turned and ran away from him.
That night I lay in my bed, my curtains drawn. I had no wish to be with the others. Love play! Yes, that described it for what it was. Playing at love. It was not true love. It was not for me. I could not deny that I had wanted to be loved. Manox had awakened certain instincts in me. He had directed me into this pretense, this searching for sensation, this playing at love.
So I was content to lie there, the curtains tightly drawn, no longer taking part in the merriment of the Long Room.
It was in the September of that year that the Queen’s child was born. There had been a great deal of anticipation throughout the whole of London, for the celebrations which would accompany that great event would be as splendid as those for the coronation with dancing, pageants, and wine flowing in the streets.
Preparations were already being made to welcome the heir to the throne. It was universally accepted that the child would be of the desired sex—a boy, of course.
That was why the joy in a healthy child was slightly tempered with disappointment when she turned out to be a girl. However, the bright side was that there was nothing wrong with this child—except her sex. She was healthy; she had all the right parts which any child should bring into the world: she was an indication that Queen Catherine’s many failures were due to no fault in the King: and although the Queen this time had produced a girl, there was hope that the next child would be a boy. We could look confidently to the future. Although, of course, there were some to remind us that Queen Catherine had produced a girl child who had survived. Poor sad Lady Mary, now broken-hearted because of the cruel treatment meted out to her mother, and embitteredbecause she had lost her inheritance and was branded as nothing more than the King’s bastard.
How sad that the glory of our Queen Anne had had to be bought at such a high cost to her predecessor. Little did I know then that, at a not far distant day, Anne herself would have to pay a greater price for the elevation of her successor.
It was only to be expected that the birth of the child should set the Howard family even higher in the social hierarchy.
The Duchess spoke of the occasion in her usual somewhat disjointed way when I saw her soon afterward. She was still at Court, but she had visited the house briefly for some reason, and she could not resist telling me of the glorious turn her life had taken.
“Well, my child, I shall not stay here long. I shall, of course, be returning to Court. The Queen has need of me. She does not forget her grandmother. I was with the Court at Greenwich at the birth of the Princess Elizabeth. Marry, and we were so sure it would be a boy… right up to the last moment. The King was deeply disappointed. He had set his heart on a boy.” She sighed. “Do not they all? How he would have doted on a son. But the Princess is a bonny child. We must be thankful that nothing went wrong, as it did so often with poor Queen Catherine. Poor lady.” She made the sign of the cross. She was uneasy, I supposed, about the trouble with the Pope, who had uttered some rather unpleasant words about the King and Queen. But facts were facts, and we were not in Rome, but here, where our King was supreme—more now than ever, now that he had snapped his fingers at the Pope and made himself Head of the Church.
“Oh, if only the baby had been a boy!” went on the Duchess. “But alas, one cannot always have what one wants in this life. There is plenty of time. There will be others. The Queen is young and strong, and there is great love between her and the King. Oh, how he adores her! There is to be a Te Deum sung in honor of the child. She will be called Elizabeth after the King’s mother. And, here is the greatest news of all. I shall carry the little Princess. Yes, well, am I not her great-grandmother? And who else should have that honor?George Boleyn, Lord Rochford now, with
That night I lay in my bed, my curtains drawn. I had no wish to be with the others. Love play! Yes, that described it for what it was. Playing at love. It was not true love. It was not for me. I could not deny that I had wanted to be loved. Manox had awakened certain instincts in me. He had directed me into this pretense, this searching for sensation, this playing at love.
So I was content to lie there, the curtains tightly drawn, no longer taking part in the merriment of the Long Room.
It was in the September of that year that the Queen’s child was born. There had been a great deal of anticipation throughout the whole of London, for the celebrations which would accompany that great event would be as splendid as those for the coronation with dancing, pageants, and wine flowing in the streets.
Preparations were already being made to welcome the heir to the throne. It was universally accepted that the child would be of the desired sex—a boy, of course.
That was why the joy in a healthy child was slightly tempered with disappointment when she turned out to be a girl. However, the bright side was that there was nothing wrong with this child—except her sex. She was healthy; she had all the right parts which any child should bring into the world: she was an indication that Queen Catherine’s many failures were due to no fault in the King: and although the Queen this time had produced a girl, there was hope that the next child would be a boy. We could look confidently to the future. Although, of course, there were some to remind us that Queen Catherine had produced a girl child who had survived. Poor sad Lady Mary, now broken-hearted because of the cruel treatment meted out to her mother, and embitteredbecause she had lost her inheritance and was branded as nothing more than the King’s bastard.
How sad that the glory of our Queen Anne had had to be bought at such a high cost to her predecessor. Little did I know then that, at a not far distant day, Anne herself would have to pay a greater price for the elevation of her successor.
It was only to be expected that the birth of the child should set the Howard family even higher in the social hierarchy.
The Duchess spoke of the occasion in her usual somewhat disjointed way when I saw her soon afterward. She was still at Court, but she had visited the house briefly for some reason, and she could not resist telling me of the glorious turn her life had taken.
“Well, my child, I shall not stay here long. I shall, of course, be returning to Court. The Queen has need of me. She does not forget her grandmother. I was with the Court at Greenwich at the birth of the Princess Elizabeth. Marry, and we were so sure it would be a boy… right up to the last moment. The King was deeply disappointed. He had set his heart on a boy.” She sighed. “Do not they all? How he would have doted on a son. But the Princess is a bonny child. We must be thankful that nothing went wrong, as it did so often with poor Queen Catherine. Poor lady.” She made the sign of the cross. She was uneasy, I supposed, about the trouble with the Pope, who had uttered some rather unpleasant words about the King and Queen. But facts were facts, and we were not in Rome, but here, where our King was supreme—more now than ever, now that he had snapped his fingers at the Pope and made himself Head of the Church.
“Oh, if only the baby had been a boy!” went on the Duchess. “But alas, one cannot always have what one wants in this life. There is plenty of time. There will be others. The Queen is young and strong, and there is great love between her and the King. Oh, how he adores her! There is to be a Te Deum sung in honor of the child. She will be called Elizabeth after the King’s mother. And, here is the greatest news of all. I shall carry the little Princess. Yes, well, am I not her great-grandmother? And who else should have that honor?George Boleyn, Lord Rochford now, with
Similar Books
