He did not say he was expecting my death, but I guessed that he was. He would have been told of my increasing infirmity…of my poor dropsical body which had succeeded twice in deluding me into thinking I was about to become a mother. He told me Reginald Pole would comfort me. Did he not know that Reginald, wandering in a shadowy world of his own, was past giving comfort to anybody?

Susan and Jane Dormer were with me. Jane was very beautiful, young and in love with the Count of Feria, who was soon to be her husband. I rejoiced with her and hoped she would know all the happiness which had been denied to me.

I had asked her not to marry until Philip came back.

Now I thought, when will that be? Dear Jane must not wait so long. I told her so. “You are fortunate,” I added. “The Count is one of the most charming men I ever met and, Jane…he loves you. That is wonderful.”

Jane turned away to hide her emotion. In the depth of her own happiness, she would understand how I had suffered from my loveless marriage.

When one knows that death is close, one looks back over one's life and sees events with a special clarity.

I have made so many mistakes. Yet I cannot see where I could have acted differently, except perhaps in my emotions, my tendency—in love only—to look upon what should have been clear to me and distort it to fit my own needs and desires. Why could I not have accepted our marriage as one of state? So many women of my kind had to do the same. I had been too old for marriage. Why did I not see that? If I had not married, everything might have been different. I would have ruled single-mindedly. I would not have been seeking to please him and so led my country into war. I should have acted on my own judgment.

Had I succeeded in the mission God had set me? I was not sure. We had returned to Rome but not very securely. I could not see into the future. I wondered what my successor would encounter. She would be ready though. Her hands were already stretching out for 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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