As I watch her graceful stance, her delight as the king presses his lips against her wrist and prepares to lead her into the dance, I wonder who she is. When the music begins and they start to sway, I am captivated by their practised movements, their shared grace, and mesmerising harmony. Dragging my eyes from the mysteries of their dance, I turn to my mother - my ageing, grey-faced mother.
“Mother,” I whisper. “Who is that woman?”
They fill my days with lessons, leaving me no time to think, to ponder on the changes that are taking place within my life. I am used to living apart from my parents yet the separation at court is new and highlights how different things are. There used to be unity, there used to be respect, and it makes me miserable to watch the rift grow daily wider between them.
“What is happening?” I ask Margaret Pole. “My mother and father are acting like strangers.” As if they are crumbs on her skirt, she brushes my questions aside and hands me a thread and needle.
“These sleeves will never be finished if you don’t apply yourself,” she says with an uneasy smile.
I am supposed to be adorning the cuffs of my father’s nightshirt with flowers and vines, but it is dull stuff and I would far rather be out on the chase.
“I need some fresh air,” I complain. “Why must I keep to my apartments while Fitzroi rides out at the king’s side? It isn’t fair.”
“No, my lady, life isn’t fair. While we must stay indoors by the warm fireside, our menfolk must ride out in all weathers. In times of unrest, while we stay here, they ride to war. I am sure they too must envy us our leisurely days.”
Lady Margaret has a way of turning my words around, making wisdom from my infantile petulance. I stab the linen with my needle and insert a few ugly stitches.
“I am so bored.”
“It will soon be time to go to the great hall. Remember, the master of revels is preparing a pageant for the king’s feast. I am sure you will have a part in it.”
Putting my sewing aside, I rise to my feet and begin to practise the steps I learned last week.
“I had almost forgotten the pageant practise was today,” I say. “Come, Alice, and the rest of you, come dance with me. I want to see if I can remember what we practised before.”
Gladly my ladies put away their embroidery and join me in the centre of the room. I join hands with Alice, the other ladies do likewise and line up behind. Slowly, we begin to move, our chins high, our linked fingers at shoulder level. Every fourth step we are obliged to hop, but the chamber is far too small for such formal dances and Alice stumbles into a low stool, squealing when she barks her shins. The ladies following behind bump into us, and it ends in chaos. We all collapse into giggles.
“It will be easier in the hall,” Lady Margaret laughs from her seat at the hearth and, as we give up the frolic and re-join her, she sends a girl to fetch the soft shoes that I wear for dancing lessons.
Once ready, we follow Lady Margaret, who sets a stately pace, to the great hall. As we come closer, I feel excitement building up inside me and can barely wait until the music begins and I can release it.
Nobody pays attention to our entrance when the doors are thrown open. The large assembly already gathered buzzes with excitement. Young men and women, eager to show off their skills before the king, have formed small groups to practise their steps. When they notice me, the company parts to allow me passage, but as I draw close to the master of revels, a small knot of people close to the dais continue to gossip.
I stop, glancing up at my lady governess with a question on my brow. The sudden blanket of silence draws the group’s attention to my arrival and they turn, break apart and make a knee to me … all but one.
One woman stands defiantly. She looks me briefly in the eye before tossing her head and making a reluctant and very tardy bob of deference. The dancing master bustles forward and bows low in greeting as, from the corner of my eye, I see her spin away. She laughs behind her hand as she is swallowed by her friends.
“I didn’t realise children were going to be involved,” I hear her remark. I turn my head sharply but she has her back toward me. I open my mouth, ready with a reprimand, but Lady Margaret’s fingers grow tighter on my arm and, taking her silent advice, I decide to say nothing … this time.
Throughout the afternoon, I keep an unobtrusive eye on the woman. She is graceful, elegant, making me feel clumsy in comparison. I find myself envying the tilt of her head, the way she places her feet just so … beside her, I am like a performing bear.
Her laugh rings out across the hall; her voice is light, intelligent and touched with the faintest of accents. I know from Alice that her name is Anne, and she is the youngest of the Boleyn sisters, recently returned from the French court. I can see from her clothes and her exotic manner that this is true.
Her presence spoils the afternoon for me; somehow she undermines my position although I don’t know why. When I complain of it to Margaret, she dismisses her as a fool to risk offending the king’s daughter. But she doesn’t look like a fool. I make a note to ask my aunt Mary about her when I see her next.
Turning my attention to the last few turns about the floor, I try to forget the Boleyn girl with the mocking eyes, but as the steps of the dance lead me past her, I pray fervently I will not stumble. I cannot bear the thought of her laughter turned against me.
In truth, although I’d admit it to no one, I’d like to be part of her elegant group. I’d like to enquire who sewed her gowns, how she manages to achieve such a sheen upon her hair, how she moves as though she is walking on air. But I know without being told that there is no place in her circle of friends for a gauche, dumpy child … princess or not.
On the morning of the masque, I wake full of anticipation for the coming evening. Is the gown I selected clean? I ask. Have my new slippers been brushed and perfumed?
I am all smiles as my lengthy toilette is carried out and the day stretches like a spotless carpet before me. But on our way to Mass, one of my attendants tugs at my sleeve.
“Did you hear, my lady? The king has cancelled the entertainments.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn frowning upon her.
“No; you are mistaken, Margery. Surely, I would have been informed…”
But I can see from her face and the gloomy expressions of those gathered about me that it is true. My heart plummets. Disappointment washes over me. I have practised so hard, waited so long, and my steps are now perfect.
“Are you sure? Why? Perhaps I can beg an audience with the king and persuade him to change his mind…”
She leans forward, her hand on my arm, to whisper in my ear. “They say it was at the request of Anne Boleyn.”
I frown. “But why … what does she gain from cancelling the pageant? She is as involved as anyone!”
As I speak, the chapel begins to fill with people and the rustle of anticipation, the murmur of deference informs me that the king has arrived to hear Mass. Turning to greet him, I prepare to make a deep curtsey but … my jaw slackens for, as if she is the queen herself, the Lady Anne follows closely in the wake of my father.
As they pass me, my eyes clash with Anne’s. Hers are full of triumph and I know beyond a shadow of doubt that her intention is to injure me.
I recognise my enemy and I know that she is not only behind the cancellation of the pageant, but also the cause of the breach between my parents.
Anne Boleyn intends to steal my father, and undermine my position as his heir. Loathing unfurls deep within my belly; hatred that is bitter and cold, and futile.
I beg leave to spend an hour with my mother who is closeted with Chapuys in her privy chamber. Her women, who dote on me, greet me cordially and I am forced to linger with them while they praise the colour of my gown, the shade of my eyes and the hue of my cheeks. It is Lucy Talbot who eventually remembers to make my request known to the queen. As she opens the door, Mother’s voice floats from within, her accents strained and upset.
�
�They tell me nothing …nothing…”
Ignoring etiquette, I glide through the portal, spread my skirts and sink into a curtsey. She halts mid-sentence, pastes a smile on her face and holds out a hand.
“Mary,” she says and relief floods through me when I hear the affection in her tone. Mother will always love me, no matter what. There is no one and nothing that can come between us, but it is very evident that something is wrong.
She pats the window seat and I hurry to sit beside her. I listen as the ambassador takes his leave and we are alone.
She quizzes me on my progress in the schoolroom, passes me her lute that I might show her the latest tunes I have learned. As my fingers stumble across the strings, she taps her foot, pretending gaiety, and when I reach the end of my repertoire, I let the lute drop to the ground.
Her happiness is feigned. I wish she would speak to me of her troubles, ease her burden, but I recognise her pride and understand her refusal to reveal her concerns, even to me. She smiles brightly.
“And how is your needlework coming along?” she asks. “Are your stitches smaller, are you managing to keep the lines straight?”
She smiles as she speaks so I know she is not displeased with me. I just wish I could erase the two deep lines above her nose and hear her merry laughter once again. Reaching out, she takes my fingers in her palm. Her hand is cold and I notice her thumbnail has been bitten almost to the quick.
I want to hang on to that hand. I close my eyes and pray hard for God to bring back the days of my infancy when everything was sunny, and I felt safe. Oh God, I pray silently, make the king send that woman back to France.
“What is it, Mary? Are you not well?” Her voice breaks through my prayer. I blink and look up at her.
“I am well in body, Madam, but I am … troubled.”
“Troubled? Is it the marriage with France? I have told your father I do not approve of it. You should have been joined with Spain. Spain is in your blood, part of your history – a union with Spain would please … all of us.”
She dashes her cheek, shakes herself as if to dispel a surge of unhappiness.
“It isn’t my marriage, Madam. It is…” I drop my voice to a whisper, “… it is that woman…”
Our eyes meet and this time she makes no attempt to disguise her pain. She doesn’t pretend not to know to whom I refer. She squeezes my fingers gently.
“Do not worry. As soon as his eyes fall upon a prettier face, she will be gone. It was the same with her sister, and Bessie Blount, and countless others I cannot name.”
Mother has never spoken to me so openly before. I feel adult, the few years I’ve spent on this earth inflated to nineteen or even twenty. I lift my chin and tighten my lips, her face blurring slightly when I narrow my eyes.
“I don’t think she is at all like Bessie and Mary. I don’t think she has any intention of letting the king go. She made him cancel the entertainments just to spite me. Next time one is arranged, I know she will ensure I am left out, and Father will do nothing to prevent it. I have seen the way she goes about court, her band of followers treating her as if she were the queen and not you! She means to…”
“Mary!”
Mother’s sharp voice cuts my tirade short but her displeasure is tempered by the light touch of her hand. “I understand how you feel but we must never, never let our disquiet show. We must conceal our feelings behind a mask of dignity. It is beneath us to be troubled by a woman of such low birth – her grandfather was a mercer, did you know that?”
I shake my head, uncertain what difference that makes. I lower my head, frowning with confusion at our entwined fingers. Mother is queen, I am heir to the throne – nothing but death can change that. Why then are we so unhappy?
But, as the weeks pass and my household staff behave more and more strangely, I know they are keeping something from me. As soon as I enter the room, they draw apart and paint rigid smiles upon their faces. When they address me, their voices are light and high, as if they are humouring a small child. Like a thief, unease creeps upon me and steals my peace of mind. My security is shattered and I live each day with uncertainty until, toward the end of August, I hear the word for the first time.
Annulment.
And when I hear that word, although its meaning is unclear, I know for certain the end is very near.
St James’ Palace – October 1558
I open my eyes to find they have put me to bed. I have no memory of it. Did I say my prayers? I grope for my rosary and mumble a few lines before the cough rips at my lungs again. As I struggle to sit, hands appear from nowhere to assist me. A pillow is tucked at my back, a cup pressed into my palms. I blink at the white face floating in the darkness. I do not recognise it. It is featureless; terrifying.
The past looms back again, more powerful than the present. The past in which I was lusty with youth, not broken by the years.
“I didn’t believe it at first. It was unthinkable, do you see? Unthinkable that the king should put my mother aside for the sake of some lowborn concubine. I was sure they must be mistaken. Gossips take things, don’t they, and blow them up, inflate the smallest details into outrageous lies and present them as truth. I don’t know why. I don’t know what satisfaction that gives them.”
When nobody answers me, I fall silent. The crackle of the flames in the hearth is loud but my thoughts are louder. They scream at me, the turmoil of that far away world as raw as if it were yesterday.
“I dismissed it all as lies but when I eventually questioned Margaret Pole, she wouldn’t answer at first. It wasn’t until I saw the tears swimming in her eyes that I knew it was more than that. Father was losing his mind.”
Sensing someone close beside me, I grab the woman’s wrist, draw her close and peer into her face again.
“Margery. Why are you here? Where’s that girl I was talking to just now? Who said she could leave? I didn’t dismiss her.”
“Your Majesty, that was yesterday. The physician says you must rest today. You must not excite yourself.”
“Why not? Scared I will die on your watch? Go now and fetch that girl … I forget her name but she listens. She doesn’t fuss and order me about as if I were the servant and she the mistress. Go and get her now.”
“It is two in the morning. Everyone is abed, Your Majesty.”
“I don’t care. Fetch her.”
Darkness encroaches again and, despite the fire in the hearth and the warming stone at my feet, I feel alone and cold. I must speak to her now. I cannot be sure I will be alive come morning and there are things I need to say. My head lolls on the pillow and as the past pushes in again, a tear begins a convoluted journey down my cheek.
He loved my mother. I knew he did, I saw it first-hand. He loved her and he loved me too – it was that woman, the Boleyn woman, who poisoned him against us. She made him no longer see his wife of twenty years and his beloved daughter – his ‘Pearl’ – he saw only a barrier preventing him from getting a son. He raged at us, called us stubborn, and I suppose we were stubborn … but we were in the right. It was the king and his whore who were wrong … and he knew it.
The door opens again and a small figure creeps in; a taller shadow following just behind melts into a dark corner. I reach out an arm.
“Come here, girl, sit on that stool. Where’ve you been? It was wrong of you to sneak off mid-conversation.”
“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I thought, when you fell asleep, you had finished with me.”
I sniff. Why do they always accuse me of falling asleep when all I am doing is closing my eyes for a few moments?
“Hmmph, well, where was I? Can you remember?”
She scrapes her stool on the floor, clears her throat and clasps her hands tightly in her lap. Her face is slick with perspiration.
“The annulment, Your Majesty. You had just discovered the king believed the marriage to be invalid because of your mother’s previous marriage to his brother, Arthur of Wales.”
“Phwah, in
valid my foot! Had my mother provided him with a stable of sons the king’s conscience would have been just fine. It was Boleyn; she persuaded him that only she could provide him with a son. He was easy prey.”
“It must have been a hard time for you, Your Majesty…”
“Hard? It was hell. My tender years were stolen. I was in constant torment. Kept away from court, away from my mother … and Father refused to acknowledge my letters…” My voice breaks. I take a deep breath and exhale so furiously the candles on the nightstand dip.
“At the time, the future was a closed book. I couldn’t see beyond the next hour. I expected the worst to happen at any minute. I knew hardly a moment’s peace at that time. News filtered through to me … oh yes, there were those loyal to us, people who hated the Boleyn woman as much as I did – although little good it did them, or us. My mother refused to retire from court, declaring God never called her to a nunnery and she’d be damned if she’d go to one to suit the king.
‘I am the king’s true and legitimate wife,’ she cried over and over, and refused to budge from that. For years she kept Father and his advisors at bay, fending off every attack on us, even in the face of the king’s fury … and I tell you, his fury was something to behold.
“In the end, he sent to Rome, and still my mother stood firm. There were times I wanted to give in, just for the sake of a little peace, hold up my hands and admit to being a bastard. I’d have given anything just to bask in his smile again, but how could I when Mother was so insistent she went to my father’s bed a maid? She denied her marriage with Arthur was ever consummated because it was true. She was the king’s honest wife, and had he tied her to the rack and tightened the ropes himself, she’d still have sworn she went to his bed a virgin.
My mother was strong and honest and godly, the wisest woman I have ever known. She would never lie, especially not before God.”
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 3