by Lucy Worsley
Mary sensed Sir John smiling into his beard, approving.
It cheered her, as if she had scored a little point in a game. Old men were invited to sit by the fire; the duke was an old man. She had just been ever so slightly disrespectful.
But the duke wasn’t to be diverted, and remained planted in the middle of the room, leaning a little on his white staff.
His rheumy eyes tracked around the chamber, noticing, Mary was sure, crumbs on the floor, and embroidery wool in a mess on the sideboard where it had no place to be.
Mary continued looking at the duke narrowly, inviting him, by her silence, to get on with what he had to say.
The duke made the concession of bowing his head, and began.
‘I am instructed,’ he said, ‘by your royal father, to instruct you in your turn that you are to begin a new mode of life.’ He paused to let that sink in. Mary quickly glanced at Nan. Yes, she was looking surprised too.
‘You are to travel now to Hatfield House,’ he continued, ‘there to enter service. You will become a lady-in-waiting to the princess, your half-sister that is, the young Princess Elizabeth. You will no longer be known as princess, obviously, for that is no longer your status now that your mother is no longer queen. You will be known as … the Lady Mary.’
Mary was glad to feel the rough wood of the table beneath her fingers. It reminded her to brace her muscles, not to sway. She was surprised, but not shocked. So, it’s happened, she told herself sternly. At least it has happened. I don’t have to dread the thought of it happening any more.
This was exactly what her mother had warned her about. Tight against her skin, under Mary’s stays, was a secret letter, delivered in the middle of the night by their good friend Sir Nicholas Carew, preparing her for exactly this eventuality. The day had come!
For a moment Mary’s brain whirred, stupefied. What was she to do? Remember, she told herself fiercely, you can remember the instructions.
Her mouth opened, almost of its own accord, and she began to speak, trying to keep the shake out of her voice.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, smooth as silk. ‘I will go to pack for the journey at once.’
She turned her back on him, no curtsey, no, that would be wrong from a princess to a duke, nodded at Nan and Sir John, and immediately left the room.
Nan was hard on Mary’s heels. She stopped in the room beyond, just to catch her breath.
‘Well done!’ said Nan. ‘You did it perfectly! You were polite but firm, and you agreed at once to what he asked.’
Mary remembered how she had seen one jouster compliment another after a good run on the tournament. This was a tournament, that was all. She knew the rules; she had her tactics prepared. She smiled at Nan, and together they went on.
They went as quickly as possible to Mary’s bedchamber, and spent a frantic few minutes searching for ink.
‘Good Lord, I must keep my things in better order,’ Mary said, annoyed with herself.
‘It’s here, it’s here, stay calm.’ Nan was bringing the jar over to the table where Mary had a piece of paper ready. Mary’s hands were wobbling a little, so she rubbed them together, to remind them to behave.
She began to write, then looked back at what she’d done. No good. Spidery. She shoved the sheet aside and began again, with bolder, blacker strokes. Her mother had told her exactly what words to use. Twenty minutes later she was finished.
And twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Sir John.
‘I cannot hold him any longer,’ Sir John confessed. ‘He demands your presence. He says that half an hour is enough to pack necessaries, and that you must come down at once.’
Mary arched an eyebrow and stretched in her chair. She had been writing hard, and it felt good to release her grip, and good to have finished.
‘That’s all right, Sir John,’ she said, ‘we’re ready.’
All three of them exchanged a glance, and a nod, and then they were on their way back down. In the chamber, the duke was pacing, tapping menacingly with his stick.
Mary seated herself back at the table on the dais, back straight, hands folded in her lap. She nodded at Nan.
‘Lady Anne Hussey has a statement to read out.’
Nan stood, curtseyed, unfolded the paper and began. There was a lot of legal verbiage, copied verbatim from Mary’s mother’s draft. Then there was the key sentence.
The princess accedes to what she is commanded to do by her father, His Majesty the King. But in doing so she does not concede any challenge to her status. Legally, she was, is and always shall be the princess of England. What she may be forced to do under duress does not compromise this.
The duke had stopped his pacing to listen, but now he began to prowl once again. Mary could tell that he hadn’t been expecting this.
‘I …’ he began. He stopped.
‘I … believe you have made your position clear,’ he muttered at last. ‘And now we are to leave.’
Lady Anne spoke.
‘The princess,’ she said deliberately, ‘requires more time for the readying of her possessions.’
The duke snapped.
‘No more time!’ he barked. ‘You have had half an hour. You did not spend it wisely. I am commanded to send this … this young lady to Hatfield as soon as may be. With all speed. It was His Majesty’s specific command.’
‘With respect, Your Grace.’
Now Sir John was speaking. His hangdog manner was mollifying and obliging. ‘It is no little thing to transport a household of scores of servants with only half an hour’s notice.’
‘Ah, but the Lady Mary will not be requiring her household.’
Mary, Lady Anne and Sir John looked at each other in consternation. This was an unexpected new turn. Did he want Mary to go to Hatfield … by herself?
The duke noticed their faces.
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘As the Lady Mary will now be her sister the princess’s servant, she will not require servants of her own. It would be unfitting. And now, my lady, my men are here to escort you to your horse.’
With that, the door swung open.
As the duke beckoned, a great many menservants in livery came storming into the room. Their faces were blank. They were well dressed, in suits of dark wool – sober, respectable men. But they were many in number, and strangely silent.
Mary looked at them, and knew she was beaten. Silently, she rose, and stepped forward.
Nan started to follow her.
‘But the princess’s clothes!’
‘No!’ barked the duke, holding up a hand. ‘You had your chance. You didn’t get the clothes when you had the chance. And you’re not coming. Just the Lady Mary.’
Nan stood silent. Mary could imagine her opening and closing her mouth like a fish, a habit she sometimes had.
‘I will send for you hereafter,’ Mary called out, as confidently as she could, even though she was now half out of the door. ‘Don’t worry! I’m sure I will be safe!’ She said this to shame the duke and his men, who were frightening her. The men were stepping very close to her, not actually touching her but surging her along with their own motion. She squeezed in her arms, to avoid brushing their sleeves.
‘We will await your commands,’ cried Sir John. ‘We will be following you soon, my princess!’
And with that the door swung shut behind Mary.
Then the afternoon became a blur of horses and spurs and saddles and an unfamiliar great cloak wrapped over her dress. Within minutes, Beaulieu was behind her. And except for these scores of strangers, Mary was all alone.
Chapter 10
December 1533, Hatfield
Some hours later, they were riding up yet another muddy lane, and then through a park scattered with the leafless skeletons of fine big trees. Mary could see a church, and a cluster of houses. Despite her fear and loneliness, she looked around with some interest. What was this new place? She was used to travelling from palace to palace, but usually with the same familiar wa
gons, and people, and possessions. This was a whole new world.
She was cold, even inside the rough and heavy cloak of black and brown checks. It was more like a shepherd’s blanket than something a princess should wear. And yet she was glad to have it. The ride had been misty, and now a wintry dusk was falling. She was riding on the pillion seat behind the broad back of a man she didn’t even know, leaning back as far as she possibly could to minimise touching him.
As they passed a dark, low huddle of houses, Mary could see people looking out anxiously from lighted doorways. She caught a glimpse into a stable, and saw a man among his cattle. She saw a little girl being snatched indoors by a woman swathed in shawls, her face averted.
Mary knew that a body of horsemen, riding through the dusk, was something that these people feared. And rightly so. It certainly meant trouble, of one kind or another.
She herself was terribly anxious about what would happen next. All through the journey, her mind had kept travelling to the palace at Greenwich, wondering what was happening there. Surely her father couldn’t know what was being done in his name? Surely he couldn’t have meant for her to be treated like this? She ached to see him. Or her mother. She had been alone before, but this was as if she wasn’t part of the family at all.
Ahead, over the roofs of the houses, she could see what looked like stars floating in the darkness. With a start, she realised that they were the lighted windows of a gallery, presumably high up in a building that was almost invisible against the sky. This must be a huge house.
Mary, a courtier, read the message at once. This new princess, the Princess Elizabeth, had been given a better house than Beaulieu. And now Mary didn’t even have Beaulieu, either.
What would Sir John and Nan Hussey be doing there now, aghast and sad? Mary guessed that they would be writing at once to Mary’s mother, or maybe the Spanish ambassador, for advice. Maybe they’d even contact the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor, her mother’s nephew across the sea. She was comforted by the thought that a web of loyal friends would look out for her mother and her. It was a web that her father’s remarriage had woven even tighter. The web was united by loyalty to Catherine, yes, but also to the old God whom Catherine had taught Mary to worship.
One of Mary’s worries about coming to Hatfield was, would there be a priest for her? Would they want her to attend Mass according to the coarse, crude New Religion that Lady Anne had made popular at court? If she went to one of the new Masses, it would be a danger to her soul. She must never, ever do that.
I promise, Mother, Mary said in her head. I won’t do that.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt a little warmer, and a little easier in her mind. It was as if someone had laid a calming hand on the throbbing thoughts in her brain.
And now they were arriving, and men were lifting her down off the horse, and her cold, stiff feet were giving way beneath her as she tried and failed to regain her footing.
The house had a wide flight of steps between its courtyard and its door, and Mary stumbled as she climbed. It was utterly dark now in the cobbled courtyard, except for a burning torch held high by a servant. A slice of light that came shooting out from the open doorway of the house confused Mary’s eyes.
Beyond the door, she discovered, there was a passage, then a panelled Great Hall. A great heap of logs was burning brightly in its vast fireplace, along with throngs and throngs of lit candles. Mary had forgotten what a sight it was to see a room so illuminated. The hall was festooned with garlands of leaves and laurels. Mary could see that everything was set for a joyful twelve days of Christmas festivities. It was a time of year that her father loved, and the sight of the candles made her think of his rooms at Greenwich, lit up like this for a party.
On the table stood the remains of a huge ham, peeking pink and studded with cloves. Mary’s stomach rumbled a little. It had been a long time since the midday meal that the duke’s arrival had denied her the chance to eat.
But who was in charge? Surely there would now be gentlewomen to direct her. She would be offered hot water for washing, maybe some warm wine or posset. Posset! Yes, that would be lovely. She almost turned to Nan to suggest it, before remembering that for once she had no gentlewoman with her. She was alone.
Mary stood, blinking, unsure what to do.
Then, with tremendous dignity, two figures were rising and advancing, one down each side of the long central table. A man and a woman. For a second Mary thought it was the Husseys, come miraculously to her aid. But these people were more stylish, better dressed, indeed almost as chic as the French ambassadors. For a stunned second, Mary was drawn into admiration of the slick, sleek cut of the lady’s black gown.
‘Lady Shelton,’ said the man, gesturing. ‘My wife.’
But Lady Shelton simply stood there, not offering, not welcoming, not leading. It was almost as if she were waiting for something.
Mary still stood uncertainly, looking round the room for a clue. It was odd not to be able to find someone to guide her in what to do next.
The man raised his eyebrows.
‘No curtsey?’ he said. ‘My lady wife is the mistress of the household of the Princess Elizabeth, you know. That means that she is your mistress.’
Mary understood at last. She was expected to consider herself as inferior to these people! She was expected to curtsey!
And she knew the name. She chased it through her memory. Lady Shelton … this was the demonic Anne Boleyn’s aunt. The man must be Sir John Shelton, her husband. Anne Boleyn had put her aunt in charge of her daughter’s nursery.
Lady Shelton arched her long neck, and waited.
A slight trembling began in Mary’s legs, as if the sheer force of their expectation was going to make her curtsey, against her wishes. This was ridiculous! She must resist!
There was a long silence.
‘I wish to go to my chamber,’ Mary said. ‘And I wish to summon my waiting woman, Lady Anne Hussey, at once. I should not have been brought here against my will without her.’
‘Oh dear. You certainly will not.’ Sir John Shelton sounded almost sorrowful that she had behaved so badly. ‘You must understand, my Lady Mary, that you are now the waiting woman. And you will be wanting to go to pay your respects to the Princess Elizabeth, surely, before you go to your chamber?’
Mary stood, mute. This was horrible. What should she do?
She felt a single hot, humiliating tear slide down her cheek.
Then she heard something inside her head, again something that warmed and comforted her. It was the honeyed voice of her mother. Stand up straight, Mary! it whispered. You are the daughter of Spain.
It worked like a miracle. She turned away from the Sheltons at once, rudely showing them her back. She knew what a shockingly disdainful action this was, and it gave her almost a thrill.
Mary swept out through the arch, back into the passage. Here there were lesser servants, serving men and serving women. They would be less flinty and immutable. They would help her.
She would just have to show them that she needed help.
‘Tell me where my chamber is,’ she said, not troubling to keep the tears out of her voice. Actions speak louder than words, she told herself. She needed sympathy now. She swayed, almost as if she was about to faint.
‘Of course.’ A woman in the rough woollen gown of a serving maid stepped close and took her arm. ‘The Lady Mary is not well!’ she said loudly. ‘She is faint. She must lie down at once!’ There was a buzz and a bustle of consternation.
Underneath its cover, the lady whispered something. ‘My princess. Do not fear. You have some friends here.’
Mary almost gasped with the surprise of it. Had she heard correctly?
‘Quick!’ the woman said, even more loudly. ‘She almost fainted!’
At that Mary felt the grasp of hands at her elbows, and, leaning on the strange maid’s arm, she was swept out of the entranceway, and through rich rooms to a staircase.
Upon it we
re wooden figures, curiously carved, hard to see in the gloom. She wondered which way the baby Princess Elizabeth’s chambers were, and prayed that she was not being taken towards them. But no, the swarming hands were guiding her up, and up again, past the principal floor where surely the best rooms lay.
Up again, they were still climbing, and then they were in that lighted Long Gallery Mary must have seen from below. She was taken to its far end, and through a pokey little door in the corner. Inside was a chamber, perfectly fine for a servant, perhaps, but not at all sumptuous. It didn’t even have tapestries on the walls, just a cloth painted with a forest instead.
It contained a bed, just a little low wooden bed, close to the floor. But never had a sight been more welcome. Mary sank down upon it, still in her smelly cloak. She rested there, facing the wall, ignoring all the bustling servants who had accompanied her.
I’ll just lie here looking ill, she said to herself, until they leave me alone.
She wondered for a second what God would think of her duplicitous behaviour. I’m only half pretending, Mary quickly reassured Him in her mind. She really did feel faint and sick as well as lonely and confused.
The friendly serving woman was outside the door, and Mary could hear her fending off other enquiries and servants.
‘I think we should let her rest,’ she was saying. ‘Sir John and Lady Shelton will certainly want to see her again in the morning. Let her gather her strength until then.’ The voices gradually died away.
Unwillingly, Mary opened her eyes, rolled into a sitting position, and began to look round her room. It seemed as if she was staying here, at least for the night.
Slowly, she swung her legs to the floor. Yes, this was a bed, and she was grateful for it, but she was used to a canopy and curtains, not a low box bed like this. The bolster was rough, hairy linen, and inside it she could feel the prickle of straw, not feathers.
She lifted the single candle that had been left burning by the bed, and began to explore. There was a chest to contain the clothes that Mary had not brought. There was no sign of any clothing waiting for her here, and it flashed across Mary’s mind that she had only one set of linen. Would she have to wear it again tomorrow? That was rather horrible. She knew that the common people did such things, but she had never in her life done so before.