It was a comfort to see her, but in my heart I began to accept the truth. There was no child. I had suffered from the symptoms which had been with me for a greater part of my life; but perhaps because of my great need, my great desire to bear a child, I had forced my body to show the outward signs of pregnancy.
But I would not give up.
The midwife said, “We have miscalculated the time. It will be August or September.”
I wept bitterly. I clung to Susan. I said to her, “They say this to soothe me. In their hearts they know there will never be a child. Susan, don't lie to me. It is true, is it not?”
She looked at me sadly, and we both began to weep.
IF PHILIP WAS DISAPPOINTED—WHICH I AM SURE HE MUST have been—he did not show it.
I felt not only desolate but intensely humiliated. I had believed myself to be with child, and there was no child. I could imagine the manner in which I was being discussed in the streets of the cities and villages, and even in the tiny hamlets; all over the country they would be talking of the child which had never existed.
Philip was always mentioning his father, who needed him badly.
“He has missed you from the day you left,” I said. “I understand that.”
“He has many commitments. I should be with him.” He was looking at me with the faintest dislike in his eyes. Oh no, I told myself, not dislike. It was only that terrible disappointment. He had so much hoped that we should have our child by now. Was he thinking that I was incapable of bearing children? I knew I was small; I was not attractive; I had been old when I married him. How did I please him as a lover? I did not know. Such matters were not discussed between us; they just happened. Was that how lovers behaved? I wondered. Did I disappoint him? He had already had a wife; he never spoke of her. I heard rumors that sometimes he went out at night with some of his gentlemen, that they put on masks and went about the town, adventuring. There were bound to be rumors.
If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.
How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.
“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”
Any mention of the child unnerved me.
“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”
“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”
I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.
And I was beginning to wonder, too.
I felt humiliated and defeated.
“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.
“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”
He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”
I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.
He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.
It was natural that he should want to go.
“I shall return,” he said.
“I pray God that you will ere long,ȍ I answered.
SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.
We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.
It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.
I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt they were wondering about me and the baby which had never existed. I knew there must have been fantastic rumors. There was one I heard about a certain woman—and even mentioning her name. It was Isabel Malt, who lived in Horn Alley in Aldersgate. She had given birth to a beautiful healthy boy at that time when I was waiting for mine. It was said that a great lord had offered Isabel a large sum of money for her baby if she would part with him and tell everyone that the child had died. The baby was to have been smuggled into Hampton Court and passed off as mine.
These wild rumors might have been amusing if they were not so tragic; and unfortunately there will always be those to believe them.
If I had had a child, I wondered, what rumors would have been created about him?
I had never been so unhappy as I was at that time. As I rode through those crowded streets and met the curious gaze of my people and heard their half-hearted, if loyal, shouts, I thought I would willingly have given my crown for the happiness of a loved wife and mother.
It had been arranged that Elizabeth, who was to be a member of the party come to bid Philip farewell, should travel by barge. I did not want to have to compete with her for the cheers of the people. I felt that she, with her young looks and easy manners, would have commanded the greater share of the acclaim—and, worse still, it would have been noticed.
I took a barge with Philip at the Tower Wharf and was beside him as we sailed down to Greenwich.
The members of the Council accompanied us, and I noticed how ill Gardiner was looking in the torchlight, for it was dusk. I was glad of the gloom. I did not want the bright sunlight to accentuate the ravages in my face which the last weeks had put there.
There came the moment when we must say goodbye.
Philip kissed all my ladies, as he had when he arrived, and I was reminded of that day and yearned to be back in that happy time.
At last he took his leave of me. He kissed me with great tenderness, and I tried to tell myself that he was as grieved at our parting as I was; but I knew in my heart that he was not. I was aware that, if he had greatly desired to stay, he would have found excuses for doing so. He gave no sign of his pleasure in leaving, and his features were set in a mold of sad resignation.
I felt the tears in my eyes and tried to suppress them. But I could not do so. Philip would hate tears.
I clung to him. He responded stiffly and then, murmuring, “I shall be back ere long,” he left me.
I stood lonely and bereft, watching him depart. I would not move. He stood on the deck, his cap in hand, watching me as I watched him.
And there I stayed until I could see him no more.
I had lost my child, and now my husband was taking with him all hopes of happiness.
I THINK I MUST have been the most unhappy woman in the world.
Sullen looks came my way as I rode out; a pall of smoke hung over Smithfield, where men were chained to stakes and died because they would not accept the true faith. I had not wanted that.
“Persuasion,” I had said. Was this persuasion?
Gardiner had died. He had left me to reap the harvest and had not stayed long enough to see what effect it would have.
I was lonely and helpless. This was my mission. I had completed it. I had brought the Church back to Rome but there was little joy for me.
I was ill most of the time. My headaches persisted. My dreams were haunted by the screams of people chained to the stakes in that Smithfield which had become a Hell on Earth.