Mary, Bloody Mary

by Meyer, Carolyn, 1935-

  "I am well, Your Highness," he said, "and I am glad to see you up and about and looking fine and strong once more. But alas, I lost my son, Peter, to the sweating sickness. Oh, it has been a terrible time! His grave in the churchyard is still fresh." The man wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "I am truly sorry," I managed to say, and turned away from the falconer. I struggled to hold back my own tears at the loss of my faithful friend. Then I turned again to the falconer, my face composed but my voice betraying my feelings. "I have come to see my hawk," I said.

  The falconer led me to the mews, where Noisette perched quietly on a wooden peg. "She's starting her molt," he said. "Through the summer she'll do naught but perch here and grow herself a new set of feathers. Come autumn it will take a bit of training to get her hunting again. That was Peter's duty. He was so good with them, so patient." His voice broke.

  I touched the man's shoulder and moved away. "Come," I said, motioning my ladies to follow, "we will take roses from the palace gardens to Peter's grave."

  I summoned the gardener to bring me a small silver knife and a basket. He began to cut the roses, but I waved him aside. "I will do it myself,"

  "Mind that the thorns do not prick your flesh, Your Highness," the gardener warned.

  One by one I cut the fragile white blossoms, piling them in a large basket. Then I twined the thorny stems together to form a garland. Susan and Winifred tried to help, but their efforts were halfhearted and they exclaimed each time a thorn stabbed them. Finally they gave up and left the task to me.

  When the garland was made, my hands and wrists were scratched and bleeding, and I had torn my petticoats. "I will carry the roses to the churchyard and place the garland upon Peter's grave myself," I told them.

  "Let one of us do it for you, madam," begged Susan. "You've been ill. I'm afraid you may overtax yourself."

  But I brushed aside Susan's offer, giving in only enough to permit her to carry the garland. Clouds had drifted across the sun, chilling the air. Winifred held out her shawl to me, but I refused that as well. The sky darkened; a mist began to gather.

  We stopped at a gate in the stone wall and peered into the churchyard. Clods of brown sod lay scattered around dozens of fresh graves. I approached two gravediggers, who stopped their work and removed their caps when they recognized me. "I am seeking the grave of Peter, the son of the falconer's assistant," I said.

  They pointed out a heap of raw earth among the many. "There he lies," one mumbled.

  The mist thickened and turned to steady drizzle. I lifted the garland from Susan's arms and laid it tenderly on the mound of earth. While my ladies shivered in their thin summer kirtles, I knelt on the wet ground and offered a prayer for the repose of the soul of Peter, my departed friend.

  As I was about to leave the churchyard, I darted back to the gravediggers. "And Master Vives? Show me where he was put to rest." Again they pointed. I returned to Peter's grave and plucked from the garland a single rose, which I placed on the grave of Juan Luis Vives. My prayer for the soul of the tutor was brief, but my Latin was perfect.

  Salisbury clucked in dismay when I stumbled wearily into the royal apartment, my petticoats torn and muddy, my hair disheveled. I toppled into bed, my strength gone.

  For another week I lay listlessly among the pillows. In body I was quite well again, but my sorrow over the death of Peter wounded me deeply.

  On the seventh Sunday following Easter, church bells rang out in celebration of Whitsunday. The descent of the Holy Ghost in tongues of fire upon Christ's startled disciples was an occasion for feasting and dancing, but this year there was no invitation to Greenwich Palace. The sweating sickness still raged in London. Death had bared its ugly face to every family, and the scourge showed no signs of abating. My father, I heard, was safe in a country house far from the city. My mother, too, had escaped. It was rumored that Anne Boleyn had been ill, but she was not among those who died. How much better for us all if she had!

  MY NEW TUTOR arrived. I watched from my window as he rode into the courtyard with two servants. He appeared to be a man of middle years, short and plump, his stubby legs barely spanning the horse's back to reach the stirrups. Brought to me in my privy chamber, he approached with a smile and dropped clumsily to one knee. His clothes were threadbare and drab, no better than those worn by his menservants. When I raised him, I noted that he was barely as tall as I was. His name was John Fetherston.

  "I understand that Your Highness has been trained in the ancient tongues," Master Fetherston said in Latin. I responded, also in Latin. He changed to Greek, which I handled less well, but I managed a reply. Again he smiled, his round cheeks reminding me of the pink cherubs seen in paintings. Suspiciously I watched him; who knew what lunacy lurked behind those merry eyes? I was still recovering from the madness of Master Vives.

  "Perhaps we can teach one another," said the tutor, bowing over his round belly. His voice was low and pleasant.

  In the weeks that followed, I waited for the tutor to scream at my errors, to produce a walking stick or some other instrument with which to frighten me. But it seemed that a kindly disposition matched his cherubic appearance. He did exhibit one interesting habit: When displeased he frowned deeply with the left eyebrow while the right eyebrow arched nearly to his hairline. It was such a curious quirk that I occasionally made a minor error simply to provoke it.

  CHAPTER 8: A Visit from the King

  It was late summer when the messenger arrived. Every hedgerow and garden bloomed with violets, cowslip, columbine, primroses. I could scarcely believe what I read, even though I recognized the royal seal and the large scribble of the king's signature, H. Rex.

  I rushed to Salisbury with the news. "My—my father is coming!" I stammered. "His hunting party is nearby, and he wishes to see me."

  Salisbury sent the cooks scurrying to prepare a feast, and I summoned my mistress of the wardrobe to find me a suitable gown.

  Lady Julia wrung her hands. "But madam," she said, "most of your gowns have been outgrown, and the ones that can be made to fit are badly worn."

  "But surely the king has sent money for new ones?"

  "No, madam, none has been received. The king seems to have forgotten that it is in the nature of a young lady to grow taller and fuller. Still," Lady Julia promised, "I will do my best to dress you like a true princess."

  The night before the king's visit, I slept little. I had never been a sound sleeper; the least bit of excitement kept me awake through most of the night. And this was the first time the king had come to call upon me in my own palace. Always I had been summoned to him. By sunrise I was dressed and ready.

  Lady Julia had performed miracles in letting out my old gown of amber velvet and adding strips to lengthen the damask petticoat. All morning I waited for my father's arrival, pacing the long gallery on the upper floor of the palace in hope of catching a glimpse of the procession. At last I spotted the green-and-white pennants, carried by the king's henchmen and whipping in the strong breeze. At the same time several of my pages who had run out to meet the procession raced in, breathless with the news: "The king is coming! And Lady Anne!"

  I was speechless. I waved the pages away and struggled to control my anger. How dare he bring Anne Boleyn with him! At that moment the countess appeared. "Madam, your father is arriving. Are you ready to receive him.f^"

  "I'm ready to receive the king. But, Salisbury, he has brought that evil woman with him!" I cried. "Must I receive her as well?"

  Salisbury gaped, openmouthed. "Lady Anne is accompanying him? Surely not!"

  "The pages have told me."

  "They must be mistaken! I cannot believe— She stopped suddenly. "But come, Mary. You're a Tudor. Show your courage. Let us go down."

  King Henry entered the Great Hall, towering above a throng of knights and huntsmen and servants. With hands cold as ice despite the warmth of the day, I approached him. The crowd parted as I neared. My eyes darted this way and that in search of Anne Boleyn.


  "Ah, Mary, my pearl, my prize!" boomed the king.

  Instantly I dropped to my knees. "Your Majesty," I murmured. Were those Anne's slippers I caught sight of, off to the side? But when my father raised me up, I saw only his blue eyes, his mirthless smile. His face seemed unhealthily florid, and he had gained weight. But still, I thought him handsome!

  "Welcome, Your Majesty," I said, my throat dry and prickly. "We've prepared a meal for you, but we had little notice of your arrival, and so I'm afraid it's simple fare indeed—"

  "I've not come here to feast, daughter," said King Henry. "Let us talk privately while the others dine."

  Trembling, I led the way to my privy chamber. What did he want to tell me? There was still no sign of Anne, but I felt no relief I waited as the king called for bread and meat and ale to be brought to us. When it arrived he sent everyone from the room, tore off a piece of the loaf, and dipped it in the juices oozing from the roast. I sat perfectly still, unable to eat even a morsel, fearful of what my father had to say.

  At last he stared at me with cold eyes and said, "I will speak plainly. I am determined to divorce your mother. Scripture proves that I must. The pope sent his representative from Rome to hear the case with Wolsey. Your mother and I addressed the court of churchmen, explaining our differences. There is no question that I'm right in this matter! The marriage is invalid; Catherine was once married to my own brother. But your mother is a stubborn woman. She walked out of the court and refused to return even when she was called back. Refused her husband and king, and the representative of the pope himself! I could scarcely contain my anger. I've begged her to enter a nunnery; her life there would be pleasant and much to her liking. But she refuses. Mary, your mother will not have the last word on this! You must understand that I do this not for my own sake but for the sake of England. I must have a son, a male heir, and your mother has not given me that."

  As my father ranted on, I kept my face as blank as a stone. Inside, however, I was in seething turmoil. How he lies! I thought, my anger boiling, though I dared say nothing. I knew enough to know that everything depended upon my silence and composure. Finally I ventured one question: "You would make me a bastard then, Your Majesty..?"

  Furious, the king leaped to his feet. "What difference does it make to you, Mary? You are a woman and not fit to rule England! And the people of this country will not allow a foreigner to rule for you as your husband. You are as obdurate as your mother, and I curse you both!" King Henry pounded on the table with his fist, setting the goblets jumping. "I—must—have—a—son!" he roared.

  With one sweep of his arm, goblets, flagon, plates, saltcellar—all flew off the table and crashed onto the floor, splashing my velvet gown. I jumped to my feet and pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from uttering a sound. My father stormed out. At the last moment he turned. "Good day, madam," he bellowed, and slammed the great wooden door behind him.

  I stood in stunned silence, staring at the wreckage of the meal and at my ruined gown. "I am not a bastard," I whispered, my whole body shaking. That was how Salisbury found me. She summoned servants to clean up the mess.

  Later that day I again watched from the gallery as the royal procession trooped away from the palace. Riding beside King Henry s great white gelding was a woman mounted on a black palfrey. She was dressed in black and cloth of silver, her cloud of black hair swirling loose on her shoulders as though she were a young virgin. Her brittle laugh drifted up to me, where I angrily gripped the stone ledge of the window.

  "I am not a bastard!" I shouted after them. "I AM NOT A BASTARD!" But my words were carried away by the wind.

  Terrified, I awaited my punishment. I had never made the king so furious, and I could not imagine what he would do to me. Not knowing when it might happen was almost worse than not knowing what my fate was to be.

  Salisbury tried to console me. "His anger is not for your being yourself, Mary, but for your being your mother's daughter."

  But that was little consolation.

  The days and nights passed slowly as I waited and worried. What was the worst he could do? He had already separated me from my mother; the only one left who really mattered was Salisbury. What if the king took her away and I was left all alone, with no one who cared about me? I slept little, ate almost nothing.

  Then a messenger from Wolsey arrived. My father had not even bothered to write to me himself. I scarcely dared to breathe as Salisbury read the letter. It said that I was to leave Richmond and move to Beaulieu, another of the royal palaces, this one two days' journey east of London.

  "Nothing else?" I asked Salisbury.

  "Yes, madam, there is one thing more. You are no longer permitted to write to your mother or to receive letters from her."

  "Not allowed to write! But how can he do this?" I cried, although I knew the answer: Because he is the king.

  Then Salisbury did something unusual: She put her arms around me. "We will find ways, madam," she murmured.

  Thanks be to God for Salisbury! At least I still had her. But I knew in my heart that when I left Richmond, a chapter of my life as princess was at an end. I was no longer the king's perfect pearl of the world, the jewel of all England. And I knew exactly where to lay the blame: on Anne Boleyn. Lady Anne had turned the king against me.

  The nights grew cool. The molt would be over and the hawks ready to hunt again. When the household furnishings and goods had been packed into carts in readiness for the move, I made a last visit to the mews. A lad I didn't know was sweeping the weathering yard. He tore off his cloth cap at my approach and wrung it nervously in his hands.

  "I've come to see Noisette," I said.

  The boy bobbed his head and disappeared inside the hawk house, returning with my merlin on his gloved fist. How beautiful she looked in her new plumage! "Will ye be takin' her along to Beaulieu, Yer Majesty?" asked the lad.

  "No," I said shortly, and pulled on my hawking glove. This was a decision I had not made easily, and I did not wish to explain it to this boy. I sounded the three-note whistle that Peter had taught me. Without hesitation Noisette leaped from the boy's fist and glided to mine. I felt the hard grip of her talons through the leather. "Now bring me her bells and hood."

  The boy looked uneasy. "Are ye plannin' to hunt with her just now, madam? Because she's not lean enough to hunt just yet. It'd be best to take out another bird. This one will fly away from ye."

  "I understand," I said. "Now do as I say."

  The boy obeyed.

  Carefully I unhooked the leash attached to the silk jesses fastened around the bird's legs. Then I untied the jesses. The bird stood free on my fist, not yet aware of her freedom. I walked out with her a little ways. Noisette gazed at me with her fierce yellow eyes. "Farewell, Noisette," I murmured, and I raised my arm and thrust the bird into flight.

  The merlin spread her wings and lifted off In a few strong beats she sailed high above my head. She circled once and flew to the top of a nearby tree.

  The red-faced lad caught up with me. "I was afraid of that, Yer Majesty. You could try whistling her back," he suggested.

  "No," I said. "She will not come back."

  I took the bells and hood from the startled boy and walked to the village churchyard. Grass had grown thickly over the new graves. I found the one marked with Peter's name carved on a small wooden cross and hung the silver bells upon it. "Farewell, Peter," I whispered.

  CHAPTER 9: Enter Chapuys, Exit Wolsey

  While servants arranged my things in the royal chambers, I explored Beaulieu. I investigated the kitchens and gazed up at the smoky beams of the Great Hall. I determined where Lady Susan, Lady Winifred, and some of the others who had accompanied me would be quartered, and chose the small chamber where I would spend my days in study with Master Fetherston and the other tutors.

  I tried not to think about my father, but at night when I lay down, the sound of his angry words thundered in my ears, and I heard Anne's chilling laughter.

  I wo
rried about my mother. True to her word Salisbury had made it possible for us to send occasional messages in secret. But my mother's letters were more and more disturbing in what she left unsaid.

  On a chill November day with the pewter-colored sky pressing down, my ladies and I bent over our needlework. Salisbury had discovered that the altar hangings in the chapel royal were faded and threadbare, and she had set my maids-in-waiting to stitching a set of fair linen for the altar while Salisbury herself embroidered a new frontal of lilac silk for the season of Advent, the four weeks before Christmas.

  "We are to expect a visitor," Salisbury said. She paused to thread her needle from the skein of yarn she wore looped about her neck.

  I glanced up from the kneeling cushion I was stitching for the priest's prayer bench. "A visitor?" For a moment I thought it might be Reginald Pole, back from Rome. But just as quickly I realized that nothing could come of such a visit anyway—^not in the king's present mood. "Who is it?"

  "His name is Eustace Chapuys. He's an ambassador sent on an official visit by your cousin, Emperor Charles."

  "What do you know about him?" I asked.

  "Little, except that he is from Savoy, the southeastern province of France, which is part of Charles's Holy Roman Empire."

  And so we continued our work and waited for our visitor. Days later in the midst of an early snowstorm, Chapuys arrived. The first time I saw him, he was covered in wet snow that stuck to his cloak, his boots, his hat, his beard and mustache, even his eyebrows. "Your Majesty," said the snowy ambassador, kneeling at my feet. Melting snow dripped onto the floor around him.

  "You are welcome here," I replied. A watery drop clinging to the end of his red nose fell away and was immediately replaced by another.

  "Perhaps Your Highness would join me in a walk around the palace gardens?" suggested Chapuys.