by Tony Riches
MARY
Tudor Princess
Tony Riches
Contents
Also by Tony Riches
About the Author
1. Midsummer’s Day 1509
2. February 1510
3. New Year’s Day 1511
4. Summer 1512
5. Autumn 1513
6. Spring 1514
7. Autumn 1514
8. October 1514
9. November 1514
10. January 1515
11. February 1515
12. March 1515
13. May 1515
14. February 1516
15. Spring 1517
16. March 1518
17. April 1519
18. May 1520
19. March 1522
20. March 1523
21. March 1525
22. April 1527
23. May 1530
24. February 1532
25. May 1533
Author’s Note
BRANDON - Tudor Knight
OWEN - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy
JASPER - Book Two of the Tudor Trilogy
HENRY - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy
The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham
Also by Tony Riches
BRANDON - TUDOR KNIGHT
OWEN – BOOK ONE OF THE TUDOR TRILOGY
JASPER – BOOK TWO OF THE TUDOR TRILOGY
HENRY – BOOK THREE OF THE TUDOR TRILOGY
THE SECRET DIARY OF ELEANOR COBHAM
WARWICK: THE MAN BEHIND THE WARS OF THE ROSES
QUEEN SACRIFICE
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold or otherwise circulated without the consent of the publisher.
Copyright © Tony Riches 2018
Published by Preseli Press
ISBN-13: 978-1979919289
ISBN-10: 1979919283
BISAC: Fiction / Historical
Cover Photography by Lisa Lucas LRPS
www.lisalucasphotography.com
About the Author
Tony Riches is a full-time writer and lives with his wife in Pembrokeshire, West Wales, UK. A specialist in the history of the early Tudors, Tony is best known for his Tudor Trilogy. His other international best-sellers include Warwick ~ The Man Behind the Wars of the Roses and The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham.
For more information visit Tony’s author website:
www.tonyriches.com and his blog at www.tonyriches.co.uk. He can also be found at Tony Riches Author on Facebook and Twitter: @tonyriches.
For my grandson
Alfie
La volenté de Dieu me suffit
(The will of God is sufficient for me)
Mary Tudor
Born: 18 March 1496
Sheen Palace, England
1
Midsummer’s Day 1509
She was the daughter of a king, a Tudor princess, yet she sensed her life was about to change forever. Early sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Westminster Abbey as Mary counted twenty-eight bishops leading the coronation procession.
A hint of woodsmoke still drifted in the London air from the bonfires of Midsummer’s Eve, and cheering crowds lined every street. She hoped the banquets and jousting would lift the sadness deep in her heart. A new era was beginning.
‘Henry and Catherine make quite a couple, Mary. Your father, may the Lord rest his soul, would have been proud to see this day.’
She turned her head to acknowledge her grandmother. Lady Margaret Beaufort, still wearing mourning dress, clutched a small leather-bound prayer book. Although she’d barely recovered from illness her eyes burned with pride.
Mary glanced towards the Lady Chapel at the far end of the abbey, her father’s private chantry, now his permanent resting place. It seemed unreal to think her beloved parents now lay there together in a cold stone crypt beneath their grand unfinished tomb.
‘This was his wish, although...’ She spoke in a hushed tone, as if thinking aloud, painful memories of her father’s last days choking her words. ‘My brother is poorly prepared to be our new king.’
‘He is young – yet he is a Tudor.’ Her grandmother nodded in understanding. ‘We must pray for your brother,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘as I fear some adversity will follow.’
Mary frowned at her grandmother’s grim prediction. She recalled the avaricious glint in Henry’s eye as he took Catherine’s hand, two weeks before, at the Church of the Observant Friars in Greenwich. He might be almost eighteen, over six feet tall and engagingly handsome, but he still had the covetous ways of the small boy she remembered.
Despite Henry being five years older than her, they’d been close as children in the rambling nursery at Eltham Palace. He’d always trusted her with his secrets. Before his wedding, after too much wine, he’d admitted doubting Catherine’s story about her unconsummated marriage. It suited Henry to believe her, because if the marriage had been consummated he never would have secured the papal dispensation he needed in order to to marry her.
‘You must take her at her word, dearest brother,’ Mary had reassured him, ‘for to lie about such a thing would be a mortal sin.’
In truth, Catherine hinted to her of a great secret, one she’d not dared to confess to her priest. She’d risked God’s saving grace to do her duty and become Henry’s queen. Mary understood her dilemma and promised to pray for her soul.
Now Catherine wore a crimson royal robe over a gown of the finest white satin. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders to her waist, a sign of her declared purity. The crowds cheered for her, proving those long years in obscurity worthwhile after all. She’d never looked more beautiful, more self-assured, more ready to be crowned Queen of England.
Henry had been busy spending his father’s fortune on his magnificent royal robe of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine over cloth of gold. He glittered with sparkling diamonds and rubies like over-ripe cherries. Mary noted the Tudor colours extravagantly represented in green emeralds and gleaming white pearls.
With a jolt, she realised the contents of her father’s precious jewel house were now Henry’s by right, to do with as he pleased. She would do well to remember that the same applied to everything now, and everyone – including her.
They watched in reverent silence as the dour Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, recited a Latin prayer and anointed Henry and Catherine with sacred holy oil. Mary smiled as he finally placed the coronation ring on Catherine’s finger.
At last, after eight years of waiting, her friend took her place on the throne next to Henry, a gold coronet on her head, the royal sceptre in her right hand and the queen consort’s rod of ivory in her left.
Mary joined the loud chorus of ‘Yea, Yea!’ when the congregation were asked if they would take this most noble prince as their king and obey him. The sound echoed from the high-vaulted roof of Westminster Abbey. She heard the peal of all the bells in London as crowds waiting outside in the bright Westminster sunshine called out ‘Vivat Rex!’ and applauded their new king, Henry VIII.
After the long ceremony Mary sat with her grandmother under a golden canopy of state at the coronation banquet in Westminster Hall. Lady Margaret had offered to act as regent for the first months of Henry’s reign. Not one voice challenged her suggestion, a mark of her power and influence.
Henry and Catherine sat on high-backed gilded thrones before the highest nobles and clerics in the la
nd. The men wore scarlet cloaks and the ladies displayed their finest jewels, saved for such special occasions. Mary wore a gold necklace of bright diamonds and pearls, another of her father’s treasures, now a gift to her from Henry.
The sense of history being made hung heavy in the warm summer air. Mary swatted at one of the buzzing black flies and frowned as it evaded her. She looked up as it flew high over the guests to join others, circling like carrion crows waiting for the sweet-tasting delicacies to be served.
She regretted the tight lacing of her new damask gown of deepest blue, another gift from Henry. The edges were trimmed with gold lace, despite her grandmother’s sharp retort that it was too soon to end her mourning, even to celebrate a coronation. Her long golden hair, plaited and looped under her ornate French cowl, prickled in the heat and she fanned her face with her hand.
Lady Margaret scanned the crowded tables with a critical eye. ‘Your brother asked me to select his advisors. I pray he will take heed of their experience and wisdom.’
Mary glanced across at Henry, who was enjoying being the centre of attention. ‘It’s good to see so many of father’s loyal supporters, Grandmother. They will know how to best serve his son.’
Although sure her grandmother had chosen well she guessed many would soon be replaced. Henry couldn’t be more different from her father and would appoint his own men, who shared his youthful tastes.
Startled by the sudden blast of a fanfare announcing the first course of the banquet, she turned to see the Duke of Buckingham riding a black charger with richly embroidered trappings. Behind him rode the Lord Steward on a horse caparisoned with cloth of gold, hooves clattering on the flagstoned floor.
They led a procession of servants in Tudor green-and-white livery carrying heavy gilded platters bearing delicacies for the feast. The servants were all young nobles, proud to represent their families in the service of the new king. The leading server, face impassive as his duty demanded, seemed to struggle with the weight of a whole swan. Others carried silver trays of game birds, spiced larks and cockatrices, made from the front half of cockerels grafted on to the back halves of piglets.
A handsome young servant filled Mary’s golden cup with rich red wine. She smiled as she raised her cup in the air and caught her brother’s eye.
‘To our new king. May God grant you a long and happy reign!’ Her clear young voice carried well, turning heads despite the chattering guests.
Henry beamed at her. ‘Thank you, my dearest sister.’ His voice echoed across the hall and he raised his own goblet. ‘To the future!’ He drank deep and gestured for the waiting musicians to strike up a lively tune. The music lifted Mary’s spirits and she even saw their grandmother manage a smile. The new era had begun.
Bright summer sunshine blessed the celebratory tourney the following day. Mary perched high on the specially constructed grandstand, close to Henry, in her grandmother’s place. Lady Margaret was indisposed but Mary doubted she would have enjoyed the spectacle, which was more to her brother’s taste.
The staccato beat of a drum accompanied the reedy sound of a crumhorn playing a popular tune. Shouts of vendors selling food and ale mixed with the shrieks of excited children. The raucous crowd thronging the barriers around the temporary arena cheered and applauded as the competing knights rode into view to present themselves before their new king.
Mary’s heart quickened as she spotted the object of her own great secret. She shielded her eyes against the sun glinting off his burnished gilt armour as Charles Brandon trotted towards Henry and Catherine on his powerful black destrier. He didn’t glance in her direction as he shared some joke with Henry and complimented Queen Catherine.
Then, with typical bravado, he called out to her. ‘Princess Mary, do you have a favour for the king’s champion?’ His deep, confident voice demanded an answer.
She sensed the eyes of the crowd on her and glanced at her brother. Seeing his broad grin, she pulled a blue silk ribbon from a pocket in her gown and handed it to her servant. Charles tied the ribbon to his harness with exaggerated care. The bond between them was no secret but she prayed no one knew the truth. Brandon was a married man, twice her age, yet she’d fallen deeply in love with him – a dangerous obsession.
She watched as the rest of the competing knights were presented, all on fine horses and heavily armed. Each had one side of their armour-skirts and horse-trappings made of white velvet embroidered with a pattern of gold roses, the other of green velvet and satin embroidered with gold pomegranates, the emblem of Queen Catherine of Aragon.
Behind them, blowing sharp blasts on long hunting horns, came Henry’s foresters and gamekeepers in green cloth, with caps and hose to match. With practised ease, they ushered a herd of nervous fallow deer to be pursued by hungry greyhounds.
Henry called out to urge the dogs on and applauded as the first of the deer was dragged to the ground, a greyhound at its throat. Mary put her hand to her mouth in shock at the sight of such savagery.
Bleating does darted in panic around the fenced arena, pursued by the pack of murderous hounds. In no time the bloodied bodies of young deer were heaped before the king like gory sacrificial offerings, their sightless eyes seeming to stare at Mary in silent accusation.
Next came archery contests, skill at arms and swordplay, with purses of gold coins presented by Queen Catherine to the winners. There was a moment of excitement when a stray arrow struck a man in the watching crowd, but Mary was growing bored when at last the main event of the tourney was announced.
Knights on horseback would challenge each other with heavy lances. Charles Brandon was one of the last to ride and an expectant hush fell over the watching crowd. The Master of the Joust made a great play of explaining that a new challenger, a young knight of Anjou, would take on the king’s chosen champion.
Mary watched as Brandon’s squire handed him his lance and he lowered the visor of his gold-plumed helmet. She remembered seeing knights wounded at her father’s jousting tournaments and said a prayer for Charles. Then the order was given and the heavy horses charged towards each other, hooves pounding the hardened earth.
She shouted a warning as the challenger’s lance shattered against Brandon’s breastplate, sharp splinters flying through the air. Time froze as the hushed crowd watched the champion fight to remain in his saddle, then punch a gauntleted fist in the air to a rousing cheer from his supporters.
Mary breathed again and smiled at his arrogance. He was not beaten yet. She watched as he prepared for the next pass, couching his lance as his squire held back the powerful horse. The Master of the Joust barked a shout and Mary leapt to her feet for a better view as hooves thundered a second time.
The riders clashed and now Brandon’s lance struck the Anjou knight with such force he was lifted from his saddle and fell to the ground with a sickening crunch. Again, Mary stood, this time out of concern for the young challenger. As she watched he managed to raise a hand yet he seemed unable to stand and was soon carried off by his followers.
Charles Brandon showed no concern for the fate of his opponent. He raised his visor and rode back to stand in front of Henry, lowering what remained of his broken lance in salute. Mary’s eyes went to her blue ribbon, fluttering in the light summer breeze. He allowed her only the briefest glance yet she saw the flash of a smile.
Brandon’s father had been her own father’s standard-bearer at the Battle of Bosworth, one of the few men killed by King Richard III. Her father took Charles into his own household, so Mary had known him all her life. He’d become like a brother to Henry, although Mary thought him a bad influence with his drinking and daredevil pranks.
Not for the first time her mind whirled with endless reasons to forget her feelings for Brandon. He’d fathered a child with a young courtier named Anne Browne, daughter of Sir Anthony Browne, the Governor of Calais. Then Brandon caused raised eyebrows at court by marrying Anne’s wealthy widowed aunt. Once he had all her lands he’d divorced her to marry Anne and
care for their infant daughter.
Mary knew it wouldn’t be long before she must keep a promise made by her father. She was destined to marry Prince Charles of Ghent, grandson of both King Ferdinand and Emperor Maximilian, son of Queen Catherine’s elder sister Joan. Four years younger than her, he would be nine or ten years old now, although she couldn’t recall when she’d last heard from him.
She had been betrothed before Christmas the previous year at Richmond Palace. The Lord of Bergues, chosen to stand in for young Charles at the ceremony, presented her with a velvet box containing a present from Emperor Maximilian, a gold fleur-de-lis glittering with fine diamonds, valued at fifty thousand crowns. Only the previous week Mary was annoyed to see Henry wearing her wedding present as a decoration in his hat.
Her betrothal didn’t stop her dreaming though. Brandon’s roving eye noted her admiration – and he’d encouraged her attention with his flirtatious words. Once he’d helped her down from her palfrey, as if she weighed nothing, and held her close for a moment longer than necessary.
