We have lost Calais.
The words hung leaden in the air, suffocating them all.
The queen was still for many moments and then she fell, tumbling backwards.
Jane flew to her. Ho there! Attend the queen! Attend the queen!
But Mary Tudor held up her hand and stalled the rush. Instead, she beckoned de la Pole closer so that she could see his face.
Was it De Guise? She asked.
Yea, your majesty, de la Pole replied, the Duke de Guise led the French garrisons.
Tell me everything, she commanded, tell me!
De la Pole obeyed, his words a rush. The French surrounded Calais, your majesty. They took our strongholds one by one, first the Fort at Sangatte, then Risban, then Fort Nieulay. Lord Wentworth had surrendered the keys of the city to De Guise after three days of heavy warfare.
Our supplies? Foods? Guns? the queen asked.
Taken, your majesty, they have fallen into enemy hands, de la Pole replied, not only so your grace, our garrisons at Guines and Hames have also succumbed. The French king has marched into Calais himself, declaring victory!
Clutching her side, the queen pitched forward, her knees giving way. Jane held onto her queen, her eyes streaming with hot, angry tears.
We have held the fort of Calais since the time of Henry V! No English king has ever lost Calais, not for two hundred years! The queen gritted her teeth as she fought the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Fisting her hands, she used it to strike at her legs and the ground beneath her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she trembled with the full force of her anger. The shame and the calamity made the queen retch.
We have lost Calais! She cried, beating her breast, I have lost Calais!
Jane knelt by her queen, grasping the lady’s hands to stop her from injuring herself. The queen fought her, crazed. Jane did her utmost, calming the queen as best she could.
My queen, she said, over and over, my queen, you must not harm yourself!
In the next instant, the queen’s face turn deathly white. With an anguished cry, the queen gritted her teeth. She twisted, her body overtaken by a sudden bout of pain. Her breath was harsh and uneven. She clung to her little Jane Dormer.
Then Jane felt it. Something warm and viscous was puddling around them. She looked own.
Crimson. Blood.
It flowed from Mary Tudor, drenching the queens’ shift, pooling around them. Jane screamed, send for Doctor Owens! The queen bleeds! Send for Doctor Owens!
The queen’s ladies and the royal guards swarmed into the room, their eyes widening at the sight before them. Jane Dormer and Cardinal de la Pole were fighting to raise the queen from the floor. Blood was everywhere, seeping onto the rushes. It surrounded Mary Tudor, drenching the queen in red.
KAT ASHLEY
October
The loss of Calais was neither the beginning nor the end of the queen’s woes.
Her reign was cursed, many were certain of it, for Mary Tudor had brought England nothing but blood and tears, sweat and turmoil, fire and brimstone.
Indeed, we have been bathing in sorrow these many years past, Kat lamented.
The humiliation of the English people was complete. The loss of Calais was the crowning jewel in the sorry saga of Mary Tudor’s ill-fated reign. This queen had brought England nothing but ruin; the loss of Calais had affirmed it as such. God had frowned upon this queen, sang the chorus. God had no love for Mary Tudor, for every occurrence that had befallen England during her reign had served to confirm the truth as such. And, with everything just so, the Lady Elizabeth was now on the cusp of taking the throne.
The Lady Elizabeth can fair taste it, for it comes, carried on the wind of promise. Indeed, she was on the cusp of gaining everything. Mary Tudor was not with child. She never had been, and she never would be. This child had proved itself to be as elusive as the phantom babe before it, and once again the queen was made the butt of every joke in Europe.
Not once but twice this queen has been mistaken! Ran the merry tune as the queen emerged from yet another fruitless confinement. But the queen was not free of her bed, far from it. Struck down by an ague and all the foul humors brewing and poisoning her from within, the queen remained abed, dying.
Horrid pains plagued the queen. They said her torment increases by the day. The queen is not long for this world. They say she clutches at her body, tossing and turning, groaning night and day, begging God for mercy, for deliverance, for death…
The queen, knowing of her fate, had since drafted her will and added her last codicil to it.
The Lady Elizabeth would be her heir and no other.
Mary Tudor would not be creating a new Act of Succession. She would honor her father’s will.
Unwilling to give up, the Papists struggled, trying to save themselves, pressing the queen to name a Catholic successor in her sister’s stead. But the queen had shut her ears as well as her eyes against all such entreaties. She would not bar Elizabeth from the succession. She would allow her father’s Final Act of Succession to take its course, no matter how her heart rebelled against it.
So every child of Henry Tudor will live according to his will.
A deep ache, it thrummed, deep inside Kat’s ageing bones, but her eyes glistened, with hope, for the future that awaited the Lady Elizabeth. Her mistress was ripe for the Queenship. The Lady Elizabeth was now five and twenty years of age. She was no Jane Grey, young and timid, nor was she anything like her sister Mary, old and cursed with ill health.
Nay, the Princess Elizabeth would be the answer to all of England’s woes. Soon, she would wear the dual crowns of England. She would be king and queen both. And with all of England’s bad luck used up by her sister during her untimely reign, Kat was certain that the sun would shine upon her mistress. Her reign would be nothing but golden.
A storm can only last so long before fair winds and sunny days must follow.
Heat stung her eyes as she cast them over her mistress. Sitting in the great hall at Hatfield, the Lady Elizabeth was surrounded by the greatest people in the realm, from nobles of the highest order to dignitaries and foreign ambassadors; they were all of them here now. The tide had turned. Knowing the way the wind was blowing, they abandoned the queen at St. James’ Palace, making instead for the Princess Elizabeth’s halls at Hatfield. Even the Duke de Feria was here and the Spanish Sovereign’s envoy was all smiles, bowing low. He came, wishing to deliver unto the Princess his master’s highest regards for a prosperous future.
And the Queen-in-waiting was poised and charming. She spoke with care and she was always watching, observing, weighing and gauging the world around her. She was shrewd. Her eyes, they shone with wit.
This is the child of my ill-fated cousin, Anne Boleyn. Kat wiped at her eyes. For all the times they had been neglected, laughed at and denounced, my mistress now has the last laugh. They would be vindicated, at last. The tide was turning and now the time for triumph was come. Our blood is royal blood. Our blood is good and honest blood, smiled Kat, my princess, nay, my queen, shall prove it so.
Already, the Princess was gathering her kin to her, taking care to position them carefully. And when the time came she would burst forth as brilliant as the sun to seize what was hers.
Mary Tudor is done. The coming days shall be the days of Elizabeth.
Already, the people were hankering and praying for the days of Queen Elizabeth. Mary Tudor’s reign was yet to end but the people were already eager to be rid of her.
And who can blame them, thought Kat. This queen has brought them nothing but plagues. Under Mary Tudor’s tenure, England had been plagued, plagued by bad harvests, famine, hunger, raging fire and death.
Still, Kat frowned. Mary Tudor is to be grievously pitied. She had loved God and sought to serve Him above all others, and yet, never has there been a woman more cursed and more unloved by that deity.
Had she birthed an heir, had she not been ill, had she not been so frail and old and the victim of such bad l
uck, she could have reigned long and prospered too. But it was her destiny to end here. She would not be the one to lead England out from the dark. It would be her sister’s place to do so and it would be marvelous.
For an instant, Kat remembered the Lady Mary, the young girl that she was, deprived of her mother, sent away from her father and stripped of her titles, sullen, stubborn and royal.
Kat crossed herself.
Fate works in mysterious ways and it has chosen Elizabeth. God has never favored Mary Tudor, no matter how devout she is. It is curious that, Kat determined, God does indeed work in mysterious ways.
And now Elizabeth would follow her sister onto the throne of England. Such was the natural order of things. When a king died another rose to take his place. And now all of King Henry’s children would follow him onto the throne, one by one, just as he dictated.
Edward VI, Mary I, Elizabeth I.
We have had Johns, Edwards and Henrys aplenty, but never a Mary or an Elizabeth. These sisters have been the first. These sisters are the first.
And now the days of Mary the First were drawing to a close to make way for the days of Elizabeth the First. Dispatches, already writ, awaited the command of the new queen and her new reign. Parliament, the Council and the People, the Princess was ready to claim them for her own. And while the Protestants gathered, Mary Tudor’s Catholics scattered.
In one last attempt to secure her legacy however, the dying queen sent word to the Lady Elizabeth, pleading, at the end of all things, for her sister to continue her reforms and champion the Catholic faith after her death. The Lady Elizabeth had given her sister her answer. She made the necessary promises with carefully chosen words, saying much, meaning little.
Mary had also taken care to commend onto her sister, the Cardinal, Reginald de la Pole. He shall aid you in the great work, allow him to assist you sister, such doings will be a marvel in God’s eyes. Elizabeth had answered yea to all her sister’s entreaties.
I will allow the Cardinal to assist me, for as long as he shall live, the princesses had said.
Silently, Kat smiled. Her mistress was a wily one. She made her pledge knowing full well that the Cardinal was not long for this world. For Mary Tudor was not the only one dying.
While the queen laid abed, sweating and swelling with dropsy, Mary’s Cardinal, de la Pole, laid dying too.
Yea, it is true, the queen’s Cardinal, that Divine Man of God lays ill and dying too. Struck down by the same ague that plagues his royal master. One then the other, the two would not outlast each other.
Who will go first, wondered Kat, the queen or her cardinal? Together, they stood on the cusp of entering the Eternal Embrace. Their lives were inextricably linked. Their purposes had been as one. Mary Tudor had brought the cardinal to these shores and together they had fought to bring about the revival of the Catholic faith. But the time of the Catholics was over.
Many of the old faith knew that the queen, their champion was not long for this world, so they fled. Their sorrow was great for they would never find another champion as fervent and alight with holy ardor as Mary Tudor. But the fire of Mary’s life was ebbing and soon the embers would scatter and ascend upon the winds. Death was stalking the queen.
There is no sign of death here. Kat cast her eyes over the shining halls of Hatfield. The sun shone, the rays glittering, falling and lighting on the Lady Elizabeth, warming her with its rays.
Golden. The days of Elizabeth would be golden.
All was hope. For hope was here, encapsulated in the form of her mistress. Hope was the Lady Elizabeth.
Kat’s heart swelled with pride at the thought her mistress. But while her soul leapt at the thought of the coming days, she could help but offer a prayer for the dying queen at St. James.
Mary Tudor. Kat wished her a quick and easy passing. Kat wished the queen a quiet and painless end, a good death. For all the trouble and strife that Mary Tudor had suffered throughout her years on God’s green earth, Kat prayed that here, at the end of all things, Mary Tudor would have a good death. She deserved, at the very least, this one last blessing.
Born a princess, made a bastard, crowned a queen. Mary and Elizabeth Tudor, Kat thought.
Both queens would soon meet their Maker, one at the Gates of Heaven and the other at Westminster. Mary Tudor would join His everlasting kingdom and Elizabeth Tudor would take her sister’s crown and ascend the dais, here on earth.
Soon Kat’s mistress would wear the crown. She would emerge from the shadows of her sister and step into the light. She would take to the great stage, at last, and sally forth to meet her fate.
May fortune smile upon my mistress, prayed Kat.
The wheels of fortune are forever turning and we must all bend to its iron will. And fate says Mary Tudor shall soon be done.
They were waiting for the inevitable now.
As soon as the queen gasps her last, the great bells will toll and the calls will echo, crying ‘The Queen is dead. The Queen is dead.’ And in the next breath they shall look to Elizabeth and cry, ‘Long live the Queen! Long Live the Queen’ and it shall all begin.
Next, the great lords of this realm will pull the sovereign ring of England off the bloated finger of Mary Tudor and gallop for Hatfield. They will proffer it to Kat’s mistress, knees bent and heads hanging low in supplication.
Kat could see it all in her mind’s eyes. Hear it. Taste it.
It will not be long now, she told herself and she could sense the same tension and anticipation, sorrow as well as excitement in her mistress.
Kat knew her mistress would mourn her sister. She would cry when no one was there to see her. She would grieve and weep. But she would smile too, smile and make merry.
Such is the lot of every heir. And it will not be long now. Kat turned her eyes over the horizon. The death vigil is upon us.
MARY
November
Calais. Philip.
My people. My England.
Father. Mother.
The words were engraved on her heart, making it ache and bleed. Shutting her eyes, she held them tight. The tears threatened to fall but she kept them at bay.
I am almost done. I am almost done, she thought, as she heaved through another bout of blinding pain.
The doctors said the shock of losing Calais had been her undoing. They said her great decline had been triggered by the calamity.
The day I lost Calais, she gritted her teeth. I will never forget it. She had collapsed that day and though she had risen again, this time, she had known the difference. This time, there would be no recovery.
She shivered, too weak to toss now as the sweat poured off her body, her stomach was bloated with bile. Her hair was wet with perspiration. She trembled, quivering and shaking from the fever.
Beside her, Susan and Jane stayed close; their brows knotted, their hands busy, offering her every comfort. But there was none to be had.
Gritting her teeth, she dug her heels into the bedding below as another surge of pain came. Underneath the sheets, her stomach was grossly distended. The growth there was hard and it was getting larger too. Beside it, the devastating pain in her sides raged on, depriving her of air.
There was no child. There was only poison, a fatal mix of elements eating and growing inside my belly. Nay. It was no child at all, only blood and pain and something fouler too. And now all the physicians were in agreement. She was dying.
She was not long for this world. Her body was crumpling and festering. The end was nigh. There were those who still fought to convince her otherwise, but Mary was no fool. She could see the fear in their faces, scent it and even taste it.
Her days were numbered and the lords and peers of the realm were scrambling, tripping over themselves to secure their new places in the coming reign.
Elizabeth. My sister will reign after me. Mary coughed, the sound hollow, her lungs weak.
Elizabeth had given Mary her word. Elizabeth had pledged to champion the Catholic Faith, to guar
d it and see it flourish. Squeezing her eyes tight against her endless sufferings, Mary hoped her sister’s pledge rings true.
There is nothing further I can do, Mary told herself over and over. Elizabeth had given her pledge, whether she should observe it was a matter for the next queen, her conscience, and God.
And all too soon, Elizabeth shall sit upon my throne.
Mary had always known that it should be Elizabeth. There was no other choice. Mary was without hesitation. There had to be no confusion as to who would succeed her. It had to be Elizabeth. It must be my father’s daughter. It must be my sister. There must be no more dispute, my people must suffer no more. Mary would have no wars here in her England.
My England. Mine now still, but for how much longer?
Not much longer, Mary thought, not much longer. Soon it will all be Elizabeth’s. Anne Boleyn’s daughter shall inherit it all. She shall take it all. Like Katherine of Aragon’s daughter before her, another one of Henry’s scorned and bastardized daughters shall soon sit upon his throne. She shall have her chance to avenge her mother, to seek vindication, find it and to bask in the Divine Illumination of God.
I only pray that her road will be easier than mine, Mary felt a tear escape the confines of her left eye. My path. It has been fraught with pain, little joy and endless turmoil. Failure after failure after failure, she counted them all, she remembered them all. Each and every one of them was etched onto her heart.
How shall England remember me?
What shall the chroniclers write of me?
How shall you remember me?
With her chest rising and falling and her breath short and shallow, Mary fought for air. Pressing a cloth to the sides of her sallow face, her faithful Susan soothed her.
Soon, such pains will be beyond me, she consoled herself. Eternal peace, it awaited her and she longed for it. She had a bellyful of pain. She was tired, so tired of it all. She had been ready to fight on for as long as the fight was hers, but now it was all slipping beyond her reach.
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