The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  He was now attentive, visiting me often, talking of the future and the brother our delightful daughter would have.

  Those who had thought the King's love for me was dead now had to change their views.

  He was looking forward to my return to normal life. He had been lonely, he said, without me. It was as near to an excuse as he could bring himself to make for that temporary infidelity, and having suffered a big fright, I did have sense enough to accept it.

  I was feeling stronger each day. I had my baby beside me; I had the attention of the King. All was well. The next child would certainly be a boy; and then all would be perfect.

  As I lay in bed, I often thought of the injustice done to my sex. Why should not the child sleeping in the cradle be as great a monarch as any man? She could not, of course, lead her armies in war—but wars were folly in any case and rarely brought good to either side; and perhaps if there were more women rulers, then there would be less of that foolishness.

  I had attained my ambition to win a crown; now I had something else to work for: my child.

  She must be proclaimed Princess of England—a title which had hitherto belonged to the Princess Mary.

  I anticipated trouble from that quarter. The girl was devoted to her mother, which was natural, of course; for so long she had thought of herself as heiress to the throne, and no doubt she had been thinking she would be Queen from the time when it seemed unlikely that her mother would have another child. Now she was about to be set aside that another girl might take her place.

  At this moment that little baby, the Princess Elizabeth, was heiress to the throne for there was no Salic law in England as in France, and a girl had a chance of reaching the throne unless a boy was born to take it from her. That always filled me with irritation.

  I had never realized before that I had strong maternal instincts. How different one becomes when one is a mother! I wanted to be to her all that a mother should. I did not want to hand her over to nurses. She was mine.

  In the new confidence inspired by Henry's devotion, I declared I would feed her myself, and I started to do so.

  Henry was annoyed. It meant of course that I had Elizabeth in the royal chamber, for she might require attention at any time and I must be at hand to give it. I saw a return of that cold anger which I had glimpsed not so very long ago.

  “I never heard the like,” he said. “A Queen to make herself a nursemaid!”

  “This is my daughter… our daughter.”

  “The child shall be with her nurses.”

  “But I wish…”

  “I wish her to go to her nurses.”

  “I want her with me.”

  “You forget your state,” he said. “You have risen too high. You do not understand the ways of royalty.”

  “You speak as though I am some kitchen slut.”

  “Then pray do not behave like one.”

  “Is it sluttish for a mother to love her daughter?”

  “It is the duty of the Queen to remember her state.”

  I wanted to scream: Very well, you do not want my daughter here. In that case I shall go with her. But I had had one example of his cold anger. Now and then would come to me the memory of those cruel eyes and the words: “I have raised you up. I could so easily lower you.” And I felt a tremor of fear.

  I heard myself say in a quiet voice: “Very well, she must go to her nurses.”

  “’ Tis the best place for her,” he said; he came to me and put an arm about my shoulders. I smiled at him, returning his kisses; but my heart was filled with misgivings.

  In spite of his refusal to have her in our bedchamber, Henry gave a great deal of attention to Elizabeth's household. He approved as her nurse the wife of a gentleman named Hokart; he said the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk should be her state governess, which gave the old lady a very fine residence and 6,000 crowns a year. This seemed a good choice as I was a connection of the Howards. Another concession to me was the selection of Lady Bryan, whose husband was a kinsman of the Boleyns, to be her governess. I was delighted, for I knew Lady Bryan was a good woman. She had, as a matter of fact, been governess to the Princess Mary, so she was accustomed to the position.

  I was very sad though when, at the age of two months, Elizabeth was sent to Hatfield, which was to be her home; with her went those people whom the King had selected.

  I had to reconcile myself to her departure and promise myself that, whenever possible, I should be with my child.

  In the meantime there was trouble with Mary.

  She must now renounce her title that Elizabeth might have it.

  She was a pale girl—delicate-looking—so that her boldness was amazing. She was defiant and seemed to care nothing for the wrath of the King.

  I was determined she should submit. I had my Elizabeth to fight for; and it was an undisputed fact that, if Elizabeth were to have her rights, Mary must first give them up.

  This the rebellious girl refused to do, and when members of the Privy Council went to her and told her she must resign her title, she refused to see them until she had assembled her entire household—and all those people who had looked after her for the last years, from officials of the household to the humblest kitchen maids. Then, before them all, she had the temerity to announce that she could not give up a title which had been bestowed on her by God and her parents. She was a Princess; she was the daughter of a King and Queen; and she had more right to her title than had the daughter of Madam Pembroke. She was the Princess of England and could not order her household to address her in any other way.

  I was very angry when I heard this. By referring to Elizabeth as Madam Pembroke's daughter, she was implying that she was illegitimate. This I could not allow.

  I sent orders that she was to lose her royal privileges; she was not to eat alone when she wished to; the custom of having her food tasted before she took it was to be stopped; and she was to have no communication with her mother. Perhaps this last was harsh; but I had begun to see that in Mary I had as formidable an enemy as I had had in Katharine; and I was incensed by her implications directed at my daughter.

  Later I regretted the last injunction. Mary loved her mother with an almost fanatical devotion. Looking back, I can imagine what they must have meant to each other in those years when Katharine was fighting for her position and her daughter's; and indeed I think now, having a greater understanding of human nature, that each suffered more on account of the other than for themselves.

  It was decided that Mary should be sent to Hatfield. I realized that she would consider this an added insult, for she would be in an inferior position in the household of the Princess Elizabeth who, she would consider, had usurped her place.

  I thought it would be just punishment for I was smarting under the insults to me in daring to refer to the Queen of England as Madam Pembroke, with the implication that I was not the King's wife but his mistress.

  Christmas was upon us, and this had to be a Christmas to outdo all others. It was my first as Queen. I surrounded myself with the wits of the Court—Weston, Bryan, Brereton, Norris, my brother and Wyatt. We laughed; we were very frivolous; we made amusing entertainments, and the King liked to be with us better than any others. With us he could forget certain anxieties which weighed heavily on him at times. Clement had now given the verdict, which was that the marriage between Henry and Katharine was valid, which meant, of course, that ours was not.

  Henry had snapped his fingers at the Pope's verdict, obviously given under the orders of the Emperor Charles; but it put him in a dilemma. Excommunication would follow if he continued to live with me as his Queen, and it was not easy to defy such an edict. At least it might be for Henry himself but there were the people to consider. Many of them were staunch Catholics, and if Henry were excommunicated, that would entail the entire country. He had no alternative but to break with Rome; but this did not mean a rejection of the old religion: it was merely changing the Head of the Church. Everything could be as before—t
he same rituals, the same ceremonies—but the Church of Rome would now be the Church of England, and Henry would be the Head of that Church instead of the Pope.

  It had been Cromwell's idea, and it seemed to Henry the only solution.

  But it gave great cause for anxiety because of the reactions of the people.

  There were already murmurings.

  So therefore it must be a very merry Christmas. It was my nature to be able to assume an excess of gaiety when the future might be fraught with danger. There had always been an element of recklessness in me. Now it was close to hysteria. I laughed—perhaps a little wildly—and although at this time I did not realize what great danger threatened me, warnings kept flashing into my mind. I knew that I was on a hazardous course for I should never feel quite secure after that scene when Henry had pointed out his power to destroy me.

  So that Christmas we danced and masqued and were very merry.

  The facts could not be ignored. Henry had defied the Pope. There was only one course open to him if he were to withstand the disasters and the discord in the land which excommunication would bring about, and Henry had taken it.

  In the new year he declared himself Head of the Church of England. He had broken with Rome. He made it clear that he had no wish to change the religion. In fact, he opposed Martin Luther's teachings; he was not in favor of doctrinal reform. The only difference was that the rights of the Pope now belonged to the Crown.

  He was not alone in this departure for many of the German states who were firm adherents of Martin Luther had already done so. There was to be a translation of the Bible into English, which would be wonderful. Many people would be able to read it who had not done so before. Surely they would see the advantage of that.

  That was a troubled year. Everything seemed to go wrong.

  I was pregnant again. The King was delighted and his old tenderness returned. This time he was sure we would have a boy. Desperately I longed for that boy. He would be my security as my little Elizabeth could not. I saw her when I could. She was enchanting and, I was sure, far brighter than other children of her age. She was more like her father than me in looks. Her blue eyes were bright and inquiring, her hair shone like gold. She was a beautiful child.

  When I went to Hatfield to see her, there was of course the unpleasantness of Mary's presence. She was insolent, that girl. When she was told that Queen Anne had come she said: “Queen Anne? I know of no Queen by that name. There is only one Queen of England and that is Queen Katharine.”

  What could one do with such a girl? Beat her? Little good that would do. I loathed her. I did not see her when I was at Hatfield. I could have forced her to be present but I did not want to do that.

  I told them that they must be sterner with her and not endure her tantrums.

  Henry was going to Hatfield to see Elizabeth. That pleased me. I did not go with him because I was not riding now. I was taking every possible precaution. Nothing must go wrong with this child. Once I had a son, I was secure. It was a wonderful relief that I need no longer fear the Pope. He had lost his power over England.

  Oh yes, I assured myself, once I had my son all would be well.

  Of course there were the people. They seemed as if they would never like me whatever happened.

  There was unrest throughout the country. For years the Pope had been almost like God to them. They had obeyed him without question. To those ignorant people he was not a man but a deity.

  And the King had defied him—and all because of a black-eyed witch.

  I was blamed for everything. The King had been led by me and I had the powers given to me by the Devil.

  All through that year there was grumbling among the people. I was blamed for any misfortune. If it rained too much, it was God's displeasure because of the havoc brought to the Church by a witch.

  At Hatfield, when Mary appeared, they cheered her as they did Katharine at the Moor. People were talking freely of the disasters which were coming to England; and Cranmer and Cromwell decided that something would have to be done about it.

  There was one woman who was causing a great deal of trouble, and there could not have been anyone in the kingdom who had not heard of the Nun of Kent. Her name was Elizabeth Barton and she was a woman of some eloquence and persuasive powers. She had in fact been a servant in the house of a certain Thomas Cobb, who had been a steward of one of Archbishop Warham's estates—that was her connection with the Church. It turned out later that, at the age of about twenty, she had suffered from some obscure disease which had left her a religious maniac. She began to have visions and was obsessed by Sin. Thus she began to get a reputation for holiness, and people believed that she really was inspired by the Holy Ghost.

  I had always known that Warham was an old fool. Fortunately he had died and so enabled Cranmer to come in with his cool common sense. Warham had subscribed to the belief that Elizabeth Barton was divinely inspired, and he had sent messages to her in which he had told her she must not hide goodness and the words of God which were imparted to her during her trances. About this time she had ceased to be a servant in the Cobb household and was living as a member of the family.

  The woman went on prophesying, and the Prior of Christchurch, Canterbury, took her into his charge. She was given instruction in the ways of the Church and the legends of the saints. It was believed that the Virgin Mary spoke through her. I suspected many of these priests of seeking ways of upholding the declining condition of the Church. When Martin Luther had nailed his theses to that church door, he had started something of great importance which must have given many a priest some uneasy moments.

  Elizabeth Barton was supposed to have performed miracles. The Virgin Mary, according to Elizabeth Barton, commanded her to leave Aldington and make her home in Canterbury. No one cared to disobey the orders of the Virgin Mary, so the woman was given a cell in St. Sepulchre's Priory.

  All knew of the Nun of Kent; Warham had supported her; he had collected her pronouncements and presented them to the King. Henry dismissed them as the wanderings of a simple-minded woman, guided by churchmen who led her where they wanted her to go. The King showed them to Sir Thomas More, who shared his opinion.

  Sir Thomas More had written a book about a similar case. It concerned a twelve-year-old girl named Anne Wentworth, and, although later she withdrew her belief in her own prophecies, because Thomas More had written of her as though she were genuinely inspired and he was a man of high reputation throughout the country, it helped to enhance Elizabeth Barton's fame.

  The King's divorce was naturally something which would be eminently suitable for prophecy, and Elizabeth Barton seized on it and in the name of God forbade it.

  That a simple countrywoman should dare tell him what to do enraged Henry, but Elizabeth Barton appeared to be fearless. She went on to say that she had been told by Heaven—whether the Virgin Mary or God himself she did not indicate—that if the King wronged Queen Katharine he should no longer be King of the Realm and would die a villain's death.

  She was making a great nuisance of herself. People listened to her and, as she had the support of the Church, they were ready to believe her. Great men interested themselves in her—Fisher for one, and Sir Thomas More visited her and made no attempt to treat her as the charlatan she was.

  She began to be invited to the houses of the nobility that she might prophesy for them. The Holy Nun had become a fashionable fortune-teller. Her fame grew and grew, and she had a big following in all classes of society.

  It was rather amusing that she had prophesied that if Henry married me he would die within a month. It was certainly awkward for her that he was still alive and in good health months later.

  She was not completely witless. She said that the prophecy had been rather obscurely worded; she had meant he would no longer be King, and people had construed this as meaning that he would die. But what she had implied was that he would no longer be King in the sight of Heaven; and he was not.

  Cromwell had
talked very seriously to the King about this woman. She was no longer to be regarded as a simpleton; she was doing great harm to the King and the country; too many influential people were her friends. Therefore she must be arrested.

  With his usual efficiency Cromwell soon had the Nun of Kent under lock and key.

  He could be trusted to deal with the matter in a subtle way to cause as little trouble to the nation as possible. He did not immediately pass sentence, which he might have done. He kept her in prison and put her through examinations. Questions were fired at her. She was not tortured. He thought that was unnecessary and would bring the usual cry that she had confessed under torture. He could have said that surely, in her case, her friends God and the Virgin Mary might have come to her aid, but he was more crafty than that.

  She was after all a simple woman. What education she had was of Church matters, and without her mentors beside her she broke down under Cromwell's expert questioning. He drew a confession from her that she had never had any visitations from Heaven and what she had said came from her own imagination to satisfy those who had looked after her and her own desire for worldly praise.

  “That is what we need,” said Cromwell in delight. He had taken the precaution of arresting the two monks who had taught her, and before long he had confessions from them.

  “By God's Holy Mother,” cried the King, “that fellow Cromwell has a way of getting to the heart of a matter. Clever fellow. I wish I could like him better. He deserves it for his brains. I wish the rest of him pleased me as well.”

  There was a trial in the Star Chamber—where all confessed and were declared traitors. Lord Audley, the Lord Chancellor, proclaimed that Elizabeth Barton had plotted for the King's dethronement, and the punishment for that was death.

  They were taken back to prison. Cromwell thought there should be inquiries about those who had supported the woman; and at the beginning of that momentous year she was still in prison awaiting her sentence.