The Heir

By Angeline Hawkes-Craig

1554, London, England, The Chambers of "Bloody" Mary I

Her back was to the heavy wood door as she sat facing the massive fireplace, fire blazing, her brows knit together tightly in deep vexation.

Jane led a brown hooded figure through the dimly lit, shadowy, room to the woman before the raging fire. The hooded figure sat down on an ornately embroidered stool beside the grand lady who did not speak, but whose eyes traveled from the drooping hood to the tattered edge of the figure's filthy garment. The dirty being lifted her ragged hood and let it fall back, revealing her ugly face.

Mary resisted the urge to lift her linen handkerchief to her nose. The creature before her smelled foul; but Mary called on the strength of her station and looked the huddled heap of rags in the eyes with cold directness.

"Jane has traversed many miles on my part to learn of thee and thy," Mary paused, "talents." She raised her eyebrows.

The toothless, rag-tag hag before her nodded in earnest. "If it is within my powers, Thy Majesty, than I am thine humble servant."

Mary smiled and waved Jane closer. Jane handed the poor woman a cup of steaming cider in a brown piece of crockery. Disappearing into the shadows, Jane retreated and then returned with a heavy woolen shawl, which she kindly draped over the stinking old woman's frail and shivering boney shoulders. The woman nestled deeper into the shawl, gingerly stroking the softness and smiling gratefully.

"Thank ye, mum." She said plainly to both Jane and Mary.

Mary smiled. "Thou looked a bit cold."

The matted, gray head of the woman bobbed up and down as she nodded while sipping her cider.

"Doest thou know why thou hast been brought here?" Mary said after a few moments of silence.

The aged hag nodded yes.

Mary, sat back, startled. "How doest thou know such a thing?"

"I have the sight. I knew thee would fetch me soon." The woman said between sips.

"And thou knowest what I am going to ask?" Mary said softly.

"Aye. That I do. Thou wisheth for a babe." The rag-clad woman smiled.

"Yes. A babe. I don't even care if it be boy or girl. Just alive!" Mary sighed.

"Shh," the old woman said in a raspy whisper, "Be careful what thou wisheth for, My Queen."

"Can thou do this thing? Can thee make me conceive?" Mary was anxious and frightened all at the same time.

"Aye. That I can." The old witch-woman said, then laughing added, "For a price."

Mary had expected this and waved to Jane once again. Jane brought forth a lavishly wrought large wood casket full of gold coins and set it on the velvet-covered table before the old crone.

The hag closed the heavy lid and chuckled softly.

"It's not gold me wants." She put her cup down near the gold-filled box, and placed her hands in her lap.

"Not gold?" Mary hadn't anticipated this turn of events. "What then?"

The crone's eyes seemed to roll into her wrinkled head, her toothless mouth grew slack, and she began to speak as if in a trance.

"For centuries, my kind has been brutalized. Hunted down like dogs by dogs, hunted like vermin and killed the same way. Hanging, disemboweling, burning, drowning, pressing, no matter... Death all the same."

Mary was silent.

"My kind have been tortured, maimed, and killed for our part in helping others, or for not helping others, or in some cases for simply being." The hag had tears rolling down her grimy cheeks. "Most persecute us in the name of thy God. Justify our deaths as the cleansing of the damned. Sometimes my kind are killed by the very ones who sought our counsel in the first place."

Mary was growing weary of this rant. "What is thy price?" She asked firmly.

"Blood." The woman's eyes seemed to grow suddenly alert and fixed on Mary now. "I want the believers of thy God to feel the fear of being hunted down by a mob and tied to bundles of wood while the flames consume their flesh! I want them to feel the ropes bite into their skin and the stench of their own mortality burning in their nostrils! For this blood, I will grant thy wish."

Mary was aghast. "How? How, I, I, I mean, How do I turn over my fellow brethren in the way thou hast asked?" Mary stammered.

"Thy hows are of no concern of mine. Thou will find a way. It must be blood." The woman smiled again, "And much of it, for thou asketh a hard thing." The hag looked into Mary's face and pointed a long, gnarled finger at her.

"Why is it so hard for thee with thy many skills and potions?" Mary asked.

"Thou art an old cow! Thou shouldst be a grandmother!" The crone cackled.

"I am 38! Many women bear babies at my age!" Mary almost shouted not liking to be reminded of her advancing maternal age.

"Those women are finishing their families, not beginning them! It is a dangerous thing that thou asketh of me, at thy age. Is this something thou art sure about?" The hag frowned and fidgeted a bit on the stool.

"I am the Queen of England! It is my duty to bear an heir! The throne must not pass to my sister! She is the daughter of a whore and a witch!" Mary stormed and began to rise.

"And, yet, Thy Majesty requests the help of a witch now?" The hag laughed softly and defiantly.

Mary was taken aback and sat down firmly on the massive wood and gilt chair she was seated in, upbraided as one would a mere child.

"I am desperate for a child. Age no longer creeps upon me, now it races with the ferocity of a foxhunt. I am old. Soon, my barren womb will be closed forever." Mary choked back a sob and clutched her ring-laden hand to her pearl encrusted bosom.

The witch held out her dirty, twisted hand to Mary. Mary clasped it tightly, wanting to believe that this shriveled, toothless crone could give her a baby.

"I mean what I have said, good woman." Mary began. "I care not if it be girl or boy. All that I ask of thee is that the babe be born alive."

"And the blood I seek?" The woman asked.

"It is thine." Mary said determined to have her wishes granted no matter the price.

"Then it shall be. Thou shall have no other midwife, but myself." The old crone mandated.

"It shall be done." Mary stated.

"Starting on the morrow, thou will burn thy so called Christians, and with their deaths seal our pact." The old hag got up. "I will need lodgings."

Mary nodded. "Jane, see that our good woman is delivered to adequate rooms, provided with new attire, and that a hot meal is served her at her leisure." Mary waved her hand.

Jane curtseyed and led the bedraggled woman, tagging along behind her, from the dark and freezing room.

May sat in the hazy room, candles flickering, flames licking the soot besodden stone of the fireplace. Blood. Death. What vile pact with the devil had she just signed?

She began to rack her brain to determine how she would go about killing so many people. What guise would she use? What ruse would satisfy her Lords? She began to formulate twisted ideas. Slowly she began to write down new laws and mandates concerning Catholicism and the heresy of Protestantism. Mass would be required. The holy sacrament--required. Renouncing of any faith not Catholic would be required. Heresy would be punishable by death. Mary knew she could count on the steadfast faith of many stubborn Englishmen to lead them to their deaths. The list of laws grew. Mary smiled to herself. Into the wee hours of the morning she penned her new treaties. Broken quills and crumpled parchment littered the floor around her writing table, as she struggled to reach perfection in her wording of the laws. She wanted nothing to be left to guesswork. Everything must be plainly set out so that perfect understanding was possible. She had found her Christians. Heretics to her. Christians to the witch who demanded such a price. She could solve England's doctrine problems, firmly re-establish Catholicism, and obtain her cherished baby all in one full swoop.

Weary, she passed Jane in the tapestry hung hall, handed her the rolled up documents that were bound with her wax seal, with instructions for their urgent delivery, and then retired exhausted to her chamber. She waved her chamber women away, and fell onto the massive velvet draped bed, fully clothed, asleep before she felt the lace trimmed pillow beneath her face.

The burnings began.

Three here. Six there. One. Two. Three. It didn't matter how many or who they were: men, women, children. In all nearly 300 were burned to fulfill Mary's end of the bargain.

She had conceived.

Mary called the hag to her room. "I have conceived!"

The witch smiled with her black, rotting grin. "Aye, My Queen. Thou art three months gone now." Mary was enraptured.

"A son!" She cried, clapping her stubby jewel bedecked hands together joyfully.

"Fate is to decide that matter. Methinks, I recall that thou said thine only request was for a live babe." The witch smiled wickedly.

"I forget myself, good woman! Of course, thou art correct! An heir! Boy or girl, tis no matter to me. I am to be a mother!" Mary giggled with girlish abandon.

Mary notified Prince Phillip of Spain, her husband. He was overjoyed, yet remained cautiously aloof. At Mary's age, he wasn't sure of her abilities to carry a baby to term. Even if she did, he wasn't guaranteed she or the babe would survive the ordeal of delivery.

She notified her kingdom and prepared lavish plans for lace and silk bedecked nurseries, impressive formal ceremonies that involved the presence of many foreign dignitaries, and her own plush lying in accommodations. She would spare no expense for the heir to all of the kingdom of England and of Spain!

The months passed. Mary's time grew near. She retired to her chamber, lavishly prepared for her womanly duty and looming hardship. Seated on sumptuous cushions, she told Jane to bar the door after instructing others that the Queen had a migraine and did not wish to be disturbed. The only ones present were her dear Jane and the witch, the only midwife she was to have.

The torturous pains lasted for hours. With each one, Mary bit hard on the leather strap in her mouth and muffled her screams of agony in the cushions. No one must know she was giving birth until she was assured the baby was alive. She heaved with all of the remaining strength in her pain-racked body. Suddenly, she felt a feeling of relief wash over her as she passed a great fleshy lump. She breathed deep. All was quiet.

"What's wrong? Why isn't it crying? Jane? Jane?" Mary reached for Jane, grasping the fabric of Jane's bodice, pulling Jane to her. Jane stared fixedly at the babe in the witch's arms.

"Is it alive?" Mary tried to sit up to view the child, but kept sinking back into the depths of the soft pillows.

The witch glowed with joy.

"Behold thine heir! Alive!" The crone held up a hideously deformed mound of pink flesh that had neither discernable limbs nor features. It looked much like a skin-covered mound of blubber, wrinkled and lumpy with a little pink mouth in the center. It had no real shape to it. It seemed to change like shifting water before their eyes without a solid form or mass. It wiggled and jiggled and flopped about horridly. Mary's eyes searched the creature for a face, there were no eyes, no ears; only two slimy slits formed a nose-like structure above the pink mouth, which now revealed jagged, sharp fang -like teeth under its pink fleshy lips.

"WHAT is it??" Mary cried out in absolute horror. "It's a MONSTER!"

Jane stifled a sudden scream by cramming most of her own fist into her mouth. "Forgive me." She finally uttered and tried to look away from the monstrosity, but curiosity drew her morbidly to stare.

"My god! My god! Take it away! It can't be seen! What is it? What have I made?" Mary gasped repeatedly and fell back onto the cushions exhausted.

The witch laughed. "Thy child, My Queen. The heir to thy throne! Neither girl, nor boy, but alive! I fulfilled my part of the bargain. Thine evil has created this being. It is yours." The witch began to lay the bundle in the gilded cradle.

"NO! No! My God! Take it away!" Mary grabbed sobbing at Jane.

Jane did not know what to do. "My Queen? What am I to do?" She whispered in pure terror.

"Burn it! Burn the beast!" Mary struggled to her feet, and with remarkable strength for a woman who had just given birth, knocked the old hag to the floor, grabbed the hideous creature and threw it into the fire. Its pathetic shrieks could barely be heard. Mary leaned against a bench, holding on firmly lest she collapse onto the floor. She watched as the fire consumed the blankets that wrapped the devil's spawn, and the pink mound of shapeless flesh contained within.

"Thou art accursed!" The witch shrieked.

Jane looked frantic. She called the guards, whispered that the Queen was ill and that the midwife had gone mad. They carried the witch out the door ranting and shrieking curses upon Mary's head. Screeching that Mary's barren womb would take her very life as compensation for the life she gave and then destroyed.

Mary sobbed on the floor, as Jane rebarred the door. The fire would destroy all evidence of the wickedness that had just unfolded.

"I killed my own child." Mary whispered to Jane.

"Twas a beast, My Queen, not a child." Jane soothed Mary's brow with a wet cloth.

"Twas the devil's spawn," Mary sobbed, "Created with the blood of Christians!"

"Thou did it for England, My Queen!" Jane hushed her distraught friend and ruler.

"Aye, Jane. England. I did it for England." Mary cried uncontrollably as she let her brain devise a new scheme.

"We say the pregnancy was false." Mary stated simply. "There was no baby."

"Tis the truth, My Queen. It was false. Very false indeed. And there was no baby. For the beast thy burned with hell fire was a monster and no babe." Jane choked on the words.

Mary buried her face in her hands as Jane hurried to rid the room of all evidence of a birth. Anything bloodied was burned. Quickly she helped Mary change her gown, tossing the soiled one onto the fire. The flames rose higher.

A knock sounded at the door. Jane scurried to it, to answer. It was a messenger from the Tower asking for instructions concerning the old hag.

Mary looked at the messenger and said shortly. "Burn her."

The messenger clicked his heels, backed away and vanished down the hall.

Mary struggled to the cushions that Jane had rearranged, laid back and fell asleep.

The next morning, Mary could see from her window, the preparations for the execution site being made. Also scheduled, later that day, was the hanging of another heretic. The witch was to be burned near the scaffold. It had been easier to prepare the sites close together for the benefit of the watching crowds and the guards in charge of the condemned. A small crowd had gathered, but it seemed as though the general population had lost its thirst for blood as of late. Too many months of burnings had worn thin the faith in the Queen.

They brought out the crone. Kicking and ripping at the clothes of her captors, she heaped curses upon her jailers, and spat upon those unfortunate enough to get close enough to her. She continued to struggle and swing at the guards as they hauled her to the pile of wood and briar, and tied her securely to the stake.

The fire was lit.

It crackled and danced around the witch in an orange, blazing circle. The wind was brisk. Mary watched cautiously from the side of her window, obscured from view by the heavy velvet drapes, more afraid to be seen by the witch than see the witch die. The fire should be burning faster.

The guards tossed more wood onto the fire. Still it only circled the witch, refusing to engulf her or even tickle her ankles a bit. Mary was afraid and perplexed. Jane watched in horrified silence.

The guards gave up after about an hour and the witch stood there cackling at their failed attempts. Finally, a large, burly guard came over and hacked the stake from the ground with a massive axe and he and five other men, picked up the stake, carefully avoiding the shrinking fire, and half-carried, half-dragged the shrieking witch, still tied to the stake, up the scaffold steps, put the noose around her screeching neck, and shoved her off, stake and all.

Of course, it did the job.

The crowd was silent. Never before had such a thing been witnessed.

Mary was frightened. The fires hadn't consumed the witch because she had been true to her end of the bargain. Mary had rewarded the witch's work with death.

Jane whispered, "I have heard told that the fires of hell will not burn a true witch."

Mary murmured something incoherent.

Jane continued, "But, I've never heard tell of a noose not doing the job properly."

Mary smiled a bit at this warped humor and held Jane's thin, pale hand.

"I was sorely tricked, Jane." Mary said softly, laying her head on Jane's shoulder.

"Aye. Tricked. Beguiled. Deceived in the cruelest of all ways. There will be more babes. Thou shall see." Jane patted Mary's hand warmly.

Mary felt the tears roll down her face, and she heaved a great sigh and pulled the velvet drapes closed with a yank.