“Silence,” I bellow and they fall quiet, duck their heads and quietly turn their attention to my toilette.
The bed is huge. When I am helped into it, I pull the covers up to my chin while Philip, boyish in his night clothes, climbs in beside me. Gardiner blesses the bed, and my cheeks grow warm as the English courtiers give vent to further crude jokes, while Philip’s Spanish attendants look on, surprised at the bawdry.
Acutely aware of my nakedness beneath my thin linen shift, I flinch from the man who is equally as naked beside me. Susan curtseys low and wishes me good night. As she leaves the room, she flashes an empathic smile. I try to take heart from her unspoken advice. Philip is handsome, she says silently, get of it what you can, but at this moment, I would rather be anywhere else on earth than in this bed with a man who neither knows nor likes me.
Of course, I knew what marriage meant. I am thirty-eight years old and have heard all the stories, the grubby tittle-tattle. Susan and Jane have made quite sure I fully understand what is to happen. I know the -roughly what will happen, it is the execution that comes as such a shock.
When the night candle is doused, we sit silently in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of celebration drifting up from the hall. I jump like a startled hind when he places his hand on my thigh, and my breath increases with my rising fear. His hand travels upward but before he reaches his target, my courage fails and I fidget away.
I am not ready for a stranger to touch my quaint. No one has ever touched my quaint. So as not to offend him, I slide down the bed and toward him so his palm shifts to my hip. I smile tightly in what I hope is an encouraging manner, although I know he cannot see me clearly.
He sighs and his hand roams upward, fumbling for my breast; his fingers are cold against the warmth of my skin. I hold my breath, waiting for pleasure. I close my eyes and will the desire to come. As he starts to tug at the hem of my shift, my mind screams against it, but my knees part instinctively at his unspoken command. Surely he can hear the pounding of my heart; it is hammering like a drum. Why doesn’t he speak? Why doesn’t he say something?
I am going to die of shame.
He rolls and I tilt my head, waiting for his lips as he clambers on top of me, but the kiss doesn’t come. Instead, he fumbles between my legs, probing places that even I have never explored. My body is rigid. Shock knifes through me. I crane my face away and a shameful tear drips onto the mattress. His touch burns as he pushes his fingers into me. And then he pauses.
Was that it? I think. Has he finished? But no, after a moment, he raises himself and thrusts hard against me, shocking me to the core.
My heart is bruised.
In the morning, when my women pry into the events of the night before, I find I cannot tell them the truth. I cannot confess to having made such a horrible mistake. Nobody shall ever know of it. Instead, I find myself smiling and blushing like a maid, making coy references to a delight I did not experience.
In Philip’s absence, as I go about my day, it is easier to forget the crippling embarrassment of our coupling, and I pretend to love him. As my women attend me, I prattle on about how wonderful he is, how gentle, how magnificent. Once I am dressed in my finest and my hair has been brushed and tucked beneath my cap, I send for the court jeweller and order a collar to be made commemorating our joining. As I wrap it in fine tissue, I speak loudly of the sweet love between us, my devotion to my husband, and my joy that our marriage is a success.
But the truth of it is, Philip is a cold fish and I am filled with resentment that he does not even pretend, as I do, that our union pleases him.
Hampton Court – November 1555
While Philip takes the apartments that my father’s consorts lived in at Hampton Court, I take up residence in the royal chambers that my father and Edward used. It is an unusual but appropriate arrangement given that I am queen and Philip is to have no power in England. His role is to support me. He will sit on my council but he will never rule. His opinions will be treated warily, and I reserve the right to veto them. If I die before him, he will have no leverage, no further claim to power here. I am the only one in this marriage to have supremacy over England. I imagine he secretly resents this as he seems to resent so much about our union, but he makes no verbal complaint.
We pass our first months together like distant acquaintances and all is well until bed time, when we are expected to couple and produce a prince of the realm.
The act has become a little easier now I know what to expect but I still find it uncomfortable and rather disagreeable. I have long given up dwelling on the dream I once harboured of marriage. I do not require his affection; the crux of the arrangement is to get with child as quickly as I can. Once I can be sure I am carrying England’s prince, my duty will be done and Philip will not be required in my bed again.
Of course, I continue to act as though I hold him in the deepest regard. I couldn’t bear the gossip, you see. We make a strange pairing. Privately, I liken us to Janus – welded together in marriage but while he looks to Spain, I look to England.
The one thing in which we are in accord is England’s return to Rome, and Philip will be useful in this. He is the best man to take charge of the delicate negotiations and, when I make the suggestion, he cannot hide his pleasure at being given such an honour.
After months of negotiation, it is an immensely satisfying day when my cousin, Cardinal Reginald Pole, arrives in London. It is a breach of my father’s making that should have been healed long ago.
Philip sees the return of the cardinal as a personal triumph. For twenty years, Pole has been exiled, he has seen his family destroyed for his sins, yet even when all guns were against him, he never wavered in his support of me, or the true church. His reward will equal the depth of my gratitude. I know he has always hankered to become the Archbishop of Canterbury and I shall ensure it becomes so.
I have not seen Reginald since I was a small child; in fact, I am not even sure if I remember the occasion, or if I simply remember my mother speaking of it. When he takes the knee before me, I go forward and bid him rise.
“My dear cousin,” I say, “you are most welcome to England.” A tear slides down his cheek and I my eyes are also moist.
There is so much to discuss, matters both personal and politic and, during the next few weeks, I am so much in his company that I do not heed the first rumblings of sickness. I am so often ailing with women’s complaints that I dismiss it as the onset of my megrim.
On the last day of November, I stand tall and proud as Reginald absolves England of our years of sin and heresy and welcomes us back to Rome. The schism is at an end and the first thing I do is write to Philip’s father, Charles, to inform him of our kingdom’s return to the obedience of the Holy Church. My heart is so light that I am certain Mother is looking down and applauding me. Before I became queen, I compiled a list of changes I intended to make when I ascended the throne. Today, that list is a little shorter.
At the banquet that follows, I eat very little. I feel nauseous, my belly rolling with disgust at each dish the ushers place before me. I shake my head, waving it away, and chew only on a piece of bread.
“You didn’t eat a thing, Your Majesty,” Susan remarks as she combs my hair that evening. “You must keep up your strength.”
“I think I am ailing,” I reply, watching her face in the looking glass. “I feel sickly and have no appetite at all.”
She touches my shoulder and I look up at her. She flushes pink and puts her lips close to my ear.
“Your Majesty, remind me, when did you last see your courses?”
My head reels, bells ringing loudly in my ears as the inference of her words penetrates my tardy mind. Realisation dawns. I grip her hand.
“Oh Susan, you don’t think? Could I be with child … already?”
Her laughter echoes about the chamber.
“I rather think you might be, Your Majesty! We shall have to wait and see.”
Hampton Court Pal
ace – February -July 1555
I am filled with joy and can barely contain myself until the day comes to announce my wonderful news to the world. Etiquette demands the matter is kept secret until the child quickens in my womb, and daily I cradle my growing stomach in my hands and will the child to move. Just one little kick. But even before the child quickens, I feel replete, bursting with life, and know I have done my duty.
I am queen of England, a child of Rome, and now I will have my heir, my son. If he could see me now, I know my father would be pleased and proud of me.
“We must plan the prince’s household,” I say. “He will need a wet-nurse and rockers, a launderess, and we must have the royal cradle brought down from the attics … or have a new one fashioned.” I lie back in my chair, stroke my belly and smile widely at my women.
Recently, the atmosphere in my chambers has changed, or it seems so to me. My whole world is brighter. Winter sunshine streams through the windows, the fires dance in the grate and my women are gay because I insist on calling for musicians and dancing every afternoon. I cannot wait for spring to arrive; this year it will not just herald warmer days and lent lilies but the birth of my child, a prince of England.
“Do you think I should name him after my father? Henry the ninth, he would become in time. Or would Philip be more suitable? England has never had a King Philip. I think it would please my husband, and his father too.”
“Perhaps a combination of the two, Your Majesty. Henry Philip, or Philip Henry – both have a very nice ring to them.”
“Philip Henry…” I try out the sound, repeating it over and over in different combinations to see which I prefer.
Months pass, and my lying-in chamber is arranged. Suitable tapestries are hung, plenty of cushions and soft fabrics are put in place. When it is time to enter, I bid farewell to Philip, whom I will not see until the time comes to present him with his son. It is clear from his expression and his chilly kiss that he will not miss me. After issuing orders and reminders to my council, I take up refuge in the shuttered chamber. It is dark, and warm, and quite oppressive. Barely a day has passed before I yearn to peek outside at the brightness of the garden.
A midwife is brought in, and my youngest maids are chivvied from the chamber with only my closest, more mature household women permitted access to me.
“Make sure the announcements are prepared,” I say. “Leave a gap in the script that we might fill in our prince’s name and the date of his arrival once he is born. It is not long to wait now.” As she turns to go, I call her back. “And send for my sister. I would like to have Elizabeth attend the birth.”
Then I sit down … and wait, barely able to contain my patience. I wonder if Philip is as excited as I. Not for the first time, I regret the lack of love between us. I remember my father when Jane Seymour retired from court to prepare for Edward’s birth. He was playful and chirpy, buoyant with hope and never for a moment imagined she would fail in her duty – it certainly never occurred to him that she might not survive the birth.
The memory of Jane brings a cloud. I suppress a shiver and thrust the thought firmly from my mind. I am made of stronger stuff than Jane. I might be nearing forty and my fertile years may be numbered but I am the queen and God loves me. He will not fail me.
The womb-like chamber is supposed to soothe me but the warm airless space is dark, and the atmosphere as thick and slow as honey. It is more like a tomb than a womb and sometimes I feel I cannot breathe.
Elizabeth is with me nearly every afternoon. She lounges on my cushions, eats the dainties my ladies have placed beside me, and conceals her boredom, as she conceals everything. She does her best to divert me with gossip about family members, or childhood memories of her and Edward. One day we even go so far as to indulge in naughty criticisms of our father.
But we do not mention Jane Grey. She is not to be spoken of.
I send Elizabeth to fetch things for me, ask her to rub my temples when my head aches, and if part of me remembers the days I was forced to serve her, well, I am only human.
I lie back on pillows, my hands resting on my stomach, my eye fastened on the cradle in the corner and dream of my son.
My prince.
“I think he will be blond, Elizabeth,” I remark. “I am sure of it, and well-built like Philip, not spindly-legged like me.”
“He will be beautiful whatever shade of hair he has, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth has a way of making statements that say absolutely nothing. Neutral comments that flatter until one analyses them. I flick through a few pages of my book.
“He will be an intelligent boy, quick to learn all he requires to be a great prince. I will ensure he is able in the saddle, and bright in the schoolroom and nimble of foot on the dancefloor.”
“Yes, I look forward to it, Your Majesty. I have never had a nephew before. He will call me Aunt Bess, I suppose. I hope he will be fond of me.”
I frown, disliking the thought of intimacy between my sister and my son. I’d not want him tainted by her hidden heresy.
“Children come into the world unformed and it will be up to me, as his mother, to shape him into the perfect Tudor prince – Prince Philip Henry, heir to the throne.”
She smiles widely with no visible hint of resentment. I wonder what she is hiding from me. Elizabeth is always the enigma – I love her but there is always this dreadful sense of distrust. I would love to see inside her mind, unravel the mysteries therein and read her true thoughts.
April arrives. Although I am not permitted to look outside, I sense the sky is bright blue, the trees slowly turning green, tiny white flowers emerging beneath bare winter hedges. It will not be long now. I place my hand on the mound of my belly, and wait for him to kick.
“The child has been quiet for days,” I say. “Do you think that is a sign he is about to be born?”
“I am sure it is, Your Majesty, but I am woefully ignorant of such matters. You must ask the midwife.”
The reply is the same to all the queries I make of my women. They seek to soothe me, lull me to sleep, to rest and relax and wait. I am tired of inactivity. Tired of waiting. So very, very tired.
By the end of the month, I am so restless I could scream. I pace the chamber floor, ignoring their pleas for me to rest. I no longer feel in the least queasy and my appetite is returning. I turn from the pinkness of Elizabeth’s youth and peer into my looking glass. My face is pale from lack of fresh air, my eyes are shadowed and dull, my jowls droop like a jew’s purse. I look every one of my thirty-nine years. I hate myself.
Everything is going wrong. Swivelling on my heel, I dash the mirror to the floor, sending shards of glass exploding about the room. Wrenched from her usual annoying calm, Elizabeth leaps to her feet and my attendants come running as I knew they would.
I am trembling, head to foot. My women are full of calming words, their cloying hands inducing me to sit, to lie on the bed, to take a draught of wine. Each word, each touch drives me into a greater rage. I dash the cup away.
“How long am I supposed to bear this?” I scream. “I have been incarcerated for months. I am suffocating in here!”
“Your Majesty, you must calm yourself; think of the child…”
I wrench back the thick curtain, fumble with the shutter and push the window wide. Closing my eyes, I breathe in deeply and drink in cool fragrant air, listening to the pealing church bells.
I open my eyes, stand up straighter.
“Why are they ringing the bells at this time? Has something happened? Send for Gardiner.”
I turn suddenly, in time to glimpse a dissolving smirk on my sister’s face as murmurs of shock ripple about the chamber. Gardiner is a man, forbidden to enter the lying-in chamber. I wave a hand at them. “For Heaven’s sake, I am your queen! Do as you are told.”
A little later, Gardiner creeps sheepishly through the door, reluctant to look at me, his bovine cheeks as pink as a maid caught with her paramour.
“I heard bell
s, Gardiner. Why were they sounding?”
He clears his throat, gulps the air for a few seconds.
“They were rung in error, Your Majesty, there have been rumours…”
“Rumours of what?”
He swallows, and when he smiles it does not reach his eyes.
“A rumour has been circulated that the prince has been born. The people became over … erm … excited, Your Majesty. I have sent orders for a retraction.”
I turn away, cross the chamber to stand before the open window again. Supposing the child never comes, supposing he has died in my womb? He has been very still of late; the regular kicks and squirms ceased days ago. I dare not voice my fears. Without turning, I address the window.
“Very well, Gardiner, you may go.”
“Shall I send your attendants in, Your Majesty?”
“No. I have no need of anybody.”
The door closes softly and I am left alone with my shrivelling hopes.
1556
I don’t know which is greater; the grief for my unborn child or the humiliation that I was mistaken. How can I have been mistaken? My belly was huge and my breasts were full and painful … the physicians assured me.
At first, I cannot summon the strength of character to venture beyond the gardens. They will all be laughing. I cannot bear to be seen by anybody but I know I must return to court at some time. Even though there are none brave enough to mock me openly, the fact of their private ridicule is torture. But I do not feel weak or sad, and my tears have long stopped falling.
I am angry … furious. I have done nothing to deserve this.
All my life, I have put my duty to God first. I have stood firm for the true church, I have tried to be a good, honest woman, and a conscientious queen. But, it seems that wasn’t enough. I am constantly punished, and the knowledge that I am still found wanting fills me with a fury such as I have never known.
The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Page 26