I was very distressed. Why could they not accept the truth? All were given the chance to. All they had to do was deny their faith and accept the true one, and they would be saved.
I did remember how I had clung to my faith and how I had put myself in danger by my firm adherence to it. But that was the true faith. I laughed at myself. These poor people deluded themselves that their was the true one.
Because Hooper was so well known, there was more talk about him than the others. He had been such a good man, people were saying: he had a wife who had borne nine children. I knew this. But he had been remonstrated with and given every chance. He had been arrested some time before on some petty charge, because Gardiner had intimated to me that he was a dangerous man. He believed so fervently in his style of religion, and people were moved by his eloquence and inclined to follow him.
Hooper had been in the Fleet Prison for some time, and he had made it known that there he had been treated worse than if he had been a slave.
Gardiner saw how distressed I was that this man had suffered death by burning, and he insisted that he had done much harm with his preaching and writing, and would have done more if he had been allowed to live. He had been offered every chance.
The day before his death, Sir Anthony Kingston had gone to him and begged him to recant, for to do so would save his life. But he would not. He said he would rather face the flames.
“He was a foolish man,” said Gardiner.
“Aye,” I replied, “but a brave one.”
I was deeply disturbed that there should be this religious persecution in my reign. I had wanted to be good to all my people. I almost wished that I was back in the past, when I was without responsibilities, even wondering who was seeking to destroy me.
Now the power was mine to destroy others, I could not rest. My nights were haunted by memories of my stepmother Katharine Parr. She came to me in dreams, side by side with Anne Askew.
“All these heretics have to do is recant,” I continually reminded myself. If they did, they would be received with joy. Is there not greater joy in the sinner who repents? They should have instruction. They should have time to learn. I would insist on that.
I was pleased when one of the Franciscans preached at Court, pointing out that burning at the stake was not the way.
I said to Philip, “He is right.”
But Philip did not think so. In his native country the Inquisition flourished. It had a beneficial effect, he insisted. People lived in fear of it. Only the reckless and foolhardy wanted to pit themselves against it.
After that sermon, there was a lull for a while, and then the arrests began again and the burning continued.
What was happening threw a cloud over my happiness.
It was April, and I believed that the birth of my child was imminent. I was to go to Hampton Court, where arrangements were being made for my confinement. Soon, I told myself, I should forget my troubles. In a few weeks from now I should have my child.
I then embarked on the most extraordinary and heartbreaking time of my whole life.
The first weeks at Hampton were peaceful. I was glad of the custom which decreed that a queen should retire and live quietly with her women, awaiting the great event.
Here Jane Seymour had come before me. She had given birth to a boy, and that had killed her—yet she had been young and healthy and ripe for childbearing, it had seemed.
Susan said I must not think of Jane. She had not been taken care of after the birth. She would see that I had every care.
And so we waited. I had the cradle placed in my room so that I could see it all the time. It was very elaborate and splendidly decorated—worthy of the child born to be King.
My dearest hope was about to be realized, and it seemed as though the days would never pass. I said to Susan that time seemed to have slowed down.
“It is ever so, when one is waiting,” she replied. “Very soon your time will come.”
I talked all the time of the child. “He will be a boy, I know it…a perfect boy. I can see him, Susan. He will be like Philip. That is how I would have him. But perhaps he will be tall…as my father was… although I am small and so is Philip… but sometimes children take after their grandparents. The child's grandfather was a big, fine man. I should like my son to be like him … as he was in his youth before … before … And my father's grandfather, Edward IV, was a big and handsome man.”
“Be the child large or small, you will love it just the same,” said Susan wisely.
“How dare you call my child ‘it', Susan?”
“We do not know that it will be a boy. It is wise at such a time to see what God will send.”
“I should love a girl, of course. But it is a boy that everyone wants. A King… not a Queen… but if the child is a girl, we might get boys after.”
Susan raised her eyes to the ceiling. She did not approve of my having a child at all. She thought I was too old and not strong enough. I could have been angry with her, but I knew all she thought and all she did was out of love for me.
The waiting went on. The weeks were passing. What was wrong? Sometimes I would look out of my windows and see people gathered some little way from the palace. They were waiting for the announcement.
“Let it be soon, O Lord,” I prayed. “And give me a son. That is all I need for my happiness. Is it asking too much? The lowest serving woman can have sons… many of them. Please God, give me a son.”
But the time was passing, and my prayers were unanswered.
At the end of the month a rumor circulated that I had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. Bells were rung, and the people were already celebrating in the streets. All through the morning the rejoicing went on, but by afternoon the truth began to be known.
There was no child. I was still waiting.
May had come, and there was still not a sign. To my secret alarm, the swelling in my body, which I had convinced myself was my child, began to subside.
Susan had noticed. She did not mention it but I knew she was thinking that I had had such disorders before. The swellings had not been so great and they had subsided more quickly. A terrible fear began to dawn on me that what I had experienced was not pregnancy but a return of my old complaint.
At last Susan spoke of it.
“It is as it was before,” she said.
“I have never been so swollen before.”
She agreed and tried to comfort me.
“Perhaps the child will come at the end of May.”
I clutched at the hope. But I was growing melancholy. I did not see Philip. I told myself that it was a Spanish custom not to see a wife who was about to give birth until after the child appeared.
I felt certain pains such as I had suffered before, but I knew they were not concerned with childbirth.
The people were growing restive.
Where is the child? they were asking. Could there have been a miscalculation so great as to be two months late? Rumors began to circulate. Was the Queen dead? Where was the child? Had the Queen given birth to a monster?
And I stayed in my apartments, seeing none but my own women, and I felt as though my heart would break. I was too old, too small… something was very wrong.
One of my household sent a woman to me. She was of very low stature and not very young; she had just given birth to three babies and had regained her strength in a week. The babies were brought to show me. They were all strong and healthy.