Mary was a sick woman. Her husband had left her and was very happy to do so. He had made a marriage and brought the countries together; they had brought England back to Rome and were now merrily burning her people who refused to accept the faith they would impose on them. Spain had done its work. Our country was as unhappy as theirs. And Mary was aging, ill, and still yearning to bear the child which she never could.

And beside her, those archvillains, tools of Spain and Rome—Gardiner and Bonner—catching their prey, questioning, torturing and condemning to the flames.

Great men died at the stake, men such as Nicholas Ridley who had been a Bishop of London, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Winchester, and John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester. These men died with great bravery; they were the martyrs. The people watched them sullenly. How long can this last? I wondered.

There was much talk of the manner in which these men had died. Hugh Latimer's last words were repeated over and over again. He had been tied to a stake next to that to which Ridley was bound and he cried out in ringing tones: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Fine words from a man about to suffer a cruel death. They were truly martyrs.

Not long after the death of these two it was the turn of Thomas Cranmer to burn at the stake. He had recanted earlier to save himself. I did not blame him for that. In my opinion it was the sensible thing to do; but he had repented the act in the end and as the flames were lighted he held out his right hand. “This hand has written lies,” he cried. “It has written them to save my life and therefore it should be the first part of my body to burn.”

And later they heard him cry out: “This hand has offended!” and those watching saw him hold it in the flames unflinchingly.

“They will never be forgotten,” I said to Kat. “My sister is mad. For a while some may accept this, but the people will hate her for it. Does she know nothing of the English?”

“The people wait patiently for you, my lady,” said Kat earnestly. “They wait now…as they never did before.”

And when I looked into her face I knew that she spoke the truth.

IT WAS NOT surprising that there should be discontent. The time was ripe to rid the country of the Queen and her cruel persecutions. I dreaded these rebellions. My name was always associated with them because if Mary were deposed, I was next in the line to the succession. I wished people would understand that there was no need for rebellion. Mary was more ill each day and all her actions were those of a woman sick in mind and body; her false pregnancies—she had had another of those—her fanatical religious mania and her persecution of what she called heretics, all were more than devotion to her faith; her obsession had turned to madness and showed clearly that she was nearing her end. I knew it. We should be patient and wait. It was much safer to let death carry her off than to raise a rebellion when there would surely always be some to take her side. They would never understand that the waiting game was the safe one.

The first of the plots was devised by Sir Henry Dudley, some remote connection of Robert Dudley, who was not himself, I was relieved to learn, involved in the plan of his reckless kinsman. The plot, however, appeared to have the backing of the King of France who was greatly disturbed by the alliance between his two enemies, England and Spain. Like all such conspirators they used my name as a basis on which to build their schemes, at the heart of which was to depose Mary and set me on the throne.

De Noailles had become very friendly with me since the Spanish marriage and took great pains to let me know that he would do anything to help me. His was a very dangerous friendship, I knew—and of course there was no true friendship in it; it was expediency. Two of the officers of my household named Peckham and Werne were involved in the plot and this disturbed me because it immediately increased the suspicions which would come my way whenever these plots were revealed.

The two men were arrested and what was so disconcerting was that Kat Ashley was taken off for questioning again with a very innocent young Italian, Baptiste Castiglione, who had been engaged to help me perfect my conversation in his language. Some of my ladies, too, were taken for questioning, and when I heard that they were in the Tower and that Kat was in the Fleet Prison I felt that it was going to start again—the terrible anxiety, the fear of what would happen from one day to the next, while my enemies closed in on me. I pictured Kat—dear indiscreet Kat—being forced to make all sorts of statements which would be damning against me, and I became very ill, as I had been during the trials in the past years. The strain was too much. My skin grew yellow with jaundice and I could not stand without feeling dizzy. There was nothing to be done but to take to my bed, and this in itself could be construed as some sort of guilt.

There was one matter for rejoicing. Gardiner had died—not violently as would have been fitting for a man who had caused so much misery, but of dropsy, quietly in his bed.

There was one enemy the less; but I doubted not that many more would spring up to take his place.

I kept to my bed while Kat's apartments were searched. Nothing concerned with the plot was found in her rooms but certain pamphlets which were called seditious—which meant Protestant—were found there and I was in a state of nervous prostration, seeing Kat brought to the stake and hearing her piteous cries as the fire touched her limbs.

I thought: I can bear no more of this. Nothing is worth it. I cannot subject my friends to perpetual terror.

There was another development. A young man appeared at a place called Yaxley and declared he was Edward Courtenay and my husband. It was such utter nonsense that I was not afraid of this one. The young man was a tall golden-haired giant with the Plantagenet looks. This was easily explained because my great-grandfather had been a man who had had countless mistresses of all sorts and conditions in every corner of the country, so there were a great many people who bore a resemblance to him.

I was sure I could not possibly have been arrested for complicity in such a plot as that but had Gardiner been alive he would have found some reason for implicating me.

I was receiving communications from de Noailles who had shown such friendship for me since my sister's marriage. His letters were urging me to take advantage of his King's invitation to visit the Court of France where I should be safe until the time came for me to mount the throne.

A few months before I should have scorned the invitation, seeing it for what it was. I knew that the aim of Henri Deux was to set his daughter-inlaw Mary Stuart on the throne of England. I think I must have been very weak just then. I could not sleep. I became so ill with anxiety that I did not greatly care what happened to me.

When I look back I marvel at myself. But it is strange what illness can do to one, particularly the sort of mental anguish from which I was suffering since the fresh wave of insurrections and the fear aroused by wondering what evil could befall a country which sent good men to a horrible death because of their faith.

I wanted to get away. I felt I could endure no more and the thought of the elegant French court was inviting.

I sent a message to Lady Sussex who had always been a good friend, and I asked her to discover in secret more of this plan from the French Ambassador. I really believed—I must have been suffering from hallucinations— that I could remain at the French Court and come back at the appropriate time to claim the crown.

Then there happened one of those miracles which seem, looking back, like Divine intervention and made me certain of my destiny.

When Lady Sussex was able to meet the French Ambassador she found not de Noailles, whom she had been expecting and who had been the instigator of the plot to get me out of England, but another in his place. Because the Dudley rebellion had begun in France with the backing of the King, de Noailles's communications with me had been noted and some intercepted. Consequently, he had been dismissed abruptly and his brother, the Bishop of Acqs, had been sent to take his place.

I never did understand why the Bishop should seek to protect me. He was certainly not following in his brother's footsteps. Or it may even have been that the King of France did not wish me to leave the field of action, and it had been seen by him that the de Noailles policy of capturing me was not the best for France. Whatever it was, the Bishop told Lady Sussex that if I went to France now, I should never come back, and if I hoped to wear the crown I should be on the spot when the moment came to take it.

When Lady Sussex told me this I saw how foolish I had been. I went onto my knees and thanked God for His merciful act in saving me.

Whatever happened, I must stay. I had come through great dangers. The end must be in sight, and if I could manage to keep alive for a little longer I should be triumphant.

I wrote to my sister assuring her of my loyalty. It was true that the men Peckham and Werne were of my household, but I had known nothing of their schemes any more than I knew of this ridiculous man who turned out to be named Cleobury and who had called himself the Earl of Devonshire.

Kat and the other members of my household returned to Hatfield and as soon as I saw them I began to feel better; my old strength returned and I marveled afresh that I could have been so foolish as to have almost committed an act which would have been fatal to my future.