Carolyn Meyer - Mary, Bloody Mary

Riding home at the end of the day, my game bag half-full, I wondered if my father knew I was learning one of his favourite sports. I thought of my father far more often, it seemed, than he thought of me. Although my mother wrote nearly every week, it had been months since I had had so much as a word from the king. Any message he had for me was sent through Wolsey.

“Why does he not come to visit me?” I asked Susan days later as she accompanied me for a walk. The weather had turned foul, and Susan was the only one of my ladies who did not mind going out in the rain. “Deer hunting is one of his favourite pastimes and the deer parks here exist for his pleasure. Why then do I hear nothing from him?”

“They say that the king has taken up falconry again,” Susan replied cryptically, pulling her cloak up over her head.

“Then he could come and hunt with me! He could bring my mother as well. Why does he not bring the queen here, so that I may see them both?”

“His hunting companion is not the queen,” Susan said in a voice so low that I scarcely heard it. “It is my cousin Anne Boleyn.”

Her words took away my breath. “Lady Anne? But why?”

“It is said that the king is in love with Anne,” Susan replied, head down, avoiding my eyes.

“What lies are you telling me?” I demanded furiously.

“Sadly, madam, it is the truth. The king makes no secret of his passion. My father speaks of it proudly: King Henry is seen everywhere with Lady Anne by his side. Queen Catherine appears with him only at large public occasions.”

“I don’t believe you!” I cried. I turned and splashed back to my chambers through the pelting rain, leaving Lady Susan to walk a little way behind.

As a servant girl helped me off with my wet cloak and sodden shoes, I spied the letter on my table. It bore the thick wax seal of Cardinal Wolsey. His letters seldom brought me good news — was I to move again? — and so I waited until I had changed into dry clothes to break the seal and read the letter.

It bore a message from the king, commanding me to come to Greenwich for Yuletide. At last I had been invited to the palace, to spend Christmas with my father and mother. My mood lifted at once. But then a darker shadow passed over: Anne Boleyn would surely be there.

I remembered well the way my father had looked at Anne as we danced for the French king. And now Lady Susan claimed that my father was in love with Anne! I vowed that I would not believe these hurtful rumours until I saw proof with my own eyes. I would have that opportunity at Yuletide, still several weeks away.

D ay after day for the next month, my eyes burned, my head throbbed, my body ached with fatigue, My lessons seemed longer, more wearisome, and duller than ever. All I could think about was what I would find when I travelled to Greenwich for Christmas.

I was studying Utopia , a book written by my father’s friend Sir Thomas More, and I found the work hard going. I was forbidden to read idle books of chivalry and romance for entertainment. Meanwhile my ladies-in-waiting played cards and rolled dice to amuse themselves. I longed to join them, but I was not allowed trifling pastimes.

The hours crawled by. All day long tutors in mathematics, geography, French, Italian, and music took their turns. In some of these subjects Lady Susan, Lady Winifred, and a few other court ladies participated, but usually I studied alone. My eyelids would begin to droop, my head to sag, and Master Vives would shriek in my ear, “Pay attention! Think not to avoid the task!”

Only after the formal lessons were over and the prayers finished for the night did Salisbury, beloved Salisbury, teach me what I needed most to know.

One November night as a storm rattled the windows of the bedchamber and the flame of a single candle guttered and died, my governess commenced a long story.

“Mary, you know some of this story,” she began, “but perhaps you have not understood what it means. You must understand it now, because I believe that grave changes lie ahead and you must be prepared.”

I lay absolutely still under the thick satin coverlet. “Go on, I beg you.”

“Under your grandfather’s rule, England prospered, and the royal treasury filled with wealth. He intended for his older son, Arthur, to succeed him on the throne. While still a young man, not much older than you are now, Arthur was betrothed. The wife your grandfather chose for Prince Arthur was the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, Catherine of Aragon.”

“My mother.”

“Yes, sweet Mary, but this was long before God saw fit to send you to her. Catherine was sixteen when she married Arthur, already a few years older than one might expect of a bride. I was a guest at the wedding, and I can still picture Princess Catherine riding to the church on the back of a fine Spanish mule. That was the custom of her people, although I’m sure everyone thought it strange, as did I. It was at her wedding to Prince Arthur that she met your father. Prince Henry was just an exuberant, pink-cheeked boy, barely ten years old.