CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spring 1531
The flowers were in full bloom.
Living at Ludlow was strange: it was where Mary had once resided as heir to the throne, where Arthur had died for the first time. He had staged his death in April, she recalled, almost exactly twenty-nine years ago. But Shropshire was wick and alive, and other good fortune had befallen them.
Namely, the morning she had woken up to a dull ache in her abdomen and blood on her sheets. Panic had engulfed for a moment, before she realized that her monthly courses had begun, and she was now a woman in truth. No one had been prouder of her than her mother, who had blessings of her own to count. Mother had been able to begin nursing Owen again, thanks to a tincture prescribed by one of their tenants. It was a peasant cure, not something any of the royal physicians would have advised, but it had done the trick and rejuvenated her mother.
The loss of Arthur still weighed on their minds, but the arrival of Mary's courses and the return of her mother's milk reminded them that God's grace was never far, and on some days, the advent of spring did not seem so out of place.
One afternoon, she and her mother went for a ride on the grounds surrounding Ludlow, with only two ladies and two grooms. The sharp scent of nature's bloom and the thrill of being on horseback made Mary feel deliciously awake. They dismounted near a tall oak tree and settled in its shades, their servants at a far distance.
Several locks of hair had fallen loose during their vigorous ride, and she tucked them back into her hood with two fingers. Her mother indicated strands here and there that she'd missed, and once Mary looked kempt, her mother grasped both Mary's hands with her own. "Mi cielo, I have three pieces of good news for you."
Mary waited, breathless.
"Queen Anne has borne a healthy son. The new Prince of Wales is named Edward."
Mary exhaled. England was secured, and Owen was safe.
Mother's own smile was genuine; this new child guaranteed her own son's life, and she had no reason to be jealous. "Your father also sent word to let me know that you are a Princess of England once more - and you are to be restored to the succession, ahead of your sister Elizabeth, and any other girls he and Anne might have."
Mary's mouth went dry. She did not long for a title as desperately as she once had, but to know that she was to enjoy a status as close to what she had been before… "Queen Anne did not object?"
"It seems the idea was hers, at least in part from your father's letter. Graciousness is always easiest in victory, and now that they have a son to cement their marriage, your father can grant you a royal title without fear that malcontents will use it as an excuse for treason."
Mary bowed her head, her eyes closed to stem the sudden onset of tears. "I must write to Father with my deepest thanks - and Her Grace as well." She meant the words sincerely.
"And the last bit of good news," Mother's voice dropped two octaves. She took a deep breath, swallowed, took another deep breath, and began again. "Arthur is actually alive."
A fine breeze rustled through the trees, and Mary could hear the horses neighing and snorting from where they had left them with the grooms, fifty strides away. Her mother's hands were gentle but suddenly tight upon her own, and the air was the gentle coolness of early spring.
Was this some kind of a joke? But Mother's expression had no trace of jest - only serenity, with a joyful smile tugging at her lips. "It was Queen Anne's idea, as well as Master Secretary Cromwell's. But the original idea was Arthur's, and we expanded on it."
"How?" Mary asked, her heart suddenly beating ten times as rapidly as it was a minute ago. "How did you accomplish such a thing?" Arthur's beheading had been private, out of deference to his being royalty, but it had still been attended by many witnesses.
"It worked," Mother said again. "We executed Edward Bocking in his place."
So that was why the traitor had been granted a pardon and exiled to England. Mary had wondered why such mercy would be shown to a man who committed so many crimes, including orchestrating the murder of her unborn sibling, and now she knew it had been a cover story.
"He kept his mouth shut on the scaffold, knowing he was very fortunate to be executed with an axe, within the confines of the Tower, rather than what awaited him at Tyburn." Mother's face turned hard and cold for a moment. "Most of the witnesses were our own, and those who weren't in on it were at the back of the crowd, so that they didn't recognize the impostor."
"He lives," Mary murmured.
Another breeze swept through the clearing. It was redolent with the promise of springtide, Mary thought, and the hues of the blossoms were suddenly bright and vivid all around her.
She turned to her mother. "Where? Where is he now?"
Mother turned her head to ensure that the grooms were far away and preoccupied with the horses. She leaned in closer so that she was whispering directly into Mary's ear, her head bowed towards her. Her hair fell over her shoulder, shielding them from onlookers. Mother's tresses were more gray than red now, but still thick and luscious.
"At the moment, he is working as a groom in your Aunt Margaret's household."
A conspiratorial gleam flashed in Mother's eye.
"He will remain there for a while, and then, in, oh about a year's time or so, we will find ourselves in dire need of a steward."