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.