Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  Catherine gave her a wry look. ‘It was an excuse for King Louis to keep his army in Venice. His real reason was to be ready to invade my father’s lands,’ she tapped the parchment map with a gold-ringed finger, ‘and the people of England have a score to settle with the French.’

  ‘My father used to say war is the last resort, after diplomacy has failed.’

  Catherine studied her for a moment. ‘Your father’s men on the king’s council, Archbishop Foxe and Bishop Fisher, tried to intervene in the king’s plans. They urged him to reconsider – but they still don’t see that if we show weakness now, the Scots and the French will join forces.’

  ‘They could invade England?’ The war which had seemed so distant to Mary was suddenly close to home.

  Catherine stared at her. ‘This is how Henry will make his name in the world.’ Her tone became conspiratorial. ‘Bishop Foxe put his own man, a cleric named Thomas Wolsey, into Henry’s service, yet he’s been more than willing to implement the king’s wishes.’

  Mary understood. She’d heard about Wolsey from her ladies. In no time he’d become her brother’s chief administrator. She also understood this latest fleet was a show of English strength after the failed expedition in the spring led by Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset. Mary had heard her brother cursing his mutinous soldiers and their disloyal leaders.

  The fire at Westminster Palace in April also unsettled Henry. He was at Greenwich and she’d been at Richmond when Westminster burned down. The great hall and the jewel rooms survived but the flames destroyed her father’s ancient chambers and most of his precious library. The fire started in the palace kitchens but the superstitious people of London were saying it was a bad omen, a sign of misfortune to come.

  Henry wished to prove them wrong and win public support with a great victory over their old enemy, the French. The idea that this war was caused by an insult to a pope who was now dead made no sense. The truth was as simple as it was shocking to her. If what Catherine told her was true, more was at stake here than Henry’s pride, as both Scotland and France stood poised to invade.

  * * *

  Mary tuned her lute, her deft fingers adjusting each of the five pairs of strings. She sat alone in the queen’s presence chamber at Richmond Palace. The room was special to her, as it had been her mother’s. Mary had only been six years old when her mother died. The memory of her was fading, although she thought she could sense her presence in the room.

  The fine instrument was one of her most prized possessions. Decorated with an inlaid Tudor rose, the lute had been a gift from her father, who’d always loved to hear her play. She tried a few experimental runs and smiled to herself as the notes rang clear and true.

  She’d learned a wide repertoire of tunes by heart and practised often, although she frowned as she studied the sheet music on a silver stand in front of her. Henry had taken to composing new works and wished her to play them for him. He treated her with a little more respect now she’d turned sixteen. He also seemed pleased to have her at his side at banquets, often asking her to play and sing for his visiting dignitaries.

  This time the occasion was to impress scarlet-robed cardinals, envoys from the Vatican, and the flamboyant Spanish ambassadors of Catherine’s father, King Ferdinand. Ambitious nobles and their gossiping wives crowded her brother’s great hall. Mary found herself wishing Charles Brandon could have been among the guests. She had no idea if he was even still alive, although she prayed for him each day.

  The entertainments began with the choir of the Chapel Royal, praising God and the king, their perfect harmonies echoing to the heavens. Then followed Henry’s mummers, dressed as ancient Greeks in white togas and wearing green laurel wreaths, performing a play by Sophocles. It seemed the guests were growing bored of the well-intended moralising and cheered when at last it was Mary’s turn.

  She dressed as Euterpe, the Greek muse of music, in a long flowing gown of cream satin with a gold circlet on her plaited hair. As well as Henry’s composition she sang a traditional Spanish lament, taught to her by Catherine, to rapturous applause and cheers from King Ferdinand’s ambassadors.

  Henry called out her name, summoning her to sit between himself and the queen as a reward. The colour rose to her cheeks as she realised she’d become the centre of attention.

  ‘You’ve helped retrieve this evening’s entertainment from those accursed mummers, dear sister,’ Henry smiled, ‘and ensured the ambassadors report the night as a success. At least one of my sisters knows how to please me.’

  ‘Thank you, dearest brother.’ Mary studied his face, trying to judge his mood. ‘Is there news of Margaret?’

  Henry nodded. ‘We’ve had letters from our sister Margaret.’ Henry shared a look with Catherine then drained his goblet of wine and gestured to his server for another.

  The news was a surprise to Mary, who’d almost forgotten she had a sister. She’d only been seven years old when Margaret was sent to Scotland and could hardly imagine how she might look. Mary did a quick calculation. Her sister would be twenty-three now. She received a short letter from Margaret long ago and agonised over her reply, yet never received an answer.

  ‘Is our sister well?’

  ‘Her son lives.’ Henry scowled as if the thought reminded him of his own situation. ‘She named him James – and she’s pregnant again.’

  ‘Does this mean we are at peace with the Scots?’ Mary found it hard to understand how their sister could be an enemy.

  ‘Far from it!’ Heads turned as Henry raised his voice. ‘Her husband appointed himself as a peacemaker – but will support the French, given the chance.’

  ‘Are we sure of this?’

  Henry glowered at her question. ‘Our sources are reliable.’ He seemed to realise he’d spoken a little harshly. ‘We offered to send Margaret the jewels our father bequeathed her, if she would only confirm the Scots would not attack England, yet she refused.’

  Mary hesitated to ask more. She’d learned better than to press her brother on affairs of state, and fought back the frustration building inside her. Matters such as these affected them all, yet secrets were kept from her.

  Queen Catherine filled the silence. ‘The child she carries is too soon after the birth of her son. I’ve ordered the Abbot of Westminster to deliver the sacred girdle of Our Lady to comfort your sister in her confinement – other than that there is little we can do.’ She put her hand on Mary’s arm and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Our agents in the Scottish court tell us she is not as well as her letters would have us believe.’

  Mary wasn’t surprised to learn her brother had spies in the Scottish court. Her father once bitterly complained that every foreign visitor was a spy at heart, looking for signs of weakness to turn to their own advantage. The ambassadors drinking his wine would report all they heard back to King Ferdinand. Even the visiting cardinals were no doubt spying for the pope in Rome.

  What troubled her was this unexpected glimpse of her sister Margaret’s life. Henry said King James wished for peace, so that could only mean one thing. He was prepared to risk all their father worked so hard to achieve, to win personal glory.

  * * *

  It seemed an eternity before Charles Brandon returned and Mary could tell his time at sea had changed him. His skin had darkened from the sun, his hair was cut shorter and his long beard neatly trimmed. He dressed like a wealthy merchant in a fine black velvet doublet with gold buttons. A heavy gold chain of office hung around his neck and he wore an engraved silver dagger with a jewelled hilt on a low-slung belt.

  Mary had changed her mind several times before choosing a gown of rich crimson satin embroidered with gold thread. Her fashionable hood ringed with pure white pearls made her look older and her girlish figure had started to fill out at last. Her heart quickened as she saw a flash of appreciation in Brandon’s eyes before he turned his attention to Catherine.

  The queen dismissed her other ladies, who retired to a discreet distance, and held out he
r hand for him to kiss. ‘Welcome home, Master Brandon. We hear so many rumours about events in France it is hard to tell the truth from speculation.’ She smiled at him. ‘Please be seated. We would like to hear your account first-hand.’

  Brandon looked uncomfortable. ‘The king asked for such matters not to be spoken of, Your Grace.’

  ‘He would wish you to tell me, Master Brandon.’ There was a firmness in her voice that demanded an answer.

  ‘Of course, Your Grace,’ he glanced at Mary, ‘although as you will have heard, it is sad news I bring you.’

  ‘We give thanks to God you have returned safely with the Sovereign – and we hear the Mary Rose is safe in Southampton.’

  Brandon nodded. ‘Others have fared less well, Your Grace, including our good friend Thomas Knyvet.’ He shook his head, then continued. ‘We engaged with pirates and sunk one of their ships before we encountered the French and Breton fleets. A cannon shot shattered the mast of the Sovereign and we had to withdraw to make repairs. Thomas Knyvet was aboard the Regent, which fired on a French warship, the Marie la Cordeliere, and engaged her with grappling irons. There was a pitched battle and many men had crossed to the French ship when there was a great explosion.’ He stopped talking, his face grave.

  Catherine leaned forward in her chair. ‘Please continue, Master Brandon.’

  ‘I cannot be certain, Your Grace, but it’s thought her gunpowder store caught fire. I regret to tell you both ships burned to the waterline and were lost.’

  Mary raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Thomas Knyvet burned to death?’

  Brandon shook his head. ‘One of the men we rescued told us he was killed by a cannon shot, but many of his crew were burned or drowned. We were able to pick up only a small number of survivors and most died before we reached home. Some six hundred men were lost, Your Grace, and twice that number of Frenchmen. We repaired our ship as best we could, then a violent storm forced our return to England.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘We understand why you’ve been asked not to speak of this – and shall pray for the souls of those lost in the service of the king.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  They sat in silence for a moment and Mary saw her chance. ‘What is next for you, Master Brandon?’ She tried to sound as if she was making polite conversation yet her future might depend on his answer.

  He studied their faces as if deciding how much to tell them. ‘The king has asked me to lead an invasion of Brittany. This must be kept a close secret.’

  Mary nodded, her mind a whirl of consequences. ‘Of course. When must you leave?’

  ‘First, I have to recruit an army,’ he looked serious, ‘and I have some business to attend to. I plan to purchase the wardship of Lady Elizabeth Grey.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘Sir Thomas Knyvet was her stepfather – she must be no more than seven years old?’

  Brandon nodded. ‘The poor girl is left an orphan. It will cost me a small fortune – but the king is in agreement for me to have her father’s title and become Viscount Lisle.’

  ‘You would have to marry her first!’

  ‘I am free to marry, Your Grace. I’ve been a widower long enough.’

  Mary’s dreams evaporated like the morning dew in summer heat. Charles Brandon hardly glanced at her throughout the exchange. All he cared for was his title and returning to the war. She bit her lip as she struggled to hide the painful sense of loss of what might have been. She must prepare for marriage to Prince Charles and forget her foolish ideas of a future with this incorrigible adventurer.

  5

  Autumn 1513

  Their voices joined in angelic harmony as Mary and Jane Popincourt rehearsed for the concert to celebrate Henry’s return from France. Mary played her clavichord while Jane sang in tuneful French of chivalry and courtly love. They laughed together as the song finished with the confession of a secret passion.

  ‘If I know my brother he will take great delight in this.’ Mary smiled as she looked through the sheets of music, trying to decide the order of songs. Henry could be the most difficult of men at times but no one showed more appreciation of her music and singing.

  ‘We should choose a solo for you, Jane, your voice is too pure to always be with mine.’

  Jane gave her a look of pretended shyness. ‘Only if you join me on your lute, my lady, and it would have to be in English, as I think the king will have heard more than enough from the French.’

  Mary’s constant companion in Henry’s absence, Jane helped improve her French and entertained her with scandalous tales of her time at the court of King Louis of France. Mary realised she’d led a sheltered life, despite her brother’s youthful bawdiness, and pressed Jane to describe the most salacious stories of how the French king indulged his mistresses.

  They were about to continue their rehearsal when a servant appeared to announce the queen’s herald, delivering a letter for Mary on a silver tray. After five years of waiting she hesitated before breaking the dark wax seal on the letter.

  Her betrothed, Prince Charles of Castile, had finally replied and her future hung in the balance as she turned the folded yellow parchment in her hands. He would be thirteen years old now, with less than a year until he’d be old enough to marry her.

  She hoped the letter would confirm their wedding day and end the troubling rumours, but feared it would tell her otherwise. Even when her father agreed her dowry, as well as jewels and gold plate, he’d made provision for Henry to use the money to finance another marriage of his choosing, if he so wished.

  There had been so few letters from young Charles she could hardly recall the last one. She’d sent the prince a finely crafted gold ring and agonised for days over the wording of the letter sent with it. After months of waiting she received a jewelled pendant in return.

  She’d worn the pendant on a gold chain around her neck every day since, yet the letter accompanying her precious jewel was a terse note, answering none of her questions, merely confirming it was sent to her from the prince, who called her his ‘Bon Marie’.

  She ran the tip of her finger over the elaborate seal of a royal crest, sensing something out of the ordinary, then she realised the significance of it being unbroken. Henry read any letters before her but he was far away with his army in France. The last news was that they had besieged the city of Tournai, after taking Thérouanne.

  For the first time, she might learn something before Henry. Breaking the wax seal, Mary began to read. Written in the monkish, regular hand of a scribe, the letter began with the usual formalities. She frowned as she studied the flamboyant signature at the end.

  ‘It’s from Prince Charles’s grandfather, Emperor Maximilian – and he confuses me with my poor sister Margaret.’ She handed the letter to Jane.

  Jane read quickly, making short work of the formal French, then raised an eyebrow as she looked up at Mary. ‘Are you certain this is meant for your eyes, my lady?’

  ‘It was delivered to me by the queen’s own herald – do you think she was supposed to see it first?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I imagine the queen has more important things on her mind, my lady. The war with Scotland has been won but there are others who try to take advantage of the king’s absence.’

  Mary’s eyes widened as a troubling thought occurred to her. ‘Perhaps there has been a change of plan now my sister Margaret is able to remarry?’

  Jane’s face changed to a look of concern. ‘Queen Margaret is hardly a suitable bride for Prince Charles.’

  ‘You know the king’s advisors have no concern with suitability, Jane, only political advantage. Now King James is dead, my sister’s son inherits the throne of Scotland. Margaret rules the country in his name until he comes of age, so my brother has good reason to bring her back within the fold.’

  ‘King James was misguided to risk an invasion of the north while the king is away.’ She gave Mary a wry look. ‘The people are calling Queen Catherine the new Saint Joan. She has become quite a he
ro.’

  Mary nodded. ‘She ordered a special suit of armour, complete with a fine jewelled helmet – then let the people’s imagination and the gossipers do the rest. In truth, she never even travelled to the north.’

  ‘I heard that she wished King James’s body to be sent to the king in France.’

  Mary nodded. ‘It’s true. She was persuaded to send his bloodstained coat instead, as proof he was dead and to be used as a war banner.’

  ‘I always thought the queen so devout, yet she seems as warlike as her mother, Queen Isabella.’

  Mary heard the note of criticism in Jane’s voice. ‘She sees my brother’s adventures in France as a holy war, defending the good name of the pope.’

  Jane looked puzzled. ‘But Pope Julius is dead and the new Pope Leo wants peace?’

  ‘Yes – but King James broke a sacred oath he made to my father. In return for Margaret’s hand he swore never to invade England.’ Mary shook her head. ‘I was too young to understand but now I see my sister Margaret’s marriage was my father’s plan to preserve the peace.’

  Jane refolded the letter and handed it back to Mary. ‘At least the king will soon return from his adventures in France, so you will be able to ask him if Emperor Maximilian has confused you with your sister.’

  Mary studied the folded parchment in her hand, which she’d hoped would provide some answers but instead raised so many questions. ‘I pray you are right, Jane, but I’ve waited too long for news of my wedding. Please tell my servants I wish to travel to see Queen Catherine.’

  Fallen leaves swirled in the autumnal breeze around the ancient stone gatehouse. Mary shivered and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. She disliked the sinister Tower of London with its damp, dark rooms. Although Henry had the royal apartments refurnished and decorated with bright tapestries they were still haunted by ghosts of the past.