Greenwich
Our hopes for a peaceful New Year are quickly dashed within the first two weeks of January when news arrives at Greenwich of another rebellion that has broken out in Cumberland and Westmorland. The promises of a Parliament and Queen Jane's coronation ceremony to also take place at York are not enough for some northerners, who resort back to insurgency.
Queen Jane grips my hand as we learn the news. We both know there will be no chance of mercy for any of the pilgrims now. His Majesty will deal with them as he has dealt with traitors in the past. Swiftly, ruthlessly and without mercy. He dispatches that seasoned warrior, the Duke of Norfolk, a champion of many battles, to put down the uprising. Which he manages within a month and with ruthless ease. I am not surprised by his swiftness. After all, this is the same man who stood before me, snarling like a beast at a bear-baiting, that he would smash my head against a wall for disobeying my father. Why would a man who so brazenly threatened a princess of the blood baulk at putting down men considered by many to be traitors?
Queen Jane and I are desperate to intervene to try to save Robert Aske and the other pilgrims who sought to help put down this latest rebellion. No member of the council will speak in his favour to the king, who is determined to exact the full force of the law upon everyone of note. Including Aske, who is promptly arrested and sent to the Tower.
Good news arrives at last as February nears its end, with the announcement that my dear friend Anne Seymour has been safely delivered of a healthy baby boy. Queen Jane and I are named as Godparents to the little one, and I realise, as I hold the precious little life at the baptismal font at Chester Place, that I am longing for a child of my own. I find myself hoping that if my betrothal plans to Don Luis can be concluded soon, God willing, I too will be a proud mother. Smiling with joy as my little prince is welcomed and blessed by God at his christening.
I recognise the same longing in Queen Jane as she takes her turn to hold the baby. For all the king's devotion and generosity toward her, she has yet to show signs of being with child. She confides in me that her lack of pregnancy is a strain on their marriage. She prays daily for the Lord to send her a son, so that she may feel more secure in her role and be more effective in championing the cause of the true faith.
"Take comfort, Your Grace," I assure her. "Your marriage is surely blessed by God. He will send you a son. I am sure of it."
Her pain is further compounded when my cousin, and my father's favourite niece, Frances, now the Marchioness of Dorset, announces in March that she too is with child.
His Majesty makes a point of rewarding her fertility by gifting her with jewels that once belonged to his sister and her mother, Queen Mary and doting on her with such lavish attention, anyone would think she were his own daughter.
Only I can see the Queen's pain as she is continuously ignored by my father, whilst he makes much of Frances.
"Lady Mary," the Queen rushes hurriedly into my apartments at Richmond, a broad smile beaming across her face.
"Good day, your Grace." In the surprise of the unexpected arrival, I almost forgot to curtsy.
"Please, come and walk with me."
With only Anne, Susan and Lady Cromwell for company, the Queen and I slip into a private gallery.
"I wanted to tell you first," She says rapidly through her happy smile. "Really, it should be His Majesty I tell first. But he is gone hunting, and I cannot wait to share."
"Your Grace, what is it?"
"I am with child!" She declares joyously. "I know it now, for certain. I have suspected for weeks but never dared to say in case I was mistaken. But now I know it for sure. I am with child."
For a heartbeat, all I feel is warmth. Relief. Even joy. She has waited so long for this, endured so many whispers about her place in the royal household. To see her eyes shining with hope... it softens something in me. "I'm so happy for you," I told her, and I mean it. "The Lord is good. Thanks be to God," I cross myself and offer my thanks to the Lord for the Queen's condition. I pray He sends her a prince. But as I hold her hands, sharing in her joy, another feeling creeps in — thin as a shadow, but impossible to ignore— the quiet rearranging of my future. A royal heir. The line of succession, once a distant but steady path before me, now blurs like ink in water. Yet inside, I had always known the crown was not promised, only possible. Now, that possibility slips further from reach.
The Queen looks radiant, almost fragile with joy, and I will not dim that light. Not today. She deserves this moment untainted. A child of her own, a long‑awaited sign of stability in a court that continues to whisper about her.
"I wanted you to know that should this child be a boy, I will see you restored to your rightful place. I will tell the king there is no greater reward he can give me than to restore your title of princess and place in the line of succession."
"Oh, madam!" I take her hands again and kiss them as reverently as I would the hands of the mother of our saviour. "God bless you for your goodness."
Queen Jane tells the king of her condition in private. But the news is made public within hours. His Majesty orders Te Deums to be sung in every church in the land in celebration, and we three visit the shrine of Sir Thomas Becket to give thanks that, God willing, England will soon have a Prince.
If the Queen had hoped that her pregnancy would gain her better influence with the king, she quickly realises that it will not.
Emboldened once more, she asks for mercy for Aske and the other pilgrims who raised up arms. Although he does not dismiss her as harshly as before, he still refuses to grant mercy to Aske, who is returned to York in chains and hanged from Clifford Tower and left to rot there as a fearful example to everyone.
Nothing now is too good for the Queen. She is showered with gifts by my father, including three dozen ropes of pearls, her favourite jewels. She develops cravings for cucumbers and Quails eggs, which she eats night and day, to the amusement of the King.
"It is my sons' strength that makes her so ravenous!" He boasts at dinner.
So confident is His Majesty that Queen Jane carries his longed-for boy, that he commissions Master Holbein to paint a fresco of them, the parents of the new Tudor dynasty, to hang in his Privy Chamber at Whitehall.
It is to be an enormous painting, ten feet high, by fourteen feet wide. A potent display of endurance. Holbein is ordered to finish it before the Queen's confinement in October. The man works night and day with an army of assistants to complete it as His Majesty commands.
Only the day before we are due to leave Whitehall for Hampton Court, where the Queen is to be confined, are we able to see the fresco at last.
His Majesty leads Queen Jane by the hand himself, from her chambers to his. Escorted only by myself, Lady Cromwell, Anne and her husband, Cromwell and Cranmer. A privileged small party.
The double doors are thrown open, and before our eyes is the most astonishing work of art I have ever seen.
The size of it is gigantic, a towering display that will greet any visitor to His Majesty's privy chamber.
Standing to the left-hand side of a centre placed marble plinth, almost obscuring the diminishing figure of my grandfather Henry the Seventh, is His Majesty himself. Clad in bejewelled clothes, hands on hips, his legs slightly parted, he is the very image of health, vigour and dominance.
But it is a lie. This fresco is a flattering honour to His Majesty's image and a breathtaking work of art. But it is by no means a faithful depiction of him as he is now.
My father's strength has diminished considerably. Those strong legs in the fresco are but a memory. His majesty is all but crippled by an old wound on his leg that forces him to walk with a noticeable limp, which, when dreadfully sore, forces him to use a cane.
Queen Jane's image is more faithfully depicted. Standing to the right of the plinth, clad in a crimson and cloth of gold gown, lined with ermine. Her new pearls, hanging across her stomacher, betray no sign of the swollen stomach that inspired this work of art.
Her image almost obscures the figure of my grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, who is standing behind her.
"Note the inscription." His Majesty says proudly, before reciting it word for word. "If it pleases you to see the illustrious images of heroes, look on these: no picture ever bore greater. The great debate, competition and great question is whether father or son is the victor. For both, indeed, were supreme. The son, born indeed for greater tasks, from the altar, removed the unworthy and put worthy men in their place."
"My cousin, Lady Frances Grey, has written to announce she has been safely delivered of a healthy daughter," I announce to the Queen, who lies on her daybed, propped up against cushions in her confinement chamber at Hampton Court.
"Thanks be to God they are both well," Queen Jane says graciously. She has not forgotten how her husband neglected her in favour of Frances during the early weeks of her pregnancy. Although Frances was tactful enough not to flaunt her favour in the Queen's face, it is obvious that the snub still hurt her.
"She asks if Your Majesty will allow her the honour of naming her daughter after you, madam. And if you would stand as her Godmother?"
"Of course!" She replies as she sews little shirts for her own baby. "I shall ask my sister Dorothy to go to Bradgate and stand as proxy for me. For I am far too fat to go anywhere other than my bed," she jokes, rubbing her hands lovingly over her burgeoning stomach.
"A great belly to house a great prince. Is that not what your brother Thomas said?"
At the mention of her carefree brother, the Queen's face relaxes into a smile. "Dear Thomas. He always has had a way with words," she sighs affectionately.
Struggling to stay comfortable on her daybed, the Queen asks Anne and Lady Cromwell to help her to her feet. As she stands, a gush of fluid escapes from between her legs, forming into a puddle at her feet.
"At last, the little prince is on his way," Anne cries excitedly.
At once, the Queen's chamber, which had been an oasis of peace, suddenly becomes a hive of activity. With Anne and Lady Cromwell issuing orders to any maid, they can find.
"Tell the King!"
"Send for the midwives!"
"Fetch the doctor!"
Only the Queen's mother, Lady Seymour, remains calm. "There, there, my dear," she says tenderly, helping her daughter to her birthing bed. "If I might suggest that Your Grace keeps His Majesty company until it is over," She says to me diplomatically. "The birthing chamber can be a distressing place for one who does not know what is to come."
"I would like to stay."
"No, Lady Mary," Queen Jane insists. "I do not wish for you to see this. I nursed my brother's first wife through her labour, and wish to God I never had. It has left me with dread of what I am about to endure. Assist me with your prayers if you will, and pray for a happy outcome."
Reluctantly, I obey her. However, I would far rather be by her side. She has been a true friend to me, and I would like to repay her kindness.
"Please God, bring Queen Jane safely through her travail. Bless her with a healthy son," is my constant prayer throughout the day.
By dusk, there is still no word of a happy outcome. I set my prayers to one side and venture back tentatively towards the Queen's chambers. A large crowd still gathers outside.
"What news?" I hear one man ask over and over again. But there is no news for him.
There is no news by the time evensong arrives. Nor when I am ready to retire. Come morning, there is still no news.
"Surely we must hear something soon?" I ask Susan as she pins my hair.
"I do hope so, Your Grace, for the Queen's sake. Poor lady!"
By evening, there is still no news. Nor the next morning when I awake.
"Poor lady, the babe is stuck, so say the physicians," I hear one lady remark to the outside of the Queen's chambers.
The chapel is heaving with courtiers praying for the life of the Queen and the child. All praying fervently for the woman we have all grown to love.
Our prayers are not answered by nightfall, and I am beginning to lose hope.
"Please spare her, dear Lord," is my final prayer before I fall into bed. I sleep fitfully. I am a poor sleeper at the best of times, but none so worse as in times of turmoil.
I am just about to drift off again when I hear a gentle tapping on my bedchamber door.
I jump from the bed and open the door myself to find Susan and Margaret Brown in their night robes with a still fully clothed Anne Seymour.
"A Prince, My Lady. The Queen has borne a prince!" Anne proclaims with delight.
I can feel myself smiling before I even realise it. A boy. My brother. I cannot wait to see him, to hold him, to tell the Queen how relieved I am that she has come back to us.
A boy. My brother.
"God be praised!" I exclaim with more joy than I have ever felt in my life. My delight and loss are braided so tightly together I can hardly tell them apart. I love my father. I love the queen. I already love the child I have not yet seen. And still... a small part of me grieves for the future that has slipped quietly out of reach. The King has a son. The word echoes through me like a bell. A son means certainty. A son means the line of succession was no longer a question whispered behind hands or debated in council chambers. It means that whatever faint, fragile path I might have had toward the throne has narrowed to almost nothing. I would not let anyone see that flicker of disappointment. It was mine alone, and I would carry it privately. I straighten my shoulders, letting the weight of that acceptance settle into place. I will not fight what God has decreed. My duty is to my family, to the realm, and now — to the tiny prince who will one day be king.
"And the Queen? Is she well?"
"She is, Your Grace. It was a hard birth, but she has come through it well and is resting."
"Thanks be to God! And now, my friend, I think it is time that you, too, were rested. I think we shall all sleep well tonight!"
"Indeed, Your Grace. Good night."
"Thank you, Lord," I whisper, closing the door and retreating to bed. "Thank you for sparing her!"