by Tony Riches
Frances nudged her. ‘They look pagan, don’t you think, Mother?’
Mary nodded. ‘I suppose they do, Frances. The May Fair goes back longer than anyone can remember. It’s good to celebrate the coming of spring after such a cold winter, don’t you think?’
Frances looked uncertain. ‘Doesn’t this trouble the monks from the abbey?’
Mary shook her head. ‘This land belongs to the abbey but they would never stop it, even if they don’t approve.’
Since her time with Princess Mary, Frances had become a more devout Catholic, even making little Henry attend Mass in their private chapel. Mary saw a lot of herself in her daughter. Of all her children, Frances was the one who seemed more Tudor than Brandon, so it would be a great shame if she chose to enter a convent. Mary resolved to make sure she married well.
Shouting voices interrupted her reverie as stewards cleared the space in front of them for the traditional mummers’ play. A raised stage with simple wooden scenery was erected and iron braziers lit to keep the audience at bay. The crowd cheered as a giant grey-bearded man, swathed in white linen robes and wearing a laurel wreath, took to the stage and raised his painted wooden thunderbolt into the air.
‘I am Zeus, supreme ruler of the gods, lord of the sky and rain, and bringer of the spring!’ His deep voice carried well, drawing an even greater circle of onlookers. ‘Listen to my cautionary tale – and learn from it!’
A second man, wearing robes dyed to represent the sea, stepped on to the stage carrying a long wooden trident which he brandished, alarming the small children sitting at the front. ‘I am Poseidon, brother of Zeus, and have been led astray by a temptress named Medusa.’
The musicians began playing a lilting tune and the attractive girl playing the part of Medusa began to dance provocatively before the gods, flicking her long dark hair, worn loose over her shoulders. Just as she seemed to bewitch them, a woman in white robes playing the goddess Athena appeared and stopped her with a curse.
A sudden thunder of drums startled the crowd and Medusa vanished behind the scenery to re-emerge as a monster, her hair a mass of snakes. Then a handsome young actor bounded into the clearing to protect them.
‘I, Perseus, know good will always overcome evil!’ With a slash of his wooden sword he slew Medusa, holding up her severed head to a rousing cheer from the crowd.
The musicians struck up a traditional dance as the audience applauded but Mary glanced at her husband and saw his troubled look. ‘There is a resemblance between this Medusa and the king’s new mistress.’
He nodded. ‘These mummers’ plays are always more than they seem – and the people well know it.’
Brandon returned from London with bad news. ‘All they talk about in the taverns is the king’s divorce. The people blame Cardinal Wolsey.’
‘Has Wolsey not done everything my brother commands him?’
Brandon shook his head. ‘They would blame him for the dry summers and freezing winters, if they could. Wolsey has never been short of enemies but I think he has angered Henry once too often – and I sense the hand of Thomas Boleyn behind this.’
‘He’s back at court?’
‘With most of his family.’ Brandon scowled. ‘It seems they can do no wrong. Henry made Boleyn Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond – and sent him as his envoy to Emperor Charles and the pope, to seek support for his annulment.’
‘But they would know Boleyn’s daughter stands to profit?’
‘Of course. It would be hard to make a poorer choice for such a mission.’
Mary reached out a hand. ‘Not so loud, Charles, the servants might hear you.’
‘What of it?’
Mary lowered her voice. ‘Frances told me Queen Catherine suspects there are spies within her chambers. I think it is best to be careful now.’
‘You think your brother would place spies among our servants?’ His tone was scornful.
Mary hesitated to answer. ‘Who knows my brother’s mind?’
‘I once thought I did,’ he kept his voice low, ‘or at least thought nothing he did would surprise me.’
‘We live in challenging times. What word is there of Queen Catherine?’
‘She is defiant, which angers Henry still further.’
That night the pain in her side kept Mary awake while all the household slept. Brandon had chosen to sleep in his own chambers and she had their bed moved so she could see out of the small window. A full moon, so bright it lit up her room, cast strange shadows into the dark corners.
She turned Brandon’s words over in her mind. He’d told her there were three factions now at Henry’s court. The greatest was Sir Thomas Boleyn’s, as Norfolk had predictably decided to support his niece Anne Boleyn and others had followed, to keep in favour with the king.
Brandon counted himself among Wolsey’s supporters, but now the cardinal had been banished from court his power was waning. Mary shared her husband’s loyalty to Thomas Wolsey, even if she didn’t always approve of his methods. He had saved them more than once and now it was time to repay their debts.
Mary was one of the most prominent members of the queen’s faction. A few brave souls had also spoken out in Catherine’s defence, including Archbishop John Fisher, her grandmother’s confessor. Most kept their thoughts private, although they muttered their discontent behind her brother’s back.
Now Henry openly challenged Queen Catherine’s assertion that her marriage to Arthur was never consummated. Mary recalled how, when he married Catherine, Henry had privately admitted his doubts, although it suited him to believe her. She’d asked him then to take her at her word, as to lie about such a thing would be a sin.
Catherine once hinted to her of a great secret she’d not dared to confess, even to her priest. She had been in an impossible position at the time and Mary promised to pray for her soul. Now it seemed the future of the country could depend on her continued denial of the truth.
It was obvious to them all that life could not simply go on as normal while what was now being talked of as ‘the king’s great matter’ remained unresolved. Mary sensed something would happen to tip the balance one way or the other, yet when it did she was still shocked.
‘Wolsey is dead?’ She stared wide-eyed at Brandon. ‘Was he murdered? Executed?’ She struggled to think which would be worse.
Brandon’s lined face looked grim. ‘He was accused of treason against the king.’
‘No!’ Mary took Brandon’s hand in hers. ‘Did you ever know a more loyal man than Thomas Wolsey?’
‘It was an unjust reward for a lifetime of service. Henry Percy was ordered to bring him back from York to London on a charge of allowing papal interference in matters of state, without the consent of the Crown.’
‘But he was acting on Henry’s orders—’
‘That’s the worst of it.’ His hand formed a fist. ‘They had a spy in his household, his Venetian physician, who testified Wolsey was in secret correspondence with Rome.’
‘How did he die?’ Mary’s voice was little more than a whisper.
‘It seems the cardinal fell ill and collapsed on the way to London.’ Brandon scowled. ‘No one knows the cause but by the Lord’s grace he is at least spared whatever punishment Henry had planned for him.’
Mary lit a taper and held it to the wick of the votive candle. A draft of cold air threatened to blow out the flame but it flickered and caught, burning bright in the memory of Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal of the Catholic Church, once Lord Chancellor of England and chief advisor to the king.
Brandon told her when the cardinal was buried in St Mary’s Abbey they discovered he wore a cilice of coarse goat hair under his cardinal’s robes, a sign of his deep repentance. Even this final, devout secret was mocked in Henry’s court by those who should know better.
Mary prayed in her private chapel and wept for the loss of Thomas Wolsey, a friend who tried his best to live within the tenets of his faith. His name would be added to the growing list of those whose soul
s she prayed for each morning and night. If not for Wolsey, her life might have turned out quite differently.
24
February 1532
A thick carpet of snow covered the frozen Suffolk countryside, the stark whiteness contrasting with the twisting, muddy scars of the roads. The avenue of trees stood bare of leaves, standing guard like skeletal sentinels. Mary looked out on the wintry scene and remembered when she’d first arrived in Westhorpe, on a glorious spring day fourteen years before.
She’d felt her whole life was before her and that she had at last found somewhere to return to, a place to call her home. Now, Mary found herself wondering what the future might hold for them all. She found it hard to believe Queen Catherine was banished from her own court, her ladies sent away, prevented from seeing her daughter or even writing to her.
Lady Anne Boleyn now occupied the queen’s chambers at Greenwich Palace, yet made it known she’d refused to become the king’s new mistress. It seemed she had learned from what happened to her sister, Mary Boleyn. If Henry wished to have her, the price was to make her his wife and crown her Queen of England.
Mary watched a solitary rider cross their bridge, his horse wary of its footing on the icy road. He wore a heavy fur cape and the collar of his coat was pulled up as protection against the biting winter wind. As the rider approached the house he stopped and looked up at her window, as if sensing her presence.
Her first thought had been that her husband had returned early from his business in the south. Now she realised it was a stranger and hoped it could be the messenger she’d been waiting for. Calling to her servants, Mary prepared to welcome their visitor.
The man took off his hat to reveal fashionably short hair and bowed to Mary. He looked to be about her own age and dressed in the black robes of a cleric. His pale face had a few days growth of dark stubble, suggesting he’d ridden some distance in the freezing weather, but his brown eyes shone with warm intelligence.
‘Thomas Abel at your service, Your Grace.’ He bowed and handed her a folded parchment, waiting while she read it. The letter of introduction was from Queen Catherine and said the bearer, Thomas Abel, was her personal chaplain, a man to be trusted. Mary recognised her signature and seal.
‘You are most welcome, Master Abel. You’ve come with a message from the queen?’
He glanced at her servant, waiting to take his coat, then turned back to Mary, his voice conspiratorial. ‘I wish to see you in private, if I may?’
Mary led him to the room she used as her study, intrigued to know the reason for the chaplain’s visit. The fire had been lit by her maid and thick logs crackled as the flames found fresh sap. Thomas Abel warmed his hands until Mary invited him to sit. They waited in silence while her serving girl brought a cup of hot mulled wine, then closed the door.
‘How is Queen Catherine?’
Thomas Abel hesitated, taking a sip of the steaming cup of spiced wine while he chose his words before replying. ‘The queen has been unwell but shows great fortitude in these difficult times.’ He looked directly at Mary. ‘I’ve travelled here to ask if you might assist her, Your Grace.’
‘Gladly, Master Abel. In what way?’
‘You will forgive me if I speak frankly of your brother, the king?’
Mary nodded, although she worried what he was about to say could be treasonable. Brandon evaded her questions about Henry and rarely shared news from court. He knew it made her upset to think of how Catherine was being mistreated.
Thomas Abel glanced at the closed door. ‘I regret that we live in dangerous times, Your Grace.’ His face became serious. ‘Good men are afraid to speak their minds since the king declared himself the supreme head of the English Church.’
‘Everyone talks of it here in Suffolk,’ Mary frowned, ‘although it means nothing.’
Thomas Abel raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid it means a great deal, my lady. The future of the Church is at stake, as well as the future of the Crown. The king has enshrined his new Church in law and has the backing of Parliament.’
‘I heard the bishops are against this...’
‘Did you also hear what happened to Bishop Fisher?’
Mary felt a sense of misgiving. John Fisher had served as her father’s chaplain and her grandmother’s confessor. She’d known him all her life. ‘Please tell me, Master Abel. I have been in the country too long, it seems.’
‘There was an attempt to poison him. By the grace of God, the bishop is a devout man and chose to fast that day. He was unharmed but several members of his household succumbed and two died.’
Mary put her hand to her mouth. ‘I had no idea.’
‘The bishop’s cook was arrested. I shall spare you the details, my lady, but even when he was boiled he refused to reveal who was behind this outrage.’
‘Boiled?’ Mary didn’t understand.
‘In a cauldron of boiling water.’ Thomas Abel frowned. ‘A cruel practice, my lady, reserved for convicted poisoners.’
‘You are not suggesting my brother had anything to do with this?’
Thomas Abel held up a hand to calm her. ‘I simply wish you to appreciate how serious the situation has become, my lady, which brings me to the reason for my visit.’ He studied her face, watching her reaction. ‘We need you to speak out against Anne Boleyn, before it is too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Before a child is conceived, my lady.’ He softened his voice. ‘Queen Catherine has the support of the people but those who should speak out have been intimidated into silence. For my part, I intend to publish a tract setting out the reasons why King Henry cannot be divorced from the queen, his lawful and loyal wife.’
‘You wish me to put my name to this?’ She felt a now familiar sense of foreboding. Henry would have Catherine’s chaplain executed if he knew his intentions.
‘With respect, Your Grace, as the sister of the king you are the one person who could dare to speak out against Lady Anne Boleyn. You could tip the balance of public opinion against her and open the floodgates of support for our rightful queen.’
‘I’m sorry, Master Abel, but you’ve had a wasted journey. I cannot. It would place my husband in an even more impossible position.’
‘I understand this is difficult for you, my lady, to cross your brother, but with what happened after the Duke of Suffolk’s banishment—’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I refer to his banishment after he spoke out, accusing Lady Anne Boleyn of ... familiarity with Sir Thomas Wyatt. The king forgave him soon enough but Lady Anne made her own accusation.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Forgive me, my lady. I thought you would know she accused the duke of incest with his own daughter. No one takes it seriously – except of course your husband.’
After Thomas Abel left, Mary paced her room, trying to control the anger surging through her. She needed to think clearly. Anne Boleyn, once her trusted lady-in-waiting, had insulted her daughters and her husband in the foulest and most public way.
Mary understood why Brandon had said nothing to her about it but she couldn’t stand by and let any speculation continue. She had spent too long in the country through her illness. It was her duty to return to London and speak for Queen Catherine, whatever the consequences. The children would have to remain in Suffolk, for their own safety, but her husband would need to be at her side.
* * *
Brandon returned to Suffolk Place late at night, in a foul temper, a blue bruise under his eye and his doublet torn. Mary sat up in their grand oak bed, a heavy coverlet over her and a single candle, burning in a silver holder, lighting up her face.
‘I had to do it, Charles.’
He sat heavily on the bed and held his head in his hands. Mary expected repercussions after speaking out in defence of Catherine as she had, but had no idea what form they would take and when.
‘Please, tell me what happened.’
‘William Pennington is dead.’
> Mary gasped in disbelief. ‘How?’
‘Norfolk’s men.’ Brandon cursed. ‘I think we are done for after this, Mary.’
She reached out a hand and caressed his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I’m not sure how it started. William was supposed to meet me at court. It seems he was provoked into an argument and chased from Westminster by twenty of Norfolk’s men.’ He turned to her with sadness in his eyes. ‘William was never a violent man. His cowardly attackers ran for the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey but I was stopped from pursuing them there.’
Mary sat in silence. She’d never imagined such a thing could happen. William Pennington was married to Brandon’s cousin Frances, a good woman who was expecting a child in a month or so. Now she’d made her a widow and her child would never know its father.
She remembered their last visit to Westhorpe. Although William was their tenant, he was also a member of the family. He’d been loyal to Brandon and Mary could imagine how he’d tried to defend her criticism of the Boleyns.
‘I’m so sorry, Charles.’ She put her hand on his arm.
He put his hand over hers. ‘I don’t blame you, Mary. You were only doing your duty to Catherine. Norfolk gave the orders to his murderous thugs.’
‘Thomas Howard always resented us. I remember how his father used to try to provoke you, saying you were descended from Norfolk servants and calling you Henry’s stable boy.’
‘It’s true, but I never gave him the satisfaction of seeing how angry he made me. I had to work with Norfolk at council and court.’
‘Yet his son has a vindictive streak. He uses the Boleyn’s ambition to suit his own ends.’
‘Now the bastard has the king’s favour for supporting his own niece as queen – at poor Catherine’s expense.’
Mary’s hand found the rip in her husband’s doublet. She studied the bruise on his face in the flickering candlelight. ‘How did this happen, if you weren’t there?’