by Tony Riches
Mary recognised Henry’s accomplices, despite their disguises, grinning like court jesters at their deception of the queen. Thomas Boleyn, Edward Howard and Thomas Knyvet, who sported a gold codpiece and proclaimed himself Sir Valiant Desire. Henry raised a hand for silence and announced he was to be known as Sir Loyal Heart for the duration of the tourney.
Catherine seemed to be enjoying the spectacle in her honour. For the first time Mary realised her brother might be in love with her, despite his bluff antics. She recalled how proudly he’d escorted the exotic Spanish princess to her wedding with Arthur. It had been their father’s wish but he could have sent her back to Spain. Instead, he’d married her as soon as he could.
When the jousting began the tilt barriers were so close to where Mary sat she could almost taste the sweat of the horses. As the knights charged, her seat reverberated with the pounding of hooves on sawdust-covered cobbles. Once she jumped as a broken shard of lance struck the side of the grandstand in front of her with a hollow crack, too close for comfort.
Charles Brandon defeated yet another challenger and Mary had a sudden realisation. She turned to Jane Popincourt. ‘He’s going to ride against my brother.’
Jane frowned. ‘Don’t they both claim to be fighting for the honour of the queen?’
‘It’s another of Henry’s games. You can rest assured he’ll win.’ Even as Mary said the words she doubted them. She’d watched the dangerous sport too often and knew how competitive both Henry and Brandon could be.
As she’d predicted, the jousting ended with Brandon facing up to Sir Loyal Heart, whose warhorse was caparisoned with golden hearts. Mary raised her hand to her mouth as they clashed in front of her, Henry’s lance shattering on Brandon’s chest. Few would guess it was anything other than proof of her brother’s prowess, yet Mary knew Brandon. He’d allowed the king his moment of glory.
The celebrations continued after evensong in the White Hall of Westminster Palace. Henry’s musicians played lively dance music on horns and drums, and fine wine flowed like water. Mary and her ladies joined in with the singing but she was glad they’d resisted demands to join the dancing, which soon degenerated into drunken brawling.
Henry shouted to the staff of the visiting ambassadors to try their luck against his valiant knights. They took this as an invitation to start a melee, ripping at each other’s clothes, pulling open the gowns of the dancing ladies and even tearing the gold ornaments from Henry’s doublet. Mary decided it was time to leave when Sir Thomas Knyvet was stripped naked after losing his gold codpiece to a triumphant Spaniard.
Henry had to call for his guards to intervene. He’d laughed it off as nothing more than high spirits, but ribald, drunken shouts followed Mary, echoing down the corridor as she returned to her rooms with her ladies, in fear of their virtue.
Bad news travelled through the long corridors and winding back stairs of Richmond Palace like a forest fire, touching the lives of everyone. Little Henry, the future of the Tudor dynasty, heir to the king, was dead. Mary stood by the mullioned window, looking down into the courtyard where she’d played as a girl, and wept.
She cried for her brother, who had been the proudest father in England. Tears ran down her face for Catherine, her friend, who’d suffered enough tragedy and did not deserve more. She wept for the innocent little child, who would never now be king. He had seemed so bright-eyed and happy, the whole world within reach of his tiny, grasping fingers.
In that moment, the last traces of the girl she had been slipped away. She would be strong for her brother, a good sister. She would put his wishes before her own and marry her mysterious young prince. She would become a powerful empress and help Henry keep the fragile peace her father worked so hard to secure.
* * *
Mary once confessed the sin of envy to her priest, although she didn’t name Anne Browne. She’d often dreamed of life with Charles Brandon, yet didn’t bear his wife ill will. They had two young daughters, one named after her, and Mary knew her own duty was to marry her foreign prince.
Then came the shocking news. Brandon’s wife Anne had died of a mysterious fever, a dreadful, short-lived affliction that took rich and poor, young and old. Lady Elizabeth Boleyn brought the news. One of Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting, Lady Elizabeth always showed Mary kindness, having two daughters of her own.
Mary stared at her as the implications of her news sank in. ‘I am so sorry for those poor girls.’
Lady Elizabeth nodded. ‘I understand they are both well, thank the Lord, as is their father.’ She placed a comforting hand on Mary’s arm. ‘Charles Brandon will remarry soon enough – and is a wealthy man now he’s inherited his uncle’s fortune. You know he’s been made Marshal of the King’s Household?’
‘No, although it doesn’t surprise me. Those two have been like brothers since Henry was a boy.’ She looked at Lady Elizabeth as she made a judgement. ‘May I confess something to you, in confidence?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘I would like to ask my brother if he would consent to ending my betrothal to Prince Charles – but I’ve no idea how he might react.’
Lady Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. ‘Has he mentioned your betrothal lately?’
‘Not since I showed him the little portrait,’ Mary frowned, ‘and I’ve had no reply to my letters to Prince Charles.’
Lady Elizabeth thought for a moment. ‘I expect the king places great store on the advantages of uniting his family with Emperor Maximilian’s.’
‘But I wish to marry Charles Brandon.’ Her words hung in the air like a heady, exotic perfume, her dreams and dangerous desire crystallised now they were tantalisingly within her reach. It was the first time she’d said them aloud to anyone – or even admitted them to herself.
‘You wish to marry Brandon?’ Lady Elizabeth stared at her in disbelief, then her expression softened and she looked amused at the thought. ‘I’ve seen how he flatters the ladies, Your Grace. You would never know what he was up to.’
‘I would wait until after a suitable period of mourning...’ Her words tailed off. She knew it was a futile idea. Henry would never change his mind.
Lady Elizabeth studied her for a moment, as if realising how much this meant to her. ‘You would need to choose your moment with great care.’
Mary nodded. ‘Henry is quite different since the little prince’s death. He dresses in sombre mourning clothes and acts,’ she struggled to find the right words, ‘more like a king.’
Lady Elizabeth lowered her voice in case the servants overheard. ‘At least he’s put an end to all these disguisings and capers at court. The queen told me he hasn’t blamed any of the staff who cared for his infant son.’
‘I’m glad my brother has shown understanding towards poor Catherine.’
‘He has been most caring after her loss and openly shows his love for her.’ Lady Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, as if sharing a great secret. ‘I understand the king has also joined the Holy League.’
‘The pope’s alliance?’ Mary struggled to keep up with the politics of state, although from the way Lady Elizabeth spoke she could tell it was significant.
‘The Holy League includes Spain and the Venetians. They band together against King Louis of France.’
‘I thought we were at peace with France? King Louis was a sponsor at little Henry’s christening.’
Lady Elizabeth looked at her as if she was an innocent child. ‘The French would invade us tomorrow if they saw the opportunity. Your brother does well to keep them at bay, although I fear it’s simply a matter of time.’ Her voice carried a note of bitterness which surprised Mary.
‘Forgive my ignorance, Lady Elizabeth, but I had no idea.’
‘You should be glad the king has chosen so well for you, for such a marriage is a great blessing. Young Prince Charles is heir to the House of Valois-Burgundy and the Holy Roman Empire. When he inherits, he will become one of the most powerful men in the world.’
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Mary ran through their conversation that night alone in her bed, staring as usual at the miniature pale-faced portrait. Lady Elizabeth Boleyn was right; she should be grateful for what she had. Even if Henry approved her request, she had no idea of Charles Brandon’s feelings towards her. She’d been touched by his compliments, yet she’d seen the way he used his natural charm with all the ladies.
She reached out and touched the gold-framed portrait, a nightly ritual. ‘Goodnight, my Charles.’
As she blew out her flickering candle the image forming in her mind was not the pale boy from Castile. Despite the promises she’d made to herself, the picture in her mind was of an older, laughing Charles, his face tanned by the sun, in full armour of burnished gilt. A daring plan stole into her thoughts. It seemed so obvious it was a wonder she’d not thought of it before. Somehow, she must find a way to let Charles Brandon know she would willingly marry him.
Mary lay back in the darkness, wide awake as she ran through the possibilities in her mind. He might admit he’d always secretly loved her. He might be shocked at her presumption and say he thought of her as a sister, although she doubted it. Even if he didn’t have feelings for her, he was ambitious enough to see the advantage of marriage to a Tudor princess, the sister of the king.
She would wait until he’d buried his poor wife. Then she would make one last roll of the dice and find an opportunity to confront him. Whatever the outcome, she swore to believe it to be God’s plan for her.
* * *
Many weeks passed before her chance came. Mary made it her business to learn when Brandon would next visit the king’s stables at Richmond. The stables offered more privacy than meeting in the palace and she hoped the stable boys were more discreet than her gossiping servants. She rode every day, so it was easy enough to contrive to visit the stables once he arrived, but she was surprised by his greeting.
‘You’ve come to see me off, Princess Mary?’
‘You are leaving? You’ve only just arrived.’
‘I’m off to fight the French!’ He smiled at her puzzled expression. ‘Surely you know?’ He shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘You do live a sheltered life here at Richmond!’
Mary stared at him, recalling Lady Elizabeth’s dire prediction. ‘We are at war with France?’
‘A holy war, now Pope Julius has sided with us. He promises your brother the crown of France once King Louis is defeated.’
‘I thought the king had made you marshal of his household?’ She’d never thought of Charles Brandon as a soldier, despite his prowess at the jousts.
‘He has, but we’ve all been made sea captains, not only me – Edward Howard and that scoundrel Thomas Knyvet too.’ His eyes flashed with pride. ‘I’ve been given command of your father’s old flagship, the Sovereign, to keep the English Channel free from marauding Frenchmen.’
‘Do you know how to command a warship in a sea battle?’
‘In truth, she already has an experienced captain and crew.’ Brandon grinned. ‘It’s my duty, Princess Mary. The king would wish to take command himself but he’s chosen those he can rely on, so I consider it an honour.’
Mary could imagine how they’d come up with the plan during one of their drinking bouts. She consoled herself with the knowledge Charles Brandon was safer at sea than in a land campaign. The French would probably run at the sight of the Sovereign, with her array of fine cannons.
A stable boy brought her saddled horse and handed her the reins. Mary had almost forgotten her pretext for visiting the stables. She smoothed the horse’s flank as she tried to recall her well-rehearsed words, then realised this was neither the time nor the place for such speeches.
She turned to Brandon. ‘My brother tells me nothing, so will you let me know when you return?’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ he gave her a wry look, ‘although I didn’t think you cared, now you are to marry your little prince?’
She glanced to be sure the stable boy had gone. This was her moment, the reason she’d gone to so much trouble to meet with him, yet something in his tone made her hesitate. ‘Have you heard something?’ She studied his face for any clue. ‘Has my brother mentioned the wedding?’
‘This war,’ he became serious for a moment, ‘it makes our alliances more important. The king is keen to secure the support of Emperor Maximilian.’ He smiled. ‘He may not wish him as a friend but he certainly doesn’t want him as his enemy.’
‘I will pray for you, Charles. I will pray for your safe return.’ She led her horse to the mounting block and climbed into the saddle, urging it forward before he saw her tears.
4
Summer 1512
Mary tasted the salt in the fresh sea air and looked out across the sparkling blue-green waters of Portsmouth harbour. She’d made the seventy-mile journey from London with Queen Catherine and her ladies to watch the king’s fleet sail for Brest. Now she could see how her father’s modest royal fleet had grown, thanks to Henry’s spending.
She counted seven high-masted ships at the quayside and another eighteen sitting at anchor. Some, like the Regent, had once been her father’s ships. Others were converted carvels and merchantmen, commandeered in the king’s name and fitted with guns fore and aft.
In front of them, Henry’s colourful royal standard and banners flew from the topmast of his magnificent new flagship the Mary Rose. A floating fortress, she bristled with the latest guns and was the pride of England’s growing fleet. Henry told her over six hundred oak trees were used in her construction, making her the most expensive warship ever built.
The shouts of sailors, clambering precariously high in the rigging, carried on the light June breeze as they prepared huge canvas sails. Teams of men sang out in deep voices as they hauled on ropes and great wooden cranes hoisted the last supplies aboard. Crates and casks littered the quay and a live pig squealed in distress as it was lifted high into the air and lowered into the dark hold of a ship.
The crowds who’d gathered to see the fleet sail cheered and shouted as the last of five thousand soldiers queued at gangplanks, the sun glinting off new armour and weapons as they waited to embark. The decks of the ships closest to her were already crowded with archers. They’d marched from all over England to fight for their king and country. Each carried a longbow and quiver of at least thirty arrows with sharpened iron tips.
Street vendors called out to customers as they sold cups of ale and cakes. The king’s musicians played lively tunes and some of the onlookers danced on the quayside, creating a cheerful atmosphere while all around them prepared for war.
Only Mary knew the real reason she had come. She’d promised to accept whatever happened as God’s will, and this was her last chance to say goodbye to the man she’d dared to dream of marrying. She scanned the ships, trying to identify the distinctive high sterncastle of the Sovereign among the forest of masts but there were too many.
In her mind she’d envisaged Charles Brandon looking into her eyes and perhaps kissing her hand as he promised to keep safe. It was difficult to tell one ship from another in the crowded harbour. For all she knew Brandon might be watching her, perhaps raising a hand in farewell.
‘Look – the king!’ Catherine pointed as the tall figure of Henry appeared on the deck of the Mary Rose, talking to Sir Edward Howard.
A thought occurred to her as she watched her brother strutting on the deck of his grand flagship. ‘I know Henry would dearly wish to sail with them.’ Mary turned to Catherine. ‘What is there to stop him?’
Catherine smiled. ‘Me, for one. We couldn’t risk the king in the first raid on Brittany.’
‘Surely this fleet is more than a match for any French ships?’ Mary studied her friend’s face, hoping for confirmation.
Catherine’s face became serious. ‘The French fleet numbers more than thirty-five ships, Mary, with captains and crews far more experienced than ours.’
‘You think this a dangerous expedition?’
Catherine nodded.
‘You risk your life whenever you put to sea, Mary. When I sailed from Spain the weather was fine – but we suffered a terrible storm in the Bay of Biscay.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘My ship began to take on water and I feared we would all drown.’
Mary stared up at the clear blue sky and said a silent prayer for the fleet’s safe return. When she’d last seen Charles Brandon he told her it was his duty, yet in her heart she knew he sailed today for the adventure and would not have missed it for the world.
At last she identified the Sovereign, hidden behind several other ships. Mary thought she could make out the figure of Brandon at the rail, gazing in her direction. She resisted the urge to call his name or wave, yet all her resolve to forget her feelings vanished in that instant.
As the weeks passed she did her best to follow news of the war with France. Queen Catherine proved well informed and Mary was surprised to learn she had acted on behalf of her father, King Ferdinand of Spain, to encourage Henry’s invasion.
‘The pope will make your brother the most Christian king,’ Catherine’s eyes flashed with ambition, ‘and I will soon become Queen of England and of France!’
Catherine called for one of her ladies to bring a parchment map, which she spread out in front of them. Mary studied the turquoise blue of the English Channel, which an imaginative scribe had embellished with sea monsters.
She looked up at Catherine. ‘Forgive me, I don’t understand. We were at peace. What was it that started this war?’
‘King Louis accused Pope Julius of corruption.’ Catherine spoke with a note of contempt in her voice. ‘He tried to blacken the name of our Holy Father.’
Mary studied the brightly coloured map again. It amazed her to see how close France was to England and how narrow the Channel looked on a map, considering how long it took to sail to Calais. ‘It seems strange to me that we declare war on France for such a thing.’
