And if she were lucky perhaps they would come to love each other, her foreign husband and herself. Love…it had happened for her grandfather, who had been besotted with his Plantagenet bride. There had been no choice whatsoever for either of them; to end the bloody civil wars in England that had so plagued and decimated the land, White Rose had to join with Red Rose. They had done so, and had had that rarest of things in royal unions, a happy, loving relationship. And her father, she had been told, had coveted his brother Arthur’s captivating Spanish bride from the moment he had first clapped eyes on her at the tender young age of nine. No one could have predicted Arthur’s early death, but her father had married his brother’s widow without hesitation, and they had had twenty happy, loving years of marriage, marred only by their failure to produce a male heir, and until Anne Boleyn had come along to spoil it.
Luck…love. She could only hope that God’s favor would extend to such.
Chapter 37
“Mary was, indeed, a political innocent, incapable of subtlety or the ability to dissemble.”
– Alison Weir
Richmond Palace, November 1553
She was uncertain what had awakened her, and the sudden transition from deep sleep to wakefulness left her feeling confused and disoriented. Then she heard it again; the noise was faint, far-off sounding, but strange and eerie, especially at such an hour. She was unsure of the time, but she guessed that it must be very late indeed.
As an unmarried queen, Mary must have a reliable female to share her bed, a woman who was above reproach; and despite Lady Gertrude’s annoying persistence in pressing Courtenay’s suit for marriage, the Marchioness of Exeter had won that place and kept it. Just in time Lady Gertrude had finally ceased her importuning on her son’s behalf; Mary had grown heartily weary of it and had almost replaced Gertrude as her sleeping companion. But the marchioness was old and wise and evidently knew when enough was enough. Mary believed that Lady Gertrude now truly saw her son for what he was and that this knowledge had played a part in the cessation of her nagging on Edward Courtenay’s behalf.
Mary smiled to herself; Gertrude slept so soundly that she could have paraded a troupe of dancing girls through her bedchamber and not awakened the old lady.
“Gertrude,” she hissed, her voice a sibilant whisper. “Gertrude!” Mary shook the marchioness, but with no result.
Finally Mary arose, lit a candle, and padded to the door of her chamber. She opened the door slightly and heard a cry, muffled voices and a commotion in the outer rooms.
“Susan!” she called into the darkness.
Another candle glowed in the next room, its wavering flame protected by a small hand. “It is I, Dormer, Your Grace,” said a disembodied voice.
“Jane!” cried Mary. “What is amiss? What was that dreadful noise? Or did I dream it?”
The flame detached itself from the door to the outer rooms and as Jane’s figure drew nearer, Mary could just make out the girl’s features.
“There it is again!” cried Mary. “Come, let us go and find out what is afoot. What is the hour?”
“I believe it to be about half-four of the clock, Your Grace,” Jane replied.
As they drew nearer to the door to the outermost room of the Queen’s Apartments, Mary could now identify the noise that had awakened her as a hysterical keening, broken by wracking sobs. Never had she heard such weeping and wailing.
Mary opened the door to find the outermost chamber of the Queen’s Apartments ablaze with candelabra and crowded with people. Her women were gathered there, and in their midst were Frances and Margaret, both fully dressed and mud-spattered.
“Christ on the Cross!” cried Mary. “What has happened?”
Frances turned, her eyes wild, her face tear-streaked, and her hair a frightful mess from what looked to have been a headlong ride in the night. Mary had not seen Frances since before her cousin’s daughter, the Lady Jane Grey, had usurped the throne.
At the sight of the queen, Frances gave a strangled cry and rushing to her cousin’s side, threw herself at Mary’s feet. She looked up, her hands clasped to her breast, the tears streaming down her face. Frances, hysterical, heaving with sobs and incoherent, now grasped at Mary’s skirts, her mouth a semi-circle of anguish and her lips quivering.
“Frances,” said Mary sternly, “you must calm yourself. I cannot understand you.” In frustration she turned to Margaret. “Margaret, what has happened? Do you know?”
Breathless herself, Margaret replied, “Yes. A courier…a messenger…arrived at Sheen not an hour since. I have been visiting Frances there since Monday. I was awakened by her screams. She dressed in haste with the intention of riding here to beg Your Grace for clemency for the duke. I could do naught but come with her.”
Sheen was only a few miles away; it was there to which Mary had banished her cousin whilst she decided what was to be done about the undoubted involvement of the Suffolks in the attempt to place their daughter on the throne of England. Henry Grey, the duke of Suffolk, and her cousin Jane, remained in the Tower; in the face of hostile public sentiment on the matter, the Tower was the safest place to keep them whilst they awaited trial for their crimes.
“But what has happened?” asked Mary. “What was the courier’s message?”
“An attempt has been made on the duke’s life,” said Margaret.
At these words Frances’s cries became louder and she was now on the floor at Mary’s feet, her arms clasped about Mary’s ankles.
“Oh, Frances,” cried Mary, “do stop that howling and get up!” Addressing Margaret, she said, “What manner of attempt?”
“It is believed,” replied Margaret, “that he was poisoned. If you will recall, Jane was very ill just before…forsooth, you know what I mean. But she recovered and Frances chalked it up to bad eels. But Jane never believed that; she was convinced that an attempt had been made to poison her. And now someone has apparently tried to poison the duke. He awoke in the small hours in terrible pain; an apothecary was called and he was purged only just in time, it seems.”
“Oh…M-Mary…d-dearest c-cousin,” panted Frances, looking up at Mary, her eyes streaming tears, “p-please, I b-beg you…the d-duke…b-beloved husband…”
Frances’s arms were flailing and Mary managed to grasp them and pull Frances to her, a motion that succeeded only in hauling her cousin to her knees; Frances fell forward and grasped Mary tightly about her own knees. It was interesting to observe amidst all the ado, thought Mary, that those who seemed the strongest were often the ones who, when they crumbled, did so spectacularly. Frances was a strong woman; she ruled her life, her husband, her children, her servants and all her domains with an iron hand. But her excessive love for her husband was well known.
But her cousin’s cry for her beloved husband struck just the right chord with Mary; now soon to be a wife herself (heady thought!), how would she have felt to be awakened in the night to be told that someone had tried to murder Philip? Her eyes softened as she knelt down, putting herself on eye level with her distraught cousin. She had vowed to forgive those who had wronged her and she had done so; many whom she had forgiven certainly were not deserving of her magnanimity. But Frances was her flesh and blood, and even though her cousin had knowingly sought to betray her, she must forgive her, and help her now.
She seized Frances by the shoulders and looked into her face. “Frances,” she said sternly. “Stop this noise. Now tell me, Cousin, what would you have me do?”
Frances clasped her hands together as if in an attitude of prayer; she gulped air and made an effort to cease her hysterics. “Oh, M-Mary, Good C-Cousin, merciful queen, please, of thy k-kindness, let my husband be released from the d-dangers of the Tower and be allowed to come to me at Sheen.”
Something about her cousin’s supplication jarred, but she could not place her finger on it; perhaps it was because she had been awakened from her own troubled sleep, and was utterly exhausted. Every fiber of her being cried out for her bed. Bu
t still something nagged at her; who would want to kill the duke of Suffolk? He had caused no trouble whilst in the Tower, and had made no effort to gain his own freedom, or his daughter Jane’s. He had offered no information about any others that could have worked to earn him his own release. So why?
Mary looked at Margaret, who shrugged and gave her head a slight nod.
“Very well,” said Mary. “Susan.”
“I am here, Your Grace,” replied Susan Clarencius, clutching her robe about her and stifling a yawn.
Mary sat on the floor and clasping a now quietly sobbing Frances to her breast, she said, “Find a page and give the order. The duke of Suffolk is to be removed from the Tower as soon as he is fit to travel, and is to be taken to Sheen.”
Frances looked up into Mary’s face and through her hiccoughs, said, “Oh, b-bless you, Good C-Cousin!”
“There, there,” said Mary, smoothing Frances’s hair away from her face and wiping the tears away with her thumb. “Come, you shall stay with me tonight, and tomorrow, when you return to Sheen, the duke shall be waiting there for you.” She signed to her ladies to help her get Frances onto her feet.
Divested of her mud-spattered clothing, Frances slept as soon as her head hit the pillow, but Mary lay wakeful. Even though she was tired beyond words, she could not drop off to sleep. She would have to rise soon in any case, for morning service. She sighed, and looked over at Frances, who was now just a shape under the counterpane. She could only hope that someday soon, she would come to love Philip as much as Frances evidently loved Henry Grey.
Palace of Westminster, November 1553
The room was so dark that Mary could not see her hand in front of her face; the fire had died in the night and the candles were burned out. It was cold. But gradually the sun crept up over the horizon and soon Mary was able to make out shapes in the room and then objects.
At the moment that the pale autumn sunlight finally flooded the room she thought to herself that today was a day like any other; but then memory flooded and she remembered that this was not so. Today was different. This was the day that she would sit in Parliament and hear them declare that her mother’s marriage to her father was true and good, the odious divorce annulled. Today was the day that once again, after twenty long years, she was to be restored to legitimacy in the eyes of England. Of course, she had never ceased to be legitimate according to the Catholic Church, or in the estimation of any Catholic country; and her supposed bastardy had not prevented her from attaining the throne of England. But the issue had rankled, and now, at long last, this was the day upon which she would finally avenge her mother and be returned, by English law, to a state of lawfully begotten legitimacy.
Also, this was her first Parliament and of this she was very proud. She had opened the session a month before, and then left the men to their duties. They had deliberated issues, passed some acts, and revoked others. And today was the blessed, long-awaited day upon which she was to hear the good news that her mother was rehabilitated by English law and that she herself was restored to legitimacy in the eyes of that law.
In a dream-like state she arose, washed, dressed, attended Mass; and finally the long-awaited moment came and she entered the house of Parliament, dressed in a purple gown and kirtle, to emphasize her royalty, and adorned with the jewels of a queen. In memory of her mother she wore the golden collar that Katharine of Aragon had brought with her from Spain as part of her dowry, and many of the jewels that had belonged to her mother, and that Mary knew were her special favorites. Thus would her mother be there with her in spirit if not in the flesh.
As she mounted the dais to the throne and looked out over the sea of faces, never had she felt so vindicated. She nodded to the Speaker, who held the precious scrolls. One by one he read them out with solemn countenance in his droning voice, the writs and acts that repealed nine statutes, including Edward’s perfidious Act of Uniformity. Mary sat very still, her eyes fixed upon the royal standard that hung opposite her on the great stone wall. After each proclamation was read, the trumpets sounded their clarion call, as if to emphasize the import of the moment. At last the Act of Restitution was read out. It was the repeal of the act that had demoted her mother from Queen of England to Dowager Princess of Wales. As the words sounded in her ears, her eyes filled with tears and the room swam in a kaleidoscope of colors.
There was one statute that had not passed, that revoking her title of Supreme Head of the Church of England. It was disappointing, but she understood. All in good time. Many of the men in this room, and others of the nobility throughout the land, feared that a return to papal authority might mean that they would have to give up the church lands and property that they had stolen so many years ago. Reluctantly she had come to realize that there were some things that she would not be able to change; some things that could not be fixed as well as she would have them be. Her restoration of England to the Catholic faith would not be perfect in many respects, but this she knew she must accept. It was enough, for today, that with the repeal of the Act of Uniformity, the Catholic faith was restored to the extent that it was now the law of the land that the faith must be practiced as it had been in her father’s time. The rest would come; she must be patient. The people had been forced into Protestantism by Edward’s laws; now that those laws had been repealed, Mary was convinced that the people would return, and gladly, to the true faith.
Finally the gavel sounded and Mary arose; there was no need for her to address the Lords and Commons; she had come only at their invitation to hear at firsthand that for which she had hoped and longed for these many years. Her heart was full to bursting and she wanted nothing at that moment so much as to return to her privy chamber, to her private altar, and to give thanks to God for his bounty.
“If Your Grace will forgive me…” said a booming voice. Mary turned to see the Speaker of the House, Sir John Pollard, regarding her uncertainly.
Mary nodded and looked at him quizzically. “Yes, Sir John?”
“I…that is, the Commons…we w-would like…that is if Your Grace will p-permit me…” stammered Sir John.
Mary did not know Sir John well, but she had never noticed before that he stuttered. What on earth ailed the man, and what did he want, she wondered?
She nodded again and said, “What is it you want to say to me, Sir John?”
The queen’s piercing eyes and gruff voice momentarily silenced him, but he was the Speaker, after all, and it was his duty to speak not only for his brethren in the Commons, but for all of the people of England. He could do no less than to tell the queen of their dismay at her decision to marry outside of England, and their fears for the realm if she were to marry such a powerful foreigner as Philip of Spain.
Sir John bowed and said, “Your Grace, I have been asked…that is, I have been tasked to…” he coughed and cleared his throat. “Your Grace…”
Mary, impatient to be gone, said, “Out with it, man! What do you wish to say?”
Suddenly Sir John straightened his back, thrust out his chest and said, “Your Grace, it is my duty to speak to you on behalf of the people of England. This I do now. The people are greatly displeased, mightily perplexed, and yes, frightened, by Your Grace’s intention to marry with a prince that is not of this realm, and who is foreign to England’s shores. The people are right alarmed, Your Grace, at the prospect of a foreign prince, but especially a Spaniard, coming to these shores to lord it over the people of England. The people, Your Grace, are outraged at the prospect of armed, mail-clad, dour Spaniards marching through the countryside, terrorizing good English people in their homes. For they have heard naught but that the Spanish are ruthless, harsh and cruel. And what if Your Grace were to…forgive me, Your Grace, but what if Your Grace were to die childless? The people fear that such a king, for king of this realm he would be, might then exploit England for his own ends, and use poor England as a helpless milch cow, taking her money, her armaments, and her men, and forcing them to go abroad from their homes
to fight the emperor’s foreign wars.
And what if Your Grace were to produce an heir? Could not that self-same king usurp the throne of the child, if he so pleased? And heaven forfend, might such a king also not simply either imprison Your Grace, and England’s heir should God so favor us with one, or perhaps even remove your gracious self, our rightful queen, along with England’s heir, to his own foreign dominions, taking you out of England? May not a husband do as he will with a wife, yea, even though that wife be a queen? For a woman’s goods and chattels are her husband’s by right, and if England be Your Grace’s dowry, yourself and your domains would be his to command. Should Your Grace’s foreign husband so act, there would be naught that either yourself or the people of England could do about it; we would be helpless against the might of so large and august an empire. The people fear, Your Grace, that this foreign prince shall abuse England and make of her a mere province of the great Empire of which Spain is also but a part; for will that self-same prince not someday take the place of your cousin and be emperor himself? Who shall say him nay? Your august father, Good King Henry of blessed memory, four times married a subject; will not Your Grace deign, for the good of the realm and the assuaging of the people’s fears, to consider marrying an Englishman? If Your Grace will not so consider, we are compelled to warn you that the people will almost certainly revolt.”
At first Mary had simply been exasperated that Pollard’s long-winded speech had served to delay her departure, that she might hie to her prie-dieu to thank God for this day’s work and its result of restoring her mother’s marriage and her own legitimacy. As he continued to speak, however, her exasperation turned to the much more dangerous condition of being excessively annoyed. By the time Pollard finally concluded his remarks, she had reached a state of such ire that she could barely contain herself. As he spoke, she had been formulating her response, the better to rebut, point by point, his list of issues. Had he stopped sooner, she would only have lost her temper; but his speech had been so lengthy that she was long past the stage of simple indignation and had transformed into a state of such cold fury that her heart raced and her whole body trembled with rage.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 37
