Mary- Tudor Princess

by Tony Riches

  She’d woken in the middle of the night and lay awake until dawn, thinking about her brother and Catherine. Henry made no secret of his illegitimate child, proudly naming him Henry Fitzroy, son of the king. Now Brandon told her Henry had a new mistress, Lady Mary Boleyn. She found it impossible to understand how Mary Boleyn had learned so little from her affair with King Francis.

  The midwife placed a dampened linen cloth on Mary’s forehead. The soothing coolness helped her think. She called out to her waiting chambermaid. ‘Please will you send for my stepdaughter Anne?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ The maid bobbed a curtsey and disappeared through the doorway.

  Mary was glad to have chosen Westhorpe for her confinement. It was traditional at such times to be surrounded by female relatives, but she was unsurprised there had been no reply from her sister Margaret in Scotland. Mary preferred the company of Anne, who played her lute to help pass the long hours and told Mary fanciful stories of her time at the court of Margaret, Duchess of Savoy.

  ‘The duchess told me a secret once,’ Anne confided. ‘She said after the Duke of Savoy died she decided to end her life. She jumped from a high window but called out to the Virgin Mary. It was a miracle, as she survived the fall.’

  Mary smiled at Anne’s wide-eyed innocence. ‘I heard that story, Anne, it is not such a secret.’

  ‘But did you know she had the duke’s heart cut out and carried it with her all the time in a silk purse?’

  ‘She must have loved him very much.’

  Anne nodded. ‘She took a vow never to marry again.’

  Now Anne sat in the chair at the side of Mary’s bed and dismissed the midwife with a nod. Not yet thirteen, Anne was already as tall as Mary. A French hood which showed her dark hair, and one of Mary’s altered gowns with a diamond necklace helped to make her look older.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

  Mary took the folded linen cloth from her forehead. ‘I didn’t sleep well but the baby is due soon.’ She studied Anne’s face and wondered what the future held for her young stepdaughter. ‘I wanted to thank you for being such good company while your father’s been away.’

  Anne smiled. ‘He is due back tomorrow – and has promised to bring more silks from London. I am to help you sew new gowns for your visit to France.’

  ‘I’m grateful, Anne, I will be glad of your help.’ She smiled. ‘Let us hope he doesn’t forget again. Last time all he brought back was that dangerous dagger for Harry. I don’t know what he was thinking of.’

  ‘Will I be allowed to go with you to greet the new Emperor Charles?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘If your father agrees, although I think he will wish you to help look after the rest of the family here while I’m away.’ A new pain swept through Mary and she knew what it meant. ‘There is something I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Anne looked at her with concern in her eyes.

  ‘All my remaining jewels have been promised to the king when I die – but I’ve told your father that you and Mary are to have your pick of them before they are handed over.’ She flinched as another pain came. ‘Some given to me by King Louis are worth a great deal.’

  Anne looked confused. ‘Will the king not miss them?’

  ‘We’ve been giving jewels to Cardinal Wolsey in payment for his loans, so the king has no idea what remains.’

  Anne frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Are you telling me this now because you think you might die?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Call for the midwife, Anne, the baby is on the way.’ As she watched Anne rush from the room she said a silent prayer that all would be well. She had a lot to live for.

  Brandon loosened the tight swaddling which bound his new daughter’s arms and watched in wonder as her tiny fingers grasped his thumb. He grinned at Mary. ‘What shall we name her?’

  Mary, propped up in bed on silk cushions, still felt tired and weak but was relieved he didn’t show disappointment the child wasn’t the boy they’d wished for. ‘I named our last daughter Frances, so this time it must be your choice.’

  Brandon looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’ve always liked the name Eleanor.’

  ‘Lady Eleanor Brandon.’ Mary smiled at the sight of the two of them together. ‘A good name.’

  18

  May 1520

  ‘You’ve never looked more beautiful.’ Brandon beamed with pride as Mary took her place at his side. His ceremonial sword with its gold hilt gleamed at his belt and he wore the heavy gold chain of the Order of the Garter, with a bright ruby shining in the badge on his black hat.

  She smiled at his compliment. Her gown of ermine-edged cloth of silver glittered with diamonds and her French headdress was ringed with the purest white pearls. Even her velvet slippers, hidden under her gown, were embroidered in silver and gold. She had no idea how Brandon met the cost of her new wardrobe but, for once, she didn’t care.

  They waited in Canterbury to greet Henry and his guest, Emperor Charles, King of Castile and Aragon and now King of the Romans, who rode from Dover Castle. His fleet of some sixty ships was blown off course by a savage storm and he’d arrived late, the day before Henry planned to depart for France.

  The dull ache in Mary’s ribs on the left side had returned, despite her prayers. She’d decided she could keep it secret no longer but a succession of physicians had been at a loss to help her. Some brewed potions of mandrake root with no effect and out of desperation she permitted them to try bloodletting. Prescribed rest, she’d remained in bed for several weeks but found the lack of exercise and loss of blood left her in a weakened state.

  Brandon became increasingly concerned and wrote to Wolsey advising that she might be too unwell to travel with the king and queen to France. Although the pain was at its worst when riding, Mary remembered her motto, La volenté de Dieu me suffit. This was God’s will, something she had to live with. Compared with her grandmother Margaret Beaufort’s penitent hair shirt it seemed a small price to pay for her three healthy children.

  A sharp fanfare of trumpets sounded outside and Mary tensed. She had been so taken by the idea of returning to France she’d not thought a great deal about finally meeting the man who’d been her fiancé for six years. Now she felt unexpected anxiety about how to address him and what she might say.

  She saw him first, an unmistakable figure in a large hat with lank hair and a jutting chin. He looked a poor substitute for her rugged Charles Brandon. Four men carried a golden canopy emblazoned with the emblem of Rome, the double-headed black eagle. His narrowed eyes scanned the waiting nobles as he entered and he bowed to his aunt, Queen Catherine, waiting in the centre – but his eyes were on Mary.

  She thought about that moment as Henry’s grand new barque, the Katherine Pleasaunce, ploughed through the white-crested waves of the English Channel on the way to Calais. Ten more ships led her way, loaded with supplies and whinnying horses. She turned and looked behind to see more ships than she could count following in their wake. Their flotilla looked more like an invasion than a peace mission.

  She leaned on the wooden rail and thought back to her meeting with Emperor Charles in Canterbury. He’d embraced Queen Catherine, an awkward moment as she seemed surprised and flustered, with tears in her eyes, at such intimacy.

  Keen to avoid the same, Mary waited until he stood opposite her then held out her hand. He placed a soft kiss on her gold-ringed fingers, never taking his eyes from her face.

  ‘Reine Marie, tu es le joyau de la cour du Roi Henri.’

  She stared into his intelligent brown eyes and saw an appraising look. ‘Bienvenue en Angleterre, Votre Majesté.’

  As their ship plunged through a breaking wave, sending a shower of salty spray into the air, Mary wondered if he might regret the paths their lives had taken. At the grand banquet he’d been seated on the other side of Henry, but whenever she’d glanced in his direction he’d been looking at her. He declined to join in the dancing yet she’d been aware of his eyes
following her with the intensity of a hawk watching a swinging lure.

  Brandon joined her at the ship’s rail and put his warm cloak around her shoulders. ‘How is the pain in your side?’

  ‘The motion of the ship makes the ache worse, but I pray I won’t be ill once we reach France.’ She looked up at him and managed a smile. ‘You’ve spent too much on my gowns to miss the chance to show them off.’

  He grinned. ‘They’ve done their work, Mary. You must know you made quite an impression on young Charles.’ The note of jealousy in his voice hung in the salty air like one of the white seabirds following in their wake.

  ‘He hardly spoke to me.’ Mary tried to sound dismissive. ‘I think he had more important things on his mind.’

  ‘Like his latest marriage proposal?’

  ‘He’s marrying?’ She looked to see if he was joking.

  ‘Henry’s offered him the hand of his daughter, so Emperor Charles might marry Mary Tudor after all.’

  ‘Little Princess Mary? She’s already promised to the dauphin.’ She heard the surprise in her voice. ‘What will King Francis say when he hears?’

  Brandon didn’t reply but gave her a knowing look.

  Calais harbour was a chaotic jumble of ships, moored in rafts five deep. Men and horses struggled to get ashore before the light failed. Barrels and crates were piled high on the quayside and the crisp evening air rang with shouted commands. Mary recalled the last time they’d been there, preparing to face an uncertain future in England.

  She’d been fearful Henry might lock Brandon up in the Tower of London but instead he’d shown them both compassion. It cost almost everything they had and Mary doubted they would ever repay their debts but she’d been happy at Suffolk Place and then at Westhorpe Hall, which she now thought of as her home.

  After a restless night as the guests of a wealthy merchant Mary rose early for the six-mile ride to the Val d’Or. Brandon rode behind King Henry, leading his royal escort of fifty mounted nobles. Mary, elevated by her status as Queen Dowager of France, rode at the side of Queen Catherine. Behind them followed their ladies-in-waiting, a seemingly endless line of grooms and servants and a hundred mounted yeomen.

  As the towers of Guines Castle appeared in the distance the entire procession stopped to admire the impressive sight before them. The flat plain between the old castle and the town of Ardres had been transformed.

  In front of the castle a circle of colourful marquees, each flying the standard of a different noble family, surrounded the grand central palace. Those of the king’s household had the green and white stripes of the Tudor livery but others were pure cloth of gold and burgundy damask, depending on the courtier’s rank and wealth.

  Mary turned to Queen Catherine. ‘I had no idea the encampment would be on such a scale.’

  ‘It’s taken an army of workmen weeks of preparation, with no expense spared.’ Catherine didn’t trouble to hide the note of criticism in her voice as she looked ahead to where Henry proudly surveyed the scene. ‘Sir Thomas Boleyn told me King Francis has no more than four hundred tents at Ardres – but Wolsey has drained our coffers with seven times that number.’

  Mary frowned at the mention of their ambitious ambassador, Thomas Boleyn. His daughter Mary rode with Catherine’s ladies and she realised her friend must be unaware of her disloyalty. Even though she was with her new husband, William Carey, Mary Boleyn seemed a poor choice for a meeting with King Francis. Wolsey would not have chosen her without good reason.

  ‘There must be at least five thousand staying here.’ She changed the subject as they stared at the rows of colourful tents and bustling preparations.

  ‘Let us pray this is a wise investment. We flatter the French king with our extravagance.’

  As they rode closer Mary could see Catherine wasn’t mistaken. Four impressive lions guarded the entrance to the palace of illusions like golden sentinels. With foundations of red brick and finely glazed windows, the temporary palace was over three hundred paces square with a high round tower at each corner and an open courtyard at the centre. Wolsey had taken Henry at his word and spared no expense.

  A handsome bronze statue of the Roman god Bacchus stood next to fountains already gushing with red wine. Mary studied a sign next to silver cups, inviting visitors to help themselves at the king’s pleasure. A grinning, gilded Cupid, suspended above their heads, caused Queen Catherine to raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Henry might profess to love the King of France but he doesn’t trust him.’ She saw Mary’s puzzled expression. ‘There are rumours Francis has an army hiding close by, so we have a secret passage to escape to the real castle if we are betrayed.’

  Mary looked up at the gold roses decorating the green silk ceiling of the royal chambers and wondered how much it had all cost. Hung with Henry’s finest tapestries, her apartment was furnished with a gilded bed complete with a canopy of estate carried all the way by wagon and ship from Greenwich.

  With her fine new silk and satin gowns, one for each day of her stay, she’d been left in no doubt of the importance of her role in France. She was there to dazzle King Francis and his nobles and ensure the secret escape passage would never be needed.

  A salvo of cannons boomed with smoke and flame from the ramparts of Guines Castle, echoing across the plain as the kings of England and France set out for their first meeting. The acrid tang of gunpowder drifted across to Mary as she watched from a distance with Catherine. As the cannon fire died away a sweeter sound carried on the still air. A hundred golden bells sewn to the harness of Henry’s warhorse jingled as he rode.

  Discordant French trumpets announced the arrival of King Francis, dressed in cloth of gold and black and white, with his flamboyant Swiss guards. He seemed to have become grander over the five years since she’d seen him last. The sight of him brought back more repressed memories of his daily visits during her long days in the darkness of Cluny, where she’d prayed at her altar for salvation until her knees ached.

  The two kings cantered ahead of their mounted escorts and met in the middle of the plain. A cheer rang out as they clasped each other’s arms.

  ‘They embrace like brothers.’ Catherine gave Mary a wry glance. ‘Your father would have been proud of Henry today.’

  The mention of her father jolted Mary from her daydreaming. Seeing the two kings embrace in the saddle reminded her of the first time she met King Louis. He’d leaned across and embraced her, without dismounting, placing a soft kiss on her lips. Jane Popincourt told her he was a lecherous old man without morals, yet she found him to be loving and kind, despite his illness.

  She peered into the distance and saw Henry and Francis dismount and walk together towards the French pavilion. Henry’s arm was clasped around the shoulder of King Francis, who could so easily have been his bitter enemy. The first step towards peace had been taken.

  Mary turned to Catherine. ‘I wonder if they will be quite so amicable after the joust?’

  ‘I’ve asked Henry not to ride against King Francis, although I doubt he’ll take notice.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Charles is taking charge of the jousting, with Admiral Bonnivet. They are to run the same number of courses, with special lances that break for show, not competition.’

  ‘I pray you are right. Henry doesn’t always listen to his advisors but your Charles knows how to persuade him.’ She smiled. ‘I think it will be some time before Henry returns. You should take this opportunity to pay our respects to Queen Claude. She has my sympathy if what we hear is true, that King Francis openly favours his mistress, Françoise de Foix, Comtesse de Châteaubriant.’

  The French Queen’s apartments near Ardres were lined with azure-blue satin embroidered with fleurs-de-lis. The ceiling twinkled with a thousand golden stars and a crescent moon shone in the centre. Although simpler than the temporary English palace, it had Parisian style that appealed to Mary and evoked memories of the last time she’d been in France.

  Queen Claude stood to greet Mary and her
escort. She looked pale and needed the support of her ladies to return to her seat. Seven months pregnant, she carried extra weight and her left eye drooped, giving her an odd squint.

  Mary bowed her head, then embraced her friend warmly. ‘I’ve never forgotten your kindness to me, Queen Claude.’

  ‘Bonjour Marie, you look just as I remember!’

  Mary shook her head but laughed. ‘You are too kind, Claude. I’ve had three children since we last met.’

  Queen Claude’s hand went to the front of her bulging gown. ‘As have I. The same as you, two girls and a boy, and another on the way.’

  A woman dressed in rich damask stepped from the shadows and gave the briefest curtsey. Mary stared into the calculating eyes of the king’s mother, Duchess Louise of Savoy. Queen Claude had done everything in her power to support Mary when she was last in France but the king’s mother schemed and plotted against her.

  ‘Welcome, duchess.’ Louise spoke in heavily accented English and looked at Mary with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. ‘There was also a girl, named after me, but she lived for only two years.’

  The use of her lesser title would have troubled Mary in the past but now her duty was to preserve the fragile peace. ‘I was sorry to hear that, duchess. Your support must be a great comfort to the queen,’ she smiled, ‘as it was to me, after my husband King Louis died.’

  Duchess Louise returned Mary’s smile but her eyes remained cold. ‘It was a difficult time for us all.’

  In a flash of insight Mary realised how it must have been a worrying time for the duchess. If she had been pregnant with Louis’ child, all their futures would have been quite different. Duchess Louise had been doing her best for her son, as any mother would. Mary resolved to forget her past hostility. Duchess Louise was an important ally, one of the few King Francis listened to.