Prelude
“My lady.”
Mary refused to acknowledge the greeting, for Archbishop Cranmer’s avoidance of her true title was an insult to her birth and position.
“My lady Mary,” the impertinent man pressed, “I bring with me a letter from the king, your father.”
That she could not refuse to acknowledge.
Wordlessly, she extended her hand and the heretic archbishop handed over the letter.
They were alone in a small antechamber at Hatfield House, where Mary fulfilled her duty as lady-in-waiting to her tiny half sister.
If Elizabeth were her half-sister; Mary would have liked to believe that the child was not Henry’s at all.
But in her heart she knew they were sisters.
They shared some of the same colouring, and even at not yet three years old, the precocious Elizabeth had a fearsome will that shouted her royal parentage.
Mary’s chest constricted at her father’s familiar and beloved handwriting. But it was the message itself that closed off her throat and sent wings of panic fluttering through her body. The queen is safely delivered of a son. England at last has a Prince of Wales as God intended.
How could God have intended this? Mary wondered.
How could he have allowed her own mother—Henry’s true and loyal wife—to die barren and alone while the Boleyn whore bewitched the king?
How could such a woman be granted a living son when Catherine of Aragon had been denied?
Mary felt for the rosary at her waist and then remembered that she was forbidden to wear it at Hatfield.
“What do you want of me?” she demanded of Cranmer. “Congratulations? I am always glad for my father’s happiness, but I cannot congratulate him on a mistaken pride in a son who is not legitimate. How can he be Prince of Wales, when my father has never truly been married to that woman?”
“My lady,” and despite herself, Mary recognized the kindness beneath the archbishop’s inflexibility, “your honour for your mother’s memory does you great credit.
But your father wishes nothing more than to be reconciled with you.
Why separate yourself from the comfort of the king’s love and care when you need not? What he asks is so little.”
“I know what he asks—that I proclaim my mother’s marriage a lie, her virtue a hoax, her faith an inconvenience. The king asks me to brand myself a bastard for the sake of that woman’s children.”
“The king asks you to accept the inevitable. My lady, this is a fight you cannot win. Ask yourself—does God wish you to go on in defiance against your father’s wishes?
To live out your life in rebellion and servitude?
Whatever the state of your parents’ marriage, you were conceived in good faith and were born for better things. ”
Mary thought of how much she hated Hatfield, being in a house of Protestants who despised not only her and her mother but the Church as well. With Cranmer being so reasonable and soft-spoken, Mary asked, “What would I receive in return?”
“In return for your signature, your father will grant you the manor of Beaulieu for life. There, you will be permitted to retain a single confessor and attendants of your own choosing.”
A confessor … Mary closed her eyes and shivered.
Henry knew his women—he knew how much she longed for a household of her own again, where she could wear her rosary and pray without the sneers of heretics and be counseled by a true priest. But to sign away her rights …
the rights her mother had died upholding …
“Your father is also prepared to consider the wisdom of a proper marriage, providing your behavior is acceptable.”
And that was the final blow to her resistance.
Though her intellect knew that “consider” was not the same thing as “arranging” or “allowing,” it was considerably better than her current state.
She was twenty years old and had been betrothed often in her childhood.
But there was no chance she would ever be allowed to marry while she continued in defiance of the king’s wishes.
With each year, she would grow older. And even more than marriage, Mary wanted children.
Mother, she offered up silently, what should I do?
The words were so immediate and clear to her mind that Mary knew at once it was her answer. Do what you must for now—and wait for your moment. God means you to turn England back to Him.
Mary opened her eyes, her pride screaming but her conscience unwavering. “I will sign.”
And then I will wait, she vowed silently. And when my moment comes—I will act.