Chapter 10
November 10, 1519
Solemn bells were tolling, marking the gravity of the occasion; telling London that, on this day a year ago, England's beloved Queen Katherine had died in childbirth and, along with her stillborn son, been taken up to meet her Maker in Heaven.
Closeted in the relative privacy of the Chapel Royal at Greenwich, Henry heard them tolling and felt his grief welling up afresh. It might have been a year, but today, the wound still felt as raw and vulnerable as that very first day, the day Dr Linacre had come out of Cata's lying-in chamber with his eyes so grave and his voice so heavy.
Giving in to his pain, Henry sank to his knees, sensing the entire Court do the same behind him. His younger sister, so recently returned to Court from her confinement and her trip to Suffolk, slid her hand daringly into his, vainly trying to offer some comfort as Archbishop Warham started the Mass, "In nomine Patris, Filli et Spiritus Sancti…"
Henry echoed his words automatically, fighting the urge to turn and seek solace in his sister's grieving eyes. Or in those of her confidante, Mistress Marie. The one who had played Gentleness in that masque a few weeks ago. She had been everywhere Henry turned in the days since then, and although he usually hated feeling pressed in by anyone, he couldn't feel that way about Mistress Marie. He couldn't. She was too quiet and gentle to make anyone angry at her for anything. One could even say that she embodied Gentleness.
Suddenly, Henry shook his head. What was he doing? This was no way to be thinking, not at Cata's memorial service. Today, today of all days, ought to be her day! Her day and no one else's!
Angry at himself now, Henry determinedly pushed away the thoughts that were betraying Cata's memory and forced himself to pay attention to the service.
Far away, in Beaulieu's own little chapel, the three year old Princess Mary also knelt before the altar, praying for her mother. Unlike her father, however, she wasn't using the Latin condoned by His Holiness. She was using her own words.
"Dear God, please. Please. Give Mama back. Give Mama back and I be good, I promise."
A hand touched her shoulder, "Come, Your Highness. You've prayed enough. The Lord will have heard your prayers by now. It's time for you to eat."
Mary flinched away, "No! No!," she whispered, careful to keep her voice low, as everyone had to do in church. She couldn't go now. She couldn't! She was just asking God for the most important thing, to give them her Mama back, so that Papa would be happy again and she could be his Princess again. Or a Mama, at least.
But Lady Bury was spoiling it all. She kept disturbing Mary and now God would never hear her. It wasn't fair! Mary hadn't disturbed Lady Bury when she was praying. She hadn't! So why did Lady Bury do it, when she always told Mary that interrupting was rude? Mary was the Princess, after all.
Lady Bury's voice came again, "Come, Princess Mary."
Mary pulled away, wishing she could tell Lady Bury to go away. Then somewhere, as if in answer to her prayer, came a faint memory of Papa shouting at someone because they hadn't done what they were told. She couldn't shout, of course, not in church, but she could make her voice angry like his.
"I say no, Lady Bury. Leave."
Her governess's hand left her shoulder and Mary couldn't help turning to see how she had reacted. The woman had fallen back a step or two, surprised at the testiness in her charge's voice.
"Leave," Mary repeated, smiling inside as she watched her governess nod slowly, beckon the other ladies and leave the chapel. She felt proud of herself for finally managing to remind them who was the Princess and who had to do what they were told.
But pride wasn't allowed, it wasn't nice, and God would never hear her prayers if she wasn't nice, so Mary felt guilty. Kneeling back down, she let her lips move almost soundlessly, whispering, "I'm sorry, but please. Let Lady Bury realise she not Mama. That she no tell me what I do. And please, help Papa be happy again. Help him find new Mama for me, so he happy and love me like used to."
Mary begged under her breath, hoping against hope that God had heard her. Hoping against hope that she'd have a new Mama soon.
Unbeknown to Mary, back in London, Cardinal Wolsey was just opening a new missive from the King of France. Scanning it, he let out a satisfied chuckle. In seconds, George Cavendish was at his side.
"Your Eminence?"
"Everything is progressing nicely, George," Wolsey murmured, stroking his ample chin in satisfaction, "Francis has taken the bait, just like I hoped he would. Our Ambassador writes that Francis has told him that an Anglo-French alliance against the Emperor would be much to his liking, and suggests that we send extra envoys to Paris to discuss the broader points of such a treaty, who will then perhaps move on to discussing other, more delicate matters, when the timing is more appropriate."
"Yes, Eminence," George nodded, happy to see his master satisfied for once, "Had you given any thought as to who might sail for France once the weather permits?"
"Once the weather permits? I had thought of sending the Earl of Derby and Sir Thomas Boleyn out together. Whatever my personal feelings about him, there's no denying that Boleyn is a fine statesman and the Earl of Derby is as loyal a servant of the King as any man you'll find anywhere in the country. Draw their credentials up for me, will you?"
"Yes, Sir," George half-bowed and went to leave, but Wolsey called after him, "Wait. I had forgotten. I want young Lord Percy to travel with them."
"Lord Percy?" It wasn't often George Cavendish questioned his master's orders, but he was surprised by these. The lad was only fourteen, after all. Was it really wise to be sending him to France?
"You have a question, George?" Wolsey raised an eyebrow and George coughed hurriedly, "Oh no, Sir, not really. It's just…isn't Lord Percy a little young for a delicate trip of this sort?"
"He's thirteen, George. His father is keen for him to learn some ambassadorial skills. Even with light duties, this trip will be good experience for him. Make sure he is included in the party."
Shrugging, George nodded, "As you wish, Your Eminence."
Bowing, he left the room to fulfil the task his master had set him.
Havering Palace
March 1520
Bessie Blount was sitting with her sister and maids, quietly sewing at her baby's layette, putting the finishing touches to a tiny embroidered cap, when a sharp pain stabbed at her stomach as something broke inside her.
"Ahh!" she cried out, dropping the embroidery hoop as she doubled over. Cecily was at her side in seconds.
"Beth!" she cried, holding out her hands to her sister and helping her stand as the pain eased.
One glance down at Bessie's skirts, suddenly hanging warm and wet and heavy against the latter's legs, told Cecily all she needed to know.
"Do not be alarmed, ladies," she said steadily, "but I think my sister's time has come."
Behind her, Bessie yelped with both pain and fear, and Cecily knew it was time to get her alone so that she could concentrate her strength on the ordeal she was about to go through.
Wrapping her arm around Bessie's waist, she helped her walk into the birthing chamber and arrange herself comfortably on the birthing bed, calling over her shoulder, "Fetch the midwives, one of you. And someone tell the King. He needs to know of this."
"What are you doing? Marie, what are you doing?" George walked into his elder sister's room to find her pulling on a riding cape and heading for the door.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to visit the Princess Mary at Beaulieu."
"But…"George stared at her, stunned, "Mary – Marie, what are you doing? You haven't got the King's permission. If he knew you were going to see her -"
"He'll forgive me," Marie answered, feigning a confidence that she did not feel. "He might not be happy at first, but he'll understand that I'm only doing this for him because I care for him and want to see him happy."
"But what if he doesn't? Have you thought of that eventuality, Marie? I know he's been nothing but devoted to you since the Lady Blount went into her confinement, but are you sure you rule him that completely? Are you sure you know how he'll react? The Lady Blount's just gone into labour. What if he decides he needs you here? What am I to say if he asks for you?"
"I leave that to you. But I must go, George. I must. If this child lives, then the King will be family-minded. What better time to bring the Princess Mary back to Court?"
Faced with his older sister's determination, George knew he would lose eventually. Yet he could not help himself.
"Father. Uncle. They won't like you doing this either."
"Which is why I don't want you to tell them where I am until I've gone."
George hesitated. Unexpectedly, Marie came across to him, gripping the tops of his arms in a human vice.
"Please, George! Can't you see I have to go! I have to! Every time I think of that poor girl, alone at Beaulieu, with neither mother nor father…" Marie broke off as her voice trembled. To his astonishment, George saw tears pooling in her eyes. He could gainsay her no longer. Extricating himself from her grip, he took a step back.
"Fine. Go. But on your own head be it."
Marie needed no second urging. She whirled on her heel and was halfway down the staircase before he could say another word.
Henry sat playing cards with his sister and brother-in-law, when there was an urgent knock on the door.
"Enter!" he called jovially, trumping Charles's seven of diamonds with his Queen of Spades. Mark Blount put his head round the door, "Excuse me for interrupting, Sire, but my cousin Cecily felt you ought to know. Bessie has gone into labour."
"Bessie has gone into labour." The words rang in his ears, echoing oddly round his head. he felt the blood drain from his cheeks and his cards slid through his fingers, scattering over the table-top as his grip went slack.
"Harry? Mary ventured, putting her hand out to him. Shaking his head, he pulled away and went to the window, gripping the ledge so tightly that his knuckles went white. He scarcely heard Charles slapping Mark heartily on the back and inviting him to take a cup of ale with them.
This was it. He'd know within days – maybe even hours – whether or not the Tudors truly were cursed. Whether they were forever doomed to lose their women in childbirth or whether there was still some hope for them.
All of a sudden, his lips parted and he found himself praying as he had scarcely ever prayed before, "Please, God, in Your mercy, don't take them away from me. Not them too. They don't deserve to die. Any sin they have committed is through me. They are innocent. Please. Let them live. Haven't we suffered enough? Haven't we paid the price for taking the throne by force? My son, my brother, my mother, my Queen – weren't their lives enough? I beg you, say that they were. Grant Bessie and her child life and repeal our curse. In Your mercy, I beseech you."
"Harry?" Mary repeated, touching his arm again, "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?"
"Marie," Henry spoke the name without quite knowing he was going to, "Get me Mistress Marie."
Reading the pain in his eyes and knowing that only Marie's soft touch and gentle voice would soothe her brother now, Mary nodded and sent a page running to the Boleyn apartments. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, the lad was back…alone.
"Begging Your Graces' pardon, but Mistress Boleyn was nowhere to be found. Her brother said he saw her ride out about half an hour ago, but he has no idea when she'll be back."
"Oh damn her!" Mary swore, "I thought she was reliable!"
Henry felt as though he ought to defend his sweetheart – he had promised to be her Sir Loyalty, after all – but he was feeling let down too. How dare Marie abandon him when he needed her most! How dare she?! After everything he had done for her! How dare she?!
Still, she had, so there was nothing for it but to let Mary take her place at his side; to let her find his hand with hers and grip her soft skin in his rougher skin so tightly that he might have been a drowning man and she his driftwood.
Mary would have protested at the ferocity of her brother's grip, but one look at his ashen face told her protest was futile, so she merely took a deep breath and stood silently beside him, willing him to take some of her strength and use it to get himself through the next few hours.
Locked together like that; like they hadn't been since they were children in the nursery, waiting to hear how their mother fared after giving birth to their sister Katherine, or how their brother Arthur was faring after one of his many illnesses, the Tudor siblings waited for news.
Marie swung herself off her horse in the courtyard of Beaulieu, pausing only to throw the reins at a passing stable boy and to pull herself together before she swept into the Palace with her head held high. Lady Salisbury, the Princess's governess, rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her. A moment later, much to Marie's surprise, she curtsied.
"Mistress Boleyn."
Marie hesitated, unsure as to how to respond. On the one hand, the fact that Lady Salisbury had acknowledged her, that she knew who she was, meant that the news that she was high in the King's favour had travelled, which might make her job easier. On the other hand, if Lady Salisbury thought she was as arrogant and loose-moraled as the Lady Blount, she might refuse to let her near the Princess Mary, which would mean she'd had a wasted journey.
In the end, Marie decided to use both her influence and her Boleyn charm to her advantage. Sinking into a deep curtsy, a curtsy that acknowledged the other woman's royal heritage, she smiled up at the older woman.
"Lady Salisbury. Good morning. I apologise for disturbing you, but I've just ridden over from the Court at Havering to visit the Princess so that I might tell His Majesty how Her Highness fares."
"You'vc come from Court? To see the Princess Mary?" For a moment, something like incredulous horror flickered across Lady Salisbury's face, but then she collected herself and nodded, "Very well, Mistress Boleyn. You'd better come up to the nursery then, though you'll have to excuse me while I prepare Her Highness to see you. She's not exactly dressed for visitors at the moment."
"That's fine, Lady Salisbury," Marie assured the older woman, and the two of them fell into step beside each other as they walked up to the nursery suite. Once there, Marie hung back, distracting herself with the tapestries in the outer room, while Lady Salisbury disappeared into an inner chamber.
Before long, however, Marie couldn't help but overhear the shrieks of protest that were coming from the other room.
"I no want see her!"
"It's 'I don't want to see her', and I'm afraid you must, Your Highness. As a Princess, you always have to be gracious, no matter how you yourself feel," Lady Salisbury's voice sounded surprisingly tired, as though she had argued this point far too often already. As indeed she probably had, judging by the way the angry roars only got louder.
"No correct me! No! I no have do anything! I Princess! I no have see Miss'es Boleyn if I no want! You not Mama, Lady Bury. You not tell me what I do!"
Lady Salisbury sighed audibly. Unable to help herself, Marie pushed open the door the elder woman had just gone through.
She barely suppressed a gasp at what she saw.
A tiny fair-haired girl was thrashing in Lady Salisbury's arms, kicking wildly as she fought to be free. If Marie hadn't known that this was the Princess Mary, she would never have guessed. The girl's long fair curls were tangled and matted, so much so that they clearly hadn't been brushed for weeks. Her dress of green velvet was crushed and crumpled, with so many stains down it that, in places, it was hard to tell that it was meant to be green at all. Her eyes were swollen with tears and glittering with anger, while her skin was rough, filthy and blotchy, the antithesis of what a Princess's skin should be.
Grateful for her courtier's training, Marie nonetheless managed to keep her face blank as she curtsied low, "My Lady Princess. So you don't want to see me, hmm? That's a shame. I've just come from Court and I was hoping to be able to tell you how your Papa was and maybe even take a message from you to him, if you'd like me to."
Lady Salisbury gasped at the informality of Marie's address, but it worked. Little Mary stilled in her arms, looking across at Marie with a new emotion in her eyes. An emotion that hadn't really been there since her mother died. Curiosity.
"Papa? You tell me about Papa?" she asked. Marie nodded, kneeling down and half-holding out her arms to the little girl, "If you like, Princess."
In seconds, the little girl had flown out of Lady Salisbury's hold and was in Marie's, nestling into her arms trustingly, looking up at her hopefully. Instinctively, Marie closed her hold around the Princess's waist, trying not to show her alarm at how thin she was. Even for a four year old, she was as light as a feather.
Carrying Her Highness over to the window, Marie sat down on the sill and began to tell her an edited version of all that had happened since she had been sent to Beaulieu.
Almost unable to bear it any longer, almost delirious with pain, Bessie pushed down one last time with a blood-curdling scream. She felt something sort of break inside her and then the child was out of her, slithering out in one great warm, bloody, slimy rush. She held her breath, collapsing with relief when she heard it cough, then start howling energetically. It lived! It lived! She had broken the King's bad luck! It lived! It lived!
"What is it?" She gasped, "Is it a boy? Do I have a boy? The King's boy? The King's acknowledged healthy boy?"