Queen of This Realm - Plaidy Jean - Страница 38

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I was told that I might retire to Hatfield. I should not be entirely a prisoner but my movements would be under surveillance. Sir Henry Bedingfeld was to be relieved of his duties and Sir Thomas Pope was to be put in charge of my household. He would watch over me and prevent my entering into conspiracies with undesirable people. I had already met Sir Thomas Pope and found him a charming and honorable gentleman, and although I had become somewhat reconciled to Sir Henry I was not displeased at the change. When I arrived at Hatfield great joy awaited me for I found Kat Ashley there. “Come to serve Your Grace,” she cried, and we flew into each other's arms.

IT WAS NOT only Kat who was awaiting me at Hatfield. Her husband was with her, Parry too; and to my great joy, my dear and respected tutor Roger Ascham also. Even if I were not entirely free, I could not be unhappy surrounded by such people.

Moreover Sir Thomas Pope was a very different person from Sir Henry Bedingfeld. He was a merry man as well as a kindly one and in order to show me how pleasant life was going to be at Hatfield he decided to give an entertainment in the great hall to amuse me. It was to be a masque and a pageant such as my father had loved. Even the minstrels wore disguises and every lady and gentleman was warned that they must make themselves so different from their usual selves that even their most intimate friends would find it difficult to recognize them. There was dancing and at the banquet we all unmasked and showed ourselves and there was much laughter and exclamations of amazement to the delight of all.

I could see that life was going to be very different here from what I had endured at Woodstock.

Unfortunately news of those particular revels reached the Queen and no doubt Gardiner or someone like that pointed out to her the danger that could arise from such entertainments. If people came in disguises why should not spies make their way into the company? Sir Thomas told me regretfully that he had had orders from the Queen that such revelries must cease.

I was still suspect and not to be trusted.

“There are other ways of amusing ourselves,” he said. “However, disguises are forbidden.”

It did not matter. I had my friends about me. It would be a great pleasure to talk in various languages with someone as interesting and erudite as Roger Ascham.

At this time there broke out in the country the very worst wave of persecution that was ever known and which I believe will never be forgotten as long as men live. With her marriage to Philip of Spain, Mary had in fact passed over the government of her realm to him; she had brought the country back to Rome, and although the Inquisition had not yet been set up in the country, its rules were being introduced.

I was glad to be shut away in the country. I was filled with shame for my sister. Her folly was beyond my understanding and she earned the hatred of many of her subjects and that adjective which was to be used often when her name was mentioned: Bloody Mary.

So this was what religious fanaticism did to a woman who was by nature humane. I swore I would have no part in it. Perhaps the Spaniards had endured it and would go on doing so. I did not think the English would.

I was sickened as were so many. How could she allow this to be done in her name?

There were two men who urged her to this cruel folly. Gardiner was naturally one and Edward Bonner, Bishop of London, was the other. I despised them both and I could not believe it when I first heard it. I discussed it with Kat in a highly emotional way and with Roger Ascham more calmly, but with none the less revulsion.

To burn men and women at the stake for their religious opinions was not only hideously cruel, it was quite stupid. How could she say: I worship in this way and therefore it is right, and because you do not agree you will be burned to death! I had heard their miserable arguments: The victims were destined to hell fire, so what did it matter if they began their life of torment a few years earlier? How I loathed those persecutors! How I despised them! Not only for their cruelty but for their folly. It was an affront to all reason.

So passed that dreadful year when the fires of Smithfield sobered all London and palls of smoke and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air even in the smallest towns. It was as though my father had never broken with Rome. But it was not quite as it had been. He had been ruthless, true; he had condemned men to death, but it was because they stood in the way of his personal wishes. That was wrong, of course; but this death and torture for a divergence of belief was something I could not understand.

There were few of us who did not go in fear of our lives. I myself dreamed of standing in a square while they bound my body to a stake. I had been alarmed at the thought of the axe. But that was merciful compared with the terrible slow death by fire.

Yet many were suffering it.

We went to Mass. I did, yes. I admit it. I accepted the Catholic Faith. At least I forced out the words they wished me to say, but I could never believe that the differences between one sect and another were of any importance. Was I a hypocrite? I do not know. If I was, I was a sensible hypocrite. I was certain now that I was going to rule my people and when I did I would put an end to this senseless persecution. I could be of greater use to my people alive than dead and when the time came they would surely forgive me for a few words mumbled in a chapel.

Mary was a sick woman. Her husband had left her and was very happy to do so. He had made a marriage and brought the countries together; they had brought England back to Rome and were now merrily burning her people who refused to accept the faith they would impose on them. Spain had done its work. Our country was as unhappy as theirs. And Mary was aging, ill, and still yearning to bear the child which she never could.

And beside her, those archvillains, tools of Spain and Rome—Gardiner and Bonner—catching their prey, questioning, torturing and condemning to the flames.

Great men died at the stake, men such as Nicholas Ridley who had been a Bishop of London, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Winchester, and John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. These men died with great bravery; they were the martyrs. The people watched them sullenly. How long can this last? I wondered.

There was much talk of the manner in which these men had died. Hugh Latimer's last words were repeated over and over again. He had been tied to a stake next to that to which Ridley was bound and he cried out in ringing tones: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Fine words from a man about to suffer a cruel death. They were truly martyrs.

Not long after the death of these two it was the turn of Thomas Cranmer to burn at the stake. He had recanted earlier to save himself. I did not blame him for that. In my opinion it was the sensible thing to do; but he had repented the act in the end and as the flames were lighted he held out his right hand. “This hand has written lies,” he cried. “It has written them to save my life and therefore it should be the first part of my body to burn.”

And later they heard him cry out: “This hand has offended!” and those watching saw him hold it in the flames unflinchingly.

“They will never be forgotten,” I said to Kat. “My sister is mad. For a while some may accept this, but the people will hate her for it. Does she know nothing of the English?”

“The people wait patiently for you, my lady,” said Kat earnestly. “They wait now…as they never did before.”

And when I looked into her face I knew that she spoke the truth.

IT WAS NOT surprising that there should be discontent. The time was ripe to rid the country of the Queen and her cruel persecutions. I dreaded these rebellions. My name was always associated with them because if Mary were deposed, I was next in the line to the succession. I wished people would understand that there was no need for rebellion. Mary was more ill each day and all her actions were those of a woman sick in mind and body; her false pregnancies—she had had another of those—her fanatical religious mania and her persecution of what she called heretics, all were more than devotion to her faith; her obsession had turned to madness and showed clearly that she was nearing her end. I knew it. We should be patient and wait. It was much safer to let death carry her off than to raise a rebellion when there would surely always be some to take her side. They would never understand that the waiting game was the safe one.

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