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  “Mary!” I impulsively drew her to me. “Never, never think that! Though we do disagree upon matters of faith, I am not, and never have been, and never will be, your enemy! No matter what others may say or do, what schemes they may devise and fly the false banner of my name over them to lend them credence, they will always be lies! I mean you and your throne no harm. You are Queen—by the will of our late father, and our Heavenly Father, and the people of England—you are Queen, and I would never try to take that from you! Never!”

  “I want to believe you!” Mary sobbed, her heart shining in her gray eyes as she looked at me, so fearful and uncertain. They were the eyes of a woman who no longer knew whom to trust or what to believe. Charles and his emissary Renard were the only ones it never even occurred to her to distrust or doubt, and they were snakes in the grass who would bite her if she took one false step.

  “Then believe”—I squeezed her hands—“believe!”

  “Go with God.” Mary pressed a coral rosary into my hand and, with a choking sob, she turned away from me and hurried back inside the palace, hugging herself against the cold.

  Ambassador Renard gave me a curt nod and then, like the Angel of Death, his black velvet cloak flapping like wings behind him, turned and followed her.

  As I rode away, I impulsively called one of my retainers to me and bade him ride back to Whitehall with a message for the Queen, requesting that she send me adornments for my chapel—candlesticks, chalices, copes, and chasubles, and everything else I might need—so that I could continue to hear Mass. I also asked that she send books to further instruct and enlighten me, and told her that in the peace and quietude of the country I planned to probe my conscience and make a deep study of the Catholic faith.

  As he rode back to deliver my message, I worried that Mary would see my request for what it was—another move to buy me more time. But I knew that she, wanting to believe that I would indeed embrace her religion, would grant it just the same, even if she suspected hypocrisy; she would still comply as it was for the service of God. I knew that she doubted me, but it was that kernel of doubt that was keeping me alive, and so I nourished it as best I could.

  Though I knew I was not free of danger, I felt a respite from it, the same sense of release and temporary relief I felt when I removed my stays each night.

  One dreary December day as I walked beneath a gray sky, huddled in my furs, amongst naked trees that stood out starkly like black embroidery on a ground of shifting grays, a stranger accosted me. I started as he flung himself in my path and knelt at my feet, a big, auburn-haired and bearded, broad-shouldered brute of a man. He introduced himself as Thomas Wyatt, son and namesake of the poet who had loved my mother, and, kissing the hem of my skirt, vowed he would accord a like loyalty to me.

  He wanted to talk of an audacious scheme to pull Mary from the throne and put me in her place. He mentioned Courtenay, and how much the people feared and detested the coming of the Spanish bridegroom, but I would not hear him. It was as if Tom Seymour had come back from the dead to torment me, this time laying all his cards upon the table instead of holding them close to his chest to prevent me from truly seeing the fool he truly was with all his mad brainsick jealousy and ambition-driven folly.

  I put my hands up over my ears and ran from him, my hands clasped tight over my ears until distance rendered him mute. I did not slow my steps until Ashridge was in sight.

  As I opened the door, I saw him standing still in the distance; he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Your sister puts Spain and the Pope before England, but you . . . you are not just Elizabeth, you are England and the people love you for it!”

  After that there were notes left and taps upon the windowpanes at night, but I refused to heed them. The notes I burned unread, the knocks and taps I ignored, rolling over in bed, pulling the covers up over my head to muffle that damning tap-tap-tapping that could, if I responded to it, send me to the scaffold. Letters also came, trying to draw me in, asking me to do this or that, go here or there, but I threw them into the fire after no more than a cursory glance.

  My heart was torn. I wanted to warn Mary that Wyatt was planning a rebellion, but I knew that if I did I would find myself accused of treason. I could not trust Mary, especially with the Spanish Ambassador whispering words against me into her ear like a sinister black parrot perched upon her shoulder. I could not trust her to believe me if I came to her with such news, so though it rent my heart and mind with fear and worry, and kept me awake at night, I kept silent.

  But knowing he was out there plotting, and a rebellion was brewing, ready to boil over at any moment, made me so uneasy that I fell grievously ill. Pains assailed my stomach and head, and I could not keep down even a sip of broth or a morsel of food, and my body began to bloat and swell, my joints ached unbearably, and my skin turned yellow-green with a terrible jaundice, and passing water caused me great discomfort.

  I lay there tense and wakeful, pretending to sleep whenever Kat or Blanche Parry came to look in on me, for I had learned from the Tom Seymour scandal that I must keep my own counsel and confide in no one, not even those closest to me. Even though I knew they loved me, I must say nothing and trust no one. So I lay in my dark-shrouded bed and waited, hoping that my illness would save me from suspicion, and knowing it was my penance, the price I paid, for keeping silent.

  27

  Mary

  Thomas Wyatt the younger, the son of the poet who made Anne Boleyn immortal in his sonnets—pathetically portraying her as a frightened doe fleeing from my father the mighty hunter, when in truth it was she who was the huntress—the even more foolish son of a foolish father who incited a rebellion against me, to put a Protestant queen, Elizabeth or Lady Jane, on the throne. With a mob seven thousand strong he marched on London, with many who feared and deplored my coming marriage falling into step behind him.

  My Council pleaded with me to flee, to barricade myself behind the thick, impenetrable walls of the Tower, but instead I donned my crown and regal robes of crimson and ermine and rode boldly through the streets of London to the Guildhall. And there, I delivered a rousing speech to my people.

  “I come to you in my own person,” I began, staring out nervously into the sea of faces before me, “to tell you that which you already see and know; that is, how traitorously and rebelliously a number of Kentishmen have assembled themselves against us and you. What I am you right well know: I am your Queen, to whom, at my coronation, when I was wedded to the realm and laws of the same, you promised your allegiance and obedience. My father, as you all know, possessed the same regal state, which now rightly is descended to me, and to him you always showed yourselves most faithful and loving subjects; and therefore I do not doubt that you will show yourselves likewise to me.

  “I say to you, on the word of a prince, I cannot tell how naturally a mother loves her child, for I was never the mother of any; but certainly, if a prince and governor may as naturally and earnestly love her subjects as the mother loves the child, then assure yourselves that I, being your lady and mistress, do as earnestly and tenderly love and favor you. And I, thus loving you, cannot but think that you as heartily and faithfully love me. And then I doubt not but we shall give these rebels a short and speedy overthrow.

  “But for marriage, I will not, for my own pleasure, choose where I lust, for I am not so desirous that I need a husband. For God, I thank Him, I have hitherto lived a virgin, and doubt not that with God’s grace I am able so to live still. But if, as my progenitors have done before me, it may please God that I might leave some fruit of my body behind me to be your governor, I trust you would not only rejoice thereat, but also I know it would be to your great comfort. And, on the word of a queen, I promise you that if it shall not probably appear to all the nobility and commons that this marriage shall be for the high benefit and commodity of the realm, then I will abstain from marriage while I live.

  “I am minded to live and die with you, and strain every nerve in our caus
e, for this time your fortunes, goods, honor, personal safety, wives, and children are all in the balance. If you bear yourselves like good subjects, I am bound to stand by you, for you will deserve the care of your sovereign lady.

  “And now, good subjects, pluck up your hearts, and like true men face up against these rebels, and fear them not, for I assure you I fear them nothing at all!”

  The people greeted my words with resounding cheers, and a volley of caps flew up into the air. And I knew, yet again, they, like God, were on my side, and would fight for and with me.

  “God save Queen Mary! There never was a more steadfast and true queen!” they cheered.

  And as I walked out, fearlessly, head held high and staring straight ahead, never letting it show that the fear of assassins lurking in the crowd ready to burst out and plunge a dagger into my breast or back was very much in my mind, my people fell to their knees, and those nearest reached out to reverently touch or kiss the hem of my robe as if it were a holy relic being paraded past them. I was God’s anointed sovereign and they knew it was by God’s divine will that I reigned and against that a rebellious poet’s passion was nothing!

  My people did not disappoint me. And to reinforce their fighting spirit, I sent heralds out with copies of my speech to be read from every street corner and every square in the city to give the people heart should their courage falter. And I gave orders that whoever captured the traitor Wyatt, whether it be dead or alive, would be rewarded with a landed estate to be held in perpetuity by his heirs.

  There was one moment when those about me feared all was lost, when the rebels penetrated the palace courtyard. My ladies raced about like chickens in a barnyard frightened by a fox, weeping and shrieking, “All is lost!” And Edward Courtenay wet his pants in terror and crawled under a table to hide, but I held my ground and ordered my people to “Fall to prayer, and I warrant we shall hear better news anon!”

  To set an example for them, I dropped down onto my knees with my rosary in hand. Faithful Susan Clarencieux and devoted Jane Dormer followed my lead and knelt down behind me in a puff of velvet skirts, bowing their heads over their clasped hands and rosaries, and my other ladies dried their tears and followed suit.

  “If God is for us, none can be against us!” I stoutly repeated the phrase that had become my battle cry. And I was right; soon word came that the rebels had been beaten back and cornered, and Wyatt himself was taken.

  But I knew who was really behind it—Elizabeth! When I sent for her she claimed to be too ill to travel, just as she had when I had to fight for my throne. But I didn’t believe her; she had played that card too many times before. When things were difficult or uncertain Elizabeth took to her bed rather than make a definite stand. I knew she was behind it! When rebellion exploded, like a lit powder keg, in my kingdom, I knew that Elizabeth was the guiding spirit that lit the fuse and tried to blast me off my throne. She was more accomplished at feigning sincerity than any play-actor; she was false and insincere. And I knew they wanted her. I saw it in their eyes whenever they looked at her, when they cheered her, the affection in their voices and in their eyes, the way they noted with approval her resemblance to our father. “There goes Great Harry’s daughter!” they would say, ignoring me as if I were no more than a maidservant privileged to ride at her side and not the reigning and rightful Queen of England. I knew it was Elizabeth they loved, it was Elizabeth they wanted. They were only waiting for me to die—I knew they prayed for it. I had found broadsheets printed with prayers for “The Ascension of Elizabeth” shoved underneath my door, even on the altar of my private chapel and in my sewing basket; they wanted me to know, they wanted me to see them. Perhaps they thought grief would sicken me and I would die from it. But the throne was not her right and, by God and all His saints, I would not let her take it from me! Her minions would not snatch the crown from my head and put it on hers!

  But even though they wanted her, the English could always be counted on to stand up for what is right, and they knew that I was right, God had chosen me, and Wyatt and his rebel army were wrong. So my people rose up to champion me, and the rebellion was quickly put down, and the leaders locked away in the Tower to await their just end upon the scaffold. Wyatt went to his death proclaiming Elizabeth innocent of any involvement, but I knew he was lying. He was in love with her, just as his father had been with that whore Anne Boleyn. Poor naïve Edward Courtenay, who had been gulled into being a part of it, believing that Elizabeth would marry him and make him king, suffered pangs of conscience and came and threw himself weeping at my feet and confessed all. I pardoned the poor fool, of course, and bestowed a dukedom and income upon him with the stipulation that he live out the rest of his life abroad, and thus rid myself, and my court, of him once and for all.

  In order to save myself, and my throne, and assert my authority, I could no longer be “Merciful Mary.” I could not let a certain rebellious and misguided element think I was just a weak and feeble female at the mercy of her own heart. Those who had rebelled against me must die, lest others think they could do the same and not suffer the consequences. They must not think me womanly and weak, that I would shrink from sending traitors to the scaffold. And that, sadly, would now have to include Lady Jane. Renard was right. After this rebellion it would not be safe to let her live. Her father had lent his support to Wyatt’s rebellion on condition that Jane be restored to the throne. He was captured caked with mud and quaking with fear hiding inside a hollow tree. He too must die, and die with the knowledge that his actions had sealed his daughter’s fate.

  His wife, my cousin Frances, came to see me to plead for his life, though she said not a word about her daughter, languishing in the Tower, an innocent traitor condemned to die though guilty of no crime.

  Frances was dressed in vivid shades of pink, crimson, and orange, all spangled with gold beads, fringe, and pearls, which the truth behooves me to admit ill became her; with her dark red hair, beady little eyes, florid face, and ample figure it made her appear alarmingly like a pig dressed up in fine array. As she paced nervously before me, she slapped her riding crop against her meaty pink palm, rough and calloused from years of hard riding despite the ladylike gloves she always wore, and her brisk bow-legged stride and the clacking heels of the gold-spurred riding boots she always wore further betrayed her nervousness.

  In discreet words, comparing her husband’s moral and carnal weakness to an occasional craving for quince pie, Frances confided in me about her husband’s sin, for which the Lord would surely punish him, explaining that from time to time throughout the years of their marriage he had sometimes strayed, as men often do, when Frances was with child, or left him too long to his own devices, or the urge just like lightning struck him. But instead of turning to a petticoat, serving girls and the like, to slake his lust, Henry Grey had upon rare occasions followed another fancy when he found himself drawn to breeches and the handsome figures that filled them instead, usually grooms and stablehands, men both handsome and rough, never effete pretty boys. Afterward, repentant and contrite, he had always come back to Frances, weeping and bearing gifts of jewelry; to illustrate this she flourished a plump diamond-laden pink hand and gestured to the icy glitter of her necklace. “He has always been a weak man,” Frances said with a contemptuous snort. Thus when Tom Seymour came a-wooing, singing of cakes and ale, and bearing a platter and flagon of the same, Henry Grey was powerless to resist and had all too readily succumbed to his blandishments, big dreams, and promises of wealth and glory, when Tom promised that, if given a free hand, he would marry Jane to Edward and make her Queen of England.

  “He approached me in the same manner,” Frances added, further confirming that Tom Seymour was singularly unimaginative when it came to wooing. “He followed me out when I went riding, skipping along after me with a basket of cakes and a flagon of ale, belting out that ridiculous ‘Cakes and Ale’ song over and over again until I thought I would go mad. Finally, I reined in my horse and put a stop to it. When he
caught up with me, I kicked the cakes from his hand with the toe of my riding boot and slapped the ale from his hand with my riding crop, and galloped off, leaving him sucking his smarting fingers. I am not some little milkmaid ready to flop on my back when a handsome gallant comes calling with a song on his lips and the makings of a picnic in hand!” To emphasize her indignation and scorn, as she spoke she paced back and forth and repeatedly slapped her riding crop against her palm.

  When Tom Seymour died, she had thought the whole silly scheme was at an end. And then, when King Edward died, Northumberland, who had replaced the Seymour brothers—and was a greater villain than either “that fool Tom or his chilly brother, or the pair of them put together”—proposed a way to make Seymour’s scheme come true in an even greater and grander way, and Henry Grey was all too ready to listen. He had become accustomed to thinking of his daughter as the someday Queen and was loathe to relinquish the dream.

  “And here we are.” Frances sighed. “My lack-wit fool of a husband is in the Tower and my daughter was Queen of England and sat on a stolen throne wearing a stolen crown for nine days, and both of them shall die for their presumption, unless it pleases Your Majesty to show mercy.”

  I took Frances’s hands in mine and bade her kneel and pray with me. Then I sent her away with a kiss and a loving embrace, promising I would take all she said into consideration. I just wanted to be rid of her; I felt her confession about her husband’s forays into the sin of Sodom had sullied my soul and I just wanted to be alone to pray and cleanse myself of it. And I did not want to tell Cousin Frances to her face that her husband had to die; he had supported a rebellion to pull me from my throne and place his daughter upon it, and even if my heart cried out for mercy, as a monarch I must stand firm and send him, and poor little Jane, to a traitor’s death upon the scaffold. Afterward, it was up to God to deal with his wicked, weak, and wayward soul.