“I was watching the sun set…” I pause when I see her face and realise she has some news.
“What is it?” I beckon her forward and she moves toward me across the floor, then hesitates, her cheeks as rosy as the evening sky.
“News from Greenwich, my lady.”
I know what news she speaks of. The whole country has been on edge, waiting for the birth of the concubine’s son. I lift my chin, bracing myself for evil tidings.
“And…?”
She wets her lips, visibly swallows before answering.
“A girl, Madam. The queen has given birth to a girl.”
I had expected to feel despair. I had expected grief. I had expected a boy – a prince to replace me in my father’s affection. But a girl! I had not expected that.
Delight floods through me. I put my hand across my mouth to smother my laughter. A stupid, useless girl! How sharp Boleyn’s disappointment must be. How ungoverned my father’s rage. Triumph is a heady thing. I click my fingers at a servant.
“Bring me a pen and parchment, I must write to my mother.”
This is forbidden, of course, but Mother and I still manage to exchange secret letters, to share our sorrow, our love and our fears. It is the one thing that keeps me going. She must hear this news from no one but myself. It will gladden her sorrow.
The nib of the pen scratches across the parchment. I know that for once she will excuse my untidy scrawl. She will understand the upheaval of my emotions at such a time. But slowly, as I write, the fierce joy is replaced by nudging regret – and I am surprised to feel some pity for my father who has given up all his worldly joys in the hopes of a son.
God has denied him again.
But my pity does not last. As I seal the letter, I see in my mind’s eye my father plucking his newborn daughter from her cradle and holding her high. I see her clasp his great finger in her tiny fist and squint up at him with a blue-hued eye. She will steal him from me.
I know beyond doubt that even though she is not the son he longs for, he will love her anyway while I will remain forgotten, tucked away like an old plaything – tainted and soiled, and undeserving of his affection. She, Elizabeth, will take my place as Princess of Wales, as Father’s heir … until a boy is begotten.
Sorrow drowns my brief joy at Boleyn’s failure. I drop my pen and bury my face in my hands as the carcass of my former status is cast up and broken.
I think I am in the deepest pit of sorrow but further miseries soon fall upon me, thick and fast. As soon as Elizabeth is proclaimed the High and Mighty Princess of England, my own titles are stripped away. I am no longer to be named ‘princess’ and must immediately cease to use the title. My own household’s badge is cut from my servants’ clothes and replaced with the king’s arms. I am now merely the Lady Mary, the king’s daughter – a bastard and a servant. Lower than Fiztroi, because he at least has the benefit of being a boy.
I write straight away to my father, striving to conceal my pain behind dignity and reason.
…when I heard, I could not a little marvel, trusting verily that your Grace was not privy to the same letter, as concerning the leaving out of the name of princess, forasmuch as I doubt not in your goodness but that your Grace doth take me for his lawful daughter, born in true matrimony. Wherefore, I were to say to the contrary, I should assuredly your Grace would not that I should…
I sign it Your most humble daughter, Mary, Princess knowing full well the onslaught of royal displeasure this will bring. I am not surprised when, a few days later, the Earl of Oxford leads a deputation to Beaulieu with a clear message from the king as to his expectations.
At first, they are polite, but when it becomes apparent that I will not concede, they rail at me and make the folly and danger of my conduct quite clear. My knees shake and my voice is tremulous as I attempt to refute their words. These men are tall, they are broad and they fill my chambers with contempt when by rights they should kneel to me as the princess of this realm.
It takes all my strength to quell the fury that rages within me. I close my lips so firmly over my teeth that it makes my jaws ache. My eyes sting with tears and my chest is so constricted I can scarcely draw breath. For hours they harangue me with the king’s expectations, demanding that I do my duty and adhere to his wishes. It takes all my reserve to repel them.
At last, when they ride away, I watch from the window, glad to see the dust from their hooves settle, leaving the bailey empty and Beaulieu Abbey in peace again. But for how long? I tilt my head back and call down the vengeance of Heaven upon them.
Still trembling with rage, I turn on my heel and return to my chambers, sit down to write a letter to my father. He may be the king but even kings must answer to the law, and to God.
As long as I live, I will be obedient to his rule but I will never, NEVER renounce the titles, rights and privileges with which God has endowed me. I will never cast doubt upon the validity of my mother’s marriage, or upon her virtue, by acknowledging illegitimacy. They can kill me if they want to.
December 1533
Shortly afterwards, I learn I am to be evicted from Beaulieu and must attend upon the ‘Princess’ Elizabeth at Hatfield … as her servant. While humiliation clangs like a great bell in my ear, I stare at the letter. This cannot be happening. I want to hide myself away in my rooms, lock myself in and refuse to see anyone, refuse to eat, refuse to pray, refuse to live – but I do not. All I can do is write again to the king, informing him of my unhappiness, begging that he take pity.
In response, he sends Thomas Howard, the great whore’s uncle, to force my compliance. I am not yet fully grown but while I wait for him to speak first, I clench my fists tight and stand as tall as I can.
“My lady,” he says, his lips twitching at the glee of using the reduced address. “The king demands that you attend the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield.”
I clear bile from my throat and look down my Tudor nose.
“Sir.” I curl my lip at the word. “Pray inform my father that the title ‘Princess of England’ belongs to myself and no other. By rights it should be she who serves me, when she is of an age to do so.”
His cheek twitches, but not from any sense of humour; it is disdain I see in his eye. Were it not for fear of the consequences, it is clear he would take a rod to my back.
“I am not here to debate but to do my master’s will,” he growls, “no matter what it takes.”
I stand silently before him and wonder that a man with so much nasal hair can still draw breath. He is a brute and a bully, and I am at a loss as to how to breach such coldheartedness. I realise there is nothing I can do but comply.
Refusing to look at him, I keep my gaze fixed on a rich tapestry hanging behind him; a blur of gold and red, with a splash of green.
“I cannot just leave. I need time to prepare myself, my servants…”
“You’ll not be taking servants with you.” He cuts rudely through my speech and mentally I vow that if I am ever in the position to revenge this day, he shall receive no mercy.
“I must have servants.” I speak through clenched teeth. “My cousin, Lady Pole, must accompany…”
He cuts me again.
“My orders are that Lady Pole will no longer be required in this household...”
I stand up, clench my fists and shout in his face.
“Lady Pole has been with me my entire life!”
“Until now.”
A movement beside me. I had forgotten Margaret’s presence. She clutches my wrist and holds out her other hand beseechingly to Howard.
“Sir, show mercy. I ask no payment but will gladly serve the … the Lady Mary … at no expense to the king.”
Norfolk turns his back. The guards at the door snap to attention. “Make arrangements, Lady Mary,” he snaps rudely over his shoulder. “You depart for Hatfield tomorrow.”
With the sound of his footsteps still echoing along the corridor, I turn to Margaret and find my own hopelessness mirrored in h
er face. We have been together for so long she has become a second mother to me. I will never be happy without her. It is hard, cruel, to be separated from the queen, but from Margaret too? She is my Godmother, my friend…
“Oh Margaret,” I whimper. “How am I to endure this?”
Her fingers wrap about my wrist and she squeezes reassuringly, her nose close to mine.
“You shall endure it, my lady. You are stronger than you know. Look how you have borne the brunt of the king’s displeasure thus far.”
“Because I had you. You made me feel safe. Your love … gave me hope and courage. Without you, I am just a girl … a weak and feeble child…”
“Just as I was, my dear Princess. There have been times when I too have been close to despair. When my father was killed, and later when my brother was put to death … when my husband died and left me a widow with children to raise. There are times in everyone’s life when we feel we can’t go on, but we do …we can … you can.”
I sniff and wipe a drip from the end of my nose.
“Can I? Without you to care for me, I shall be all alone – vulnerable. Who will look after me? Who shall guard me against the hatred of that woman? She means to poison me, you know…”
Somehow, we have come to be kneeling on the floor. She leans forward and takes me in her arms; my head is tucked beneath her chin and her hands are soft on my hair. As we drown in the pool of our spreading skirts, she does not deny my last statement as I had hoped she would. She too has heard the whispers and believes them as I do. The Boleyn woman sees me as a rival to her daughter’s throne and means to eliminate me from the game.
When night falls and my eyes are still sore from weeping, Margaret agrees to share my bed. For a long time, I lie upon her bosom and soon her night rail is damp with the tears that will not stop.
Miserable nights are always the longest. While she drifts into uneasy sleep, I stare unseeing at the canopy while a pageant of pictures floats across my mind. The past is bright, shining like a bauble, while the present is dank and chill – but the future is impenetrably bleak. Tomorrow I must ride into hell and feast with the child of the devil.
Hatred for the infant lodges in my chest, sickening me, filling my soul with so much resentment that I can neither see nor taste a single drop of goodness. It eradicates every ounce of my kindness. I blink blindly and whisper into the night.
“I swear by Heaven that I will not serve the little bastard. I may be forced to tolerate her, to live beneath her roof and call her ‘princess’, but I shall never look on her as a sister, or her mother as my father’s wife.”
When I wake in the morning there is blood on the sheets, and I realise my monthly megrim has begun. Usually at such times I would take to my bed, weep into my pillow for a few days until the cramps have eased and I can hold my head high again, but today … I must get up or bear the brunt of Norfolk’s fury.
This is the last morning I shall spend with Margaret, and the rest of the household who have served me for so long. Sorrow tears at my heart as I wish them goodbye. The women weep and the men avert their eyes, hoping I shall not notice the tears they hold back. It is the last time I shall be treated as a royal princess – by this evening I shall be nothing but Mary, the king’s illegitimate daughter.
It is not until my dressers are tying on my sleeves that I realise my jewels have been taken. By order of the king, they tell me. I absorb this with less sorrow than I bore the removal of my servants, my friends, but I do miss the comfort of my pearls, and my bodice seems bare without them. The only embellishment I am allowed is my rosary. I clutch it tightly beneath my cloak and pray desperately for the strength to bear the trials that lie ahead.
When it is time to leave, the palace yard is deserted. Nobody comes to see me off, there is no pageantry, no one to call out and wish me a safe journey. I am helped into the saddle and jolt as we begin to move. I grab the pommel and slump over the horse’s neck. My mood is as dejected and as cold as the dreary day, but just before we clatter beneath the outer gate we pass a small girl driving a gaggle of geese to slaughter. She lifts her head and our eyes meet. When she recognises me, her face lights up and she smiles, curtseying low in the mire.
I manage to smile in return and then I grit my teeth, tighten the reins and dig in my heels. If I must take this journey, then I shall do so in a manner that would make my mother proud. I must never forget that I share the blood of Spanish queens.
But my determination is soon thwarted. The road is long and the weather is bitter, a hint of snow in the air. Norfolk allows me little rest. By the time we embark upon the last stage of the journey, my body is screaming with pain. My menses are always cruel but travelling makes it harder. My lower back aches; my knees, despite the thick layers of skirts and petticoats, throb with cold. I hold on to the reins as desperately as a drowning man to a rope, and long for the journey to end.
The Great North Road is interminable, the hamlets we pass through are small and mean, yet I’d give all I own for an hour to sup pottage before one of their humble hearths. Norfolk ignores each request I make to rest a while.
“It’s not much farther now,” he barks rudely over his shoulder. “Potters Bar is ahead and Hatfield lies just beyond.”
Just beyond. The words give me hope. I pull myself up in the saddle and blink into the wind, expecting to see the lights of the town around the next bend.
The dwellings we pass are sparse and down at heel; a dog leaps barking, straining his chain as we ride by. My eyes linger on his slobbering teeth; I can almost feel the bite of them on my ankle. Nudging my mount sideways, I draw closer to a man-at-arms and he turns his head, smiles encouragingly before looking away again. Somehow I manage to draw a small amount of comfort from his rebuttal, the small quick smile would have been wider had he not been afraid of drawing his master’s displeasure.
With no friend beside me I am grateful for his fleeting warmth, but as soon as he turns away, I grow cold again. I shiver and try not to think of roaring fires or warming cups of frumenty. I push away memories of thick blankets, gentle arms, and clutch my fur-lined cloak tighter to my throat, lowering my head against the freezing rain.
Slowly, the eternity of road unreels beneath the hooves of my mount. My head is so heavy I can scarce hold it erect and I can barely keep my eyes open. I long for a soft mattress, a hot drink, for sleep and oblivion.
“Take care, my lady, lest you fall.” A rough male voice jerks me awake. I blink blearily at the man-at-arms. His hand is clutching my rein and he smiles tightly. “Not much farther now, my lady.”
I am so grateful for his solicitation that I cannot find my voice. Ahead, the broad expanse of Norfolk’s back rises and falls with his horse’s gait. I smile wryly at the man but he does not return it. I understand that he dare not and make do with the cold comfort of his unspoken empathy.
Not long now, I tell myself. Dusk is falling. Ahead, I imagine I see a glimmer of light, a yellow speck of suggested destination. I blink into the gloom.
“Is that…?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
The lights of the inn grow brighter as we draw closer. An ostler looks up as we ride by and tugs his forelock, but that is the only greeting I receive. Usually my arrival is hailed ceremoniously with a fanfare and great pomp, but today I could be anyone. My arrival passes unnoticed. I turn regretfully in the saddle as the brightness of the inn diminishes behind us, and with it the hope of warm drinks and a lively fire. We climb uphill, my horse’s head nodding at the effort. Then a church looms from the dusk, the stocky bell tower solid and reassuring against the dark sky. A cry goes up and the gates of the house start opening.
I have been here before, of course. I have stayed here, slept in the best chambers, walked in the softness of the gardens, sheltered from the rain beneath wide gnarled oaks. In those days, everyone did my bidding, striving one against the other to please me. Today, the palace yard is empty; only a stable boy comes forward to help me dismount and lea
d the horse away.
I stand hunched and hungry and wait for someone to appear to greet me, but nobody comes. Jane Browne, the only woman permitted to accompany me, hobbles forward as stiff as I from the saddle, and together we move beneath the arch toward the great hall.
As we near the door I hear footsteps behind me, and Norfolk pushes ahead, causing me to step aside to allow him passage. I tighten my lips, making note of the incident. One day, I vow, I will be in the position to repay him for the slight.
We follow into the bright hall and I head straight for the hearth, holding out my hands to the flames, wincing at the devilish lick of pain as my fingers begin to thaw.
A light step behind. I turn to find a woman, a lady by her dress, and at first I fail to recognise her until she moves forward from the shadow.
“Lady Shelton.” I extend my hand but she doesn’t take it and neither does she curtsey as she once would have. Instead, she inclines her head.
“Lady Mary,” she replies indifferently … and then she catches sight of Norfolk. “My lord…” She holds out a hand in greeting and he swoops upon it. I recall they are some sort of kin. My gaolers have been chosen well, for she is another cousin of the great whore.
I watch as he greets her, marvelling at his warmth when he has shown me nothing but malice. Ignoring my presence, they rudely exchange news and tidings from court while I am forced to swallow the slight. Just as I am about to snap, Lady Shelton turns and casts a derisive eye over my soiled skirts.
“I suppose I should show you to your room,” she sniffs.
Turning on her heel, she hurries before me along twisting corridors, up a flight of stairs. Then she halts, fumbles with her keys and throws open a chamber door. I duck my head beneath the lintel and look around. Jane Browne shakes her head, her eyes wide. “Oh, my lady,” she whispers.
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 5