by Linda Porter
As autumn approached in 1533, Mary moved to New Hall, one of her father’s country houses in Essex.The mansion was known as Beaulieu at the time, and it was one of Henry’s finest residences outside London. It was here that Henry had met his advisers to go over the arrangements for what he thought would be a quick annulment of his marriage to Katherine of Aragon, six years earlier. Now, there soon arrived the announcement that was the distant finale to those discussions. Queen Anne had given birth on 7 September. Rejoicing, however, was subdued. The child was a girl. Henry put a brave face on it, but the truth was that his search for a son to succeed him was still unfulfilled. For the time being, he must content himself with another daughter. The baby was named Elizabeth, and it was clear from the outset that she would supplant her elder sister. In Henry’s eyes, Anne’s girl was his heir (though he hoped that brothers would follow) and England’s only princess. Perhaps he did not care to think back to 1516, and his confident remarks that boys would follow after Mary. Anne Boleyn was actually a year older than Katherine of Aragon when she gave birth to Elizabeth, though she did not have her predecessor’s history of failed pregnancies and dead princes.
In fact, Elizabeth’s birth did not solve anything. But its impact on the two women it most directly affected, Anne herself and Mary, was profound. Anne’s position would have been immeasurably strengthened if she had produced a boy, though the assumption that Mary would have recognised the precedence of a prince born of a union she regarded as adulterous is open to doubt. She might well have regarded him as another illegitimate half-brother, like the duke of Richmond. Or she might have bided her time and waited to see how her father treated her. What seems beyond belief is that she would ever have accepted that she was not a princess of the blood. So Elizabeth’s arrival made her decision easier. She simply would not give way to a younger sister.There was no agonising over the course of action to be taken as there was no alternative. Anne Boleyn had destroyed her mother’s life and now Mary, utterly certain that she was the king’s only true heir, set herself up deliberately as the focus of opposition to Anne. She would not go away, she would not back down.There was widespread sympathy for her, inside England and abroad. Anne always suffered from the fact that she never established a broad base of support, either at court or in the country as a whole, and her main source of foreign support was France, England’s traditional enemy. When Anne first came on the scene, Mary did not possess the skills or experience to trouble her and was kept well away from confrontation. Over the years of her mother’s adversity, she had behaved with caution and tact, but she had been learning all the while. It is a mistake to view her reaction to Elizabeth’s birth as a straightforward case of hysteria and amour propre. She knew what the stakes were, as did Anne Boleyn.The rivalry between the two women was as implacable as Anne, who was often given to hyperbole, described it: ‘I am her death and she is mine.’
What Mary did not adequately understand was the likely reaction of Henry VIII. And her father, because he was king and all must obey him, did not trouble himself with worries about how she would respond to his commands regarding her. In fact, they showed a wilful lack of mutual comprehension. Mary claimed she would obey her father but defied him for three years.The king would no doubt have preferred not to hurt her (though his affection for her is hard to quantify), but there was no way he could humour her. A king who allowed a daughter to dictate to him on matters of state was no king at all. He sought to make the situation abundantly clear within days of Elizabeth’s birth. Mary was to cease using the title princess immediately and her badges, the green and blue livery her servants had used since she was born, were to be removed and replaced with his own. Mary reacted with an incredulity that was almost sneering, writing to her father:This morning my chamberlain came and informed me that he had received a letter from Sir William Paulet, controller of your House, to the effect that I should remove at once to Hertford Castle. I desired to see the letter, in which was written ‘the Lady Mary, the king’s daughter’, leaving out the name of princess. I marvelled at this, thinking your grace was not privy to it, not doubting that you take me for your lawful daughter … If I agreed to the contrary, I should offend God; in all other things, you shall find me an obedient daughter.3
This rebuke, which implied that the king did not keep track of correspondence sent out in his name and was being manipulated, provoked a swift response. If she wanted her father to spell out her change of status, he would meet her challenge. A deputation, led by the earls of Oxford, Essex and Sussex, was sent off to face down this impudent young lady. They delivered a message phrased in unequivocal tones:The king is surprised to be informed, both by Lord Hussey’s letters and his daughter’s own, delivered by one of her servants, that she, forgetting her filial duty and allegiance, attempts, in spite of the commandment given her … arrogantly to usurp the title of princess, pretending to be heir apparent … declaring that she cannot in conscience think but that she is the king’s lawful daughter, born in true matrimony, and believes that the king in his conscience thinks the same.
To prevent what was called Mary’s ‘pernicious example’ spreading, the earls were commanded to represent to Mary ‘the folly and danger of her conduct and how the king intends that she shall use herself both as to her title and as to her household’. It was further pointed out that she had ‘worthily deserved the king’s high displeasure and punishment by law, but that on her conforming to his will, he may incline of his fatherly pity to promote her welfare’.4 Though there was a hint of the carrot as well as the stick in this pronouncement, it outlined the relative positions of the king and Mary very precisely. In Henry’s eyes, his elder daughter was illegitimate. She would be treated as a king’s acknowledged offspring, but she was not a princess of England. He had not endured the upheaval of years of argument about his first marriage to leave any doubts unanswered now. Mary’s feelings did not enter into it. His will was law, applicable to all his subjects, without question.
Yet a challenge to his authority was exactly what Henry now faced. Mary was standing up to him just as her mother had done. If she had succeeded, he would have been weakened in his own eyes and the eyes of the world. In some ways, it is astonishing that he let Mary’s defiance last as long as he did.Yet his patience, or indecision, did Mary no good. She had the spirit of her Castilian grandmother but not her armies.The support, often only tacit, of a handful of courtiers could not help her win her battle. In retrospect, it might have been better for her if Henry’s eventual brutality had been administered at once.The delay raised false hopes and developed in her a pattern of opposition based on conscience and self-identity, where suffering almost became a goal in itself.This was unhealthy and damaging to a woman subject to depression, who never subsequently understood that to be strong, rather than pragmatic, was not always the best option.
Chapuys, reporting the christening of the child that he consistently referred to as ‘the little Bastard’, betrayed his anxiety that the withdrawal of Mary’s title was only the beginning:‘In fact a rumour is afloat … that her household and allowance are to be shortly reduced. May God in his infinite mercy prevent a still worse treatment!’ But, he added, Mary was taking it all well and her first thought was for her mother: ‘meanwhile the princess, prudent and virtuous as she is, has taken all these things with patience, trusting entirely in God’s mercy and goodness. She has addressed to her mother, the queen, a most wonderful letter, full of consolation and comfort.’5
The ambassador’s characterisation of Mary’s response was highly misleading. She had accepted nothing, and she was far from prudent. In this first great crisis of her life, she showed how much she was her mother’s daughter. For the choice that Henry compelled her to make was not so much between himself and Katherine, as it has often been characterised, but between her rightful heritage, as she saw it, and denial of who she was. It was also an overtly political choice, and it set her on a collision course with many of those close to the king, who were much mor
e seasoned political campaigners. At a meeting in the second week of September with Cromwell and the duke of Norfolk, at which George Boleyn, Anne’s brother, skulked in the vicinity but took no direct part, Chapuys reiterated his concern for Mary. Disingenuously, he told the chancellor and the duke that he understood the proclamation made at the birth of the king’s new daughter, but ‘I was only afraid that by so doing the rights of the first-born might be impaired … Hearing this, the duke and the chancellor looked at each other for a time without knowing what to say.’6 It was, of course, perfectly evident what they were thinking; Mary was serving notice that she took precedence over Elizabeth. Even as she recovered from the birth, Anne Boleyn already knew that Mary would not acknowledge her or her child.
Henry’s first move was to implement the threat to reduce the number of Mary’s household. This was more of a gesture than a fixed intention to deprive her of all her servants.The privy chamber staff remained more or less untouched and her establishment still numbered about 160 persons. The countess of Salisbury, Richard Fetherstone and Lord Hussey stayed in post. Everything now hinged on Mary’s acceptance of her father’s orders. Compliance with his commands would have left Mary to continue her life much as she had done before. But it would also have meant acknowledging her own illegitimacy and the invalidity of her mother’s marriage. This she could never accept, and by 10 October it was obvious to Chapuys that the situation was deteriorating. Mary would not be told what to do by a deputation of elderly aristocrats, sent to convey her father’s instructions.When they left, shewrote a long letter to the king, her father, saying that she would as long as she lived obey his commands, but that she really could not renounce the titles, rights and privileges which God, Nature and her own parents had given her. Being the daughter of a king and queen, putting aside other circumstances, she was rightly called princess. The king, her father, might do his pleasure and give her any title he liked, but it could not be said of her that she had expressly or tacitly prejudiced her legitimacy or the rights of the queen, her mother, whose example she was determined to follow, by placing herself entirely in the hands of God, and bearing with patience all her misfortunes.7
So the die was cast. It is hard to imagine an answer that would have displeased Henry more. It was defiant, supercilious and contemptuous of Henry’s authority. As long as she lived, she would obey his commands, but only when these suited her. And he had no right to deprive her of her title. Only God could do that. But Henry knew that what God gaveth, he, as king, could take away. Having used the word of God as his excuse for defying the pope, the emperor and anyone else who disagreed with him, Henry could not stomach it being thrown at him as a justification for brazen disobedience by a 17-year-old girl. And he had had enough of her prim, unyielding letters. By 3 November, Mary’s household was being dismantled and the countess of Salisbury was dismissed. Her offers to continue with Mary at her own expense were rebuffed. The king believed that the countess and others of those around Mary were responsible for encouraging her stance and he wanted her separated from them. ‘This the king has done, as he says, to daunt and intimidate her.’ He would put both his daughters in the same household, partly for reasons of economy but also to keep Mary in check.Whether he or Anne Boleyn actually proposed that Mary should serve Elizabeth as a maid of honour is not clear, though it is the sort of remark that Anne might have made. Nor would it have been entirely inappropriate for an illegitimate daughter, if she had been brought up as such. But Mary had not and she was appalled. ‘Both the queen and the princess’, reported Chapuys, ‘are marvellously disturbed and in great trouble. They sent to me … for advice in this emergency and begged I would speak to Cromwell and see what could be done to arrest the blow.’
Katherine exhorted Mary to be strong: ‘Almighty God will prove you; and I am very glad of it, for I trust He doth handle you with a good love…I pray you, good daughter, to offer yourself to Him … for then you are sure armed.’ Isabella of Castile would have approved of such zeal in the face of the enemy. Whether Mary really embraced what was happening to her so enthusiastically is debatable, but she followed as closely as she could her mother’s precepts. Katherine, in her own way, kept up as much pressure on her as her father did, imploring her in tones very reminiscent of Juan Luis Vives ‘to keep your heart with a chaste mind, and your body from an ill and wanton company, [not] thinking or desiring any husband for Christ’s passion; neither determine yourself any manner of living till this troublesome time be past’.8 How long it would be in passing neither mother nor daughter knew.
If Mary had not fully appreciated what he might do when she confronted her father in writing a few weeks earlier, she could have no illusions now. She recognised that if she was to get something of what she wanted, she would need to work through Cromwell, as well as Chapuys. But Cromwell could not (or would not) see Chapuys at this point, so the ambassador sent his secretary with veiled threats that imperial friendship might be withdrawn and expressing astonishment at the treatment of Mary. Cromwell’s answer was studiously opaque:… He begged to be excused and pardoned if he did not reveal to me in particular what he knew of the princess’ affair. This having been discussed in the Privy Council with the greatest possible secrecy, he could not reveal it to me or to anyone else unless he had the permission and consent … of the king. He could, however, assure me in general terms that the king was an honourable, virtuous and wise prince, incapable of doing anything that was not founded on justice and reason.
The ambassador’s secretary was told that there was no one in the whole privy council who laboured more assiduously than Thomas Cromwell to foster good relations with Charles V. Up till now, he had done ‘all that was within his power’ in relation to the treatment of Katherine and Mary, ‘and would still do so in the future’.9
This was certainly what both Chapuys and Mary hoped, for Cromwell was their only effective channel to the king.The wily politician now began to figure prominently in Mary’s life. Cromwell, a Londoner and son of a cloth merchant, was a highly able lawyer, then in his late forties. Over the centuries, historians have seen him as the driver of the Reformation in England, the author of the legal changes that separated the English Church from Rome and the destroyer of its monastic life and institutions. His true role and importance have recently been questioned.10 Yet even if the king, and not Cromwell, was the moving force behind many of the changes in government and religion during the decade, ‘Good Master Secretary’, as Mary always addressed him, convinced his contemporaries of his influence. It is hard to imagine how the Reformation in England might have taken shape without this former member of the House of Commons, a property lawyer who had ably served Wolsey. Showing great skill in networking, Cromwell survived the cardinal’s fall. His growing interest in new religious ideas and his administrative competence made him extremely useful to the king. Ruthless and cynical, by 1533 he was chancellor of the exchequer, but everyone knew that he was destined for greater office. Certainly Mary thought he was important and Chapuys could not function without him. The two men came to know one another well and their relationship was one of wary respect. Neither trusted the other but circumstances forced them to work together. Cromwell was a difficult man to know, and the image he projected was of the consummate minister, trying to accommodate the desires of his monarch in a search for the best solutions for England. He was self-effacing but in a way that left no doubt that he was someone to be reckoned with. Despite avowals to the contrary - his professed desire to be of service, to smooth things over, to make Mary’s life easier - one is left with the strong impression that he was utterly indifferent to Mary personally. She was part of a problem that needed to be solved. Ameliorating her situation and restoring her finally to a better relationship with her father was one way forward, but it was not the only possible outcome. During 1534 he told Chapuys more than once that if her ill health continued and it pleased God to take her, well, so be it. Perhaps he said this only with the intention of alarming Chapuys, but it
is equally possible that he meant it.
Three months after Elizabeth’s birth, a household was set up for the infant princess at Hatfield House, in Hertfordshire. When she moved there, in the dark days just a week before Christmas, Lady Anne Shelton, Anne Boleyn’s aunt and the baby’s lady governess, was already aware that Elizabeth would not be her only charge. Mary was expected to join them imminently.
The news was delivered with his habitual brusqueness by Norfolk. The duke ‘went himself to the princess and signified her father’s pleasure that she should attend the court and enter the service of his other bastard daughter’ (Chapuys’ words), whom he referred to, quite deliberately, as princess of Wales. ‘Upon which Princess Mary replied: “that is the title which belongs to me by right, and to no one else.” ’11 She then proceeded to explain politely but firmly how unfitting the proposals being made to her were. It was not what Norfolk wanted to hear and he cut her short: ‘he had not gone hither to dispute but to see the king’s wishes accomplished and his commands executed’. Mary then asked for half an hour alone and used the time to draw up a formal protest, probably using a wording suggested earlier by Chapuys.When she emerged, still apparently in command of her emotions, she asked Norfolk to give those of her servants who were being dismissed one year’s wages and asked how many she could take with her to Hatfield.The reply was not encouraging.There would be plenty of servants where she was going, so no great train was needed. Margaret Douglas was removed from Mary’s service and sent off to join Anne Boleyn’s entourage.The attractive and popular Margaret, a favourite of her uncle, the king, adapted immediately and got on surprisingly well with the new queen. For Mary, the prospects were much less encouraging. She was left with just two ladies and a small number of male retainers from her staff. Her farewells to the countess of Salisbury must have been painful, and Margaret Pole, who been her guide for many years, no doubt shared Chapuys’ concern as to how Mary would cope.