The Queen's Governess

by Karen Harper

  “Get me a comb and rice powder for my cheeks. I’ll brazen it out, you’ll see . . .” was the last I heard before those of us attending, though not assisting, were shuffled away from the birthing bed.

  Princess Mary happily took her leave. She had been summoned to be present at the birth by the queen who had ruined her life. She now had a half sister who would soon take her former title of Princess of Wales. I had never met the seventeen-year-old princess before but was touched by how she carried herself, proudly but not haughtily. Her deep, almost mannish voice coming from such a petite body surprised me. Her face, framed by auburn hair, a heritage from both parents, gave away her inner torment. Already she had deep frown lines on her fair-complexioned forehead, caused not only by nearsightedness—she had to squint to see things at a distance—but her unhappiness. Most courtiers now treated the young woman, once the darling of everyone’s eye, as if she had the plague.

  The day she’d arrived, I’d put myself at her elbow and quietly told her who stood across the withdrawing room as if I were her guide or translator. Let the others snub or scold me. If Cromwell was not pleased, I would tell him I was simply trying to learn what Mary said so that I could inform him.

  Because—God forgive me, since so many of my friends felt hostile to Queen Catherine’s girl—I sympathized from the first with a young woman who had a stepmother who wanted to hurt and humble her and a father who allowed and abetted that. I was glad for her sake that Mary was being permitted to return to Beaulieu, her house in Essex.

  As we heard the king’s voice boom in the distance, many of the queen’s ladies fled, but I stayed where I was. At least the great Henry Rex would have to admit the child showed her Tudor heritage with her thatch of red hair, though her eyes were not pale blue but already dark, like her mother’s. Cromwell had not given me an assignment for months, but he had expressly told me he wanted to know what passed between Their Graces when His Majesty first beheld the child.

  “A daughter, my dear lord,” I heard Anne’s voice ring out as he stomped to the side of the bed. “See? Healthy and strong, a beautiful daughter with your hair and, I warrant, someday your handsome nose.”

  A good tactic, I thought, not to give him the first word. Perhaps Anne could brazen it through, despite the fact that announcements had already been written about the birth of a prince. Without turning my head, I slanted my gaze up from the far corner of the large room where I was helping Lady Margaret Bryan fold linen napkins for the child. Lady Margaret, who had been governess to Princess Mary, would no doubt tend the baby when she was given her own household away from court. She was the only other person I knew who had dared to welcome the king’s older daughter to Greenwich. Now neither of us spoke. I don’t think I so much as breathed.

  The king still did not speak but bent over the big bed as Anne unwrapped the child for him to see. Although it was unhealthful for fresh air and much light to enter during confinement and labor, Anne had ordered one of the windows unboarded. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in to make the infant’s head look gilded by a wispy red-gold crown, or so it had seemed to me when I had tiptoed close a while ago.

  Perhaps His Majesty saw himself in the little mite as Anne suggested, for, before he went out again, he muttered, “All right then. A girl now, a boy soon.”

  That thought, I prayed, would keep Cromwell content, for I’d heard a dreadful thing as I waited outside his door when he’d summoned me last week about keeping an eye on the Princess Mary. I had no doubt my position here if not my very life would be forfeit if anyone knew what I had overheard him speak to Master Stephen:

  “If the queen is not delivered of a living son, His Majesty has asked—just supposition now—for future reference—hypothetical, a mere rhetorical question—if he has any sensible, moral justification for putting Anne aside without having to return to the past queen . . .”

  I had gasped, covered my mouth with both hands as I bent over in shock against the wall. Were Cromwell and the king both raving mad? I had not felt sicker or more furious when Tom Seymour attacked me the day the queen was crowned.

  After that, I both detested and feared Henry Tudor. For the Princess Mary of whom Lady Margaret spoke so fondly. For Anne, of course, and now for her precious child. And for myself, who knew from dealing with both Cromwell and Tom Seymour how cruel a man could be, especially one with power. Here I was, tied to them both, and since I knew far too much, dangerous to them both.

  Thank God, Tom was not much at court, but when he was, he held the threat of his cesspool lies over my head. He swore I would do as he wished in the future, or he would ruin my reputation, for yes, he was right: my good name was all I had as my shield and buckler. I had no powerful family, no fortune, no lands, no title, no champion. Granted, I had helped other women learn to read and write, and many were grateful. The queen trusted me, but would a new queen simply dismiss me, if Anne did not bear him a son and he found a way to divorce her?

  My foolish dreams of Tom Seymour in my future had died that night three months ago. At least, John, my dear friend, demanded naught of me but gave me his care and friendship. With a heavy heart and no explanation, I now avoided him so Tom would not erupt again and hurt us both. I was deeply ashamed of how poorly I had treated John to keep him at bay. Though in many ways John and I were both estranged and strangers yet, I feared if he knew what Tom had done, he would throw down the gauntlet for a fight, and then what would become of him and me?

  Three days after her birth, the daughter of Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn was regally christened in the Chapel Royal at Greenwich as Princess Elizabeth, named after both of her grandmothers. I was not at the ceremony, but they say she did not cry, even when dipped thrice in the baptismal water. She was five days old when I first held her in my arms and she looked up at me with—I vow this is true—curiosity and intelligence.

  I felt I lived in limbo the next months leading toward the annual Yuletide celebration. The king was back in his wife’s bed upon occasion, but everyone knew certain court ladies were in his. Elizabeth had been declared Princess of Wales, which meant Mary Tudor was disinherited and demoted to being called simply Lady Mary. The former princess had balked at being bastardized, which had sent Anne into another absolute rage, with mutterings she would box Mary’s ears or worse.

  Then came the summons from Cromwell that was to change my life as surely as had his promises to me so long ago in Devon.

  “You asked to see me, Master Secretary?” I inquired as he met me on a back staircase at Hampton Court. I was surprised to see him instead of Master Stephen for once.

  “Yes, Kat. I have an important and fortuitous assignment I am certain will please you.”

  My stomach clenched. I trusted him not now.

  “It will play to many of your strengths. You have shown your skills in helping others, and Lady Margaret Bryan favors you. You are quite well educated and enjoy learning and teaching, and the queen trusts you.”

  “I am glad you are looking out for Her Majesty’s welfare,” I said, leveling a look at him, heedless of the danger that now reeked from this man, my mentor. “In a way, you have risen to power with her.”

  “Ah, to quote the wise King Solomon, ‘There is nothing new under the sun,’ yet, Kat, knowing our King Henry as I do, I say, everything changes. But to this new duty for you. It does entail leaving court for a while,” he plunged on, “but I thought, in light of things, you might not mind that.”

  Our gazes locked and held. His eyes gleamed dark and flat, like an adder’s. Was this man all-knowing, all-seeing? Was he referring to my hatred of Tom or my thwarting feelings for John?

  “In short,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder I longed to shake off, “you will be a companion and aide to Lady Bryan when the Princess Elizabeth’s household is established at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire next week. Her title is Mistress and Governess of the princess. ’Tis custom, you know, that royal heirs have their own establishments, and I trust you will be a fine a
ddition to that. You will receive a fair wage, too.”

  “And?” I asked. I was pleased with what he had said, for escape from the tensions of the court suited me right now. I would greatly miss glimpses of John Ashley as he rode here and there, oft in the presence of the king, but not much else. Besides, I admired Lady Bryan and adored the pretty little princess.

  “And what?” he demanded, frowning. “I like not your tone nor that look.”

  “I have learned that there is always more, Master Secretary.”

  “Yes, well, you always were too bright for a woman. The Lady Mary is being sent to Hatfield too, without her retinue, by queen’s command, to be in subjection and attendance on the Princess of Wales.”

  “Poor lady.”

  Now he looked as annoyed as I felt. “Just be sure that is the way you address her. She is the Lady Mary now and quite belligerent and wayward to defy Their Majesties, even as her mother does. But as for Hatfield, it is but twenty miles to the north, so either Stephen or I will be visiting from time to time, with or without Their Majesties. For once, put your reports to me in writing—without any address or signature—and slip them to us lest we have no time to talk during a visit. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. More and more.”

  He glared at me. “Do not be overly clever, Kat. The queen is that, and it doesn’t become her or bode well for her. I do regret that your love for young Seymour made you so forward with him—and now bitter—but of course he had to tell you there was no hope for a future with him. Just do not throw yourself at the next promising young man.”

  I could not breathe. Tom had told Cromwell that? If so, what else had he said of me? At that moment, I could have strangled Seymour—Cromwell too—with my bare hands, but here was my chance to escape all this, to find refuge and purpose at some rural place called Hatfield. I would be as happy to leave this court of scorpions and demons as I had been to enter it.

  HATFIELD HOUSE, HERTFORDSHIRE

  My heart ached for her the next two years. Not for the darling little Princess Elizabeth, but for her older half sister. Mary Tudor was given the dampest, smallest bedchamber in vast Hatfield—or Hunsdon or Eltham, when we moved off and on—and had but one servant, a doltish chambermaid. Mary Tudor was the one treated much like a maid under Queen Anne’s stringent orders as she tried to break the young woman’s defiance and spirit. But, like her mother, Mary was indomitable. For one thing, she refused to curtsey to the little Elizabeth, though the child didn’t know or care about that anyway.

  I admired Mary because she was ever kind to the red-haired toddler in leading strings. Like me, Mary loved children. I can yet see in my mind’s eye the elder sister holding the younger on a pony’s back and walking her in a circle before the main entrance of the palace, though Queen Anne might have flown into a rage at such. Mary’s face lit up when the child lifted her arms to be held or babbled her baby rendition of her name, “Mar-mar.” I silently took great pride in the fact that the child always clearly called me “Kat.”

  As carefully as I could, I gave the Lady Mary my tacit support, and I knew she was silently grateful. Yet I saw her wasting away, losing weight with dark shadows under her eyes. Her headaches she called megrims were agony, and her sporadic menses pained her greatly. She spent hours on her knees in her bedchamber in prayer, perhaps her only real solace. It rankled me that the doting Queen Anne continually sent or brought pretty new clothes for her child, but that Mary seemed to go about in the same black gown, like a harbinger of doom. And, yes, as much as I had aped Queen Anne at times and admired her, too, I grieved sore for a young woman who had such a cruel stepmother—one she could not abide and did not want to acknowledge.

  My ambitions to be at court cooled greatly, and I came to see the sweet countryside as a refuge from the trials of public life. Hatfield, once a manor house of the Bishop of Ely, was a lovely red brick edifice built around a quadrangle. Knot gardens and orchards lay to the south, and we had a vast lawn with ancient oaks to take our exercise in.

  Inside the manor was a great hall, which we seldom used in lieu of a pleasant solarium with tall oriel windows; it included a walking gallery that was available in wet weather. The bedchambers in the upper stories were small but adequate with pretty views.

  Outside our world, which revolved around the precocious, fast-growing little Elizabeth, the times were darkening. Acts of Parliament, at the bequest of the king and rammed through by Cromwell, formally declared Mary illegitimate and Elizabeth the heir. Also, Parliament passed a law demanding an Oath of Allegiance to the king as supreme head of the Church of England. Failure to sign meant a charge of treason with its horrible penalties of hanging, drawing and quartering. The king was so determined to bend everyone to his will that he allowed anyone who defied him, from his dear longtime friend Sir Thomas More to a lowly nun in Kent, to go to their deaths. At Hatfield, we all meekly signed the oath. I was glad enough to see the Catholic Church weakened, but the way it was done turned bitter in my mouth. The power of king—and Cromwell—was now boundless.

  I adored little Elizabeth, but feared for Mary. Oh, she signed the oath and was finally cowed into accepting her reduced status, but she was fading before our eyes. She ate little; I knew Mary, like her mother, was fearful of being poisoned. She took to her bed in such peril of life that Lady Bryan sent for the king’s own physician, fearful that if his daughter died in a household she oversaw, we could be blamed for her death.

  Cromwell had told me more than once, through Master Stephen, that he did not like the slant of my reports to him. Since I was kind to the Lady Mary—I never knew who his other spies in the household were—I was told it had better be so that I could watch her closer to catch her in some sort of treason against king or country. But if Mary was covertly communicating with her mother, who was also gravely ill, or with the Spanish ambassador, I knew it not. At any rate, Master Stephen made it clear that I was to watch Mary like a hawk and find some slipup that Cromwell could use to allow the queen or her father to lock her up in the Tower of London.

  That day came when the royal physician arrived at Hatfield and went directly in to see her.

  Orders had been given long ago that Mary was never to be left alone with any outside visitors, lest she try to contact her mother or their Spanish allies. I was the one she asked for that day, but two others of the household were in the room too, farther back than I. I stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to the bedpost and wishing I could help.

  The king’s physician, despite his ride from London, was garbed in the traditional long gown with fur-trimmed wide sleeves. I knew from my time of illness that had made me miss a trip to France that the more fur on the gown, the more learned the man, so this was a skilled physician indeed. A neck ruff echoed the ruffles at his wrists—much dust stained—and he wore a close-fitting cap with ear flaps. He bled Mary, inquired of her astrological signs, then bathed her forehead in distilled water of lavender to refresh her from her megrim.

  “Dear lady,” I heard him say after he had treated her with other herbs and possets—one, he’d said, containing crushed pearls, a curative to also relieve headaches—“I believe the source of your disease may come partly from your circumstances.”

  My eyes widened and my ears pricked up. Was the royal physician fishing for some sort of dangerous reply from her, or was his sympathy—and subtle criticism of her treatment here—sincere?

  Tears filled her eyes; I saw her nod and grasp his hand. I knew she was desperate for any kindness and care. “Doctor, before you go,” she said, “would you mind if I practiced my Latin a bit? It has been a long time, and I fear it grows rusty.”

  He adjusted his hood and nodded. “You may, my lady.”

  She spoke quickly, desperately, I thought. My Latin was a bit rusty too, but I caught the tenor of her words. Using perfect pronunciation, she begged the doctor to tell the Spanish ambassador in London, Eustace Chapuys, that she was being terribly treated here in her sister’s household,
at the command of the king’s wife. King’s wife—uxor regis—that’s what she called the queen, and I had to admire her pluck. “And, please, I beg you, tell no one but Chapuys,” she hurried on in Latin, gripping his wrist, even as Lady Bryan entered the small chamber to see how she was doing, “that the king is threatening me with execution for my continued resistance, but it is the fault of that woman who has bewitched him!”

  “Ah, my lady,” the doctor said in English, standing hastily and patting her shoulder, “I shall pray for the best for you. And your Latin does need a bit of work.” But he nodded to her and pressed his hand to hers before he went below, for he was not to be permitted to remain the night. [I add a note here. Years later, I learned that the brave royal physician had indeed informed the Spanish ambassador of her deplorable treatment, but had begged him not to remonstrate with the king or she would be even more imperiled.]

  Tears ran from the corners of Mary’s eyes when he was gone. She blinked them back and looked straight at me, silent but pleading. She knew full well my Latin was good, for we had spoken it together before we’d been admonished by the house steward to speak the king’s English in the English princess’s household. So Mary was trusting me not to betray her.

  That night, I sat over a piece of paper with my pen poised, realizing I now had the very thing Cromwell, and certainly the queen, desired: proof to put Mary away in the Tower, if not worse. Cromwell had done so much for me, and my future greatly depended on his goodwill. Anne Boleyn had befriended me and trusted me near her precious daughter, whom I loved and wanted to protect.

  But I crumpled up the blank paper and sailed it into my low-burning fire, where it caught and flamed to ash. When the king’s steward, Lord Shelton, my friend Madge’s father, asked me the next day if I had overheard what the Lady Mary had said to the doctor in Latin, I told him she was reciting parts from Caesar’s conquest of Gaul, but was also referring to her father as the Caesar of England, who had conquered the hearts of his people.