“The marriage was not consummated.”
“This must be put to the test.”
“How?”
“Those who served you when you and your first husband were together might have evidence.”
My mother gave him a look of contempt. She had for some time regarded him as one of her greatest enemies.
“Would your Grace confess to me?” asked Campeggio.
She looked at him steadily. She must have seen, as I did, a poor sick old man who had no liking for his task. He might not be her friend but he was not her enemy. Moreover, he was the Pope's messenger and she trusted him.
“Yes,” she said, “I would.”
I was dismissed then, and she and Campeggio went into her private closet. She told me afterward that he had questioned her about her first marriage. “I told the truth,” she said. “I swore in the name of the Holy Trinity. They cannot condemn me. The truth must stand. I am the King's true wife and I will not be put aside.”
I WAS NOW PASSING into one of the most distressing periods of my life up to that time. It is well known how the legatine court opened in Blackfriars in 1529 and when my parents were called to state their cases, my mother threw herself at my father's feet and begged him to remember the happiness they had once shared and to consider his daughter's honor.
I could imagine his embarrassment and how he declared that, if only he could believe he was not living in sin with her, she would be the one he would choose above all others for his wife.
I wondered how he could utter such blatant hypocrisy when everyone knew that his passion for Anne Boleyn was the major reason for his desire for a divorce, for she would not become his mistress but insisted on marriage.
It is common knowledge that my mother declared that she would answer to no court but that of Rome, that she withdrew and when called would not come back. I still marvel at my father. I wondered how he could possibly maintain that his reason for wanting the divorce was solely due to his fear of offending God when all knew of his obsession. Because he felt I was an impediment to the fulfillment of his wishes on account of the people's attitude toward me, and the fact that I was undoubtedly his daughter, he was eager to get me married and out of the picture. The possibility of my marrying the little French Prince was becoming more and more remote, and in any case it would not come about for years. And at one stage the King had the effrontery to suggest a marriage between myself and Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond. How could he, while pretending to be so disturbed because of his connection with his brother's widow, suggest marrying me to my half-brother!
It was well that this suggestion did not become widely known, but I did marvel that the possibility had entered his mind and that the Pope should consider the idea and be prepared to provide the necessary dispensation. It brought home to me the fact that most men were completely concerned with their own grip on power and would do anything, however dishonorable, to keep it. I was developing a certain cynicism.
I was not surprised that my mother was in despair. How could she, in such a world, ever expect justice!
“What think you?” she said to the Countess. “Will any Englishman who is the King's subject be a friend to me and go against the King's pleasure?”
Reginald grew more and more convinced that Campeggio had received orders to bring the matter to no conclusion and that his task was to delay wherever possible. This he seemed to do with a certain skill, while my father grew more and more angry as the case dragged on and nothing was achieved.
That which Reginald had prophesied came to pass. The Pope recalled Campeggio. It was announced that the case was to be tried in Rome. My mother was jubilant, my father incensed. They both knew that Rome would never dare offend the Emperor as far as to give the verdict the King desired. He naturally refused to leave the country.
During those weary weeks my mother and I were sustained only by each other and our friends. The scene around us was changing. Anne Boleyn was now installed at Court; she was the Queen in all but name; but still she kept my father at arms' length. Thus she kept her power over him. Wolsey was in disgrace; he had failed; according to the King, he had served his master, the Pope, against the King, and that was something my father would not endure. Poor Wolsey! I could feel it in my heart to be sorry for him. To have climbed so high and now fall so low—it was a tragedy, and one could not fail to commiserate just a little even though he had been no friend to us. He had worked for the divorce; where he had failed was not to work for the marriage of the King and Anne Boleyn.
Campeggio had left the country, and the King was so furious with the old man that he commanded his luggage be searched before he embarked for the Continent. Campeggio complained bitterly at this indignity—a small matter when one considered what was happening to Wolsey.
Thomas Cranmer had leaped into prominence by suggesting the King appeal to the universities of England and Europe instead of relying on a papal court. This found great favor with the King who guessed—rightly— that bribes scattered there could bring the desired result.
I was heartily sick and weary—and completely disillusioned—by the whole matter.
When I look back on those three years 1529 to 1531, I am not surprised that my mother's health, and mine also, deteriorated. She was really ill and I was growing pale and suffering from headaches. But at least we were together most of the time, although I had a separate household at Newhall near Chelmsford in Essex. My mother was still living as the Queen and moving from place to place with the Court, but she was being more and more ignored, and often the King would leave her and go to some other place with Anne Boleyn. I at least was comforted by the constant company of the Countess and her son.
I knew I gave some concern to the King. Not that he cared for my welfare but he believed I was an impediment to the granting of the divorce and that, if it were not that she was determined to fight for my rights, my mother would have gone into a convent by now and the whole matter could have been settled.
It was sad to see my mother growing more and more feeble in health, although at the same time her resolve was as strong as ever and grew stronger, I think, with every passing day and new difficulty.
We would sew together and read the Bible. She liked me to read to her. She told me once that the path to Heaven was never easy and the more tribulations we suffered on Earth the greater the joy when we were received into Heaven. “Think of the sufferings of our Lord Jesus,” she said. “What are our pains compared with His?”
We used to pray together. She it was who instilled in me so firmly my religious beliefs. Religion was our staff and comfort. I shall never forget how it maintained us during those days.
My mother and I were so close that I think we sometimes knew what was in each other's minds. I know she longed for death—though she clung to life because she believed she must fight for me. She would never give the King what he asked, for that would mean that she accepted the fact that I was their illegitimate daughter. She wanted me to be a queen. She wanted me to rule the country with a firm and loving hand. She believed that there were not enough religious observances in England. The people, on the whole, were not a pious race. They were too preoccupied with amusement and finery and bestowed too little attention on sacred matters.
“You need a strong man beside you,” she said to me once.
“My lady, I am betrothed to the son of the King of France.”
“That will come to nothing. The friendship of kings is like a leaf in the wind. It sways this way and that, and when the wind blows strongly enough, it falls to the ground, is trampled on and forgotten. I do not wish to see you married into France.”