The passionate tudor, p.15
The Passionate Tudor, page 15
She had placed so much hope in Cromwell that the disappointment was crushing. Screwing up the letter, and feeling entirely abandoned, she scrawled a reply, declaring that her conscience would never permit her to do as he asked.
Back came the response, as if borne on wings. Master Secretary was scathing, telling her in no uncertain terms that he deplored her unfilial stand against her father. He had enclosed a list of articles she was to sign and warned that he would not vouch for her safety if she refused.
She stared at them, feeling overwhelmed. She would not, could not, risk her immortal soul for the favor of an earthly king, however much she craved his love and approval. She would ignore Cromwell’s letter and wait for a reply from her father, although as the days went by, she began to doubt he would send one. And then hope died. It was clear that he did not intend to respond, and that any reconciliation would be dependent on her signing that hateful document. But she could not! Dear God, it would go against everything she believed in! But even Chapuys was urging her to sign. The Emperor, he said, strongly advised it.
She sat in her room late into the evening, with the list of articles before her, trying to bring herself to append her name. She felt ill; her head was aching, her stomach cramping from her monthly course. The words blurred as she wept.
“Dearest Mother, forgive me!” she whispered, dipping the quill in the inkwell yet again and bracing herself to do the deed. “Almighty God, forgive me!” Assuredly they would; but would she ever forgive herself?
The Devil was tempting her, enticing her to think of the benefits that would surely come to her if she did this terrible thing. He showed her herself being received back into her father’s loving arms, being warmly welcomed by Queen Jane and enveloped once more in the glittering life of the court. No more humiliations, no more living under a cloud, no more fear of the future. But what was that, she countered, against living the rest of her life with an unquiet conscience, knowing she had betrayed everything her mother had fought and suffered for, failed in her courage and capitulated for worldly reasons, where others had stood firm and suffered even unto death for their principles?
Yet Cromwell—whom she still believed to be her friend—Chapuys, and the Emperor had all urged her to sign. And both Charles and Chapuys had assured her that the Pope would absolve her from all responsibility for what she was made to do under duress.
It was late. The June twilight had almost faded and left her sitting in the dark. Lighting a candle, she took up her quill once more and, trying not to think about what she was doing, signed her name.
She had done it. She had finally acknowledged her father to be Supreme Head of the Church of England, and her mother’s marriage, by God’s law and man’s law, incestuous and unlawful. With a few strokes of the pen, she had repudiated everything she held sacred.
Hurrying to the close stool, she bent over it and retched.
* * *
—
The next morning, shaky and nauseous, and feeling like Judas, she sent the document to Cromwell, enclosing a letter to the King written in the most groveling terms she could summon, as Master Secretary had advised: I beg you, of your inestimable goodness, to pardon my having so offended you that my heavy and fearful heart dare not presume to call you father. I will never be happy until you have forgiven me. In truth, she would never be happy again. What did it matter now if she was reduced to begging to prostrate herself humbly before the King’s feet to crave the favor of an audience?
* * *
—
Your Highness has never done a better day’s work! Chapuys wrote jubilantly. I am pleased to have relieved you of every doubt of conscience.
But you haven’t! Mary cried inwardly. I have to live with it, and it is well-nigh unbearable! Yet the ambassador’s tone was exultant. There now remained, he said, no bar to her reconciliation to her father. She only hoped he was right and that the King was not angry that he had been made to wait so long for her submission.
Two days later, she was told that a gentleman called Sir Thomas Wriothesley had come from the court and wished to speak to her. She hurried to the hall, hoping that he brought word from her father.
“His Grace has sent me to you, my lady,” he said, bowing. He was a dapper man with heavy-lidded eyes, a long nose and a luxuriant red beard, and there was about him that air of restless ambition that clung to many young men at court. “He has received the paper you signed, but requires me to obtain from you a fuller declaration of your faults in writing, to be taken to Master Cromwell.”
She regarded him with dismay, twisting her hands. “But I know not what else to write.”
“I will instruct you.”
Mary tried to look grateful, but inwardly she was distraught. Why was Father prolonging her misery? But there was nothing for it. With Sir Thomas Wriothesley prompting her, and sometimes dictating, she wrote a long and abject letter to Cromwell, acknowledging her faults in detail and thanking him for his kindness in furthering her cause with the King.
When she had signed and sealed it, Wriothesley smiled at her. “And now I am to ask your Highness to name those ladies you would like appointed to your service, should his Majesty decide to increase your household pending a return to favor.”
Sudden joy filled her. Such instructions could only have come from Father himself! Immediately, she began to feel better, reminding herself that his Holiness would absolve her for what she had done.
“I am content to leave the choice to the King’s pleasure,” she said, knowing it was now politic to show herself compliant in all things.
After that, although she still felt poorly, she went about lighter in heart and in step. Evidently, the household had had instructions, for she was treated with enhanced deference. She noticed too that there were often people crowding at the gates, trying—the guards told her—to catch a glimpse of her. And then, at the end of June, the King’s officers arrived at Hunsdon, sent by him to see that she had all she required and to advise her that it would not be long before he brought the Queen to visit her.
Soon afterward, Queen Jane’s brother, Edward Seymour, now Lord Beauchamp, came to visit Mary. He was a serious-faced, richly garbed young man with a stiff manner, but he was cordial enough when Mary invited him to join her for a glass of wine in the parlor.
“The Queen my sister has sent me to obtain a list of the clothing your Highness will need when you return to court,” he told her. “She wishes you to be garbed as befits the King’s daughter. She asked me to tell you that his gracious clemency and merciful pity have overcome his anger at your unkind and unnatural behavior, and that he is looking forward to being reunited with you.”
This was all very heartening, although Mary did wonder irritably when people would cease to remind her of how deeply she had offended her father. Could they not put the past behind them, as she was resolved to do?
Her irritation dissipated as Lord Beauchamp gave her news of the court. She would have liked to ask if Lady Salisbury was to be restored to her, but decided that could wait.
She noticed that her guest was looking at her intensely.
“Is your Grace in health?” he asked.
“I have not been well,” she confided. “I have been under a lot of strain lately, but I am better now.”
They passed a pleasant hour, and then Lord Beauchamp stood up to leave. “I have something for your Highness,” he said, as they crossed the hall and stepped into the porch. Outside, in the courtyard, a groom was holding the reins of a fine white horse.
“You have a beautiful mount, my lord.” Mary smiled, patting the animal’s nose.
“She is not mine, your Highness. She is my gift to you.”
Mary could hardly believe it. That such a prominent courtier would give her such a gift was a sure sign indeed that she was back in favor.
When Beauchamp had gone, Mary wrote again to her father, declaring that she would never vary from her submission, and praying that God would soon send him and the Queen children.
It was not long before other influential courtiers began hurrying to Hunsdon to seek her friendship and patronage. But when, she kept wondering, would her father come?
* * *
—
One evening in July, Sir Thomas Wriothesley returned. “I am to escort your Highness to Hackney, where the King’s Grace will receive you,” he informed Mary. “He had intended for you to come to the court, but he wishes to wait until you are fully recovered from your recent illness.”
She wondered if it had ever occurred to Father that he had been the cause of her illness. She doubted it! Nevertheless, he was clearly concerned about her.
“We must depart tonight,” Wriothesley instructed. “I will have your litter made ready.”
“Give me time to prepare!” Mary cried, her heart racing, and flew upstairs, summoning her maids to help her change into her best gown—although all were showing signs of wear. Her mind was in turmoil at the prospect of seeing her father after so long—it was five years since she had set eyes on him. She had been fifteen, a pretty, diminutive girl with beautiful red hair and the freshness of youth. But, looking in her mirror, she saw that she looked ill and haunted, and that she was much too thin. What would he think of her now?
Setting aside such thoughts, she straightened her hood, threw on a cloak and ran downstairs, where her escort was waiting. Riding through the night was an adventure such as she had not experienced in a long while, and she found the secrecy exhilarating, despite her trepidation at the meeting that was to come.
She arrived at the royal manor house at Hackney before the King and Queen, but did not have long to wait. When their arrival was announced, she stood in the great hall and made a deep obeisance, hardly able to stop trembling.
“My most dear and well-beloved daughter!” her father said warmly, and she felt his strong arms raising her, clasping her to him, saw the tears in his eyes as he gazed at her. He looked older, sterner, and he had put on weight. His fair cheeks were flushed with emotion.
He was gentle with her, kindly and affectionate.
“I have brought your good mother, Queen Jane, to meet you,” he said, and Mary went to kneel, but Jane would not let her, taking her hands and embracing her instead, her broad, pale face radiant with the kind expression Mary remembered so well.
“You cannot know how good a friend you have in the Queen,” Father said.
Mary ventured a smile. “I know I am much beholden to your Grace,” she told Jane.
The King led them into the great chamber and bade Mary be seated between him and Jane. She was conscious of his intense blue gaze, and the emotion he did not try to hide. “I deeply regret having kept you so long away from me,” he said, and at that her composure broke and tears streamed down her face.
“Oh, my dearest father, how I have missed you,” she wept.
Father looked as if he might weep, too. “I will not let it happen again,” he promised, taking her hand. “We must forget the past and look to the future. There is nothing I would not do for you, my child, now that we are in perfect accord again.”
Jane took from her purse a little velvet bag and pressed it into Mary’s hands. “And I would be your Highness’s friend,” she smiled.
“There is nothing I would like better, Madam. You were always kind to me.” When Mary opened the bag, she could not speak, for inside was a beautiful diamond ring.
“In token of our new friendship,” Jane told her.
“And this is from me,” Father said, handing Mary a tasseled purse. “A thousand crowns for your little pleasures. From now on, you need have no anxiety about money, for you shall have as much as you wish.”
The afternoon passed pleasantly after that, as Mary began to relax in her father’s company, and Jane assured her that she had many friends at court who welcomed her return to favor.
“I look forward to receiving you there,” she said, laying her hand on Mary’s sleeve. “There are no ladies in my household with whom I can associate on equal terms, and, in truth, I am feeling rather lonely. I can think of none better than your Highness to be a friend and companion to me.” Her words warmed Mary’s heart.
“But you are not to return to court just yet,” Father said. “You are looking peaky after your illness and need time to rest and recover.”
Mary was grateful for that. Appearing in public with all eyes on her would be an ordeal, and she was not ready to face it.
After Vespers, as the King and Queen made ready to leave, Mary was in much happier spirits.
“I promise you shall be well treated from now on,” Father called down from the saddle. “You will enjoy more freedom than you ever had, and I will see to it that you are served with honor, as the second lady in the land after the Queen. You will want for nothing! And we will see you very soon.” He blew her a kiss, and then they were riding away through the gatehouse and heading for the London road.
The reunion had been everything Mary could have desired. No father could have behaved better toward his daughter. She now lacked nothing but the name of Princess of Wales and her rightful status—and was that really of much consequence now that she was henceforth to rank as second lady at court after Queen Jane and would have everything more abundantly than before?
True to his word, the King sent her gifts of money, while from Jane there were rich court gowns. Master Cromwell made a present of another fine horse and, at the King’s instigation, started to reinstate Mary’s household. She began to believe there was a good chance that her father would soon be thinking of restoring her to the succession.
She was thrilled when he sent her with her new household—sans Lady Shelton—to Richmond Palace and arrived unannounced with Jane soon afterward to visit her. Over dinner, for which her cook had miraculously and speedily produced a veritable feast, he presented Mary with a ring inset with portrait miniatures of her, himself, and Jane. “It is a gift from Master Secretary,” he said, beaming. “He had it made specially for you, and I was so impressed with it that I insisted on giving it to you myself!”
Mary was touched. She slipped it on her finger and held out her hand to admire it. “I will write to Master Cromwell. I owe him much gratitude for his kindness and his wise advice. I take him for one of my chief friends after your Graces.”
* * *
—
Conscious of her good fortune, Mary found time to spare a thought for her half-sister. On a hot day in July, she set off for Hunsdon, where Elizabeth was staying. The child was waiting for her with Lady Bryan in the courtyard, and as soon as Mary had dismounted, she ran forward and sketched a wobbly curtsey. Mary stooped to kiss her.
“My, you have grown, sweeting!” she exclaimed, stroking Elizabeth’s hair. “You’re nearly three now, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I have brought you a gift.” Mary smiled, beckoning to one of her ladies, who carried over a wooden box covered in embroidered silver. Inside, wrapped in velvet, was a rosary of amber beads and a jeweled crucifix. “For your chapel,” Mary said, pointing to the latter.
“Pretty,” said Elizabeth, gently fingering the beads.
“How does my sister, Lady Bryan?” Mary rose to her feet and greeted the governess with a kiss. “And you yourself? It is good to see you again.”
“We are well enough, both of us, I thank you,” the old woman answered. “But I am glad your Highness is here.” As Elizabeth skipped ahead to the porch, she lowered her voice. “Questions, questions, all the time. She knows something has happened, and she keeps asking for her mother. She has to be told something.”
“I will speak with her presently,” Mary offered, wondering what on earth she was going to say.
Lady Bryan nodded. “I am so grateful. But I pray you eat first, for it is nigh to eleven o’clock and dinner is almost ready.”
“I have brought my fool, and she can afford a diversion later, if need be,” Mary said, as they entered the hall.
Elizabeth looked up. “I like fools,” she chirped. “They are funny. They make me laugh.”
Roast goose and hot salad were served with appropriate ceremony. Elizabeth had been sent to the nursery to have her dinner, being too young to eat with the grown-ups.
Mary could not face food. She was dreading the coming conversation. She laid down her knife and shook her head sadly. “I hardly know how I am going to tell her, Lady Bryan,” she said miserably.
Lady Bryan rested a comforting hand on hers. “I wouldn’t be too explicit if I were you, Madam.”
“Oh, no,” agreed Mary fervently. “Do you think she will be very upset? After all, she did not see much of her mother. Will she understand?”
“There is much she understands,” Lady Bryan replied. “My lady is more than ordinarily precocious. As sharp as nails, that child, and clever with it.”
“But a child for all that,” Mary said, “so I will break it to her as gently as I can, and may our Holy Mother and all the saints help me.”
Lady Bryan steered the conversation away from the subject, but while she and Sir John Shelton chatted about household matters and the state of the weather, Mary, her heart swelling with love and compassion for her little sister, could only think of the heavy task that lay ahead of her.
