by Linda Porter
Mary was at Hunsdon in Essex, with Elizabeth, when Anne was executed. Her immediate reaction to the news is not known but her supporters believed they had triumphed.The princess herself undoubtedly expected to be restored to her father’s favour imminently. Her steadfastness would be rewarded now the concubine was dead. She waited for a week, perhaps expecting to receive some word from London. Then, on 26 May, she addressed herself to Cromwell, asking him to be a channel for her to the king. She said she would have asked him before, but ‘I perceived that nobody durst speak for me as long as that woman lived, which is now gone: whom I pray our Lord, of his great mercy, to forgive.’34 Little did she know that the most terrible phase of her own ordeal was just beginning.
The arc of Mary’s summer of hell, from unrealistic hopes, through fear and confusion to abject humiliation, can be traced in her letters. Many of these, in the collection of the 17th-century antiquarian Robert Cotton, were badly damaged by fire in 1731. The British Library still holds their remains, some of them little more than charred fragments. Fortunately, Mary’s correspondence was printed before the fire by another antiquarian,Thomas Hearne, in 1716.
The letters show a young woman who, through a mixture of pride and naivety, completely misjudged her situation. This was not entirely her fault; her friends, rejoicing at Anne Boleyn’s removal, did not realise they had been used, either. But used they were. Cromwell never intended that the old, conservative, Aragonese faction (so called because its principals were supporters of Queen Katherine) should triumph. Now that they had served their purpose, he intended to remove the conservatives. And it was easy to do this, by depicting them as disloyal subjects who were plotting to overturn religious change and restore Mary, the king’s illegitimate and disobedient daughter, to the succession.
Chapuys, who always regarded working with Cromwell to overthrow Anne Boleyn as something of an unholy alliance, remained unconvinced. ‘I must say however’, he wrote to CharlesV, ‘that as yet the king has shown no intention of bringing about the said reinstatement but has on the contrary obstinately refused to contemplate it’.35 Nor did he trust Cromwell’s assertion that in the next meeting of Parliament, Henry VIII would have Mary declared heiress to the crown, especially when, in almost the same breath, Cromwell earnestly requested him not to make any reference to the princess when he next had an audience with the king. It seemed to the ambassador that nothing about Mary’s underlying dilemma had really changed. Henry would surely not move ‘unless she previously swears to, and conforms with, the irritating statutes concerning the king’s second marriage as well as against papal authority; which act of acquiescence, in my opinion, it will be extremely difficult to obtain from the princess.’ He felt Mary ought to agree ‘so long as her conscience is not aggrieved, nor her rights and titles impaired through it’. But this was palpably impossible. The whole point of getting Mary to swear was so that she acknowledged that she had no rights or titles of any sort.
But Mary did not yet see this at all. Buoyed by obtaining permission to send a letter directly to her father, Mary wrote cheerfully to Cromwell at the end of May, thanking him for ‘the great pain and labour that you have taken for me and specially for obtaining of the king my father’s blessing and licence to write unto his grace; which are two of the highest comforts that ever came to me…I trust you shall find me as obedient to the king’s grace, as you can reasonably require of me’. She foresaw that, with Cromwell’s continued help, her father would withdraw his displeasure and allow her to come to see him, at last.36
Cromwell must have sighed when the letter reached him. She was hardly in a position to dictate terms on what might reasonably be required of her. The king wanted complete submission; the only terms being offered were his. So he summoned Chapuys and told him that he had prepared a minute that Mary could use as the basis of a letter to her father. It would be taken to her ‘by a lady in her utmost confidence’ (this was Lady Kingston, wife of the lieutenant of the Tower of London), who would, nevertheless, make it quite clear to her that if she refused to sign ‘she will be ill-treated and severely punished’.37 Chapuys also understood that Mary’s supporters would suffer unless she gave in and that her submission was not just the price of improvements in her own life, but in Anglo-Imperial relations as well. Most of all, he realised that he needed to save Mary from herself.
She was still holding out in the second week of June, but becoming increasingly disturbed that she had received no reply to her letters to her father. On the first day of the month she had written to the king desiring his blessing and asking forgiveness for ‘all the offences that I have done to your grace, since I had first discretion to offend’. She was, she said, ‘as sorry as any living creature’. So far, Henry might have been pleased with the apology, but there was a qualification: ‘Next unto God, I do and will submit me in all things to your goodness and pleasure … humbly beseeching your highness to consider, that I am but a woman and your child, who hath committed her soul only to God and her body to be ordered in this world, as it shall stand with your pleasure.’ She also congratulated him on his marriage and asked to be allowed to see the new queen.38 It sounded good, but Henry wanted specific, unequivocal surrender to the laws that he, not God, had instituted. He made no reply because none was needed. He left it to Cromwell to ensure that Mary finally did what she was told.
A week later, she again addressed her father, apparently under the delusion that ‘he has forgiven all her offences and withdrawn his displeasure long time conceived against her’. By this time, she had received the draft letter from Cromwell that she was to sign and return. But when she sent an amended copy back to the minister, on 10 June, she pleaded with him that she had given as much ground as her conscience would allow. She would not deny her mother’s marriage, nor her own title: ‘You shall perceive’, she wrote,that I have followed your advice and counsel, and will do in all things concerning my duty to the king’s grace, (God and my conscience not offended:) for I take you for one of my chief friends, next unto his grace and the queen. Wherefore I desire you, for the passion which Christ suffered for you and me, and as my very trust is in you, that you will find such means through your great wisdom, that I be not moved to agree to any further entry in this matter than I have done. For I assure you by the faith I owe to God, I have done the uttermost that my conscience will suffer me: and I do neither desire nor intend to do less than I have done. But if I be put to any more (I am plain with you, as with my great friend) my said conscience will in no ways suffer me to consent thereunto … For I promise you (as I desire God to help me at my most need) I had rather leave the life of my body, than displease the king’s grace willingly. Sir, I beseech you for the love of God to take in good worth this rude letter. For I would not have troubled you so much at this time, but that the end of your letter cause me a little to fear that I shall have more business hereafter.39
It was desperate, eloquent stuff, and her fear was justified. She had sensed the truth - that, finally, she would be compelled to submit utterly. But she still could not bring herself to admit it.
Not even a deputation from the council, sent with uncompromising instructions, could sway her. She had ‘sundry times and of long continuance shown herself so obstinate towards the king’s majesty and so disobedient unto the laws’ that she could scarcely expect forgiveness. It was only her father’s inordinate goodness and patience which saved her, ‘such is his majesty’s gracious and divine nature, such is his clemency and pity, such is his merciful inclination and princely heart’.40 And what had this paragon of forbearance and saintliness done? He had dispatched a group of aristocratic thugs, headed by the ubiquitous Norfolk, to induce her to yield.When Mary got the best of the argument, they resorted to a vicious verbal assault.The cold brutality of the threats they made to a defenceless girl was stunning.The earl of Essex voiced their conviction that ‘since she was such an unnatural daughter as to disobey completely the king’s injunctions, he could hardly believe that she was the k
ing’s own bastard daughter.Were she his or any other man’s daughter, he would beat her to death, or strike her head against the wall until he made it as soft as a boiled apple; in short, that she was a traitress and would be punished as such.’41 While this may be highly revealing of the overall view of women as disposable chattels of men in Tudor England, it was still remarkable language to use to someone born a princess. But, despite these threats of violence, the king’s bullies left empty-handed. Mary, frightened, alone and suffering from headaches and toothache, was almost at the end of her tether.Yet she would not sign.
Cromwell was exasperated.This could not be permitted to continue - her wilfulness was a danger to all around her.The king expected him to deliver, and the longer she held out, the more his ire would increase. Even Jane Seymour had totally failed when it came to gentle persuasion on Mary’s behalf. The king and his minister had not disposed of Anne Boleyn for Mary’s sake. She had no bargaining power and the tender state of her conscience was not relevant.
Chapuys was informed that he must persuade Mary to sign the articles that her father had drawn up. Her stubbornness was just making things worse, for her supporters and herself.The ambassador, his tongue firmly in his cheek, responded that he thought Mary would take more notice of Cromwell, who was like a second father to her. In fact, Cromwell was more like a wicked uncle. He sent Mary a letter that was both uncompromising and threatening. Her discomfort, he said, could be no greater than his. Having told the king that she would do his bidding, he was now ashamed and afraid of what he had done, ‘in so much that what the sequel thereof shall be, God knoweth.Thus with your folly you undo yourself, and all that have wished your good … to be plain with you, as God is my witness, like as I think you the most obstinate and obdurate woman, all things considered, that ever was.’ She deserved punishment for her ‘ingratitude and miserable unkindness’, and he would not speak on her behalf again until she had signed ‘a certain book of articles’ he was sending her.These were to be accompanied by a letter demonstrating ‘that you think in heart what you have subscribed with hand … if you will not with speed leave all your sinister counsels, which have brought you to the point of utter undoing, without remedy, and herein follow my advice, I take my leave of you forever’.42
The prospect of abandonment by Cromwell and the likely fate of her supporters, if she continued to hold out, finally broke Mary’s resolve. Chapuys also encouraged her, for the sake of her own health and future, to comply with her father’s commands. He advised her to sign the articles without reading them. Papal understanding could be obtained through imperial influence at a later date. The priority now was her security, not her soul.
On 22 June 1536, the princess signed her submission. In it, she said:‘I do now plainly and with all mine heart confess and declare mine inward sentence, belief and judgement, with a due conformity of obedience to the laws of the realm’. She humbly beseeched the king to forgive her offences and sought his mercy.Then she acknowledged him as sovereign and as supreme head of the Church of England. But it was the third article that was the most bitter. She acknowledged, but only under extreme duress, her mother’s marriage ‘to have been by God’s law and man’s incestuous and unlawful’.43
Mary’s health had suffered badly during years of strain and sorrow. Now the elation of Anne Boleyn’s disgrace had been swiftly supplanted by five weeks of ruthless psychological abuse. Her courage was remarkable, but she was only human. She longed for peace of mind, a calm existence and her father’s acceptance. So she signed away everything she had stood for during the dismal years of her banishment - her beloved mother’s marriage, her own legitimacy, papal authority over English religious law. This supreme act of denial remained on her conscience for the rest of her days.
Four days after her capitulation, Mary wrote to her father: ‘I cannot express my joy or make my return for your goodness but my poor heart, which I send unto your highness to remain in your hand, to be for ever used, directed and framed, which God shall suffer life to remain in it, at your only pleasure. I beg you to receive it as all I have to offer.’44 It was the first of a series of letters so abject they are almost embarrassing.They seem to have been written of her own free will, or perhaps she thought she could not sink any lower and was anxious to convince Henry that her love was unconditional. Having made the sacrifice, she wanted the benefits she had always been assured awaited her. Certainly, she now understood that this was the tone her father expected. Mary was also careful to establish a close relationship with the new queen as soon as possible, thanking her for her ‘most prudent counsel for my further proceeding’. More than anything else, she wanted to see her father.
On 6 July, Mary left Hunsdon at night for a private meeting with her father and Queen Jane. She had not spoken to Henry in five years but now there was an outpouring of fatherly affection. He said he felt deep regret for having kept her so long away from him and made ‘brilliant promises for the future’. No father, reported Chapuys, could have behaved better towards his daughter. Henry proffered 1,000 crowns for her immediate expenses and Jane gave her a fine diamond ring.The king assured her that Cromwell and others would soon come to talk to her about her ‘state and household’; when he himself returned from a visit to Dover, she could reside again at court.
It all sounded wonderful, but it was not the whole truth.‘Mixed with the sweet food of paternal kindness, there were a few drachmas of gall and bitterness. But after all, we must set that down to paternal authority,’ commented Chapuys. A good deal of Henry’s bitterness had been aimed at Charles V: ‘he said to the princess … that her obstinate resistance to his will had been encouraged and strengthened by the trust she had in you; but that she ought to know that your majesty could not help or favour her in the least as long as he [the king] lived’.45
Mary was also affected by family developments closer to home in the summer of 1536. Her half-brother, the duke of Richmond, died unexpectedly after a short illness on 23 July. For the king, the loss of his 17-year-old son, whom he seems to have genuinely loved, was unnerving. Two illegitimate daughters were all he had to show for his desperate search for an heir, and Jane Seymour had yet to conceive. Chapuys, on the other hand, thought it ‘not a bad thing for the interests of the princess’, and Cromwell, rather sickeningly, actually congratulated Mary on Richmond’s death. Her reaction is not recorded. She was, though, keen to remind her father that he had another child: ‘My sister Elizabeth is well and such a child toward as I doubt not but your highness shall have cause to rejoice of in time coming.’46 It was a sweet tribute to a little girl whose precedence she had resented but who was now as abandoned as she herself had once been. Mary felt sorry for her and may have hoped to jolt Henry’s conscience about Elizabeth’s treatment. If so, she did not immediately succeed. In mid-August, Cromwell was specific in his instructions that ‘my lady Elizabeth shall keep her chamber and not come abroad’.
Once a greater degree of respect and status was restored to Mary, Chapuys began to acknowledge the full extent of the agony she had suffered. He told the bishop of Arras: ‘this affair of the princess has tormented her more than you think’. A few weeks later, he wrote to Empress Isabella that Mary was in good health and kindly treated. But he did not conceal that she had ‘escaped from the greatest danger that ever a princess was in, and such as no words can describe’.47 He exaggerated, of course, but only somewhat.
The danger might be gone, but considerable pressure remained. Charles V’s influence over Mary continued to rankle with Henry. In early October, she was being pressured by her father to write to the emperor, his regent in the Netherlands (Mary of Hungary) and the pope, saying that she had signed the articles of her own free will. Presumably this was just a public relations exercise, since Henry must have realised that they were all well informed about the circumstances of Mary’s submission. It reinforced his authority over her, however, and reminded her that she had no power, however much her cousin might appear to take up her cause. Mary
heard, but apparently did not accept, what her father had to say about her Habsburg connections. For the rest of her life, she consistently overestimated imperial support because she had no other source of external comfort.
But now her father had much else to occupy his mind at home.The most serious uprising of his reign was upon him, and for a while it looked as if he might lose control of the north of England and possibly his throne. The great rebellion known as the Pilgrimage of Grace was fuelled by widespread discontent at Henry’s religious reforms, and against the dissolution of the monasteries in particular. Ominously, the rebels had not forgotten Mary, either. One of their demands was ‘that the Lady Mary may be made legitimate’. It proved that she retained a place in popular affection and that she was still a political presence.
The Pilgrimage of Grace was suppressed with ruthlessness and duplicity, two qualities that Henry (and many of his court) had in spades. Its failure marked the end of a momentous period. On 22 December, the king, his wife and daughter rode through the City of London in a splendid procession, on their way to spend Christmas at Greenwich. The streets were superbly hung ‘with rich gold and arras’, and the priests of all the London parishes, carrying their best crosses, candlesticks and censers, stood on the steps of St Paul’s.48 Mary enjoyed the pomp of such occasions, so she would not have minded the bitter cold. ‘The cause of the king’s riding through London was because the Thames was so frozen there might be no boats go on there for ice.’ It was a fitting end to a chilling year.
Chapter Five
The Quiet Years
