In the Shadow of the Crown - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,210

but perhaps because of my great need, my great desire to bear a child, I had forced my body to show the outward signs of pregnancy.

But I would not give up.

The midwife said, “We have miscalculated the time. It will be August or September.”

I wept bitterly. I clung to Susan. I said to her, “They say this to soothe me. In their hearts they know there will never be a child. Susan, don't lie to me. It is true, is it not?”

She looked at me sadly, and we both began to weep.

IF PHILIP WAS DISAPPOINTED—WHICH I AM SURE HE MUST have been—he did not show it.

I felt not only desolate but intensely humiliated. I had believed myself to be with child, and there was no child. I could imagine the manner in which I was being discussed in the streets of the cities and villages, and even in the tiny hamlets; all over the country they would be talking of the child which had never existed.

Philip was always mentioning his father, who needed him badly.

“He has missed you from the day you left,” I said. “I understand that.”

“He has many commitments. I should be with him.” He was looking at me with the faintest dislike in his eyes. Oh no, I told myself, not dislike. It was only that terrible disappointment. He had so much hoped that we should have our child by now. Was he thinking that I was incapable of bearing children? I knew I was small; I was not attractive; I had been old when I married him. How did I please him as a lover? I did not know. Such matters were not discussed between us; they just happened. Was that how lovers behaved? I wondered. Did I disappoint him? He had already had a wife; he never spoke of her. I heard rumors that sometimes he went out at night with some of his gentlemen, that they put on masks and went about the town, adventuring. There were bound to be rumors.

If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.

How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.

“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”

Any mention of the child unnerved me.

“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”

“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”

I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.

And I was beginning to wonder, too.

I felt humiliated and defeated.

“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.

“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”

He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”

I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.

He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.

It was natural that he should want to go.

“I shall return,” he said.

“I pray God that you will ere long,ȍ I answered.

SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.

We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.

It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.

I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt