Later, much later, the same day, Mary was sleepy. It was past her usual bedtime. The green gown had grown extremely heavy and was hurting where it hung from her hips. As she walked with her mother through the palace, Mary began to shuffle and stumble with her feet. She trod on the hem of her long skirt.
Catherine noticed, and grabbed Mary’s hand to force her to keep up. ‘Hold your dress up properly, Mary,’ she hissed. ‘Use your other hand.’ It was a chilly evening, a wet wind had been blowing in across the river, and the air was damp and cold from the rain even now falling hard upon the roof.
‘Mother, I’ve had about enough of celebrating,’ Mary said. ‘Can’t I go to bed?’ Both hands were trapped now, and she felt like a prisoner.
‘No, you can’t,’ said Catherine grimly. ‘Court celebrations aren’t for fun, you know. They’re work. They’re your job as a princess, and mine as a queen. And you must look like you are happy and proud to be present. That is the secret of success.’
Not for fun. All too often Mary had heard those words. She hung her head, dispirited. Her mother noticed, and relented a little.
‘Courage!’ Queen Catherine said. ‘Just one more hour to go. Then you can go to bed. You played well today. Don’t you ever get nervous?’
‘A daughter of Spain never feels pain,’ chanted Mary, something her mother often said, even though it wasn’t true. She would have liked to close her eyes there and then, as keeping them open almost hurt. In fact, she did close them, pretending for a minute that she was sleepwalking.
‘Ah, you have a gift, Mary,’ the queen said, laughing softly. ‘You can lose yourself in music, can you not? And reading? You can live inside yourself. That is important for a princess. You will be much alone.’
Mary opened her eyes long enough to consider the question. She felt like she was never alone, never left to play, or think, or just to lie around doing nothing.
But yes, when she was playing her music, she did not notice the people around her. She had felt nervous when she entered the Great Chamber, it was true, for there were many people there, more people than she could remember seeing at court before. Then, though, she had seen the table laid with a carpet, and upon it the little square box of her instrument. Seating herself, she had simply pushed up her linen cuffs and played. It seemed to have worked.
Afterwards there had been a great deal of talk between her father and the ambassadorial party from France, and inevitably the focus moved off from Mary. Most of the talk had seemed to consist of technical and boring descriptions of the staffing of the court of the French king, punctuated by Mary’s father’s great booming laugh. Come to think of it, she did not remember her mother speaking once the whole afternoon. She had just sat there, a mysterious smile on her face, like a basilisk.
And there was something a little grim in the grip of her mother’s hand dragging her along the corridor now.
‘Can’t we go to bed?’ Mary asked, hearing a whimpering tone that she disliked in her voice. It only came out when she was tired, or hungry, but she felt unable to control it.
‘No, we cannot,’ said her mother. ‘It is the will of your father that we should be present, and our absence will be noticed. Also, you want to show off your green dress, do you not? We’re on duty!’
Mary did not think her dress particularly pretty – it was a stiff green brocade with a pattern of golden flowers woven in – but she looked down at it and straightened her brooch. The brooch had been a very good idea of her mother’s. When the French ambassador had seen it, he’d burst into delighted laughter and bowed very low. But Mary would have preferred to wear something lighter and floatier, something, oh, something in a brighter colour than her mother’s favourite – and endless – green.
As they turned the corner of the gallery, Mary started to hear the faint strain of music, the high piping notes of an oboe. The sound, a teasing tune, lifted her spirits. Suddenly she began to feel more awake. Her mother noticed. ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘It is true that the English court can put on a good show, even in this miserable endless rain. Now, Princess Mary, remember you are a princess, and dance with dignity.’
They picked up their pace, and moved along the gallery towards the Great Hall.
It was warmer now, and the air seemed richer, even perfumed. The entryway was thronged with people. Mary was not surprised when they turned towards her mother, exclaimed, bowed and parted to let them through. This was the way it was at the palace of Greenwich. She and her mother never had to wait for anything. And if they did, why then her mother would lose her temper. Everyone was afraid of that, and did all they could to avoid it. Mary knew that even her father feared one of her mother’s explosions.
Mary nodded to the bent heads and lifted hats, suddenly feeling alive, and curious as to what might lie beyond. As they entered, she saw that the hall was lined on each side with crowds of courtiers, mainly men, but several women too. A great blast of heat came out from the burning braziers and the people and the candles. Mary’s eye dwelt particularly on the unfamiliar women among the crowd, in their beautiful, bright dresses. One lady had curiously highly arched eyebrows, so curved that they almost looked like they weren’t real but drawn on with a pencil. Another had hair in tiny, perfect curls like the whorls of a snail.
She wanted to look for longer at the French ladies, but the French ambassador, whom she recognised from the afternoon, was bowing down before her and offering her his hand for a dance. Mary panicked for a moment. What was the correct response? Did she even know this dance? But then she felt her mother give a little shove in the small of her back. A daughter of Spain never feels pain, her mother always said. Mary paused to gather herself, swaying ever so slightly on her feet, remembering for half an instant how tired she was before taking his hand.
It was a relief, seconds later, when the music started again. Oh yes, of course she knew this dance; it was a pavane. After a stately curtsey, she promenaded alongside the French gentleman, noticing that he had a small, sharp, clipped beard, which he nodded in time to the music. It made him look rather like her mother’s cockatoo bird; oh yes, he had just the same chin whiskers.
Mary kept her eyes firmly fixed on her partner’s funny little beard, because now she sensed that the whole room was looking at them. It was important not to make a mess of this. She tried to blot out the crowd and concentrate, giving all her attention to prancing in a stately manner down the room and bowing solemnly to the other couples left and right. This was how her mother had told her to get through, by concentrating on doing the right thing, one step at a time. Mary sometimes wondered if there was any more to it than this. Maybe there wasn’t, in which case Mary might change her mind, she thought, and not be a princess after all.
But there was one person she couldn’t ignore. He must be here, although she hadn’t seen him yet. Where was her father? Oh, there he was. He was bowing to her, just as if she were a real grown-up lady, and he was twinkling at her with his blue eyes. What blue eyes they were, Mary thought, not a dull grey like her own. Her father’s clear, bright blue ones must be the handsomest eyes at court. The lady with him clearly thought so, too, for she was so busy looking up at him that she completely failed to notice and to bow to Mary as all the other dancers had done.
But then Mary saw that she was one of the French ladies, and didn’t know who Mary was. On her return up the hall, though, the lady again failed to bow, and this time Mary realised that she had seen that disrespectful face before. It was one of her own mother’s ladies-in-waiting, the one that her mother didn’t like, Mistress Anne Boleyn. Catherine was always giving Mistress Boleyn the afternoon off, not through kindness, but because she didn’t want to have her around. Of course Mary recognised Mistress Boleyn now – it had just been the violet gown that had made Mary think her French.
But her father seemed quite happy. Watching him dancing with the snail-haired Mistress Boleyn, Mary lost her footing for a moment. There was a gasp from the nearest dancers. Of course they had noticed. Seething, Mary regained her balance, wishing that a tiny misstep did not always have to be made into such a drama. Her partner, seeing something of her feelings, grasped her hand more tightly, and smiled. Mary tried to smile back, recognising that his intentions were good. But then her eyes travelled past him, to her mother, who was not dancing. She was standing still as a statue, watching the ball around her and looking as cold as ice.
Mary sighed. Why could her mother never be happy? She was at least supposed to look like she was happy, wasn’t she? Something of Mary’s earlier weariness returned. The room no longer seemed rich and glamorous but hot and distressing. She stumbled again, and her partner took her arm and led her out from among the dancers.
‘The princess is weary,’ he said, ‘and no surprise, it is very late. Please sit, please rest, and perhaps I may tell you of your future life in France?’ She agreed, sitting down on the splendid velvet chair on the dais and gesturing him to sit on the stool beside her as she had seen her mother do to favoured visitors.
The dancers started up again, and Mary noticed with relief that the attention of the spectators returned to the centre of the hall.
‘This palace of Greenwich is very fine,’ he began, ‘and in France too you will see many magnificent palaces.’ He began to enumerate them, one by one, but they all sounded rather similar to each other. Mary began to feel her eyelids growing heavy, and as the dance wore on, she caught her head lolling to one side and had to jerk it upright.
Then her mother was before her. ‘The princess is tired,’ she said crisply, holding out one hand.
‘But Your Majesty has not yet danced with the king!’ cried the cockatoo gentleman, raising his hands as if to keep her at the ball.
‘I will not be dancing tonight.’
At that precise moment, the dancers parted, and Mary saw that her father was still holding hands with the violet-gowned lady. In fact, he was holding both of her hands, and he was holding them closely too, cradling one of her elbows with his big clumsy paw. Mary knew what that felt like, for he loved to toss her up in the air, or to dance with her himself.
The Frenchman bowed silently, and silently Mary got to her feet and followed her mother out of the room. The ball had been very strange. The day had been very strange. Everyone had been so polite, so cordial, so appreciative, but there was something not quite right.