by Lucy Worsley
One day Sir Nicholas’s creased face appeared around the corner of the door of the chamber where Mary lodged. She smiled to see him. He was among the few people with whom she could speak of her mother.
Mary nodded at her ladies, who took the hint, rose, bowed, and left.
He came forward, crinkling his eyes in his friendly way. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said quietly, sweeping a bow before taking her hand. Mary felt warm inside at the words.
She invited him to sit with her, and tell her the news.
‘It’s a little sensitive,’ he admitted, ‘but it is … um, known at court that you and the queen are not the best of friends.’
Mary almost spluttered with rage. ‘Friends!’ she scoffed. ‘She is not my friend, whatever Master Cromwell and my father might think. She is nothing to me. She has taken my mother’s place.’
Sir Nicholas bowed his head.
‘Of course, she shouldn’t be sitting on the queen’s throne,’ he admitted.
‘Yes,’ said Mary stoutly, ‘nor living in the queen’s chambers, nor visiting my father in his when I want to visit him myself, or just … being around.’
He paused awhile, as if to allow her feelings to disperse.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘But?’
Mary had a feeling that something else was coming.
‘But,’ he said, ‘I think you may misjudge her.’
‘How?’ cried Mary. ‘There’s nothing to her! She’s just a good little girl!’
Possibly against his wishes, half a smile slid over Sir Nicholas’s face.
‘It’s certainly true that she is … remarkably docile in character,’ he said. ‘I believe that your father, the king, finds it restful after the drama he has had, in recent years, in his private life.’
Mary nodded. With some reluctance, she conceded that her mother’s behaviour, even her own behaviour, had been quite the opposite of restful.
‘You should know, Princess Mary,’ he went on, reaching forward and even patting her hand, ‘that there is more to Queen Jane than meets the eye. She is one of us.’
Mary stared at him. She knew what he meant, but she could not have been more astonished. Surely Jane, the queen, followed her father’s official new religion, which was now the religion of the country?
‘Yes,’ he said, chuckling at her surprise. ‘It’s surprising, isn’t it? But you should know that Jane is not cut in the shape of that wicked lady. She is peace-loving, which means that she follows the old ways and worships the old God. She supports the monks and the nuns whose homes your father destroyed. You have much in common.’
Mary felt a tiny bit ashamed. Had she been too busy hating the idea of a stepmother to see who her stepmother really was?
‘But what does my father think?’
Sir Nicholas coughed.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said delicately, ‘that your father even knows.’
Mary’s jaw dropped open. Her father! How little he seemed to know about anything!
Her mother’s words suddenly came to mind, almost ringing in her ears.
‘Soft, soft as the curds of cheese,’ she’d said. ‘Ready to do whatever his boon companions demand.’
Could Jane really be keeping a secret from him? After all, he’d only been married to her for a couple of months. Mary’s father could not possibly know Jane that well. Mary’s father was … well, it was possible to deceive him. Mary admitted that. But to deceive the king was to play with flame. For the first time, it dawned on her that maybe it was difficult to be a new wife, and a new queen.
Sir Nicholas rose.
‘I would just ask you,’ he said, ‘on behalf of all the followers of the Old Religion, on behalf of all of the friends of the former Queen Catherine, to keep the queen’s secret. It could … hurt her, if it came out.’
Mary nodded, speechless. Yes, if her father knew, it could hurt Jane indeed. And when her father was angry, she knew how far he could go.
Chapter 28
Autumn 1536, Westminster
After that, Mary looked at Jane with new eyes. It was a relief, actually, to have someone else to think about other than her father and herself. Mary wondered what Jane was really feeling. She wasn’t quite sure if Jane was her rival for the position of first lady of the court, or potentially her ally.
They moved to Westminster after the news of rebellious uprisings in the North of England. If there was trouble in the land, Greenwich was too far out of town to be safe. The riots and mutinies had been in support of the nuns and the monks, whose houses were being destroyed by the king’s reforms. My mother would have been pleased, Mary thought. She hated the thought of those good old women being forced out of their homes.
There was scarcely any chance to find out the answers to Mary’s questions about Jane, though, and her possible support of the Old Religion, because they were never alone. Always Jane’s ladies were present, or the whole court was observing them, or else Mary’s father was there, acting as if everything were exactly as he wanted it. The time Mary most often found herself near to Jane was when they were seated at the table with the king, being closely observed as always by a great mass of servants and courtiers as they ate their dinner.
One day in the autumn, they were all three at the long table before the roaring fire. As usual, there were ranks of men lined up to each side of the room, with bowls and jugs and napkins, a silent audience watching the meal. They watch us, Mary thought, like I might watch songbirds in a cage. The consciousness of it made her sit up a little straighter.
She was feeling uneasy, for there were new rumours abroad of rebellion in the north, more men taking up arms against her father and Master Cromwell’s programme of closing the monasteries. But she was also hungry, and wished the servants would hurry up as they reverently placed each dish upon the table.
‘Plovers,’ intoned one of the gentlemen servitors. ‘Rabbit pie. Venison patties. Orange wine. Dried figs.’
Mary’s stomach was beginning to rumble.
‘And what have you been doing today, Mary?’
She realised, while she had been staring at the food, that her father had for once asked her a direct question. So often he treated her as just part of the furniture. Mary started, trying to think of a suitable answer. There were too many people to hear, too many ears, to answer spontaneously.
But Jane spoke up.
‘My stepdaughter,’ she said pleasantly, ‘has been practising the lute. She has taken up a new instrument, did you know, Your Majesty? Not content with the virginals alone, she’s adding to her repertoire.’
It was completely true. Mary had been practising with her new lute, recently acquired. It seemed now that she could ask for anything she wanted, and that it would be sent up to her at once. When the lute had arrived so quickly, Mary had half wished that she could order up a friend, or a sister, in exactly the same way.
But she didn’t quite understand how her stepmother could have got to know this. Perhaps Jane had sent a servant to ask, which would have been a courteous gesture. Mary bowed her head and tried to accept the compliment with grace.
‘You must play for me one day, Mary,’ her father said. ‘I haven’t played my own lute for a long time.’ He wasn’t really interested, she could tell, but he’d been mollified. Her lapse of attention had been overlooked. He was beaming at Jane, pleased with his wife. Jane, in turn, was smiling down at her plate, showing her dimples.
Mary thought that Jane was not truly pretty, because of her rather prominent white forehead. But when she looked happy, smiling shyly like she was at this moment, she had a peaceful face. Jane was restful for the eyes.
Mary began to feel that the atmosphere at the table was unusually warm. Very often her father was distracted at dinner, carrying on conversations about government or military matters with his gentlemen, sometimes shouting his questions to them across the room. Mary’s ears lapped up any political discussion – it was interesting, but it left her and Jan
e little chance to speak up for themselves.
Of course they did not speak when the gentlemen were talking. Mary wondered if she might ever have her father’s full attention. She had even started to worry that one day he would announce, just like that, that he had chosen a husband for her.
But today he seemed to be in a good mood.
‘Father,’ Mary said, taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘People around the court are talking of events in the north. They’re saying that rebels have been fighting against our men, and causing trouble.’
‘That’s right, Mary,’ her father said, peeling his eyes away from Jane at last. ‘But there’s no need to be frightened. Not here in the town. I have plenty of fine soldiers to protect you ladies.’
‘I know, Father,’ Mary said. ‘I’m not worried about that. But what are they rebelling for? Why are they unhappy?’
She had a good idea what their cause was, but she wanted to hear what he’d say. Her mother, Mary remembered, would often control a conversation without seeming to do so.
Mary’s father clicked his fingers to be served some rabbit pie. He did not answer until his plate was filled, and he was eating.
‘They are rebels, Mary,’ he finally said, between mouthfuls. ‘It doesn’t matter what they are fighting for. The fact is that they are fighting. Disputing my authority. And yours, too, if it comes to that. As you are my daughter.’
Gallantly, he raised his glass to her, and took a long sup of wine.
Mary bobbed her head in return, to thank him for the compliment. But she couldn’t go back to eating her food. She felt that he hadn’t really answered the question at all.
To her surprise, Jane was leaning forward, even laying a hand upon her father’s arm.
‘Sire,’ she was saying, low and urgent. ‘They are men of principle. They fight for what they believe in. They value the monasteries, you know, and the work they do. Their hospitals, gifts to paupers and so forth. The rebels are men of God.’
Mary noticed her father freeze. His spoon hovered in mid-air. His knife fell from his other hand with a small clatter. He was utterly stiff and tense.
The silent servants, as one, seemed to give a collective cringe.
As the silence extended, Jane’s hand shrank back from his arm, back into her lap. She seemed to collapse in upon herself.
‘Jane,’ he said at last, coldly. ‘Do not concern yourself in matters that are none of your business. Politics do not concern women.’
‘I only …’
Mary was amazed that Jane had the courage to go on speaking. Mary’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes scanned quickly from one to the other. Surely they would not argue, not in public like this?
The king laid his finger to his lips.
‘Peace, Jane,’ he said, with steely menace. ‘Remember what happened to my last wife.’
Mary saw Jane’s face freeze, as if she’d become a model made of wax. She saw that Jane was trying but failing to prevent her fingers from shaking as she picked up her knife, to pretend to go on eating. Mary likewise could not face another mouthful of food. She did her best to push her gravy around her plate as if she were mopping it all up.
They sat in a silence broken only by her father’s noisy chewing.
When Mary dared to steal a glance at Jane, she saw that her cheek was glinting wet, as if a tear had silently slipped down the side of her nose.
At the end of the meal, Mary’s father rose.
‘Ladies,’ he said shortly, before turning and marching out. Mary, as usual, put down her napkin and rose to follow in his wake. As she passed the queen’s chair, though, she put out her hand, as quick as a flash, and lightly placed it for a second upon Jane’s shoulder.
So what Sir Nicholas had said was true. Jane did follow the Old Religion too.
Chapter 29
December 1536, Fleet Street
To Mary’s surprise, she’d gained someone with whom to share the ordeal of being … if not a princess, then at least one of the first ladies at court. Very often now, she went along to the queen’s bedchamber so that they could get ready together.
But they hardly shared secrets, because for every minute they were still accompanied by Jane’s numerous ladies. Jane didn’t seem to have the confidence – the confidence which Mary’s mother had possessed in abundance – to send them away.
In general, Mary found her curious stepmother to be almost dismayingly eager to please. Mary could not understand quite how Jane got through court life with her nervous, anxious manner, worried all the time about what people would think of her. But Mary could see that her father liked the fuss that she made of him.
When they were all three together, he made a great play of it, claiming that they were a family, and classing them together as his girls.
This made Mary slightly want to roll her eyes. If she were queen like Jane, she wouldn’t want to be called a girl. But Jane just simpered, and lapped it up.
He thinks she’s perfect, Mary said to herself. And my father likes the idea of me, too, more than the reality. He likes telling people that I’m his daughter, and don’t I look like him, and how clever I am. But he never really asks me any questions. That was how her father preferred it, Mary realised sadly. She wondered when, if ever, he would take her seriously.
Then it was winter, nearly Christmas, and they were to ride in a splendid procession from Westminster through the city of London back towards Greenwich, the palace where they would stay for the twelve days of the festival.
Mary understood that her mother’s friends, like Sir Nicholas, were very glad that she was to take part in the procession. The ride through the city with Queen Jane would be a sign of her return to … something like her former status.
Jane and Mary dressed in furs and velvet for the chilly ride, and then found themselves in the palanquin together, being lifted to a swaying shoulder level. Mary noticed the queen gulping, and holding on tight.
‘It’s all right,’ Mary said. ‘They’re hardly going to drop the queen of England on the ground, are they? They’ll do everything in their power to keep us up!’
‘That’s not what worries me,’ her stepmother admitted. ‘Sometimes I worry so much about doing the wrong thing that part of my mind almost forces me to do it anyway, just to spite myself.’
Mary laughed. Although the queen was supposed to be older and more powerful than herself, she sometimes felt that she had the advantage over Jane. After all, Mary had arrived at court long before Jane. After all, Mary had been born here.
The high, swaying palanquin excited Mary as much as it dismayed Jane. There was so much to be seen from up here, as they looked high over the heads of their bearers. Once the procession had started to move out of the palace courtyard, and to travel down the street, Mary noticed something unusual. The crowds lining the roadway were roaring now with excitement to see the two royal ladies. And on this occasion, she suddenly realised, the ladies-in-waiting were all travelling in a wagon, which had fallen a little distance behind.
For once, Mary noticed, they could talk without being overheard.
‘We are in our own little world!’ Mary observed. ‘Like a ship at sea.’ She’d never been on a ship, but she imagined it was thrilling, like this, to be carried upon the waves. She was looking away from Jane, to smile to the crowd, and occasionally to wave. Jane was doing the same on the other side, but she could hear Mary perfectly well.
‘Yes,’ Jane replied, but taking Mary more seriously than she had intended. ‘We are often in a little world of our own at court,’ she continued. Mary could tell from her voice that Jane, too, had spotted the rare opportunity they had to speak privately. ‘You know, Mary,’ she continued, ‘I fear that the news of what’s happening in the world is kept from us.’
Mary whipped her head round to give Jane a glance. The serene curve of her cheek looked just as usual, but in her words Mary detected something amiss. Smile and wave, smile and wave, Mary thought.
Across the river,
the sun was shining brightly and winter-low. Jane now raised a hand to shield her eyes, and turned her head as if to avoid the rays. She was looking straight at Mary.
Suddenly she was speaking very fast and very low.
‘While there is nobody to overhear us, Mary,’ she said, ‘I need to tell you that there is serious news from the north. My family have let me know … discreetly. The rising in the north, in Lincoln and other places, is worse than you think. In fact, there is bad news which closely concerns you. You remember Sir John Hussey?’
Mary felt a pang of regret for her forgetfulness of him.
‘Oh!’ she said, matching Jane’s mutter, although her feeling was painfully sharp. ‘It has been too long since I have seen him. And his wife, Nan, who was once my closest servant. She has … I’m afraid she has suffered in my service.’
There was a pause. Jane turned back briefly to the riverbank crowds, making great arcing waves with her arm to acknowledge their ragged cheers and cap-waving.
Mary noticed that their bearers were now moving away from the river. Great mansions and palaces were standing between the water and their road. They were getting into the City of London. There was an arch in golden tracery erected over the way, with a red and white rose in each of its spandrels. It had been knocked up overnight by carpenters, obviously, but was no less impressive and beautiful for that.
The two of them fixed smiles on their faces and craned their heads upwards. Jane clasped her hands together. ‘Beautiful!’ she called. The nearest members of the crowd broke into spontaneous applause.
Mary feasted her eyes on the ingenious construction for as long as she could, but then they were off again, lurching forward with a bump. ‘There must be many more of these to see along the way,’ she said, ‘or else they would have let us spend more time, perhaps get down to thank the builders.’
But Jane was again turning towards her, and Mary saw that her pale blue eyes were elsewhere, thinking about something far removed from Christmas decorations.