In the Shadow of the Crown - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,96

rumor which gave me pleasure. I remembered how my mother, since I could not marry the Emperor Charles, had expressed a desire that I should marry Reginald Pole.

In the quietness of my room I talked with Susan Clarencieux, who had become one of my dearest friends. I could talk to her of my dreams and aspirations more openly than anyone else.

She understood my desire for marriage.

She said, “I saw your fondness for the little Elizabeth, although for a while you seemed to fight against it.”

“I hated her mother. She ruined mine. And I am afraid at first I passed my hatred on to the child. That is something one should never do…to blame the children for their parents' sins of which they are entirely innocent. It was cruel and wicked.”

“And the young Elizabeth is such an enchanting creature.”

“I often wonder what will become of her. I fear she will take everything she wishes or, failing to, bring herself to some terrible end.”

“I have a feeling that she will somehow survive.”

“Her position is even worse than mine. The King at least acknowledges me. Sometimes I think he tries to tell himself that she is not his daughter.”

“Could he look at her and doubt it?”

“Perhaps that is why he does not wish to look at her.”

“I have heard certain rumors lately. I believe that at one time you were very fond of him.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of Reginald Pole.”

“Oh.” I was smiling. Memories were coming back. How young I had been, and he had seemed so wonderful…so much older than I was…so much wiser… and yet I had loved him and believed he loved me.

“What did they say of him?” I asked.

“That he has only taken deacon's orders… not those of a priest…so that, when the time comes…he will not be debarred from taking a wife. You and he could be married.”

“Do you think there is any truth in this?”

“It is what some people would like.”

“You mean… those whom the King would call his enemies?”

“Yes.”

“But Reginald is a cardinal now.”

“He remains free to marry.”

“Oh, Susan, I wonder if it could ever be…”

She lifted her shoulders. “The King hates him now, you know. He regards him as an enemy who can do him a great deal of harm on the Continent.”

“Yes, I do know. Oh, Susan, why are things never as they should be?”

She smiled at me fondly. “You would welcome a marriage with him,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

I nodded. “It would be suitable in every way. He is a Plantagenet. Our rival houses would be joined. Besides, I know him well.”

“It is long since you saw him.”

“But he is not a man to change. Susan, there is no one I should rather have for my husband.”

And so we talked.

But I was no nearer to marriage for all that. Sometimes I thought I never should be.

EVER SINCE THE DEATH OF JANE, MY FATHER HAD BEEN looking for a new bride. He was obsessed by the idea. Why he did not take a mistress, I cannot imagine. There might have been several prepared to accept that honor. But marriage? Any woman would look askance at that. The whole world knew what had happened to his first two wives. And the third? Had she escaped a similar fate by dying?

He had his eyes on several women at the French Court. The Duke of Guise had three daughters, François Premier one. All were eligible. My father wrote enthusiastically to François. Perhaps the ladies could be sent to England and he would promise to choose one of them to be the next Queen of England.

François' retort was typical of him. “Our ladies are not mares to be paraded for selection,” he said.

The fact was that none of the ladies was eager for marriage. Perhaps my father had forgotten that he was no longer the eligible bridegroom he had once been. He was ageing. His handsome looks were no more; he had grown fat; his once-dazzling complexion had turned purple. Since his fall he walked with a limp, and there was a fistula on his leg which refused to heal. There were times when it was so painful that he could not speak, and his face would grow black in his efforts to prevent himself calling out loud. There were some who said it was an incurable ulcer, others—though only a few bold ones said this—that it was the outward sign of some horrible disease. In addition to all this, it was remembered

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