In the Shadow of the Crown - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,51

how the King could marry Anne Boleyn when he was the husband of the Queen.

The ceremony had to take place though and without delay, for Anne was pregnant and it was imperative that the child should be born legitimate.

I often wondered later which was the greater—my father's longing for a son or his passion for Anne Boleyn. Knowing him so well, I believe he considered it a slur on his manhood that a son should be denied to him; and as he wished the world to see him as the perfect being, that irked him considerably.

They must have been in a state of some anxiety, for the marriage had to be legal and it was clear that they were getting no help from Rome. How could they pretend that she was his wife when the people knew he was still married to the Queen? I exulted in their difficulties.

It was May of that year 1533, after my seventeenth birthday, when Cranmer, now Archbishop of Canterbury, presided over a tribunal at Dunstable. There was no need for a divorce between the King and Katharine of Aragon, he stated, for their so-called marriage had been no marriage. The ceremony through which they had gone had been contracted against the Divine Law.

After this declaration they felt free to go along with Anne's coronation.

It was incredible that such a thing could be. But my father was determined on it.

My mother had been moved once more and was at Ampthill. I think my father feared to leave her too long in one place. I constantly asked myself why he would not let us be together, but if he would not allow us to see each other during my illness—when he really did fear what effect my death would have had on public opinion—he surely would not now. I was very, very worried for I knew that my mother suffered from constant ill health and I feared the worst was kept from me.

Events were moving fast. We heard, of course, about the splendid coronation, how Anne Boleyn left Greenwich dressed in cloth of gold, looking splendid, they said, with her elegance and her long black hair and great glittering eyes—witch's eyes, I called them. Many believed that she was a witch and that only her supernatural powers had been able to lure the King to act as he had.

I could imagine the guns booming out and my father's waiting to greet her when she reached the Tower. There she stayed for several days in accordance with the custom of monarchs coming to their coronations. How it sickened me to think of this woman, this upstart Boleyn, whose family by astute trading and noble marriages had climbed to a position where Anne might be noticed by the King. All this honor for her while my mother lay cold and ill, neglected, and while everything possible was done to degrade her.

How I hated that woman! How I wished her ill! I remembered my mother once said, “Hatred is not good for the soul, my child. Pray for this woman rather. It may well be that one day she will be in need of our prayers.” But I could not. I was not the saint my mother was.

So I gave vent to my hatred. I prayed that the child she was about to bear would be misshapen, a monster, a girl! I prayed that she might die in childbirth—that they both should die and I might never have to consider them again.

I could picture her making her procession through the streets of London. She would look magnificent in her evil way. Even her greatest enemies could not deny that she had something more than beauty. It was the spell of witchery. I could see her in silver tissue and her ermine-decorated cloak. I could picture the litter of cloth of gold and the two white palfreys which drew it.

Would the people cheer her? They would be overwhelmed by the pageantry for they loved a spectacle. They would forget temporarily, perhaps, the wrongs against the true Queen. They would remember only that this was a holiday and the conduits ran with wine.

All through the day of the coronation, I brooded, nursing my hatred, thinking of my mother, wondering what would be in her mind on this tragic day. I thought of that woman, crowned Queen, in purple velvet and ermine; I could imagine the King's eyes glazed with desire for this witch who had seduced him from his duty and