Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  Mary loathed them. They did nothing to deserve their titles and riches. They had earned and bought every tract of land, every deed to every estate and every title bestowed upon them with Anne Boleyn’s flesh. They had sent a woman into her father’s bed and their greed had propelled them to gamble for the ultimate prize.

  And they have won.

  Her mother was banished. They had forced her from her throne, dragged her dignity through the mud and shut her away. Mary was not permitted to go to her and when she wrote to her mother, her letters were intercepted, read and destroyed. Still, Mary was not without her allies. She had God, her Catholics and her uncle, the Holy Roman Emperor.

  She prayed constantly to God for his guidance and her friends promised her that all would be right in the end. For the good Lord sends the harshest tests to His most deserving servants.

  Before her eyes, her father reached across the dais to lovingly pat Anne Boleyn’s swollen stomach. Mary knotted her brows hard, fighting her anger and tears. She refused to give the Boleyn Witch or anyone in this hall the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  Her father was making a new family. Once he had his son, she would be of no more use to him.

  Your mother’s greatest failing was her failure to produce a son. The fault was not hers alone. Our union was cursed. It should have never taken place. The Pope should have never allowed me to take my brother’s widow to wife. Her father told her. Believe you me Mary. It has all been a mistake.

  A mistake. She was a mistake and now her father would rectify all with Anne Boleyn and the imposter she had in her belly.

  Mary lowered her head. She tried to will the tears gathering behind her eyes away. I banish thee! She said unto them. I banish thee! Be gone!

  Mary stared at the culprit of all her woes. She wanted to pray to God and ask Him to send Anne Boleyn every suffering. She wondered if God would answer.

  The woman was disgusting.

  Anne Boleyn was everything foul and dishonorable. When she first returned from France, she had been a lady-in-waiting to the queen. She had sewn, sung and bowed her head to Queen Katherine while she winked and worked her devil’s wiles on her father. The audacity of the woman knew no bounds.

  She was a wily one and she knew how to deploy the whore’s tricks at her disposal.

  Anne Boleyn was nothing like Queen Katherine. Her mother was everything that was sage and wise. It was true what they said, Anne was a viper and she would be the death of everything she touched.

  And her eyes are on you Mary. Lady Salisbury’s words had been filled with warning. Mary looked down at the prayer book in her hands. She wanted to return to her rooms, rip the dastard gift apart page by page and cast it into the fire. The bound volume was a yuletide present from the new Queen. She had presented the volume to Mary, smiling her little smile, her black eyes dancing.

  Please. Pray open it. Your Father and I chose it especially, the woman had said.

  She had turned her eyes toward the King while Mary stood before them. Her father had smiled back at the woman like she was his only care in the world. He took Anne’s hand in his.

  Come Mary, Queen Anne has been most studious in studying your likes and dislikes, her father pronounced, gesturing for her to come forward.

  Reluctantly, Mary stepped forth to receive her gift. For the briefest of moments her fingers brushed Anne’s. She had to fight the urge to slap the woman’s hands aside.

  Open it. Her father had said, his eyes flickering in merriment. But there had been something else behind his smiling mask, Mary sensed it and she understood it. Henry the king was no longer her father, he was Anne Boleyn’s husband now and Mary was no longer his pearl or his one true daughter.

  She stared hard at the imposter’s stomach. There was someone else on the way to take her place.

  Open it. We trust that you shall find the passages most useful. Her father words were light, they were spoken in mirth but there was purpose also behind them.

  She opened the book and immediately the pages fell apart to reveal the marker placed in its midst.

  On Obedience, the chapter read. She looked up to meet her father’s gaze. She saw the truth in his eyes. Anne was his new wife now and he would have her accept it. He would have no challenges against Anne or the child she carried, even from her. He would have her obey.

  What happened to you father? She wanted to ask him. Why are you so cold and harsh toward your Mary?

  Ere coming to court, she had been warned many times of the great change in her father. But time and time again she held on, hope against hope, that they would be wrong. Blindly, she fought on even when the Duke of Suffolk, her father’s closest friend warned her so-

  Lady, you are not to ask his majesty questions relating to your mother. You will acknowledge Anne Boleyn as Queen. If you show yourself to be a most obedient daughter, his majesty will continue to love and bestow his favors upon you.

  She had refused to believe it until that instant when she looked into her father’s eyes. Any hope she had of pleading her mother’s case died. In answer, she inclined her head to her king, wordless and silent, but she gave Anne nothing. She would give that woman nothing. The viper would have no satisfaction from her. She turned away, giving way to the nobles waiting to proffer their elaborate gifts to her father and his new Queen.

  The tide at court was turning. Mary used to sit beside her father at Christmas time. There, she would be indulged, pampered and loved.

  Now she was dismissed. Brushed aside like a common subject. She was nothing. She was disposable now and of no more use to her father.

  The new Queen is fertile country and the King would beget many sons on her, went the refrain. Mary Tudor was the fallen princess, the daughter of a banished queen. She was as good as done.

  Several paces away, George Boleyn and his bevy of sycophants stood. Mary met his gaze.

  Deliberate and with his eyes on hers, he spoke-

  Alas. The days of Katherine of Aragon are over. These days are the days of Queen Anne. The king is a man rejuvenated, elated and blessed. His new marriage has cleansed him of his sins. Anne, my sister, is his new beginning. He would again be the perfect prince. The nightmare of God’s disfavor is no more!

  Mary turned away, sickened.

  Anne’s hands were forever hovering over her belly, framing it for the world to see. She was eager, most eager to show everyone her swelling stomach. She was only a few months along. In truth, she was hardly showing at all and yet she titters around the palace like a woman on the verge of confinement. They said she complains constantly of the trials and tribulations of carrying a Prince. To her father, Anne was a saint and as wondrous as a Madonna.

  Mary observed as her father led the woman out to dance, handling her like a precious jewel, his hands on her waist and his eyes on her stomach.

  For all of Anne Boleyn’s supposed swollen ankles, limp wrists and glowering headaches none of it was enough to stop her from dancing in her high-heeled French shoes. They sparkled and turned in the candlelight as she jumped and swirled through a series of intricate steps.

  So much, Mary thought, for her supposed delicacy.

  Her father though was oblivious. Everything the Boleyn woman did captivated him. He was a man ensnared.

  Turning yet again, Mary met the gaze of the several ladies. They shifted, averting their eyes. Mary tightened her grip on the prayer book in her hands.

  She loved her father still but her faith in him was fading fast. The court was a cold place. Cruelty was everywhere but none more so then here amongst this glittering crowd of nobles. They saved their most winning acts these days for Anne Boleyn and Mary knew that with Anne by her father’s side there would be no more good days for her in England.

  She swallowed past the constriction in her throat. The king and queen were now returning to their dais. They were having a grand time, the two of them smiling from ear to ear. Suddenly, Anne caught Mary’s gaze. The woman stared deep into Mary’s eyes and held th
e contact between them for long moments. Mary did not avert her gaze. She refused to. She was not going to surrender so easily.

  The daughter of Katherine of Aragon would not be defeated.

  Anne Boleyn saw what Mary was about and she smiled, a mocking quirk of her lips, and that was when Mary understood that this was just the beginning.

  The truth was unmistakable, she could see the promise in Anne Boleyn’s hard brown eyes, this, was only the beginning.

  1533

  MARY AGED SEVENTEEN

  It is the will of His Supreme Majesty the King that the Princess Mary henceforth be known as the Lady Mary. All of the Lady Mary’s former titles are henceforth withdrawn and forfeited. No further distinctions shall be accorded the Lady Mary until the day, His Grace, the King, deems her worthy.

  Her father was striking her from the succession. Mary stood, rooted to the ground, her face placid but her soul on fire with rage. She was being dealt the final blow.

  While her father’s royal edict was being read out to her, the sound of the cannons came. She seized, her body going rigid as she counted the shots. With her heart speeding fast, she prayed, begging God to be merciful. And He was. The canons sounded and she counted. The child was no prince. He was a she. It was a girl. Anne Boleyn’s prince was no prince afterall, just another useless girl like Mary Tudor.

  She couldn’t help it. An anguished laugh escaped Mary’s throat. The boy that her father pined for was nothing but a girl like the daughter he was renouncing. He had disinherited her in one foul swoop, forcing her to make way for a boy that never was!

  Mary stood tall, defiant. She would savor the moment. As she did so, she turned her eyes on Anne Boleyn’s men. They stood in front of her, their faces momentarily suspended in disbelief as they digested the truth. They had come to denounce this princess so that they might replace her with a prince. But there was no prince, just another girl. The newborn babe was just another worthless girl that her father had to despair over.

  With infinite relish, Mary enjoyed the mottled color spreading across the visage of George Boleyn, the newly made Viscount Rochford. He was flying high these days thanks to his sister expert manipulations.

  Mea culpa. Mary could not hide her smile. So the Boleyns had thought to consign her to oblivion. They thought that they could deny God and nail the final nail into her coffin. How wrong they were. How wrong. Mary looked deep into George Boleyn’s eyes. She allowed the roiling sentiments in her soul to shine through her gaze. She was satisfied to see the man’s eyes widen.

  The Boleyns. They had soared too high, and Mary thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the tide was now finally ready to turn in her favor. But the Viscount was not yet done. Unraveling the scroll further he read on, a vicious gleam in his eyes.

  Henceforth, the Lady Mary’s household is to be dissolved. All servants are to be dismissed. He smirked. Further to that end, it is the express will of His Majesty that Margaret de la Pole, the Lady Salisbury, no longer attend, see or have correspondence with the Lady Mary. Lady Salisbury is hereby discharged of her post. She is to retire with honor.

  Mary’s heart froze. So her father would deprive her of the comfort of Lady Salisbury?

  Lady Salisbury had been by her side since she was in the cradle. She was her one confident, her one true friend. She was standing by Mary and Queen Katherine, and she would never waver. She was like a mother to Mary. But the look on George Boleyn’s face made her believe it. Her father was cruel enough to issue the directive.

  Your ladyship, he sneered the words. Such is the will of your father the King. His Majesty has further appointed me the executor of his edict. He moved forward to tower over her.

  She held her ground. She squared her shoulders and refused to be intimidated.

  He looked down at her. His eyes were just like his sister’s, pitiless and hard.

  He spoke-

  Every servant of both genders in this house is to pack their belongings and be gone within the day. His Grace desires that this house be closed forthwith.

  Lady Salisbury, her face pale, took two determined strides to Mary’s side. And where is the Princess to go? Who takes charge of the Princess Mary now? Does the King require her presence at Greenwich?

  George Boleyn’s smile was brutal. The Lady Mary is in my care now. By the desire of Her Majesty the Queen, her ladyship will now take up a position in the household of the King’s rightful heir.

  Position? Lady Salisbury was outraged. What kind of position?

  The man ignored Lady Salisbury. He spoke directly to Mary, his dark eyes dancing.

  His Majesty has found a new place and a new purpose for your ladyship. George Boleyn looked deep into Mary’s anger stricken face. His grin was all teeth. The Lady Mary will attend the royal heir, my niece, at Hatfield.

  ANNE BOLEYN

  1533

  She was in strife. Lying abed with the furs pulled close, she tried to stem the chills racking her body. She was still recovering from the rigors of the birth but her mind was already sharp. Turn and turn about her thoughts ran in her mind, denying her rest.

  She had given Henry a daughter. A daughter. She laughed mirthlessly, what use was a daughter when she promised him time and time again that the babe would be a son, a Prince for the realm?

  The child was meant to secure her place as Queen ever after. A son would make her untouchable. With a son to her name, no one would dare reproach her ever again. No one would question how she climbed her way up to the royal throne. All of it, all her troubles would be forgotten.

  God send us a son!

  Please be to God, send us a prince!

  During the months before the birth, Henry’s prayers were echoed throughout the court and the lands. But Henry’s was the prayer that rang the loudest. She had promised him the world and she was to answer for it with a son. He would have considered her oath fulfilled if she had given him a prince.

  The truth of her failure ran, round and round in her head. Henry had been so certain of her he had the celebratory proclamations ready drawn with the word ‘prince’ printed months before. Now he would have to change them and Henry was not a man to take humiliation well. He hated being proved wrong, even by God. But the truth remained, there was no prince, all they had was a daughter. The fact could not be altered.

  Anne kept her head high. She knew what they were saying. They would be ridiculing her to high dungeon outside these doors. They would be questioning the validity of her marriage to the king too, yet no matter what they said, it was Henry and Henry alone that she feared. He was her Henry but he was above all, her king. He was mercurial and unpredictable. His heart was cruel, that, she knew. A man who would repudiate a wife of twenty-four years was not a man a woman should cleave to, especially if he was a king.

  Anne’s thoughts turned upon her former rival, Katherine of Aragon. Anne had never expected the fight to be easy. The woman had been a most worthy adversary. Locked in a bitter battle, the two of them fought on for years and years until Anne emerged as the victor. She won the fight, winning the woman’s husband, her titles and her throne. The old Queen was lost and she was now nothing, nothing at all to the king. She was gone and gone for good.

  But Katherine had been Henry’s first love, and first loves were the hardest to forget. Anne for one often found herself thinking of Henry Percy.

  She had always aimed high. There was no other way but up and when she had first returned to England, Percy, the heir to the Earlship of Northumberland had seemed the perfect man for her. He was young, the heir to one of the best titles in the realm, handsome and obscenely rich. He had been easy enough to snare and she had him pledging himself to her within the month. But it was not to be. Percy’s family had known what she was about and they had put an end to it, fast.

  At first, she clung to the hope that Percy would love her enough to defy his parents, but the boy had no such measure. He cried his sorrowful tears and returned to his country estates, petulant but unwilling to fight. U
seless.

  It was then, while she had been in the depths of her despair that the King noticed her. He had tasted Boleyn flesh and was eager to sample more.

  Anne had seen what happened to her sister. Mary Boleyn had submitted herself to the will of the king and bought his favor with her milky flesh. She had gone to his bed and played his whore. She gave him two bastards, a son and a daughter, and then she was brushed aside.

  Anne told herself she was meant for greater things. She would not be another whore to be used and tossed aside. So she held the king off. She refused him, unwilling to succumb to his endless advances. She got him to promise her a great many things before she allowed him his first kiss.

  But the king was no Henry Percy. Deliberately, he set about bringing all his promises to pass. And she loved him for it, for the lengths and the infinite trouble he was willing to endure for the sake of gaining her hand. Never was a woman so treasured, so valued and so loved. Here he was, a king, willing to throw over his Queen for her, willing to deny his ministers for her, willing to anger his people for her and willing to turn his back on the Pope for her.

  She fell in love with him, what woman would not? But in her heart of hearts, Anne feared him.

  She feared him and all that was within his power to control, to change, to depose and to put to death. He held her in the palm of his hand, but one day, she wondered, would he close that self-same fist upon her and choke her to death?

  Still, there had been no turning back.

  His passions for her were high and each and every obstacle thrown in their path had only made him desire her more. She held onto her virginity for as long as she could. Had she given it to him willy-nilly, he would have lost interest. One year, two years then three, she kept him dangling. But as the years dragged on he became irritated, imperious and then eventually angry and forceful. He cornered her again and again.

  When will you be mine Anne? When?

  The longer she held him at arm’s length the higher his passions seemed to burn.