Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  She’d been born into great privilege, had the benefit of the best education, was graced by beauty and intelligence beyond her years, yet could never have the one thing she longed for.

  * * *

  Mary cursed as the sharp needle pierced her finger. She examined the spot of bright blood and called for a servant to bring a linen cloth. The hours of painstaking embroidery would not be ruined by a moment’s carelessness.

  She looked across to where Jane Popincourt sat working on a tapestry. Originally from France, twenty-six-year-old Jane had been retained by Mary’s father as her French tutor and had once served at the court of the French king, Louis. She’d been appointed a maid of honour to Queen Catherine before becoming one of Mary’s most trusted ladies-in-waiting.

  ‘Life seems so different, Jane, since my brother became king.’

  Jane smiled. ‘I wonder what your father would have said about what happened on Henry’s eighteenth birthday!’

  Mary laughed in agreement. She’d been made to defend a wooden castle with her ladies-in-waiting while Henry besieged it with his companions. The masque degenerated into a drunken revelry, with Mary and her ladies ordered to dance until they were exhausted.

  ‘My father encouraged Henry’s love of disguisings, but now we never know what to expect.’ Mary lowered her voice so the servants couldn’t hear. ‘Last night they all dressed as vagabonds and were nearly arrested by the royal guards.’

  A liveried servant carrying a folded note on a silver tray interrupted Jane’s reply. He bowed and offered the note to Mary. She took the note with a sense of foreboding and broke the red wax seal to unfold it. She studied the contents with a frown and looked up at Jane.

  ‘It’s from Bishop John Fisher. My grandmother is gravely ill and he asks me to come at once.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  Mary hesitated. ‘It’s getting late – but you could have my escort prepare fast horses while I change from this gown into something more suitable for the journey.’

  ‘You’re not going by river?’

  ‘Henry has taken the royal barges to Greenwich. I’d not like to rely on a wherry at this time of night.’

  A heavy shower of rain turned the dusty roads to mud and slowed the ten-mile ride from Richmond Palace to Lady Margaret’s house at Westminster. Mary wished she could have made the journey by river in her father’s gilded barge with its covered cabin but, like everything, the barge belonged to Henry now.

  John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, welcomed her to the poorly lit manor house which Lady Margaret referred to as her ‘cottage’, his face grave. He kept his voice low and spoke in a broad northern accent.

  ‘Lady Margaret has been asking for you, Princess Mary.’ He glanced back over his shoulder at the door to her grandmother’s bedchamber. ‘You should prepare yourself. She will soon be with God.’

  An elderly servant unfastened her wet riding cloak as Mary struggled to understand the dreadful news, delivered so bluntly. Bishop Fisher was unlikely to be mistaken. He’d been her grandmother’s priest and confessor for many years and the sadness in his dark eyes confirmed the truth of his words.

  ‘My grandmother seemed quite well when I saw her last, at the coronation banquet.’ Mary clung to the slender thread of hope.

  Bishop Fisher shook his head. ‘Lady Margaret places her duty before her health – as is her way.’ He frowned but Mary heard the admiration in his voice. ‘I must tell you the coronation has taken its toll on her. I summoned your father’s physicians but they are of one mind. Lady Margaret is beyond any help their potions can offer now.’

  Mary nodded in understanding. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘She is sleeping but I know she will wish to be woken – if you will permit me a moment, Your Grace?’

  Mary nodded and watched as he left to wake her grandmother. A sharp memory of her mother’s death returned as she waited, trying to come to terms with her loss. It had been on her mother’s birthday, one month before her own seventh birthday, when everything changed. Her brother Henry, always so strong, wept openly. Her father’s heart hardened and he’d never been the same again.

  Mary knew she’d lost her childhood and grown much wiser than her years after her mother’s death. She had her own household and ladies-in-waiting from her seventh birthday and did her best to watch over her brother and her father. Her only friend was her eldest brother’s widow, Princess Catherine, although she was eleven years older, with her own problems.

  Her grandmother had always been there, ready to guide her, first taking her mother’s place and now filling the void left by her father. Bishop Fisher had told her to prepare herself, yet she couldn’t think how to prepare for what might be her last words with her grandmother.

  She recalled her last meeting with her father. He’d been barely able to speak as she’d tried to comfort him. Like a stupid girl, she’d read a letter from Prince Charles in French in an effort to cheer him. Now she realised she’d wasted those last precious moments. There were so many questions she could have asked. Worst of all, she had not told her father how much she loved him.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the poor light she looked around the room. Her grandmother lived simply for one of the wealthiest women in England. The table and chairs were well made but functional and no rushes softened the cold flagstone floor. The only decoration was a simple crucifix and the Beaufort portcullis carved into the empty stone fireplace.

  At last a servant bowed and led her to Lady Margaret’s bedchamber. A single beeswax candle flickered, casting long shadows and the scent of lavender failed to mask the mustiness of the room. Her grandmother looked up at her with dark-ringed eyes. Mary sat in the chair at the side of the canopied bed and heard the latch as the bishop closed the door behind him.

  ‘Thank you for coming, my dearest Mary.’ Her voice sounded weak, each word an effort.

  Mary struggled to think what to say. As with her father, she had many questions but now they all seemed irrelevant. She took her grandmother’s hand in hers and held Lady Margaret’s thin fingers to her lips. The candlelight shone on pale, waxy skin lined with dark blue veins.

  ‘I want to thank you, Grandmother, for your great kindness towards me during such a difficult time for us both.’

  Lady Margaret closed her eyes as if in pain before opening them again and staring at Mary. ‘I was your age when your father was born.’ Her voice was more determined now. ‘I thought I would die, yet that proved to be the moment I treasure most in my entire life.’

  Again, Mary was at a loss for words. ‘We all owe you a great debt for your sacrifices.’

  ‘No. My life has been too easy. Your father...’ Her eyes brightened at the thought of him. ‘He spent more than your lifetime in exile, in fear of his life, yet he had the courage to return, to restore this country.’

  ‘I pray for my father, and my mother, every day.’

  Lady Margaret smiled. ‘You are a credit to them both. Now I must ask you a great favour.’

  ‘Anything, Grandmother.’

  ‘Will you pray for your brother, and persuade him to take John Fisher as his confessor, to guide his path?’

  Mary nodded. ‘I will.’ Almost as an afterthought she added. ‘Do not worry yourself about Henry. He is a Tudor – and as my father often reminded us, we have Beaufort steel in our blood.’

  Lady Margaret gave a weak smile at her words. ‘Thank you, dearest Mary. May God be with you.’

  Mary remained at her bedside until Bishop Fisher returned and saw her grandmother sleeping. He ushered her back to the outer room where a servant waited with a lantern.

  ‘The hour is late, Princess Mary. I have arranged for a bed to be made ready.’

  ‘I wish to remain with my grandmother.’

  Bishop Fisher nodded. ‘Permit me to sit with her through the night and you can take my place in the morning.’

  Mary knew she should respect the bishop’s suggestion. ‘You will wake me if...�
�

  Bishop Fisher nodded to the servant, who opened the door. He turned to Mary. ‘Of course.’

  * * *

  Mary woke at dawn with a sense of foreboding. She dressed in the travelling gown she’d arrived in the previous night, noting it had been cleaned of the mud from the road and looked as good as new.

  Bishop Fisher met her in the outer room. One look at his face told her why he wasn’t at her grandmother’s bedside.

  ‘It was in the early hours, Your Grace. There was no time to wake you.’ His voice choked with emotion. ‘She passed as I was giving her the last rites.’ He placed a gentle hand on Mary’s shoulder. ‘Your grandmother is at peace with God.’

  * * *

  Mary prayed on her knees in the cold chapel rebuilt by her father after the fire at Richmond Palace, her grandmother’s favourite place. Like her grandmother, she’d chosen not to use a cushion and the numbing coolness of the hard stone floor drained the feeling from her knees.

  A memory of her grandmother’s words in Westminster Abbey echoed in her mind. Too late, Mary wished she’d asked her why she’d feared some adversity would follow Henry’s coronation.

  Raising her eyes to the tortured figure of Christ on the cross she wept with an overwhelming sense of loss. She was the daughter of the first Tudor king and now she was the sister of the next. Mary recalled her promise to pray, to make her brother accept Bishop Fisher as his confessor, to guide his path. She suspected it might be a difficult promise to keep.

  2

  February 1510

  The cry of anguish carried in the freezing dawn air, waking Mary. She lay still for a moment, considering the possible consequences, before dressing in the dim light. She called out to the men guarding the long corridor outside her room and one of her guards appeared.

  ‘My lady?’ There was a note of concern in his deep voice.

  ‘I wish to see the queen – straight away.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ The guard seemed unsurprised. This was not the first time she’d had to comfort Catherine at an unusual hour. He lit a lantern and led her down the wood-panelled passageway. Built for use by servants, the narrow passage offered a useful connection between her rooms and Catherine’s confinement chamber.

  Mary shivered and pulled her woollen cloak more tightly around her shoulders. She disliked the Palace of Westminster, haunted by the chill presence of ancient ghosts. The panelling was infested with woodworm and the dark corners were festooned with cobwebs. She’d heard something scuttle under her bed the previous night, too heavy to be a mouse.

  She’d told Henry she thought Westminster a poor choice for Catherine’s confinement yet as usual he’d ignored her. Mary preferred the refinement of Richmond Palace, with its flower gardens and the fountain her father had dedicated to her mother. She’d adopted Richmond as her home, although she knew Henry, who preferred Greenwich, could move her from there at his whim.

  An unearthly wail echoed down the passageway, startling Mary from her thoughts. ‘We must hurry!’

  The guard quickened his pace. She’d become used to Catherine’s vocal Latin temperament over the years but this was different. This time Catherine could cry out as much as she wished, as her condition was a matter of life and death.

  The whole country celebrated when Henry announced that Catherine carried his heir the previous August. Cannons roared at the Tower of London and the taverns had never been so busy. Henry even sent an eloquent letter to Catherine’s father, King Ferdinand, to confirm the good news.

  Mary knew this was too soon if the child was conceived after their marriage last June. Her own mother died of a fever after giving birth too soon to her last child. Mary’s younger sister lived for only eight short days, long enough to be given a name. They’d called her Catherine.

  She pushed the painful memory away as she reached the confinement chamber. By tradition, Catherine should be supported by the women of her family, but her mother was dead and her sister Isabella died in childbirth. Of Catherine’s surviving sisters, Joanna ‘the mad’ was confined in a nunnery for life and her sister Maria was queen of faraway Portugal.

  Catherine had eight ladies-in-waiting but Mary was the closest she had to family in England, and she knew her duty. One of the few good things that followed the tragic death of her brother Arthur had been her close friendship with her Spanish sister-in-law.

  The midwife cast Mary a concerned look as she entered the room. A fire blazed in the hearth and the delicate scent of rose water mixed with herbs, strewn on the rush-covered floor. Catherine lay in her bed, supported by colourful silk pillows, her pale face framed by her long auburn hair. Maria de Salinas, the most loyal of Catherine’s maids of honour, sat at her side reading a Latin prayer aloud in her soft Spanish accent.

  Maria stopped in mid-sentence and Catherine turned her head as she heard the door open and saw Mary. ‘Thank the Lord you’ve come.’ She glanced at the midwife. ‘I’ve lost ... our child.’

  Mary froze to the spot as she struggled to find the right words. Although she’d feared the worst since she was first woken, she had no idea how to help. She reached out instinctively and placed a hand on Catherine’s shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her words sounded inadequate for such a disaster.

  Maria stood and offered Mary her chair, then made her excuses and left with the midwife. Mary turned to watch them go. She noticed bloodstains on the heavy bundle of white linen the midwife carried and wondered what they’d done with the baby. After they closed the door Mary turned back to Catherine.

  She wished she knew what to say. ‘Do you know the cause?’ She regretted her question as soon as she asked it. Whatever the reason for Catherine’s child, it was irrelevant now.

  Catherine shook her head, unable to reply, then with some effort managed to compose herself. ‘This is God’s punishment on me.’ Her voice sounded bitter, her Spanish accent returning.

  ‘No!’ Mary surprised herself with the force of her denial. ‘You know as well as I that childbirth has its dangers.’

  ‘I had a pain.’ She closed her eyes at the memory. ‘I called for the midwife and then...’ Overcome with emotion, her words tailed away.

  Mary placed a hand on Catherine’s forehead. ‘I’m afraid I know little enough of these things but I will pray for you, Catherine.’

  ‘Thank you, Mary.’ She wiped a tear from her eye.

  A thought occurred to Mary. ‘Has anyone been sent to tell my brother?’

  Catherine looked alarmed at the thought. ‘He will take this badly.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘You misjudge Henry. He loves you greatly.’

  A silence descended over them both as they began to think about the implications. Mary prayed she was right. Henry became more unpredictable each day and she’d seen the looks he had given her ladies-in-waiting after Catherine entered her confinement. He’d been so proud of his impending fatherhood, making plans and counting the days.

  ‘It was a girl.’ The sadness in Catherine’s voice brought tears to Mary’s eyes.

  ‘Have faith, Catherine. Your time will come.’

  She turned her head at the sound of footsteps and the metallic clink of rattling swords in the corridor outside. Men with heavy boots were approaching Catherine’s sanctuary where only women and priests were allowed.

  Mary stood. ‘I think my brother has already been informed.’ She placed an affectionate hand on Catherine’s arm. ‘I must leave but I will return soon.’

  She slipped back through the narrow door into the passageway. As she followed her guard, Catherine’s words echoed in her head. It was a girl. Mary should have stayed and supported Catherine but couldn’t face her brother. She missed her grandmother, who would have been there now, taking charge and dealing with Henry.

  * * *

  Mary laughed with exhilaration as she urged her powerful horse into a canter. Despite her gloves the cold numbed her fingers but she loved to ride in the grounds of Richmond Palace. She’d not followed Catherine when she
returned to Greenwich, and couldn’t wait to be out riding after the musty atmosphere of Westminster.

  Her horse’s breath froze like a dragon’s smoke in the still air, its hooves pounding the hard ground which glistened with frost in the dazzling early morning sunlight. Glancing back, she saw she’d already put some distance between herself and her ladies, who followed with her escort of royal guards.

  By chance she’d overheard the stable boys talking about Charles Brandon taking his black destrier for exercise a short time before. She knew it was improper to meet him unchaperoned but there was no one to stop her.

  She spurred on her mount as she spotted him in the distance. He stopped and turned in the saddle as she cantered closer. Mary smiled at the genuine surprise on Brandon’s face as he recognised her and raised a gloved hand in welcome.

  ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ He glanced back at the distant followers as if making a judgement, then ran an expert eye over Mary’s horse before resting his gaze on her. ‘You ride well – and like its rider, your horse is a beauty.’

  Mary smiled at his compliment and patted her horse. ‘She’s Arabian, descended from horses brought back from the crusades, a gift to my father.’

  Brandon looked down at his own mount. ‘I doubt I’d be able to keep up with you on a run. These heavy horses are only fast over short distances.’

  Mary’s mind raced with questions. There were so many things she wished to say but could not. ‘What news is there from Greenwich?’

  ‘Your brother is back in good spirits – now the queen has returned to confinement.’ He grinned and urged his mount closer.

  ‘She cannot be...’

  ‘The child she lost has a twin, which her physicians confirm will reach full term.’