The next morning, it was exactly the same. Mary opened the door to find that she was still guarded. This time it was a different servant outside, a serving man of lower rank than the household gentleman of yesterday.
When he saw the movement in the doorway, he stood smartly to attention and whisked off his woollen cap. Mary knew, by observing him through a very narrow crack, that he had been amusing himself for the last quarter-hour with his knife, throwing it into the floorboards and trying to hit the same spot twice.
Again, just like last night, he offered to take her to ‘the princess’. Again, she refused.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said shortly. ‘I am the princess.’ She knew she didn’t look like it, wan, dishevelled, with no water to wash in nor clean linen to wear. But she was desperate enough to ask for some food.
‘You wish to eat?’ he asked quickly. ‘I shall conduct you down to our lord and our lady Shelton. They are breaking their fast just now, I believe.’
‘No, no, I am not well enough for that,’ Mary said. ‘I must eat here in my room. Pray send some broth and some bread. Food for an invalid.’
He bowed but did not leave.
‘Please,’ she said. She was so hungry that she was almost ready to whimper.
‘Madam,’ he said, looking shiftily at the ground, ‘I have been told not to leave your door unguarded. I am told to accompany you if you wish to go to Sir John or her ladyship, or to the princess, but otherwise, I am to bid you keep to your room. Until my fellow comes to relieve me.’
Mary winced. So she was a prisoner! In effect, at least, she was trapped. She realised Sir John and Lady Shelton’s plan: to keep her up here, in this room, unless she did what she was determined not to do, which was to go to see her baby half-sister. If she once kissed her sister’s hand, or curtseyed, or addressed the baby as ‘Princess’, Mary would be acknowledging that she had been ousted from the royal family. She understood it. That’s what they were trying to achieve.
But she was not sure that the serving man understood it, for his face was troubled.
He nearly spoke, but then there was the sound of footsteps coming along the gallery. Mary’s heart leapt. Had someone come to help her?
Looking out through the door, she saw it was the serving woman she remembered from last night. The woman was bustling along with a lacquered tray in her hands. On it Mary could glimpse bread, and was that faint steam escaping from a tankard? It was certainly cold enough, in this draughty top floor of the great wooden house, for a warm drink to produce steam.
Mary’s stomach growled loudly. Yes, it was food, and it was for her.
Nodding at the man but not at all slowing her pace, the grey-clad woman was heading right in through the door. He seemed uncertain, for a moment, about whether he should stop her, but it was too late. Mary opened the door fully, stepped aside, and closed it smartly after the woman with the tray.
The serving woman put her burden down on the linen chest, having looked around the room for a moment in search of something more suitable. Mary looked longingly at the tray. But she guessed that this woman was more important to her than the food. She quietly placed her hand on the servant’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.
‘Who are you?’
The woman smiled, and beckoned Mary into the corner by the window.
‘If we whisper,’ she hissed, ‘I hope he won’t hear us.’ Mary understood that she meant the man outside. Mary started to speak, but the woman used her hand to make a quick gesture.
‘I am so sorry, Your Royal Highness,’ she whispered. ‘But time is short. My name is Clem. If I stay and talk, I will be missed. There is something I must say to you. Look at your tray carefully. I will come later, to take it away, and I will also take away your message. I cannot get you writing materials. You must tell me what message you want to send. I will remember it. And keep it short. It is dangerous!’
Then before Mary could answer, she was bustling away, out of the door, calling out cheerfully to the servant. ‘Some buttered ale for you, Stephen?’ she asked. ‘When I come back up for the tray?’
Mary could hear him respond, pleased, and the burble of their conversation continued for a minute or two.
She was surprised. Royal servants would never have allowed themselves to disturb the ears of their betters in this manner. But these weren’t really royal servants yet, it was clear. They had felt sorry for her last night, and they had shown it. They were the newly assembled household of a baby princess, not yet fully trained, nor able to predict the wishes of their lord and lady.
However, listening to Clem’s conversation with the man outside in the gallery about ale, and the weather, and how cold it was for the time of year, wasn’t Mary’s priority. The tray! What was significant about the tray?
She almost ran to the linen chest. Yes, here was a pewter plate, with bread on it, and a cup. It was warm ale, with butter mixed in. Mary’s empty stomach wanted to drink it all at once. She was so thirsty! The bread didn’t look so good. It had a nasty hard crust, and the pewter looked … well, dirty, after the silver salvers she was used to. But the ale could wait. What else was here? She carefully lifted the cup off the plate, examining it. Nothing. She picked up the bread. Nothing. Then she lifted the pewter dish itself. There! Underneath was the tiniest square of parchment, folded very tight.
It wasn’t sealed, and Mary’s fingers, although they were cold and clumsy, undid it in a trice.
She looked at the door, aware that it wasn’t locked, and that the man outside could come in at any moment. She’d been pleased that they hadn’t locked her in, but now she regretted being unable to lock people out.
Mary stood with her back against the door, so that if he tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge. She was also ready to scrunch up the letter in a flash if she felt even the slightest pressure against her shoulder blades.
Instantly, her eye recognised her mother’s hand. She felt almost a physical pleasure, like someone giving her a hug. She had been remembered! Her mother had remembered her!
The letter did not begin with Mary’s name, which was odd. But then Mary realised that this was perhaps sensible. If people, if that serving woman Clem, had run risks to get it to her, then it was best kept brief and plain.
I have heard such tidings, her mother’s handwriting told her, that tell me the time when Almighty God will test you is very near. They will press you. Answer with few words. Say you will obey the orders of your father, the king, in everything, save only that you will not offend God. Remember I love you.
Mary’s knees slowly gave way, and her back slid down the door until her legs were out straight ahead of her on the floor.
This was treason. Sending this letter was treason. Her mother was risking everything to have sent it, and her request therefore had the force of a command. Yes, Mary must become like one of the martyrs of the Church. She must obey the orders of men as far as she could, but she must not offend God.
She decided on her reply. It would be very short, very safe to deliver. It would simply be: ‘yes’.
Of course.
She would continue to resist. She wondered what to do with the letter, how to hide it. The answer came from her stomach. She tore off a little corner, popped it into her mouth, chewed it many, many times, and swallowed. It would make an excellent precursor to breakfast.