would be rumors, of course. The concubine's spies had poisoned me. The King had been duped by her. She was a witch and a murderess.
When the King rode out with her, the hostile crowds shouted at them. That would disturb him for he had always cared so passionately for the people's approval; and he had had it until now. But he had disappointed them and they—particularly the women—had turned against him. His treatment of the Queen shocked them. She had done nothing except grow old and fail to produce a son, and the little Princess Mary, who was the true heir to the throne, was, because of the wickedness of the King's paramour, lying at death's door.
My father hastily sent one of his best physicians to treat me.
I can remember lying in bed longing for my mother. I called her name, and the Countess sent an urgent plea to my father begging him to let my mother come to me.
He was adamant. She was to stay away from me. He may have feared what would happen if we met. Perhaps he thought of the crowds following my mother on her journey to me, shouting their loyalty to her and to me. Riots could so easily arise.
No. He could not grant me what would have been the best remedy for my sickness. But he did send one of his doctors to me.
I was young; I was resilient. And I recovered, thanks to Dr. Butts and the Countess's constant care.
Although I believed that both my father and his mistress would have been glad to see the end of me, they must have felt a certain relief that I had not died. Such an event at that time would most certainly have aroused the people to some action, and they would know that.
I hoped my mother was aware of the people's feelings. It might have brought her a grain of comfort. It would have made her feel less of a stranger in an alien land.
There were some brave men who were ready to face the King's wrath for their beliefs. William Peto was one. He was the Provincial of the Grey Friars, and on Easter Day at Greenwich he preached a sermon in the presence of my father. Frankly, he said that the divorce was evil and could not find favor in the sight of Heaven.
I exulted to think of my father's sitting listening to him. He would be seething with anger. It was a very brave preacher who could stand up before him and utter such words. I could so well imagine his anger. I could see the small eyes growing icy, his expressive mouth indicating his mood. But this was a man who could not be entirely flouted; and there was the mood of the people to be considered.
For some time Peto had wanted to go to Toulouse, for he was writing a book about the divorce and he wished to get it published there; for of course he would not be able to do so in England. My father may have had some inkling of this, for he refused permission, but now, on the advice of one of his chaplains who feared that such a man could do much damage, my father summoned him and coldly told him to leave the country immediately. Then he sent for Dr. Curwin, who would preach a sermon more to his liking.
He was right. Curwin did this to my father's satisfaction, even hinting that Friar Peto, after his disloyal outburst, because he was a coward, had fled the country.
There are some men who court martyrdom. Peto was one; Friar Elstowe was another. Elstowe immediately declared publicly that everything Peto had said could be confirmed by the Scriptures, and this he would eagerly do to support Peto and hopefully give the King pause for thought before he imperilled his immortal soul.
Such talk was inflammatory, and Elstowe, with Peto, was arrested at Canterbury, where they were resting on their way to the Continent; they were brought before the Council, where they were told that such mischiefmakers as they were should be put together into a sack and thrown into the Thames, to which Elstowe retorted that the men of the Court might threaten them if they would but they must know that the way to Heaven lies as open by water as by land.
However, the King wanted no action taken against them. I think he feared how the people would behave.
But the attitude of these men