“Jesu,” said Mary. “Poor Mother Pole! How I fear for her!”
“And right you should,” said Chapuys. “Now do you see why it is so important for you to reconcile with the queen?” His eyes searched hers.
Mary’s eyes widened. “Surely my lord father cannot think that I…?” It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun and in doing so, had let a deadly chill into the forest to sweep the trees and make their branches wave and toss; she suddenly felt so cold it was as if her blood had turned into water.
Chapuys eyes bored into hers; Mary nodded. “I will write to the queen this very day, thanking her for her extraordinary kindness.”
He seemed to stand straighter at her words, as if a weight had been lifted from him. “That is as well, then.” He drew a deep breath and said, “You may hear rumors of your marriage being mooted again. These are political ploys and you should not put too much stock in them.”
They reached the end of the path and turned back the way they had come. The sun was behind them now, and the forest glowed with the green of new leaves and the luminous blue cups of the bluebells. The birdsong sounded muted, as if it came from far away; deeper in the woods, a squirrel chattered. Suddenly two squirrels dashed out of the woods onto the path, one in hot pursuit of the other; both stopped dead when they spied Mary and Chapuys, and then with an indignant screech, they dashed back into the trees. Mary watched them as they climbed up trees and jumped across the entwined branches. It was spring, and all the animals were searching for mates. When would her spring come?
“Who?” she asked.
Chapuys was limping when they finally reached the little bench where Mary had been sitting when she first saw him emerge from the palace. Lady Margaret had taken Edward and Elizabeth back into the house for lessons. They sat opposite each other in the sun.
“A marriage for you with the emperor has been mooted ever since the empress died. It has been two years. It is time he married again. You were betrothed once before, so the French believe such a union to be plausible. This has spurred François to offer the hand of the Duc d’ Orleans once again. But England does not wish to risk having a foreign king. It is all just posturing and will come to naught.”
“I see,” said Mary. No mention of Philip, then. And even viable marriage offers from France and the Empire simply canceled each other out. Another wasted year. “Has the king returned from Dover, then?”
“Yes,” Chapuys replied. “His Grace is at Hampton Court. He is in pain from the ride to Dover and back, and he walked far too much while he was there. His Grace has shut himself away. It is said that he is in an evil temper.” He laughed and ran his hand through his abundant hair, now a fascinating silver and glinting in the sunlight. “He has given the queen up for Lent.”
Mary scowled. “How conveniently he blends his penance with his incapacity!”
The pained expression once again passed fleetingly over Chapuys’ features.
“I am sorry,” said Mary, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. “I shall do as I have promised. I will write to the queen and propose an end to this strife between us.” She rose and he stood up, too.
“Come,” she said. “You must be tired after your journey. Came you from Hampton Court?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have come a long way.” And have so far to go, he thought.
Chapter 19
“If it was a daughter this time, by the grace of God, the sons will follow.”
– Henry VIII to the Venetian Ambassador at the birth of the Princess Mary
Hampton Court Palace, April 1541
The king’s apothecaries hung back as far as possible as Dr. Butts raised the lancet over the king’s leg ulcer, their rivalry with the court physicians forgotten for the moment. Even the other royal doctors were content to leave the task to the king’s first physician. Dr. Butts hesitated for just a moment, glancing up at the king. Henry had a sturdy leather strap clamped between his teeth, and his mighty fists clutched the bedclothes at each side. He gave a curt nod, and Dr. Butts lowered the knife.
Everyone recalled the first time the king’s ulcer had closed up of its own accord. The doctors had been smug at their success in healing the massive, ugly sore. The apothecaries had sniffed and claimed that it was their remedies that had cured the king. Then when the king had subsequently become very ill indeed, the two rival factions began denying that it was their ministrations that had caused the sore to close, and pointed fingers at each other instead. So all now knew that the closing of the sore was not a good thing, and that lancing it to open it back up to let the evil humors drain out of it was essential if the king was to survive.
The lancet found its mark and the king let out a mighty roar of pain, albeit stifled by his clenched jaws. His arms stiffened and the cords in his massive neck protruded as if they were fit to burst.
Dr. Butts had decided that two incisions were needed, cross-wise; it meant making two cuts, and this was only the first one. But as soon as the knife found its way only a short distance across the ulcer, a sound like a sigh followed by a hiss was heard, and the pus began to spurt, then to ooze, from the cut. Henry felt the relief of pressure immediately, despite the excruciating pain of the lancet.
Dr. Butts had been attending the king for many years, and although he had a great deal of respect for the king, he really did not like him much. Still, he had to admire His Grace’s fortitude. He would not drink himself into a stupor before treatment, nor had he ever resorted to the poppy; the king’s sister, Mary, had had a chronic condition in her gut that was extremely painful and, near the end of her life, had been near senseless with the drug most of the time.
Henry grimaced and groaned as the blade made its way in a cross over the first cut. His leg was propped onto a cushion that fitted his leg, and which had been stuffed with linen and wool to absorb the blood and ooze that resulted from the lancing. He had found that the best way to manage these painful surgeries was to try to think of something else. And he had a host of items over which to mull, none of them particularly pleasant.
He had considered long and hard what he was to give up for Lent this year. To be meaningful, it must be something that would cause him the most inconvenience possible, and that he would miss sorely. The first thing that had occurred to him was the queen. He craved her company, and he should miss it very much. But the truth was, he had gone to Dover without her because he needed a rest. Now that he had awakened her desire, she was insatiable. Their nightly romps, combined with his New Rule of early mornings and hard exercise, had exhausted him. He finally used the Christmas revels as an excuse to call a halt to the New Rule. After all, his nightly doings with the queen were for the purpose of producing another prince; if it were a choice between riding the downs and coupling with the queen, why, the latter was his clear obligation. But not during Lent!
So he had given up his New Rule before Christmas. Although one’s exercise had been curtailed, one did not want to fast during the revels, and so he had gained back all of the weight he had lost and more. Dr. Butts chided him and warned that his weight was almost certainly a factor in the problems with his legs. But what was one to do? There had been nothing for it but to order yet another new suit of armor. His clothing could be managed with clever things like gussets, shoulder pads and massive cloaks. But armor did not lie. It was all most vexing.
Then there was the troublesome problem of a match for Mary. He could not risk it. He knew she longed for marriage and children. Had he succumbed earlier to that Lorelei, his grandson would by now be of a goodly age and could have been declared next in the succession after Edward. If anything should happen to Edward…but it would not. Any son he had with Katherine was to be proof against Edward’s untimely demise, and he did not wish to think about that.
But he must think about it…providing for the succession of the Tudor line was his primary duty as king. Had not his father said so? And yet for all their nighttime efforts, it was seven months gone by and still no sign of a son
! He should have waited until Katherine had proved herself; that was, after all was said and done, what he had done with her cousin, Anne. And why must he always be married? The truth was, he liked having a wife to dote upon and shower with gifts and jewels…but now it was her turn to shower him with that one precious jewel for which he longed so deeply, and which the country needed…a male heir. And if she could not? He would have, much to his regret, to put her away. He would wait a little longer…but not much. She had already taken longer than Jane, and by the time that lady had finally conceived he had been truly worried. What should he have done had it been Jane…?
And another rising to deal with! Would his subjects never learn? This one had been smaller and had been quelled much more quickly than the Pilgrimage of Grace, but it was a straw that showed which way the wind was blowing. The north was still very troublesome, a seething cauldron of discontent. And he had good reason to believe that his nephew, the Scots king, had been supportive of, if not directly involved in, this most recent rebellion. There was nothing for it; he would have to keep his promise to visit the north, and he would combine that with a meeting with King James. Perhaps he would even see his sister Margaret, whom he had not seen in many a year. He would berate her well and good for not keeping that whelp of hers in line! After all, was that not why his father had married her into Scotland, so she could look after England’s interests? And a fine mess she had made of that!
Thoughts of his sister, the Queen Mother of Scotland, brought to mind that other Margaret, her daughter. Lady Margaret Douglas had once again embroiled herself in an unseemly affair with a Howard, this time with the queen’s own brother, but had stopped just short, thankfully, of disgracing herself. He had sent his niece not to the Tower, that seemed harsh, but to cool her hot blood at Syon House. The nuns were all gone and that was a pity, but there were others there to look after her and make sure she engaged in no further scandalous behavior likely to bring shame and dishonor to her name. He would have to see about getting the wench married before she brought true disaster on herself. Like mother, like daughter! Or perhaps it was the Douglas side of her coming out…either way, the girl was hopeless and must be tamed. Let a husband do that, he was tired of trying.
And if Margaret were not in the Tower, his Uncle Arthur was, implicated in the shenanigans that had gone on with the French in Calais to surrender the town to François. He knew in his heart that his uncle would never betray him, but the law must take its course, and in the Tower his uncle must stay until his name was cleared with facts, and not simply by the favor of the king. It was unfortunate, but there it was.
Things would never have come to such a pass if Cromwell had still been with him! He regretted every day having his minister executed. Perhaps he had been too hasty. Cromwell, like his mentor before him, Cardinal Wolsey, had been an indefatigable genius at statecraft. No wonder the likes of Norfolk, Paget, Wriothesley and Gardiner had been so very resentful of his regard for Cromwell. All of them combined could not compare with that man’s ability.
And now he had returned from an arduous visit to Dover in a high fever and with his leg ulcer paining him more than it had ever done before. It wasn’t fair. And now he did not even have his little queen to solace him.
Well, Lent was almost over and when it was, he would announce his intention for this year’s Royal Progress to go to the north; all the way to York. He would even keep his promise, made so long ago, to have the queen’s coronation at York Minster there. It was to have been Jane’s coronation…but Katherine was his queen now, and surely she would be with child by then.
How irksome that the stiffness and soreness of his leg kept him from Katherine’s bed! But at least his trouble had coincided with Lent; should the sacrifice still count? Ah, well, he would make up for lost time soon, and it should not be his fault if the queen was not big with a boy by the time they reached the north.
It was said that if one wanted to kill a snake one must strike at the head. Before he left for the north that was exactly what he intended to do.
New Hall, Essex, June 1541
“Can you see her?” asked Lady Kempe, shading her eyes against the sun.
Lady Frances stood up in her stirrups; she was farsighted and scanned the distant horizon carefully, in a complete circle. “I cannot,” she replied, the frustration in her voice evident. “Clumsy Dodd! Whatever was he thinking, the knave?”
“There!” cried Lady Fitzgerald. “What is that?’
Frances swung her mare around in the direction of her cousin Elizabeth’s pointing finger. She sighed. “It is only Susan,” she said. “The Clarencius is a dismal horsewoman. But at least she knows the heathland. She can hardly get lost!”
Lady Kempe shook her head “Dodd is no knave,” she said. “He was distraught.”
Frances turned an angry countenance to Lady Kempe. “Aye, and what has his hastiness done but put Her Grace in like condition! Well, she could be anywhere by now. She is not on the heath. Perhaps she has ridden into the forest.”
Frances found New Hall depressing and loathed it. Mary, however, loved the place, and called it home. And so here they were when Dodd, who had stayed behind in London to collect Mary’s stipend, had come riding in like a madman, his cap askew, his exhausted horse all a-lather.
The news he brought was grave indeed. The king had ordered, without warning and without trial, the sudden execution of Lady Salisbury. Dodd had been waiting in the office of the Exchequer, and had just been handed and signed for Mary’s quarterly revenues, when a commotion broke out in the Tower precincts. He followed a crowd of people to Tower Green, where a scaffold had hastily been set up. To his shock and dismay, he recognized Lady Salisbury as she was led to the block. She was allowed to speak, and said how strange it was that she was to die as she had no idea why and had had no trial.
“It were terrible, it were, Your Grace,” sobbed the old man, wiping his steaming eyes on his sleeve. “The lady’s last words were of your gracious self, Your Grace, whom she commended to the people and then she commended her own soul to God. But lay her head on the block she would not. My lady said that so should only traitors do, and she was none of that.” He then laughed through his tears. “It weren’t really funny, Your Grace, truly not, but then my Lady Salisbury said, ‘If thou wouldst have my head, you must win it as you can!’ And then there followed a most unseemly chase, with my Lady Salisbury fighting off the young headsman and the Tower Guard. Oh, Your Grace, she were brave! Defiant, she were, to the last!” Then Dodd, who had known Lady Salisbury all his life and held her in great regard, broke down and was incoherent for a space; but finally he was able to describe how Lady Margaret, a woman of almost seventy, was finally caught and made to kneel, but cooperate she would not, and Dodd had counted eleven strokes of the axe before the good lady’s head had been separated from her body. Her screams had been horrific, and many had had to turn away, unable to watch the debacle. Many of the people became sickened and lay prostrate on the cobbles in their own vomit.
Dodd had arrived at Beaulieu just as the ladies were emerging from mass in the chapel. The tears were streaming down his weathered face and it took some minutes for him to catch his breath from his hard ride, so that he could relate his terrible tale. Mary’s reaction had been as swift as it was unpredictable. Whilst the ladies had ministered to poor Dodd, who was old now and feeling his years, Mary had, after patting his hand, and wiping away his tears with the little linen square she always kept tucked into her sleeve, simply disappeared. No one noticed that she had gone for a full ten minutes. Pages had been sent running, and it was discovered that she had taken a horse and was last seen by a startled groom, galloping across the heath as if she were being pursued by the devil.
Frances scanned the bleak landscape one more time and then plopped back down into her saddle. She shook her head. “Foolish girl!” she cried. “I hope she has not lamed her horse. Or worse!” The heath was a vast wasteland of rabbit warrens, mole holes, and scrub. Mary c
ould be lying out there now, her neck broken, her horse gone off to parts unknown. Unless they covered every square inch of the heathland in their search, they might never find her. Frances was astonished to find herself close to tears. She bit them back; one could not think when one was blinded by tears and emotion.
“Let us go back” said Lady Kempe. “We may well meet her on the way.”
Frances just shook her head and tugged at her rein, turning her horse back in the direction of the house. The heath was vast and the forest thick. There was nothing they could do but wait.
# # #
The quiet of the forest after the violence of her headlong flight across the heath served to calm Mary, but she simply could not rid herself of a raw, unadulterated feeling of sheer agony. Never to see Mother Pole again, and to know that she had died horribly, Mary’s own name the last utterance from the dear lady’s lips! It was too much to be borne. She wanted to scream, to rend, to tear, to destroy… Such feelings were completely against her nature, and she knew not how to control them. That was why she had run, run to the stables, flew into the first saddled horse she found, which unfortunately was Dodd’s, and had ridden the heath as she had never ridden it before.
She was now deep in the forest. She sat on a rock by a brook whose water was so clear one could see the little fish darting in it, this way and that. The sunlight dappled the water making it sparkle as it ran to meet the river. If only she could somehow become one with the water and float away…but she could not. She must sit here, in this place where the moss on the rocks was greener than any she had ever seen, and where flowers grew that even she could not name. It was a place in which fairies might have lived. It was a place of unfathomable beauty. The only sounds were that of birdsong, the scraping call of a nearby pheasant, and the chattering of squirrels.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 61
