Виктория Холт - In the Shadow of the Crown

Elizabeth's accession now seemed to be a certainty, and people were ready for that. They were waiting for me to die, for they believed England would be a happier place under her. It had certainly not been happy under me.

The weeks were passing. I was becoming more and more feeble. I did not see Reginald. He was too ill to come to me and I to go to him.

I heard that people were calling at Hatfield. I knew that Philip had sent orders to the Spaniards in the country to pay respectful court to Elizabeth.

So he was expecting my death… and he did not come.

It had occurred to me often that he was interested in Elizabeth. I remembered the occasion when he had hidden behind a screen that he might study her. I remembered the look in his eyes… speculative…a little lustful? I had not recognized it then, but now I knew what it meant. When I was dead…he saw himself a suitor for Elizabeth's hand.

I did not want to live. I was aware of that so strongly at that time. She had always been my rival, this vitally attractive, unpredictable sister, so much cleverer than I, always alert for her advantage. And she would succeed me. There was no question of that now.

There would be no more burnings at the stake which had made me so unpopular. Even the staunchest papists did not like them. England was determined that the Inquisition should never be allowed on its soil.

“Bloody Mary” they called me. I could hear the screams of the people as the flames licked their limbs. I could smell the pungent odor of burning human flesh. I called on God to forgive me. I had thought it was His will— and my people hated me for it. Bloody Mary! That awful epithet rang in my ears.

They blamed me, they reviled me… only Mary…Bloody Mary. Yet others had committed greater crimes. Some 300 people had been burned at the stake in my reign. Nobody blamed those who had murdered thousands in the name of the Holy Office of the Inquisition! Isabella, Ferdinand, Charles, who had buried people alive in Flanders—30,000 of them. Yet I, who was held responsible for sending 300 to the stake, was Bloody Mary.

It was small wonder that I welcomed the prospect of death. What was there for me here?

The Court was growing more and more deserted. Why stay with a woman who was almost dead?

What should I be remembered for… the cries of martyrs, smoke rising from the fires which had been lighted at their feet because they denied the faith which I had imposed on them?

I was tired of life and my people were tired of me. It was time I went.

Susan was with me, so was Jane. They would not leave me. There were other faithful women, too.

Susan tried to cheer me. But nothing would cheer me.

They brought me materials so that I could write, for thinking of the past could draw my mind from the present. Susan was not sure that that was right for me.

“Sometimes it makes you so sad,” she said.

“There are many wounds that trouble my oppressed mind,” I told her.

“And there is one which is greater than any.”

Susan said, “If the King knew you were so ill, I am sure he would come.”

“Do not let us deceive ourselves, Susan, my dear friend. If he knew how ill I was, he would do just what he is doing now, only perhaps he would renew his attention to Elizabeth. But I was not thinking of Philip then. I was thinking of Calais. When I die, they will find Calais lying upon my heart. I lost it, Susan. I lost it because I wanted Philip. I wanted to please him… to keep him with me. Always I have suffered through my affections.”

“Not always, dear lady. You have not suffered through us who have always loved you and will do so until you die.”

I turned to Susan and embraced her. Then I took Jane into my arms and wished her all the happiness I had missed.

“And that,” I added, “is a great deal.”

They left me, and I took up my pen and wrote.

They are all going to leave the Court. To them the Queen is dead. So I shall write no more, for soon they will be at Hatfield crying, “Long live the Queen!”

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