It was true. When her father had wanted Anne Boleyn so badly, it was Cranmer, not Cromwell, who had found the way. Her father had broken with Rome, had Cranmer declared Archbishop of Canterbury, and his first act had been to declare the king’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon null and void, paving the way for the king to marry the already pregnant Anne Boleyn.
“I see,” said Mary coldly. She began her pacing once more. Gratitude! And for what! For helping to put her mother away, for taking her title of queen and giving it to a strumpet, and for making a bastard of herself! And this was why her father was willing to protect a self-proclaimed heretic! At that moment she hated her father only slightly less than she hated Cranmer. She made a silent vow that if she ever had the opportunity, Cranmer would feel the full heat of her revenge. Oddly, this resolution seemed to revitalize her. But she had been ill; her mind might be reinvigorated, but her body was still weak. She sat down with an inelegant plop on the chaise.
Both were silent for a few moments, the only sounds the whoosh of the flowing river, the cool breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, and the monotonous droning of the bees in the soldierly lupines. The sun was warm on their faces, and the brazier added to the heat, inducing a pleasant somnolence. Mary had almost nodded off when suddenly Chapuys spoke.
“The French marriage negotiations are finally at an end,” he said, almost by-the-way.
Mary eyes flew open. “Hah! And can anyone wonder at that? Who would want to marry a possibly barren royal bastard with no claim to the throne?” She frowned and flicked a dismissive hand in the air.
“That is an excuse for not doing so, perhaps,” said Chapuys. “But there is another reason.”
Mary regarded him quizzically.
“Recall that I have postulated the theory that His Grace pines for his lost youth. I believe that he seeks to regain such through another war.”
“Another war?” asked Mary. “With whom?”
“A treaty will soon come to light, Your Grace, between the Emperor and His Grace. They are to make common cause against France. I tell you this in confidence, of course; and I tell you because you will soon hear that part of the treaty will involve a marriage for you with the King of the Romans.”
“What? My cousin Ferdinand? Charles’ brother?”
“The agreement is that he will come to England and be made Duke of Bedford, then he shall be married to yourself. But it is a political ploy. Nothing will come of it.”
Mary sighed. An apt statement on her entire life! Perhaps she ought to take it as her motto. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. Twenty-six this year! No husband, no hope of a child.
Chapuys waited for just a moment and then he said, “Before His Grace makes war on France, he will need to subdue Scotland. One cannot leave one’s back door unguarded if an enemy lurks there.”
Mary nodded. “It makes sense. It should be Flodden all over again.” There was an Auld Alliance between France, England’s natural enemy on the Continent, and Scotland, her traditional enemy to the north. The rustic, vulgar Scots made for strange bedfellows with the elegant, refined French. But there it was. Henry dared not leave the island to attack the French until he had neutralized Scotland. “But is such a venture not fraught with risk?”
It was Chapuys’ turn to grunt. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “It is a great risk, as well as an expensive one. And with the heir to the throne nothing more than a child! The prince’s recent illness has left him frail.” He eyed Mary speculatively.
Mary’s expression took on a faraway look. She nibbled a cuticle. She loved her brother, despite the fact that his very existence would bar her from the throne forever. He would grow up, become king, marry, and have sons to succeed him. But Chapuys was right; Edward was certainly less robust than he had been; but think of his death she would not. She arose and began to pace once more.
Chapuys said, so quietly that Mary almost did not hear him, “His Grace would be well advised to see to the succession before embarking upon anything as dangerous and uncertain as war.”
It was true. But restore her to the succession! It seemed like an impossible dream.
“You are the children of the king,” he said. “Nothing can change that.”
Mary frowned. “But would that not mean…” She sat down again, looking defeated once more. “But would that not mean restoring Elizabeth to the succession as well?”
Chapuys shrugged. “What of it? The Concubine’s whelp is a bastard in very truth, whereas all of Catholic Europe already views Your Grace as the rightful heir to the throne.”
But, Elizabeth…restored to the succession! And to be queen over the dead bodies of her father and brother! Well, one must take the bitter with the sweet, she supposed. And how sweet that would be, to be queen, to rid the country of the heretics that were daily gaining ground that they had no right to! Mary stood once more and resumed her pacing.
Chapuys observed Mary’s belligerent stance, red cheeks and flashing eyes. His words had taken her, in just a few moments, from pale and retiring with a blanket tucked about her to being excited and purposeful, her sense of destiny restored. Exactly what he had hoped to accomplish.
He looked towards the river. “The ebb is near its end. I must catch the tide back into London. Remember what I have said.”
Whitehall Palace, December 1542
Mary’s entire household was gathered in the courtyard at Whitehall for the ride to Hampton Court Palace. The scene could have been taken for one of complete chaos, but it was not so; Sir John Dudley, Mary’s Master of Horse, had everything well in hand. The carts were laden, those who were to ride were mounted, and those who were to walk stood in the place assigned to them, waiting for the signal to go forth. It was a beautiful day, if a bit cold; the sun shone, there was no wind, and the ground was not yet frozen.
Mary was looking forward to the fourteen mile journey. Already the servants who had left ahead of the main procession before dawn would be preparing for the mid-day break at Putney Heath, where the cavalcade would stop to eat in the out-of-doors, a pastime Mary truly enjoyed. She had always thought that food tasted so much better when eaten out in the open.
Mary had to confess, if only to herself, to a certain dislike for her Master of Horse. She was not exactly certain why she felt that way; she simply could not put her finger on it. But Sir John was an excellent horse master, and since that was the capacity in which she employed him and he performed his duties magnificently well, there was little she could say.
Sir John gave the signal, and Mary clicked her tongue, applying a small amount of pressure with her legs to her mount. She had always loved horses and kept a good stable. One of the sorrows of her life under Lady Shelton’s rule at Hatfield had been the loss of her beloved horses. Anne Boleyn had confiscated them all, and Mary had never recovered them. But when Mary was finally taken back into her father’s favor, the first thing he had done was to provide her with a new stable of horses and a dependable horse master. She could but thank him for that.
But today’s mount surpassed any horse that she had ever owned. Excited and reinvigorated by his plans of war, her father had been unusually kind and solicitous to her all summer; but in September, he had surpassed even himself when he had given her the German horses that Anne of Cleves had bestowed upon Katherine as her New Year’s gift in 1541. Mary had fallen instantly in love with the beautiful white horses, trapped in lavender and silver, the first time she had ever laid eyes on them. Many a time she had envied Katherine those horses. Anne had graciously refused to take them back when Katherine fell out of favor. But they were a woman’s mount, and after keeping them for a while, the king had finally given them to Mary.
Even though Mary had been thrilled, Henry’s timing was not of the best; the gift of the two stunning horses had arrived at Ashridge House the week before Elizabeth’s ninth birthday, and she naturally assumed that the horses were for her. Her disappointment was unmistakable, and Mary felt badly; she immediately gave Elizabet
h one of the horses for her own, and it was these that the two sisters rode today.
The horses were very well-behaved, a little too well behaved for Mary’s wild taste; but they were perfect for the show that the two daughters of the king would make riding through the streets of London on their way to Hampton Court Palace for the king’s Christmas Court.
And what a picture they made! Mary rarely wore her hair down, but as a maiden still, she was within her rights to do so. Today both she and Elizabeth wore their red hair streaming down their backs, Mary’s a light auburn, Elizabeth’s the color of flame. Mary wore a velvet kirtle of her favorite deep purple over a gown of cloth of silver; Elizabeth wore her favorite red over a gown of cloth of gold. Both princesses dripped jewels, and sparkled so much in the bright sunlight that it almost hurt to look at them.
The outriders of the royal escort went first through the palace gates, and as they made their appearance, the crowd roared with delight. Londoners were used to the sight of the king or the princesses riding abroad, but never tired of the spectacle.
Mary turned to Elizabeth, whose excitement was apparent. Both girls shared their royal father’s love of show. As the princesses approached the gates, the trumpeters raised their shining instruments and played a fanfare. The clarion call could be heard for some distance, and the reverberation of the cheering Londoners increased tenfold.
At last the princesses emerged and the crowds of people cheered themselves hoarse. All along the route shouts of “Long live the Princess Mary!” and “God save the Princess Elizabeth!” could be heard. Both girls nodded and waved their acknowledgment, and dazzled the crowds with smiles as brilliant and dazzling as their jewels.
Mary felt a brief discomfort, a slight irritation, at the sight of Anne Boleyn’s daughter being cheered and called princess. But Mary did love Elizabeth after all, so she tried to think of her simply as “sister”, and not as the daughter of her enemy. But Chapuys was right; in the eyes of Catholic Europe, she, Mary, was a royal princess, and heir to throne, perhaps even before Edward. Her brother had, after all, been born after the king’s split with Rome, and for that reason, many considered him to be a bastard, too. Poor Jane, thought Mary; she would have turned in her grave to think that there were those who believed her son to have been born in such circumstances. But about Elizabeth’s status, there was no doubt; she was in fact illegitimate, and had always been considered to be so by everyone except her father, and now he, too, called her bastard. But it mattered not what anyone called Mary; she had been born a royal princess to an anointed queen, and anyone who said differently lied.
As the royal procession made its way through the streets of London on that fine morning, Mary was cheered even more heartily than usual, for it was she who had, out of her own privy purse, arranged for every ale-wife and brewer along their route to offer free refreshments to all comers. It was too cold to fill the conduits with wine, but a mug of hot, spicy mulled ale went down very well on such a day, and it kept the people’s whistles wet enough to cheer and bless the Princess Mary long after her pageant had passed them by.
The crowds thinned a bit as the party departed the city, and Elizabeth used the opportunity to drop back and ride next to Robert. Robert Dudley was the handsome son of Sir John Dudley, Mary’s Master of Horse.
“How now, Master Dudley,” said Elizabeth, with a smile and a nod. “What a fine spectacle your lord father has prepared. The people were pleased, and I know I certainly am.” A born horsewoman, she expertly controlled the white mare with her knees.
Robert smiled his dazzling smile. “It is always a pleasure to serve Your Highnesses,” he replied.
Mary observed the two. Elizabeth and Robert were of an age, and seemed to enjoy each other’s company tremendously. Robert was not unaware of Elizabeth’s royalty, bastard or not, and Elizabeth, even at the age of nine, was a born flirt. Mary pursed her lips. What else could one expect from Anne Boleyn’s daughter? Still, the son of her horse master was no fit mate for the daughter of a king. She would have to keep an eye on them. Still, she hesitated to bring the matter up to Elizabeth; they were still just children, and Elizabeth had been so downcast by her cousin’s execution that Mary hated to say or do anything to squelch her recovered spirits.
Elizabeth had been profoundly shocked by what had happened to the queen. She was not too young to understand what went on between men and women; no one could live at court and remain ignorant of the intrigue, sexual and otherwise, that went on there. She was old enough now to know what had happened to her mother, and the stigma that attached to herself because of it. Mary did not know who had told her or when, but she definitely knew.
There had been no shame associated with Katharine of Aragon’s fate; she was the daughter of kings, and nothing had ever been said of her to besmirch her reputation. Her fate had been unfortunate in the extreme, but no blame could possibly be attached to her personally.
But this was not so where Anne Boleyn was concerned. To know that one’s father had accused one’s own mother of adultery and incest and then had her executed for it must have been dreadful. Elizabeth never discussed her mother with anyone, and Mary had no way of knowing what the exact reason for that was. But the troubled look that had haunted Elizabeth’s features during the time of Katherine Howard’s travail had given way occasionally to a look of triumph; Mary suspected that this was because she had overheard the court gossip that held that the charges against Katherine being almost certainly true had cast a harsh light onto the charges that had been made against Queen Anne. Those charges now seemed absurd, and all knew that the king had leveled them simply to be rid of her.
The king was now more feared than loved; gone was Bluff Hal, the golden boy who had so captured the imaginations of his war-weary people. His was to have been a new age, and in some ways, it had been. But things had changed. Elizabeth still loved her father and she obviously admired him tremendously; but it was evident that she also feared him. Katherine’s ordeal and the fact that it had ended at the block appalled Elizabeth. She had truly loved her dazzling, beautiful cousin, and Katherine’s death had affected her deeply.
So Mary said nothing as Elizabeth sat with young Robert Dudley under a leafless oak tree on Putney Heath, and then rode the rest of the way to Hampton Court by his side.
Hampton Court Palace, December 1542
Mary had expected to file through the gates of Hampton Court quietly, the fanfare being saved for her appearance later at the banquet the king had planned to celebrate the arrival of his daughters at his Christmas court. But as she made the turn and approached the gates, a cacophonous trumpet blast met her and all her party. And there stood the king, leaning heavily on his stick, but with a brilliant smile on his face. The courtyard was filled to bursting; the entire court had come to the gates to greet them.
The elaborate gates swung wide as the two princesses made their way up the finely brushed gravel drive, and the king, seemingly beside himself with joy, stumped out to greet them.
“Well met, my daughters!” he cried, with tears in his eyes. “Oh, well met, indeed! My joy is now complete!” A nervous servant stood by holding a welcoming stirrup cup of mulled wine, a tradition usually reserved for departures rather than arrivals. Mary took the cup from the king’s own hand. She took the symbolic first sip, then passed the cup, a golden affair studded with colorful gems that winked in the sunshine, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, who had a clever wit and was rarely at a loss for words, always became rather tongue-tied in her august father’s presence. Their eyes locked and he opened his arms. Elizabeth did not hesitate for a moment; she was out of the saddle and in the king’s arms in a trice. Her arms barely spanned him from side to side. He took a beefy red hand and chucked her under the chin, then raised her face to his and kissed her heartily. It pleased him mightily that Elizabeth was more like him than Anne. He could see Anne there, in the eyes, perhaps, but otherwise, this daughter was all his.
He turned to Mary, a more d
ignified presence, to be sure, who extended her hand in the continental fashion she had grown so accustomed to with Chapuys. Henry took the delicate, porcelain hand, made a courtly bow, and brushed it lightly with his lips. Mary smiled warily, and stayed mounted. Henry simply laughed, took her stirrup, and walked along, Elizabeth clinging to his other arm; and so they passed merrily into the palace grounds.
# # #
That evening the banquet was a colorful, joyous affair. The great hall had been hung with holly and ivy, and all manner of hangings that boasted the season. The room was lit with a thousand candles, and shone as bright as day. The floors were strewn with sweet-smelling herbs that gave off a pleasant scent when trod upon.
A raised dais had been set up at the end of the hall over which a royal canopy loomed. Here the king sat with his daughters and the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, surveying the scene of merry-making below.
All in all, it had been a profitable summer; after suffering a minor defeat at Haddon Rig in August, the English had soundly beaten the Scots at Solway Moss in November. Half of the Scottish lords were now prisoners in England, but it was a benign incarceration; Henry was feasting them, putting them up in the palace instead of the Tower, and bribing them soundly to ensure that when they returned to Edinburgh, they would sing his tune. To top it all off, his nephew James, the Scottish king, had died in his bed after the defeat at Solway Moss, some said of a broken heart. His little sons had both died the year before, and in their place now was a daughter, born not even a week before her father’s death. Little Mary was now Queen of Scotland, even though she was only an infant. The birth of a daughter the week before James’ death was so spectacular a bit of luck for Henry of England that it could only be God’s will.
And for regent, that self-same Marie de Guise, she whom he had lusted after when his search for a queen had ended in the Cleves disaster. He had a good mind to marry her…but no, François would never agree to such a union. But either way, he won; Marie de Guise was regent of Scotland and would have her hands full. The defense of the realm would rely heavily on the support of France. Oh, it was too delicious…François, pouring French resources into Scotland to support the Auld Alliance, whilst he and Charles were preparing to invade on two fronts! What a gift! Perhaps a match for Prince Edward with the little Queen of Scots…
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 69