by Lucy Worsley
‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ Mary whispered, shrinking back at once into the shelter of the chimney stack.
It was a missile of some kind, which had struck the bricks of the chimney and almost hit her. She saw it now, skittering down the leaden slope of the roof towards the balustrade. Yes, an arrow!
Mary stood, her back to the chimney, eyes closed, heart beating fast. Someone had tried to kill her. She wasn’t safe. She should have stayed in her room.
But how could she get back to safety without making herself a target once again? There must be a man, or men, with a crossbow in the park, aiming at her. Another whizz. Another arrow. The air was full of death.
Mary stood where she was, eyes closed, praying as hard as she could that the arrows might miss. She had thought death would come slowly, from hunger, not quickly at the hands of an assassin. Suddenly, and very sharply, she wanted to live.
She opened her eyes. From where she stood, she could see the two arrows in the gutter at the edge of the roof. Even as she watched, there was another powerful hum through the air, and another collision with the chimney. Now there were three of them.
The sight of them made her flinch. These things might have killed her!
But they weren’t like any arrows Mary had seen before. They did not seem to be made of wood. Mary would have quite liked to scramble down and examine them, but she did not dare. She stood and waited, getting colder and colder. Eventually, her knees started shaking, and a dreadful shivering wracked her. She grew reckless. She wasn’t going to die of cold, no way. She was going to make an end of it.
She made a bolt back for the top of the stairs, without any more arrows being fired.
She spent the afternoon in the gallery feeling nauseous. She shuffled her mattress along so she could lie upon it in a square of uncertain sunlight from the window. When the sun went down, Mary grew deadly cold.
She decided to move. Back to the roof. Those arrows had been puzzling her.
It was a slow climb up. She had to pause every so often on the stairs through dizziness. Then came a cold slither across the leads, to find the three arrows, now almost invisible in the dark.
Yes, once they were in her hand, there was definitely something odd about the arrows, their shafts felt … soft. They were not like any arrows she had seen before, because round each wooden shaft something else was wrapped. Mary’s heart beat faster. Was this a message? Was this how her mother’s spies would communicate with her now that Clem was no longer allowed to bring her food?
It wasn’t paper, though, it was … a long strip of dried bacon. Each one! Yes, three long strips of meat! She smelt it. Oh, but the ham smelt good. Mary cursed herself for misunderstanding the arrows earlier. They hadn’t been sent to kill her, but to bring her life. This meat, oh, but it was chewy, and salty, and delicious, and it was going to save her soul.
She carefully ate just one of the pieces, saving the rest. Slowly, savouring each mouthful, she began to feel just a little bit better. Even better than food, though, was the thought that she had not been forgotten. Deep down, she believed, she knew, that her mother was behind this.
Chapter 15
February 1534, Hatfield
There had been no need to hoard the meat. The next day, three more arrows. Three more meals of dried ham. Mary began to feel a little strength returning. She tried to spend the day exercising, moving up and down the gallery. The sun became very important to her. She loved it and revelled in it when it shone, and mourned it when it did not.
Sometimes, when she was feeling delirious, and when the sun moved on to her featherbed, she almost imagined that she could hear an angel talking to her, telling her that her mother was alive and well, and worrying about her. But then, when the sun slipped back behind a cloud, the angel seemed to be saying that Mary’s mother was taking her love away again. Mary had not pleased God. Mary had not yet become one of his martyrs.
Each evening, the gallery door was unlocked, very briefly, and fresh water delivered. Once Mary had been sleeping in her room and hadn’t noticed.
But usually there was a sharp knocking to alert her, then the scraping of the lock, then Sir John, accompanied by one or two stern servants, appeared, asking her, always, if she was ready now to go to her sister and name her as princess.
Quietly, respectfully, Mary refused. She tried to look as weak as possible at these meetings, so that he would not suspect that her mother’s spies were succeeding in getting her food.
Then, one day, Mary was not sure how many days later, it wasn’t just Sir John at the door. It was a strange man in rich furs, with a jowly face, and with two drab manservants standing behind him. Mary hadn’t seen either him or them before at Hatfield.
When he saw her, he gasped.
‘But this is not right!’
His voice. His voice wasn’t right either. Who was he? Those rich clothes, the servants, and yet he sounded like a mean man of the streets. It was confusing.
Despite the meat, Mary was still feeling headachy and sick. She was surprised and frightened by the change in the routine. She knew that she ought to appear weak, but there was no acting involved when she collapsed to the ground as her legs gave way.
In a trice, the man was leaning over her, full of concern. It was hard for him to crouch with his great bulk, but he did so with alacrity.
‘Quick!’ he was calling to his men. ‘Fetch some fiery spirits! She has fainted. And she’s cold! Can you stand? Can you stand if I help you? You must come down to the fire at once.’
Mary’s eyes were not working properly, her head was spinning, but she sensed that she was lolling weakly in his arms. The three men half carried her from the gallery, down the grand stairs, and into a chamber.
Mary felt, though, that she was travelling up, up towards heaven, and that the Virgin Mary was once again smiling at her in welcome. From far, far away, she sensed a voice calling urgently to her. It grew louder.
‘Come back to us! Come back!’
It was the strange jowly man, his face now lit by flickering firelight. Mary took possession once again of her actual body, her useless, aching limbs, and her pounding horrible head. Slowly, she found the strength to move her eyes.
Mary wasn’t sure where in the house she was, and she hadn’t seen this room before. It had beautiful tapestries, a sight she’d almost forgotten and … a fire, yes, a roaring, blazing fire. He placed a woolly sheepskin on a chair by the hearth, and Mary was sitting in it. Now a cup containing something warm was being put into her hands, but she lacked the strength to hold it.
‘Here,’ he said gently, as if coaxing a very young child, and lifted it to her lips.
She sipped it, and the taste and richness of it almost knocked her out. ‘They have been mistreating you,’ he said sadly. ‘I see it. I wish I had come sooner.’
Mary looked up, the hot, winey drink starting to revive her. Caudle, it was hot caudle. There were currants in it. It was the most delicious thing she had ever drunk.
‘Do you come from my mother?’ she said eagerly.
Almost at once she wished she had not spoken. If he didn’t come from her mother, she might be revealing secrets. Mary realised, too late, that he hadn’t called her ‘Princess’. If he came from her mother, then surely he would have done so.
He laughed.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. He was distracted by a sound, by someone coming to the door. Mary heard him telling whoever it was that he was not to be disturbed.
Then he came back, and sat opposite her.
‘Cake,’ he said. She now saw a spread of figgy pudding and gingerbread on a silver dish at her elbow. Carefully, she ate a little. She was on guard now, as well as not wanting to overexert her belly too soon. But God alone knew how good the sweet food was.
‘I’ve come from your father. My name is Thomas Cromwell.’
Mary paused in the very act of chewing. She didn’t know what to think.
‘Your father,’ he said, ‘would be horrified, h
orrified, to know what has been happening here at Hatfield.’
Mary bit back the response that her father had seen it for himself. He had seen her, desperate, up on the roof. And he had done nothing.
‘His servants,’ Cromwell went on, ‘are sometimes too zealous in his name. The king of course cannot see to everything personally. His servants sometimes overstep the mark in doing what they think he wants them to do. It is quite wrong that the daughter of the king has been kept in this manner. I have arranged at once for your own servants and proper clothes to be restored to you.’
Mary thought this was rather missing the point.
‘My meals,’ she explained. ‘Most of all I need to eat. Without harassment.’
‘Yes, yes, the Sheltons have been most neglectful.’
‘Cruel!’ Mary said angrily. ‘It’s not neglect, they have been deliberately cruel to me!’
‘You are right,’ he said sadly. ‘They have overstepped, most grievously. But this is better, is it not?’
Mary looked around the warm, fire-lit room, and nodded. There was a bed in its shadows, with proper curtains, and she could see a blue blanket. And was that a heap of fresh linen laid upon it? Clean clothes?
‘Is this …’ She hardly dared hope. ‘Is this to be my room?’
‘Most certainly!’ he said reassuringly. ‘You are of royal blood, and you deserve the comforts and state of that condition. You won’t be returning to that miserable gallery.’
‘But if that is true, then I wish to leave Hatfield!’
Mary’s heart leapt. Her father had rescued her! Her father had sent this man, at last, to rectify the terrible wrong, to treat her as she deserved, and in no time she would be gone from here. Oh, how wrong she had been to lose faith in him. She would insist on leaving now, today. She grasped the arm of the chair in preparation for an attempt to stand.
For a second she felt a pang of regret that someone had worked so hard to get this lovely room ready for her, when she would never sleep a night in it.
‘Ah, my lady,’ Master Cromwell said, in his quiet, sad voice. ‘I’m afraid that can’t happen. You must stay at Hatfield, you know, until your sister the princess leaves it. And all you need do to maintain a comfortable way of living, and clothes, and food …’
He nodded at the plate of gingerbread, which was by now almost empty.
‘All you need to do is sign this one little piece of paper. Then everyone will leave you alone. You won’t have to do anything else.’
‘What is it?’ Mary asked suspiciously. She felt drained and empty. This wasn’t rescue after all. It was just some new tactic.
‘It’s just a paper that says that you will submit to the Act of Succession, that’s all. It’s the Act of Parliament, you know, the will of the people, which outlines the inheritance of the throne. From your father, to your sister, and then to you.’
‘It should be me before my sister,’ Mary said dully.
‘Just one little signature,’ he wheedled.
‘No,’ Mary said.
‘So easy!’
It did look easy. The firelight flickered over the paper. The inkstand was ready, he was holding out a quill towards her. She saw his face, beseeching, friendly. She did want to please him.
‘No!’ she said. Some explanation, she felt, was necessary. ‘My mother,’ she said weakly. She tensed herself for what was next.
There was silence. He said nothing, but sighed.
‘Am I to go … back upstairs?’ she asked meekly.
‘No, no!’ he said. ‘Oh, I see you didn’t understand,’ he continued. ‘From now on, I will look after you. Eventually, I know, you will come to sign. Now, I think you need sleep, my dear.’
He rose, and left Mary sitting by her fire, in her tapestried room, with her gingerbread, and her delicious-looking bed waiting. But she felt horribly uneasy.
Chapter 16
February 1534, Hatfield
By morning, Mary felt even more troubled. She couldn’t get comfortable in her bed. It was too soft, too warm. She wasn’t used to it. And the gingerbread had disordered her stomach. She had a dull pain down there.
She fell asleep, deeply, just before dawn. Mary came out of her sleep with brutal suddenness when a scraping noise jarred her ears. A bright shaft of sun was coming through the high, latticed window, and was making the colours of the tapestry glow.
As Mary blinked, attempting to get her eyes to focus, she saw a tall figure in black, poker in hand, crossing from the window to the fire, and beginning to stir it into new life.
A tall figure, a well-tailored figure … a horrible jolt ran through Mary’s body. But then, looking more closely, Mary realised that it wasn’t the wicked lady, but her aunt. Lady Shelton.
This was indeed a new stratagem. Mary was still on guard. What did Lady Shelton want? Before, Mary had been taken into the presence of Lady Shelton, just as ambassadors went before the king. Now Lady Shelton sensed that she was being watched, turned, and came towards Mary, just as if she were the supplicant. Her eyebrows, black and arched and horribly like her niece Anne’s, were raised in polite enquiry.
‘Good morning, my lady,’ said Lady Shelton. ‘Did you sleep well? Your breakfast will be here very shortly. A little hot porridge, perhaps? It’s cold again this morning.’
Her voice, which Mary had never heard before, was surprisingly deep and low.
Despite having come out of her sleep so short a time ago, Mary was wide awake. She had so many questions that she wanted to ask. If she ate the food, would they … make her sign her rights away? Could they do that? Did they intend to relax her, make her lower her guard?
‘Thank you,’ she said shortly, at last.
Perhaps it was best to say as little as may be. She longed for her mother’s advice. She had not received a letter, nor seen Clem for, oh, weeks now.
Lady Shelton was curtseying – yes, actually curtseying! – and backing towards the door. It was a strange feeling. It had been so long since anyone had paid Mary the ceremonies of her status that she’d almost forgotten what it was like. Perhaps, she thought, I’m only a princess when other people think that I am. Then she imagined her mother’s scornful reaction to such a statement, and almost laughed out loud. Yes, of course, her mother would say that Mary had the very blood of a princess, and would always be one.
Mary was left alone to enjoy the sunlight, and the bright clean fire. In due course, serving women – not Clem, but other serving women with reddened hands and clean aprons – brought in hot water, and a beautiful linen shift, almost pure white. And – what was this? – a new gown, plum-coloured velvet with silver embroidery. They held it up, ready for Mary to get into it.
‘Where is the chamber woman called Clem?’ she asked.
‘Gone back to her family, m’lady,’ one of them said, eyes lowered. ‘Her sister had a babe. She went to help.’
Thank God! Only just in time, Mary stopped herself from thanking the Lord out loud. So Clem, who had helped her, had escaped!
Feeling lighter at heart, Mary carefully considered the beautiful dress. At length, she shook her head. No, she wasn’t going to go that far in embracing this luxurious new lifestyle. She ruefully rubbed her short, spiky hair. She would stick with her old black gown.
A few minutes later, she slightly regretted the decision. Mary realised that in the warmth of the sunlit chamber she could detect a slight stale smell coming off her rusty old black dress. She sighed, rueful for a moment. What did it really matter, though, what she was wearing, if she was stuck in this room? It was still a prison, if more luxurious than her last.
But was she stuck? She tried the door. It opened easily, revealing an empty, wide, matted passage. She had not really noticed all this when she was carried along it, half fainting, last night. The windows gave a different view down upon the clipped shapes of the garden, bushes trained into the shapes of ships, and, over to one side, the skeleton of what must, in summer, be a gorgeous green peacock.
&nbs
p; After a second or two of looking out, a soft sound made Mary’s head whip round sideways. The gallery was not empty after all. Coming along it, towards her, was an elegant young man. He was dressed in black, just as Lady Shelton had been. Mary felt a shiver of disappointment for the rejected plum velvet gown, for here, for the first time in many weeks, was someone her own age.
Suddenly, strangely, she cared what she looked like.
He was smiling now, and trying to bow even though he was carrying a tray. It was odd to see a gentleman carrying a tray. He did it awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to it. Forgetting for a moment whether she was a princess or not, Mary stepped forward to give him a hand.
‘Ah, the door, the door,’ he said, holding the tray away from her, but playfully. ‘If you could kindly open the door. I really am making a mess of this, aren’t I?’
Mary lifted the latch, and made as if to lift the heavy jug off the tray to help him.
‘No, no!’ he said. ‘You’ll unbalance me. I’ve learned that much at least between the kitchens and here.’
He was leading the way into Mary’s room, putting the tray containing her breakfast down on the table, then rushing around it to fetch a chair for her, eager as a puppy. Mary noticed, as his arms swung about, that his cloak had a lining of silver satin. He really was far too well dressed to be delivering food.
He noticed her noticing him, and stopped, and placed one hand over his heart, and bowed again.
‘My Lady Mary,’ he said. ‘I am Lady Shelton’s other nephew.’ He stopped, a bit confused. He looked comically to both left and right as if his brain had frozen and he was shaking his head to wake it up again.
‘What a clod-head I am,’ he said ruefully. ‘I mean, the Lady Anne, I mean the queen, is Lady Shelton’s niece,’ he said. ‘She’s my cousin. Lady Shelton is both of our … aunt.’
He was so triumphant at having found the right word for the relationship at last that he smiled, and Mary could not help smiling too.