did she not when she had the sweat?”
“It was God's Will,” said the Countess.
And there was no disputing that.
We heard that Anne Boleyn was living like a queen, and of the jewels she wore—all gifts from the King. But every time she appeared in public, insults were hurled at her.
“Bring back the Queen!” cried the people. “Long live the Princess!” It was gratifying but ineffectual.
We had no friends. There was only the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, who could visit my mother, advise her and comfort her and keep her in touch with the Emperor, because of whom the Pope would not grant the divorce though beyond that he could do little. He could not go to war with England on my mother's account. Moreover my father and François were allies now.
There seemed no way out of this situation. My mother was alone and almost friendless in a country which had been her home for some thirty years and now was an alien land to her.
Then, to my delight, six months after my separation from my mother, I was allowed to join her again. What joy there was in our reunion and what anxiety when I saw how ill she looked!
“The hardest thing I have had to bear in this sad time is my parting with you, my daughter,” she told me. “Oh dear, there is so much to say…so much to ask. How is your Latin?”
We laughed together rather hysterically because at such a time she could think of my Latin.
We were together every moment of the day. We cherished those moments, and we were right to do so for there were not to be many left to us.
We would sit talking, reading, sewing… each of us desperately trying to take hold of each moment, savor it and never let it go. We knew this was to be a brief visit. They were three weeks when I realized how much my mother meant to me and that nothing in my life could ever compensate for her loss.
How could they be so cruel…my father, reveling with his concubine, and she, the black-browed witch—had they no sympathy for a sick woman and her frightened daughter?
Compassion there was none, and at the end of those three weeks came the order. My mother and I were to separate. The brief respite was over.
I became listless. The Countess worried a good deal about me. She was constantly trying to think of something to cheer me. Something must happen soon, she said, and she was sure it would be good.
Dear Lady Salisbury, she provided my only comfort. We talked of Reginald. We heard from him now and then. He was in Padua studying philosophy and theology and meeting interesting people whose outlook on life was similar to his own. He mentioned Gaspar Contarini, a good churchman, and Ludovico Priuli, a young nobleman whom he found of the utmost interest. He wrote of these friends so vividly that we felt we knew them and could enjoy their conversation as he did. He was following events in England, and it was amazing how much he could learn from his friends, as there were constant comings and goings, for the King's affair was of the utmost interest to all.
He would come home soon to us, he wrote. We were never out of his thoughts, and it was a great consolation to him to know that we were together.
We would sit, the Countess and I, and talk of Reginald and try to look into the future. Life had its troubles and its joys, the Countess maintained, and when I said there seemed no hope for a better life for us, she chided me and assured me that God would show us a way and that tribulations were often sent for a good reason. They made us strong and capable of dealing with the trials of life.
Letters from Reginald sustained us during that time; but when one day followed another and we heard nothing but news of the concubine's triumphs and the King's besotted devotion to her, I began to lose heart. I knew that my mother was ill, and that threw me into despair.
It was not surprising that I myself began to grow pale and thin, and one morning I awoke in a fever.
The Countess was horrified, for soon it became obvious that I was very ill indeed.
I heard afterward that news of my illness spread quickly through the country and it was thought that I might not live. There