Reluctant Queen: Tudor Historical Novel About Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of King Henry VIII (2 page)

Fresh tears filled Mary's eyes as she thought of the gentle countenance of her dead mother. Now, apart from Mary, there was only her brother, Henry and her elder sister, Margaret left out of the brood of babes her mother had borne. Her father and grandmother were also long dead.

The atmosphere at court had changed markedly after her brother Henry had replaced their father as king just before his eighteenth birthday. And although gaiety had not replaced piety – for Henry was devout – there had been so many balls and banquets that it had seemed Henry couldn't run through their father's carefully accumulated wealth quickly enough.

‘If you did marry him, my lady, it could not be for long.’ Practical as well as pious, Lady Guildford repeated Henry’s soothing words. ‘An old and sickly man and a young, lively bride is a sure recipe for an early funeral.’

Although she knew it was sinful, Mary couldn’t help but be cheered a little by this and she asked curiously, ‘Is King Louis very sickly, Mother?’

Lady Guildford nodded. ‘He’s been sickly these many years. They say he retires to his bed at six of the clock every evening. Even the king's cocks and hens tarry later than His Christian Majesty.’

‘My brother seems very keen on this marriage,’ Mary confided. ‘Surely, if he loved me, he could have found a more suitable match for me?’

‘Would that someone would arrange such a match for me,’ Jane commented. ‘You'd not find me weeping and thinking on the age of the groom.’

‘You'll be lucky to find anyone to marry you, madam,’ Lady Guildford told her tartly. ‘Your indiscretions with the Duc de Longueville are all over the court.’

Jane gave a careless shrug. ‘What care I? Mary will take me to the French court with her and find me a rich husband.’

‘There’s many a noble lady ahead of you in the queue for a rich husband,’ Lady Guildford waspishly reminded her. ‘Why should you think you would be permitted to go to the French court?’ Suspiciously, she demanded, ‘Unless you and de Longueville have been plotting while you indulged your lusts?’

‘I don't know what you can mean,’ Jane retorted.

‘Do you not? Can it be that you and de Longueville have decided that the best way for him to achieve his desire to return to France is by persuading the king to marry Mary into that country?’

Mary saw that her Mother Guildford’s shot had hit home. De Longueville had been one of the French nobles captured by her brother’s forces the previous year at Thérouanne .In his eagerness to return home had he persuaded her friend Jane to betray her? The possibility upset her and Mary remained silent while she listened to the continuing exchange.

‘A marriage alliance with France would be an ideal way for a prisoner such as de Longueville to return home,’ Lady Guildford continued thoughtfully. ‘Maybe taking his mistress with him into the bargain?’

Mary found her voice and demanded, ‘Jane, can this be true?’ Mary looked reproachfully at the girl as she saw confirmation on Jane’s face.

‘For all your plotting, madam, I doubt you’ll get your way. Do you think King Henry will want his little sister’s name sullied by association with yours?’ Lady Guildford upbraided the unrepentant Jane. ‘And from what I hear of King Louis, he's turned very pious in his old age—he wouldn't countenance any immorality at his court. Or loose women either.’

Jane’s expression turned venomous, before she flounced from the room. Lady Guildford snorted after the departed Jane before she took a hairbrush and, after bidding Mary to come and sit on a stool set before the glass, she began to smooth the brush through Mary's disordered hair. Waist-length, and golden, it was one of her greatest beauties.

‘You know, my lady,’ Mother Guildford remarked, ‘perhaps there is something in what that wanton says about this French marriage.’

‘Not you, too, Mother,’ Mary protested. ‘Tis enough that my brother should harry me, without you start—’

‘Hush, child. There are worse fates in this life than marriage to an old man.’ As Lady Guildford smoothed the brush through Mary’s hair, she told her, ‘King Louis divorced his first wife for her ugliness. He couldn't abide her near him. His second, Queen Anne, he was supposed to be fond of, though she was on the plain side too. Do you not think that a young beauty like yourself would fare better than either? He would be ready to fall at your feet if it would please you, I vow, having first decked you in costly rubies and diamonds.’

Despite her fears, Mary smiled to hear the devout Lady Guildford speak so. ‘It is not like you to talk in so worldly a manner, Mother.’

‘I can be as worldly as necessary when it is for the good of my little maid. I have taken the place of your mother and grandam, and must think of your best interests, as they would.’

‘And would it be in my best interests, think you, to marry a man so old, with creaky joints and gouty limbs? What of love? What of romance?’

‘Foolish notions for a princess, as I’m sure your brother told you. Both your mother and grandam married for duty, though I’m not saying love didn’t come. You should put such thoughts out of your head for I know none of high rank who were permitted to marry for love.’

Mary, about to remind her of the love-match that had formed the basis of her own Tudor dynasty, remained silent as she recollected how that love-match had ending. The marriage between Catherine, Henry V’s young French widow and her own paternal great grandsire, Owen Tudor, the Welsh gentleman of her guard, had been a secret one, ending in tragedy with Owen eventually clapped into prison and Catherine forced to retire to a convent where she had died at an early age. Such was not the future Mary wanted for herself and Charles Brandon. So, although she brooded, Mary said nothing when her Mother Guildford told her she would submit to her duty, as many before her had submitted and that her brother, for all his gay charm, would see to it that she did so.

Mary knew it was useless to speak to her Mother Guildford of love and passion. Like Henry, it was clear she thought the match an excellent one. But Lady Guildford was old. Piety was her passion. And neither she nor Henry would have to endure King Louis' shameful fumblings. Beneath her lowered lids, Mary's blue eyes darkened. But as Lady Guildford continued to pull the silver-backed brush through her silken hair, Mary's mind quietened. And as thoughts of the future were so  distasteful, she cast her mind backwards, to the carefree days of her childhood at Eltham which she and Henry had shared; their sister, Margaret, long married and in Scotland and Arthur, Prince of Wales, in his own establishment. Henry, as second son, had been destined for the church until Arthur's early death altered his prospects. Mary had always found it impossible to imagine her tall, adored, handsome brother a man of the cloth. He exuded too much of the love of life and its many pleasures for that. Henry had basked in her adoration and loved her the more for it, far more than he had ever loved their elder sister, Margaret, who, once betrothal to King James of Scotland, had delighted in queening it over them.

Mary wished she could remember more of her mother; but she had died shortly before Mary’s seventh birthday and all she had was an impression of soft arms and a gentle voice crooning lullabies. Her father, a thin, solemn man with a careworn face, she could remember more clearly. He had arranged the ‘great match’ for her with the young Prince of Castile. She could still remember the betrothal ceremony held at Greenwich with the great throng of nobles and clerics. Her betrothed, or more probably his grandsire, had sent her the brilliant jewel in the form of the letter ‘K’ for Karolus, made of diamonds and pearls, which Henry now wore in his hat. She had been proud of the jewel and had loved to show it off. It had an inscription on it, which, with childish notions of love, she had taken to her heart—'Maria had chosen the good part, which should not be taken from her.'

But it
had
been taken from her. The marriage had been due to be finalised this year, despite her lately wayward-leaning heart. Her father had paid her dowry of 50,000 crowns, but had cautiously demanded a pawn for the money. Mary could still remember his delight when his demand had been met and a magnificent cluster of diamonds worth twice the dowry sum had been sent. But then her father had died. And although he had left her her dowry, in the form of the diamond cluster, when he had become King Henry had taken a great fancy to the jewel and refused to part with it. Mary had been left with nothing, not even her Castilian Prince who had repudiated her after many months of wrangling and recriminations.

And now her brother proposed another, even grander, match for her. But Mary's taste for grand marriages had turned to ashes. She had only to look at those of Catherine and her sister, Margaret, to know they often brought misery and humiliation in their wake. Had not Catherine, Henry’s queen, suffered near-destitution for seven years after the death of her first husband, Arthur? Her misery only alleviated when Henry became king and married her. And owing to her faithless husband’s ‘fatal weakness for women’ Margaret’s marital humiliations had been without number. Such memories strengthened Mary’s resolve to marry Charles Brandon. She wanted only to live in peace with her beloved. She must find Charles and persuade him to declare himself. Surely Henry, who could be sentimental, would relent when he realised how great was the love of his sister and his bosom friend.

Before, caution had made Charles reluctant to claim Mary’s hand, but the time for caution was past. Unless he wanted to lose her to old Louis, he must speak out. She must find the words to persuade him to it. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

CHAPTER TWO

Mary looked back down the Dover Road at the snaking tail of the royal party, its last third obscured by the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves. She wished her fast-approaching future could be as easily obscured. But they were nearing the end of the leisurely seventy-mile journey through Gravesend, Rochester, Sittingbourne, Faversham and Canterbury, which had given her ample time to consider what awaited her at journey’s end. Soon now, they would reach Barham Down and Dover Castle.

In spite of the choking dust, the courtiers were gay. But why shouldn't they be? It was a beautiful day. Her brother, who rode a little way ahead, had got his way and was merry. And when her brother was in an ebullient mood so must be the rest of the court. Mary didn't share their gaiety. Even the glorious weather didn't lighten her mood. Although it was already October, all along the roadside the flowers still bloomed; everyone said they couldn't remember such a year for flowers – lovely, wild, deep pink thyme, purple, fragrant lavender, sweet, white, creeping chamomile – all nodded their salute in the slight breeze created by the passing of so many riders.

The peasants in the fields stopped their labours and gazed, open-mouthed at the bejeweled courtiers as they passed, the sun glinting off their finery. Even Mary had to admit –that none in the party could match the magnificence of her brother. At twenty-three, Henry, who stood head and shoulders above most of the courtiers, was broad-shouldered and handsome. His loud laughter rang out frequently. Mary saw him glance back to where she rode with her sister-in-law, Queen Catherine, saw his smile fade as he took in her woebegone looks. Mary knew she didn't look her best. The only member of the party who looked more wan was the five months’ pregnant Catherine.

Henry turned his horse around and waited for them to come up to him. ‘Marry Madam, you look as though you were riding to your funeral instead of to your husband,’ he told her as he twitched the reins and pulled his horse into step with theirs. ‘King Louis will not like your glum looks, I swear.’

‘Perhaps he will repudiate me, then brother, like the Prince of Castile,’ Mary replied pertly. ‘She glanced at Catherine for support. Catherine had been delighted when she had been betrothed to her nephew, the Prince of Castile and had not been pleased when the match had been replaced by the one with Louis. But Catherine was a dutiful wife and did not criticise her husband in public, so she said nothing and Mary turned back to Henry.

‘Anyway, Henry, did you not tell me that marriage is a serious voyage on which to embark? Surely, then, I must leave smiles and other inappropriate and frivolous things behind.’

Henry’s rude snort told her what he thought of her answer. He wheeled his horse about, gave him the spur, and galloped back to his friends, where loud laughter soon once again drifted back. She was glad to see him go, for although her words had held a soft defiance, in truth, she had had enough of arguments. Henry had her unwilling agreement to the French marriage and must needs be satisfied with that and not also seek to ease his conscience.

Mary felt Catherine watching her, sensed the sympathy and armed herself against it as she had armed herself against her brother's reproaches.

‘You won't find it so bad, Mary,’ Catherine tried to console her. She was speaking from the purely personal view, Mary knew; politically, she would never be reconciled to this French match. ‘I understand that Louis, though old as you say, is likely to be kind. Resign yourself to it, child and a lot of your unhappiness will be eased. I know 'tis hard at first to leave your home, but try not to fret too much. It'll only increase your sadness.’

Catherine's accent, her tiny body wearied by heat and pregnancy, was more strongly Spanish than ever. Shamed by her sister-in-law's stoicism, Mary reminded her, ‘But sister, you married young men. First my brother, Arthur, and then on his death, Henry; a handsome, manly man I have to say, though he be my brother.’

‘Youth and handsome looks are not everything, Mary. For all my husband's fine face and figure, we can't get us a son.’

Mary glanced at her sister-in-law and her mound of a stomach. Poor Queen Catherine had already suffered several previous pregnancies, all but one ending in either miscarriage or a stillborn child. The longed-for son had tragically died at seven weeks.

‘This time you'll bear a son that thrives, I trow,’ Mary tried to console Catherine, ‘a prince as strong and handsome as his father.’