She wanted to write to her mother but she could not do this. Everything she wrote would be seen by both her parents and she knew her father would be angry if she pleaded with her mother and excluded him.
Nevertheless, she must relieve her feelings in some way.
“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England. . . .”
Her mother would understand that that was a cry for help.
Then she thought of the rules of obedience which had always been adhered to; one must never think of oneself but of the good of the country. If her parents wished it she would have to take Henry. Perhaps they could be happy together; he had always shown an interest in her. She would have to be resigned to her fate if it were her parents’ wish that she should accept what they planned for her.
She added: “I know that my tastes and conveniences cannot be considered, and you will in all things act as is best.”
When she had written and dispatched the letter she lay down on her bed and staring dry-eyed before her murmured: “Please dearest mother, send for me. Dear God, let me go home.”
It was late January when the Queen in the company of her ladies was rowed from Richmond to the Tower where she had decided her child should be born.
Her sister Katharine was very anxious about her for Elizabeth had had such a difficult pregnancy and was scarcely strong enough for the ordeal before her.
People stood about on the river bank to watch the Queen’s barge and to give a cheer for the poor lady who looked as though she would give birth at any moment.
The chamber in the Tower had been prepared and to this the Queen went immediately. Her women gathered about her helping her to bed and making sure of her comforts. Lady Courtenay sat by her bed, ever watchful of her sister and wondering about her husband who was incarcerated in this very Tower. She had been anxious ever since the execution of Sir James Tyrrell who had had very little to do with the planned rising. She wondered why Suffolk and her husband had got off so lightly. It was no use asking Elizabeth. The Queen knew so little of the King’s affairs, which Katharine Courtenay believed were very devious indeed.
February had come, bleak and bitterly cold when the Queen’s pains started and on Candlemas Day, the second of that month, the child was born.
Katharine Courtenay felt sad when she saw that the child was a girl. Dear Elizabeth, she had so longed for a boy. Perhaps if there had been a boy, Katharine thought, there could have been a rest from this incessant childbearing, which was undoubtedly having dire effects on the Queen’s health.
The child was sound but a little frail. As she held the baby in her arms she heard the Queen’s voice calling her.
She went to the bed. “A dear little girl, Elizabeth,” she said.
Elizabeth closed her eyes for one despairing moment. Then she opened them and she was smiling.
“She is . . . healthy?”
“Yes,” said Katharine, and put the child in her arms.
After a while she took the baby from its mother who fell into a sleep of exhaustion. This time next year, thought Katharine, we shall doubtless be in a similar situation. Will it go on and on until they get a boy? And how will Elizabeth endure it? She won’t admit it but she is less strong after each confinement.
The midwife was looking anxious.
“Why are you worried?” asked Katharine.
“The Queen is not strong enough,” said the midwife. “This should be the last.”
“I will talk to her.”
“Someone should talk to the King.”
Why not? thought Katharine. He had a son and now three daughters. That must be enough.
When the Queen was rested Katharine sat at her bedside and they talked together.
“She is a beautiful child, I hear,” said the Queen. “They would not deceive me, would they?”
“Why should they? You have three other beautiful children, sister.”
“Arthur was weak and they kept that from me for several days.”
“You brood too much on Arthur. You have Henry. You could not have a son who was more full of strength and vitality.”
“It is true. You have been a great comfort to me, Katharine, and I know you have troubles of your own. I am going to call this little one Katharine . . . after you.”
“Then I am honored, dear sister.”
As Katharine bent over the bed and kissed the Queen, she was a little startled by the clammy coldness of her skin.
Within a week the Queen was dead. Her passing was not only a matter of great sorrow but of amazement. She had appeared to recover from the ordeal of childbirth and it was not until six days later that the fatal symptoms appeared.
When Katharine Courtenay had found her in a terrifyingly weak state she had sent a messenger at once to the King and when Henry arrived he was horrified. He had sent with all speed for his physician, who believing that the Queen was on the way to recovery, had left the Tower for his home in Gravesend.
