by Jean Plaidy
“Oh Countess, dearest Countess, what am I to do?”
“There is nothing to be done but to remain quiet and confident of the future. We must pray as Our Lord did in the wilderness.”
I was not as meek as she was. I could never be. She was like my mother, and they were both of the stuff of which martyrs are made. But I was not. I was filled with hatred toward this woman whom I blamed for all our misfortunes. I hated the innocent baby who had taken my place and for whose sake I was being made to suffer thus.
I took up my pen and, against the Countess's advice, wrote to the Council. I gave vent to the rage I felt. The very act of picking up a pen, though, brought me back to my senses a little. I knew I should have to go to Hatfield, to part from the Countess, and that it was no use protesting about this. But I could call attention to the deprivation of my title which was mine by right of birth, and that I would do.
“My lords,” I wrote, “as touching my removal to Hatfield, I will obey His Grace as my duty is… but I will protest before you all, and to all others present, that my conscience will in no wise suffer me to take any other than myself for Princess or for the King's daughter born in lawful matrimony, and that I will never wittingly or willingly say or do aught whereby any person might take occasion to think that I agree to the contrary. If I should do otherwise I should slander my mother, the Holy Church and the Pope, who is judge in this matter and none other, and I should dishonor the King, my father, the Queen, my mother, and falsely confess myself a bastard, which God defend I should do since the Pope hath not so declared by his sentence definitive, to whose judgement I submit myself…”
It was foolish. It was rash. But I was beside myself with misery because my dearest friend, who had been a mother to me, was about to be taken away from me.
There was a further blow. The Princess Elizabeth was to go to Hatfield with her household, and it seemed that, with no household of my own, I should be a member of hers. A lady-in-waiting perhaps! It was intolerable. This was proclaiming to the world that she was the Princess, the heir to the throne, and I was the bastard.
I could not understand how my father could do this to me. I remembered those days when he had shown great affection for me. How could he have changed? It could only be because he was under the influence of witchcraft.
On impulse I wrote to him. I told him that I had been informed by my Chamberlain that I was to leave for Hatfield and that, when I had asked to see the letter and had been shown it, it stated that “… the Lady Mary, the King's daughter, should remove to the place aforesaid.” I was not referred to as the Princess. I was astonished and could not believe that His Grace was aware of what had been written, for I could not believe that he did not take me for his true daughter born in matrimony. I believed this and, if I said otherwise, then I should earn the displeasure of God, which I was sure His Grace would not wish me to do. In all other matters I should always be his humble and obedient daughter.
I signed myself “Your most humble daughter, Mary, Princess.”
It was an act of defiance. I was stating clearly that in my opinion his marriage to Anne Boleyn was no true marriage, and as I was legitimate, Elizabeth was a bastard.
As soon as I had dispatched the letter, I realized the enormity of what I had done. Both my mother and the Countess would have been horrified.
The result was to bring the Duke of Norfolk down to Beaulieu with Lord Marney, the Earl of Oxford and the Duke's almoner, Dr. Fox. Their purpose was, I think, to warn me of the folly of continuing in my stubborn mood, to administer the breaking up of my household and to see me on my way.
I knew from the attitude of the Duke toward me that I could expect no sympathy from him or any of his henchmen; and that was an indication of my father's feelings toward me.
The Husseys would remain in my household, and I might take two personal maids. I had to say goodbye to all the rest. Even now I cannot bear to brood on my parting with the Countess. It was one of the most harrowing experiences through which I had passed. When my mother had been separated from me, she had handed me over to the Countess and we had been able to mourn together.
I had never felt so alone, so bereft, as I did when I left Beaulieu behind and made my way to Hatfield.
News traveled fast and spread through the neighborhood. The people of Beaulieu knew I was leaving and those of Hatfield that I was coming.
Courtiers are subservient to their masters; not so the people. They have means of expressing their feelings which are often denied those in high places.
They were on the road…groups of them… cheering me.
“Long live our Princess Mary! Long live Queen Katharine! We'll have no Nan Bullen!”
That was music to my ears—particularly when they called me Princess.
I smiled, acknowledging their greetings. I hoped my father would hear of the people's attitude toward me. I was sure it would give him a few qualms of uneasiness.
All too soon the journey was over. I had arrived at Hatfield Palace, and I felt as though I were being taken into prison.
MISERY DESCENDED UPON ME. Lady Shelton was anxious to let me know that I was a person of no importance and that if I gave myself airs it would be the worse for me.
I treated her with a cold contempt which so aroused her anger that she told me that if I persisted in my stubborn ill behavior she had been advised to beat me.
“Advised by whom?” I asked.
She did not answer but I knew. She was so proud of the fact that she was related to the woman they called the Queen.
During the first days of our encounter I knew that she would never lay hands on me. When she insulted me, I would draw myself up to my full height and merely look at her. I was royal and perhaps that was apparent. I could see little lights of apprehension in her eyes. What was she thinking? “One day this prisoner could be Queen of England? It would be wise not to antagonize her too much. To strike her would be quite unforgivable.”
I found just a slight elation in the midst of my gloom to know that, although she might make me uncomfortable in a hundred ways and abuse me verbally, she would never lift her hand against me.
Hatfield is a beautiful place, but I was alone and desolate, deserted by my father and separated from my beloved mother and the Countess.
All the attention in the household was for the baby. The Princess, they called her. I would not call her that. To me she was sister, just as the Duke of Richmond was brother. There was no difference. They were both the King's illegitimate children.
Sometimes I dream of those days. They are remote now but I can still conjure up the infinite sadness, the deep loneliness, the longing for my mother and the Countess, the abject misery. I felt then that whatever happened I could never be truly happy again.
Sometimes I thought the object of the household was to humiliate me. The Duke of Richmond had a fine household; the King made much of him. But, of course, it was different with me. I was a continual reproach to him. I was there at the back of his mind, jerking that mighty conscience of his so that it refused now and then to do his bidding. Hatfield! The very name means blank misery, a certain feeling of hopelessness which is what comes to those in prison with no indication of how long their incarceration will last, wondering if only death can release them from the wretchedness of their days.
But I suppose nothing is complete gloom. Although in the beginning I had resented the Husseys, I was now rather glad that they were with me… particularly Lady Hussey, who, I was sure, had great sympathy with me. Once or twice she had addressed me as Princess. It may have been deliberate. On the other hand she had been accustomed to referring to me thus before it had been forbidden to do so. But so bereft was I of friends that I was grateful for that little show of sympathy.
Then I had the two maids who had come with me to Hatfield. They served me loyally and showed in a hundred ways that they regarded me as their Princess.
There was another blessing. It so happened that Elizabeth's governess was La
dy Bryan, who had held the same post to me during my early years.
There seems to be a bond between a motherly woman and a child to whom she has been close in infancy. It may have been because Margaret Bryan was a kindly woman, or it may have been because there was that early bond between us, but it soon became clear that she deplored the way in which I was treated under Lady Shelton's rules. Looks were exchanged between us, and then we found opportunities of talking. She brought me some comfort, and I shall always be grateful to Margaret Bryan.
A great deal was happening. I suppose that year was one of the most momentous in history.
The Nun of Kent had been arrested soon after I arrived at Hatfield. She was sent to the Tower with some of her associates. When they were brought before the Star Chamber, they all confessed to fraud, and Elizabeth Barton was accused of trying to dethrone the King, which was, of course, treason.
Christmas came—the most dreary I had ever spent. It was cold. It was long since I had had new clothes, and I saw no means of getting any. I was not allowed to have my meals served in my room. If I wished to eat, I had to go down to the hall and seat myself where I could; and if I did not go, nobody seemed to care. Except, of course, Margaret Bryan, who surveyed me with some anxiety. She assumed the role of nurse and talked to me as though I were a wayward child.
“What good is this doing?” she demanded. “It is hard for you but you must make the best of it. Going without food is not going to help you.”
I said, “You and my two maids are the only friends I have. Perhaps Lady Hussey is…in a way.”
I saw the tears in her eyes. I knew it was difficult for her to speak to me, for she might be noticed, and if she were she would be sent away. But as she saw I was growing more and more wan, she became reckless. I had once been her charge and she could not forget it. Moreover as any good woman would be, she was appalled at the manner in which my mother was treated.
She said to me, “If I came to your room after the household has retired, we could talk.”
I was overcome with emotion. I felt as though a light had appeared in a dark room, and it brought with it a glimmer of comfort.
It was Margaret Bryan who kept me sane during that long time. Sometimes I felt an urge to throw myself out of a window. It was a sin to take life…even one's own. It was that thought which restrained me. My great comfort was in prayer. I was sustained by reading the holy books, by remembering the sufferings of Jesus and trying to emulate his example. At least I had managed to subdue Lady Shelton sufficiently to escape the humiliation of physical punishment.
And there was Margaret Bryan.
When the house was quiet, she would come to my room. I was terrified at the risk she was taking, for I knew that, if Lady Shelton discovered, she most certainly would be sent away; she might even be imprisoned. I was sure both the King and Anne Boleyn were very much afraid of the people's feelings for my mother and me.
She was helped in this by one of the maids who was a sweet girl and wanted to do more for me. I was afraid her devotion would be noticed and she sent away; I told her that would sorely grieve me.
There was a secret understanding between us that she should pretend to be brusque with me, in common with the others around me. It was very important to me that she should stay near me, and although she thought of me as the Princess, it was necessary that she did not show this.
It was little incidents like this which sustained me. Later she became bolder, and it was through her, with Margaret Bryan's help, that letters from my mother and even Chapuys, the Emperor's ambassador, were smuggled in to me.
One day Margaret told me that the King was coming to Hatfield to see the Princess.
Now was my chance. If I could speak to him face to face, surely he would not fail to be moved by my plight. I would plead with him. I would make him understand. I must see him, I told myself.
The house was in tumult. The King was coming! I wondered whether she would be with him. Surely she would, for it was the baby they would come to see… her baby. If she came, there would be no hope of my seeing him. I was sure of that.
I thought of what I must do. I would throw myself at his feet. I would beg him to remember that I was his daughter.
The great day came.
My little maid was agog with excitement. “They say Queen Anne is not coming to Hatfield because you are here,” she told me.
“Surely she will come to see her own child.”
“They say she will not.”
“If he comes alone …” I murmured. The girl nodded. She knew what I meant.
And at length he came. It was true that Anne Boleyn had stayed some miles away and he would rejoin her after the visit.
I could smell the roasting meats; I was aware of the bustle of serving men rushing hither and thither in the last throes of preparation for the royal visit. And at last there he was, riding into Hatfield.
I was in my room… waiting. Would he send for me? Surely he must. Was I not his daughter? He had come to see one; surely he must see the other, too.
The hours wore on. Margaret came to tell me that he had been with Elizabeth and seemed mightily pleased with her. Margaret glowed with pride every time she mentioned Elizabeth. “He is now feasting in the hall,” she went on.
“They are in a panic in the kitchens lest anything go wrong.”
Surely he must ask: Where is my daughter Mary? Why is she not here?
But I could not go unless he sent for me.
The hours were passing. He was preparing to leave and he had not sent for me. Perhaps he had not asked about me. I must see him, I must.
But he was not going to send for me, and already they were riding out of the palace.
I dashed to the balcony. There he was. I stood there, looking down at him.
I did not call his name. I just stared and stared, my lips moving in prayer. Father…your daughter is here… please… please…do not leave without seeing me. Just a look…a smile… but look at me.
And then something made him turn, and for a few seconds we looked full at each other. He did not smile. He merely looked. What thoughts passed through his head, I did not know. What did he think to see this palefaced girl who had once been his pretty child, shabbily clad, when once she had been in velvet and cloth of gold, an outcast in his bastard daughter's household… what did he think?
He had passed on. He did lift his hat, though, in acknowledgment of my presence as he turned away.
All the gentlemen around him did likewise.
I had been noticed. And that was all his visit meant to me.
I WAS HEARING NEWS of my mother through Margaret and my maid.
When they moved me to Hatfield, they had tried to move her from Buckden to Somersham, at the same time dismissing part of her household. I had been worried about her being at Buckden which is a most unhealthy place, but Somersham is worse. It is in the Isle of Ely and notoriously damp, and as she was suffering from excruciating pains in her limbs, I was sure that would have been disastrous for her. I often marvelled at my mother's indomitable spirit and the manner in which she clung to life. She must have known that she could not live long in Somersham, and the thought occurred to me that my father—lured on by his concubine—might have thought it would kill her to stay there long. Her death would make things easier for them, and I was sure it was what the concubine desired—if not my father.
My mother had defied the commissioners sent to carry out my father's orders; she had shut herself in her room and sent word down to them that if they wished to remove her they must break down her door and carry her off by force.
They could have done this, of course, but there was a rumor that the people in the neighborhood were bringing out their scythes and other such implements implying that, if the Queen were taken, her captors would have to face the people, and this made them hesitate.
The result had been that my mother had remained at Buckden.
I heard what her life was like there. She found great
comfort in prayer. I did too, but she was more intensely involved. Religion was all-important to her. It was becoming so with me, as it does with people who have nothing else to cling to. She, however, would never rail against her misfortunes, but meekly accept them. That was the difference in us. She passed her time in prayer, meditation and sewing for the poor. There was a window in her room from which she could look down on the chapel, and there she spent a great deal of her time. I was thankful that she had a loyal chamberwoman who cooked for her. Several new servants had been assigned to her, and naturally she must feel suspicious of them.
It is a terrible state when someone you once loved can be suspected of trying to poison you. I understood so well what she was suffering. After all, I was undergoing something similar myself.
She was constantly in my thoughts. I worried about her and the Countess. I often thought of Reginald and wondered what he was doing now. All I knew was that he was on the Continent and that he had further enraged the King by writing to advise him to return to my mother. Should we ever see each other again? Would that love between us which had begun to stir ever come to fruition?
I thought then what little control we have over our destinies. It was only the all-powerful like my father who could thrust aside those who stood in their way—but even they came up against obstacles.
In January of that momentous year 1534, anticipating the verdict of the court of Rome, my father ordered the Council to declare that henceforth the Pope would be known as the Bishop of Rome, and bishops were to be appointed without reference to the See of Rome. It was the first step in the great scheme which he had devised with the help of Cranmer and Cromwell. It was to have far-reaching effects which must have been obvious to everyone.
Very soon after, the Rome verdict was announced. My father's marriage to my mother was legal, and the Pope advised the King to put Anne Boleyn from him immediately.
My father retaliated by announcing that the children of Queen Anne were the true heirs to the throne and that all those in high places must swear on oath to accept them as such. All over the country preachers were instructed to applaud the King's action and revile the Pope.
