She heard the same animal groan that she had seemed to hear from a distance the day she ripped the locket from Jane’s pale, white neck, the mournful sound coming, surely, from some other entity. But, no…it was coming from her. She had thrown the covers back. Her bed, her gown, her hands, all covered in blood.
“Margaret! Margaret!” she screamed. “Margaret!”
Her married ladies generally did not attend her in the evening; the maids of honor had that duty. The door to her chamber opened and her niece, Katherine, came in hastily, while still trying to shield the flickering flame of the candle she carried.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, but the Lady Margaret is not here. Shall I fetch her?” The girl approached the enormous bed and held the candle up so she could see inside the curtains. Seeing the blood, she cried, “Your Grace, Your Grace, what is it? What shall I do?”
Anne, wild-eyed and terror-stricken, opened her mouth but no sound would come out.
“Dr. Butts!” the girl cried. “I will go for him myself and send a page for Lady Lee. Here,” she said, rapidly shedding her own outer garment. “Wrap yourself in this, Your Grace. I will fly, never fear.” Then she turned and ran, still trying to shield the candle flame as she hied.
There was nothing she could do. It might already be over. She lay there, in her own blood, in a borrowed robe, in what was, after all, what had been, Katharine’s bed… Was she a witch, after all? Had she unwittingly, tacitly, sold her soul to the devil when she had pricked and buried the laurel leaves? It was still dark outside, but it must be near dawn. This was the day. This was the day that Katharine would be laid to rest. What a delicious irony that this was the day that she, Anne, was to pay the devil his due. An eye for an eye…a son for a husband…but she couldn’t think anymore. The world started spinning, and she was floating, down and down, in a spiral.
# # #
Henry sat in his chair, stunned. He had spent a dreary night, sleep eluding him, then awakening, not realizing he had been asleep, and unable to sleep again. All night he simply could not banish Katharine from his mind. After all those years together, the joys, the sorrows, the love…yes, he could own it now, love. Even when he had been angry with her and banished her from court, he had never stopped loving her. She had thwarted him, and that he had deplored; let her suffer! But not now…now she was dead and nothing could ever bring her back. He had often wished for the day, but now he hated it.
And in between the inevitable thoughts of Katharine on this night, there had lurked Jane. What to do about Jane. Nothing he could do. A powerful sense of déjà vu swept over him. It had been Katharine, and what to do about Anne; now it was Anne and what to do about Jane? The answer was plain. Anne must die. And here, here was a page, tousle-headed with sleep, here to convey to his disbelieving ears the news that Anne was bleeding to death. This was the hand of God, and no mistake. It was the divine right of kings. What he wanted, what he sought for, the very stuff of his life was divinely inspired. What he wanted God got for him, because it was all part of God’s plan. Anne would die and he would have Jane. And he would have sons. It all fitted.
“Wake him!” said an imperious voice. Sir Edward Seymour’s cry pierced the thick mist that had clouded Henry’s brain.
He was awake instantly. “What news?” he asked.
“The child is dead, the queen will recover.”
# # #
Henry sat staring into the fire. The day was dreary, and the air was still. The candle flames were tall and thin, almost spear-shaped; the wax dripped silent pearls that gathered at the base of the heavy silver candlesticks. The clouds lowered purplish-gray and brooding, but no snow fell. A hush seemed to have befallen the whole world. The clouds deadened the sound outside, and no one dared make a sound inside the palace. Only those whose duties required it had ventured abroad this day. His mood matched the ominous, unnatural gloom of the outdoors. It was a time to sit and think, to plan; what tack to take with this new situation? For he could never say aloud, could hardly bring himself to own, his true feelings.
The child dead, and a boy; the queen alive and well. Why? He was so sure that God had taken the situation in hand and provided him with a solution in which he need have no hand. Anne had miscarried; women often died miscarrying a child. And yet she had not died. And he would not, could not, ever touch her again. The very thought of it made his skin crawl. There would be no more of his boys for Anne! But he was still tied to her as firmly as ever.
He had never believed it possible that he could be relieved to lose his son. And yet what if the child had come to term, been born? He had been conceived while Katharine was still alive. For that reason alone, there were many, in England and on the Continent, who would never have accepted him and would call him bastard. So it was better this way. He did not want a son who could not ascend the throne with the full confidence of the world.
It would all have been so easy if only Anne had died. Then he could have married Jane forthwith. No one, not even her own family, would shed a tear for Anne. A servant or two, a steadfast friend, perhaps. No more.
Henry sat up, placed determined hands on the arms of his chair, squared his shoulders and bellowed, “Norris!” Norris appeared and before he had a chance to say anything, Henry said, very quietly, “Fetch me Cromwell.”
Chapter 7
“Queen Katharine’s delivery of a healthy princess…was seen…not as some kind of failure, but as a piece of good, or at least promising, news...”
– Antonia Fraser, “The Wives of Henry the Eighth”
Palace of Hatfield, March 1536
Mary’s eyes were closed, but she had been awake for some time, listening to the gentle cooing of the doves in the dovecote. Now that the sun had broken the horizon, the birds had come alive and the strident call of a shrike scolded from the larch tree just outside her window. She was waiting for the moment when the sun, in its morning journey, would clear the edge of the window and shine full on her face. She had discovered this delightful phenomenon on her first morning in the royal apartments at Hatfield. The full light of the morning sun had shone on her eyes, awakening her, and she had lain for some time, letting it warm her skin, until gradually it moved on and no longer touched her with its golden finger.
She remembered well the day, not long after her cousin Frances’ visit, when Lady Shelton had breezed into her little cupboard of a room and said, “My lady, this is no fit chamber for you. Come along with me, if you please.” Her manner had changed from that of imperious jailor to obsequious host in the space of a night, and Mary at first wondered what it was all about. But the change in her accommodations had been only the first of several surprises that day. As she broke her fast, a letter arrived for her, its red seal untouched. Mary eyed the missive unbelievingly, and then had slowly opened it to read that the king, indeed, had been much put out to learn of Mary’s treatment at the hands of Lady Shelton. Frances related how the king had berated Anne for taking advantage of the king’s trust by mistreating his daughter. He would have no more of it. The letter had come with a purse containing a hundred crowns for Mary to distribute as alms, upon Henry hearing that not only was she inadequately housed, but that her religious duties were being neglected through no fault of her own.
The sun progressed along its inexorable arc across the harebell sky, and at last Mary opened her eyes. Instead of the bleak wooden beams of her old room, her eyes were met by the rich purple velvet of the bed curtains. These were held in place by thick woven ropes of gold thread, upon each of which hung a golden tassel. Just then a movement reminded her that she no longer slept alone. She turned on her side to see Elizabeth, curled up like a tabby kitten, and with hair just as red, her small fist still clutching the wilted rose that she had insisted on taking to bed with her the night before. For Mary was no longer kept from her sister, but had been allowed to take charge of her.
Mary smiled at the sleeping form. The pink of the rose matched the pink of Elizabeth’s childish cheeks. The little ha
nd still had a bead of blood on it where in her haste to pick the flower, Elizabeth had pricked her finger on one of its thorns. An avid gardener herself, Mary had carefully snipped away all of the thorns so that Elizabeth might hold the flower in her starfish hand without further injury. They had been out walking in the garden together, and Mary had been teaching Elizabeth the names of all the flowers, trees and shrubs, and those of the birds they had seen or, perhaps, only heard. Mary knew them all, and wanted Elizabeth to know them, too. The child was so smart, and like a sponge; she absorbed everything and forgot nothing. Mary was proud of her sister. They were both so obviously their father’s daughters.
But it was then that the thought would strike Mary that children must needs have two parents, and this was Anne’s whelp. And then the war in her mind would be waged anew; children should not be blamed for who their parents were. But children were often made to suffer for the sins of their fathers, Holy Scripture said as much. And then an overwhelming rush of protectiveness would sweep over her, and Mary would take the golden child up in her arms and kiss her. She would not stoop so low as to hate a child because of who its mother was. She was old enough herself to have been Elizabeth’s mother and, having no child of her own, resolved to lavish her love on this child, who was, after all, of her own flesh and blood.
And then thoughts of her mother would cloud these feelings for Elizabeth, the guilt of betrayal would gnaw at her, and the vicious cycle begin all over again. She wanted to love Elizabeth for the simple reason that she had no one else to whom to give her love. Her mother was dead, God rest her blameless soul; her father had all but abandoned her, despite his recent show of fatherly concern; she had no husband, nor the prospect of one. Her only other sibling, her half-brother Fitzroy, was a stranger to her.
Who else to love, then, save this half-sister, so innocent of the knowledge of all that her coming into the world had meant? Katharine’s anguish at having been shunted aside for the mother of this child; the king’s raging disappointment that Elizabeth had not been the son he had turned the world upsidedown to get; Mary’s own demeaning degradation in being made to live in her royal sister’s household as a servant. Was any of this Elizabeth’s fault? It was not. The child could not be held to blame.
Mary heaved a sigh and at the sound of it, Elizabeth snuggled under her arm, her little head on Mary’s breast. Only two and half, she still had the smell of babyhood about her, especially when she was warm from slumber. Mary held her close and closed her eyes again. It was still very early; perhaps she would sleep a bit more before rising to break her fast and hear mass.
# # #
“Back straight!” said Mary firmly. She glanced back to measure the success of her admonition, which was one she made before every ride.
At these words, Elizabeth, who was perched upon the smallest palfrey that the Hatfield stable could provide, lifted her chin and as she did so, her back straightened in one lithe movement.
Mary observed how gracefully Elizabeth made this adjustment, and thought: It is something we are born with. It cannot be learned, and there is no substitute for it. “And tighten your grip on the reins,” added Mary.
Elizabeth at two and half years was as natural a horsewoman as ever there was. Mary was determined that Elizabeth should share her love of horses. The best way was to start early. But Mary entertained the fleeting thought that with Elizabeth, it would have made no difference. Elizabeth feared nothing and her ability to perform any new task with ease, and then only excel from there, astonished Mary.
Mary walked her horse at the head of the little cavalcade of riders. Elizabeth was just behind her and to the right, and then at a small distance back rode her chaplain and his secretary, with their escort of Dodd and the younger of the grooms bringing up the rear. The morning was fine; there had been no mist so the air was dry and crisp. It was still very pleasant, but as the sun rode up the sky, the weather promised to be warm.
They were just leaving the open pasture and going under the arc of the entrance to a belt of linden trees. The path was so regular that Mary had often speculated if this had been the lime walk of some ancient castle now long gone. The walk acted almost as a tunnel to channel the east wind, keeping the ride free of leaves and bracken. The hard-packed earth and the wind served to alert Mary to a discordant sound. She held up her hand to stop the progress of the riders, and strained her ears to listen. Hoofbeats, coming slowly toward them. She would wait. Where the little forest of lindens gave way on the other end of the path to the open expanse of Hertfordshire, Mary could just make out a party of riders.
Chapuys recognized Mary before she recognized him; he sped up to a canter. “Your Grace!” he cried. He was a diplomat of the Empire, and so was not an English subject. He broke the law by addressing Mary as princess, but it was an English law to which he justifiably felt immune. “It is so good to see you out and about again,” he said breathlessly, doffing his cap.
“Dear Chapuys! It is indeed good to see you, as well,” said Mary, extending a gloved hand. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the forest green of her riding habit.
Lady Shelton had, Mary knew, been accepting bribes from Chapuys. The ban on visitors had been lifted, but Chapuys needed the explicit permission of the king in order to visit Mary officially. So instead of open defiance, which would have been dangerous for all, the meetings were arranged to coincide with Mary’s morning rides. There were no witnesses who could not either be trusted or bought, and who was to say that a chance meeting on a woodland path was an infraction of the rules…? Lady Shelton had the king’s orders to treat Mary as the daughter of the king, but she had also received a frantic plea from Anne to ease her hardness on the girl. Lady Shelton had shrugged; it was all one to her. She could see the writing on the wall; Anne was out of favor and Mary was back in favor. She would act accordingly.
“Dearest lady,” said Chapuys, brushing his lips against the supple leather of her glove. “How like you your new mare?”
Mary knew a brief moment of regret for her favorite mare. But that horse, and indeed her entire stable, had been taken from her and dispersed years ago.
“She is a fine horse,” said Mary, patting the animal’s amber neck. “She has a soft eye and comfortable gait.” Regrets were futile; one must look forward, and not hark back. “What news, then?” asked Mary. It was so good to be getting news again. But there were still some things that could not, or should not, be committed to paper.
“The Concubine walks in deadly fear,” replied Chapuys. “All know of the estrangement between her and the king.” Even now he could not bring himself to refer to Anne as the queen, unless he was in diplomatic company. “There are few who would not be glad to see her brought down, even some of her own family.”
“Perhaps so,” Mary replied, her delicate brows arched. “But does her family not realize that her downfall will also mean the fall of the Boleyns?”
“Of a certainty,” nodded Chapuys. “But no one will shed a tear over that, and it will have no effect whatever on the Howards, beyond the loss, mayhap, of a manor or two.” He was silent for a moment, and then looked behind him to see if any were within earshot.
Mary, reading his concern, said, “Elizabeth, wait for Dodd and ride at his side, if you please.” Without replying, Elizabeth halted her palfrey and turned it sideways across the path. “All right, then,” said Mary.
Chapuys looked straight ahead of him, assessing the terrain. It was a pity that Mary had promised Katharine never to flee England. It was only forty miles as the crow flew to Tilbury. An imperial ship, in the right circumstances, could make it that far up the estuary. “The affaire with the Seymour continues apace, and is now common knowledge.”
“By the rood, but that must peeve Madam Pembroke to no end!” said Mary.
“Indeed,” replied Chapuys. “And Jane’s absence from court speaks volumes. She is now installed at Beddington Park, under the auspices of Sir Nicholas Carew.”
# # #
Un
consciously, Mary closed her eyes, tilted her face up to the sun, and breathed deeply of the fresh air. At last, she thought, Anne begins to suffer as her mother had suffered. As they walked along, they encountered another stand of trees, consisting of a copse of smooth-trunked beeches. Beneath them, and all the way down a small hill to the banks of a brook, lay a carpet of bluebells. Above the quivering heads of the beeches, a flock of skylarks swooped and swirled in the hyacinth sky.
“Your Grace,” said Chapuys, with another quick glance behind him, “Have you been asked to swear the oath to the Act of Supremacy?”
Mary shook her head. “No, I have not, at least not for some time. It could be that the king realizes the limits to which my conscience can be stretched.”
Chapuys knew in his heart that this wasn’t the end of it; but best to spend their precious time discussing that which was most pressing. “I am working to develop a Seymour faction at court.”
“Good!” Mary replied. “It is best that the king marry inside the realm. We want no rival foreign interests. And Jane is a Catholic.”
The non-sequitur did not confuse Chapuys. The two most important things right now were the Imperial alliance and taking advantage of Henry’s rift with Anne to bring England back to Rome.
Chapuys nodded his silver head in agreement. “True. And Jane sympathizes with you, or at least appears to.”
“Appears to?”
Chapuys had made one of his rare slips; immediately the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. He did not want to make Mary suspicious of Jane. He wanted Mary to take Jane at face value, because any further opposition to the king would be fatal at this point. Mary must accept Jane…or appear to.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 20