The Redheaded Princess: A Novel (13 page)

Mary wore ceremonial clothing, a gown of purple velvet and satin in the French style, covered with gold and gems. She wore a chain of gold, pearls, and precious stones around her neck and a French hood trimmed with pearls. Her horse was white and proud, caparisoned in cloth of gold with embroidery. I dressed in white, plain as could be, trimmed only with pearls. Behind me rode Anne of Cleves, my father's fourth wife, whom he had put aside because he "liked her not." She was a sweet lady, always glad to be included in ceremonies, never jealous of any new Queen. I waved and pretended the rejoicing was for me.

Mary shouted, "Pray to the Lord." And I thought, she doesn't know how to be a Queen. She doesn't know how to accept the adulation of the people. Humility will get her nowhere. We rode straight for the Tower of London. Outside its gates hundreds of children dressed in white sang for her and threw flowers. Cannon sounded, echoing off the water of the Thames. The sound of it gave me courage.

For a few minutes, before we reached the Tower, I dared to ride abreast of her. "Madam, I would inquire of you. Where are the Dudley’s?"

"In the Beauchamp Tower, to stay there and await their fate.”

“And my Lord Robin?"

"With the others.”

“He was not part of the scheme against you.”

“He fought with his father," she said. "He rode against me both at Norfolk and at King's Lynn. He came to Hunsdon to arrest me.”

“But, Madam, he declared for you in the field."

"Enough about Robin Dudley. Now get back to your place in line." I had provoked her. She came quick to anger. I must be careful. But I could not help worrying about Robin.

I could not keep my eyes off Beauchamp Tower as we approached. Was Robin, at that moment, looking out one of those small windows at us? At once, Sir John Gaze, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, came out to greet Mary. He bowed. She sent one of her knights forward and he was handed a paper. The Lord Lieutenant read it, bowed again, and said, "Your orders will be immediately complied with, Your Majesty."

Then he went into a part of the Tower that held more prisoners, and soon we heard a clanking of chains and a shuffling of feet. Never did I see such disreputable-looking humans as those who emerged from the inside of that Tower. Their clothes were bedraggled and some still had chains hanging from their wrists. Their hair was over-long, their faces haggard. I did not know them all, but I recognized the Duchess of Somerset, the widow of Edward Seymour, who had been beheaded two years ago. Another I recognized as the Bishop of Winchester, imprisoned for God knows what. And they told me that the third one was Edward Courtenay, son of the Marquis of Exeter, who had been beheaded fifteen years ago. So this is young Edward, I said to myself. In spite of his ragged appearance, he was very manly and handsome. They all knelt at my sister's feet. She ordered them released, and I thought, Well, at least some good has come out of her being Queen after all.

"And where is Lady Jane?" I asked.

As we turned to go, my sister sniffed. "In Traitor's Jail, where she belongs, while I figure out what to do with her. Isn't Edward Courtenay handsome? Did you see him look at me?"

I was startled. I had not. Did she imagine it or just want it? I was taken aback by this display of girlish coquetry by my much older, severe sister. Was she looking to marry? Of course! It came to me only then. She must wed and have an heir. It was not only the duty of a Queen. It was something she had to do if she wanted to keep me from the throne. And only now would she bury our poor brother, whose body was sealed in a lead-lined coffin. She would have him buried with full Catholic rites and have me kneel in the Queen's chapel while it went on. The council warned her not to do it. All of London would protest, they told her, at the idea of a Catholic Mass in Westminster Abbey. But she went ahead and did it anyway. And I thought, Oh, Edward, how you would rise up at the chanting of the monks, the sputtering of candles, the acrid smell of the incense, and the whole mystifying Roman affair. This would have killed you if nothing else did. I stayed at Greenwich Palace for a brutally hot August. My second week there, I had a visitor, Sir William Cecil.

"Lady, I wanted to tell you that I have resigned my position as Secretary of State. I wish to retire to my homes in Wimbledon and Burleigh. But my concerns are for you. How will you fare?”

“I wish you were not leaving. I have come to depend on you."

“I can no longer live as a spy," he said. "I would not last two minutes with Mary. But I wish you always to consider me your friend.”

“I need friends," I told him. He nodded. "Princess, beware. The French and Spanish would like to see a return of England to the Church of Rome. The French and Spanish ambassadors would be happier if you were not ... around anymore. The court is full of enemies. Be careful to whom you speak and how. Don't, under any circumstances, let Mary force you to become Catholic. The people do not want a return to Rome. They look to you to save them from such a fate. The hopes, desires, and hearts of the people rest with you. They look to you now in this time of danger. And that puts you in harm's way. Be wary. I know you can survive." Then he knelt at my feet and kissed my hand, and I felt like a Queen already. The people’s hopes, desires, and hearts rested with me! I understood what he was saying. And I was sorry to see him go. In Spain they had the Inquisition, I knew, in which thousands were burned alive if they were suspected of not belonging to the Catholic faith.

Soon everyone in the palace was bandying it about that Mary would marry either young Edward Courtenay or Philip, the Prince of Spain. Marry the Prince of Spain! And bring into dear old England fear, Spaniards, cruel priests, and burnings! The people would be in an uproar. They would, I felt sure, never stand for it. Rumors were rampant. They flowed like the wine through the conduits in the streets. Mary had written to Pope Julius II in Rome, promising him the return of England to the Church. She never went about but that Edward Courtenay, whom she had decided to befriend, was at her side. Yet she was in negotiation with Prince Philip of Spain for marriage. She summoned me to her. I went, expecting the worst. "You have declined to go to Mass," she accused me. "I wish you to study the Catholic faith and to attend Mass daily."

"Madam, I am not worthy," I said. I had prepared all my answers ahead of time.

"God decides who is worthy, not you. He will welcome you.” Her coronation saved me. Readying for it, she seemed to forget her command. We took barges to arrive at the stairs of Westminster Palace. The sun was bright, the water gleamed, and on it were all barges decorated with flags and ribbons, with musicians inside serenading the Queen.

As Lord High Chancellor of the realm, Stephen Gardiner performed the coronation. It was long and yet exciting. Someday, I thought, someday, all this will be for me. Afterward we went back to Westminster Hall for a banquet. I expected to be snubbed--at the very least to be consigned to a lesser place than I warranted--but I was not. I was put in a place of honor at the table as the Queen's sister.

Next to me sat Anne of Cleves, who at one point put her hand over mine and in her still-heavy German accent said, "Be brave, child. But don't be foolish. The difference between the two is as nothing." That was all she would say. Somehow it cheered me. When Parliament was called now for the first time in Mary's reign, Gardiner made the announcement that Catherine of Aragon's marriage to my father was legal. My father's world-renowned divorce from her was to be forgotten, and so his marriage to my mother, Anne Boleyn, was, without Gardiner's saying it, illegal. Thus I was illegitimate.

After the coronation, the court moved to Whitehall, and Mary summoned me again. "Well? Are you going to go to Mass?"

It was September. Outside, the world was blue and green, gold and red, ablaze with celebration of the harvest and the wealth of the kingdom. Fields were busy with peasants cutting and stacking. The smell of wheat permeated the air. It was so good to be alive. I wanted to go home to Hatfield, but I dared not ask permission. "Madam, I have been sickly. I have had the greensickness and bilious fever.”

“I do not believe you. I wish you to come to Mass with me this Sunday. It is the thirteenth after Trinity, the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mother. It is a holy day for us both. It is God's day for virgins. If you do not come, if you anger me, I cannot promise what will befall you. Only, let me say this: Countess Margaret of Lennox comes every Sunday. She brings Henry Darnley with her. He is now a long-legged twelve-year-old. Who knows but that, if I do not have a child, he might have claim to the throne? After all, he has our father's Tudor blood."

Back in my apartments, I wailed, "Cat, what will I do? This Sunday is my birthday. I'll be twenty years old.”

“Remember what I once said: God knows what is in your heart. No one can dictate that. And remember too, you want to live to be twenty-one. And do not let talk of Henry Darnley upset you. She will use any threat, but the boy can never be your rival, for all his having Tudor blood." I did not have to pretend sickness that Sunday. I awoke with one of my headaches. I had to be coaxed to eat, to dress. No powder was needed to make my face pale, and I had to be nearly dragged to Mass by Cat Ashley and Lady Browne, one of my attendants. I went, near to fainting. And, to my surprise, who came into the chapel but Countess Margaret of Lennox with young Henry Darnley. She smiled at me, and put her hand on her son's head. No words were needed to convey her superiority and confidence. Mary was so happy about my "conversion" that she sent me a diamond-and-ruby brooch and a rosary made out of coral. But, to ensure that I would not escape from Whitehall and go home, she kept me locked in my lodgings. The only time she let me out was for an audience with her. And those came about every other day. I was summoned to kneel at her feet and to answer for my lack of progress in studying the Catholic faith.

"Do you not believe in the sacraments?" she asked me.

"I believe what every good Protestant believes.”

“Why don't you wear the rosary beads I gave you?”

“I am afraid I might lose them.”

“Don't worry. I have more." So I wore the coral beads at every audience I had with her. And in every audience she threatened imprisonment. It was there, in the sound of her voice, in little things she said. "How does it look for the sister of the Queen not to attend daily Mass?”

“I don't think anyone is really looking," I said insolently. "Do you not hope to make me happy in my old age?”

“I hardly think you old yet, Your Majesty." Always, I was dismissed in anger, with veiled threats and enough rancor to make me feel the little sister who had put a toad into her bed. And from those around me, even Pussy Cat: "You must placate the Queen!”

“You must return to the Old Faith!”

“She is depending on you to act as a true sister!”

“What will the Spanish Prince say when she weds him and her sister is a Protestant!" My head spun with these remarks. My sleep was no sleep at all, but nightmares. On the verge of illness, I took Cat's advice.

"Go to Mass. Pray to God in your heart. He knows what is there. Everything else is an outward show." Once I did, Mary backed off. She raised my place in court, she gave me gifts, she let me accompany her when she rode out, which was seldom. "I would ride more," she explained, "but Courtenay is not good on a horse." She still kept Courtenay with her, Prince Philip or no Prince Philip. I was twenty, she was thirty-seven, but I felt old. As September progressed the news was all bad. Jane Grey was still in the Tower. The Spanish ambassador was pushing my sister to sign an order for her execution.

Northumberland was beheaded, though the other Dudley men were not. Not yet. I prayed for Robin. But there was some good news. After proclaiming her mother's marriage to my father legal, Parliament refused to do anything else that Mary wanted. They were afraid of rumors of her impending marriage to the Prince of Spain.

***CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mary and I struggled for weeks, sparring with each other over my lack of attendance at Mass. One minute we were friends, the next enemies. I pretended, constantly, that I was sick, but in spite of an attack of headache, she still insisted I go. I must get back to Hatfield, I decided. Word would get around that the Queen's sister was converting, and all those people in the streets would have no one to look to as Queen in the future. Still we argued, and Mary considered no blow too low.

"Are you even my half-sister?" she demanded loudly one day. "Some say that Mark Smeaton was your father. Remember, he was a lover of Anne Boleyn." Mark Smeaton, a musician, had been executed for having a love affair with my mother. Of course Mary would bring my mother into it. The stain on me from her would never go away.

"Then you might as well say I'm a witch, as they say she was!" I shouted back at her.

"All Protestants are witches," she finished. Were we both weary of it all? Finally, as the fall deepened, I came down with the ague, and a terrible wracking cough. Perhaps, remembering that cough in Edward, she consented to let me return to Hatfield for the winter. To rest. That winter I felt beaten, lost, and dejected. So did my people: Cat Ashley, Mr. Parry, and all my knights and yeomen. I kept a quiet house that Christmas, although we did have a feast. I wanted no word to get back to Mary that I was enjoying myself. I read the Greek Testament with Roger Ascham, who had kept busy in my absence writing a book on his travels. In early December Mary got the council to approve her marriage with Prince Philip of Spain. How?

"The council is composed of the elite," Roger Ascham explained to me. "The elite have no fear of a foreign marriage. The ordinary people do." In court, if you so much as listen to a secret plot you are connected to it. I knew that, after growing up as daughter and sister to the reigning monarchs, but I could not very well have had Sir James Croft silenced when he told me of the new uprising, could I? He came, uninvited, one day to Hatfield. He was a courtier who had served my brother. "Princess, I have news."