I dine on my own in the guest room rather than at the high table in the hall. I feel shy after so long—nearly two years!—of confinement. And I suspect that there will be spies as well as well-wishers among the diners in the hall. I am not ready for the jostle and noise of a great hall. I have been so lonely for so long that I cannot get accustomed to many voices, all talking at once.
We wake, attend chapel, and take breakfast early the next morning, and at nine, by the clock over the stables we are on the road again. My horse is rested and, though my legs are bruised and stiff, I am filled with such a delight in freedom that I beam at the commander of the guard and when we come to a stretch of straight dry road I tell Sir William that we can canter.
It feels as if I am flying, I am going so fast. I bend forward and urge the horse on and the thundering of the hooves and the flying mud and the wind in my face make me want to sing with joy. I am free, I know I am free. I am free at last.
The little villages as we approach London are accustomed to travelers coming and going down Watling Street, and they look for the standard, and when they see the royal flag they recognize me and call out my name. The commander rides closer beside me.
“We were told not to draw attention to ourselves,” he says apologetically. “Would you be so good as to wear the hood of your cape over your head, my lady? There’s no point in inviting a crowd.”
I pull up my hood without a word of complaint, and I think that goodwill to the queen must be at a very low ebb, if a cousin as lowly as me can be a danger if seen on the road.
“Where is your sister? Where is Lady Katherine and her bonny boys?” someone shouts as we ride towards the entrance at the east of the city.
“Where are the little princes?” someone calls, and I see the commander of the guard grimace. “Where are the Seymour boys?”
I pull my hood farther forward and I ride close to him. “It’s a question I ask too,” I say dryly to Sir William.
“It’s a question I may not ask,” he tells me.
THE MINORIES, LONDON,
SUMMER 1567
We clatter up to my stepgrandmother’s house at the Minories. It was actually once our house. I can remember my father telling me it was a gift to us from the young King Edward, and I remember shrinking back from the massive dark wood door and the echoing stone galleries of the former monastery. We lost it when Jane was killed, of course—when we lost everything.
My stepgrandmother, Catherine, a serene and beautiful woman of nearly fifty, is coming out of the hall, dressed in her traveling cape. She starts to see us, on our sweaty horses at her London door.
“Mary! My dear! I thought you were coming next month! I was told you would be here next month.” She beckons to one of her liveried grooms and says: “Help Lady Mary down from her horse, Thomas.”
The man helps me dismount and then my lady grandmother kneels down to kiss me warmly. “I am so glad you are released, and into my care,” she says. “Welcome, child. You look pale. It’s not surprising.”
She looks up at Sir William. “How is this? They told me you would bring her to me within the month. I am leaving now to go to Greenwich.”
Sir William heaves himself down from the saddle and bows. “The guard came to escort her without notice the day before yesterday,” he says. “Orders. But her ladyship has been desperate to be free any day this past year,” he continues. “It would have been cruelty to keep her another day. I don’t think I could have kept her another day, to be honest. She has earned her freedom, God knows.”
A shadow passes over my stepgrandmother’s face. She turns to me: “But you know you are not freed?”
“What?”
She turns to Sir William. “She’s not free,” she says again. “She is in my care. She is released into my keeping.”
Sir William swears and turns to his horse to muffle his oath. He turns back to us and he is flushed red with anger and there are tears in his eyes. “Not freed?” he repeats. “On whose orders is this—” He bites off words that might be treasonous. “I thought she was to come to you as her lady grandmother, and then to go wherever she might please. I thought you were receiving her and taking her back to court.”
“Come in,” my lady grandmother says, conscious of the waiting servants and the people loitering in the street. She leads us into the great hall inside the house and then turns aside to the porter’s room for privacy. There is a table and a chair, and a writing stand for messages and accounts. I lean against the table, suddenly exhausted.
“My dear, sit down,” she says kindly to me. “Sir William. Will you take a glass of ale? Of wine?”
I cannot bear to sit. I feel if I sit, they will slam the door and never let me out again. I stand awkwardly, my back aching from the two-day ride, filled with a painful sense of dread. “Am I not free?” I can hardly speak, my lips feel swollen and stiff as if someone has slapped me hard in the face. “I thought I was free.”
She shakes her head. “You are in my keeping, like your poor little nephew is in the keeping of his grandmother at Hanworth. But the queen is not releasing you. I have had to promise to keep you confined.”
“I can’t” bursts from me. I can feel the tears coming and I give a shuddering sob. “Lady Grandmother, I can’t be confined. I have to be able to go outside. I can’t bear being kept in a little room like a doll in a box. I can’t bear it, Lady Grandmother. I will die. I swear I will die if I cannot ride out and walk out and go freely.”
She nods, her face pale. She glances at Sir William and says: “You kept her very close?”
He shrugs angrily. “What could I do? I was ordered to let her walk in the garden only as much as her health required. But I let her go out all day, every day, as much as I could. They ordered that she should have one room, a small room, and one maid, and no messages or visits or friends. She was not even supposed to speak to my servants. I was not supposed to speak to her at all.”
My lady grandmother turns to me. “Don’t cry, Mary,” she says firmly. “We’ll do what we can. And at least you are in my keeping and can live with me and my children: Susan and Peregrine. And we can talk freely and study and write and think.”
“I have to be free,” I whisper. “I have to be free.”
My stepgrandmother looks at Sir William. “I was leaving just now for Greenwich,” she repeats. “Lady Mary may come with me. Does a train of wagons with her goods follow you? Or will you send everything directly to Greenwich?”
“She has next to nothing,” Sir William blurts out. “She came to me with almost nothing. A few bits of tapestry, a pillow or two.”
My stepgrandmother takes it in, looking from him to me. “So where are her things? Where is her inheritance? Her mother was a princess of the blood, she had a great house filled with treasures. This is a wealthy family. They owned houses and lands and licenses and monopolies. Where are her gowns and jewels from court?”
Sir William shakes his head. “All I know is she came to me like a poor woman, and they sent nothing after her. I will deliver to you all that is hers. I am very sorry that it is not more, my lady.” He nods his head to me. “I will give you anything you need from Chequers,” he offers. “Just ask.”
“I want nothing.” I shake my head. “I want nothing but my freedom. I thought I was free.”
“You shall have something to eat and then we will go down the river to Greenwich,” my lady grandmother rules. “And then we shall see to your rooms and your furniture and your clothes, too. Her Majesty will provide what is missing, and I shall speak to William Cecil myself about providing for you and setting you free. Don’t fear. You will be free, my dear, I swear it: you and your sister and her boys, too.”