Mary, Bloody Mary
Blood is thicker than water – unless the King decrees othewise.A compelling first-person narration of childhood, as told by Henry VIII's daughter, Mary Tudor. History remembers her only as "Bloody Mary" because of the brutality of her reign, but this compelling recreation of her childhood brings alive the contradictions and conflicts and true danger of being the daughter of a 'divorced' queen as her father falls under the spell of the "witch" Anne Boleyn and why such an apparently privileged little girl could grow up to be such a monster.Published by Harcourt Brace in USA 1999, it has been widely reviewed and acclaimed; was an ALA Notable Book, and among the ALA 10 Notable Books of that year.
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First published in the USA by Harcourt Brace & Company 1999
First published in Great Britain by Collins 2003
Text © Carolyn Meyer 1999
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007150298
Ebook Edition ©SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007381722 Version: 2015-08-18
For Marcia H. Henderson
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE King Francis
CHAPTER TWO Betrothals
CHAPTER THREE Tudor Colours
CHAPTER FOUR Falconry
CHAPTER FIVE Lessons
CHAPTER SIX Lady Anne
CHAPTER SEVEN Sickness and Dread
CHAPTER EIGHT A visit from the King
CHAPTER NINE Enter Chapuys, Exit Wolsey
CHAPTER TEN Lady Susan
CHAPTER ELEVEN Reginald Pole
CHAPTER TWELVE Queen Anne
CHAPTER THIRTEEN A Royal Birth
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Elizabeth
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Princess’s Servant
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Double Oath
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Rumours
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN A Question of Poison
CHAPTER NINETEEN The Madness of the King
CHAPTER TWENTY The Executions
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE The new Enemy
Historical Note
Also by the Author
About The Publisher
Anne was a witch; I never doubted it. She deserved to die; neither have I doubted that. She wished for my death long before the executioner’s sword glittered above her own neck: month upon month I lived in terror of poison being slipped into my cup. Yet, an hour before the blade bit into her flesh, they say she prayed for my forgiveness. Had the jailers brought me her message, would I have forgiven her?
No. Never.
She beguiled my father and seduced him. She transformed him into a man so unlike his former self that even after she had lost her diabolical hold on him, my father was never again the king he had once been. Because of this evil witch who called herself queen, I lost everything: my rightful place in the circle of my family, my mother’s loving presence, my father’s devoted affection, my chances of a fruitful marriage. And I came close — very close — to losing my own life.
Because of Anne, my father discarded my mother like a worn slipper, forbidding me ever to see her again. Because of Anne, he declared me a bastard, humiliating me for his own selfish ends. And after years of using me as a pawn in his endless quest for power, promising me to this suitor and one, my father abandoned me.
I can forgive her nothing.
You who are quick to judge me, I beg you, hear my story.
I inherited King Henry’s fiery temper — no one would deny that! And so, on the day I learned that he had betrothed me to the king of France, I exploded.
“I cannot believe that my father would pledge me to that disgusting old man!” I raged, and hurled the bed pillows on to the floor of my chamber. “I shall not, not, NOT marry him!”
I was but ten years old and had yet to master my anger nor learn its use as a weapon. I shouted and stamped my feet until at last my fury subsided in gusts of tears. Between sobs I stole glances at my governess, the long-nosed Lady Margaret, countess of Salisbury. She stitched on her needlework as though nothing were happening.
“Come now,” the countess soothed, her needle flicking in and out, in and out, “it is only a betrothal, and that — as you well know — is quite a long way from marriage. Besides, madam, the king wishes it.”
Her calm made me even angrier. “I don’t care what he wishes! My father pays so little attention to me that I doubt he even remembers who I am!”
A thin smile creased Salisbury’s face, and she set down her embroidery hoop and dabbed at my cheeks with a fine linen handkerchief. “He knows, dear Mary, he knows. You grow more like him every day — his fair skin, his lively blue eyes, his shining red-gold hair.” She tucked the handkerchief into the sleeve of her kirtle and sighed. “And, unfortunately, his temper as well.”
Suddenly exhausted, I flung myself on to my great bed. “When is it to be, Salisbury?” I murmured.
“King Francis and his court intend to arrive in April for the Feast of Saint George. We have three months to prepare. The royal dressmaker will soon begin work on your new gown. Your mother, the queen, sent word that she favours green trimmed with white for you. You’re to have a cloak made of cloth of gold.”
