In the Shadow of the Crown - Plaidy Jean - Страница 30

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“I do not believe it. May I see that paper?”

He nodded and handed it to me.

It was there, plain for me to see. I was to be called the Lady Mary, the King's daughter. But I was no longer the Princess of England. That title had been passed to the little bastard whose christening I had been forced to witness at Greenwich.

Hussey bowed his head. He said, “I will send the Countess to you.”

She came and I threw myself at her.

“There! There!” she said. “At least you have a shoulder to cry on. Do not grieve, Princess.”

“You must not call me that any more.”

“When we are alone together…”

I had grown up suddenly. I saw dangers all around us. “Oh no, dearest Countess. You must not. Someone might hear. They would tell tales of you. I believe those who call me by my rightful title will be punished.”

“It is so,” she confirmed. “We have been warned.”

“But I am the Princess. I shall call myself Princess, but I will not bring trouble to you. They would take you from me. Perhaps put you in the Tower.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “You are growing up, Princess. You are beginning to understand how dangerous are the times in which we are living.”

“But I will not accept this,” I said. “I am the Princess. That trumped-up divorce is wrong. It is a sin in the eyes of God, and Anne Boleyn is no true Queen.”

“Hush. Did I say that you were growing up? Now you are behaving like a child.”

“My father does care something for me, surely.”

“Your father wants complete obedience. We must wait quietly…not calling attention to ourselves.”

I did not answer.

I was young and I was reckless. I was telling myself I could not endure this. I would not stand aside and let them treat my mother and myself in this way. She had cautioned discretion but she was weary and sick and had not the heart for the fight. I was different.

My household might be intimidated into dropping the title of Princess when addressing me, but I would continue to use the title. It was mine. And it was not for the Council to take it away from me.

When I went out into the streets there were always people to cheer me. They would cry, “Long live Princess Mary.” I must have caused much anxiety to the King and his concubine for they knew what support there was throughout the country for my mother and me. The people knew that we had been separated and they thought that cruel. Yes, my father and Anne Boleyn must be having some very uneasy moments.

There would always be those fanatics who seemed to court martyrdom and make a great noise doing so. There was one known as the Nun of Kent. She was a certain Elizabeth Barton who had begun life as a servant in the household of a man who was steward to the estate owned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. She appeared to have special powers of prophecy and was taken up by a number of well-known people which gave her great prestige. Sir Thomas More was said to have been interested in her. She sprang into prominence when my father had returned from France with the newly created Marchioness of Pembroke. Elizabeth Barton had met him at Canterbury and warned him that if he married Anne Boleyn he would die one month later.

She had begged my mother to see her. My mother was too wise to do this and refused to do so.

I wondered that my father had not had her removed long ago. But he was always somewhat superstitious and because the nun had been taken up by prominent people—and in particular Sir Thomas More—he was a little in awe of her. He was very anxious at this time to win back that public approval which he had lost since his Secret Matter was revealed.

After the marriage everyone waited for the prophecy to come true. A month passed and nothing happened. Now Anne Boleyn had come through the ordeal of childbirth and had a healthy child, albeit a girl. As for Anne, she was as well as ever. The nun's prophecy had not been fulfillled.

For two months after my return I waited in trepidation for what would happen next. The baby Elizabeth had remained at Greenwich with her mother for those two months; then the King decided that she should have a household of her own. I heard that Hatfield had been chosen.

Much to my horror, Hussey came to me, with further instructions from the Council. I, too, was to be moved. I imagine my recalcitrant attitude had been reported to him.

“Your household is to be broken up, my lady,” he said. “You are to go to Hatfield.”

“My household broken up!” I repeated stupidly.

He nodded slowly and horror dawned on me. “The Countess of Salisbury …” I began.

He did not meet my eyes. He said, “The new mistress of your household will be Lady Shelton.”

“Lady Shelton!” I cried in dismay. “Is she not related to…to…?”

“To the Queen, my lady.”

“To Anne Boleyn!”

“She is the Queen's aunt.”

Anne Boleyn's aunt—a member of that hated family—to take the place of my beloved Countess! This was intolerable. I might bear other humiliations which had been heaped on me, I might endure insults, but to be deprived of the one to whom I had turned when I lost my mother … that was just not to be borne.

“This cannot be true,” I stammered.

“I fear so, my lady.”

“No one could be so cruel. If the Countess could be with me…if…”

“These are the King's orders, my lady.”

I turned and ran out of the room.

She came to me almost immediately. “You have heard,” she said.

“How can he? How can he? Everything else I have borne, but this…”

“I know, my dearest. I shudder with you. We have been so close…you have been as one of my own…”

“Since they would not allow me to be with my mother, you took her place.”

She nodded and we just clung together.

“It will pass,” she said at length. “It can only be temporary. We shall be together again…”

“Oh Countess, dearest Countess, what am I to do?”

“There is nothing to be done but to remain quiet and confident of the future. We must pray as Our Lord did in the wilderness.”

I was not as meek as she was. I could never be. She was like my mother, and they were both of the stuff of which martyrs are made. But I was not. I was filled with hatred toward this woman whom I blamed for all our misfortunes. I hated the innocent baby who had taken my place and for whose sake I was being made to suffer thus.

I took up my pen and, against the Countess's advice, wrote to the Council. I gave vent to the rage I felt. The very act of picking up a pen, though, brought me back to my senses a little. I knew I should have to go to Hatfield, to part from the Countess, and that it was no use protesting about this. But I could call attention to the deprivation of my title which was mine by right of birth, and that I would do.

“My lords,” I wrote, “as touching my removal to Hatfield, I will obey His Grace as my duty is… but I will protest before you all, and to all others present, that my conscience will in no wise suffer me to take any other than myself for Princess or for the King's daughter born in lawful matrimony, and that I will never wittingly or willingly say or do aught whereby any person might take occasion to think that I agree to the contrary. If I should do otherwise I should slander my mother, the Holy Church and the Pope, who is judge in this matter and none other, and I should dishonor the King, my father, the Queen, my mother, and falsely confess myself a bastard, which God defend I should do since the Pope hath not so declared by his sentence definitive, to whose judgement I submit myself…”

It was foolish. It was rash. But I was beside myself with misery because my dearest friend, who had been a mother to me, was about to be taken away from me.

There was a further blow. The Princess Elizabeth was to go to Hatfield with her household, and it seemed that, with no household of my own, I should be a member of hers. A lady-in-waiting perhaps! It was intolerable. This was proclaiming to the world that she was the Princess, the heir to the throne, and I was the bastard.

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