by Tony Riches
‘Yet you have a daughter?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. My daughter Catherine is eight years old now, and becoming a true English lady.’ Her pride was unmistakable. ‘I understand His Grace the king is to agree that your husband shall purchase her wardship.’
Mary hid her surprise at the news, yet another example of how far they had drifted apart, as he’d never mentioned it. She guessed he planned for their son to one day marry the wealthy heiress. Young Katherine Willoughby would be a good match but she would have liked to be consulted about her son’s future.
‘She is the same age as my Eleanor. They would be company for one another, Dona Maria.’ She glanced at Catherine. ‘If you will excuse us, I must speak with the queen, in private.’
‘You may speak freely.’ Catherine smiled at Dona Maria. ‘We need have no secrets from one of my oldest friends.’
Mary took a deep breath. ‘You must find some way to prevent Princess Mary becoming engaged to King Francis.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I must confide to you, Mary, that I proposed the match to Cardinal Wolsey, although I suspect he might soon regret his haste.’
Catherine’s response was a surprise to Mary, although she saw the twinkle in her friend’s eyes. ‘Forgive me, I don’t understand.’
‘Henry sent an envoy to Rome, to see if a way could be found for my marriage to be annulled.’ She looked saddened for a moment, then composed herself. ‘I cannot allow him to make Princess Mary illegitimate, so must remind him of her value.’
‘At what cost?’ Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t need to remind you of the reputation of King Francis...’
‘Nothing will come of it, Mary, you may be sure of that, although I took the precaution of forgetting to summon her, in case the French ambassadors encourage King Francis with their reports.’
‘Where is the princess?’
‘Safe in Ludlow, where she was sent to escape the plague.’ Catherine nodded, sensing Mary’s concern. ‘I’ve not forgotten your brother, my Arthur. I visited Mary in Ludlow and it was most strange to return after all these years.’
Mary had been six years old when her brother died in Ludlow, too young to understand. Her father had explained to her once, with tears in his eyes, how his life had never been the same since that fateful April day. Now, after little Harry, she understood all too well.
Mary’s dull pains returned before the banquet. To ease the ache in her side she drank more of the rich red wine than she should, allowing the steward to keep refilling her goblet. Although the strong drink helped a little, she felt giddy and worried the wine had already begun to cloud her judgement.
A servant in green-and-white Tudor livery placed a steaming haunch of venison on a golden platter before them. It looked enough to feed their entire household at Westhorpe although she knew nothing at court was ever wasted. Unfinished platters would be shared by those who toiled unseen in the steaming palace kitchens.
The meat was tender, glazed with a honey sauce spiced with ginger, but Mary had little appetite. She picked at the brightly coloured marchpane fruits, made from sugar and ground almonds, meant for decoration, and tried to understand how her brother’s court had changed.
Henry had given her the place of honour, seated at his right hand, as the Queen Dowager of France. Cardinal Wolsey sat to his left in his scarlet robes but Queen Catherine was again nowhere to be seen. Mary knew the message her brother sent would be clear to everyone in his court, as well as the visiting envoys – Catherine was no longer welcome at his table.
Similarly, Brandon should have been to her right but instead chose to sit with the French ambassadors, although he hadn’t seen her for weeks. Their raucous laughter caused Henry to cast them a wistful look, as if he would rather be with them than with his sister. Mary saw her opportunity to keep in his favour.
‘Dear brother, I was most grateful when you restored my dower income.’ She raised her silver goblet. ‘I am again indebted to you.’
Henry beamed. ‘The credit is due to the good cardinal,’ he glanced at Wolsey, ‘whose adoration of the French is only outweighed by his contempt for the Spanish!’ He laughed at his own joke.
Wolsey raised his own goblet in reply to Mary. ‘My only wish is to prolong the peace your father worked so hard to achieve, Your Grace.’
Henry took his knife and hacked another slice from the roasted leg of venison, nodding as he used his bread to mop up the sweet-tasting sauce. ‘Our father, may the Lord rest his soul, would have approved of your ambition, Cardinal Wolsey.’
Mary felt the pain beginning to return in her side and took another drink. She looked at the ambassadors then back at Henry. ‘I understand you plan to bind us to the throne of France a second time through marriage?’
Henry studied her for a moment, as if surprised at her interest in matters of state. ‘If not to the king, then to his second son, Henri, Duke of Orléans.’ Henry leaned closer so he’d not be overheard. ‘I doubt even our silver-tongued Cardinal Wolsey can persuade King Francis to wed a skinny eleven-year-old girl.’
Wolsey leaned forward. ‘Prince Henri is eight years old and could one day inherit the throne from his father. Whatever the outcome, we are hopeful these discussions will result in a treaty of peace – and a dowry of two million gold crowns.’
‘Let us pray you are right, cardinal.’ Mary glanced at Henry and saw he’d been distracted.
She had a sudden memory of when they were in the nursery schoolroom at Eltham Palace together as children. Henry’s tutors would despair at how easily he could be diverted from his studies. She followed his narrowed eyes and saw he watched a lady talking with the handsome French ambassador, Charles, Count of Morette.
It was no mystery why the woman held her brother’s attention. Dressed in what must be the latest French fashion, her shapely scarlet gown was cut lower at the front, revealing more than Mary considered decent. She seemed to know the count well. As Mary watched, she turned, calling out to a steward in French and holding up Count Charles’s silver goblet to be served more wine. Mary recognised her as one of Queen Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting, Lady Anne Boleyn.
* * *
Suffolk Place looked like a palace. Mary was amazed at Brandon’s improvements, made without her knowledge. He said it was intended as a surprise, which it was. The great hall had been converted for the service, with tiers of gilded seats with red velvet cushions.
Mary sat in place of honour under a canopy of estate with Queen Catherine and Princess Mary, who was now officially engaged to Henri, Duke of Orléans. As well as her dowry, Henry had been promised a pension of fifty thousand gold crowns. Catherine had been right. Henry now appreciated the value of his daughter, and danced with her at a banquet to rapturous applause.
The remaining places were taken by familiar faces from every noble family in England. Sir Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, sat alone, without his wife, Duchess Elizabeth, as he’d caused a scandal by leaving her to live openly with the daughter of his steward.
Also absent was Cardinal Wolsey, sent on a diplomatic mission by Henry. Brandon told her he’d taken several chests of gold to use as bribes. Although the purpose of his journey was a mystery, Mary suspected it had something to do with her brother’s plans to annul his marriage.
Mary remembered how they had increased their debts to import the decorative floor tiles at great expense from Paris, now covered with a sprinkling of red and white rose petals. Costly beeswax candles added their warm light and honeyed scent. Brandon wished to show off their wealth and success at the wedding of his daughter.
The bride, soon to be Duchess Monteagle, shone at her first visit to Henry’s court but now looked magnificent in a shimmering gown of silk decorated with pearls. Mary’s wedding present had been a precious sapphire pendant, once part of the crown jewels of France. It now sparkled on a silver chain around her stepdaughter’s slender neck.
The groom, tall and handsome in his soldier’s uniform, wore a gleaming silver s
word on his belt, a present from the king. Mary smiled as she wondered what her grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, would have said about Brandon’s choice of husband for his daughter.
Young Thomas Stanley inherited his late father’s title of Baron Monteagle and was named after his grandfather, Lady Margaret’s fourth and last husband, Thomas Stanley, the Earl of Derby.
Mary missed Lady Margaret, who’d been like a mother to her, and prayed each day for her soul. She knew her grandmother would have approved of her choice of confessor, Bishop John Fisher, to officiate. Apart from the greying hair showing under his mitre, Bishop Fisher looked almost as he had when her father was alive, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
Mary watched as, once again, her husband took his daughter’s hand and escorted her to where her future husband waited. She felt great pride in her own daughters, Frances and Eleanor, following in silk bridesmaids’ gowns, with little Henry dressed like a miniature of his father, as Mary’s page.
As she listened to her stepdaughter repeat her vows in a clear and confident voice Mary realised how fast the years were passing. It seemed only a moment ago when she’d first met little Mary Brandon at Westhorpe with her sister, yet both were now grown women, baronesses soon to have children of their own.
She glanced to her side and was surprised to see a tear run down Catherine’s cheek. With a jolt she realised how difficult it must be for her. It was unlikely she would ever give Henry the legitimate heir he craved, and now it was public knowledge that he couldn’t wait to be rid of his Spanish queen.
23
May 1530
Mary threw open the small leaded-glass window and breathed in the fresh spring air. The delicate scent of lavender drifted up from her herb garden below, the only sound the sweet song of a skylark hovering above her garden. She thanked the Lord she lived in the country, away from the noise and dirt of London.
Much had changed in the past year. Her aches and pains worsened, sometimes making her stay in her bed for most of the day. The girls would take it in turns to keep her company, improving their Latin and French, playing the lute and reading to her from one of her precious books.
Even on her better days Mary found riding too uncomfortable so rarely left Westhorpe and walked only as far as the village church. This wasn’t the problem it might have been as she was no longer needed to ornament King Henry’s court, her place at his side taken by Lady Anne Boleyn.
She wished she’d protested in the strongest terms against Queen Catherine’s banishment, although with hindsight her silence might have been more effective. When she heard Anne Boleyn and her manipulative father suffered with the sweating sickness, she committed the sin of wishing them dead. She had mixed feelings when they both recovered, for a different outcome would have solved a lot of problems.
Queen Catherine told her she would trust in God that her husband would see sense, but Mary knew her brother too well. Even as their father lay dying, he’d been more interested in how soon he could marry Catherine. Now it seemed that same passion was directed at undoing the promises he’d made to her.
The door burst open and Frances entered, dressed in her best gown and wearing one of Mary’s pearl-rimmed hoods. Now the same height as Mary, she would be thirteen in July. At Queen Catherine’s suggestion, she’d been away for the first time, as company for Princess Mary, who was only a year older.
Although Mary missed her, the experience had been good for Frances. She was now a close friend of her cousin, Princess Mary, and she’d become fond of her aunt, although she was troubled by events at court. When Frances asked what would happen to the queen and Princess Mary, she’d been unable to answer.
She joined Mary at the window and peered out. ‘They’ll be here soon. Do you still feel well enough to make the journey, Mother?’
Mary forced a smile. ‘Of course, Frances. I’ve never missed a May Fair.’ In truth, she knew the sixteen-mile ride to Bury St Edmunds would be a trial for her but she had no choice. People travelled from all over the county to see their lady of the manor, the Queen Dowager of France, sister to the king.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Will you find Eleanor and Katherine and make sure they are ready?’
Frances nodded and left Mary thinking about how easily Katherine Willoughby had become part of their family. Brandon admitted he’d agreed to pay Henry a substantial sum each year for five years for her wardship but considered it a good investment for their son’s future. It helped that Katherine proved to be a likeable, well-mannered girl and soon became inseparable from Eleanor, who was the same age.
Mary fastened a carcanet of gold set with jewels around her neck and fixed her best headdress in place with silver pins. She checked it in her polished silver mirror, a present from King Louis. The surface had dulled over the years but she still used it every day.
The metallic jangle of a harness and the clip-clop of hooves sounded on the cobbles outside. As she went to greet them she heard little Henry’s excited reply to Brandon’s deeper voice. She’d played along with their secret for Henry’s sake, although she’d known what they were up to with their mysterious whispering behind her back.
The carriage had been transformed to make the long ride easier. Brandon had his carpenter construct a portable set of steps and replace the unforgiving wooden bench-seats. Mary now had a comfortable chair with velvet cushions and a fringed canopy to keep off the rain. The wheels were also now painted bright red with the hubs finished in gold.
Henry seemed happy to take the credit. Now seven years old, he grew more like his father each day. ‘What do you think of it, Mother?’ He climbed up the steps and sat on the new cushions. ‘Father says it is fit for a queen.’
Mary smiled at her husband, who stood watching their son with obvious pride. One good thing about the trouble at court was he spent less time in London, using her illness as an excuse to remain at Westhorpe. His thick beard had turned grey but he was still a striking figure.
The passage of time had mellowed him a little. They’d agreed to put their problems behind them for the sake of the children. He’d kept his promise to be a better father and spend more time with them. Now he took Mary by the hand and steadied her arm as she climbed the steps to join Henry in the carriage.
‘The procession is ready and waiting, my lady.’ He bowed to her, with a wink to amuse little Henry. Then he looked round and called to his daughters and Katherine. ‘Come along, there’s room enough for all of you.’
The girls climbed up into the carriage while Brandon placed the toe of his boot in the stirrup and mounted his magnificent black stallion, a gift from the king. Mary looked up at the sky as he rode to take his place at the front. Clouds obscured the sun but there was a gentle breeze and thankfully it didn’t look like it would rain.
Even after all these years she felt a sense of anticipation for the May Fair. It was a chance to see and be seen by the people and it felt good to be reminded she was still a lady of importance. When they could, she and Brandon helped with small favours, such as writing letters and settling the occasional dispute.
Their groom called out to the horses and the traces creaked as they took up the weight of the carriage. He flicked the reins and they lurched forward to join the procession. Ahead rode Brandon with their escort, twenty of his mounted retainers in Suffolk livery. Behind followed the servants and staff in two wagons.
They heard the lively music before the fair came into view. The musicians and travelling mummers were paid for by the Bury St Edmunds guild of merchants. Brandon, as lord of the manor, provided a whole ox and several roasted hogs. The tang of woodsmoke carried in the air, along with the delicious aroma of sizzling meat and the shouts of vendors.
The May Fair was held on an open field which had always been known as Angel Hill, although it was quite flat, between the old abbey and the town. Little Henry stood up in the carriage and pointed excitedly at the rows of brightly painted booths and tents with banners and pennants.
People
travelled great distances for the May Fair. As well as traders and drovers selling everything from jugs of ale to livestock, the fair was renowned for the stalls of the foreign merchants selling bolts of brocade, precious silk, fine wines and rare delicacies.
An excited crowd jostled to welcome the royal procession. From experience Mary knew some were simply curious to see the king’s sister, while others hoped to win influence and perhaps even be received at court. She wondered if they would be so eager now she was no longer in favour with the king.
Brandon made a short speech, thanking the guilds and the abbot for their generosity, before declaring the May Fair open. They took their places on raised seats with red velvet cushions, under a canopy of estate supported on four long wooden poles, topped with golden finials.
The girls knew they had to wait for the formal visits of all the minor nobles before they could explore the fair, but seemed to be enjoying the attention. Little Henry seemed less willing and tugged at his father’s sleeve, asking for coins to spend at the stalls of sugared sweets.
The May Fair began with a fanfare of trumpets and the bringing of the tree of life, carried on the shoulders of four stout yeomen, led by a capering green man covered in leaves. He stopped to bow graciously to Mary and removed his cap to reveal his bald head, which was also a bright forest-green.
Next came the young girl chosen as the Queen of the May, garlanded with spring flowers and followed by her handmaidens. Brandon applauded a troupe of foreign jugglers with painted bodies who threw sharp swords and bright flaming torches high in the air and skilfully caught them before they fell.
Mary smiled, glad to see her husband enjoying himself. He’d been withdrawn since returning from London but the preparations for the fair had kept his mind off matters at her brother’s court. He hated the idea of having to play Thomas Boleyn’s games at the expense of men like Thomas Wolsey but would soon have to – or pay the price.
