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 was leading him along the path to Hell.
What was the use of praying for a miracle?
There was no miracle, and Anne Boleyn was crowned Queen of England which she could never be to me—and to many, I hoped—while my mother lived.
HOW WELL I remember those months before the birth of Anne Boleyn's child. She was constantly in my thoughts. I tortured myself with pictures of her—imaginary, of course. My father doted on her, sure that she was about to give him the longed-for son.
But there began to be rumors that all was not well, and that, after having waited so long for her, he was now asking himself why he had endured so much for her sake; and he was looking at other women—something he had not done for a long time, since he had first become obsessed by her. Were these merely rumors or was this actually taking place? As much as I wanted to believe them, I could not accept the fact that his mad desire had evaporated so rapidly.
And she was pregnant—that should make her doubly attractive. She was about to give him what he craved.
A messenger came to Newhall with a command from the King. I was to go to Court that I might be present at the birth of the child.
I was furious. I stamped and raged. “I will not go,” I cried. “I will not.”
The Countess looked sorrowful. “Dear Princess,” she said. “Consider. This is a command from the King.”
“I care not. How can he expect me to take part in the rejoicing at the birth of her child?”
“He does, and you must.”
“Never,” I cried. “Never!”
The Countess shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think the King would say to that? You must tread carefully. You could be on dangerous ground.”
“You mean he might kill me?”
The Countess was silent.
“You really believe that might be, do you not?” I demanded.
“I think life could be very unpleasant for you if you disobeyed,” she answered.
“It is unpleasant now.”
“More unpleasant. Dangerous in fact. Princess, I do beg of you. Be careful.”
“Do understand me,” I pleaded. “I must refuse.”
She shook her head.
There was a letter from my mother.
“You must obey the King,” she wrote. “It is your duty. He is your father. Do not add to my anxieties. They are many and would be more if I thought you defied your father and so roused his anger against you. At present he remembers you are his daughter. Do not, I beg of you, do anything to make him turn against you.”
Then I knew I had to accept what was asked of me. I should have to be there when the odious child was born.
So I set out for Greenwich. Until the baby was born I must live under the same roof as my father and the woman I continued to call his concubine.
From the moment I arrived I was made aware of the fact that my situation had changed a good deal from those days when my father had fondled me and delighted in his daughter.
I did see him briefly. He gave me a cool nod and somehow managed to convey that I had better behave in a seemly manner or it would be the worse for me.
I was presented to her, too. There she was, large with child, smug, complacent, carrying the heir to the throne, she thought. How I hated her! Elegant, she was, in her rich velvets apeing the Queen.
She gave me her hand to kiss. I could have spurned her but I seemed to hear my mother's voice pleading with me; and I could guess at my father's rage if I showed my contempt for her.
So I was cool to her, as she was to me, and if ever hatred flowed between people, it flowed between us two.
“Please God, do not let her live,” I prayed. “Let her and the child die. Let the King realize his cruelty and let all be well between us.”
It was September. The baby was expected hourly. The King was in a state of high excitement, certain that at last he would have his son. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was silently praying for the death of the witch and her offspring.
Then Anne Boleyn was brought to bed.
A special chamber in the Palace of Greenwich had been prepared for the birth. It had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of holy virgins. My father had given her one of the most beautiful beds he had ever possessed to receive his son when he came into the world. The bed was French and had come to him through the Duc d'Alençon as a ransom when he had been my father's prisoner.
It was a long and arduous labor. Seated with others in the chamber adjoining that in which she lay and of which the door was open, we could hear her groans of agony, and at each one I have to admit I exulted.
“Oh God,” I prayed, “let this be her last. Let her die… and the bastard with her.”
I seemed to see my mother's face admonishing me. “The woman is in labor. My child, you have no notion of what this means. She suffers pain such as you cannot imagine. Did not Our Lord teach us to be merciful?”
Merciful to that woman who had deprived my mother of her health, strength and happiness? How could I? I was honest at least. Desperately I wanted her dead. Somewhere in my heart, I believed that if a benign God— benign to us, of course, not to her—would arrange her death, all would be well between my parents.