn and quartered. There were many to witness this grisly scene, which was what my father intended. It was to provide a lesson to all those who opposed him. I was reminded of the masques my father had so loved when he appeared among the company in disguise. Now he had thrown off his mask, and in place of the merry, jovial bluff Hal was a ruthless and despotic monarch who would strike terror into all those who thought they could disobey his command.
Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More were in everyone's thoughts. Those two noble men had done exactly what the monks had. What would their fate be? The King had been a close friend of Sir Thomas More. He had loved the man—as many did; he had often been seen walking in Sir Thomas's riverside garden, his arm about his shoulders, laughing at one of those merry quips for which Sir Thomas was renowned.
What will happen to Sir Thomas? people wondered. The King must find some excuse to save him. One thing was certain: Sir Thomas was a man of high principles. He was not one to deny what he believed merely to save his life.
All over the country bishops were ordered to insist that the King's supremacy should be preached.
The Pope intervened. He created Bishop Fisher a cardinal. I could imagine my father's fury. He retorted that he would send the bishop's head to Rome for his cardinal's hat.
That seemed significant. Nothing could move the King.
On the 22nd of June Bishop Fisher went out to Tower Hill and was beheaded. On the 6th of July Sir Thomas followed him. A silent sullen crowd looked on.
This was the King's answer. No matter who disobeyed him, they should die.
The execution of Sir Thomas More sent a shiver through the country and waves of indignation abroad. The Emperor was reputed to have said that he would rather have lost his best city than such a man. The Pope—a new one now, Paul III—declared that Sir Thomas More had been excellent in sacred learning and courageous in his defense of the truth. He prepared a Bull excommunicating my father for what he called the crime. The King, of course, snapped his fingers at the Pope. He was nothing now. He could send out bulls for excommunication as much as he liked. They meant nothing in England, which was now free of his interference.
Even Francois Premier was shocked and remarked on my father's impiety and barbarism…as did the Emperor, but the former needed him as an ally, and political power came before pious indignation. There were nobles all over the country who would have welcomed the Emperor if he came in arms, but he could not do that. He was engaged in the conquest of Tunis, and he could not start a war on another front.
So these monarchs of Europe could do nothing to prevent my father's keeping a firm hold on his power and changing the course of religious history in England.
The country had submitted to the new Head of the Church and he had given examples of what would happen to those who acted against him. They had seen his treatment of his wife and daughter; and they had seen the execution of his friend, Sir Thomas More.
They knew their master.
EVERYONE WAS AWARE that the King's passion for Anne Boleyn was fast waning, and he made no attempt to hide it. She was a woman who could never be humble; it seemed that she had complete belief in herself. And who would not, after the lengths to which he had gone to get her?
I had passed into a new phase, for, as the concubine's star waned, mine…well, not exactly rose but it began to show a faint light below the horizon; for if the King should discard Anne Boleyn, what excuse would he make for doing so? If he should decide that his marriage with her was no marriage, might he not discover that that with my mother was?
It was all wild speculation, but when a man breaks with the Church of Rome he is surely capable of anything.
If it should so happen that I be taken back in favor, it would be unwise for people to treat me scurvily. I was sure this was the thought in many minds and I had suffered such hardship that I could only rejoice in the change.
Many of my women talked freely now, and I began to learn more of what was going on.
Then there was a change again. The concubine was pregnant. It was a setback to those who had been hoping to see the end of her. Everything depended on the child. If it should be a boy she would be safe forever.
Disquieting news was brought to me of my mother. It was December and bitterly cold. I used to lie in bed wondering what it was like at Kimbolton with that icy wind blowing over the fens. I could visualize her on her knees praying. She would not stop doing that. I could picture the comfortless room, the inadequate clothing, and I would think of her as I knew she would be thinking of me.
The news was whispered to me by one of my women. “Madam…my lady… the Emperor's ambassador is going to the Queen, your mother.”
“What?” I cried. “But how? It is forbidden for her to have visitors.”
“Madam, the King is permitting it because…”
I felt sick with fear.
“Because… the Queen is very ill?”
She nodded.
A terrible despondency descended on me. This was what I had feared for so long.
I was avid for news. I asked everyone who might know something, and there were several who were eager to please me now. There was nothing to comfort me.
Christmas had come—a joyless season for me now.
My mother's health was a little improved, for she had seen Chapuys, and there was something else which had cheered her. My women told me all they knew of it.
The Emperor's ambassador went to Kimbolton on New Year's Day, and later that day there appeared at the castle gates a woman begging for shelter. She was cold and had fallen from her horse and was in dire need. Because she was clearly a lady of noble bearing, she was allowed to enter the castle.
“Who do you think she was, Madam?” asked my woman.
I shook my head.
“Lady Willoughby, the lady who came with your gracious mother from Spain. The Queen and Lady Willoughby embraced and swore that they would never be parted again. Lady Willoughby said she would die rather. That and the visit of “the ambassador cheered her mightily.”
I was greatly relieved.
She has spirit, I told myself. She will recover.
IT WAS THE 11TH of January…a date I shall never forget. Lady Shelton came to my room. She said, “I have come to tell you that your mother is dead. She died four days ago.”
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