Mary, Bloody Mary

by Meyer, Carolyn, 1935-

  "Yes, I was. I came to your mother's court, a lady-in-waiting. I saw with my own eyes how deeply Henry fell in love with his bride, as she did with him. That she was older seemed only to deepen his passion for her. She was comely, and her keen intelligence was a good match for his. Their first child, a girl, was stillborn, but when Queen Catherine was delivered of a living son, the king seemed more in love with her than ever. How King Henry exulted! And all of his loyal subjects celebrated with him. Cannons boomed, shattering windows. Public fountains bubbled with wine. The feasting and dancing went on for days. King Henry arranged tournaments in honor of the new prince and jousted with Catherine's sleeve wrapped around his lance and a banner proclaiming 'Sir Loyal Heart.'"

  Sir Loyal Heart! I thought of Lady Susan's words: It is said that the king is in love with Anne. And I remembered the remarks I had overheard only days earlier: "Lovers are madmen who lose all reason, and the king is like all others since he has lost his reason to Lady Anne," Master Vives had muttered to aged Brother Anselm, my tutor in religion.

  Later I overheard Lady Julia, mistress of the wardrobe, murmur to her assistant, "His fancy will wear itself out, and we will hear no more of her. There will be someone new to catch the king's eye."

  I had listened to the gossip, but I'd refused to believe it—even from the mouth of Amie's cousin, Susan. How could my father have changed so much?

  Salisbury paused to collect herself When she resumed her story, her voice quivered. "And then the child died."

  I sighed. My mother had told me of the new-born prince's death and my father's heartbreak.

  "The king and queen mourned the loss of their child, but infant deaths are commonplace, and women are accustomed to weeping over tiny graves. They did not long despair. They were young and vigorous, certain to produce more children. Over the next ten years Catherine became pregnant no fewer than ten times, and each time—except one!— the infant did not live."

  "And that one." I whispered, already knowing the answer.

  "You, my lady," Salisbury said. "It was an occasion for rejoicing throughout the kingdom when you entered this world healthy and squalling—"

  "On the eighteenth day of February, anno Domini 1516," I interrupted. I was sitting up now on my bed, arms clasped around my thin body, shivering from cold and excitement.

  "Three days after your birth I myself carried you from Greenwich Palace to Friars' Church. I handed you to Cardinal Wolsey, to be christened at the silver baptismal font brought down from Canterbury Cathedral. You wore a white velvet christening robe lined with ermine. The robe was so long and so heavy that a countess and an earl had to follow behind me to carry the train. You lay upon a jeweled pillow under a crimson and gold canopy of estate held by four knights, while the choir sang the Te Deum and Wolsey made the sign of the cross over you."

  Salisbury had told me this part many times, but I never tired of hearing the story. She always ended her account by reminding me of how much my father had adored me, how he doted on me as I grew. But until now I had not dared to question his love.

  I leaned over the side of my great bed and peered down at the countess on the trundle. "Then why does he now ignore me? What have I done wrong?" I watched the governess's face carefully for signs of an untruth.

  Salisbury breathed a weary sigh. Then she answered, "Because, Mary, you are not a boy. He believes that a woman does not have the strength to rule England after his death, and blood will be shed. He knows that the people may not accept the bastard Fitzroy as their king. Above all else, your father desires a legitimate son to inherit the throne, for England's sake. And he is determined to have his way."

  "But I am the Princess of Wales. I am to be queen—my mother has told me so. Besides, my mother hasn't conceived a child for some years. She's no longer young."

  "The king will have his way," Salisbury repeated. "He will stop at nothing—nothing!" She reached for a handkerchief and coughed into it. "Enough now. Sleep, dear Mary."

  The governess clapped her hands, awakening the servant girl, who rose and relit the candle. Salisbury closed her eyes and folded her hands across her breast. For long afterward I lay staring at the tall, wavering shadows cast by the candle flame.

  This much I understood: I have disappointed my father because I am not the son he wants. I remembered how he often called me his little princess, perfect in every way. But clearly I was not perfect after all—I was only a daughter, not fit to rule, no matter what my mother said!

  Perhaps that was why my father had elevated the bastard Fitzroy to a position higher than mine— so that Fitzroy might become king. But everyone knew that an illegitimate child could not inherit the crown. So it had to be a son, and it had to be the son of my father and his legal wife. But my mother could no longer bear children. What then could he do?

  Listening to Salisbury's deep, stuttering breaths, I pondered what she had said to me a little while ago: "The king will have his way. He will stop at nothing..." Suddenly I thought of Anne Boleyn and of the way my father had looked at her. I felt a cold chill as the night sky outside my window began to fade to somber gray.

  CHAPTER 6: Lady Anne

  The horses' hoofs clattered over the frozen earth, and their breath turned to white puffs in the frigid air. Traveling to Greenwich Palace with my attendants for Yuletide, I looked forward to a season of merrymaking and a chance to be with my father and mother again. I tried to forget what I'd heard about Lady Anne. Perhaps it was only gossip after all. Everything would be fine.

  Even the usually placid Lady Salisbury showed a spot of color in her cheeks; her son, Reginald Pole, was expected to return from his studies abroad for a long visit. I had noticed that lately his name often entered the conversation, with such remarks as "I believe that my son Reginald will be pleased with your progress in music," and "Reginald has expressed his desire to speak to you of your studies in Greek."

  I would smile to myself but say nothing. Yet I did wonder if my mother and my governess had discussed the possibility that Reginald would make me a suitable husband. My betrothal to the king of France had been broken, although when this happened, or whether it was my father or Francis who had ended it, I did not know. Salisbury had simply said, "You have no further cause for worry from France." There were sometimes rumors of other suitors, other betrothals, but generally I was left alone and glad of it. I was nearly twelve now, approaching marriageable age and womanhood. Something was bound to happen soon. But it was impossible to coax anything from Salisbury until Salisbury herself was ready to speak.

  I had known Reginald since my childhood. He was sixteen years older, the same age as my second betrothed, Emperor Charles. So like his mother in height and noble bearing, Reginald resembled her even to the sharp chin and long nose. I believed him intelligent and good, and—I thought as I rode toward Greenwich—I could easily come to love him. He was deeply religious, as I was. In fact, I knew that he was studying to become a priest. Priests, of course, did not marry. What a shame, what a disappointment, that the very thing that drew me to him—his piety—was the thing that would certainly keep us apart. Unless he had a change of heart and renounced the priesthood in order to marry. To marry me!

  Perhaps, I thought as my entourage neared the palace gates, Reginald has been thinking of me all this time, and he has come to feel love for me, as I do for him! Perhaps he has already told his superiors that he has prayed long and hard and has heard God's voice telling him that he should become a husband to me rather than a priest of the church. Perhaps the countess and the queen have already spoken to him, and he has agreed to their proposal! Yes, I decided, growing more and more excited, I love him even now. God has seen fit to answer my prayers. He is sending me Reginald Pole!

  But what would my father say? Reginald was highborn, but he was not a king, and King Henry seemed determined that only a king would do as my husband. My excitement withered and died before we had even passed through the palace gates. My father will put an end to the plan, I thoug
ht sadly, no matter how much I plead. My happiness is of no importance.

  Once inside Greenwich Palace, I received a summons from King Henry. I changed from my traveling garments and immediately hurried to his privy chamber. He had asked for me. He wanted to see me. My heart beat fast as I knelt before him: Would his mood be angry? Loving?

  He greeted me with a kiss, and yet it seemed that he scarcely took note of me. He acted as though it had been only hours instead of months since he had last seen me, and he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. How could he seem so indifferent?

  I backed slowly out of the privy chamber, still hoping that he might call me back. He did not. As soon as I had reached the outer passageway, I rushed to the queen's chamber and into my mother's warm and tender embrace. But as I drew away from her arms and looked at her closely, I was shocked at the change. Her face appeared worn and tired. Her rich auburn hair had faded to gray. Worse yet, there was no true gladness in her smile, and her eyes were shadowed with melancholy. What had happened to my mother?

  In that moment I knew that the rumors were true. My father no longer loves her. He is in love with Anne. And in that moment I felt my world fly apart. I wanted to bury my face in her lap as I had when I was a child and cry out my pain, but I knew that for my mother's sake, and for my own, I must be strong. "Madam," I managed to gasp, but I could not continue.

  "I welcome your presence, Mary," she said gently. "You must be weary from your journey. Rest, and we shall talk later."

  That night, feeling as though I were sleepwalking, I joined my parents on the dais in the Great Hall of the palace for the first court banquet. The hall was hung with sweet-smelling garlands of rosemary and wreaths of holly and mistletoe. In the vast stone fireplace, flames leaped from the enormous, crackling Yule log. Long tables were laid with King Henry's finest plates, goblets, ewers, and saltcellars of silver and gold. A full-rigged silver ship stood before the king to hold his cutlery and napkin. A few members of the king's privy council and their wives, decked in their most brilliant finery and brightest jewels, shared the king's table with us. The high-ranking nobility and ladies of the court gathered along the lower tables on stools and benches. From one end of the dais. Cardinal Wolsey studied me with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to read my innermost thoughts. Though the fire was hot, I felt a sudden chill.

  Queen Catherine sat in her usual place on the king's right. On the painted ceiling above them the pomegranate, Catherine's royal symbol, was entwined with Henry's Tudor rose. Compared to other women's finery, her holiday gown seemed dowdy and ill-fitting, her headdress old-fashioned. She looks old, I observed, my heart sinking.

  In contrast King Henry had never appeared more handsome or his mood more merry. But his gaiety made me feel ill. The source of my father's happiness was quite evident to everyone. At the table below us in an exquisite gown of black silk and delicate white French lace sat Lady Anne Boleyn, her black hair curling around her pale face and tumbling down around her narrow shoulders. My father looked at her longingly, glancing away impatiently when he was spoken to by someone else. Anne, laughing and talking with those around her, pretended not to notice his attention.

  In front of his entire court, the king raised his golden goblet to Anne. "Wassail!" he cried, and Anne acknowledged his toast with a flirtatious smile.

  A blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the boar's head with its gilded tusks, the beginning of the Christmas feast. As servants carried in the roasted head held aloft on a great silver charger, the lords and ladies of the court, led by the king's master of music, joined in singing the traditional carol.

  But my throat was choked with angry tears, and I could not utter a sound.

  IN THE DAYS after Christmas, I was often called to the queen's apartments, where we sat quietly by the fire with our stitchery. I had made many of the gifts I would present on New Year's Day, as was the custom. Almost too late I realized that I had no gift for Reginald Pole, of whom I had so far managed to catch only fleeting glimpses. It must be a gift that would express my affection for him but must also be modest, since no betrothal had so far been hinted at. In these hours with my mother, I worked an embroidered cross and his initials at one end of a purple silk ribbon, my initials at the other, a marker for his prayer book. But I was distracted and uneasy, constantly stealing glances at my mother. She had said that we would talk, but so far we had not. On the one hand, I wanted her to tell me what was happening; on the other hand, I dreaded to hear the news of my father's new love.

  A few times I was alone with my mother and Salisbury and only a few servants, but no one mentioned Reginald. And I could not broach the subject myself. I assumed that they were as preoccupied by the presence of Lady Anne and King Henry's attentions to her as I was, yet no one dared speak of it.

  Instead, as we stitched. Queen Catherine inquired about my studies. She urged me not to complain too much of Vives and begged me to remain studious and faithful. Twice a day I attended mass with her and some of her ladies. Each evening our servants dressed us in our silk gowns and jewels, and we went down to the Great Hall for a banquet.

  I dreaded these banquets. Those were the only times I saw my father. Yet each evening was the same: His whole attention was centered on Lady Anne. When the music began, my father would dance tirelessly while my mother remained seated on the dais. Once or twice he asked me to be his partner; more often his partner was Lady Anne. I wondered what the other members of the court thought of his behavior. They seemed not to care, but if they did disapprove, they would not dare to show it.

  Greenwich Palace was crowded. Because it was a great honor to be invited to court, no one refused. All of my father's courtiers had come, bringing their families and their servants. Most of my household, including my ladies, had accompanied me. Four or five people slept in each bedroom of the palace, dozens more in the great audience chambers. In the noise and confusion it was easy for me to roam virtually unnoticed through the countless chambers and passageways. Everyone always thought I was with someone else.

  I was an accomplished spy. As a child I had eavesdropped on my parents' conversations when their attention drifted away from me, as it quickly did. I always kept an ear open for the servants' talk when they thought I was out of earshot and for my mother's ladies-in-waiting when they were certain I was paying no attention to their idle chatter. Because I was a quiet girl, everyone assumed that I took no interest in adult matters. They were wrong! And spying had become more important than ever.

  Everywhere I went, I heard whispers: "Lady Anne..." "King Henry..." When I was not sitting with my mother, I was doing my best to hear what others were saying.

  One day as the old year neared its end, I found an opportunity to slip into the chamber where my maids-in-waiting slept crowded two to a narrow bed under the fierce and watchful eye of Charlotte, the mistress of the maids. I hid myself among the gowns and petticoats that hung on pegs along the walls. Half suffocated by the velvets and satins, my heart pounding, I listened while the maids mended their stockings and gossiped. They were talking about the large mole or birthmark that grew upon Anne's throat.

  "It is the mark of a witch," said one. I thought I recognized the voice of Lady Maud.

  "That is why she always wears a jewel upon a width of ribbon about her neck," said another, perhaps Lady Joan. "To disguise the place where a demon might suck."

  "And the extra finger that grows on her left hand—have you noticed it? She tries to disguise it with full sleeves and lace cuffs. Some say no one will marry her because of it."

  "The king seems not to mind. He seems bewitched by her."

  "Take care that Lady Susan does not hear you speak this way!" warned Maud. "She is a cousin to Anne Boleyn."

  "The witch's cousin!" said Maud. "Lady Susan would not like to hear that!"

  The ladies laughed, but a chill passed through my body, despite my warm surroundings.

  Later, after the maids had gone out, I crept out of my hiding place and ra
n to Salisbury. I repeated to her a part of what I had heard: "A witch, they say," I cried. "Can it be true?"

  "Hush, madam!" Salisbury replied hastily. "It is nothing at all and better not to speak of it."

  It was so rare for Salisbury to use such a tone that I decided there must be truth to the slander.

  But who would reply to me frankly? I knew the answer: no one. My ladies could be gossiping over their needlework or laughing over a cup of ale, but the moment I entered the room, everything changed. The talk and laughter stopped as though a door had been closed, and I would be greeted with gentle curtsies and polite smiles that told me nothing.

  I FELT ILL, too ill to attend the New Year's Eve banquet. I could not bear one more evening of watching my father behaving as he did with Lady Anne. But I had improved by the next day, my headache lessened, when King Henry gathered his guests in the Great Hall for the exchange of New Year's gifts. Lady Anne was not there, for which I was immensely grateful.

  But Reginald was there, and he kissed my hand. Although he had been present at the royal banquets, this was the first time we had been in a situation in which we could talk to one another. And I found myself tongue-tied, unable to think of a single thing to say! In fact I could scarcely bring myself to look directly at him, instead sending only sidelong glances when I thought he would not notice.

  I had made embroidered garters for my father, which I knew he would never wear—he preferred glittering jewels to my neat stitches. Still, he did thank me for them warmly and kissed me fondly. This was the first affection he had shown me since my arrival. For my mother I had made a pretty pincushion and a silk packet with a dozen fine needles, and for Salisbury, a handkerchief edged in lace. I was required to give Cardinal Wolsey a gift. For him I had made a little velvet drawstring pouch for his great ring.