43

Mary

The August morning I awoke to find blood on my nightgown my heart broke. I knew it was God’s judgment upon me. I had failed to deliver England from the vipers injecting my people with the venom of heresy, so He had failed to deliver me of a son. It was a hard but fair bargain, and I knew I must do better—it was the only way I would ever hold my miracle in my arms—and it must be soon, for the hourglass that holds the sands of a woman’s fertile years was, for me, fast running out.

Crossing the threshold of the room that was to have been my birthing chamber to confront the curious faces of my court was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, but I held my head up high as I regally sailed past them in black velvet and diamonds, offering no explanation.

And as I rode to Oatlands in my litter, with my resumed monthly blood seeping into the cloths between my thighs, and the great cramps that seized and wrung my womb making me gasp and bite my lip not to cry out, I watched Philip through a gap in the velvet curtains riding straight-backed in the saddle of his white horse and knew that very soon he would leave me. He didn’t have to speak to show me his displeasure; his silence was my punishment.

Other men might have shown compassion, they might have held and kissed and comforted a wife who had lost a baby, but not Philip; such was not his way. When I held out my arms and begged him to hold me, he turned his face away and said coldly, “It is not when you need me to hold you, Mary, it is when I want to hold you.” So I was left alone to bear my personal cross—the knowledge that I had failed my husband, my Christ on earth, just as I had failed God.

And then he left me, after we moved to Greenwich. I knew that he would. At the top of the stairs he bowed formally over my hand, his lips barely brushing my feverish flesh that trembled and yearned for his touch, before he turned his back and walked away from me, leaving me wringing my hands and helpless as the tears poured down my face. He never once looked back even though my eyes followed him, like a drunkard, never able to drink their fill. Each tap of his boot heels on the stairs was like a nail being driven into my heart.

The moment the palace doors closed behind him, I burst into tears, loud keening sobs that startled even me, and caused my court to start and stare horror-stricken and appalled at me. They were too callous to care that my heart was breaking, and I knew more caricatures and jests would soon follow and be left for me to find.

Wailing like a wounded animal, I sought solace in my private chapel and the compassionate face of the Holy Virgin, who understood so well the hearts and sorrows of women. I threw myself on my knees before the candlelit altar and prayed that my husband would come back to me soon and safe.

I cried until my eyes were as red and dry as autumn leaves. Then, staggering blindly, I made my way down to the kitchens and gave orders that a batch of my beloved’s favorite meat pies be prepared at once, then taken, by the fastest ship in our fleet, to Calais, the first stop on his journey, and presented to him with my love and most heartfelt wishes for his “health, long life, and speedy return.” Then I staggered back upstairs to my bedchamber and sat down at my desk to pour out my heart to him in a letter. I vowed I would write to him every day until he returned to me, and I am proud to say that I kept that vow; I never gave cause for anyone to ever doubt my devotion.