Виктория Холт - In the Shadow of the Crown

And the nights passed thus in meditation and, in spite of the birth of the child, the feeling was strong within me that God had chosen me to work for Holy Church in my country.

It was on the 12th of November when we set out from Hampton for Windsor. In the hearse was Jane's coffin, and on it was a statue of her in wax, so lifelike that one could believe she was really there. The hair fell loose about the shoulders, and there was a crown on the head.

She was buried in St. George's Chapel.

* * *

I FELL ILL that winter. I suffered from acute headaches and dizziness and could not rise from my bed. My ladies rallied round me and served me well, and my father sent Dr. Butts to me. I recovered sufficiently to spend Christmas at Court. It was dismal. How could there be the usual feasting with the Queen so recently dead. My father wore black—a great concession. He had not worn it for his two previous wives. He was not his exuberant self, and I began to wonder whether he had cared for Jane. But I soon discovered that he was already putting out feelers to replace her.

His greatest joy was in his son. He would send for the child to be brought to him and hold him gently in his arms. He would look at him with wonder and talk to him. “You must get strong and big, my son. You have a realm to govern one day. A long time yet… but one day.” He would turn to those standing by. “See how he looks at me? He understands. Oh, he is a wonderful boy, this. He is the son I always wanted.”

He was almost boyish in his enthusiasm. Perhaps that was at the root of his charm. He seemed to be saying, “I did this…I murdered my wives… I have caused grievous suffering to monks…I have killed those who were my best servants…Wolsey…Sir Thomas More…Fisher… but I am only a boy really. My heart is warm and loving, and those barbarous acts… well, they were for the good of the country.”

And they seemed to believe him. I half did so myself.

And while he was making a show of mourning for Jane, he was looking for her successor.

He would regard me cryptically. Twenty-two years of age. That was mature for a princess…or should I say a king's daughter, for he would not allow me that title.

I had my household now. I was comfortable. But I did often feel a longing for children. There was Elizabeth. I could have wished she was my daughter; and there was now Edward. What would I have given for such a boy!

And here I was—a spinster, a virgin, to wither on the branch, unloved, unfulfillled—and all because I was branded with the taint of illegitimacy.

But it was a good life compared with what I had known. I had good friends; my servants were loyal to me; they were more than servants; they cared for me; they all believed that I should be proclaimed princess. I was never frivolous. I tried to lead a good life. They all knew I was deeply religious because I was my mother's daughter. My house was open to all the needy. We never turned any away. I had my income from the Court, and a great deal of it was spent on charity. I liked to walk about three miles a day, and it was pleasant to be able to go where I chose; and I always had pennies in my purse to give to those who, I thought, needed it.

The people were fond of me. They always called a loyal greeting when I passed.

I had my books, my music and now beautiful garments to wear. I was well educated. I could talk to any diplomats who came to Court. I was a good musician—excellent with the lute and the virginals.

But I was a woman, and I felt that I was missing the greatest blessing in life. I wanted a child.

Yet the days continued pleasant. I lived the life of a royal person in my own household. My father had even sent me a fool. She had always been a favorite of his. In fact, I think Will Somers was a little jealous of her. It was rare to have a woman as a fool, but Jane was good. Her very appearance set one laughing before she came out with her merry quips. She would dress exactly like a court lady but her hair was shaved off, and the result was ludicrous. She could sing well, and she had a repertoire of comic songs and a host of tricks with which to divert us. Evenings with Jane the Fool amused us all and were very welcome indeed.

So there was little of which to complain, but I wanted the normal life the poorest woman might expect—that I should be allowed to justify my purpose and help replenish the Earth.

There had been one or two propositions. My father would never have let me go abroad before the birth of Edward. That would be asking for some ambitious man, married to the daughter of the King of England, to set about claiming the throne. But now there was a male heir perhaps it would be different.

There were feelers from both France and the Hapsburgs… each eager to form an alliance against the other. There was Charles of Orleans, the son of François, King of France, and Dom Luiz, the Infante of Portugal, who was put forward by the Emperor.

For a few weeks I lived in a state of excitement. I was assured that either of these gentlemen would make a perfect husband. They were both handsome, charming princes. It was just a matter of which it should be.

Then came the stumbling block which had not, as I had hoped it would be, been removed because of the favor my father was showing me.

The King of France intimated that there was no one he would rather have for his son than myself. Yet there was the stain of illegitimacy. If that could be removed … well, then he would welcome none with the same ardour which he would bestow on me.

It was the same with the Portuguese. Yes, the match would be very desirable but there was, of course, this little matter.

The King was furious. He would not give way. To do so would be to undermine the supremacy of the Church—a matter which was already causing him a great deal of trouble.

So these matches were abandoned.

There was a certain rumor which gave me pleasure. I remembered how my mother, since I could not marry the Emperor Charles, had expressed a desire that I should marry Reginald Pole.

In the quietness of my room I talked with Susan Clarencieux, who had become one of my dearest friends. I could talk to her of my dreams and aspirations more openly than anyone else.

She understood my desire for marriage.

She said, “I saw your fondness for the little Elizabeth, although for a while you seemed to fight against it.”

“I hated her mother. She ruined mine. And I am afraid at first I passed my hatred on to the child. That is something one should never do…to blame the children for their parents' sins of which they are entirely innocent. It was cruel and wicked.”

“And the young Elizabeth is such an enchanting creature.”

“I often wonder what will become of her. I fear she will take everything she wishes or, failing to, bring herself to some terrible end.”

“I have a feeling that she will somehow survive.”

“Her position is even worse than mine. The King at least acknowledges me. Sometimes I think he tries to tell himself that she is not his daughter.”

“Could he look at her and doubt it?”

“Perhaps that is why he does not wish to look at her.”

“I have heard certain rumors lately. I believe that at one time you were very fond of him.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of Reginald Pole.”

“Oh.” I was smiling. Memories were coming back. How young I had been, and he had seemed so wonderful…so much older than I was…so much wiser… and yet I had loved him and believed he loved me.

“What did they say of him?” I asked.

“That he has only taken deacon's orders… not those of a priest…so that, when the time comes…he will not be debarred from taking a wife. You and he could be married.”

“Do you think there is any truth in this?”

“It is what some people would like.”

“You mean… those whom the King would call his enemies?”

“Yes.”

“But Reginald is a cardinal now.”

“He remains free to marry.”

“Oh, Susan, I wonder if it could ever be…”

She lifted her shoulders. “The King hates him now, you know. He regards him as an enemy who can do him a great deal of harm on the Continent.”

“Yes, I do know. Oh, Susan, why are things never as they should be?”

She smiled at me fondly. “You would welcome a marriage with him,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

I nodded. “It would be suitable in every way. He is a Plantagenet. Our rival houses would be joined. Besides, I know him well.”

“It is long since you saw him.”

“But he is not a man to change. Susan, there is no one I should rather have for my husband.”

And so we talked.

But I was no nearer to marriage for all that. Sometimes I thought I never should be.

EVER SINCE THE DEATH OF JANE, MY FATHER HAD BEEN looking for a new bride. He was obsessed by the idea. Why he did not take a mistress, I cannot imagine. There might have been several prepared to accept that honor. But marriage? Any woman would look askance at that. The whole world knew what had happened to his first two wives. And the third? Had she escaped a similar fate by dying?

He had his eyes on several women at the French Court. The Duke of Guise had three daughters, François Premier one. All were eligible. My father wrote enthusiastically to François. Perhaps the ladies could be sent to England and he would promise to choose one of them to be the next Queen of England.

François' retort was typical of him. “Our ladies are not mares to be paraded for selection,” he said.

The fact was that none of the ladies was eager for marriage. Perhaps my father had forgotten that he was no longer the eligible bridegroom he had once been. He was ageing. His handsome looks were no more; he had grown fat; his once-dazzling complexion had turned purple. Since his fall he walked with a limp, and there was a fistula on his leg which refused to heal. There were times when it was so painful that he could not speak, and his face would grow black in his efforts to prevent himself calling out loud. There were some who said it was an incurable ulcer, others—though only a few bold ones said this—that it was the outward sign of some horrible disease. In addition to all this, it was remembered what had happened to his first two wives.

He was restive and angry; he flew into rages. On one hand fate had sent him his longed-for son and on the other it had turned life sour for him.

He wanted to be young again; he wanted to be in love, as he had been with Anne and Jane—and perhaps in the early days with my mother.

There was a spate of killings. Anyone who spoke against the King's supremacy in the Church was found guilty of treason. Many monks were butchered in the most barbarous way. Hanging was not enough. They were submitted to the most horrifying of all deaths, cut down from the gallows while they still lived, their bodies slit open and their intestines burned before their eyes; the object being to keep them alive as long as possible so that they might suffer the greater pain.

The more opposition there was to my father's rule, the more despotic he became.

He was reaping great wealth from the monasteries, and for some time he had had his eyes on that shrine which was perhaps the most splendid of them all. He must have known that to touch it would arouse great indignation, for the whole country revered Thomas à Becket. Ever since the death of the martyr, people had brought precious jewels to lay on his shrine while they prayed for him to intercede for them in Heaven. My father asked why there should be such worship for a man who had been the enemy of his king? He did not care for traitors, and that was what Becket had been. There should be an end to this idolatry. Becket had been a traitor. He should have been despised rather than idolized.

Becket's bones were burned and, as the belongings of traitors were forfeit to the King, my father took all that was in the shrine at Canterbury. He even wore Becket's ring on his own finger as a gesture of defiance to all those who questioned his behavior.

A tremor of horror seemed to run through the country. I was sure many were waiting for the wrath of Heaven to strike the King dead. For three years the threat of excommunication had hung over him. Not that he took any notice of it. Now the Pope signed the sentence. My father laughed. Who was the Bishop of Rome to tell him what to do? Foreign bishops had nothing to do with the Church of England over which the King was now Supreme Head.