Carolyn Meyer - Mary, Bloody Mary

I loathed my tutor almost as much as I loved my governess. Salisbury had nothing to do with my studies but everything to do with my training in manners and court behaviour. When I was not with Vives or my tutors in religion and theology or my music teachers, I was with Salisbury, learning all the rules concerning sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, dressing, speaking, and every other public act. The lessons were excruciatingly boring, but Salisbury was always patient and kind.

And there were the larger lessons that Salisbury said I must master as future queen: to be gracious even when I felt ill, or tired, or sad. To show mercy even to those I believed did not deserve it. To control my anger, concealing it when necessary and showing it only when I meant to, and then sparingly. For me this was the most difficult lesson of all!

At last the Yuletide season arrived, and as Salisbury had promised, there was an invitation to court. I loved court life — the pretty gowns, the jewels, and especially the banquets. The long, hard journey — by horseback and litter from Ludlow to Richmond Palace on the River Thames and thence by royal barge, winding downriver from Richmond past London to Greenwich Palace — seemed not so long nor so hard. There would be time with my mother and perhaps a private visit with my father. There would be music and dancing every night and jugglers and fools for amusement. My father would show me off, the Princess of Wales, the jewel of all England, and I would be the centre of attention.

But when the Yuletide season ended after Twelfth Night, I had to return again to Ludlow. Although my heart ached when the time came to bid my mother farewell, I did not weep. “Until Easter, then,” I said to her, assuming that I would once again be called to court.

“Perhaps,” she said. “We can at least hope.”

It was not until later that I remembered that conversation. Why did she not say, “Yes, until Easter”? She must have sensed that our lives were about to change.

I counted the weeks until Easter, but no invitation arrived from my father. The third great court festival of the year was Whitsuntide, at the end of May, and again I waited, nearly ill with impatience. I was not permitted to write to my father, begging for an invitation, but I bombarded my mother with letters, entreating her to send for me. Her replies were warm and loving, as always, but she did not answer my questions: why was I not called to court? When will I see you again?

Instead of being called to court, I received a summons from the king to come to Bridewell for yet another ceremony. This time it was not the Princess of Wales who would be the focus of all eyes, but my half-brother, Henry Fitzroy. At this ceremony King Henry intended to invest Fitzroy, his illegitimate son, with a string of royal titles: Duke of Somerset, Lord High Admiral, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Warden of the Marches, Duke of Richmond.

It would have done no good to complain. And I was thrilled at the chance to be with my mother. But when we finally reached Bridewell, I found Queen Catherine in no mood for idle chatter. She was furious.

“Not only will Fitzroy receive all of these titles but he is to have a household even greater than yours, Mary” she fumed when we had a moment to ourselves before the ceremony began. She turned to Salisbury. “Imagine a six-year-old bastard outranking a princess!” she kissed. Then she whispered angrily to me, “Clearly you are no longer the king’s choice to inherit the throne. He intends to put his bastard son in your rightful place. The people will not stand for it, nor will I.”

Throughout the long, tedious ceremony I had a chance to observe my rival, a pretty boy with golden curls, swathed in ermine and weighed down with jewels. He looked thoroughly miserable, and I felt a little sorry for him. But only a little! The last trumpet fanfares had scarcely died away when my mother swept off to make her protest to the king. I waited fearfully outside the privy chamber. My father stormed out, rushing past me without seeing me, his face blood red and his eyes shrunken to pinpoints of rage. When he was gone, I tiptoed to my mother’s side.

“It is no use,” the queen said, slumped wearily in her chair. “He will not listen. And now to punish me, he has informed me that he’s taking away my three most cherished ladies-in-waiting and sending them back to Spain. I shall be so alone!”

That was the first time I had known my father to rebuke my mother, and it frightened me deeply.

I did not know it then, but Anne Boleyn’s poison had already begun its deadly work. Nor did I know then that I would not see my father or my mother for nearly a year. By the time of my betrothal to King Francis, Anne’s poison was eating at my father’s soul.

F ollowing my betrothal to Francis, I was relieved, for the first time, to leave my father and return to Ludlow. But suddenly there was another change of domicile. My father did not even bother to write; Wolsey sent the message that I was to move to Richmond Palace. I did not understand why. Nevertheless, I was glad.