did much to add to his exasperation, which must at that time have been almost unbearable for a man of his temperament and power. I suppose it was the only time in his life that he had been baulked. All through his golden youth his wish had been law; his height, his good looks, his jovial nature—until crossed—had made him the most popular monarch people remembered. They had loved him, idolized him, and now they were criticizing him; and it was all because his unwanted wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles. If she had been of less consequence, he would have been rid of her long ago.
There were others more powerful than Friars Peto and Elstowe. Bishop Fisher was one, and he had set himself against the divorce and had no compunction in letting it be known. The Countess said she trembled for him. She thought he would be arrested and sent to the Tower. This was not the case as yet. My father must have been very disturbed by the attitude of the people.
All that came out of this was that my mother was moved from the Moor and out to Bishop's Hatfield, which belonged to the Bishop of Ely. I worried a good deal about her. It hindered my convalescence. I had become pale and thin and I looked like a ghost. If only I could have been with my mother, I should have been more at peace; anything would have been preferable to this anxiety about her. I looked back with deep nostalgia to those days when we had all been together—my mother and I, Reginald and the Countess. And now there were just the Countess and myself. Reginald was in Padua, my mother at Bishop's Hatfield. Was it warm there I wondered? She suffered cruelly from rheumatism, and the dampness of some of the houses in which she had been forced to live aggravated this. I wondered if she had enough warm clothing. It was unbearable that she, a Princess of Spain, a Queen of England, could be treated so.
But I knew that we were moving toward a climax when I heard that the King was going to France and was taking Anne Boleyn with him.
“This cannot be true,” I cried to the Countess. “How could he take her with him? She cannot go as the Queen.”
“The King of France is now his friend, remember. If he receives Anne Boleyn, it is tantamount to giving his approval.”
“He will do what is expedient to him.”
“Yes, and François needs your father's support and he will go a long way to get that.”
“But how could Anne Boleyn be received at the Court of France!”
“We shall hear, no doubt.”
“But my mother… what will she think when she hears of this?”
The Countess shook her head. “These things cannot go on. But I can't really believe he will take her to France. It is just one of those rumors, and Heaven knows there have been many of them.”
But it was no rumor. My father showered more honors on Anne Boleyn. He created her Marchioness of Pembroke. That was significant. She was no longer merely the Lady Anne.
So he really did intend to take her to France. He was telling the world that she was his Queen in truth and that the marriage was imminent.
I think my hopes died at that time. I was sunk in gloom; my mother was ill and we were parted by a cruel father and his wicked mistress. If we could have been together, what a difference that would have made! How could they be so cruel to us? Our love for each other was well known, and in addition to the trials we were forced to endure was the anxiety we felt for each other.
As we had feared, events moved quickly after that. They went to France; they were received by François, though not by the ladies of the Court, who, I was glad to hear, rather pointedly absented themselves.
But when they returned, the result was inevitable. There was a rumor that Anne was pregnant with the King's child, and they were secretly married.
I COULD NOT BELIEVE this. It was a false rumor, I insisted to the Countess. Nobody seemed to know where the marriage had taken place. Some said it was in the chapel of Sopewell Nunnery, others at Blickling Hall.
What did it matter where?
Of course it was kept a secret. It was a highly controversial step, for there would be many to ask