age of twelve, when Anne was just Marquess of Pembroke.
Not
the king’s mistress. She made very sure everyone knew that. She was just . . . there. I don’t remember a William Stafford in the king’s entourage, or in my mother’s family. She is a Stafford—daughter of the Duke of Buckingham—and taught me the lineage like catechism.
“He was a soldier,” Mistress Carey continues. “A yeoman. His people own land in Essex.”
“A commoner,” the queen spits. “A man of no birth, no gentry, no nothing! Is he at least to inherit?”
“No. He is the second son.”
“You are the sister of the queen, Mary! How could you do that? Were you pregnant before? Is that why? Was he the closest thing you could get to security? You could have come to me. You know that. I would have found you something—someone—better.”
A moment spins out between them, and it is as if the two sisters are the only people in the world. I can see their shared history in their eyes and in the way they stand near each other—close, but not touching.
“My child was conceived in wedlock. And I could do no better, Nan.” Mistress Stafford looks up and her face is glowing. “I love him. There is nothing better than that.”
It shows in her pregnancy, in her attitude, in her countenance. Like the sun breaking free of swift-moving clouds. I want to know what she knows. I want to stand in full sun.
“I shall have to send you away,” the queen whispers. Madge inhales sharply, but the queen doesn’t seem to remember we’re in the room. “It cannot be tolerated. You’re . . . you’re the sister of the queen. You can’t just go marry whomever you like. You can’t marry without permission. Have babies . . . And showing up here . . . I can’t beg the king to bring your husband into the Privy Chamber. It’s just not possible.”
“I know.”
“Where will you go?” The queen’s voice drops even further, and I struggle to hear without giving the appearance that I am. “Father will not have you. He will cut you off. Completely.”
Mistress Stafford hangs her head. “I know.”
“Then why did you do it, Mary?” The words sound lodged in the queen’s throat. “Why did you marry him?”
Mistress Stafford looks her sister—her queen—in the eye.
“Because I love him. And I would rather beg alms from door to door with him than give that up.”
The queen’s face hardens and the pleading look dissolves.
Mistress Stafford straightens her shoulders, tips her chin up, and I see her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. When she speaks again, it is with absolute certainty.
“I would rather have him than be the greatest queen in Christendom.”
Madge gasps, and the queen takes a quick step back. Clenches her hands into the pleats of her skirt.
“Then go,” she says. “And never come here again.”
“S HE BANISHED HER OWN SISTER ,” M ADGE TELLS M ARGARET AS we thread our way through the crowded galleries and courtyards on our way back to my lodgings. Hampton Court is teeming with courtiers who didn’t travel with us on the progress—all of them hoping to make themselves indispensable. I lose Madge as she slips between two fat barons before they close the gap. I go around.
Margaret never has to dodge. It is like a law of nature—water runs downhill, the sun rises in the east, and crowds make way for Margaret Douglas.
But Madge and Margaret don’t mind the press of bodies. They don’t shudder at the touch of strangers or feverishly count the heads between them and the next exit. All my fears slow me down, and my friends are already in my room by the time I catch up to them.
These days, my room is never empty. And I am no longer alone.
“She was so cold.” Madge continues her train of thought as though she was never interrupted. “Like blood doesn’t matter. Like rules are more important.” She sits on her favorite stool by the fire and takes her slippers off.
“Margaret says there are no rules
Not
the king’s mistress. She made very sure everyone knew that. She was just . . . there. I don’t remember a William Stafford in the king’s entourage, or in my mother’s family. She is a Stafford—daughter of the Duke of Buckingham—and taught me the lineage like catechism.
“He was a soldier,” Mistress Carey continues. “A yeoman. His people own land in Essex.”
“A commoner,” the queen spits. “A man of no birth, no gentry, no nothing! Is he at least to inherit?”
“No. He is the second son.”
“You are the sister of the queen, Mary! How could you do that? Were you pregnant before? Is that why? Was he the closest thing you could get to security? You could have come to me. You know that. I would have found you something—someone—better.”
A moment spins out between them, and it is as if the two sisters are the only people in the world. I can see their shared history in their eyes and in the way they stand near each other—close, but not touching.
“My child was conceived in wedlock. And I could do no better, Nan.” Mistress Stafford looks up and her face is glowing. “I love him. There is nothing better than that.”
It shows in her pregnancy, in her attitude, in her countenance. Like the sun breaking free of swift-moving clouds. I want to know what she knows. I want to stand in full sun.
“I shall have to send you away,” the queen whispers. Madge inhales sharply, but the queen doesn’t seem to remember we’re in the room. “It cannot be tolerated. You’re . . . you’re the sister of the queen. You can’t just go marry whomever you like. You can’t marry without permission. Have babies . . . And showing up here . . . I can’t beg the king to bring your husband into the Privy Chamber. It’s just not possible.”
“I know.”
“Where will you go?” The queen’s voice drops even further, and I struggle to hear without giving the appearance that I am. “Father will not have you. He will cut you off. Completely.”
Mistress Stafford hangs her head. “I know.”
“Then why did you do it, Mary?” The words sound lodged in the queen’s throat. “Why did you marry him?”
Mistress Stafford looks her sister—her queen—in the eye.
“Because I love him. And I would rather beg alms from door to door with him than give that up.”
The queen’s face hardens and the pleading look dissolves.
Mistress Stafford straightens her shoulders, tips her chin up, and I see her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. When she speaks again, it is with absolute certainty.
“I would rather have him than be the greatest queen in Christendom.”
Madge gasps, and the queen takes a quick step back. Clenches her hands into the pleats of her skirt.
“Then go,” she says. “And never come here again.”
“S HE BANISHED HER OWN SISTER ,” M ADGE TELLS M ARGARET AS we thread our way through the crowded galleries and courtyards on our way back to my lodgings. Hampton Court is teeming with courtiers who didn’t travel with us on the progress—all of them hoping to make themselves indispensable. I lose Madge as she slips between two fat barons before they close the gap. I go around.
Margaret never has to dodge. It is like a law of nature—water runs downhill, the sun rises in the east, and crowds make way for Margaret Douglas.
But Madge and Margaret don’t mind the press of bodies. They don’t shudder at the touch of strangers or feverishly count the heads between them and the next exit. All my fears slow me down, and my friends are already in my room by the time I catch up to them.
These days, my room is never empty. And I am no longer alone.
“She was so cold.” Madge continues her train of thought as though she was never interrupted. “Like blood doesn’t matter. Like rules are more important.” She sits on her favorite stool by the fire and takes her slippers off.
“Margaret says there are no rules
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