If only I had a son! I often thought of my mother. How often had she prayed, as I was praying now, for that longed-for son who would have made all the difference to her life? My father would never have been able to treat the mother of a male heir to the throne as he had treated her… not even for Anne Boleyn.

How strange that my story should be in some measure like hers! “I must return,” said Philip.

“I have sworn to my father that I should do so… when the child was born.”

Any mention of the child unnerved me.

“But,” I stammered, “there may still be a child.”

“You have been under great strain. You need a rest. You could not attempt such an ordeal… just yet…even if…”

I knew what he meant: Even if you can bear a child. He did not believe that I could.

And I was beginning to wonder, too.

I felt humiliated and defeated.

“I would come back…as soon as I could,” he said tentatively.

“Philip!” I cried, suddenly wanting to know the truth which I had tried not to see for so long. “Do you truly love me?”

He looked startled. “But you are my wife,” he said, “so of course I love you.”

I felt comforted, forcing myself to be. He must go if he wished, I knew. I could not detain him, and even if I succeeded in doing so, it would be against his will.

He was nostalgic for Spain, as I should be for England if ever I left it.

It was natural that he should want to go.

“I shall return,” he said.

“I pray God that you will ere long,? I answered.

SO HE WAS GOING. He had said his absence would be brief, but I wondered. What reasons would there be for keeping him away? I was filled with foreboding. The terrible drama of the last months had left its mark on me. I felt I would never believe in true happiness again.

We were at Oatlands—we had had to leave Hampton Court for the sweetening—and I had come there from London. I should accompany Philip to Greenwich, for I wanted to be with him as long as possible.

It was the 26th day of August. The streets were crowded. I was not sure whether it was to see me or because it was the day of St. Bartholomew's Fair. I was not strong enough to ride and was carried in a litter.

I noticed the people's looks, though they cheered me loyally enough. No doubt they were wondering about me and the baby which had never existed. I knew there must have been fantastic rumors. There was one I heard about a certain woman—and even mentioning her name. It was Isabel Malt, who lived in Horn Alley in Aldersgate. She had given birth to a beautiful healthy boy at that time when I was waiting for mine. It was said that a great lord had offered Isabel a large sum of money for her baby if she would part with him and tell everyone that the child had died. The baby was to have been smuggled into Hampton Court and passed off as mine.

These wild rumors might have been amusing if they were not so tragic; and unfortunately there will always be those to believe them.

If I had had a child, I wondered, what rumors would have been created about him?

I had never been so unhappy as I was at that time. As I rode through those crowded streets and met the curious gaze of my people and heard their half-hearted, if loyal, shouts, I thought I would willingly have given my crown for the happiness of a loved wife and mother.

It had been arranged that Elizabeth, who was to be a member of the party come to bid Philip farewell, should travel by barge. I did not want to have to compete with her for the cheers of the people. I felt that she, with her young looks and easy manners, would have commanded the greater share of the acclaim—and, worse still, it would have been noticed.

I took a barge with Philip at the Tower Wharf and was beside him as we sailed down to Greenwich.

The members of the Council accompanied us, and I noticed how ill Gardiner was looking in the torchlight, for it was dusk. I was glad of the gloom. I did not want the bright sunlight to accentuate the ravages in my face which the last weeks had put there.

There came the moment when we must say goodbye.

Philip kissed all my ladies, as he had when he arrived, and I was reminded of that day and yearned to be back in that happy time.

At last he took his leave of me. He kissed me with great tenderness, and I tried to tell myself that he was as grieved at our parting as I was; but I knew in my heart that he was not. I was aware that, if he had greatly desired to stay, he would have found excuses for doing so. He gave no sign of his pleasure in leaving, and his features were set in a mold of sad resignation.

I felt the tears in my eyes and tried to suppress them. But I could not do so. Philip would hate tears.

I clung to him. He responded stiffly and then, murmuring, “I shall be back ere long,” he left me.

I stood lonely and bereft, watching him depart. I would not move. He stood on the deck, his cap in hand, watching me as I watched him.

And there I stayed until I could see him no more.

I had lost my child, and now my husband was taking with him all hopes of happiness.

I THINK I MUST have been the most unhappy woman in the world.

Sullen looks came my way as I rode out; a pall of smoke hung over Smithfield, where men were chained to stakes and died because they would not accept the true faith. I had not wanted that.

“Persuasion,” I had said. Was this persuasion?

Gardiner had died. He had left me to reap the harvest and had not stayed long enough to see what effect it would have.

I was lonely and helpless. This was my mission. I had completed it. I had brought the Church back to Rome but there was little joy for me.

I was ill most of the time. My headaches persisted. My dreams were haunted by the screams of people chained to the stakes in that Smithfield which had become a Hell on Earth.

It had to be, I assured myself. The Council said so. Every man had a chance to recant and save his life. They were all offered mercy. Most of them preferred martyrdom, and the fires continued. It had become a common sight to see men and women led out to be chained to the stakes, and the sticks lighted at their feet.

It was a black day when Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, went to their deaths. They had been tried and sentenced in Oxford, and the stakes were set up in the ditch near Balliol College.

It must have been a pitiable sight to see such men led to their deaths. They came out to die together.

The scene was later described to me. I did not want to hear of it but I had to know. Two such men… noble, good men in their ways, though misguided, to die so!

Latimer presented an impressive sight to the watching crowds, in his shabby frieze gown tied at the waist with a penny leather girdle, a string about his neck on which hung his spectacles and his Testament. I could not bear to think of this infirm old man shuffling to his death. But they said he had such nobility of countenance that the crowds watched in silent awe.

Nicholas Ridley, who came with him, presented a contrast.

He was about fifteen years younger and an extremely handsome man. Why…oh why? If only they would renounce their faith! But why should I expect them to do that? I would not have renounced mine.

I could not bear to think of those two men.

Neither of them showed fear. It was as though they were certain that that night they would be beyond all pain, in Heaven.

And as the sticks were lighted at Ridley's feet, Latimer turned his head toward him and said, “Be of good cheer, Master Ridley. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's Grace, in England, as I trust will never be put out.”

The power of words is formidable. There would be people who would never forget those. They would inspire. There would be more martyrs in England because Ridley and Latimer had died so bravely.