The nuns had been turned out by Cromwell all those years ago for refusing to accept Henry the Eighth as Supreme Head of the Church of England. One of the Syon monks, Richard Reynolds, had been hung, drawn and quartered as a traitor for his refusal to do so, so the nuns counted themselves lucky only to be sent into exile. The king, suffering what could only have been a guilty conscience in the Dame’s opinion, actually granted her a pension. The money had never been paid. But Mary, dear Princess Mary, penurious herself most of the time, had sent the Dame and her little band of nuns money out of her own privy purse whenever she could. The sisterhood of Syon had vowed not to disperse, as so many had had to do in that troubled time, but to stay together come what may. They had gone to the Netherlands, and although that country was rapidly turning Protestant, there were still many of the faithful, and it was on their charity, and Mary’s, that the nuns had been able to survive.
And then finally one day, word came; what joy! Against all odds, the princess had won her throne, and keeping her promise from all those years ago, had sent for them straight away. Along with the astounding news of her accession, Mary had sent enough money for their passage back to England, and assurance that Syon, beloved Syon, was theirs once more.
“Blessed Mother!” The choked cry startled the Dame, who turned to see the queen (princess no more!) and her one-time charge, Margaret Douglas, now the Countess of Lennox. She was expecting the visit, but had not been certain when the queen would arrive.
The Dame noted with satisfaction that Mary had always known exactly who she was; she did not need a chorus of bleating trumpeters to announce it everywhere she went. And so here she was, no ceremony, no fuss, just her dear princess and dear Margaret.
Mary found that she was so choked with emotion that she could not speak; she simply held out her arms and the Dame fell into them. Once there, she could hold back her tears no longer.
“There, there,” said the Dame, whilst administering little pats to Mary’s back. “There, there, it is all over now,” she said. She turned slightly and held an arm out to Margaret, who joined them, and for a few moments they mingled their tears; they had done so when they had had to say goodbye so many years ago, but this was different; these were tears of joy.
Finally, the three disengaged and as they did so, the Dame became aware that there was a nursemaid holding a baby, hovering just inside the door; and hiding in her skirts, but peeking out in curiosity, was a young boy.
The Dame, although a nun, loved children; one of the only regrets that she harbored about embracing the religious life was her lack of them. Somehow children knew of her affinity and seemed drawn to her. The little boy emerged from his nurse’s skirts and shyly approached the Dame. “I am Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, and this is my little brother Charles,” he said, apparently overcoming his reticence.
The Dame smiled and patted Margaret’s cheek then knelt before the little boy, the better to look into his face. Children seemed to trust one more easily when they did not have to look up to one.
“And how old would you be then, Lord Darnley?”
“I am seven,” he said proudly. “But my brother is just a baby!”
“So I see!” laughed Dame Agnes. Just then the baby let forth a wail.
“Are you hungry, Lord Darnley?” Little boys were always hungry.
“Indeed, I am,” he said, but looking to his mother for guidance as he replied.
The Dame nodded her satisfaction; she always knew that Margaret would settle her wild ways once she was married and had a family. “I daresay that there are some honey-cakes in the larder, and some new cider,” said the Dame. “Let us go and see!” She took the boy by the hand and the little party departed the abbess’s apartments.
Mary was once again overwhelmed with emotion as they walked down the familiar stone corridor that looked out onto the courtyard. The garden was neglected, but the nuns would soon see to that. And then they passed the stillroom where Mary and Margaret had spent so much of their time, happily occupied in drying herbs, and making lavender pillows and potpourri. When she lifted her eyes she had expected to see the room locked and barred; the nuns had only been back in residence for less than a week. But it was not so; the door was open, despite the chill of the day. A merry fire burned on the hearth, and the candle was back in its little round window. Mary half expected to see the Fair Geraldine mixing the precious oils as she used to do; but instead there was only an old nun, who, missing several of her teeth, smiled at Mary and inclined her head. Her arms were elbow-deep in a bowl of some mixture that even as she bruised it sent forth an intriguing aroma. All should soon be well at Syon, and for that Mary was very glad.
No monks had as yet returned to the monastery at Syon; only the convent had been reopened thus far. Little Lord Darnley had taken himself off with his honey-cakes and a sack full of bread crumbs, provided him by the Dame, with the intention of feeding the ducks on the pond. So in the larder there were only the women, and the nursemaid did not hesitate in this benign atmosphere to feed the baby.
They sat at the rough wooden table that Mary remembered so well. She ran her hands over its surface, recalling the many times she had kneaded bread dough on it until her arms ached. She smiled; those were such happy memories.
The Dame poured the golden cider into the plain clay mugs used by the nuns and Mary, as she was wont to do, took over the mulling. She served the Dame first, who blew on the aromatic concoction and then took a long, satisfied pull. “And how long have ye been back from the north, my lady?” she asked Margaret.
“I confess that I have only just arrived,” Margaret replied. “My good cousin,” she reached out and squeezed Mary’s arm, “must have sent for me at the same moment she sent for you. Is that not so, Cousin?”
“Indeed,” smiled Mary. “Indeed, it is so. My first thought was that I must have about me those whom I love and trust. The good Lord knows I need such, with all the pull devil, pull baker going on about my marriage!” Mary seemed genuinely distressed.
“What do you mean, child?” asked Dame Agnes.
“Everyone is pestering her,” said Margaret, before Mary had a chance even to draw breath. “Rochester, Englefield, Waldegrave and Gardiner were all in the Tower at the same time, and evidently grew to know Edward Courtenay quite well, and perhaps to feel sorry for him.” Margaret reached out and placed a comforting hand over Mary’s. “They, along with Her Grace’s household staff, the Council, and even her ladies are pressing the earl’s suit, quite strongly.”
“But,” said Mary, “the Imperial ambassador has told me some very disquieting things about my cousin. He, of course, seeks to dissuade me from marrying anyone but my cousin Philip. Now I have received a letter directly from Dom Luis, the emperor’s own brother-in-law, he to whom my betrothal has been mooted more than once in the past, renewing his suit; apparently without the emperor’s knowledge or consent. And I was further astonished to receive a similar letter from my other cousin, the Archduke Ferdinand, Charles’ brother and King of the Romans, offering his hand, and should I not find him acceptable, that of his son! Just when the Hapsburgs should be presenting a united front, they are squabbling over me and England like a bevy of old fishwives! Between the constant admonishments of the Council, my ladies and the foreign petitioners, my head is spinning with it all.”
The Dame narrowed her eyes. “What of Lord Courtenay have you been told, if Your Grace does not think me too bold?”
Mary hesitated; but the Dame was a worldly woman for all she was an abbess. “Well,” said Mary carefully. “Well, that he…he…”
“That he drinks himself into a stupor every day and even has the temerity to bring his loose women into the palace!” said Margaret.
Mary nodded. That was what she had heard. “But still Lady Gertrude sings his praises to me. I begin to wonder if everyone near me just looks to their own advantage and seeks naught but their own benefit. The corollary of which is not very flattering to mine!” Mary snuffled and the
Dame handed her a linen square from a stack at the end of the table.
Dame Agnes steepled her fingers over her lips and then drew a deep breath. “Child,” she said, “now that you are queen everyone will seek for themselves what benefits they can gain, even at your expense or the expense of your friendship. There may be some who have your best interests at heart, but it will be hard to determine which those are. I regret to say that I believe what you have heard about your cousin Courtenay is true. You will have to take such into consideration when you make your choice of husband.”
Praise the saints, thought Mary, one person who did not force their opinion on her and think to make her do their will, instead of her own! Mary smiled and used the linen square to wipe away her tears. “You astonish me,” she laughed.
The Dame took another pull of her cider and chuckled. “Why? Think you that because I am a nun, that I know naught of drinking and whoring? My own father drank and whored with the best of them, driving my poor mother into an early grave. It is one of the reasons that I became a nun. And even though I am newly back on English shores, I have my sources. I had thought to warn you of this myself. I understand that the Imperial ambassador has his own motives for informing you of this, but I have no agenda other than your welfare at heart.”
Mary arose, went behind Dame Agnes’s chair, and put her arms around the Dame’s neck. “I know it and I thank you for it.”
“Humph,” expostulated Margaret. “Even the king of France seeks to have his say. He was the emperor’s prisoner for four years when he was a child, sent by his own father as a hostage! For that His Grace of France never forgave either his father or your cousin Charles! But having no viable candidate to offer himself, he threatens war on England if my cousin marries a Hapsburg!”
“Now you see why my head spins,” said Mary with a cynical smile. She arose once more and mulled the cider, one mug for each of them. The women were silent for a while, sipping their cider and thinking over all that had been said. Mary looked longingly over at the baby, not for the first time.
“Nurse,” said Margaret. “Go and find Lord Darnley and make sure that he has not fallen into the duck pond himself. We shall watch the baby.”
The nurse was a young woman, and the idea of a walk around the monastery grounds in the fresh air after the close and cozy atmosphere of the larder would be a welcome break. She nodded, handed the child to Margaret, and curtseying, left the room.
“Here, Mary,” said Margaret. “You take a turn.”
With a radiant smile, Mary reached out her arms for the bundle and said, “With pleasure!”
“There are, of course, both advantages and disadvantages to both domestic and foreign matches,” said the Dame. “I trust you, Your Grace, to weigh them all and make the right decision.”
Mary swayed the baby in her arms and he smiled and gurgled. If only she had such a one! She trusted she soon would. “If only everyone else believed that I am indeed capable of such! How much more pleasant life would be. Oh!” declared Mary. “In all the ado I forgot to tell you! I have had the most wonderful letter from Reginald!”
The Dame’s eyes lit up at the mention of Cardinal Pole. When they were young, a marriage between Reginald and Mary had been mooted, but Reginald had pursued a religious life. But surely here was one who could be trusted to give unselfish guidance to the queen? What Her Grace needed right now, Dame Agnes could clearly see, was moral support, and she herself intended to provide it, not being in a position to give the queen political counsel. Perhaps between herself and Reginald Pole, they could help things come out right for Mary.
“Yes,” said Mary. “He is enthusiastic about returning to England and helping me in my efforts to restore the Mass, and to return the English church to Rome. All he awaits is the pope’s mandate.” Mary cooed at the baby, entranced with the strength with which his tiny hand gripped her finger. Her heart twisted as she recalled the days when Elizabeth, and later Edward, had done the same as she held them in her arms. She sighed. “Well, one thing is certain,” she said. “No matter what I decide, or how good my reasons, some people are going to be displeased. And I make this vow before you; I will marry no man whom I have not met!” She loved Anne of Cleves with all her heart, but the specter of all the unhappiness that had resulted from that calamity had never left her. “Until I have weighed all the aspects, I will take no decision. And when I do, that decision shall be mine!”
The Dame noted with satisfaction that far from being tentative and weak, Mary showed a laudable determination to act as the queen she was. Even so, it had not taken people long to decide that for a woman to reign was an unnatural thing; that the queen should marry seemed to be a foregone conclusion, even though there were plenty of examples of competent female rule, and many of them were blood relatives to Mary. Mary’s Aunt Margaret had ruled the Netherlands for the Emperor Maximilian, and now his granddaughter Mary of Hungary, Charles’ sister, did the same; Marie de Guise ruled Scotland as regent for the infant Mary, Queen of Scots; Mary’s own mother had acted as Regent of England and won the Battle of Flodden whilst her father had been making war in France, and it must be said, with far less effect; and need anyone look further than Isabella of Castile, the queen’s grandmother, she who was famous for driving the Moors from Spain, and who had ruled her country independently of her husband, the King of Aragon? Now there was an example of successful female rule!
Much the same thoughts ran through Mary’s mind. Wordlessly, she arose and handed the baby to Margaret. She walked to the door of the larder, which opened out upon the kitchen garden. It was almost dusk and the shadows were getting long.
She was determined to do her forebears proud, determined to demonstrate that a daughter was just as good as a son; and to repay God for overriding her father’s unfair stance on female succession.
Westminster Palace, October 1553
The faces ranged about the Council table recalled to Mary the dark, uncertain days when she had faced the same men from a position of fear and helplessness. For a brief moment, the very thought caused her nerve to fail her. And then the fact that she was queen and now held sway over them all surged up in her so strongly that it almost overwhelmed her. No more should she quake in fear and apprehension when confronting them! Rather, they should learn to fear her wrath.
The Lord Chancellor leaned forward and bore down upon her with his piercing dark eyes. “The fact remains, Your Grace, that the people are not likely to accept a foreign match. Your Grace did say that you would marry an Englishman should you win the throne.”
“That,” retorted Mary, “was merely a declaration of intent which presupposed that there is an Englishman worthy of the privilege.”
“Oh, come,” said Gardiner. “All know that His Grace of Devon…”
Mary had heard people say that they were so angry they saw red; she had never taken it literally until that moment. Suddenly all the pressure that had been put to bear upon her by Rochester, Englefield, Waldegrave, Gardiner, Susan and the rest of her ladies, and lastly, the constant annoying nagging of Lady Gertrude on behalf of her son, exploded in a burst of temper such as she had witnessed her father display on occasion, but that she had never thought to display herself. It was almost as if she were perched somewhere high up in the rafters, looking down on the scene as if it were a play; as if she were watching some other woman stand up so abruptly that her chair toppled, as if it were someone else’s flashing eyes; as if she were observing some other person, a person heretofore utterly unknown to her, pounding her fist on the table so hard that the wine cups jumped and sloshed and errant quills rolled off the table and onto the floor.
“Enough!” she shouted. “I will hear no more of the exquisite virtues of my cousin Courtenay, for I assure you all, they do not exist! Yes, I promised to consider marrying a subject should I win the throne, but that supposed, gentlemen, that there was an Englishman fit to be king!” She must draw breath, and in that instant, her chest heaving with indignation, she kn
ew a moment of regret for Reginald. If only he had not pursued a religious life, and would marry her, what a king he would have made! He was sixteen years her elder, not a bad thing in a man or a marriage. Even though he was a cardinal, he had never taken more than deacon’s orders; he was, technically, free to marry if he chose. But he had made it clear that his contribution to England would be associated with restoring her to the true faith, and not one of rule. Perhaps he had been in the church too long to consider changing his way of life.
Several of the Councilmen seemed about to respond to her outburst, but a single black look from the queen quelled all thought of response without being specifically asked to speak.
Still standing, Mary scanned the face of every man in the room. The silence had become deafening, and decidedly uncomfortable. But it was not Mary’s way to rant, rave and rail as she had seen her father do many a time. When she spoke again, her voice was low, so low that many of them had to lean forward to hear her words.
“Think you that I am deaf and blind? I am very much aware of the ploys that many of you have used to convince me that the Earl of Devon should be my choice of husband, and your king.” Another quick scan yielded some interesting information; she knew of the tactics but was not entirely certain who was deploying them, beyond the most outspoken of them; now those who would not meet her eyes were implicated as well. The Dame had spoken true; she must learn to read men’s faces if she would know their minds, and whom she could trust. “I do not appreciate the petticoat schemes that you have used to cause my ladies to badger me into a state of nervous exhaustion over the matter! They are women, and think only for my good; they believe what you tell them without question. And there am I, day after day, subjected to their constant chattering about marriage and romance! What has romance to do with the marriage of a queen?
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