by Lucy Worsley
‘Mary, you must not give in to these tactics.’ Lady Shelton was standing up now, agitated. ‘They are despicable,’ she continued. ‘I have been talking to my husband. He is troubled too, in his mind, by what my niece has asked us to do. But you must stay here, where it is safe. We can look after you, it’s just that we must … obey the one rule of not letting you leave the estate. You know that if we do that, my husband and I, our lives would be forfeit? Here, sip this. You need strength.’
She was holding out a goblet of cordial. Mary understood that Lady Shelton was trying to be kind, and nodded. But the kindness was lost on her. She could only remember Nan laughing, dressing her, soothing her. She could bear it no longer.
There was a horrible spinning feeling in her head, and the world grew dark. She simply could not go on thinking, about Nan on a torture machine, about Nan in pain.
***
When Mary opened her eyes, she found herself in bed. It seemed as if some time, perhaps hours, had passed. She could hardly move her arms and legs; they felt like cotton wadding. Lady Shelton was sitting by her side. When she observed that Mary was awake, Lady Shelton smiled. Mary saw all the sinews move at once in her elongated neck.
‘Oh,’ Lady Shelton said. ‘Oh, but I am glad to see you awake.’ She spoke as if it were a long time since she and Mary had been together. The room was still lit by candlelight, which confused Mary.
‘Is it not morning yet?’ Mary stuttered a little, for her tongue felt thick. ‘Have I been asleep for hours?’
‘Hours!’ said Lady Shelton. ‘Days, more like. You have been close to death.’
‘But what happened?’ Mary felt herself frightened, and a whimper was beginning to creep into her voice.
‘Hush, hush,’ said Lady Shelton. ‘You’re in no danger now. Nothing has changed. Remember, you are safe here, with us.’
Mary saw now that there was a man in the room, a bulky man, about the shape of Master Cromwell.
Lady Shelton saw her shrink away from the sight.
‘That is Dr Butts,’ she said quickly. ‘Your father’s own doctor. Dr Butts says that you will live, you know. You are out of danger, and here all is quiet and safe.’
‘But what happened?’
Mary raised herself on her elbows, with a panicky need to know where she had been and what had happened. She felt her bodice. Yes, her mother’s final letter was gone. Who had it? How could she do without it? She had loved to smooth it out between her fingers and imagine her mother writing it to her. She wished she had eaten it, like the rest. Then it would have been part of her.
‘Dr Butts says …’ Lady Shelton looked over her shoulder, and must have received a nod or a sign from him to continue. ‘Dr Butts says that your brain was tired and overloaded. It could no longer take in new information. If you remember, you had a shock, a letter –’ she paused, delicately – ‘about your governess being sent to the Tower.’
Mary observed that she did not mention the letter’s threat, that Mary herself would be sent to the Tower if she did not sign the paper of succession.
‘And your brain was so tired, and so full, that it could not process any more information. No wonder! You have been under great strain these few weeks. Dr Butts says it is astonishing that your body and mind have stood up so well.’
Mary flopped back on her pillows.
At last, someone was taking her seriously. This doctor, her father’s doctor – he was someone her father trusted! She had often heard his name. Perhaps, now that he had seen her, he would report how cruelly she had been treated. Perhaps her father would now realise that his wicked so-called wife had gone too far!
‘So … what is my sickness?’ Mary asked quietly.
‘It is sorrow and trouble, my dear, just sorrow and trouble.’
Now Dr Butts came over and stood by the bed, looking down at her, his forehead furrowed. His eyes in their deep sockets were perhaps brown, she thought, like the fur trimming his black gown.
‘And how I am to be cured? I will never be well, never, while they go on persecuting me!’
Mary felt her voice begin to rise, almost to a shriek, and she began to clutch at the coverlet. She could feel distress and confusion returning. Nan’s sad face! Nan in pain! She had caused this herself, by her stubbornness.
‘I have ordered a cure,’ Dr Butts said, ‘and they have agreed. I have told them that they will lose your life, immediately, unless my advice is taken. And it has been. You are to be sent to live nearer to your mother, that you may feel the benefit of proximity to her. You are to be sent away from here.’
‘That woman will never allow me to go,’ sobbed Mary. She felt angry now, cheated, by his offer of something he had no real power to deliver.
‘Oh, she will, she will,’ said the doctor. ‘Neither the queen nor Master Cromwell want your death upon their souls at this point. And I have told Master Cromwell that he will have just that, unless he authorises you to move. You need different air, and a different life. You are to be moved just as soon as you are strong enough. Now, drink this.’
He was holding out a little glass goblet, containing something sweet and yellowish.
Mary propped herself on one elbow just long enough to swallow it down. She coughed a little.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Mary began to say, but then the medicine, whatever it was, seemed to be taking effect before she had even finished. She was being carried away again on a dark, slow-moving but powerful tide of sleep. Her brain, she thought, she must rest her brain. Or else she would go mad, and how could she serve her mother’s purpose then? She needed to rest, and get well, in order to leave Hatfield House. She wanted never to come back.
Her final thought, just as she began to slip away, was troubling. When I am ill, Mary thought, it worries them. When I approach too near to death, they grow concerned. I must remember this. This is useful.
And she remembered her mother’s last letter, containing the treasonable words that she was still and would always be queen, and that she looked forward to the time when she might become a martyr. There was something clean, and bold, and beautiful about it.
We cannot live in the way we want, her mother’s letter had said, but we can choose the time we die.
Chapter 23
November 1535, Hunsdon
They moved her back to Hunsdon. Hunsdon! It was hardly any distance away from Hatfield, although it was at least situated in the direction of the house in the marshy Fens where Mary’s mother was being held.
It was almost painful to be back at Hunsdon, for Mary had been there in happier times. She remembered her father striding into its Great Hall, having had a good day’s hunting. She remembered her mother watching him indulgently out of the corner of her eye, while pretending not to, and her father noticing it and teasing her.
Now, without the court to give it colour, the house looked dingy and down-at-heel. Lady Shelton, who had come with Mary, sighed when they walked into the chamber where Mary was to sleep. Mary knew why: it was such a contrast to the splendid colours and furnishings of Hatfield, all acquired new or else freshened up for her sister.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had to come with me,’ Mary said. ‘You’ll get less credit from the court for looking after me here than you did for running my sister’s household.’
Lady Shelton smiled. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Mary?’ she said.
Mary nodded.
‘I don’t want credit from the court,’ Lady Shelton said plainly. ‘Inside my mind, you’re both of you just … girls. You should be allowed to be girls. Nothing would make me happier than for you two sisters to be allowed to love each other and play together. Like my own children did, although they are all grown up now.’ Mary smiled sadly. She agreed. She didn’t hate her sister.
She remembered how this woman, so black and elegant and menacing in her gowns, had once been her gaoler. But Lady Shelton was now a friend, who ran risks and danger for Mary.
At least at Hunsdon Mary knew and remembered eve
ry nook and cranny and staircase, and here, at last, she was reunited with her own virginals. They were sadly out of tune, but she sat down at once to play. There were other things, too, left behind here, such as her books. She was delighted to see her possessions once again.
And at least she was no longer confronted with her sister’s status every single day, and the Act of Succession was not brought up every other moment.
Mary knew that Dr Butts had saved her life, because after the starvation, and the isolation, and the trickery, the mental anguish of knowing that her old governess had been tortured for her sake had pushed Mary very near to the brink.
She knew that Queen Anne would stop at very little in their quest to get her to submit, but she had valuable new knowledge. She and Master Cromwell did not want her dead. That would scupper their plans. Submission was their ultimate goal, not her demise.
In the new house, it quickly became clear that contact with the outside world would be easier, much easier. It was simply impossible to keep people out of the churchyard, for example, which came right up to the windows of the house.
The very first night that Mary was to sleep at Hunsdon, back in her old room, she heard a late, low whistling from beneath her window. In no time at all Lady Shelton was at the window, speaking to someone. And soon the door was opening, and a man swathed in black was coming in. Sir Nicholas! Nicholas Carew! Mary’s heart beat hard to see him.
‘Princess,’ he said, falling into a bow at her feet. Mary looked at Lady Shelton to see if she would be angry at the use of her old title, but she was looking intently out of the window. All Mary could see was her ramrod-straight spine.
‘I see and hear nothing!’ Lady Shelton called. ‘I’m just watching to see if anyone comes.’
Mary smiled and shrugged at Sir Nicholas, reaching out a hand to help him up. I was wrong about Lady Shelton, she thought. There was no need to hate her.
Mary almost laughed to see Sir Nicholas staggering to his feet. She guessed he had been on a long ride.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have come from the marshes. And yes, I have a letter from your mother. Read it now, or later?’
‘Later,’ said Mary. ‘Tell me, tell me at once, how is she?’ Mary was eager to get information from an eyewitness.
‘She’s grown very pale, and thin,’ he admitted. ‘But there is, oh! Such fire in her eyes. All the time. It’s not very … nice at Kimbolton,’ he admitted, as if unwilling to share many details. ‘It’s a dirty old place, and very cold. But it’s as if she’s determined to keep alive. To spite the Lady Anne Boleyn. I cannot bring myself to call her queen. Begging your pardon, madam,’ he quickly added, with a shallow bow towards Lady Shelton.
Both he and Mary paused, and stood silent for a second, as if to allow Lady Shelton to defend her niece if she felt that she must.
Mary noticed a deep swallow passing down Lady Shelton’s throat, but she said nothing.
‘To spite the lady, then,’ Sir Nicholas continued, more firmly, ‘your mother is determined to stay alive. And she’s determined to see you restored to your full honours, Mary, as a princess and as England’s next queen. That, and the restoration of the Old Religion, is all she cares about.’
Mary knew it. All the strain she had been through, and all the terrors, were worth it to hear this approbation from her mother. Mary discovered that tears were slipping silently down her cheeks. She gulped loudly and wiped them away. Strangely, she did not care what Sir Nicholas might think. She trusted him.
‘Enjoy your letter,’ he said. ‘I think you might find quite a lot in there about God. She talks of our Lord very frequently too.’
‘And have you … instructions for me?’ Mary asked. ‘About what I’m to do, I mean? Obviously, I’m to stand firm and refuse to sign away my succession. But has she got any more particular instructions for me? My life is slipping away here,’ she admitted. ‘The days are just passing, and I see no one, and I’m … well, I’m just wasting time. I want to help, to do something.’
He grew grave, and drew nearer to her so that he could speak more softly. The night suddenly seemed very still and dark, and Mary wished for something, even the blowing of the wind, to make their voices seem less loud. Surely Master Cromwell had other spies about the house, even if Lady Shelton had turned.
Sir Nicholas tugged about inside the top of his boot and drew out another square of folded paper.
‘You see this?’ He showed her. ‘No, don’t touch!’ Inside the paper was a pale powder. ‘That’s henbane. It will make you sleep.’
Mary looked at him, her eyes big and wide. ‘But I don’t need help to sleep,’ she said. ‘Since I was ill, I’ve scarcely been able to stay awake. I do little else,’ she admitted.
‘Not for you,’ he said. ‘For your ladies. Your mother wants you to escape from here, from Hunsdon, and to travel to the coast, where a ship is waiting to take you to the Empire. You know, to your cousin Charles. The EMPEROUR.’
Mary gasped. The emperor! The man to whom she had once been promised to in marriage. Of course, in his Catholic country she would be safe. There she need not fear her father. There she could worship in the Old Religion. But to flee away from England, her own country … and her own mother?
‘The queen,’ he said, and Mary knew he meant Catherine, ‘wants you to go. She wants you in safe hands. And then the emperor can invade England with an army, and drive out the evil usurping so-called “Queen” Anne.’
An invading army! Mary remembered how she had once used to laugh – even in this very room, long ago – at her mother’s passion for armies and soldiers and fighting. Mary had thought that England would always be peaceful, as her father said it always would be. Her mother’s fears had seemed outlandish and ridiculous.
But now, Sir Nicholas, with intense seriousness, was talking about Mary invading England with the help of a foreign power. It was treason.
The word had always sent a shiver down Mary’s spine.
He saw her looking grave. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a big step. But what else, Princess Mary? You cannot give in to them. And you cannot die a martyr, much as … dare I say it, much as your mother might hope to do so herself.’
Mary frowned. She hated to admit that her mother might not live to a ripe age; become an old lady. But she had for some time suspected that her mother wished to die as a martyr. That, surely, was her plan. At the right moment, when she was ready, Catherine would give her life to make her point.
Inside Mary, a little voice wailed. All I wanted was a mother and a father and a brother and a sister to love me, it said. Is that too much to ask?
She bowed her head. It was only Sir Nicholas’s matter-of-fact voice that brought her back to herself.
‘Now, here are the arrangements.’ He coughed. ‘Lady Shelton, if you please, will you join us? You are to act quickly, before the household settles into a routine here at Hunsdon,’ he explained. ‘Tomorrow night, if Lady Shelton agrees, she and your other ladies will drink henbane with their wine. All of it. It won’t hurt them,’ he added quickly, seeing Mary’s grimace, ‘just cause them to sleep very deeply. Like you did at Hatfield, do you remember?’
Mary turned her head. Something … something was nagging at her mind.
‘Yes, at Hatfield,’ he said. ‘Do you remember how you slept?’
Oh, what a sleep it had been – deep, dreamless, for many, many days. He could see that of course she remembered. He held her eye, and nodded.
‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘it was our friend Dr Butts who helped you to sleep then, with henbane, just like this. He drugged you, to make you look near death, so that they would change the regime and move you away from Hatfield, where you were totally inaccessible, to a house like this, where we can meet and talk. It was all part of the plan.’
‘But Dr Butts wasn’t even in the house when I fell ill!’ Mary was astonished and dismayed. ‘He came later!’ Did she know nothing about what was really going on? Was all the world deceiving her? Usin
g her as a pawn in their games?
‘Oh, yes, he was in the house,’ Sir Nicholas continued. ‘He was already at Hatfield visiting the … your sister, Elizabeth. That’s why he was on hand with his drugs and his medicine chest. But the henbane, which he administered, made you look near death, and there were many witnesses to that in the household. Everyone could see how sick you were.’
‘But Dr Butts is my father’s doctor!’ Mary exclaimed, looking from Sir Nicholas to Lady Shelton. She was looking fixedly down at the floor. Oh! So Lady Shelton had been in the know too.
‘Your mother, the queen,’ Sir Nicholas said, ‘has many friends. Even in your father’s household. There are many, many people in this country who still love her – many more than who love the so-called Queen Anne. People who want to help your mother, and so they want to help you. That’s why you must carry out this plan – all these people are depending on you.’
‘All right,’ said Mary. She thought it over.
‘I will see my cousin the emperor again at last,’ she added. ‘I think that last time I was only five years old.’
***
It was agreed. The very next night. The worst moment for Mary was actually leaving her room, with Lady Shelton and the other gentlewomen snoring gently, in various awkward poses, upon their chairs and benches by the fire. One of the ladies had even slipped to the floor, and lay curled up like a cat on the hearthrug. The women had all drunk the henbane with pleasure. They wanted Mary to escape, but didn’t want to be blamed for letting her go.
They had been so happy to swallow the drugged drink that it had almost been like a party, with laughing and hiccuping as it began to take hold. It had been so nearly like fun that Mary felt that she hadn’t done anything really bad. In fact, she’d done nothing she couldn’t imagine justifying to God, if she had to, as she stood before the gates of Heaven.
But for a princess of England to go running at night into the care of a foreign power? This was bad. This was treason.
But it was also inevitable, if it were her mother’s wish.