The Unhappiest Lady in Christendom Read online

  Behind me rode twenty-nine mourning ladies, one for every year of the late Queen’s life, and in their wake two hundred poor men, all wearing Jane’s badge and bearing aloft lighted torches. At Colnbrook, Eton and Windsor, the poor men went ahead and lined the streets. Behind them stood the sorrowing crowds, hats in hands, watching silently as we processed past them.

  And so we came to the steps of St George’s Chapel within the precincts of Windsor Castle. I watched as the coffin was received by the Dean and College, and walked behind as it was carried inside by six pallbearers. Archbishop Cranmer received it there, standing in the chancel, and led the congregation in prayer, after which the body lay in state before the high altar. I sat there all night, keeping watch over it, feeling my grief like a heavy burden. Without my stepmother, the world seemed an empty place, and I had no idea of what would happen now.

  The next day, masses and dirges were sung, and we laid velvet palls upon the coffin. Upon them was set the effigy of the Queen. The next day, my stepmother was finally laid to rest with all the pomp and majesty that could be. There were many pensive hearts in that concourse of mourners. Her brothers looked especially stricken, and no wonder, for she had been the source of their advancement and prosperity. Yet there was no doubt that they would now enjoy enormous influence as uncles to the Prince. The prospect perturbed me not a little, for while Jane had been a devout Catholic, Edward and Thomas Seymour were known to hold radical views about religion.

  I watched, weeping, as the coffin was lowered into a vault in the middle of the choir, before the high altar. The officers of the Queen’s household broke their staves of office over it, symbolising the termination of their allegiance and service. It was all so final. I heard that, on that day, the bells in London tolled for six hours, and there were Masses and dirges sung in every parish church.

  Jane had been our Queen for such a short time – seventeen months in all – but the people had taken her to their hearts, just as they had my sainted mother. She had given England a prince, which my poor mother had been unable to do, and for that we were all profoundly grateful, since it warded off the prospect of civil war. And I was grateful in other ways, and especially for her attempt to halt the wicked closure of the monasteries, even if she had not succeeded. I heard that my father was very abrupt with her. That’s as may be, but he loved her truly, I am sure – more truly than he ever loved that witch Boleyn.

  After the funeral, my father came out of seclusion and took up the reins of everyday life once more, but the joy had gone out of him and he had put on an alarming amount of weight, for grief and the sores on his legs had prevented him from taking his usual exercise. He sat alone, brooding and wearing deepest black, when he and my stepmother should have been rejoicing in their child. It was as if a pall lay over the court.

  ‘I must marry again,’ Father sighed. ‘I have one son, and I must ensure the succession by siring others.’

  We were at supper in his chamber. He had sent for me to join him, saying that he needed some female company to lighten his spirits. Lord Cromwell had been invited too, and he looked up eagerly when Father raised the matter of his marriage.

  ‘There are great advantages to be gained by a foreign alliance, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not so old,’ Father said. ‘I’m only forty-six, and I must be the most eligible catch in Christendom.’

  I smiled, but I was wondering if, with one dead wife and two divorces behind him, the princesses of Europe would agree with him.

  ‘Indeed, Sir. There should be many ladies who would be delighted to be honoured by your hand, but I have been looking into the matter, and the problem is that, just now, there are very few suitable brides available. Some are of the Protestant persuasion, and others not politically desirable.’

  Father waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, look around, look around. I’ll rely on your judgement, Crum.’ It was a name that made Cromwell cringe, but probably it was less demeaning than being called the King’s pet dog Thomas.

  That November, I went home to Hunsdon, where I hoped that a quiet and peaceful life in the country would help to heal my sorrow. I took Elizabeth with me, and looked after her, for Lady Bryan, who had been my lady governess and Elizabeth’s in turn, had been transferred to the Prince’s household. Elizabeth was unhappy about that. I think she felt the loss of Lady Bryan far more painfully than that of her mother, for Lady Bryan had cared for her daily in the most loving yet firm way. But she was a resilient child, sharp witted, intelligent and very self contained. I did my best to fend off awkward questions about her mother and her own reduced status, wishing to spare her the brutal truth. Even if she was not my blood sister, I loved her as one.

  We spent our days enjoying simple pleasures and good food. Our table was replete with partridges, larks, pheasants, good cheeses, cherries, apples, quinces and pears, all washed down with wine and – once – a good bottle of sack. But my tooth was bothering me again, so much so that, in the end, my father sent a surgeon to draw it out. It was a painful procedure, yet the relief was blissful.

  I distracted myself from my grief by ordering new clothes – embroidered partlets, caps of silver and gilt, gloves of Spanish leather and a kirtle of cloth of silver, among other fripperies. Then, of course, Elizabeth must have new clothes too, so I set the seamstress to work again, making pretty things for her. In the afternoons I played the virginals while Elizabeth danced, and in the evenings I gambled at cards with my ladies. I did not forget my devotions or my charities, but sent money to poor beggars and the prisons, and tokens of thanks to the late Queen’s servants. And I acquired two more godchildren, standing sponsor at the font for each. It was the next best thing to having children of my own.

  There was talk that my father was looking for a bride in France to counterbalance the extensive power of the Emperor. It hurt me to hear that he had said he did not want another Spanish bride like my mother; and being her daughter and half-Spanish myself, I have always hated the French. But King Francis had marriageable daughters, and it was said that there were other beautiful ladies of high rank available in France.

  My father liked to keep his intentions hidden, and it was in character that, even as he considered a French marriage, his ambassadors abroad were told to report on other likely brides. Rumours were rife, even at Hunsdon, but soon we learned that my father was interested in a cousin of mine, the young Duchess of Milan, niece to the Emperor, as our future queen.

  Messire Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador at court, wrote regularly, keeping me informed of what was happening at court. He was one of my truest and most devoted friends – and I suspect he wished he could have been more to me. Yet he never went beyond the bounds of what was proper, for he served my cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, and was bound to protect my interests. I loved him dearly for his faithfulness, but he was in holy orders and of an age with my father – and far below me in rank. There could never have been anything between us – and yet, when I tried to imagine the husband I might one day have, he had many of the qualities of Messire Chapuys, and even looked like him a little.

  Chapuys wrote that the Duchess of Milan was sixteen years old, very tall and of excellent beauty. By all reports, she was softly spoken and had a gentle face. Young as she was, she was already a widow, her elderly husband having died, and she was still in mourning. Apparently my father was entranced by reports of her loveliness. No doubt he saw her youth as an advantage, anticipating that her character could be the more easily moulded to suit him.

  But then, mercurial as ever, he changed his mind. Chapuys informed me that he was now seeking a big wife, since he himself was big in person. I inferred from this that he had put on more weight, which rather concerned me, as it could not be doing his health any good.

  The big wife he had in mind was another widow, a French noblewoman called Marie de Guise. She was mature and sensible and – more importantly – had borne two sons. But, after receiving advance warning of my father’s imminent proposal,
she hastily married her other suitor, the King of Scots.

  My father shrugged off his disappointment and sent his painter, Master Holbein, to Brussels to paint the portrait of the Duchess of Milan. With thoughts of marriage in mind, he discarded his mourning garments. By then, Queen Jane had been dead for five months. When my father summoned us to visit him to celebrate Easter at court, I asked his permission to wear a new gown of white taffeta edged with velvet, which seemed appropriate for one who had just discarded her black weeds, and for the joyful feast of our Lord’s arising. Elizabeth had a new gown too, and twirled about vainly in it. At four and a half, she was pretty and confident – far more so than I had been at that age. I kept a vigilant watch on her, lest she turn out to be too like her mother. That was not to be borne!

  I was dismayed to find my father looking more aged than when I had last seen him, and suffering from constant pain from an abscess in his leg. Soon he was forced to submit to the advice of the barber surgeons and have it lanced, which relieved the pain, but did not cure him. I know it galled him to have the sporting activities he loved curtailed: no longer could he ride in the lists, but was obliged to sit and watch younger, fitter men doing what he had once done better. Increasing immobility was making him fat, and his once splendid red-gold hair was thinning. Yet he still dressed sumptuously, setting a new fashion for short full-cut gowns with built-up shoulders and bulky sleeves. Soon every man at court was wearing one, which meant that his increasing girth no longer looked conspicuous.

  Pain and advancing infirmity made my father’s temper highly unpredictable. I was not the only one to suffer the fearful lash of his tongue, and poor Cromwell got bawled at every week. You could hear the King shouting, calling him a knave and other, less-flattering names that I would blush to repeat. Sometimes he even hit him on the head, pounding him soundly. After one of these outbursts, I saw Cromwell emerge from the chamber with rumpled hair, shaking with fright but smiling bravely. We were all learning to tiptoe around my father’s sensibilities, for in certain moods he could be dangerous.

  He was in such a mood when he heard that my mother’s old chaplain, Father Forrest, was still speaking out in her favour from his prison. Immediately, my father gave orders that the old man be taken to Smithfield and there roasted in chains over a fire. Father Forrest was a dear, kind soul, very upright and devout, and he had loved my mother devotedly, so I was devastated to hear of his unimaginable sufferings. Sometimes I thought my father was the most cruel man in all the world.

  Summer came, and with it the King’s spirits seemed to revive. He ordered that Prince Edward be brought to Hampton Court, so that all his children could be together. Attended by his vast retinue, Edward arrived, gorgeously dressed in cloth of gold, and cradled in the arms of Lady Bryan.

  My little brother was eight months old and thriving. He had a solemn heart-shaped face, steady blue eyes and a pointed chin that gave him an elfin look. He was the goodliest babe that ever I set eyes on. I never wearied of looking at him. I would sit watching him take suck from his wet-nurse, Mother Jack, and took pleasure in seeing my father proudly carrying him around in his arms, showing him off to the courtiers, and holding him up at a window, so that the crowds below could see their future King.

  I loved to cuddle Edward and feel his sturdy little body on my lap. He had a loving nature then – before the Protestant heretics got at him – and always came joyfully to me, an earnest, fond expression on his face. When I asked my minstrels to play for him, he could not sit still, and leapt in my arms, as if he would dance. Truly, I felt no resentment towards this child who now took precedence over me. I had never wanted to be queen of England. All I wished for was a husband and children, and a peaceful existence.

  That summer, France and Spain signed a truce that left England dangerously isolated. Since my father had broken with the Pope and declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England, he had been vulnerable to the hostility of Catholic princes. Yet still he hoped to marry the Duchess of Milan. I was at court when her portrait arrived, a magnificent full-length study that showed a demure young woman with an enigmatic smile and inviting eyes – rather bold, I thought.

  But Father was captivated, and immediately dispatched an embassy to Brussels bearing his proposal of marriage. Back came the young Duchess’s answer. She was perturbed that the King had so speedily been rid of his previous three queens, the first by poison, the second innocently put to death, and the third lost for lack of keeping in her childbed. If she had two heads, she said, one should be at his Grace’s service!

  In short, she turned my father down. I think, for all his spluttering at her impudence, he felt secretly relieved, having heard with his own disbelieving ears the evidence of her pertness and disrespect.

  ‘His Grace is now inclined to heed my advice and seek a bride among the Protestant princesses of Germany,’ Cromwell told me, as we strolled together in a garden filled with the scent of late roses. ‘I think he would be willing to set aside his religious scruples if it meant making an alliance that could tip the balance of power in Europe in England’s favour once more.’

  ‘But – a Protestant queen?’ I had long deplored the fact that some states in Germany had embraced the Lutheran faith. They were permanent thorns in the Emperor’s side – and threats to the unity of Christendom.

  ‘The princesses I have in mind have been brought up by their mother as strict Catholics,’ Cromwell replied, smiling. ‘It is their brother who has turned Lutheran. I speak of the children of the Duke of Cleves, who has a liberal, enlightened approach to religion. Duke John has two unmarried daughters, Anna and Amalia. He has hastened to offer the hand of Anna, the elder, to the King. He is sensible of the fact that it would be a brilliant match for her.’

  ‘I trust she is no giddy sixteen year old like the Duchess of Milan,’ I said, unhappy at the prospect of seeing my father married to the princess of a small German duchy. Heavens, I had no idea of where it even was!

  ‘She is twenty-three,’ Cromwell supplied.

  ‘It will seem strange having a stepmother only a year my senior.’

  Cromwell picked a rose and handed it to me, an unusually chivalrous gesture in a man who was normally so hard headed. ‘You may never have her for a stepmother. These negotiations take time – and I fear that the King’s Highness is lukewarm in the matter.’

  That summer, I saw her. Queen Jane. Her apartments had been left untouched since her death, and I wanted to retrieve a book I had lent her. I ascended the stairs to her lodging, the one that had originally been built for my mother, and pushed open the door. No one was there, and the rooms had an abandoned air. They smelt musty and empty. I found the book and left, but as I turned on the staircase, I saw a glimmer above me in the dusky twilight – and I swear to this day that it was my late stepmother, carrying a lighted candle in her hand and wearing a white night-robe that trailed on the ground. It was her to the life, except that her face appeared luminous. As I stared, too startled to feel frightened, she glided past me on the stairs and out to the Inner Court. When I chased after her, she had disappeared.

  I pondered much upon what I had seen. Was it a warning against my father’s proposed marriage? My stepmother was a devout Catholic; she would not have wanted to see a queen with Protestant connections taking her place. She had hated Anne Boleyn’s reforming zeal.

  Or had she come to let me know that she was watching over me? On reflection, I preferred that explanation. If only my own dear mother had manifested herself in such a way! But her blessed soul was with God and the angels – she was waiting for me in Heaven.

  Later that summer, I took Elizabeth back to Hunsdon. Without a queen in residence, the court was a male preserve, and my father thought it best that we depart, on that account and because the country air was better for us.

  Lady Bryan wrote to me regularly and reported that the Prince was growing fast. He had stood alone and grown four teeth before his first birthday, and when I read that, I grieved afres
h for Queen Jane, knowing how much joy and pride she would have taken in her son. When Edward was weaned, Mother Jack was dismissed, and in her stead Mrs Sybil Penne was appointed chief nurse under Lady Bryan.

  It was of little consequence to me, for by then, I was feeling somewhat distraught. Dark matters were afoot, and I was deeply worried for my beloved old governess, Lady Salisbury. She was of the old Plantagenet royal blood and a dear friend of my mother, and when I was a child the two of them had hoped that I might marry Lady Salisbury’s son Reginald, which still seems to me to have been an excellent idea. Yet my father would have none of it. He distrusted his Plantagenet kinsfolk, fearing they would plot to seize his throne. He would not see that, by marrying me into the old royal House – which had been displaced by his own dynasty when my grandsire, King Henry VII, had won the Battle of Bosworth – he would have united the two royal lines. So Reginald had entered the Church, and was now a cardinal, and – unfortunately for me – my father’s enemy, while I was still only the Lady Mary, the unhappiest lady in Christendom.

  I adored Lady Salisbury. When it became clear that I would never have a brother, I was sent to Ludlow Castle to learn how to be the Princess of Wales, as my father’s sole heir. Lady Salisbury came with me and took charge of my household, easing the separation from my mother and ensuring that I was kept happy, healthy and well diverted with my lessons. Against all the odds, those two years at Ludlow were happy ones.