I wished that I could have been there. I wished I could have seen the Bishop of London performing the ceremony with all the rites of the Church of Rome. Cranmer was her godfather, and the Duchess of Nor-folk and the Marchioness of Dorset her godmothers. I should have been so proud to hear Garter-king-at-arms crying out: “God, of his infinite wisdom send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.”

The procession from the church to the palace was lighted by five hundred torches, but around my baby walked gentlemen carrying flambeaux, and thus they came to my chamber.

I held out my arms to receive my little one, that high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.

And I rejoiced in her. I could not have cared more for a son.

I wanted to keep her with me to be a mother to her, and for a few days I did so. I loved her more every day. She was a beautiful child—perfect in every way. The ladies said that, in truth, they had never seen a more lovely girl.

Henry regarded her with interest, in which there was only just a faint resentment because she was not a boy; even he was not immune to her charms, and I could see that he was beginning to be fond of her.

He had changed since that occasion when he had made it clear to me that his feelings for me had altered. I heard no more of the woman he had been pursuing. It had been whispered that she was the wife of Nicholas Carew, a very attractive woman, not averse to a little flirtation, and her husband might well not object if he were looking for favors. However, it had blown over and I could tell myself that it was, after all, forgivable. We had suffered a great deal of stress, and I, far gone in pregnancy, had not been a very bright companion. If that were all, I had little of which to complain.

He was now attentive, visiting me often, talking of the future and the brother our delightful daughter would have.

Those who had thought the King's love for me was dead now had to change their views.

He was looking forward to my return to normal life. He had been lonely, he said, without me. It was as near to an excuse as he could bring himself to make for that temporary infidelity, and having suffered a big fright, I did have sense enough to accept it.

I was feeling stronger each day. I had my baby beside me; I had the attention of the King. All was well. The next child would certainly be a boy; and then all would be perfect.

As I lay in bed, I often thought of the injustice done to my sex. Why should not the child sleeping in the cradle be as great a monarch as any man? She could not, of course, lead her armies in war—but wars were folly in any case and rarely brought good to either side; and perhaps if there were more women rulers, then there would be less of that foolishness.

I had attained my ambition to win a crown; now I had something else to work for: my child.

She must be proclaimed Princess of England—a title which had hitherto belonged to the Princess Mary.

I anticipated trouble from that quarter. The girl was devoted to her mother, which was natural, of course; for so long she had thought of herself as heiress to the throne, and no doubt she had been thinking she would be Queen from the time when it seemed unlikely that her mother would have another child. Now she was about to be set aside that another girl might take her place.

At this moment that little baby, the Princess Elizabeth, was heiress to the throne for there was no Salic law in England as in France, and a girl had a chance of reaching the throne unless a boy was born to take it from her. That always filled me with irritation.

I had never realized before that I had strong maternal instincts. How different one becomes when one is a mother! I wanted to be to her all that a mother should. I did not want to hand her over to nurses. She was mine.

In the new confidence inspired by Henry's devotion, I declared I would feed her myself, and I started to do so.

Henry was annoyed. It meant of course that I had Elizabeth in the royal chamber, for she might require attention at any time and I must be at hand to give it. I saw a return of that cold anger which I had glimpsed not so very long ago.

“I never heard the like,” he said. “A Queen to make herself a nursemaid!”

“This is my daughter… our daughter.”

“The child shall be with her nurses.”

“But I wish…”

“I wish her to go to her nurses.”

“I want her with me.”

“You forget your state,” he said. “You have risen too high. You do not understand the ways of royalty.”

“You speak as though I am some kitchen slut.”

“Then pray do not behave like one.”

“Is it sluttish for a mother to love her daughter?”

“It is the duty of the Queen to remember her state.”

I wanted to scream: Very well, you do not want my daughter here. In that case I shall go with her. But I had had one example of his cold anger. Now and then would come to me the memory of those cruel eyes and the words: “I have raised you up. I could so easily lower you.” And I felt a tremor of fear.

I heard myself say in a quiet voice: “Very well, she must go to her nurses.”

“’ Tis the best place for her,” he said; he came to me and put an arm about my shoulders. I smiled at him, returning his kisses; but my heart was filled with misgivings.

In spite of his refusal to have her in our bedchamber, Henry gave a great deal of attention to Elizabeth's household. He approved as her nurse the wife of a gentleman named Hokart; he said the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk should be her state governess, which gave the old lady a very fine residence and 6,000 crowns a year. This seemed a good choice as I was a connection of the Howards. Another concession to me was the selection of Lady Bryan, whose husband was a kinsman of the Boleyns, to be her governess. I was delighted, for I knew Lady Bryan was a good woman. She had, as a matter of fact, been governess to the Princess Mary, so she was accustomed to the position.

I was very sad though when, at the age of two months, Elizabeth was sent to Hatfield, which was to be her home; with her went those people whom the King had selected.

I had to reconcile myself to her departure and promise myself that, whenever possible, I should be with my child.

In the meantime there was trouble with Mary.

She must now renounce her title that Elizabeth might have it.

She was a pale girl—delicate-looking—so that her boldness was amazing. She was defiant and seemed to care nothing for the wrath of the King.

I was determined she should submit. I had my Elizabeth to fight for; and it was an undisputed fact that, if Elizabeth were to have her rights, Mary must first give them up.

This the rebellious girl refused to do, and when members of the Privy Council went to her and told her she must resign her title, she refused to see them until she had assembled her entire household—and all those people who had looked after her for the last years, from officials of the household to the humblest kitchen maids. Then, before them all, she had the temerity to announce that she could not give up a title which had been bestowed on her by God and her parents. She was a Princess; she was the daughter of a King and Queen; and she had more right to her title than had the daughter of Madam Pembroke. She was the Princess of England and could not order her household to address her in any other way.

I was very angry when I heard this. By referring to Elizabeth as Madam Pembroke's daughter, she was implying that she was illegitimate. This I could not allow.

I sent orders that she was to lose her royal privileges; she was not to eat alone when she wished to; the custom of having her food tasted before she took it was to be stopped; and she was to have no communication with her mother. Perhaps this last was harsh; but I had begun to see that in Mary I had as formidable an enemy as I had had in Katharine; and I was incensed by her implications directed at my daughter.

Later I regretted the last injunction. Mary loved her mother with an almost fanatical devotion. Looking back, I can imagine what they must have meant to each other in those years when Katharine was fighting for her position and her daughter's; and indeed I think now, having a greater understanding of human nature, that each suffered more on account of the other than for themselves.

It was decided that Mary should be sent to Hatfield. I realized that she would consider this an added insult, for she would be in an inferior position in the household of the Princess Elizabeth who, she would consider, had usurped her place.

I thought it would be just punishment for I was smarting under the insults to me in daring to refer to the Queen of England as Madam Pembroke, with the implication that I was not the King's wife but his mistress.

Christmas was upon us, and this had to be a Christmas to outdo all others. It was my first as Queen. I surrounded myself with the wits of the Court—Weston, Bryan, Brereton, Norris, my brother and Wyatt. We laughed; we were very frivolous; we made amusing entertainments, and the King liked to be with us better than any others. With us he could forget certain anxieties which weighed heavily on him at times. Clement had now given the verdict, which was that the marriage between Henry and Katharine was valid, which meant, of course, that ours was not.

Henry had snapped his fingers at the Pope's verdict, obviously given under the orders of the Emperor Charles; but it put him in a dilemma. Excommunication would follow if he continued to live with me as his Queen, and it was not easy to defy such an edict. At least it might be for Henry himself but there were the people to consider. Many of them were staunch Catholics, and if Henry were excommunicated, that would entail the entire country. He had no alternative but to break with Rome; but this did not mean a rejection of the old religion: it was merely changing the Head of the Church. Everything could be as before—the same rituals, the same ceremonies—but the Church of Rome would now be the Church of England, and Henry would be the Head of that Church instead of the Pope.