Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII

RELUCTANT QUEEN

Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, The Little Sister of Infamous English King, Henry VIII

Geraldine Evans

SOLO BOOKS NORFOLK ENGLAND

Dedicated to those in my family with special birthdays in 2014

Andrew, Alex and Aimee. Best wishes to all of you.

FOREWORD

Although this is a work of fiction, the principal characters in the novel actually existed in the sixteenth-century though some are sparsely documented in historical records.

All those depicted were real people whose lives were closely interwoven with that of my ‘Reluctant Queen’, Mary Rose Tudor. I have endeavoured to adhere strictly to the dates of actual events.

Most conversations are of necessity invented, but a proportion of Mary Rose’s words are her own as noted by contemporaries.

RELUCTANT QUEEN: BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

‘No, I won't marry that feeble, pocky old man.’ Mary Tudor stormed at her brother. For all that twenty-three-year-old Henry was the elder and had for five years been King of England, Mary was determined not to submit to his entreaties.

‘Now, sweetheart.’ Henry bent from his great height and coaxed, ‘You know nothing about him. Louis, the French King may be no young stripling, but they say he's very rich. He'll be kind and loving, I doubt not. You will learn to be fond of him in time.’

‘I will not,’ Mary insisted. Louis was old and sickly; fifty-two to her eighteen. The thought of marrying such an old man appalled her. Henry was all sweet reasonableness now, but Mary knew that would soon change if she continued to defy him. Since becoming king, Henry had rapidly grown used to having his own way; he had not sacrificed himself on the marriage market. Instead, just a few months after their father’s death, he had speedily married Catherine of Aragon, their brother Arthur’s pretty young widow, ignoring their late father’s advice. It had been a marriage made, at least, in part, for love.

Mary didn’t see why she should not also marry where she would, as rumour had it their sister Margaret was determined to do. Now nearly twenty-four, Margaret had set her heart on marrying the young and handsome Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus. Just fourteen, Margaret had married their father’s choice of King James IV of Scotland eleven years earlier, carrying with her the forlorn hope that this marriage alliance would bring to an end the interminable wars between England and Scotland.

Forlorn hope it had proved. For Margaret had been widowed just the previous year when King James had been killed fighting Henry’s army at the battle of Flodden. Mary had no doubt that Henry’s present wish to use her for a similar, unnatural alliance, this time with France, would prove equally fruitless. Had he not been long allied with the Emperor Maximilian and King Ferdinand, the father of Queen Catherine? And although they had had a falling out after Henry had discovered Ferdinand had made a secret truce with the French, Henry would revert to the long-standing Hapsburg alliance in a second, rendering vain her sacrifice in marriage to old King Louis. His naming of Louis as ‘The French King’ rather than the ‘King of France’ was further proof of how unnatural such an alliance would be. Henry considered himself the rightful King of France. He longed for his own Crécy and Agincourt. Only the previous year, he had led his army against the French and had captured Thérouanne and Tournai.

Mary felt she had sacrificed enough for her brother’s ambitions. He had caused her to be spurned by young Prince Charles of Castile, the Emperor’s grandson and Catherine’s nephew, to whom her father had betrothed her six years earlier. Now he wanted to replace this match with one far more distasteful to her.

But between her brother’s alliance-swapping, Mary had fallen in love, just like her sister. Mary knew that if she wished to copy her sister’s example she must hold out against her brother’s demands. It wouldn’t be easy. But when she thought of the unheroic figure of Louis XII, the old French invalid whom everyone laughed at, her determination to defy Henry grew stronger.

‘You know where my heart lies, Henry,’ she reminded him now. ‘Where it's lain these many months, whilst you've been toying with Castile and its prince.’ Mary's gaze narrowed accusingly. ‘Where's the magnificent dowry jewel they sent our father, but perched in your hat, brother?’

Henry’s small mouth tightened, before he gathered in the reins of his temper and tried more sweet reason. ‘As you say, King Louis is old and sickly and has been for a good long while; any marriage couldn’t be for long. Think of the honours and riches that would be yours and you could be free in a year or less. What's a year when you're only eighteen?’

‘No, Henry, I'll not be persuaded.’ Mary smoothed her gown and tried some sweet reason of her own. ‘Surely I could be permitted to please myself, as you did.’

Henry’s lips were now a thin line. His skin flushed up and he shouted at her. ‘This is foolish talk. I'm a man, Mary and a king. You’re only a princess and princesses must dispose themselves where duty, not the heart, lies.’ Henry’s gaze turned longingly towards the window, for the day was fair. Mary, too, wanted to be out in the warm sunshine instead of cooped up indoors arguing with her brother. She hoped Henry’s love of pleasure and hunting would persuade him to give over trying to browbeat her. But this hope was a vain one. Even as she thought it, Henry dragged his gaze from the window and stared so consideringly at her that Mary realised he was about to try another tactic.

‘Do this for me, this once,’ Henry pleaded, ‘and when Louis dies, as he will, and that no doubt right soon, you may choose your own husband afterwards. On this you have my word.’

Mary stared broodingly at him. Much as she adored this handsome giant of a brother, she had learned to be wary of Henry's promises and this one had a too-ready air about it. But he had given his word on it, she mused. His offer weakened her resolve. Given Henry’s determination to have his own way in all things this might be her best chance to attain her desire and marry Charles Brandon. But the repugnant necessity of first marrying the sickly Louis invaded her mind and would not be ignored.

Mary’s thoughts turned this way and that while the silence lengthened. How could she bear to let the old French king fondle her, couple with her, when all her senses craved only the touch of Charles Brandon? Yet, it was true that Louis was sickly, liable to die ere long, as Henry claimed. Perhaps his poor health would allow him nothing more intimate than a formal bedding with her for the sake of convention.

If she could trust her brother's promise she might soon be able to go to Charles freely. Upset, confused, wishing to be left in peace to consider what she should do, Mary was startled from her reverie by Henry's angry voice.

‘What more do you want, Madam? Most girls do not need to be cajoled into marriage. They're told whom they are to marry and they marry them.’

Henry's handsome face was flushed with a right royal temper and Mary knew he had taken her silence for willfulness. Now, he towered threateningly over her and for the first time, Mary felt something of that fear that her brother’s rages so easily engendered in others.

‘I've been too indulgent towards you, Madam, too easy-going. You'll come to your duty, sister, or perchance, I might have to find a teacher, one not as kindly as I.’

Mary, with her own goodly share of royal temper, now forgot Henry's promise, his kingly majesty and her own wavering doubts and flung back defiantly at him, ‘Perhaps you should do that, brother, for I'll not wed him else.’ Turning on her heel, Mary fled from the chamber, her steps echoing up the passageway, mingling with the sobs she could no longer hold back.

Thomas Wolsey, the king's almoner, stepped from behind the curtained doorway. ‘That was not well done, Your Grace,’ he chided. ‘Your sister may be a sweet and loving girl, but she has a certain spirit. She should be gentled into agreement, for love of you and for the sake of the French alliance. Chivvying and harrying is not the way with her.’

Henry’s gaze narrowed and he stared hard at Wolsey. But Wolsey, aware that his young king valued honest counsel, was emboldened to continue. ‘With the help of Princess Mary’s friend, Mistress Popincourt, and our obliging French hostage, the Duc de Longueville, we've advanced the match this far; perhaps we should encourage them further. Mistress Popincourt is mighty friendly with your sister. Let her use her soft words at every opportunity. 'Tis my belief, Your Grace, that between her and de Longueville, they'll sway your sister to the match if we make it worth their while. De Longueville is kin to His Majesty, King Louis. He will, I'm sure, be doubly rewarded for providing the old King with such a lovely young bride. He will also get his freedom if he helps to persuade your sister to the match.’

‘What of Jane Popincourt?’ Henry asked. ‘What reward for her?’

Wolsey gave a sly smile. ‘From what I understand, Your Grace, she has had her reward from de Longueville - a tarnished reputation. They have conducted their liaison with little discretion. For her, the gleam of gold will be carrot enough, but no further payment should be necessary. She will, I doubt not, expect to accompany your sister to France, but that is something I would counsel against, Sire. We do not wish your sister's good name to be joined with such a wanton's at the French court.’

‘No, indeed. But Mary will expect the girl to accompany her. They've been friends since childhood. If we are to get her agreement to the match it would be wise not to upset her on this matter.’

Wolsey had already given due thought to the question of Jane Popincourt and as a natural diplomat, he had quickly found the obvious solution. ‘What need is there for us to upset her, Your Grace when others can be persuaded to do it for us? Our Ambassador, Worcester, has only to whisper in King Louis' ear about Popincourt's morals and His Majesty would, I'm sure, see to the rest. Princess Mary is young and innocent; he will want her to stay that way. He admires virtuous behaviour in a woman, so we may surmise that he dislikes the opposite. I think, Sire, we can safely leave King Louis to do our refusing for us.’

‘You may be right in what you say, Thomas. It would seem Mistress Popincourt has already led my sister astray, putting romantic notions of love in her head when there should be naught but duty, making her pert and disobedient. I like the idea of Louis banning Mistress Popincourt from accompanying Mary's train. He who makes the rules must also take the blame.’ Henry's laugh boomed out. But the laughter was quickly replaced by grim determination, as, with his little eyes narrowed, he vowed, ‘we will try the gentle option first to get Mary's agreement to the match, but if she is still hot against it, we will need to use more ungentle methods.’

Mary raced into her bed-chamber, long, golden hair flying behind her, and threw herself, sobbing, on her bed.

Lady Guildford, her governess, came up to her, tutting at such unseemly behaviour. Mary’s ‘Mother’ Guildford, in whose charge she had been placed since the death of her own mother, was all calm reason. ‘What's to do, my lady? What's to do? Get up, child, you'll crush your gown.’

‘Whatever is the matter, Mary?’

Through her sobs, Mary heard the concerned voice of her friend, Jane Popincourt, but she didn't answer her. Eventually Mary's sobs subsided and she sat up on the bed, her lovely face a mask of misery.

‘Now, madam, will you tell me what ails thee? Have you a pain? I'll send for the physicians.’ Her Mother Guildford bustled to the door, but Mary called her back.

‘Nay, mother. This is a pain which no physician can cure.’ She raised her tear-stained face. ‘My brother wishes to wed me to old King Louis of France.’

‘Surely he's not looking for another wife?’ Lady Guildford asked. ‘He's buried two already. Besides, 'tis well known he's too old and sickly to get himself any sons. They say he only clings to life to spite, Francis, his son-in-law.’

‘But what riches you would have, Mary,’ Jane cajoled. ‘Think what your trousseau would be for such a marriage. It would make the one for the Castilian match look like a pauper's rags. To be Queen of France—'tis a magnificent honour for any girl.’ Jane's soft French accent turned the words into a honeyed caress.

Mary was not to be comforted. Sunk in misery, she caught the look of dislike her Mother Guildford cast towards Jane. But Lady Guildford was a stern and pious woman and thought her worldly friend Jane a bad influence. But then she had been a great friend of Mary's equally pious paternal grandmother, Margaret Beaufort. Together, with her father's sanction, they had ruled the court, over-riding Mary's meek and gentle mother, Elizabeth, whose only duty was the getting of sons. She had done her duty in that as in everything else. Indeed, she had done her duty so well that she had died, worn out from child-bearing, but a short while after giving birth yet again. The baby, Catherine, had also died.