As they walked rapidly down the corridor, de Feria turned to the archbishop. “What is Her Grace’s condition?” he asked.
Nicholas sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips. “It varies, Your Excellency,” he replied. “The bouts of fever and chills have abated, but Her Grace is plagued with headaches and sometimes she says she cannot see. She sleeps only fitfully. And of late she has experienced violent convulsions.”
It was treason for an Englishman to speak to another of the death of their sovereign; but a Spaniard was under no such constraint. “She cannot have long to live,” said de Feria.
It was true, reflected Nicholas, but he had heard it put more delicately. “All the more reason,” he said, “that you must convince Her Grace, in the name of the king, to declare the Princess Elizabeth as her heir. If she will not, the country shall be cast into confusion when...” But he dared not utter the words. “The situation is dire, Your Excellency.”
De Feria nodded. “I am aware of it,” he said. “I shall do my best.”
The halberdiers silently opened the doors to the queen’s chambers. The royal physicians and apothecaries had been dismissed; there was nothing more they could do. The anteroom was now full of weeping women who did not even look up as de Feria and the Lord Chancellor passed them by.
The inner chamber was dim despite numerous candles. It was barely three of the clock, but the day was overcast and it was almost dark outside. The fire was heaped to ward off the chill of the autumn afternoon, making the room stiflingly hot.
“Your Grace,” said the archbishop softly. “See whom I have brought! It is the Spanish ambassador.”
Mary was propped up onto her pillows; she opened her eyes, which were glassy and seemed ill-focused. “Figueroa!” she exclaimed. “Has…has His Grace come with you?”
It was a pathetic expression of a forlorn hope; surely the queen must know better. But the fact that she had not given up hope, even in her extremity, was encouraging. Perhaps there would be just enough time to make her do what must be done.
De Feria leaned over and took Mary’s cold, clammy hand into his own and brushed it with his lips. Poor queen! Doomed to disappointment and unable to face the fact. “His Grace sends his most profound regrets,” said de Feria. “But he cannot leave the peace negotiations.”
“Ah,” said Mary. “I understand.” It was the proper thing, the only thing to say. But her soul cried out silently within her. She and Philip were married in the sight of God and had countless times shared a bed. How could he let her depart this life without saying goodbye? How could he have forgotten so much so completely? The answer was simple, if hard to face; none of it had meant anything to Philip. Her death would touch him very lightly, if at all. Or, horrible thought, he would be glad. He was young and still had only one son and heir for Spain; he must remarry and have more sons. But she must put a brave face on it, if for no other reason than for the sake of her pride.
“I have every confidence that His Grace will make no peace with King Henri that does not include the return of Calais,” she said.
Another forlorn hope! But there was no sense in dashing the queen’s optimism. It would simply make his mission all the more difficult.
“Indeed,” replied the Count. “The king has stated more than once that the return of Calais to England is the linchpin of any agreement between Spain and France.” It was true on the face of it; but for Philip it was a straw issue, something to be given up to get something else that really mattered to him. The king realized, even if the queen refused to do so, that the French would never, under any circumstances, relinquish such a prize.
Only Frideswide Stelly, alone amongst Mary’s women, seemed capable of entering the room without tears; Mary saw her in the doorway and asked weakly, “What is it, dear Frideswide?”
Lady Strelly bobbed a curtsey and replied, “If it please Your Grace, the Bishop of London is here with the warrants.”
Mary gestured and Frideswide stepped back, allowing Edmund Bonner to enter the room with his scrolls. More death warrants for the burning of heretics. Technically, the Catholic Church had never burnt a single heretic; those found guilty were always turned over to the secular authority for punishment.
“How now, Bishop Bonner,” said Mary weakly. “Good Strelly, my quill, if you please.” While she awaited the quill, she asked, “Bishop, for how many? And where?”
“Two, Your Grace, here in London,” replied the bishop. “But I must beg Your Grace to reconsider my request to have these burnings carried out in private. The tumults have become severe, and there is danger of riot. When the five who were just burnt in Canterbury…”
Mary’s eyes flashed in her pale face. “Never!” she cried. “How can others be influenced by the burnings if they cannot witness them?” Bonner knew when to concede; he had done his best. Such things were the queen’s decision, and she had made her wishes clear. The bishop unfurled the scrolls and held them for her to sign. For a few moments the only sounds in the room were that of the crackling and spitting of the fire and the quill scratching across the parchment of the warrants.
Nicholas noted the alacrity with which the queen signed the documents; but he also noted that she did not even look at them before she did so. How easy it would be to simply slip in the document he had begged her several times to sign, naming the Princess Elizabeth as her heir. But alas…to resort to trickery would likely create more problems than it solved.
De Feria saw his moment and said, “His Grace has requested, Your Grace, that you also sign the declaration naming the Princess Elizabeth as heir to throne of England. His Grace understands your reluctance to do so, however…”
Signing the death warrants had all but exhausted her; but at this mention of her sister her deep voice rang out. It was hard to believe that such a sound could come from such a small, wasted frame. Mary was not given to swearing, and so her response surprised everyone, if not in content, in the expression of it.
“God’s teeth!” she cried. “No, and no, and no! I cannot, I shall not, I will not name Elizabeth as my heir! Not for the sake of peace, nor at the request of my husband!” Her chest heaved with the effort of such an outburst. How could they ask it of her? Did they not understand that it would be the final blow that might carry her off? She waved a derisive hand. “Leave me, all of you,” she said weakly.
# # #
The sound of beautiful voices penetrated the depths of her consciousness. It had been so for the past several days. She would hear sweet singing and wonder if she were in the cathedral at Mass. But the voices sounded strange, unearthly. And they were not the voices of the choir to which she was accustomed; these were children’s voices. But there were so many of them. She would open her eyes and then before her she would see a host, a glittering multitude of children, all clad in white, and all suffused with a yellow-white glow, as if they were lit from within. Was this heaven, she wondered?
The first time she had dreamed this dream she had told it to her ladies. They had found it comforting to think that God, in His mercy, had vouchsafed Her Grace a glimpse of Paradise, of the shining land that awaited her after death. She had even thought as much herself the first time she dreamt it. But now she knew better. To be surrounded by children now was a cruel mockery of her failure to produce an heir. It became a mirror of her false pregnancies. It even brought to mind her mother’s failure to produce the son that her father had so desperately desired, and which had been the cause of the ruination of all their lives.
She could take no joy now in hearing hosts of children playing sweet music and singing. Her women might be much comforted on her behalf by such dreams, and she did not grudge them that comfort, nor would she gainsay it. But she was not comforted.
And then it was always the same; other voices would intrude and up, up she would come, only to find herself wretched and back in her chamber at St. James’s Palace. Sometimes she was cold, so very cold; and other times she would awaken to a burning fever.
# # #
She was truly surprised to find herself back in her consciousness this time; for the last time she had done so the truly worst thing left that could happen to her had happened. After it was done, she had expected to die. For she had, finally, agreed to name Elizabeth as the next queen of England. At first the men around her thought that if she were outnumbered and overwhelmed by them, then they should prevail. Groups of them would come and harangue her pitilessly, making all sorts of dire predictions as to what would happen when…but they dared not say it or be guilty of treason. Finally she would wave them away, and they would depart, dejected, defeated, their purpose unfulfilled.
And then someone had thought of what turned out to be a brilliant tactic. They had sent Sir William Cordell, the Speaker of the House, alone and without the support of his fellows, to reason with her. He had spoken softly to her of his experience of four reigns, his sitting of eleven Parliaments. He spoke of how her father would have expected her to act in such a situation as she now found herself. As queen she must do what was best for her people and for England; she must separate herself from her personal feelings and her desire for vengeance. He mentioned no one specifically; he simply described the situation and what she must do if she had any hope of being remembered as a queen who loved her people and cared what happened to them. Personally, he knew that there was little love left for this queen; but he, too, had to do what was best for England and if dissimulation was called for he would not, did not, hesitate to employ it to obtain the desired outcome. After an hour of calm, reasoned speech, Mary had finally signed the document naming her sister as her heir.
No one could possibly know or imagine what it had cost her to do it; no one could possibly comprehend the bitterness, the defeat with which she had given in. With this final conquest over her of her enemies, she was ready to die.
She had asked for Reginald to administer the Last Rites to her, but she was told that he, too, suffered cruelly from a second attack of the new ague and could not rise from his bed at Lambeth. So even this last request was not to be satisfied. She agreed to let the Bishop of London administer the sacrament, but had fallen asleep, exhausted, before he could do so.
And now she kept coming back. Why, she wondered? There was nothing left but to hear Mass and then die. So what was she doing back here yet again?
There was always a moment, a split second between sleep and wakefulness, when memory was suspended, and she did not remember that she had failed England, failed her mother, failed Philip, failed God and the pope; but then it would all come rushing back and she would cry, softly, quietly, so no one should hear. But of what use were her tears now?
“Her Grace is still the queen and she has a right to know,” said a voice, hissing, angry, but in a strident whisper.
Another answered in the same hushed yet agitated voice. “To what purpose? What difference can it make now?”
Lady Strelly tilted her chin back and said coldly, “Well, Mistress Clarencius, for one thing, Her Grace will want to ensure that Masses are said for their souls. We none of us want to be guilty of shirking our religious duties, regardless of our personal feelings.”
“Know what?” asked Mary. “Masses for whom?”
“There now!” cried Susan, with a defiant gesture of her arm. “See what you have done!”
Lady Strelly ignored Susan and bent over the dying queen, placing a hand on her fevered brow. “His Excellency the Spanish Ambassador is without and asking to see Your Grace,” she said softly.
Philip! …was her first thought. Good Figueroa must have news of, news from, her husband. “I will see him,” she said.
Susan shot Frideswide a venomous look and withdrew. Frideswide made her ready to receive the Count by straightening the bedclothes, fluffing her pillows and helping her to rise up on them a bit.
As soon as de Feria was within her range of vision she said, weakly holding out her hand, “My dear Figueroa!” just as she always greeted him. He hesitated and she withdrew her hand. “No,” she agreed. “You must not touch me. This ague…”
He nodded with obvious relief and bowed instead. He was shocked at the change in her since he had seen her last. Her face, never fully fleshed and always very angular, was drawn and almost green in its pallor; the bones of her face seemed to protrude through her skin. Her smile was that of a death’s head.
“Your Grace,” he said. “I fear me that I bring grave news.”
Mary gasped and whispered, “Philip…”
De Feria shook his head. “No, Your Grace, His Majesty is well and sends his best regards and fervent hopes for your recovery,” he lied. Philip was already assessing the possibility of marrying Christina of Denmark, who was still unmarried. Nor would anything now stand in the way of their amour; for the Emperor Charles had finally died, and his sister, Mary of Hungary, had quickly followed her beloved brother to the grave. It was this dire news that he was here to impart. It was feared that such grim tidings would be the end of the queen; the only reason he had made it this far was because there were some who truly believed that to be so, and hoped that it would. And amongst these was her loving husband!
“Your Grace,” he said. “I must with the greatest regret inform Your Gracious Majesty that your cousins, His Grace, the Emperor Charles, and Her Grace, Mary of Hungary, have both departed this earth and have gone to their reward in heaven.”
Mary said nothing; at first he was unsure if she had heard him, or hearing, had not understood. Now she knew the meaning of the great comet that all had been marveling at during the summer. Some believed that such a thing portended, before the end of the year, that great personages were sure to die. And these things always came in threes. So it was to be her cousins, Charles, the Holy Roman Emperor; Mary, the Queen of Hungary and Governess of the Netherlands; and herself, the Queen of England, who were to make up the trinity of deaths signified by the great comet. It made sense. It was God’s will. There was nothing left to do but to turn her face to the wall and die.
Calmly, as if she were asking for another candle to be lit or for the fire to be stoked, she said, “Fetch the Bishop, if you please.”
# # #
She had done her penance and now lay very still as the bishop of London anointed her with the holy oil. Finally, that part of the ritual over, the last step was to administer the Eucharist, the Holy Viaticum, to ensure that instead of dying alone she should die with Christ. In the end, that is all one can hope for, she thought. She heard the bishop say the ritual words, "May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life". She felt him place the wafer onto her tongue.
And so it was done. It was nearly dawn; she could just make out the gray light outlining the windows. The bishop was singing Mass and all of her ladies were weeping quietly. She hoped they had no regrets; the time for regret, for self-pity, had passed. She was about to make that closer acquaintance with Almighty God for which every good Christian is supposed to long. If the time was nigh, then she must not go with a bitter heart, asking why all the bad things had happened to her. Bad things and good things happened to everyone; one hopes that in the end the good will outweigh the bad and that one can look back on a life lived well and be happy to have existed. And if not, then one must not blame God; for after all, it was likely one’s own shortcomings that were to blame.
She had done what she believed to be right; she had done her best, just as her mother had done. But in the end her best had not been good enough. In that brief moment between the end of her life and the vastness of eternity, she knew in her heart that God, if no one else, would understand and forgive her.
THE END
Afterword
“Truth is the daughter of time.”
-Mary’s motto
Mary Tudor arguably has more detractors than she has apologists. This is true in part due to a confluence of unfortunate circumstances in her own time that became perpetuated as the years, and finally the centuries, rolled on. In this fictionalized account of h
er life, I have endeavored not to judge Mary either as a queen or as a person. My objective was to rely upon the facts and opinions presented by her biographers, and my ability to empathize with the circumstances of her life, to reach a balanced representation of who she was and why she made the decisions she made. I hope the reader will feel that I have succeeded in this aim and concur with my assertion that I have treated Mary as fairly as possible.
When I had the actual words Mary and other characters used, I have striven to include them. But the context for such actual quotes is not always provided, or provided in the depth that allows for absolute certainty of meaning or circumstance; and even though the language used was mostly English, except for foreign dispatches, there is still the possibility of something being lost either in translation or interpretation. When I knew where Mary was, I have used that location whenever possible. Where the records are non-existent, ambiguous or contradictory, I used my own judgment to decide where and how to set a scene, and what to have the characters say or think. This is where the novelist has an advantage over the biographer; we have the leeway to imagine what we do not know. Inevitably, some events and their timeframes had to be altered or condensed to accommodate brevity. But I would like to assure the readers of this book that I have never sought to rewrite history, as some novelists, screenwriters and movie makers have done in the past.
To paraphrase another historical novelist dear to my heart and the writer who inspired me to write historical fiction:
Writers of historical fiction make no claim that our fictional account represents exactly how it was; we say only that this is how it might have been.
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