And good riddance, thought Mary. Just the thought of those dark days was enough to make her blood boil. Seeing Anne, with her proprietary air, happily cutting off the dead blooms from the rosebushes to encourage them to flower again, seemed to dispel the ill feelings and filled Mary with a sense of peace about the whole sad episode. As Anne clipped, Mary gathered the dead blossoms in a basket, to be taken to the stillroom where they would turn them into potpourri.
There were red, pink, yellow and white roses in Anne’s garden; an ambitious royal gardener had even developed a rare red-and-white variety, which was Anne’s particular favorite. Anne, wearing thick leather gloves to protect her white hands, was busily snipping, humming as she did so.
Mary smiled. “You seem very happy today,” she said.
Anne stopped her cutting and regarded Mary with a guarded look. “Do I?” she replied. “Vell, von must either laugh or cry, ja?”
It was true. Anne had decided on a sunny outlook, regardless of the situation. Mary knew that she herself was different; hers was always the gloomy point of view. For wasn’t that the lesson life had taught her? Nothing ever goes right for me, she thought. And she was unable to go about her life pretending, as she now suspected Anne did, that nothing was wrong.
Anne laid down her shears, removed her gloves, and took a seat beside Mary on a little wooden garden bench with fancy wrought iron work as its frame. “Ach, Marie, mein libeling, pleass, do not be sadt. It vill…it shall,” she corrected herself, “make me sadt, too.”
“I fear me I cannot help being sad,” said Mary. “For years I have waited for my father to see sense and restore me to the succession. Now he has finally done so, and I cannot even enjoy my triumph. It is so unfair!” With that vehement expostulation, she burst into tears. Anne turned and held her until the sobs subsided. Finally Mary broke their embrace, mopping her streaming eyes with the back of her hand.
Queen Catherine, when asked what she wanted as her wedding gift, had surprised the king by asking not for jewels, but that the king should restore his daughters to the succession. The Council had heartily agreed, for they feared what would happen if the king went off to war with only Edward, a frail child for all his precocity, as sole heir to the throne. As a reward for her wisdom, Catherine was honored by king and Council by being named as Regent of England in the king’s absence, for Henry would brook no more delays; he was off to France to make war on François, and to claim his inheritance of the kingdom of France.
But there had been an unexpected sting for Mary in the news that she was to be made once again, by English law, heir to the throne. As heir, she was no longer considered to be merely the king’s bastard daughter; marriage to the Duke of Bavaria was now out of the question. The king had not even seen fit to inform her of such a momentous decision; she’d got it from Anne, who had received the news in a letter from Philip. And Anne had shielded Mary from the worst of it; the king had apprised Philip of his decision when he was in the foulest possible mood, in agony from a day in the saddle. He had insulted Philip, calling him churl and fortune hunter, and a man in search of an easy throne.
There was little Anne could say, and nothing she could do. “Come,” she said. “Let us valk in der fieldts.” She took Mary’s hand and pulled her up. “You must tell me all about der weddink. Unt explaint to me vonce more about der Scotlandt. And who iss der Earl off Lennox.” No sooner had she made this cheerful suggestion than she instantly regretted it; with Mary’s own prospects of matrimony once again dashed, Lady Margaret’s wedding to the Earl of Lennox was likely to be the very last thing Mary wished to talk about. But it was not so; Mary brightened at the suggestion. She was truly happy for her cousin, and wished her well.
Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes, but this time she was smiling. “It was indeed a lovely wedding. St. James Palace is new, you know; it was only completed a short time ago. The Chapel Royal is beautiful, and in my opinion, rivals that of all the royal chapels save that at Hampton Court. And the weather was so fine! Margaret had flowers in her hair instead of jewels.”
Anne led Mary out into the fields, which were awash in white daisies and tiny yellow buttercups. Besides its dainty, decorative little moat, Hever boasted some very fine ponds; Anne steered Mary towards one of them. “But vass der palace not built vare vass der lepers?’ She shuddered.
Mary laughed. “Yes, it was. But the site is very fine and my father felt that it should not be wasted on a leper hospital. Oh, Anne, look!” Mary cried. She was pointing to a swan’s nest on the bank of the pond, wherein two cygnets slept.
“Yess, just so,” said Anne. “It iss diss vich I vanted you to see. Der baby svanss.”
Suddenly Mary’s eyes filled again and this time Anne cursed herself for a fool. Showing babies to Mary when her arms ached for a child! She took Mary’s arm and led her away. “Come,” she said. “Der mama svann iss mean ass devil. She vill hiss unt snap. Vee shouldt go.” She led Mary back through the buttercups along a path that led to a little knoll from which one could view the expanse of the Kentish countryside, spread below them as if it were a vast colorful quilt.
Mary wiped her eyes. She was not being a very good guest; a change of subject was called for. “You asked about Scotland. Scotland has always been a thorn in England’s side,” explained Mary. “The Scots have always allied with the French against us, France and England also being perpetual enemies. My Aunt Margaret was married to the king of Scotland, in hopes that such an alliance would foster peace between our two countries. But it was a futile gesture.”
“Unt your coussin, der Lady Margaret? She iss der daughter of der Scottish kink?” asked Anne.
“No, she isn’t,” laughed Mary. “Tudor women seem to have minds of their own when it comes to whom they shall marry. Both of my aunts married for love after they were widowed from the royal matches that were forced upon them. My Aunt Margaret did so twice! When she was first widowed, she married a Scottish noble, the Earl of Angus, Archibald Douglas, who is Margaret’s father, and after that, she married Henry Stewart, the Lord of Methven. But Angus’s loyalties are not very staunch, I am afraid; lately he has veered like a weathercock between loyalty to his homeland and loyalty to England. I believe him to be in the Scottish camp at the moment.”
“Unt der Earl off Lennox? Who iss he?” asked Anne.
“Both the earls of Arran and Lennox have a claim to the Scottish throne,” Mary replied. “And they are men grown, while the current queen is an infant. Although my Aunt Margaret’s children were never in the line of succession for the English throne. Still, my cousin Margaret could be considered to have a better claim than my Aunt Mary’s children, she being the younger sister of the king. So a marriage for my cousin Margaret to a Scottish earl with pretensions to that throne is a powerful statement; she could conceivably become queen of Scotland someday. And she is half Scottish by birth. But even that frail reed would be trumped by a marriage between my brother Edward and the baby Scottish queen. That is why the king is so angry that the Scots have now reneged on their agreement for a marriage alliance. It would have all but united our two countries. But I fear me that it will never happen.”
Anne shook her head and laughed. “Mine headt iss svimmingk. I haff no headt for politics, I am afraidt.” She slipped her arm through Mary’s once again and they began the slow descent down the little knoll back towards the castle. A flock of sheep was nibbling the clover that covered the hillside. The bellwether had decided to follow them down the hill and the tinkling of her bell sounded pleasantly on the warm afternoon air. The intermittent cries of the sheep possessed a soothing and peaceful quality.
“Hmph,” grunted Mary. “On second thought, mayhap I should have behaved as Margaret did! Then the king would have been compelled to find a husband for me, too.”
“Not efferyone vass meant to haff unt hussbandt,” said Anne. She was silent for a few moments, and Mary made no reply. Apropos of nothing, Anne said, “A fine burden der Parr hass taken upon herself! Unt
she is not nearly so beautiful ass myself!”
Mary looked at Anne, and saw the tears in her eyes. So she did mind! Mary knew that Anne did not want the king, but she minded very much that her father, when he could have chosen to take Anne back, had not done so. That this should make Anne sad was a paradox of human nature, she supposed.
“Unt still,” said Anne, with an edge to her voice, “no sign off a childt, after von year!”
Mary snorted. “Nor will there be, as long as the king insists on this fool’s errand in France! Why cannot men be content with that which they have? Why must they always quest for more? I cannot imagine that the French people would willingly be ruled by an English king. It confounds me to think of the waste of men and money on such a war. By the way,” said Mary, “have you heard that the queen has been made Regent of England in my father’s absence?”
Anne sniffed. “Say you so? I am surprissedt dat she hass der time for such a task. Iss she not bissey viss her milk-fed greyhoundt dogs unt her parrots? Unt duss she not spendt much time at her books?”
Mary understood Anne’s bitterness. She may not want the king herself, in fact would have been horrified if her brother’s plan to reunite them and make her queen again had succeeded, but it still hurt her pride that the king had dismissed the notion of a reconciliation so out of hand.
Mary tried to think of something to steer Anne’s thoughts away from Queen Catherine. “Did you know that when my father waged war on France in 1513, that my mother was also made regent? And what a fine job she made of it! Despite the fact that my Aunt Margaret was Queen of Scotland, King James invaded England the moment the last English ship entered the Channel. My mother rallied troops, coordinated supplies, and was instrumental in the utter defeat of the Scots at the battle of Flodden. It was sad, though, that the king of Scots was also killed in the fray. My mother sent the king’s bloody coat to my father as a souvenir. My Aunt Margaret was left a widow and her son a baby king.”
“Vell,” said Anne, “Let uss hope dat such vill not be required of der new qveen, ja?”
Mary shook her head. “There is not much chance of that, with Scotland in such disarray. Had my father truly desired to crush Scotland, he could easily have done so. Hertford laid much of it waste, I understand. Shifting alliances, struggles for power, an infant queen, a French Queen Mother in Marie de Guise…you are right. It all makes my head swim, too. Come, let us to dinner!”
Anne smiled; she had at least succeeded in diverting Mary’s mind from Philip. But for how long?
Greenwich Palace, September 1544
In the uppermost window of the tallest tower of the palace Catherine waited to spy the sight of the Great Harry coming upriver. It had indeed been a momentous summer. Barely a year had passed since her highest ambition was to do her duty and nurse her sick husband to his inevitable end, and then, after a decent interval, marry Thomas. How life had changed! She was unshakably convinced of two things; marriage with the king of England had been a judgment on her of God for her terrible sin with Thomas, despite their honorable intentions; and in His great mercy, God had forgiven her and placed into her hands this momentous opportunity to influence the king in matters of faith.
It should not be too difficult; had not the king already renounced Rome and the pope? But how to wean the king away from the superstition and popish rituals that still pervaded religious practice in England? In many ways, the king was not a subtle creature; but a frontal attack in regard to faith was neither a reliable tactic, nor a safe one. She had been racking her brain to think of a way to fulfill what she now viewed as her destiny; to lead the English people, through the auspices of the king, out of the darkness of Roman Catholicism and into the light of the Reformed faith. And in a moment of sheer inspiration that could only have come directly from God, she had the answer.
The king was in a great deal of misery with himself, both from his festering legs, for now his other leg had begun to show signs of failing him, and from his great, unwieldy girth. His temper was often foul and woe be unto anyone in his path when one of his moods of self-pity came upon him. As his wife and queen, Catherine was subjected to a good many of these. But one thing she knew about the king was that, despite his plethora of faults, he loved a good debate. She would use the need to distract him from his now seemingly permanent state of pain and discomfort and his great liking for the skill of disputation to convince him of arguments in favor of the tenets of the Reformed faith.
Already she had, as queen, wielded a great deal of influence over affairs. She who not so long ago had been only plain Lady Latimer, an obscure figure at court at best, was now a queen who had influenced king and Council to alter the succession. A monumental achievement! She had also served an eminently successful term as Regent of England. Heady stuff indeed! And now she would achieve an even greater task, that of changing the faith of the greatest country in the world. In fact, she had already begun to do so.
She smiled as she recalled yet another of the understated tactics she had used to support her grand strategy of steering England in the direction of the Reformed faith. Under the guise of protecting the royal children from the plague that was ravaging London and much of England that summer, Catherine had insisted that the children stay under her direct care and supervision. The king had readily agreed; with whom else should his precious offspring be safer than with his Entirely Beloved Wife and Queen, as Henry was wont to address her in his letters from France? It was a risk; should Prince Edward fall ill while under her aegis, she would pay a terrible price, even though the fault could not possibly have been hers. Better to leave him with his tutors and caretakers in some far-off place! Then no such blame could attach to her.
But she had chosen to take the risk as part of her penance; that such penance smacked of the very popery she eschewed did not once occur to her. She kept the children with her. She had then embarked on a Royal Progress, staying ahead of the dread illness that struck where it would. And none other than Archbishop Cranmer had been their companion. Delicately, carefully, she had introduced intellectual ideas that were supported by the reforming archbishop as they travelled from place to place. Edward, Elizabeth, even their little cousin Jane Grey, had absorbed the new teachings like so many dry sponges. They were young; it was easy to mold their minds. And Catherine believed that she had now set them on a path from which none of them would stray.
With Mary it was more difficult. She would never diverge from the path that had been set for her by her sainted mother so many years ago. Indeed, it would be impossible for Mary to do so, because it would mean acknowledging the king’s marriage to Anne Boleyn, her mother’s incestuous marriage to the king, and her own illegitimacy. Oh, Catherine was well aware that the king had browbeat Mary into just such an admission a few years back; but Catherine knew, as did everyone else, that Mary had not meant a single word of it. And had the king’s ego not been so colossal in scope, he would have been able to see it, too. So a more indirect way must be found to demonstrate Mary’s non-existent leaning towards the Reformed faith.
Again, inspiration came directly from God, for she would never, could never, have thought of such an elegantly simple way to convince Mary to make such a demonstration. Catherine was becoming a past master at using people’s strengths against them. Mary’s was her own pride in her scholarly accomplishments. Catherine had used that blind pride to steer Mary in the direction of translating Erasmus’s Paraphrases from the Latin into English and French. Fired by the intellectual challenge, Mary failed to see that the translation of a Reformist’s interpretation of the Gospel of St. John was an activity of which neither the pope nor her precious cousin, the emperor, was likely to approve. Part of her hated fooling the girl, but some sort of tangible evidence of Mary’s acceptance of the Reformed faith must be had.
These were all great works, and all of them were being done to the glory of God and the Reformed faith. But the sordid side of this great opportunity was terrible to contemplate. Catherine viewed
it all as the just and meet punishment for her adultery…let us not mince words, she thought…with Thomas. God’s mercy was profound, and his judgments were just. For every moment of delicious pleasure she had known with Thomas, and those, when all was said and done, had been few, she had suffered a thousand tortured minutes with the king.
His leg stank; he would now suffer no one to minister to his needs in that regard but herself. Her apothecary’s bills stood testament to her diligence in this matter. She had purchased bales of lint for bandages, and a staggering assortment of medicaments with which to treat his festering wound; honey and horehound pastilles for when the king shouted himself hoarse; suppositories made of olive oil with which to treat his piles. Just the thought of having to install those where they did the most good was enough to turn her stomach. Disgusting!
But all this was as nothing compared to the efforts they made to provide the kingdom with a Duke of York. She knew that the entire court, as well as the foreign ambassadorial staff, daily assessed the state of her belly and waited for news that the queen was at last with child. But she knew, and the king knew, that it would never be. She thanked God for it; she had no desire to provide England with heirs. It was Thomas’ children she wanted. Henry could not very well blame her when he knew the fault to be his own. Anne Boleyn had lost her head for the same offence of which the king dare not accuse his new queen.
She was no shrinking virgin; she had been married twice and had indulged with sinful glee in her couplings with Thomas. But if the thought of installing the king’s suppositories was enough to nauseate her, the thought of what she was called upon to do to rouse the king’s desire to the point of efficacy was enough to make her seriously consider leaping from the tower from which she now watched for that mass of rotting flesh who was her husband to return to her, and plummet gladly to her death on the cobbles below. She shuddered. What had been tedious at best with her two aging husbands and sheer, undreamed of delight with Thomas, was a nightmare with Henry. Here was a man who was so fat that he had to be winched onto his horse, and whose gluttony at table was sickening to watch. And yet no one, including herself, dare tell the king that he was revoltingly corpulent, that it was this lack of restraint that was contributing to the failure of his legs, and that watching him eat, which the court was obliged to do, was ghastly, and downright sickening.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 74