HOW WELL I remember those months before the birth of Anne Boleyn's child. She was constantly in my thoughts. I tortured myself with pictures of her—imaginary, of course. My father doted on her, sure that she was about to give him the longed-for son.

But there began to be rumors that all was not well, and that, after having waited so long for her, he was now asking himself why he had endured so much for her sake; and he was looking at other women—something he had not done for a long time, since he had first become obsessed by her. Were these merely rumors or was this actually taking place? As much as I wanted to believe them, I could not accept the fact that his mad desire had evaporated so rapidly.

And she was pregnant—that should make her doubly attractive. She was about to give him what he craved.

A messenger came to Newhall with a command from the King. I was to go to Court that I might be present at the birth of the child.

I was furious. I stamped and raged. “I will not go,” I cried. “I will not.”

The Countess looked sorrowful. “Dear Princess,” she said. “Consider. This is a command from the King.”

“I care not. How can he expect me to take part in the rejoicing at the birth of her child?”

“He does, and you must.”

“Never,” I cried. “Never!”

The Countess shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think the King would say to that? You must tread carefully. You could be on dangerous ground.”

“You mean he might kill me?”

The Countess was silent.

“You really believe that might be, do you not?” I demanded.

“I think life could be very unpleasant for you if you disobeyed,” she answered.

“It is unpleasant now.”

“More unpleasant. Dangerous in fact. Princess, I do beg of you. Be careful.”

“Do understand me,” I pleaded. “I must refuse.”

She shook her head.

There was a letter from my mother.

“You must obey the King,” she wrote. “It is your duty. He is your father. Do not add to my anxieties. They are many and would be more if I thought you defied your father and so roused his anger against you. At present he remembers you are his daughter. Do not, I beg of you, do anything to make him turn against you.”

Then I knew I had to accept what was asked of me. I should have to be there when the odious child was born.

So I set out for Greenwich. Until the baby was born I must live under the same roof as my father and the woman I continued to call his concubine.

From the moment I arrived I was made aware of the fact that my situation had changed a good deal from those days when my father had fondled me and delighted in his daughter.

I did see him briefly. He gave me a cool nod and somehow managed to convey that I had better behave in a seemly manner or it would be the worse for me.

I was presented to her, too. There she was, large with child, smug, complacent, carrying the heir to the throne, she thought. How I hated her! Elegant, she was, in her rich velvets apeing the Queen.

She gave me her hand to kiss. I could have spurned her but I seemed to hear my mother's voice pleading with me; and I could guess at my father's rage if I showed my contempt for her.

So I was cool to her, as she was to me, and if ever hatred flowed between people, it flowed between us two.

“Please God, do not let her live,” I prayed. “Let her and the child die. Let the King realize his cruelty and let all be well between us.”

It was September. The baby was expected hourly. The King was in a state of high excitement, certain that at last he would have his son. I wondered what he would say if he knew I was silently praying for the death of the witch and her offspring.

Then Anne Boleyn was brought to bed.

A special chamber in the Palace of Greenwich had been prepared for the birth. It had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of holy virgins. My father had given her one of the most beautiful beds he had ever possessed to receive his son when he came into the world. The bed was French and had come to him through the Duc d'Alençon as a ransom when he had been my father's prisoner.

It was a long and arduous labor. Seated with others in the chamber adjoining that in which she lay and of which the door was open, we could hear her groans of agony, and at each one I have to admit I exulted.

“Oh God,” I prayed, “let this be her last. Let her die… and the bastard with her.”

I seemed to see my mother's face admonishing me. “The woman is in labor. My child, you have no notion of what this means. She suffers pain such as you cannot imagine. Did not Our Lord teach us to be merciful?”

Merciful to that woman who had deprived my mother of her health, strength and happiness? How could I? I was honest at least. Desperately I wanted her dead. Somewhere in my heart, I believed that if a benign God— benign to us, of course, not to her—would arrange her death, all would be well between my parents.

The King did not come to see her. He knew that as soon as the child appeared he would be told.

Through the night we sat. The next day dawned. I shall never forget that day—September. It must have been between three and four o'clock in the morning when I heard the cry of a child.

Breathlessly I waited, angry with God for not answering my prayers. They were alive—both of them. Anne Boleyn had given the King the child for which he craved.

And then the news. My heart began to sing. A girl! I wanted to laugh out loud. My mother had done as well as that. She had given him a girl—myself. And he had gone through all this for the sake of another! It was a joke. Hysterical laughter bubbled up within me.

How was she feeling now, the concubine? Witch that she was, this was something she could not achieve.

And the King? How was he feeling? He would be realizing now that his efforts had been in vain.

The Countess had not been allowed to accompany me, and I was desolate without her. There was no one whom I could trust as I did her, and I was old enough to know how easily I could commit some indiscretion which could do me great harm.

I did, however, see Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador. I believe my father would rather have kept us apart but he could hardly do that without arousing hostile comment, and probably at this time he was feeling too frustrated to give much thought to it.

“The King is bitterly disappointed,” Chapuys told me. “He cannot altogether hide it, although at her bedside he told her that he would never desert her. But that in itself betrays that the thought of doing so must have entered his mind. They will have more children, he said, sons… sons… sons. She is still the Queen but his eyes stray and it seems there are others.”

“But for so long he sought her! She was the only one for him all those years.”

“It may be that now he regrets what he had to pay for her. He has taken great risks, and we do not yet know what will be the outcome of that. But what I have to say to you is this: You are the Princess of Wales but there is now another whom he might try to put ahead of you.”

I was aghast. “He cannot!” I cried.

“He can and if it is possible he will. You must be prepared.”

“What can I do?”

“We will wait and see.”

“What of the Emperor?” I said. #x201C;Why does he stand aside and see my mother and me treated thus?”

“The Emperor watches. He cares what becomes of you. The King's actions toward you are an insult to Spain, but the Emperor cannot go to war on that account. The time is not ripe, and the French and English are allies to stand against him.”

I covered my face with my hands.

“Be prepared,” he said.

I remembered those words when I was told I must attend the christening of the child, this Elizabeth, my half-sister who was destined to plague me in the years to come.

IT WAS FOUR DAYS after her birth—four days of bitter foreboding for me. Why had I been submitted to this extra torture? Why did I have to see honors showered on her? Wasn't it enough that she was born?