Mary, Bloody Mary

by Meyer, Carolyn, 1935-

  "Lady Mary," he said, arching one eyebrow while frowning with the other. I understood his purpose in that curious gesture: that he must address me in such a manner, and that he did not willingly fail to bend his knee to me. A half dozen maidservants stopped what they were doing to listen.

  "Master Fetherston," I said, "how delighted I am to see you." Then, thinking quickly, I continued, "And how pleased I am that at last I have someone with whom to converse in Latin. My facility in that language is much weakened by disuse." I smiled. "Thank God you are here," I said, switching to Latin but keeping the false smile and bantering tone. "I'm in terrible danger."

  Master Fetherston nodded sagely. "Yes," he replied in English, "I see that you do need practice." We continued our conversation in Latin, to the obvious annoyance of the eavesdropping servants. "I've brought a letter from your friend Chapuys. He understands that you're in danger, and he's sought the help of your cousin, Emperor Charles."

  "Have they devised a plan to help me?" I asked.

  "The ambassador has a scheme, but he must wait for a sign from the emperor that all is to proceed. I warn you—it will be difficult."

  "I will do anything to escape. Anything!" I said, too passionately.

  Alerted by my tone of voice, the serving maids turned to stare. The tutor immediately switched to English. "My dear Lady Mary," Master Fetherston chided, "you must obey your father the king and yield to his wishes. You must sign the papers and take the oath. Acknowledge the king as the supreme head of the church and recognize that you are not and never will be his heir. It is your duty. Lady Mary."

  I knew that he said all this for the sake of the eavesdroppers, but it stung nevertheless. I turned my face away from him. Then I felt the tutor's hand resting familiarly upon my arm and something being slipped into my sleeve. Master Fetherston bowed briefly and was gone.

  I rushed back to my chamber and extracted from my sleeve a tiny fold of paper. I held it close to a candle. Chapuys had written in handwriting so small that I could scarcely make it out. At first I deciphered only a few words here and there, and then a few more, afraid I would be discovered and the message seized. My poor eyes watered and my head throbbed until at last I managed to piece it together. I fed the paper to the candle flame only seconds before Shelton entered—without knocking, as was her custom.

  "Elizabeth, Princess of Wales and Princess of England, requires your attention, Lady Mary," she said. "Her napkin is soiled." She stepped over to the rough wooden table and picked up the charred remains of Chapuys's message. "A letter from a lover, no doubt," she said, allowing the bits of black ash to sift through her fingers.

  I rose to attend to Elizabeth. In another few months the little princess would no longer require napkins. And with any luck, in much less time I would be free—free and gone from England, from my father, from Anne, from Shelton and Cromwell and all my enemies. Chapuys had written that the details of the plan must remain secret until the last. "In the meantime resist as well as you can the pressure to sign the oath, but do not put yourself in danger."

  Do not put yourself in danger. But I was in danger every moment of my life!

  CHAPTER 18: A Question of Poison

  I could remember leaving Hatfield before Christ mas, when Elizabeth's household was moved to Greenwich for the Yuletide celebrations.

  I could remember our arrival and receiving news of the death of Lady Susan, countess of Chichester. She'd died in childbirth, and the baby, a boy, had died with her. It was a terrible blow, and the loss of my cherished friend wounded me deeply. Within days I fell ill. On New Year's Day I lay in a chamber in the palace, tossing feverishly.

  Delirious, I begged to be allowed to see my mother. I was told Cromwell denied the request. Heedless of the danger, Bryan managed to get word to Chapuys, who came at once and demanded to be allowed to visit my bedside. He suspected poison and insisted that the king allow my mother's physicians to examine me. Henry refused. Although he did not express deep concern at my illness, he did send his own physician and the royal astrologer. They determined that the sickness was caused by an imbalance between blood and yellow bile and prescribed bloodletting and leeches.

  The fever gradually subsided and the stomach pains diminished, but the illness and its treatment had left me so weakened that I could barely walk.

  Early in the new year I received a visit from Chapuys. "The king himself has requested me to call upon the ailing Lady Mary to observe her recovery for myself," the ambassador announced in a loud voice to the women who had been assigned by Cromwell to guard me. I was sure that Chapuys bribed them to let him speak to me in private.

  "The plan is complete," Chapuys whispered when he was certain that we were alone. "You must somehow arrange to give a sleeping draught to the women who guard you. Once they are fast asleep, you are to make your way out of the palace, through the garden, and down to the boat landing. Two boatmen will be waiting to row you to Gravesend at the mouth of the Thames. There the emperor's ships lie ready to sail with you to safety in the Netherlands. But you must be prepared to leave on short notice: Once Emperor Charles sends his final approval, you'll have only an hour or two to make ready. But will you be strong enough to undertake this?"

  "I am nearly strong enough now," I insisted, although in truth it was all I could do to remain upright. "When may we expect Charles's approval?"

  "There's no way of knowing. The emperor is in a difficult situation. By going against Henry's will, he risks tipping the balance of power in Europe. I beg you to have patience, madam, and to trust me."

  "The second part is easy," I replied. "I trust you with my life. The first part—patience—is far more difficult."

  That very night I asked the physician to prescribe a sleeping potion, telling him that I needed double doses in order to close my eyes at night. I hid the white powder in the enameled box given me by Reginald, which I had brought with me. Then I went over the plan again and again in my mind.

  I would ask the women who were guarding me to join me in a goblet of hippocras before retiring, a custom that I would begin at once. Then, on the appointed night, I would distract them, perhaps with a coughing fit, while I slipped the powder into their goblets. After they were sleeping soundly, I would dress in the rough countrywoman's kirtle and cloak that Bryan would secure for me and hide beneath my mattress. In darkness I would feel my way through the rear passageway, down the narrow staircase, and out into the garden. The gate would be locked, no doubt, but not guarded. A gnarled oak tree grew close to the wall, and I would climb it, crawl out on an overhanging limb, and drop to the ground below. A boatman would be watching; he could come to my assistance, if need be.

  I rehearsed the scene thoroughly in my mind, trying not to overlook any detail. Now I had only to practice the patience that Chapuys had recommended.

  Weeks passed with no word. I had recovered my strength. Then, soon after my nineteenth birthday, Bryan came to my chamber with news. "You are to leave," she said.

  "Is it done then?" I asked excitedly. "My cousin the emperor has sent his approval? When, Bryan, when?"

  Bryan shook her head. "In three days' time. But you are not leaving for the Continent. You are to leave for Hunsdon Palace."

  "Hunsdon? But Hunsdon is a day's ride from here! How shall I reach the ship at Gravesend from Hunsdon?"

  "You shall not. The king has grown wary. He suspects that you'll try to flee the country, and he believes that your mother and Chapuys are involved in the plot. He's ordered your removal to Hunsdon."

  "Will my father not be satisfied with anything short of my death?" I cried, wringing my hands.

  Bryan took me in her arms. "Hush, Mary, hush," Bryan crooned, just as she had when I was a small child.

  BANISHED TO HUNSDON, I refused to give up hope, continuing to rehearse the escape in my mind. At least one thing was improved: Cromwell had decided that I did not require guarding at such a remote location. Now I imagined myself walking out in the countryside, where a troop of
horsemen hired by Chapuys would swoop down upon me and carry me away, a pretended abduction. There would be a long, wild ride through the night to Gravesend, where Charles's ship would lie waiting...

  But when the secret letter came at last from Charles, it was not the message I wanted. "It is my intent," Charles had written, "to bring your father, the king, back into the embrace of the True Church in Rome. Therefore I ask your forbearance, dear cousin, and beg that you do whatever King Henry requires of you."

  I ripped the letter to pieces and stamped upon the fragments. Could my cousin possibly be that slow-witted? What King Henry required of me was what he required of every man and woman in England: swearing the double oath. Refusal meant a traitor's death. For me that was an impossible choice. Surely Charles understood that. Clearly he did not care.

  LATE IN THE SPRING of 1535 I was ordered back to Hatfield. Once again I was made to serve as Elizabeth's servant. There were times when I adored her; other times I blamed my wretchedness on her and wished she had never been born.

  That same spring Parliament enacted new treason laws, calling for death to anyone who spoke ill of the queen or criticized the king. Anyone suspected of treason must be reported; failure to do so was in itself a treasonous act.

  The king's representatives gathered us together and one read out the penalty for treason as we listened in horrified silence.

  "Any person convicted of treason will be led back to prison, laid on a hurdle, and so drawn to the place of execution. There the condemned is to be hanged, to be cut down alive, his privy members cut off and cast into the fire, his bowels taken from his living body and burnt before his eyes, his head smitten off, his beheaded corpse paraded through the streets, his hands and feet nailed to the city gate, and his head impaled upon a pike and thus displayed on London Bridge, according to the king's will."

  "He has gone mad," I whispered to Bryan. "Surely it's Anne who has driven him to this state."

  "Perhaps so," Bryan whispered back. "She's a desperate woman. My nephew told me rumors are flying that the king has tired of this queen and has taken a mistress, one of the queen's ladies. Her name is Jane Seymour."

  Jane Seymour? I remembered her. Lady Jane had been present during Anne's labor and delivery; I recalled her calm manner and simple kindness. Jane seemed the exact opposite of Anne: blond and pale with solemn gray eyes, quiet and refined, while Anne was vivacious and often shrill. Jane was a gentle, pleasant woman, but a match for the cruel and volatile man my father had become? Laughable, I thought.

  "There is other news," Bryan said. "The queen expects a child in the summer."

  "In truth? Or another of Anne's imaginings?"

  "She has quickened—she and others have felt the stirring of life. A Te Deum has been sung in thanksgiving."

  News of a pregnancy was more important than rumors of a mistress. If Anne were to present the king with the son and heir he demanded, then her position would at last be secure. King Henry could have all the fair young mistresses he wanted, and Queen Anne would be invincible. But if she did not, then her time was finished.

  CHAPTER 19: The Madness of the King

  Lady Margaret Bryan discovered die secret chamber at Hatfield and told me about it.

  "The room is hidden behind a false wall in the closet," Bryan confided. "It can be entered through the back of a tall cupboard, where the linens are stored. The other entrance is from the royal bedchamber always kept in readiness for the king—^and always securely locked. Sir Francis has sent word that he intends to visit me soon. I'll arrange for you to meet with my nephew secretly in the hidden chamber to learn what you can." Then she added, "I, of course, will be present, to avoid any appearance of impropriety."

  I suppressed a smile—to whom would a secret meeting appear improper if no one knew about it? The real reason, I suspected, was that Bryan had always been fond of gossip and intrigue, and age had not changed that. But her boldness surprised me. I had never imagined that the sweet-faced old woman had such hidden reserves of courage and resourcefulness.

  The secret chamber was cramped and airless but furnished with a damask-covered couch and a mound of silk pillows. It was a simple matter for Bryan and me to slip into the chamber through the cupboard. But smuggling in a tall man not usually seen in the vicinity of the linen closet proved a challenge. Sir Francis was forced to wait in a stinking garderobe, used by the guards to relieve themselves, before Bryan signaled that it was safe for him to climb through the cupboard.

  On a cold and stormy midwinter night the three of us huddled in the darkness of the secret chamber, unwilling to risk lighting a candle.

  "Henry has begun to send his representatives out to the monasteries," Francis Peacham whispered, "demanding that the monks swear the oath of supremacy. The monks all refuse to swear, and Henry is having them hauled off a dozen at a time to imprisonment in the Tower to await execution."

  "Has he truly gone mad then?" I breathed.

  "I cannot say, madam, although many believe that he's bewitched. He has run up enormous debts and he is desperate. Once the monks have been imprisoned, Cromwell seizes not only the lands belonging to the monasteries but also their silver chalices and golden candlesticks and their gem-studded crosses."

  I thought of Brother Anselm, my tutor in theology, and other pious monks who languished then in prison. But Bryan was hurrying us out of the secret room.

  "I have an ill feeling, like a cold hand upon my neck," Bryan murmured. "A feeling of evil all around us."

  So did I. Separately we left our hiding place and I hurried to my chamber to think on what I had heard.

  TEN DAYS AFTER New Year's a hunchback dressed in filthy rags appeared in a courtyard at Hatfield. Elizabeth was at Greenwich with King Henry and Queen Anne for Yuletide. I had been left at Hatfield with only the palace servants for company, including, I supposed, a few of the king's spies. As I offered the hunchback a loaf of stale bread, as was the custom, he pressed a letter into my hand and quickly disappeared. The letter bore the seal of Catherine of Aragon. I hid it in the folds of my cloak and hurried to my bedchamber to read it. It was the first letter I'd received from my mother in four years, and my hands shook as I broke the seal. The handwriting was not my mother's.

  My dearest child, I am dictating these words to my good friend and physician, Dr. Firth. I fear that by the time you receive this letter, I shall have closed my eyes for the last time. As you know — or perhaps you do not — your father, the king, ordered my removal to Kimbolton Castle, a place so reeling of decay that my poor health has worsened. It is a frightening place, for at night the wind howls and windows clatter and doors slam of their own accord. I have kept to one chamber and left it only to attend mass. Now I shall leave it once more, to go to my grave. I have eaten only what meager meals my ladies can prepare for me. Even with this care, I fear that I am being poisoned slowly. I know that death is near. For some days now I have been unable to eat or drink or even to close my eyes for a moment's rest.

  I put down my mother's letter and prayed for strength to continue. Then I read on:

  I have written to your father, the king, once more, swearing my everlasting love and devotion to him and pleading with him to allow me to see you once more before I die. I have kept alive by an act of will and determination these past eight years, since I last saw you. You were a lovely young girl then, and now by all accounts you have grown to become a lovely woman. Nevertheless, your father remains firm in his resolve that you and I are not to enjoy that which is so precious to mother and daughter.

  Tears poured down my cheeks so that I could scarcely go on. I wiped my eyes and read die final paragraph:

  And so, I beg you, remain firm in your resolve as well: Sign nothing, agree to nothing. You shall be queen, as is your right as well as your duty. I send you my love and my blessing: May the grace of God comfort and strengthen you and give you peace.

  The letter was signed Catherine, Queen, and dated the second of January, anno Domini 1536.
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br />   My mother's love and determination had kept me alive through these wretched years. How could I continue without her? For a long moment I felt that I wanted to die, too, if only to be with her. But then I realized that for her sake, if no one else's, I must go on.

  My mother was right: By the time I received her letter, she had already departed this world. Cromwell himself came to inform me officially that my mother had died on the seventh of January and to confirm that I was not allowed to attend the funeral. "I beg your pardon for that, Lady Mary," Cromwell said in his lazy way, "but your father forbade it."

  "Why?" I asked.

  Cromwell stared at me with his glassy toad's eyes.

  "Why am I not permitted to be present at the funeral of my mother?" I repeated.

  "Reasons of state," Cromwell said. "As you well know, the king wishes to avoid setting off a popular display of support for you by those who might be unwisely tempted to commit a treasonous act. It would not be in their best interest." His lip curled in a sardonic smile. "Nor in yours."

  Then he fumbled in his leather pouch and drew out a gold chain from which hung a cross. I recognized the chain and cross that my mother had brought with her from Spain as a young bride. Set in the cross was a small crystal receptacle containing a splinter of the True Cross on which Christ had been crucified. "She left you this," Cromwell said, carelessly letting it drop from his fingers. "The king has determined that it did belong to your mother and is not the property of the crown."

  As soon as he left, I ran to my chamber and fastened the cross around my neck. Every time I touched the cross, I was reminded of my mother, a reminder at once so sweet and so painful.

  Several weeks later, Bryan brought me a letter from her nephew. "After Catherine's death," Sir Francis wrote, "the king ordered his courtiers to dress in yellow to celebrate. He danced through the Great Hall with Princess Elizabeth in his arms, and Queen Anne was heard to exclaim, *God be praised! Now you have only to rid yourself of Mistress Mary and our future is assured.'" For once I didn't care. I was so numb with sorrow that I felt no fear.