Some hours later, they were riding up yet another muddy lane, and then through a park scattered with the leafless skeletons of fine big trees. Mary could see a church, and a cluster of houses. Despite her fear and loneliness, she looked around with some interest. What was this new place? She was used to travelling from palace to palace, but usually with the same familiar wagons, and people, and possessions. This was a whole new world.
She was cold, even inside the rough and heavy cloak of black and brown checks. It was more like a shepherd’s blanket than something a princess should wear. And yet she was glad to have it. The ride had been misty, and now a wintry dusk was falling. She was riding on the pillion seat behind the broad back of a man she didn’t even know, leaning back as far as she possibly could to minimise touching him.
As they passed a dark, low huddle of houses, Mary could see people looking out anxiously from lighted doorways. She caught a glimpse into a stable, and saw a man among his cattle. She saw a little girl being snatched indoors by a woman swathed in shawls, her face averted.
Mary knew that a body of horsemen, riding through the dusk, was something that these people feared. And rightly so. It certainly meant trouble, of one kind or another.
She herself was terribly anxious about what would happen next. All through the journey, her mind had kept travelling to the palace at Greenwich, wondering what was happening there. Surely her father couldn’t know what was being done in his name? Surely he couldn’t have meant for her to be treated like this? She ached to see him. Or her mother. She had been alone before, but this was as if she wasn’t part of the family at all.
Ahead, over the roofs of the houses, she could see what looked like stars floating in the darkness. With a start, she realised that they were the lighted windows of a gallery, presumably high up in a building that was almost invisible against the sky. This must be a huge house.
Mary, a courtier, read the message at once. This new princess, the Princess Elizabeth, had been given a better house than Beaulieu. And now Mary didn’t even have Beaulieu, either.
What would Sir John and Nan Hussey be doing there now, aghast and sad? Mary guessed that they would be writing at once to Mary’s mother, or maybe the Spanish ambassador, for advice. Maybe they’d even contact the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor, her mother’s nephew across the sea. She was comforted by the thought that a web of loyal friends would look out for her mother and her. It was a web that her father’s remarriage had woven even tighter. The web was united by loyalty to Catherine, yes, but also to the old God whom Catherine had taught Mary to worship.
One of Mary’s worries about coming to Hatfield was, would there be a priest for her? Would they want her to attend Mass according to the coarse, crude New Religion that Lady Anne had made popular at court? If she went to one of the new Masses, it would be a danger to her soul. She must never, ever do that.
I promise, Mother, Mary said in her head. I won’t do that.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt a little warmer, and a little easier in her mind. It was as if someone had laid a calming hand on the throbbing thoughts in her brain.
And now they were arriving, and men were lifting her down off the horse, and her cold, stiff feet were giving way beneath her as she tried and failed to regain her footing.
The house had a wide flight of steps between its courtyard and its door, and Mary stumbled as she climbed. It was utterly dark now in the cobbled courtyard, except for a burning torch held high by a servant. A slice of light that came shooting out from the open doorway of the house confused Mary’s eyes.
Beyond the door, she discovered, there was a passage, then a panelled Great Hall. A great heap of logs was burning brightly in its vast fireplace, along with throngs and throngs of lit candles. Mary had forgotten what a sight it was to see a room so illuminated. The hall was festooned with garlands of leaves and laurels. Mary could see that everything was set for a joyful twelve days of Christmas festivities. It was a time of year that her father loved, and the sight of the candles made her think of his rooms at Greenwich, lit up like this for a party.
On the table stood the remains of a huge ham, peeking pink and studded with cloves. Mary’s stomach rumbled a little. It had been a long time since the midday meal that the duke’s arrival had denied her the chance to eat.
But who was in charge? Surely there would now be gentlewomen to direct her. She would be offered hot water for washing, maybe some warm wine or posset. Posset! Yes, that would be lovely. She almost turned to Nan to suggest it, before remembering that for once she had no gentlewoman with her. She was alone.
Mary stood, blinking, unsure what to do.
Then, with tremendous dignity, two figures were rising and advancing, one down each side of the long central table. A man and a woman. For a second Mary thought it was the Husseys, come miraculously to her aid. But these people were more stylish, better dressed, indeed almost as chic as the French ambassadors. For a stunned second, Mary was drawn into admiration of the slick, sleek cut of the lady’s black gown.
‘Lady Shelton,’ said the man, gesturing. ‘My wife.’
But Lady Shelton simply stood there, not offering, not welcoming, not leading. It was almost as if she were waiting for something.
Mary still stood uncertainly, looking round the room for a clue. It was odd not to be able to find someone to guide her in what to do next.
The man raised his eyebrows.
‘No curtsey?’ he said. ‘My lady wife is the mistress of the household of the Princess Elizabeth, you know. That means that she is your mistress.’
Mary understood at last. She was expected to consider herself as inferior to these people! She was expected to curtsey!
And she knew the name. She chased it through her memory. Lady Shelton … this was the demonic Anne Boleyn’s aunt. The man must be Sir John Shelton, her husband. Anne Boleyn had put her aunt in charge of her daughter’s nursery.
Lady Shelton arched her long neck, and waited.
A slight trembling began in Mary’s legs, as if the sheer force of their expectation was going to make her curtsey, against her wishes. This was ridiculous! She must resist!
There was a long silence.
‘I wish to go to my chamber,’ Mary said. ‘And I wish to summon my waiting woman, Lady Anne Hussey, at once. I should not have been brought here against my will without her.’
‘Oh dear. You certainly will not.’ Sir John Shelton sounded almost sorrowful that she had behaved so badly. ‘You must understand, my Lady Mary, that you are now the waiting woman. And you will be wanting to go to pay your respects to the Princess Elizabeth, surely, before you go to your chamber?’
Mary stood, mute. This was horrible. What should she do?
She felt a single hot, humiliating tear slide down her cheek.
Then she heard something inside her head, again something that warmed and comforted her. It was the honeyed voice of her mother. Stand up straight, Mary! it whispered. You are the daughter of Spain.
It worked like a miracle. She turned away from the Sheltons at once, rudely showing them her back. She knew what a shockingly disdainful action this was, and it gave her almost a thrill.
Mary swept out through the arch, back into the passage. Here there were lesser servants, serving men and serving women. They would be less flinty and immutable. They would help her.
She would just have to show them that she needed help.
‘Tell me where my chamber is,’ she said, not troubling to keep the tears out of her voice. Actions speak louder than words, she told herself. She needed sympathy now. She swayed, almost as if she was about to faint.
‘Of course.’ A woman in the rough woollen gown of a serving maid stepped close and took her arm. ‘The Lady Mary is not well!’ she said loudly. ‘She is faint. She must lie down at once!’ There was a buzz and a bustle of consternation.
Underneath its cover, the lady whispered something. ‘My princess. Do not fear. You have some friends here.’
Mary almost gasped with the surprise of it. Had she heard correctly?
‘Quick!’ the woman said, even more loudly. ‘She almost fainted!’
At that Mary felt the grasp of hands at her elbows, and, leaning on the strange maid’s arm, she was swept out of the entranceway, and through rich rooms to a staircase.
Upon it were wooden figures, curiously carved, hard to see in the gloom. She wondered which way the baby Princess Elizabeth’s chambers were, and prayed that she was not being taken towards them. But no, the swarming hands were guiding her up, and up again, past the principal floor where surely the best rooms lay.
Up again, they were still climbing, and then they were in that lighted Long Gallery Mary must have seen from below. She was taken to its far end, and through a pokey little door in the corner. Inside was a chamber, perfectly fine for a servant, perhaps, but not at all sumptuous. It didn’t even have tapestries on the walls, just a cloth painted with a forest instead.
It contained a bed, just a little low wooden bed, close to the floor. But never had a sight been more welcome. Mary sank down upon it, still in her smelly cloak. She rested there, facing the wall, ignoring all the bustling servants who had accompanied her.
I’ll just lie here looking ill, she said to herself, until they leave me alone.
She wondered for a second what God would think of her duplicitous behaviour. I’m only half pretending, Mary quickly reassured Him in her mind. She really did feel faint and sick as well as lonely and confused.
The friendly serving woman was outside the door, and Mary could hear her fending off other enquiries and servants.
‘I think we should let her rest,’ she was saying. ‘Sir John and Lady Shelton will certainly want to see her again in the morning. Let her gather her strength until then.’ The voices gradually died away.
Unwillingly, Mary opened her eyes, rolled into a sitting position, and began to look round her room. It seemed as if she was staying here, at least for the night.
Slowly, she swung her legs to the floor. Yes, this was a bed, and she was grateful for it, but she was used to a canopy and curtains, not a low box bed like this. The bolster was rough, hairy linen, and inside it she could feel the prickle of straw, not feathers.
She lifted the single candle that had been left burning by the bed, and began to explore. There was a chest to contain the clothes that Mary had not brought. There was no sign of any clothing waiting for her here, and it flashed across Mary’s mind that she had only one set of linen. Would she have to wear it again tomorrow? That was rather horrible. She knew that the common people did such things, but she had never in her life done so before.
Time passed. The slight sounds of people coming and going in the gallery penetrated Mary’s chamber, and so did the cold from the night outside. She took one of the blankets off the bed, and wrapped it round her over the black-and-brown cloak. She found she was shivering, and stood up to try pacing about a bit to get warm. It struck her that she was something like a prisoner. But the door wasn’t locked, of course.
Or was it?
It turned out that Mary could lift the latch, and she peered out into the gallery. A gentleman usher was waiting there, seated on a wooden stool and tossing a small item – was it a toothpick? – from one hand to another, as if bored.
Perhaps an hour or so had passed already. She wasn’t quite sure. Certainly he looked like he had been there a long time, and expected to remain.
Mary’s heart sank. There was no sign of the friendly serving woman in grey, who had whispered a secret welcome. But at least it was neither of those terrifying Sheltons, sharp and cold as steel. Mary shuddered at the thought of them. She had behaved rudely and offended them, and she was in their house. How would they respond when she saw them next, as surely tomorrow she must?
Although Mary had opened the door as quietly as possible, the man outside it had noticed that she was looking out. He quickly stood, and bowed.
‘I am to take you, madam, to pay your respects to the princess, just as soon as you are well enough.’
Mary cringed. So they were keeping this up! They were still pretending that she wasn’t a princess. How long could this last?
‘I am not well enough,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘I am ill.’ She wanted something to eat, but felt it was too humiliating to have to ask.
He bowed again, and looked blank, as if there was nothing further to say.
Mary silently closed the door, and stood thinking for a second. There was nothing for it. She got into the bed and pulled up all the blankets. Here, surely, she would warm up. Here, surely, she could fall asleep, and maybe this horrible dream would be over.
Try as she might, Mary couldn’t think how she could have avoided it. But it had been a terrible mistake to come here to Hatfield.