“You mean his fall from the horse just before my mother died?”
He nodded.
“He has not ridden in the joust since. He has aged considerably. I have heard that there is an ulcer on his leg which is very painful. There is a possibility…But perhaps I should say no more. Indeed, it might be unwise to…”
I knew what he meant. My father was ageing. He had not been spectacularly successful in begetting children. What if he could get no more? Then who would follow him? Elizabeth? She was out of favor now, judged a bastard, for the King did not accept his marriage with Anne Boleyn. Nor did he accept his marriage to my mother. So there were two of us. Young Richmond—Henry Fitzroy—could not be counted because he would not be here much longer. I was the elder, and I would find greater favor with the people than the daughter of Anne Boleyn.
Chapuys was pointing to a dazzling prospect. Queen of England! A queen with a mission, which was to bring England back to the Holy Catholic Church.
Something happened to me then. I was lifted out of my despondency. I had a reason for living.
God would smile on me, surely. He would approve. My father had sinned against the Church. If ever I were Queen of this realm, I would repair the damage he had done.
Everything had changed. I was a woman with a mission.
I MUST RETURN to Court. I had been long enough in exile. I was not sure how my father felt about me, but I did know that he had been very angry about my loyalty to my mother. I had stood firmly for her against him and what had especially infuriated him was that the people were on my side. He would remember those cries of “Long live the Princess Mary!” when he had declared that I was no princess. Even now they were shouting loyally for me, and he could not have liked that.
I dared not write to him direct. Instead I addressed myself to Cromwell.
I did humble myself. I hoped my mother would understand if she could look down and see what I was doing. If I continued to be obstinate, I should be in exile forever, always wondering when someone would consider it necessary to make an end of me. Chapuys had now endowed me with a new ambition. I would succeed. I must succeed. I should have Heaven on my side, for I should be the one to bring England back to the true religion.
And if to do so I must humble myself, then humble I must be.
So I wrote asking my father's forgiveness, and I said how sorry I was to have disobeyed his wishes.
I waited for some response. There was none.
I wrote to him again and, having written, my conscience smote me. How could I, even as I stepped toward that dazzling future, deny the legality of my mother's marriage? Whatever the result, I knew that could only give her pain; and she, with her Catholic Faith, her unswerving devotion to the Church of Rome, would never wish me to deny my faith…no matter what good it brought to England.
On impulse I wrote a separate note to Cromwell, telling him that, while I wished him to give my letter to the King, I feared I could not deny the validity of my mother's marraige and I could not agree with the severance from Rome.
In spite of this, Cromwell seemed determined to do all he could to bring me into favor with the King. He was fully aware that the people expected it and wanted it and that the King should do it for that reason. He must have been uneasy as to the effect my father's conduct was having on the people, who had clearly shown their support for us; true, they had hated Anne Boleyn when she was puffed up with pride, but people are apt to change their minds when those about them fall from grace. There was no cause now to envy Anne Boleyn, and envy is often at the roots of hatred.
Cromwell was first and foremost a politician and he would see that I must be received back at Court, which was the safest place for me to be… not for myself so much as for him and the King. He wanted no supporters gathering round me, seeking to right my wrongs.
My father must have realized that it could be dangerous to refuse to bring me back. I was, after all, no longer a child, being twenty years old— old enough to be a figurehead, old enough for those who deplored the break with Rome to rally to me.
It may be that the wily Cromwell persuaded him but the fact was that the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Sussex headed a small party who came to visit me. They brought with them a document in which I was referred to as a monster—a daughter who had acted disobediently toward her father. It was only due to the generous and gracious nature of the King that I was still here to ask his forgiveness.
It was difficult for me. I kept thinking of my mother. How could I deny her? She had always been adamant, even though she had believed her enemies were trying to poison her and would possibly use other means to kill her. Always she had stood defiant against them. But Chapuys had shown me my mission.
Even so I could not bring myself to accept the verdict that my mother had never been truly married to my father, that I was bastard and the Pope was not the Vicar of Christ but just another bishop.
I tried to keep that glittering future in mind. I prayed for guidance. If God meant to lead me to my destiny, He would help me.
But I could not do it. I said I would obey my father in all things save his denial of his marriage with my mother and his break with Rome.
They were very angry—in particular Norfolk, who was a violent man and not of very good character, as his Duchess could well confirm. Both he and Sussex were abusive. I was understanding more of people now and I guessed that they were afraid. They would have to go back to the King and tell him that I stood firm on the two very issues which had caused all the contention between us. He would have to face the fact that he had a rebellious daughter and that many of his subjects, who were already murmuring about the state of the Church, would agree with her. I could see that I was a danger and that my father wished to have me back in the fold. He wanted to ride out with me and the new Queen, showing the people that I was his beloved daughter—though illegitimate—and that all was well between us. And these men would have to go back and tell him that they had failed.
Messengers bringing ill news were never popular; and the King's moods were variable and could be terrible. He had changed with the failing of his health. “Bluff King Hal” peeped out only occasionally now and then, when years ago this had been the face his courtiers saw most frequently.
Sussex shouted at me, “Can it be that you are the King's daughter? I cannot believe this to be so. You are the most obstinate woman I ever knew. Surely no child of the King could be as wayward … as stubborn… and as foolish as you are.”
I looked at him sardonically. He might have known that what he called my stubbornness had been inherited directly from my father.
Norfolk was even more explicit.
“If you were my daughter, I should beat you.”
“I am sure you would attempt to, my lord,” I replied. “I believe your conduct toward your wife, simply because she objected to your mistresses, has been especially brutal.”
His eyes narrowed and his face was scarlet. “I would beat you … to death,” he muttered.
“I am of the opinion that, if you attempted to do so, the people in the streets would set upon you and you would suffer a worse fate.”
He knew there was truth in my words and he shouted, “I would dash your head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple!”
“Threats worthy of you, my lord. And they affect me not at all. You would not dare lay a hand on me. And I should be glad if you would remember to whom you speak.”
Lady Shelton had complained of my regal manners, so I suppose I possessed them; and now, with Chapuys' prophecy before me, perhaps they were even more apparent.
They slunk away, those irate commissioners, like dogs with their tails between their legs.