Lady Mary

by Lucy Worsley

  Mary pressed out her chest, where she was wearing a golden brooch.

  ‘THE DUKE, it says,’ she told him proudly. ‘My one true love.’

  For a second she felt her parents’ eyes meeting over her head, and something powerful being exchanged. She felt cross. It was always like this. She was called the first princess of Europe, and then the next second she was utterly ignored. Much better to be an animal, she decided. Life as a princess was rather like being a piece of fine furniture, to be admired, cooed over, then swiftly forgotten.

  ‘Yes,’ said Catherine. ‘Mary’s heart is committed to this French duke now. The brooch makes it plain who owns her: the French people. I had hoped that she would marry my nephew, the emperor. I admit it. I had hoped that she would not be called upon to play the virginals once more, to yet another set of ambassadors, like a common wench on display, to be sold to the highest bidder. I had hoped to avoid that for our daughter, the princess. But I have embraced it in good faith.’

  Mary’s fingers felt the outline of her brooch once more. THE DUKE, it read, in golden letters, meaning the younger son of the king of France. She didn’t mind, really, that her betrothed was no longer Charles, the emperor, but Henri, the Duke d’Orléans. And THE DUKE was no easier to imagine than THE EMPEROUR, although her mother was much less keen on him.

  Henry smiled. ‘I understand your dislike of the French,’ he said. ‘No one can fault you, Catherine, on your constancy. Nor your devotion to that fierce old-fashioned God of yours. But today let’s be merry. Have we not got a fine girl? The ambassadors will love her. And how your fingers twinkle on those keys, hey, Mary? You get your musical skills from your father.’

  He was taking her hand again, and now spinning her round into a dance, drawing Catherine reluctantly into the movement. ‘C’est bonjour, monsieur,’ he sang, to a silly tune of his own devising, ‘this prince, this duc d’Orléans, he will be your husband, Mary! And maybe one day you’ll be queen of France, which is second only to being queen of England.’

  At that, he bowed down with a sweeping gesture towards his wife. Of course, Mary’s mother really was queen of England. Despite her constant talk of Spain, which made Mary forget it from time to time.

  Catherine extricated herself with dignity, but her husband’s buffoonery caused an unwilling smile to creep across her face. As Mary continued to join her father in his ridiculous capering, she craned her neck to watch her mother, anxious to see her happy. Mary could see that the crease between Catherine’s eyes had not disappeared. But she did manage to give Mary a tight little grin.

  Soothed, Mary stopped dancing, and placed her hand formally in her father’s.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Take me to my amado.’

  ‘Your bien-aimé,’ her father corrected her.

  They both sensed Catherine’s small angry gesture behind them at his use of French rather than Spanish. The king stopped suddenly in the doorway, forcing Mary to stop too.

  ‘You are not a princess of Spain now, Catherine,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s no part of your duty to hate the French as the Spanish do. You are a queen of England, and my wife, and I say it is your duty to love the French. And I hope you will come down to the party tonight, to see our daughter dance with the French ambassador. I don’t want any talk of your being ill, and I don’t want you skulking away and eating your dinner up here in your room.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be there,’ said Catherine coldly. ‘But it’s been three suitors for our daughter now, and she’s only eleven. First the dauphin; then the emperor; now this Duke of Orléans. To whom will you marry our daughter off next? You are fickle, my love, fickle like the wind.’

  Mary knew that her father had a burning desire to answer. He expressed it through the savage squeeze he gave to her hand. She knew that he was struggling with himself, for one second, for two. But he did manage to remain silent. He pulled Mary with him through the door.

  ‘Spaniards!’ he muttered as they went down the stairs. ‘Blood-drinkers! What a bloody stubborn race they are.’

  Chapter 2

  April 1527, Greenwich

  Later, much later, the same day, Mary was sleepy. It was past her usual bedtime. The green gown had grown extremely heavy and was hurting where it hung from her hips. As she walked with her mother through the palace, Mary began to shuffle and stumble with her feet. She trod on the hem of her long skirt.

  Catherine noticed, and grabbed Mary’s hand to force her to keep up. ‘Hold your dress up properly, Mary,’ she hissed. ‘Use your other hand.’ It was a chilly evening, a wet wind had been blowing in across the river, and the air was damp and cold from the rain even now falling hard upon the roof.

  ‘Mother, I’ve had about enough of celebrating,’ Mary said. ‘Can’t I go to bed?’ Both hands were trapped now, and she felt like a prisoner.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Catherine grimly. ‘Court celebrations aren’t for fun, you know. They’re work. They’re your job as a princess, and mine as a queen. And you must look like you are happy and proud to be present. That is the secret of success.’

  Not for fun. All too often Mary had heard those words. She hung her head, dispirited. Her mother noticed, and relented a little.

  ‘Courage!’ Queen Catherine said. ‘Just one more hour to go. Then you can go to bed. You played well today. Don’t you ever get nervous?’

  ‘A daughter of Spain never feels pain,’ chanted Mary, something her mother often said, even though it wasn’t true. She would have liked to close her eyes there and then, as keeping them open almost hurt. In fact, she did close them, pretending for a minute that she was sleepwalking.

  ‘Ah, you have a gift, Mary,’ the queen said, laughing softly. ‘You can lose yourself in music, can you not? And reading? You can live inside yourself. That is important for a princess. You will be much alone.’

  Mary opened her eyes long enough to consider the question. She felt like she was never alone, never left to play, or think, or just to lie around doing nothing.

  But yes, when she was playing her music, she did not notice the people around her. She had felt nervous when she entered the Great Chamber, it was true, for there were many people there, more people than she could remember seeing at court before. Then, though, she had seen the table laid with a carpet, and upon it the little square box of her instrument. Seating herself, she had simply pushed up her linen cuffs and played. It seemed to have worked.

  Afterwards there had been a great deal of talk between her father and the ambassadorial party from France, and inevitably the focus moved off from Mary. Most of the talk had seemed to consist of technical and boring descriptions of the staffing of the court of the French king, punctuated by Mary’s father’s great booming laugh. Come to think of it, she did not remember her mother speaking once the whole afternoon. She had just sat there, a mysterious smile on her face, like a basilisk.

  And there was something a little grim in the grip of her mother’s hand dragging her along the corridor now.

  ‘Can’t we go to bed?’ Mary asked, hearing a whimpering tone that she disliked in her voice. It only came out when she was tired, or hungry, but she felt unable to control it.

  ‘No, we cannot,’ said her mother. ‘It is the will of your father that we should be present, and our absence will be noticed. Also, you want to show off your green dress, do you not? We’re on duty!’

  Mary did not think her dress particularly pretty – it was a stiff green brocade with a pattern of golden flowers woven in – but she looked down at it and straightened her brooch. The brooch had been a very good idea of her mother’s. When the French ambassador had seen it, he’d burst into delighted laughter and bowed very low. But Mary would have preferred to wear something lighter and floatier, something, oh, something in a brighter colour than her mother’s favourite – and endless – green.

  As they turned the corner of the gallery, Mary started to hear the faint strain of music, the high piping notes of an oboe. The sound, a teasing tune,
lifted her spirits. Suddenly she began to feel more awake. Her mother noticed. ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘It is true that the English court can put on a good show, even in this miserable endless rain. Now, Princess Mary, remember you are a princess, and dance with dignity.’

  They picked up their pace, and moved along the gallery towards the Great Hall.

  It was warmer now, and the air seemed richer, even perfumed. The entryway was thronged with people. Mary was not surprised when they turned towards her mother, exclaimed, bowed and parted to let them through. This was the way it was at the palace of Greenwich. She and her mother never had to wait for anything. And if they did, why then her mother would lose her temper. Everyone was afraid of that, and did all they could to avoid it. Mary knew that even her father feared one of her mother’s explosions.

  Mary nodded to the bent heads and lifted hats, suddenly feeling alive, and curious as to what might lie beyond. As they entered, she saw that the hall was lined on each side with crowds of courtiers, mainly men, but several women too. A great blast of heat came out from the burning braziers and the people and the candles. Mary’s eye dwelt particularly on the unfamiliar women among the crowd, in their beautiful, bright dresses. One lady had curiously highly arched eyebrows, so curved that they almost looked like they weren’t real but drawn on with a pencil. Another had hair in tiny, perfect curls like the whorls of a snail.

  She wanted to look for longer at the French ladies, but the French ambassador, whom she recognised from the afternoon, was bowing down before her and offering her his hand for a dance. Mary panicked for a moment. What was the correct response? Did she even know this dance? But then she felt her mother give a little shove in the small of her back. A daughter of Spain never feels pain, her mother always said. Mary paused to gather herself, swaying ever so slightly on her feet, remembering for half an instant how tired she was before taking his hand.

  It was a relief, seconds later, when the music started again. Oh yes, of course she knew this dance; it was a pavane. After a stately curtsey, she promenaded alongside the French gentleman, noticing that he had a small, sharp, clipped beard, which he nodded in time to the music. It made him look rather like her mother’s cockatoo bird; oh yes, he had just the same chin whiskers.

  Mary kept her eyes firmly fixed on her partner’s funny little beard, because now she sensed that the whole room was looking at them. It was important not to make a mess of this. She tried to blot out the crowd and concentrate, giving all her attention to prancing in a stately manner down the room and bowing solemnly to the other couples left and right. This was how her mother had told her to get through, by concentrating on doing the right thing, one step at a time. Mary sometimes wondered if there was any more to it than this. Maybe there wasn’t, in which case Mary might change her mind, she thought, and not be a princess after all.

  But there was one person she couldn’t ignore. He must be here, although she hadn’t seen him yet. Where was her father? Oh, there he was. He was bowing to her, just as if she were a real grown-up lady, and he was twinkling at her with his blue eyes. What blue eyes they were, Mary thought, not a dull grey like her own. Her father’s clear, bright blue ones must be the handsomest eyes at court. The lady with him clearly thought so, too, for she was so busy looking up at him that she completely failed to notice and to bow to Mary as all the other dancers had done.

  But then Mary saw that she was one of the French ladies, and didn’t know who Mary was. On her return up the hall, though, the lady again failed to bow, and this time Mary realised that she had seen that disrespectful face before. It was one of her own mother’s ladies-in-waiting, the one that her mother didn’t like, Mistress Anne Boleyn. Catherine was always giving Mistress Boleyn the afternoon off, not through kindness, but because she didn’t want to have her around. Of course Mary recognised Mistress Boleyn now – it had just been the violet gown that had made Mary think her French.

  But her father seemed quite happy. Watching him dancing with the snail-haired Mistress Boleyn, Mary lost her footing for a moment. There was a gasp from the nearest dancers. Of course they had noticed. Seething, Mary regained her balance, wishing that a tiny misstep did not always have to be made into such a drama. Her partner, seeing something of her feelings, grasped her hand more tightly, and smiled. Mary tried to smile back, recognising that his intentions were good. But then her eyes travelled past him, to her mother, who was not dancing. She was standing still as a statue, watching the ball around her and looking as cold as ice.

  Mary sighed. Why could her mother never be happy? She was at least supposed to look like she was happy, wasn’t she? Something of Mary’s earlier weariness returned. The room no longer seemed rich and glamorous but hot and distressing. She stumbled again, and her partner took her arm and led her out from among the dancers.

  ‘The princess is weary,’ he said, ‘and no surprise, it is very late. Please sit, please rest, and perhaps I may tell you of your future life in France?’ She agreed, sitting down on the splendid velvet chair on the dais and gesturing him to sit on the stool beside her as she had seen her mother do to favoured visitors.

  The dancers started up again, and Mary noticed with relief that the attention of the spectators returned to the centre of the hall.

  ‘This palace of Greenwich is very fine,’ he began, ‘and in France too you will see many magnificent palaces.’ He began to enumerate them, one by one, but they all sounded rather similar to each other. Mary began to feel her eyelids growing heavy, and as the dance wore on, she caught her head lolling to one side and had to jerk it upright.

  Then her mother was before her. ‘The princess is tired,’ she said crisply, holding out one hand.

  ‘But Your Majesty has not yet danced with the king!’ cried the cockatoo gentleman, raising his hands as if to keep her at the ball.

  ‘I will not be dancing tonight.’

  At that precise moment, the dancers parted, and Mary saw that her father was still holding hands with the violet-gowned lady. In fact, he was holding both of her hands, and he was holding them closely too, cradling one of her elbows with his big clumsy paw. Mary knew what that felt like, for he loved to toss her up in the air, or to dance with her himself.

  The Frenchman bowed silently, and silently Mary got to her feet and followed her mother out of the room. The ball had been very strange. The day had been very strange. Everyone had been so polite, so cordial, so appreciative, but there was something not quite right.

  Chapter 3

  April 1527, Greenwich

  ‘Ah! The Princess Mary is here.’

  It seemed a long way across the matting of the privy chamber. It was the morning after, and Mary had found it difficult to wake up. She had rolled over and gone back to sleep twice before her mother had come back to their bed and turfed her out.

  Now her father was seated on his throne under its velvet canopy, and all around him the court and the French party were assembled. Before the dais was a table and two secretaries, taking notes upon great pages of parchment. Mary wondered why there were two. One she recognised, she had seen him before, but then she noticed that the other had that sunburned, moustachioed French look. He must work for the French king, keeping his own record of the discussion.

  Mary nodded back to the ladies-in-waiting who had followed her in. Silently, smoothly, they peeled off from her wake to line the walls. She knew that her mother prided herself on the efficiency of their ladies-in-waiting, and Mary knew that they had done their job exactly right. Her father would notice – he noticed such things – and be pleased. Among the ladies was Mary’s special friend Nan, Lady Hussey, who gave Mary the very tiniest quarter-wink. It raised her spirits at exactly the right moment.

  Steeling herself, Mary trudged forward. No, this was wrong, she must glide, glide, into the centre of the room, and when she arrived she must curtsey. Once she was down low, she raised her eyes to give a secret smile to her father, and he smiled back. He gestured to a stool. Under the eyes of so many pe
ople, it was hard to sit down on a stool without wobbling. But eventually Mary got herself positioned by her father’s knee, and the room’s attention moved on. Phew, it was over, at least for now.

  ‘Alors, where were we?’

  It was the French ambassador himself, who now gave Mary a beam. She remembered that she had fallen asleep last night while he was talking to her, and she suddenly felt ashamed. That was not an action worthy of a princess. Although, she told herself, he really had been very boring.

  ‘We have covered the household, the dowry … issues of religion,’ said her father’s secretary, looking down at the notes before him. Mary silently wondered just how long this would last. She always rather dreaded being called into the privy chamber because there was no knowing how long she would have to sit there, watching and listening to men saying things that she didn’t understand. Today she had looked forward to it a little more, for she knew that the topic was to be her own marriage settlement.

  There was a whispering. The French secretary, half standing, had his hand near the ear of the French ambassador, and was conveying information in a hiss.

  ‘Ah yes.’ The French ambassador spoke again. ‘Now we have a further question, Your Majesty. It is to do with the issues of religion you mention. It has come to our master’s attention, Your Majesty, that the princess’s mother, the Princess Catalina of Spain, was married previously. That was before she made her second marriage to you after the death of your elder brother, of revered memory.’

  Mary felt her father stir uneasily on the throne behind him.

  ‘Well, what of it?’

  There was a testy note in his voice. She thought that the ambassador would have been wiser not to ask this question about ancient history. She was well acquainted with the warning signs that lined the route towards her father’s wrath.

  ‘Excuse me!’ The Frenchman was bowing ridiculously low. He must have been aware that he had given offence, and was trying to atone for it by abasing himself, practically to the matting. He had done well, but then, Mary thought, he must be familiar with the ways of kings. Sometimes the servants who brought in food and drink could not tell when the king was in a bad mood, and departed in comical haste if one of his explosions took them unawares.