by Tony Riches
‘Henry will tire of her before then, mark my words.’
Mary gently took his injured hand in hers. ‘This is an omen. You will have to take a rest from tournaments for a while, so take me to your home in Suffolk. You could spend more time with your son and daughters, learn to be a father to them.’
Brandon agreed. ‘It’s time we lived together as a family, not as the former Queen of France and the king’s stable boy,’ he grinned, ‘but as the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, lord and lady of the manor.’
15
Spring 1517
The rolling Suffolk countryside continued to the hazy horizon, uninterrupted by any sign of a town or village. It reminded Mary of rural France, with narrow, twisting roads and green pastures. Although London was some seventy-five miles distant, the ride had taken five long days, so it seemed much further.
Her horse stumbled on the potholed road and with a jolt Mary realised she’d drifted off to sleep in the saddle. Her back ached as she turned to look at the straggling line of servants and packhorses following them, loaded with all her possessions.
Little Henry travelled in one of the covered wagons they called a char with his two nursemaids. Mary worried about how pale he’d looked last time she checked on him, despite her physician’s assurances. She felt a twinge of anguish at the thought he might be ill, then forced it from her mind.
Brandon saw her look of concern. ‘Not far now.’ He raised his arm and gave her a grin of encouragement as he pointed a gloved hand. ‘That’s Westhorpe Hall ahead.’
She peered into the distance and sighed with relief as she saw brick towers rising above the trees. Brandon told her the old manor was in such a state of disrepair he’d decided to rebuild it, despite their rising debts. He was keen for her to make it their family home but Mary had mixed feelings about living so far from court. They’d argued about it, as she’d been happy at Suffolk Place and suspected she was being moved out of the way.
‘Out of sight will mean out of mind, at least as far as my brother is concerned.’ The note of bitterness in her words had been unintended, as they had no choice, yet she’d noticed her husband’s frown of annoyance. He knew she was right.
Mary understood they could no longer afford the lifestyle she’d been used to. The last payment from France failed to arrive and her supply of precious jewels dwindled. Despite her brother’s patience, she worried about their growing debts. Cardinal Wolsey was not a man she wished to owe favours to.
They crossed a stone bridge over a wide green moat and Mary had her first view of her new home. A freshly painted red-and-white Tudor rose decorated an imposing three-storey gatehouse. She smiled when she saw the rose, then realised it must have replaced the crest of the previous owners, the ill-fated de la Pole family.
Through the open gates she could see the house was built around an open square courtyard with a wooden dovecote in the centre. High towers at each corner, topped with turrets and pinnacles, reminded her of those built by her father at Richmond Palace. Two-storey ranges linked the towers to the gatehouse on each side, with new mullioned windows which must have cost a small fortune.
A line of servants waited to greet them and bowed or curtseyed as she passed. A few Mary recognised from Suffolk Place but most were strangers to her. She felt their eyes making a judgement but smiled back. She counted forty-seven men and seven maidservants and wondered how they would afford so large a household.
A young groom offered a hand to help Mary dismount and Brandon led her through heavy oak doors into the great hall. Despite the money he’d spent her first impression was one of disappointment.
It looked unfinished, with one wall of bare stonework not yet rendered in whitewashed plaster. Lack of funds meant rushes on the floor instead of the patterned French tiles she loved, and the tang of soot and smoke suggested the new chimneys weren’t drawing properly.
She saw he waited for her opinion and stared up to the high, vaulted ceiling before turning to him. ‘We shall make this one of the finest houses in Suffolk.’
He frowned at her tone. ‘I hoped you would like it—’
‘I do.’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘I’m just a little tired after the journey.’ She saw no point in upsetting him now.
He nodded in understanding and led her into the dining chamber, where a dark oak table was set for a meal with silver candelabras. Mary counted a dozen place settings and noted the two high-backed chairs, side by side, like thrones.
She smiled at Brandon. ‘We’re expecting guests?’
‘We must always be ready for a visit from the king.’ He grinned at the thought. ‘I’ve suggested a royal progress of the north, and I look forward to entertaining our neighbours.’
She noticed a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘There’s something else you want to tell me?’
Brandon made a sign to the waiting servant, who opened a side door. Two young ladies entered, dressed in flowing satin gowns and headdresses in the latest French fashion. It was only when the eldest curtseyed and flashed her a confident smile that Mary realised who they were.
‘Good day, Lady Mary. Welcome to Westhorpe Hall.’
Mary looked at Brandon’s daughters in astonishment. ‘Anne. You’ve grown into a beautiful young lady. It seems you have learned much at the court of Margaret of Austria. How old are you now?’
‘I am ten, my lady.’
Brandon grinned and nodded to his youngest daughter, Mary, who took one step forward and bobbed a curtsey with less confidence than Anne, her eyes to the ground.
‘My lady.’
Mary smiled. ‘How old are you now, Mary?’
Brandon’s daughter looked up at her with his same grey-blue eyes. ‘I shall be seven this year, my lady.’ Her well-educated young voice echoed in the chamber.
‘Well, I welcome you both to our new home. I’ll be glad of your company, as I expect your father will be away at court often.’ Again, she heard the note of unintended criticism, although she knew their future depended on retaining his influence at her brother’s court. ‘You must meet little Henry. He will be tired from travelling but it’s good to have our growing family together at last.’
They continued the tour of the house, visiting the newly lime-washed kitchens, where he showed her an enormous range with storerooms, a well-stocked pantry and cavernous cellars lined with barrels of wine. Mary wondered how much of it was paid for by their loans. Brandon had been evasive when she’d asked him how much he’d spent but he’d admitted it must be over twelve thousand pounds.
He led her out through a door and across the open cobblestoned courtyard, with its white painted dovecote. White doves fluttered into the air as they crossed to the arched doorway of the private chapel. The iron-studded door swung open. Mary gasped at the sight of the magnificent stained-glass windows, a final surprise he’d been saving for her. The spring sunlight cast the bright colours of blue, red and gold on to the chapel floor, giving the room an ethereal quality.
In the centre glowed a magnificent Madonna and Child, while the window to the left had a Tudor rose with Mary’s fleur-de-lis and crown as Queen of France. To the right shone Brandon’s gold-crowned coat of arms and Order of the Garter.
‘They are so beautiful.’ She took his hand.
Brandon looked pleased with himself. ‘I brought a craftsman over from Paris.’ He smiled. ‘You must be tired. Let me show you our apartments. There’s a view of the deer park from the new windows – we might even see a stag.’
She followed him along a gallery to a winding stone staircase which led to the upper floor. Mary saw he’d made an effort to recreate their chambers at Suffolk Place but the floorboards creaked like an old warship and the unfashionable furniture was probably left behind by the de la Pole family.
At least the great carved bed was new, with burgundy velvet hangings trimmed with gold tassels and a finely woven brocade coverlet. Mary lay back on it and gestured for him to join her. The ropes supporting the mattress creaked as t
hey tensioned under their weight.
She felt an overwhelming desire to close her eyes and sleep but too many questions troubled her. She turned to Brandon. ‘We came here to make economies but I can see you’ve already spent a fortune and there is still much to do.’
He turned and studied her face for a moment before replying. ‘You are a Tudor princess, Queen of France. I could not have you live like a commoner.’
‘What will happen if King Francis withholds my dower payments?’
‘Then I shall sell some of my estates in the south and make the most of our holdings in the north.’
She smiled. ‘You make it sound so easy…’
Brandon grinned. ‘I’ve been in debt all my life but the king is in no hurry to be repaid.’
‘What of Wolsey? We must owe him a small fortune?’
He nodded. ‘We should give him some of your jewels to keep him from demanding what is owed.’
‘I shall write to him. I don’t wish to make an enemy of Cardinal Wolsey.’ Mary stroked Brandon’s thick beard, a trick she knew disarmed him. ‘Your daughters have grown into beautiful young ladies. Anne is much like her mother but little Mary has your eyes.’
Brandon smiled at the thought. ‘It’s a comfort to me that you welcome them. They will be good company for you when I’m away.’
‘You mean to return to court without me?’
‘There will be times when I have to. I also need to be seen by my tenants or we will never have the income due to us from our estates.’ He reached out an arm to pull her close. ‘You are safe here, and is it not good to be rid of the stench of the London streets?’
Mary relaxed back on the soft bed. He was right. ‘The country air will be good for young Henry’s health.’
‘And the new baby.’ His hand slid to the growing bulge in her emerald-green silk gown. ‘A girl this time?’
Mary smiled. ‘God willing. I shall be happy if it’s a girl or another boy, so long as the child is healthy.’
The summons came sooner than expected, but not from the king. The letter, delivered by a royal herald, was from Queen Catherine, recalling Mary to court as her sister Margaret was soon to return to Scotland.
Brandon gave her a look of concern. ‘I’ve heard talk of rioting in London. I’d prefer you to remain safe here with the girls and little Henry.’
Mary nodded. ‘I know, but this might be the last time I will see my sister.’
‘You could write to her suggesting she breaks her journey here?’
Mary frowned. She’d been glad of the excuse to return to court. ‘It’s most unusual for Catherine to summon me like this.’ Her hand fell unconsciously to her bulging middle. ‘She is also with child again. I hope this doesn’t mean there is a problem.’
* * *
The king’s armed guards patrolled the grounds of Richmond Palace, halberds at the ready, making it feel to Mary as if they were under siege. Henry’s court had moved from Greenwich after the rumours of plague and rioting in the city. Brandon was right. The streets of London had become a dangerous place. As usual, Queen Catherine seemed well informed.
‘The people blame foreign merchants for their troubles. They are looting the properties of the Flemish and the French and rioting in the streets.’
Mary frowned. Anything which endangered her fragile dower income from France could plunge them deeper into debt. ‘Something must be done, and soon.’
Catherine nodded. ‘We tried to keep the peace but Norfolk’s men have hanged so many that London has been called a city of gibbets.’
Mary had heard the stories. The aging Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who’d escorted her to France and her marriage to King Louis, had been heavy-handed with the rioters. Many, including women and young boys, had been condemned without trial.
Catherine shook her head as she continued. ‘They’ve arrested the ringleaders and will bring them for sentence before Henry. He must make an example of them.’
Margaret looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve seen the same in Scotland. It will cause greater unrest and make them martyrs if they have a traitor’s death. Could they not be punished in some other way?’
Catherine hesitated before replying. ‘It is within the king’s power to pardon them. Henry has little affection for foreign merchants who profit at the expense of the English.’
Mary glanced up at the note of resentment in Catherine’s voice. She was proudly Spanish at heart but something about the way she spoke sounded as if she was critical of Henry’s handling of the situation. Her eyes went to the bulge in Catherine’s gown. She turned to Catherine.
‘A show of clemency would make him popular with the people but the French ambassadors would protest.’
‘Let them protest.’ Margaret sounded unconcerned. ‘The three of us should propose this to Henry. Even a king cannot ignore the pleading of three queens.’
Brandon held her close in the darkness. He’d returned after dark to Richmond Palace, where Mary had chosen to stay in her childhood apartments. She guessed he’d had a long day in Westminster but seemed in good spirits as he told her about the king’s show of mercy. ‘The people love you, Mary.’
‘I can’t take the credit for his pardon.’ She pulled him closer. ‘The idea was Margaret’s and Henry didn’t have to agree to our plea.’
He kissed her. ‘You offered him a clever way out of a difficult situation. I happen to know he was grateful.’
‘It is humbling to think we saved people’s lives. What happened in the courtroom?’
‘I’ve never seen such a crowd at a trial. There was a rousing cheer when Henry announced his pardon. Wolsey tried to take the credit, of course, but Henry said it was the queen and his sisters who’d pleaded for clemency.’
Mary lay back in her bed, deep in thought. She turned to Brandon. ‘You were right when you warned me of the dangers of London.’ She smiled in the darkness. ‘Catherine seems well enough with her child and now my sister has left it’s time we returned to our family home.’
‘It warms my heart to hear that.’ He smiled at her in the moonlight from the window. ‘I love you, Mary Tudor.’
She kissed him. ‘I’ve seen how my sister overstayed her welcome and don’t wish to do the same. Henry has been generous with her, but I suspect he’ll not be so willing next time.’
* * *
The hooves of a hundred horses clattered on the cobblestones and cheering crowds greeted the Burgundian delegation as it made its way to Greenwich Palace. Brandon led the escort of the senior nobles of court, riding his fine black destrier at the side of the grim-faced Duke of Norfolk.
Mary’s decision to return to Westhorpe Hall in the spring proved timely, as London had been in the grip of the sweating sickness for most of the summer. Now it seemed to have passed they were invited, along with every noble family in England, to Henry’s extravagant reception for his devious Burgundian allies.
Queen Catherine and Mary both dressed in cloth of gold and wore coronets glittering with diamonds as a mark of their status. Henry managed to outshine them all with a heavy golden collar studded with the largest rubies Mary had ever seen.
After days of banqueting and a grand tournament in a specially built tiltyard, Mary felt weary. She also worried that Henry’s Burgundian treaties could alienate King Francis and further endanger his promise to ensure her French revenues were paid on time.
As usual, the jousting culminated in a battle between her brother and her husband which lasted for over four hours. Her hand went to her mouth each time their lances clashed, sending shattered splinters high into the air. She turned her head at the sound of a shrill laugh and saw it came from one of the ambassadors, already drunk on Henry’s best wine.
She whispered to Catherine. ‘Would it be disloyal to wonder if the Burgundians warrant such expense?’
Catherine agreed. ‘Henry is determined to impress them, although I worry he tempts fate with such … determined jousting.’
Mary smiled. ‘Brandon is
the same, refusing to leave such sports to younger men. I believe they encourage each other.’
Catherine looked thoughtful. ‘Will you be returning to your home in Suffolk when the delegation leaves?’
‘I would like the child to be born at Westhorpe.’ Mary lowered her voice to a whisper only Catherine could hear. ‘I will not have Wolsey take control and closet me at Bath Place, as he did when little Henry was born.’
Catherine nodded in understanding. ‘I was wondering if I might ask a great favour?’
‘Of course.’ Mary studied Catherine’s face, wondering what it could be.
‘I wished to make a pilgrimage to the priory at Walsingham to pray for a son but Henry will not permit it. Walsingham Priory is not such a great distance from Suffolk, so I must ask you to visit the shrine on my behalf.’
Mary hesitated. She was close to the time for her confinement and knew what Brandon would say when he heard. Walsingham was some fifty miles north of Westhorpe, yet she found herself agreeing. God willing, Catherine’s child would be the healthy boy needed to save her marriage.
The memory of her little Henry’s difficult birth was still fresh in her mind. As well as travelling to Walsingham to pray for Catherine she would also say a prayer for the child she felt moving inside her.
Mary’s small pilgrimage of servants and escorts had hardly completed twenty miles on the Great North Road from Richmond before the pains began. Although she rode in a covered wagon, the summer heat left Mary feeling faint and she decided to rest at the nearby manor house of her old friend Nicholas West, now Bishop of Ely.
Fortunately, Bishop West was at home and bowed to Mary as he smiled in greeting. ‘Welcome to Hatfield, Your Grace.’ His eyes went to her hands which cradled her middle.
Mary glanced back at her small retinue. ‘It’s good to see you again, Bishop West.’ She fought back a sudden stab of pain. ‘We need your help, as it seems God’s plan is for my child to be born earlier than expected.’
