I turned and stared straight ahead, startled to feel the sharp bitter bite of jealousy, like the first tart taste of a green apple.
Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright or the people’s voices quite so loving anymore. I listened more closely to what they were saying now.
“Look at that red hair!”
“Aye, it’s just like Great ’arry’s was in ’is youth, it is!”
“No Spanish blood there, she’s
all
Tudor, that one is!”
“A
true
English rose!”
“English through and through, to the core our Elizabeth is—blood, bone, and gristle, and amen for it!”
“God bless our Princess Elizabeth!”
“Vivat Elizabetha!”
Though there were still cries aplenty of “God save Queen Mary!” they seemed all of a sudden muted, to lack the clarity and enthusiasm of those who sang my sister’s praises. Suddenly I was stricken with the fear that though they accepted and acknowledged me as their rightful queen, they loved Elizabeth more; I was Queen of England, but she was Queen of Hearts.
And then a handsome young man, with the eyes of a poet, ran up to Elizabeth and kissed the hem of her white gown as if she, and not I, were queen. “The fairest of the fair,” he called her, and vowed he would write a sonnet in “The Fair Eliza’s” honor.
My fingers clenched around the reins and I bit my bottom lip and forced myself to breathe deep and count to ten, and then I counted to ten again, as I fought down the urge to lean over and rip that red hair out by its roots and shove my sister from her saddle to be trampled beneath the horses’ hooves as we rode on past. I wanted to shout at the people,
“My sister is the bastard of that whore Anne Boleyn!”
and remind them that as such she did not deserve their love and adulation.
I
was the one who deserved, and needed, their love;
I
was the Queen, not she. The glory and praise should be mine,
all
mine. They should be writing songs and sonnets about me, not about that baseborn red-haired temptress, who smiled at me even as her mind hatched plots against me. She was going to steal my throne, I
knew
it. This day had shown her her power; she had it within her to harness the hearts of the people and command all!
It was not a Christian thought, I admit, and I would later confess and do penance for it. It was most unworthy of me, and shamed me before God and the mirror of my soul, but in that moment it was what I felt, and I cannot deny it, for to do so would be a lie, and that would further compound my sin.
And then, just as suddenly as this pall of suspicion and dread had fallen over me, it was whisked away. A choir of angelic blond-haired little boys in white silk robes trimmed with golden lace appeared singing joyously, praising God for sending a virgin called Mary to sit upon England’s throne. When the song was done the youngest and prettiest of those exquisite little children came forward and, cupping it in his little hands, shyly presented me with a heart fashioned of solid gold engraved with the words:
I was overcome, and as I held that golden heart within my hands I almost believed I could feel it beating and pulsing as if it were real and I did indeed hold the very heart of England.
Then a toothless old man, with tufts of white hair sticking up around his bald pate, broke through the crowd and dashed up to me.
“Princess Marigold! Princess Marigold!” he cried as he thrust a scraggly bouquet of marigolds up at me. I almost tumbled off my horse, I was so astonished that anyone remembered. My heart was beating so fast that I had to press my hand over it, but I did not let emotion overwhelm me and, smiling graciously, I leaned down and accepted that poor little bouquet. The words slightly garbled in his toothless mouth, he continued, “I remember when Your Grace was just a wee thing and your da’, Great ’arry, ’e called you Princess Marigold ’cause your hair was just like ’em in color, it was.”
“Yes.” I nodded, flashing a brief, bittersweet smile down at him as I gazed at the orange-yellow blossoms. “That was a long time ago, but I remember it well. Thank you, my good man; God bless and keep you in His care,” I added, as I passed the flowers back to Susan, riding behind me, to put in her saddlebag with the golden heart and all the other keepsakes I meant to save as reminders of this joyous day.
As I nudged my horse onward, I darted a swift glance at Elizabeth as if to say, “See? You are not the only one who can play to the masses!” But she just smiled back at me, a born actress, to look at her anyone would have thought that she was genuinely happy for me, but
I
knew better!
When we arrived at the Tower, to resounding cheers and the deafening boom of a hundred-gun salute, I found the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Bridges, waiting for me. With him, kneeling humbly on the grass, were the last four remaining prisoners from my brother’s reign.
The first was the Duchess of Somerset, Edward Seymour’s widow, my “good gossip Nan,” who had been imprisoned when he followed “The Cakes and Ale Man” to the scaffold. She was trembling and pale as white chalk in her widow’s weeds.
Then, the most important political prisoner in the realm, the tall, handsome, golden-haired young man they called “The Last Sprig of the White Rose,” the last surviving Plantagenet, Edward Courtenay. Now twenty-seven, he had practically grown up in the Tower, and I doubted he could remember any other home. He was a naïve and guileless young man whose blue eyes radiated angelic innocence and sweetness and, I must admit, a want of wits. I knew many would expect me to marry him, as he was the only Englishman alive worthy of me in rank, but here I must confess, I had always desired a man stronger than myself, a pillar of strength I could lean on whenever I had need, a man who would be to me like the shell that protects and shelters the snail’s vulnerable flesh, and Edward Courtenay I knew at a glance was
not
the man for me. But he did not deserve to remain a prisoner, and I would see that he was compensated for his lost years and set him at liberty.
The third prisoner was Stephen Gardiner, the aged Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned years ago for championing my mother’s rights against The Boleyn Whore, and for staunchly resisting the Protestant regime. I would see to it that his loyalty to the true faith was amply rewarded.
And lastly, the elderly Duke of Norfolk, who had been destined for the block, only Father had died before he could sign the death warrant. Although he was Anne Boleyn’s uncle, he was no friend to her, and had presided over her trial and, without hesitation, had condemned her. Though he had been cruel to me at her instigation, I could be merciful like Our Lord Jesus Christ and forgive one who truly repented their past sins and misdeeds.
One by one, I went to them—raised, kissed, and embraced them.
“These are my prisoners,” I proclaimed, “and I declare them prisoners no more! My Lords, and Lady”—I nodded to Nan—“you are now at liberty!”
Hearing my words, oh how the people cheered; they called me “Merciful Mary” and I could not think of a more wonderful, beautiful name to be known by. I saw it as a sign. It was as if God were speaking through those thousands of voices, and in that moment I vowed “Merciful Mary” I would always be until the day I died. My people gave me that name out of love, and I vowed then and there that I would never give them cause to call me anything else.
In gratitude, the quartet of liberated prisoners vied to kiss my hand. I felt their tears drip down onto my skin; later I would notice the water spots this emblem of their hearts’ gratitude left on my rings, which would, of course, require polishing, but after such a dusty, tumultuous day, they would have anyway.
When the aged Bishop of Winchester tried to bow over my hand, I stopped him and instead kissed his, honoring him as a man of God, and asked him to honor me by serving as my Lord Chancellor.
With tears running down his grizzled cheeks into his long white beard, he raised his gnarled and trembling talonlike hands to heaven and cried: “God has taken pity on His People and Church in England through the instrument of a virgin called Mary whom He has raised to the throne!”
And from every side the people cheered, “Long live Queen Mary! God save Queen Mary!” and hats by the hundreds flew up and down in the air.
And Nan, falling to her knees and kissing the hem of my skirt in deepest gratitude, declared, “There never was a queen in Christendom of greater goodness than this one!”
Not to be outdone, Edward Courtenay dropped to his knees and commandeered my other hand and covered it with kisses. “Your Majesty’s kindness has only one rival—your beauty!”
The wily old Duke of Norfolk just watched it all with a bemused smile and bowed. “I owe Your Majesty my eternal gratitude. I thought the last fresh air I would ever breathe would be as I walked to the scaffold.”
Oh what a happy, joyous day that was, when everyone seemed to love me! And as I pardoned my prisoners, Elizabeth was all but forgotten; she could not snatch or surpass my glory here! I watched her cheering me with all the rest of them and marveled yet again at her ability to dissemble. If women had been allowed to tread the boards of the London theaters she would have been among the greatest.
The first time I met with my Council, I knew that as one lone woman against so many men, seasoned statesmen all, I must not let my nervousness and weakness show; I must prove to them that I was strong enough to hold, and control, the reins of power.
Sitting at the head of the long oak table, in a gown of deep crimson velvet, with my white silk under-sleeves and kirtle embroidered in golden pomegranates and red and white Tudor roses, to remind all who saw me of my proud and illustrious heritage, I chose not to mince words, and instead shot like an arrow straight to the heart of the matter.
“My mother called England a land of ruined souls and martyred saints,” I began. “She said this after Anne Boleyn cast her dark spell over my father and unloosed a plague of heresy on England that caused the break with Rome. I intend to do everything in my power to undo The Great Whore’s reign of destruction. I will give the true religion back to the people; I will bring England back to Rome.”
“Madame,” the Earl of Arundel said, “that is a laudable goal, but I beg of you as you go about this great work, be both cautious and slow lest you frighten the people by acting too precipitously. In the years since the break with Rome and your venerable mother’s death, much has changed here in England, and this new religion, this Reformed Faith, whether we as good Catholics, like it or not, has put down firm roots . . .”
“Then they shall be uprooted!”
I cried, banging my fists down hard on the table. “Heresy shall
never
thrive in
my
country—
God’s country!
And well that the people should be frightened—for the sake of their souls they should be
very
afraid indeed!”
“Madame, with all due respect,” Sir William Paget said patiently, almost condescendingly, as if I were an ignorant little girl, “it already flourishes here as a healthy living presence and many have embraced it, quite willingly, not through force. It has taken the place for many of the true faith, which has now changed places with the Reformist religion, which was once practiced secretly, underground if you will. Now it is thus with the Roman faith. What was once publicly celebrated is now hidden away in secret, whilst what was once hidden is now openly espoused. And if you begin your reign like a great broom seeking to sweep all the changes the years have brought out, you will frighten many of your subjects, and there will be panic and acts of violence and rebellion if you try to take their faith away from them. The Protestants will not creep away meekly like whipped dogs with their tails tucked between their legs, they
will
fight; just as you yourself have fought for your own beliefs and the freedom to worship as you please. A little tolerance—and I say this as both a devout son of the Church and as a statesman—will go a long way to keeping the peace in England.”
“
No
, Sir William”—I shook my head emphatically—“I am not taking anyone’s faith away from them! I am returning it, restoring it, to them! Do you not see? I am giving them back what they lost, what was taken from them. In its absence they were misguided, misled, and embraced a false religion to fill the void left by the true. But now, I am going to give it back to them. I am going to make everything all right!”
“Madame”—the Earl of Throckmorton shook his head dolefully—“I fear a great many of your subjects will not see it that way. We are all loyal Catholics here”—he gestured round the Council table and all the men nodded in affirmation—“but England has changed since the break with Rome . . .”
“But God hasn’t!” I cried, slamming my hands down on the tabletop for emphasis.
“God has not changed!”
“Madame, what you seek to undertake shall not be easy and
will
be met by opposition,” Arundel warned, “and therein are the bare bones of the situation.”