There seemed no way out of this situation. My mother was alone and almost friendless in a country which had been her home for some thirty years and now was an alien land to her.

Then, to my delight, six months after my separation from my mother, I was allowed to join her again. What joy there was in our reunion and what anxiety when I saw how ill she looked!

“The hardest thing I have had to bear in this sad time is my parting with you, my daughter,” she told me. “Oh dear, there is so much to say…so much to ask. How is your Latin?”

We laughed together rather hysterically because at such a time she could think of my Latin.

We were together every moment of the day. We cherished those moments, and we were right to do so for there were not to be many left to us.

We would sit talking, reading, sewing… each of us desperately trying to take hold of each moment, savor it and never let it go. We knew this was to be a brief visit. They were three weeks when I realized how much my mother meant to me and that nothing in my life could ever compensate for her loss.

How could they be so cruel…my father, reveling with his concubine, and she, the black-browed witch—had they no sympathy for a sick woman and her frightened daughter?

Compassion there was none, and at the end of those three weeks came the order. My mother and I were to separate. The brief respite was over.

I became listless. The Countess worried a good deal about me. She was constantly trying to think of something to cheer me. Something must happen soon, she said, and she was sure it would be good.

Dear Lady Salisbury, she provided my only comfort. We talked of Reginald. We heard from him now and then. He was in Padua studying philosophy and theology and meeting interesting people whose outlook on life was similar to his own. He mentioned Gaspar Contarini, a good churchman, and Ludovico Priuli, a young nobleman whom he found of the utmost interest. He wrote of these friends so vividly that we felt we knew them and could enjoy their conversation as he did. He was following events in England, and it was amazing how much he could learn from his friends, as there were constant comings and goings, for the King's affair was of the utmost interest to all.

He would come home soon to us, he wrote. We were never out of his thoughts, and it was a great consolation to him to know that we were together.

We would sit, the Countess and I, and talk of Reginald and try to look into the future. Life had its troubles and its joys, the Countess maintained, and when I said there seemed no hope for a better life for us, she chided me and assured me that God would show us a way and that tribulations were often sent for a good reason. They made us strong and capable of dealing with the trials of life.

Letters from Reginald sustained us during that time; but when one day followed another and we heard nothing but news of the concubine's triumphs and the King's besotted devotion to her, I began to lose heart. I knew that my mother was ill, and that threw me into despair.

It was not surprising that I myself began to grow pale and thin, and one morning I awoke in a fever.

The Countess was horrified, for soon it became obvious that I was very ill indeed.

I heard afterward that news of my illness spread quickly through the country and it was thought that I might not live. There would be rumors, of course. The concubine's spies had poisoned me. The King had been duped by her. She was a witch and a murderess.

When the King rode out with her, the hostile crowds shouted at them. That would disturb him for he had always cared so passionately for the people's approval; and he had had it until now. But he had disappointed them and they—particularly the women—had turned against him. His treatment of the Queen shocked them. She had done nothing except grow old and fail to produce a son, and the little Princess Mary, who was the true heir to the throne, was, because of the wickedness of the King's paramour, lying at death's door.

My father hastily sent one of his best physicians to treat me.

I can remember lying in bed longing for my mother. I called her name, and the Countess sent an urgent plea to my father begging him to let my mother come to me.

He was adamant. She was to stay away from me. He may have feared what would happen if we met. Perhaps he thought of the crowds following my mother on her journey to me, shouting their loyalty to her and to me. Riots could so easily arise.

No. He could not grant me what would have been the best remedy for my sickness. But he did send one of his doctors to me.

I was young; I was resilient. And I recovered, thanks to Dr. Butts and the Countess's constant care.

Although I believed that both my father and his mistress would have been glad to see the end of me, they must have felt a certain relief that I had not died. Such an event at that time would most certainly have aroused the people to some action, and they would know that.

I hoped my mother was aware of the people's feelings. It might have brought her a grain of comfort. It would have made her feel less of a stranger in an alien land.

There were some brave men who were ready to face the King's wrath for their beliefs. William Peto was one. He was the Provincial of the Grey Friars, and on Easter Day at Greenwich he preached a sermon in the presence of my father. Frankly, he said that the divorce was evil and could not find favor in the sight of Heaven.

I exulted to think of my father's sitting listening to him. He would be seething with anger. It was a very brave preacher who could stand up before him and utter such words. I could so well imagine his anger. I could see the small eyes growing icy, his expressive mouth indicating his mood. But this was a man who could not be entirely flouted; and there was the mood of the people to be considered.

For some time Peto had wanted to go to Toulouse, for he was writing a book about the divorce and he wished to get it published there; for of course he would not be able to do so in England. My father may have had some inkling of this, for he refused permission, but now, on the advice of one of his chaplains who feared that such a man could do much damage, my father summoned him and coldly told him to leave the country immediately. Then he sent for Dr. Curwin, who would preach a sermon more to his liking.

He was right. Curwin did this to my father's satisfaction, even hinting that Friar Peto, after his disloyal outburst, because he was a coward, had fled the country.

There are some men who court martyrdom. Peto was one; Friar Elstowe was another. Elstowe immediately declared publicly that everything Peto had said could be confirmed by the Scriptures, and this he would eagerly do to support Peto and hopefully give the King pause for thought before he imperilled his immortal soul.

Such talk was inflammatory, and Elstowe, with Peto, was arrested at Canterbury, where they were resting on their way to the Continent; they were brought before the Council, where they were told that such mischiefmakers as they were should be put together into a sack and thrown into the Thames, to which Elstowe retorted that the men of the Court might threaten them if they would but they must know that the way to Heaven lies as open by water as by land.

However, the King wanted no action taken against them. I think he feared how the people would behave.

But the attitude of these men did much to add to his exasperation, which must at that time have been almost unbearable for a man of his temperament and power. I suppose it was the only time in his life that he had been baulked. All through his golden youth his wish had been law; his height, his good looks, his jovial nature—until crossed—had made him the most popular monarch people remembered. They had loved him, idolized him, and now they were criticizing him; and it was all because his unwanted wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles. If she had been of less consequence, he would have been rid of her long ago.