He sat down and, putting an arm round each of us, drew us to him and held us closely. Sobs shook his body. I was filled with horror as well as sadness to see my invincible hero so broken with grief.

“My dearest daughters,” he said. “The most terrible of calamities has befallen us. How can I tell you? Your mother ... your mother . . .”

I kissed him tenderly, which only made him weep the more.

He said: “Children, you have no mother now.”

“Where has she gone?” asked Anne.

“To heaven, my child.”

“Dead ... ?” I whispered.

He nodded.

“But she was here . . .”

“She was so brave. She knew it could not be long. She was very ill indeed. There was nothing that could be done to save her. My children, you have only your father now.”

I clung to him; so did Anne.

He told us that he had been with her at the end. She had died in his arms. She had died happy ... in the way she wished. We must try not to grieve. We must think of her happy with the angels in the true faith of the Lord.

We were bewildered. We could not believe that we should never see our mother again. Neither of us could visualize what our lives would be like without her. There would be changes.

We were soon to discover that.

We had lost her, yes. But there was something more than that. What we did not know then was that, on her deathbed, she had received the viaticum of the Church of Rome and that my father was also wavering toward the Catholic faith.

Unfortunately, my father was not keeping this a secret. He was too honest. He believed he would be false to his faith if he tried to disguise it. I was to learn that he was a man of very little judgment. Already he had taken the first step which was to lead to disaster. And we children, because he was after all his brother’s heir, were not without importance to the State.

So there were changes. In view of his religious leanings, which were becoming public knowledge, the Duke of York could no longer be allowed to supervise his children’s upbringing, and because of their position in the country, it was necessary for the King to take the matter in hand.

RICHMOND PALACE

It was decided that the old palace of Richmond should be our new home. Lady Frances Villiers was to be our governess and in charge of our household; and our tutors would be appointed by the King.

The Palace of Richmond had originally been called Sheen, but when the Earl of Richmond, who became Henry VII, took the crown after defeating Richard III on Bosworth Field, he called the palace after himself and it became Richmond.

When much has happened in a place, some of the past seems to linger there and people like myself become fanciful. My sister did not feel this at all; but Anne Trelawny understood immediately and I talked of it to her.

I remember approaching the palace with our party and thinking: this is to be our new home. There were several buildings, but they did not seem to match each other, though they all had circular towers and turrets. I noticed the chimneys. There were several of them and they reminded me of inverted pears.

My grandfather had lived here once — that grandfather whom we mourned every January. He must have stood in this very spot, where I was at that moment, looking at those upside-down pears. It was a dwelling of ghosts and shadows. I hoped my father would come often.

It was rather intimidating, on our arrival, to be greeted by Lady Frances Villiers. She was smiling, but I sensed she could be formidable. She curtsied, but I fancied she meant to imply that this gesture was a formality, necessary because of our rank, and that we should have to submit to her will.

I was surprised to see that there were six girls with her — some obviously older than I was.

I glanced at my sister. She was not very concerned.

“Welcome to Richmond Palace,” said Lady Frances. “We are so happy to be here, are we not?” She turned to the girls, who stood a pace or two behind her.

The tallest of them answered: “We are very happy to serve the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, my lady.”

“We shall be a most contented household,” went on Lady Frances. “It gives us great pleasure to be here. I and my daughters have come to serve you and I know we shall all be good friends. Have I your permission to introduce my daughters to you, Lady Mary, my Lady Anne?”

I nodded my head in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and Anne smiled broadly.

“My eldest daughter, Elizabeth . . .”

I often wondered long afterward why some fate does not warn us when a meeting which is going to have a great impact on us takes place. I feel there should have been some premonition to tell me of the effect this girl was going to have on my life. So often I have said to myself, from the first moment I met her I knew I had to be wary of her, that she was sly, clever — far cleverer than I could ever be — and that she disliked me because she, who considered herself my superior, should have to pay homage to me simply because I had been born royal.

But no, I thought that afterward, when I knew. It took me a long time to discover how devious she was. But I was young and innocent; she had the advantage. I could easily have had her dismissed. I only had to say to my father, “I do not like Elizabeth Villiers,” and, although he was no longer in control of the household, my wishes would have been respected. But she was subtle. She did not betray herself. That was where she was clever. She knew how to deliver a barb where it hurt most, but it would be couched in soft words so that only those who understood could be aware of the venom. She was too clever, too subtle for me. That was why she was always the victor, I the victim.

But I deceive myself. None of this was at all clear to me at that first meeting.

She was by no means handsome, but there was something unusual about her looks. Perhaps this was because there was a slight cast in her eyes. It was hardly perceptible. I caught it at times. Her hair was of an orange tinge. “Ginger,” Anne Trelawny called it, and Anne, my dear friend, liked her no more than I did.

The other daughters were being presented.

“My ladies, my daughters, Katharine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta and Maria.”

They curtsied. Anne Villiers reminded me of her sister Elizabeth; she had shrewd eyes and a penetrating look. But she was less impressive — perhaps because she was younger.

And so we were installed in the Palace of Richmond.


* * *

LIFE IN LONDON had settled down to normality. The city had been almost rebuilt and was a much more beautiful and cleaner place than it had been with its reeking gutters and narrow streets.

My father, with the King, had taken a great interest in the rebuilding. They were often in conference with the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, while the work was in progress.

My father at this time was not a happy man. I guessed he was grieving about my mother’s death, and the failing health of my little brother, Edgar, gave him great cause for concern.

He talked to me at this time and I learned more from him than I ever had because I believed he was so distressed that he did not always consider his words, and sometimes it was as though he were talking to himself.

I was glad in a way, though sad because he was, but I did begin to learn a little of what was happening about me.

He was angry on one occasion.

“Bishop Compton will be coming here,” he said.

“To us?” I asked. “But why?”

“The King has appointed him. He is to instruct you and your sister in religion.”

“That does not please you?”

“No. It does not please me.”

“Well, why do you let him come?”

He took my face in his hands and gave me one of his melancholy smiles.

“My dearest child, I have to submit to the King’s wishes in this matter.” He was angry suddenly. “It is that or . . .”

He released me and turned away, staring ahead of him. I waited.

“I could not face that,” he murmured. “I could not lose you.”

“Lose us!” I cried in alarm.

“Well, they would take you from me. Or ... they would restrict our meetings. My own children ... taken from me ... I am unfit to take charge of their education, they say. And all because I have seen the truth.”

This was beyond my understanding. I could only think of being taken from him and I could visualize no greater calamity. He was aware of my concern and was my loving father immediately.

“There. I have frightened you. There is nothing to fear. Anything but that. I shall see you ... as always. I would agree to anything rather than that they should take you from me.”

“Who would take me from you? The King, my uncle?”

“He says it would be for the sake of the country ... for the sake of peace. He says, why do I not keep these matters private? Why do I flaunt them? But you must not bother your little head . . .”

I said firmly: “My head is not little and I want to bother it.”

He laughed and seemed suddenly to change his tone.

“It is nothing ... nothing at all. Bishop Compton will be here to instruct you in the faith you must follow, according to the laws of the country and the command of the King. You must listen to the Bishop and be a good little member of the Church of England. Compton and I have never been great friends, but that is of no moment. He is a hard-working fellow and has the King’s favor. He will do his duty.”