Three days later, Mary was feeling grim. Now the little panelled room off the gallery sometimes seemed to blur and spin before her eyes. Her faculties were refusing to work properly. She could feel her shrinking stomach pulling her flesh, even the flesh of her face, downwards and inwards, towards itself. She was tensing and tightening up like the dried skin of a snake.
Three days. She could not have failed to count them. The lady must have left Hatfield after having visited her daughter, for the household seemed to return to normal. Mary had not been downstairs; in fact, she had not been out of her room. Each morning, she was asked if she was well enough to pay her respects to her sister the princess.
And when she said she was not, the door was shut abruptly in her face.
And now, with no need for breakfast trays, it was harder for Clem to bring her letters. One had arrived in her chamber pot. It seemed that Mary’s mother’s spies had not had the chance to pass on the news of the commandment that Mary would have no food. The chamber pot letter, as usual, had ordered her to be firm and to trust God. Reading it, Mary wondered that God should want anything to do with her, with her tufty hair, her shrunken face, and her black dress that was growing a little ragged as well as rusty with wear. She had it on all day and sometimes, if the night was cold, as it often was, all night as well.
On the fourth day, Mary was sipping some water, and trying to remember what it was like to have a head that didn’t ache, when she noticed something unusual. Yes, there was that extra dimension to the sounds coming from the floors below, more of them, more varied, just as there had been when the wicked lady visited.
Perhaps Anne Boleyn was back again, to see whether starvation had changed Mary’s mind. The thought made her stomach heave up into a sort of horrible dry retch.
Towards the dinner hour, she heard the manservant outside her door lumbering to his feet from his stool, and she heard the cheery ‘halloa!’ which Clem always let out as she entered the gallery outside Mary’s room. Clem! Was Clem bringing food?
But perhaps … what was this? … was Clem taking over as her guard? Yes, clearly this was the case. Mary, leaning against the door panel, was glued to the conversation. She heard it all clearly: the king had arrived, there was an urgent need for more manservants downstairs, he was to go down, Clem was to replace him.
Mary’s heart beat fast. Her father was here! In this very house! Mary almost panted with relief. Surely her father would let her have something to eat.
But then doubt entered her mind. How far was he still under the influence of Anne Boleyn’s dark doe eyes? Had Anne persuaded Mary’s father that his daughter was disobedient?
That was ridiculous, Mary told herself sternly. A surge of confidence, faith in her father’s love, rushed through her. He had once tossed her joyfully in the air. He had once called her his Mighty Princess. His horrible so-called wife must be hoping he wouldn’t discover that Mary was here, locked away like this.
How to let him know?
She got to her feet, trembling. It would be difficult, she was sure of that. Anne Boleyn and the Sheltons would not want their cruelty to be detected.
She almost fell as the door was suddenly shoved towards her. Clem had opened it, and Mary’s legs were too weak to brace themselves properly.
As usual, Clem didn’t waste time.
‘Quick!’ she said. ‘This is your chance. I have not been given the duty of guarding the door before. I can tell them I did not know how to do it properly, and that you took me by surprise. Go down the stairs, very fast. The first floor above the ground, that’s where he is. He’s in the princess’s Great Chamber. When he sees you – Lord, when anyone sees you – he will know how bad things are.’
Mary paused a second. ‘But Clem, will you not get into trouble?’
Clem was her only friend in this place. Mary could not afford to lose her.
Clem looked grim. ‘Go, for your mother’s sake and for the sake of our religion.’
This did the trick. Other people, not just Mary herself, needed her to be strong.
She set off along the gallery as best as she could. Her steps were uneven, and the pain in her hollow stomach kept her bent over forward. The stairs! Here were the stairs. She almost slipped, and found she had to shuffle down, one step at a time. Quickly. Quietly.
There was a definite buzz in the atmosphere, the sound of horses in the courtyard below, and voices, and indeed the distant clang of cooking pots.
One by one, Mary slithered her way down the steps of the staircase. Her heart lurched into her mouth as she passed the landing of the third floor, for she heard the footsteps of other people in the passage beyond. Then she was descending to the second floor, the most important floor, where her baby sister lived. The hammering of her heart seemed to fill her ears. Which way, which way to the princess’s Great Chamber? She wished she knew more about the geography of this part of the house, to which she had never been.
Right, she decided. Turn right. As the most important room, her sister’s Great Chamber was probably towards the middle of the house rather than the end.
Mary was off the stairs now and into a wide passage, and yes. Ahead, past several other doorways, she could see into an illuminated room. That certainly was the Great Chamber! All lit with candles, because although it was midday, the January sun seemed to have scarcely any power.
Mary was drawn irresistibly towards the glow. It was a strange, compelling vision of her old life, before she had to wear only black and starve in a garret. She could see rich hangings, and a chair, oh yes, a velvet chair with crossed legs as her mother and father and even she had once had, in her private chambers at Greenwich.
And then, she heard hear her father’s booming laugh.
A little smile crossed Mary’s face. Relief filled her. As soon as he saw her sallow, pitiful, distressed state, he would know. He would cast aside his so-called wife, and return Mary to her rightful place.
Unfortunately, so unfortunately, a slender, elegant figure now crossed between Mary and the light and colour within the doorway. Even at this distance, Mary could glimpse the rich purple of a gown. Mary could tell, all too well, that it was Anne, and that Mary herself had been spotted. Anne must have been crossing the room to fetch something; perhaps Mary’s movement in the passage had caught her eye.
Mary shrank back against the passage wall, praying to remain unseen, but she could see the silhouetted oval of the lady’s face turned towards her. It was too dark to make out the individual features, but she knew, just knew, that those black eyes were staring at her. Should she cry out? Would her father hear?
It was too late. Men were coming out of the Great Chamber now, large men, moving quickly, and its door was slamming hard. Yes, here was Sir John Shelton, and another man, and now they each had one of Mary’s arms, and now they were dragging her along the passage and back up the stairs.
She did not have the strength to resist. She felt like a rag doll being carried along, with no energy to do anything but almost revel in her own disappointment. So near! She had been so near to letting her father know that she was a prisoner!
At the top of the stairs, Sir John shoved her into the gallery, before banging and locking its door behind her. Mary crouched on the floor and gradually tried to recover herself. Her throat seemed to retch all by itself. Her whole body had been unpleasantly started by the quick action they had forced upon her in her weakness, and she felt terribly dizzy.
She noticed the fine wide wooden floorboards of the gallery beneath her hands. They had not bothered to take her to her room, then. Presumably she was locked in, locked into this whole floor, because all the servants were needed below. Mary could see that this was a quick and easy solution to the problem she presented.
Mary lay on the floor for several minutes, bitter waves of disappointment pinning her down. A tear of frustration ran sideways down her cheek. Quickly she used her finger to carry it to her tongue, relishing its salty taste. She could not afford to waste her tears.
At last, gathering all her strength, Mary heaved herself to a sitting position. She knew that she must explore the opportunity that she now had. What else was on this floor apart from her own room, and the long gallery itself, with its now-empty stool for her absent guard? Clem had disappeared, and Mary hoped that she would not be punished for Mary’s escape.
She half walked, half slid along the gallery to her own room. Inside it, she found a pleasant surprise. There was bread! A great roll of bread, bigger than her hand, was lying on the bed. Clem must have left it there for her. Mary was torn between devouring it like a wolf, and making the most of her semi-freedom. The bread won. It was soon in her mouth. She had to force herself to chew it rather than swallow it whole. Plain, dry bread, but more delicious than any banquet she’d ever eaten. At once she felt a little strength returning to her limbs.
Mary was staring round her own little chamber, seeing it anew, and suddenly wondered if it had a matching equivalent at the other end of the gallery.
She crept back along the gallery again. Yes, here at the far end was a door. It led not to a room, like Mary’s, but to a little staircase winding upwards. Mary climbed it, anxious, excited. The stairs were dusty, and she felt the trailing back of her dress picking up salty flakes of stone. But this was far too important to care.
At the top, another door, which opened easily under her hands. Here was the roof! She was out on the roof!
Mary stepped forward into the cold air, and crept down the roof slope towards the carved balustrade. An immense view made her sway: the courtyard, full of horses, the park beyond, the roofs of the houses of the village, and above all, the white sky. She had not seen the sky for many weeks. It was so big, so bright. It almost crushed her.
But Mary knew that she could not afford to enjoy the sky. Something was happening below. Yes, the horses were lining up and forming a cavalcade, and that large bright figure now coming down the steps, and towards a fine black horse, that was, that was …
‘Father!’
Mary thought she screamed the word. But it came out like a little squeak.
She filled her lungs to try again.
‘Father! Father!’
She frantically waved her arms. She whirred them like a windmill.
‘Father! Father! Father!’
It was no good. Mary’s heart sank. They hadn’t heard her. There was too much going on in the courtyard, with the mounting of the riders, and she knew all too well how the king drew everyone’s eyes.
She’d try just once more. Gathering all her strength and all her spirit, Mary made a frantic final yell.
And it worked.
Maybe the wind changed, maybe by chance a hush fell over the men and horses gathered below, but someone saw her. Eyes were shaded by hands. People were turning. Yes, her father was turning, and looking, and wondering what was going on.
She could sense the consternation among the servants, the panic that set in when any royal arrangement went slightly awry. A jolt of pleasure ran through her. Yes, they had seen her. Here she was, outlined against the sky, with her sadly shorn hair and her black dress. Yes, they could see, they knew, how the Princess Mary had been treated.
And best of all, her father was now looking up at her. She could see his broad face beneath his up-tilted hat, his characteristic stance with his legs planted wide apart.
Mary smiled.
‘Father,’ she whispered, one more time.
But then, to her utter horror, she realised that someone else was coming into that same sector of courtyard. There was the groom holding her father’s horse, head bowed, respectfully awaiting orders. And there she was, flying down the steps, and crossing over to him at a light run, and grasping his arm, and speaking urgently into his ear.
Mary knew that his eyes were looking at her. She stared back intently. Don’t turn away, she willed. See me! Don’t turn away.
But it was too late. Whatever poison Anne was pouring into his ear, it was working. He did not appear indignant or angry. He seemed uncertain and embarrassed. Eventually, the lady, her harangue finished, stepped aside.
There was another pause, her father standing and looking up at Mary for a long moment. At that distance, Mary could not see exactly what expression was on his face, but she had no doubt that he recognised her, and knew that he was looking at his daughter.
And then finally he stepped forward, raised his hat to her, and turned. He was getting on to his horse; he was riding away.