by Tony Riches
Brandon looked unusually agitated as he returned from his work preparing the tournament, a white linen bandage wrapped around his hand. Mary embraced him and studied his blue-grey eyes. ‘What’s happened?’
He cursed and lowered his voice, aware they could be overheard through the thin walls of the temporary palace. ‘It’s Henry. He challenged King Francis to a wrestling match.’
Mary frowned. ‘We feared something like this. Dare I ask the outcome?’
‘King Francis has kept himself fit with his Italian campaigns.’ Brandon scowled. ‘He threw Henry to the ground like a sack of corn.’
Mary smiled at the thought. ‘Perhaps Henry let him win?’
Brandon looked at her for a moment before he realised she was joking. ‘Sometimes I forget you are a Tudor.’
‘And what of you?’ She gave him a stern look. ‘How did you injure your hand?’
He grinned and held up the bandage like a badge of honour. ‘It seems I’m getting too old for this sport. A young Frenchman caught me off guard.’
Mary shook her head. ‘The jousting doesn’t start until tomorrow.’
He embraced her again. ‘Would I dare to lie to the Dowager Queen of France?’
She studied his face. ‘Out of loyalty to my brother the king, I would say you are quite capable of anything, my lord of Suffolk.’
Four strong yeomen of the king’s guard carried Mary in her litter to the impressive new tiltyard, specially built by the French. Covered with cloth of gold embroidered with fleurs-de-lis, her carriage featured the porcupine badge of the late king, to leave the crowd in no doubt of her status as Dowager Queen of France.
They applauded and cheered when they saw her take her place on the grandstand under her canopy of estate. A deep French voice called out ‘C’est la Reine Blanche!’ and soon the tiltyard echoed to more cheering and cries of ‘Vive la Reine!’ and ‘Vive la Reine Blanche!’
Queen Claude, in cloth of silver, took her place to Mary’s right, with Duchess Louise in a gown of black velvet. Queen Catherine, her long hair proudly displayed under a jewelled Spanish headdress, sat to Mary’s left. All their ladies, dressed in scarlet trimmed with gold lace, surrounded them like a guard of honour.
Once the ladies were seated, the competitors, English and French, paraded on their fine warhorses, with Henry and Francis leading. The English wore gold and royal purple, with the French in gold and white. King Henry’s destrier was dressed in russet damask decorated with golden waves to symbolise his command of the seas.
Queen Catherine pointed to Henry’s armour. ‘The king’s craftsmen used two thousand ounces of gold. Henry complains it’s made his armour too heavy.’
Mary nodded. ‘It does look magnificent.’ She had a sudden recollection of her father, hunched over his ledgers as he personally checked each entry. It was up to her brother how he used his inherited wealth but she imagined her father would have been unimpressed.
As they passed, the shields and crowns of both kings were placed at an equal height on a great gilded tree, with green damask foliage, in the centre of the tiltyard. The shields of the other competitors were added below until the tree shone with the colourful badges of every noble family of note in England and France.
Mary felt a frisson of pride as Brandon cantered back to the royal grandstand. In his element, he wore his shining, burnished armour with white ostrich plumes on his helm and a flowing purple cape over his shoulders. He rode up to Mary to seek her favour, as he’d done when they were both young.
Raising his lance high in the air then lowering it, he called out in a confident voice so that everyone could hear. ‘My lady, I would be honoured to ride as your champion.’
Mary stood and reached out with the favour she pulled from a pocket in her gown. The crowd applauded as he tied her purple ribbon to his harness and grinned at her, raising a gauntleted hand in salute before lowering the visor of his helmet.
A trumpet blast signified the start of the tournament and a herald announced that King Francis would ride against Sir Henry Courtenay, the Earl of Devonshire, one of Henry’s most skilled jousters. Both riders charged, riding low in the saddle. Their lances were blunted at the ends and Brandon had promised her it was only for show, yet the violence of the clash as King Francis shattered his lance against the earl’s buckler made Mary gasp.
The crowd cheered and applauded as Francis waved in acknowledgement. It reminded Mary of one of Henry’s masked charades, with each playing his part, until the final pass, when the earl’s lance struck the French king’s helmet with a juddering crash of metal.
A cry of alarm erupted from the French crowd as King Francis dropped his lance and reeled in his saddle. He was helped to dismount and his supporters led him to his tent. After a few anxious moments the king emerged, without his helmet, holding a cloth to his bloodied nose, the first casualty of the tournament.
At last it was Brandon’s turn to ride against the Count of St Pol, who dressed in gleaming silver armour decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis, his warhorse caparisoned in flowing white silk. Mary doubted if anyone other than herself noticed her husband rode with such care to ensure both broke an equal number of lances. He should have had an easy victory against the less-skilled French count.
The jousting continued all day, with food and wine being served by a procession of liveried maids. Mary’s side ached and she was glad of the endless cups of rich red wine which helped to deaden the pain. This was only the first of twelve days of tourneying, with archery and contests of arms, but she knew she must keep her smile as she waved to the cheering crowds.
When the weather turned for the worse the tourney was agreed as a draw. Although King Francis sustained a broken nose and a black eye, only one of the three hundred contestants had died. Henry grumbled when he’d accidentally killed one of his favourite warhorses, yet Brandon and Admiral Bonnivet were congratulated for presiding over a successful tournament.
A temporary chapel was built in the tiltyard and decorated with relics and tapestries of the Holy Virgin. Cardinal Wolsey presided over a grand Mass, wearing his scarlet robes and wide-brimmed cardinal’s hat.
For once, Mary found herself standing at Brandon’s side as both Henry and King Francis took turns to sing the refrains. Familiar with her brother’s fine tenor voice, she was surprised to hear Francis even took this as a competition and sang louder.
He had another surprise waiting for them once they’d retired with their retinues of nobles and ladies to an open banqueting gallery beside the chapel. King Francis stood and proposed a toast to lasting peace and friendship, then raised his eyes to the heavens as if seeking divine inspiration.
With perfect timing, a giant rocket made its thunderous way like a mythical dragon across the cloudless June sky above them and exploded in a shower of bright sparks. The noise startled several horses, which bolted, but drew cheers and applause from the surprised English.
Brandon leaned across to Mary. ‘Once again the French have outdone us!’
Mary smiled as she watched the trail of white smoke drifting overhead. ‘And at significantly less expense.’
* * *
‘Emperor Charles is here?’ Mary struggled to understand the summons from Henry to attend the meeting. ‘I thought I might never see him again.’
Queen Catherine shook her head. ‘Not here. We must travel to Gravelines, a day’s ride north-east, to welcome the emperor’s delegation.’
‘What about the French?’ The ache in her side seemed worse than ever now and she heard the frustration in her voice. ‘Is Henry prepared to risk everything we’ve done?’
Catherine looked uncertain. ‘I encouraged him to meet with my nephew the emperor, Mary. Surely you see we cannot rely only on our alliance with the French?’
Mary felt in no mood for the long ride but realised she had no choice. ‘Could the emperor not come here? We could entertain him in style.’ She didn’t try to hide her disapproval.
‘This meeting is to conf
irm the betrothal of Mary to Charles instead of the dauphin.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Not something we would wish to discuss within the hearing of the French.’
‘I’ve already heard, so the French will soon enough.’ Mary suspected Catherine had been behind the idea, which would unite the thrones of England, Castile and Aragon. As she watched her maidservants packing her gowns for the journey she knew her father would turn in his grave if Catherine’s plan succeeded.
19
March 1522
Mary’s carriage wound its way through the Suffolk countryside. She’d been summoned yet again to attend Henry’s court in London to welcome a delegation of Spanish ambassadors, and could guess the reason.
Mary thought back to the meeting in Gravelines, almost two years ago. She had been intrigued to finally meet the mysterious Archduchess Margaret of Savoy. The archduchess could have become her stepmother, if she’d not rejected her father’s advances. Attending the meeting in Gravelines as Regent of Austria and to support her nephew, Emperor Charles, Margaret had seemed keen to promote her own interests to Henry.
Mary knew a great deal about Margaret from Anne’s stories and saw why Brandon had once been attracted to her. More than a match for either Henry or Charles, she’d been shrewd and persuasive. Mary suspected the archduchess planned to benefit from turning England away from the new alliance with France.
The last time Brandon returned from court he’d been in a furious mood. ‘Your brother seems to have forgotten his promises.’ He cursed as he wolfed down the venison pie she’d had the servants keep warm. ‘It places me in an impossible position – and you too, Mary.’
‘He plans to invade France?’ She studied his frowning face. Brandon’s grim expression was her answer. They’d both known war with King Francis was inevitable, yet it would mean the loss of her dower estates and the income they now relied on. It also saddened her to think she would no longer be permitted to write to Queen Claude. Henry dreamed of being a warrior king and winning an empire of his own.
At Greenwich Palace, Brandon and Henry hunted in the deer park with the Spanish ambassadors and jousted against his knights, while at York Place Mary rehearsed a pageant. Devised by Henry, it was to be performed on the evening of Shrove Tuesday for the entertainment of their guests.
The great hall of Cardinal Wolsey’s palace had been transformed into an enchanted forest, complete with an impressive emerald-green castle. The smell of newly sawn timber and fresh paint hung in the air as Mary inspected the craftsmen’s work with Anne Boleyn.
Now twenty-one, Anne had been recalled to England from Queen Claude’s court to serve as one of Queen Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting. Anne had been chosen as one of the masked virtues for the pageant, together with her sister Mary and another five of Catherine’s ladies.
Mary remembered Anne as a cheerful young girl in her service in Paris seven years before and saw her standing behind Queen Claude at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Keen to hear the latest news from France, Mary had contrived to have this moment alone with her.
The walls of the darkened chamber were hung with beautiful Flemish tapestries of hunting scenes, and branches of trees created the illusion of the mysterious forest. A cloth of gold canopy of estate covered the gilded throne where the emperor would watch the pageant, surrounded by his Spanish ambassadors. Tiers of benches had been provided for other courtiers and it seemed they would have quite an audience.
The wooden castle reached to the roof beams, with a working drawbridge and battlements on a central tower flanked by two smaller towers. Each tower was hung with colourful embroidered banners and metal cressets on brackets, filled with scented oil. Mary frowned as she looked up at the central image of a bleeding, scarlet heart being torn in two. On the smaller left tower, another heart was held in what looked like a lady’s hand and on the right a lady’s hand turned a heart around.
‘The Spanish ambassadors seem dour men, my lady.’ Anne pointed to the garish banners. ‘Do you think they will understand our pageant?’
‘The message of it seems clear enough, although we learned that Emperor Charles is not impressed by extravagance.’
Anne gave Mary a conspiratorial look. ‘I heard the king’s cloth of gold tent at Gravelines blew down in the wind.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘Were you all inside it at the time?’
‘It did blow down,’ Mary tested the walls of the wooden castle but they seemed firm enough, ‘but fortunately it happened in the middle of the night. I don’t think the emperor even knew about it.’ She turned to look at Anne. Although plain, she brought something of the style of the French court to London and still seemed cheerful, despite her circumstances.
‘I heard you are to marry James Butler, the Earl of Ormond?’
‘That’s my father’s plan – and he has the support of Cardinal Wolsey.’ Anne grimaced. ‘All they talk about is settling the inheritance but it’s my future—’ She stopped, as if realising she’d already said enough.
‘You intend to object?’
‘I must obey my father, my lady.’
Mary saw the glint of steel in Anne’s dark eyes and doubted it. Brandon had mentioned seeing her walking in the rose gardens at Greenwich with another member of Wolsey’s household, young Henry Percy. Heir to the earldom of Northumberland and of similar age to Anne, he would be a better match.
‘How is Queen Claude? It’s been some time since I last heard from her.’
‘You know she had a daughter, Madeleine, named after the king’s sister?’
‘Yes – and in her last letter Queen Claude wrote that she was already with child again.’
Anne nodded. ‘It was another boy, named Charles – after your husband or the emperor, my lady?’
Mary smiled at the thought. ‘Neither. I imagine the boy is named after the king’s father, Charles, Count of Angoulême.’
‘King Francis wasted little time, although I fear so many children have taken a toll on Queen Claude’s health.’
‘I pray for her, Anne. There is little else we can do, particularly now…’
Mary didn’t wish to say how she feared they would all be caught up in a war she wasn’t confident they could win. The French would be fighting on their own territory, with battle-hardened soldiers. The English had few experienced commanders and had not fought a battle for many years. It would be determined by the outcome of her brother’s talks and the will of God.
Candles fixed in the tree branches and scented oils in the metal cressets on the castle lit up the enchanted forest with a warm, flickering light. The king’s musicians played a melodic tune as the ladies paraded past the Spanish ambassadors, each stopping to curtsey before the emperor. All wearing masks and dressed in identical, flowing white satin gowns, they announced their pageant names, embroidered in gold on their jewelled headdresses.
Mary was the first and did her best to disguise her voice, although she was sure the emperor knew it was her. ‘Je suis la Beauté, votre Grâce.’ She curtseyed and was pleased to see a smile on the face of one of the younger ambassadors before she realised it was a look of embarrassment.
Lady Mary followed as the virtue of Kindness, with her sister Anne making an elegant curtsey as she told them her name was Perseverance. The other ladies curtseyed in turn and said they were the virtues of Honour and Constancy, Bounty, Mercy and Pity.
Less fortunate were the unlucky bare-footed maids with soot-blackened faces, dressed in black rags, chosen to play the parts of Danger and Disdain, Jealousy, Gossip and Unkindness, Scorn and Strangeness. Their role was to skulk around the darkened forest and prevent the lords from reaching the green castle.
Stirring music and a drum roll sounded to announce the dramatic entrance of the masked lords, dressed in cloth of gold with cloaks of azure-blue satin. Their leader, swathed in shimmering crimson satin decorated with golden flames, bowed and announced himself as the Lord of Ardent Desire.
The other masked lords each stepped forward in turn and bowed to th
e audience, announcing themselves as Amorousness and Nobleness, Youth and Attendance, Loyalty and Pleasure, Gentleness and Liberty. Mary recognised Brandon and suspected her brother chose the role of the Lord of Ardent Desire for himself, although she found it difficult to be certain as he played his part so well.
On the thumping boom of a bass drum, meant to represent cannon fire, she called out to her ladies. ‘Follow me, graces and virtues, to the safety of the castle!’
Once they were all inside she pulled on a rope to raise the wooden drawbridge, which creaked as it lifted and banged into place, securing the door. The lords roared as they besieged the castle, while the maids dressed in black did their best to defend it by throwing cups of rose water and sugar-coated comfits.
The leader of the lords called out to them in a commanding voice. ‘As Ardent Desire, I order you to surrender the virtues!’
One of the black-garbed women replied in a shrill shout. ‘As Scorn, I refuse.’ Another called out. ‘As Disdain, I have no fear of you.’
The lords threw oranges, brought as gifts by the Spanish ambassadors, some striking the green wooden castle with solid thumps, making Mary and the ladies inside shriek and call out for mercy. The siege seemed to be getting out of hand when the king’s musicians struck up a lively dance, the signal for the ladies to surrender.
The blackened maids made good their escape and the wooden drawbridge lowered, allowing the ladies to emerge from the confinement of the castle. The lords each took one of them by the hand and they danced Henry’s favourite pavane, changing partners in the formal pattern of steps until each had danced with them all.
When the dance was over, they all removed their masks, to make the great reveal of the pageant. The Lord of Ardent Desire wasn’t Henry, but William Cornish, masquerading as the king. Henry then revealed he’d played the part of Devotion, to applause and cheers from the ambassadors.
