The Last Tudor

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

WINTER 1564

I am hurrying into court one evening in November with a cold mist coming off the river and a haze of drizzle around the torches in the courtyard when Thomas looms out of the shadow of the doorway to the main gate as if he has been waiting for me.

“Thomas!” I exclaim. “What are you doing here? I can’t stop. I have to go to the great hall.”

His big face is scowling, his bonnet is crushed in his great hand. “I had to see you.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s trouble for you,” he says miserably. “Oh, Mary, God knows that I wish I could spare you.”

I swallow down my fear. “What is it? Not Katherine? Not one of her boys?”

He drops to one knee so his head is level with mine. “No, thank God, she is safe as a little bird in a cage. It is your uncle. He has died.”

“She has beheaded him?” I whisper my greatest fear.

“No, no. It’s not that bad. They say it was grief.”

I feel myself go still and quiet. He was never a loving kinsman—but he suffered imprisonment for supporting Katherine, and he was a good guardian to her. Now that he is dead she has lost her guardian. And another of our family has died through the disfavor of a Tudor. Truly, they are hard masters to serve, impossible to love.

“God save his soul,” I say without thinking.

“Amen,” says Thomas devoutly.

“But what about Katherine? Oh, Thomas. Do you think the queen will free her now? She can’t stay at Pirgo without him.”

He takes my hand and holds it between his broad palms. “No, pretty one. That’s the bad news on top of bad news. They’re sending her to William Petre. I myself saw the guard ride out to fetch her, as if she were a prisoner likely to break out. They’re not freeing her, they’re moving her, and will keep her even closer.”

I frown. “Sir William Petre? Is he still alive? I thought he was sick. He must be a hundred and two, at least.”

He shakes his head. “He’s not yet sixty, but they’re putting a heavy burden on him. Perhaps he was the only one who lacked the skills to wriggle out of it.” He looks at me, his big face creased with concern. “It might be all right. He has a pretty house; she may like it there. Her little boy may be allowed to play out in the gardens.”

“Where? Where does he live?”

“Ingatestone Hall in Essex. You’ve been there, do you remember it? It’s halfway to New Hall.”

“I have to see her,” I say with sudden determination. “I have to go and see her. I can’t stand this any longer.”

I wait until Elizabeth has finished the dinner and danced with the new earl, Robert Dudley. He exerts himself to charm Elizabeth and make her laugh, and everyone continues to congratulate them on his rise to greatness, and her good judgment in recognizing the extraordinary value of this man. But has she done enough to persuade Queen Mary to have him? Baron or not, earl or not, Mary Queen of Scots will not have Elizabeth’s castoffs without a firm promise that she will be given my sister’s rights, and the conference at Berwick between the Scots and English advisors is struggling to make an agreement. Elizabeth is determined that Mary shall marry Robert Dudley and be named as her heir. Mary insists that the inheritance comes before the marriage. Nobody asks how two queens who trust each other so little can make a lasting agreement.

But at least Elizabeth is in a happy mood tonight. I hold out her satin nightgown, warmed before the fire, as someone else serves sweetmeats and a third lady-in-waiting brings sweet wine for her, while the grooms of the bedchamber stab the bed and look underneath it for enemies, as if we truly believe that she is going to spend more than ten minutes in there once the door is shut. I wait till she is settled in her chair by the fire and she has everything that she might want, and I go towards her and kneel.

“Don’t go any lower, Lady Mary, or you will fall under the log basket,” she says, and everyone laughs. I feel Thomasina’s steady gaze on my face as I am insulted before them all. I rise to my full height. Even now I am only level with Elizabeth’s unfriendly eyes.

“Your Majesty, I ask you for a very great favor,” I say quietly.

“Have you thought carefully?” she asks. “Before asking me for a great favor?”

“I have.”

Her eyes dance with amusement. “Which of you, though he took thou therefore, could put one cubit unto his stature?”

I flush scarlet as everyone sycophantically laughs at the queen’s wit. “I want to add luster to your reputation for mercy, not height to myself,” I say quietly. I can feel Thomasina’s eyes on my face as if they would burn me.

The good humor is wiped from the queen’s face as if she had taken a sponge to the white lead. “I can think of no one who deserves my mercy,” she remarks.

“My sister Katherine,” I say very quietly. “We have lost our uncle, her jailer. I have just learned that he has died of grief at Your Majesty’s displeasure. The turning away of your beautiful countenance has killed him. I know that Katherine my sister does not eat, and cries all day. She suffers, too, under her great queen’s disfavor. I fear that she has not the courage to live without your goodwill. I beg you, at the very least, to let me visit her.”

She takes just a moment to consider my petition. I see that Thomasina is holding her breath. Her ladies wait. I wait.

“No,” she says.

I can only write to Katherine.

My dear sister,

I hope that you can be comfortable at Ingatestone, and that your little boy brings you joy. I know you will have heard comforting news from Hanworth. Your oldest boy and the earl, his father, are both well, and long to be with you again.

I am well at court, and Her Majesty is so filled with grace and tenderness, so judicious with her great power, that I don’t doubt you will be forgiven some day soon. I do ask for you.

Oh Katherine, I miss you so much.

With love

Your sister

Mary