by Tony Riches
‘Praise God – it is a miracle!’
‘God works in mysterious ways, Your Grace.’ His blue-grey eyes sparkled as they fixed on hers. ‘And you – why do you hide yourself away here at Richmond instead of following the court?’
‘I’m not hiding.’ She heard the defensive note in her voice and smiled at how easily he’d tricked her. ‘What brings you here, Charles Brandon?’
‘I had to stay on after the jousting. Did you not hear what happened?’
Mary was confused by his answer. ‘I’ve been shut away with the queen at the Palace of Westminster.’
He gave her a look of mock disbelief. ‘I thought your ladies were the greatest gossips in the country?’
‘You do them a disservice, sir.’
‘My apologies, Your Grace.’ He grinned again, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Your brother entered a private joust here in Richmond last week.’
‘His first time as king?’
Brandon nodded. ‘The king jousted in disguise with William Compton – and Compton was badly wounded with a broken lance.’
‘By my brother’s hand?’
‘It was Sir Edward Neville’s lance, although he’s not to be blamed.’ His face became serious for a moment. ‘The price we have to pay for jousting can be high.’
‘Does William live?’ He’d been her father’s ward and Henry’s companion since their days at Eltham Palace and always had a kind word for her.
Brandon gave a wry smile. ‘We all thought Compton mortally wounded but he’s as strong as an ox, although I doubt he’ll wish to joust again soon.’ He lowered his voice, even though there was no one to hear. ‘I understand Henry is to make him Groom of the Stool, an unusual reward – and of course a great honour, to wipe the royal behind.’ He grinned at his own joke.
Mary laughed. ‘You know full well William Compton will be the eyes and ears of the king.’
Mary’s ladies and escort approached before Brandon could reply. They both turned their horses and rode to meet them. He gave her what she thought might be a wistful look. She regretted her missed opportunity although she had no idea of what she could have said. At least the news about Catherine was good.
* * *
Mary strolled in the gardens at Richmond Palace in the warm August sunshine with Jane Popincourt. The gardens had once been her mother’s pride and joy, as she’d created them from an overgrown wilderness before the old palace of Sheen was destroyed in the fire.
After her father’s death Mary persuaded Henry to employ a team of gardeners to restore the grounds to their former glory. Now flower borders filled with red and white roses replaced the wild tangle of brambles and stinging nettles.
The scent drifted on the warm summer air as they made their way down a narrow path to one of Mary’s favourite places, a secluded bench-seat in the shade of an ancient oak. The seat overlooked the river and her father once said her mother called it her sanctuary. She could imagine this was where her parents would sit, watching the swans and planning their future together, so long ago.
Now Mary and Jane sat there, enjoying the sunshine and watching the river. In the heart of the city the Thames was a foul-smelling sewer, bustling with barges and boatmen clamouring for fares. At Richmond the water was tranquil, with the occasional boat drifting past. The swans were gone but once they’d seen a kingfisher, flashing turquoise and orange as it plunged into the river to emerge with tiny fish.
Jane fanned her face with her hand, then pulled off her close-fitting French style hood and cowl to free her long hair from its silver pins. ‘Sometimes I wish I could wear my hair down, like the queen.’
Mary nodded and followed Jane’s example. She unplaited the long strands of her golden hair, using her slender fingers as a comb. ‘Catherine says it is the fashion in Spain – and no one wants to disagree with her.’
‘I’m glad she’s with child again, after that strange business of the twin that never existed.’
Mary heard the critical note in Jane’s voice. ‘It wasn’t Catherine’s fault the physicians were wrong about there being a twin. At least my brother was understanding.’
‘And wasted no time in putting matters right.’ Jane smiled at the thought.
Mary nodded. ‘Catherine said she plans to name the child after me if it’s a girl – and Henry if it’s a boy.’
Jane gave her a quizzical look. ‘I heard Charles Brandon named his daughter Mary. Would that also be after you?’
‘How can you suggest such a thing, Jane Popincourt? I’ve known Brandon all my life but I hardly think he’d choose to name his daughter after me!’
She surprised herself at the strength of her denial. In truth, she’d wondered about his choice but Mary was a popular name. She also had to confess to her priest the sin of jealousy. Now Charles had two children she knew she must forget her feelings for him.
Mary had always been a little in awe of the black-garbed, crowlike Richard Foxe, Bishop of Winchester. He’d been her father’s most faithful advisor since his days in exile. She remembered how her father relied on him, so agreed to his mysterious request to meet with her in private. Now his dark, impassive eyes – which never gave anything away – fixed on hers.
‘I need to ask for your help, Your Grace.’
It was the last thing she expected him to say and she wondered if this private visit concerned Prince Charles. She knew Bishop Foxe arranged the marriage of her sister Margaret to King James of Scotland. Although there’d been the occasional letter, Mary doubted she would ever see her sister again.
‘What is it, bishop?’ She studied his face and saw his hesitation, as if what he was about to say would commit him to something he might regret.
The bishop took a deep breath. ‘Two men, loyal to your father, were arrested three days after his death. Their names are Sir Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley.’
‘It was for treason.’
Bishop Foxe shook his head. ‘They served your father doing often difficult work which made them unpopular with the people.’
‘I was told they were raising men against my brother.’ Mary remembered being relieved when Henry acted quickly to deal with the threat.
‘After your father died they feared their neighbours would turn against them.’ The bishop’s eyes showed he believed it to be the truth. ‘The men were their retainers, brought to London to protect their property.’
‘I wonder what this has to do with me, bishop?’
Foxe looked uncomfortable now. ‘I understand they are to be publicly executed. I must tell you, Your Grace, that, before God, my conscience and loyalty to your father’s memory demand I do whatever I can for them.’
‘You’ve spoken to my brother?’
‘I tried, Your Grace. I christened the king as a baby yet, to my regret, now cause him to raise his voice to me.’ He looked deep into her eyes once more. ‘I pray he might listen to you, his sister.’
‘You wish me to ask him to spare these men?’
Foxe nodded, his lined face impossible to read.
‘I could not, bishop.’
‘Their only crime was to implement your father’s wishes, as his loyal servants. I’m not asking for them to be released from the Tower, only a stay of execution.’
‘It’s not my place.’ Mary heard the firmness in her voice. ‘In truth, my brother never involves me in such matters.’
‘I understand, Your Grace.’ He looked as if he was about to try to persuade her but thought better of it. ‘I thought it worth meeting with you but I’ll wish you good day.’ He turned to leave.
‘Wait, bishop.’
He stopped and turned back to study her face with his deep-set eyes. ‘Your Grace?’
‘My father would have wished me to speak to Henry about this. I will have to choose the right moment, although I can make no promise to you.’
‘That is all I ask, Your Grace.’ He smiled. ‘Although you are much like your mother, you have many of your father’s qualities. I shall pray for you �
�� and for those unfortunates held in the Tower.’
As Mary watched him leave she wished she’d never agreed to see Bishop Richard Foxe. If she failed to persuade Henry, the lives of two innocent men would now be on her conscience.
Henry seemed in good spirits after a successful hunt and hugged her warmly. ‘I see too little of you, Mary. You’ve become a presentable young woman while my back has been turned. What have you been up to?’
‘I keep myself busy enough at Richmond, dear brother.’
He looked at her as if he doubted it. ‘We must discuss your marriage. How old is your young prince now?’
‘Nine or perhaps ten years old.’ Mary shrugged. ‘I confess I’m not sure.’ She couldn’t remember when Charles had written one of his formal letters but decided to keep that information to herself.
‘Well, it’s time we made a man of him, don’t you think?’ He laughed and called for wine. ‘I tell you what I’ll do, Mary. I’ll ask them to send a portrait of how he looks now. It will help you prepare for your life together.’
‘Thank you, dear brother, you are too kind to me.’
Henry gave her a quizzical look. ‘I am intrigued. What brings you to Greenwich this fine day, asking to meet with me in private?’
Mary took a deep breath. ‘I’ve come to plead for the lives of our father’s servants.’
Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘You cannot.’
‘I think...’ She summoned up her courage as her voice faltered. ‘Father would have wished me to speak on their behalf.’
He glowered at her. ‘I forbid it, and that’s the end of it.’
‘I only ask for their lives to be spared, for our father’s sake.’
‘You’re too late. They have been found guilty and sentenced. My mind is made up.’
‘I thought...’
‘Keep to your embroidery, sister. You know nothing of these men, but I shall educate you.’ Henry gave her a questioning stare. ‘Have you even heard of recognisances?’
Mary had not. She shook her head, like a small child again. Except that her brother now towered over her, barely able to control his annoyance at her foolishness.
Henry gestured for her to sit and pulled a second chair closer. His keen eyes studied her appraisingly for a moment.
‘Our father’s advisors found a legal way to rob noble families of their fortunes. They turned his insecurity to advantage and proposed these fines they called recognisances. They demanded payments of hundreds of thousands of pounds in our father’s name.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘There is no reason why you should but I can tell you it blackened our father’s reputation.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I resolved to deal with the ringleaders, two lawyers named Empson and Dudley. They confessed to embezzlement, as well as other crimes against the Crown.’
‘Did our father know what they did in his name?’ Her voice sounded small in the high-ceilinged chamber.
Henry nodded. ‘He recorded every penny in his ledgers.’
Mary sat in silence while Henry’s news sank in. She could see he told the truth and understood why he’d been angry.
Henry sat back in his chair. ‘They plotted against us, Mary, and cheated the people to line their own pockets. I must make an example of them.’
Mary heard the threat in Henry’s voice and knew better than to pursue it.
Her brother leaned forward and fixed her with a shrewd look. ‘I’ve troubled to explain my reasons to you – now tell me, who put you up to this?’
With a jolt Mary realised she held Bishop Foxe’s future in her hands, possibly his life. Henry’s tone demanded an answer but she couldn’t think what to tell him.
‘No one.’ Her lie echoed around the empty chamber. ‘I didn’t understand.’
Henry nodded. ‘Learn from this, dear sister,’ he placed his hand on her arm, ‘and be wary of those who would try to use your good nature, as they did with our father, God rest him.’
3
New Year’s Day 1511
Bonfires crackled, sending orange flames and sparks high into the air and plumes of grey smoke across the city. New Year’s Day was always a time for celebration and now cannons thundered at the Tower Wharf and the bells of every church in London pealed incessantly.
Mary watched as Henry held up his swaddled infant son for the world to see the future King of England. After all the hardship, tragedy and waiting, Queen Catherine, surrounded by her coterie of ladies, beamed with pleasure – yet her acknowledgement of Mary was reserved.
Mary curtseyed to show her respect for Catherine’s new status and sensed their relationship had shifted. When Catherine finally spoke to Mary, it was to surprise her. ‘You must represent me at the christening, Princess Mary.’
‘It would be an honour. Will you still be churching, as in my grandmother’s ordinances?’
‘Of course.’ Catherine’s voice carried a new confidence, so different from the last time they met. ‘The silver font of Canterbury has already been sent for, and the king has decreed no expense is to be spared.’
Mary smiled with relief that Catherine’s earlier distance hadn’t been because of the secrets between them. She’d been told never to speak of the lost child. Then there was Catherine’s great secret, which had become even greater now she was mother to the heir to the throne.
* * *
Snowflakes drifted from an ashen sky as the slow-moving christening procession approached the old church, built in the lee of the ivy-covered walls of Richmond Palace. Mary walked behind the bishops on a path strewn with fresh rushes, leading the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and thirty maids of honour. She looked back at the gaudily dressed ambassadors of Spain, Venice and Rome who followed her, complete with grand delegations of priests and nobles.
Her fears of rebuke from Henry proved unfounded. There had been no consequences of asking him to spare the lawyers. Edmund Dudley and Richard Empson were marched to Tower Hill on the appointed day. Henry had been right, as she’d heard that the people, gathered in great numbers, cheered when the men were executed.
Mary learned from her attempt to interfere with matters of state. Although she knew great secrets, many more had been kept from her. In her heart, she knew her father encouraged Empson, Dudley, and others to relieve the rich of their wealth. She’d also learned her brother now had the power of life and death – and was prepared to use it.
A bitter breeze tugged at her fur-trimmed cloak and she glanced at Jane, who shivered at her side. ‘There are too many guests.’ She glanced back at the queue of people disappearing into the distance. ‘They will never all fit inside this little church.’
‘The king has been generous with his invitations.’ Jane smiled. ‘I’ve never seen him look so pleased.’
Mary agreed. ‘He’s already appointed forty staff for the prince and spent a fortune on the new nursery.’
She smiled as they reached the church, decked out in brightly coloured cloth of Arras, glowing in the light from more candles than she could count. ‘My father would have been so proud to have seen this day – as would my grandmother.’
They entered the church, already filled with guests and squeezed into a narrow space. Mary’s spirits lifted as the little child squealed a protest, his shrill voice echoing from the rafters. A choir sang a Te Deum laudamus as he was held over the gleaming silver font and named Henry Tudor, Prince of Wales, the next generation of the Tudor line and future king.
* * *
The celebratory joust at the Westminster tiltyard was the greatest spectacle ever seen in England. The queen sat with her ladies-in-waiting in an elaborate wooden gallery hung with cloth of gold under a canopy of state. Mary sat a little distance away with her ladies, glad of their thick furs and the velvet cushions they’d brought to make the hard oak benches more bearable.
Her grandmother would have been pleased to see her golden Beaufort portcullis badge given such prominence on the banners around the grandstands. Mary realised this was Hen
ry’s way of acknowledging her, although as far as she knew he’d been too busy to visit her before she passed away.
Before the fanfares to announce the start of the festivities a strange hermit, dressed in a plain brown habit, rode up to the queen. The curious crowd watched in silence as he made the sign of the cross, then threw back his hood to reveal his true identity. Charles Brandon requested the right to defend the queen’s honour as her champion. The crowd cheered and applauded as she accepted.
Mary resolved to forget any feelings for the handsome knight in his burnished armour. She’d received a small gold-framed portrait of her betrothed from Ghent which she kept on display by her bed. She went to sleep each night studying his pale expressionless face, although the Spanish envoy, Gutierre de Fuensalida, told her he thought it a poor likeness.
She’d also written a long letter to Prince Charles, affirming her love, and awaited his reply. He was young and wealthy with an empire to inherit. She found it hard to see her future through the mists of half-truths and third-hand information. She was sceptical of Ambassador de Fuensalida’s description of the prince and began to wonder when she would ever meet him. A touch on her arm broke through her reverie.
‘Do you not think he makes a handsome hermit?’ Jane had a mischievous note in her voice.
‘I cannot agree.’ Mary shook her head. ‘It’s silly theatre, to amuse my brother.’ She noted that Brandon didn’t once glance in her direction and only had compliments for Queen Catherine.
A shrill fanfare of trumpets from green-garbed foresters announced the arrival of a huge pageant of a forest, pulled by a golden lion and a silver antelope. Topped with a golden castle garlanded with roses, the pageant was wheeled in front of them. At another trumpet blast the sides of the castle flung open to reveal the king, with his fellow jousters, dressed in bright-green satin edged with scarlet.
