by G Lawrence
It was as well I had one friend at court. Chapuys and many others had taken up Mary’s cause as though she were a princess locked in a tower by some nefarious fairy. He spoke against each marriage proposal put forward for her… not that I minded this particularly. The Emperor was busy suggesting every man in Europe for Mary as a way of relieving her misery, but I did not want Mary married. Were she to be offered to a powerful man, she would have his protection to add to that of the Emperor and the Pope. Chapuys did not want her married whilst the status of bastard hung over her like a death shroud. The hare thought if he could convince Henry to see Mary in person, the love between them would resurface. Chapuys wanted Mary at court… something I would never allow.
And Henry was not eager to meet with his rebellious daughter. He paused, too, over marrying her. Every envoy who came asking for her hand wanted to know if Mary was considered legitimate, as this would increase her value. Henry was not about to proclaim Mary legitimate, but he did not want to miss out on grander rewards and prestige by marrying her as a bastard. It infuriated me, but Henry dithered, as was his way.
At the end of the year, new sumptuary laws had come into effect. The nobility was to be further segregated, in part to emphasise Mary and Katherine’s new statuses. Silk and foreign furs were forbidden to any but nobles and privileged persons, and the price and quality of fabrics were fixed according to rank. The measures were unpopular, and many continued wearing their existing clothes and furs, saying, since they were already bought, it was a sin to waste them. The distinction of rank was supposed to become something that was easily recognised, but there were women who chose to wear cloth or furs on the basis of their father’s titles, if they were grander than those of their husbands. There were lords, too, who did not want to relinquish their privileges.
And as courtiers grumbled and disobeyed the sumptuary laws, Chapuys went on with his plan to make Henry visit his daughter. Despite their recent differences, Norfolk tried to dissuade Chapuys from speaking for Mary.
“You are about to enter on matters so odious and unpleasing that not all the sugar or sauces in the world would render them palatable,” he said to his once-friend.
Chapuys attempted to soothe Norfolk, telling him he would speak calmly, but also told him that the friendship between princes often did not last long. This was said to rattle Norfolk into thinking that the Emperor would become Henry’s enemy. When Chapuys entered the chamber to meet Henry, however, his words were not as measured as my uncle may have hoped.
“Chapuys said that the King’s treatment of Katherine was unacceptable,” said Norris when I questioned him. “And accused His Majesty of putting Lady Mary in a hostile household, where she was deprived of her status and happiness.”
“My aunt, Lady Shelton, only punishes the girl when she deserves it.”
“So said the King,” said Norris and smiled at my doubtful face. “You are surprised?”
“I never know, from one day to the next, what the King thinks of his daughter,” I said. “Sometimes he is so set against her that his behaviour is almost cruel, and another day I hear he has praised her.”
“His general feeling is anger,” said Norris. “We have had to hear, many and various times, about his frustration.”
“Your master becomes a parrot again?” I whispered, leaning in towards my friend and smiling as he chuckled. “Fear not, my friend, I suffer with you.”
Norris smiled, checking none of my ladies might overhear our scandalous conversation. “The King does often repeat himself,” he said. “Sometimes I think I am in a cave, listening to the same echo repeat over and over.” He smiled wider. “But he is still the best master and friend I have ever had.”
“Loving a person means we see their flaws,” I said. “That we see them is not proof of sin, or of not loving them. Accepting that the ones we love are not perfect… that is when we know we truly love them, is it not? It is easy to believe yourself in love with a person you desire but know not. They have not had the chance to disappoint us, hurt us, or strike at our faith. When we see flaws in the one we love, and love them despite, or even because of those faults, that is when we know our love is true.”
“Here speaks a woman of wisdom,” Norris said, his eyes gentle. Sometimes, when Norris looked at me, I felt like the woman Henry had once adored. As though a part of my soul had been preserved in Norris… the fierce, beautiful creature of grace and flame that once I had been lived on, in him.
“What said the King to Chapuys?” I asked, taking us back to the subject in hand. “When he protested about Lady Mary’s status?”
“His Majesty said Chapuys must understand by now that he was married, legally, to you, madam. His former marriage had been declared invalid, therefore Katherine was not, and never had been, Queen, and Mary was therefore not legitimate. The King sat back in his chair, with that pleased expression he wears when he thinks he has bested someone.”
“But the haughty hare was not beaten?” I asked. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Chapuys said the sentence pronounced by Cranmer was flawed and he would make as much of it as when King Richard III caused the Bishop of Bath to proclaim that King Edward’s sons were bastards.” Norris watched my face warily as I flushed.
“Go on.”
“I do not want to anger you, Majesty.”
“You will infuriate me more if you do not tell me what is said when I am not there to hear it.” I sighed. “Do not become like the others, Norris. Do not suppose I have become another person, one without a mind.”
Norris looked baffled. “How could anyone think that, my lady?”
I snorted. “Believe me, they do. It is a handy fiction for men who would strip women of power.”
“I would never think that of you, my lady.”
I patted his cheek, a familiar gesture that raised many eyebrows. “And that is why I trust you, my friend.”
“His Majesty ignored that remark,” Norris went on, “although it was talked about by many afterwards. Chapuys understood, however, he had angered the King, and simply reiterated his request that Mary and Katherine be better treated. He also added he was sure the King would let no harm come to Mary or Katherine, by natural or unnatural means, and he might take the example of Henry II of England, who had to perform penance in public for having been the cause of the death of St Thomas of Canterbury.”
I whistled. “Chapuys was all but accusing him of murder!”
“The King said that Mary was well looked after. He declared he could dispose of her as he saw fit, as he, and no other, was her master. Chapuys went on to talk about the fragile state of the alliance between the Emperor and the King, and His Majesty said that it was fortunate he was not a vindictive man.”
I frowned; what did that mean? Was Henry thinking of attempting to salvage his relationship with the Emperor? Since François had sent du Bellay to scold Henry, relations with France had been strained. Henry thought François had overstepped the mark by lecturing him, and François believed Henry was a brash fool. But now… was Henry considering turning to the Emperor, just to spite François? Anything was possible when Henry’s pride was affronted.
I tried to talk to Henry that night about mending ties with France, but all he wanted to speak of was our son. “You should not worry yourself with these heavy matters,” he said, drawing me onto his lap and placing a possessive hand firmly on my belly. “You should rest. It is better for the child if the energies of the mother are set into his creation and growth.” He lifted the hand from my belly and took hold of my chin. “This time, we will have a son, I know it.”
I allowed myself to be held and kissed and praised as the perfect example of womanhood, but all the time, I felt like a fraud. I was not made to become but a brood-mare; valued for my womb and not my mind. And as Queen, was it not my duty to help the King shoulder the weight of his duties to the realm? Katherine had done so. Did Henry think I was not capable, or had my husband had enough of women who interfered?
>
Henry also seemed to think he had to prove my worth to the world. When a delegation was sent to rebellious vassals of Charles in Germany, I was described in glowing terms. The vassals hardly needed convincing that Charles of Spain was in the wrong and England in the right. They were none too pleased with their master at that time in any case. But Henry’s description of me bordered on the angelic. Whilst I was pleased to think this was the way he saw me, I worried his proclamations of my virtue, goodness and humble nature were not only begging the world to see he had been right, but that this was the way he wanted me to be.
But Henry was about to discover that the woman he had fallen for was not gone, nor had she been killed off by this perfect, humble Queen he envisaged. Her heart had been torn and her faith in him scrambled, but she remained. And she was not about to be silenced.
Chapter Seventy-One
Whitehall Palace
Winter 1534
I sat down heavily, feeling my heart lurch. “How did it happen?” I whispered.
“Bridget bore twins, Majesty,” said Nan, her face drawn with sorrow. “They could not stop the bleeding after the birth.”
Bridget was dead. It seemed unfathomable, as though this must be a trick.
“The children,” I asked, wrapping my hands about my stomach. “Do they live?”
Nan inclined her head. “Tyrwitt says they are well, but both are small.”
“He should not have risked her!” Anger rose in me. “Bridget bore so many babes. He should have been satisfied with his step-children!”
“She wanted them, Majesty,” said Nan sadly. “She was joyous to bear children for her husband. She suspected her time had passed.”
I rose abruptly and went to the window. Looking out, I could see women digging frost-covered leeks in the far-off gardens and men sawing branches. They went about their business, not knowing a beautiful soul was lost to them forever. “Send my condolences to her husband,” I said. “And tell him if there is anything I can do for her children, it will be done.”
“I am sure that will bring him comfort.”
Nan departed, but I remained by the window. I pressed my hand to the glass. “Why did you go?” I murmured to Bridget. “We had so much left to speak of, my friend… so many conversations yet to hold.” I shook my head. “I should not have treated you so ill, Bridget. All you wanted was to wed a man who loved you.”
I stared at the grounds. Dusk was falling and in the distance I heard the shrill, unearthly scream of a vixen as her mate claimed her body for his seed. I shivered. The eerie noise ripped the skies, rending the stillness of the looming night.
“I hope he treated you well,” I whispered. “Go with God, and save a place for me in Heaven, old friend. There we will meet again, and there I will beg your forgiveness.”
My words washed from me; words of love, sorrow and the terrible loss of a friendship once so cherished. They fell into the air about me, settling into my heart. Outside, snow drifted from the skies, as though God, too, wished to freeze this moment as I did, giving me a space in time to hold on to my friend, to keep her close. But the world would move on, and Bridget would be forgotten by all but those who had loved her… her memory, like the earth, becoming lost under the fall of the silent snow.
*
“I want you to go after the King and ask him not to meet with Lady Mary,” I said to Cromwell as he joined me on the floor cushions near the roaring fire. “I think Chapuys has persuaded His Majesty to speak to his bastard daughter, but I think it unwise.”
In an effort to forget I had lost my friend, I concentrated on my enemies. Bridget was an aching maw in my heart. I could not become accustomed to the notion she was gone.
But I had also come to a conclusion. If Henry would not hear me, I must be heard through other men.
“In truth, Majesty, I agree,” Cromwell said, taking a seat on a large purple cushion of velvet that I had embroidered myself. “But I do not think the Lady Mary could persuade him of anything contrary to his opinion. He means to convince her to relinquish her title voluntarily. The King believes it was a mistake to allow others to carry his message and he has been upset by Chapuys telling him that Katherine wrote to the Emperor, saying that Charles must be a father to Mary, since her own has abandoned her.”
“His Majesty believes, as Mary’s father, he can command her,” I said. “But Lady Mary has made her position clear. I also believe that if the King goes to her and tries to persuade her gently, she will read this as a sign of weakness, and will only continue to flout him.” I took a goblet of wine from Jane Seymour and nodded to her. Pale as a ghost, she slipped back into the shadows. Sometimes I thought she might vanish altogether, so slight an impression did she make.
“You may have a point there, Majesty,” Cromwell agreed.
“His Majesty is like the sun, my lord,” I said. “Remove him and the world becomes a place of shadow and danger. Mary has not been long enough in the dark to understand how to miss the light. I wish the King would leave her in the shadows. When she fears the darkness, she will give in.”
“Have you said this to His Majesty?”
I shook my head. “I fear looking petty. And the King has made it clear that as I am once more with child, even though the proclamation cannot be made until the babe quickens, he does not want me to worry about such matters.”
“But you do, of course,” said Cromwell. He rubbed his hands together and on the back of one I saw a scar I had never noted before. A little twist of pink and silver. Was it a keepsake from his time as a soldier, perhaps? Or an injury from his childhood in Putney? Perhaps we were all carrying scars that others failed to note.
“I will go after His Majesty this very hour, my lady,” he went on. “I will tell him your fears as if they were my own. Then, he will not think you are involved, but your concerns will be voiced. Will that satisfy?”
“It will,” I said. “And thank you, Cromwell. I can always turn to you.”
“That is what I am here for,” he said, smiling. “I will go to Lady Mary in the King’s stead, and ask her to relinquish her title. She will be hurt, of course, that he comes to see her sister and not her.”
“That is her fault,” I said in a cold voice. “If Lady Mary would see sense, all would be well. It is not the King who is responsible for the actions of traitors, but traitors themselves. We cannot go about feeling pity for someone who insults her King, even if she is young and foolish.”
“You are right, Majesty, we cannot.” Cromwell ran a stubby finger over his smooth cheek. Like Henry, Cromwell had grown another chin. Strangely, in his case, I thought the weight suited him. There were many hard lines to Cromwell. To have them broken up by a little softness showed there were other facets to his character.
Dutifully, Cromwell went after Henry and managed to persuade him against meeting Mary. Cromwell went to Mary instead, and asked her to accept the changes in her life. Mary told him she had already given her answer, and it was wasted labour to continue to press her. They were deceived if they thought that ill-treatment, rudeness, or even threat of death could move her, she declared, and nothing would make her change her mind.
Mary asked Cromwell if she might see her father to kiss his hand, and Cromwell refused. “Whilst you defy your King,” Cromwell said, “he cannot be a father to you.”
But Mary was not to be thwarted entirely. When Henry left Hatfield and went to mount his horse, Mary ran to a terrace at the top of the house, and from there looked down upon her father. By chance, Henry turned and saw her. She dropped to her knees and put her hands together, as though to plead with him to see her, to be merciful, to take her into his arms and tell her all would be well.
Henry and his men put their hands to their caps and bowed to this forlorn figure, then took to their horses and rode away. Henry did not look back.
Mary watched until he was out of sight. She knew that his response had been but a courtly gesture of politeness, and he would have done the same to any
lady. It did not mean he respected her, and did not offer her any hope that he loved her still.
When he returned, Henry informed the French Ambassador within my hearing that he had not spoken to Mary because of her obstinacy. “It comes from her Spanish blood,” Henry jested, failing to note that Mary was also his daughter, and must have inherited a fair share of his stubbornness as well as Katherine’s. But when the ambassador said that Mary had been well brought up, Henry’s eyes misted over. “She is a fine girl,” he said, making a shudder roam my spine. “But she has been badly influenced by people who would do me, and her, harm.”
Henry’s praise scared me. Mary was his weak spot. She could reach into his heart, take hold of that sentimental streak in his blood, and use it. I told him not to see her and since I was pregnant, and Henry wanted to please me, he agreed.
Henry was capable of cruelty, but at that time it was I who kept father and daughter apart.