She had begged my mother to see her. My mother was too wise to do this and refused to do so.

I wondered that my father had not had her removed long ago. But he was always somewhat superstitious and because the nun had been taken up by prominent people—and in particular Sir Thomas More—he was a little in awe of her. He was very anxious at this time to win back that public approval which he had lost since his Secret Matter was revealed.

After the marriage everyone waited for the prophecy to come true. A month passed and nothing happened. Now Anne Boleyn had come through the ordeal of childbirth and had a healthy child, albeit a girl. As for Anne, she was as well as ever. The nun's prophecy had not been fulfillled.

For two months after my return I waited in trepidation for what would happen next. The baby Elizabeth had remained at Greenwich with her mother for those two months; then the King decided that she should have a household of her own. I heard that Hatfield had been chosen.

Much to my horror, Hussey came to me, with further instructions from the Council. I, too, was to be moved. I imagine my recalcitrant attitude had been reported to him.

“Your household is to be broken up, my lady,” he said. “You are to go to Hatfield.”

“My household broken up!” I repeated stupidly.

He nodded slowly and horror dawned on me. “The Countess of Salisbury …” I began.

He did not meet my eyes. He said, “The new mistress of your household will be Lady Shelton.”

“Lady Shelton!” I cried in dismay. “Is she not related to…to…?”

“To the Queen, my lady.”

“To Anne Boleyn!”

“She is the Queen's aunt.”

Anne Boleyn's aunt—a member of that hated family—to take the place of my beloved Countess! This was intolerable. I might bear other humiliations which had been heaped on me, I might endure insults, but to be deprived of the one to whom I had turned when I lost my mother … that was just not to be borne.

“This cannot be true,” I stammered.

“I fear so, my lady.”

“No one could be so cruel. If the Countess could be with me…if…”

“These are the King's orders, my lady.”

I turned and ran out of the room.

She came to me almost immediately. “You have heard,” she said.

“How can he? How can he? Everything else I have borne, but this…”

“I know, my dearest. I shudder with you. We have been so close…you have been as one of my own…”

“Since they would not allow me to be with my mother, you took her place.”

She nodded and we just clung together.

“It will pass,” she said at length. “It can only be temporary. We shall be together again…”

“Oh Countess, dearest Countess, what am I to do?”

“There is nothing to be done but to remain quiet and confident of the future. We must pray as Our Lord did in the wilderness.”

I was not as meek as she was. I could never be. She was like my mother, and they were both of the stuff of which martyrs are made. But I was not. I was filled with hatred toward this woman whom I blamed for all our misfortunes. I hated the innocent baby who had taken my place and for whose sake I was being made to suffer thus.

I took up my pen and, against the Countess's advice, wrote to the Council. I gave vent to the rage I felt. The very act of picking up a pen, though, brought me back to my senses a little. I knew I should have to go to Hatfield, to part from the Countess, and that it was no use protesting about this. But I could call attention to the deprivation of my title which was mine by right of birth, and that I would do.

“My lords,” I wrote, “as touching my removal to Hatfield, I will obey His Grace as my duty is… but I will protest before you all, and to all others present, that my conscience will in no wise suffer me to take any other than myself for Princess or for the King's daughter born in lawful matrimony, and that I will never wittingly or willingly say or do aught whereby any person might take occasion to think that I agree to the contrary. If I should do otherwise I should slander my mother, the Holy Church and the Pope, who is judge in this matter and none other, and I should dishonor the King, my father, the Queen, my mother, and falsely confess myself a bastard, which God defend I should do since the Pope hath not so declared by his sentence definitive, to whose judgement I submit myself…”

It was foolish. It was rash. But I was beside myself with misery because my dearest friend, who had been a mother to me, was about to be taken away from me.

There was a further blow. The Princess Elizabeth was to go to Hatfield with her household, and it seemed that, with no household of my own, I should be a member of hers. A lady-in-waiting perhaps! It was intolerable. This was proclaiming to the world that she was the Princess, the heir to the throne, and I was the bastard.

I could not understand how my father could do this to me. I remembered those days when he had shown great affection for me. How could he have changed? It could only be because he was under the influence of witchcraft.

On impulse I wrote to him. I told him that I had been informed by my Chamberlain that I was to leave for Hatfield and that, when I had asked to see the letter and had been shown it, it stated that “… the Lady Mary, the King's daughter, should remove to the place aforesaid.” I was not referred to as the Princess. I was astonished and could not believe that His Grace was aware of what had been written, for I could not believe that he did not take me for his true daughter born in matrimony. I believed this and, if I said otherwise, then I should earn the displeasure of God, which I was sure His Grace would not wish me to do. In all other matters I should always be his humble and obedient daughter.

I signed myself “Your most humble daughter, Mary, Princess.”

It was an act of defiance. I was stating clearly that in my opinion his marriage to Anne Boleyn was no true marriage, and as I was legitimate, Elizabeth was a bastard.

As soon as I had dispatched the letter, I realized the enormity of what I had done. Both my mother and the Countess would have been horrified.

The result was to bring the Duke of Norfolk down to Beaulieu with Lord Marney, the Earl of Oxford and the Duke's almoner, Dr. Fox. Their purpose was, I think, to warn me of the folly of continuing in my stubborn mood, to administer the breaking up of my household and to see me on my way.

I knew from the attitude of the Duke toward me that I could expect no sympathy from him or any of his henchmen; and that was an indication of my father's feelings toward me.

The Husseys would remain in my household, and I might take two personal maids. I had to say goodbye to all the rest. Even now I cannot bear to brood on my parting with the Countess. It was one of the most harrowing experiences through which I had passed. When my mother had been separated from me, she had handed me over to the Countess and we had been able to mourn together.

I had never felt so alone, so bereft, as I did when I left Beaulieu behind and made my way to Hatfield.

News traveled fast and spread through the neighborhood. The people of Beaulieu knew I was leaving and those of Hatfield that I was coming.

Courtiers are subservient to their masters; not so the people. They have means of expressing their feelings which are often denied those in high places.

They were on the road…groups of them… cheering me.

“Long live our Princess Mary! Long live Queen Katharine! We'll have no Nan Bullen!”

That was music to my ears—particularly when they called me Princess.

I smiled, acknowledging their greetings. I hoped my father would hear of the people's attitude toward me. I was sure it would give him a few qualms of uneasiness.

All too soon the journey was over. I had arrived at Hatfield Palace, and I felt as though I were being taken into prison.


* * *

MISERY DESCENDED UPON ME. Lady Shelton was anxious to let me know that I was a person of no importance and that if I gave myself airs it would be the worse for me.

I treated her with a cold contempt which so aroused her anger that she told me that if I persisted in my stubborn ill behavior she had been advised to beat me.

“Advised by whom?” I asked.

She did not answer but I knew. She was so proud of the fact that she was related to the woman they called the Queen.

During the first days of our encounter I knew that she would never lay hands on me. When she insulted me, I would draw myself up to my full height and merely look at her. I was royal and perhaps that was apparent. I could see little lights of apprehension in her eyes. What was she thinking? “One day this prisoner could be Queen of England? It would be wise not to antagonize her too much. To strike her would be quite unforgivable.”

I found just a slight elation in the midst of my gloom to know that, although she might make me uncomfortable in a hundred ways and abuse me verbally, she would never lift her hand against me.

Hatfield is a beautiful place, but I was alone and desolate, deserted by my father and separated from my beloved mother and the Countess.

All the attention in the household was for the baby. The Princess, they called her. I would not call her that. To me she was sister, just as the Duke of Richmond was brother. There was no difference. They were both the King's illegitimate children.

Sometimes I dream of those days. They are remote now but I can still conjure up the infinite sadness, the deep loneliness, the longing for my mother and the Countess, the abject misery. I felt then that whatever happened I could never be truly happy again.