In the Shadow of the Crown - Plaidy Jean (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

However, there was an immediate truce with the Netherlands.

Then disaster struck. The sweating sickness came to England.

This was the most dreaded disease which seemed to strike our country more than any other, to such an extent that it was often known as the “English Sweat.” There was a superstition about it because it had first appeared in the year 1485, at the time of the battle of Bosworth Field when my grandfather, Henry VII, had become King after defeating Richard III. People said it was revenge on the Tudors for having usurped the throne; and now here it was again when my father was contemplating divorcing my mother.

It was dreaded by all and was so called because the victim was struck until his death—which was usually the outcome—by profuse sweating. It was a violent fever; it rendered those who suffered from it with pains in the head and stomach and a terrible lethargy. The heat the patient had to endure was intense, and any attempt to cool it meant instant death.

When victims were discovered in London, there was great consternation.

The Court broke up. The King believed that the best way to escape the disease was to leave for the country without delay and move from place to place, and this he proceeded to do.

I could not help feeling great satisfaction when I heard that Anne Boleyn had caught the disease. She was immediately sent to Hever, away from the Court.

My father was deeply distressed and sent his second-best physician—but only because his first was away—to look after her. This was Dr. Butts, a man of great reputation. I heard my father was in a panic lest she die.

I frankly hoped she would.

I said to my mother and the Countess, “This is God's answer. When she is dead, all our troubles will be over.”

My mother answered, “It may be that her death would not be the end of our troubles.”

I retorted angrily, “My father says that he is afraid his marriage is no true marriage but the truth is that he wants to marry Anne Boleyn.”

The Countess looked at me steadily. Since they had known I was aware of what was happening, they had treated me more like an adult, talking to me frankly—and at least I was grateful for that.

She said, “He wants to marry Anne Boleyn, but it is true that he wants sons, too.”

“And he thinks she will provide them.”

“He has two desires—one for her, and one for sons.”

“Suppose she could not have them?”

The Countess said slowly, “Well, then it would depend…”

“On what?”

“How deep is his feeling for her? Is it love? We shall never know perhaps. I will say this: I have a feeling that these negotiations will drag on for a long, long time.”

“But I wish she would die,” I said. “It will save us all much unhappiness if she does.”

The Countess was silent. I was sure she agreed with me that that would be the best solution.

DURING THAT PERIOD everyone at Court realized how obsessed the King was by Anne Boleyn. I was in dark despair. My hatred for the woman overshadowed everything for me; she was never out of my thoughts. I gloated over the fact that she was suffering from the dreaded disease. I reminded myself again and again that there were not many who survived. People said it was a punishment from God. Surely, if God's wrath should be turned against anyone, that should be Anne Boleyn. So I whipped up my hatred. I prayed for her death. What a wonderful release that would be!

My father wrote often to her. He was plunged into melancholy. Hourly he waited for news from Hever. So did I… for the news that she was dead.

But she did not die. She was nursed back to health by her devoted stepmother. My father was joyful. His sweetheart was saved. Meanwhile my mother and I had been traveling from place to place with the Court.

“God is not on our side,” I said bitterly, and my mother admonished me.

“Whatever happens,” she said, “we must endure it because it is God's will.” So when the epidemic was over, we were in the same position as we had been in before it started.

That year was the most unhappy I had lived through—up to that time. I did not know then, mercifully, that it was only a beginning. I thanked God that I was surrounded by those I loved. I was with my mother each day, I had my dear Countess, and there was also Lady Willoughby, my mother's greatest friend. Maria de Salinas had been with her when she came from Spain and had stayed beside her ever since. She had married in England and become Lady Willoughby but their friendship had remained steadfast.

Then, of course, there was Reginald. How grateful I was for his company. He had said that he would not stay in England but I think perhaps my need of him made him change his mind. He was very fond of my mother and, like us all, greatly saddened by her suffering.

I would be thirteen years old in the February of the following year. Perhaps I flatter myself but I am sure I was like a girl at least four years older. My education and upbringing had done that for me. Moreover at an early age I had been aware of my responsibilities and of a great future either as the wife of a monarch or as ruler in my own right.

I was often in Reginald's company—indeed, I believe he sought this, for he was clearly eager that it should be. The only brightness in those days was provided by him. What was so gratifying was that he treated me like an adult, and from him I began to get a clearer view of the situation. My father was very fond of Reginald, for he had a great respect for learning. He would summon him and they would walk up and down the gallery talking of religion and, of course, the subject which was uppermost in his mind: his desire to do what was right; his fears that he had offended God by living with a lady who was not in truth his wife. All that he told Reginald, seeking to win his sympathy in his cause, I believe, for he cared very much for the opinions of scholars.

It must have been difficult for Reginald, whose sympathies were with my mother and me, to choose his words carefully, for I was sure if my father thought he did not agree with him he would be very angry. Sometimes I trembled for Reginald during those encounters, but he was clever; he had a way with words and he did learn a great deal of what was in the King's mind during these interviews. But I knew my father's temper and I was uneasy.

My father was, in some ways, a simple man. He made much of Reginald, calling him cousin and when they walked along the gallery putting his arm round Reginald's shoulders. At the back of his mind would be the memory of what his father had done to the Earl of Warwick because he feared people might think that Plantagenet Warwick had had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. Later, when I began to understand my father's character more I could believe that he wanted to make much of Reginald because he was placating Heaven in a way for the murder of Reginald's uncle.

What uneasy days they were when we never knew what momentous event was going to erupt.

So my consolation was Reginald.

He it was who told me that the Pope had now been released and was at this time in Orvieto trying to build up a Court there.

“He is in a dilemma,” said Reginald. “The King is demanding judgement in his favor, and he is too powerful to be flouted. But how can he defy the Emperor?”

“He should do what he considers right.”

“You ask too much of him,” said Reginald with a wry smile.

“But surely as a Christian…”

Reginald shook his head. “He is still in the hands of the Emperor. But, who knows, next week everything could be different. He is in too weak a position to defy anyone.”

“Then what will he do?”

“My guess is that he will prevaricate. It is always the wise action.”

“Can he?”

“We shall see.”

And we did. It was Reginald who told me, “The Pope is sending Cardinal Campeggio to England.”