Queen of This Realm - Plaidy Jean - Страница 41

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To be in her company might have been something of a strain but I was adept at guiding the conversation in the way I wished it to go, and because outwardly I accepted the Catholic Faith Mary was guileless enough to believe that I was converted. I had to avoid the subject of religion and the terrible events in Smithfield for if they were mentioned I feared I might show my repugnance.

I was delighted that she made no effort to persuade or even force me to marry. She knew of the offer from Eric of Sweden which I had rejected, but I had carefully said in my reply that I should not dream of marrying without the Queen's consent, which had pleased her, for Gustavus had approached me first, which was unusual in these matters. I insisted that I had no wish to marry.

“You will one day,” she answered.

“As yet,” I replied, “the virgin state is the one I wish for.”

She smiled at me. “There are great blessings in marriage,” she said wistfully.

Blessings! Had she found them with Philip? An indifferent husband, whose sole reason for marrying was the power and political advantage it would bring him, whose visits to her were clearly distasteful to him, an unpleasant duty which must be performed in the hope of getting an heir, slinking off incognito for an assignation with the baker's daughter. Marriage! Oh no, not for me! Mary might have kept her dignity intact if she had never married.

The more I thought of marriage—and when I did my thoughts were dominated by my mother—the less I desired it.

The safe subject with Mary was the child she believed she carried and I was making some garments with the most delicate embroidery—at which I was quite good—and Mary was delighted with them.

I shall never forget the sight of her as she sat holding the tiny shift in her hands and that look of bliss on her face as she contemplated the joy of having the child she hoped to bear. It was particularly poignant as I was sure— as was everyone else—that she would never have a child.

But she softened toward me, and I toward her, because I saw her then as she was, a lonely woman reaching for affection. She spoke of Philip tenderly—and it was not the Philip he was but the one she had gulled herself to believe he was. “A great man,” she said, “and a great King. I am the luckiest woman on Earth to be his wife.”

I could not bear it. I was not given to tears but I wanted to weep then.

She twisted the ring on her finger. It was black enamel and gold. She called it her betrothal ring.

“I look at it often,” she said. “It reminds me of Philip when he is absent. Of course, it is inevitable that he must be absent. He has a great country to rule. I would that he could be beside me all the time. One day, sister, you will know the blessings of a good husband.”

I could scarcely prevent myself from protesting. I wanted no husband, least of all a power-seeking cynic like Philip.

“This ring is so precious to me,” she said. “I have vowed it shall never leave my finger while I live.”

I took her hand and kissed it.

“I hope, sister, that it will remain there for a very long time,” I said, which was not exactly true. Yet I pitied her.

Was it wrong to hope for Mary's death? Perhaps. But what had life to offer her but lost hopes, a heartless husband and a childless fate? Even more important, what had England to hope for under her rule? In any case one cannot help one's thoughts and I knew that I was the one chosen to lead my country from disaster.

So friendly did she become toward me that she proposed to visit me at Hatfield. Sir Thomas Pope was thrown into a fever of anticipation and he and I discussed with great excitement how we would entertain the Queen. The cost would be enormous, but Sir Thomas was a very wealthy man and I was not poor so we determined to entertain the Queen in a royal manner. Sir Thomas had in his possession a set of superb tapestries representing the siege of Antioch and I proposed that we decorate the state chamber with these. He was very ready to do anything to please me and agreed immediately.

When they were hung we reviewed them with great pride and Sir Thomas said to me: “It may well be that when Her Majesty comes, she will urge you to marry.”

“Sir Thomas,” I replied firmly, “since I have become mature I have made up my mind that I do not wish to marry.”

He smiled indulgently, for we were the best of friends. “Your Grace will change her mind when some suitable person comes to you with the Queen's consent.”

“My dear Sir Thomas,” I replied, “what I shall do hereafter I know not, but I assure you upon my truth and fidelity and as God be merciful unto me, I am not at this time otherwise minded than I have declared unto you. No, though I were offered the greatest prince in Europe.”

He merely smiled at me. I was sure he thought my remarks were not to be taken too seriously.

“Come,” I said, “let us talk of other matters. We should have a play to entertain Her Majesty.”

So we went on with our arrangements. There was a play after supper which was performed by the choirboys of St Paul's which pleased the Queen. We had been careful not to arrange a boisterous entertainment but to concentrate entirely on the tastes of the Queen, which meant presenting music and singing. I accompanied one of the boys on the virginals. He had a pure and lovely voice which enchanted the Queen.

It was a very successful visit and I was glad that Mary and I were on better terms and she seemed no longer to suspect me of plotting to depose her. One only had to look at her poor yellow face and her swollen body—not with child as she so fondly hoped, but with disease—to realize that she could not live for many more months.

It was a disastrous year for her. The time had come when she had to accept that she was not pregnant and never had been. The protuberance which she had fondly hoped was a child was some growth within her. It seemed now that my accession was inevitable. She accepted it and so did Philip; and so did the people. With the coming of the new year, so disastrous for Mary, so thrilling for me, events were moving fast.

Appeals were coming from the town of Calais, the only town left to England of all the conquests of Edward III and Henry V. The French, enraged by England's alliance with Spain, had marched on Calais and on a bitterly cold January day we heard that the town had surrendered to the Duke of Guise.

Mary was frantic. Calais was not so very important; it was difficult to defend it; but it was the last possession on the coast of France and it had been held for generations as a symbol that the English still had one foot in France. And she had lost it because she had allowed Philip to persuade her to join him in war against the French.

I often wondered then if that poor unhappy woman ever thought what disaster the Spanish marriage had brought to her and her country. Oh, what a lesson! The people had been against it and one must always have the people on one's side. Yes, the people had hated the Spanish marriage; it had brought a religious intolerance to England, not known since the persecution of the Templars. Men and women were being burned at the stake. Who was ever going to forget Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer and Hooper? The marriage had failed to produce the only thing which would have made it worthwhile from Mary's point of view—and now the last disaster. The English had lost Calais.

Unreasonable in her grief, the Queen begged the Council to spare no effort to regain the town which she called the chief jewel of our realm. The Council pointed out to her the cost of such an operation and if the town were regained it would have to be held at even more expense, for it was obvious that, having captured it, the French would be determined to retain it— and in short, the town was not worth the effort of recapturing it.

Mary mourned deeply. She said that when she died they would find “Calais” written across her heart.

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