When we arrived at the Tower, to resounding cheers and the deafening boom of a hundred-gun salute, I found the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Bridges, waiting for me. With him, kneeling humbly on the grass, were the last four remaining prisoners from my brother’s reign.
The first was the Duchess of Somerset, Edward Seymour’s widow, my “good gossip Nan,” who had been imprisoned when he followed “The Cakes and Ale Man” to the scaffold. She was trembling and pale as white chalk in her widow’s weeds.
Then, the most important political prisoner in the realm, the tall, handsome, golden-haired young man they called “The Last Sprig of the White Rose,” the last surviving Plantagenet, Edward Courtenay. Now twenty-seven, he had practically grown up in the Tower, and I doubted he could remember any other home. He was a naïve and guileless young man whose blue eyes radiated angelic innocence and sweetness and, I must admit, a want of wits. I knew many would expect me to marry him, as he was the only Englishman alive worthy of me in rank, but here I must confess, I had always desired a man stronger than myself, a pillar of strength I could lean on whenever I had need, a man who would be to me like the shell that protects and shelters the snail’s vulnerable flesh, and Edward Courtenay I knew at a glance was not the man for me. But he did not deserve to remain a prisoner, and I would see that he was compensated for his lost years and set him at liberty.
The third prisoner was Stephen Gardiner, the aged Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned years ago for championing my mother’s rights against The Boleyn Whore, and for staunchly resisting the Protestant regime. I would see to it that his loyalty to the true faith was amply rewarded.
And lastly, the elderly Duke of Norfolk, who had been destined for the block, only Father had died before he could sign the death warrant. Although he was Anne Boleyn’s uncle, he was no friend to her, and had presided over her trial and, without hesitation, had condemned her. Though he had been cruel to me at her instigation, I could be merciful like Our Lord Jesus Christ and forgive one who truly repented their past sins and misdeeds.
One by one, I went to them—raised, kissed, and embraced them.
“These are my prisoners,” I proclaimed, “and I declare them prisoners no more! My Lords, and Lady”—I nodded to Nan—“you are now at liberty!”
Hearing my words, oh how the people cheered; they called me “Merciful Mary” and I could not think of a more wonderful, beautiful name to be known by. I saw it as a sign. It was as if God were speaking through those thousands of voices, and in that moment I vowed “Merciful Mary” I would always be until the day I died. My people gave me that name out of love, and I vowed then and there that I would never give them cause to call me anything else.
In gratitude, the quartet of liberated prisoners vied to kiss my hand. I felt their tears drip down onto my skin; later I would notice the water spots this emblem of their hearts’ gratitude left on my rings, which would, of course, require polishing, but after such a dusty, tumultuous day, they would have anyway.
When the aged Bishop of Winchester tried to bow over my hand, I stopped him and instead kissed his, honoring him as a man of God, and asked him to honor me by serving as my Lord Chancellor.
With tears running down his grizzled cheeks into his long white beard, he raised his gnarled and trembling talonlike hands to heaven and cried: “God has taken pity on His People and Church in England through the instrument of a virgin called Mary whom He has raised to the throne!”
And from every side the people cheered, “Long live Queen Mary! God save Queen Mary!” and hats by the hundreds flew up and down in the air.
And Nan, falling to her knees and kissing the hem of my skirt in deepest gratitude, declared, “There never was a queen in Christendom of greater goodness than this one!”
Not to be outdone, Edward Courtenay dropped to his knees and commandeered my other hand and covered it with kisses. “Your Majesty’s kindness has only one rival—your beauty!”
The wily old Duke of Norfolk just watched it all with a bemused smile and bowed. “I owe Your Majesty my eternal gratitude. I thought the last fresh air I would ever breathe would be as I walked to the scaffold.”
Oh what a happy, joyous day that was, when everyone seemed to love me! And as I pardoned my prisoners, Elizabeth was all but forgotten; she could not snatch or surpass my glory here! I watched her cheering me with all the rest of them and marveled yet again at her ability to dissemble. If women had been allowed to tread the boards of the London theaters she would have been among the greatest.
The first time I met with my Council, I knew that as one lone woman against so many men, seasoned statesmen all, I must not let my nervousness and weakness show; I must prove to them that I was strong enough to hold, and control, the reins of power.
Sitting at the head of the long oak table, in a gown of deep crimson velvet, with my white silk under-sleeves and kirtle embroidered in golden pomegranates and red and white Tudor roses, to remind all who saw me of my proud and illustrious heritage, I chose not to mince words, and instead shot like an arrow straight to the heart of the matter.
“My mother called England a land of ruined souls and martyred saints,” I began. “She said this after Anne Boleyn cast her dark spell over my father and unloosed a plague of heresy on England that caused the break with Rome. I intend to do everything in my power to undo The Great Whore’s reign of destruction. I will give the true religion back to the people; I will bring England back to Rome.”
“Madame,” the Earl of Arundel said, “that is a laudable goal, but I beg of you as you go about this great work, be both cautious and slow lest you frighten the people by acting too precipitously. In the years since the break with Rome and your venerable mother’s death, much has changed here in England, and this new religion, this Reformed Faith, whether we as good Catholics, like it or not, has put down firm roots . . .”
“Then they shall be uprooted!” I cried, banging my fists down hard on the table. “Heresy shall never thrive in my country—God’s country! And well that the people should be frightened—for the sake of their souls they should be very afraid indeed!”
“Madame, with all due respect,” Sir William Paget said patiently, almost condescendingly, as if I were an ignorant little girl, “it already flourishes here as a healthy living presence and many have embraced it, quite willingly, not through force. It has taken the place for many of the true faith, which has now changed places with the Reformist religion, which was once practiced secretly, underground if you will. Now it is thus with the Roman faith. What was once publicly celebrated is now hidden away in secret, whilst what was once hidden is now openly espoused. And if you begin your reign like a great broom seeking to sweep all the changes the years have brought out, you will frighten many of your subjects, and there will be panic and acts of violence and rebellion if you try to take their faith away from them. The Protestants will not creep away meekly like whipped dogs with their tails tucked between their legs, they will fight; just as you yourself have fought for your own beliefs and the freedom to worship as you please. A little tolerance—and I say this as both a devout son of the Church and as a statesman—will go a long way to keeping the peace in England.”
“No, Sir William”—I shook my head emphatically—“I am not taking anyone’s faith away from them! I am returning it, restoring it, to them! Do you not see? I am giving them back what they lost, what was taken from them. In its absence they were misguided, misled, and embraced a false religion to fill the void left by the true. But now, I am going to give it back to them. I am going to make everything all right!”
“Madame”—the Earl of Throckmorton shook his head dolefully—“I fear a great many of your subjects will not see it that way. We are all loyal Catholics here”—he gestured round the Council table and all the men nodded in affirmation—“but England has changed since the break with Rome . . .”
“But God hasn’t!” I cried, slamming my hands down on the tabletop for emphasis. “God
has not changed!”
“Madame, what you seek to undertake shall not be easy and will be met by opposition,” Arundel warned, “and therein are the bare bones of the situation.”
“My sainted mother taught me patience and perseverance and I shall lead all my people back to God and the true religion!” I declared. And with those words I stood up and swept grandly from the Council chamber.
I began then to see that I was surrounded by enemies, wolves in sheep’s clothing; even those who claimed to be my friends and to serve and support me were in their hearts against me.
And yet, after prayer and careful reflection, I decided to take the cautious course. I had not yet been crowned, and many, I knew, were nervous, so whilst I openly proclaimed my devotion to the Catholic faith—the true religion—and set in motion its restoration, letting the priests come out of hiding, repairing the desecrated churches, bringing the beautiful adornments that glorified God and His Saints back to decorate the walls and altars, and, of course, allowing the faithful to again hear the Latin Mass and bask in the miracle of the Elevation of the Host, I let it be known that I would make no sweeping changes until Parliament had met and officially restored the laws of the land to their proper and rightful state. And, as a compromise, I allowed my brother two funerals—a stark Protestant service in English and a grand Requiem Mass in Latin with all the requisite pomp and ceremony.
My coronation was a radiant and glorious God-blessed day. I felt important, cherished, loved, and adored. I felt vindicated and victorious—for myself and my sainted mother, and I wished with all my heart she could be riding beside me this day, in the flesh, not just in spirit, though I could still feel her loving presence always right there beside me. It made me feel good to know I had done her proud.
The people lined the streets, crowded the rooftops, hanging like bunches of grapes from the chimneys, and leaned from the windows to shower me with flower petals. There was not a voice amongst them that was not raised to wish me well and bless me as I rode past in a golden chariot, gowned in gold-embroidered deep blue velvet. I had refrained from wearing my hair loose and flowing down my back, as was customary for queens on their coronation day, as I did not want to disappoint those who remembered the famous orange-gold tresses of Princess Marigold by letting them see how thin, dark, and faded it had grown, with a rusty auburn replacing the orange marred by ugly gray streaks. Instead, I wore it caught up in a fringed gold tinsel net studded with precious gems beneath a beautifully crafted wreath of jeweled flowers. As I had stood before my mirror that morning, Susan had brushed out my hair and crowned it with that exquisite jeweled wreath and tried to persuade me to wear it thus, but I was so dismayed to see how the bold beautiful colors of the gems made my tresses seem all the more faded and paltry, that I insisted that she pin it up tightly inside the tinsel-fringed gold net.
Elizabeth, and Father’s only surviving wife, the Lady Anne of Cleves, as the two highest-ranking ladies in the land after me, rode behind me, each in a silver chariot. Elizabeth was all in white again, but the Lady of Cleves, plump and jolly as always despite her years, wore a grand crimson and gold gown. And behind them, to represent the restoration of our nation’s badly debased currency, the noble ladies and gentlemen of my court walked in stately procession all clad in silver and gold. They were followed by my servants in new liveries, trumpeters, archers, guards, and knights in shining silver armor. And lastly, in chariots draped with banners emblematic of their countries, the foreign ambassadors and their retinues.
It was a grand show and the people loved it so! All along the route the fountains and conduits ran with free wine, and there was singing and dancing, and the cheers never ceased. And at intervals, the procession paused, so that my subjects might honor me with poems, pageants, speeches, and songs, many of them performed by little children, which delighted my heart. As I watched those sweet little souls striving so hard to please me, tears filled my eyes. If only I could have a child of my own, then my happiness would be complete!
At Westminster Abbey, my ladies helped me change into an austere, unadorned gown of royal purple velvet, cut purposefully, and I thought, rather immodestly, low at the neck and shoulders, which was necessary for the anointing. But I was comforted by the thought that I would, for most of the ceremony, be covered by regal robes of crimson velvet furred with ermine. And then, as the choir sang the familiar and oh so dear Latin hymns to God’s glory, the bells rang, and priests in embroidered vestments sprinkled me with holy water and swung gilded censers, I walked solemnly up the aisle with Elizabeth behind me bearing my train, wearing a silver surcoat edged with ermine over yet another white gown—I really would have to do something about that, it was absurd the way she went about waving her supposed virginity like a flag!—and a silver coronet crowning her hair that hung glossy and free like a cloak of flames down her back.
When I reached the altar, we withdrew behind a screen and Elizabeth helped me remove my heavy robe and jeweled headdress and smiled reassuringly as I shivered nervously at the idea of showing myself with my shoulders and so much of my bosom bare. Truly, I felt naked, and it was all I could do not to go out with my arms folded across my chest.
“You are Queen, and this is your day, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered. “Do not let fear or nervousness trespass upon it!”
I was so grateful for her kind and reassuring words that I embraced her and kissed her cheek. Then, with a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, held my head up high, and boldly stepped out from behind the screen.
As I knelt before the altar and the Archbishop anointed my head, shoulders, and chest with the holy oil, I felt all the fear leave me. Never before had I felt so truly blessed. I was God’s instrument and He had made all this possible so that I might do His work, by divine right, and against all the odds, I had won the crown. God would not have given me this if I had been unworthy. I had nothing to fear; it was meant to be. I was meant to be Queen!
And then I lay prostrate, facedown before the altar, as the Archbishop prayed over me in the solemn, sonorous Latin that was like a comforting and soothing balm to my soul. I felt the blue velvet carpet soft against my face and closed my eyes and breathed deeply of the incense even though it made me feel a little sleepy. And then he raised me to my feet and Elizabeth was there to help me into my crimson and ermine robes again, and the Archbishop led me to the great gilded, velvet-cushioned throne. As I stood before it, gazing out at the crowd, Elizabeth knelt to arrange the folds of my train so I would not stumble over them. The Archbishop took my hand and slid the coronation ring, “the wedding ring of England,” a band of heavy gold and blackest onyx, onto my finger, the one the doctors said had a vein inside that ran directly to the heart. And then he held aloft the heavy golden and bejeweled crown, letting the people see, and, after a long, solemn moment, lowered it and set it gently upon my head, and I sat down upon the throne as the anointed Queen of England, and he placed the scepter and weighty golden orb in my hands. At that moment the people leapt to their feet, cheering wildly, and the choir lifted their voices in song again as white doves were released into the air.
Tears of the purest joy I had ever known flowed down my face. I was Queen, Queen of England; I had triumphed over all the odds and all my enemies. I would thank my loving subjects for their loyalty and devotion to me by giving them the greatest gift any sovereign could give—I would make everything all right. I would restore peace and harmony and the true religion and make England a bastion of faith where all were united under God, His Church, and their loving queen—Merciful Mary. My reign would be an era of happiness unsurpassed, an era of smiles instead of tears!
22
Elizabeth
As I rode beside Mary the triumphant day she entered London and witnessed the great outpouring of joy with which the people greeted her ascension, I noticed her watching me with a wary alertness from the corner of her eye as I smiled and waved and returned the people’s greetings. The coldness that had grown between us had never trul
y thawed. And with this realization came the sharp stab of fear. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The days when we were loving sisters were long past; the links in the chain that held us together had grown weaker through the years and I feared they might, at any moment, break. And I was afraid, very afraid, that my own sister was destined to become my enemy.
I loved Mary. I remembered the tender care she had taken of me, how she used to comfort, teach, and play with me when I was a child, and I mourned the loss of closeness that had accompanied the passage of years. I wanted us to be friends; I wanted us to love each other as sisters should. But I knew that there was an inflexible intolerance about Mary that had been building a wall between us that only grew higher as time passed, and I feared I might never be able to surmount it.
It quickly became apparent that Mary thought she could turn back time, to undo what she saw as the damage my mother had done, to erase the advent of the Reformed Faith in England, and bring England and Rome back together again. She was determined to be the good shepherd who brought the Pope’s lost flock back to him, chastened and contrite over the folly of their having strayed. She was hell-bent on saving souls, but it was too late for that. Mary was doomed to willful blindness; she could not and would not see that the new ways had already become established—the Reformed Faith was not just some passing fad or fancy. Though there were many who still remained true to the old Roman ways, the Protestants were not just going to hang their heads like naughty children faced with a scolding and apologize, mend their ways, and become good Catholics. But Mary must have all or nothing—that was the one thing she had in common with my mother, whose motto had been “All or Nothing”—and like a crazed gardener she set about trying to rip the tenacious weeds the Reformation had planted out of her garden, out of her England. She seemed to have forgotten there was such a word as tolerance or that she had once been forced to beg for it herself during our brother’s brief reign.
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