I was arguing with myself again. Some women of my age had children. Why should not I? I prayed fervently. I wanted the whole country to pray with me. But I did not ask them to. I could not have borne the humiliation. They would have tittered when and where they dared. They would have sung “The Baker's Daughter.”
But I was a desperate woman, longing for the love I never had.
I went to see Reginald. He was very ill, but there were days when he was lucid and it seemed that all his old power returned to him. He could not walk now, but he still studied. That was his pleasure in life—as, I imagined, it always had been.
He kept abreast of what was happening in Europe and, because of the years he had spent there, was in close contact with Rome and those who, like himself, held the office of Cardinal.
I said to him, “Philip writes of coming home.”
“To England?”
I nodded.
“Ah, yes,” went on Reginald. “It is the war. I deplore it. The Emperor and the King of France fought for years—each wanting to rule the Continent. They will never achieve this… either of them. Perhaps one succeeds for a few years… and then the other. It will go one way and then swing back. It always has. I cannot see why they do not understand it always will.”
“It has kept us apart. Philip has his duties and now that he is the King …” I shook my head sadly.
“I was against the marriage,” he said. “You remember, I warned you. You should not have married. You could have reigned alone. The people never wanted Philip. They will never accept him with a good grace. They hate foreigners.”
“People seem to hate those who are not of the same nationality as themselves—and sometimes they hate people who are. There is too much hate in the world.”
Reginald was silent for a few moments; then he said, “And now there is a new force in Europe… this new Pope.”
“He is an old man. I heard that he was eighty. Surely that cannot be? How could they elect a man of that age?”
“He is no ordinary man. And he has had eighty years of experience which few men have, and he uses what he has gleaned through the years to his advantage.”
“They should have elected you, Reginald. You should have been Pope.”
“My dear Mary, I am a sick man.”
“So they chose this old man!”
“You have not seen him. He has the energy of youth and the experience of old age. A man who can combine the two is a rarity, but such is Cardinal Caraffa who is now Paul IV. It is unfortunate that he has a grudge against Philip.”
“How could Philip have aroused his animosity? It was not very wise of him, was it?”
“It would have been if the Cardinal had failed to be elected. Philip tried to prevent that and so, I fear, has earned the Pope's enduring emnity.”
“A man of God will forgive,” I said.
Reginald smiled wryly. “The Pope will try to drive Philip out of Europe and to achieve this is ready to make an alliance with the French.”
“All my life I remember it. There was an alliance between my father and the King of France… and then they were enemies and there was an alliance with the Emperor. Then he quarrelled with the Emperor and was the friend of France. How much are these alliances worth, Reginald?”
“A great deal while they last. Philip is disturbed.”
“That is why he is coming home. He will talk to me. It is what he wants.”
“I will tell you what he wants. He will want England to stand with him. He will want you to declare war on France.”
“War! I hate war! There are enough troubles here already. The drought has not helped. The people fear famine, and when that threatens they turn against those who in their eyes are wealthy and well fed. There has been trouble since we turned to Rome. Oh, Reginald, there are times when I am so unhappy. The people no longer love me. I think they are waiting for my death… hoping for it… that they may turn to Elizabeth.”
“She would take the country away from Rome.”
“She would do what the people wanted her to.”
“She has heard the Mass.”
“Yes… but showing her reluctance. She sways with the wind. Which way do you want me to go? What is the best for me? she asks herself. And that is the way she will go.”
“There are some who think she should be questioned.”
“I cannot believe she would ever harm me.”
“You are too trusting.”
“Yes,” I agreed, thinking of Philip. “It may be that I do not employ subterfuge as some people do.”
He put his hand over mine. “You have done well,” he said.
“Remember you used to say you had a mission? God had chosen you to bring England back to His true Church? You must rejoice, for you have done that. Always it will be remembered that it was in your reign that England returned to the Church of Rome.”
It was pleasant to be with him. I wanted to talk of the old days when I was a child and I had first known him. He had seemed so noble then. I liked to think of our mothers talking confidentially over their needlework, matchmaking for us.
If I had married Reginald when I was young and had wanted to, how different my life would have been. It would surely have been a very suitable and happy marriage.
But it did not come to pass; and now Philip was coming home because he wanted my country to join his in the war against the French.
WE WERE DISTURBED by the menace of another rebellion. This time it was Thomas Stafford. It was very disconcerting to me because the young man was Reginald's nephew.
Reginald was very upset about it. He talked to me about Thomas, who had renounced the Catholic faith. When he was on the Continent, Reginald had made great efforts to bring him back to it—but in vain.
Thomas's mother, Ursula, was the daughter of my dear Countess of Salisbury; thus she was Reginald's sister. So the young man had royal blood on that side of the family; but his father was the third Duke of Buckingham who was descended from Thomas Woodstock, third son of Edward III. So … Thomas had royal blood on both sides, and he had the temerity to consider that his claim to the throne was greater than mine, for he declared that, by marrying a Spaniard, I had forfeited my right to it.
It seemed so recklessly stupid that one felt one should ignore it, and, as Thomas Stafford was abroad, we did for some time. It had seemed just one of the minor irritations I was doomed to suffer.
Gradually we began to see that it was not so trivial. This was when the English ambassador to France sent dispatches home which indicated that Thomas Stafford was being received with respect by Henri Deux, who was giving him encouragement, and had even promised him two ships to help him.
Ruy Gomez da Silva arrived in England. It was February and bitterly cold.
I was delighted to see him, because I knew that his coming meant that Philip would soon follow.
Ruy Gomez was a typical Spanish nobleman. He was a master of courtesy, as Philip was; but Ruy Gomez had an ease of manner, a way of flattering with his eyes and paying unspoken compliments which made one feel attractive even though one knew to the contrary. He was a very gracious, charming gentleman.
He asked for an audience immediately on his arrival and, of course, I granted it with alacrity.
Susan warned me that, underneath all the charm, here was an astute diplomat who should be carefully watched.
He talked pleasantly and easily of the journey, the crossing and the health of Philip, which was good.
“His Majesty has been completely immersed in his duties, which were onerous, and now that the Emperor has passed his dominions to his beloved son, those duties are increasing.”
“We shall have much to discuss,” I said.
“The French are causing a great deal of trouble,” Gomez told me.