The Last Tudor by Philippa Gregory
“They have come to take you from us,” Sir William says, flustered. “With no warning, of course. But we will be sorry to see you go, your ladyship.”
I wriggle to the edge of the chair and drop to my feet. I put out my hand to him and he goes down on one knee to kiss it. “God bless you,” he says huskily. “God be praised that you are free.”
“You have been a kind host,” I say. “But of course, I am glad to go.”
“You are to pack your things and leave in the morning,” he says. “I hope that will be convenient.”
I would walk out of here and leave the old bed, the chair, the little table, and the stool tucked underneath it. I would leave my clothes and walk out barefoot in my shift if I could go to Bradgate tonight.
“Perfectly,” I say.
The commander of the guard behind Sir William bows and says: “We will leave after breakfast, your ladyship. At seven of the clock, if that is convenient to you?”
I incline my head. “Perfectly,” I say again.
Sir William hesitates. “You don’t ask where you are going?”
I give a little laugh. I had thought only of my freedom. I have dreamed so long of getting out of here that I had not thought of my destination. I had thought only that I was riding out of that stone gateway and that I can go anywhere. I will want to go to London and visit my husband, Thomas, if he is still imprisoned. If he has been freed, I shall go to wherever he is—Kent, I suppose. I hardly care. All I want is my freedom. I want to be on the road, I hardly care where it leads. “Of course, I should have asked. Where am I going?”
“To your stepgrandmother, the Duchess of Suffolk,” he says. “To her house in London. I will escort you.”
It makes no difference to me. I want to go to London to get Thomas freed, and my lady grandmother Catherine is one of the last of my family still alive. I have always liked her, and she is a woman of great worldly experience—a favorite of a king whose favor was deadly. It is quite right that I should go to her, and when my sister is released she should join us too.
“And my sister?”
“I don’t know what is proposed for her ladyship,” Sir William says. “But we can hope.”
I note that we can publicly hope now. I note that he is hoping. I am to join my stepgrandmother, I am going to free my husband. No doubt I shall see Robert Dudley or his brother Ambrose, since they are now taking an interest in our freedom. I shall see William Cecil; I shall visit Katherine and my little nephew and obtain their freedom. At last Elizabeth has seen reason and learned that she cannot support Mary Queen of Scots over my sister and me. There can only be one heir of Elizabeth and that is Katherine my sister. We will take our places in the world again. We will be free; we will be reunited. We might even be happy. Why not? Katherine and I have always had a happy temperament. We will be free to be happy once more.
CHEQUERS TO LONDON,
SUMMER 1567
We leave in the pearly light of an English summer morning, the best time of day of the best season in England. The sun has risen behind a bank of pale clouds that lie like cream ribbons on the Chiltern Hills and we ride east, into the golden light on the old Roman road that goes straight as a sword, Akeman Street.
We ride in a small procession: the vanguard, then a little gap so I am not riding in their dust, then me and Sir William and the commander of the guard, and behind us, the rest of the men. We stop after a couple of hours to water the horses and to eat, and Sir William asks me if I am weary.
“No,” I say. “I’m well.”
It’s a lie. Already my back is aching and my legs are sore from being astride on the saddle, for I ride as my father taught me: I won’t go pillion, seated like a country girl behind some dolt. I ride my own horse, and I straighten my back to sit proudly in the saddle; but I have been cooped up in a tiny room for so long that I have lost my strength and energy. But I have not lost my will to live or my passionate desire for freedom. I would rather die of the pain, cramped in the saddle, than confess that I am weary, for fear that the commander would say that we must go back to Chequers and make the journey when he can find a litter. Nothing will get me back into prison. I will ride with chapped hands and bleeding legs rather than go back into that little room and the view from the window of that square of sky.
It is like being born again, with the sky arching above me and the wind blowing gently against my cheek, the sun ahead of us. I ignore the pain in my back and the ache in every bone in my body. I can smell the honeysuckle and the wild bean flowers in the hedgerows. When we ride over the high hills where the sheep are grazing, I can hear a lark soaring high above me, singing a leaping cadence with each beat of his tiny wings. Swallows swoop and circle over the village ponds, people stare and wave from the fields, dogs run and snap at the horses’ heels. When we overtake a pedlar on the road, he swings his pack to the ground and begs me to stop and take a look. I am dazzled by the sights and sounds of the everyday world: I never thought I would see them again.
We halt for dinner at midday, and at four in the afternoon the commander brings his horse beside mine and says: “We will stop for the night at Headstone Manor at the village of Pinner. They are expecting us.”
I am immediately alarmed. “I won’t be confined,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You are free. You will have your own bedroom and a privy chamber, and you will dine in the hall with our hosts, if you wish. This is not a new prison.”
“I won’t be tricked,” I say, thinking of Katherine leaving the Tower to live with her uncle and thinking that her husband was joining her.
“I swear that I am to take you to the Duchess of Suffolk,” the commander assures me. “But we couldn’t do the journey in one day. We will have a half day’s ride tomorrow morning.”
“Very well,” I say.
My host, Roger Lord North, greets me with every sign of respect. Clearly, they are welcoming the sister of the heir to the English throne. His wife, Winifred, makes a muddle of her curtsey, bending overly low, trying to show the proper respect to a royal, trying to get down lower so that her head bows to me, but I laugh it off and she shows me to my bedroom. Two maids from the house have poured hot water for me to wash, and my own maid has a clean gown from my little bag of belongings.
I dine on my own in the guest room rather than at the high table in the hall. I feel shy after so long—nearly two years!—of confinement. And I suspect that there will be spies as well as well-wishers among the diners in the hall. I am not ready for the jostle and noise of a great hall. I have been so lonely for so long that I cannot get accustomed to many voices, all talking at once.
We wake, attend chapel, and take breakfast early the next morning, and at nine, by the clock over the stables we are on the road again. My horse is rested and, though my legs are bruised and stiff, I am filled with such a delight in freedom that I beam at the commander of the guard and when we come to a stretch of straight dry road I tell Sir William that we can canter.
It feels as if I am flying, I am going so fast. I bend forward and urge the horse on and the thundering of the hooves and the flying mud and the wind in my face make me want to sing with joy. I am free, I know I am free. I am free at last.
The little villages as we approach London are accustomed to travelers coming and going down Watling Street, and they look for the standard, and when they see the royal flag they recognize me and call out my name. The commander rides closer beside me.
“We were told not to draw attention to ourselves,” he says apologetically. “Would you be so good as to wear the hood of your cape over your head, my lady? There’s no point in inviting a crowd.”
I pull up my hood without a word of complaint, and I think that goodwill to the queen must be at a very low ebb, if a cousin as lowly as me can be a danger if seen on the road.
“Where is your sister? Where is Lady Katherine and her bonny boys?” someone shouts as we ride towards the entrance at the east of the city.
“Where are t
I pull my hood farther forward and I ride close to him. “It’s a question I ask too,” I say dryly to Sir William.
“It’s a question I may not ask,” he tells me.
THE MINORIES, LONDON,
SUMMER 1567
We clatter up to my stepgrandmother’s house at the Minories. It was actually once our house. I can remember my father telling me it was a gift to us from the young King Edward, and I remember shrinking back from the massive dark wood door and the echoing stone galleries of the former monastery. We lost it when Jane was killed, of course—when we lost everything.
My stepgrandmother, Catherine, a serene and beautiful woman of nearly fifty, is coming out of the hall, dressed in her traveling cape. She starts to see us, on our sweaty horses at her London door.
“Mary! My dear! I thought you were coming next month! I was told you would be here next month.” She beckons to one of her liveried grooms and says: “Help Lady Mary down from her horse, Thomas.”
The man helps me dismount and then my lady grandmother kneels down to kiss me warmly. “I am so glad you are released, and into my care,” she says. “Welcome, child. You look pale. It’s not surprising.”
She looks up at Sir William. “How is this? They told me you would bring her to me within the month. I am leaving now to go to Greenwich.”
Sir William heaves himself down from the saddle and bows. “The guard came to escort her without notice the day before yesterday,” he says. “Orders. But her ladyship has been desperate to be free any day this past year,” he continues. “It would have been cruelty to keep her another day. I don’t think I could have kept her another day, to be honest. She has earned her freedom, God knows.”
A shadow passes over my stepgrandmother’s face. She turns to me: “But you know you are not freed?”
“What?”
She turns to Sir William. “She’s not free,” she says again. “She is in my care. She is released into my keeping.”
Sir William swears and turns to his horse to muffle his oath. He turns back to us and he is flushed red with anger and there are tears in his eyes. “Not freed?” he repeats. “On whose orders is this—” He bites off words that might be treasonous. “I thought she was to come to you as her lady grandmother, and then to go wherever she might please. I thought you were receiving her and taking her back to court.”
“Come in,” my lady grandmother says, conscious of the waiting servants and the people loitering in the street. She leads us into the great hall inside the house and then turns aside to the porter’s room for privacy. There is a table and a chair, and a writing stand for messages and accounts. I lean against the table, suddenly exhausted.
“My dear, sit down,” she says kindly to me. “Sir William. Will you take a glass of ale? Of wine?”
I cannot bear to sit. I feel if I sit, they will slam the door and never let me out again. I stand awkwardly, my back aching from the two-day ride, filled with a painful sense of dread. “Am I not free?” I can hardly speak, my lips feel swollen and stiff as if someone has slapped me hard in the face. “I thought I was free.”
She shakes her head. “You are in my keeping, like your poor little nephew is in the keeping of his grandmother at Hanworth. But the queen is not releasing you. I have had to promise to keep you confined.”
“I can’t” bursts from me. I can feel the tears coming and I give a shuddering sob. “Lady Grandmother, I can’t be confined. I have to be able to go outside. I can’t bear being kept in a little room like a doll in a box. I can’t bear it, Lady Grandmother. I will die. I swear I will die if I cannot ride out and walk out and go freely.”
She nods, her face pale. She glances at Sir William and says: “You kept her very close?”
He shrugs angrily. “What could I do? I was ordered to let her walk in the garden only as much as her health required. But I let her go out all day, every day, as much as I could. They ordered that she should have one room, a small room, and one maid, and no messages or visits or friends. She was not even supposed to speak to my servants. I was not supposed to speak to her at all.”
My lady grandmother turns to me. “Don’t cry, Mary,” she says firmly. “We’ll do what we can. And at least you are in my keeping and can live with me and my children: Susan and Peregrine. And we can talk freely and study and write and think.”
“I have to be free,” I whisper. “I have to be free.”
My stepgrandmother looks at Sir William. “I was leaving just now for Greenwich,” she repeats. “Lady Mary may come with me. Does a train of wagons with her goods follow you? Or will you send everything directly to Greenwich?”
“She has next to nothing,” Sir William blurts out. “She came to me with almost nothing. A few bits of tapestry, a pillow or two.”
My stepgrandmother takes it in, looking from him to me. “So where are her things? Where is her inheritance? Her mother was a princess of the blood, she had a great house filled with treasures. This is a wealthy family. They owned houses and lands and licenses and monopolies. Where are her gowns and jewels from court?”
Sir William shakes his head. “All I know is she came to me like a poor woman, and they sent nothing after her. I will deliver to you all that is hers. I am very sorry that it is not more, my lady.” He nods his head to me. “I will give you anything you need from Chequers,” he offers. “Just ask.”
“I want nothing.” I shake my head. “I want nothing but my freedom. I thought I was free.”
“You shall have something to eat and then we will go down the river to Greenwich,” my lady grandmother rules. “And then we shall see to your rooms and your furniture and your clothes, too. Her Majesty will provide what is missing, and I shall speak to William Cecil myself about providing for you and setting you free. Don’t fear. You will be free, my dear, I swear it: you and your sister and her boys, too.”
I look at her, this woman who has been exiled and persecuted for her faith, this woman who married beneath her so that she might freely love and freely live. “Please help us, Lady Grandmother,” I say quietly. “I will promise anything to the queen if she will set me free. And Katherine, my poor sister.”
Stepping aboard the Suffolk barge is like stepping back into the past when I used to sail downriver with the court to Greenwich or watch the green meadows going by as we went upriver to Richmond. It is a hot day and a heavy heat sits over the stinking city, but it is pleasant to be in the center of the stream with the silk awning fluttering in the cool breeze that blows upriver from the sea. The seagulls cry overhead and all the bells of London peal out the hour as if they are celebrating my freedom. My spirits rise as we go past the familiar stone walls of the Tower and the yawning waterside entrance of the portcullis at the watergate. At least I am not making that slow walk into the prison rooms. I am in my stepgrandmother’s keeping, but I am going to a royal palace in her barge, and the sunshine is on my face and the salt-smelling wind is blowing in my hair, and I can see more than a small square of sky.
The river widens as we come towards Greenwich and then I see the Tudors’ favorite palace—our favorite palace—like a dream shore, as if it were floating on the water, the quayside golden in the sunshine, the great doors standing open. It looks so rich and friendly and peaceful I cannot believe that this will be anything like imprisonment—not in this beautiful house with the doors standing wide to the rich gardens, greens, and orchards.
Elizabeth is not here. She is on progress at Farnham Castle at Guildford, and only a few servants are in attendance, engaged in the great work of sweetening the rooms, cleaning out dusty old rushes, and laying fresh green leaves and herbs in all the public rooms. My lady grandmother’s servants are expecting her, and they line up before her apartment in the palace and bow to me as I walk in with her. I had almost forgotten how many servants it takes to service one set of rooms, one demanding woman. I am so used t
I have no appetite. Her sharp eyes watch me as she listens to her steward and, when he has finished and bowed and stood back, she says: “You must eat, my dear.”
“I am not hungry,” I say.
“You must be,” she insists. “You had that long ride, and then the voyage on the river. Your triumph is to survive and thrive, you know. To fast and to fail is to do your enemies’ work for them.”
“I have no enemies,” I say staunchly. “I made none when I was in service to the queen, and I married a man for love who was free to love me. I have no rivals nor enemies and yet I have been imprisoned for two years. No one has accused me of anything, no one has borne witness against me. No one has reason to hate me.”
She nods. “I know. We cannot speak of it here. But anyway, you have to eat. Your course must be to survive . . .”
She does not say “and outlive Elizabeth,” but we both know that is what she means.
“I will,” I say. I give her a little smile. I see in her determination—a survivor’s willpower—a model for myself. “You did.”
She makes a little foreign gesture, a shrug from her famously beautiful Spanish mother. “A courtier has to know how to survive. I was born and raised at court and I hope to die between silk sheets, in favor.”
“I can count on a tremendous funeral,” I say bitterly. “Wherever I die. The queen loves to honor her family when they are safely dead.”