“Where are the princess’ women?” I ask, and the nurse shrugs, bending her head back over her darning needle.
“We are instructed to address her as Lady Elizabeth now,” she sniffs. I turn away with my sister in my arms. My poor little bastard sister. She is no better than I. Her former title is counterfeit. The best she can hope for is a place at court as ‘My Lady Bastard’. We are a pathetic pair.
My heart jolts as I picture the next time she sees Father. She is too young to understand what has happened and will run to him as she always does. She will hug his knees and beg to be taken into his arms, and he will push her aside, turn away and break her heart … as he has mine.
When she is finally sleeping, I hurry to my chamber and write again to the king. Since his marriage to Jane Seymour, I have written to wish him happiness and to request a meeting with my new lady stepmother. There has been no reply. Surely he has forgiven my stubbornness; surely, he understands it now. He will welcome me back to court and into his heart. Surely my reinstatement is imminent.
Instead of the expected loving letter welcoming me back to court, the king sends Norfolk. With a sinking heart, I watch his arrival from the turn in the stairs.
His displeasure is clear from the manner in which he leaves his companions outside and bursts unceremoniously through the door. He sweeps off his hat and throws his riding gauntlets on a chair. “Send for the Lady Mary.”
I pull back into the shadows and begin to creep backward up the stairs. Once at the top, I lift my skirts and race along the corridor and into my chamber. I sit on the bed, heart thumping, and wait for the summons. There is no reason for me to feel such alarm, yet I know without doubt that I am in imminent danger. Norfolk cannot hurt me, I reassure myself. Bastard or not, I am still the king’s daughter! He cannot hurt me.
A short time later, a servant scratches at the door and summons me below. Gathering my resolve, I stand up, tidy my sleeves, straighten my cap and, with my chin as high as I can lift it, I follow her downstairs. A ring of greybeards awaits me, Norfolk at their centre.
He does not look up when I enter. His delegation shuffles papers; a servant enters with a tray of wine and places it at Norfolk’s side. He fills a cup, the liquid as thick and red as bastard blood. The eye he turns toward me is jaundiced and full of contempt.
“I will dispense with pleasantries, Lady Mary. Your refusal to obey the king displays a freakish departure from the natural obedience of a daughter toward her father.”
I open my mouth to reply but he cuts across my words. “The king could banish you, remove the comforts that now ease you but … he is merciful, he is kind and is willing to withhold his displeasure if you will now submit to him.”
He places both hands on the table and leans threateningly toward me.
“Will you accept the laws and statutes of the realm and accept King Henry as Supreme Head of the Church and repudiate the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Rome? Will you acknowledge your mother’s marriage was invalid and accept all the king’s laws and statutes?”
My heart skips around my chest, thumping loudly in my ears. Summoning all my courage, evoking the memory of my sweet mother, the love and blessing of sweet Jesus Christ and His Father in Heaven, I swallow my fear and whisper,
“No.”
“NO?”
He thumps the table. The wine cups rattle. I flinch from his roar as if he is the lion and not the messenger. I clench my fists, my nostrils flare. I am a princess of England, a daughter of Spain.
“I will obey my father in all matters save those that injure my mother, or my present honour and faith.”
Norfolk stalks like a preying wolf around the edge of the table, his head thrust forward, the fur on his collar raised like hackles.
“You are an unnatural, traitorous jade! I can scarce believe you are the king’s daughter at all and if you were mine…” He is on his toes, his chest inflated as he towers over me. I cannot help but cringe away as his spittle blasts into my face. “... I would knock your head so hard against the wall it would turn as soft as a baked apple.”
How dare he! I straighten up and glare into his face but have the sense to keep my lips tight. I do not speak, but my thoughts are eloquent. They must be blazing from my eyes. I have no doubt he understands them.
One day, I scream internally, one day I shall take my revenge on you for this … and your henchmen. I will hang you from the highest tower in the land and unravel your sorry innards before the nation. I shall bring you down and Norfolk will be NO MORE!
My courage lasts only as long as it takes for them to gather their things and ride away. Then I collapse on the floor, a girl again, stricken with terrified tears. Try as I might, I am unable to compose myself and lie limp in the arms of the servants who take pity and carry me to my chamber.
Afterwards, I am kept under constant surveillance. I am allowed no privacy, no peace, and letters from my friends and supporters are confiscated. Cromwell, who lately spoke in my support, now backtracks and advises me to sign the required articles or I shall be the most vain, ungrateful, unnatural and obstinate person living. But there is something inside me, something I cannot control, and I refuse to obey. I cannot and will not concede defeat and so … my father names me traitor.
The king then turns his attention to my friends, starts to target my supporters. Anyone with sympathy for either me or my dead mother is removed from office. Sir William Fitzwilliam and the Marquess of Exeter are dismissed from the Privy Council, and sometime later Sir Anthony Browne and Sir Francis Bryan are arrested and interrogated in the Tower. Sir Nicholas Carew, who has long been sending me letters of encouragement, is also arrested, along with Thomas Cheyney and John Russell, who is thrown into the Tower along with Lady Anne Hussey, the wife of my chamberlain.
It will be my turn next, I know it will.
Sometimes my fear is so great it steals my breath away. There is only God, yet when I fall to my knees, gasping for air, afraid of the walls, afraid of the sky, afraid of the very world, I am not sure He is listening.
There is to be an enquiry into my treachery. I am to be questioned and judged. I know they will find me guilty. They will say I am wilfully defiant of the king’s authority and must die by the sword. I imagine climbing the steps to the scaffold, speaking bravely to the people, but the picture is washed away by my tears. They say Anne Boleyn died bravely. Will I be so courageous? I do not think so. I think I will die a screaming craven.
Lower than I have ever been, I write with terror in my heart to Chapuys, beseeching aid from Spain. I can wait no longer. I must escape the country now!
When at last his reply arrives, I greet his words with both relief and disappointment. If my life is in peril, he urges me to consent to the king’s will. My safety is paramount, and I must sign whatever damn paper the king wishes in order to preserve my life.
With the threat of imminent death hanging heavily over my head, I take up the pen and peruse the despised papers.
First, I confess and acknowledge the king’s majesty to be my sovereign lord and King, in the imperial Crown of this realm of England, and do submit myself to his Highness, and to all and singular laws and statutes of this realm, as becometh a true and faithful subject to do…
I inhale sharply and, before I breathe again, I sign it: “Mary.”
I do recognise, accept, take and repute and acknowledge the King’s Highness to be supreme head on earth under Christ of the Church in England, and do utterly refuse the Bishop of Rome’s pretended authority, power and jurisdiction within this realm heretofore usurped…
I sign it: “Mary.”
I do freely, frankly recognise and acknowledge that the marriage, heretofore had between his Majesty and my mother, the late Princess dowager, was, by God’s law and Man’s law, incestuous and unlawful.
I hesitate; close my eyes and beg my mother’s forgiveness before signing it: “Mary.”
I throw the pen aside and slump forward onto the table, my head in my
arms. I have betrayed everything I believe in, all that is dear to me. I have named my mother a whore, and myself a bastard, and offended not only the Pope in denying him but my dear God in Heaven too.
There is not a person on this earth whom I despise more than I despise myself.
Within weeks, I am summoned by the king to a private audience. Full of trepidation, I wait for admittance, walking on wooden legs through the door where he holds out his arms and invites me into his embrace.
It is as if all my prayers have been answered. Instantly, I forget the years of neglect, the nights of weeping, the cruel separation from my mother. His vast chest pillows me, his lips are warm on my forehead, and when he pulls away and looks into my face, I see there are tears standing in his eyes … as there are in mine.
“Mary,” he says. “My own sweet daughter, how glad I am that you are obedient once more.”
I smile uncertainly, piqued by his sentiment, but I say nothing for my attention has been drawn to the quiet presence of a woman waiting a discreet distance away. This must be his new wife, Jane. I release the king’s hand, turn toward her and curtsey low, but she moves swiftly forward and raises me up, kissing my cheeks.
“My dear Mary, you are most welcome. I am glad to have you home, where you belong.”
She presses something into my hand, something that digs sharply into my palm and, when I look down, I see it is a diamond ring.
My own jewellery was taken when I was sent to Hatfield, and I gave it little thought during my years of want, but the thoughtfulness of the gift, together with the warmth of her welcome, is almost my undoing. I swallow grateful tears, slide the ring onto my finger and offer up a watery smile.
St James’ Palace – October 1558
“What was she like, Queen Jane? I’ve only ever heard good things.”
Jane’s face fades from my memory. I blink at Anne, rubbing a dry hand across my face as I readjust to the present.
“She was a good woman, mild but not so meek as some would have it. She was subtle, worked her wiles on the king without him even knowing she was doing it. Where the concubine roared and stamped her foot to get her own way, Jane smiled and complimented him, or if circumstance demanded it, she wept a little and won him round that way. She was like a mother to me … until she was taken.”
The girl fetches a cup. As she holds it to my lips, a door opens and Susan enters. I have been unkind to poor Susan lately. It isn’t her fault. She misunderstands my terror at leaving the country to the whim of my sister. As she nears the bed, I send her a smile and she relaxes visibly.
“Are you feeling better, Your Majesty? We have all been so worried.”
Anne moves aside to allow the older woman to approach. I flap my hand dismissively, although I am grateful for her concern.
“You worry too much, Susan; you always have.”
She leans forward to adjust the bolster behind my back and hauls me higher in the bed.
“I will send for your supper. You must eat to conserve your strength.”
“I will die anyway, whether I eat or not. I have been supping on the past, with the help of this child.”
I wave a finger at Anne, who is standing in the shadow of the bed canopy, clutching the hanging with one hand.
“The child has whetted my appetite for conversation. She is not dull or fawning as so many are these days. She listens and doesn’t deny me when I speak the truth of my miserable life.”
“She knows no better, Your Majesty…”
Susan’s face is close to mine, the light of the candle deepening the lines on her face quite unkindly.
“Perhaps she does, Susan; perhaps she knows better than all of us. Anyway, whatever the case may be, she pleases me. She hasn’t once accused me of rambling. I will reward her well, before I take my leave of you all…”
“Your Majesty must not speak so…”
“There you go again; denying me the right to speak the plain truth. Deny it all you like, Susan; I will die soon, and Elizabeth will have the throne and turn the realm topsy turvy again.”
I wave a finger in Anne’s direction. “Go take your ease, girl, but come back in the morning. Your company soothes me.”
She looks pleased, bobs a curtsey and quits the room, leaving me alone with Susan.
“Where does she come from?”
“Who?” Susan stands back clasping her hands, a frown on her face.
“The child. Anne – I misremember her other name.”
“Oh, she is the … youngest daughter of Thomas Wren. The family fell into hardship when he was taken up for treason, Your Majesty. Do you not recall? After his death, you took pity on the mother and instructed that the offspring be found work. She is a good girl, so I am told.”
I had forgotten.
“Gently born then. I thought her conversation too pronounced for a serving girl.” I recall her fine eyes, the smooth brow beneath her shabby cap. “Find her other, less arduous employment and give her a bath and some decent clothes. She is too good for servitude.”
Susan bows her head in acquiescence. “I will see it is done, Your Majesty.”
“Ahh, Susan…”
I lower my head to my hand, squeezing my temples to ease the bite of an encroaching headache.
“What is it, Your Majesty?”
“She is so young, so naïve. I hope life is kinder to her than it has been to me.”
She moves closer with a waft of fragrance, and gently touches my arm.
“There have been times when fate has dealt you a harsh hand but … you are strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You have always risen above it.”
I place my hand on hers.
“I always intended to be kind.”
“And so you have!”
“Have I? Perhaps God would have preferred me to be more merciful.”
“With your enemies? The enemies of His church? Why so? What would that gain?”
I shrug, wincing at the memory of the people who have perished on my order – the tortures, the burnings. If only they had listened to reason and followed my direction. If only they had not strayed from the true path, the true church. I was forced to wreak justice on God’s foe. It was my duty as head of the church. My hands, as they say, were tied. Maybe there is no reason for guilt.
Perhaps Susan is right. My mother always stood against heresy and lies, and so did my grandmother, Isabella of Spain. I very much doubt they spent their last days regretting the justice they dealt. Even my great grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, would turn in her grave at the desertion of the old ways, and her grandson’s treatment of the monasteries. All those monks – good men of God tortured and burned – and those who tried to stand against it; Robert Aske, hung in chains to die a slow and shameful death. I shake my head over the misguided laws of my father’s England.
In those days, I was newly welcomed back at court and lacked sufficient courage to speak against it, but Jane did, or at least she tried to. But Father was difficult to persuade. Cromwell had convinced him that monkish duplicity was rife in England, and once Father realised the riches he could reap from the fall of the church, the great abbeys of England were doomed. Now their ruins blight England, the great carcasses of a dying faith, and a world that has been tumbled and pillaged.
By the time I finally came to the throne, I wanted to make restitution, but how could I? Most of the property had been gifted to the very people I required to help me restore order. The abbey lands were now in the possession of the greatest lords of the realm, men whom I needed on my side. They had supported my claim, and helped me fight my cousin to win back my crown. How could I possibly demand the return of the church’s property that they regarded as theirs?
But I cannot worry about that now. The days remaining to me on this earth are dwindling. Death comes to us all but there are matters I must address. I must prepare myself.
I would welcome Philip today, wish he would come for one last goodbye, but I know he will not. He has no love
for me. Ours was a marriage of politics only, and now he is king of Spain, his country occupies his thoughts. He will not spare more than a passing thought on the loss of a wife he never cared for.
Life has always treated me harshly but leaving it is harsher. There are matters I have failed to deal with. I lower my chin. The weight of my head puts pressure on the nape of my neck but I ignore it. I probably deserve it. Why should my end be any more comfortable than my life has been? I close my eyes. I will sleep now; perhaps I will not wake again.
Whispering voices are sometimes more disturbing than normal tones. Instantly, I am on the alert. Are they plotting? Are they speaking gossip behind my back? It is treason to speak ill of the queen. I jerk my head, squinting into the gloom. Why have they not lit the torches?
“Who’s there?” A flurry of skirts, a pattering of feet, and Susan is standing before me.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“Of course you did. All that foolish muttering and giggling. What’s to do?”
“I did as you asked, Your Majesty, and bathed young Anne and furnished her with a new gown. Unfortunately, her feet are quite … large, and we can find no slippers to fit her.”
My laughter sounds like a wheeze. I cough and splutter. My own feet are small and dainty, something I am proud of. When I was a girl, I excelled at the dance, and Mother always said it was because I had such dainty feet. A memory stirs of Father bending low over my hand before leading me in a reel, his benign smile, his sparkling blue eyes. A happy day, when he was godly and kind, and all men loved him.
I loved him.
My humour diminishes.
I crook a finger.
“Bring her forward, I would see how she looks now you’ve given her a scrub.”
The ring of women parts. I peer through the gloom, blinking at the blurred figure before me. I wave a hand in irritation. “Light the damn lights!” and one by one the torches are lit, a candle is brought forward, and Susan throws open the shutters.
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 9
