by Tony Riches
Henry glanced at Thomas Wolsey, who cleared his throat, as if they’d anticipated the question. ‘When you renounce this engagement, Princess Mary, you will state that the prince has failed to ratify the treaty as agreed at the time.’ Although he must know she was eighteen years old he spoke as if to a small child.
Mary stared at Wolsey, at a loss for words, sensing his hand behind this turn of events. She recalled Catherine telling her he was a shrewd, ambitious man. ‘Am I to expect that you have another suitor planned for me, Your Grace?’ She addressed her brother but saw Wolsey’s eyes widen for a second before his composure returned.
Henry’s chair scraped the tiled floor as he pushed it back. Their meeting was over. ‘One step at a time, dearest sister. First you must make the necessary renouncement, then we shall see.’ He forced another smile but Mary knew it was achieved with effort.
Catherine’s attempted cheerfulness failed to hide the signs she’d been crying. Mary found her alone in her private chambers and immediately guessed the reason. Henry was not beyond blaming Catherine for her father’s treachery.
‘My wedding is to be called off, Your Grace.’
Catherine nodded. ‘Henry informed me this morning.’ Catherine’s new-found confidence was gone. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Mary. I knew how Henry would react as soon as I heard my father now sides with France.’
‘He told me Emperor Maximilian also seeks peace with France—’
‘As does, the pope,’ Catherine interrupted, ‘which means we can no longer see this as a holy war.’ She studied Mary for a moment, as if making a decision. ‘You must promise to keep what I am to tell you secret, even from those closest to you, before it is time.’ It was an order.
‘Of course.’ Mary knew Catherine referred to her gossiping ladies. ‘You have my word.’
‘You are to become Queen of France.’ She lowered her voice. ‘We are in negotiations with King Louis of France. He desires you as his wife.’
Mary’s heart raced as she struggled to think through the consequences. ‘King Louis is a lecherous, decrepit old man, without morals.’
Catherine gasped. ‘Who told you this?’
Surprised by her challenging tone, Mary answered without thinking. ‘Jane Popincourt. She once served at the court of King Louis.’
‘King Louis can choose whoever he wishes as his wife and he’s chosen you. As for Jane, she is fortunate I care for her – and she has no right to talk of morals.’ Her tone became conspiratorial. ‘You know Jane has become the mistress of our French general, the Duke of Longueville?’
Mary sat back in her chair. Jane was the one person she trusted with her secret thoughts yet clearly she kept her own secrets. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Let me offer you advice, Mary.’ Catherine spoke as if to a child, just as Thomas Wolsey had. ‘You will marry the King of France in good grace – and be grateful for what you have.’
Mary studied Catherine’s eyes and read the sincerity in them. She knew she had no choice. Henry could marry her to whoever he chose and there was nothing to be gained by making it difficult for him. She would have to forget the young prince and prepare for a new life, as Queen of France.
‘In my heart I always knew it could be like this.’
Catherine nodded. ‘The good Lord guides our destiny, Mary. Sometimes it is hard to know his purpose.’ A note of sadness carried in her voice.
‘You’ve been caught up in this row between Henry and your father?’
Catherine nodded. ‘My father is right to seek peace with France – yet Henry sees it as betrayal.’ She looked into Mary’s eyes and brightened a little. ‘I pray your marriage will bring peace to us all.’
Mary lay awake, running through the events of the day in her mind. She picked up the portrait of the prince who would now never be hers. King Louis was three times her age. She believed Jane Popincourt told the truth when she’d said he didn’t have long to live. Perhaps when he died she would be able to marry her young Prince of Castile after all.
She resolved to take Catherine’s advice and become a good Queen of France, not under duress from Henry but in good faith. She would continue her father’s work in keeping the peace between France and England. She had chosen her motto, La volenté de Dieu me suffit, and would place her trust in the will of God. The peace of Christendom might depend on it.
A memory drifted into her thoughts as she recalled the handsome face of Charles Brandon, watching her with a deep longing. He was betrothed to marry his young ward, Lady Elizabeth, when she came of age. Perhaps if King Louis died she could marry for love, if she could only find a way for Henry to agree.
* * *
The elderly Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, stumbled with the words of a Latin address at Mary’s wedding ceremony, on a warm August day at Greenwich Palace, earning a scowl from Henry. She’d renounced her compact with Charles. Taking it upon herself to announce that he had treated her poorly, she asked Henry’s forgiveness, which he reluctantly granted.
Mary glanced at the Duke of Longueville, standing in for King Louis and dressed, like her, in cloth of gold and purple satin. She could see why Jane was so attracted to him. Suave and handsome, he’d been released from the Tower to become the ambassador of France and joined Henry’s privileged inner circle.
The duke returned her glance, a twinkle of amusement in his eye, no doubt in anticipation of the intimate moment they were soon to share. Catherine’s well-intended warning of what was to come simply heightened her nerves and the prospect filled her with dread.
A polite clearing of the throat broke through her reverie. It was time to repeat her vows, in French as rehearsed the previous day. She spoke clearly and with as much sincerity as she could, for this was not the time to suggest she was anything other than a willing bride for so great a king.
The duke took her right hand in his and smiled as he placed a gold ring on her fourth finger, then kissed her. The heavy ring was a little loose and she made a mental note to have a goldsmith improve the size. The kiss surprised her with its tenderness and the sensation of it lingered.
Mary glanced at the watching crowd of guests and saw a satisfied expression on the face of Thomas Wolsey. Behind him, standing well back, was Charles Brandon. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before she turned her attention back to the ceremony.
Queen Catherine, proud to be pregnant for the fourth time, gave Mary a nod of approval. She had been right. A new peace treaty was already declared with France, and the reparation of a million gold crowns more than compensated for the expense of Mary’s dowry.
At last the dreaded time came and she was led to the richly decorated bedchamber, followed by the guests who were to act as witnesses. Bishops and foreign ambassadors, knights and nobles, and even a scarlet-capped papal envoy thronged to watch the strange ritual.
She allowed her ladies to undress her, unplaiting and combing her long hair so it flowed over her shoulders, a sign of her purity. Standing in her white satin nightdress, she crossed her hands protectively over her breasts, then summoned all her strength of will and let her arms fall to her side. Mary did her best to stand straight and proud, despite the many eyes upon her.
Her handmaidens led her to the bed where she lay, eyes closed, trying to focus on repeating the words of her chosen prayer, Deus in adiutorium meum intende Domine ad adiuvandum me festina. O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me.
She opened her eyes in time to see the handsome Duke of Longueville place his bared leg against hers. The symbolic act of intimate contact drew a raucous cheer from some of Henry’s lusty nobles and a blush to Mary’s face. There would be no going back now her marriage was consummated before so many witnesses.
She closed her eyes again. No man had ever touched her like that before and she sensed her life would never be the same again. Mary continued her repeated psalm, Confundantur et revereantur qui quaerunt animam meam. Let them be confounded and ashamed that seek my soul.
An image drifted into her consciousness. The face of Charles Brandon after she’d said her wedding vows. The special bond shared between them should have meant at least a smile of acknowledgement. Instead all she’d seen in his eyes was a bleak, empty look of deep sadness.
Mary saw no sign of Brandon at the High Mass in the palace chapel, the lavish banquet or the dancing which followed. Even the sight of her brother’s boisterous and increasingly drunken dancing failed to amuse her.
Unlike her young prince, Mary’s new husband insisted she must travel to France by Michaelmas. He sent envoys with his wedding gift, a magnificent jewel with an impressive pearl pendant, the ‘Mirror of Naples’, which once belonged to Duke Francis of Brittany. Mary could hardly enclose the large pear-shaped pearl within her hand and Henry promptly had it valued at over sixty thousand crowns.
King Louis also sent a Frenchman, Jean Perréal, to paint a portrait of his new queen, together with letters proclaiming his ardent love and adoration of her. Although insistent on writing in her own hand, Mary’s new secretary and French tutor, an ordained Cambridge scholar named John Palsgrave, helped her word a shorter yet equally passionate reply.
Mary frowned when Palsgrave read it to her. ‘Do you not think it seems a little insincere?’
Palsgrave grinned. ‘If I might quote Julius Caesar, Your Grace, Fere homines libenter id quod volunt credunt.’
‘King Louis will believe that which he wishes?’ She laughed. ‘I must thank Queen Catherine for your appointment, Master Palsgrave. I will have need of your guidance.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace, it is a great honour to be of service.’ He smiled and gave a little bow.
Mary studied her cleric’s face, trying to see the man behind the veneer of politeness. King Louis refused Jane Popincourt as one of her ladies and Wolsey replaced her with Lady Jane Guildford, brought out of retirement. Although Mary suspected the fault lay with the charming but married Duke of Longueville, she welcomed Lady Guildford to her household.
She would need someone else to act as her confidante, particularly as a concern lingered in her mind. Thomas Wolsey would have contrived to have an informant close to her and the engaging John Palsgrave would be an ideal candidate.
‘Tell me – how did you gain your knowledge of Parisian manners?’
Palsgrave looked up in surprise at her question. ‘I travelled to Paris before my ordination to study, Your Grace, and have an enquiring mind.’ He smiled at the thought. ‘You will find the French court quite different from anything you’ve experienced here in England.’
After a frenzy of packing, including sixteen new gowns and many fine tapestries, the entire court left Greenwich for the port of Dover. Cheering crowds lined their route from London to watch the spectacle of the grandest procession ever seen and call out their farewells and good wishes. Henry rode at Mary’s side until it began to rain and she chose to keep Catherine company in her covered litter, drawn by six grey palfreys.
Behind them followed six hundred lords and knights of the realm and countless wagons, laden with Mary’s ladies, luggage and provisions for the voyage. At the rear came a crowd of servants and retainers, opportunistic merchants and barefoot young boys, some struggling to keep up.
Heavy rain and blustery sea breezes forced them to seek refuge in Dover Castle when they finally arrived. Henry declared the storm too fierce for their flotilla to sail, so there was nothing to do but wait. Mary passed the long hours with Catherine, trying to learn what she could of the mysteries and dangers of childbirth.
‘King Louis needs an heir, Mary, and soon.’ The edge to Catherine’s voice revealed what she might have thought of it. ‘He has two daughters, yet unless he can produce a son, peace between our countries will again be put at risk by his son-in-law, Duke Francis.’
‘That’s why he is so keen for me to arrive in France?’
Catherine smiled. ‘One of the reasons, Mary,’ she caressed her swollen midriff as she answered, ‘just as why I pray to provide your brother a son.’
‘You think it might be a boy this time?’
‘If it pleases God. I am certain a strong and healthy boy would restore Henry’s faith in me.’
Mary understood. ‘Henry loves you dearly, Catherine. You cannot be blamed for your father’s actions.’
‘How I wish that were true.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Wolsey has been intercepting my letters to my father for some time. He knows too much.’
‘Have faith, Catherine.’ She smiled to lighten the mood. ‘You can pray for this weather to improve – and I shall pray you have the son you long for.’
Henry’s patience failed him after nearly three weeks in the confines of the castle, waiting for the storms to pass. By the start of October, he decided the fleet should sail, despite ominous grey skies. Mary said her farewells to Catherine and walked to the quayside with him at dawn’s first light to catch the early tide.
Mary’s grand ship strained against its mooring ropes as if eager to leave. Young sailors climbed recklessly high on the yardarms, readying the heavy canvas sails. She looked up and saw Henry’s standard fluttering at the topmast. A dozen other ships waited at anchor, ready to sail as her escort. Henry had planned to accompany her aboard the Great Harry but there was no longer time. She must say her farewells to him.
‘Godspeed, dearest sister.’ Henry placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘You will be the greatest queen France has ever seen – but you will not forget your brother?’
Mary stared into his unfathomable eyes. ‘You will be in my thoughts and prayers always.’ She made a judgement. ‘I have only one request, if I may?’
Henry smiled, clearly in good spirits to see the fleet readying to sail after such a long wait. ‘Name it, Mary.’ He sounded curious.
‘I ask you to consent to my choice of husband, if it is God’s wish that I outlive King Louis?’ She held her breath and watched for his reaction.
Henry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘Dear sister, you shall have my blessing.’
She embraced him for the first time she could remember, aware that it might also be the last, and placed a small kiss on his bearded cheek. ‘Thank you, Henry.’
Mary turned for one last look up at the castle where Catherine waited with the next King of England. She said a silent prayer for them both before allowing Sir Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, to escort her aboard her ship. Her new life was beginning at last and a plan was already forming in her mind. One day she intended to hold her brother to his promise.
7
Autumn 1514
Mary leaned against the wooden rail, refreshed by the cool air of a stiffening sea breeze. The rail juddered under her hand as a wave slapped the side of the hull and she tasted bitter salt as the icy spray splashed her face. The ship tilted under her feet and she took a firmer grip on the rail to steady herself.
Thick ropes creaked in protest in the rigging high over her head as the wind veered, causing sails to flap like rolls of thunder. Sailors shouted to each other, hauling on sheets to trim the troublesome canvas and keep them headed for France.
Fourteen ships of her fleet flanked her in formation like flocks of migrating geese she’d seen pass over Richmond. Some flew the bright-blue flag with gold fleur-de-lis, her escort of French galleons. One of Henry’s older ships, the Great Elizabeth, was wrecked on its way to join the others, with the loss of half the crew.
She studied the swirling grey-green waves with their foaming white crests and shivered at the thought. She’d never learned to swim but could imagine what it must be like to drown in the freezing sea. Although unused to sailing any distance, she sensed concern in the face of the captain when she asked about the risk of the storm returning.
‘Rest assured, Your Grace, this ship has crossed the Channel many times in far worse seas.’ The grey-bearded captain’s eyes avoided hers. He pulled at his cap, as if uncertain how to address her and looked keen to return to his work.
Mary returned to the s
anctuary of her small cabin and lay back on the narrow pallet bed, staring up at the creaking wooden ceiling. She no longer felt in control of her destiny, yet God had chosen this path for her and she must follow it in good faith. She’d had plenty of time to think about her new life as the Queen of France but her mind filled with questions and doubts.
It would have been easier for her with the young Prince of Castile. Instead, the shadowy figure of King Louis loomed large in her future. Mary found herself recalling Jane Popincourt’s stories of him. She said he’d blamed his wives for failing to give him a son and openly cavorted with mistresses.
Crippled with gout and suffering from an incurable skin disease, it wasn’t surprising this made him temperamental. Nevertheless, he’d outwitted King Ferdinand, Emperor Maximilian and even Henry, to become the most powerful Christian king.
Mary recalled Catherine’s well-intended advice, yet her position seemed precarious, depending on providing Henry with an heir. She wished she’d been older when her own mother was alive, as her father often said she’d been the most perfect queen any king could wish for.
An idea occurred to her and she sent her servant to summon Lady Jane Guildford. With the informal title of Mother of Maids, Lady Guildford, often referred to as Mother Guildford, had known Mary all her life and served as lady-in-waiting to both her grandmothers. She would know how to deal with King Louis.
Lady Guildford appeared to be suffering with the movement of the ship. ‘Please accept my apologies, Your Grace. I am not much of a sailor.’ Her face looked deathly pale and she gripped the door frame as if expecting to lose her footing at any moment.
Mary offered her the only chair in her small cabin while she sat on the pallet bed. ‘I pray the weather will improve, Mother Guildford, although there’s little sign of it.’
