Mary, Bloody Mary

It took me days to learn the particular whistle that would bring Noisette to my glove. Once I made the mistake of practising the three quick notes when I was supposed to be studying Latin grammar, and Master Vives bashed his walking stick so hard on my desk that the silver fox head was thereafter cocked at a quizzical angle.

FINALLY NOISETTE and I were ready. Mounted on my white Spanish pony, I squinted up at the brilliant sky. On my left hand I wore my leather glove, thick enough to resist the talons of a hawk. High overhead Noisette swung lazily as though suspended by a string. I could make out the shape of her graceful wings as a dark blur against the cloudless blue sky.

Several of my ladies had ridden out with me. All but Lady Susan straggled behind, gossiping and laughing among themselves, while Susan and I trotted on ahead. Beside us rode the pompous Lord Ellington, the royal falconer. I leaned back in my saddle, searching for Peter. He saw me and grinned.

I had become fond of Peter during the weeks of training. He had big ears and his eyes were set too close together. Unlike my weak eyes that could see next to nothing at a distance, Peter’s seemed to be as been as those of the hawks he worked with. I much admired his way with birds. He was patient and firm, unlike Master Vives, who was neither.

I took such pleasure in Peter’s company that I had sometimes wondered if it might be possible to marry him. He would surely make a fine companion, and he would let me rule England just as he let me do whatever else I wanted. But I knew that was impossible. I could no more choose my own husband than fly like Noisette.

Noisette circled slowly overhead. I gazed up at her, thrilled; for a moment I imagined that I was that merlin, flying free and wild and solitary — alone! I was never alone. Salisbury slept beside my bed and two servant girls lay on pallets near the door to my chamber. From the moment I arose in the morning until I said amen to my nightly prayers, I moved through the day surrounded by servants, courtiers, councillors, priests and confessors, tutors, ladies-in-waiting.

Suddenly Noisette spotted her prey. She tucked in her wings and dived, dropping straight down and snatching a lark out of the air. Not only did I envy Noisette's freedom and her solitude but also her deadly power. I whistled, and Noisette came to my fist with the lark clutched in her talons. The falconer reached for the lark and slipped it into the game bag. I presented Noisette with her reward, a bit of meat from the falconer’s supply.

Riding home at the end of the day, my game bag half-full, I wondered if my father knew I was learning one of his favourite sports. I thought of my father far more often, it seemed, than he thought of me. Although my mother wrote nearly every week, it had been months since I had had so much as a word from the king. Any message he had for me was sent through Wolsey.

“Why does he not come to visit me?” I asked Susan days later as she accompanied me for a walk. The weather had turned foul, and Susan was the only one of my ladies who did not mind going out in the rain. “Deer hunting is one of his favourite pastimes and the deer parks here exist for his pleasure. Why then do I hear nothing from him?”

“They say that the king has taken up falconry again,” Susan replied cryptically, pulling her cloak up over her head.

“Then he could come and hunt with me! He could bring my mother as well. Why does he not bring the queen here, so that I may see them both?”

“His hunting companion is not the queen,” Susan said in a voice so low that I scarcely heard it. “It is my cousin Anne Boleyn.”

Her words took away my breath. “Lady Anne? But why?”

“It is said that the king is in love with Anne,” Susan replied, head down, avoiding my eyes.

“What lies are you telling me?” I demanded furiously.

“Sadly, madam, it is the truth. The king makes no secret of his passion. My father speaks of it proudly: King Henry is seen everywhere with Lady Anne by his side. Queen Catherine appears with him only at large public occasions.”

“I don’t believe you!” I cried. I turned and splashed back to my chambers through the pelting rain, leaving Lady Susan to walk a little way behind.

As a servant girl helped me off with my wet cloak and sodden shoes, I spied the letter on my table. It bore the thick wax seal of Cardinal Wolsey. His letters seldom brought me good news — was I to move again? — and so I waited until I had changed into dry clothes to break the seal and read the letter.

It bore a message from the king, commanding me to come to Greenwich for Yuletide. At last I had been invited to the palace, to spend Christmas with my father and mother. My mood lifted at once. But then a darker shadow passed over: Anne Boleyn would surely be there.

I remembered well the way my father had looked at Anne as we danced for the French king. And now Lady Susan claimed that my father was in love with Anne! I vowed that I would not believe these hurtful rumours until I saw proof with my own eyes. I would have that opportunity at Yuletide, still several weeks away.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lessons

Day after day for the next month, my eyes burned, my head throbbed, my body ached with fatigue, My lessons seemed longer, more wearisome, and duller than ever. All I could think about was what I would find when I travelled to Greenwich for Christmas.

I was studying Utopia, a book written by my father’s friend Sir Thomas More, and I found the work hard going. I was forbidden to read idle books of chivalry and romance for entertainment. Meanwhile my ladies-in-waiting played cards and rolled dice to amuse themselves. I longed to join them, but I was not allowed trifling pastimes.

The hours crawled by. All day long tutors in mathematics, geography, French, Italian, and music took their turns. In some of these subjects Lady Susan, Lady Winifred, and a few other court ladies participated, but usually I studied alone. My eyelids would begin to droop, my head to sag, and Master Vives would shriek in my ear, “Pay attention! Think not to avoid the task!”

Only after the formal lessons were over and the prayers finished for the night did Salisbury, beloved Salisbury, teach me what I needed most to know.

One November night as a storm rattled the windows of the bedchamber and the flame of a single candle guttered and died, my governess commenced a long story.

“Mary, you know some of this story,” she began, “but perhaps you have not understood what it means. You must understand it now, because I believe that grave changes lie ahead and you must be prepared.”

I lay absolutely still under the thick satin coverlet. “Go on, I beg you.”

“Under your grandfather’s rule, England prospered, and the royal treasury filled with wealth. He intended for his older son, Arthur, to succeed him on the throne. While still a young man, not much older than you are now, Arthur was betrothed. The wife your grandfather chose for Prince Arthur was the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, Catherine of Aragon.”

“My mother.”

“Yes, sweet Mary, but this was long before God saw fit to send you to her. Catherine was sixteen when she married Arthur, already a few years older than one might expect of a bride. I was a guest at the wedding, and I can still picture Princess Catherine riding to the church on the back of a fine Spanish mule. That was the custom of her people, although I’m sure everyone thought it strange, as did I. It was at her wedding to Prince Arthur that she met your father. Prince Henry was just an exuberant, pink-cheeked boy, barely ten years old.

“It was November, anno Domini 1501, and the sky was blanketed with heavy, grey clouds. Henry’s cheerful smile must have warmed Catherine’s heart when she found herself so far from her sunny homeland. But soon her heart was chilled. Only a few months later, Arthur lay in his coffin, dead of consumption.”

I sighed, thinking of my mother’s sorrow.

“The king had no intention of sending Catherine and especially her dowry back home to Spain. The two monarchs, Henry and Ferdinand, put their old grey heads together and devised a solution: Catherine would be kept in England to marry Arthur’s younger brother, Henry. He had not yet reached his eleventh birthday. Many theologians believed that such marriages were forbidden by Scripture. But the pope in Rome granted a dispensation that allowed Henry to marry his brother’s widow. Henry and Catherine were betrothed.”

“But my father was too young to wed, was he not?” I asked.

“He was then,” Salisbury agreed. “But six years passed. Catherine spent those years living a quiet, pious life of prayer and devotion to God. It was during this time that your mother and I became close friends.”

“And my father?” I asked. “Did you know him as well?”

“I knew him as all of England came to know him. We watched in admiration as the lively boy reached manhood. He grew very tall, with merry blue eyes, handsome features, and red-gold hair that shone in the sunlight. He was well-built, strong as a bear and graceful as a deer, an athlete who excelled at every kind of sport. Your father was a magnificent man!

“When his father died, the young prince inherited vast wealth as well as the crown of England. Shortly after the old king’s death, Henry and Catherine were wed.

“The young couple spent the last night of their honeymoon at the Tower of London, where by tradition every English monarch throughout all of our history has slept on the night before the coronation. The next morning they rode together in a golden litter through London to Westminster Abbey, where Henry and Catherine were crowned rulers of all England. I was there by your mother’s side, happy for her happiness.”

“How old was my mother then?” I asked. The hour was late, but I was wide awake and hungry for every detail.

“She was twenty-three, your father was seventeen. The celebration went on for days. You would have loved it, Mary!

“‘Long live King Henry the Eighth!’ we cried. Long live Queen Catherine!”

Outside the palace, the storm howled and sleet whipped against the windows. I marvelled that my governess was telling me this, putting flesh on the bones of the story of my parents, when for so long she had evaded my questions. But why was she telling the story now? Soon enough dawn would arrive, cold and damp, and I would be called from my bed for morning prayers and then to another day of enduring the roars and expostulations of Master Vives. But I wanted to know more, to know everything. “And you were with my mother then?” I prompted.

“Yes, I was. I came to your mother’s court, a lady-in-waiting. I saw with my own eyes how deeply Henry fell in love with his bride, as she did with him. That she was older seemed only to deepen his passion for her. She was comely, and her keen intelligence was a good match for his. Their first child, a girl, was stillborn, but when Queen Catherine was delivered of a living son, the king seemed more in love with her than ever. How King Henry exulted! And all of his loyal subjects celebrated with him. Cannons boomed, shattering windows. Public fountains bubbled with wine. The feasting went on for days. King Henry arranged tournaments in honour of the new prince and jousted with Catherine’s sleeve wrapped around his lance and a banner proclaiming “Sir Loyal Heart.’”

Sir Loyal Heart! I thought of Lady Susan’s words: it is said that the king is in love with Anne. And I remembered the remarks I had overheard only days earlier: “Lovers are madmen who lose all reason, and the king is like all others since he has lost his reason to Lady Anne,” Master Vives had muttered to aged Brother Anselm, my tutor in religion.

Later I overheard Lady Julia, mistress of the wardrobe, murmur to her assistant, “His fancy will wear itself out, and we will hear no more of her. There will be someone new to catch the king’s eye.”

I had listened to the gossip, but I’d refused to believe it — even from the mouth of Anne’s cousin, Susan. How could my father have changed so much?

Salisbury paused to collect herself. When she resumed her story, her voice quivered. “And then the child died.”

I sighed. My mother had told me of the newborn prince’s death and my father’s heartbreak.

“The king and queen mourned the loss of their child, but infant deaths are commonplace, and women are accustomed to weeping over tiny graves. They did not long despair. They were young and vigorous, certain to produce more children. Over the next ten years Catherine became pregnant no fewer than ten times, and each time — except one! — the infant did not live.”

“And that one?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.

“You, my lady,” Salisbury said. “It was an occasion for rejoicing throughout the kingdom when you entered this world healthy and squalling—”

“On the eighteenth day of February, anno Domini 1516,” I interrupted. I was sitting up now on my bed, arms clasped around my thin body, shivering from cold and excitement.

“Three days after your birth I myself carried you from Greenwich Palace to Friars’ Church. I handed you to Cardinal Wolsey, to be christened at the silver baptismal font brought down from Canterbury Cathedral. You wore a white velvet christening robe lined with ermine. The robe was so long and so heavy that a countess and an earl had to follow behind me to carry the train. You lay upon a jewelled pillow under a crimson and gold canopy of estate held by four knights, while the choir sang the Te Deum and Wolsey made the sign of the cross over you.”

Salisbury had told me this part many times, but I never tired of hearing the story. She always ended her account by reminding me of how much my father had adored me, how he doted on me as I grew. But until now I had not dared to question his love.

I leaned over the side of my great bed and peered down at the countess on the trundle. “Then why does he ignore me? What have I done wrong?” I watched the governess’s face carefully for signs of an untruth.

Salisbury breathed a weary sigh. Then she answered, “Because, Mary, you are not a boy. He believes that a woman does not have the strength to rule England after his death, and blood will be shed. He knows that the people may not accept the bastard Fitzroy as their king. Above all else, your father desires a legitimate son to inherit the throne, for England’s sake. And he is determined to have his way.”

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