Despite her shivering, the little room was stiflingly warm and still. The weather had been pleasant, but had turned hot unexpectedly. The room in which she lay had only one window, so there was no cross-breeze, even had there been a breath of air stirring, which there was not.
Lady Shelton, upon discerning that Mary was once again out of favor, had moved her forthwith back into the cupboard of a chamber which had been hers before Anne’s arrest in May. Only this time, there was even less room, for Elizabeth, also out of favor, had been moved with her.
Mary did not know how long she had been ill; it was as it had always been before when she was indisposed. No one came near to attend her, probably hoping, once again, that she would die.
No one, with one exception; in her extremity, she had sometimes been aware of a presence, someone placing a cool rag on her fevered brow, someone, someone very clever indeed, placing a soaked rag between her lips so that she could swallow some water, being too ill to even lift her head to drink from a mug. Once she had ventured to try to open her aching eyelids, it seemed that every nerve in her body must be inflamed! …and astonishingly, there was Elizabeth, her little mouth set in a grim line, trying to get her to suck some broth off of that same rag that had held the water. Elizabeth, trying to force winesops…where had she gotten those? …between her clenched teeth.
Even in the throes of illness, Mary had sensed a difference in the child. It was evident that someone had informed her of the fact that her father had brutally murdered her mother and that she was now reduced to the status, as was Mary, of royal bastard. Poor mite, who had told her, she wondered? It had probably been Lady Shelton, and if that were the case, Mary felt sorry for the child.
What on earth ailed her, she wondered? Was it possible for anyone to be so ill for so long and survive? And there was no Anne Boleyn to blame now, no one to whom one could point an accusatory finger and shout “poison!”. So she must be genuinely ill. Not of plague, of that she was certain; she had, some time past, felt for the buboes, and found none. Nor was it the sweat, or she would have been dead already, and her sweat did not stink. It was only the natural result of the fever breaking from time to time.
And then she remembered. She had sworn away her birthright. That was what had made her so ill. The misery, the wretchedness, the utter desolation of the memory of what she had done washed over her and she wept anew. She remembered weeping; for days on end she had wept, and would not be comforted. She had neither eaten nor slept. Her head ached abominably, and she had relapsed into a condition where she could bear neither light nor sound. She had seen little flashing lights dancing in front of her eyes, even in a darkened room. The very sight or smell of food of any kind sickened her unspeakably. What had begun as a dull ache radiated out until her very fingertips became bastions of throbbing pain.
No doctor visited, and she did not wonder at that. She was out of favor for making the king wait so long for her capitulation. All she had was the poppy syrup that Dr. de la Sa had given her a lifetime ago…and that she dare not take for fear she would be tempted to drink the entire contents of the bottle and end this misery for good and all. She had truly despaired, and that, she knew, was a deadly sin. She must not despair. But how could she not?
The last thing she clearly remembered was the day that both Cromwell and Chapuys had arrived, begging her to relent and give way to the king’s will. This was even worse than the visit from the Privy Council. These were not enemies, but two men upon whom she had counted to support her. It was horrible.
Cromwell had raged and then cried, cried, in turn; Chapuys had begged her to save her life. It was more than one could bear.
First Cromwell had tried to reason with her. She must give in, he said, there was no other way. She tried to explain that she had been counting on his support with the king; no one else would have dared to speak for her while Anne was alive. Would he not speak for her now?
Cromwell had then raged and shouted, saying that he was sorry he had ever agreed to mediate with the king on her behalf, that she was the most obstinate woman who had ever lived, and that he was washing his hands of her.
She had tried to explain that she could not give up her faith, nor could she betray her mother’s trust, and all that that implied. How could anyone expect it of her?
Cromwell had responded by becoming more enraged than she had ever seen anyone. It was obvious that he had made promises to the king about what he could accomplish where she was concerned; and now he could not deliver. He was afraid for his own head, not hers. She doubted whether the king would murder his own daughter to stand on a principle; she was no commoner-made-queen whom the king could murder at will with no consequences. If her father tried to have her executed, there would be an outcry that would be heard all over Europe, and certainly in Spain, where her cousin could not stand idly by for once. Charles would be forced to act. There might be war; there might be insurrection in England. And the first casualty of that war would be Cromwell, if for no other reason than to make an example of him. (See what I do to those who promise much and deliver nothing!) In spite of everything, her heart had gone out to Cromwell then. She had gone in fear of her life for years, and she knew what it was like. Such must be new to him.
Then Chapuys had taken a turn. No one could be certain what the king would or would not do. Was she willing to take such a risk? Her father was perfectly capable of acting in anger and repenting at leisure. Death was very final, and nothing, not even a remorseful father’s regret, could bring her back once the deed was done.
It became evident that neither man was going to leave the room until they had her signature on the articles that Norfolk had so unpleasantly shoved under her nose. Cromwell had drafted a covering letter that she was expected to copy in her own hand and sign. Where the Privy Council had failed with bullying threats, Cromwell and Chapuys had succeeded with vague assurances.
The pope could be asked for a dispensation absolving her of all; surely she could not be held accountable for giving in under such pressure and threat of her life. Nothing she was forced to swear to under such vile coercion could possibly be binding upon her conscience. And it was not just the threats to herself. Lady Hussey was still languishing in the Tower, and Exeter and Fitzwilliam had been removed from the king’s council on account of their support of her position.
Interestingly, it was not the threats to her own person that wore her down, it was her worry over what would happen to those who could not save themselves. Only she could save herself, and if she did so, she would save the others who stood in harm’s way on her behalf. She cast her mind back to the colorful stories her mother used to tell her of her redoubtable grandmother, Isabella of Castile. One of the most important lessons a sovereign could benefit from was that which counseled knowing when to cut one’s losses and live to fight another day.
So at last Mary copied the letter and signed the articles. She signed them without reading them, to assuage her conscience as much as was possible, and so that she could not, at least in her own mind, be held accountable for what she was agreeing to by placing her signature on the document. It was a small victory, insignificant to all but herself.
The relief on the men’s faces was patent as they took the documents and rode away. Cromwell, because he had saved his own head; Chapuys because he believed he had saved Mary’s.
She had renounced the pope’s authority as Christ’s vicar on earth, a belief that had been in place for 1500 years; she had done so in favor of her father, who had proved himself a murderer and a bloody tyrant. The priority now was not her soul, it was her life, Chapuys had said. But in doing this she now felt that she had no soul.
She had agreed that her mother had never been married to her father, branding her mother a strumpet and herself a bastard. She had betrayed her mother, and all the brave, saintly men who had died in her cause.
She had convinced herself that they would never break her, but it was not so; she was shattered. How could she ever hol
d her head up again? How could she ever face Catholic Europe after agreeing to such things just to save her life? She might as well have spit on her mother’s grave, or have wielded with her own hands the axe that had finished the saintly Fisher, Thomas More, and so many others who had had the courage of their convictions, and had freely chosen death rather than betray the truth.
She opened her eyes in the harsh light. Bearing the stabbing pain was a sort of penance for her despicable actions. But as soon as she opened her eyes the tears began to gather and fall. The pain in her heart, however, was greater than any physical pain she was bearing; she almost cried out in her agony of spirit. She should never, could never, forgive herself.
And in that thought was born another, one that was to live for years in her heart and in her mind, and the consequences of which were to be far-reaching in the years to come. For if she could not forgive herself, neither would she ever forgive her father for wreaking the emotional havoc on her that was this day’s anguish, and the anguish that she knew she would carry with her to the end of her life.
In the past she had believed that it was God’s plan, God’s will, that she should live and be queen, so that she might undo the devastation that her father had wrought throughout the kingdom, and to the Holy Catholic faith. But so many things stood in the way of this dream. Jane’s unborn sons; the fact that she was female, and that England had never before had a reigning queen; and most of all, that she was not even in the line of succession due to the taint of bastardy that her own father had lain upon her.
For the first time in her life, Mary made a vow that was not first predicated by “if it be Thy will, O Lord”. For spite alone would she live through this nightmare, for spite alone would she become queen of this realm, and undo all that her father had done; she would vindicate her mother’s betrayal and the betrayal of all who had been done to death in the name of the king’s injustice. This vow she had to make, otherwise her submission to the king’s will in these matters would have destroyed her. She would live; she would be queen; and then she would show them all.
Syon Monastery, August 1536
The echoes of their hurried footsteps followed Mary and Frances as they trod the chalky stone of the corridor that led to the infirmary. A strong, gusty wind was blowing; a storm was brewing. The trees, still one moment, thrashed their limbs wildly the next. Hot gusts of air billowed their skirts and searched their faces with invisible fingers. Mary’s hand went instinctively to her new velvet headdress, while Frances tore off her stylish French hood in exasperation.
“There!” Frances said. “There’s an end to that. I feel as if I am being stifled in this thing.”
Mary eyed the black clouds that were closing in. The eastern sky had taken on a purple cast, while the sun, still well above the western horizon, radiated a strange golden light. “I hope it rains and rains,” she said. “Mayhap it will cool the air.”
“And wash away that dreadful odor as well, I trow!” snarled Frances. “God’s teeth, but the river stinks!”
It had been a long, hot summer. There had not been many cases of plague, but those that there had been had caused the usual exodus from the city. That had disappointed Mary somewhat, as she had just become happily engaged in putting her household back together. She enjoyed being back in London, and had been disappointed to leave it again so soon. But there was nothing for it; plague was plague after all, so with her newly formed household she had repaired to Richmond Palace.
Mary had been very ill after her capitulation to her father, but time had at last dulled the worst of her mental distress. After a while, her mind seemed to enter a blunted state, as if her brain knew that she could bear no more. Once her mental state eased, so was her physical state alleviated. But something had happened to her, some unnamable thing that she could not quite put her finger on. Nor did she want to; perhaps it was best to let her sore conscience be numb for a while.
When the king further had demanded that she repeat her submission before the entire council, she did so without demur. It was as if she were detached from herself in some way as she stood in front of that august group of men and mouthed the loathsome words. She seemed to be up in the rafters of the council chamber, looking down on a person who reminded her very much of herself, but who could not possibly be her; she would never have been able to repeat such hateful words to the men who either looked gloatingly on, like Norfolk, or who regarded her with pity. She resented both emotions. She needed no one’s pity, and she did not care a straw what Norfolk thought.
The only concession that had been made to her sensibilities was the fact that they had removed from the Articles the assertion that she was a product of incest. Not having read the articles before she signed them, she did not know that this was the case until Cromwell had offered it to her as a sop to her cruelly abused conscience. But by then it was too late. Nothing could reach her now. The thing was done and could not be undone. She had given in where others before her had stood firm; with the stroke of a quill she had signed away everything that she stood for; her own legitimacy, her right to the throne, her mother’s marriage, papal authority in England. And by that single act, she was lost. If someday she were vouchsafed an opportunity to redeem herself, she would gladly take it. But for now, a part of her moved, detached, through her days, watching the other Mary buying gay new dresses and arranging her household anew. The part of her that had almost been destroyed by her father was protective of the part of her that still longed to be happy, to wear beautiful new clothes and jewels, and who danced and sang and laughed. Poor girl! No one but she knew that that joyful creature did not really exist. It was a façade, and a good one, for the emotional wreck that was now the real Mary Tudor.
And still her father had not been satisfied. Even after her performance before the Privy Council, the king had sent Wriothelsey to her to get a further statement in writing from her. Why not, she thought. What matters it now? They could not bring her any lower. So in addition to writing out in very plain language exactly what she was agreeing to, she wrote, of her own free will, a most self-abasing letter to her father. He was right; she was wrong. He was omniscient and omnipotent. After all, was he not Christ’s vicar in England? Supreme Head of the Church in England? Anointed of God? Arbiter of life and death in his realm? An abject letter in which she groveled would be certain to convince her father of his power over her. She might as well make it good; might as well give them what they wanted.
To her astonishment, her father believed the letter she had written with her tongue so firmly embedded in her cheek. After he received it, he could not do enough for her. Soon after Henry received the missive, he sent her some of Katharine’s jewels. He knew that Mary shared her mother’s love of beautiful things. Upon receiving them, Mary had at first recoiled. The thoughts ran around in her head like figures on a Greek vase. Anne must surely have worn these trinkets last; most of her mother’s jewels had been taken from her and bestowed upon Anne. Hard on that dismal thought came the notion that the innocent gems were corrupted by being the payment for her surrender. After that, the familiar feeling of apathy set in. What did it matter what they were for or who had worn them? But then the other Mary, the one who longed to be cheerful and merry, had hugged them to her and thought, my mother wore these; they were hers. And now they are mine. Be happy!
Her father was pleased with the happy, gay, forgiving Mary, and sent Cromwell to ask whom she would like in her new household, and how much money did she need? And what about clothes…?
As soon as Henry was convinced that Mary had not only given in to his will, but that she appeared to actually believe what she had been asked to submit to, he had finally forgiven her and sent to say that he and the queen were on their way to see her.
That had been a merry visit! It was obvious that her father was glad to see her. They had not spoken in five years. Henry remembered her as a young girl of fifteen; she was now a woman of twenty. Mary was fortunate in that her face did not reflect the
suffering and stress of her ordeal. She still looked even younger than her years. But the change in Henry was shocking to behold. Gone was her handsome, gay father and in his place was a fat, bald tyrant with little patience and whose face wore a haunted look when he did not realize he was being observed.
Still, the royal visit went well. Jane was very kind, and gave Mary a diamond ring from her own finger. They were three people who, while wary of each other, still seemed eager to please. Her father gave her a purse with a thousand crowns in it as a parting gift, and said he expected to see her very soon at court.
The sound of the monastery bells drew Mary out of her reverie. It was the hour of Nones, but it was so dark it might have been dusk. The storm would break any minute. Flashes of forked lightning cast a bleak, eerie half-light at unpredictable intervals, and the distant rumbles of thunder from the lowering clouds had the power to make one feel uneasy for no apparent reason.
A cluster of novices with downcast eyes hurried past them on silent, slippered feet, ghostly in their white robes. The wraith-like figures glided quickly by and were gone, hoping to gain the chapel before the rain started. And then suddenly the rain began to fall, tentatively at first, and then in huge, desperate drops that hissed as they hit the paving stones.
“At last!” cried Frances. “And just in the nick of time!” They entered the archway that led into a high-ceilinged vault just as the sky opened up. A loud crash of thunder split the sky and followed them into the vast space where little cots held the sick and the infirm whom the nuns were busily engaged in caring for.
A young sister recognized the royal ladies and bowing her head said, “The Lady Margaret is just here, Your Graces.”
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 28