Bloody Mary (35 page)

Dubois had no time to split hairs. It was a question of yes or no, he said, and further conversation was perilous. By now Van Meeckeren’s warships would have been sighted off Harwich, and within hours the Council would know of their presence. The decision had to be made at once. Rochester now took Dubois by surprise once again, telling him that Mary wanted to talk to him in person. Could he come to Woodham Walter? At first the Fleming refused, but after a day of dickering with customs officials and the town bailiff over the price of his grain, the buyer, and the amount of the duty (waived because the grain was for Mary’s household) he finally consented.

The sun was low in the sky as Mary’s servant Henry led Dubois “by a secret way” to Woodham Walter. Once there the secretary had another talk with Rochester while he waited for Mary to receive him, and he found the controller more mysterious than ever. Rochester told him “a mighty secret”—that Edward’s death was imminent. He was “quite persuaded the king could not outlast the year,” he said, “for he and others knew his horoscope to say so.” Astrological prediction was rampant at Edward’s court, and had already led to several arrests; apparently the controller was privy to some such reading of Edward’s stars. If he passed on his occult information to Mary—and there is no reason to believe he did not—it could account for the dilemma she faced in deciding whether to stay or go. Rochester had one final card to play. He had already hinted at treachery from within Mary’s establishment; now he said plainly that he knew of some threat so ominous that if either Mary or Dubois knew of it they would abandon all thought of the escape. “Neither she nor you see what I see and know,” he warned. “Great danger threatens us!”

When Dubois was finally summoned into Mary’s presence he found her to be calm and dignified. She inquired after the health of the emperor and regent, and thanked the secretary for all that he and Scepperus were doing to help her. She seemed strangely unmoved by the excitement of the adventure that lay ahead of her, and Dubois soon learned why. She had half decided not to go after all. “I am as yet ill prepared,” she told Dubois. She had begun to pack her things for the journey, putting as much as she could into long hop sacks, but there was still more to do. “I do not know,” she went on, “how the emperor would take it if it turned out to be impossible to go now, after I have so often importuned his majesty on the subject.”

By this time Dubois was thoroughly bewildered. Something or someone had nearly convinced Mary not to attempt to leave—at least not for
the present. Yet she had begun her preparations, and now asked Dubois if he would take her rings back with him. Without presuming too much he tried to persuade her that no better opportunity was likely to come in the future, and that if she was bold enough to send her rings “she might as well go with as after them.” Here she turned to Rochester and to Susan Clarencieux, who had been keeping watch at the door throughout the interview, and the three spoke together for a few minutes. It was during this hurried conference that Mary made up her mind. When she turned back to Dubois her look and manner were different. She was decisive, practical, precise. Whatever consideration had deterred her earlier had been pushed aside.

She spoke rapidly now, asking detailed questions, making certain every contingency was reviewed. She could be ready on Friday. She and her ladies would go to the beach at four in the morning “to amuse herself and purge her stomach by the sea,” as she often did. At four the watch retired and the roads would be clear. She asked Dubois whether the tide would be high enough, whether he could get word to Scepperus, what Van Meeckeren might be expected to do. As they made their final arrangements she grew more voluble, telling Dubois things Rochester had kept to himself. The very day Van der Delft left London two royal galleys, the
Sun
and the
Moon,
came up the Blackwater to anchor off Stans-gate. No warships had ever come so far up the river before, she said, and what was more, one of the galleys was captained by the vice admiral, “the greatest heretic on earth.” “It is more than time I was hence,” she added, growing more and more vehement, “for things are going worse than ever. A short time ago they took down the altars in the very house my brother lives in.”

Just then there was a knock at the door of Mary’s chamber, and Rochester went out. When he returned his face was white. “Our affair is going very ill,” he said in an undertone, speaking chiefly to Dubois. “There is nothing to be done this time, for here is my friend Mr. Schurts, who has ridden hard from Maldon to warn me that the bailiff and other folk of the village wish to arrest your boat, and suspect you of having some understanding with the warship at Stansgate”—Scepperus’ ship. They meant to arrest Dubois and his crew, board his boat and find out exactly what its purpose was. The secretary was dismayed. The delays had been fatal, just as he predicted. If the officials did board his ship the secret would be out for certain. His sailors had not been told that they were coming for Mary, but he had overheard them guessing at the truth, and remembering the abortive escape planned many years earlier.

Rochester’s announcement had a profound effect on Mary. She lost her command of the situation and grew fearful. “What shall we do?” she asked Dubois. “What is to become of me?”

The controller elaborated on the danger. “My friend here says there is something mysterious in the air, and that you had better depart at once, for these men of the town are not well disposed.” Schurts would try to take Dubois back to Maldort by a back road, hoping he could bluff his way through if he were questioned by saying that Dubois had gone to Woodham Walter to get payment for his grain. There was no longer any chance that Mary could reach the harbor, even if she could find the courage to make a desperate run for freedom. “They are going to double the watch tonite,” Rochester had learned, “and what is more post men on the church tower, whence they can see all the country round—a thing that has never been done before.”

Dubois did not hesitate. There was nothing more he could do; the matter was out of his hands. Mary, temporarily paralyzed with anxiety, kept repeating over and over “What is to become of me? What is to become of me?” He was sorry for her, and unquestionably loyal—he was quite literally risking his life to bring her out of England—but he could serve her best by leaving as quickly as he could, before the suspicions of the men of Maldon could be confirmed.

The few moments that remained before dark were used to piece together the outlines of an alternative plan. Mary had recovered her composure, and it was she who suggested that the next attempt could be made from Stansgate, which had the advantage of being closer to the open sea. She would go back to Beaulieu in two or three days, and send a servant of hers to Dubois in Flanders with complete instructions for the second attempt. As the secretary left Mary told him to send her best wishes to the emperor and his sister. “You see,” she said to him finally, “that it is not our fault now.”

It was nearly midnight when Schurts and Dubois reached the outskirts of Maldon. There were twenty men on watch, headed by the bailiff in person, and Schurts had to bribe them to let the secretary pass by promising to give them the grain unloaded from his boat earlier in the day. The boat had been drawn up to the bank, and the tide was rising; just after two o’clock they cast off and started down toward the open sea. As he passed the church tower Dubois looked up to see the lookouts Rochester had warned him of, but there was no one in sight. He had some difficulty on the outward journey—in his haste he had left his best sailor behind on shore—but at nine the next morning he came up to Scep-perus’ ship and reported all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.

For five days the Flemish ships hovered near the English coast, waiting out a violent storm that came up as Dubois left Maldon. No English ships challenged them, though the Council in London knew their location and guessed the reason for their coming long before the storm cleared.

But whether through an informer among Mary’s servants or some other means they also knew that the heir to the throne had not escaped, and were taking precautions to make certain she never tried to leave England again. On July 7 Scepperus gave the orders for the return crossing. The eight vessels set sail for Flanders, with Dubois at work in the vice admiral’s cabin writing a detailed account of his adventure. With them went Mary’s last hope of rescue while her brother lived.

What remedy, what remedy?

Such is fortune! What remedy?

Word of the rescue mission to bring Mary out of England began to leak out almost as soon as the imperial ships arrived back in Antwerp harbor. By mid-July it was being publicly said in Flanders that Mary had escaped, and was living at the court of her cousin the regent. Van der Delft’s deathbed ravings had let the secret out, and the Flemish merchants, always alert to any shift in the diplomatic balance between the Low Countries and England, were telling anyone who asked how the late ambassador had been planning the venture for months before he died, and how others had successfully carried it through on his behalf.

Partly to counteract these rumors the English Council made public its own version of the story. It was true the emperor had tried to carry off the heir to the throne, they said, but he had not succeeded. They were shocked that he should attempt anything so scandalous; they could not imagine that so exalted a personage could be guilty of so great a wrong against the king and his Council. All the English envoys living at foreign courts were instructed to inform their colleagues of the emperor’s dishonorable conduct and of the Council’s well justified indignation. Unofficially it was being said that Charles had planned to give Mary to his son Philip as a bride, giving Philip a pretext to invade and conquer England in right of his wife.
¹
Whether he married her to Philip or not, went another speculation, the emperor wanted to remove Mary to safety because he planned to make war on England.

Charles V was in a belligerent mood. Word reached England of his recent ordinances against heresy—the hated placards—which threatened savage punishments for any hint of heretical beliefs. To read or sell the
works of Luther, Calvin, or any other reformer was of course forbidden, but even to discuss points of doctrine or to speak with a heretic brought severe penalties. To sell indecent or irreverent pictures of the virgin Mary, the saints or the clergy was accounted as serious an offense as preaching heresy. In every case the offender was to lose both his or her life and property, the men to be beheaded, the women buried alive. The English were astonished at the placards, and told one another the emperor meant to revive “the real and thorough Spanish Inquisition.” Twenty English merchant ships that had recently gone to Antwerp returned home abruptly when their captains read the placards, refusing to trust the promise they contained that foreign merchants would not be persecuted for their opinions “unless they gave scandal.”
²

Beyond the emperor’s increasing toughness the English had a further reason to be fearful of war. With the shift of power in the Council had come a shift in diplomacy. Somerset had favored conciliation with the emperor; Dudley made no effort whatever to appease him, and was known to prefer the French. He brought the war with France to a close in the spring of 1550, selling Boulogne to Henri II—who already held its outer fortifications—and arranging for the French king to be made a Knight of the Garter in April. The rapprochement with France was bound to worsen England’s relations with the empire still further, and as if to prepare for an inevitable war against the imperial forces Dudley saw to it that the country was geared for battle. He took advantage of the emergency military arrangements made during the risings of 1549 to create a standing army answerable to himself. An array of “lords lieutenant” replaced the sheriffs as heads of the military contingents in the shires, and certain of Dudley’s trusted followers were put in charge of bands of men at arms paid from the royal treasury.

To channel the attention of the young king toward feats of arms Dudley ordered military entertainments to be staged for his diversion. On June 19 a water tournament was held on the Thames, organized by the Lord Admiral, Edward Clinton. A floating castle had been constructed, with three walls and a watch tower, defended by fifty soldiers in yellow and black. A galley painted bright yellow held the defenders’ munitions and more men. Four pinnaces stormed the castle, driving off the yellow galley and assaulting the defenders with “clods, squibs, canes of fire, and darts,” until the outer walls gave way. Then after a rally by the soldiers in the castle four more attack ships came alongside, with the admiral in command, and “won the castle by assault, and burst the top of it down, and took the captain and undercap-tain.”
³
The militaristic tone at court and in the countryside was unmistakable, and had its effect on the populace. “All these events combine to
make the people fear that a war may follow,” Scheyfve wrote early in August. “Everybody is in great perplexity.”
⁴

Mary’s perplexity in the weeks that followed the failure of the escape attempt was heightened by the presence of hundreds of soldiers in the neighborhood of Beaulieu. Armed men were sent to every port and harbor in the vicinity, with instructions to scrutinize the ships that went up and down the bays and inlets for any sign of secret intent. The English ambassador at the French court was overheard to say that the Council meant to guard Mary much more strictly than before, and that in the light of her recent behavior her religious idiosyncrasy could no longer be tolerated. “She would have to put up with the new religion introduced by the king,” he said, “or she might rue it.”
⁶
Left with no possibility of retreat to the shelter of the imperial court, Mary had now to stand and fight the Council as best she could. She had few weapons at her disposal, beyond her own resolution. Her greatest asset was the displeasure of her imperial cousin, who had already done more on her behalf than he had for her mother and might well bring greater pressure to bear in the future. But his protection extended only so far, and had to be exerted from a distance, while his agent in England, Scheyfve, was little more than a diplomatic cipher who knew no English. With these resources to fall back on, Mary set about: parrying the fresh assault on her mass that began in July of 1550.

When Mary was leaving Woodham Walter to return to Beaulieu, she sent one of her chaplains on ahead, so that he could be ready to say mass when she arrived. When she did not come he perfomed the service anyway, with many of her household in attendance. The incident gave the Council the pretext they had been waiting for. William Parr, the ill-tempered marquis of Northampton, was also earl of Essex, and the officials of the shire were under his control. He ordered the sheriff to have the chaplain, Francis Mallet, decried as an offender against “the king’s edicts and statutes concerning religion.” Another of Mary’s chaplains, Alexander Barclay, was similarly indicted. Mallet went into hiding; Barclay stayed in Mary’s house and continued to perform her mass.

The indictments gave the Council an excuse to hound Mary for months. Would she cooperate with the sheriff in bringing the two men to justice? How could she protest that she and her chaplains had been promised free use of the mass when no such promise had ever been given? Would she be so gracious as to come to court to visit the king’s majesty her brother? The latter request was carefully phrased. It was an invitation, not a command, but it: was delivered by the chancellor, Richard Rich, and Secretary Petre in person carrying letters of credence from the king and Council. They wanted her away from the coast and nearer the
capital, preferably at court where her movements could be closely watched. Mary asked to be excused for health reasons, and was as usual quite sick with the coming of fall. Her illness was then urged as a reason for making the trip to court, since the change of air might be beneficial. But the contagion was not in the air of Essex, as she pointed out in a letter written toward the end of November, “The truth is, that neither the house nor air is herein to be suspected, but the time of the year being the fall of the leaf, at which time I have seldom escaped the same disease these many years.”
⁶

Rich tried in every way short of force to persuade Mary to leave Beaulieu. He attempted to talk Rochester into using his influence on Mary, but he gravely misread their relationship. Like others in the Council he was incapable of seeing Mary as a figure of authority in her own house; the controller, he presumed, must stand in lieu of a father to her, or a guardian. Surely Mary did not make her own decisions, and Rochester was the obvious man to make them for her. When Rich approached him the controller made it plain that he had no particular influence over Mary, and that she was not at all likely to change her mind about joining her brother in any case. The chancellor did not believe him, and became very angry, but it did no good. When this approach failed Rich tried a more oblique tactic. He returned to Beaulieu with his wife in tow, and the two of them took Mary hunting. After the hunt he urged her not to let their pastime end, but to come to visit him at his house where he would arrange special entertainments for her. Mary saw through this and declined.
⁷
She did agree to borrow his house while Beaulieu was being cleaned, but that was all.

In November the attack on her chaplains was renewed. Mallet and Barclay were summoned to appear before the Council, a step which underscored the gravity of their crime. Their guilt or innocence turned on the much-disputed issue of the verbal assurances given to Van der Delft that Mary could practice her religion in peace, and in December Mary and the Council reopened their debate on this point. Mary’s letters were direct, factual and concise. It was her policy, she told Scheyfve, to “write roughly” to the Council in order to convince them she would not waver in her resolution. In keeping with this policy she wrote the plain truth as she knew it, sparing no embarrassment to those in the Council who had once acquiesced in her free use of the mass and were now attempting to take it from her. Those who claimed to have no recollection of the verbal promises were lying, and she knew it; “you in your own consciences,” she wrote to them, “know it also.”

In the weeks before Christmas Mary visited the court to back up her case. She defended her position as best she could, but found herself arguing in a vacuum. No one listened to her objectively, least of all the king,
who opened the discussion with the peculiar statement that “he had heard a rumor that Mary habitually heard mass.” As Mary’s staunch Catholicism had always been public knowledge, it was evident someone had been coaching Edward in what to say to his sister. Instead of the child who had loved her like a son Mary now saw in Edward the unfeeling puppet of his councilors. “But when I perceive how the king, whom I love and honor above all other beings, as by nature and duty bound, had been counselled against me, I could not contain myself and exhibited my interior grief,” she wrote describing this interview. At the sight of her tears Edward’s façade fell away and he too cried, telling Mary to dry her eyes and reassuring her that “he thought no harm of her.” Edward’s councilors intervened before the tender feelings between brother and sister could go any further, and no more was said about religion.

In the letter she wrote to the Council after this meeting Mary tried to distinguish between her feelings of loyalty and duty to her brother and her wary mistrust of the Council members, to whom she owed no obligation. “To the king’s majesty my brother,” she wrote, “I confess myself to be his humble sister and subject, and he my sovereign lord; but to you, my lords, I owe nothing beyond amity and goodwill, which you will find in me if I meet with the same in you.”
⁸
The distinction was important to her. However Dudley and the others wronged her, as long as Edward kept his old feeling for Mary she had something to hope for. Jane Dormer recorded how strong that feeling was. Whenever Mary came to visit Edward, Jane heard from one who was present, he would “burst forth in tears, grieving matters could not be according to her will and desire.” Edward urged Mary to “have patience until he had more years, and then he would remedy all.” He was always very sorry to see her go, kissing her and asking for something to give her. The jewels he was allowed to present to her were never fine enough to please him, and this plus his regret at her leavetaking made him sadder than before. Realizing that Mary might try to use her influence with the king to the Council’s disadvantage, the men around Edward saw to it that Mary’s visits became more and more rare. Her presence “made the king sad and melancholy,” they said, and affected him too deeply for his good.
⁹
Mary in turn took comfort from her brother’s assurances that, once he was old enough to rule on his own, he would stand up to her persecutors and take revenge.

In the meantime, Dudley was doing all he could to head off this eventuality by shaping Edward’s opinions and character to serve his own ends, and the young king’s chilling reception of his sister in December was proof of the earl’s partial success. Edward had grown into a slight, delicate youth of thirteen who carried one shoulder higher than the other and had to squint to see at any distance. To his doll-like beauty was now added an incongruous pose of rough majesty—a wholly unconvinc
ing imitation of his hearty, burly father. He put his hands on his hips and strutted about on his thin legs, frowning with dissatisfaction and piping out “thundering oaths.” He cultivated a bad temper that contrasted oddly with the religious doctrine that streamed so readily from his lips. He was very much an unformed boy, but he had the makings of an intellectually fastidious, pedantic king, impressive yet unappealing. And his frailty had become alarming. “He will be the wonder and terror of the world,” Bishop Hooper wrote of Edward in the fall of 1550, “if he lives.”