But with it, of course, I had been a glittering prize.
I knew poor Courtenay had found it hard to live in exile. Right up to the time of his death he was pleading to return. I would have granted his request but the Council was horrified at the prospect. Often they had pointed out how dangerous such people could be. With Courtenay, his good looks made up for his lack of sense, and he was a member of that dynasty which, now it was no longer the ruling family, had been ennobled with the sanctity of that which was and now is no more. Oh yes, the Plantagenets had become holy now their age was past. Had people loved them so devotedly while they lived? Would the Tudors be as revered when they had passed away?
So Courtenay had wandered about Europe, dreaming of home and perhaps a crown. It was tragic to be born within reach of it—even when the chances of attaining it are remote—and to spend one's life in endless striving for the unattainable.
Yes, the Council had been right. It would have been folly to have allowed him to return.
So the golden boy had died in Padua. He was buried there, and all his dreams of glory with him.
PHILIP WAS WRITING to me. Such tender letters they were. He desired to return but events delayed him. However, he was coming. There was so much he wished to discuss with me. Our enforced separation had gone on too long.
How could I help it if my melancholy lifted, if I began to dream again?
The rumors had been false, I told myself. He loved me. He implied it in his letters. There had certainly been weighty matters to occupy him. Now he wanted to talk with me that we might act together, which, as husband and wife, was natural for us.
Perhaps I was not so guileless as I had been, for while a part of me wanted desperately to believe, there was another part which knew why he was so eager to express his affection.
He needed help.
Well, should not a wife help her husband? It should be her joy and privilege to do so.
The fact was that he was coming home. I should see him again. I studied myself in my mirror. There were dark circles under my eyes, and wrinkles round them. I was an old woman. But the news had brought a certain radiance to my face, and I assured myself I looked younger.
Susan said I did. She was anxious, though. She believed that Philip would hurt me again as he had before.
I knew why he was coming. He wanted help against the French.
There were times when I did not care that he came for this reason. It was only important that he was coming. We should be together again…lovers, and perhaps this time there would be a real child. A child would make up for everything.
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.