Mary’s heart began to beat so fast that she feared a swoon; she sat down with an inelegant plop in the nearest chair. “What? What did you say?” she asked incredulously.
Elizabeth pursed her lips petulantly. “It is true,” she said. “I had it from Edward himself.”
Mary shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs from her brain. “H-he told you that? When?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“But what if…”
“The king, our father, was impotent.”
“Christ on the cross, child!” expostulated Mary. “Where did you learn such a word, leave alone its meaning?” Thirteen years old! It was that Mistress Ashley who had sullied her sister’s ear with such talk, she was willing to lay odds on it. Some recent observations, which up until this moment had been no more than that, flashed through her mind. Thomas Seymour had tried in earnest to marry both of them and been refused; perhaps Elizabeth had taken the Lord High Admiral’s intentions more seriously than were warranted. Dear God! “You cannot stay here,” Mary repeated.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and her lips were pressed into an impossibly thin line, sure signs of anger. Like many Tudors, Elizabeth possessed a formidable temper. With the onset of womanhood, that temper had become marked. “You cannot tell me where I shall abide,” she said sharply. “Only the king can do so, and he has said that I may stay.”
And all this behind her back! It was true that Elizabeth was not her ward; she was a ward of the Crown and only king and Council could make decisions about her situation. But Mary had always taken care of Elizabeth, ever since she was a baby. Mary had never blamed the child for its mother…Anne Boleyn! Dear God, now she was reminded most pointedly that this was not just her father’s child, this was also Anne Boleyn’s whelp.
Mary, still overwrought from the scene with Catherine, and having had no sleep, suddenly snapped.
“Well,” she said. “Forsooth! You are your mother’s daughter after all!”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “Pray do not bring my mother into this, God rest her innocent soul! The queen spoke truth when she said that our father murdered my mother! All know it to be true!”
“You know nothing of those days!” rejoined Mary. “You were a baby!”
“There are those who know the truth, and they have told me.”
“They have told you that which you wish to hear, you mean!” Mary took a deep breath. This had been brewing for years, and now the moment was finally here, she could not hold back the tide. “Your mother was a whore and you are a bastard, no less than was our brother Fitzroy! But that has never stopped me from loving you. If our father murdered your mother, he is no less guilty of murdering mine! He broke her heart, poor woman, and drove her to a slow grave! At least your own mother was shown the swift mercy of the axe!”
Mary, in the throes of her speech, had missed Elizabeth’s sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her pale skin had gone absolutely green, and there was a white circle around her lips, a sure sign of an impending faint. She stood and took the few steps to where Elizabeth stood before her.
“I-I am sorry,” she said. She took Elizabeth by the hand and led her to the chair. Elizabeth said nothing. Mary was sorry for saying what she had said in such a cruel fashion, in the heat of anger, but it did not change the facts. Beyond an apology for speaking harsh words in anger she could not go. Still Elizabeth said nothing.
Mary poured both herself and Elizabeth a goblet wine; she set her sister’s goblet by her side and sat on the edge of her bed. When had she and her sister grown so far apart? Elizabeth was a child no longer, she was growing up. And Mary had hit upon an unpleasant truth in her anger; Elizabeth was her mother’s daughter. She was a shameless flirt, Mary had observed this in the girl’s simpering behavior to the Lord High Admiral. But her behavior was at odds with her words, for no one had been more incensed than Elizabeth at the suggestion that she should marry a commoner, even if he was the brother of the Protector and Lord High Admiral. This bore thinking on. Mary herself was royal to the backbone and very level-headed, but Elizabeth was the daughter of a commoner, even if she was also the daughter of a king. If she even were the daughter of the king! No, that was unfair; any person with one good eye could see that Elizabeth was a Tudor. So why, then? Why this adamant refusal to leave Chelsea? If one put all the facts together, they pointed to this; that her sister was infatuated with Thomas Seymour, and while she had no wish to marry him, she suffered from a malady common to those inexperienced in love and the ways of the world. It was simply this; Thomas had wanted to marry Elizabeth, and this the child knew; but having been refused her hand, instead of going into a romantic decline, he had merely turned away and focused his attentions on the Dowager Queen. That which Elizabeth had been haughtily free to refuse as beneath her dignity took on added desirability when taken away so precipitately. Elizabeth had designs on the Lord High Admiral and meant to win his supposed affections back, away from the queen, even if she could not have him. Just as with Anne Boleyn, she had a penchant for toying with people’s affections to bolster her own shameless ego.
Elizabeth sat observing Mary as these thoughts raced through her sister’s mind. She was almost certain she knew what Mary was thinking. Her sister was a straightforward person, with little subtlety. She rose, leaving the wine untouched, and left the room.
This was the last memory Mary had of her sister; that of her silent, retreating back.
They had reached the manor house and torches had been lit to see them back in safety. Mary could still hear the waves crashing behind her. The gulls had ceased their keening. Thomas Gent, her stable master, stood waiting, lantern in hand, to help her dismount and to lead her tired mare away to her nosebag and a good rubdown.
Mary wondered, as she made her slow way up the path and into the house, what Elizabeth was doing at that moment.
# # #
François Van Der Delft was an indifferent rider, so had chosen to follow the princess to Norfolk in his litter. It was July and he was suffering miserably from hay-fever. But worst of all was that since the old king had dissolved the monasteries, accommodation on one’s travels through England were wholly unreliable and, on occasion, simply unavailable. Had he not needed to speak with the princess so urgently, he would never have attempted such a journey.
Thank God for Jehan, he thought for the hundredth time. Jehan Dubois had been his secretary for over ten years. He had become so used to Jehan’s assistance that he could not function without him. Jehan was like a son to him, even though there were only ten years’ difference in their ages. But still, they were of different generations; Jehan was young and strong, and had taken on himself not only the duties of secretary, but also that of factor and steward. It was through Jehan’s efforts that they had not spent a night in the litter on this trip! He always insisted on riding ahead and spying out some likely place; village, farmhouse, or joy of joys, an inn, where they would be cozy and well-fed for the night.
It had been a good summer so far. There had been rain when it was needed, sun when it mattered most, and God willing, a good harvest would be the result. And in his heart of hearts, he really did not mind this trip; Norfolk was a land of gently rolling hills and numerous lakes, many of which sported the picturesque windmills that reminded him of his own land. In fact, Delft was just across the Channel, so close that if only his arm were long enough, he felt he could have reached out and touched it.
Suddenly he heard the galloping of a horse. It must be Jehan, returned from his reconnoitering. Van der Delft lifted the little leather shade that regretfully, he had had to lower to minimize the dust and hay seed. He stuck his head out of the window and sure enough, approaching the litter very quickly was Jehan.
Jehan drew up sharply, scattering stones in all directions. The roads had been very dry, another blessing!
The litter halted and Jehan leaned over his pommel, trying to catch his breath from the hard ride. “Won
derful news, my lord,” he said, flashing his white teeth in a broad grin. Jehan was a Frenchman, and possessed the dark good looks of the men of that country. His skin was always tanned, or perhaps that was its natural hue, and his teeth always looked very white. Jehan’s horse was excited from the gallop and had no desire to stop; she danced and pulled at the bit. “We have arrived! The manor is just a few miles distant. Already they prepare Your Excellency’s rooms, and the kitchens are preparing a feast in your honor. The princess sends her most enthusiastic greetings and good wishes.”
Thank the Lord, thought van der Delft; along with his hay-fever, his gout was also now threatening. “Thank you, good Jehan,” he smiled. “Tell me, does Her Grace look well?”
“She does indeed, Your Excellency.” Jehan replied. “The sea air seems to marvelous agree with her.”
Van der Delft stifled a smile; Jehan was fluent in the English language, he could not have performed his duties as secretary were it not so, but his syntax was very singular.
# # #
Had he been alone after such a meal, the Imperial Ambassador would have loosened his waistcoat and unbuttoned his trousers. Unfortunately, he could not do so in the presence of the Princess Mary, who seemed very well-served and kept an excellent table. Sheringham was a small manor, but very comfortable. And his diplomat’s eye had noticed its proximity to the sea; that could be useful in the future.
Van der Delft longed for his brandywijn after such a repast, but it would be a breach of etiquette to suggest it. The princess was his hostess, and it was his place to wait for her to offer refreshment. And even if she did so, it most likely would not be such a libation; brandywijn was native to the Low Countries, not to England.
Mary sat observing her new link to her cousin Charles. She had been devastated when Chapuys had finally gone back to the Continent in 1545, settling for the time being in Louvain. He had been like a father to her; he was much kinder to her than her own father had ever been. But she knew he was ailing and it was unfair to expect him to stay in England any longer. Chapuys had earned his rest and God willing, he would live many more years to enjoy it.
François van der Delft was a fussy little man. He was balding and he was very short and…there was no other word for it…round. His stature, combined with the funny habit he had of bobbing and weaving, made her think of him as a plump little quail. Even when he was seated, he was wont to nod his head almost continually, as if he were searching the ground for food. She stifled a smile at the thought. Although he was no Chapuys, he was still an excellent ambassador, and she appreciated that he had made such a long journey to speak with her on a matter of some urgency.
Chapuys was a Savoyard, but he had spent much time at the court of Mary of Hungary, the sister of the emperor, and Governoress of the Netherlands. He had always enjoyed a stiff brandywijn after dinner, and Mary was wondering if perhaps van der Delft might not be pining for some of the stuff. She had always made sure she had some just in case Chapuys visited her unexpectedly.
It had been a long day and a long journey; van der Delft was almost nodding off, much to his embarrassment, when suddenly Mary said, “My dear François, would you perhaps care for some brandywijn?”
Van der Delft sat straight up in his chair, his eyes wide. “Oh, Your Grace, it would be the saving of me!”
Mary smiled. “I thought as much,” she said. She arose, went to the sideboard, and poured two goblets. She had never much cared for the taste of the stuff, but it had a peculiar virtue. When one drank it, it felt warm going down, and then it formed a little warm ball in the stomach. After a few moments, one could feel this warmth radiating out until it reached one’s very fingertips. It was a great restorative, and poor van der Delft looked as if he could use one.
She waited until she felt the effects of her own drink, and then when she judged that van der Delft had felt it, too, she asked, “What is amiss? What have you come to tell me?”
She was right about the virtue of the brandywijn; van der Delft felt positively reinvigorated.
“Your Grace,” he said. “As you know, the Council and Parliament have been working to sweep away the late king’s, your father’s, religious reforms, to pave the way for full Protestantism. Cranmer has come into his own at last, I fear. The Mass is to be done away with in favor of a new Communion service. I have to come inform Your Grace that such injunctions have just been issued in the king’s name. A wave of anti-clericalism has resulted in the capital. In churches throughout the city images are being destroyed. And the fever spreads as word spreads of the new laws.”
Mary’s face went white and she crossed herself. “God’s breath!” she expostulated. She was suddenly very glad of the brandywijn. She took another sip to steady herself. What a queer effect the brandywijn was having on her! She rarely swore. She crossed herself again.
Van der Delft shook his head. “And that is not all, I’m afraid. These new laws now forbid many of the old processionals. The ringing of bells is now prohibited, as well as the lighting of candles on the altar. Even the rosary is condemned as popish practice, and is now forbidden.”
A swift thought ran through her mind of her last talk with Margaret at Chelsea in the spring. Now the moment had come; what would she do?
Van der Delft also needed his brandywijn to get through this audience with the princess. He took another sip and waited. Finally he said, “There is more, I fear me, Your Grace.”
Mary looked at him with haunted eyes.
“Cranmer has published his Book of Homilies. It is to be used henceforth in all places of worship in the land. The book sets out the Lutheran doctrine of justification by faith alone. Services are henceforth to be conducted in English.”
Mary said nothing; she simply shook her head. She had been expecting this, but now it was come, she still had difficulty believing it. She composed her features and said, “I suppose I expected as much. It was just a matter of time. I do thank you for coming to me straightaway with the news.” She had planned to absent herself from the capital for some time. She was prepared. She would stay on her far estates and continue to celebrate mass as she had always done. She would miss Edward but there was nothing for it. All knew her feelings on the matter of religion.
“As grave as the news is, Your Grace, I might still have sent a messenger with such.” He took one more sip of the brandywijn, wishing it swiftly on its way through his body. He took a deep breath. “I am afraid that there is another book that has also been ordered placed in all the churches in the land as a result of these new religious laws.”
Mary looked at him quizzically.
Van der Delft sighed. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. “Does Your Grace recall the translation that you did of Erasmus?”
Mary looked taken aback at the non-sequitur. “The Paraphrases of the Gospels that I translated into English at the queen’s behest? What of it?”
“It has been printed and is to be placed in every church in the land along with Cranmer’s Homilies and the bible in English, for the laity to read.”
Mary stood up abruptly. “They cannot do that!” she cried.
Van der Delft looked at her in mute pity.
The Paraphrases was a Protestant text. She had engaged in its translation as an intellectual exercise only. At Catherine’s suggestion! She could see it all now. The Dowager Queen could just as easily have suppressed the book. Instead she had chosen to bring it to light, to the attention of king and Council, to demonstrate her, Mary’s, own…apparent…involvement in and support of the Reformed faith. Anyone who knew her most certainly knew better. But there were many who would not know better and who would interpret such a thing wrongly.
Should she regret her sharp words to Catherine at Chelsea? She did not in all good conscience see how she could. The words may have been spoken harshly and in anger, but that did not affect their truth.
The trouble that Margaret had spoken of and feared so greatly had come upon her at last. But she had not exp
ected this; to Mary, this was the ultimate betrayal. With this act, the love and friendship between her and Catherine had been broken beyond repair.
She did not realize it, but the slow tears were making their way down her cheeks. Van der Delft poured her another goblet of the brandywijn and left her to her grief.
Chapter 27
“So far as in me lies, I will be to you a dearest brother, and overflowing with all kindness.”
– Excerpt from a letter to Mary from Edward upon the death of their father
London, November 1547
The landscape was bleak and the day was raw and damp. It matched her mood. The only sounds were the persistent “hoo-EET!” of the willow warblers. It would be late afternoon by the time her cavalcade rode into the city. That was probably best; she had no desire to raise the ire of the Council any further by arriving in daylight and being cheered by crowds of Catholics.
November was not an ideal month for traveling, but there was no help for it. Events were moving swiftly in London and Mary felt strongly that her presence there was needed. It went against her inclination to return; she told herself that Somerset’s terse summons had played no part in her decision to leave Norfolk. If anything, this calling on the carpet, as it were, was an excellent opportunity to tell him exactly what she thought, in person, so that there could be no mistaking her meaning, of his so-called Protectorship. Protector of what, might one ask? Certainly not of her brother, who in her estimation was being treated not as the king he was, but as a royal puppet; and definitely not the realm, which daily fell deeper into an abyss of religious turmoil that could only end in heresy.
She was astounded by the reception that she had been afforded throughout her travels amongst her new properties in Norfolk. If anything, she had expected a certain amount of resentment from the people who must surely look upon her as a usurper of Howard lands. But it was not so. Everywhere she went she was cheered along the roads as the people came out to see her cavalcade pass and to wish her well. If the Council was uneasy about the ostentatious practice of her religion, they were well-justified; the people of Norfolk, far removed from the capital, remained faithful to the old ways, and knew that she did as well. Her position on her faith was well-known; once people knew that she was in close proximity, they arrived begging for Mass to be said for them. How could she refuse? Was this not the very thing, all those years ago, that she had vowed to do? She would, somehow, fulfill her destiny of bringing England back to Rome.
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