23
Mary
I was seven years past thirty, no longer a girl in the first radiant glow of youth with pink roses in her cheeks and the whole of life before her. I was far past the age when most women are many years married and mothers many times over. Had I been a private gentlewoman, I would have reconciled myself to the spinster’s lot, but as Queen of England I owed my people an heir. I knew I could not trust Elizabeth to uphold the true faith and fight to stave off the infectious plague of heresy. No, it was far more likely that she would welcome and embrace it. No, to safeguard the soul of England, I needed a child born of my own body, who would be loyal to me as both mother and queen, and, for that, I needed a husband.
Some thought I should marry Edward Courtenay, that my Tudor blood and his Plantagenet would breed a fine race of English kings, but I could not suffer the thought of that fool in my bed. I needed a real man, a strong and commanding virile presence, someone I could turn to, lean on, and rely on. I needed a man who was born to hold the reins of power in his hands; a man who was born to be a king among men.
Then one day, as my Council hotly debated the matrimonial issue, and I sprang from my chair at the head of the table and fled from them in embarrassment, my cheeks burning at the thought of all these men sitting around discussing who should share my bed and my chances of successfully conceiving at my age, with my own doctors at hand to answer their questions, the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Renard, sought me out. He said he had something to cheer me. He had brought me a present from his master, my cousin, the Emperor. It was a portrait painted by the master artist Titian.
As I stood, rapt with curiosity before the canvas, tantalizingly veiled in blue velvet, Ambassador Renard delivered a most flattering message from my imperial cousin.
“Your Majesty, my imperial master bade me tell you this: Since age and infirmity now render him ill-equipped and rob him of the pleasure of becoming himself your bridegroom, a chance he lost once before, and deeply regrets to this day, he offers you the finest and a far superior substitute—his son, Prince Philip of Spain.”
With those words, Renard ripped away the blue velvet and there before me, staring out at me from inside the gilded frame, was the handsomest young man I had ever seen.
His hair and short, pointed little beard were like burnished gold silk, his eyes were the blue of a placid ocean, and his mouth wore the tiniest little smile that seemed to me so sensual and inviting that I was startled by the realization that I wanted to kiss it. Beneath my velvet skirts, I felt my knees tremble and go so weak that I had to grope behind me for a chair and sank down into it with my hand going up to clasp my pounding, racing heart. I could not take my eyes off him. He was so beautiful! He stood turned slightly to the side, not fully facing me, which put him half in shadows, and gave him an air of mystery, his slender form encased in rich midnight blue velvet trimmed with pearls and delicate but fine silver and gold beading and embroidery. He was the sun and the moon all at once, and I knew then that he would be the whole world to me.
My face burned with a red-hot blush as I felt the most exquisite little tingling, the like of which I had never felt before, between my legs, accompanied by a sudden burst of warm wetness. This, I rather poetically fancied, was what a rose must feel like before it first unfurled its petals in full bloom to the morning dew.
“I . . . I . . .” I tried to speak but my heart was pounding so that it proved most distracting; it was as if I could hear it echoing in my ears. I swallowed hard and tried again. “I thank the Emperor for suggesting a greater match than I deserve, but . . . is he not . . . rather . . . young?”
“Madame, a man of twenty-six can hardly be considered young!” Renard protested. “I would instead call him a middle-aged man, for he is settled and stable in his ways, and nowadays a man nearing thirty is considered as old as men formerly were at forty, and few men survive to more than fifty or sixty.”
“But a man of twenty-six is likely to be disposed to be amorous,” I persisted, “and, at my age, such is not my inclination. I have never felt that which is called love,” I confided, “nor have I harbored amorous thoughts. I never even thought of marriage until God was pleased to raise me to the throne, and as a private individual I would not desire it,” I continued, whilst inwardly chastising myself for this untruth, for denying my lifelong dream of marriage and motherhood. “I must, therefore, look to the Emperor for guidance, and leave all in his hands, as if he were my father, and indeed I have long been accustomed to think of him and honor and respect him as such.”
“Madame”—Renard came and knelt beside my chair—“the Emperor regards you with the same affection as he would a daughter and indeed, if you were his very own daughter he could not hope to discover a better match for you. Prince Philip is unparalleled! He is so admirable, so virtuous, so prudent, so wise beyond his years, and modest in his person and demeanor as to appear too good to be true and too wonderful to be human. Many have gone so far as to call him divine. Far from being young and amorous, I assure you, His Highness is a prince of stable and settled character who deplores lasciviousness and licentiousness in others. And if you accept his proposal, the burden will be lifted from your shoulders; you will be relieved of the pains and travails which are meant to be a man’s work and not the profession of ladies. And His Highness is a puissant prince to whom this kingdom could turn for protection and succor against your enemies.”
“I . . .” My head began to swim and I closed my eyes and clasped my hands tight around it. “This is all so sudden! Señor Renard, please, I need time! I must think! I must pray and reflect on all that you have told me.”
“Of course, Madame,” he said kindly, standing, and sweeping me a low bow. “I understand; forgive me, it was not my intention to overwhelm you. With your permission, I shall withdraw.”
I nodded absently and waved him out, but as he neared the door I called out to him to wait and rushed and took his hand in mine and stared intently into his dark eyes.
“Tell me truthfully,” I implored, “is Prince Philip really as you say?”
“Madame, in truth, he is even better! I confess to you now that I have been minimizing his qualities so that he would not sound too good to be true. I assure you, His Highness is the most virtuous prince in this world, and such that one would be tempted to pinch him to make sure he was not a dream, and then to pinch oneself to make sure one was not dreaming to be in the presence of such a man.”
“So you are not speaking out of duty, or fear, or affection for the Prince or my imperial cousin the Emperor?” I pressed again for reassurance.
“Your Majesty, I beg you to take my honor and my life as hostages for the honesty of my words!” Renard exclaimed.
I wanted to believe him, I wanted it all to be true, and yet . . . whether it was something in me, or something about the Prince, still I hesitated.
“Would it be possible,” I timidly inquired, fearing to give offense by my request and shatter all hope of dragging this dream into reality, “for the Prince to visit me first, before I accept his proposal?”
Renard shook his head. “I fear not, Madame, but I am certain that as soon as his proposal is accepted he will come to you on the fastest ship. Having heard so much about you and your great and many virtues—I tell you this confidentially—the Prince is already quite smitten.”
“Really?” I gasped, clutching my chest as my heart fluttered so I thought it had sprouted wings and was about to fly up my throat and out my mouth. Prince Philip smitten, with me? Praise God, it was too good to be true!
Renard nodded, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “In strictest confidence, Your Majesty—yes, he is indeed quite smitten, and not an hour passes that he does not think of you, nor a night in which he does not dream of having you beside him as his bride. I cannot count the number of times he looks upon your portrait each day. If I may be so bold . . .” He hesitated until I nodded eagerly for him to continue. “Your concern about the difference in age is utterly unnecessary. His Highness relishes the thought of a mature bride, an intelligent woman of dignified and regal bearing and strong faith. He has no liking for the idea of sharing his life with a silly green girl who giggles and blushes and simpers and thinks of nothing but dancing and new clothes.”
Blushing, I turned away. “Thank you, Señor Renard. That will be all. Leave me, please; you have given me much to think on. And I must pray; I must ask God for guidance.”
“I understand, Madame,” he said gently. “And I too shall pray, as I know His Highness does every day, that this happy union shall come to pass, for it is like a match made in Heaven under the smiling gazes of God and His angels.”
“I hope, but yet . . . I dare not!” I breathlessly confided.
“Hope, Madame, hope!” he urged as he drew the door shut behind him.
I shut myself away from the prying eyes of the court, and had Susan give out that I was ill, and for two days and nights, I fasted and prayed. Forsaking slumber, I paced my rooms like an animal caged and restless. I scrutinized the face in the portrait, and knelt at my altar. I occupied every moment with deep, intense thought and fervent prayer. And then, my decision made, on Sunday evening I sent Susan to bring Ambassador Renard to my private chapel.
He found me kneeling before the candlelit altar.
“I have not slept for the past two days,” I confided, solemn and weary, as I held out my hand to him with a nod that conveyed he should kneel down beside me. “I have spent every moment in thought and prayer, asking God, as my protector, guide, and counselor, to help me make the right decision regarding this marriage. And He, who has shown me so many miracles and favors, has shown me the way and performed yet one more miracle on my behalf.” My Bible lay open upon the altar and I laid my hand upon it. “He has inspired me, now, before you, to make this unbreakable vow. My mind is made up and I can never change it; I will marry Prince Philip and love him perfectly and never give him cause for jealousy.”
“Oh, Madame!” Renard kissed my hand in a most passionate, heartfelt manner. “I am so happy! May I say on behalf of His Highness the words that I know will be in his heart and on his lips the moment he hears of your decision? You have made him the happiest man in the world!”
“And I,” I said fervently, as tears rolled down my face, “knowing that he wants me, am the happiest woman in the world! I never thought that I would feel that which is called love, but now . . . God has blessed me with another miracle! He has opened my heart! And for the first time in my life, I am in love! I am to be a wife, and God willing, a mother! And now”—I turned my smiling face, in joyous expectation, to Renard—“there is nothing to stop His Highness from coming to me on the fastest ship!”
Ambassador Renard frowned and lowered his eyes.
“What?” I gasped and reached out to grasp his hand. “Is something wrong? Tell me!”
“There is one thing, Your Majesty—the Protestant usurper, the Lady Jane Grey. There is great unrest in the land, and I fear those who will, out of fear and ignorance, oppose this marriage, might rise up and try to restore the Lady Jane to the throne.”
“But Jane does not want to be Queen!” I protested. “She never did. It was forced upon her; so surely there is nothing to fear from her?”
“Madame, your kindness is commendable, it is a goodly and godly feminine virtue, but a sovereign must think first and foremost of the good of their kingdom. They cannot always follow their personal inclination to be merciful. I regret, the Lady Jane’s very existence is a serious threat to the life and security of the Prince, and as long as she lives, Prince Philip cannot set foot in England; the Emperor will not allow it.”
“But I swear upon my life, Prince Philip shall be safe!” I cried.
Renard shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, Madame, but I regret . . .”
I felt my heart shatter. Happiness had been in my grasp and now it had been most cruelly snatched away and in the tussle fallen and shattered like a fragile glass bauble.
“Leave me!” I motioned for Renard to withdraw as I fell weeping before the altar, begging the Blessed Virgin to help me. I had come so close to having all my dreams come true. And now . . . now I must choose between the life of my innocent cousin and my personal happiness; my chance to be a wife and mother as I had always dreamed of and enjoy the God-ordained purpose and fulfillment of all womankind. It was too cruel! I didn’t know what to do.
I was determined to be merciful. She was only sixteen, just a child, a battered and badly used child. She had not taken my throne on purpose, it was not done out of spite or malice or a belief that it was her right; she had been beaten and forced and even as she accepted she admitted she did wrong and it was mine by right, not hers. Of course, I would have to sentence her to death, as a formality and a warning to others, but I fully intended to pardon her. I had thought to keep her safe in the Tower, out of harm’s way, away from the immediate personal peril of her parents, and her vain and vapid, but also reputedly quite cruel, peacock of a husband, as well as beyond the reach of the Protestant rebels, until I married and had a child to safeguard the succession. Then I would set her free. After all, it was not a cruel imprisonment and she seemed to be quite content, holed up with her beloved books. But now . . . her very existence put my dreams, and England’s future, in peril. In the end, it all boiled down to her death or the death of my dreams. One or the other must be sacrificed.
I took from a drawer a miniature likeness painted of the Lady Jane and drew up a comfortable chair before Prince Philip’s portrait, and for a long time I sat there gazing first at one and then at the other, knowing that I must sacrifice one of them. Losing Philip would be like death to me; I knew I would never find another man who would suit me even half so well, and time was not on my side. I was closer to forty than I was to thirty; I needed to bear an heir before it was too late and Mother Nature’s hourglass ran out for me, but having Philip would mean death to Lady Jane.
Life had not been kind or fair to that little lady. I could picture it all in my mind, like a series of tapestries on the wall, woven together from the various threads of gossip, letters, and reports I had received.
She had been wakened from a sound sleep and ordered to dress. She was taken in the gray light of dawn to Syon House. Northumberland himself escorted her, and Guildford, preening his golden hair and pouting at being woken from the sound sleep that was so necessary for him to look his best, to the Presence Chamber where a bevy of noble men and women awaited them. Since Edward’s death the throne had sat empty beneath the gold-fringed canopy of estate. As Jane entered, the gentlemen knelt and the ladies curtsied, doing reverence to the startled and confused girl.
Dazed and uncomprehending, Jane faltered and seemed about to bolt. Northumberland’s hands shot out to stay her. His eyes boring commandingly into hers, he took her hand firmly in a grasp that threatened to crush the delicate little bones beneath the snow-white flesh and forcibly dragged her, shaking with fright, up the steps of the dais to the throne and, with steely hands on her frail shoulders, made her sit, speechless and stunned, as he read out a proclamation announcing the death of King Edward VI and that before his death he had altered the succession to disinherit both his sisters and name his cousin, the Lady Jane, Queen of England.
At these words, Jane sprang up then, just as suddenly, fell down in a dead faint. There she lay in a crumpled heap of gray velvet skirts and wavy chestnut hair. No one made a move to tend or assist her; impatiently they waited for her to recover. Even her own husband made no move to help her; instead he made a great show of polishing his nails against his velvet doublet and admiring them and the flash of his rings in the candlelight. When Jane came to, she burst into tears upon realizing that this was really happening and not some hellish nightmare.
She lay sobbing on the floor, whilst the nobles looked away, embarrassed, pretending not to see. Not a one of them was moved to pity that poor frightened, helpless girl, alone and misused, with no one to turn to for assistance, comfort, or advice. At last her mother, the irascible and impatient Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, strode over, as powerful as a plow horse, and leaned down and grasped Jane’s arm and yanked her to her feet and shoved her back onto the throne. The crown was waiting for Jane to try on and, slapping down the feeble little hands, like frightened, flapping white doves, that rose and tried to push it away, Frances crammed it down on Jane’s head and thus crowned her daughter Queen of England.
“The crown is not my right! This pleases me not!” Jane sobbingly protested. “The Lady Mary is the rightful heir!”
“Shut up, you stupid little girl!” Frances hissed, giving her cheek a swift stinging slap and the soft flesh of her upper arm a savage pinch that made Jane yelp and cower back against the velvet cushions of her unwanted throne.
Then, smiling broadly at the assembled courtiers and Councilors, Frances smilingly declared, “It is most becoming, is it not?” gesturing to the crown glittering upon the tousled head of her tearstained and trembling daughter.
And all agreed that it was indeed most becoming and a perfect fit for their beautiful young queen. And Guildford Dudley declared that he wanted one for himself set with sapphires fine enough to rival his beautiful eyes. Beside him, his doting mother agreed that would look breathtaking.
Then at first light they were forcing Jane’s bruised and battered body into an elaborate gown of Tudor green and white furred with ermine and adorned with gold embroidery, emeralds, diamonds, seed pearls, and enameled Tudor roses of red and white, and brushing her hair out to a gleaming, glossy shine, and crowning it with a jeweled hood to match her gown. About her neck they fastened the ruby necklace I had given her for her wedding day, which made her again tug and fidget and complain that it cut her throat. Then her nurse, Mrs. Ellen, knelt to strap a pair of chopines with high, cork-platformed soles onto Jane’s tiny feet to lend her the illusion of height. And they were on their way, with the domineering Frances, glittering murderously in cloth-of-gold and bloodred rubies, acting as her daughter’s trainbearer, and Guildford, his golden hair shining like waves of molten gold, resplendently jeweled and costumed in green and white velvet, roughly taking her arm. Thus, Jane most unwillingly tottered out, teetering on her unaccustomed high heels, to board the barge that would carry her to the Tower of London where she was to lodge in the royal apartments until her coronation. It was deemed safer to convey her there by barge instead of in the traditional procession through the streets thronged with stony-faced and silent people, not a one of whom raised their voice to wish her well. They all sulked and glowered and longed for me, their one true queen. And as Guildford smiled to show off his perfect teeth and waved to the crowd, Jane stared down at the floor, her chin quivering with the tears she was trying not to shed, and tugged nervously at the ruby necklace that encircled her throat, complaining that it cut her and she couldn’t breathe.
That night in the royal apartments, Guildford insisted on a crown of his own. Jane refused him, whereupon Guildford burst into tears and threatened to go home to his mother. In his nightshirt, he ran to fetch her and she came barreling in, in indignant haste, with her nightgown flapping about her bountiful form, and delivered a harsh tongue-lashing to her daughter-in-law, “so ungrateful for the gift she had been given in Guildford,” then took her son’s hand and said, “Come, Guildford, you shall not lodge with such an ungrateful wife!” Smarting with humiliation, Jane sent guards to bar them from leaving the Tower. “I have no need of my husband in my bed,” she explained, perhaps, as some suspected, intending it as a slur upon Guildford’s masculinity, “but by day his place is by my side.”
In the days that followed, Jane became sick with fear and worry. Unable to keep food down, and with her glorious hair starting to come out in clumps, she became convinced that Northumberland was poisoning her, to get rid of her, so that he might make his son, Guildford, reigning king instead of mere consort.
Then the people rose up in favor of me, the Treasurer absconded with the money, and the Council deserted, all running as fast as they could to me. When it was all over and she heard the distant sounds of rejoicing in the city, Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She was alone in the Presence Chamber when her father came in and ripped down the canopy of estate from over her head.
“You are no longer Queen,” he brusquely informed her. “You must put off your royal robes and be content with a private life.”
“I put them off more willingly than I ever put them on,” Jane replied. “I gladly relinquish the crown. May I go home now?”
Her father ignored the question and turned on his heel and left, abandoning her like all the rest, hurrying back to the London town house where his wife was hastily restoring the chapel to full Catholic splendor and getting out of storage their rosaries and crucifixes. On his way home, he paused on Tower Hill to wave a hastily procured rosary in the air and shout at the top of his lungs, “God save Queen Mary, our one true queen! Long may she reign!” He tossed a few coins in the air for good measure and the benefit of the common folk standing nearby.
Alone in the Presence Chamber, the weary Jane gladly got up from her unwanted throne and went back to her bedchamber to doff the splendid gown of jet-spangled mulberry velvet she had been laced into that morning.
“I am glad I am no longer Queen,” she said to her nurse, Mrs. Ellen, as she unlaced her. “No one can ever say I sought the crown or was pleased with it.”
And then, exhausted, thin as a reed and pale as her shift, Jane fell into bed, believing that her ordeal was over.
The next morning she arose, dressed in plain black, and wrote a letter of apology to me, explaining that though the crown was forced upon her, she knew she had done wrong to accept it. “It did not become me to accept it,” she admitted. “It showed a want of prudence.” Then, letter dispatched, she took up her Greek Testament, and settled herself on the window seat to resume her studies.
How could I send such an unfortunate creature to the block? I thought of summoning her, to talk with her privately, but I knew that if I did, I would never be able to do what I feared I must. If I saw and spoke with her, I would never be able to condemn her. It had been the same with Father. Once he had decided upon a death, he never saw the condemned again, lest their pleading words and tears turn his heart and sway him to mercy. And what good would it do? I knew I had nothing to fear from Jane—she did not want my crown. It was those Protestant rebels who would espouse her cause, whether she wanted them to or not, whom I had to fear and worry about, not Jane herself. Jane, the fervent Protestant, was the figurehead for the Protestant warship. It was as simple as that. And as such, it was not safe to let her live; she was a weapon that would be used against me again and again. Unless . . . A smile lit up my face and my hand rose to clasp the jeweled cross at my breast. Unless I could rob the weapon of its ammunition. If Jane embraced the true faith, she would no longer be a threat!
I would send a good and kindly teacher—I knew just the one: Dr. Feckenham, the Abbot of Westminster—and give her every opportunity to save herself. Now Jane’s fate would be in her own hands, and no longer in mine; she herself would decide whether she was to live or to die and, whatever happened, my conscience would be clear and blameless. I fell to my knees and thanked God for shining a beacon to show me the way. “Thou are indeed the light of the world—my world!” I breathed in fervent gratitude.