Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  Bishop West gave her a look of concern. ‘Please come in, Your Grace. I will send for a midwife right away. You must rest while a room is prepared for your confinement.’ He led her through to a large hall with religious tapestries on the walls and left to make the arrangements.

  Mary felt another wave of pain, stronger than before, and was glad to sit in a comfortable chair. She looked around at the gleaming silver candlesticks and rich tapestries of biblical scenes. The furniture was of carved oak and there were more servants than she had at Westhorpe. Nicholas West seemed to be making a good living for himself since their time together in France.

  The midwife, a kindly, middle-aged woman, soon arrived and took charge of Mary’s confinement. ‘Do you think you can manage the stairs, my lady?’

  Mary smiled. ‘With your help, mistress. I think the baby will not be so long coming now.’

  The midwife gave her a knowing look and supported her as she made her way up the winding stairs to a bedchamber where the fire had already been lit to boil water, despite the summer heat.

  Mary lay back on the bed and prayed for the pain to stop. She turned to the midwife. ‘Please send one of the girls to summon the bishop.’

  Nicholas West must have been waiting close by, as he appeared in a moment and sat in the high-backed chair at the side of her bed. ‘My lady?’

  ‘I need your blessing, bishop.’ She spoke with some effort now, the pain threatening to overcome her.

  Bishop West thought for a moment, then clasped his hands in prayer and bowed his head. ‘Dear Lord, have mercy on this good lady, for her hour has come, and when her infant is delivered, let her think only of the joy that man is born into the world.’ He looked into Mary’s anguished eyes. ‘Amen.’

  Eighty men holding burning torches lined the route of the christening procession from the bishop’s house to Hatfield parish church. The king and queen were absent, as was Brandon, although Catherine sent two of her ladies to represent herself and her daughter Mary as godmothers.

  Mary looked up as she entered the church and gave thanks to the figure of Christ on the cross for the life of her child. Born on St Francis’ day, she named her Frances Brandon.

  16

  March 1518

  While the sweating sickness ravaged London, life at Westhorpe Hall settled into a routine for Mary. Brandon was in good spirits since he’d secured agreement with Wolsey to repay their debts, and their children thrived in the fresh country air.

  Rising early to bright spring sunshine, Mary busied herself with managing her household, reduced now to less than fifty staff and two ladies-in-waiting, Elizabeth and Anne Grey, who’d been with her since she first left for France.

  Now the long winter was over she’d been creating formal gardens like those she’d seen in the royal palaces in Paris. Her gardeners planted borders of sweet-scented lavender, already in bloom, around orderly herb gardens. Freshly cut English roses would soon brighten her rooms with their delicate perfume and fresh herbs would be used every day in the bustling kitchens.

  Little Henry, now two, grew stronger and had the red-gold hair of the Tudors. Baby Frances was proving to be a lively child and a challenge to her nursemaid, a buxom local woman called Anne Kyng, known to everyone as Mistress Annie.

  In the evenings Mary taught Brandon’s daughters to play the lute and clavichord, and together they sang tuneful French and English songs. Mary still missed the intrigue and excitement of Henry’s court but the girls were good company, particularly when Brandon stayed away on estate business.

  Anne was tall enough to fit into Mary’s beautiful French silk gowns and they would sit late into the evenings talking together as they made alterations. Mary took it on herself to complete their education and found they were full of questions, particularly about life at Henry’s court.

  ‘I saw the king once, in a joust against Father.’ Anne pulled a face. ‘He seemed quite terrifying. He made his horse rear up and jump into the air more times than I could count!’

  Mary laughed. ‘I shall arrange for you to be introduced to Henry when the time is right.’

  ‘I would be honoured,’ Anne’s nimble fingers made fine stitches with her needle as she spoke, ‘although I wouldn’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘He loves music. You could play the lute and sing at one of his banquets.’

  Anne stopped her sewing and looked up at Mary with questioning eyes. ‘Do you think I’m good enough to play for the king?’

  ‘We will practise until you feel confident.’

  Anne nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She looked at Mary as if trying to make a judgement. ‘Has my father said anything to you about finding me a husband?’

  ‘He has not,’ Mary frowned at the thought, ‘but I know he only wishes the best for you, Anne.’

  ‘I pray he doesn’t choose someone who is too old.’ She spoke softly, as if to herself. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

  Mary put her hand on Anne’s arm. ‘We must follow our destiny and trust in the Lord.’ As she said the words she recalled the adoration she’d seen in King Louis’ eyes. ‘My first husband was much older but showed me great kindness.’

  Later that night, Mary remembered Louis in her prayers. She knew Brandon’s idea of an ideal husband for his daughter would take little account of the difference in age. His main concerns in choosing a suitor would of course be power, influence and wealth. She resolved to do what she could to influence his choice, for young Anne’s sake.

  The royal herald arrived at Westhorpe late in the afternoon with a summons from the king. Henry wished Brandon and Mary to join the court at Abingdon for Easter. Mary helped Brandon word a reply confirming they would be honoured to attend and read it back to him before he signed it.

  Brandon nodded in approval. ‘I’m surprised we’re invited. The accommodation at Abingdon Palace is so limited less than half the court will be staying there.’

  ‘It’s good news,’ Mary smiled, ‘and we must count our blessings. I was beginning to fear my brother had forgotten us.’

  ‘I expect he’ll feel more at ease away from the daily count of deaths in London.’

  ‘The sweating sickness?’

  He nodded. ‘Henry’s right to stay away from the city. I heard that Lord Grey and several servants in the royal kitchens have succumbed. They say this is the worst ever, with few lasting more than a day. It seems only Thomas Wolsey is immune and continues to live in London, ruling like a king in Henry’s absence.’

  ‘His reward for leading a devout life.’ She gave him a wry look. ‘Are the physicians any closer to finding a cure?’

  ‘All the victims can do is pray for God’s mercy.’

  Westhorpe Hall became a buzz of preparation as everyone packed for the journey. Mary asked Anne to accompany her as one of her ladies-in-waiting. It would be her first time at court and much time was spent trying on different gowns, headdresses and jewellery.

  Such excitement over Easter reminded her of when she was a girl at her father’s court, so many years ago. She’d learned to appreciate the peace of rural Suffolk but worried about being forgotten. The summons was the first letter from her brother in months.

  Brandon kept busy with his estates but she knew he’d also been concerned about the length of time they’d been away. Norfolk and Wolsey would take advantage of his absence to promote their own interests and even plot against him.

  * * *

  Mary found the court at Abingdon strangely subdued. Henry gave them a warm welcome and showed great pride in his infant daughter Mary, now two years old and already dressed in cloth of gold. Catherine looked tired and wore a brocade gown with a gable hood trimmed with pearls that made her look older.

  They were guests of honour at the banquet on their first evening yet there was no music, and the overlong grace by the aging Archbishop Warham took Christ’s suffering as a theme. Mary thought Henry seemed preoccupied and was unsurprised when Catherine retired early.

  Once they were in the p
rivacy of their chambers Mary dismissed her servants and turned to Brandon. ‘What has become of my brother’s court? Where are his young companions? It seems so quiet here without them.’

  Brandon pulled off his boots and lay back on the bed, watching as she unpinned her French headdress and began to unplait her long hair. Although usually the work of her chambermaid, Mary didn’t want anyone overhearing her questions – or Brandon’s answers.

  He stared at her for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you much. They keep the details even from me,’ he frowned, ‘but there’s been talk of a plot to overthrow the king.’

  Mary’s eyes widened at the news. ‘Who would be behind such a thing? You should have told me.’

  ‘Better you don’t know, Mary. It seems no one is above the king’s suspicion.’

  ‘Does it have to do with his young revellers?’

  Brandon shook his head. ‘No, but the council has taken the king to task about their bawdy behaviour. He’s banished them from court, although I’m sure it’s only temporary.’ He smiled at her. ‘As you well know, he was often the worst offender.’

  ‘You encouraged him on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Well, I’m still not in the clear. It seems our benefactor Thomas Wolsey conspires against me again.’

  ‘I thought you’d reached a settlement with him?’

  ‘Hardly a settlement. We repay him more than we can afford,’ he scowled at the thought, ‘yet now he’s back to accusing me of offering Tournai to the French.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Wolsey will never be Bishop of Tournai. Surely he accepts that ship has sailed?’

  Brandon nodded. ‘He’s using it to reduce my influence. They’re saying I promised King Francis Tournai, in return for supporting our marriage. You know we did no deal with Francis, but I can never prove it.’

  Mary sat on the edge of the bed and began running her comb through her hair as she tried to think. ‘Perhaps … this business with Cardinal Wolsey can be turned to our advantage.’

  Brandon propped himself up on the thick pillows and gave her a questioning look. ‘What do you mean?’

  She stroked the silver comb through her hair again. ‘King Francis would pay for Tournai if the price was fair. My brother could broker a new peace accord with France and my dowager payments would be secured once more.’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Henry has no need for Tournai – in fact it costs him dearly to keep the garrison there.’ Brandon stroked his beard as he thought. ‘He could come out of this with a good profit, as well as being seen as a peacemaker, but we risk making an enemy of Thomas Wolsey.’

  ‘My father’s old advisor, Archbishop Richard Foxe, is here at court. He could broach the idea to Wolsey, who will be quick enough to take the credit – and could negotiate a pension from the French for his troubles.’

  ‘You are your father’s daughter, Mary Tudor.’ He laughed. ‘He would have been proud of you.’

  Mary offered to play the lute for Henry’s entertainment at the banquet the following evening. Fine wine flowed freely and the entire court packed into the great hall. She was pleased to see Brandon seated at the king’s right hand and Queen Catherine back in her place on his left.

  Feeling a little nervous, she checked the tuning then played one of her brother’s favourites, to rapturous applause when she finished. Next, she sang an old French song about unrequited love, to her own accompaniment. Satisfied the moment was right, Mary made a sign and Anne entered, carrying a lute. She waited until she was in place, then spoke directly to Henry.

  ‘Your Grace, I wish to introduce my student, Mistress Anne Brandon.’

  ‘You are welcome, my lady,’ Henry grinned at Anne, ‘and you have an excellent teacher in my dear sister.’

  His words were met by more applause as Mary began a delicate introduction on her lute and the room fell silent with anticipation. Then with a nod to Anne they launched into the spirited version of Henry’s own composition which they had rehearsed for this moment at Westhorpe Hall.

  Past time with good company

  I love, and shall until I die

  Grutch who lust, but none deny

  So God be pleased, thus live will I

  For my pastance

  Hunt, sing and dance

  My heart is set;

  All goodly sport

  For my comfort

  Who shall me let?

  When they reached the end of the last chorus Henry led the applause then leaned over and said something to Brandon, who nodded and looked pleased. Mary saw Anne’s blush but knew their long hours of practice had been time well spent. Her family were now truly accepted back into the king’s good grace.

  Mary woke with a pain that throbbed like someone beating a drum deep inside her head. The heat was unbearable, although it had been a cooler spring than usual. She threw back the thick coverlet and looked across to the hearth to see if a fire had been lit. The iron fire basket was cold and empty, as was the bed at her side.

  She put a hand to her forehead and a shudder of fear ran through her as she felt the damp heat of perspiration. A woven silk cord hung down at the side of her bed canopy and she pulled it to summon her maidservant. She lay back on her bed, her body now aching with cold as she struggled to gather her thoughts.

  The timing could not be worse. The court was due to return to London after the St George’s Day celebrations. With an effort, Mary propped herself up on her pillows as the door opened. Anne looked excited and wore one of her best gowns with a new French headdress.

  ‘Stop, Anne. Don’t come any closer.’ Her voice sounded sharper than she intended and Anne froze in the doorway.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m unwell.’ Tears formed in her eyes. ‘I fear it might be the sweating sickness—’

  ‘No!’ Anne gripped the half-open door to steady herself. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Have you seen your father this morning?’

  Anne nodded, her eyes wide with concern. ‘Should I fetch him?’

  Mary thought for a moment. ‘Tell him I must see him urgently – and please be discreet, Anne. I don’t want anyone else to know I’m unwell.’

  Anne slipped back through the door and was gone. As she waited, Mary tried to recall what she’d heard about the signs of the sweating sickness. The victims began to shiver as if cold, despite complaining of the heat. She knew the shivering was followed by a dreadful sweating from which few recovered.

  Mary lay on her back and clasped her hands in prayer. She prayed for her children and wept at the thought of never seeing them grow up. She focused on the love in little Henry’s eyes whenever she entered the nursery. A sudden coldness replaced the heat and she ground her teeth in an effort not to shiver, as if to do so would be to surrender to the sickness.

  A deep melancholy swept over her as she realised how easily life could go on without her. Brandon would find a wealthy, younger wife. Even little Frances would forget her soon enough. She’d been seven years old when her own mother died, yet now she struggled to recall her face.

  The door burst open and Brandon entered but stopped when Mary held up her hand. ‘The queen’s physician has been sent for.’ He sounded breathless as if he’d been running, and took a hesitant step forward.

  ‘Please stay back,’ Mary pleaded. ‘It could be the sweating sickness.’

  ‘Have you been shivering?’ His voice wavered with concern.

  ‘No, but one moment I feel hot, then so cold I can hardly think…’

  ‘There are no reports of the sweating sickness here. I would have heard if there were, so let us pray you are mistaken, Mary.’

  She pulled herself up a little straighter in bed. ‘I cannot be the one to bring the sweating sickness to court. Henry would never forgive us.’

  It was mid-morning by the time the physician arrived but Mary remained in her bed, too weakened by the fever to rise. He wore the black robes of a cleric and tried his best to reassure her. ‘I have see
n cases of the sweating sickness in the city, my lady. None seemed as well as you do now.’

  Mary studied his face. He had a neatly trimmed white beard and seemed to know his business. ‘My head spins and I feel hot, then feverish and cold. Is there something you can give me for this pain in my head?’

  The physician crossed to the window and opened it, taking a deep breath of the fresh country air before turning to face her. ‘You suffer from an ague, my lady. You should not travel until you are well again.’

  Mary frowned. ‘Is there a cure?’

  ‘Rest, my lady. My advice is to remain in bed and let this fever run its course.’

  ‘But is there some potion that might speed my recovery?’

  ‘I have used a tincture of sage of virtue, with the herb grace and a little elder. With white wine and ginger it is tolerable to take as a medicine.’

  Mary nodded. ‘If you could…’

  The physician’s tone softened a little. ‘I shall prepare a draught, but have faith in the Lord, my lady.’

  * * *

  The magnificent procession of over six hundred horses and wagons clattered through the narrow London streets, with the senior noblemen riding at the front, their colourful banners flowing in the autumn breeze.

  Queen Catherine frowned as they waited to greet their guests. ‘They look more like an invading army than a visit from the ambassadors of France.’

  Mary smiled at the thought. Wolsey led the negotiations and claimed the idea as his own, so Catherine would never know the ambassadors were in London thanks to her husband’s influence behind the scenes. They would take delivery of Tournai for six hundred thousand gold crowns and sign a new peace agreement.

  Henry loved Mary as a sister and forgave her transgressions, yet valued her as an ornament to brighten his court and entertain his guests. He used her courtesy title of Queen Dowager of France when it suited him but would never see that her true worth was so much more. She believed her father would have been proud of how she’d turned a disaster to peaceful advantage.