Unable to look on her, I dismiss Elizabeth from my presence and shut myself away from those who love me. From now on, I will concentrate solely on ruling the country and persuading my subjects to embrace the Roman church.
No matter what the cost.
The older I become, the faster the days and months seem to pass. No sooner is it summer than the leaves are falling, and I realise it is winter again. There is no time; no time for reflection, no time to gather my thoughts and consider my future path. Thick and fast, problems are hurled at my feet and I must jump and scramble to avoid stumbling over them. Court activities, visiting dignitaries, matters of state rain down on me like confetti at a celebration. But there is little joy in it.
During my confinement, I’ve been blind to those who continue to resist the reinstatement of the church. I have made it an offence to deny the established religion, punishable by death, but I have been lenient with transgressors. From now on, it will be up to me and my council to enforce their obedience, but it would be so much easier if they would cooperate freely.
The terrible anger in my heart does not fade. Daily, it grows stronger, and when Philip tells me he is leaving court to lead an army against France, it grows stronger still. It becomes an ungovernable force within me and I vent it at any who dare cross me. I cannot even bring myself to be kind to Susan and Jane. My women creep about my chambers as if there is a wounded lion in the corner, liable to pounce at any moment.
I do not fight the rage. I have to let it loose. I shout and rant and cast punishment on the subjects I swore to love, and all the while I can see myself doing it. Shame and anger vie for position in my broken heart.
The good, tender, loving Mary has been usurped by a bitter, angry Mary and the good queen hovers just above, watching with great disappointment while I allow the bad queen to destroy us both.
I do not want this. I want to be kind. I want to lead the sinners away from heresy but they will not listen. Nobody listens! They leave me no choice.
It is three years since the trial of Bishops Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. At the time, they were questioned most rigorously by Gardiner and the Bishop of London, Edmund Bonner, and their guilt was plain. The verdict of death by burning was issued right away but I have a soft heart and have put off their sentences … until now. All three are clearly heretics, yet only Cranmer recants.
I always knew him for a hypocrite.
He has been my enemy since I was a child. It was Cranmer who supported my father in his divorce, and was ever a friend to the goggle-eyed whore. Since then, I have never been able to look on his face without a shudder of revulsion. Now, I have his life in my very hands.
So, why do I hesitate?
A memory stirs of my mother’s misery, the great shuddering sobs she shed when she finally realised she had lost her husband to a whore.
“My pearl!” I hear my father’s voice again as he tosses me in the air, catches me deftly before planting a great wet kiss on my cheek. It is sunny, the verdant garden bright and full of joy.
Cranmer spoiled all that. He stole it from me. He destroyed my mother and had me named a bastard, all so he could lure my father into the hands of a witch; his fellow heretic.
Cranmer is not deserving of mercy.
I order that Cranmer be made to watch while his friends, Latimer and Ridley, burn. He must know beforehand the reality of what he is to suffer. In early October, he is taken to a church tower from which he will bear witness to the heretics’ end. During the six months in which he will be imprisoned, he can think of it before he himself is led to the pyre. It is meet that he should suffer, and I will brook no argument.
But, on the day of his death, I wish I’d given him a swifter end, or had him silenced in the Tower. Had I done so, I’d have robbed him of the opportunity to fashion for himself a martyr’s end.
Rochester pulls off his cap and holds out a rolled parchment. I look at him. He is miserable these days, as if he bears the weight of England on his shoulders. But it isn’t he who must carry that burden. It is me.
I take the parchment and turn away to quickly read the transcript of Cranmer’s final words. Then, I move into the light, and read more slowly the words that are scored darkly on the page:
‘And now I come to the great thing that troubles my conscience more than any other thing that I said or did in my life, and that is the setting abroad of writings contrary to the truth which I thought in my heart, and written for fear of death and to save my life if it might be; and that is all such bills which I have written or signed with mine own hand since my degradation: wherein I have written many things untrue. And foreasmuch as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand shall first be punished, for if I may come to the fire, it shall be first burned. And as for the Pope, I refuse him, as Christ’s enemy and anti-Christ, with all his false doctrine. And as for the Sacrament...’
“God damn him to Hell!” I scream as I dash the paper to the floor. He is dead but how I wish he were not so I might punish him further.
He has the victory. With his last words, he turns himself into a victim, a wronged man of God, and in doing so, he condemns me as a monster. This is how I will be remembered. A vengeful queen, steeped in the blood of her foe.
For a long time I stand at the palace window and instead of the tranquillity of the privy garden, I see the horrors of the heretic fires that are burning at Smithfield. The ashes blow east across the city, glowing red in the heretic wind and, when the embers settle, they are scattered at my feet.
I am not doing this for myself. I am doing it for my country, and for God. The people who are dying are sinners in the greatest degree, they refuse to renounce their sin. I would gladly pardon and embrace them back into my church if they would only recant. I begin to tremble. I cannot make it stop. It was not supposed to be this way.
I bury my face in my hands.
St James’ Palace – November 1558
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” Someone is tugging at my hands, pulling them from my face. I gape into darkness, grip their wrists, and blink in vain in my effort to see. There is nothing; nothing but blurred outlines, black shapes against a deeper, bleaker darkness. A cold sweat breaks upon my forehead. I am in Hell.
“Susan?”
My heart hammers, an anvil of iron. Someone sits close to me, takes me into their arms and rocks me as if I am a child. At first, I think it is my mother, but then I remember she is dead … long dead.
Of course, I recall as the present trickles back and is made solid. I am at St James’, in my sick bed, likely to never leave it. I am safe and warm, and a few loyal members of my court still remain. Just the last few who have lingered to see me through the last hours. The rest have gone, run to ingratiate themselves with Elizabeth.
The next queen.
The hell of the last few months clarifies and I recall the fires at Smithfield are still smouldering. I have not completed my task. I have failed in every degree. The Catholic church is not yet secure in my realm, the people do not love me as they should, and I have failed to bear a son to rule after me.
I cough feebly and painfully. My mouth tastes of ashes. There is little breath left in my body now. What will happen once I am gone? Will Elizabeth revenge the blood of the heretics I have shed by punishing the Catholics? Will she hack open the schism with Rome once more?
She will no longer need to pretend to embrace the true church. I know her obedience was always just a ruse to appease me; an instinctive desire to preserve her life and liberty.
Oh, Elizabeth! I only wanted to be loved, to make the people see the error of their ways. I could not let my subjects burn in hell. I had to try to save them.
Susan’s bosom grows too warm, I am suffocating. I pull away and draw the edge of my sleeve across my nose, dab my wet cheeks.
“There,” she says. “You see, all is well. I have sent for the physician again, just to be sure you are…”
“I am tired of physicians, tired
of the fuss.”
My voice cracks. She moves from the bed with a rustle of petticoats and someone else takes her place. I wish I could see clearly, if only I could blink this damned mist from my eyes – this blackness.
The darkness conceals so many dangers, so many secrets. I need to see clearly. I long to look upon a face and see for myself if it is trustworthy or dishonest. The truth that lurks like an assassin in the shadows glides closer.
“Who is it?” My voice is sharp. A smooth hand slips into mine.
“It is Anne, Your Majesty…”
My spirit calms, I breathe more easily at the touch of a friend.
“You must be tired, child, have you been here all night?”
“All day, Your Majesty. It is just coming on to evening now.”
I slump into the pillow, let misery roll over me.
“My world is always dark.”
“I know but … perhaps...”
“Oh, don’t say it. They will not be able to cure me. I am beyond the help of physicians. We all know that.”
“Hope is a powerful thing, Your Majesty.”
“Well, I hope you are right then.” I laugh bitterly at my poor attempt at humour.
Silence falls in the chamber and I subside once more into my own thoughts. The last few years have been a hell on earth. Everything I tried to do for the good of my people, the good of the church, was thwarted. I did all in my power to make them see the dark path they were following. Gentle persuasion didn’t turn them. They are immured in their sin but I could not stand idly by while they perjured themselves. I had to force them to turn before it was too late. It was a case of the heretics burning here on earth, or for eternity in the hereafter.
Why would they not listen?
I cough, swallowing bile. I must try to continue with my tale … while I can.
“I think I went a little mad then. Perhaps I still am. I was at a loss, do you see? I did not know how to help them...
“For a while, after Philip left the country, I tried to boost the royal coffers, reinstate the churches and some of the monasteries. There were other state matters too that had fallen into chaos during my brother’s time. I tried to right his wrongs as well as my father’s.”
“I am sure, you did, Your Majesty, no one could have cared more than you…”
“Don’t patronise me. I am not a child.”
The coffers were almost empty but it was hard to be economical; after all, I had my status to maintain. Nobody will have faith in a queen who dresses like a pauper. I had to bind the people to me, persuade them that I knew best. It cost a lot to live up to my father’s image…”
The child makes a soothing sound that is almost as irritating as her platitudes but, deep down, some part of me realises I must cherish those still loyal to me, for they are very, very few.
“In 1555, they tried to unseat me again. Members of my own council this time. They were dissatisfied with Philip and squeamish at my punishments of the heretics, and teamed up with France against me.
“I’d been too lenient after Wyatt’s rebellion. I should have hanged them all then. This time, they didn’t find me so forgiving. No one can accuse me of not learning lessons.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Her fingers tighten on mine, pressing my rings deeply into my skin. I probably deserve the pain.
“I was sure Elizabeth was involved but as usual there was no proof. More than twenty men were arrested and we placed a ring of guards around my sister’s house. We took her servants and after a little teasing in the Tower they soon revealed that they’d all known of the rebellion … and supported it. I’d have taken Elizabeth too, and put her to the sword like her mother before her, but Philip advised against it.”
“King Philip believed her to be innocent?”
“Well, no, but she has always been popular with the people. He was wary of punishing her too harshly. With her out of the way, the road would have opened for my cousin, the Scottish queen, and even if she is Catholic, nobody wants that. So, I delayed arresting my sister. Instead, I sent her a diamond, and invited her to court.”
“You were reconciled?”
I remove my hand from Anne’s to scratch my scalp.
“I need a drink; I’ve a headache and my stomach feels like it’s been kicked by a donkey.”
“I will order up a powder, Your Majesty.” Susan’s voice issues from the hearth. I had mistakenly believed I was alone with Anne.
I take a sip of wine, pass the cup back, and hear the clunk as she places it on the table.
“Elizabeth and I weren’t reconciled, as such. She refused to come to court, pleading sickness again, and I was too ill myself to care. By then, the headaches had become so bad that sometimes I couldn’t raise my head from the pillow. The doctors couldn’t decide what was wrong.”
“You’ve been ill all that time?”
“Oh, off and on; not all the time.”
“So, she didn’t come.”
“Not until Christmas – fifteen fifty-six; I think that was the year. It seems longer than just two years ago. She made a real show of herself too, all airs and graces, a silent reminder to the people that she was the heir and they’d best remember it, for she would not forget a slight against her.”
“The reunion was successful?”
“Not really, no. She stayed barely five days and then set off back to Hatfield in a peculiar state of mind. Philip wanted me to arrange a match between her and the Duke of Savoy, but she baulked against it. It was something she clearly deemed beneath her.
“You’d have thought she’d be glad that we regarded her as my successor but … well, I have never determined what really upset her, but something did. Perhaps it was the fear that with Philip due back in England, I’d get with child again. That would have irked her.
“Oh, I would have given anything to fall pregnant and birth an heir right at the last minute. One small child would have thwarted her every hope.”
“You must have been happy to have your husband back in the country, Your Majesty.”
I cock my head, alert for innuendo, but I sense none, not in this child. I squeeze her fingers and smile.
“I was … for a while, but so much of my time was taken up with war. I was reluctant for us to be drawn into it but in the end the rebellion by Stafford forced my hand.
“France was behind it, of course, damn them all. Their persistent interference and support of traitors against me left me in little doubt that they were involved. The council was against the war because of the costs involved and the limitations it would place on trade, but Philip persuaded them. There are limits to what a monarch can stand.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.”
Susan clears her throat. “I’ve brought you a powder for your headache, Your Majesty. You really should try to sleep; it will serve you better than all this chatter.”
Anne shifts uncomfortably in her seat. I pat her hand.
“Don’t listen to her, Anne. I like our little conversations.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Susan sniffs.
I’d take such insolence from nobody else, but Susan has been with me for far too long for formality to come between us. She is the keeper of my deepest darkest secrets, my night terrors, my innermost fears. I wonder what she will do when I am gone – what will any of them do?
“Of course, it was that war that lost us Calais. The people loved me even less after that.”
I sigh and let my mind trickle back to the day I mark as the beginning of my end. Was it really only a few short months ago? Philip and my council were at loggerheads, rebellion was always around the corner. There was no peace. Sometimes, when I dwelt too long on the things I’d lost, the mistakes I’d made, I thought I would go mad, and end my days a raging lunatic.
“After that, I grew so ill I could think of little else but my own survival. The headaches, the recurrent bouts of nausea – it was awful. It still is. The doctors, in their wisdom, suggeste
d I might be pregnant, but I was loath to believe it. I didn’t want to bother telling Philip but the council insisted.”
“Such a shame, Your Majesty.” Anne strokes my fingers, the touch softening my reserve, making my eyes prick with tears.
“I took to my bed but I didn’t order a lying-in chamber to be prepared. I was afraid ... despite my women’s assurances that my swollen belly indicated a child … I was afraid. I knew I was sick … unto death. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for my failure to bring them back to the true church. A pregnancy would have been a mark of God’s favour. I would welcome some sign even now … of his favour.”
Silence rings in my ears. Nobody speaks until Susan hurries forward, snatching my hand from Anne’s.
“Your Majesty, we did not mean to mislead you! I was so happy at the prospect of an heir for you at last that we were … I was carried away.”
“Even when Philip wrote to tell me of his joy at the prospect of a prince, I did not believe it. I did not feel pregnant, not like before – I felt leaden and full of pain. I am old before my time. I blame the suffering I’ve endured; they say grief ages you. From the beginning, I sensed something was not right but … the doctors are fools.”
“They will heal you yet, Your Majesty.”
“No. No, they won’t.”
I turn my blind eyes toward them, and a shudder of dread washes over me. What is waiting for me in the darkness? I grope with my other hand for her.
“I think they knew. I think everyone knew really, and few were sorry, least of all Philip.”
“Your Majesty, that is unjust!”
“Is it? Is it really? Why then has he not returned, not even when I have written to him privately of my encroaching death? He doesn’t care. He has never had any love for me but he has plenty of affection for my throne. No doubt he writes to Elizabeth instead; what could be better than a ready-made king to fall into her lap? She could not do better if she tried; he is handsome, powerful, the perfect match. She would relish being queen of England and Spain – how the Howards would welcome that! You can be sure neither she nor Philip will mourn at my passing.”
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 27
