Lady Mary

by Lucy Worsley

  ‘So you are Lady Shelton’s nephew, that’s what you’re saying?’

  He nodded. Mary realised that if he was the wicked lady’s cousin, she ought to hate him. But curiously, his grin was so friendly that it didn’t seem to bother her. After all, Mary thought, she had cousins of her own that she’d never even met and didn’t know if she liked or not. A person could not be blamed for his or her cousins.

  She sat down slowly, wondering what would happen next, and picked up the jug to pour herself a drink. At once he was apologising, and taking it from her.

  ‘Too slow, too slow,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You’re too slow, Reginald. The Lady Mary will sack you at this rate.’

  He poured her out a drink, and set it down with a flourish. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘Have you everything you need?’

  Mary thought fast. Yes, she had everything she needed. But the last few minutes had been more entertaining than the whole of the last few weeks. How could she stop him from leaving?

  ‘I might want something,’ she said distantly. ‘You had better wait.’

  He stood by the fire a few steps away, as seemed right for a princess and her gentleman servant, but now he kept up a stream of quips and kind comments and observations that no servant would have dared to make. Mary found herself laughing as he explained how out of place he felt in a household made up of ‘twenty-five nursemaids, two milkmaids and a woman highly skilled in the changing of baby nappies’. And he boasted that his horse, Old Humphrey, was one of England’s fastest.

  ‘Old Humphrey?’ Mary asked. ‘He doesn’t sound very fast to me.’

  ‘Oh, Old Humphrey goes like a dream,’ Reginald reassured her. ‘I would like to show you Old Humphrey.’

  Mary smiled back, thinking for a second that she would love above all things to see Old Humphrey. Then her smile faded. Of course she could not leave her room.

  He noticed. ‘You can, you know!’ he said encouragingly. ‘Master Cromwell’s orders. The Lady Mary is to go anywhere, do anything. Just not to leave the estate, not to go beyond the park paling. So you can come to ride! Shall we ride tomorrow, my Lady Mary?’

  He knelt down on one knee, humbly, head bowed, in a parody of an obsequious servant. He did it in a way that was funny, not silly.

  But Mary had winced when he called her his ‘Lady Mary’, and he had noticed.

  ‘I can see that it hurts you when … when people use that name,’ he said. ‘I don’t really care what you’re called. Perhaps I can just … leave it vague?’

  He beseeched her with his eyes, looking up from his ridiculous position on the floor. Mary saw that they were large and warm, like the eyes of a spaniel.

  She knew that she should insist on her title, that she was showing weakness, but she simply couldn’t make herself objectionable now. She lowered her gaze and began to pick at her bread, rolling little bits of it into balls.

  ‘I think I’ve everything I need now,’ she said at last. ‘You may retire, Master Reginald. Yes, I will ride tomorrow.’

  He smiled, bowed, tweaked his cloak in the parody of a dandy, and almost danced out of the door. Mary ate the rest of her breakfast eagerly. She might even have said, happily.

  Chapter 17

  February 1534, Hatfield

  Mary spent the rest of the day in her room, preparing herself for a different kind of life. She called back the serving women, and had them bring back the dress she had rejected.

  She decided to test the limits of what Reginald said: that nothing was forbidden to her at Hatfield House apart from leaving the estate. So she asked to be brought a bath. It took some time, and she could see that it was not easy at short notice, but eventually clanking pails arrived and Mary was splashing herself in a tub before the fire. She had the serving women comb her hair, and asked them to neaten it.

  ‘I shall fetch Lady Shelton and her embroidery shears,’ one of them said.

  ‘Can’t you do it yourself?’ asked Mary, who did not really want to see Lady Shelton again, particularly not if she were annoyed at being disturbed from some other task about the busy household.

  ‘Please, m’lady,’ the serving woman said. ‘If I were to hurt you with the blade by accident, it would be the end of my life.’

  So Lady Shelton came. After she had finished trimming Mary’s clean hair, it felt different, so soft and sleek, almost like the pelt of an otter.

  ‘It’s … a becoming look,’ said Lady Shelton.

  She spoke politely, but Mary could tell it wasn’t just an empty phrase. Even peering at her reflection in the murky silver mirror, she could see that having less hair made her white neck look long and curved, like a swan’s.

  They had brought her many outfits now – a long blue dress fit for a ball, a cloak for riding in black velvet trimmed with mink. Mary asked them to take away the old black-and-brown monstrosity, the smelly shepherd’s cloak that she’d worn for many weeks, and burn it.

  Then she remembered how it had kept her warm and alive through some very difficult nights. ‘No, wait, don’t burn it,’ she said quickly. ‘Give it to some poor man in the village.’ When she had been a proper princess, and lived at court, she’d had no idea what it was like to be cold or hungry. She was determined never to feel like that again if she could help it, but she wouldn’t ever forget what it was like.

  Lady Shelton gave one of her clipped little nods, as if she approved of Mary’s thought. ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘It is true that your mother always gave a good deal to charity.’ Mary was taken aback. Surely Lady Shelton was her mother’s enemy? It had been generous of her to mention Catherine, and Mary liked her a little more for having done it.

  The next morning, Mary was dressed in a black riding dress and cloak. The serving women apologised for the lack of colour in her outfit, but they explained that it had been hard to find clothes of the right size and make in the neighbourhood, and that this was the only one available.

  ‘Why not just bring me my own from London?’ she asked, chagrined. They did not answer, and she realised that for all her new freedoms, it was not as if it were really back to the old days. She sighed. The cloak was almost too hot in this warm room, and she took it off.

  Even though the weather was dark and dull compared to yesterday’s sunshine, her mood improved when she heard Reginald’s step in the passage. She would almost have described it as a prance, especially compared with the heavy trudge of the serving women who moved slowly, deliberately, like beasts of burden. He moved like a thoroughbred. This morning there was no pretence that he was bringing her breakfast; that had been brought, and eaten, and cleared already.

  He took off his feathered hat, bowed down beautifully low, and then offered her a hand to lead her along the gallery.

  ‘Good morning!’ he said. ‘Old Humphrey awaits you! And a giddy young palfrey called Mistress Skipsey.’

  ‘Do all the horses here have such ridiculous names?’ Mary asked, smiling.

  ‘Are you saying that Old Humphrey is a ridiculous name?’ He stopped, and turned to her. ‘What impertinence!’

  Mary smiled again. He had been deeply impertinent to her, but in such a manner that she’d enjoyed it. No one, apart from her mother, had ever really laughed at her, and it was a joyous feeling, warming her up deep inside. For a moment, she could just pretend to be a normal girl.

  They went on together, down the main stairs, and Mary prayed that Master Cromwell was not still lurking around the house. She did not want to see that horrible piece of paper in his hand. And the sight of him would only remind her that her father hadn’t sent him to rescue her. It would make her blood boil up, like a pot on the fire, if she were forced to remember yet again how her father had failed to set her free.

  The Great Hall was quiet, all the servants busy about their morning’s work. When Reginald opened the door, a drift of mist came spilling in. Mary had not realised just how miserable this February morning was, and snuggled the fur more cl
osely around her neck.

  ‘We’ll soon warm up as we ride!’ he promised her. ‘Perhaps a canter. Although I wouldn’t like Old Humphrey to break a leg in the long grass. It’s him I’m worried about, of course, not you.’

  Then they were breathing in almost as much water as air as they made their way through the fog in the courtyard. Mary could see the white shape of a little horse waiting for her, and she was soon patting its nose. The smell of the horse seemed excitingly pungent after so many weeks indoors. A groom was helping her, and soon she was up, was seated, sideways, on the saddle. She’d wanted to spring on to the horse elegantly and proficiently, but she felt like she was fumbling her way through sheep’s wool. She had certainly lost a good deal of strength. While she’d been mounting her horse, she’d been conscious all the time of Reginald, getting on to his own. She could hear him hollering out ‘Humps!’ and ‘Whoa, boy!’

  Then they were off, Reginald leading the way, a groom walking alongside to lead Mary’s palfrey. She began to relax, to enjoy the feel of the fresh air on her face, to see the sodden foliage, to hear the birds calling. Old Humphrey clearly wanted to pick up the pace, and Mary nodded her permission that Reginald might ride on, harder, circling back every so often to her and the groom at their stately plod. Once she glanced back, to see the high house looming over them through the mist, but then it was lost to sight. After that she looked only forward, at the white ears of Mistress Skipsey, and at the greys and browns of this beautiful outdoor world.

  They travelled out through the park and into woods, passing a lake with wisps of steam arising from its dull green surface. The brambles and bracken were brown and slimy. Reginald, on his taller horse, brushed against a high branch and showered Mary with droplets, but she only laughed. At once he twisted round his broad shoulders, to see if she was all right. When he saw that she was, he smiled.

  Eventually they arrived at a park paling, with fields beyond. Reginald dismounted, and held both horses while the groom helped Mary off too. Panting, breathless, she stood in the leaf mould and wondered what he had in mind. Reginald was leading her between the trees, out of earshot of the servant. Mary’s heart beat faster. What was going to happen? She felt oddly guilty. The sight of the back of the groom’s head, so fixedly turned away from them, had dampened her response to some of Reginald’s jokes.

  He was taking her to a place where they could get right up against the palings, and Mary saw the fields sloping away into a hollow full of fog. Above it a hazy, glowing ball of sun hovered low on the horizon.

  Suddenly she realised what he was showing her.

  That was freedom, that sunny field out there. He had brought her as close to it as he possibly could. She grasped the wooden palings with both hands. Her knees felt a little wobbly. She glanced sideways, and saw distress on his face.

  ‘I would take you out there if I could,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you that I would. But my uncle would be so furious.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mary, turning sadly back, to return to the horses.

  Reginald suddenly took her arm in both hands. It was a rough, almost a crude gesture, and she looked down in surprise at his hands, there on her own sleeve. But he only tightened his grip.

  ‘They have treated you so, so badly,’ he said. The sympathy cut through her, almost making her legs give way. He was supporting her now, almost carrying her, in the strong, warm grip of his hands.

  Mary looked up. The mist had parted a little, and the groom was staring over now, looking right at them. Again, she felt awkward. She gathered herself together.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, a little distantly, straightening up and finding her feet. She stumbled a little in the drifts of leaves as they walked back, as if to demonstrate to the groom that the going was rough and that she had naturally needed Reginald’s help.

  She’d felt something censorious in the groom’s gaze, even though his face was now expressionless.

  She could tell, too, that Reginald was discomforted by the man, as he instructed him to hand over Old Humphrey’s reins, and then there was the fuss of her own remounting. But for the whole of the ride back Mary smiled to herself. In Reginald’s tone, she had also detected a protective note, protective of her. She didn’t really care about the groom or what he thought.

  Someone, at last, was taking care of her.

  Chapter 18

  February 1534, Hatfield

  The next morning, Mary felt like riding again, but she didn’t want to wear her severe and unbecoming black habit. She wanted to wear a dark red, wine-coloured gown, which the chamber women had spent the previous afternoon cutting down and restitching so that it would fit her.

  Mary had a sour suspicion that it might have been a cast-off of Anne Boleyn’s, left behind when she visited Hatfield. But she did not think too closely about that. She loved the richness of it, the splendour. Sadly, though, it was much too big, for she had shrunk almost to nothing during her stay in the gallery. She squeezed her arms with her fingers. Yes, good bread and good butter were already making a difference. Yes, they were less like sticks. As each day went past, she was growing stronger again, returning to life.

  In the morning Reginald came, as if for his orders, as if this was now a regular thing.

  ‘I shall walk in the garden,’ said Mary, in the queenly, offhand manner that she remembered from her mother. She acted so aloof because she could not bear to reveal how very pleased to see him he was.

  Instantly he was bowing, and twitching the corners of his mouth to show that he knew that he was being a little bit over the top.

  ‘It shall be the greatest honour and privilege of my life, madam,’ he said, ‘to escort you, if you will accept such a base fellow?’

  Mary could hardly keep her own face straight at his mockery of the obsequious rules of court life.

  Her father would certainly have called him a damned puppy, and maybe, if he was in good spirits, he would have challenged Reginald to an arm wrestle. How she longed to see her father again in a fine mood. Not as he was now, all cold, and acting as if she were dead.

  She damped the thought down.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Master Reginald,’ was what she managed to say, in a deliberately faraway tone.

  They went down the grand stairway together, this time with Reginald walking respectfully behind her. Along the way they passed maids and off-duty nurses. Each of them sprang back to stand against the walls while Mary passed. Their eyes bored down diligently into the floor.

  Mary was reminded of the groom who had yesterday made her feel uncomfortable simply by looking at her and Reginald.

  I can walk with Lady Shelton’s nephew, she told herself. There’s nothing to see here. I’m doing nothing wrong.

  Secretly, though, Mary knew in her heart that Reginald wasn’t just another servant. She quickly and determinedly switched her thoughts away from the question of what God, and her mother, might think of these antics.

  She was glad when they reached the lower gallery, and stepped out through its doorway into the parterre. There were the remains of a light frost on the grass.

  ‘There’s frost, madam!’ Reginald was saying. ‘Shall I fetch you pattens?’ She saw that the sun, by shining through it, was turning his brown hair almost auburn.

  Mary did not want to stomp about the gardens with clumsy feet on elevated overshoes. That was not at all the impression that she’d wanted to create in her wine-red dress.

  ‘No, no, it’s all right, I shall keep to the path,’ she said.

  But he insisted on squatting down, almost to the ground, to inspect her footwear.

  ‘Little velvet slippers!’ he said, in a mock astonishment. ‘They are hardly suitable for the garden.’

  Mary could not help laughing a little at his prim and proper tone.

  ‘Oh, and you have never had wet feet yourself?’ she asked. ‘Obviously not, for that would have led to a cold, which would have carried you off to Heaven in a trice. It’s so dangerous to walk on
wet grass.’

  She spoke ironically, catching Reginald’s own tone.

  ‘I cannot deny it,’ he said. ‘My mother often has been driven to despair by my getting soaked in the rain, or falling off Old Humphrey into a ditch of water, and coming home all wet. But, as you say, it has not yet done me … real harm.’

  Mary bowed her head. He had emphasised the last two words – real harm – in a way that suggested he knew all about her imprisonment in the attics, and was glad it was over, and was sorry that it had happened.

  She wanted to ask him about her relationship with his cousin, and who exactly had ordered the imprisonment, but … no. That would cast a shadow on the day. It was such a crisp, golden morning, and the path extended ahead so invitingly, that she could bear to do nothing other than place her hand through the crook of his extended arm and begin to walk.

  As they reached the end of the garden, they turned back to see the vast extent of the house rising up before them. Now Mary could see the windows of the gallery at the top, where she had been imprisoned, and the chimneys on the roof where she had found the arrows. The archer must have fired from the rough grasses of the meadow beyond the garden. She looked for the spot, although she said nothing to Reginald. The risk had been considerable, Mary thought. The archer could have been spotted from any one of the numerous windows on this side of the house. She thanked God, silently, for the loyalty of her mother’s friends.

  ‘It’s a fine house, isn’t it?’ said Reginald, seeing that she was looking back up at the glazing of the windows as it flashed in the sun. ‘How many windows can you count?’

  They each started, lost their place, began again, disagreed.

  Although they had stopped walking, Reginald had not given up his grasp on her arm, and as Mary pointed and laughed to show him the windows he had missed, she accidentally knocked against his side.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said eventually, as they agreed to differ on the final total, ‘it looks impressive, but there are many more windows at my father’s house of Greenwich.’