A/N: This story contains sexual harassment, period-typical sexism & victim blaming, and minor violence in self-defense. Please do not read if you find these disturbing.
My contribution of sorts to the #MeToo movement.
Early 1534
Her father had intended her time at Hatfield to be an education in obedience, humiliation, and submission. Obedience to his - nay, his concubine's- demands, humiliation at the hands of Anne's relations daily, and submission to Elizabeth as the true and new Princess of England.
While Mary was determined never to learn those lessons, Hatfield was certainly proving to be an education in itself.
The first lesson came early one morning, a few weeks after she first arrived, as she was washing up in the enormous communal bathing room that all the ladies-in-waiting. Mary was just stepping out of the tub when she heard the muffled sound of a man's voice outside the door: "Damnation. It's the Lady Mary, the King's daughter. We'll come back later, when there's a more lowborn wench to spy on."
Then there was a small scuffle of footsteps hurrying away. Mary remained stock-still, uncaring that she was dripping water all over the fine carpet. A cold feeling washed over her. Two men had tried to catch sight of her while she was unclothed. They had waited outside the door, staring lewdly through the door crack, as though she were a common trollop, and only the realization that she was of royal blood had stopped them. She was somewhat reassured by the fact that her parentage still counted for something, but she was still shaken by the incident, enough that she went to Lady Shelton about it.
Much to Mary's dismay, Lady Shelton was unsympathetic and terse in her response, insinuating that Mary was overreacting and should simply forget the incident. Mary was infuriated.
"The King's instructions were that I am to be treated like any other lady-in-waiting, no more, no less- is that not so? Then surely I deserve to be shielded from lewdness and lechery of men, just like every other lady-in-waiting in this household. I am certain the King would be displeased to know that such men are employed in his daughter's household."
Lady Shelton fixed her with a cold stare. "I am certain the King has more important matters on his mind than your petty complaints, Lady Mary- yes, petty, don't look at me like that, girl. It's common enough for young women like yourself to have to deal with the overcuriousity of young men. It's the way of the world, and if you know what's good for you, you'll learn how to cope with it and let it roll off of you like water off a duck's back- just like any other lady-in-waiting of the Princess Elizabeth's household."
And with a nasty smile, the governess turned on her heel and left Mary behind, aghast and alarmed by this new insight into a world she didn't want to be a part of. Was this how the ladies of all royal households fared? If I were queen, I would do something about it… but I am not, I am a common maid.
She had scorned the other women of Hatfield, deeming them shallow ninnies who would happily kiss the boots of the Concubine for favor, but if this was what they had to deal with every day…
And now I will have to deal with this, as well.
Chapuys had warned her of this, or at least in part. Even before Anne became queen, she had been gloating about how she would have Mary married off to an insultingly lowborn man, perhaps one of her Howard relations or some other underling. Such a mésalliance would cement Mary's inferior status forever and ensure any children she had were too common to sit on the throne.
But what if Anne decided she wanted to ruin Mary's honor without the benefit of a wedding? What if she arranged for Mary to be harassed as she had been this morning, or worse?
Such a move would not only lower her status, it would ruin her virtue forever. And once her virtue was gone, Mary would have nothing left. A woman's virtue was everything; without it, she had no power, no influence, no relevance. Look at what had happened to her mother: a few rumors here and there, to substantiate "evidence" that her first marriage was consummated. Katherine of Aragon's virtue had been impugned forever and her world had burned to ash.
In one of her mother's last letters to her, she had warned Mary to guard her chastity fiercely, and no wonder.
Would her father believe her, if Mary were to be caught in such a compromising situation? Even if the Concubine currently held him in her thrall, surely his love for her extended that much! If nothing else, he would be angry that a king's daughter had been so dishonored.
He would be angry, certainly… but with the man who violated her, or herself?
Mary wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
A few days later, Mary was going about her duties when she heard a distant commotion. Curious, she drew nearer to the sound of the argument. Peeking around the corner, she saw a young maidservant weeping, while a man and the head of the lower maids stood by.
To her horror, Mary realized that the weeping woman was a maid who had often helped her, Bridget. She had snuck food to her when Mary refused to eat at the common benches, had kept her up to date with the going ons at court and had covered for her, and had even snuck several letters out to Chapuys. Had Bridget been caught helping her?
From what Mary could discern, Bridget was being accused of propositioning a man. The maid was insisting that the man had come to her and offered to make her his mistress, in exchange for riches. Bridget had refused him, turning down his advances solidly. His pride had been stung, Bridget claimed, so he had turned it around and accused her of tempting him.
Mary was sure the other woman was telling the truth; Bridget was a modest, goodly Christian woman who would never have jeopardized her position for the sake of a temporary flirtation. But that would do no Bridget no good. Her accuser was the son of an earl; Bridget was a common maidservant. It was his word against hers.
It was a done deal.
Later, after Bridget had been dismissed, Mary privately sought her out as she was packing her trunk. The other girl seemed to think it was simply bad luck, but Mary was suspicious. Was this a plot to rid her of one of her confidantes?
Bridget brushed off her concerns. "If someone had found out about the letters, Your Grace, I wouldn't have been dismissed so summarily, like that out there in the hallway with only Mistress Maud and Lord She-led-me-on to witness it. They would have made an example of me and ensured that all and sundry knew exactly why I was leaving, and I would have been packing my trunk for a trip to the Tower, not back to my home in Kent."
"How can you be sure?" Mary pressed her. "It's in her nature to be spiteful, it'd be just like her to send a message to me in such an underhanded way."
"Really, Your Grace, there's no need to worry. It's common enough for this sort of thing to happen, and it's something all beautiful women must fear," Bridget said with a touch of self-denigrating vanity, trying and failing to smile. "It was truly an honor to serve you in my short time here, and I only regret that I'll be leaving you with one less ally in this ants' nest."
Bridget squeezed Mary's hand tightly- perhaps an overly informal gesture, but one that Mary appreciated- and then curtseyed to her, before heaving her trunk up and marching out of the room to begin the walk of ignominious dismissal.
Mary's fears were not allayed. The look on the lord's face had not been one of anger or wounded pride, but cold disinterest. He didn't seem like a man that had been refused or a jilted lover. Surely if he was angry enough to get an innocent woman dismissed from her position, there would have been more malice in his expression, more satisfaction at achieving his revenge.
Could it have been a calculated gesture?
Or was Mary just reading too much into things?
She didn't know. She was so inexperienced in such worldly matters; until a few months ago, they had always occupied the periphery of her vision, and she now cursed the ignorance that left her floundering for answers.
Was she being arrogant in assuming Anne cared so much about getting to her?
But that was a foregone conclusion; she could never overestimate Anne's capacity for spite. That whore could find a thousand different little ways to torment Mary, whether it be demanding that Elizabeth be baptized in the same gown Mary had worn at her own christening, or saying in open court that she wished all Spaniards at the bottom of the sea. Anne hated her, saw Mary as the representation of all that she sought to overturn and would stop at nothing to lower her or see her gone.
As Anne herself had been known to say: She is my death and I am hers.
The next night, Mary was entering her chamber and had just closed the door when she heard movement behind her. Too late, she realized that someone was already inside her chamber.
She let out a choked scream. Her next scream would have been even louder had the man- it was a man, dear God, a man had been waiting for her in her chamber- not clapped his hand over her mouth. "Hush!" he ordered her in a strangled mutter.
Terror pounded through her being, her mind suddenly working overdrive, every detail magnified tenfold in intensity. The thin moonlight streaming in through the window, her harsh breathing, his excited pants, the imprisoning grasp of his arms around her, the reek of apples and smoke on him so thick she could almost taste it: it was suddenly all too real, pressing itself upon her senses. It was real, it was not real, she could not think, this was precisely what she had feared the most and it was about to happen-
"You're here at last," the man whispered, his breath ghosting over her neck.
And then he took her chin in his hand and crushed his lips to hers, effectively cutting off any more screams she might have issued.