Mary, Bloody Mary. Carolyn Meyer

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.

      “It was November, anno Domini 1501, and the sky was blanketed with heavy, grey clouds. Henry’s cheerful smile must have warmed Catherine’s heart when she found herself so far from her sunny homeland. But soon her heart was chilled. Only a few months later, Arthur lay in his coffin, dead of consumption.”

      I sighed, thinking of my mother’s sorrow.

      “The king had no intention of sending Catherine and especially her dowry back home to Spain. The two monarchs, Henry and Ferdinand, put their old grey heads together and devised a solution: Catherine would be kept in England to marry Arthur’s younger brother, Henry. He had not yet reached his eleventh birthday. Many theologians believed that such marriages were forbidden by Scripture. But the pope in Rome granted a dispensation that allowed Henry to marry his brother’s widow. Henry and Catherine were betrothed.”

      “But my father was too young to wed, was he not?” I asked.

      “He was then,” Salisbury agreed. “But six years passed. Catherine spent those years living a quiet, pious life of prayer and devotion to God. It was during this time that your mother and I became close friends.”

      “And my father?” I asked. “Did you know him as well?”

      “I knew him as all of England came to know him. We watched in admiration as the lively boy reached manhood. He grew very tall, with merry blue eyes, handsome features, and red-gold hair that shone in the sunlight. He was well-built, strong as a bear and graceful as a deer, an athlete who excelled at every kind of sport. Your father was a magnificent man!

      “When his father died, the young prince inherited vast wealth as well as the crown of England. Shortly after the old king’s death, Henry and Catherine were wed.

      “The young couple spent the last night of their honeymoon at the Tower of London, where by tradition every English monarch throughout all of our history has slept on the night before the coronation. The next morning they rode together in a golden litter through London to Westminster Abbey, where Henry and Catherine were crowned rulers of all England. I was there by your mother’s side, happy for her happiness.”

      “How old was my mother then?” I asked. The hour was late, but I was wide awake and hungry for every detail.

      “She was twenty-three, your father was seventeen. The celebration went on for days. You would have loved it, Mary!

      “‘Long live King Henry the Eighth!’ we cried. Long live Queen Catherine!”

      Outside the palace, the storm howled and sleet whipped against the windows. I marvelled that my governess was telling me this, putting flesh on the bones of the story of my parents, when for so long she had evaded my questions. But why was she telling the story now? Soon enough dawn would arrive, cold and damp, and I would be called from my bed for morning prayers and then to another day of enduring the roars and expostulations of Master Vives. But I wanted to know more, to know everything. “And you were with my mother then?” I prompted.

      “Yes, I was. I came to your mother’s court, a lady-in-waiting. I saw with my own eyes how deeply Henry fell in love with his bride, as she did with him. That she was older seemed only to deepen his passion for her. She was comely, and her keen intelligence was a good match for his. Their first child, a girl, was stillborn, but when Queen Catherine was delivered of a living son, the king seemed more in love with her than ever. How King Henry exulted! And all of his loyal subjects celebrated with him. Cannons boomed, shattering windows. Public fountains bubbled with wine. The feasting went on for days. King Henry arranged tournaments in honour of the new prince and jousted with Catherine’s sleeve wrapped around his lance and a banner proclaiming “Sir Loyal Heart.’”

      Sir Loyal Heart! I thought of Lady Susan’s words: it is said that the king is in love with Anne. And I remembered the remarks I had overheard only days earlier: “Lovers are madmen who lose all reason, and the king is like all others since he has lost his reason to Lady Anne,” Master Vives had muttered to aged Brother Anselm, my tutor in religion.

      Later I overheard Lady Julia, mistress of the wardrobe, murmur to her assistant, “His fancy will wear itself out, and we will hear no more of her. There will be someone new to catch the king’s eye.”

      I had listened to the gossip, but I’d refused to believe it — even from the mouth of Anne’s cousin, Susan. How could my father have changed so much?

      Salisbury paused to collect herself. When she resumed her story, her voice quivered. “And then the child died.”

      I sighed. My mother had told me of the newborn prince’s death and my father’s heartbreak.

      “The king and queen mourned the loss of their child, but infant deaths are commonplace, and women are accustomed to weeping over tiny graves. They did not long despair. They were young and vigorous, certain to produce more children. Over the next ten years Catherine became pregnant no fewer than ten times, and each time — except one! — the infant did not live.”

      “And that one?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.

      “You, my lady,” Salisbury said. “It was an occasion for rejoicing throughout the kingdom when you entered this world healthy and squalling—”

      “On the eighteenth day of February, anno Domini 1516,” I interrupted. I was sitting up now on my bed, arms clasped around my thin body, shivering from cold and excitement.

      “Three days after your birth I myself carried you from Greenwich Palace to Friars’ Church. I handed you to Cardinal Wolsey, to be christened at the silver baptismal font brought down from Canterbury Cathedral. You wore a white velvet christening robe lined with ermine. The robe was so long and so heavy that a countess and an earl had to follow behind me to carry the train. You lay upon a jewelled pillow under a crimson and gold canopy of estate held by four knights, while the choir sang the Te Deum and Wolsey made the sign of the cross over you.”

      Salisbury had told me this part many times, but I never tired of hearing the story. She always ended her account by reminding me of how much my father had adored me, how he doted on me as I grew. But until now I had not dared to question his love.

      I leaned over the side of my great bed and peered down at the countess on the trundle. “Then why does he ignore me? What have I done wrong?” I watched the governess’s face carefully for signs of an untruth.

      Salisbury breathed a weary sigh. Then she answered, “Because, Mary, you are not a boy. He believes that a woman does not have the strength to rule England after his death, and blood will be shed. He knows that the people may not accept the bastard Fitzroy as their king. Above all else, your father desires a legitimate son to inherit the throne, for England’s sake. And he is determined to have his way.”