Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  “I would rather beg my bread with him,” she said in a trembling, yet dignified voice, drawing herself up with all the pride she had left, “than be the greatest queen. And I believe it is the same for him, for he would never forsake me.” She curtseyed. “Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

  Mary left.

  I turned to George. “See to it that she leaves with as few people as possible seeing her,” I hissed in a sibilant murmur.

  He nodded and ran after Mary.

  My mother went to reach out to me and I shook her off. “Do not touch me, Mother,” I said. “In my present temper, I might strike you as well.”

  “But with your sister being in that condition that you so recently lost…”

  “I am fine,” I said, twisting my face away. “And I have no sister.”

  Chapter Ten

  Greenwich Palace

  September 1534

  The eager young pup that had pursued Mary in Calais was indeed the man she had married; William Stafford, third son of Sir Humphrey Stafford, the Sheriff of Northamptonshire. Distantly related to Henry though he was, Stafford’s alliance was a disgrace. He was not a knight, and had no real income or hopes for a title. He was a soldier, nothing more.

  His family owned a manor at Cottered, and to there Mary and her husband fled. Stafford was a spearman in the service of Henry’s cousin, Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, the Deputy Governor of Calais. It was said my sister and her husband would go to Calais and make a life there.

  The court was ablaze with gossip. Everywhere I went, someone stumbled to a halt swiftly in their conversation, and from their smug, smirking faces, I knew they were speaking about Mary. Tales of her adventures in France broke out anew, with everyone happily telling each other they had always known the Boleyns were whores and whoremasters. My enemies pounced on every scrap of scandal, and much more was invented about my sister. It was said she carried disease, and had passed it to the King. They said she was the greatest whore who had ever lived, and that her incontinent living infected everyone around her.

  The only way to bear the disgrace was to alienate Mary. Our father refused to either see or acknowledge his daughter and declined to pay her allowances. Henry was deeply embarrassed and cut off her pension. William and his family had little wealth of their own. My sister quickly became desperate for money.

  When she sent a messenger with the papers of her marriage, it was found that she must have conceived out of wedlock, and only married when she had discovered her condition. The dates on the documents could not lie as Mary had. Norfolk almost lost his mind when he heard. Were I not so furious, I might have enjoyed seeing him storming about, tearing his hair from its roots, close to a fit of apoplexy.

  “A whore!” he shouted. “A whore who has brazenly shown her true colours in the public sphere! She is insane, surely! Who marries for love? What woman would dare thwart her family and kin, just to wed a common soldier?”

  I dared to marry for love, I thought. Yet since I married a king, this was acceptable. I pushed such thoughts away. I told myself I was furious for the shame she had brought upon our family, but even then I knew this was not the reason.

  He gawped at me. “What is to be done with her?”

  “She is cut off, Uncle,” I said. “And has no income. She is no more a Boleyn.”

  “Still less a Howard,” he muttered.

  “Think yourself fortunate, Uncle,” I said, “that we are not closer kin. Although that unfortunately takes you a step further from claiming kinship with the throne, does it not?”

  I walked away. If I had not wanted to cry, remembering Mary’s belly, I would have laughed.

  Mary wrote to Cromwell after our argument. He brought the missive to me, thinking I had a right to read it.

  “Master Secretary,

  After my poor recommendations, which is smally to be regarded of me, that I am a poor, banished creature, this shall be to desire you to be good to my poor husband and to me. I am sure that it is not unknown to you the high displeasure that both he and I have, both of the King’s Highness and the Queen’s Grace, by reason of our marriage without their knowledge that we did not well to be so hasty nor so bold, without their knowledge. But one thing, Master Secretary, consider; that he was young and love overcame reason. And for my part, I saw so much honesty in him that I loved him as well as he did me, and was in bondage, and glad I was to be at liberty.”

  Bondage? I thought. Did she mean her widowhood and reliance on our father’s meagre generosity? If so, she was conveniently forgetting all the ways I had helped her.

  “So that for my part, I saw that all the world did set so little store by me, and he so much, that I thought I could take no better way but to take him and forsake all other ways, and live a poor, honest life with him. And so I do put not doubt but we should, if we might be so happy to recover the King’s gracious favour and the Queen’s. For well I might have had a greater man of birth, and a higher, but I ensure you I could never have had one that should love me so well, nor a more honest man. And besides that, he is both come of ancient stock, and again as meet, if it be his Grace’s pleasure, to do the King service as any young gentleman at court.”

  A place at court? That was never going to happen.

  “Therefore, good Master Secretary, this shall be my suit to you, that, for love, that well I know you bear to all my blood, though for my part, I have not deserved it but smally, by reason of my vile conditions, as to put my husband to the King’s Grace that he might do his duty as all other gentlemen do.

  And, good Master Secretary, sue for us the King’s Highness, and beseech His Highness, which ever was wont to take pity, to have pity on us, and that it would please His Grace, of his goodness, to speak to the Queen’s Grace for us, for, so far as I can perceive, her Grace is so highly displeased with us both that, without the King being so good a lord to us as to withdraw his rigour and sue for us, we are never likely to recover her Grace’s favour, which is too heavy for us to bear. And seeing there is no remedy, for God’s sake, help us, for we have been now a quarter of a year married, I thank God, and too late now to call it again; wherefore it is the more alms to help us. But if I were at my liberty again and might choose, I assure you, Master Secretary, for my little time, I have spied so much honesty to be in him that I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest Queen christened. And I believe verily he is in the same case for me, for I believe verily he would not forsake me to be a king.”

  As I read that, I thought of my sister standing before me, her red eyes alive with defiance. I thought of all I had gone through to win Henry, of all we had endured to be together. But I refused to stack Mary’s actions against mine and judge them in the same manner. Spite made it easy to be unjust to my sister.

  “Therefore, good Master Secretary, seeing we are so well together and does intend to live so honest a life, though it be but poor, show part of your goodness to us as well you do all the world besides, for I promise you, you have the name to help all them that hath need, and amongst all your suitors I dare be bold to say that you have no matter more to be pitied than ours, and therefore, for God’s sake, be good to us, for in you is all our trust.

  And I beseech you, good Master Secretary, pray my Lord my father, and my Lady, my mother, to be good to us and to let us have their blessings, and my husband their good will, and I will never desire more of them. Also, I pray you, desire my Lord of Norfolk and my Lord my good brother, to be good to us. I dare not write to them, they are so cruel against us. But if with any pain I could take my life that I might win their good wills, I promise there is no child living would endure more than I. And so I pray you to report by me, and you shall find my writing true, and in all points, which I may please them in I shall be ready to obey them nearest to my husband, whom I am bound to, to whom I most heartily beseech you to be good unto, which, for my sake, is a poor, banished man for an honest and goodly cause. And seeing that I have read in old books that some, for as just causes,
have by kings and queens been pardoned by the suit of good folk, I trust it shall be our chance, through your good help, to come to the same; as knoweth the Lord God, Who send you health and heart’s ease.

  Scribbled with her ill hand, who is your poor, humble suitor, always to command,

  Mary Stafford.”

  “She is in a desperate way, Majesty,” Cromwell said carefully. “Would you have me respond?”

  I thrust the letter back. Mary’s words had cut me, as she had intended. Desperate she might be, but she was striking back at the same time as pleading for mercy; showing me that she was happier in her marriage than I might ever be in mine.

  “Take it,” I snapped. “And bring me no more from her!”

  I ignored the fact that Mary had leapt in her letter from pleading for mercy to outright insolence. I set aside the realisation that she was in chaos, without money or connections and in utter disgrace with her King and Queen. I could not bear to receive anything from her. The memory of her belly was bitter poison to my heart.

  Looking back, I regret that jealousy made me hate my sweet sister. Envy blackened my heart. I could not speak of her, think of her or remember her without wanting to rage and cry.

  Mary wrote to Cromwell when, I believe, she realized her banishment was no temporary state. She went through Cromwell as she understood his influence at court. Rightly, she did not believe I would open any letter in her hand.

  At night, I remembered her belly and wept quietly into the cushions of my glorious bed. Purkoy nestled beside me. He guarded me, but he could not reach the darkness of my dreams.

  Sometimes, I dreamt Mary had stolen my child, and he was living in her belly.

  I could not deny her enough. I wished I could do her more harm. I was not a Christian woman in those days. George, offended as I to be related to such low connections, refused to see her. I did not petition Henry for her return. I did not help her to recover her husband’s position, nor asked my father or husband to show mercy. But for everything I could deny her, she still possessed the one thing I wanted more than anything.

  Mary was undone, by me.

  And all for the love of my son, who had never drawn breath.

  Chapter Eleven

  Whitehall Palace

  September – October 1534

  As I burned with rage about my sister, Cromwell had a much more fortunate encounter.

  Passing through the slippery streets of London, Cromwell caught sight of a familiar face. Drawing his horse up, and calling his men to stand, he sent a messenger over, and was rewarded by gazing into the eyes of his old master.

  Francesco Frescobaldi was a merchant who had taken Cromwell, then a young man, under his wing. In London to chase unpaid debts, the merchant was astonished to be reunited with his friend, and was even more content with the outcome. Cromwell took Frescobaldi to the Augustine Friars and bought him dinner, as well as immediately ordering his men to look into his debtors. Such was Cromwell’s influence that the debts were paid rapidly, and his old master was able to return to Italy a few weeks later with a full purse. Cromwell also insisted on granting Frescobaldi one thousand, six hundred ducats, in payment for horses, cloth, clothing and food that his master had granted him over the years of his service.

  “You show loyalty and generosity,” I said to Cromwell when I heard. “Soon all masters will be treating their men with undue, bountiful consideration, hoping, Master Cromwell, that one day their servants will rise as high as you, and remember them.”

  “I do not forget my former masters, Majesty, for each taught me something.”

  For a moment, I wondered if he was speaking of Wolsey.

  “How go your affairs, Majesty?” he asked.

  “My affairs are not those I worry about,” I quipped, for he was clearly speaking of my sister. “The King is enraged and I no less disappointed. My sister will come no more to court. Mary has chosen her bed, and she will lie in it.”

  Henry tried to distract me with plans for our palaces. My new suite of rooms at Hampton Court was underway. The foundations had been laid before we left for Calais, and now a skeleton of the glory that would come could be seen. My rooms were on the same level as Henry’s, a change from the past when queens had lived on another floor to their husbands. There was to be direct, private access to Henry’s chambers from mine, and they would be grander than anything anyone had ever set eyes upon.

  Whitehall, too, was also being enlarged. It was already a much grander palace than Wolsey, its first owner, had ever envisioned, but Henry would go further. That was his way. With Henry, everything must be bigger, grander, and more impressive. Everyone must marvel at his achievements and be awestruck by his accomplishments.

  It was not only castles and palaces that were undergoing improvements and repairs. Foreign policy was too. Despite François’ anger at Henry, the French King was making noises of friendship. He proposed sending a delegation that winter, and the suggestion was warmly received.

  “You see, sweetheart?” Henry said. “France wants to be friends again. There is talk of arranging a match between our daughter and the Dauphin.”

  Much as it pleased me to hear Elizabeth might one day be Queen of France, the thought of her leaving me, even in the distant future, sent my heart scurrying for cover. I was anxious, in those days, unnerved and skittish, although I barely knew why. Was it just the loss of my son? It was in some ways, not in others. With my son I had lost my security as well. A part of me wanted to take Elizabeth and Henry in my arms and never let go.

  Perhaps even then something was whispering that I did not have as long as I thought with my family.

  “No doubt François is fearful of the fleet the Emperor is putting together to vanquish the infidels,” I noted, trying to maintain the bright smile on my face. It felt frozen, faked.

  “No doubt.” Henry grinned, noting nothing of my unease. “But that can only be to our advantage.”

  *

  “Send Doctor Butts to your son, my lord,” I said.

  Henry had come to me, out of his mind with terror. Fitzroy was sick. The lad was not only his son, but the sole acknowledged proof he could father boys, although if Jane were to be believed, Henry had more than one bastard son flitting about England.

  My sister-in-law was most upset, languishing in the country at one of the houses where George stood as steward. She had written to me many times, bemoaning her lot and protesting that any action she had taken was in my interests. I did not reply, to my shame. No matter what Jane had done for me in the past, she had gone too far. With Mary’s disgrace the talk of court, I could afford no more embarrassing family members.

  Fitzroy appeared to be suffering from that old curse of the Tudor line: consumption. He had coughed and wheezed his way through the past two weeks, taking eventually to his bed, although he had resisted, much to the horror of his friend, Surrey.

  “He will not accept that he is unwell,” my Howard cousin had said. “Someone must convince him to take care, Majesty.”

  “And you think I might have more success than you, cousin?” I asked. “I will try, but this may be a task for his father. I can only ask Fitzroy to take care. The King can command him.”

  “Any help, any aid, would be welcome,” said the distraught young man.

  I did not allow Surrey to put the case to my husband, fearing that his abject terror might infect Henry. My husband was a mass of neurosis at the best of times when it came to illness. Setting him loose on his son might do more harm than good. I worded my explanation carefully, and Henry commanded his son to take care. But the worst had not yet occurred and as autumn started to succumb to winter and freezing white mists flowed over England, Fitzroy had fallen dangerously ill.

  “Send Butts,” I said again. “No greater faith have I in any physician’s skill than in Doctor Butts.”

  “Aye,” Henry said, glancing again at the parchment in his hands as though doing so might alter its information. “You are right.”

 
; “And caution the young man,” I said, setting my hand on his golden sleeve. “I am sure this malady will turn out to be nothing, but your son is so desperate to impress you, my lord, that he takes undue risks.”

  “He does, and has no need to,” said Henry. “I could not be prouder of him. Does he not know that?”

  I smiled. “Sometimes it is hard for us to know what lies in the heart of another, especially if they do not express their feelings aloud. Write to your son, my lord, and when he is well, visit him. Tell him how proud you are, and tell him you love him. It must be hard for the boy, being in a state between beings, as illegitimacy often is, to know where he fits in, in the world.”

  “He is a duke,” said Henry.

  “Titles are nothing to the love of a father,” I said. “Forget not this moment, Henry. You fear now and wish to say all that you have not said to your son. Remember this time. Tell him of your love. The time we have with those we love is so short, so fleeting. Leave your son in no doubt of your feelings.”