“The child! The child! All you think of is the child! What of me?”
“You know very well how precious this child is,” he said coldly, standing up. “I will send your ladies to you.” And he was gone.
—
She could not rest, could not calm her agitation. She was sick to the teeth of Mary’s defiance, and Henry’s failure to deal with it. It galled her to think that that proud, obstinate girl was universally loved by the people, whereas if she herself went out in public, they still cried “Whore!” “Heretic!” “Adulteress!” And it was not just the common people who slandered her.
One day, hearing voices below her window, she had peered out to see Harry Percy talking to Chapuys.
“The Queen is a bad woman,” she had heard Harry say. “I am certain that she is determined to poison the Princess.”
Anne leaned back against the wall, shaking. That even Harry, that good man who had once loved her, should say such things of her was shocking. She had never dreamed of poisoning Mary!
In desperation, she resolved to change her tactics and use kindness to win over her stepdaughter. If the girl was seen to be friendly to her, it would give the lie to what Harry—and no doubt others—were thinking, and make the people love her.
It was time to pay a visit to Elizabeth.
—
All was in pristine order in the royal nursery at Hatfield. The baby—how she had grown in two months—slept serenely in her cradle, lulled by the young maids rocking her, and all around there was an atmosphere of peaceful activity.
“Her Highness is doing so well, madam,” the plump and motherly Lady Bryan told Anne. “I do believe we had a smile today! And she takes suck lustily.”
As Anne bent over the cradle, Elizabeth opened her blue eyes and blinked at her, regarding her solemnly. Then she went red in the face, opened her tiny mouth, and roared.
“She’ll need her clouts changed,” the wet nurse smiled. “Come along, my poppet.” And she picked up the baby and bore her off to the adjoining bedchamber.
“I will come back later,” Anne said to Lady Bryan. “Do you know where I can find the Lady Mary?”
“She’s with Lady Shelton in the schoolroom, madam.”
When Anne appeared at the door, both ladies rose, but Mary threw her a look of such venom that she almost forgot her resolve.
“Your Grace.” Lady Shelton curtseyed, and Anne embraced her.
“Dear aunt, I trust you are well.” She turned to the thin, red-haired, snub-nosed girl who stood glowering at her.
“My lady Mary,” she said, forcing herself to smile, “I would speak with you, as a friend.”
“Lady Anne”—and Mary would not acknowledge her as queen—“you can be no friend to me.”
“But I would be,” Anne said. “You have had a difficult time, but things can change for the better. I urge you, for the sake of your future happiness, to visit me at court and honor me as queen.”
“Never!” Mary spat, her plain features—so like her mother’s—contorted in hatred.
“Hear me out,” Anne insisted, trying not to lose her temper. “It would be a means of reconciliation with the King your father, who is as unhappy about this estrangement as you are. I will intercede with him for you, and then you will find yourself as well or better treated than ever.”
Mary looked at her as if she were a clod of dirt she had just scuffed from her shoe. “I know of no queen in England save my mother,” she said, “but if you would do me that favor with my father, I would be much obliged.”
Would the girl never see sense? “I exhort you to accept my offer, which was made out of kindness and in the interests of us all,” Anne challenged.
“It would serve your cause well to have me on your side, Madam Boleyn. Don’t think I’m so innocent that I don’t understand the game you are playing. Thanks to you, I had to grow up very quickly.”
“Speak to me like that, and you could find yourself in a worse case than you are now,” Anne warned. “But accept my offer of friendship, and you shall find me zealous to protect your interests.”
Mary snapped. “You can protect them best by taking yourself and your bastard off to some distant land and leaving my father free of your bewitchment, so that he can return to my mother, the true Queen!”
“Don’t speak to the Queen like that!” Lady Shelton cried.
“The Queen is at Buckden,” Mary rounded on her.
This was intolerable. “Trust me, I will bring down the pride of your unbridled Spanish blood,” Anne warned. “As for having you at court, I will not now hear of it. You have made your bed, now you must lie on it.”
“Now see what you have done, you foolish girl,” Lady Shelton hissed.
Mary shrugged. “It is labor wasted to press me, and you are deceived if you think that ill-treatment, or even the threat of death, will make me change my determination.”
“We shall see,” Anne retorted, and swept from the room.
Lady Shelton hurried after her.
“Your Grace, she is not a bad girl at heart. She is confused and frightened, and deeply grieved at being separated from her mother. And she is at a difficult age, when the young are wont to be rebellious. She should never have spoken to you like that, but she is her own worst enemy.”
“I care not,” Anne said. “I’m washing my hands of her.”
But she did care. All the way home, as the litter rumbled along, she was in despair. Henry would be angry when he heard how Mary had spoken to her, but he was vulnerable where his daughter was concerned, and she did not believe he would punish her severely enough. And there was Mary, defiant and sure of her rights, popular, beloved, and pitied—and there was the Emperor, who might decide to use armed force to support her. What would then become of herself and Elizabeth? Would they indeed be banished to some distant land—or worse?
Henry erupted in fury as Anne had anticipated; he erupted again when Mary refused to accompany Elizabeth’s household when it moved to the More in Hertfordshire, and had to be manhandled into her litter. His patience was wearing out.
“I will so order it that she will never defy me again—her or anyone else!” he roared. “Parliament shall see to it!”