Mary, Bloody Mary

by Meyer, Carolyn, 1935-

  I laughed. "In this weather? It's not fit even for wild beasts out there! And you must be chilled from your journey."

  Chapuys tilted his head to one side. His glistening black hair and neatly trimmed black beard were streaked with silver, his dark eyes half hidden beneath thick brows. He seemed not to have heard me. "I would consider it a great honor if Your Highness would show me the palace gardens, made so beautiful by this snowfall." Then he added so softly that I nearly did not hear him, "Your mother suggests it."

  I drew in my breath. "Wait for me in the garden by the chapel royal," I murmured.

  Chapuys bowed deeply and left my privy chamber. I called for a fur-lined cloak and leather boots and quickly made my way to the chapel royal. Dozens of candles flickered around the statue of the Blessed Virgin. I knelt at her feet and uttered a short prayer. Then I pulled up the hood of my cloak and slipped out of the chapel door.

  I rushed to the dark figure silhouetted against the snow, his face in shadow. "Have you word for me from my mother?" I asked.

  The figure turned toward me. "Your Highness, I beg you, be more careful," said Chapuys. "You could not have been sure that it was I whom you addressed. Your mother is in grave danger. You may be in danger as well. Come, let us walk. Out here only the bare trees can overhear us, and only our own footsteps follow us. But it will not always be so easy."

  Chapuys had frightening news. He spoke rapidly in French as we slowly circled the small walled garden.

  "The queen's household has spies in every corner, placed there by Cardinal Wolsey with the approval of the king. Wolsey himself is in a bad situation. The pope has refused to grant King Henry a divorce, and Henry is furious. He blames Wolsey."

  "Refused the divorce?" I had not heard this news, and I was elated. "That puts an end to it, does it not?"

  But Chapuys shook his head. "Henry will do whatever he must to have his way—to be rid of his lawful wife so that he can marry Anne. She's putting pressure on him. She wants to be queen!"

  I stopped short. "Queen?" I gasped. "She wants to take my mother's place as the king's wife and as his queen as well?"

  "Anne Boleyn is as ruthless as she is ambitious. And she has the king dancing on a string." Chapuys took my arm and we resumed our walk. "Your cousin Charles is concerned for your safety. He has sent me as his official ambassador to Henry's court with secret instructions to do what I can to assist you and the queen. You may count on me as your friend, madam."

  We crossed and recrossed our own dark footprints in the wet snow, heads bent low. I felt frightened and angry—and helpless.

  "There's more that you should know, madam. The cardinal has enemies of his own. Perhaps the most dangerous enemy of all is Lady Anne."

  "I know of her dislike for Wolsey," I said, remembering Yellow Silk and Green Velvet gossiping at cards.

  Chapuys raised his great, bushy eyebrows. "Ah! So madam employs spies of her own, then?"

  I smiled. "Only one," I said. "Unfortunately, she cannot be in all places at all times, and since I keep her constantly by my side, there's much she doesn't know." Now it was Chapuys's turn to smile.

  We began another circuit of the garden. "Has your spy reported," Chapuys asked, "that Lady Anne is the one who has turned the king against the cardinal? She convinced Henry that Wolsey is to blame for the pope's refusing him a divorce. And Henry needs no convincing that the cardinal is an arrogant fool. You have visited Hampton Court, Wolsey's home?"

  "When I was a child my parents took me there," I said. "I don't remember much."

  "I have recently come from the cardinal's palace. It is only a few hours' journey upriver from London. Wolsey lives like a king—some say better than Henry himself. Hampton Court is filled with priceless paintings and tapestries and furnishings brought from France and Italy, far more lavish than Greenwich Palace. And while Henry has ignored that, Anne cannot bear it. She wants him stripped of everything.

  "The cardinal owns, by his own count, nearly three hundred beds! He showed me his own bed with its four gilded posts and inlaid ivory carvings of cardinals' hats, and he made certain I noticed the eight mattresses, each stuffed with thirteen pounds of carded wool. And all of this is in addition to York Palace, his London mansion."

  "I've visited York," I said. "I've seen him sit upon his golden chair with golden cushions."

  Chapuys sighed. "I can tell you, madam," the ambassador continued in his oddly accented French, "that the cardinal's collection of silver and gold plate far exceeds King Henry's. This is unwise. The man feasts on strawberries and cream and seems unaware that his own bishops hate him. Lady Anne hates him, and the king who has depended on him for many years no longer trusts him. But there is another reason that Henry despises him: It is an open secret that Wolsey has several bastard sons. This churchman has more of everything in the world than the king does! It won't be long until Wolsey is out of power. The mystery is who will take his place. But you must be on your guard, madam. Be ever vigilant. The queen expresses great concern for you."

  The mention of my mother made me feel half sick with fear. "When did you last see my mother?"

  "I have come directly from her. She wishes you to know that her resolve is as strong as ever, and she begs you to remain steadfast."

  "Thank you," I managed to say. "Now, shall we return to my apartments and warm ourselves?"

  Later, dressed in dry clothes, we sat by the fire and were served a simple meal of mutton pie and hot mulled wine. Chapuys seemed to enjoy his; I was far too distressed to eat. His account had been horrifying. Everything I knew, everything I counted on, was changing. Much as I despised Wolsey, my father's turning on him was equally unsettling. What would Anne want next?

  In the days that followed, the ambassador did his best to distract me from my worries. He coaxed me to play for him upon the virginals, which I hadn't touched in weeks. I could think of only melancholy songs.

  "Many years ago, at the time of our betrothal, my cousin Charles taught me to play chess," I told him. "Would you accept my challenge, ambassador?"

  "Willingly, madam."

  The chessboard was brought, the ivory and ebony pieces arranged at a table by the fire. I attacked strongly and surrendered my pieces reluctantly. The game was adjourned for supper and resumed the next day. At last I had my opponent checkmated.

  Chapuys smiled admiringly. "You have done well, madam. And so you shall do in the game of life. Piece by piece, each position hard won, but you shall triumph. I believe it—so must you."

  When the official visit ended after eight days, the early snow had melted and the earth showed through in patches of dreary brown. Chapuys rode off for London, bound for King Henry's court. In his pouch he carried a letter for my father in which I asked forgiveness for any slight I might have caused and begged to be allowed to visit my mother. Salisbury hurried to finish stitching the altar hangings in time for Advent, and Master Fetherston and I applied ourselves to the study of the philosophers of ancient Greece.

  THERE WAS NO answer to my letter, no invitation from King Henry to come to court for Yuletide, no gift, nor even a greeting from my father. Nothing! I received a set of silver spoons from my mother but not the letter I yearned for.

  I observed the holy days somberly at Beau-lieu Palace with Salisbury for company. There was nothing to celebrate. The cooks did their best to provide a feast, and for the sake of my household I pretended to be merry. But it was only an act.

  The winter passed bleakly. In February I observed my thirteenth birthday. I was eligible for marriage, but there was still no serious talk of a betrothal. At least I finally knew why, along with all of England and all of Europe: King Henry intended to declare me a bastard. I was worthless in the chess game of royal marriage. And there was nothing I could do but wait. I felt like a prisoner in my own palace.

  One day, a few months before my fifteenth birthday, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing Chapuys's seal. When the messenger had gone, I broke the seal. "Wolsey is dead,"
I read.

  I stared into the candle flame. All my life I had despised Wolsey and feared him. At the same time, he was a last connection with my old life as my father s cherished daughter. I held the parchment nearer the candle and continued to read Chapuys's letter, written in Latin:

  Death must have come as a blessing. Henry ordered him out, divested him of all his power and most of his possessions, all at Anne's insistence, Wolsey was forced to offer Hampton Court as a gift to the king. Then he was sentenced to he executed for treason, hut before his arrest, the disgraced cardinal died...

  The letter ended;

  Beware of Thomas Cromwell, once Wolsey's assistant at court. The lowborn son of a brewer, Cromwell is not a churchman hut an ambitious politician, far more sinister than poor Wolsey. It is said that he has the king's ear...

  I touched the letter to the flame and held it while the blaze consumed it. Then I hurried to my chapel and knelt at the feet of the Virgin, intending to pray for the soul of the departed cardinal. I found that I could not. Instead the prayers I sent up to heaven begged God's mercy upon myself.

  CHAPTER 10: Lady Susan

  Season followed season. I turned fifteen. There were no invitations to court.

  Every few months Chapuys made the journey from London to Beaulieu to bring me news of the latest developments at the king's court and of my mother. It was now almost impossible for us to exchange even secret letters and I worried about her constantly. There was always news of Anne Boleyn as well.

  "Queen Catherine has been removed from the More and banished to an even more remote manor house surrounded by marshlands," Chapuys reported. "The rooms are small, dark, and damp. It is taking a toll on her health. She is allowed only a single lady-in-waiting for companionship, and the king has sent away most of her servants. He also reduced her allowance. When she runs low on food and warm clothing, she must depend on the loyal country people to bring her what she needs."

  "Oh, my poor mother!" I cried. "Why does he treat her like this?"

  "To break her will, madam," Chapuys said. "To force her to agree to his demand for a divorce."

  At the end of that visit, I sent a message with Chapuys to my father, promising that all my letters to Catherine could be read by any who wished, if only I were allowed to write. It seemed such a small thing to ask of him. But there was no reply.

  The rare secret letters my mother and I were able to exchange were sent at great risk not only to ourselves but to the loyal servants who carried the messages for us. She did not mention her health, although I feared for her. In one of the smuggled letters my mother wrote, "Obey the king's every command. Do not anger him. He frightens me." But it seemed that everything I did angered him!

  As Chapuys had predicted, Thomas Cromwell had been appointed the king's chief minister. "He is vulgar but clever," Chapuys reported, "more manipulative even than Wolsey. Be wary of him."

  And there was this report of Anne: The king had given Anne's brother, George, a title: viscount of Rochford. "The celebration was like a nuptial feast," Chapuys said, his dark eyes flashing with indignation. "Anne was seated on a level with the king—"

  "As though she already wears the queen's crown!" I exclaimed.

  "She already wears the queen's jewels," the ambassador informed me. "The king dispatched Cromwell to demand that Catherine return her jewels for Anne to wear."

  "But surely my mother refused!"

  "At first she did refuse. But then Cromwell returned with the order written by Henry himself. Catherine had no choice. She surrendered her jewels. Now Anne flaunts them."

  "And she flaunts the jewels even more because they were stolen from the queen," I finished angrily.

  "There is more," Chapuys told me. "Henry has taken over Wolsey's London mansion. York is already a splendid palace, finer than all the other royal palaces, but Henry was not satisfied. He has begun adding to it—new landing platforms on the Thames for the royal barges, a tiltyard for jousting, an enclosed cock-in-court for fighting roosters, a bowling green outside, and a skittle alley inside. The expense is enormous!

  "And he has done all this for Anne," Chapuys complained. "They are quite open about their passion. He says that when she becomes queen, it will be her official residence."

  "Then I shall never see it!" I snapped. Even if I did receive an invitation to come, which was unlikely, I would refuse to go. While I was reduced to wearing the simple homespun kirtles of a countrywoman, he was spending a fortune on Anne? How could he have changed so much? What had she done to him?

  Now I thought about what the ambassador had just told me. "Do you believe that Anne will become queen?" I asked.

  Chapuys stroked his silky black beard. "The people will not allow it, I am certain. They believe that she has bewitched the king. They hate her— that is surely as plain to the king as it is to everyone else. When she passes by in her barge or litter, no one cheers, no hats are tossed in the air, no one brings her cakes and flowers. There is only hostile silence. Not long ago, when Henry was away in the country and Anne was out with her ladies, an angry crowd of women gathered—some say they numbered in the hundreds—armed with cudgels and broomsticks, crying out, *No Anne Boleyn for us!' Anne escaped in a boat across the river and reached the palace safely. She may not be so lucky next time. But it seems that the more she's humiliated, the more determined the king and his Great Whore become. It is you the people want, madam, and Anne knows it. It enrages her against you. And so she presses the king harder than ever to marry her."

  "But how can he marry her? My mother is his lawful wife!"

  "Anne will make sure of it. She has staked everything on the marriage. Her temper is shrill, her tongue sharp, and despite that she seems to control the king. He knows that he must do something, and quickly, if he is to provide England with a future king. He is not a young man. I am told that his sleep is fitful. He leans on a walking stick. He can no longer ride from sunup to sundown as he once did. But he will find a way."

  I had not seen my father since his brief, angry visit to Richmond three years earlier, and I was dismayed by Chapuys's report. My father, old and weak? When I thought of King Henry, I pictured a man both strong and tireless. But Anne Boleyn had sapped his strength, exhausted him. Perhaps it was true what Chapuys said: Anne had bewitched him.

  AT BEAULIEU I lived surrounded by an array of official advisers and household servants who kept a respectful distance. Only the countess of Salisbury, Master Fetherston, and my maids-in-waiting remained close to me.

  The maids were the daughters of nobility, sent by their fathers to while away their time until marriage and children took them elsewhere. The honor was great but the duties were simple—to stand by my chair, to accompany me to mass in the chapel or to dine in the Great Hall, to sit with me if that was what I wanted, to fetch a book or my needlework or whatever else I might call for. With few exceptions the maids were of no more interest to me than the tapestries on the walls. The exceptions were Lady Maud and Lady Winifred and, most especially, Lady Susan.

  During these two and a half years of isolation from court, our friendship finally took root and flowered. Susan taught me card games, which Master Vives had expressly forbidden. I taught Susan to play the virginals and made her a gift of one of my own, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. We made an odd pair. I had grown thin and pale and fragile-looking, while Susan was sturdily built, her skin unfashionably ruddy. She sat a horse well, and she could walk for miles without tiring. It was Susan who accompanied me on my long morning walks.

  And yet even as our friendship grew, questions always lurked in the back of my mind: Was Susan also a spy, witting or unwitting? Did she report what she saw and heard to her father, the duke of Norfolk, who in turn passed along the information to his friend, the king, my father, or to his niece, Anne?

  On one of our walks, Susan confessed to me that she hated her own father. "He is a bully," she said. "He slaps me, he pinches me. He has even threatened to kill me if I do not obey. A
nd now he has betrothed me to the earl of Chichester—that dreadful old break wind with rotting teeth!" Susan kicked at a clod of dirt. "I would rather join a nunnery. Have you not wondered why so many women are happy to shut themselves up in a convent? It is because they are safe there from the demands of cruel fathers and husbands."

  "It would be peaceful," I agreed, thinking of my own father. I came very near to confessing to Susan that at times I, too, hated my father. It would have been so much easier if I hated him in the same way that I had come to hate Anne Boleyn—pure, simple hatred. But I did not. I could not. I had not given up hope, even yet, that someday he would once again regard me as his perfect princess, his precious pearl. "But surely you would miss court life, the banquets, the dancing, the fine gowns and jewels," I said instead.

  "Not I!" Susan insisted.

  "Perhaps your father will change his mind. My father has betrothed me several times, but always he breaks it off Indeed, I wonder if I'll ever marry." I thought of Reginald Pole, who I knew had returned to England. Salisbury sometimes received letters in which he expressed the desire to visit us someday, but there had been no word from him for many weeks.

  "You'd best hope he breaks the next one," Susan said dryly. "I've heard the rumor that my father has approached the king with the notion of marrying you to my half-brother, Ralph."

  "I've heard that, too," I admitted. "I've met your brother at court a few times. At least our ages are similar."

  "Age is all that's similar, I assure you," Susan said. "Ralph is vile, bad-tempered, and rather stupid. All he likes are jousting and jewels. You would not want to spend more than an hour with him, much less a lifetime."

  "There is an even worse rumor flying about," I said. "That I'm to marry my own half brother! My father's bastard son, Fitzroy." I immediately regretted letting slip the secret; Salisbury would be horrified if she knew I had spoken of it. "I'm not supposed to know that. I shouldn't have told you, Susan."