Mary, Bloody Mary

by Meyer, Carolyn, 1935-

  "Perhaps," she said. "We can at least hope."

  It was not until later that I remembered that conversation. Why did she not say, "Yes, until Easter"? She must have sensed that our lives were about to change.

  I counted the weeks until Easter, but no invitation arrived from my father. The third great court festival of the year was Whitsuntide, at the end of May, and again I waited, nearly ill with impatience. I was not permitted to write to my father, begging for an invitation, but I bombarded my mother with letters, entreating her to send for me. Her replies were warm and loving, as always, but she did not answer my questions: Why was I not called to court? When will I see you again?

  Instead of being called to court, I received a summons from the king to come to Bridewell for yet another ceremony. This time it was not the Princess of Wales who would be the focus of all eyes, but my half brother, Henry Fitzroy. At this ceremony King Henry intended to invest Fitzroy, his illegitimate son, with a string of royal titles: Duke of Somerset, Lord High Admiral, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Warden of the Marches, Duke of Richmond.

  It would have done no good to complain. And I was thrilled at the chance to be with my mother. But when we finally reached Bridewell, I found Queen Catherine in no mood for idle chatter. She was furious.

  "Not only will Fitzroy receive all of these titles but he is to have a household even greater than yours, Mary," she fumed when we had a moment to ourselves before the ceremony began. She turned to Salisbury. "Imagine a six-year-old bastard outranking a princess!" she hissed. Then she whispered angrily to me, "Clearly you are no longer the king's choice to inherit the throne. He intends to put his bastard son in your rightful place. The people will not stand for it, nor will I."

  Throughout the long, tedious ceremony I had a chance to observe my rival, a pretty boy with golden curls, swathed in ermine and weighed down with jewels. He looked thoroughly miserable, and I felt a little sorry for him. But only a little! The last trumpet fanfares had scarcely died away when my mother swept off to make her protest to the king. I waited fearfully outside the privy chamber. My father stormed out, rushing past me without seeing me, his face blood-red and his eyes shrunken to pinpoints of rage. When he was gone, I tiptoed to my mother's side.

  "It is no use," the queen said, slumped wearily in her chair. "He will not listen. And now to punish me, he has informed me that he's taking away my three most cherished ladies-in-waiting and sending them back to Spain. I shall be so alone!"

  That was the first time I had known my father to rebuke my mother, and it frightened me deeply.

  I did not know it then, but Anne Boleyn's poison had already begun its deadly work. Nor did I know then that I would not see my father or my mother for nearly a year. By the time of my betrothal to King Francis, Anne's poison was eating at my father's soul.

  CHAPTER 4: Falconry

  Following my betrothal to Francis, I was relieved, for the first time, to leave my father and return to Ludlow. But suddenly there was another change of domicile. My father did not even bother to write; Wolsey sent the message that I was to move to Richmond Palace. I did not understand why. Nevertheless, I was glad.

  Richmond was quite beautiful, with a great tower and fourteen slim turrets, dozens of state apartments, and two chapels royal. It was surrounded by vast acres of forestland and deer parks. Best of all, Richmond was close to London, only a few hours' journey by barge upriver from Greenwich.

  I settled in quickly at Richmond. One early summer evening soon after I arrived there, I set out to explore the grounds with my favorite attendant, Lady Susan. Only with Susan, of all my ladies, did I feel the stirrings of true friendship. Susan, with her halo of flame red hair, was clever and adventurous. She was the daughter of the duke of Norfolk, one of my father's closest advisers. But there was something more: Susan was the cousin of Anne Boleyn. For the past two months, ever since the masque, I had thought often of the way my father had looked at Lady Anne as we danced. Their image sent a shiver of danger through me. And though I felt drawn to Susan, something told me not to ask her about this dramatic cousin—at least, not yet.

  As Susan and I walked, we came upon a tall, thin lad who carried a small living thing cupped in his hands. I told him to show me what he had. He opened his hands carefully to reveal a hawk, newly hatched and quaking with fright.

  "Who are you?" I asked the lad.

  "Peter Cheseman," he said. "My father is assistant to the royal falconer," he added, a note of pride in his voice.

  "And that bird you hold?" I asked. "Has it a name as well?"

  "No, madam. It's no good, this one," he explained. "See, she is injured. My father says it is worthless to try to train her. But I mean to prove him wrong."

  "And so you shall," I told him boldly, although I had not the least idea how a lowborn boy like Peter had any better chance than I, a princess, did of proving a father wrong.

  Lady Susan took a particular interest in the injured bird, and thereafter she and I found excuses to visit it as often as I could escape from Master Vives and my studies. One day we arrived to discover Peter in a state of distress.

  "Cat got her," he blurted out. "My fault altogether."

  "It was not your fault, Peter!" Lady Susan insisted. "I'm sure you did all you could. Had it not been for the cat, I'm sure your effort would have made her a fine hunter!"

  Peter looked at Susan gratefully, and I wished that I had been the one to offer him such reassurance.

  Toward the end of summer the hawks finished their molt, new feathers replacing the old ones, and became active hunters again. Nearly every day when my lessons were finished, I began going out with Lady Susan to the mews where the hawks were kept. We watched as Peter and his father trained peregrine falcons, kestrels, and merlins in the hunting of birds and small game.

  One afternoon we found Peter in the weathering yard, coaxing a young hawk to fly from its perch to his fist. When finally the bird spread its wings and glided to Peter's gloved fist, clutching it with its curved talons, Peter rewarded the bird with a tidbit of meat.

  "Soon this one will be ready to fly in the open," he said. Peter smiled—a lovely smile, I thought. "And then she'll be ready to hunt."

  Peter explained the lessons that the bird must learn: first, to sit by its captured prey but not devour it; once that has been mastered, to fly with its kill to the falconer's fist. "No one needs to teach her to hunt—that she's born knowing," he said, tenderly stroking the hawk's feathers. "Teaching her to trust you, there's the hard part," Peter said. "It's no good teaching her to kill for you if she goes off with her quarry and sits in a tree somewhere."

  I left the yard and hurried directly to Salisbury. "I wish to study the art of falconry," I announced. I argued that my father hunted with falcons and that my mother, too, used to ride out with the king, a merlin perched upon her gloved fist. Salisbury wrote to Queen Catherine, who sent her approval with a gift of silver bells to be attached to the bird's leg and a soft leather hood to cover the bird when it was being carried to the hunt. When the gifts arrived, I rushed to the mews to show the bells and hood to Peter.

  "Now," he said, "we must find you a hawk, and you'll learn together."

  Peter trapped a young hawk, a merlin with eyes the color of marigolds, and we began to train her. This was to be my bird. "It's the females that are wanted," he told me, "because they're bigger and stronger than the males." I named the merlin Noisette, the French word for "hazelnut," because of her lovely color.

  "Have to get her used to her new life among people, people who walk about or who ride horses," Peter said. "It must be a strange thing for birds, eh? And always there's to be a reward for her. If you don't give her a reward, she won't work for you. You can't force her to hunt for you—she'll fly away and never come back. But you must not reward her too much. When her crop is full and she has no appetite, then she won't hunt for you. She'll do best when she's a bit lean—not starving, mind, but beginning to think keenly of her next meal—that's
when you take her out. If you've trained her right, she'll come back to you when you whistle."

  It took me days to learn the particular whistle that would bring Noisette to my glove. Once I made the mistake of practicing the three quick notes when I was supposed to be studying Latin grammar, and Master Vives bashed his walking stick so hard on my desk that the silver fox head was thereafter cocked at a quizzical angle.

  FINALLY NOISETTE AND I were ready. Mounted on my white Spanish pony, I squinted up at the brilliant sky. On my left hand I wore my leather glove, thick enough to resist the talons of a hawk. High overhead Noisette swung lazily as though suspended by a string. I could make out the shape of her graceful wings as a dark blur against the cloudless blue sky.

  Several of my ladies had ridden out with me. All but Lady Susan straggled behind, gossiping and laughing among themselves, while Susan and I trotted on ahead. Beside us rode the pompous Lord Ellington, the royal falconer. I leaned back in my saddle, searching for Peter. He saw me and grinned.

  I had become fond of Peter during the weeks of training. He had big ears and his eyes were set too close together. Unlike my weak eyes that could see next to nothing at a distance, Peter's seemed to be as keen as those of the hawks he worked with. I much admired his way with birds. He was patient and firm, unlike Master Vives, who was neither.

  I took such pleasure in Peter's company that I had sometimes wondered if it might be possible to marry him. He would surely make a fine companion, and he would let me rule England just as he let me do whatever else I wanted. But I knew that was impossible. I could no more choose my own husband than fly like Noisette.

  Noisette circled slowly overhead. I gazed up at her, thrilled; for a moment I imagined that I was that merlin, flying free and wild and solitary— alone! I was never alone. Salisbury slept beside my bed and two servant girls lay on pallets near the door to my chamber. From the moment I arose in the morning until I said amen to my nightly prayers, I moved through the day surrounded by servants, courtiers, councillors, priests and confessors, tutors, ladies-in-waiting.

  Suddenly Noisette spotted her prey. She tucked in her wings and dived, dropping straight down and snatching a lark out of the air. Not only did I envy Noisette's freedom and her solitude but also her deadly power. I whistled, and Noisette came to my fist with the lark clutched in her talons. The falconer reached for the lark and slipped it into the game bag. I presented Noisette with her reward, a bit of meat from the falconer's supply.

  Riding home at the end of the day, my game bag half full, I wondered if my father knew I was learning one of his favorite sports. I thought of my father far more often, it seemed, than he thought of me.

  Although my mother wrote nearly every week, it had been months since I had had so much as a word from the king. Any message he had for me was sent through Wolsey.

  "Why does he not come to visit me?" I asked Susan days later as she accompanied me for a walk. The weather had turned foul, and Susan was the only one of my ladies who did not mind going out in the rain. "Deer hunting is one of his favorite pastimes and the deer parks here exist for his pleasure. Why then do I hear nothing from him?"

  "They say that the king has taken up falconry again," Susan replied cryptically, pulling her cloak up over her head.

  "Then he could come and hunt with me! He could bring my mother as well. Why does he not bring the queen here, so that I may see them both?"

  "His hunting companion is not the queen," Susan said in a voice so low that I scarcely heard it. "It is my cousin Anne Boleyn."

  Her words took away my breath. "Lady Anne? But why?"

  "It is said that the king is in love with Anne," Susan replied, head down, avoiding my eyes.

  "What lies are you telling me?" I demanded furiously.

  "Sadly, madam, it is the truth. The king makes no secret of his passion. My father speaks of it proudly: King Henry is seen everywhere with Lady Anne by his side. Queen Catherine appears with him only at large public occasions."

  "I don't believe you!" I cried. I turned and splashed back to my chambers through the pelting rain, leaving Lady Susan to walk a little ways behind.

  As a servant girl helped me off with my wet cloak and sodden shoes, I spied the letter on my table. It bore the thick wax seal of Cardinal Wolsey. His letters seldom brought me good news—was I to move again?—and so I waited until I had changed into dry clothes to break the seal and read the letter.

  It bore a message from the king, commanding me to come to Greenwich for Yuletide. At last I had been invited to the palace, to spend Christmas with my father and mother. My mood lifted at once. But then a darker shadow passed over: Anne Boleyn would surely be there.

  I remembered well the way my father had looked at Anne as we danced for the French king. And now Lady Susan claimed that my father was in love with Anne! I vowed that I would not believe these hurtful rumors until I saw proof with my own eyes. I would have that opportunity at Yuletide, still several weeks away.

  CHAPTER 5: Lessons

  Bay after day for the next month, my eyes burned, my head throbbed, my body ached with fatigue. My lessons seemed longer, more wearisome, and duller than ever. All I could think about was what I would find when I traveled to Greenwich for Christmas.

  I was studying Utopia, a book written by my father's friend Sir Thomas More, and I found the work hard going. I was forbidden to read idle books of chivalry and romance for entertainment. Meanwhile my ladies-in-waiting played cards and rolled dice to amuse themselves. I longed to join them, but I was not allowed trifling pastimes.

  The hours crawled by. All day long tutors in mathematics, geography, French, Italian, and music took their turns. In some of these subjects Lady Susan, Lady Winifred, and a few other court ladies participated, but usually I studied alone. My eyelids would begin to droop, my head to sag, and Master Vives would shriek in my ear, "Pay attention! Think not to avoid the task!"

  Only after the formal lessons were over and the prayers finished for the night did Salisbury, beloved Salisbury, teach me what I needed most to know.

  One November night as a storm rattled the windows of the bedchamber and the flame of a single candle guttered and died, my governess commenced a long story.

  "Mary, you know some of this story," she began, "but perhaps you have not understood what it means. You must understand it now, because I believe that grave changes lie ahead and you must be prepared."

  I lay absolutely still under the thick satin coverlet. "Go on, I beg you."

  "Under your grandfather's rule, England prospered, and the royal treasury filled with wealth. He intended for his older son, Arthur, to succeed him on the throne. While still a young man, not much older than you are now, Arthur was betrothed. The wife your grandfather chose for Prince Arthur was the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, Catherine of Aragon."

  "My mother."

  "Yes, sweet Mary, but this was long before God saw fit to send you to her. Catherine was sixteen when she married Arthur, already a few years older than one might expect of a bride. I was a guest at the wedding, and I can still picture Princess Catherine riding to the church on the back of a fine Spanish mule. That was the custom of her people, although I'm sure everyone thought it strange, as did I. It was at her wedding to Prince Arthur that she met your father. Prince Henry was just an exuberant, pink-cheeked boy, barely ten years old.

  "It was November, anno Domini 1501, and the sky was blanketed with heavy, gray clouds. Henry's cheerful smile must have warmed Catherine's heart when she found herself so far from her sunny homeland. But soon her heart was chilled. Only a few months later, Arthur lay in his coffin, dead of consumption."

  I sighed, thinking of my mother's sorrow.

  "The king had no intention of sending Catherine and especially her dowry back home to Spain. The two monarchs, Henry and Ferdinand, put their old gray heads together and devised a solution: Catherine would be kept in England to marry Arthur's younger brother, Henry. He had not yet reached
his eleventh birthday. Many theologians believed that such marriages were forbidden by Scripture. But the pope in Rome granted a dispensation that allowed Henry to marry his brother's widow. Henry and Catherine were betrothed."

  "But my father was too young to wed, was he not?" I asked.

  "He was then," Salisbury agreed. "But six years passed. Catherine spent those years living a quiet, pious life of prayer and devotion to God. It was during this time that your mother and I became close friends."

  "And my father?" I asked. "Did you know him as well?"

  "I knew him as all of England came to know him. We watched in admiration as the lively boy reached manhood. He grew very tall, with merry blue eyes, handsome features, and red-gold hair that shone in the sunlight. He was well built, strong as a bear and graceful as a deer, an athlete who excelled at every kind of sport. Your father was a magnificent man!

  "When his father died, the young prince inherited vast wealth as well as the crown of England. Shortly after the old king's death, Henry and Catherine were wed.

  "The young couple spent the last night of their honeymoon at the Tower of London, where by tradition every English monarch throughout all of our history has slept on the night before the coronation. The next morning they rode together in a golden litter through London to Westminster Abbey, where Henry and Catherine were crowned rulers of all England. I was there by your mother's side, happy for her happiness."

  "How old was my mother then?" I asked. The hour was late, but I was wide awake and hungry for every detail.

  "She was twenty-three, your father was seventeen. The celebration went on for days. You would have loved it, Mary!"

  "'Long live King Henry the Eighth!' we cried. 'Long live Queen Catherine!'"

  Outside the palace, the storm howled and sleet whipped against the windows. I marveled that my governess was telling me this, putting flesh on the bones of the story of my parents, when for so long she had evaded my questions. But why was she telling the story now? Soon enough dawn would arrive, cold and damp, and I would be called from my bed for morning prayers and then to another day of enduring the roars and expostulations of Master Vives. But I wanted to know more, to know everything. "And you were with my mother then?" I prompted.