21
Mary
“We ride for Kenninghall!” I called back to my entourage, now less by one, as I sent one of the men galloping back to Hunsdon with a brief note to my steward, telling him what had occurred, and to muster the rest of my people, and all the loyal folks thereabout who would follow their true queen, and come straightaway to Kenninghall, my well-fortified manor in Norfolk, more like a moated castle-keep than a house, as fast as they could.
I must fight for my throne! When I sent little Jane Grey a ruby necklace to wear on her wedding day—a wedding I received no invitation to attend despite my beautiful and costly gift and kindness in overlooking the dress incident—I never realized that a conspiracy directed against me was unfolding. Even as Jane was sulking at the altar in a gown that was an exact replica of the one I had given her that she had destroyed—as an apology to me, her mother had asked my dressmaker to recreate it for Jane’s wedding gown—and tugging at the ruby necklace I sent, ungraciously complaining that it cut her throat, Northumberland was already moving to cement his place as the power behind the throne by persuading a dying boy, for the good of England and the Protestant religion, to alter our father’s will and name our cousin Jane as his successor. And by marrying his spoiled brat of a son, Guildford, to her, Northumberland’s position of power was solidified.
When the horses were foaming at the mouths and we were so weary we feared the need for sleep would pull us from our saddles, we stopped to rest at Sawston Hall, the home of Sir John Huddlestone, a devoutly Catholic country gentleman.
He and his wife welcomed me warmly despite the lateness of the hour. I was taken at once to the best bedchamber. A model of efficiency, Lady Huddlestone ordered the fire lit and plates of meat, cheese, and bread, bowls of stew, and cups of ale brought in for Susan and me. Fresh sheets were put onto the bed and it was turned down in readiness for me, and a trundle bed was pulled out from underneath for Susan. Servants carried in a tub and pails of steaming water to fill it so that I might wash away the dust of the road, and Lady Huddlestone’s maid even sprinkled dried flower petals into it. And since I had no spare clothing with me, Lady Huddlestone gave me one of her nightgowns and took away my dust-caked and sweat-stained clothes and went to roust her best laundress out of bed to see that my clothes were ready by morning. When I thanked her, Lady Huddlestone knelt at my feet and kissed my hand. “My life and my home and all I possess are at Your Majesty’s service,” she solemnly declared. It felt so good to be so honored, to know that I was capable of inspiring such devotion.
We were roused from a deep exhausted sleep a few hours later by shouting and pounding on the front door. In my borrowed nightgown I stepped out onto the landing only to discover that some zealous Protestants from nearby Cambridge were on the march, having learned of my whereabouts, and the great golden bounty Northumberland had placed upon my head, for my capture, dead or alive.
“Madame, for your safety, you must leave at once!” Sir John said anxiously.
I nodded, and turned to go, tarrying only long enough to ask for my clothes to be sent, clean or not, back upstairs so I could dress, when Sir John stopped me.
“If I might presume to suggest it, I think Your Majesty would fare much better if you traveled in disguise.”
“Yes!” I fervently agreed, my eyes darting about until they fell on a serving woman downstairs. “You!” I pointed down at her. “Come up here now! Make haste! I want your clothes!” And without waiting to see if she followed, I turned and went back into my bedchamber.
All modesty forsaken, as soon as she shut the door behind her, I tore off my nightgown.
“Well? Don’t stand there gaping, girl! Give me your dress!”
When she just stood there, staring and blinking, her mouth hanging open, Susan gave an irritated sigh and went and lifted off her linen cap and untied her stained and patched apron and set them aside, then took her rough brown homespun gown by its hem and yanked it up and off over her head and helped me into it, with an apology for there being “no petticoats, M’am. I would gladly give you mine,” she continued as she briskly put up my hair and covered it with the coarse linen cap and knotted the apron about my waist with its frayed, dingy strings, “but I fear it would give the charade away as it is longer than this girl’s dress and would show, and it is also of a quality beyond her station.”
“Shoes!” I cried suddenly, gazing down at my bare feet then over at my fine Spanish leather boots sitting by the fire. No serving girl would possess their like, at least not if she had come by them honestly. If I put them on, even though they were my own, I risked drawing attention to myself and perhaps even being detained as a thief.
“Off with them, girl!” Susan pointed at the crude and clunky wooden clogs the now nude but still dumbstruck maid was wearing on her dirty bare feet.
I winced as I stepped into them. I had never worn anything like them, and feared both blisters and splinters, but, for my throne, I would stoically endure this hardship.
“Follow at first light with the others,” I quickly told Susan as I headed for the door, “to Kenninghall, as planned.”
“A moment, M’am!” Susan stayed me as she ran to the hearth and scooped up some ashes. “You have just had a bath, M’am, and no serving girl in clothes such as these would be so clean of person. May I?” And at my nod she gently but swiftly rubbed her hands over my face and hands. “There!” She nodded approvingly. “Go with God, M’am!”
I hugged her quickly and kissed her cheek. “God keep you in his care, my faithful Susan!”
And I flew down the stairs in those cumbersome, clunky clogs and out into the darkened courtyard where Sir John himself and one of his men waited with fresh horses.
I paused uncertainly, seeing that there were only two horses. Then a third man came forward and took me off guard by suddenly boosting me up into the saddle behind Sir John.
“Hold tight, Your Majesty!” he said, before I had time to properly arrange my skirts, and I hastily wrapped my arms around his waist as he spurred his mount onward and tore out of the courtyard at a thundering fast gallop.
We rode hard for I know not how long. As we crested a hill, the horses were lathered in sweat and foaming white at their mouths, so we stopped to rest. Looking back, I spied a blaze. I hesitated, being so shortsighted, I wasn’t sure, but the groom raised the alarm with a despairing wail. “Oh, Master, your house! It’s Sawston Hall that is a-burning!”
I saw proud Sir John’s face fall and his shoulders wilt. He looked near to tears. Clearly he was torn between going back and staying with me.
“My friend, you have served me well. I swear to you that when I am proclaimed queen of this realm I shall build you a finer house than the one you have lost. Go now, and see to the safety of your family, and, if you will, leave your man with me.”
“Your Majesty! Thank you and may God preserve you!” Sir John bowed over my hand and kissed it fervently before he flung himself back into the saddle and galloped back down the hill in the direction we had just come.
The groom, whose name I learned was Daniel, doffed his cap and respectfully addressed me. “We’d best be off, Your Majesty, before they catch us up; not meaning to alarm you, Your Majesty, but they’re not that far behind.”
“Let us go then.” I nodded, and riding behind him, holding tight to his waist, we took the road to Kenninghall, the horse’s hooves loud as thunder in the quiet night as they struck the hard-packed dirt road, stirring up clouds of billowing dust that stung my eyes and made me want to cough and sneeze.
Holding tight to Daniel’s waist, I leaned my throbbing, aching forehead against his strong back and shut my eyes and tried to ignore the rough cloth of my borrowed skirt chafing my thighs, rubbing them raw, and the feel of the breeze upon my buttocks as my skirt billowed out behind me, constantly reminding me that I was quite naked underneath; it was the first time in my life I had gone without a shift, petticoats, and stays. I had given up trying to tuck the coarse skirt under me, for as I bounced up and down with the motion of the horse it always came untucked, so I tried to ignore it and think of something else instead, and found myself remembering the last time I had worn servants’ garb. . . .
I was seventeen and forced to serve at Hatfield as Elizabeth’s nurse. I was in disgrace. Because of his feud with my proud mother, who would not bow to his will and let herself be divorced, and because the Great Whore despised me, whenever Father came to visit Elizabeth, to dandle her upon his knee, pet her, give her gifts, and listen to her baby prattle, I was locked away lest I try to see him and throw myself upon his mercy. But there came a day, when Anne Boleyn was losing ground, and someone forgot to lock the door; whether it was intentional or not I cannot say. I had to see Father again; I had to remind him of my love, and my existence. I knew if I tried to go downstairs to the nursery I would be stopped, taken back by force and locked in, so I must forgo a face-to-face encounter.
Instead, I gathered up my skirts and ran to the door leading up to the roof. Up and up, despite the pinch of my stays beneath my drab and worn servant’s gown and nursemaid’s apron. My weakened condition made me pause at times, feeling light-headed and faint, to gasp for air, with my heart beating far too fast, and a throbbing, drumming in my head and ears, and pearls of sweat adorning my brow. I feared my body would fail me and I would collapse and die there upon those dark and winding stairs. But I didn’t give up. On and on I ran, up and up and round and round the winding, twisting, dizzyingly steep stairs of the tower turret, barely able to see my hand before my face in the dim light of the far-spaced pitch-tipped torches bracketed to the stone wall.
And then—it was like a miracle!—I reached the top and burst out into the fresh blustery air of daylight, onto the roof overlooking the courtyard. I was almost too late. Father was just about to swing himself up into the saddle of his great white horse.
Desperate to attract his attention, I snatched off my cap and raked the pins from my hair. With my fingers, I combed my long, faded and thinning tresses out, trusting the distance to work on my behalf and keep any from spying the skeins of gray, and, with the wind whipping my hair wildly around my head, I frantically waved my white linen cap in the air, hoping to attract Father’s attention.
Below me in the courtyard a number of courtiers and attendants noticed and began to point up at me, and then he looked up right at me. Being so shortsighted, I could not discern his features, so I could not tell whether he smiled or frowned. I stopped waving my cap, absently letting the wind snatch it from me, so that it flew away like a white bird with the strings trailing and fluttering behind it, and fell to my knees, holding my hands out to Father, clasping them in a gesture of entreaty, murmuring a fervent “Please!”
Finally he raised his hand and waved briefly at me, then he mounted his horse and rode away. . . .
When we arrived at Kenninghall, I spoke briefly with my steward so that he might give the necessary orders to ready the manor to make a stand and fend off the attack I feared would be forthcoming. Then I went to bathe and dress myself, for when I addressed my people I must look every bit a queen. After I had bathed and donned a gown of deep purple velvet with a high white satin winged collar, and a white satin kirtle embroidered in purple and gold with matching under-sleeves, puffed and padded with horsehair, and positioned a pearl-and-diamond-edged purple velvet hood on my head, I pinned a large diamond crucifix to my breast and, with my rosary in hand, went out to address my household.
Standing at the top of the stairs, looking suitably regal but somber enough to mourn my brother’s passing, with a series of tapestries depicting the Passion of Christ behind me, I proclaimed myself Queen of England “by divine right and human law” and explained all that had occurred to them. I told them that Edward was dead, and we grieved for him and prayed for his soul, and though I was now, by right and the will of both God and my late father, Queen of England, Northumberland had sought to cheat me of my birthright by putting another in my place and a bounty on my head. I asked them all to stand by me and uphold my rights, to help me claim my throne.
One by one, each and every man, woman, and child sank to their knees, hand over heart, and gave a heartfelt cry of “God save Queen Mary!”
I went next into my study and took up my pen and addressed myself in very stern and formal terms to the Duke of Northumberland, asserting my rights and that I was prepared to fight for them.
My Lord,
We greet you well, and have received sure advertisement that our dearest brother the King is departed to God, which news, how they be woeful unto our heart, He wholly knoweth to whose will and pleasure we must and do humbly submit us and our will.
But in this lamentable case, that is to wit now after his death, concerning the crown and governance of this realm of England, what has been provided by Act of Parliament and the last will of our dear father, the realm and all the world knoweth, and we verily trust that there is no good true subject that can or will pretend to be ignorant thereof. And of our part, as God shall aid and strengthen us, we have ourselves caused, and shall cause, our right and title in this behalf to be published and acclaimed accordingly.
And albeit this matter being so weighty, the manner seemeth strange that, our brother dying upon Thursday at night last past, we hitherto had no knowledge from you thereof. Yet we considered your wisdoms and prudence to be such that, after having amongst you debated, pondered and well-weighed this present case, we shall and may conceive great hope and trust and much assurance in your loyalty and service, and that you will, like noble men, work the best.
Nevertheless, we are not ignorant of your consultations and provisions forcible, there with you assembled and prepared, by whom, and to what end, God and you know, and Nature can but fear some evil. But be it that some consideration politic hath hastily moved you thereto, yet doubt you not, My Lord, we take all these your doings in gracious part, being also right ready to remit and fully pardon the same freely, to eschew bloodshed and vengeance, trusting also assuredly you will take and accept this grace and virtue in such good part as appeareth, and that we shall not be enforced to use the service of our other true subjects and friends, which in this, our just and rightful cause, God, in whom our whole affiance is, shall send us.
Wherefore, My Lord, we require and charge you, for that allegiance which you owe to God and us, that, for your honor and the surety of your person, you employ yourself and forthwith, upon receipt hereof, cause our right and title to the crown and government of this realm to be proclaimed in our city of London and such other places as to your wisdom shall seem good, not failing hereof, as our very trust is in you. And this letter signed with our hand shall be your sufficient warrant.
Given under our signet at our manor of Kenninghall, on the 9th day of July in the year of Our Lord 1553, Mary
I then assembled a number of messengers and sent them galloping off with verbal messages to the local gentry, telling them Edward was dead and it was time for them to do fealty to me, as their rightful sovereign, and help me claim what was my birthright—my throne.
As the day wore on, and word spread, people from all walks of life—rich men, poor men, and those in between—began pouring in to pledge their allegiance. Peasant farmers came brandishing their scythes and pitchforks for want of proper weapons, and the gentry came with lines of armed men equipped with the weapons of war. Those who could not come because of age or infirmity sent gifts of money, carts piled high with provisions to feed or weapons to equip my burgeoning army, twenty thousand strong and growing by the hour. They came from Norfolk, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Suffolk, Berkshire, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and even London. From every nook and cranny of the kingdom, they came to rally beneath my banner, ready to fight for me, “Great Harry’s daughter,” their one true queen. And the air was rife with cries of “God save Queen Mary. Long may she reign!” and “Down with Northumberland and the false queen Jane!” “Death to all traitors!” “Long live Queen Mary!”
Every time I showed myself, at the windows, or walking on the battlements, or when I went out to mingle with the troops and tender my personal and most heartfelt thanks, the cries grew in number and intensity. Men all around me fell to their knees, hands on their hearts, and swore they would give their lives to see me on the throne where I belonged. They kissed the hem of my gown and even the ground I had walked upon. I had never before felt so loved and wanted. I prayed it would always be like this, that my people’s love for me would never die.
A few days later I had a reply to my letter from Northumberland, writing on behalf of the Council.
My Lady Mary,
Madame, we have received your letter declaring your supposed title which you judge yourself to have. Our answer is to advise you forasmuch as our sovereign lady Queen Jane is invested and possessed with the right and just title to the imperial crown of this realm, not only by good order of old ancient laws of this realm, but also by your late sovereign’s Letters Patent signed with his own hand and sealed with the Great Seal of England in the presence of the most part of the nobles and councilors, judgers and diverse other grown and sage persons assenting and subscribing to the same.
We must profess and declare unto you that by divers Acts of Parliament you be made illegitimate and unheritable to the imperial crown of this realm. You will, upon just consideration thereof, cease your pretense to vex and molest any of our sovereign lady Queen Jane’s subjects, drawing them from the true faith and allegiance due unto Her Grace.
Assuring you that, if you will for respect show yourself quiet and obedient as you ought, you shall find us all ready to do you any service, that we with duty may be glad with you to preserve the common state of this realm, wherein you may otherwise be grievous unto us, to yourself, and to them.
And thus we bid you most heartily well to fare, from the Tower of London, Your Ladyship’s loving friends, showing yourself an obedient subject.
It was signed by Northumberland and twenty-one members of the Privy Council, including that heretic in archbishop’s robes, Thomas Cranmer, the man who had as his first official act upon being appointed Archbishop of Canterbury annulled my parents’ marriage and declared my mother a whore and myself a bastard and Anne Boleyn queen.
In a fury, I crumpled it and flung it at the wall, then stormed out to call my people to assemble in the Great Hall. I had decided that it was best that we move to Framlingham Castle in Suffolk, made of solid, impregnable stone with eight sturdy towers. It was larger and better fortified to withstand a siege, and as the loyal and faithful continued to swell the ranks of my makeshift army we would have need of larger quarters. There, at Framlingham, I had decided, I would make my stand.
As Susan and Jane helped me into my riding clothes and fastened a gleaming silver breastplate over my chest, I thought of my mother and grandmother, both of whom had donned armor at one time or another during their valiant lives, and I vowed that I would not shame myself and would prove myself worthy of them. I also wanted to be remembered as a queen who had donned armor, fully prepared to ride out into battle.
After Susan had set the silver helm, plumed in green and white, the royal Tudor colors, upon my head, I nodded approvingly at my reflection in the mirror. “Let us be off then,” I said, “and fear not, my dears.” I kissed each of my dear devoted ladies on the cheek. “God is with us, so none can be against us!” And I went briskly down the stairs and out into the courtyard to mount my horse and lead my people to Framlingham and, God willing, on to victory.
Every step of the way, I knew I was not alone; I felt as if my mother and grandmother, the strong Spanish warrior queens, were riding right alongside me, in spirit, in proud armor and conviction, once again. And I felt the benevolent and serene presence of the Blessed Virgin infusing my soul with comfort and courage. And God, God was always with us. Every step of the way I felt His presence and He freed me of even the slightest twinge of fear. I knew then that, though the days to come would be difficult, in the end, I would prevail.
And then, a few anxious days later, the miracle happened—I won the battle without a drop of blood being shed. It was over just like that, in the time it takes to snap one’s fingers.
Young Robert Dudley’s men began to desert him and come to me, as did the men manning the warships anchored off Yarmouth to keep me from fleeing the country to seek foreign aid. They threatened to throw their captains into the sea if they did not declare for me, and they did, and to a man, they came marching out to me. And the furious Northumberland, fuming no doubt that if he wanted something done right he must do it himself, assembled his army and rode out himself, leaving the unhappy, unwilling, and unwanted Queen Jane at the mercy of her cruel parents, mother-in-law, bridegroom, and the remaining members of the Council. Then the Treasurer absconded with the money, hurrying hotfoot to me, followed fast by the rest of the Council. And soon they were kneeling, to a man—with the notable exception of Northumberland, of course—with their hands over their hearts, vowing that they were loyal to me, England’s one true queen, and all they had done had been unwillingly at the behest of Northumberland, whose vengeful and violent nature they feared.
Then Northumberland, despised and deserted by all his men, muddy and bedraggled, tried to save himself by ripping down the proclamations declaring Jane queen and flinging his cap and all the gold coins he was carrying into the air as he ran through Cambridge crying, “Long live Queen Mary!” Thus he was captured. The people pelted him with excrement, rotten eggs, and abuse as he was marched back to London. He would later try to save himself by converting to Catholicism in the Tower, but I knew it was just another of his tricks, and he was not to be trusted. He was the one person I could not afford to be merciful to; he was the one traitor who absolutely had to die.
And on July 19, standing before the Eleanor Cross, which Edward I, the venerable and mighty “Hammer of the Scots,” had erected out of love for his deceased wife, the Lord Mayor of London officially proclaimed me queen, and the whole city went mad and merry with rejoicing. Wine flowed in the city fountains, banquet tables with free meat, bread, and cheese were set up throughout the city, bonfires were lit, church bells rang nonstop, and the people cheered and danced, sang, and threw their caps in the air, and strangers embraced strangers in the streets. “God has worked a miracle!” over and over they declared, heaping blessings upon my name, and wishing me a long and prosperous life and reign.
Then I, God’s chosen instrument, the happy recipient of this miracle, this victory without bloodshed, was riding triumphantly toward London along roads lined with cheering, smiling people, weeping with joy, and shouting out their love and blessings to me. Children even climbed trees to get a better look, and called out and waved at me. “God save Queen Mary, long may she reign!” Over and over again they shouted, and all the way to London there was not one moment of silence. That day it was all love and blessings.
Midway to London, Elizabeth rode out to me, riding at the head of a splendid mounted entourage of five hundred ladies, gentlemen, knights, and servants all clad in the green and white Tudor colors. She dismounted and I saw her through a haze of sizzling, shimmering heat, kneeling there in the dusty road in a white gown so blindingly bright a white that I had to shield my eyes. Flaunting her supposed virginity like a banner! I thought, clucking my tongue at the sight of her; I found such emphatic, overzealous display most suspicious, the way she kept pressing and underlining the point, and I could not help but wonder how far Tom Seymour had truly gone with her. Had his fleshly lance indeed shattered the Shield of Hymen? Bareheaded, with her head humbly bowed, with her long red hair shining like scarlet silk in the sun, and the ends trailing in the dust, she spread her hands in a gesture of supplication.
Traveling in white, how utterly impractical! I observed as I dismounted and went to her. Whether they be simpleton or scholar, or somewhere in between, everyone knows how white shows the dirt so. I hope for Elizabeth’s sake, and mine as well—for I will not have her disgracing me with a slovenly, unkempt appearance—that her Mrs. Ashley has brought along the clothes brushes and has them close at hand.
“Well met, sister,” I said as I embraced and kissed her once on each cheek. She was rigid in my embrace now, no longer the little girl who used to nestle into me, begging for bedtime stories. Now she was nineteen, and the survivor of a scandal, with a bold question mark hanging over her virtue. “Come, ride beside me. This is the happiest day of my life, and I want you there beside me, to share it.”
Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty does me great honor.”
As she mounted her white horse and instructed her people to fall in line behind mine, I could not help noting, seeing her there all in white, with her vibrant flaming tresses, at the head of half a thousand men and women clad in green and white, that she was like the herald of spring. Whilst I, in my somber high-necked plum velvet and deep crimson satin under-sleeves and kirtle, with a veritable rainbow of gems flashing blindingly in the summer sun on the large crucifix at my throat and edging the purple velvet hood atop my gray-streaked auburn hair—to distract the people’s eyes and compensate for my own faded charms and lined face—was, at thirty-seven, well into the autumn of my life.
I shivered, despite the July heat and heavy velvet, feeling for the first time the hard stamp of mortality. Whether I liked it or not, Elizabeth was the future. Unless I married and God blessed me with a son, Elizabeth would follow in my footsteps up the dais to the throne and wear the crown of England on her head. Thus it was all the more vital that I turn her heart from heresy and persuade her to embrace the true religion, else all the good I was going to do would be undone by The Great Whore’s red-haired brat.
After a brief stop to refresh and tidy ourselves—Mrs. Ashley had indeed had the foresight to bring the clothes brushes—we made our triumphal entry into London. When the people saw us riding side by side, their cheers redoubled and hundreds threw their caps in the air.
I glanced over at Elizabeth, with her white skirts flowing like milk as she sat sidesaddle on her horse, straight-backed and holding confidently to the green leather reins with one hand and waving to the people with the other. I thought it was rather common and undignified the way she smiled so broadly and waved so enthusiastically back at them, sometimes even calling out to them, thanking them for their compliments and goodwill. It was as if she saw them not as a great churning mass of humanity but as individual people; she met their eyes and made them feel as if each one were the special recipient of her attention! Father had been like that. “Bluff King Hal” they had called him because of the magical touch he had with the common people. But while it was acceptable in a man, I thought it altogether unseemly for a lady, especially one of royal blood, to behave so. A woman should be virtuous, above rubies, as the Scriptures said; she should hold herself aloof and reserved, not lower and demean herself by coarse and common manners. If a lady behaved as common as the masses, she became as common as they were, and no one would look up to her or respect her. It was not just her title, jewels, and fine clothes, but her dignity and bearing that set a lady apart and above the humble and lowborn people. Had no one ever explained this to Elizabeth? It seemed to me that as a governess Mrs. Ashley had been most remiss.
I myself preserved a queenly dignity, holding my back straight as an iron poker and nodding and smiling graciously, serenely, benignly, as best becomes a queen, giving only the briefest, most cursory glances, lifting my hand in a controlled and placidly regal wave.
I paused and glared pointedly at Elizabeth, hoping she would read my disapproval in my eyes and, chastened, strive to emulate me, but she only smiled back at me and called to me above the great din of rejoicing that surrounded us, “This is indeed a glorious day, Mary!”
“It is indeed!” I said crisply. Then a little girl ran up, eager and bouncing on her toes, to offer my sister a posy of violets, which she smilingly accepted and tucked into her horse’s bridle, then took from her sleeve a white silk ribbon and gave it to the child in exchange as a memento of this happy day. The little girl thanked her profusely and in a rush of prattle promised she would treasure it all the rest of her life, and even when she was an old woman with hair as white as that ribbon she would still cherish it and pass it on to her children or grandchildren when she died.
I turned and stared straight ahead, startled to feel the sharp bitter bite of jealousy, like the first tart taste of a green apple.
Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright or the people’s voices quite so loving anymore. I listened more closely to what they were saying now.
“Look at that red hair!”
“Aye, it’s just like Great ’arry’s was in ’is youth, it is!”
“No Spanish blood there, she’s all Tudor, that one is!”
“A true English rose!”
“English through and through, to the core our Elizabeth is—blood, bone, and gristle, and amen for it!”
“God bless our Princess Elizabeth!”
“Vivat Elizabetha!”
Though there were still cries aplenty of “God save Queen Mary!” they seemed all of a sudden muted, to lack the clarity and enthusiasm of those who sang my sister’s praises. Suddenly I was stricken with the fear that though they accepted and acknowledged me as their rightful queen, they loved Elizabeth more; I was Queen of England, but she was Queen of Hearts.
And then a handsome young man, with the eyes of a poet, ran up to Elizabeth and kissed the hem of her white gown as if she, and not I, were queen. “The fairest of the fair,” he called her, and vowed he would write a sonnet in “The Fair Eliza’s” honor.
My fingers clenched around the reins and I bit my bottom lip and forced myself to breathe deep and count to ten, and then I counted to ten again, as I fought down the urge to lean over and rip that red hair out by its roots and shove my sister from her saddle to be trampled beneath the horses’ hooves as we rode on past. I wanted to shout at the people, “My sister is the bastard of that whore Anne Boleyn!” and remind them that as such she did not deserve their love and adulation. I was the one who deserved, and needed, their love; I was the Queen, not she. The glory and praise should be mine, all mine. They should be writing songs and sonnets about me, not about that baseborn red-haired temptress, who smiled at me even as her mind hatched plots against me. She was going to steal my throne, I knew it. This day had shown her her power; she had it within her to harness the hearts of the people and command all!
It was not a Christian thought, I admit, and I would later confess and do penance for it. It was most unworthy of me, and shamed me before God and the mirror of my soul, but in that moment it was what I felt, and I cannot deny it, for to do so would be a lie, and that would further compound my sin.
And then, just as suddenly as this pall of suspicion and dread had fallen over me, it was whisked away. A choir of angelic blond-haired little boys in white silk robes trimmed with golden lace appeared singing joyously, praising God for sending a virgin called Mary to sit upon England’s throne. When the song was done the youngest and prettiest of those exquisite little children came forward and, cupping it in his little hands, shyly presented me with a heart fashioned of solid gold engraved with the words:
I was overcome, and as I held that golden heart within my hands I almost believed I could feel it beating and pulsing as if it were real and I did indeed hold the very heart of England.
Then a toothless old man, with tufts of white hair sticking up around his bald pate, broke through the crowd and dashed up to me.
“Princess Marigold! Princess Marigold!” he cried as he thrust a scraggly bouquet of marigolds up at me. I almost tumbled off my horse, I was so astonished that anyone remembered. My heart was beating so fast that I had to press my hand over it, but I did not let emotion overwhelm me and, smiling graciously, I leaned down and accepted that poor little bouquet. The words slightly garbled in his toothless mouth, he continued, “I remember when Your Grace was just a wee thing and your da’, Great ’arry, ’e called you Princess Marigold ’cause your hair was just like ’em in color, it was.”
“Yes.” I nodded, flashing a brief, bittersweet smile down at him as I gazed at the orange-yellow blossoms. “That was a long time ago, but I remember it well. Thank you, my good man; God bless and keep you in His care,” I added, as I passed the flowers back to Susan, riding behind me, to put in her saddlebag with the golden heart and all the other keepsakes I meant to save as reminders of this joyous day.
As I nudged my horse onward, I darted a swift glance at Elizabeth as if to say, “See? You are not the only one who can play to the masses!” But she just smiled back at me, a born actress, to look at her anyone would have thought that she was genuinely happy for me, but I knew better!
When we arrived at the Tower, to resounding cheers and the deafening boom of a hundred-gun salute, I found the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Bridges, waiting for me. With him, kneeling humbly on the grass, were the last four remaining prisoners from my brother’s reign.
The first was the Duchess of Somerset, Edward Seymour’s widow, my “good gossip Nan,” who had been imprisoned when he followed “The Cakes and Ale Man” to the scaffold. She was trembling and pale as white chalk in her widow’s weeds.
Then, the most important political prisoner in the realm, the tall, handsome, golden-haired young man they called “The Last Sprig of the White Rose,” the last surviving Plantagenet, Edward Courtenay. Now twenty-seven, he had practically grown up in the Tower, and I doubted he could remember any other home. He was a naïve and guileless young man whose blue eyes radiated angelic innocence and sweetness and, I must admit, a want of wits. I knew many would expect me to marry him, as he was the only Englishman alive worthy of me in rank, but here I must confess, I had always desired a man stronger than myself, a pillar of strength I could lean on whenever I had need, a man who would be to me like the shell that protects and shelters the snail’s vulnerable flesh, and Edward Courtenay I knew at a glance was not the man for me. But he did not deserve to remain a prisoner, and I would see that he was compensated for his lost years and set him at liberty.
The third prisoner was Stephen Gardiner, the aged Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned years ago for championing my mother’s rights against The Boleyn Whore, and for staunchly resisting the Protestant regime. I would see to it that his loyalty to the true faith was amply rewarded.
And lastly, the elderly Duke of Norfolk, who had been destined for the block, only Father had died before he could sign the death warrant. Although he was Anne Boleyn’s uncle, he was no friend to her, and had presided over her trial and, without hesitation, had condemned her. Though he had been cruel to me at her instigation, I could be merciful like Our Lord Jesus Christ and forgive one who truly repented their past sins and misdeeds.
One by one, I went to them—raised, kissed, and embraced them.
“These are my prisoners,” I proclaimed, “and I declare them prisoners no more! My Lords, and Lady”—I nodded to Nan—“you are now at liberty!”
Hearing my words, oh how the people cheered; they called me “Merciful Mary” and I could not think of a more wonderful, beautiful name to be known by. I saw it as a sign. It was as if God were speaking through those thousands of voices, and in that moment I vowed “Merciful Mary” I would always be until the day I died. My people gave me that name out of love, and I vowed then and there that I would never give them cause to call me anything else.
In gratitude, the quartet of liberated prisoners vied to kiss my hand. I felt their tears drip down onto my skin; later I would notice the water spots this emblem of their hearts’ gratitude left on my rings, which would, of course, require polishing, but after such a dusty, tumultuous day, they would have anyway.
When the aged Bishop of Winchester tried to bow over my hand, I stopped him and instead kissed his, honoring him as a man of God, and asked him to honor me by serving as my Lord Chancellor.
With tears running down his grizzled cheeks into his long white beard, he raised his gnarled and trembling talonlike hands to heaven and cried: “God has taken pity on His People and Church in England through the instrument of a virgin called Mary whom He has raised to the throne!”
And from every side the people cheered, “Long live Queen Mary! God save Queen Mary!” and hats by the hundreds flew up and down in the air.
And Nan, falling to her knees and kissing the hem of my skirt in deepest gratitude, declared, “There never was a queen in Christendom of greater goodness than this one!”
Not to be outdone, Edward Courtenay dropped to his knees and commandeered my other hand and covered it with kisses. “Your Majesty’s kindness has only one rival—your beauty!”
The wily old Duke of Norfolk just watched it all with a bemused smile and bowed. “I owe Your Majesty my eternal gratitude. I thought the last fresh air I would ever breathe would be as I walked to the scaffold.”
Oh what a happy, joyous day that was, when everyone seemed to love me! And as I pardoned my prisoners, Elizabeth was all but forgotten; she could not snatch or surpass my glory here! I watched her cheering me with all the rest of them and marveled yet again at her ability to dissemble. If women had been allowed to tread the boards of the London theaters she would have been among the greatest.
The first time I met with my Council, I knew that as one lone woman against so many men, seasoned statesmen all, I must not let my nervousness and weakness show; I must prove to them that I was strong enough to hold, and control, the reins of power.
Sitting at the head of the long oak table, in a gown of deep crimson velvet, with my white silk under-sleeves and kirtle embroidered in golden pomegranates and red and white Tudor roses, to remind all who saw me of my proud and illustrious heritage, I chose not to mince words, and instead shot like an arrow straight to the heart of the matter.
“My mother called England a land of ruined souls and martyred saints,” I began. “She said this after Anne Boleyn cast her dark spell over my father and unloosed a plague of heresy on England that caused the break with Rome. I intend to do everything in my power to undo The Great Whore’s reign of destruction. I will give the true religion back to the people; I will bring England back to Rome.”
“Madame,” the Earl of Arundel said, “that is a laudable goal, but I beg of you as you go about this great work, be both cautious and slow lest you frighten the people by acting too precipitously. In the years since the break with Rome and your venerable mother’s death, much has changed here in England, and this new religion, this Reformed Faith, whether we as good Catholics, like it or not, has put down firm roots . . .”
“Then they shall be uprooted!” I cried, banging my fists down hard on the table. “Heresy shall never thrive in my country—God’s country! And well that the people should be frightened—for the sake of their souls they should be very afraid indeed!”
“Madame, with all due respect,” Sir William Paget said patiently, almost condescendingly, as if I were an ignorant little girl, “it already flourishes here as a healthy living presence and many have embraced it, quite willingly, not through force. It has taken the place for many of the true faith, which has now changed places with the Reformist religion, which was once practiced secretly, underground if you will. Now it is thus with the Roman faith. What was once publicly celebrated is now hidden away in secret, whilst what was once hidden is now openly espoused. And if you begin your reign like a great broom seeking to sweep all the changes the years have brought out, you will frighten many of your subjects, and there will be panic and acts of violence and rebellion if you try to take their faith away from them. The Protestants will not creep away meekly like whipped dogs with their tails tucked between their legs, they will fight; just as you yourself have fought for your own beliefs and the freedom to worship as you please. A little tolerance—and I say this as both a devout son of the Church and as a statesman—will go a long way to keeping the peace in England.”
“No, Sir William”—I shook my head emphatically—“I am not taking anyone’s faith away from them! I am returning it, restoring it, to them! Do you not see? I am giving them back what they lost, what was taken from them. In its absence they were misguided, misled, and embraced a false religion to fill the void left by the true. But now, I am going to give it back to them. I am going to make everything all right!”
“Madame”—the Earl of Throckmorton shook his head dolefully—“I fear a great many of your subjects will not see it that way. We are all loyal Catholics here”—he gestured round the Council table and all the men nodded in affirmation—“but England has changed since the break with Rome . . .”
“But God hasn’t!” I cried, slamming my hands down on the tabletop for emphasis. “God has not changed!”
“Madame, what you seek to undertake shall not be easy and will be met by opposition,” Arundel warned, “and therein are the bare bones of the situation.”
“My sainted mother taught me patience and perseverance and I shall lead all my people back to God and the true religion!” I declared. And with those words I stood up and swept grandly from the Council chamber.
I began then to see that I was surrounded by enemies, wolves in sheep’s clothing; even those who claimed to be my friends and to serve and support me were in their hearts against me.
And yet, after prayer and careful reflection, I decided to take the cautious course. I had not yet been crowned, and many, I knew, were nervous, so whilst I openly proclaimed my devotion to the Catholic faith—the true religion—and set in motion its restoration, letting the priests come out of hiding, repairing the desecrated churches, bringing the beautiful adornments that glorified God and His Saints back to decorate the walls and altars, and, of course, allowing the faithful to again hear the Latin Mass and bask in the miracle of the Elevation of the Host, I let it be known that I would make no sweeping changes until Parliament had met and officially restored the laws of the land to their proper and rightful state. And, as a compromise, I allowed my brother two funerals—a stark Protestant service in English and a grand Requiem Mass in Latin with all the requisite pomp and ceremony.
My coronation was a radiant and glorious God-blessed day. I felt important, cherished, loved, and adored. I felt vindicated and victorious—for myself and my sainted mother, and I wished with all my heart she could be riding beside me this day, in the flesh, not just in spirit, though I could still feel her loving presence always right there beside me. It made me feel good to know I had done her proud.
The people lined the streets, crowded the rooftops, hanging like bunches of grapes from the chimneys, and leaned from the windows to shower me with flower petals. There was not a voice amongst them that was not raised to wish me well and bless me as I rode past in a golden chariot, gowned in gold-embroidered deep blue velvet. I had refrained from wearing my hair loose and flowing down my back, as was customary for queens on their coronation day, as I did not want to disappoint those who remembered the famous orange-gold tresses of Princess Marigold by letting them see how thin, dark, and faded it had grown, with a rusty auburn replacing the orange marred by ugly gray streaks. Instead, I wore it caught up in a fringed gold tinsel net studded with precious gems beneath a beautifully crafted wreath of jeweled flowers. As I had stood before my mirror that morning, Susan had brushed out my hair and crowned it with that exquisite jeweled wreath and tried to persuade me to wear it thus, but I was so dismayed to see how the bold beautiful colors of the gems made my tresses seem all the more faded and paltry, that I insisted that she pin it up tightly inside the tinsel-fringed gold net.
Elizabeth, and Father’s only surviving wife, the Lady Anne of Cleves, as the two highest-ranking ladies in the land after me, rode behind me, each in a silver chariot. Elizabeth was all in white again, but the Lady of Cleves, plump and jolly as always despite her years, wore a grand crimson and gold gown. And behind them, to represent the restoration of our nation’s badly debased currency, the noble ladies and gentlemen of my court walked in stately procession all clad in silver and gold. They were followed by my servants in new liveries, trumpeters, archers, guards, and knights in shining silver armor. And lastly, in chariots draped with banners emblematic of their countries, the foreign ambassadors and their retinues.
It was a grand show and the people loved it so! All along the route the fountains and conduits ran with free wine, and there was singing and dancing, and the cheers never ceased. And at intervals, the procession paused, so that my subjects might honor me with poems, pageants, speeches, and songs, many of them performed by little children, which delighted my heart. As I watched those sweet little souls striving so hard to please me, tears filled my eyes. If only I could have a child of my own, then my happiness would be complete!
At Westminster Abbey, my ladies helped me change into an austere, unadorned gown of royal purple velvet, cut purposefully, and I thought, rather immodestly, low at the neck and shoulders, which was necessary for the anointing. But I was comforted by the thought that I would, for most of the ceremony, be covered by regal robes of crimson velvet furred with ermine. And then, as the choir sang the familiar and oh so dear Latin hymns to God’s glory, the bells rang, and priests in embroidered vestments sprinkled me with holy water and swung gilded censers, I walked solemnly up the aisle with Elizabeth behind me bearing my train, wearing a silver surcoat edged with ermine over yet another white gown—I really would have to do something about that, it was absurd the way she went about waving her supposed virginity like a flag!—and a silver coronet crowning her hair that hung glossy and free like a cloak of flames down her back.
When I reached the altar, we withdrew behind a screen and Elizabeth helped me remove my heavy robe and jeweled headdress and smiled reassuringly as I shivered nervously at the idea of showing myself with my shoulders and so much of my bosom bare. Truly, I felt naked, and it was all I could do not to go out with my arms folded across my chest.
“You are Queen, and this is your day, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered. “Do not let fear or nervousness trespass upon it!”
I was so grateful for her kind and reassuring words that I embraced her and kissed her cheek. Then, with a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, held my head up high, and boldly stepped out from behind the screen.
As I knelt before the altar and the Archbishop anointed my head, shoulders, and chest with the holy oil, I felt all the fear leave me. Never before had I felt so truly blessed. I was God’s instrument and He had made all this possible so that I might do His work, by divine right, and against all the odds, I had won the crown. God would not have given me this if I had been unworthy. I had nothing to fear; it was meant to be. I was meant to be Queen!
And then I lay prostrate, facedown before the altar, as the Archbishop prayed over me in the solemn, sonorous Latin that was like a comforting and soothing balm to my soul. I felt the blue velvet carpet soft against my face and closed my eyes and breathed deeply of the incense even though it made me feel a little sleepy. And then he raised me to my feet and Elizabeth was there to help me into my crimson and ermine robes again, and the Archbishop led me to the great gilded, velvet-cushioned throne. As I stood before it, gazing out at the crowd, Elizabeth knelt to arrange the folds of my train so I would not stumble over them. The Archbishop took my hand and slid the coronation ring, “the wedding ring of England,” a band of heavy gold and blackest onyx, onto my finger, the one the doctors said had a vein inside that ran directly to the heart. And then he held aloft the heavy golden and bejeweled crown, letting the people see, and, after a long, solemn moment, lowered it and set it gently upon my head, and I sat down upon the throne as the anointed Queen of England, and he placed the scepter and weighty golden orb in my hands. At that moment the people leapt to their feet, cheering wildly, and the choir lifted their voices in song again as white doves were released into the air.
Tears of the purest joy I had ever known flowed down my face. I was Queen, Queen of England; I had triumphed over all the odds and all my enemies. I would thank my loving subjects for their loyalty and devotion to me by giving them the greatest gift any sovereign could give—I would make everything all right. I would restore peace and harmony and the true religion and make England a bastion of faith where all were united under God, His Church, and their loving queen—Merciful Mary. My reign would be an era of happiness unsurpassed, an era of smiles instead of tears!