told the truth,” she said. “I swore in the name of the Holy Trinity. They cannot condemn me. The truth must stand. I am the King's true wife and I will not be put aside.”
I WAS NOW PASSING into one of the most distressing periods of my life up to that time. It is well known how the legatine court opened in Blackfriars in 1529 and when my parents were called to state their cases, my mother threw herself at my father's feet and begged him to remember the happiness they had once shared and to consider his daughter's honor.
I could imagine his embarrassment and how he declared that, if only he could believe he was not living in sin with her, she would be the one he would choose above all others for his wife.
I wondered how he could utter such blatant hypocrisy when everyone knew that his passion for Anne Boleyn was the major reason for his desire for a divorce, for she would not become his mistress but insisted on marriage.
It is common knowledge that my mother declared that she would answer to no court but that of Rome, that she withdrew and when called would not come back. I still marvel at my father. I wondered how he could possibly maintain that his reason for wanting the divorce was solely due to his fear of offending God when all knew of his obsession. Because he felt I was an impediment to the fulfillment of his wishes on account of the people's attitude toward me, and the fact that I was undoubtedly his daughter, he was eager to get me married and out of the picture. The possibility of my marrying the little French Prince was becoming more and more remote, and in any case it would not come about for years. And at one stage the King had the effrontery to suggest a marriage between myself and Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond. How could he, while pretending to be so disturbed because of his connection with his brother's widow, suggest marrying me to my half-brother!
It was well that this suggestion did not become widely known, but I did marvel that the possibility had entered his mind and that the Pope should consider the idea and be prepared to provide the necessary dispensation. It brought home to me the fact that most men were completely concerned with their own grip on power and would do anything, however dishonorable, to keep it. I was developing a certain cynicism.
I was not surprised that my mother was in despair. How could she, in such a world, ever expect justice!
“What think you?” she said to the Countess. “Will any Englishman who is the King's subject be a friend to me and go against the King's pleasure?”
Reginald grew more and more convinced that Campeggio had received orders to bring the matter to no conclusion and that his task was to delay wherever possible. This he seemed to do with a certain skill, while my father grew more and more angry as the case dragged on and nothing was achieved.
That which Reginald had prophesied came to pass. The Pope recalled Campeggio. It was announced that the case was to be tried in Rome. My mother was jubilant, my father incensed. They both knew that Rome would never dare offend the Emperor as far as to give the verdict the King desired. He naturally refused to leave the country.
During those weary weeks my mother and I were sustained only by each other and our friends. The scene around us was changing. Anne Boleyn was now installed at Court; she was the Queen in all but name; but still she kept my father at arms' length. Thus she kept her power over him. Wolsey was in disgrace; he had failed; according to the King, he had served his master, the Pope, against the King, and that was something my father would not endure. Poor Wolsey! I could feel it in my heart to be sorry for him. To have climbed so high and now fall so low—it was a tragedy, and one could not fail to commiserate just a little even though he had been no friend to us. He had worked for the divorce; where he had failed was not to work for the marriage of the King and Anne Boleyn.
Campeggio had left the country, and the King was so furious with the old man that he commanded his luggage be searched before he