The first risings were in Lincolnshire, where the shoemaker Nicholas Melton and his sworn companions dedicated themselves to revolt on behalf of “God, the king and the commons for the wealth of holy church.” In a nearby village the country people took as their symbol the Five Wounds of Christ, and within days there were said to be some forty thousand men following the banner of the Five Wounds, including hundreds of priests and monks. The rebel army seized Lincoln, but failed to hold the town after a royal herald arrived with a threatening message from the king. The commons of Yorkshire, however, now defied their sovereign and supported the lawyer and country gentleman Robert Aske, who with his “Pilgrims” took the city of York and became the effective ruler of the county. Henry, who had dismissed both the rebels and their petitions for reform as beneath his notice, now grew uneasy and sent Norfolk and Suffolk to put down the revolt. Already the success of the Yorkshiremen was encouraging unrest in East Anglia and Norfolk, and there was always the danger of intervention from the Scots or from continental powers. In fact the pope gave legatine powers to Reginald Pole, the son of the countess of Salisbury and scion of the Plantagenet line, and sent him to Flanders to wait for an opportune moment to cross to England and lead the rising.
While Pole waited the rebels sent the king a new list of demands. Headship of the English church was to be returned to the pope in matters that concerned the “cure of souls”—that is, spiritual and ecclesiastical affairs. Parliament was to be reformed, the recent Act of Succession repealed, and the monasteries restored. Full pardon for all rebels would have to be guaranteed before York would be surrendered to the royal forces. The demands were stringent, but the king appeared now to take them seriously. Through his deputy Norfolk he granted the Pilgrims the pardon they asked for—or so it seemed—and Aske convinced them to disband.
Before the Pilgrims realized that the king had deceived them his agents were at work rounding up all who believed they had been pardoned and bringing them to trial. Hundreds were summarily executed, many of them sentenced by juries coerced into rendering guilty verdicts. The rebel leaders, including Lords Hussey and Darcy, were beheaded, and Robert Aske was “hanged in the city of York in chains till he died.”6Many country people were hanged in their own gardens as examples to their fellow villagers, and monks of Sawley Abbey, a suppressed monastery which the Pilgrims had re-established, were hanged from the steeple of their church.
It was this rebellion that Latimer meant to conjure in his fervent welcome to the new prince as the sure remedy against conspiracies. Now that the king had a male heir he would be much less vulnerable to attack from those who might try to use the uncertain succession as an excuse to overthrow him.
In particular, it weakened those who supported Mary and wanted to see her rights restored. For if the Pilgrimage of Grace had been primarily a conservative protest against religious innovations it also prominently raised the question of Mary’s status. In the north Mary was still looked on as the king’s legitimate daughter, who on her mother’s side “came of the greatest blood in Christendom” and whom the Roman church had never proclaimed to be baseborn. “She is marvellously beloved by the whole people,” Aske said, and it is certain that not only the commoners but the aristocrats and gentry among the rebels, many of whom had been prepared to take the field against the king since 1534, supported Mary’s claim to the throne.7
Yet so complete was her restoration to favor that the rebellion did nothing to dislodge her. Henry assumed, correctly, that his daughter was not connected with the rebels in any way, despite their advocacy of her cause. Throughout the fall and winter of 1536 she associated herself more and more closely with her father and stepmother, riding beside them in the royal barge or, when the river was frozen, through the streets of London.8 At court she held the place of honor just below the queen, sitting opposite her, “a little lower down,” at table and enjoying the privilege of serving both the king and queen with the napkin when they washed their hands before the dishes were brought in.9 She stood with Jane at the font at the christenings of noblemen’s children, and rejoiced with the queen as her pregnancy advanced. Mary sent her stepmother quails in June—Jane ate them by the dozens as the summer went on, and could not seem to get enough—and attended to her obligations as mistress of a growing establishment of officers and servants.10
Some members of the new household proved to be troublesome. One of Mary’s yeoman cooks, Spencer by name, was implicated in a robbery in Oxfordshire, and had to answer to the bailiffs of Reading.11 Shortly afterward it came to light that a tailor’s servant who had been given access to a manor house where Mary stayed from time to time abused his master’s trust and spent the day in the empty residence. Two of his friends were with him, and while they did no harm—one played the virginals and lute, another read a book, and all three explored the “gentlewomen’s chamber” with inordinate interest—their unsupervised stayworried the porter when he found out about it and indicated some carelessness on the part of Mary’s household steward, John Shelton.12
In the fall Mary was back at Hampton Court waiting out Jane’s confinement with the rest of the nobility. In her capacity as godmother to the prince she was an important figure in the celebrations that attended his birth, but a more somber honor fell to her when Jane, weakened by her ordeal and humored in her craving for “unwholesome” foods, became fatally ill and died. The rejoicing over Edward’s birth was barely over when Jane’s obsequies began, and Mary was now called upon to be chief mourner. Her responsibilities were especially grave in that Henry, who was deeply grieved by Jane’s death, rode off almost immediately to get away from the morbid atmosphere of the court and left the funeral arrangements in the hands of the Council and chief mourner.
The king was both affronted and alarmed by reminders of death. His preoccupation with medicines and hygiene, the terror of plague and dread of all other disease all point to a phobia that clung to him throughout his reign. Years later a member of Edward’s royal Council recalled that Henry “ofttimes would not only dispense with all mourning, but would be ready to pluck the black apparel from such men’s backs as presumed to wear it in his presence.” Henry’s sorrow at the loss of his wife sharpened his horror of death in general and made him more anxious than ever to take refuge away from court.
In his absence the cumbersome sequence of vigils, masses and processions that made up a royal funeral was set in motion. Jane was first laid out in her coffin in the palace, surrounded by candles and mourned by the household servants who had now to find other work. Mary distributed the funeral dole among them—a sovereign each to the chamber women, forty shillings to the page, and three shillings to the queen’s personal gardener at Hampton Court.13 After a few days the corpse was placed in the palace chapel, and Lancaster Herald ordered all present to kneel. “Of your charity pray for the soul of the queen!” he called out, then made way for the priests and chapel boys to sing the dirge.
Weeks of vigils followed. Watchers surrounded the hearse at all hours of the day and night, with the clergy, gentleman ushers and officers of arms presiding at night and the chief mourner and her ladies taking over during the daylight hours. There were several masses each day, among them the offering mass at which every mourner gave a piece of gold for the soul of the deceased. Finally on November 12, eighteen days after she died, Jane was escorted to her burial place in the Garter chapel at Windsor. Two hundred poor men walked ahead of the procession wearing her badge and carrying lighted torches. Mary, her horse trapped in black velvet, rode just behind the coffin, followed by twenty-nine ladies and gentlewomen. At every town and village through which the processionpassed the poor men formed a corridor of honor with their torches, and the villagers lined the road, their caps in their hands, to watch the queen pass.
At Windsor the dean and college met the funeral party at the outer gate, and the pallbearers carried the coffin into the chapel where the archbishop of Canterbury awaited it in his pontifical robes, flanked by six bishops and a
s many abbots. Mary followed, attended by seven ladies and with Lady Rochford carrying her train. After another day and night of lessons, dirges and masses, the women mourners offered their velvet palls—as chief mourner Mary presented seven of these—and then Jane was buried between the stalls and altar of the chapel.
Her epitaph compared her to a phoenix who in dying gave the realm another like herself.
Here lies Jane, a phoenix
Who died in giving another phoenix birth.
Let her be mourned, for birds like these
Are rare indeed.
Jane would be honored for the rest of Henry’s reign as the mother of his heir, though the king’s enemies would in time embroider the circumstances of her death with a dark legend. It would be said that, to save his son, Henry ordered the baby torn out of the womb at the cost of Jane’s life. Henry had become so despised by many of his subjects that even his bitterest personal tragedy was charged to his own cruelty.
For Mary the period of mourning had a painful postscript. Her days and nights of watching and attendance at mass after mass gave her a bad toothache, and as soon as Jane was in her grave Mary had to have the tooth pulled. Henry sent his own man, Nicholas Sampson, to do the extraction, and either the procedure was very time-consuming or Sampson was very skilled, for beyond giving him the forty-flve-shilling fee Mary sent him back to court with six gold angels in his purse.14
XIX
Shee may be calde Marigold well,
Of Marie (chiefe), Christes mother deere,
That as in heaven shee doth excell,
And Golde in earth, to have no peere:
So (certainly) shee shineth cleere,
In Grace and honour double folde,
The like was never earst seene heere,
Such is this floure, the Marigolde.
Mary Tudor was now in her early twenties. She had already lived through more in her short lifetime than courtiers three times her age, but though the inner strains would become apparent soon enough her outward appearance was still that of a young girl. “With a fresh complexion she looks not past eighteen or twenty,” the French ambassador Marillac wrote in 1541, when she was twenty-five.1 And he added “she is one of the belles of this court.” He went on to describe her person and habits, relying on one of her chamberers, a woman who had served Mary on and off from infancy, for his information. He reported that she was of middle stature, with her father’s features and her mother’s neck. Once she was married, the woman told Marillac, Mary was “of a disposition to have children soon,” implying both that she was capable of bearing children and that she looked forward to having them.
In manner Marillac found Mary sweet and benign, but with the prudence and reserve appropriate in a woman of her rank. The ambassador’s description of her daily life portrayed a reasonably healthy, vigorous and gifted woman. She is active, he wrote, and seemingly robust. She liked to exercise in the mornings and often walked two or three miles after breakfast. Her French and Latin were very good, and she read the Latin classics for pleasure. She had become an impressive performer on the virginals, and played (and taught her women to play) with unusual dexterity. In all, Marillac found Mary to be a very suitable candidate for marriage to a younger son of the French king, or to a duke of the royal blood. Her illegitimacy, plus the doubts surrounding her recurrent illness—which the chamber woman tried to dispel—were her only handicaps in the marriage market. Marillac would have liked to send his master a portrait of Mary, but her father refused. There would be no portraits of his daughter to send to prospective bridegrooms or fathers-in-law unless he approved the proposed match, and he did not approve.
Mary’s regular features, clear complexion and fresh coloring attracted admiration, and the clothes she chose helped to make her a center of attention. She loved to wear bright colors—reds and rich purples and the shimmering cloth of gold that sold for more than ten pounds the yard. Like her father she was inclined to be gaudy, and to decorate herself, some said to excess, with finery and jewels. When the secretary of a Spanish grandee met her at court he found her wearing a kirtle of cloth of gold and a violet gown of heavy three-piled velvet. Her headdress sparkled with “many rich stones.”2
Among her favorite jewels was a single ruby set in the shape of a Gothic letter “H,” Henry’s monogram, with a pendant pearl. She also owned a jeweled letter “M”, set with three rubies, two diamonds and a huge pearl.3 She supervised the inventory of her jewels closely, checking each page and signing it when she found it correct. Biblical jewelry filled the pages of this jewel book, with brooches of Old Testament scenes such as Moses “striking water out of the rock” and “Jacob being asleep” in mother of pearl complemented by stories from the life of Jesus. There was a brooch of Noah’s flood with little diamonds and rubies, a pendant “tablet” depicting the Trinity, and a brooch of Jesus healing the palsied man, adorned with a great table diamond.4 Among her dearest treasures was a miniature golden book that had somehow survived the attempted obliteration of all references to the king’s first marriage. It too was ornamental, and it showed “the king’s face and her grace mother’s”—that is, it bore facing portraits of Henry and Katherine.5
Now that she had money to spend Mary indulged her taste for finery. To one of the king’s envoys who was traveling to Spain she gave forty shillings to buy her small luxuries; to another bound for Paris she entrusted twelve pounds to buy more costly goods. But if her personal tastes now flourished her father’s preferences were never far from her mind, even in matters of dress. At Easter, 1538, when the court was putting off mourning for Queen Jane, Mary was anxious to wear what pleased Henry most. She sent Lady Kingston to the privy councilor Wriothesley, to ask him to inquire through Cromwell what the king wanted his daughter to wear. Mary thought he might like to see her in anold dress of white taffeta edged with velvet, “which used to be to his own liking whensoever he saw her grace, and suiteth for this joyful feast of our Lord’s rising.”6 Lady Kingston carried the message to Wriothes-ley, who relayed it to Cromwell, who finally asked Henry about it. He answered brusquely that Mary could wear whatever she liked.
Henry was preoccupied with continental affairs during 1538 and 1539, and paid scant attention to his children. Mary saw him infrequently, and spent her time at Richmond, Hampton Court, and the country houses of Kent and Surrey. Life in these country establishments was especially pleasant in summer and fall, when the farmers and villagers brought their fruits and vegetables to the gate of the great house to sell, and there were fresh peaches, apples, pears and strawberries in abundance. Gentlewomen sent quince pies and orange pies to Mary’s cook, and there was always deer from the neighboring hunting parks. There were bucks sent up from Eltham, does from Lady Sussex and other game brought by servants of Nicholas Carew’s; the king sent partridges when he happened to think of it, and the local people supplied as many chickens as the household could consume. Villagers whose children Mary had sponsored at their christenings brought her pheasants, baskets of vegetables and other things from their gardens out of gratitude, and country women came every week with dishes of butter, or confections, or flowers for the king’s daughter.7
It was characteristic of Mary to form close ties with the members of her household. She attracted their devotion, and they her care and compassion. The affection between them took many forms: the stability of the household staff from one year to the next, the competition for a place among Mary’s attendant ladies and gentlewomen, the frequent celebrations and exchanges of gifts among those who did enter her service. There were always gifts at New Year’s, but birthdays and holy days were also observed with small presents. On St. Valentine’s day the men drew the women’s names as their Valentines, and gifts of spaniels, caged birds, artificial flowers, smocks or lace or embroidered sleeves for gowns were exchanged. Sometimes the gifts were very valuable. When the widower Anthony Browne drew Mary as his Valentine she gave him a gold brooch set with an agate and four small rubies, enameled with the st
ory of Abraham.8 Mary gave christening gifts to all the children she held at the font, and many of them were sons and daughters of household officials or servants. At the christening of Dr. De la Sà ’s child his godmother Mary presented a large ornamental saltcellar in silver and gilt, and an entry in her expense book shows that it cost sixty-six shillings. To the children of her longtime servants Beatrice and David ap Rice Mary became a patron. She paid the girl’s board in London and the boy’sat Windsor, where he served in some capacity at the court, and she continued this support until both children were able to make their own way in the world.
Mary’s establishment was always a source of charity. She relieved hundreds of poor men and women each year, giving something to all who came to her. On her daily walks she carried a purse full of pennies to give to needy folk she happened to meet, and many times she met women whose husbands were in jail, or men whose crops had been trampled or lost through drought or frost, and in every case she gave the petitioner something to help him or her make a fresh start. In 1537 she gave seven shillings to a “poor man whose house was burned” to build it again. Whenever she received a lump sum of money from the court she gave much of it away in almis, usually on the same day that she received it. Like other compassionate Christians in the 1530s and 1540s, Mary found the sight of impoverished monks, nuns and priests heartbreaking, and she helped them whenever she could. When she found that one Father Beauchamp, an old priest attached to Windsor Castle, had been deprived of his income and had nothing to live on, she took over responsibility for his support herself.9
The Spanish envoy who reported on Mary’s looks and disposition at this period wrote in his account that, beyond her “very great goodness and discretion, among other praises I heard of her is this, that she knows how to conceal her acquirements.”10 The acquirements Mary had to work hardest to conceal were her musical skills and her learning. She was as proficient on the regals and lute as she was on the virginals, and several of her instruments were moved with the itinerant household from one residence to another. Repairmen came regularly from London to replace strings, make needed adjustments and tune the virginals, and Mary’s keyboard teacher “Mr. Paston” and lute teacher Philip Van Wilder were salaried members of her establishment.11
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