by Tony Riches
‘I wish Queen Claude had been able to attend her son’s betrothal. I promised to write but it has been more than a year since her last reply.’
Catherine nodded. ‘She has my sympathy. I understand King Francis is not the easiest of husbands. My ladies tell me he openly cavorts with his mistresses.’ Her tone was scathing and her face creased in a frown at the thought.
Mary wondered if this was a reference to Henry’s indiscretions but a sharp fanfare of trumpeters interrupted her reply and the moment passed. She felt angry at her brother for his treatment of Catherine but was powerless to do anything about it.
Since her strange fever broke she still felt weakened but had learned to hide it. She had little choice as Catherine, now close to full term, asked for her support with entertaining the French delegation, while Brandon was to support Henry with the peace treaty.
As well as the formal handover of Tournai and agreement of the new treaty at St Paul’s, Catherine’s little daughter Mary would be betrothed to the dauphin at Greenwich Palace. Guillaume Gouffier, Seigneur de Bonnivet, was to stand proxy for the son of King Francis and Queen Claude, who was not yet one year old.
The banquet was one of the finest Mary had ever seen and seemed extravagant after her forced economies in Suffolk. Henry was determined to make a good impression on the ambassadors, despite the absence of the King of France.
Gilded suckling pigs were followed by dishes of swan and venison from the royal parks. Mary had little appetite since her illness and picked at her food. She found herself seated next to Admiral Bonnivet, who had grown up with King Francis and was the most senior French nobleman present.
With his piercing blue eyes and flirtatious smile, Mary could see why he’d become the right-hand man to the king and Admiral of the French fleet while so young. He’d shown her kindness after the death of King Louis and she sensed an unspoken bond between them even now.
‘Tell me, Admiral Bonnivet, how is my good friend Queen Claude?’
His smile faltered for a fleeting second. ‘The queen was ... distressed after the tragic loss of her daughter but I’m pleased to tell you Queen Claude is with child again.’ He placed his hand on hers. ‘King Francis is certain it will be a boy and says he will name him Henry.’
Mary felt an unexpected frisson of arousal at the warmth of his touch. She remembered how he’d offered to take care of her after Louis’ death and thought how different her life could have been if she’d remained in Paris. Then she realised he was being indiscreet. The charming young admiral undoubtedly had a beautiful wife waiting for him in Paris, just as she had waited for Brandon’s return.
Withdrawing her hand from his, she took a sip of the rich red wine to calm her thoughts before replying. ‘Please tell Queen Claude I wish her well and look forward to hearing from her when she is able to write.’
‘Of course, my lady.’ Bonnivet raised his own goblet, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Ma magnifique reine, you should have stayed in France, where we would truly have appreciated you.’
Mary felt her face blush at his compliment, the wine now warming her throat and improving her mood.
She’d been glad to help make the French visit a success for the sake of her dower payments but had not expected to enjoy it, weakened as she was by her recent illness. Sometimes she wished her husband was as attentive as the handsome Admiral Bonnivet.
The moment passed as cheering and a ripple of applause greeted the men carrying the heavy centrepiece. Mary saw it was a perfectly scaled sugar model of St Paul’s Cathedral, complete with stained-glass windows through which the yellow light of candles glowed.
Later she joined Brandon in a masked dance and felt an irrational jealousy when she saw Admiral Bonnivet had already turned his attentions to one of Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting. As the dancers turned she saw it was Lady Mary Boleyn laughing at his joke. They would have known each other in Paris, before the advances of King Francis caused her to return to England.
Only once the dancing ended and they removed their masks did she see that one of her fellow performers was her brother’s not-so-secret mistress, twenty-year-old Elizabeth Blount, known to everyone as Bessie. As Mary watched her catch Henry’s eye and be rewarded by a smile she felt a pang of sympathy for Catherine, who deserved better in return for her faithful loyalty.
Two days after the banquet the entire court sailed down the Thames on a fleet of barges to Greenwich Palace. Mary sat at Catherine’s side in the gilded royal barge and watched as the oarsmen strained against the incoming tide. The sun emerged from behind a cloud, turning the murky waters to sparkling silver as crowds of onlookers cheered on both banks.
As everyone gathered in Queen Catherine’s richly decorated chambers, little Princess Mary seemed bewildered by her betrothal ceremony and looked up wide-eyed as Admiral Bonnivet spoke for the infant Francis.
Cardinal Wolsey, officiating, frowned as they realised the jewelled wedding ring was far too large. With a grin, Bonnivet slipped it over her tiny finger anyway. Mary watched as the royal families of England and France, Tudor and Valois, were once more united in marriage.
17
April 1519
A hush fell over the waiting congregation as Mary made her way to their pew, the hem of her satin gown swishing on the tiled floor. Behind her followed Anne and little Mary Brandon, carrying their prayer books, with her ladies-in-waiting, Lady Anne and Lady Elizabeth Grey, all in their best Sunday gowns.
Mary enjoyed her role as lady of the manor and her regular attendances at the parish church were her most visible commitment. A short walk from Westhorpe Hall, these services and the summer fairs provided her main contact with real people, the merchants and farmers of her adopted county of Suffolk.
Her royal pew was one of Brandon’s more astute investments of their limited funds. He’d ordered it to be made from local oak, finely carved with red-and-white painted Tudor roses and Mary’s gilded fleur-de-lis of France. It was good to see and be seen by the people of the village, and helped pass the weeks when Brandon was away at court and on estate business, as he was much of the time. Mary missed him but knew her duty was to raise the children as well as she could.
The village priest, a portly man with a rich local accent, waited until they were seated then led them all in a prayer of thanks to God, his deep voice echoing from the vaulted roof.
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Laudamus te. Benedicimus te. Adoramus te. Glorificamus te. Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam...’
Mary clasped her hands together and bowed her head. She had much to give thanks for. Little Harry, now three years old, grew stronger and was learning to ride a pony, with patient tuition from his father. Frances had the red-gold hair of the Tudors and delighted visitors as she tottered around in her blue silk gown, trimmed with gold lace, like a miniature version of Mary.
Her mind wandered as the priest continued with his sermon. She prayed for Queen Catherine, who had not been so fortunate. The nation mourned when the queen lost her infant daughter the previous November, the baby so weak she died before she could be christened.
Brandon told her the king’s pregnant mistress had been moved to the Priory of St Lawrence near Ingatestone and Henry prayed for a son. Little her brother did surprised Mary. She’d said how unbearable the news must be for Catherine, particularly as Bessie Blount had been her maid of honour, but had been shocked at Brandon’s reply.
‘Queen Catherine is not getting any younger.’ He made it sound like an accusation.
Mary found herself springing to her friend’s defence. ‘She could hardly have done more to provide my brother with an heir—’
Brandon interrupted her with a knowing look. ‘There’s talk at court of an annulment.’ His words had hung in the air like a threat.
‘Henry would never do such a thing to Catherine.’ She gave him a scornful look.
Brandon shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is what I heard.’
She suspected there was more he’d chosen to keep from her, for fear she would feel obliged to share it with Queen Catherine. In her heart, Mary knew her friend was doomed. It angered her but Brandon was right. Catherine was in her mid-thirties. With every passing year her chances of a healthy son were reduced, which meant her own little Henry could one day become king.
Mary heard the clump of Brandon’s riding boots on the wooden stairs. The household had retired for the night but she was expecting his return, her tall candles, imported from Paris, burning low. The door of her chamber swung open. Brandon pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his long hair. He looked tired and dusty from his long ride but pleased to see she was still awake.
She climbed from her warm bed, pulling her long nightgown around her as she crossed the room to welcome him home. He smelled of ale and horse sweat as he held her close and kissed her, then stared into her eyes.
‘Has something happened?’ He gave her a questioning look, his head tilted slightly to one side as he did when curious. ‘I know you too well, Mary Tudor.’
She smiled, glad to be able to tell him at last. ‘I’m with child again, Charles. We’re going to have another little Brandon in this growing family.’
He grinned at the unexpected news. ‘Let us pray it is another boy.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘We shall name him William Brandon, to honour my father.’ He unbuckled his sword, placing it with care in the corner of their chamber, then sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, grunting with the effort. ‘This time you must take more care. No pilgrimages to Walsingham when the baby is due.’ His voice sounded stern and he wagged a finger at her in mock seriousness.
‘Of course, my lord.’ She curtseyed for him, like a servant, her head bowed.
He poured water from the heavy earthenware jug into the bowl they kept in their bedchamber. ‘How long have you known?’ He splashed the cold water on his face and dried his hands with a linen cloth. ‘When is the child due?’
‘So many questions.’ She laughed. ‘I wanted to be certain.’ She made a quick calculation, counting on her fingers. ‘Our baby will be born in December, before Christmas.’
He embraced her again, with more care this time. ‘I’ve missed you, Mary, and the children. How have you all been while I was away?’
‘Little Harry is learning French. I teach him a few words each day and he’s doing well. Anne has fashioned a new gown from the blue silk I’d been keeping for a special occasion. You must ask to see her in it in the morning.’ She stroked his beard playfully. ‘Have you found your eldest daughter a suitable husband?’
He gave her a wry look. ‘There are plenty of candidates but none worthy of her. How is little Mary?’
‘She takes after her father, which I expect you think to be a good thing.’ Mary laughed at his frown. ‘She’s adopted all the doves in the dovecot and tends to them every day as if they were your thoroughbred mares. She’s given them names and says she can tell one from another. The oldest, which can hardly fly, is called the Duke of Norfolk.’
He laughed at the thought. ‘Does she know they are destined for the kitchens?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I should not like to be the one to tell her.’
‘The king has a son?’ Although Mary knew a child was on the way, the news could change everything. Her hand went unconsciously to the swelling at her own middle as she felt pity bordering on grief for Queen Catherine.
Brandon nodded as he wolfed down his meal of roast venison, dipping his trencher of bread into the rich gravy. He’d been out hunting when the messenger arrived and still wore his leather riding doublet and boots.
He took a deep drink from his tankard of ale then hacked another slice of the tender meat with his knife. ‘It seems he’s chosen not to keep the boy a secret. They will no doubt use it as an excuse for celebration in the taverns of London – but the child is a bastard and will never inherit.’
Mary glanced at the girls, who looked shocked at their father’s tone. ‘Please, Charles...’
He looked up at them and then at little Henry, who ate in silence but was listening to every word. ‘The children must understand the ways of the world, Mary.’
Brandon returned from London with more unexpected news. ‘Charles of Castile has been appointed as emperor and plans to visit in the new year to discuss a treaty.’
Mary recalled how she’d stared at the little gold-framed portrait of Charles so long ago, wondering if he would make her Empress of Rome. ‘Do you think my brother will invite us?’
‘He will, as we are to accompany the entire court to a meeting in France with King Francis in the spring.’
Mary looked at him in amazement. ‘The entire court? It will cost Henry a fortune!’
‘Well, he is determined to outdo the French – you know how competitive they both are.’
She laughed as she remembered the last time Henry and Francis met. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I would ever return to France.’ She looked down at her fading gown. ‘For once we will not make economies, Charles. I must have a new wardrobe.’
Brandon grinned. ‘We shall show your Emperor Charles what he has missed out on!’
* * *
Mary kneeled with some difficulty on the cold stones of the floor of her private chapel and said a prayer for the child within her. She’d told no one she suffered from a strange pain in her side, which worsened as her pregnancy progressed.
She should have told her physicians but the thought of watching their leeches swell with her blood made her feel sick. Worse still would be their foul-tasting potions, which she feared could harm her child. Instead she’d decided to trust in the divine grace of the Lord.
Mary struggled to recall what her father had told her about her mother’s death. He’d rarely spoken of it, and when he did his face was always anguished. She knew her mother died on her thirty-seventh birthday in the queen’s apartments of the Tower of London. It seemed she never recovered from giving birth to her seventh child.
Tears formed in her eyes as she prayed for her mother and father, and her little sister, christened Katherine Tudor, who lived for barely a week. Her father had never been the same again. On his deathbed, he’d told her his faith had been tested and he could never understand why a merciful God should allow such a cruel fate for her mother.
Queen Catherine had still not replied to the letter Mary sent when the pains began as a dull ache. Even when she did, Mary knew she would advise another pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, which she had promised not to do. Although she spent long hours praying in the silent chapel the pain in her side steadily worsened. She would have to do something, for the sake of her baby.
As she prayed, the words of Saint Augustine, taught to her as a child in Eltham Palace, drifted into her mind. He who created us without our help will not save us without our consent. She’d been asking for divine guidance and this was a good omen. She resolved to travel to the closest Augustinian priory.
Hidden deep in the sandy heathlands some thirty miles ride east of Westhorpe, Butley Abbey was named after the nearby river. A stone wall enclosed twenty acres of land, barns and cottages, as well as the grand abbey, built in the reign of King Henry II. With some seventy-five staff, including servants and farm workers, as well as the prior and twelve canons, it was more like a small village than a priory.
Prior Augustine Rivers was a shrewd, grey-bearded man who walked out to meet Mary as she arrived with her small coterie of servants. He wore the black-hooded habit of the Augustinian order with a wide belt, the shining silver crucifix around his neck the only sign of his rank.
‘We are blessed by your visit, my lady.’ He bowed his head briefly then leaned on his staff for support while he studied her with bright blue eyes, as if trying to read her intentions.
‘Good day, Prior Rivers. Did you receive my message?’
The prior nodded. ‘You are always welcome, my lady. Apartments adjoining the priory have been made ready for your use, and
you may remain as long as you wish.’
‘That is most gracious of you. There are matters I would like to discuss once I have rested.’
Mary rose early the next morning and met the prior in his study, a simply furnished room with whitewashed walls. Late autumn sunlight streamed through the small windows on to an illuminated book of hours, open on the prior’s desk with a pile of letters, his inkpot and quill.
‘Good morning, my lady.’ He bowed his grey head. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wish to be received into the Augustinian order, so the brothers might pray for me.’
The prior looked up in surprise. ‘We pray for whoever needs our help, my lady.’ His voice sounded softer than before. ‘A donation to our funds would be most welcome but I confess to being intrigued. Why do you wish to follow the teachings of Saint Augustine, my lady?’
Mary hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘I heard a voice, telling me to do so.’
‘A voice?’ He leaned forward in his chair with new interest.
Mary nodded. ‘The words of Saint Augustine came into my head when I was praying for my mother, who died after the birth of my sister Katherine.’ She saw his nod of understanding. ‘I am now carrying my third child and saw it as a sign.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘I too have heard the words of the saint when praying.’ He smiled at her for the first time, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘You were right to come to us, my lady.’
* * *
An early fall of snow dusted the courtyard of Westhorpe before the baby began to make its way into the world. Mary was well used to the signs. She gave thanks that the pain in her side had eased since her stay at Butley Abbey. Now she looked forward to the birth with renewed faith that all would be well.
