The Boleyn Reckoning

“M
Y LADY
.”

Mary refused to acknowledge the greeting, for Archbishop Cranmer’s avoidance of her true title was an insult to her birth and position.

“My lady Mary,” the impertinent man pressed, “I bring with me a letter from the king, your father.”

That she could not refuse to acknowledge. Wordlessly, she extended her hand and the heretic archbishop handed over the letter. They were alone in a small antechamber at Hatfield House, where Mary fulfilled her duty as lady-in-waiting to her tiny half sister. If Elizabeth
were
her half sister; Mary would have liked to believe that the child was not Henry’s at all. But in her heart she knew they were sisters. They shared some of the same colouring, and even at not yet three years old, the precocious Elizabeth had a fearsome will that shouted her royal parentage.

Mary’s chest constricted at her father’s familiar and beloved handwriting. But it was the message itself that closed off her throat and sent wings of panic fluttering through her body.
The queen is
safely delivered of a son. England at last has a Prince of Wales as God intended
.

How could God have intended this? Mary wondered. How could He have allowed her own mother—Henry’s true and loyal wife—to die barren and alone while the Boleyn whore bewitched the king? How could such a woman be granted a living son when Catherine of Aragon had been denied? Mary felt for the rosary at her waist and then remembered that she was forbidden to wear it at Hatfield.

“What do you want of me?” she demanded of Cranmer. “Congratulations? I am always glad for my father’s happiness, but I cannot congratulate him on a mistaken pride in a son who is not legitimate. How can this boy be Prince of Wales, when my father has never truly been married to that woman?”

“My lady,” and despite herself, Mary recognized the kindness beneath the archbishop’s inflexibility, “your care for your mother’s honour does you great credit. But your father wishes nothing more than to be reconciled with you. Why separate yourself from the comfort of the king’s love and care when you need not? He asks so little.”

“I know what he asks—that I proclaim my mother’s marriage a lie, her virtue a hoax, her faith an inconvenience. The king asks me to brand myself a bastard for the sake of that woman’s children.”

“The king asks you to accept the inevitable. My lady, this is a fight you cannot win. Ask yourself—does God wish you to go on in defiance against your father’s wishes? To live out your life in rebellion and servitude? Whatever the state of your parents’ marriage, you were conceived in good faith and were born for better things.”

Mary thought of how much she hated Hatfield, being in a house of Protestants who despised not only her and her mother but the Church as well. With Cranmer being so reasonable and
soft-spoken, she asked cautiously, “What would I receive in return?”

“In return for your signature, your father will grant you the manor of Beaulieu for life. There, you will be permitted to retain a single confessor and attendants of your own choosing.”

A confessor … Mary closed her eyes and shivered. Henry knew his women. He knew how much she longed for a household of her own again, where she could wear her rosary and pray without the sneers of heretics and be counseled by a true priest. But to sign away her rights … the rights her mother had died upholding …

“Your father is also prepared to consider the wisdom of a proper marriage, providing your behavior is acceptable.”

And that was the final blow to her resistance. Though her intellect knew that “consider” was not the same thing as “arrange” or “allow,” it was considerably better than her current state. She was twenty years old and had been often betrothed in her childhood. But she would never be allowed to marry while she continued in defiance of her father’s wishes. With each year, she would grow older—and even more than marriage, Mary wanted children.

Mother
, she offered up silently,
what should I do?

The words were so immediate and clear to her mind that Mary knew at once it was her answer.
Do what you must for now—and wait for your moment. God means you to turn England back to Him
.

Mary opened her eyes, her pride protesting but her conscience unwavering. “I will sign.”

And then I will wait,
she vowed silently.
And when my moment comes—I will act
.

The trial of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, was presided over by George Boleyn, Duke of Rochford and Lord Chancellor
of England. Traditionally, it was the Earl Marshal of England who conducted such trials, but William had delayed bestowing that hereditary office on the young Duke of Norfolk after his grandfather’s death. Certainly Rochford did not appear to mind.

While Dominic settled into place with the other peers who today would sit in judgment of Northumberland, his attention was almost wholly given over to contemplating Rochford himself. Three months ago the imprisoned Robert Dudley had made an enigmatic accusation aimed at the Lord Chancellor but had thus far refused to provide any details. Robert seemed to believe that even if his father were convicted today, William would be merciful as to the sentence and so there would continue to be time to consider the matter.

Dominic knew better.

The doors at the back of the hall opened and Northumberland was escorted in. The hall at Westminster was a rich backdrop to today’s trial. A stage had been erected in preparation, hung with tapestries and a canopy beneath which was a bench for Northumberland. Dominic viewed the tableau with a cynicism that he had learned from Rochford—the trappings might argue respect for the accused, but they served primarily to remind those watching how far the man had fallen.

Now in his early fifties, Northumberland had always been the image of a rough, plainspoken outsider, his physical presence a reminder of his military prowess. But today he looked diminished, his high, broad forehead and dark pointed beard emphasizing rather than hiding the new gauntness of his face. He conducted himself with gravity, three times reverencing himself to the ground before the judges. Dominic thought wryly it was the most humility he’d ever seen from John Dudley.

The hall was crowded with spectators, including members of
London City’s guilds as well as diplomats and foreign merchants who would no doubt be taking careful notes and sending word of the proceedings far and wide across Europe. England had been the subject of intense Continental scrutiny for quite some time—what with her young and untried king, her inflammatory religious divide, and her highly desirable and unwed royal princess. England might not be a powerhouse like France or Spain, but it was very often the critical piece that determined the balance of power.

And now a peer of the realm was being tried for his life. Not to mention that a mere five months ago—despite a peace treaty—a French army had engaged English troops in battle on the Scots border, and since that time England’s king had been mostly absent from public view. Everyone in England and Europe knew that William had been ill, and some correctly guessed at the smallpox that had driven him to seclusion. Now even his own people were beginning to grow restless. They had waited years for William to grow old enough to take his father’s place as a reigning monarch. They were not content to leave the government in the hands of men like Rochford and Northumberland, rightly distrusting the motives of such powerful men. The people wanted their king.

This trial was the first step in appeasing the public. Northumberland was hugely unpopular. Although Dominic had not been in London when the duke and four of his sons were paraded through the streets to the Tower, he had heard countless versions of how they were booed and mocked, pelted with rotten fruit and even stones. With William not quite ready to return to public view yet, Northumberland’s trial for high treason was a distraction.