The sad years dragged on. Finally, one beautiful spring day in April, 1509, Katharine looked up from turning a hem on the last gown that could in any wise be salvaged to see Henry, seventeen now and a man, striding towards her down the long walk into the garden at Greenwich where she sat sewing in the sun.
And then the halcyon days came…wonderful, golden days. She was loved; she was cherished; she was cosseted. Henry was rich and spent lavishly on his queen. Clothes, jewels, banquets, entertainments, in an endless stream of joyful days. It was too good to be true…
She had believed the curse visited upon her by Edward Plantagenet’s execution had been lifted, redeemed by her actions and her kindness towards Lady Margaret and her children. But it was not to be. After one year of complete bliss, her first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. The following year her son had not lived for two months before his tiny coffin was lowered into its grave. More pregnancies and more dead children until finally, Mary; but she was a girl and a disappointment to all but herself. After that, another dead daughter, and then, nothing. For ten more years she hoped and prayed, fasted, went on pilgrimages. But all to no avail. And then even hope had to die when she was no longer capable of bearing any child.
Henry had coveted his brother’s wife, Henry had strayed on several occasions; Henry had sinned, there was no doubt of it. But in her heart Katharine believed that the fault lay not in Leviticus, but in herself. She knew she was virgin when she married Henry, and he knew it, too. The fault had lain with her all along. Her marriages were cursed, her children born dead or dying, because the sin of Edward Plantagenet’s execution had been laid at her feet. The bible said so; the child will suffer for the sins of the father. Her father had demanded the Plantagenet’s death, and she, who was without sin in the matter, had been made to suffer for it.
She loved Mary and did not understand why Henry would not accept her as their heir. After all, Mary’s grandmother was recognized as one of the greatest queens ever to wear a crown. She had won the title Most Catholic King from the pope for driving the Moors from Spain. Katharine herself was modest and devout. Why could not Mary reign after her father?
But no…there must be a son, and to get a son, Henry must break her heart, and Mary’s, and murder his friends and even the anointed of God in order to get one. The English people loved her and hated Anne Boleyn for displacing her in the king’s affections. They hated Anne for causing Henry to break from the pope and the Catholic Church. But in her heart, Katharine knew the truth. If it had not been Anne Boleyn, it would have been someone else. She had brought this curse with her from Spain. She had thought only herself tainted by it; now she knew that, through her, all of England was to be lost to God.
She had done what she could. She had refused to allow civil war to be instigated on her behalf. Surely that was something to her credit? But on balance, she had once asked Pope Paul III to excommunicate Henry and place England under an interdict, believing that this would bring him to his senses at last. But her nephew Charles, the Holy Roman Emperor and Joanna’s son and heir, had intervened and intercepted her plea. In the end she finally understood that he had no intention of helping her or supporting her claims. Not because he did not love her, but because he was a king and emperor before he was a loving nephew, and did what he believed was right for all concerned. He would not put himself in a position where he had to fight for his aunt, whether the request came directly from her or not. He thought she did not know that he had turned her messenger to the pope away at Rome, but she knew.
So this was to be the end. She could hear a commotion outside her door; Maria de Salinas, Countess of Willoughby, never arrived without a fanfare. The door opened and the scent of lemons announced Maria’s presence; verbena was her favorite scent.
“Your Grace,” said Maria. “I am here.”
“And I thank God for it,” whispered Katharine. She needed Maria’s strength now. She must write her last will and a last letter to Henry. He would probably never read it, but she must write it anyway, if not for her own peace of mind, then for Mary’s sake. She must make one last plea for Henry to take care of their child.
The hours dragged on; the dawn came, she took the sacrament. The sun climbed in the sky, and then started its descent, and still she lived. Why? Why hold on? It was time to go.
“Maria.”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Maria’s worried eyes searched her own.
“Maria, the priest, I think…”
More time passed; there was another commotion as the priest was fetched. But suddenly she could hear no more, see no more, feel no more of that cold, bleak room. Now the sun was shining brightly on the water; a sea gull keened its lonely cry; the cool mist that she had always loved arose in wispy curls from the surface of the moat, and she was gone.
Chapter 6
“…Your Serenity would have experienced greater satisfaction had it been a boy.”
– Guistinian, Venetian ambassador to the English court
Palace of Hatfield, January 1536
The young maidservant arrived breathless from running and stood wringing her hands at the door of Lady Shelton’s sitting room, waiting to be addressed. Lady Shelton enjoyed discomfiting the servants, so she let the girl stew for a few moments. She drew several deliberate stitches through the tapestry on which she was sewing, and then stopped to consider; the pink or the blue for the flowers? Finally she turned and said, “Well, girl, what is it?”
The girl bobbed a curtsey and said, “By your leave, my lady, the Marchioness of Dorset has just arrived.”
Lady Shelton stood up so abruptly that her chair overturned, and the girl went running to right it. “Why didn’t you say so, you stupid girl?” and with that she left the bewildered young woman puzzling as to what her error had been.
The Marchioness of Dorset was the king’s niece and cousin to both her charges. It was essential to make a good impression. The Marchioness had probably come to pay her respects to the Princess Elizabeth. She must not be kept waiting. Oh, if only the girl had announced her intention of visiting Hatfield!
Lady Anne arrived at the Great Hall to find the serving women preparing for the evening meal. “Where is the Marchioness?” she demanded.
The servants froze; it was best not to call attention to oneself in Lady Shelton’s presence. Hands froze in the process of laying plate, lighting candles, placing trenchers. The eldest of the serving wenches, remembering her place, bobbed a curtsey. “Gone to the Lady Mary’s chamber, My Lady.”
“Gone to…?” Christ on the cross, were they all daft? No one was allowed to visit the Lady Mary without her express knowledge and permission. Lady Shelton’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I shall deal with you lot later,” she hissed. There being no one to see her once she was back in the passageway, she lifted her skirts and ran. As she sped along the gloomy corridor, the cresset lights passed her by like fireballs.
Reaching Mary’s chamber, she threw open the door. There she was met by a pair of hostile gray eyes. She could hear Mary sobbing softly, but could not see her.
Lady Shelton made a slight curtsey. “Your Grace,” she said “If only I had known of your coming…the Lady Mary is not allowed visitors.”
Lady Frances Grey eyed Lady Anne slowly, up and down, and then met her eyes, with a stony look that conveyed that she was decidedly displeased with what she saw. “I come from the king,” she replied icily. “You have my leave to withdraw.”
Lady Shelton curtseyed again, much deeper this time, and backed away. Frances Grey, née Brandon, Marchioness of Dorset, closed the door behind her and went back to sit on the small, hard stool that was the only place to sit in Mary’s bleak chamber besides the bed.
She placed a comforting hand on Mary’s arm, patted it, and then sat back, both hands on her knees. “God’s teeth, Mary, is this the best they can do for you here?”
Mary’s nose was running, and her handkerchief was sodden with tears. She impatiently tossed it aside and ran her hand, fr
om finger to wrist, under her nose in a most inelegant gesture. Frances pulled her own linen square out of her sleeve and silently handed it to Mary. “They have n-no w-wish to do b-better for me,” Mary replied, hiccoughing. “They s-say that all this,” she waved her hand at the austere little room, “is in the name of the k-king, and b-by his order.”
Frances glowered. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that. Mary,” she said, “I am to be chief mourner at the queen’s funeral. I expressly asked His Grace. With you inured here, I am the person best placed to do so.”
At this reminder, Mary eyes filled with fresh tears. The news of her mother’s death had been broken to her the day before, and none too gently, by Lady Shelton. She had been roughly informed that she was not to be allowed to attend the funeral. “Oh, Frances, dearest cousin, thank you. Oh, I shall miss her so much! To be denied her company all this time…you see,” she sobbed, “w-we always thought, we always believed, that he would relent and allow us to be together in our exile, but he never did. And now she is gone, and I shall never see her again in this life. I cannot bear the pain, Frances.” She covered her face with her hands.
Frances decided that she would share no more ill news with Mary at the moment. She suspected that when Mary thought of her mother’s funeral, she pictured a grand ceremony at Westminster Abbey, fit for the queen that Katharine had been. But King Henry had decreed that it was not to be. Katharine would be buried only with the pomp due to a Dowager Princess of Wales, and she would be interred at Peterborough Cathedral, well away from the London crowds who might riot at the austere obsequies of the neglected and ill-done-by queen whom the people had so loved. Best to leave all that for the moment, thought Frances.
“I shall miss her, too,” sighed Frances. “She was ever kind to me, and comforted me marvelous much when my mother died.”
Mary thought often of her aunt, whose namesake she was; Mary Tudor, sister of the king, erstwhile Queen of France, and Frances’s mother. “I have missed Aunt Mary for many a long day these two and a half years,” said Mary. “She was a great comfort to me always. Sometimes I think she was the only person who truly understood the king. Frances, why does he treat me so? Why did he not come to me himself with this sad news, so we could mingle our tears? Why does he hate me?”
Frances recalled the day after the court had received the news of Katharine’s death. The king had dressed in yellow and placed a white feather in his cap; he had jousted as he had in his youth, breaking at least a dozen lances, and later had hosted a merry banquet followed by dancing. He had toasted all and sundry, saying that now England need no longer fear war with the Holy Roman Empire. It was best to leave Mary in ignorance of these things. If she did hear of them, it would not be from her. Frances sighed. “He does not hate you, Mary.” Frances stood up from the stool, arched her back, and then sat on the bed beside her cousin, putting her arms around her, and pulling Mary’s head to rest on her shoulder.
Mary thought she had noticed something when Frances stood up, but from her vantage point on Frances’ shoulder, the little bulge was unmistakable. She sat up, smiling, wiping away her tears. “Frances,” she exclaimed, “you are with child?”
Frances smiled back. “I am that,” she replied.
Mary, momentarily forgetting her sorrow, turned and hugged Frances. “What joy! Has the child quickened?”
“Only just,” replied Frances. “Only just. I have been so sick…I am hoping this quickening will be an end to my suffering. Until…” She had lost her first child, stillborn after a painful labor. She shuddered. It was the lot of women, and must be borne with fortitude.
Mary, in her secret heart, was envious; if only she were married and looking forward to a child of her own! But it was never, never to be, she was quite certain of that. Her father would never consent to her marriage with a Catholic, and she would not marry anyone who was not. “He hates me,” she said again, apropos of nothing.
Suddenly Frances turned and faced Mary, gripping both her shoulders. She peered intently into Mary’s eyes and said, “Listen to me. The Boleyn star is falling fast from the filament. Change is in the air.”
Mary looked bewildered. “But I understood Madame Pembroke to be with child?”
Frances snorted inelegantly. “A girl, a stillbirth, and a miscarriage! Not an impressive performance, methinks. And neither thinks my uncle, the king. Mark my words,” said Frances. “Her days as queen are numbered.”
Mary shook her head. “But if she should deliver a son…”
Frances looked at Mary. “She is doomed, I say. Do you not want to believe it?”
“Not if it isn’t true.”
“That is your mother speaking, and a laudable attitude.” Frances nibbled a cuticle. “You are right, of course. But we shall see, shan’t we?”
Mary sighed. “Yes, we shall. Until then, I am as you see here.” Mary shrugged and looked around her at the bleak cupboard that it pleased Lady Shelton to call a chamber fit for a king’s daughter, legitimate or not.
“I am certain His Grace is ill-informed as to matters here,” said Frances. ‘This is Anne’s doing, you may count on it. What can you expect when you are kept by Thomas Boleyn’s own sisters? I intend to ensure that Uncle is enlightened. I feel sure that he does not intend for you to be treated in this manner, no matter how you have vexed him.”
“I should be forever in your debt, Frances, if you could effect even the slightest improvement in my conditions here,” said Mary. “This has been galling beyond belief. I have tried to bear up, but…” The tears welled up in her eyes once more.
Frances took the linen square from Mary’s hand and dried the girl’s tears herself. “Now don’t you fret. I will have things in hand here before the week is out. You may depend upon it. Now,” she said, settling back against the wall and propping her feet on the stool. Unconsciously, she placed her hands around the little bulge that, God grant, was to be the next Marquis of Dorset. She knew a fleeting thought of her stillborn son, but she quickly banished his little ghost. Brooding on one’s misfortunes did no good. “Let us have a good gossip. That always raises my spirits, does it not yours?” she asked with a wicked smile. Anything, thought Frances, to distract her unfortunate cousin’s thoughts from the crushing sorrow of her mother’s death and her other troubles.
“I fear me that I have none,” Mary shrugged. “I am allowed no letters, nor may I send any. I hear nothing of the court and know only that which it pleases Lady Shelton to tell me. And only that which is hurtful, of that you may be sure.”
“Ah,” said Frances. “Well, some of the latest tittle-tattle is common knowledge, but some is secret.”
Mary smiled. “Cousin, you look like the cat that has gotten into the cream. What secret?”
Frances smirked smugly. “Our cousin Margaret is in love.” Lady Margaret Douglas was the daughter of their Aunt Margaret, Dowager Queen of Scotland. She lived at court, and was a great favorite of the king.
“With whom?” enquired Mary.
“None other,” replied Frances, “than Thomas Howard.”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “Thomas Howard? Is that wise? If Anne is out of favor…”
Frances guffawed. “Wise? The silly cow! Have I not always said that Margaret has not the sense God gave a rabbit? Let us hope she has not the morals of the same animal! They are secretly engaged.”
“Jesu,” said Mary. “I suppose she takes after her mother, our aunt. This is playing with fire, and no mistake.”
“It seems that we are doomed to be inextricably linked with that family,” said Frances. “Fitzroy is back at court.” Mary’s illegitimate half-brother was married to Mary Howard, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. “There is a rumour.”
Mary sniffed. “When is there not?”
“The marriage is still not consummated.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because,” said Frances with arched brows, “Uncle would have us believe that his brother, Arthur, died from, shall we say, his
over exertions with his bride, and has forbidden it.”
Mary sat straight up and expostulated, “That is untrue! All know that my mother’s marriage with Arthur was never consummated!”
“The king would have us believe otherwise,” shrugged Frances. “And this notwithstanding the fact that Fitzroy has been a right hellion in France, roistering with the dauphin and his minions during his time at the French court. King François had to intervene when it became known that the gang of youths had ravaged many a humble maid as they pursued their nightly sport. But all that is by the way. I know the real reason.”
Mary settled back down onto the cot beside Frances. “Another secret?” she asked.
“Not so secret as some would like,” replied Frances. “God’s teeth, but it is cold in here! Cannot they even vouchsafe to provide you with a brazier, if not a chamber with a hearth?” Frances pulled her fur-lined cloak up about her, and spread it over Mary as well. “Duchess Elizabeth protested loudly against the match and continues to do so. It was an affront to her sensibilities to have to marry her precious daughter to a bastard, albeit a king’s bastard.”
Mary smirked. “And just which sensibilities were those?”
“Well you might ask,” said Frances. “The lady’s Catholic sensibilities were sore affronted, while the earl of Surrey objected strongly on the grounds that Richmond’s pedigree lacks a bit on the distaff side.”
“Indeed,” said Mary stiffly. King’s bastard and Duke of Richmond and Somerset her half-brother might be, but there was no way around the taint of being the son of a mere knight’s daughter, and a not very remarkable knight at that.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 17