So I had written to her, telling her that if she would stop being obstinate and be a good daughter to her father, I would be her good friend. She could come to Court and I should not insist that she should bear my train. She should walk by my side.
I had gone as far as that, and I would have kept my word.
But Mary would not give way. She replied that she wished for nothing more than to be her father's good daughter, but she could not for-swear the principles for which Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More had died.
It was hopeless to try to get Mary to see good sense, but having done what I could, I did feel a little better.
Christmas passed and the New Year was with us.
News came from Kimbolton where Katharine had been sent, that she was very ill indeed. We heard this through Eustace Chapuys, which infuriated the King. He sent for Cromwell. Poor Cromwell, he seemed to be blamed for everything, and yet the King knew that he could not do without him.
“Why is it that I first hear news of what is going on in my castles from foreigners?” he demanded.
Cromwell humbly said he would take Sir Edmund Bedingfeld, who was in charge of Katharine's household, to task.
He came back with Bedingfeld's report, which was that, because he was the King's servant, the Dowager Princess Katharine concealed everything from him. He had known she was ill but not how dangerously ill.
Katharine begged Henry to let her see Mary.
I watched his mouth tighten. They had plotted to bring in the Emperor's armies, to oust him and set Mary up on his throne. That was something he would not forget or forgive.
“There shall be no meeting between those two,” he said. “How do we know that this illness is not feigned, and they are not meeting to plot treason?”
A few days later a letter arrived for him from Katharine. I read the letter with him.
My lord and dear husband, I commend me unto you. The hour of my death draweth fast on, and my case being such, the tender love I owe you forceth me, in a few words, to put you in remembrance of the health and safeguard of your soul, which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters and before the care and tendering of your own body, for the which you have cast me into many miseries and yourself into many cares. For my part, I do pardon you all, yea, I do wish and devoutly pray God that He will pardon you.
For the rest, I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I heretofore desired. I entreat you also on behalf of my maids to give them marriage portions, which is not much, there being but three. For all my servants I solicit a year's pay more than their due, lest they should be unprovided for.
Lastly, do I vow that mine eyes desire you above all things.
It was the letter of a dying woman. Henry was disturbed on reading it, but he could not bring himself to go and see her. He sent for Chapuys and told him to go at once to Katharine at Kimbolton and give her his good wishes.
“Let Lady Willoughby go to her,” he said. Maria de Salinas, who had come with Katharine from Spain and had married Lord Willoughby, had been Katharine's dearest friend throughout her years in England. So although she was denied the presence of her daughter, she did see her friend.
On 7 January she died in the presence of Lady Willoughby and Chapuys. So it had happened at last, and I am afraid I was impetuous enough to say in the hearing of several people: “Now I am indeed the Queen.”
I was washing my hands when the news was brought to me, and so relieved was I that I gave the messenger the bowl and cover. He was delighted, for it was a costly bowl.
In spite of his conscience, which had been aroused by Katharine's letter, Henry was elated.
“Praise be to God,” he said. “We are delivered of all fear of war. Now I can handle the French. I can keep them wondering whether I will join forces with them or the Emperor. This is a day to praise God indeed. It is His way of showing He will look after me.”
I wondered if Katharine could hear those words in Heaven. They were so typical of him. He did not see why God should not remove Katharine to show Henry how much He cherished him.
He dressed in yellow that night. Why should he go into mourning? he asked. Katharine was never his wife.
There was no absence of festivities. In sumptuous yellow—as I was, too,— a white plume in his cap, he sent for Elizabeth. She came, my little one—just past two years now, very bright, eager to learn about what was going on around her. I was proud as I watched her being carried by her great glittering yellow-clad father.
It was a good omen, I told myself. This was going to be a happy year.
Jane Rochford whispered to me that the King seemed mightily taken with Mistress Jane Seymour.
“It must be a passing fancy,” I said. “She's such a mouse. I feel sure she could not interest him for long.”
“She is not his mistress, you know,” Jane went on. “She is holding out against him … just like…”
“How can you know so much?”
“I keep my eyes open. I think it is important to the family.”
I was angry. I hated gossiping with Jane. But I did want to know what was going on.
“They say he sent a letter and a purse full of sovereigns. You can imagine what was in the letter. She sent the sovereigns back saying that her honor was her fortune and she could receive money only from the man she married.”
Oh God! Familiar talk! Had she learned it from me? That silly little creature! One would never have thought she could learn anything.
Still, I did not worry unduly.
I was sitting with my ladies. We did a great deal of sewing for the poor. I was changing, finding less pleasure in the excitement of the Court. I thought often of the needy, and I wanted to better their lot. I think that had been inspired by my interest in the new religion.
A tournament was taking place, and the King was riding that day. I had not attended. I should have to be there, of course, for the presentation of the prizes but that was not until tomorrow.
Norfolk came bursting into the apartment.
“The King has fallen,” he said. “His horse has thrown him.”
I stood up. I felt the child move within me and I fainted.
When I opened my eyes, Norfolk had gone and I was surrounded by my women who were pushing hartshorn under my nose.
“What… happened?”
“The Duke of Norfolk came and you fainted.”
“Oh…I remember. The King…”
“They have brought him in.”
“He is…”
“We don't know. Your Grace. But I think he is all right.”
“I must go to him.”
“Your Grace should rest. You have had a shock. Lie down and rest awhile. As soon as there is news, it will be brought to you.”
I felt dizzy. I lay on my couch and closed my eyes. What would happen to us if he were dead? What would happen to the realm? Who would be sovereign? Could it be…Mary? And then what of me? She would not tolerate me. She hated me as the one who was responsible for all the ills which had befallen her mother. And if not Mary…Elizabeth? A baby. They would prefer Mary.
I was very frightened.
I need not have been. Henry was soon up. The fall had been nothing, he said. No horse could get the better of him. All his life he had been an expert horseman.
I felt I should rest for a little as the shock could not have been good for the child.
And as I lay, my thoughts went to Jane Seymour, who had refused the sovereigns and talked of her honor.