She was extremely unhappy to move because, not only was she to change her place of residence, but she was also to lose certain members of her household. She had had too many friends at Ampthill, and they had upheld her in her sauciness, said the King. She could manage with a smaller household at Buckden; and one of the first to be dismissed should be Maria de Salinas who had always been her strong partisan from the days when she had first arrived in England. The edict had been that all those who refused to address her as the Princess of Wales should be dismissed. Katharine promptly forbade anyone to address her by any title but that of Queen.
She was desolate to lose Maria. This was the bitterest blow of the entire upheaval, and those who watched their farewell wept with them.
Katharine’s stubborn determination was a source of great irritation to the King, but he was fully aware that the people who lived in the villages surrounding her were her fervent supporters, and he had heard that when she had travelled from Ampthill to Buckden the way along which she had passed had been crowded with people who shouted: “Long live the Queen!”
She was an encumbrance and an embarrassment to him but he knew he must treat her with care. Therefore he finally allowed her a few servants—though he firmly refused to allow Maria to be one of them—whom he excused from taking an oath to address her as the Princess of Wales; and with this smaller household, Katharine lived at Buckden.
There was one fact for which she was thankful. Her chaplain, Dr. Abell, who had written against the divorce, had been released from prison and allowed to come back to her. The man was too obscure, Henry decided, to be of much importance.
At Buckden Katharine endeavored to return to the old routine. Her life was quiet, and she spent a great deal of time in her chamber which had a window looking into the chapel. She seemed to find great comfort in sitting alone in this window seat.
She busied herself with the care of the poor people living close by who had never known any to show such solicitude for their well-being before. There was food to be had at the palace for the hungry; the Queen and her ladies made garments for those who needed them; and although Katharine was far from rich she set aside a large part of her income for the comfort of the poor.
“A saint has come among us,” said the people; and they declared they would call no other Queen but Katharine.
Henry knew what was happening and it angered him, for it seemed to him that all those who admired the Queen were criticizing him; he could not endure criticism. But there was one matter which occupied his thoughts day and night. Anne was about to give birth to their child.
A son, he told himself exultantly, will put an end to all trouble. Once I have my son there will be such rejoicing that no one will give much thought to Katharine. It will be a sign that God is pleased with me for discarding one who was not in truth my wife, and taking another.
A son! Night and day he prayed for a lusty son; he dreamed of the boy who would look exactly like himself. He himself would teach him—make a man of him, make a King of him. Once he held that boy in his arms everything would be worth while, and his people would rejoice with him.
IT WAS SEPTEMBER OF that fateful year 1533 when Anne was brought to bed.
Henry could scarcely contain his excitement, and had already invited François to be the boy’s sponsor. His name? It should be Henry…or perhaps Edward. Henry was a good name for a King. Henry IX. But that was years away, of course. Henry VIII had many years before him, many more sons to father.
Queen Anne suffered much in her travail. She was as anxious as the King. Was there a certain apprehension in her anxiety? The King was still devoted to her—her passionate and possessive lover—but now that she had time for sober reflection she could not help remembering his indifference to the sufferings of his first wife. Once he had been devoted to Katharine; she had heard that he had ridden in pageants as Sir Loyal Heart; and his loyalty was then for Katharine of Aragon—short-lived loyalty. Was he a man whose passions faded quickly? He had been her devoted admirer for many years, but was that due to his faithfulness or a stubborn determination to have his will which her cleverness in keeping him at bay had inflamed?
A son will make all the difference, the new Queen told herself. Holy Mother of God, give me a son.
THE CRY OF A CHILD in the royal apartments! The eager question, and the answer that put an end to hope.
“A girl, Your Majesty, a healthy girl.”
The bitterness of disappointment was hard to bear, but the child was healthy. The King tried to push aside his disappointment.
Anne looked strangely humble in her bed, and he was still in love with her.
“Our next will be a boy, sweetheart,” he told her.
And she smiled in agreement.
So they rejoiced in their daughter, and called her Elizabeth.
MARGARET POLE was anxious concerning the Princess Mary who had never seemed to regain her full strength since her parting from her mother. Margaret knew that she brooded a great deal and was constantly wondering what would happen next.
Mary was no longer a child; being seventeen years of age, she was old enough to understand the political significance of what was happening about her. There was a strong streak of the Spaniard in her, which was natural as, before their separation, she had been so close to her mother.
Mary was restless, delicate, given to fits of melancholy. And what else could be expected? Margaret asked herself. What a tragedy that a child should be torn from her mother’s side when the bond between them was so strong, and when her position was so uncertain with her father.
But for Queen Anne, Margaret often thought, Henry would not have been unkind to his daughter. She was his child and he was eager to have children, even girls. But those occasional bursts of fondness were perhaps the very reason why Anne would not allow Mary at Court. Could it be that the new Queen was afraid of the influence Mary might have on her father?
It was so very tragic, and Margaret, while she thought fearfully of her own son Reginald who had offended the King, continually asked herself how she could make Mary’s life brighter.
Mary liked to play the lute or the virginals, for music was still her favorite occupation; but Margaret fancied as she listened to her that she played listlessly and there was a melancholy note in her music.
“Play something lively, something to make us feel gay,” Margaret suggested.
But Mary turned on her almost angrily: “How can I feel gay when I am not allowed to see my mother, when I know she is not in good health and mayhap has no one to care for her?”
“If I could write to her and tell her that you are cheerful, that would do her much good, I am sure.”
“You could not deceive her. How could I be cheerful when I long to see her as I know she does me?” Mary rose from the virginals and came to stand by her companion. “What will happen to us now that the Concubine has a child? They will say this Elizabeth comes before me, I’ll swear.”
“How could they do that?”
“You know full well they could do it. They have said my mother’s marriage was no marriage. That means one thing. The bastard Elizabeth will be declared heir to the throne until they get themselves a boy.” Mary’s face grew hard and stern. “I pray they never get a boy.”